"The rebel and the blasphemer carry darkness within them, a stain upon the Maker’s design. Only through the flame shall impurity be undone, until nothing of rebellion remains." — The Maker’s Code, Chapter 12, Line 5
"To rage against disorder is to lose oneself to the storm. For chaos cares not for flames nor fury; it bends to none and slips through the hands of those who clutch it too tightly." — The Tao of Idleness, Book 1, Verse 29
The funny thing about fundamentalists—I mean, not “funny, ha-ha,” more like “wryly amusing”—is that they’re equal-opportunity bigots.
So, while me and Lazytown might be at the top of their shitlist, it was obvious that the Crusade of the Eternal Flame had plenty of room in their holy little hearts to hate just about everyone else.
I mean, they really had the whole spectrum covered: heretics, apostates, infidels, and now, apparently, the Rebel army that was loitering rather close to their lines.
From where I was, I couldn’t quite tell what Dema had done to get that particular hornet’s nest all stirred up, but by the sound of things, it had hit the Crusade’s big, throbbing, heresy-detecting nerve right on the mark.
No sooner was I back behind Lazytown’s walls after telling Wanker where to go than I heard – not a roar, more an angry sigh – coming from the direction of The Maker’s followers.
I quickly made my way back up to the top of the battlements to look for what was causing all the commotion and spotted the issue immediately: a large – impressively so, considering how hastily I presumed Dema had needed to work – effigy stood smack in the middle of the Rebel camp.
The thing looked like it had been cobbled together from all the random junk Dema had begged off me from my Loot Leech collection. Every bit of debris, mismatched fabric, and outright nonsense I was constantly having flung my way had somehow found its way into this towering monstrosity, looming over the Rebel tents like some sort of deranged pagan god.
The effigy itself was unmistakably grotesque—two arms raised, legs spread in a way that suggested that pretty much everyone was welcome, and a face that had been painted in bright, smeared colours to look vaguely like a very, very unfortunate interpretation of The Maker Himself.
The head was topped with some kind of papier-mâché helmet, and someone had thoughtfully painted a pair of enormous, surprised eyes on it. The whole thing radiated an aura of half-mad irreverence.
Dema had clearly done her homework.
The effigy was a towering middle finger to everything the Crusade probably held sacred. What she had somehow snuck into the middle of the Rebel camp didn’t just thumb its nose at the Maker’s teachings—it laughed, spat, and then probably mooned them for good measure.
The head alone was an insult of epic proportions. She’d crowned it with what looked like a rusty bucket, a few bent twigs, and what might have been an unfortunate rooster feather, all at a drunken angle that made it look like it was barely holding on.
The face was all wild, bulging eyes painted in slapdash whites, pupils that seemed to point in different directions, and a nose that was... well, that nose wasn’t fooling anyone.
It looked distinctly . . . phallic.
The whole expression was one of debauched, open-mouthed glee, with a red-lipped grin stretched wide enough to look unhinged, as though the Maker was two tankards deep and about to tell you an off-colour joke He probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.
And then there were the hands.
Sweet mercy me, the hands.
They were clutching two objects so brazenly rude that even I, without any in-depth knowledge of The Maker’s teachings, could tell they were sacrilegious on about fifteen different levels.
Each hand held what could only be described as abstract sculptures of . . . well, I’ll call them “suggestive shapes”, but these shapes were less about “divine form” and more about “divine bedroom antics.” They wobbled as the effigy swayed in the wind, bold and unapologetic, like they were flipping the bird to every rule in the Maker’s Code.
Across the effigy’s chest, in large, garish letters, Dema had scrawled, “THE MAKER SAYS: RELAX, IT’S ONLY ETERNITY”. The words dripped messily down the effigy’s torso, and just below, in a barely legible scrawl that seemed to have been added as an afterthought, was a second line: *“Be fruitful, multiply... and maybe have some fun while you’re at it. And if that wasn’t enough, there was another smaller slogan painted around its waistline that read: “STRICTLY NO PURE FORMS BEYOND THIS POINT” with a big arrow pointing south. Just below that, in what looked like a rushed addition, someone had written, “Sculpted in the Maker’s Image… but He’s had a few.”
The Rebels were practically tripping over themselves, trying to pull the thing down, hacking away at the base like it was about to sprout legs and start dancing.
But it was too late—members of the Crusade were already staring, slack-jawed and seething, at this carnival of impropriety. Their chants, which had started as deep, holy murmurs, were now rising in pitch and volume like a kettle about to boil over, their gazes bouncing from the effigy to the scrambling Rebels with a fury that promised nothing short of holy vengeance.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Scar sidled up beside me. “Dema’s got a talent for heresy, I’ll give her that.”
“She’s outdone herself. That thing looks like The Maker if He’d had one too many pints and decided to reinvent Himself as a carnival attraction.”
“And the Crusade’s losing it,” Scar observed, pointing to the west. “Look at them, getting all fired up. If we’re lucky, that should drop us down their ‘to-do’ list.”
Sure enough, the Crusaders were assembling in tighter formations, weapons gleaming as they raised them skyward in unison. Their chanting grew louder, their voices like a storm cloud rumbling over the field.
It was a fervour that said, “We’re about to smite someone.” And right now, that “someone” was looking like the Rebels . . .
The Crusade’s leader—a man draped in what could only be described as sanctified tablecloths embroidered with shimmering symbols of “purity”—was pointing a trembling finger toward the effigy. His voice, when he spoke, rang across the field, distorted by whatever amplification magic the Crusade was fond of using.
“Behold!” he shouted. “A blasphemy of the highest order! This... abomination stands as an affront to the Maker’s divine design, a twisted form in mockery of purity itself!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered under my breath. “We get it. The Maker would be horrified, yada yada.”
The Rebels were still trying to destroy the effigy, as if making it gone would make things all better. One particularly frantic rebel swung a shovel at one of the effigy’s legs, which appeared to be made of bundled sticks and some poor soul’s bedsheets, but it didn’t budge.
Whatever Dema had done to reinforce it was holding strong, and the Rebels’ efforts only made them look guiltier.
“Do you think they even know what they’re guilty of?” I asked, grinning at the scene.
“Doubt it,” Scar replied, watching as the Crusaders readied their weapons with deadly calm. “But I doubt they care. The Crusade sees what they want to see.”
“So what you’re saying is, they’re zealots who’ve convinced themselves that that,” I gestured grandly toward the effigy, “is enough reason to burn the whole camp down?”
“Everyone’s a heretic if you look hard enough,” Scar said.
The Crusade leader’s voice boomed again. “Hear me, followers of blasphemy! You have constructed an effigy of hideous form, one that stands in direct opposition to the Maker’s pure design! This . . . this idol is a corruption of all that is holy, a distortion of the divine shapes! Prepare to meet your Maker in flames!”
The Rebel camp was now a full-blown scene of chaos, soldiers screaming and scrambling as the Crusade’s holy warriors began their advance. From the Rebel command tent, I saw the scary-looking woman – Margaret the Cruel, Scar had called her, I think - yelling at her men, gesturing frantically toward the effigy and the Crusaders. But it was already too late. The Crusade was on the move, marching forward with an eerie unity, their weapons raised in preparation to cleanse what they clearly saw as a pit of heresy.
“Think they’ll actually go through with the?” I asked Scar. “Because, whilst I still don’t like our odds, I like them an awful lot better with two of the opposing armies fighting each other first.
“Absolutely,” Scar replied, “They’re probably seeing that effigy as a portal straight to hell.”
The Crusaders were now close enough that the Rebels had started to respond, forming a ragtag line of defence, weapons at the ready but looking far less composed than their oncoming attackers.
It was like watching a professional fencing team charge at a bunch of kids holding sticks. The Crusade’s soldiers moved with an unsettling calm, their chants taking on a terrifying intensity as they bore down on the Rebels.
“Should we do anything to help?” Scar asked, though the humour in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “I’m wishing I had pot of popcorn.”
As the Crusaders clashed with the Rebels, the field erupted into a full-blown storm of violence and fury.
Shouts and battle cries filled the air, echoing over the clamour of steel against steel. The Crusaders surged forward as their religious zeal drove them onwards. Blazing tendrils of flame arced over the battlefield, crashing into Rebel lines and scattering fiery embers across the grass.
The Rebels, initially thrown off by the sheer intensity of the assault, quickly adapted. Margaret the Cruel’s voice cut through the chaos as she barked orders, rallying her startled fighters. "Flank left! Shields up! And for The Maker's’ sake, get that mage unit forward!"
Her rebels obeyed with surprising speed, breaking into smaller formations as they dodged the Crusaders’ flames, retaliating with spells and a swift barrage of arrows. As I watched, a handful of nimble fighters slipped around the Crusaders’ front lines, darting in and out, delivering quick, vicious strikes before falling back to regroup.
The clash was fast and pretty comprehensive.
The Crusaders wielded their holy magic with blasts of consecrated fire searing through the air, forcing Rebels to dive out of the way. In response, the Rebels countered with a mix of magical assaults and raw desperation, some casting hexes to slow their enemies, others swinging with raw force to break their relentless advance. Smoke and sparks filled the air, mingling with the cries of soldiers as both sides struggled for control.
Amid the fray, the absurd effigy swayed on its precarious legs, caught right in the middle of the skirmish. Its ludicrous grin seeming to mock the holy fervour of the Crusaders even as arrows and flames flickered around it. One Crusader tried to hack at its base with a longsword, perhaps thinking to cut down the blasphemous idol mid-battle, but a Rebel quickly intercepted him with a brutal, sweeping strike that knocked him to the ground.
Margaret’s voice could be heard through the chaos again as she directed her archers, “Aim high! Take down their mages. Keep them off-balance!”
The Rebel archers adjusted their positions, sending a hail of arrows arcing over the Crusader ranks, targeting the lightly armoured mages at the back. Several Crusaders fell, clutching their throats or shoulders, and the zealot's line wavered.
But I give this to the Eternal Flame; they had very little quit. Regaining their footing, they surged forward with renewed zeal, chanting in unison as their leaders pushed them back into formation. One of them raised his staff, and a shield of holy light rippled outward, protecting his comrades as they closed the gap. The Rebels, now within striking distance, met them with equal ferocity.
The fight had been going on for less than a few minutes, and the ground was already littered with fallen soldiers from both sides, but neither showed any signs of retreat.
Scar laughed softly, shaking his head. “Dema really outdid herself.”
“Yeah. Here’s to the Crusade and the Rebels. May they teach each other a lesson in divine misunderstanding.”
Which would have been all gravy if Wanker hadn’t taken that precise moment to charge our gatehouse.