I fear not death

Death is not mine.

Why should I fear death?

When I have no connection

With death I do not care death.

Death is going its own way

And I am absolutely separate

From death and in no way

Related to death.

Why should I fear death?

- gajanan mishra

Chapter 3: Fallen So Far

The sound of pounding feet caused him to turn around, platemail clicking in protest at the movement, in time to see the hurrying figure of Dismas rejoining the group. Eyes narrowed behind the slit that comprised the man's visor as they took in the somewhat battered form of the rogue, with his slashed jacket and bloody shirt. It was wrong of him to think so, he knew, but a portion of him wished that the man had taken even more of a beating in the fight.

The man known to the world as Reynauld snorted softly behind his helmet as he turned back towards the darkness that awaited them. No, not a fight. There had been no cohesion, no organization in the group of blasphemous dead that had rushed to attack them. Whoever had controlled them had merely been gauging the strength of the band of interlopers. There was no doubt that the next assault would be much better planned, and much more deadly.

A feral grin ripped across his face at the thought of crushing more of their vile frames beneath his steel-shod feet. He quickly forced himself to return to a neutral expression, however, chastising himself as he did so. There was joy to be found in duty, to be sure, but a member of the Holy Knights was not to indulge in such feelings. Discipline and faith were the strengths of the righteous warrior. Bloodthirsty zealotry had its own place to be sure, but to allow such feelings to control one's actions outside of combat, even if for a second, was a sure path to damnation and the four layers of Hell themselves. He would have to purify himself through prayer after they returned to the Hamlet later for the lapse in composure.

He risked a quick peek back at the assembled members of the group, keeping his senses alert as he did so. Dismas had taken up position behind and to the right of him, while the two women were alternating between watching out for any monsters sneaking up behind them and keeping the torch in an optimal position. He let out a tiny grunt in approval. Any heathen forms would have a most difficult time ambushing them with such a formation, preventing a return of the situation that had overtaken them in the last fight.

Sharpened hearing picked out the faint sounds of hissing emanating from ruined throats and the slapping of rotting flesh against moldy stone. Another onslaught, larger this time, and it would soon be upon them. His studded greaves thudded against the stone floor as his legs propelled him forward purposefully. Let them come, they would fall before his blade and his faith.

The man – if he had once been a man, he could no longer remember much – peered out of the darkness at the forms that were rapidly becoming more defined as he advanced towards them. The light from the torch they held would have ruined his vision, so accustomed as it was to the utter blackness that pervaded all down in the catacombs and the chambers within, if he had still been bound by the rules of mortality, but he had shed such constraints decades ago.

Once he had served. He could remember that much. A faithful servant to That-Which-Rules-Below. For his years of unending toil in the name of the Elder Being, he had been chosen, transformed, his flesh flayed from his body strip by strip until naught but bone remained while words that warped the very fabric of reality were brazenly spoken aloud over his form, which was prostrated before an altar decorated with the strewn remains of the unfaithful and engraved with symbols that caused lesser men to devolve into gibbering wrecks when looked upon. The ensuing pain had been terrible, shattering and rebuilding his mind several times over the course of the ritual, but the reward for enduring it had been even greater. Freed from the sickly life he had once lived, he had been granted salvation through blessed undeath, his reflexes now much faster and his senses far keener than they ever had been. Ever since, he had sought to repay his debt to the Darkness-Given-Form. Now a chance had arisen, and he would joyfully massacre in Its name.

Perhaps one day It would reward him for his continued service and grant him a glimpse of Its twisted majesty, Its horrific beauty. But first, he would have to prove himself worthy of such honors.

He raised a rusted battle-axe with the withered husk of his right arm, its desecrated visage belying its true strength, while his left raised a wooden buckler. A simple vest of iron chainmail rattled and slid across his skeletal form with every step he took, a trophy from the last interloper he had slain.

The mindless forms around him gurgled, moaned, and hissed as they picked up speed, their simple, rotted minds bent only on killing. As for he, no battle cry slipped past where his lips once had been, for the implacable advance of death needed no herald. He would let the decaying forms of his foes be his voice of worship to It, another psalm to the unending glory of That-Which-Rules-Below.

Reynauld had heard them approaching before he had seen them, but now his nose could also sense their approach before his eyes did. The sickly sweet stench of death and decay plied at his nostrils coyly even as the muted groans sought purchase in both his ears and his heart.

He shrugged the bastard sword off his shoulder, grasping the hilt with both of his hands as he soundlessly prayed for strength from the gods. To know one's limits was good. To have those limits bolstered and extended by the divine was better.

Vitality flooded through his muscles as the gods heard and responded to his pleas, leaving him giddy with the onrush of adrenaline that flowed through his mind. Let the unclean come! He would destroy each and every last one of them himself!

Some small part of him, however, remained rational and slowly reasserted itself, regaining enough control over his mind and suppressing the rush of emotions slightly so as to assess the situation. The group had just entered a large room with an arching ceiling, the heights of which were lost in shadow. Large stone pillars stretched upwards to support the weight of the ceiling, though two lay smashed and ruined on the floor, the rubble strewn haphazardly here and there, as though spread by an spoiled child in the midst of a tantrum. The light cast by the lone lit torch, in comparison with the size of the room, seemed like the proverbial drop in a bucket.

Absentmindedly he considered falling back to the hallway, forcing the enemy to confront them on more equal footing, rather than risking them becoming surrounded. However, the rational portion of his mind knew that if they did so, it was possible that the creatures would be willing to simply wait for them to eventually make a move, rather than just charging blindly. Such tactics were rare indeed, but not wholly unheard of, and had been the bane of more than a few unwary crusaders. In addition, the creatures would have to be destroyed sooner or later, and the part of his mind that howled to be unleashed against his foes demanded it be much sooner rather than any later. The rest of his mind could not muster any sort of argument against that. So they remained where they stood, a tiny wedge of humanity against the tides of the damned.

The edge of his blade gleamed as Vesli placed her torch in a conveniently shaped hole in a nearby piece of debris, allowing her to free both of her hands up for combat. Good. They would need all of their strength to survive what approached.

He could see them more clearly now, the torchlight no longer affecting his vision as it had when they had first seen the invaders enter the sacred chamber. They were not moving from their chosen position, which suited him just fine. They were out in the open, and the lesser beings that mobbed around him numbered nearly a score.

If the sacrifices wished to meet the Darkness-Given-Form quickly, then he would eagerly grant them their wish.

The empty eye sockets that graced his face fell upon the man at the forefront of the band, a figure resplendent in platemail and bearing a large sword. The unholy energies that resided in the holes and granted him vision ached simply glancing at him, a sensation he thought he had left behind so long ago. This one was anathema. This one was a heretic. This one would die by his hand and have his soul ripped screaming from his corpse for daring to so boldly defy It.

There would be much glory for him this day.

"There will be much glory for us this day," Reynauld intoned as he gazed upon the group of undead that was surging towards them. Almost two dozen, and what appeared to be a champion amongst them. He would take much pleasure in this fight.

Dismas shifted behind him, clearly undesirous of the honors to be won. "Glory means nothin' to me," he said, turning his head, pulling his bandana down with his hand in the same motion, and spitting off into the gloom. "Living, on the other hand, does."

Coward.

"You shame us with your words and actions," Reynauld said disgustedly, "faith in the gods and our skill with our weapons will see us through this."

He could not see Dismas' silent response, but he was sure that a few inventive gestures were made at his back.

"The taint of the restless dead is no match for warriors in whom conviction abounds," came a voice from behind him. Montbrai, reciting the fifth Catechism of Crusading, and the first words that he had heard leave her mouth that day. An old favorite of his, written well over three hundred years ago.

"The taint of the restless dead is no match for warriors in whom conviction abounds," he echoed back.

The horde was nearly upon them.

He stopped, though the forms around him had no such compunctions. They rushed onwards, straight onto the blades that awaited them, breaking upon the defense like a wave upon a cliff.

He watched impassively as the crusader swung his sword around as if it weighed nothing, beheading two of the lesser creatures in one swipe, before cutting another into two twitching pieces with the return sweep.

He strode forward as the bandana-wearing man unloaded his pistol into the face of a zombie, completing the ruination that had been begun with a tossed vial from the woman wearing a plague mask standing in the back.

He raised his axe as the other woman, a priestess of the false gods judging by her dress, called forth a burst of power that illuminated the darkness, staggering the remaining forms and allowing her comrades to cut them down with renewed zeal.

Reaching the holy warrior just as he cut down another of the punished ones that had accompanied him, he brought the blade of his axe crashing downwards, the unholy runes that lined the haft and the edge glittering wickedly. The man brought up his massive sword in time for a parry, the inscribed scriptures that flowed along the blade glowing in response.

A faint sigh escaped his mouth, sounding more like a wheeze as it did. Too long had it been since he had faced a real challenge.

Finally, a real challenge.

The enemy leader, if it had even actually led, had reached him just as his weapon had lain open a shambling monstrosity from collarbone to sternum. He had underestimated it then, thinking it simply another one of the mindless beings that had tried in vain to drag him down, clawing and gnashing at him all the while.

That was then, and this was now. When the creature had brought its runed weapon down with a swiftness that belied its imposing bulk, he had barely enough time to parry. Since then, most of the rest of the creatures had been brought low by his companions, and the rest were being finished off while the pair continued their dance of death.

Reynauld slammed his sword down, even as the creature raised the wooden buckler affixed to its left arm up in defense. Though the shield looked to be naught more than rotten wood barely held together by a few strips of rusted metal, he could feel the reverberations traveling up his arms as his weapon merely bounced off of it. So, bolstered by whatever foul and twisted magics that were most likely cousin to the powers that kept this damnable thing from simply falling apart.

A lightning quick blow smashed into him, the motion a blur even to his trained eyes. It failed to do any real damage, at least from what he could tell at the moment, but the pain, no doubt amplified by the runes, creeped its way throughout his chest. He hissed as he pulled back for his next strike, determined to end the fight before he was injured seriously. There were, after all, limits to the miracles that the gods granted unto men of faith. Reattaching one's severed head to his limp body was not one of them.

He feinted low and swung high, the strike badly damaging the shield arm of his foe. He grinned savagely behind his helmet as his opponent took on a more defensive stance. None could escape the judgment of the gods, and he was their instrument in this dark place.

There were many sensations that he had lost upon his blessed transfiguration. Base human emotions that plagued those of the flesh constrained him no longer. So it was when the warrior ruined his arm, there was no pain that rushed to overwhelm his brain. However, there were flickers of something he thought he had also lost when he had ascended. Fear. Not panic, for that was truly gone, but honest fear and disquiet that bode ill for him.

He quickly shifted his stance, hoping to slowly withdraw into the darkness, deterring his enemy from moving beyond the torchlight and into the reach of his axe.

A loud crack heralded the fall of the last of base wretches that had occupied the attentions of the other three fleshlings. He needed to move, and now.

In his haste, however, he made one fatal mistake.

He had backed up three steps, confident that he would be gone before the trio of blasphemers that rushed to the aid of the crusader arrived. However, he failed to see the loose debris that was scattered about underfoot, and lost his footing for one crucial second on one such stone. He desperately fought to right himself, only to regain his footing in time to see the holy warrior's sword come crashing down upon his chain coif.

His skull came bursting apart in a shower of bone under the force of the strike, the metal covering doing nothing to stop or deflect the blow. As his soul rushed to exit his now rapidly slumping body, he could see, if only for the briefest of moments, the look of exultant triumph upon his foe's face. Then his sight left the mortal plane, and all he could see was It, laughing maniacally as it devoured the soul of Its once blessed child.

He who was once a man could do nothing but scream in horror and hatred for the eternity it would take for the Elder Being to savor his essence.

The feral smirk never left Reynauld's face as he turned around to his now slowly approaching companions, their haste having left them once they had seen him slay the desecrated warrior in front of him. They all bore wounds, though praise be to the gods that none of those wounds were deep. Dismas had acquired another slash, this time to his right arm, while Vesli and Montbrai both bore numerous bite and claw marks. A fairly clean sweep by any standard.

"Well done, my friends!" he started. "We have cleansed this place of the restless dead with our faith and-" The rest of the words that had been forming on his tongue never escaped as Dismas stalked up to him and coldcocked him. He staggered backwards slightly from the blow, aware of the noise of finger bones producing a loud series of cracking noises as he did, evidence that Dismas would not be using that hand for a while. Gods, he was uncertain whether or not his helmet was undented after a blow like that.

"You fuckin' bastard!" Dismas screamed at him, unmindful of the loud echoes that the large room was producing. "You absolute fuckin' bastard!" He struggled to hit Reynauld again even with the two women holding back as well as they could.

"What in the name of the gods has gotten into you man?" Reynauld demanded even as he adjusted his helmet so that he could see out of it again.

"What's gotten into me? What's gotten into me?!" The man's struggles became even fiercer at this, though Montbrai and Vesli still managed to restrain him while Reynauld walked up to him and glared through his visor. "We nearly got killed while you were off pretendin' to be some big hero, all because you insisted we go prancin' about down here, when we shoulda been clearin' out! And you ask what's gotten into me?!"

The backhand that Reynauld dealt him snapped his head around, knocking that infernal bandana loose in the process, and shut him up. Reynauld was certain that the man would be feeling the aftereffects of that blow the entire trek back to the Hamlet, even as the man spit of a glob of blood and phlegm onto the stone floor at his feet.

"I was entrusted with the role of leader in this righteous task," he snarled in the rogue's face, bending over to be as close as possible. "Lord Alexis placed me in command, and as such, you are expected to follow my every command, thief. Be grateful that we are not in the Order, for I would have already struck you down for your insubordination. As it stands, Lord Alexis will hear about this."

Dismas' eyes narrowed, but he ceased his struggling, not making another attempt at striking him even after the women released him. Apparently the rogue had decided that risking Reynauld's temper any more than he already had could prove to be decidedly lethal. He was not wrong.

Straightening back up, Reynauld looked at the group. "We head back. Our appointed task is done, and a large group of the restless dead has been destroyed. We have done well this day."

With those words, he pushed his way past Dismas none too gently and began making his way back towards the tunnel they had entered the room from. A good day, marred by the faithless and their doubts. He needed to pray.

The group stood in Alexis' study. They had returned after a few hours of backtracking, though the return trip was much shorter than the initial foray, and Reynauld had insisted that they all be present when he reported their findings, especially the part that concerned the undead they had encountered.

Alexis, for his part, looked to be alternating between outright refusal to accept the veracity of Reynauld's claims and resigned acceptance. Reynauld did not blame him. The land was not nearly tainted enough to indicate a major infestation of the restless dead. Yet the groups that they had destroyed were clearly harbingers of more foul creatures lurking below.

"You're sure?" Alexis asked him.

"I have never been more certain in my life," he responded, steel in his voice. "The creatures and their champion that we smote signify that there is powerful necromancy at work in your ancestral home."

"Yet necromancy alone would not have been enough to destroy the estate. If the dead had begun to rise, then the Order would have destroyed them. But here we are, in the ruins of my family's hopes, with the dead walking below our very feet."

The man had a point. The Order had kept a watchful eye for over two thousand years, ever since the great Shadow Wars of antiquity that nearly saw the destruction of humanity as a unified species. His predecessors would have been more than capable of stamping out a few hundred rotting corpses when their own numbers reached into the tens of thousands spread across the lands.

"You are suggesting that there are other forces at play here, then?" he asked cautiously. Did he know something Reynauld did not?

"I am not suggesting anything, for that would imply I knew something," Alexis said, clearly agitated by the line of thought. "Perhaps we will uncover more knowledge of the fall of my ancestors in future expeditions, but for now we must deal with these undead as we encounter them."

"Agreed, they will be our most pressing concern for the time being. It would also be wise, if I may so bold my Lord, to bring in others who could assist us in this task. Perhaps some of my brothers and sisters in the faith…?" he ventured.

"Perhaps," Alexis murmured, turning his gaze down upon the musty tome that lay open before him. "Though the Order often demands favors or gold in return for the service of its soldiers. Things which I am unable to freely give at the moment. We may need to look elsewhere for warriors."

"Elsewhere, my Lord?"

Alexis grunted. "Elsewhere." He did not choose to expand upon that line of thought.

The group shuffled awkwardly for a moment, unsure as to whether or not they had been dismissed or Alexis was merely lost in thought. Eventually the man looked up with glazed eyes, nodding at them in dismissal. One by one they filed out, Reynauld keeping his eyes upon the man until the others had left. Finally, he shuffled out, steel boots thudding against the wooden floor.

He needed to pray. If he knew nothing else in this Hamlet, he knew he needed to pray.