Metal scratching against stone, dust filling the air, heavy thumps bouncing on the ground. Blake advanced through the cobble, dragging his hefty hammer behind him; a thick metal rod held with one hand. Two straight faces wider than his head, polls large enough to amass momentum capable of destroying a wall; it was a weapon made for brutal murder.
Clang! The metal resonated when it bumped on the rugged ground. Right and left, monks standing in the choir were chanting in foreign languages, undisturbed by Blake’s presence, unfazed by the ruckus his tool was making on its way. Their simple, clean, and fog-grey tunics waved to the tune of an unexisting wind.
Clang! The monks chanted in perfect sync, their tunics picking up speed, a gale answering their words. The quire’s candles flickered at the rhythm of their voices, creating a show of shadows, dancing on the floor, wrapping around the hammer’s shade.
Clang! Blake walked with studied calm, his right arm lagging behind him. He didn’t hesitate; his sight was locked beyond the retroquire, fixated on the adytum’s door behind the limestone wall. He knew his destination and had a clear image of his purpose; nothing would stop him.
Clang! The last one resounded as Blake reached the end of the structure. He could have taken a detour, circled around the quire, even hid his presence from the monks. But he came there to make a statement, a testament to his might.
Blake’s hammer described a circle to his front. His bicep bulked up, lifting the hammer from the floor with the ease one would find to grab a feather. Air filled his lungs as he inhaled through his nose, puffing his chest out. His other hand also grabbed the handle, and both together moved the weapon to his right, slightly above his waist, its head facing towards the monks.
“Haaa!” Blake’s short shout, coming from his stomach, let all the air out as the hammer was swung to the wall with all his force. Space was cut in two as the straight face split apart the air, moving it as a single whistling solid mass.
Such was the force behind the hammer that the wall cracked as if it was glass. Stones flew all around, denting the quire’s wood and bouncing from one side to the other. The ambient quickly became packed with a dense layer of dust, hiding Blake and the monks behind its crowded particles.
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Yet, the monks didn’t mute; their chant continued unperturbed, threatening to invoke a storm inside the temple. They sang in the darkness that followed the strike; all candles blown out by the mass moved on that swing. Their blank eyes were looking behind the curtain of dust; they blinked, possessed by some external energy.
Blake didn’t doubt, the monks were nothing but a nuisance; he was after something much bigger. With absolute certainty, he stepped forward, aiming for the unadorned door that he knew was there. He didn’t need to see to know where his steps would bring him to.
Knocking was a useless formality; he was sure his visit had been announced enough just a moment ago. He took the handle and opened the door to the secluded chamber. The cult room was as somber and claustrophobic as he remembered.
“You came,” the red-robbed man illuminated by a single candle on the room’s floor stated, not surprised to see Blake.
I came, Blake thought, as I promised I would. He took the hammer with both hands, raising the handle above his head, with its head kissing the ground behind him. And I’m not here to talk. His knees slightly bent, lowering his gravity center and securing his stand. His muscles worked in overload to raise the heavy instrument from the ground, making it describe an arch behind his back.
Thunders could be heard behind him, electrical discharges hummed as they traveled the strong winds. The hammer still followed its trajectory, now blocking Blake’s line of view as it descended towards the priest’s head.
Blake felt the static on his clothes as the sounds of bones being crushed entered his ears. Blood splashed as it was forced out of the man’s head, staining Blake’s skin, face and robes. His skull wasn’t enough to stop the hammer’s might, which continued nonchalantly smashing what was left of that inert body.
The hammer lodged on the ground, creating a one feet deep hole. There was no trace of the storm; the monk’s chants had halted entirely, only the dust gliding in the air could be heard.
Blake exited the room, covered in rivers of the priest’s bright red blood. He was met with a crowd of puppets whose strings had been cut, lying on the floor or collapsed to their knees were those monks.
His job was done.