Fools often seek proof of God’s existence through the paranormal, exceptions to the natural order, as if these occurrences somehow vouched for a reality beyond themselves. Does one seek proof of an architect by examining a smashed window or a broken door?
If there is a Creator, would it not make more sense that the existence of order and reason in the world were bigger proofs of his handiwork? And that which is twisted and bizarre is more likely the work of something odious and foul trying to disrupt the natural order?
The horns curled around in a dendritic brown whirl like those of a bull ram. The creature’s head was so big that it was surprising that it fit onto the back of the makeshift cart at all, and that the men could pull it forward with their six oxen. The creature was covered in smooth black scales like those of a snake. Dark blood dripped from underneath the head, a tangle of arteries leaking the oozing liquid onto the cart.
The men slowly slid the demon’s head out of the cart. The men exerted their full strength to merely push it out from the back of the disheveled wooden cart. It slide across its own leaking blood that acted like grease on the rough planks. It was a head with no body, formless and wanting yet grotesque and hideous beyond anything even a coroner would have ever seen. The head landed on the ground with a thud.
The thing was a gruesome sight to behold. A creature Max thought he’d never see in his lifetime. But one which he instantly recognized. In fact, everyone in the town immediately recognized what it was.
This being was something they told stories about to keep children from running away. It was something that they were all told existed but very few people had actually seen and lived to tell the tale. A creature so powerful and so vile that it passed into legend.
This head belonged to a behemoth–an ancient demon king straight out of the deepest pit in hell. Merely looking at it sent a shiver up Max’s spine. The beast looked like a cross between a snake, a man, a whale, and a goat if that were even possible.
Max had never actually seen one before. Behemoths were very real but also incredibly rare. Legend had it that Nine were spawned by the Vile one himself to do his dark bidding. Killing one of the Nine marked the greatest triumph in the history of the township of Vigilance. There were nine such creatures in the world of Lore, nine terrible monsters with the power to destroy heaps of men with a single fiery breath or the swift swing of an ax. These creatures were highly intelligent, commanding legions of diabolen and possessed men. Together they ruled over whole countries, indeed much of the world. But few actually saw them in battle and lived to tell about it.
The townsfolk gathered to lay eyes on the spectacle. It was so horrific and yet they could not remove their eyes. For it to merely exist was a scandal. The object was mesmerizing. Haunting.
Never before had one of the Nine been known to fall. When the legions of diabolen swarmed, nations crumbled. The greatest of the world’s warriors had failed to prevail against a single one of the beasts. Until now.
What started with silence and trepidation slowly transitioned into a strange mix of both jubilant celebration and awful fear as the people realized what had come to pass. This would mark an important day in the township of Vigilance. A day that would be memorialized throughout the land. The small band of huntsmen would come to be known far and wide and take their place in the history books. Every child would learn about today, the Felling Day. The day that would put the small backwater town of Vigilance on the map.
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But for Maximilian, today would mark the worst day of his life.
He suddenly realized what this meant. His father was missing. Huntsmen had no good reason for splitting up from the group on their return journey. They almost always returned as a single until, unless…
There had to have been a fight.
Max locked eyes with Oren, his uncle. The man was tall and muscular with shaggy, brown hair and a messy beard. His skin was an even brown, tanned from months in the hot sun. His clothing was tattered and stained in a mixture of the beast’s blood… and his own.
Without a doubt, he had been in combat. All these men had.
Fear and hope intertwined within Max’s heart like a braided rope. At the same time, panic shot through him like a knife, filling him with dread. As Max gazed questioningly, into Oren’s eyes. His uncle’s lips formed a line and then the corners turned downward. He slowly shook his head, sadness pouring over him like rain on a summer day.
Max knew that could only mean one thing. He dropped to his knees. His father had been with the group that slew the beast, but he wasn’t with them now. Out of the dozen or so huntsmen who had left, only five returned.
In an instant, a sharp piercing shriek sounded not two feet behind him. The bereaved cry of his mother Marian, pain, and anguish cutting into the awestruck crowd like a bolt of lightning. Several members of the group turned their heads abruptly.
She’d just realized what Max had. The worst fate had come to pass.
Max had only heard his mother like this once before - when his Aunt Elisa had died, impaled by a wayward possessed soldier. But today was worse. Today, the love of her life, the love of his life …was gone.
Max turned to see his sobbing mother and embraced her. As he placed his arms around her, he buried his tear-filled eyes into her tunic, feeling the clutch of her hands around him, holding him. Pulling him closer.
His heart throbbed, pumping blood rapidly through his veins. Yet he felt faint. His legs threatened to give out–he could barely hold his body upright, his feet and hands turning numb from grief. Sweat poured down his back and his face went flush.
Strong hands embraced him from behind, holding him upright. Keeping him standing. It was Oren, still smelling of sweat and blood. The man’s enormous arms wrapped around Max and his mother, Marian. It was a comforting gesture that felt very much like an embrace from his father.
“I’m very sorry,” Oren said, pausing for a few seconds. “Very sorry for your loss. For our loss.”
Oren had always been close to his brother. He would feel the loss as painfully as they would. The two had been inseparable in their youth and that didn’t change in adulthood. Not until now anyway. “You should know that Alex died a hero.”
Max cried. Memories of his father flooded his mind like a rushing river, filled with salty tears. Images of a young man holding and embracing Max as a small child, feeding him, then teaching him things like how to hunt, to build, to farm. His father had also taught him important lessons in life like patience, self-control, love.
Max’s entire life rolled out before his eyes, the loving gaze of this father, Alex Elliot, now gone forever. His father had been a warm, earthy man with a quick wit and a hearty smile. He had always been affectionate to all but most especially to his own kin.
Max’s mother let out another wail of impassioned cries resounded through the canyon. Several other women joined in her lament, forming a melancholic song that rolled through the desert valley like tumbleweed. The toll from today’s battle had been particularly brutal. Seven men dead. All of whom Max knew well.
No, today was not a cause for celebration. Not for Max. A great victory to be sure but at a great price. What could possibly be the greatest triumph in a hundred years against the diabolen was also the greatest tragedy in Max Elliot’s life.
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Weeping Marian