Apostasy: The Book of Ithaca

Chapter 9

Chapter IX



         The tattered black leather waistcoat hung off his body as if it were ravaged by wolves. The broken man lay still in the cold snow, and his blood oozed from the wounds in his arms and legs. Valimaar could see his chest rising and falling with each breath, but he was not conscious. He had not seen this man for a very long time. At his feet, his brother of the Expurgators, Xander, lay in the deep snow, and his body had been mangled.

         What was it they were fighting? What could have possibly done this. Whatever it was had managed to best one of their own. This thing was without limits.

         "Brother Valimaar," the Exarch called through the howling gale, "He needs a cleric! Help me get him to the Administratum."

         Valimaar bent low, his hands wrapped tight around the man's arms. His eyes darted back and forth beneath his eyelids. He could see that Xander had been introduced to nightmares.

         The two of them struggled to keep the limp body of the Expurgator in their grasp as they trudged through the storm. The man was a chunk of iron, that hung and swayed with their footsteps. The strength between the two men was enough to carry him, but the bitter cold was quick in spiriting away.

         It was a great distance to the Hereticus Administratum from the slums that they had pursued the thing. Though Valimaar had finally tasted fear, he was thankful that they had followed it here. Had they not taken up the hunt, they would never have found their brother.

         Blood poured from his injuries, and Valimaar knew, that time was working against them. He would soon bleed to death.

         The shouts in the distance carried themselves on the violent wind. It was muffled by its howling, and whoever it was, they could not recognize the voice.

         The cries were getting closer. Regardless of who it was, they would be able to lend their aid to the broken man in their grasp. As the clattering and clanging of weapons and armor rang in their ears, a wave of relief rushed through Valimaar. The Apostolics had found them. Thank Azul that they did.

         The priests ran through the deep snow with weapons drawn. Their eyes fixed on the bloody Expurgator dangling low as they ran. They slowed their pace as they came upon them.

         "Help us get this man to the Administratum," the Exarch shouted at them.

         The man in front barked orders to his followers, and two of them rushed to assist. Thank Azul they had come.

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

         The dark halls of the catacombs reeked of mold and fungus. The scent of the burning torch and stagnant water hung in the air, blanketing it with a pungent aroma that burned Azazel's nose. His heavy footsteps echoed down the dark corridor as he walked deeper into the ancient tombs. The silence of the denizens of this place filled his ears. They were long dead; the first generation of man to settle Ecclesia.

         It had been the first time he had been here for many years. Not since last he walked through the city streets nigh on a millenium ago. These old passages had not seen a living person in almost a thousand years. They had been long forgotten by the current blight that inhabited the Cardinal City. How he despised them. Whoever it was he was inhabiting, he took pleasure knowing that this man's life was no longer his own. For he had stolen it. Men were weak beings - decadent. Since the time of their creation they had thrived on destroying beauty around them. It made him sick.

         He ran his fingers along the slick, calcified stone walls of the ancient catacomb. He had not felt the touch of moss in hundreds of years. How beautiful everything was, until men were created. They had stolen the beauty of earth, and destroyed it. Everywhere they went, decay followed. They were a curse; a disease.

         Azazel took pleasure in the thought that soon, things would change.

         "Why do you come here?" The question carried with it, the heat of anger.

         He strained his eyes through the haze of darkness. Men's vision was so weak. As the silent shadow crept through the dark, he slowed his stride and lowered his torch.

         "My Lord," Azazel replied, "I bring news."

         The walls of the catacombs began to shake, and the rumble displaced dust that dwelt within the old cracks of the stone. It rained down upon his shoulders and stuck in his dark matted hair. His lord was not pleased.

         "You risk everything coming here!" The heat in his voice burned his eyes, and singed his hair. It boomed down the corridor like a distant thunder rolling across the stormy skies.

         He shrunk back from his master. His wrath was great and terrible, and it was something that he did not wish to be the receiver of, "My Lord, Ithaca has awakened."

         The hot air in the tomb cooled and the cracking of stone ceased as the shadow stepped closer. His eyes glowed red through the dark. It was like looking into a distant fire through the darkness of night.

         "That is wonderful news servant. When did he return?"

         Azazel turned away, pointing through the dark, "He has returned tonight my lord, Peymon completed the rituals last night."

         The glow in his eyes intensified into a great conflagration, "I understand that you partook in the rituals."

         Fear coursed through his veins, and he could feel the burning of his flesh, "Forgive me my lord," he sputtered out, "I cannot help myself. I hate them."

         "The ceremonies are not your charge servant! Your hatred blinds you of your duties. You are not the master of ceremonies Azazel, you are our standard bearer."

         His limbs trembled as he shrunk away from the shadow, "Please forgive me my lord."

         "Your zeal for our cause is comforting servant," it replied, its heat had dissipated, "But this is not your battle alone. You do not know the ways of the ceremony like Peymon. You risked being discovered."

         "The eyes of men are blind my lord, and their minds are weak. They conjure visions and excuses to reject what they truly see. My hunts have gone unnoticed."

         "Their eyes are blind, but their spirits can see through the veil servant. Do not tell me of the natures of men, for I was there when they were created. It is because of men that we are here now Azazel, never forget that."

         "I understand my lord. I shall let Peymon finish the rituals himself," he replied. Anger filled him, he despised being the mere standard bearer, for he knew his abilities were far more superior than the tasks he had been given.

         The shadow dissipated, and the air of the corridor filled with frigid cold. "See that the rest of the princes awaken Azazel. Do not disobey my wishes again, this ceremony is not your task."

         The voice quieted, and a gust of wind blew past him. He was gone. Azazel stood in the dark burning with rage. Why was it his duty to see to the princes? He was not their servant. It was pointless to dwell on the matter, for soon they would return, and he could return to his old duties.

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

         Valimaar stood with his arms crossed in the dark corner of the room. He looked on as the cleric worked with precision, working the needle in an out of the man's desecrated flesh. Brother Xander had been decimated. Bloody bandaged masked the stitched wounds that covered his body. He had yet to regain consciousness, the ramblings that escaped his lips suggested that he was waking. Or perhaps he had been driven mad.

         It was a tragic thing to see a defender of Azul in such a state. Whatever had come upon him, had a clear superiority in strength. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The Expurgators were not familiar with a strength such as this. Valimaar had fought against daemons, but this was something more than a geist. This was more than a wytch. It was an embodiment of wrath.

         The feeling within him grew. The tingling of his fingers, and the numbness in his arms had stolen what was left of his attention, and he cringed at the throbbing of energy that filled his limbs. What was this? Had he been poisoned? It was shocking to feel something like this. All of his emotions were stolen by this storm within him. It felt as though he were becoming hollow.

         The whispers that carried through the silent room were startling. Aside from the cleric and Brother Xander, he was the only one there, yet he heard them. There were many of them, as if he were in a crowded room filled with hushed voices. He could not make out what they were saying, as if they were being whispered from the end of the hall, and he were just out of earshot. So many voices. They were not angry, or sad, or anything that would suggest that they were real. They sounded almost empty.

         His eyes burned like the furnace of hell. Goose flesh covered his body, and shivers rolled up his spine. The chill that sent the waves of ice through his body had not come from the air, for it was quite warm. It was a cold from within. As if his bones were frozen in ice. This was all so unfamiliar. Whatever it was, he could only hope that it would leave him be.

         "This man is lucky to be alive," the cleric said.

         Valimaar, stood silent.

         "Brother Valimaar, how long has this man been like this?" The cleric motioned to Xander, who continued to mumble in his weak voice.

         "We found him like this," he replied. His voice carried no compassion.

         The cleric nodded and turned to face the broken man lying upon the table, "He has lost a lot of blood, but I'm confident that he will heal."

         "Thank you cleric, well done." He replied with emptiness, as he stared at nothing.

         The cleric began to gather his tools, and he fought to fit them in his black leather bag, as he made his way towards the long winding stairs.

         Your spirit is immortal. The body is but a manifestation that reminds you that you exist at all. You will feel pain Expurgator. But remember that flesh can be healed. All the swords, bullets, and claws on this earth cannot harm your spirit. Remember that just as your spirit is immortal, so are you. Your body will die but your spirit will remain. Never forget, that through our sacrifices, we protect our immortality. Never allow your spirit to succumb to the darkness. Through us, the Divinity and all its servants shall never die.

         Valimaar stood still in the corner, watching as his brother spat out insane, incoherent ramblings. Whatever they had come upon, had harmed Xander's body, and his spirit. Now, it was after his. He could feel it burning within him.

         The man's ramblings became faster as his head turned back and forth. Valimaar stepped closer, listening to him.

         "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight." He spat the words out with speed. Had he gone mad?

         "Eight princes, eight sons, and eight brothers come."

         I see you.

         The voice startled him.

         Do not fear us Valimaar.

         It was a whisper that echoed through his mind. Its chilled voice sent shivers down his spine. It did not carry with it the tone of malice, or hatred, rather it was sorrowful. It was as if it were comforting him.

         "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight." His words had increased in speed. They were almost inaudible.

         We only wish to help.

         "Show yourself daemon," Valimaar shouted at the nothing.

         "Eight princes, eight sons, and eight brothers come." Tremors were coursing through the man's body as he convulsed with violence.

         We are here Valimaar. Ignorance blinds you. Look with your eyes and see us.

         Valimaar pulled his pistol and took aim at the air in front of him. What was happening to him? Chilling waves surged through his veins as he felt the ice within him grow. Cold had numbed his hands, and his vision clouded. The trembling in his arms would not stop. It felt as though his head were breaking. He felt the throbbing in his broken wrist as if it were a hammer striking him, and his ribs felt as though they were being crushed.

         The warmth in the room was stolen away. He hunched over in agony, and the cracking of bones echoed through the room. He could not stop the pain. The pistol fell to the floor and his hands were shaking.

         Your body is broken Valimaar.

         His wrist snapped, and the air around him was crushing. His head throbbed, and tremors surged through his body. It was so painful.

         Flesh is easy to repair, but you must protect yourself Valimaar. We need you.

         The crack filled his ear with a concussive ring, and the air's density had dissipated. He felt warmth returning to him, and his wrist had stopped throbbing. It was healed. He was slow in standing as he retrieved the pistol from the stone floor.

         "One. Two. Three-" Xander's eyes shot open and he stared at him as though he were looking into his soul. "They are here."

         Valimaar searched the voids of his eyes. They were black; empty.

         His spirit is weak. Not like yours. The rituals have conquered his mind.

         "Keep away from me!" Xander's screams pierced his ears.

         Forget him Valimaar. His mind is broken. His spirit is condemned.

         "Leave him be," Valimaar shouted at the nothing in the room.

         Xander ripped the pistol from Valimaar's grasp, aiming it at his head. "Keep away daemon!"

         He's going to harm you Valimaar.

         He pulled the hammer back, and the rise and fall in his chest had grown violent. The darkness in his eyes searched the room. What was he looking at? As his eyes fixed on Valimaar, his brow lowered and he gritted his teeth.

         Why couldn't he move. Staring down the muzzle of the pistol he was frozen in place.

         We cannot keep protecting you Valimaar.

         He felt the cold return to him, and the whispers grew loud in the room. As his vision hazed, and the burning in his flesh came over him, he watched as Xander placed the barrel on his temple. "They will never stop coming." His voice died, and his eyes shut. As he took a deep breath, the concussive crack of flint striking the frizzen left ringing in Valimaar's ears.

         His body fell to the floor with the voids in his eyes staring up at him.

         We will never stop coming.