Apostasy: The Book of Ithaca

Chapter 5

Chapter V

         The cold air rushed in beneath the crack of the old oak door. Winter’s chill was upon Ecclesia, and with it, came the snow. Being so far north in Arlia, Ecclesia was the receiver of particularly dreadful winters. It was cold of course, but the snow seemed to have no end. Once it began, it was several months before it finally dissipated. The old seneschal did what he could to keep the sharp fingers of the chilling air away from his skin, but with little of a fire to offer, there was nothing he could do except bundle tightly in his cassock.

         The cold was not what he needed right now. After the wave of fear that thrust its way through the hearts of the denizens of the basilica, he needed sleep. He had done everything he could to offer counseling to those that knew her, but he knew that mourning was difficult and there were only so many words that could be said to comfort people, even if they were of the Diaconate, and Presbyterate.
The thoughts of the young sister deacon raced through his mind as he wrapped his robes tightly around himself. How the poor woman must feel right now. Her own sister, murdered within the basilica itself. His thoughts were venom right now, poisoning his only chance of rest he would have. It would be another long day tomorrow, and if he could not wipe the thoughts from his mind, it would be a long night tonight.

         He had never seen a woman cry so hard for someone. Mourning was difficult, he knew that, but she had not passed naturally in any way. It must have been a nightmare when she had heard. Prayers were required, but there were so many to pray for, and he scarcely knew where to begin. He had prayed for her earlier, though Azul often times worked in strange ways, whether she would answer them that day, tomorrow, or not at all, there was no telling. Faith was quite an interesting thing. Believing in something that rarely revealed itself seemed almost foolish when looked at on parchment, but the hearts of men were frail and believing in anything was often times enough to keep them going. He knew that it was real, he had seen miraculous things. But then, he was a seneschal. Miracles were their business, their currency, their life. There was no better medicine than faith. What common poultices, and advanced potions could not cure, Azul could. She need only will it.

         A long sigh escaped his lips, and the whispy vapors of his breath rose away from him like smoke from burning straw. So… cold. His bed was a coffin, a box that protected his body not from earth, but from the frigid air. He had wanted to make a fire, but the light would have kept him awake. Slowly, he shut his eyes to the world and sleep began to take him.

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         The piercing creaks of the splintered wood floor roused him from his slumber. His eyes opened but in the hungering dark, they could see nothing. Perhaps it was a dream. Shutting his eyes again, he tried to reclaim the rest that had been ripped away from him by starving hands, but he couldn’t. He listened to his soft breath echo through the cold room, and then he heard the other. Soft, stealthy, almost silent. His eyes shot open once again, but the bindings that tied him to his bed kept him from moving.

         His arms wrenched at every angle of the world, what was happening? He opened his mouth to scream, but before the shrill escaped his cracked lips, a cold leather glove imprisoned it. He felt steel. A sharp point was scratching at his neck, taunting him. He knew it was a warning. Reluctantly, his struggling ceased, and the hand was removed.

         “What do you want,” the shaky voice left his mouth, and was swallowed by the stone walls.

         “You are a healer,” the voice said from the dark, it was a terrible voice, as vengeful and cunning as death itself.

         “I am a seneschal, not an apothecary,” the priest whimpered.

         “But you heal wounds,” again it stabbed at him like a spear, so cold and terrible as the winter’s night that claimed his quarters.

         The priest strained his eyes, nothing but darkness, not even the soft white light of the moon was present. It was a living darkness.
“I heal wounds of the spiritual nature, I am no surgeon,” he replied. He could not hide the fear in his voice, it was his bane. Predators thrived on fear.

         “It is my spirit that is breaking,” the voice replied, “say a prayer for me priest, or be carved like a boar on the Arbiter’s table.”

         He felt steel once again, it was awful. The warm trickle of blood ran down his neck and upon his shoulder. Predators thrived on blood.

         “Why do you threaten me,” he asked, “Why do you come here like this.”

         The knife went deeper, the sharp pain jolted his body. What cold that had claimed him was long since gone, and now he was the prisoner of terror, drowning in its sea of fear like a wayward mariner.

         Slowly, the words came out, “Azul bless thee and keep thy spirit whole. May she smile upon her child in all her love, that he may again feel life within him. Azul bless thee and keep thy spirit whole. May she lay her hands on thee and wrap him within her healing arms, that he may again taste life.”

         The knife was gone, thank Azul that it was. He had tasted death. He was not sure if the prayer he said was for him or his attacker. His neck ached from the wound. He knew it was not life threatening, it was a small cut. It was particularly painful however, and one that would fester.
         He listened hard to hear any signs of the man leaving. Nothing. The silence in the room was so loud it deafened him. His eyes could see nothing, his hands could feel nothing, and his ears could hear nothing. Was he dead? Perhaps it was a nightmare that he had not yet awakened from. He tried hard to find explanations but they escaped his mind. He could think of nothing. The only comfort he had is someone would look for him tomorrow. He would not be like this forever. His muscles relaxed, and with all his effort to not scream, he began his prayer again.

         The sharp pain in his chest had kept the words from coming, and slowly he could feel sleep taking him again. In his coffin of a bed, the rush of blood escaping from the wound was the only warmth to be had, but it was not long. Again, he felt… cold.

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The dead shall inherit the earth…

         It seemed more fitting for the earth to inherit the dead, for it was… in multitudes. All around the ravaged corpses of plague victims were scattered for meals for the buzzards. Within the walls of Ecclesia, the corpses lay in bed for all to see. They weren’t stricken by the plague, or any other ailment. They were happened upon in darkness, by a tormenter of souls.

         It was strange that the plague had found no welcome in the cardinal city. There as with everywhere else, the poor were always more vulnerable. The outlying districts were all that of peasants. Metalworkers, and sheepherders alike. With callused hands of hard, honest labor, came the curse of being the target of torment. Disease and pestilence was a cruel arrow, always in flight for its mark. And the working class were always the mark. It was rare that someone of higher stature was stricken by illness, though it did happen.
That however, had taken a new face in Ecclesia, the higher rungs of the social ladder had a blight of their own. It seemed murder was their curse. With murder came questions, with questions came few answers.

         Valimaar could not place all of it together, though the feeling remained that the two evils were in consort with one another. The instruments of death sung in a loud chorus of violence and heartache, and the symphony was only just beginning. Of that, he was certain.

         Father Gordon had left him with many questions. They were question he knew he could not ask the broken man. It was clear that what the priest knew, troubled him greatly, and the daemons he contained within his mind were ripping and tearing to get free. He was of course, imprisoned for heresy, a mercy that rarely befalls such an act. But confined to a room with nothing but dark thoughts could very well be more punishment than execution could ever allow. It did not feel as though he were mad. His knowledge of ancient texts was without question. Perhaps the book was real, though it was a far chance that they would ever find such a thing.

         Lady Elaine had explained to him that the libraries of the Ecclesiarchy were a vast and sprawling network of catacombs. Tombs for books left to rot away like the corpses of old. His answers seemed to slip further and further away from his grasp.

         When we begin to question enough… we begin to find answers, it’s a simple matter of knowing what questions to ask.

         Perhaps there was more wisdom in that than he knew. Though he had so many questions, and scarcely had any excuse of an idea of where to go or who to ask. More and more, it all felt helpless. As though he were watching from afar as those he has protected his entire life as an expurgator were slaughtered by the hellish instruments of Azaal himself.

         He stirred in his chair, trying with all his might to collect his thoughts into a coherent flow, but it was nigh on impossible. Fatigue was setting in once again, and his wounds were still lingering. He needed rest, but it was doubtful that he would find it. The Vicar Forane was slumbering safely behind locked doors in the upper levels of the basilica. His seat sat directly outside of her room. He had insisted that she not rest in her usual quarters in the lower levels. It seemed as though her security was impossible to guarantee there. Here at least, there were no windows to crawl through, no hidden passages to stalk, and nowhere to go but through the door that he guarded.
It was highly unlikely that the killer would return to the basilica, but it was a risk that he was not willing to take. His charge was to see to her safety, and if he had to sacrifice comfort for security, he was more than willing. His insistence did not seem to upset her, though he knew that she had been beside herself the entire day. It was far too much for someone such as her to see. She had seen terrible things, things that would drive most people insane. To him, it was nothing more than what he was used to. Death was a part of his life.

         The shadows in his vision began to cloud his eyes, and his thoughts slowed to a crawl as his fatigue wrapped its claws tighter around him. Slowly his rest came.

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         The commotion that echoed through the stone halls roused him from his sleep. It felt strange that he did not experience any nightmares as he usually did. It was the first time he had felt rested in a very long time, if only he could have slept a bit longer.

         The rising ruckus carried with it the tune of alarm, and soon it was enough for Lady Elaine to breach her security. He rose immediately from his station to see to her, but she was already gone. He ran at full sprint to catch her, but she moved with almost angelic speed. He could not allow her to slip his gaze, for she was the only thing he cared for.

         The rays of sun that shone through the glass of the long hallway had suggested that he had slept for much longer than he should. The dust that hung in the air, illuminated like gold flakes, danced about as she darted past. He was right on her heels when they came to a grinding stop at the end of the hall. There was close to twenty priests and servants crowded wall to wall in the narrow corridor. Their alarmed voices echoed in their ears, and they both knew what had happened.

         They forced themselves through the ocean of people into the cold empty room to find the corpse of an old seneschal lying in bed. His hands clasped over his heart. Blood was all over. It was as though the room itself was the canvas, and the artist had thrown crimson from a sling. He had never seen anything like this.

         Lady Elaine turned from the sight with her eyes tightly shut, tears trickled down her cheeks as Valimaar grasped her within his arms. The smell of blood was something she was growing quite accustomed to, but the visions would haunt her for the rest of her life. This was something far more unholy than any could have ever dared dream.

         What remained of the priest’s heart was locked between his jaw, the river of scarlet flecked the corners of his mouth like a parched stream, dried in the heat of the sun. His hands covered the cavity as if he were placed upon his deathbed for viewing. It was terrible. So terrible that words could not describe the feeling they both felt.

         Valimaar looked on as more and more priests began crowding the hall behind them. And the instruments of death had found another victim. It was just as sinister as the last. He had been murdered with a knife. The red marks on his wrists and ankles had indicated that he had been tied. The expression on his face however, had indicated that he was still alive when he was carved.

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         “This must be contained!”

         The anger in his voice sent shivers running up the priest’s spine. He knelt low to the floor, averting his eyes as the proverbial onslaught was amassed upon him. How all of it came to be his fault, he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of, is he was the one to be punished for it.

         “Your grace, what would you have me do,” the priest asked in monotone voice, staring down at the polished marble floor.

         The Arbiter paced about the room, his footsteps echoing off the polished marble walls to the high arched ceiling above, “I would have you do your job,” he said, turning to face the man.

         “Your grace, none of us would ever have expected for this to happen here. If you wish us to contain it, the best we can do is place guards at every entrance to the basilica.”

         The Arbiter sat in the ornate carved wooden chair behind the long granite desk. As he clasped his hands together, he let out a long sigh, “Father Papal, I know you and your priests are capable of this task. Your devotion is without question, however to simply allow a killer to roam free in these halls will not be tolerated!”

         The anger in his voice was rising. He was a bubbling stew inside an iron kettle, at any moment he would boil over.
“Your grace, perhaps we should request the aid of the Expurgators.”

         The Arbiter drummed his fingers against his hands, staring at the man knelt before him. Expurgators. The stuff of nightmares.
“Fight evil with evil,” he droned, “Their methods are quite gruesome Father Papal, if we employ them within the basilica, a good number of the Presbyterate will be unsettled.”

         The priest nodded, his head rose to face him, “I am well aware of that your grace, but they more than anyone are capable of stopping this man.”

         “Perhaps,” he replied, fidgeting with the golden rings on his fingers, “But I do not want him to be stopped, I want him to be contained. This man, whoever he is, possesses knowledge unlike any I have ever seen. He knows of the old ways, the old language, the old gods. We can use this Father Papal. Knowing the past will illuminate our future.”

         The priest rose from his knees. His slow, cumbersome stride drummed off the walls of the large room. The shadow he cast from the great fire in the ebony hearth grew as he approached his master, “What is it you would like me to do your grace?”

         The Arbiter slapped a chunk of ham on the gold plate in front of him and began to carve, “This man will come again. I’m certain the next of his victims will be one of my Episcopate.”

         “I will have all my priests posted to the quarters of every bishop in the Basilica.”

         The Arbiter shook his head, “No, that will not be necessary. We happen to have an Expurgator in the basilica as we speak, Brother Valimaar, a former Executor. I shall have him summoned here along with his charge, the Vicar Forane.”

         “Your grace, with respect,” the words stuttered from his lips, “One Expurgator cannot guard every bishop and the Vicar Forane.”

         The Arbiter smiled, “He need only guard one bishop.”

         “Who?”

         He tore a chunk of ham with his teeth, chewing, he replied, “Father Archimedes, my Archbishop of this Basilica. Have your Apostolics there with him… we have an exorcism to perform.”

         “Your grace… an exorcism,” he asked in astonishment.

         Something of that nature had not been performed in years. Not since he had first rose to the position of Monsignor. During the wytch hunts, it was common practice to exorcise the daemons of heretics. It was a brutal practice, only performed by the most experienced of the Expurgators. The method was quite successful, however it had exhausted many of their best heresy examiners and Apostolics, the warrior chapter of the Presbyterate. He had stood over many himself, and witnessed the death of the former Monsignor at the hands of one of the fiends. Times were vile then, and evil roamed free.

         Fight evil with evil.

         “Yes Father Papal, an exorcism. Summon the Exarch, he shall oversee the ritual.”

         The priest bowed low before spinning on his heels, his scarlet silken robes whisked around him as he went. The clanging of his armor chattered throughout the room as he left. Warrior priests, the true hammer of the divinity, were all the Arbiter needed to contain this monstrosity.