O Cursed Fate

By Sapadu

Chapter 12: A Man Who Knows Too Much

It was something of a shock to Hector that there was even a temple here – during his time serving under Dracula, there had been nothing in these woods but the occasional shack or hamlet. To think that, at some point during the war, someone had erected a chapel was astonishing to him. When he finally stepped out of the woods and into the clearing where the temple was placed, he found his tongue completely stilled – this was no mere chapel, but a grand, magnificent structure. There were pillars carved into the stone of the walls, beautifully detailed glass images in the windows, and elegant slopes along the roof. He'd heard tell of places in France and England with such decadent structures, never imagining he'd actually see them with his own eyes.

The footsteps crunching on the graveled path drew his attention to a tall, lean figure in strange clothes striding toward him – it was quite peculiar, unlike anything Hector had ever seen, with trousers that were spotlessly white and a jacket that was red and cut in the same shape as a swallow's tail. On the figure's head, there was perched what Hector could only assume was meant to be some sort of helmet, for it was far too shapely to be made of cloth and properly called a hat.

"I've been waiting for you Hector – Devil Forgemaster!" The man greeted him, all too cheerfully to ingratiate himself. Hector had to fight his instinct to reach for his sword.

"How do you know me?" He demanded, then adding, with no expectation of answer, "Who are you?"

As though mocking his own paranoid nature, the being all too willingly replied, with a dapper touch of his fingers to the rim of his headgear,

"Saint Germain." Hector resisted the urge to scoff, especially when this Saint Germain eyed him as though he knew of the rebuttal, anyway, "I won't... bandy words with you – I have an urgent request."

Hector stood straighter – he'd heard out Zaed with no ill will, the least he could do is listen to this request. And, if it so happened to not be in his interest, he could always refuse.

"Please refrain from pursuing Issac, any further."

This, of course, was neither in Hector's interest nor his favor.

"Bastard!" He spat, "So you're with Issac." He prepared to draw for battle, but Saint Germain seemed so wholly uninterested in any threat to his person... and Hector's wits caught up to him in time, "...But, that does not follow... Issac WISHES to fight me..."

What was this Saint Germain's purpose, then? Could this be just another ploy for time, for Issac to set a trap? Or was he not unlike Julia – also an enemy of Issac who wished to defeat him by NOT abiding his purposes, not unlike Hector's own, fleeting idea at the start of his journey?

"For what purpose do you make this request?" Hector finally asked. Saint Germain looked up from where he had been – apparently – rubbing a round piece of shining metal with a clean, white handkerchief with lace on its edges.

"This..." He paused, then continued, "Will not make sense to you..." Hector gave no indication that he valued Saint Germain's opinion on 'sense', "But to put it simply: I seek to maintain the flow of GREATER will."

The words were empty enough to dispel any of Hector's reserves of patience.

"This is pointless." He murmured, again starting toward the chapel doors, "Out of my way."

Saint Germain was obviously a very foolish man, as he immediately placed himself between Hector and his path up the chapel steps. Hector drew back a fist, more than prepared to deal with this nuisance directly, until Saint Germain held up his hands and, through some sorcery that Hector could not put words to, the gesture held him still.

"Your beloved was killed on false allegations that she was a witch!" He said it so quickly – were the words less potent, Hector might have ignored them – that the sting stopped Hector in his tracks, "I know how you feel, and I sympathize, truly, but..."

That drove the horrific blow so deeply, that Hector physically jerked back.

"You WRETCH!" He cried in horror – how dare this stranger claim to sympathy when Rosalee had only so recently been murdered, when Issac's cruel scheme was still so fresh? "How do you KNOW of these things?"

Saint Germain was silent for a moment, but paced as though he were perfectly aware that Hector would not turn away.

"That... I cannot tell." His voice and manner were far too cheery for someone whom Hector had been about to strike, nor for someone who claimed to an understanding about Issac's betrayal, "I know FAR more than you would imagine." Again, had the words not been so laden with meaning, Hector might have dismissed them as little more than an idle threat, "But... I cannot act upon that knowledge. That is my... heh... arrangement: I may only observe."

There was a pregnant pause between them – somewhere in the distance, Hector could hear a bird chirping, noisily.

...Strange, it occurred to him – he had not seen nor heard any sign of any life apart from the monsters and creatures he'd fought so far upon his return to Valachia. The sound of a bird was practically foreign to him by now. Even Saint Germain recognized it, as he turned about, and then tapped his brow again.

"I have no choice but to excuse myself... Please – consider my request." He said, and when Hector turned back to him, ready to dispute, "The world... HANGS in the balance."

To this... odd assertion, Hector could only stare.

"Good-by!" And Saint Germain was swallowed up by a yellow, glowing light, leaving Hector alone on the chapel steps.

"Who WAS that?" He asked, though none were about to answer him.

~ Western Village ~

The church in the village was easily the tallest tower for miles around.

The forest to the north was dense and muddled – Hector knew from experience that no being had forged trails through those wilds – and host to a bevy of monsters. None could venture through it, with a guide or without.

On either sides of the village, there were expanses of mountains and wastelands, making any journey to the village an excursion requiring a full caravan. As such, Hector realized he'd been in the village for two months before there was even word of a priest making the journey to give a sermon at the church. He knew, too, the day that the word came – Rosalee had spent the last week at a difficult task, together with other villagers to clear a patch of land for possible farming. She had returned to her home and collapsed, night after night, with barely a moment before Hector could respond.

When the word of the priest came, her excitement had been palpable.

Hector had no true interest – the last time he'd seen a priest, the boy had been eviscerated by Dracula, personally – but he heard more talk as the village people came to Rosalee's door and asked her help in preparing for the day. Hector remained further back in the room, as inconspicuous as he could be. One day, as he was dressing his still healing shoulder wound behind a hung blanket for privacy, he heard one of the village men come to Rosalee's door.

"The caravan has been delayed." The man's gruff voice was the same as Hector remembered hearing on the night he'd been saved, "A messenger arrived just now – their party was attacked by a pack of spectral beasts, and there's talk of the priest turning back and returning to a walled city for his own safety."

"But he can't – it has been too long, and we are prepared to defend them..." Rosalee protested, before the man cut her off.

"We've sent back a message, saying we shall do our best to clear the forest line. A few of us will make an excursion to meet the caravan and bring them the rest of the way."

Hector heard Rosalee's relief, even as she asked after their safety. However, he knew the quiet that the man had lapsed into – not just a statement of fact, but also including an unspoken expectation. The man hadn't simply been speaking for Rosalee's ears.

"We need every able-bodied man we can take. Those who can wield their own sword would not be unwelcome." The man commented. Rosalee fell silent, until Hector realized she was not without the sense to understand.

"He is still wounded – his arm does not yet obey him, even for the simplest of tasks."

"He could use his other arm. You saw him that day, Rosalee – any man armed as he was knows how to use both hands." The man barked.

"It would be no different than sending him alone to his death."

"Stop defending this stranger, Rosalee – you know as well as I do that he's the reason the priest's caravan was attacked, because with his devil's magic..."

"Enough – you'll speak no ill of a guest under my roof."

Hector had paused with the poultice against his shoulder. Never had he heard Rosalee speak like that – and, when he pulled back the blanket to see the look on the village man's face, it could not be clearer that his surprise was naught compared to her neighbor's. When he regained his composure, the man continued to insist.

"At least his weapon – it's better quality than anything any of us will carry. Even without a man to carry every weapon, an extra weapon will be a boon to any of us whose spear breaks."

Hector knew the sword of which the man spoke – it had been a sword forged from both bronze and steel, as heavy as a grown man. Hector could only barely lift it, within the last two months, with his strength as lost as it had been.

He only needed glance at it, and see the twinkle of the blood red gems that decorated it's hilt, to remember whence he forged it, and the number of innocent heads he'd sent rolling.

"Take it." He said, before Rosalee could protest, "It means nothing to me, as my strength is not what it once was."

The villager's face betrayed what might have been shock, but he reached over to the claymore Hector had left wrapped in leather on the floor and departed without a word of thanks.

Hector put it out of his mind as he continued to rewrap his bandages. The only difference lay in how he felt as though the weight of the sword itself had been lifted off his shoulders.

Garibaldi Courtyard ~

Being left in front of the steps of the Temple was already foreboding enough – in light of the cryptic words of the mysterious St. Germain, Hector was leery of venturing inside without having a better understanding of where he was. The graveled path was wide and well-worn, and might have been the sign of a well-traversed trail – indeed, the nature of the path was that of one that many people had walked, and for some time now – were it not for the fact that all the trees on the sides were sparse, dying, and splintered.

It was as though they had once been tall, proud, and the sign of divine protection, but some catastrophe had befallen the church and even the trees had been smote down.

"Would humans even dwell here, anymore?" He pondered out loud, as he summoned Saul from his deck. If he was going to investigate, he reasoned the fairy would be his best ally.

"Hmm." Saul sat on his shoulder and hummed as though in response. Hector shared a glance with the fairy, and when the Innocent Devil gazed back at him with big eyes, he wondered if he was beginning to go mad.

So, shaking his head, Hector ventured around the sides of the church. The entrance was broad and flanked with pillars, but on either side were wings that looked as though they housed auxiliary rooms to the main chapel – perhaps even chapels within chapels. Hector began with the east wing, noting that the windows were high and arching, but that appeared to be of no help, since they were also secured with tightly woven wrought iron.

Even though the little of the room he could see inside was generously furnished with rich carpet and clean, blue paint on the walls, the curling bars made the church look more like a prison than a place of worship.

Saul flitted off his shoulder and grabbed one of the bars and shook. It didn't even rattle – whomever had welded the iron had done well.

"Tis of no use, Saul – leave it." He commanded, but Saul snagged a piece of his hair and tugged. When Hector turned, his Innocent Devil was pantomiming a being wielding a weapon of some sort. And, as the fairy floated back and forth, Hector understood – that the bars might have been welded in place to protect the people inside the chapel.

Hector sighed and shook his head – he'd forgotten that even though his Innocent Devils were just creations of his power, they also had a keen observation of their own.

"Yes... of course, you are right. Come – let us continue." Hector commanded, turning the corner and coming up against a wall. Unlike the sides of the wings, this was solid stone – as though the Temple had sprouted up out of the mountains, itself.

Hector sighed, but when he turned to walk away, Saul again proved more alert than he – the fairy swooped to the ground and, at his feet, retrieved a glowing sheaf of parchment. Upon examination, it proved to be another 'Magical Ticket', like those that Julia provided for him.

"Julia." Saul chirped, making Hector glance up. Indeed, if this was here, had the witch been here, too? But Hector was distracted by the fact that Saul had said something beyond mindless chatter, or simple words.

So, he pocketed the ticket and continued on his way to the west wing. It proved to be much like the east, with no discernible entrance or clues to what might be within the Temple's walls. Hector only paused as Saul pulled on his hair again and motioned to a large crack in the stone.

"Curious." He murmured, drawing out his gano and making a leap to lodge the blade into the crack. When he pulled back, the force combined with his weight made the wall splinter further, cracks go deeper into the stone, and for enormous chunks of rock to be dislodged from the wall and come crashing down, along with something more.

Hector regained his feet to see what had fallen from the stone. 'Twas, by all appearances, a goblet. It seemed empty to all appearances, but Hector knew better.

"Oh?" Saul piped, floating over to examine the treasure. Hector held it in both hands, careful not to disturb it's contents.

"Tis a very rare potion, Saul – said to give the man who drinks it a surge to their strength, one which never fades. It can heal any ailment or wound, and leave the drinker as the strongest man in the world." Hector explained, though he did wonder – what manner of powers had left this precious gift, so easy to find? Was it another of Issac's demented tricks, to ensure he regained as much of his power as possible before their battle?

Or was it mere chance? Hector wished he could feel so secure in that assumption.

Still, this was not a gift to be squandered. Hector raised the goblet to his lips and drank from the seemingly empty bowl – he felt something burn through him and return all his strength to him, as though it were healing wounds that he hadn't felt receiving. The cup vanished as the last of the spell coursed through his veins.

"Master?" Saul asked, landing on his shoulder. Hector did not reply, save to draw the being back to his deck – he could not put words to his unease, but the Innocent Devils only worsened it.

As he made his way back to the front steps of the Temple, Hector stopped before passing through the doors. He had expected that such a structure as this would have idols flanking it's doorway – as though guarding those who passed beneath it, or welcoming those who sought sanctuary.

These, however, were nothing like the figures he had expected. Not humans in varying cloaks or robes, or knights, or even cherubs that he'd seen churches so often favor – but scaled, lizard-like beings. One had been decapitated and its head lay crumbling on the steps. The other remained whole, its mouth open as though it would bite or spit at any who passed, and its eyes frozen and bulging.

Perturbed, Hector lifted one of the wrought iron rings on the wooden doors and pulled it open. A thunderous groan emerged from the wood as he pressed through, into the darkened doorway.

~ Garibaldi Temple ~

Inside the Temple's front doors was remarkably more glorious than Hector had recalled churches being, in years. It had been so long, he wondered if he had truly lost something in staying away from such sacred places. The foyer was wide and cavernous, the ceiling high and arched, and the floors smooth, cool, and laid with stone that was intricately cut and smoothed. The windows allowed in the light of the moon – Hector hadn't appreciated the full moon's brilliant light, until his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior. He saw it streaming through the colored panes of glass that formed intricate, spotted patterns, and the floor itself looked as though it were painted.

Hector took a few cautious steps inside. Issac had fled here? There was no sign of any damage, apart from the statue and the potion outside – it was so unlike Issac to show this kind of respect for anything not monstrous.

He passed the first set of windows and heard something crash and splinter through glass. His head turned and saw a skeleton figure diving through one of the windows. Another crash and he saw another window smashed in, and then another.

"Damn you." He snarled, upon seeing the figures were no ordinary Skeletons – they were draped in red tunics, armored and armed with a basic shield and sword. Not content to set normal Skeletons, Issac had left Bone Soldiers – more sturdy, capable of doing more damage, and only forged from the bones of one who had been a Knight.

He charged the first one, sword in hand, before he heard the rumbling growl from overhead. He knocked the Soldier out of the way, and rolled away as, through the roof, a Cyclops came crashing. The ceiling's stained glass panel had been smashed to pieces, shards of glass flying through the air as Hector covered his face to stop them from getting in his eyes. The Cyclops regained its stance and started to barrel forward, swinging its club.

In desperation, Hector reached into his deck and retrieved David – his devil appeared instantly, and began to dash in circles around the Cyclops, slashing at it's short legs with the spear, and sending the Bone Soldiers reeling backwards with the speed of it's thrusts. For his creations' speed, Hector was grateful, as he leapt forward and attacked the Cyclops against every strike David made, until the giant was felled.

The Bone Soldiers were easily dealt, and shattered into pieces quickly under Hector's blade and his Devil's spear. The final fragments of the Soldiers' bones crumbled to dust. Amongst the remains – a few fragments of the heart-shaped crystals, which David slid under its visor to the sound of crunching glass – was nothing but the shattered remains of the windows. When Hector put his boot down on one of the panes, the crack echoed through the vaulted ceiling and stone walls, and reminded Hector of how empty Valachia had become.

Disgusted, Hector strode through the vaulted pillars and into a long, cold hallway. Little light was shed from more enchanted torches – more spilled from the windows, throwing pictures onto the floor in the shapes and colors of their tinted glass. Most of the images were only the most vague remnants of images – flower-shaped bursts in circles, or the bare outlines of a human figure in a robe.

Slowly, Hector crept forward, well aware that his every step echoed and that some further trap or ambush could be awaiting him with each step. David followed him. He'd become so accustomed to complete silence, it unnerved him to hear the creak of the armor, and to know the footsteps that were harsh clicking on the stone were not his own. There had been no spell triggered when they reached the end of the corridor, and there was naught there but a small apse – tall windows stretched up to the ceiling and were embedded into the rock just higher than he stood, and faded purple tiles embossed the floor. The walls were bare and stiff – nothing he wasn't accustomed to, but strange after the open, light-blessed stained glass thus far. The only thing of note was a decorated plaque in the stone – perhaps it had once held a coat of arms, or perhaps it had once been an inscription of some sort. Whatever its purpose, the wall was worn and mostly smooth. Hector wearily ran a hand over the stone, unable to escape the feeling as though he were looking into a mirror, of sorts.

A large, metal hand clasped his shoulder.

"Master." David's voice brought him back to awareness. Hector straightened his back and turned back down the hallway – just past the pillars, there had been two doors. There was no sound, save his footsteps and David's. Unlike the mountains and the castle, he had no memory of this place. Whatever lay beyond these doors, he had no way of knowing if it would lead him down a twisted, lost path, or straight to Issac. He had no way of even knowing if that was what Issac had planned for him, or if he was simply being left to wander because he'd fallen too far behind. Why could he not see the steps ahead?

A rapping noise brought him to attention. David was tapping its lance against the door. His Innocent Devils had prompted him before – perhaps they could draw on some kind of hidden knowledge or power of the void from whence he'd created them.

Solemnly, Hector pushed the door open. The next corridor immediately presented a corner, and these walls were more threadbare and dust caked. In comparison to the grand entryway, the floor was thick with moss and dirt, the walls filthy, the torches and candles mounted between much smaller windows strung heavy with cobwebs and decay. Hector strode forward, already pondering if this had been a poor choice, before he realized he heard something. It was faint, almost undetectable, until he began to near the corner and the sound was undoubtedly growing closer – a tapping, pattering sound. It was too slow to be his own feet, too heavy to be something innocuous like rain on the rooftop.

And then, quick as a flash, a misshapen figure landed before him. It's features were difficult to make out in the shadows, and another flash – this time, from David's lance – sent a splatter of blood that dried up and disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Only Hector knew it was no figment of imagination – the moment he saw David's lance move, he heard a sickening, shrieking howl. It echoed through the corridor, and in an instant, the rhythmic patter returned, seven fold.

David left his side and sped forward – whatever they were, Hector could see that they were quick and bedeviling, hopping with the agility of a toad in a swamp but the viciousness of a bird of prey. The slicing noise of a blade swinging caught him by surprise and immediately, he felt a stinging slash run down his arm. He spun, and finally caught a glimpse of what had attacked him – the figure of a shrunken, withered homunculus with grayed skin and a maw perpetually pulled in a grimace, baring its teeth and showing the reddened insides of the mouth. Its back was hunched, and its legs folded as though to assume the shape of a flea. In each hand it held an axe – though, Hector judged from the laughably bare damage a single swing had done, likely dulled and weak. It had been more a distraction than an actual wound.

Hector swung his sword and the Flea Man splattered into pieces. These monstrosities were crude, simple pests – the enchanters made them from the assorted pieces of other monsters that had fallen in battle, the spell so weak that one blow would make their bodies melt into nothingness.

Still, they were quick and agile – as soon as Hector saw one land within reach of his blade, he would swing and find naught but air, and the fiend would strike him and send him reeling with pain. His only chance lay in holding his guard and being at the ready to attack as soon as he felt the blow.

"Down." He heard the word just a second before David's lance passed over his head and smote the rest of the pack in a single swipe.

Hector got to his feet and collected the remnants left by the swarm. David stood, silently, as Hector considered.

This was not the first time, not even in the last few hours, that his creations had shown themselves to be more than just simple bodies to abide his will. They could think, reason, even judge for themselves. They were aware of things that he was not – wills of their own, even, he pondered.

Deep down, he felt ashamed and a fool for not having considered such a possibility – for not noticing when they began to awaken their higher faculties.

"But why?" He pondered out loud, before realizing David had not heard his full curiosity. It mattered little, because David knelt and pressed its single hand to its chest. Whatever the reason behind this new development, Hector turned and continued up the corridor and through more doors. More packs of Flea Men and a few ghosts, a dead end, then back down and he had to back-track and find his way up another hallway with still more packs of the pests. He rounded a corner, and through another doorway, confronted with an unceasing swarm – David's quick lance and his own lightness of feet were the only manner in which they were a match for the sheer number of nimble, overwhelming foes. More frequently, as Hector's strength began to wane, he wondered if his creations could feel pain – however miniscule the wounds landed were for him, they compounded so quickly and took a toll on his concentration and defenses.

David cleared through the rest of the Flea Men and took its due as Hector staggered and braced himself against the wall. All this, and still he was so easily undone by such small, useless creatures – Flea Men had been even weaker magic than Skeletons to bind and animate, only created because they were such a quick, easy fodder to harvest, even moreso than Zombies or Ghosts.

When he had caught his breath and gathered his thoughts – David could only travel with him for so long, he would have need of Saul soon enough, he was certain – Hector realized he had gotten lost in the corridors. Where was he? And which way had he come?

A door loomed to the right – one that was embellished with winged, four-legged figures in a crouch, they might have been griffons, or they might have been some horrific amalgamation of beasts. Whatever their origin, it was a direction, and one that Hector was confident he had not taken.

He passed through the door, and prayed.