Duty
Tale of Vordt
Steel grey clouds hung low over the battlefield. Cackling crows descended in tightening circles, attracted by the meat of the dead. Vordt sniffed the air and winced. The bodies had already begun to rot in the drizzling rain.
He looked down at the corpse of a peasant, its sightless eyes staring past him. The mud mingled with the blood seeping from the mace's blow that crushed the man's sternum, leaving him to die gasping and cursing his slayer.
Vordt had been the one who killed him.
The number of dead rebels numbered perhaps three hundred. It was pitiful really, to fight the army of the Church with such feeble numbers, but Vordt respected their courage. Every last one died fighting and reciting chants of defiance against the Saint. In his heart of hearts, Vordt admired them. They fought for what they believed. What more could a man do in his short years in this bleak world?
Vordt frowned and suppressed such thoughts. They were unbecoming of a knight of Irithyll of the Boreal Valley. His loyalty lay with Pontiff Sulyvahn and the Church of the Deep. His duty was to enable the spread of the Saint's holy teachings of the doctrine of true salvation. Where heresy reared its head, he must put it down.
Was that not right? Was it not a just and noble cause to slay the blasphemers so that the souls of the faithful may be saved from oblivion?
A fellow knight walked up to Vordt and patted him on the back. He grinned broadly.
"Praise to the Saint! That was no battle at all, cutting down these apostates! The sword of the Pontiff is a swift and terrible thing, eh?"
Vordt nodded silently. Yes, this was his duty. The sword of the Pontiff – the knights of the church – was the means through which peace was upheld and the Saint's teachings spread across the land.
Was this not a just cause?
The Grand Cathedral of Irithyll stood like a monolith above the moonlit cityscape. Long ago, before Pontiff Sulyvahn freed the people from servitude to false deities, the cathedral was dedicated to the God of the Dark Sun, a tyrant who enslaved mankind with lies and illusions. Now, it was hallowed ground, made so by the blessing of the Pontiff after he overthrew the unholy being and revealed the Saint's Truth to a thankful people. The eternal moon that hung over the Boreal Valley was a symbol, the Saint taught, not of false gods and lying prophets, but of the coming Age of the Deep when sacred darkness would consume faltering flame and usher in an age of paradise. This was the gospel taught to all Irithyllians.
Vordt and his fellow knights stood at the front of the congregation nearest to the sanctuary, as was worthy of their rank. The chanting began – the low, rumbling hymns of the deacons of the Deep. The Pontiff led their procession down the aisle, flanked by his bodyguards and holding aloft the Saint's Candlestick. He strode with slow and measured footsteps through the nave. The congregation rose at the sight of him. Vordt heard a few stifled sobs among the people, not an uncommon thing when people became overwhelmed at the sight of their savior in the flesh.
The Pontiff approached the chapel bearing the sacred relics of the Saint and bowed low. He placed the Candlestick , the holiest of the Saint's symbols, atop the altar. Its smoke gathered into blue tendrils above the sanctuary. The Pontiff turned to face his congregation. His pale, gaunt face surveyed the crowd. Vordt held back a shiver. Those ice-blue eyes haunted his dreams so often.
The priests gathered on either side of the altar, still humming their low refrains. Vordt imagined that their hymnal must be what the deep ocean depths sounded like.
The Pontiff extended his arms upwards.
"All praise to the Saint!"
"All praise to the Saint!" the people responded.
A youthful monk approached the Pontiff and held open before him the scriptures of the Church. The Pontiff read the chosen passage.
"'In exile it was that Saint Aldrich sought out the truth of flame and darkness. He journeyed into the deep abyss and remained there for ten days in fasting and meditation. At the end of those ten days, he perceived the truth of the darkness and emerged from the abyss. In visions a new Age was revealed to him, an Age of the Deep that would come out of the dying Age of Fire and restore humanity to its rightful glory. And the Saint spread this truth across the land, and many thousands thronged to him.' All praise to the Saint!"
"All praise to the Saint!"
"Listen well, my children. The servants of Fire teach that darkness is a thing to be reviled. They seek to burn away so-called impurity with weapons and magicks forged by false gods. But we, the chosen people, know that darkness is a thing to be welcomed. The Deep embraces us and grants salvation to all who accept it. Truly, it is Fire that is the reviled thing!"
The Pontiff's raspy baritone rose with passion.
"Fire is the curse that rots away this land, an evil instrument to keep alive the decaying corpse of this old world, to destroy the natural order of things! The Saint knew this and dispelled the lies of the false gods. The souls of humanity and of the world shall sink into the womb of the Deep and so be reborn."
The Pontiff's sermons were much the same of late, Vordt thought. Talk of the ending of the Age of Fire, of the coming Age of the Deep, of things made new and Irithyll's inevitable salvation. All who accepted the Deep were purged of their sins, he said. The faithful could no wrong, for nothing done in the name of the Saint was sinful.
Vordt's mind turned again to the eyes of the dead peasant staring at a sunless sky.
He glanced about the cathedral. Many of the congregation were bowed in reverie, and many more locked their widened eyes on the Pontiff with expressions of purest devotion. They would die for him. They never questioned his words or the Saint's teachings. They knew their salvation was assured.
So, why did Vordt feel a chill come over him at the sight of those unblinking eyes, ecstatic smiles, and tongues wordlessly repeating the Pontiff's own?
As the mass ended, the laity filed out of the cathedral. Many, seeking a personal blessing, were allowed to approach the Pontiff and bow before him. Vordt glanced back at the common folk kneeling before their leader. The knight's eyes flicked away to the deacons at the Pontiff's left and right. One of their number – an Archdeacon, judging from his robes – caught Vordt's attention. The man was fat and balding, his skin blotchy and speckled. He licked his lips and leered at the passing laymen. This was a holy man? Vordt snorted out a quick laugh. It was a slight thing, but noticeable. The priest's expression turned hard and his narrowed eyes espied the knight laughing at him. Vordt caught his breath and turned away.
Vordt may be a knight of Irithyll, but he was a man of the ranks, not a prestigious officer. He lived in a humble apartment with his mother in the residential district wedged against the city walls overlooking the Boreas River. The burg smelled of rotten fish and dirty water, but to Vordt it would always be his beloved home.
As he and his mother sat at the table eating dinner, he reviewed the days events in his mind: the Pontiff's mass, the expressions of his fervent faithful, and the glare of the fat archdeacon. His mother noticed his silence.
"So somber today, Vordt? What ails you?"
The knight shook his head and smiled faintly at the old woman.
"Something weights on your heart, son. I can see it."
Vordt sighed. "It is nothing. Just foolish thoughts swimming through my head." He sucked in his breath. "I simply wonder, sometimes, about the things I do for Irithyll. The revolt…Was it right to kill so many because they disagreed with the Church's teachings?"
His mother's voice turned hard. "Silence such thoughts! And forgive me, for giving you leave to voice them! These walls are paper-thin, Vordt. The Pontiff has done much good for our city. The Boreal Valley prospers because of him. We no longer fear the warmongers of Carthus or the bandit kings from the Great Swamp. The Pontiff is wise, Vordt. We must trust him."
"Yes. Yes, you are right, of course. But is it wrong to even doubt for a moment? Men are weak, we falter. Can't we be forgiven for a moment's weakness?"
"The Saint sustains us. We should not know doubt, for the Deep encompasses all truth. It fills us, dispelling all doubts. Surely you…" She paused.
"I believe in the Saint's truth, mother. Have no fear of that." He grinned. "Would I don my armor and take up my hammer against heretics if I didn't? It's just my cursed melancholy."
His mother sighed. "Yes, you inherited that much from your father, may he rest in the Deep. But don't let your melancholy lead you astray. You swore an oath of fealty to Irithyll, to the Pontiff himself, when you took up the arms of knighthood."
"I know, mother. I haven't forgotten who I am."
The next morning, a sharp rapping on the door awoke Vordt. He quickly put on an undershirt before answering the door. A thin young man in the uniform of a church messenger stood on the doorstep. He eyed Vordt dubiously before handing him a letter.
"Summons from the Pontiff," he said curtly.
Vordt thought he'd misheard. "My apologies, good sir, I must still be hazy from sleep. Who are the summons from?"
The messenger frowned impatiently. "Pontiff Sulyvahn, Divine Voice of the Saint, Head of His Sacred Church of the Deep." He recited the title slowly, as if speaking to a child. "His Holiness summons you to stand before him come midday. See to it that you arrive in-" He eyed Vordt's garbs in disdain. "-presentable fashion."
The messenger turned on his heels and walked away.
Vordt's hands trembled as he looked over the letter. Yes, the wax seal bore the Pontiff's insignia. He opened and read it. A summons from the Pontiff himself, entreating him to present himself before the Pontiff at his offices within the Cathedral.
His mother walked up behind him. "What is it, Vordt? Who was at the door?"
Vordt swallowed and nearly choked on a dry throat. He explained the letter's contents.
His mother threw up her hands in joy. "Oh, praise the Saint! The honor, the privilege! Do you realize what this portends? Why, perhaps your actions in the recent battle were brought to His Holiness' attention. You have earned favor in his eyes, my son!"
Vordt was in a daze. His thoughts turned to the glowering eyes that had watched him leave the cathedral. The archdeacon had looked at him with doubt…with suspicion.
Could he have said something to the Pontiff?
Vordt shook off the fear creeping over him. He was a knight of Irithyll, not a cowering apostate. He would answer for all his actions, good or ill, with dignity and honesty. It was everything due from a loyal servant of the Church.
The Cathedral looked different when it was empty. It was tall, intimidating, almost dreary. Vordt approached the entrance in full ceremonial attire. He never cared for his ceremonial armor. It was uncomfortable and impractical. A loose-fitting translucent fabric hung from the back of his helm and from his shoulders. The wind whipped it across his face. He delicately removed the cloth like a bride's veil before greeting the door guard.
The man was a Pontiff Knight. Vordt eyed him warily. The Pontiff Knights were an elite regiment separate from the military. They were loyal to the Pontiff with a ferocity like no others and held themselves above the other fighting men.
Vordt saluted the knight and gave his name and the purpose of his arrival. The guard was silent for a moment, eyeing him up like a common criminal, before silently opening the double doors and conversing with a second guard within. The inner guard departed for several minutes. He returned with a boy servant and instructed Vordt to follow the youth to the Pontiff's quarters.
The Pontiff's office was cold. As if to accentuate the cold, the Pontiff's furnishings and draperies were all various shades of blue and silver. A fine layer of frost covered the inside of the windows.
Pontiff Sulyvahn himself was standing before a voluminous bookshelf, silently reading from a tome. The servant coughed politely as he and Vordt entered. The towering man turned to face them and slowly closed the book. He waved the servant away and Vordt became acutely aware that he was alone with the most powerful man in the Boreal Valley. He knelt before the Pontiff.
"Vordt of the Boreal Valley," the Pontiff said. His voice was thoughtful. "I heard of your deeds during the heretics' rebellion. It is said you struck down sixteen of them yourself. Is this true?"
Vordt didn't look up. "I did my duty, Your Holiness."
He heard the leather book placed softy on the Pontiff's desk. "Indeed you have, knight Vordt," the Pontiff continued. "You fought with valor. A devoted knight serving the will of the Saint." The looming figure's shadow fell over Vordt.
"You may rise."
Vordt slowly lifted himself up, careful not to allow his translucent robes to flail wildly at the faintest gust. He carefully averted looking into the Pontiff's eyes.
"How long have you served the Church?"
"Twelve years, Your Holiness."
"Do you have family?"
"Only my mother, Your Holiness. She lives with me."
"You are a man of means?"
"I live on my pension, by the grace of the Church."
"No great amount, that." The Pontiff hummed softly to himself. Vordt stood ramrod straight, waiting for the next question. Was this an interrogation? A test? Idle chatter to put Vordt at ease? It wasn't working.
The Pontiff abruptly turned and faced the window. He stretched out his spindly arms against the sill and leaned heavily against it.
"I have many enemies. The Church has many enemies. You know this. Enemies on all sides relishing the thought of my death and the Church's fall. And so I seek out men and women of exceptional skill who can defend Irithyll from threats not of the battlefield. I wonder," he stroked his cheek with a long, willowy finger. "Are you such a man, Vordt?"
"I am eager to serve the Church in whatever way is asked of me."
The Pontiff nodded and turned to regard Vordt with his icy blue eyes.
"I believe you are." His gaunt face creased into a smile. Vordt nearly flinched when the Pontiff extended an arm onto his shoulder. "I would do you a great honor, knight Vordt. I would have you join my associates and I for our evening repast."
"You – Your Holiness, are you…"
"I insist. You deserve to be awarded for your deeds. And for your faith."
Vordt sucked in a breath. His mother was right. The Pontiff was honoring his deeds and faith. This was an opportunity to redeem himself of his heretical doubts. Surely, in the company of holy men, his spiritual strength would find reinforcement.
The feast was raucous and smelled of grease. Deacons reached across each other to grab handfuls of figs and slice off another flank of roasted boar. Some whispered in each other's ears before erupting into riotous laughter. The rotund priest sitting across from Vordt ripped the leg off a turkey with a loud crack and stuffed nearly the entire piece of meat into his cavernous mouth.
The whole night had been a discordant affair of slurping, belching, gossiping, and cackling. Vordt felt as if the world had fallen away beneath his feet. These were the guiding lights of Irithyll. Its holiest of holy men. In an hour he'd watched them devour more food than his entire barracks could afford in a year.
He had never before realized how little he knew of Pontiff Sulyvahn. The leader of Irithyll was rarely seen save for the weekly mass. Certainly no layman had ever seen the interior of his private estate. It extended throughout the lower floors of the Cathedral. The banquet hall filled an entire floor of its own, dominated by the massive oak table attended by the lords and deacons of Irithyll. They reclined on luscious purple pillows scented with perfumes.
Vordt thought again of the dead peasants of the battlefield. He looked down at his own plate and placed a hand on his queasy stomach.
The Pontiff sat at the head of the table. His gaunt face looked even paler contrasted against the gaudy reds and oranges of the chamber's draperies. Beside him sat a priest the Pontiff referred to as McDonell. Vordt was two seats down from the fat priest, separated from him by a white-haired man Vordt knew to be the captain of the Pontiff Knights. He had barely risked a glance in the archdeacon's direction since the feast began.
It was the same man who had glared at Vordt at the end of mass. He was jovial here, surrounded by food and wine, and hadn't seemed to notice Vordt yet. But Vordt was wary. Something about this priest unnerved him most of all. Something in the way he showed his green teeth when he smiled, the way he licked his lips when looking at his fellows…
"Aah!" McDonell was saying loudly. "What manner of a world do we live in, eh, Sulyvahn?" He waved his hand vaguely through the air. "Heretics on our right and left! To think the common folk would spit on the mercies of the Saint! What manner of world produces such ingrates?"
"A world in need of the Saint's divine teachings, Archdeacon," the Pontiff replied coolly. "Certainly, such tragedies demonstrate that his wisdom is desperately required, lest men live forever under the shadow of ignorance and death."
McDonell nodded. "Well spoken, Your Holiness, well spoken! Is that not so, my brothers?" The table responded with a storm of "Ayes!" McDonell nudged the captain on his left. "And you'll be there to help spread the word, won't you?" The silent warrior nodded solemnly. McDonell chuckled.
Sulyvahn shook his head. "You have had too much wine, tonight, McDonell. Curb your eccentricities, lest your antics frighten away young Vordt here."
McDonell's head swiveled to face Vordt. "Ah, yes! A fine young man, he is!" His tongue slithered out and swiped a perfect circle around his mouth.
"What say you, on this matter, knight Vordt?" the Pontiff asked.
Vordt looked up as if he'd just noticed a bear about to strike him. "My lord?"
"The heretics you put down. What do you think drives their betrayals?"
"They were my enemies on the field of battle. I did not have time to consider their theology, Your Holiness."
"Yes, of course. Still, one must consider the implications. Heretics within the Boreal Valley itself. How can such a thing be?"
Vordt nodded, summoning up what little enthusiasm for this conversation that he could. "As the Saint teaches, 'The doctrine of the Deep gives wisdom to the wise, yet only increases the folly of fools.'"
"Ha!" McDonell barked. "He knows his scriptures!"
"Be silent, McDonell. You are quite right, Vordt. And what does the Saint teach is the fate of such fools?"
Vordt scrunched his face trying to recall the passage. "'The coolness of the Deep will be denied them. Forever they will rot in a living death.'"
The Pontiff nodded solemnly. "Mercy is for the faithful alone. This is a hard truth, but one we must accept. You slew those traitorous filth without mercy or remorse, Vordt. You must be proud to have demonstrated such faith in carrying out such grim work."
"It is my duty, Your Holiness. I must do it. I mean…" He collected himself, breathed in slowly. "I swore a vow to Irithyll and to the Church to defend and uphold its values. I am honored to serve."
Vordt thought he had recognized the test and passed it. He had answered honestly and with humility, not fawning like one of the Pontiff's fat sycophants. Yet, as His Holiness moved on to other topics, Vordt thought he saw him and McDonell exchange knowing glances, and wondered if he had not stumbled after all.
After the guests had finished their meals, the Pontiff clapped his hands. "Entertainment!"
The door at the far end of the banquet hall opened, and through it walked the most beautiful woman Vordt had ever seen. She was clothed in the garbs of a dancer. Her eyes downcast, she stood before her audience and bowed at the assortment of fat deacons and officials twisting their bodies around in their chairs to get a good look at her.
Then she began to dance, and Vordt forgot his fears and doubts as he became lost in the perfection of her movements. Her form was perfect, her grace unparalleled. Her sinewy body flowed like liquid as she twirled and pranced about the chamber. She pirouetted and the veils of her garment spun like a flower in the wind. Vordt had never seen such a performance. It was a divine gift, this mastery of her craft.
"Who is she?" he whispered to the church administrator seated beside him.
"That? That is the Pontiff's greatest prize. Taken from some city in ancient Lordran, of royal blood, they say."
Royalty? Vordt shivered at the thought. Was this the fate of the kingdoms that submitted to Irithyll? To waste the beauty and grace of their nobility on…men such as these?
The dancer finished her performance. There was no applause, unless one counted the chuckles and salacious giggles scattered across the table. The Pontiff clapped his hands again, and the dancer departed. Never once did her eyes leave the ground.
"Vordt, I would speak with you in private."
Never on the battlefield had Vordt felt such fear as he did in the presence of the Pontiff. His master and ruler led him away to a small parlor filled with various artifacts and sculptures of indecipherable origin. Trophies of Irithyll's past victories, Vordt surmised.
"Vordt, I told you before that I needed warriors." The Pontiff's voice was stern and cold. "You see, in the past few years I have constructed a network of spies across the land. Men and women who report directly to me. Distasteful, I admit, but a necessary evil for Irithyll's sake."
Vordt had never heard of such a thing. The Pontiff had spies at his beck and call? The thought disconcerted him.
"From this network I have learned that the kingdom of Lothric, for many months now, has lent aid to the bandits along the Boreal Valley's southern borders. Lothric provides the brutes with armaments so that they will harry our trade routes. I suspect this is merely the prelude to a greater scheme."
"If this is so, Your Holiness, how might we combat Lothric?"
"I cannot, until I discern its true intentions. This is why I need you, knight Vordt. I need someone to be my eyes amidst my enemies, to report back on their plans. Having received reports of your service and seen you for myself, I judge you capable of such a mission."
"Your – Your Holiness…I am not worthy."
"You are. I deem it so."
Doubts gnawed at Vordt's mind. Doubts that been fermenting for months. Doubts prompted by the dead eyes of a peasant staring at a steel grey sky.
He wanted to refuse. He wanted to throw the Pontiff's request in his face and to blazes with the consequences!
But, that was not his choice to make. He was one man among many. His wants counted for nothing in the face of his country's needs. He had always been, and would always be, a knight of Irithyll. Of Irithyll, not a toady of Pontiff Sulyvahn. Yet, if by serving this man Vordt served his country and people, then so be it.
"I am ready to serve, Your Holiness."
Vordt's mother rejoiced when she heard the news.
"Oh, such glory you will bring to this family's name! To think that I would live to see my son be given such an honor by the Pontiff himself!"
Vordt smiled, concealing his ill ease with practiced care. This was his mother's moment of joy, not his own.
"Fight well, Vordt," she exhorted him. "I will go to the Cathedral every day to pray for your safe return. Oh, by the Saint, just to think this is happening…"
Vordt nodded, playing the role of the faithful, dutiful son.
The next morning, Vordt returned to the Cathedral. No more ceremonial costumes for him. He proudly wore the iron raiment of Irithyll's knightly order. Upon his back was bound his great hammer, his trusty friend in unfriendly places. Helmet in hand, he walked through the church's doors to stand before the Pontiff once more. He had been commanded to come and receive his personal blessing.
Vordt paused midstride. The Pontiff stood at the podium, and beside him stood the dancer, clad in armor, a helmet of her own tucked in her arm.
The Pontiff saw Vordt's confusion. "Your companion in arms. Be not deceived, this child is a master of blades. She has served the Church well."
Vordt fancied he saw the dancer's body tremble slightly at the Pontiff's words.
"What's more, she has knowledge of the southern reaches that are of vital import to your mission. She must survive if you are to sniff out Lothric's intrigues. Guard her with your life, knight Vordt."
"I shall, Your Holiness."
The Pontiff clapped his hands. A page materialized from some hidden nook bearing an ornate silver box in his hands. The Pontiff unclasped the lid and opened it, revealing two rings. He lifted them, one in each hand, and held them over the heads of the two warriors.
"As you are my eyes abroad, so will mine always be upon you. I gift you these rings of power to strengthen you in times of peril. Whenever danger seizes you, look deep into the obsidian gems and be comforted in the knowledge that my power is with you. Hold out your hands."
Vordt did so. The dancer hesitated.
"Be not afraid, my child," the Pontiff said softly. "Accept my gift."
The dancer slowly extended her arm.
The Pontiff slipped the rings onto their fingers. Vordt felt a chill rush through him, a wondrous energy that seeped into his bones and filled him with a giddy delight as he had never felt before.
It was snowing when Vordt and the dancer left Irithyll. They descended the stairs of the city's great central avenue in silence. The dancer had ignored all of Vordt's attempts at conversation The frost of a winter's night was more inviting.
At the city's border was the Great Valley Bridge that crossed the Boreas River. Knowing that he would not see his beloved home for a long time, Vordt turned to gaze upon the towers of his city one last time.
"It is beautiful," he spoke aloud thoughtfully.
"Yes."
Vordt turned to regard his companion with surprise. She was looking at the Cathedral as she spoke.
"It used to be."
The Crucifixion Woods was a dank, marshy place where heretics were punished in the cruelest of ways: a warning to all who might stray from the Saint's teachings. The stench of the place must have distracted Vordt from his vigil. He and the dancer were taken off-guard.
Because of the increase in bandit raids within the forests, Irithyllian pilgrims had taken to travelling in large caravans. Vordt hoped that his and the dancer's own presence in one such convoy might serve to deter attackers, but the bandits were unimpressed.
Vordt wielded his hammer with skilled ferocity, toppling the raider leading the charge before he could strike a single blow. At his side, the dancer slid among the bandits like a serpent, her twin swords slicing through their flesh like butter. The battle filled him with a delight and thirst for blood that he had never felt before.
It ended far too quickly. One pilgrim had been killed. His comrades would mourn him. Vordt, on the other hand, surveyed the corpses of seven dead bandits and wished there were more to kill.
Summer nights on the Road of Sacrifices were balmy, the air still laden with the heat of the day's sun. Or so Vordt remembered from previous journeys. But he felt cold even as he and the dancer huddled around the campfire. Of late, he frequently suffered these bouts of chills. Sometimes, at the height of the noonday sun, he thought he caught a wisp of frozen breath escape his own mouth. What was happening to him? It had been a month since he and his companion had departed Irithyll. They had yet another week before reaching the territories of Lothric and Vordt felt a deep sense of foreboding at journey's end. Something was changing inside him.
Vordt and the dancer sat in customary silence. Vordt tried to pry her out of her shell, bit by bit, but her rare responses were evasive at best. She was a noblewoman – she had confirmed that much. And she hated Sulyvahn and the Church. That much was clear from the hardening of her eyes whenever Vordt mentioned them.
Even so, a bond of sorts had formed between them. They performed admirably in battle, working as one against the various thieves and beasts that haunted the road. Vordt felt a kinship with her he had never before felt with anyone. Despite her views on the Church, he admired her. He dare not consider that it was because of her brazen defiance.
That night, Vordt ventured another attempt to unravel the mystery of his beautiful comrade.
"I have watched your work with the sword. Your style, like a dance, is not of Irithyll. Is it a common form in your homeland?"
It was a clumsy question, he realized. The dancer had been taken from her home by force. To be reminded of it would simply pour salt in the wound.
And yet, she surprised him.
"It is my own style. I merged the ways of the sword and the dance while in servitude to Sulyvahn." She looked up at him. "You feel as I do, Vordt, do you not?"
"How do you mean?"
"About the Church. I see it in your eyes. You doubt."
"A soldier of Irithyll does not doubt his leaders."
"And yet you do."
Vordt sighed. He rubbed his thumb against the ring on his finger. The Pontiff's Eye, promised to protect and strengthen him. Could it, perhaps, guard him from heresy's temptation?
He looked into the black jewel adorning the ring. He looked deep into it and felt the magic at work within him. The world fell away, and he was looking into a black abyss. There was red mixed in with the blackness. Blood. He was awash in blood, and singing filled his ears. No, not singing, but screams. His screams. And his screaming was music accompanying the carnage of the slaughter. Death. Death to the Church's enemies. Death was his duty. The carnage was his duty.
Somewhere beyond his sight, he heard the dancer cry out his name.
The vision ended as abruptly as it began. Vordt found himself lying on the ground, soaked in sweat. He raised a hand to his forehead, only to feel the cold touch of metal. He did not remember putting on his helmet. He looked around. He was somewhere far from camp. A glint caught Vordt's eye and he recognized his hammer laying in the undergrowth. As he reached over to pick it up, he saw something quivering next to it.
A freshly maimed deer, gurgling the last of its breath. The hammer was covered in its blood.
Vordt's breathing came out weak and unsteady as he stumbled back to the campfire's light. A sound reached him as he approached. Sobbing.
The dancer sat hunched over, her face wet with tears. Vordt approached her in confusion and terror.
"What happened?"
"He has done this to us."
"Done what?"
"Beasts," she sobbed. "We are his beasts."
She held up her ring finger. It was scratched raw, but the Pontiff's ring held fast to the bloody flesh.
"It won't come off."
Eight days later, Vordt and the dancer entered a hamlet on the Lothric border. It was such a little place, Vordt thought, filled with little creatures. They scurried away at the sight of him. Little rats, he thought. Chittering at him, provoking him.
And it was infernally cold in this place. He hated the cold.
Anger filled him. He spied one creature yelling at him, shouting incoherent nonsense. The hissing of an angry rodent. He took his great hammer and smashed the rat's head in. The other rats shrieked and fled into their burrows.
No, not burrows, houses. Not rats, Vordt thought – tried to think, it was so hard these days. No, they were men. Women. Children.
And they were scared of him. Why?
Vordt trudged down the village road. He felt so heavy. His back ached and his armor weighed him down. He sank to his knees, placed both hands on the ground, and sighed in relief. Better. Much easier than lurching about on two legs.
Vordt sniffed the air. Where was the dancer? He looked about wildly, his rage rekindled. He would kill all these rats if they touched her! At last he caught her scent and spied a glimpse of her stalking among the rat's burrows. She was safe. He was pacified. All was well.
Cold. Bitter, bitter cold. Vordt did all he could to stave off the biting chill. Battle allayed it best. His foes were so small. And he was so much stronger. The eye of the Pontiff was always upon him. It filled him with anger and power that served him well in battle. And he served Irithyll in battle. That was good. That was his purpose.
And the dancer. She was like him, now. She served the Pontiff. Part of Vordt became sad at the thought. She didn't want to be like this. And then, the scraps of humanity left in him remembered what they had been and what they had become, and he screamed in hate for the Pontiff, the beast maker, the deceiver. He would see his reflection and the twisted, bestial thing staring back: a frost-tinted helmet bent to the shape of his warped skull and two icy blue eyes scowling at him, mocking his blind loyalty. His anger reached its peak and the man faded. The beast returned.
The dancer was all that Vordt had now. No one else mattered. She was the one he served and protected. Yes, he'd been told that. Protect her…from what? He didn't remember. He didn't care. He followed her like a faithful dog, striking out at anything that approached. They meant to kill her, didn't they? Yes, of course. Why else would she need to be protected?
Years passed. The beast grew stronger. Somewhere within its mind, the remnant of Vordt endured. He wept, endlessly, for his life, for the beautiful dancer, for his people under the thrall of the tyrant Sulyvahn.
At the end of the Age of Fire, as the First Flame faded and deep darkness engulfed the world, the surviving knights of Lothric shared stories of a terrible armored beast that prowled the fallen city. Its shrieks of madness haunted the streets. None knew its name, only that it was never found far from a fleeting dancer.
And so, countless years later, a lone warrior walked along the broken walls of Lothric. It was a wretched being, not fit even to fuel the dying Fire. It reached a great set of doors leading away from the city toward the wasteland beyond. The warrior turned from them at the breath of a wintry gust and saw a mammoth knight crawl out of a cold fog on all fours and clutching a great hammer. It sniffed the air, as if seeking something. Then its blue eyes focused on the warrior. It released a hideous scream, and charged.
The duel was an incredible spectacle, had anyone been present to witness it. A duel of skill against brawn. Of unkindled embers versus clinging frost. But the beast, mighty warrior though it was, stood no match against the ashen warrior. It was struck down and left behind by the nameless warrior without rite or ceremony.
Death ended the Pontiff's curse. As Vordt lay dying, his mind was again his own. The beast was gone. Trapped in the misshapen armor of a once-proud Irithyllian knight, his throat and tongue too twisted to form words, he could only mutter in bestial snarls. He begged the unknown warrior to find the dancer and free her as well from the Pontiff's curse. And he spoke his gratitude to the one who had slain him, a humble word of thanks for releasing him from his duty at last.
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