The Love of God

Word count: 2674

Wordlist: #1



    "He is old and losing his wits; but still a crafty old geezer." Fat Hougworth pointed out, smiling his golden toothed smile. Rat-Faced Bill looked fearful, shifting his eyes from side to side.

"Gentlemen! let us not forget he is a man of God." Bishop Pylous felt matters getting out of hand. It had taken Pylous a long time, and a lot of courage to get this group of men together. Fat Hougworth (or simply The Hog) was the head of the merchant clan. Getting him to participate in removing the archbishop was easy: he only had to promise lessening the religious inspections, and doing his best to make the king lower transport tax. Once he would become archbishop after the unfortunate demise of the current one, he would fix all the mistakes of the old fool. Naturally he was the next in line, being the eldest amongst all the bishops of Fortamire. The Archbishop had thought otherwise, and named Bishop Burka as his successor. How ungrateful of him after all the service I have given. I am true bishop; devoted to god and the Archbishop, serving him day and night. Burka is an out goer, incapable of fathoming the depth of even the simplest scriptures. In school he never knew anything, and would play in the street while I studied in the class room. Even with all this reasoning , getting down into the dirty business of executing his plan, raised small doubts that began eating at him much more then he would have expected; especially when one of his co-instigators, would speak ill of a man of religion like the Archbishop.



Dealing with these low life merchants, was making his skin crawl. And to think he would owe them a favor for this once he was in the seat of power; what a terrible notion. He would certainly have to be rid of them: some tragic accident would suffice. Am I evil, he questioned himself, feeling the scars on his forearms itch. He was born with two birthmarks shaped as perfect circles, one on each arm. When he had been accepted into priesthood, they made him brand those circles with steaming hot iron stars. They called them angel stars, and said they would safeguard him from his sinful heirloom. Accordingly he always garbed in long sleeved robes, hiding them.

"Wots 'es plan then, get on wit' it." Rat-Face the merchants' guild treasurer was getting impatient. A lean individual whose sole Compass in life was money. His shifty eyes always gave one a fright, as if something dreadful was about to occur.

"Don't be so hasty to instigate, my dear fellow." Pylous was getting nervous at The Rat's lack of patience, and yet he had to portray sufficient control.

"Insti-wot? 'Es ee gonna flaunt us wit' 'es witty old tongue all night; or will ee be sharin' 'es plan wit' us no good low livers." Rat-Face gawked his lifeless black eyes into Pylous's blues, making him perspire.

"Not low at all! As is written in the seventh book: all craft shall respect it's doer," consoled Bishop Pylous apologetically.

"That'd be true as it is; even a prostitute opening its legs, as malignant as it be, is a noble profession. I bet you even the Archbishop dwindles his lolls once in a while," the Hog chukled, his fat belly bouncing with every chuckle. What a disgusting sight this Hog is. Pylous always kept in good shape. The key was not eating too much of anything, and avoiding sweets of all kinds: like sweet lemons, crusted orange peel, sweet tarts with cream filling...

"Bishop ahoy!" Yelled The Hog sympathetically, noticing Pylous's lack of attention. Pylous jumped, but quickly regained his solemn stance.

"The plan is simple enough. On the fourth day of Saint Edward's revival, I shall have a session with the Archbishop. There I shall use the sleeping powder, supplied to me by Master Hougsworth, Slipping it into his cup of mulled wine. When he sleeps I shall use his seal, which is placed on his fourth finger, to sign this parchment: declaring the King to be a traitor before God. I shall proceed by going to the window, and knocking three times. Then your Master Scriber shall meet me at the window, take the parchment and sign over the seal. He shall sign with both the Archbishop, and Bishop Burka's signatures. When the King joins us for prayer, he shall find the parchment in the hands of the sleeping Archbishop and imprison him. Burka will be blamed as well, leaving me as the next in line." As should have been all along. Pylous added to himself.

"A well ambitious plan 'es got us. I 'ope Bishop, dat God is on yor side." The Rat spat on the floor in contempt. The Bishop felt a drop of sweat running down his neck, and the angel stars itched like hell.





    The Archbishop's Prayer room was quite simple, but had a holly affect to it. Six identical walls with a high ceiling, which made it feel like a church. Gigantic painted windows with the great heroes of past ages portrayed in them, all kneeling to a light coming out through the clouds, their heads bowed in prayer.

Pylous stood in the doorway, waiting to be called as usual. The Archbishop was kneeling in what seemed to be an especially fervent prayer. Pylous became extremely impatient and nervous from the wait. He does have a lot to repent for, with wanting to place Burka in my stead. Maybe he is regretting, and is about to tell me he has reformed his mind. For some reason his arms itched a lot more than usual. He spent all day scratching until he was forced to stop, feeling that his skin was about to come off. Forcing his attention away from the itch, his eyes wandered to the bright red window that shown with dazzling color, portraying on it the only hero who did not kneel; Huberius the great, who thought himself the son of god, but was eventually decapitated for blasphemy. This "Hero" had no place in a prayer room. He had of course saved the King from the evil frost dragon Egenis, but had eventually stormed the Great Church and almost beheaded the Archbishop. When Pylous would become Archbishop, the first thing on his agenda would be to rid himself of that haunting red window.

"Will you keep an old man waiting forever." The Archbishop had somehow left the alter unnoticed, and gotten to his mighty oaken chair.

"Dear Archbishop, I'm sorry I drifted off." Pylous apologized.

"Don't dear me, I know of your schemes." The Archbishop smiled, which made it seem much worst. He knows of my schemes. Pylous felt like a knife being stuck in his gut.

Pylous stammered, feeling his mouth go dry "You know of my ssscheme..."

"Your schemes to over compliment me. You were always the most sensitive, and therefore my favorite deciple. That overbearing king is on his way here. Get me that mulled wine over there will you Bishop. That will help get me in the right mood to deal with his Majesty." He knows nothing…  Pylous felt a stone lift off of his chest.

He walked over to the wine pitcher half in a dream, feeling his heart pound within trying to burst out of his chest. The stars on his arms began to hurt, he lifted his sleeve seeing a trickle of blood coming out from a spot where he had itched too much. Rubbing it now made it feel even worst, so he let it be.  He hesitated for a moment, but proceeded by taking out the sleeping powder from his pocket, and emptying its content into the cup. Walking back to the Archbishop he couldn't bring his eyes to meet the Archbishop's. Guilt was eating at him, and an icy sweat dwindled torturously down his spine. The Archbishop raised his glass in salute. "To you my dear Bishop. I should like you to know that I hold you in the highest regard." Pylous almost wanted to yell, no! do not drink, I repent my sins!, But the taste of disappointment from that day of announcement, held his tongue firmly in check.

The Archbishop drank. A look of anguish fell across his face, as he gazed accusingly into the Bishop's eyes. His head drooped, and he went into a deep sleep, seeming almost like death. Pylous took out the parchment from his robe, and placed it on the Archbishops lap, picked up the Archbishop's heavy hand, and dipped the golden seal on his middle finger in the ink pot. He signed the paper and ran with the parchment to the window. Three knocks, and a twisted face bounded up outside the window. Pylous slipped him the parchment and began chewing his fingertips. He felt like a child again, when he used to watch for adults whilst Burka and the other boys where stealing milk from the cowshed. Only back then it was thrilling, now it was terrifying.

"Done." Said the Scriber with a scratchy whisper and disappeared.



He took the parchment and ran back to the Archbishop, placing it in his lap. At that instant the door swung open and the King walked in. His golden cape flapping behind him, he seemed as regal as a lion with that massive jawbone and low cut forehead. Pylous bowed down low, as the king swept by him towards the Archbishop.

"What in all hells is this!" Yelled the king in shock. Pylous stood up looking at the Archbishop who lay sprawled on the floor, blood streaming from his mouth, the parchment lying next to his dead hand.

"Murder!" A yell from the doorway. Burka strode in followed by the kings guards. He was dressed in a flowing white robe, his black hair matted on top of his head soaked in oil. The guards quickly streamed into the room surrounding the king. Their chain shirts gleaming above velvet covered leather with swords drawn and shields at protective stance. Burka strode right through them to join the king in the center of the guarded circle, surrounding the dead Archbishop. Dead?

"Dead?!" Yelled Pylous his mind a blur of disbelief. "Sleeping powder it was." He murmured.

"This document is proof of Pylous's betrayal, hold him guards." The guards hesitated but waited for the King to give the order. The king who was stricken with grief, holding the Archbishop's lame hand, barely managed to raise his head to look at Burka.

"Read." Said the King, his voice cracking with sadness. Pylous could not believe his eyes, his ears. A nightmare or the abyss, what is this. That parchment was written by me and now it has changed skin like a slithery snake.

"To whom it may concern. I, The Archbishop, in this place before God almighty, the giver of life. I have found Pylous of Waterbridge to be guilty of treason. Disregarding the oath he has taken before King and Country, he has gone forth and planned the murder of King Eredius. By contacting the rebel army of Tarradil, an army of atheist murderers and barbaric culture. He has spied for them for many a year, and should be tried as a traitor to the crown and oath breaker.

May this letter reach safe hands. May God protect its reader and keep him from all harm.

Signed, Archbishop of Fortamire. Protector of Faith. Upholder of God's law."

Pylous was dumb struck. He didn't notice when the King yelled at him. He didn't realize he was being dragged out of the room by four massive guards. He didn't even feel himself scratching at his arms until they bled. Not even when the gates of the dark cell closed on him, did he realize his terrible predicament. The key twisted in its chamber, making a tremendous clanging sound, as darkness covered him.

   

    For what seemed an eternity he sat in his solitary cell, thinking about what had transpired that day. He had reached a conclusion that someone had played a trick on him. It must have been Burka; and if it was Burka then he must have also planned the Archbishop's Murder. He must have switched the parchment. They were all in on it: the filthy merchants, the scriber, Burka, maybe even the King himself. No, the King seemed genuinely sad. He crawled over to the little light that came through the window, and placed his arms under it. They were healing nicely although the angel stars were gone and only the circles were left.

The cell key clanged and Bishop Burka walked into the darkened, dirty cell. The light from the small cell window fell on Burka's face dramatically, and dissipated quickly, giving Pylous an evanescent glimpse of Burka's rough dark skinned face.

"Have you forgotten your manners, old friend." Said Burka holding out his hand to be kissed. "Let me remind you then that it is customary to kiss the Archbishop's hand." Pylous hesitated, then slithered from his corner to take hold of Archbishop Burka's hand, and kiss it gently. He then slithered back to his corner, and leaned tiredly against the rough wall.

"I guess you have figured out my plan. In all fairness I don't know how a book worm like you thought of surprising me so. Although I have to compliment you on a plan well made. You..."

"Murderer!" shrieked Pylous, jumping suddenly from his darkened corner. His hair was distraught, his face wrinkled and dirty. "Murderer!" shrieked Pylous a second time, a murdurous rage burned in him. Burka stood his ground.

"Is a bartender to blame for a drunk being drunk?" Said Burka patiently.

Pylous charged past him. Burka leapt out of his way yelping in fear.  Pylous slammed open the cell door. A young guard was standing there, all alone. The guard jumped out of the madman's way, but somehow Pylous managed to grab the guard's knife from his girdle scabbard, and stab at his face. The guard struggled, but Pylous stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, seeing only red, murder, blood. When his rage subsided, he saw the dead mass of flesh and blood that was the guard, and retched. Pylous wiped his mouth turning back to the cell, seeing Burka's fear-filled stare. Burka's mouth was open and he was clinging to the cell wall, as if taken by madness. The rage had left Pylous and he felt only pity. Pity for the guard, pity for Burka, pity for the old Archbishop, pity for every man he had ever met, and pity for himself. He looked down at his arms and saw the circles shining with a black hued light.

Burka trembled and yelped again at the ghastly sight. "Please… I will do anything for you just let me go. I will make you Archbishop, please." Pylous felt power emanating from his arms. He felt it in his chest, his eyes, his very being.

Words emanated from his mouth uncontrolled, bare powerful. "Samar goul rabba shadai." He felt it, someone knocking on his very consciousness, trying to penetrate his soul. He knew it was evil and fear filled him. It must be stopped! He opened his mouth to speak but his breath had left him, every syllable was anguish. "Ki…"

Burka had soiled himself, and was standing in a puddle of his own piss. "What is this, who are you, devil spawn. Why do you torment me so!" It took every fiber of Pylous's strength to keep the evil out.

"Kill…"

"Who should I kill, tell me I will do as you bid, just let me be. I am your slave to command, I am nothing."

"Kill me…" Burka was distraught, his mouth hung open. "Kill me now…" Burka picked up the knife and stabbed at Pylous's heart. He stabbed and stabbed until the heart was bare, until the body dropped to the ground and only a bleeding mass of flesh was remained. With his last breath Pylous felt the evil leave his consciousness. No more knocking or itching. Only love. The love of God.