Outside of the arena, just before the boundary line of the looming lurid woodland blanketed in shadow and gloom, were five wooden pyres with five tightly bound bodies. Darkness was among them and the sky was filled with a vanilla twilight. Just outside the pyres were four Apostles, nine Sentinels, four proctors, and one Pontiff. The Pontiff, Årthorian The Dragoon, took a torch from one of the proctors and approached the pyres.
“Here, the bodies of Körgoth, Cob, Törston, Tem, and Käröl will be burned to ash, as God has willed it since our inception. Let their deaths weigh heavy upon your souls.” Årthorian dryly spoke as he began to burn the dead grass that the bodies laid upon. The mourners looked stoically upon the growing flames in silence.
Martin starred with muddled eyes and a potent, sour, acrimony in his heart toward the cruel events of the day. It was known that the tests would be life or death, but he never knew it would have to be at the cost of his brothers. He truly never spoke more than a few sentences to them during his years at the sanctum, but he loved them nonetheless. His head was tightly bandaged and he was certainly in pain, but at least he had his life. Martin looked over toward Jöruc who wore the same disdain clearly on his face that he did, he almost looked sad. When their eyes met all could do was a nod and give a weak insipid smile, Martin knew he wasn't alone.
A petrifying smell caught Martins’ nose. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and he was frightened by the nostalgia the vile smell brought. He saw visions of the burning chapel in Oraton and the smell of a hundred roasting corpses within it. He felt hopeless and weak again, like when he was a child. The bodies on the pyres sizzled and popped, it was sickening to Martin. His stomach churned and tossed in all directions. He felt his mouth become full with saliva and he knew he would be sick. As tactfully as he could he backed out of the gathering and slipped to a clearing where he was away from the eyes of the others. He rested his hand on his knees and with a violent heave, he vomited and shook horribly.
“Are you alright?” Martin heard the familiar voice of Sovereign behind him. He turned his head back and saw his Master approaching.
“No,” Martin said spitting trying to get rid of the taste. “Why didn't you warn me about this? Why was all this kept a secret?... Why!?” He looked upon his Master with abandonment, becoming angrier by the second.
“The choice to come was your own Martin, no one forced you. You know this.” Sovereign tried to reason.
“Because. From the birth of our order that is how it has been, and will always be.” Another voice loudly said. Martin quickly turned and behind him stood Årthorian who glared with authority into Martins Green eyes. He could sense the palpable clout from the Pontiff.
“In the oldest days when my uncle KaleoMagnus created the order of the Sentinel we had to fight much more than simple Demons. Fire breathing Dragons flew high in the sky, mindless giants as tall as trees roamed the mountains, and creatures of nightmare infested the forests. So, we had to breed hardened killers; warriors with god-like attributes of will, strength, and skill. Count yourself lucky you weren't born in those days. You would have never made it, few did.” The massive man walked toward Martin. rested his large muscular hands on the shoulders of the young man. Martin felt the startling weight from them, they were as hefty as ten-pound bricks. Årthorian applied pressure and squeezed Martin, but he endured and refused to flinch in pain. Årthorian enjoyed the resistance from the young man, he couldn't stand someone with a weak heart and eased his torment.
“humph, go and join the other three Apostles inside. There will be a large meal tonight before your next trial.” The Pontiff said with a simper.
“Yes, your Holiest,” Martin said with vinegar in his voice. The two stared at each other with heated pique and Martin bowed out to rejoin the others.
“He’s a lot more belligerent than I thought.” Årthorian quietly announced as he watched Martin round the corner.
“He’s just strong-willed sir...” Sovereign said.
“There's more than strong will within him, he's curious, and that's dangerous.” He snapped his tense face toward Sovereign. “Keep him on a tighter leash, or I will. But either way, we’ll be keeping a close eye on him.” The Dragons slayers face was rigid and unmoving.
“ Yes, sir…” Sovereigns voice softly dropped, worried for his Apostle.
Inside the dimly lit hall were two long tables with a truly healthy-looking spread; Cold meats, cheese and bread, and an assortment of large pots with different warm soups. Martin looked around and saw Joruc, he sat across from him and took what he could from the platters, he was famished. Jöruc had a bandage wrapped securely around his throat and was only sipping on soup broth.
“Are you alright?” Martin asked.
“Been worse.” Jöruc hoarsely muttered.
“What do you think is next?” Martin leaned in and whispered to the Apostles around the table.
“Well… It has something… to do with our soul. So, if it's… reciting scripture… You're fucked.” Jöruc voice ground against itself with comedic effect, the other boys laughed, including Martin. The levity was needed after the events of the day and the Sentinels let them enjoy the moment while they had it.
The moon was full and the night air crisp. The four Apostles stood in front of a waist-high altar outside in the clear night. Årthorian stood behind the marble slab with a large wooden bowl in front of him. Behind the Arch, the cardinal was a roaring blaze, a massive bonfire that was as wide as it is tall. Each Apostle was armed with a sheathed sword and torch, nothing more than that and the leather training gear they left the sanctum with.
“Jöruc, Apostle of Damos of Morn Awolon, step forth and draw from the bowl.” Årthorian directed.
“Yes, your Holiest!” Jöruc stepped forth, reached his hand in and drew a strange wooden carving. It was near nonsensical, it was a strange twisting figure that was contorted in all the worst ways. Årthorian snatched it from the boy and threw it in the fire. The small wooden totem burned a dazzling green before it was gone into ash.
“The boy will take path three.” The arch cardinal told the bald proctor with scars on his head. Jöruc looked at the others, they all gave the same nod, a type of nod that's more of an understanding than a blessing of luck, it was of a solemn, stoic goodbye. The proctor took him by his arm and led him around the building, out of sight of the others.
“Blan, Apostle of Cid-El of Morn Uther, Step forth and draw from the bowl.” Årthorian directed.
“Yes, your Holiest!” Blan came forth and pulled a boring carving of an apple from the vessel. Årthorian snatched it and threw it into the flames. The carving sparkled a beautiful red and white before it was gone into ash.
“He will take path two…” Årthorian whispered to a hooded proctor. Nods were given among the Apostles and the proctor took Blan away.
“Martin, Apostle of Sovereign of Morn Awolon, Step forth and draw from the bowl.” Årthorian directed. It was subtle, Martin felt like there was a tight curl in the dragon slayers lip, and from that, he knew he had earned the Pontiff s scorn. Martin was no stranger to the wickedness and contempt of his superiors for he has never been the ideal subordinate. But he would carry on the way he has his entire life, one push at a time.
Martin drove his hand into the bowl and felt around. He perceived a chill, a strange presence creep upon his arm and grasp it, it guided his hand and actions, it was no doubt supernatural in nature. The feeling moved his hand about until he grasped firmly on a coin size totem and tore his hand from the bowl of carvings. When he withdrew it there was a strange totem of a dog of some sort, a hound, a wolf perhaps. This totem was covered in a strangely sticky black tar, completely unlike the other pieces in the bowl. Without a moment's hesitation, Årthorian snatched it the same way he had to Jöruc and Blan, and casually he tossed it into the fire. The totum erupted into lightless black flames that forced the Pontiff to bound away, the fire searing the coattails of his crimson doublet. There were muffled gasps among the proctors.
“Silence!” Commanded The Dragonslayer as he pointed a harsh finger toward the small crowd.
“Well, seems you’ve chosen something unfortunate Martin… But, as God wills it. He will take path five…” Årthorian words were biting and Martin felt malice within them. He nodded to the other Apostle and left with the Proctor. The proctor that guided him was the hollow, formal, proctor from his first trial.
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“Are you afraid?” The Proctor asked Martin as they walked across the grassy lawn surrounding the immense arena.
“Not really, should I be?” Martin asked with a lump in his throat.
“Your going to need more than dumb luck this time Martin, I’ve never seen something like that in the test of souls. That blaze was more than demonic, it was unnatural. To be honest, I'm surprised the Pontiff had allowed you to proceed, this is beyond the level of a single Sentinel, let alone an Apostle. Just stay focused…” The Stoic Proctor said leaning in close to Martin. There was sincerity in his voice and he seemed concerned for the Apostles safety. Worry began to creep into Martins mind but felt it could have been a scare tactic to get him on edge. Using his better judgment he took it with a grain of salt. They walked for a minute before coming across an opening to a trail. The beginning of the trail was marked with a crummy wooden sign with a white five painted on it.
“Listen close Martin. You will go down this path, and you will get lost, keep calm. Let your heart guide you to where your sacrifice will be. Godspeed...” And with that the proctor turned on his heel and headed back to the marble table, leaving Martin alone.
The Apostle looked down the path, the trees twisted over it creating a winding canopy of branches. It stretched as far as he could see with the already limited light. But no matter how hopeless it seemed he had come too far to turn back now, so with a shaky heart, he took his first step into the forlorn passage. Upon crossing the threshold the wind whipped into a frenzy, rattling the tree branches and showring leaves from the warped awning. In fright, Martin withdrew his sword from its scabbard ready to fight. The wind blew like a tornado for only a moment before subsiding. Martins’ heart was racing, his hands firmly gripped his sword and the still-lit torch. He traveled nonstop for an hour before he knew he was good and lost. With a sigh, he pulled out a piece of salted pork, that he had stolen from the meal earlier, from the breast area of his leather training jacket. He took nibbles of it any time he heard a noise or felt his skin start to jump at the slightest shadow. But the act of eating was a simple diversion, soon the night closed in on him and he began to feel its choking presence. Doubt and fatigue began to consume him until he could barely stand it. He pushed on as hard as he could until he saw a sizable opening to a cave. He figured he could camp within in it, sleep the night away perhaps, start on the trail in the morning. Martin inched his way through the opening. The walls were moist and the ground was covered in loose pebbles. It had the overpowering smell of must, like old dish rags. He crept inside and explored the damp halls. He continued till he was shaken to the bone when he sensed a presence amongst him. The cold that gripped his arm earlier enclosed on him. Martin felt the fiendish intent it imbued as the darkness of the cave choked out the light and snuffed his torch. He stood deep in the darkness of the cave in absolute silence, almost too frightened to move. His lip quivered as he blindly reached out for a wall to brace against. His hand found the curved rocky wall and he stood there for many minutes as his eyes adjusted to the dark. With some focus he saw a pale light at the end of the tunnel, so with hope, he clumsily ambled toward it. He could feel the stones crunch and crumble under every footstep, causing him to stumble on a few occasions. As Martin crossed the divide of the tunnel into the lighted area. He entered a large dome with a sizable hole at the top that was pouring in moonlight. Martin breathed a sigh of relief and nervously laughed. He stepped forward and a loud crunch echoed through the chamber. The Apostle looked down and to his horror, he saw the once pebble filled earth was actually littered with bones of all shapes and sizes; Skulls, Femors, rib cages, hands, and carcasses of many beasts. Martin felt he was in grave danger and began to inch his way out of the cave. With futile effort he tried to soften his breathing but his racing heart made it near impossible. From the shadow of the dome, in a crack in the wall leading outward, he heard a voice speak as smooth as warm butter.
“Who has invited themselves into my domicile at such an hour?”
Martin jerked his sword toward the voice and swallowed a wadded ball of fright. He heard footsteps and the shuffling of bones come from the crack in the cave.
“Whos there...?” Martin said in a hushed brittle tone that nearly broke over the cave walls. The Apostles’ eyes were tense and unblinking toward the gap in the wall.
“Now, now. What terrible manners, I would have expected more from an Apostle of God. You trespass in my home and demand me to introduce myself first, I'm utterly disappointed.” The voice was as warm and welcoming as a boiling river.
“I demand that you… By the first rule of…” Martin croaked as he stumbled over his words.
“Silence boy! I’m no demon, I’m not bound by their whimsical code.” Spoke the thing in between the wall.
“Then...What… what are you?” The boy's voice cracked.
From the once vacant shadow, Martin saw a pair of burning orange eyes slowly come forth. What emerged was a black dog the size of two men with sharply pointed ears, a damp greasy coat with terribly black fur, and furiously orange bloodshot eyes. Its eyes were hideous and so powerfully radiant in the darkness of the cave that they shined off the dog's moist nose.
“Look on me in terror, for I am the primal fear of old. I am the devourer of light and the choker of life. The trepidation of the morning and consternation of the fading twilight. I am Barghest, the Black dog.” The beast didn't speak but Martin could hear the words that Barghest wished for him to hear. Martin in a fit of panic attacked the hound head-on.
“By my brother's blood!” He bellowed trying to ignite his courage. Martin swung his sword violently at the large beast, throwing out all thought or reason. Barghest caught the sword in its jaws and yanked at the blade with its powerful neck muscles. Martin fought for his sword and tried to resist the black dog's strength. The monster peered its bloody eyes on Martin and shined a menacing light upon the boy. He felt the beasts intimidating blood lust as it began to seep deep into his conscience. The wailing cries of the dead spoke within his mind and pleaded for him to submit and accept a quick death. The feeling of sorrow and despair were forcefully compelling but Martin fought them as hard as he fought the Black dogs near overwhelming strength. The monster seemed addled by Martins resistance. In its rattled state it grew irritated. Barghest opened its jaws and snapped them shut shattering the sword into small shards like a grown man would snap a twig. The great beast pounced on Martin, flinging spit in all directions as the creature opened its ragged maw filled with razor-sharp teeth. Martin fell on the ground trying to avoid the bone-crushing mouth of the ebony wolf. The creature violently mounted Martin and peered into the Apostles eyes. With a slight turn of the head in bewilderment, the black dog let out a peal of low throaty laughter.
“Well, it seems I'm at an impasse.” The beast said as it stepped off Martins’ chest, with little regard for its own weight, fracturing Martins's rib. The boy wheezed in pain. The Dog sat and stared at Martin with stressed eyes.
“You must be confused, among other things. I can only describe what I know as a sight, a perception us beings of the old world posses, I can... see things. Things that you can't perceive. I have looked inside of you and I know you aren't meant to die here, The eldritch chaos won't allow it. You see, you are a pawn like I am a pawn, and we must obey the rules of our character.”
“Eldritch Chaos? See things? Pawns? What are you babbling about you vile beast!?” Martin yelled as he sat up, clutching his ribs. Barghest sighed in disappointment.
“All the intellectual boasting man has done since its birth and yet you keep yourselves blinded behind your stone walls, impressed by your own intrepid masturbating. I was there when this realm was as dark as pitch and I'll be there to guzzle the oceans and feed on the light when chaos comes back for its creation. Trust that I know more than you. There are things you should know, and there are things you aren't meant to know...” The dog walked around Martin to the entrance of the crevasse it came from.
“Well... can you at least tell me what I’m meant to know?!” Martin desperately pleaded, lost in the situation, unable to make a six or nine from it.
“Heed my words Martin, and know them to be true. By the end of your life, you will have become familiar with drinking from the night itself, and in time you’ll grow to resent yourself for it. No, not resentful because of the act of drinking from the darkness, but, because of the enjoyment of the taste.” And with its sinister omen, the black dog flashed its hellish eyes, howled a bloodcurdling shrill, and walked into the shadow of the crack in the wall.
“Hey, wait!” Martin bellowed as he hobbled over the bones and rocks to the gaping hole.
He walked down a straight path into the absence of light, into the cold darkness as hollow as space. He walked for a hundred feet in trembling terror but he needed to know more from Barghest. Suddenly, his foot slipped and he fell straight down a cliffside barely saving himself by grabbing ahold of the ledge. His rib bumped against the rock face and caused a sharp pain to jolt up his side. Martin winced from the throbbing fracture. With some effort, he pulled himself back up onto the path. He looked down the track and saw only darkness. There was no light, no time, nothing, just eons of fathomless emptiness. The unknown terror of the pitch grew so intensely unsettling that it elicited a physical force upon Martin. The Apostle felt minuscule and insignificant and desperately wanted to escape this place as quickly as possible. He got to his feet and hobbled his way through the caverns and tunnels until he had heard a shout and saw torches.
“Martin!” Shouts of familiar voices called from down the tunnel.
“I'm here!” Martin spoke up. He got close enough to see the figures in front of him were three sentinels, Sovereign, Demås, and Cäifes.
“Masters, what are you doing here?” Martin asked clutching his side.
“We heard about the odd totem from Torg the Proctor. That wasn't natural, so we spoke with Årthorian who said ‘it seemed odd, but if God willed it…’ We disagreed entirely. And we haven't heard from you in some time, so we came to search for you.” Sovereign spoke with care.
“Well Thank you master’s, but I'm fine. It's only been a night anyway.” Martin said
“Martin, it's been three days… we thought you were dead.” Cäifes gravely spoke.
“Wait, what do you mean three days?” Martin was shocked and felt a wave of unease washed over him about this new revelation. It had barely felt like night had passed since he left into the woods. He could understand a day, but three? There was something nefarious at work and Martin didn't know what it wanted with him. On his solemn ride back to the Sanctum the only thought in his mind was the foreboding prophecy of Barghest, the black dog.