Apostasy: The Book of Ithaca

Chapter 2

Chapter 2



         The forces of the devil share only one trait with which you need concern yourself... their undying contempt for the Divinity.

         It was an ongoing concept which surged through his mind constantly; the only defense he had against the siege that fatigue had laid so heavily upon him. His thoughts had been racing in all manner of directions since they had departed that morning, but always they settled on his lessons within the Hereticus Administratum. They had been his cause, and his life for six years. Everything he had been taught had become a way of life for him, though dark as it was, it was his only life. Nothing that the Divinity preached seemed to apply to the workings of an Expurgator, and to him the contradiction had become not a flaw but a justification. For so much the Divinity had stood for, was in constant barrage by the evils of the world. The Expurgators, whose only task was to ensure the Divinity's survival, were justified by the lessons they had been taught. To the common man, they would have been considered no different than the heretics and evils that had previously fallen. To the enlightened man, they themselves were the purest members of the Divinity. Though their deeds had often been more gruesome than one could imagine, they were thought of to the highest degree by the members of the Ecclesiarchy. For without them, there would be no Ecclesiarchy. Without them, there would be no faith.

         It was that single point in which he focused, for without it, his nightmares would be unbearable. His actions had been justified by rite of duty. His actions had been justified in the eyes of Azul. Though it may have forever been obscure to him, he could not help but be aware of that single driving concept which had birthed the Expurgators. They were justified. Why then was he suffering these nightmares if they had been so right in the eyes of Azul? Why could he not sleep? On the precipice of the utmost guilt, he could not understand it.

         He knew that he should feel no guilt for his actions. For in the struggle between good and evil there should be no guilt. There should be only right and wrong. He had always felt that his duties, his life, was righteous. He had always felt that he was making a difference in the dark world in which he lived. Why then, could he not sleep?

         He was a warrior, and servant of the Divinity. As anyone knew, every warrior had nightmares. But Expurgators were not simple warriors. They were different. They, in an answer to a more divine calling, sacrificed what life they had in order to serve. They had sacrificed everything. The frayed remnants of his sanity still held vigil against the waking terrors that haunted his dreams, but only by a thread. That single thread being the lessons they had taught him, and without it, he would have broken long ago.

         Valimaar rubbed the dark blur that had glazed his vision, for he was exhausted. He knew that he could not continue this conflict for much longer, though good sleep was as unfamiliar to him as good dreams. He would fall asleep, but not for long. His nightmares would see to that.

         The terrors of the waking world however, were of an adamant similarity. For the plague, which had quite voraciously hungered for the lives of the populace, had ripped through the outer fringes of Ecclesia like a knife through butter. He scowled at the testament of neglect that the Ecclesiarchy had shown to its denizens of the cardinal city, as his gaze fixed on the abandoned homes and disheveled hovels. They were in a distinct disarray which had suggested that looters had already made off with valuables and food stocks of the deceased. Cringing at the relentless welling of rage and sorrow, nausea had taken hold of him as he thought of such wicked acts by such wicked men. The thought that the Laity had done little to protect the citizens from such evil brigands had made him all the more sick to his stomach. Though he knew that the Ecclesiarchy had had its fair share of chaos, such acts were inexcusable.

         Pointless. It was pointless to think about it. Shrugging off the frustrations of the world, Valimaar tried desperately to calm his restless mind. This sort of thing was not worthy of an Expurgator, for there were problems which needed solving. There were dead which needed burying. There was a priestess which needed guarding.

         What would Lady Elaine say to his current state of mind? She would think him weak; she would think him arrogant. Why had he been assigned to her in the first place? Clearing the haze in his clouded vision, Valimaar's eyes fixed on his protectorate.

         It seemed strange that her many years in the Presbyterate had never required a bodyguard. Why now? After all this time, why him? It had seemed a misallocation of resources to say the least. For such tasks were not meant for an Expurgator to perform. Such tasks were better left to the lower soldiers of the Laity. Though nowhere near as skilled as an Expurgator, they were much more fit for these tasks than he.

         Sometimes, the Ecclesiarchy could be so foolish. Then again, the fate of man had always been decided by fools. Fools, gold, and a fair bit of divine influence. It was the distribution of wealth and religion which had determined the totality of life within Ecclesia. What choice did he have but to go along with the pattern of things? None. Gently he nodded to himself, deciding that following orders was the best way to play his part among society.

         "Stay the course," he whispered to himself.

         It is with iron willed conviction and uncompromising reverence that we must face these vile things - for if not us, then who?

         For if not him, then who?

         Jostling to a sudden, violent halt, the coach shook on old wooden wheels, creaking of wear and ill maintenance. Valimaar looked up from his thoughts in surprise, as his arms braced themselves from the jolt.

         "There's no possible way we could have arrived already," Lady Elaine said, straining her eyes as she tried to stare through the dense fog outside the windows of the carriage.

         Valimaar gripped the stock of his pistol as a feeling of uneasiness came over him. What could the meaning of this be? So far from the gates of the cardinal city, there would be no reason to stop in these dilapidated farming communities.

         "Stay here," he said to the young priestess, as he opened the door to the coach.

         The dense mist that blanketed the ground outside had hindered any sort of clear visibility as he looked down both directions of the mossy flagstone road. Cocking the flintlock of his pistol, he jumped out of the coach with a thud as the heels of his boots hit the old stone. There was no sign of any sort of disturbance that he could see, yet the anxiety he had felt only grew stronger. The shriek of steel rang clear as his rapier slid from the leather scabbard at his side, crying to any who may waylay them, that he would not give in so willingly.

         He squinted his eyes, forcing his vision through the heavy fog at the shadowy ramshackle of old crumbling homes and shacks alongside the road. There was nothing. Nothing at all. There was a silence that smothered the air so heavily, that the slightest noise would have been deafening. It was a dead silence. Not peaceful, nor was it at all welcoming. Rather, it was cold; meandering... As frigid as death's chilling embrace. The dull violet glow of a dawn which had seemed to have forgotten the rise of the sun had offered no such benefit of sight through the haze. Something wasn't right with all this. The air was too still. The light was too dark. The fog was too thick. The deafening roar of departure was too silent. It was otherworldly.

         Valimaar eyed the surrounding area with pistol held in front of him, and sword gripped tightly. Everything was still. Though he knew that of the areas affected by the plague, the outer fringes of Ecclesia had certainly seen the worst of it, there was still far too much inactivity for it to seem natural. The hairs on his neck stood on end as the tension within his muscles grew. It had felt as if the metaphors of oblivion were something tangible, and he could reach out and touch them.

         "Brother Valimaar!"

         He had nearly jumped out of his own skin as he immediately spun around to face the source of the cry. Shrinking before him at the sight of the firearm pointed at his knobbly head, the squat man reeled on his heels. It was the driver.

         Sighing with frustration, Valimaar uncocked the pistol, "What is it?"

         "There's something I think you should see," he replied, motioning for him to follow as he spun on his heels.

         Taking one last look at the eerie surroundings, he sheathed his rapier before accompanying the short man. What could possibly be so pressing that they needed to stop?

         In front of the two men, the answer was quite apparent. Laying upon the rough flagstone road was the corpse of a member of the Presbyterate. Closing his eyes for the slightest of moments, Valimaar shook his head at the sight. The poor man was dead within a pool of his own blood which was still steaming within the cold morning air. He had not been dead long.

         "Go and summon the Vicar Forane," he said, kneeling in front of the dead man.

         "That won't be necessary," she said, tramping towards the two men.

         Valimaar's eyes glared at her in utter disapproval, "Lady Elaine, I asked you to stay in the carriage."

         "I don't recall the Presbyterate ever taking orders from a Laity," she replied sarcastically.

         He shook his head in annoyance, "It's not safe here my lady."

         She threw her hands up in the air angrily, "Oh but leaving me alone in a stage coach with no driver, while you go marching off into the fog is perfectly safe I assume?"

         It could not be helped. She was right after all, and he was well aware of that.

         "Do you recognize him," he asked, gesturing towards the corpse of the deceased clergy.

         "Valimaar, if I recognized the face of every man I have ever met in the Divinity I," her words stopped short as her attention turned to the small thing in the clutch of the clergy's lifeless hand.

         Noticing the surprise in her eyes, he turned his attentions to that which had shocked her. It was a peculiar little thing in his hand. A box. It wasn't much larger than the palm which had clutched it so tightly. It was bereft of any sort of decorative patterns, jewels, latches, or hinges. A plain wooden box. A very odd thing for a Presbyterate to be carrying with him, however the look in Lady Elaine's eyes told Valimaar that there was a great deal about this particular box that he did not know.

         "What is it," he asked, wrenching the box from the vice of the dead man's hand.

"Saint Peregrine's Fall," she said, her eyes wide with awe.

         Saint Peregrine's Fall. He had never heard of it, though she was the historian, not him. His expertise did not revolve around things such as this.

         "It looks like he ran with it a good distance," he said, motioning at the trail of blood trickles that had ended in the crimson pool.

         "What do you think killed him," the driver asked, staring up at Valimaar with curiosity. The look seemed almost disgusting, as if he were enjoying it.

         Inspecting the corpse of the dead man, he noticed a large blot of red on his bloodstained robes draped over his back. Within the center of the stain, a perfectly round hole had been made. A bullet.

         "He was shot," Valimaar said, inching closer to inspect the wound, "Close to the heart, he couldn't have ran far before it killed him."

         Lady Elaine snatched the box from Valimaar's hand, wrapping it with the white stole that hung over her shoulders, "How long ago was he killed," she asked, satisfied with the packaging she had made.

         "It couldn't have been long," the driver said, pointing at the pool of blood, "His blood is still warm, as is he."

         Examining over the dead body, Valimaar noticed another strange wound. Several in fact. A wave of dread came over him as he pointed at the open flesh on the man's arms and legs, "He's been gnawed upon."

         "Wolves perhaps," the driver said, staring down at the mutilated arms and legs.

         Valimaar shook his head, "No, these bites look almost human," he said, unsheathing his rapier once more.

         Lady Elaine and the stumpy driver shot back to their feet in shock, as the Expurgator's eyes glanced all about the cluster of abandoned homes. The look in his eyes was terrifying.

         "Geists," he exclaimed, as he grasped Lady Elaine's wrist in his tightening grip.

         She had never heard the term before. What was a Geist? If it were something that vexed the likes of Valimaar, then it was truly something to worry about.

         "Get back to the carriage," he shouted, as he began to back away from the dead man's corpse, "Now!"

         They darted back to the stage coach in shock. It was the first time that Lady Elaine had ever seen her bodyguard so disturbed by anything. This was something serious. Nothing troubled the likes of an Expurgator, even a former one.

         Geists. Terrible creatures of the under realm. Though rarely showing themselves in the world of the living, Valimaar had come across them before. He knew that they were nothing to underestimate. He had no idea what they actually looked like, for they never showed their true physical form. They were demons after all; disembodied spirits that preyed upon the nearly dead. They possessed their souls, their spirits. Evil parasites that could take total control of their host, feasting upon the flesh of the recently deceased. If there were no recently deceased nearby, they would hunt for the living. That was a risk that Valimaar was not willing to take, especially with the Vicar Forane accompanying him.

         Nearly dragging the trump of a man behind him, he had almost pulled the driver's arm out of its socket. Shoving Lady Elaine into the carriage and slamming the door, he again pulled his pistol. With incredible ferocity, he tossed the driver back into his seat before jumping up to take post beside him.

         "Go," he yelled.

         In the short distance of the disheveled dwellings, the screeching yells of creatures which only thrived in the darkest of nightmares, pierced through the dead silence. They were coming. Staring though the dense fog, he could see the faint silhouettes of hobbled men and women, crawling on all fours like some wild thing, moving with demonic speed.

         The sharp crack of the leather whip sent the horses at a full fledged sprint down the coarse flagstone road. The ear shattering shrieks pierced through their ears like a dagger through flesh. The dreadful sounds made their hairs stand on end.

         In the shear chaos of bolting down the uneven pavement, in his current state of utter exhaustion, Valimaar could only settle his mind on one single thing.

         The forces of the devil share only one trait with which you need concern yourself... their undying contempt for the Divinity.

         They were coming.

         The geists pursued them with such speed, that Valimaar knew it would only be a matter of time before they caught them. The violent shaking and rumbling of wheels and axles on the rough flagstone was a warning that the coach could not take much more of these speeds. It would go as long as it could. As long as they could stay just within pistol's shot, they may have a chance. A very small one, but a chance nonetheless.

         Valimaar, clutching desperately to anything to prevent him from being thrown off, pulled a small glass vial from the straps of his banyan. Eying the gooey red contents with disgust, he uncorked the vial and reluctantly put it to his lips. It was a burn like no other he could imagine. A burn that had the slight essence of cheap alcohol and the lasting impression of a bad food poisoning. Gagging at the awful taste, a taste which not even a drunken man could appreciate, he began to feel a rush of energy flow through him.

         He would not normally have resorted to the use of Senthe to heighten his numb senses, but Lady Elaine was with him. Desperate times had called for desperate measures, and he was only glad that she had not seen him take the vile liquid. He was glad that no one had. It was not considered a very tolerable habit among most people, including Valimaar. It had the distinct capabilities of turning even the most respectable men and women into belligerent fight-mongers.

         For his first experience with the substance, he was not impressed. Wishing for even the filthiest cup of water, the putrid aftertaste it had left in his dried mouth clawed at his throat like a caged beast. How could anyone enjoy this? Terrible was not quite the word to describe it. He could think of many things that were terrible, all had ranked far better than this in terms of desirability. Valimaar threw the small glass vial aside, licking his lips, as he decided that this Senthe was entirely unfit for human consumption. Unless of course, that human was being stalked by a band of geists, and despite its terrible taste, it had served its purpose. With Lady Elaine in his charge, fighting demons whilst crippled with exhaustion was not an acceptable option.

         "Stay the course," he whispered to himself, holding the barrel of his pistol close to his chest.

         He closed his eyes and felt the flow of time slow to a crawl, and in quiet reverence he sighed away the sin and fear that all men had grown accustomed to. Here in this place of divine sanctity, he could find victory.

         "My most holy mother Azul, let my aim be true this day," he said, scowling the sort of scowl that only the most desperate men had made.

         He was a cornered animal. He was an angered beast. If he were to die this day, he would not do so quietly. He had fought geists before and survived; he could do it again, though he did not have the sting of Senthe coursing through his veins like a river of boiling oil. The last time, he had not been exhausted. The last time, he was alone.

         He had no such luxuries this time. This time he had someone to protect. Not just any someone. He had Lady Elaine, and she was someone he would be willing to die for. Not because the Divinity had commanded him, but because of how much he cared for her. It was a feeling that until that time, he had been quite unfamiliar with. No matter how hard they fought, no matter how voraciously they hungered, no harm would come to her. She was precious to him. If he were to die today, his last thoughts would be of her.

         He took aim, one, two... three geists he counted. Pursuing them with such a speed that he himself had never witnessed a human achieve, despite them being possessed. They moved like the strongest gusts of wind. Like the flow of a great waterfall.

         The gun, whispering to him, imploring him, had possessed his vision and his aim fixed on the one farthest to the left. It looked womanly. Which wasn't saying much, for in the dense fog, anything looked like anything.

         Three geists. The last time, there had only been two. Two that he happened upon in darkness. The element of surprise was not on his side this time. He knew that the feeble, hobbled driver could offer little aid should the situation call for it. He knew that he would rather die before risking harm to Lady Elaine. He knew that this fight was his and his alone. It would only be a matter of time.

         Valimaar slowed his breathing as he took aim of the female geist. The jolting and rocking of the wayward carriage made his arm unsteady like waves upon the ocean. Something otherworldly held control of him. He heard the snap of the hammer, and the burning hiss of black powder as he squeezed the trigger. With ears ringing, the sharp bang of his first shot struck the concussive drums in his heart, and he saw his target. Wounded. Slowed but not dead. Slowed would do.

         "Did you hit anything," the driver called to him, desperately trying to maintain control of the horses.

         The words fell on his deaf ears, for they meant nothing to him. He had much more important things to worry about. Pulling his second pistol from its baldric, he braced his body as he wrenched violently in his seat. Cocking the flintlock, he glared at the pursuing aberrations. Two geists. Two was much better than three.

         They were close. Far too close for comfort, not that comfort was something often felt when being hunted by demons.

         The second shot was equally deafening to his ears, and the wisp of sulfur scented smoke filled his lungs. It burned wickedly in his eyes and nostrils. He had no time to worry about such discomforts. Dead. His aim had been true, and a second geist plummeted to the ground, violently flailing its limp limbs as it tumbled to a stop. One. One geist. One was manageable.

         The shock of the enormous jolt of the carriage wheels sent the driver and Valimaar hurtling through the air like blind crows. The axle had had enough of such abuse and had finally buckled under the stress. Clutching the top railing of the roof, Valimaar had nearly ripped his arm from his shoulder socket, desperately keeping himself from fatal collision with the ground.

         The deafening snap of the wooden yoke, sent splinters flying through the air like a hail of bullets. With tattered remnants of the crossbar still attached, the horses had bolted like a storm down the road, trampling the already limp body of the driver.

         Valimaar tightened his grip, as the coach began to skid into a spin, knowing that eventually it would flip.

         Sent flying head over feet, he crashed into the cold stone ground with bone shattering force, as the carriage tumbled to a final violent stop on its side. The battered wooden wheels flew through the air like chakrums, smashing into the pavement as if hurtled by a catapult.

         He tumbled over and over across the rough pavement, with each impact sending sharp daggers of pain through his limbs and chest. What a way to die. To be pulverized and then dined upon by some twisted creature of the darkest of nightmares. He skidded and toppled to a stop, drawing his rapier as he somersaulted to his feet. Completely disregarding the flurries of intense agony shooting through his body, he still gripped the stock of his pistol as if something inside him had taken hold of him with wild abandon.

         With gritted teeth, he squeezed the trigger. The clack of the hammer against the frizzen sent the sharp sound ringing in the air. Sparks flew from the flint as it struck the pan with a loud click. Nothing. The pistol did not fire. He had forgot to reload it, although it would have been quite difficult whilst bashing off of the ground.

         With the flick of his wrist, he sent the gun flipping in the air, catching it by the muzzle. He ignored the sharp jolts of pain shooting up his arm.

         As the demon lunged for him, he spun on his heels, slamming the hard wooden stock of his pistol into the skull of the ghastly creature. The spray of blood sent a warm crimson mist speckling Valimaar's face, as the blow sent the thing reeling on all fours. The vociferous scream of the creature pierced his ears, and sent daggers of throbbing sting through his head. Damn these things. Ignoring the blood rushing from his brow into his eyes, he circled around the creature, staring icily in its black eyes.

         It followed his movements intuitively as it pivoted on its hands and feet. The rumbling growl emanating from behind its black, saliva dripping teeth, sent a shiver of icy reprisal through Valimaar's spine. Meeting its soulless gaze with the glare from his bright green eyes, he slowly stepped forward.

         "Come demon, for I still draw breath," he barked, taking another step forward.

         Still, it pivoted, following his steps. Mucus and phlegm gurgled from its throat as it growled at him, digging its claws into the pavement. Its distorted limbs twitched with raw seething hatred, as it shrieked at Valimaar.

         Springing from the ground, the geist lunged at him with mouth agape. Wrapping its discolored arms around him, claws sunk into his flesh as they both toppled to the ground with a violent thud. Valimaar ignored the pain. The slamming of jaws at his face was held back by the firm grip of his hand around the creature's neck. It's claws flailed about as it gasped for air. His grip tightened, as he pulled its grotesquely wrinkled face to his, glaring at the voids within its blackened eyes. Throaty gargles bubbled from its mouth as it used all effort to escape the death vice. With the twist of his hand, the sharp crack of bone struck his ears with a deep concussion, as the thing fell lifeless to his side.

         Rolling the dead, once human, abomination off of him he spit scarlet saliva from his mouth as he grunted with effort. Pain had torn at him from every angle of his body as he forced himself to stand. Such creatures were not the only demons of the world, he had just proved that. Stumbling to his feet, Valimaar clutched his chest as the pounding drums of agony beat against his ribs.

         With the emotionless face he had grown so used to, he stared at the broken, battered, remnants of the stage coach laying on its side. Distraught, he clenched his fists together. None could have survived such a crash. With the wave of absolute nausea setting in, he collapsed to the ground, exhaustion had gotten the best of him.

         Staring up at the vast expanse of the dawn's early light, he found no peace in the serenity of the starlit sky. As puffs of misty breath escaped from his labored breathing, the dark haze of prostration blurred his vision. Slowly the world faded to black, and in the dark expanse of his mind he could hear the repetitive proverbs of servitude echoing through the void.

         In the defense of the Divinity's canon, we shall never deny any duty laid before us. It is with iron willed conviction and uncompromising reverence that we must face these vile things - for if not us, then who?

         He had sacrificed his blood, his life, his everything in servitude. Lying there upon the cold rough flagstone, he knew it was a costly sacrifice, and no matter what the price, no matter what the deed, it was a cruel and wicked world in which he lived. No matter what happened... he knew he would not be missed.

         "Stay the course," he feebly whispered to himself as the chilling black depths took him.

         The violent scratching at the wood doors of the carriage had startled her back awake. What had happened? How long had she been unconscious? What was trying so hard to get in? Was it Valimaar? The shock of the tremendous crash had clouded her mind, though she remembered what they had been running from. She had never heard a sound like that. So terrible and menacing it was, that fear filled the air with the deafening shriek of whatever the things were. So ghastly. So terrifying. Geists he had called them.

         Rubbing her brow as her head throbbed with dull pain, she let out a sigh of relief that she had not been more seriously injured. A headache. She could live with a headache. What about the others? Were they alright? They were outside the carriage when it wrecked, surely they were thrown from their seats. Was Valimaar alright? What if he - no, he was far too strong and stubborn to be killed in such a way. She hoped. Perhaps it was her bodyguard trying to open the door. With such a violent crash, it wouldn't be surprising if it was stuck. She stared up at it, as she lay upon the other side of the carriage. It had rolled.

         "I'm alright," she called out.

         A cold feeling of dread came over her as she heard the sharp shriek of the thing outside the door. It was a geist. Quivering like grain in the breeze, she realized that she was alone. All alone. She had survived the crash only to become prey. Where could she go? Where could she run? Nowhere. There was nowhere to run. She was alone.

         The scratching at the door grew more violent as she heard the snarling growls of the creature. Eventually it would get in. Eventually it would get to her. She felt the spirit within her slowly fading to nothing as she watched the handle slowly turn. She closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. This was it. This was how she would die. She only hoped that it would be fast... painless.

         Thoughts of Valimaar filled her head as the tears streamed down her face, for he was surely dead. No one could survive a crash like that. The only one she had ever come to care for as more than an acquaintence, her friend, was dead. Why did it have to come to this? Why?

         The door creaked on its hinges, revealing the dark glow of dawn, and the rush of the cold morning air stifled her breathing. The shadow of a dastardly and distorted woman blocked her view of the sky. If only she could see the sky on last time, perhaps she could count the stars. One, two, three. She whimpered as she felt the drips of mucus filled saliva touch her soft cheeks. This was it.

         Growling and grumbling, the thing lurched for her with gnarled fingers, and then was gone. A loud shriek echoed in her ears, as she closed her eyes in fear. Where did it go? Why did it not finish her? She was too afraid to find out. Perhaps it was toying with her like some plaything. Filling her with the last touch of misery like a cat batting at its prey.

         The concussion of a loud bang shook through her head with a mind rattling force, and the pungent scent of sulfur burned her nose as she forced her eyes open. It was a gun shot. A pistol. She recalled the click of the hammer strike, and the burning hiss of black powder. Someone had come for her!

         The shock of realization was overwhelming as a great flood. Someone had come for her. Hands and arms shaking violently, she struggled to pull herself up. The dark shadow of an Expurgator hunched in the doorway, holding a hand down to her. It was Valimaar. He had survived. Thank Azul. He had come for her.

         Grasping his strong hand like a vice, she squirmed as she struggled her way out of the broken and splintered carriage. Nearly falling upon him with dead weight, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clutching him so tightly that he labored to breathe.

         "Oh Valimaar," she said, fighting back the sobs of joy, "Thank Azul you're alive."

         His arm embraced her, still holding his pistol tightly in his hand, "Are you injured," he asked.

         "I'll live," she replied, tightening her arms.

         It was an embrace that she would have been content had it lasted forever. An embrace she had never had the chance to enjoy before. Such a feeling of peace and care she had. She struggled to breathe steadily, for he was like no other. Thank Azul he survived.