Apostasy: The Book of Ithaca

Chapter 8

Chapter VIII



         Two days had gone past with no signs of this man, if it was a man at all. Valimaar had stalked the shadows of the archbishop’s quarters waiting to pounce on the heretic, but nothing. Perhaps avoiding detection was not something he was a master of against a daemon such as this.

         The Exarch had been with him both days, lingering in the dark nooks of the regal room. Both of them were so hidden from one another that neither could glimpse the other. Still, he never came. Perhaps the Seneschal was his last. Though Valimaar doubted that.

         Father Archimedes offered little protest to their presence, as it was his life in their hands. And who better to guard a life than the Exarch and a former Executor? He certainly did not question his safety.

         It was curious that the Arbiter had known so much about this. It was even more curious that he knew of the next victim. Though, he was after all, touched by Azul. Perhaps he knew better than anyone of the mind of this daemon. Who was he to question the will of the Arbiter? He was but little more than a servant. Servants do not question their masters.

         So… tired. It had been two days since he had had a restful sleep. Or any sleep at all. Fatigue had settled into him like the chill of winter had settled upon Ecclesia. His wounds, though healing still lingered, and the deprivation of sleep magnified the intensity of their pain. It felt as though he were being pricked with daggers, as though they were just breaking his skin, but not drawing blood.

         His broken wrist was quite a nuisance. Though the pain had subsided days ago, it gimped his abilities. Fighting a daemon required strength, and having a lame hand reduced his strengths beyond measure. Thank Azul the Exarch was here, for he could not face a daemon such as this alone in his state.

         He listened as the wind outside howled like wolves on a distant mountain. In the silence of the night, the gentle noises of the world were explosions in his ears. His senses were doubled in darkness. What was limited to him in vision, was made up for in sound. It was so loud. The senthe he had consumed to keep him awake had certainly played its part in the ruckus. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins… he could hear his own heartbeat.

         The intensity of the night grew ever more encroaching on his awareness, and the cold that numbed his fingertips was brushed aside with ease because of it. He required no luxury of warmth, for hunters did not stalk their prey in acceptable conditions. Fog, rain, cold, lightning, they meant little to him on the hunt. They were but an inconvenience; one that he had accepted long ago.

         His thoughts were relentless. He worried for Lady Elaine, for she had defied his wishes for safety. It was something that he knew was beyond his control, but he could not help but worry. Her being so far from him in the libraries meant he could do nothing to insure her personal safety. It was something that he was not willing to sacrifice, but he had. He couldn’t help it. She was her own person. Still, his thoughts were ever about her.

         Had she found the book? She had been there for two days. Considering that it had taken them weeks to return empty handed from the Basilica Del’ Vares, he assumed she hadn’t. Even if she had, what good would a book do? Especially a book that was spoke of by a heretic. He seemed almost insane from his ramblings. Though sometimes, there was a very fine line between sanity and sincerity.

         There was no lie in the old man’s eyes, at least none that he could see. Truth was his homeland. It was his duty. Being a heresy examiner, truth had become second nature to him, and finding it was often more easy than one would expect. Never had he regretted finding someone guilty. He knew what a lie looked like, and what it tasted like. And there was no lie in Father Gordon’s eyes, even when he had come to him all those years ago with the same insane ramblings. It wasn’t there, even when Valimaar had accused him of heresy. The man… had been telling the truth all along.

         The realization struck him like a hammer against an anvil. Why did he not realize it before? Was he so arrogant and ignorant that he had forgotten what truth actually was?

         With the feast of ignorance lain upon the altar…

         The words tore at him from every angle of the heavens. He was one of the ignorant. He was the feast. How could he let an innocent man be imprisoned? He did not realize it at the time, but now it was clear. Even now, he lay down in that filth of a prison, rotting away; his sanity barely clinging to the decaying thresholds of his mind. How could he live with himself for what he had done? Now that he knew, what could be done? The sentence had been carried out, and there was no taking it back. The man’s fate was sealed all those years ago, and he could do nothing to change that, except honor his wishes. He had to find that book.

         Evil shall use lies to conceal the truth, and often, it will claim that there is no truth but its own. Remember these words. You must see past the deceit, you must do what is necessary to protect the faith. As an Expurgator, truth is your sustenance. It is your blood. It is your soul. Never sacrifice it.

         He had sacrificed his soul. He had failed to heed the lessons that the Exarch had taught him so long ago. Even if he had done what was necessary to protect the faith, was it worth condemning a man to rot? He would never forgive himself, nor would Lady Elaine.

         Shards of glass were sent flying through the air like an explosion of daggers. The hollow thud of some heavy object hitting the wall echoed in his ears, and without hesitation, Valimaar jumped to the Archbishop’s side. He had nearly fell out of his bed from the sound, and was sitting upright in a stupor. The force of the Expurgator’s hand pushed him back down into his bed, and he offered no objection.

         The flash of flint against the frizzen of a pistol illuminated the room in an intense white light, and dissipated. The room was empty. Slowly the fire from the candle grew more intense, and the glow from the little flame offered enough light to see.

         The Exarch stood still with his rapier in hand, staring down at the large object laying upon the cold wood floor. His eyes were red with rage. His knuckles turned white from the tight grasp he had on the hilt of his sword, and he was but an instant from bursting.

         Valimaar knelt down to the severed head of the Seneschal whose empty eyes were staring back into his. Within the sockets of the eye, the glinting of metal shone upon his face, reflecting a small beam of intense light into his eyes. He had placed gold coins in his eyes. It was the old way.

         The Exarch jumped to the window, staring out into the dense snow filled darkness. There was no visibility.

         ”The bastard knew we were here,” he said, his voice carried with it the inferno of rage.

         ”It is a daemon,” Valimaar said, prying the parchment from the mouth of the severed head, “we are going about this the wrong way.”

         The Exarch turned and his heavy stride echoed through the room as if he were made of lead, “What do you suggest we do Brother Valimaar,” he asked, leaning in to inspect the thing.

         ”It is time we went hunting,” he replied, turning to face the disoriented Archbishop, still huddled in his bed.

         The door shot open, and the Monsignor and his Apostolics entered with their weapons drawn. They faltered as they gazed into the fiery eyes of the Exarch.

         ”So the beast has eluded us,” the priest said, sheathing his weapon, “Is Father Archimedes safe?”

         The Exarch nodded, gesturing towards the man, “He is fine, see to it that he stays that way,” he barked, stepping closer to Valimaar.

         Valimaar forced his fingertips into the empty eye sockets of the dead man’s head, pulling each coin out between his fingers. He held them up into the light, and could see the deep carvings within the metal.

         The Exarch leaned in close to inspect all of it. In his hands, the coins cried out their message. He could see the words as clear as day. The symbols were but second nature to him, for being the Exarch, he had taught all of his Expurgators this language.

         Upon his return, the dead shall find no peace in their afterlife.

         Valimaar held the parchment into the light and alike the skin they had seen in the seneschal’s quarters, the writing was in blood, “It is only just beginning.”

***************

         The bitter cold licked at his exposed skin like a starving serpent. It stung like the onslaught of a thousand wasps, as the wind whipped about, whisking his waistcoat in a violent torrent. Snow clouded his sight as it blew in the intense gale, and the blurred visions of snuffed lamps glowing in windows seemed as though they were at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

         The vacant streets of Ecclesia had been wrecked by the wind. All around, crates had been blown about, and barrels knocked over. It looked as though an army had ransacked the city, and there was no life to be found.

         He had never seen a storm like this. It was unnatural. Valimaar trudged through the empty streets, his boots crunching through the half froze lair of snow. The Exarch was close behind him, with his rapier in hand.

         This man, this deamon, was a cunning predator, but the snow offers a better trail than any. The footprints were fresh enough, though the storm was fast masking them in a new lair of snow. He couldn’t have gone far. Even as sly as he was, it seemed as though he did not fear them at all, as if he were taunting them. Any intelligent killer would have at least attempted to cover his tracks. This man had no care of them. None.

         The echoes of drunkards in the many taverns carried on the wind like the feathers upon a hawk in flight. They were distant, but loud. The tunes of sing song and melodies of beer, wine, and other alcohols filled the night wind with haunting serenade.

         This man would answer for his crimes. He would suffer for them. Just like Father Gordon had answered for his? This was different however. This man was a murderer… a daemon. Valimaar spared no mercy for daemons.

         The shadow of the basilica shrunk smaller and smaller in the distance, and still the footprints went on. How could he have come this far? The trail had led them into the slums of the city. It was a place that no respectable man would find himself. He knew that some people were here not by choice, but by fate. Most were here for whores, gambling, fighting, and all other forms of vice that the Divinity had preached against. Though it was a good idea, there were some things far beyond the control of the church, and taking away the free will of the populace would prove to be impossible. As long as they continued to believe, they could have their drinks, they could have their whores, they could have their sins.

         He knew that one day, all had to answer for their sins. What would he say to Azul on the day of his judgment? How would he answer for the sins he had committed? Declaring in iron will the false heresy of a pious man would surely not go without consequences. He could not think of such things now, for he had a deamon to hunt.

         At last, the tracks came to an end at the dilapidated doorway of an abandoned building. The two of them shared a look, and with no words, both stated that they were prepared. With his lame hand resting on the butt stock of his pistol, he turned the latch of the door. It offered no noise as it opened upon its hinges, and the two of them took to the hunt. Like the darkness itself, they melded with the shadows.

         The Exarch eased the door closed, and stared through the darkness in front of him. The dim light of the moon was enough to illuminate the old building. In its fragile white glow, cobwebs danced with the draft of the winter wind sneaking through the cracks beneath the door.

         The building had been neglected for some time, and the creaking of the old wood was a testament that it was on the verge of collapse. Broken chairs and crates lay all about the expanse of the room in haphazard piles. The lair of settled dust blanketed everything like ashes in a hearth. In the air, the wretched odor of death hung. It loomed over them like a sheet of linen, and attacked their nose like something alive. Whatever was in here, had been dead for a very long time.

         The stairs creaked as they made their way up. There was little they could do to mask their sounds. Stealth was an easy feat but not when the ground was working against you. At the top of the stairs, they could hear the intense buzzing of flies. They knew that they were close.

         As the smell grew worse the closer they came to the doorway that stood between the dim light and utter darkness, they began to realize that this was its lair. They listened hard for signs of life, and heard nothing but silence beneath the buzzing of flies. They were alone.

         The Exarch pulled a small vial from one of the many pouches that adorned his banyan and shook it with violence. Slowly, the soft green glow of the liquid illuminated the room in an ominous shine.

         It was enough to turn most men’s stomachs. Such an atrocity it was, that it was unfamiliar to even the two Expurgators. What beast could do such a thing. In front of them, hung the torn remains of several individuals. They were nailed to the walls as if to form one whole person. Two arms, two legs, a torso, and a head, had been decaying in this building for what seemed quite some time. The flies had made their home here, and the desecration was their feast. They were everywhere.

         Within the gray, rotting skin of the dismembered effigy, the carvings were cut deep. In unholy voice, the Exarch began to read, “Bask in the fiery light of the rapture. For it is upon us. Through the death of a thousand thousand souls, life shall again rise anew. With the return of our lord, we shall feast upon the entrails of the ignorant ones. Unworthy. They are unworthy of lordship. They are unworthy of this earth. The culling has begun. His culling is upon us, and the pure shall again return. He shall rise from the earth. Rejoice, for within the torrent of his wrathful return the dead shall inherit the earth.”

         The Exarch leaned in closely as if entranced. What he was staring at had caught Valimaar’s attention. It was a smaller carving upon the palm of the right hand. It was in a language unfamiliar to him. It was a new set of symbols that he had not seen before.

         “What does it say,” he asked.

         The Exarch’s brow lowered as he began reciting the symbols, “Represti meun domarco.” The words barely escaped his lips.

         Quiet. It was so quiet. The buzzing of the flies had ceased when he had recited the symbols, as if they had dropped dead from where they feasted. Outside, the howling of the wind had slowed to silence, and the creaking of the wood from the building had stopped. They were enshrouded in silence. The darkness grew thick, and swallowed the green light of the vial. In the chilling embrace of the living darkness, not even their breath could be heard. They were not alone anymore.


         ”Welcome to my home,” the voice called out, it echoed through the room as if it were called from across the world, yet whispered in their ear. It carried with it the malice of a thousand tormented souls, and the sharpness of daggers.

         They unsheathed their rapiers, but the darkness had swallowed the glow of the vial. They were fighting blind.

         ”I have been waiting for you Expurgators,” it said, “I knew you would come.”

         ”What do you want daemon,” the Exarch replied, his voice no longer carried with it the strength of the earth. It barely carried through the rooms, as if the air itself were stealing sound.

         ”I want you to see,” it said, “I want you to feel.”

         ”Show yourself daemon,” Valimaar commanded, his voice was also hollow and empty. This being was starving, “or are the servants of Azaal so cowardly that they will not reveal themselves to a feeble human.”

         The cackle stabbed at their ears. It was deafening. “Cowardly? Are we cowardly? No my dear Expurgator, we do not fear you.”

         ”Then show yourself,” Valimaar replied, his voice ever growing more quiet.

         ”You are loud, human, far too loud. Soon you all shall be silenced. You wish to see us? We are here, we are all around you, within you, we are you,” it said, it’s dark voice echoing throughout the room as if they were in a cavern.

         ”Azul commands you daemon, to show yourself,” the Exarch’s voice was feeble now. A petty whisper shot through the darkness only to be crushed by the hammer of silence.

         ”We are here Exarch, all around you,” it said.

         The walls of the building began to rumble, as dust fell from the ceiling. The cold was smothered by fiery heat, and the vial began to shine brilliantly in white light. Shadows danced about the room. Shadows that moved like something alive, but nothing was there. Loud, so loud, yet it was silent. So violent the shaking was, yet It was still. Death was in this room, it was part of it, it was it. They had gone looking for death, and they found it, or it had found them.

         ”You wish to see us,” it asked, “look around you Expurgators, look at us!”

         All about, the shadows moved, hands, eyes, teeth. There were hundreds of them. Everywhere, but nowhere.

         ”We are coming,” the voice said, its intensity was painful in their ears, “He is coming. He has awakened. We need only be commanded.”

         ”By the fires of heaven we shall not allow you to pass into this world,” The Exarch shouted, the whisper carried little life.

         ”The fires of heaven will soon be quenched, the spark of life will soon be extinguished. The dead shall inherit the earth!”

         The rumbling stopped. The light died. The wind was howling, and the flies were buzzing once more. In the humming silence, the daemon had vanished. They stood in the dim green glow of the light, exhausted, bewildered, and afraid. Expurgators did not know fear, but fear had just introduced itself. The creaking of the wood again pierced through the quiet buzzing of the flies, and the cold returned.

         Whatever they were hunting, was far more than a simple daemon. This thing had no fear.

         The two of them stared at one another through wide, fearful eyes. Their muscles were sore from the tension in the hands. Their fingers had nearly crushed the hilts of their rapiers. As they stood in shock, the footsteps echoed to the upstairs, and the crash of the doorway shocked them back to themselves. Weapons drawn, they ran for the door. Whatever was here, they had to leave it behind, for they had not the strength to fight it. As they stood in the howling gale, both of them knew it was coming.

         The times when gods walked the earth are no more. Azul and Azaal are no longer external entities, but rather a projection of ones own thought and personalities. Never fear his servants, for they are not but flesh and blood - an embodiment of metaphor. Strike them down with the fires of heaven burning from within. Only through faith in our holy mother Azul shall we remain untouched by this corruption, and with the resolve to combat it.

         Azul dwells within us all, as does Azaal. They drive our thoughts, and influence our actions. Without good, there can be no evil. Without Azul, there can be no Azaal. Never allow him to conquer your fervor and corrupt your spirit, for you are an Expurgator. You are Azul's champion, and the guardian of all men's conviction to her. Never forget your obligation. Through our sacrifices, we ensure that the faith of all men lives on.

         Valimaar stood in the doorway between the waking world, and the twisted nightmare he had come to know. As he rolled the thought through his conciousness, he questioned the sentiment. Flesh and blood? Whatever it was, was not what he had been taught of. It was more than that. The entity that had reveald itself to him was terror and malice. There was no tangible body of flesh nor blood.

         He struggled to set his mind right, for he had not been familiar with fear. This was something new to him. For the first time in his life as an Expurgator, he had felt afraid. That thing. That embodiment of metaphor, could very well have ended his life with little effort. Perhaps it was his faith that had protected him after all, though it was clear that the daemon was not afraid of such things.

         The drops of blood that speckled the snow at his feet led away from the ramshackle of a building. As he stared through the darkness and howling wind, and into the void of his waking nightmare, his eyes struggled to place what lay in front of him. So dark.

         The Exarch pushed past with sword in hand. He trudged through the deep snow, and bent low to inspect the trail as he went. That daemon had clearly not effected him in the same way. He seemed only more zealous than he was before. Such conviction he had.

         The gale ripped and tore at Valimaar as he pushed through. Snow hell-bent on hindering their efforts to track this person, stung his face as it blew through the chilling air. It bombarded them like a volley of arrows.

         Valimaar struggled to put his mind at ease, but the thoughts of what was coming to pass, and had already been, tore through his thoughts like the jagged claws of beasts. He felt a presence within him. One that he was not aware of before all of this. It was a pain. An ache. A throbbing of emotions, and energy that coursed through his blood. His head spun, and his eyes burned. His vision, obscured by the storm, had clouded over. All around him the waking world stood in the dark shadows of the stormy night as a white haze. What was happening to him?

         Never allow him to counquer your fervor and corrupt your spirit.

         Had his well been defeated? Had his spirit been compromised? The feeling burned within him like the fires of hell's furnace. Whatever it was that had revealed itself to him, had left its mark upon his soul. He was... changed.