The Sword of God
Warnings: as usual, violence, gore, minor character death
Author's note 1: Well, I don't know if anybody still reads this story except fellow author Black Dragon's Ghost, but if you do you might be pissed of at the manner I portrait Damien's reaction at the rather unexpected revelation he has to digest. But let's not forget that Gerald and Karril did indeed hoax him and that he doesn't know the background for Gerald's plotting and scheming. If I were Damien I would be damn livid with those two fellows, anyway, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that he's not exactly beside himself with joy. Just let him rant and rave. He will calm down, as usual...;-)
Author's note 2: I'm not very well at the moment, and I might be in for a stay at the hospital (big sigh!), so I don't know when I will be able to update my fics again. Don't worry, though: I never abandon a story, and if nothing terrible happens to me I WILL update a.s.a.p.
Author's note 3: Hope you enjoy the cameo of the black dragon, lovey...
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo
We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another (Jonathan Swift).
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
Damien didn't even realize he was running until he started gasping for air, cursing the loss of his agility and speed due to the deplorable neglect of his body. The proud owner of a fine nose for lurking trouble since the faraway days of his youth he didn't miss that right now the very air stank of it, and his warrior instincts in better condition than his muscles and tendons he was very well aware that instead of wallowing in self-pity and hitting the damned booze like a madman for months on end he would have been better advised to prepare himself for combat. What kept him going was the frightful certainty that Gerald was in danger, that he needed him, and this time he wouldn't let his former companion face his fate alone. He would stay at his side and get him out of trouble, at whatever cost to himself. Better to die with honour than to choke on his guilt the way he had done during the last seventeen months.
When Vryce turned around the last corner and came in full view of Karril's temple, or what remained off it, he froze dead in his tracks, his shell-shocked mind simply refusing to process the visual input. That wasn't possible, mustn't be possible. As the Prophet had written in their holy scriptures the quality of the One God was mercy; the Lord simply couldn't be so cruel to spare his prophet from dying at the Keep just to let him perish in a vile attack wrought by those who had inherited the faith he had founded so many centuries ago.
Fragments of prayers formed on the warrior knights white lips, but he wasn't able to form a coherent thought, his heart and soul repeating one plea like a mantra destined to save him from insanity. Please, God, protect him. Please...
When the first shockwave had subsided and the cognitive performance of his brain had resumed the better part of its functions Vryce forced himself to assess the situation objectively, desperately pushing his feelings aside. About half of the forefront of Karril's temple was gone, blasted to pieces by the explosive device the mob had apparently used to storm the barricades hastily erected by the frightened worshippers and priests. About ten bodies mutilated beyond recognition were just hauled out of the building like cattle, presumably the unfortunately souls who had been close when the explosives detonated, and cheers erupted and fists were shaken when more humans were herded outside, the luckier ones of Karril's followers who had escaped the first violent attack.
"Bloody pagans!" "Heathens!" "Burn them!"
To Damien's appalled horror the crowd drawn to the scene by the commotion was increasing by the second, and their mood was by no means benevolent. The warrior knight couldn't help but noticing some drawn daggers and cudgels raised threateningly, and several citizens had actually picked up small stones. The three Knights of the Flame in their white-and-golden armour in charge of the attack kept themselves aloof from the tableau, but the bunch of drunk mercenaries who did the dirty work for them in God's hallowed name evidently gained a perverted pleasure from fuelling the people's blood thirst, and Damien didn't doubt that it wouldn't need much of an incentive anymore until the 'concerned citizens' would turn into a full-fledged lynch mob. Watching helplessly when one of the leering mercenaries pawed a weeping young priestess and several grim men approached to defile the corpses the warrior knight had to choke down the bile rising in his throat. Dear God in heaven, what had become of his faith?
And much more important: where the heck was Gerald? Despite Damien's firm resolve to refrain from letting his heart ruling his brain in times of danger his overheated imagination provided him with dreadful visions of a mangled corpse and the even worse scenario of Gerald dying right now by a merciless blade or trapped under heavy blocks of stone, sick and utterly helpless, calling his name. Heartrending images of himself failing his friend once more, letting him down in his hour of need as he had done before rushed through the warrior knight's mind, and he barely managed to stifle a groan of sheer despair.
Maybe Damien would have to relive horror incarnate again, a severed head and a pair of empty eyes staring at him in silent accusation, worse than each and every one of the nightmares the Hunter had implanted into his soul to harvest his fear. The former priest trembled. For his part Gerald could drive him up the wall for all eternity with his snappy acerbic remarks and his ridiculous vanity if he just managed to get out of this mess alive and kicking. Cut the crap, Vryce! Damien admonished himself. If you want to save the man you love you have to stop fretting and do something for a change. Letting your damn imagination run rampart and quaking in your boots won't exactly help Gerald, you foolish bastard!
In the next instance two of the mercenaries left the remains of the temple, one carrying the gory remains of a girl in the robes of a priestess and his burly, one-eyed companion dragging a familiar slender figure outside by his long, black braid. The warrior knight had never met the man before, but he harboured no shadow of a doubt that Gerald's attacker was Douglas Summers himself, the leader of the mercenaries who had done his nom de guerre, Mad Dog, justice in Jaggonath already over the last months, a lamentable fact which would be readily testified by several terrified owners of inns and brothels. Styling himself as the Sword of God Summers was renowned for his visceral hatred of the pagan multitudes, and rumour had it that he had handed over his only son to be tried by the Inquisition a few months ago. Try as he might Vryce couldn't fathom why the Church of Unification stooped low enough to use scum like Summers and tolerate or even encourage the atrocities committed by him and his unscrupulous henchmen.
'Bind evil to a greater purpose...' Remembering the famous theorem of his church Vryce felt his blood run cold. If the new patriarch truly assumed that anything would alter this beast in the guise of a man he must have lost his sanity along with his common sense long ago.
Watching Gerald being ruthlessly manhandled through the rubble Damien fervently wished he could get his hands around that wretched killer's throat, but his rage was overlaid by a stultifying surge of apprehension. As far as he could tell the weakly moving adept was aware of his surroundings and the traces of blood on the pale face were not his own, but having witnessed the former Hunter fighting under attack like a wild uncat Damien was seriously concerned by his companion's unaccustomed passivity, and remembering Karril's unveiled fear and his ominous hints the warrior knight felt himself blanching with apprehension. How sick was Gerald?
Damien had to bite down a fierce growl when the adept was dragged to his knees to face the bloodthirsty crowd with a brutal yank to his braid, but when Gerald's hands involuntarily let go of the cloak he had been clutching tightly around him and one of the freezing gusts blew the garment open he stared in utter disbelief, literally unable to move a limb. A collective gasp raced through the stunned crowd like the last breath of a huge, monstrous creature, and the spectators' faces went slack with amazement and wonder.
By now Vryce suspected he was part of a weird mass hallucination staged by a certain desperate Iezu who had gone completely over the top in his urge to protect his followers. Alternatively he was either dreaming, caught in one of the Hunter's abominable nightmares created to strike delectable fear into his heart for a nice midnight dinner, or he had to face the truly daunting alternative that he had finally cracked up and was ready for the straight jacket. Whatever weird incidents had already come to pass on their unruly planet some indisputable constants fortunately still existed, for example that there were some biological differences between the genders after all. Men were men and responsible for siring children while the womenfolk was burdened with the unpleasant task of bearing them as it had happened since the dawn of time. What he witnessed right now was completely, utterly impossible, but a creepy thought quickly anchored itself inside his mind and froze the marrow inside his bones: when had vulking Gerald Tarrant ever bowed down to the rules?
Blinking fiercely the warrior knight focussed his attention on Gerald again who looked like ten miles of bad road, pale and drawn and apparently no match for his assailant in his current condition. Damien Kilcannon Vryce the healer instantly started calculating: some women showed less than others, but if the adept indeed had been a woman he would have considered him to be approximately seven months along under normal conditions. Maybe 'normal' isn't quite the appropriate keyword now, Vryce, Damien mused and barely managed to refrain from bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter. A lot of things evidently had changed, but there was no denying that normality still shunned Gerald Tarrant and was in all probability sobbing in her secret hideaway at the very moment
Damien's untimely mirth abruptly deserted him when he all at once remembered the events which had taken place at Karril's damned temple roundabout seven months ago, and joining the dots he very nearly fainted on the spot. The overwhelming urge to participate in an act of sexual congress with the God of Pleasure acting the Hunter for him, his surprise when Karril had chosen the youth's guise instead, the eerie, temporary reactivation of the bond which should have been impossible to achieve for everybody but Gerald Tarrant himself and his dazed wondering about 'Karril's' anatomy almost instantly quenched by an onslaught of desire and sheer carnal lust so irresistible that it had nearly driven him over the edge with naked want. Soft, olive coloured skin, a black torrent of silken hair flowing over their writhing bodies and equally black eyes glazed over with pleasure, moans and soft whimpers and a wicked tongue licking at the scratches on his shoulders and the bite mark at his neck with a throaty, hungry moan that had set his nerves on fire.
Oh merciful God! As much as he would have preferred the contrary he was neither dreaming nor hallucinating, and now everything made sense: Karril's strange behaviour, his ominous hints and Gerald's mysterious 'sickness', just everything. Whatever crazy plan Tarrant's absolutely unscrupulous brain had hatched he had obviously had no qualms about ruthlessly using him again for his own purposes, and Damien felt sick to the very bone, wondering how on Earth and Erna he could ever have been stupid enough to imagine the former Hunter giving a damn for him. Gerald hadn't changed at all; the beautiful exterior still contained a soul as cold and merciless as a winter night, the icy precision of that brilliant brain not marred by human weaknesses like friendship or love.
For a moment Damien was blinded by a bout of wild rage so fierce that it threatened to break the last barriers of his self control. Bastard! You vulking manipulative bastard! How could you do this to me? You harped on my feelings, used my affection! God damn you to the blackest pit of hell where you belong!
The torrent of the scalding river of his fury evidently was sufficiently intense to lap at the fringes of Gerald's mind, because the adept blinked dazedly and turned his head, looking straight into his eyes. When their gazes met the bleak stare into nothingness changed to an expression of stark relief, but in the next instant his haggard features went absolutely blank again, revealing not the barest hint of emotions. The black eyes were blazing with defiance however, staring down the enthralled crowd with a familiar arrogance and disdain only Tarrant could muster, the only sign of life in a visage resembling a marble statue, and if Damien had still harboured any doubts concerning the 'youth's' identity they would have dissolved at that very moment.
Statues, whether made of marble or other materials, don't groan or move on their own account though, and in spite of his anger Damien was horrified when Gerald suddenly bent forwards with an agonized moan, violently ripping his dishevelled braid from the mercenary's grip. Obviously he was so lost in pain that he was beyond caring about loosing some strands of his ridiculously long mane of hair, and Damien's heart clenched with dread, his thoughts racing. Oh my God, not here, not now. That vulking son of a bitch has to choose the worst possible moment...
As if being released from a spell which had turned each and everybody to stone the crowd reacted instantly, and fists were shaken again and angry shouts cut through the frigid air. "Kill the abomination!" "That thing has lain with the Evil One. Burn him and his devil's child!"
Shaking with bone deep revulsion Damien shot a questioning glance at the agitated faces all around him, faces so distorted with naked blood-lust and blind hatred that they were rather resembling ragewraiths than mere human beings, more monstrous than the Neocount of Merentha had ever looked even at his worst. Whatever horrendous crimes Gerald had committed during his undead existence to please the Unnamed and satisfy his hellish cravings he certainly didn't deserve this treatment by the hands of the very people for whom he had sacrificed his immortal existence to save humankind from eternal slavery.
Stones were flying now, and one hit Gerald's face, leaving a bleeding bruise on his left cheekbone. The adept curled up into a ball, his arms tightly wrapped around his abdomen, and Damien steeled himself, pushing his emotions aside. He would deal with his anger and hurt about Gerald's betrayal later, would bury his feelings in a pit deep down in his soul as bottomless as the depths of Novatlantis, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he would allow a crazed lynch mob to stone Tarrant to death.
When Summers stepped forwards and raised his right arm the crowd fell silent all at once, and one could have heard a pin drop. "That's not the proper way to get rid of one of the minions of hell, my good people. Our faith teaches us that demons and evil sorcerers have to be given to the purifying flames. Do you agree with me?"
A fierce cheer erupted, the racket becoming deafening when some of the mercenaries brought stacks of firewood, chains and a wooden stake which had been hidden on the same cart which had carried the explosives. So everything had been planned meticulously, and Gerald would be the pawn, sacrificed to satisfy the people's blood-thirst and to strengthen the Church's authority. At least the adept would die relatively quickly and wouldn't have to endure the horrendous nightmare of torture in the dungeons of the Inquisition which was waiting for the other poor souls who had survived the attack and had been confined to a barred cart by now just to be handed over to the authorities as soon as this detestable scenario had come to its fiery conclusion.
Remembering the Hunter roasting on iron bars, the stench of scorched flesh and the piercing screams which still haunted his dreams Damien trembled with visceral dread. With good reason Tarrant had always feared burning like every sane creature did, and for the first time in his life Vryce cursed himself for never bothering how to handle firearms. A well aimed shot to spare Gerald the grisly fate of being put to the torch, the next bullet for his own fallible heart, and they would be free from the troubles of the mortal world and could discuss Tarrant's latest little scheme in heaven or, more likely, in hell for all eternity.
"Vryce, don't be an idiot!" a deep voice piped up at his side. "Gerald has always held your intelligence in high esteem, and now's not the right moment to prove him wrong."
Although Damien didn't recognize the middle aged man right beside him who looked like a well-to-do merchant the voice could only belong to a familiar, very scared Iezu. "What do you expect me to do?" Damien replied grimly. "Kill the bastards in the dozen? I'm not a superhero, Karril, as you very well know! If I could spare Gerald the suffering..."
"And murder an innocent child along with him? Your son, Damien Vryce, whether you like it or not. Your own flesh and blood."
For a moment Damien had to close his eyes and fight for his composure, at the end of his tether. Scared out of his wits by the drama unfolding before his eyes and angered beyond words by Gerald's ruthlessness he had never fully understood the implications of the lamentable predicament, but whatever the adept's reasons for tricking him into an act of procreation and however he had managed the impossible again they had both participated in creating life, and he couldn't just abdicate from his responsibility for the child's well being. No, he had to get Gerald out of this abominable nightmare alive, at whatever price he might have to pay for his intervention.
Karril regarded him full of sympathy, obviously registering his inner turmoil. "Listen, Damien, Gerald hasn't told me a lot, but when he turned up at my temple in the wake of the destruction of the Hunter's domain the worse for wear I read his mind, and apparently Gerald Tarrant had a kind of vision before he 'died'. Don't even bother to ask me why, but the survival of both of them is of vital importance for the fate of mankind on Erna. Do you understand, priest? You have to do something, and quickly. I cannot..."
"Interfere? I thought as much. Why do some things never change?" Damien sighed exasperatedly. „Can you give me some diversion at least, something to scare the living daylights out of them?"
Karril's stricken face brightened up a bit. "Grab him and run for the back door of the Black Swan Tavern. I will give them something to remember, and you do the fighting. Deal?"
"Deal." Vryce's blood turned to ice-water at the grim prospects. Some of the worst nightmares created by the Hunter for his benefit had confronted him with the horrific possibility that he might have to fight his comrades of the Order of the Golden Flame one day to defend Tarrant, the very man who had represented their premier knight and the venerated figurehead of their faith, the prophet, almost ten centuries ago. From those dreams he had invariably woken up screaming, his face bathed in sweat and tears alike, and now reality was rapidly catching up with those unbearable illusions who had driven him close to despair more than once.
The world he had known and sworn to protect many years ago was drowning in flames and madness, and he was drowning as well, Gerald pulling him from the treacherously shiny surface of righteousness and religious fervour deeper and deeper downwards to an unknown destination. For a fleeting moment Damien succumbed to the temptation of envisioning the acerbic remarks Gerald would have doubtlessly in store for a former priest and his blind faith in a church which must have strayed from its path long before the situation had finally escalated. Alienated from human society since his birth because of his adeptitude Gerald Tarrant certainly hadn't cherished any illusions concerning the nature of mankind and had always been able to look behind the glittering facades like no other, an ability which had doubtlessly saved their butts in Mercia when he himself had been dazzled by a seemingly flawless theocracy. Nonetheless the adept had never fully given up on humankind and his wayward, most treasured creation, but had kept striving for an improvement of the colonist's lot on Erna throughout the long years of his existence. A living anathema, indeed.
In the meantime Mad Dog's wild bunch hadn't been idle, busying themselves with setting up the pyre for the last act of the drama. Boosting his spirits with a deep draft of whiskey heir leader stalked over to the adept who was on his hands and knees now, moaning and shaking in the iron grip of another contraction, and spat at him. "Get up, demon! I damn well know that your kind doesn't feel pain, so don't try to play your hellish tricks on us!"
A vicious kick to his back sent Gerald face first into the dirt again with a strangled scream, and the warrior knight's knuckles went white around the flame patterned hilt of his sword. Damien had abhorred the Hunter at the start of their precarious alliance, had been repulsed by everything the fallen prophet stood for, but nothing, absolutely nothing he had ever felt could compare to the wave of pure hatred surging through him right now, hatred that transformed the frigid air to choking fumes as scorching and blazing hot as on Mount Shaitan. Baring his teeth ferociously like one of their wilder ancestors he fervently hoped he could send that mad son of a bitch to hell with his own hands. "There is a place and time for mercy. This isn't it. (WTNF, page 324) Gerald had reprimanded him back in the realm of the Terrata, and for once the warrior knight absolutely agreed with him. Today there would be no mercy, on neither side.
To Vryce's surprise a tall, blond Knight of the Flame, young and dashing in his glinting armour, sauntered over to Summers and struck up an animated discussion with the one-eyed mercenary. Damien was too far off to understand each and every word over the buzzing of the crowd, but catching the words 'illegal' and 'proper trial' a spark of hope flared inside his chest for a moment, just to be extinguished instantly when the knight shrugged and strode back to his companions. Obviously he had no intention of alienating an ally for the sake of an half-dead sorcerer and his unborn child, and realizing that all the ideals he would have willingly given his life for lay in ruins the priest Damien Kilcannon Vryce had once been wept deep down in his heart for the corruption of the Church of Unification and his brothers in arms. Freed from the ever-present threat of spawning unholy demons with a mere thought at long last mankind had lost no time to create a different kind of hell right of their own making.
Given free license Mad Dog gripped Gerald's braid again and started to drag him towards the pyre when a huge blast of fire erupted over their heads, accompanied by a deafening roar which shook the ground beneath their feet. Damien looked up with a start, and his jaw dropped when his disbelieving stare locked on a gigantic black creature circling above them on leathery wings fiercely battling the air. The scaly body of the beast gleamed in the afternoon sun, and it growled ferociously, a deep, rumbling sound which made Vryce's hairs stand on end, showing glittering fangs the length of a man's lower arm. The warrior knight had only seen a picture of those legendary creatures once before in an ancient book from Earth safely kept in the seminary's library, but he would have his sword for breakfast without salt if this wasn't a dragon. Heaven knows where the God of Pleasure had picked up a description of those famous mythical creatures of their mother planet, but one thing wasn't up to debate: Karril, a true champion of illusion as any of his siblings, was currently producing his masterpiece.
All hell broke loose, the bloodthirsty lynch mob instantly transforming into screaming, crying individuals scared out of their pants. People were running everywhere, trampling over each other in their frantic attempts to escape certain doom, and the sheer level of panic was so frightening to behold that in any other situation Damien would have pitied the victims of Karril's manipulation, but the stone inside his chest which had once been a beating, feeling human heart wasn't able to feel a shred of compassion.
The better part of the mercenaries turned tail and ran for their dear lives as well, but Mad Dog hadn't given up on his prey yet, and dragging the adept to his knees again he drew his knife with a snarl devoid of any humanity, going for the kill. Safely cradled in a haze of fury Damien rushed forwards while everybody else seemed to move in slow motion, his sword coming out in a smooth arch and whistling through the air like a flash of white lightning.
The warrior knight was close enough to see realization dawning in the mercenary's face, the mouth which had besmirched his companion with its saliva opening ever so slowly in preparation for a last scream, but it was too late. In the next instant Douglas Summer's head hit the ground, followed by the rest of his body a few seconds later, and a gory shower washed over Damien and Gerald who had somehow managed to struggle to his feet.
A cloud of white and gold formed around them, Vryce's brothers in arms, but the former priest didn't hesitate for a second. He ducked a sword thrust and parried, and one of the knights went down with a piercing scream. Another one was dispatched by the adept's dagger, and the last surviving knight turned and ran, yelling for reinforcements.
Without thinking Damien scooped Gerald up in his arms and ran as well, heading for the Black Swan Tavern where Karril was already waiting for them with two black true horses from the Hunter's breeding stock which had evidently escaped the slaughter in the forest. One of the horses had been hastily loaded with warm blankets and some emergency supplies, and Damien was just about hoisting Gerald on the spare horse and mounting behind him when the adept stopped him. "I can very well ride on my own, priest. Don't want to be a burden for you."
The voice was a whisper, barely audible above the commotion just around the corner, but it carried enough venom to poison a small city. "Don't you try arguing with me, damn it" Damien barked with rising exasperation. "You can barely stand on your own."
The adept glared at him with unveiled disdain. "I don't have any plans of standing on my horse, Vryce".
"Could the two of you please save your bickering for a more convenient time?" the Iezu's irate voice cut into their pointless discussion. "One should think you have been married for ages! Just get going!"
A brown and a black head turned to grace the God of Pleasure with a glower that spoke volumes, and Karril winced and ducked his head. Knowing better than to waste his breath with a fruitless argument Damien gave Hawthorne a hand in backing the pack horse, mounted his mare and kicked her into a fast trot.