Panic was spreading through Spoke like a wildfire.

The town was wide awake, and people were running around like headless chickens. Some were barricading their houses and arming themselves to defend their homes. Others were searching for a way out of the town with what valuables they could carry. Oak passed men and their sons in various states of dress and armor, carrying weapons and heading to the fight. There was barely any organization involved.

A mother and her gaggle of kids rushed down an alley to his right, heading towards the center of town, searching for temporary safety. Oak noticed none of them were wearing shoes, and the fact stuck with him. They had left their home in a hurry.

Just a little farther, Oak thought. He was only a couple of streets away from the eastern gate. Ahead of him, Oak could see another group of Shaw’s men dragging a pleading man out of a barbershop. The shop's sign had been torn off the wall and smashed to pieces.

It was so dark Oak could not distinguish faces, but he was pretty sure the barber was a man called Owain. Shaw’s carls threw him in the middle of the street and started kicking his ribs in.

Others were more interested in treasure, and Oak could hear them turning the place inside out, looking for coin or things worth selling. Based on their angry hollering, the pickings were slim. Owain curled into a ball and shouted prayers for Mammon, but no demonic deliverance came to save him.

Oak did not think there was a strong enough boon any of the demons could give that would turn the tables in Owain's favor, and Mammon was a demon of trade and greed besides, not a demon oriented towards battle. Oak felt conflicted, but he circled around and kept moving towards the gate, leaving Owain to his fate. He could not fight that many men alone.

***

Oak took a knee and looked at the eastern gate from the safety of the shadows blanketing the small gap between houses he and Geezer had squeezed themselves into. The guard tower above the gate was on fire, and bodies lay in the square in small heaps. The eastern watch had made their last stand, and it had gone poorly.

The gate was closed, and the men gathering in the small square were carrying Shaw’s colors. It was hard to see exact numbers in the dark, but there were a lot of the fuckers. There was lots of movement on the walls too, and even though Oak could not see precisely what was happening, he could hazard a guess.

Shaw had been prepared with ladders, and now his men were climbing up in a steady stream from the other side to join the action. The last pockets of resistance on the wall were being extinguished. So close and yet too damn far, Oak thought bitterly.

Shouts rang out from the main road leading towards the gate. A group of men led by some carls in mail charged into view, running at the invaders with weapons and shields raised, fury in their eyes. An arrow streaked from out of view and took one of Shaw’s men in the throat. The man went down trashing, clawing at his bleeding neck while his fellows got ready to meet the townspeople’s charge.

The defenders of Spoke were maybe ten steps away from the enemy, when a lightning bolt struck the center of their formation, sending men flying. For a single heartbeat, the flash of lightning pushed the night back, and Oak could see the two sides clearly. Faces twisted in fear and hatred, hands clenching weapons in white-knuckled fists. Elation mirrored with terror in the lightning bolt’s harsh light.

Spots danced in Oak’s vision as darkness returned, and the square resounded with the horrid noise of men hacking each other to pieces in a mad scramble for survival. Shaw’s carls moved forward one step at a time, pushing the defenders back. I can’t fault their courage, but this can only end one way. More men were climbing down from the wall every second and joining the fray.

Oak began shuffling backwards without any conscious decision. Tussling with a mage would end badly for him, too. That might have been Riacán throwing lightning from the walls, and he had no intention of meeting that old monster in the flesh. He would leave that dubious honor to one of King Jair’s pet mages.

After doubling back for a bit, Oak leaned against a nearby wall and prepared a prayer to Ashmedai. The demon appreciated it when his followers helped themselves, but he was truly out of ideas. The walls were filled with enemies already, and Shaw’s forces had taken both gates. The entire town was likely surrounded. He would need to find a gap somewhere without being spotted, and that was a tall task. Fear was taking hold of him. Geezer pressed himself against Oak’s leg and whined quietly.

Oak focused and whispered: “Oh Scourge of Thrones, oh Conqueror of Heavens. The Last Believer and the First Apostate. He Who Gives a Choice. Ashmedai, Demon of Wrath, Demon of Struggle and Change, please help your follower in his hour of need.” Oak bowed his head and waited to see if he was still worthy.

Ashmedai’s attention was on him in an instant. The weight of the demon’s gaze settled on Oak’s shoulders, and they sagged in relief. He was worthy. After a moment, words rang in his ears in a voice he could not describe nor remember after they faded: Church of the Corpse-God. Shroud. Blood. Deliverance.

Somehow there was an undercurrent of apology to the words, and Oak had a sense that he would not be thrilled with whatever solution the demon had come up with. He was beyond grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you, Ashmedai. The Children of Strife stand ever in your shadow,” Oak said. A warm feeling, almost like a hug, passed through him. It seemed his faith was well received.

Oak pushed himself off the wall and took a deep breath. Ashmedai had given him a path to follow and he would bloody follow it, even if it meant heading to the center of town. “Come on Geezer, the night is still young. Let's move.”

***

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It was strange how much things could change in a short time. When Oak had walked across the market square yesterday, not a single soul had graced it with their presence. The storm had driven away even the most tenacious merchant, let alone the customers. Now a large crowd was gathering in front of the Ealdorman’s longhouse. Some armed to the teeth, all of them desperate.

Oak could see the potbellied Ealdorman talking to the masses, but he could not discern what was said over the shouting of the crowd. The bronze war golem loomed over the Ealdorman’s shoulder, waiting for orders from its master. He ignored the commotion and kept to the side of the square, heading straight towards the old church.

It was a sturdy stone building with small stained glass windows made to last the test of time, but the centuries had still taken their toll. The roof was missing shingles and probably had a few leaks somewhere, and the wrought iron decorations embedded into the stone walls were either missing or so rusted through that it was hard to make out what they had originally represented.

The bell tower made the church the tallest building in Spoke. Oak had always thought the church looked uninviting with all of its hard, angular surfaces and lack of color. It felt like the building was trying to pierce a world that had long ago passed it by. He could not understand what aid he could find there. God had been dead for a long time, and his corpse did not answer prayers. But even though Oak had his doubts, he trusted Ashmedai’s word. There would be a way out. There had to be, Oak thought.

Geezer took the lead for once as they circled to the back of the church, ears open and nose twitching. If Oak remembered correctly, there was a locked backdoor somewhere around here and he trusted in his ability to break it down.

With a bit of wandering around in the dark, and stumbling over rocks that might have been gravestones at some point, Oak and Geezer found the backdoor leading to the church's chapel. Oak busted the rotten door of its hinges with a good kick and some elbow grease. After he and Geezer were both inside, he lifted the door up so it leaned against the doorframe, hoping it would not be too obvious from afar that someone had entered the church.

It was so dark inside that Oak had trouble seeing his own hands. Fortunately, he had anticipated this and snatched an oil lamp from a house on his way over, which he now lit. He doubted the former owners would need it after tonight, even if they survived. Fires tended to spread from one building to the next, and quite a few homes were already in flames.

Conquering a town was pretty synonymous with sacking it, and a sack turned into burning the town to the ground faster than you could blink if things got a little out of hand. In Oak’s estimation, things were well on their way to being completely out of anyone's hand.

The inside of the church had fared better than the outside. In the warm glow of the lamp, Oak could see that the pews had all but rotted away, covered in a layer of dust and grime. Despite the decay, some of the grandness of the chapel remained. He could see it in the decorated stone pillars holding up the roof and the painted roof itself, showing remains of frescoes, which depicted common symbols related to the dead Creator.

One particularly well preserved work of art depicted the Merkabah, the Heavenly Chariot, and the angels of the Choir of the Ophanim as its eye-covered wheels. The conjoined wingspans of cherubs, angels from the Choir of Cherubim, formed the frame of the great Chariot.

Ever since Oak had lost his father, he had pitied angels. An orphan is an orphan, no matter how celestial.

An unconscious tug pulled Oak towards the altar at the heart of the chapel. It was a large block of granite which turned out to be mostly hollow. He put the lamp down on the floor and ordered Geezer to stand back.

Oak took hold of the large slab of rectangular stone covering the space inside the altar and heaved with all of his strength. Inch by inch, the granite covering slid away until finally it dropped to the floor of the church with a great bang and cracked in two, sending dust flying in the stale air. Geezer sneezed violently and stared at the broken slab of stone with suspicion.

The hollow space inside the altar contained a single item. A neatly folded white shroud with a single stain in the center. It was the color of dried blood. Oak stared at the shroud, almost afraid to touch it, lest it break down into dust. He was getting a terrible feeling he might just know whose blood was on that thing, and if he was right, there was no telling what calamity he might unleash upon himself if things went wrong.

Sounds of fighting from the square outside, and a familiar shiver in the Waking Dream reinforced Oak’s sense of urgency. Carefully, he grabbed the shroud. Someone had most likely just purged a bunch of minds and the memories of the braindead husks were now leaking into the Dream. Shaw’s spooks were out hunting, and he needed to get out now while he still had the chance.

Oak felt like what he was about to attempt should be done sitting down, and followed his instincts. He sat down, leaning against the altar. A bit of dust on his trousers was the least of his worries at the moment. There was a strange tension in the air, and the shroud felt heavy in his hands, heavier than any piece of fabric ought to be. He pulled Geezer close, laid the shroud in his lap, and pulled out his knife.

Oak centered himself. He placed the cold metal of the blade against his forearm and made sure the cut would be right over the bloodstain on the shroud. Lightning flashed outside, startling him, and he almost fumbled and dropped the knife.

“Come on now, just have to get it done,” Oak said to himself. He took a deep breath and cut a small gash to his forearm. Blood flowed from the wound in a small trickle, dripping onto the shroud, and Oak prayed. As he chanted, the very air around him started to pop and crackle, static electricity sparking in Geezer’s fur.

“Ye who brought light where there was only darkness, Ye who raised mountains and filled oceans, Creator of angel, demon, man and beast! Ye who were mightiest of all mighty, Ye who ripped out thine own heart to deliver us from the shackles of providence, Ye who slumber in death in the highest of heavens, please grant me deliverance! Bring me and mine to safety from certain death!” Oak roared, pushing all of his faith and fear into the words.

The response to his prayer was like nothing Oak had experienced before. It was utterly impersonal and unconscious. A resonance built between Oak’s blood, the shroud and a place somewhere far away, though Oak knew not where. There was no will behind it, just the inevitable tyranny of causality. His blood was vibrating in the air as it dropped towards the shroud, and he could not hear a single sound. It was like all the world was silent, waiting with bated breath to see what would transpire.

Oak grabbed a hold of Geezer. The young dog struggled to escape, but Oak held him tight. What color he could see in the lamp's light was draining from the world around him, peeling and twisting towards him. Just when it felt like he could take it no longer, like the pressure of existence converging upon him would crush his bones, there was a faint pop. In an instant, Oak, Geezer and the shroud vanished into thin air.

Sound and color returned to the world. An open altar, and a lonely oil lamp casting shadows to the chapel's ancient walls, were the only signs left behind by the departure of Oak and Geezer.

Outside the church, things quickly went from bad to worse. Under the watchful gaze of Jarl Garreth Shaw, the people of Spoke were put to the sword, and their homes were burned to the ground. A pillar of black smoke rose towards the Heavens and joined the dark clouds above.

Come morning, the crows would feast.