CHAPTER 13

PILGRIMAGE

Mark stood on the outskirts of Diplovasia, waiting for Koman the monk to arrive. The morning sun beamed down, warming his face as he scanned the horizon. Suddenly, a figure on a brown horse came into view. Mark recognized him instantly as Koman, the monk – a thin, bald man with a serene, austere expression and dark skin. Clad in flowing green robes of the Holy Church, Koman approached.

"The monk, I presume?" Mark called out.

Koman nodded in confirmation.

"You've traveled far from Archon Zva's domain for this pilgrimage to Gaweroa," Mark remarked.

"It is the will of the High God," Koman replied. "He wishes to test my faith – to see if I am willing to brave dangers to worship at the altar of the abandoned temple."

"I see," Mark said.

"I sense you're not a believer?" Koman inquired.

"Not exactly," Mark admitted. "I believe in what I can see."

"Look around you," Koman gestured. "The grasslands, the flowers, the majestic sky – all evidence of the High God's existence."

"I'm here to accompany you to the temple, not to hear sermons," Mark replied. "Let's get going. We've got a long journey ahead."

The two travelers rode along the dirt road, leaving Diplovasia behind them. The scenery changed as they journeyed onward – vast grasslands stretched on one side, while green hills covered in dense woods rose on the other. They rode until darkness fell, then halted beside the road. Mark helped start a campfire, and they sat beside it, warming themselves as the chilly wind blew.

Throughout the evening, Koman kept casting strange glances at Mark. He ignored it at first, but eventually curiosity got the better of him. "Why do you keep staring at me like that?" he asked.

"I sense a touch of the divine in you," Koman replied.

"Ah, trying to convert a godless swordsman, are you?" Mark joked.

Stolen story; please report.

Koman chuckled. "You see the trees when I talk about the forest."

"Translation: I'm too dumb to get what you're saying?" Mark grinned.

"In a way, yes," Koman admitted. "I'm just curious why a man of violence, selling his sword for coin, has been touched by the divine. The ways of the High God are truly mysterious."

"Alright, I'll play along. How exactly have I been 'touched'?"

Koman closed his eyes, shaking as if caught in a vivid dream or nightmare. Concerned, Mark approached him. "Are you alright, monk?" he asked.

Opening his eyes, Koman smiled. "I can hardly believe it, yet it all makes sense."

"What?" Mark pressed.

"I'm feeling tired. We have a long journey ahead tomorrow," Koman deflected, lying down on the grass and closing his eyes, leaving Mark wondering what had just happened.

The next morning, they pressed on along the dirt road. Suddenly, the air filled with roars as orcs – green, muscular warriors brandishing swords – emerged from the woods on the left side of the road, their eyes filled with murderous intent. "Let me handle this," Mark declared. He dismounted and drew his sword.

With a battle cry, Mark charged at the orcs. He thrust his blade deep into the chest of one, piercing through to its back. As he withdrew his sword, it was coated in greenish blood. Another orc swung at him, but Mark parried the blow and delivered a powerful kick to its chest. In one swift motion, he severed its head, sending it soaring through the air before it thudded to the ground, the body collapsing in a pool of green blood.

Two more orcs lunged at him. Mark swiftly deflected the first attack with a skillful maneuver of his blade, then intercepted the second orc's strike by severing its hand. The creature howled in pain as Mark swiftly sliced its throat, greenish blood splattering across his face. Enraged by the demise of its companion, the first orc attacked with even greater ferocity. Mark blocked the assault and stepped back before swiftly moving downward. In one fluid motion, he severed both legs of the creature. As the legless orc collapsed to the ground, Mark delivered a final blow, thrusting his blade into its back and ending its life.

Mark continued to battle the orcs, their green blood and flesh scattering through the air with each strike as he dispatched them one by one. Despite the sweat dripping down his face and the burning sensation in his muscles, he persisted, clenching his teeth in determination. Within moments, he had defeated more than a dozen orcs. Witnessing the relentless ferocity of the swordsman, the remaining orcs retreated back into the safety of the woods.

Koman got off his horse and approached the fallen orcs, beginning to pray. "What are you doing?" Mark asked, surprised that the monk would pray for creatures that had just attacked them.

"Please, let me finish," Koman replied firmly, continuing his prayer until he concluded with, "May you find peace in the embrace of the High God. Amen!" Noticing Mark's confusion, Koman explained, "All beings are creations of the High God and deserve a proper farewell to guide their souls to the underworld. The High God has a purpose for everything."

"Even for those orcs who harm others?" Mark challenged.

"The woods are their home," Koman countered. "Are they truly the aggressors, or are we intruding on their territory?"

Mark sighed, realizing they held different views. "Let's move on. We still have a long journey ahead to Gaweroa."

Mark and Koman hopped onto their horses and spurred them forward, riding swiftly towards the abandoned temple. For that is the wanderer's path, always journeying onward.