Hellsing: The Order/The Beginning
Rating: PG-13
Chapter 3: Heresy in Havana
Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing, don't claim to, only doing this for fun.
Havana, it seemed, was a rather large town by Colonial standards, but to one who had been from Paris to London to Rome to Madrid and even to Moscow, it was an unimpressive and small place. It was also just large enough to make an investigation into heresies difficult, for there were a number of places to hide, and reasons to consider. The Negro slaves for instance, brought in from the Dark Continent, and for the most part seemed to believe in their Pagan Loa and other beliefs that were contrary to the faith, even if they professed Christianity. Killing slaves would get him nowhere but in trouble with the local authorities, and this far from the power of the Papal States, he dared not risk that trouble.
Perhaps, he mused, he should begin in the very port he had entered not long ago. Many passed through, and ships offered a perfect place for clandestine meetings of changing locations. Ships also offered a perfect privacy against all but the most dead set hunters like himself; and few would dare board a vessel illegally, especially one flying the flag of the Spanish crown.
Crowded marketplaces might also offer shelter to would be heretics, hoping to meet and pass messages amongst the hustle and bustle, easily becoming lost in the crowds of happy and oblivious merchantmen and customers that would be unaware of the oily presence of such sin in their midst. After all, in the marketplace one could remain quite anonymous, yet at the same time be jovially chatty and raise little suspicions. Of course the messages might go through the markets, but the meetings might be held elsewhere, a tavern perhaps…or God forbid a church!
"Dear Lord," muttered Father Andrew Bervaldi, his simple brown robe flapping as he walked, "So many places for them to be. My God, I, your most humble of servants beseech you; point me in the proper direction so that I might smite those that have rejected your one true Church."
He turned into an alley, so intent upon his prayer that he did not note the man brandishing a knife until he was up against the wall. He regarded the knife with an almost amused and annoyed glare. Coldly he asked, "A highwayman robbing a simple Priest?"
"The Church has money father," said the wild eyed, long haired highwayman, "More than it needs. Surely you can spare your money for a man down on his luck and wanting to go back to Europe."
"At knifepoint," replied Andrew Bervaldi, "I think not."
His left armed snapped up and he gave the highwayman a shove to the chest with it, sending the knife and its wielder away. The highwayman quickly regained his balance and lunged at the Priest, only to be given a swift kick to the kneecap as the man of the cloth twisted out of the way. Stumbling, the highwayman turned again, this time to find himself being thrown against staccato wall by a palm to his chin.
The knife clattered from the hand of the highwayman and harmlessly onto the ground. Andrew Bervaldi made no motion to pick it up, instead walking over the injured assailant. He bent down and looked into the man's now somewhat more focused eyes, "Tell me about any heresy you know of."
"I don't know of any Father," said the wild eyed man, his more focused eyes seeming to go an oily black as he spat the final word.
"Demon infested retch you will tell me where to find the heretics practicing the heresy you spawned," roared the Priest, throwing the demon possessed man across the alley by his cloak. He bent next to the demon possessed highwayman and dipped his hand in a puddle of water, murmuring a prayer of blessing. After blessing the puddle he forced the man's face into it, and smoke began to rise. After a few seconds of this, he brought the head back out, covered in burns, "Now tell me what I need to know foul creature."
"They worship my master," gasped the demon possessed man, pain evident upon its burned features as it struggled against the iron hard grip of Father Bervaldi.
"Satan," prompted the Priest with disgust.
The demon possessed man was silent, and found his head once again thrust into the puddle of muddy holy water. He was kept this way for roughly twenty seconds before he was once more brought up to the face of the Priest. The stoic man of the cloth merely glared questioningly and angrily as the demon possessed man said one word, "Quetzaquotal."
"That's a new one," murmured Father Bervaldi to himself.
"He tells the people," coughed the demon possessed highwayman in pain, "that he is the Aztec God that they mistook us Spaniards for. You Catholics are so easy to manipulate, your stale ceremonies and religious doctrines grinding the free spirit into dust. We merely rekindle that love of mystery in religion, that belief that one can be something more than a pawn of the Pope. He has given meaning to so many, that soon he will have an army of your flock ready to fight and to die for him…already the savages in Méjico will."
"Interesting," whispered Father Bervaldi. He had struck gold, figuratively speaking, so early on in his endeavor. That meant the Lord was giving an act of Providence, or that the situation was worse than the Vatican could ever imagine. He hoped, no, he prayed silently, that it was the former. It dawned on him that the demon possessed man was suddenly talkative, more so than simple pain would create a need to be. Hefting the demonic man against the wall he hissed, "Why are you so cooperative now?"
"Because," the demon possessed man hissed back in a voice that sounded like two, "You are about to die."
The Priest turned quickly, bringing the demon possessed man around as well, as a shield, and two mini balls slammed into the torso at the heart. He threw the corpse towards his two new assailants, both in the dress of merchants from their appearance, and succeeded in knocking them down. They struggled to reload, and Bervaldi seized the knife which had lain prostrate on the alley dirt. With a cry he launched himself forward, slashing the jugular of one man as he came upon them, the blood spray splattering across the staccato wall of the alley. The other assailant threw down his musket to reach for a hunting knife, but Father Bervaldi already was upon him in a slashing furor that left the man dead with a cross-like wound in his chest within seconds.
He dropped the knife casually and straightened his simple brown robe. Then he strolled out the opposite end of the alleyway as if nothing was wrong. In fact things were going quite well, he knew he would spend many a productive hour in this marketplace, as it had proven itself to be a hub of heretics, and demons. However, what the highwayman had said about Quetzaquotal was deeply disturbing to him…it meant it was too late for containment in Havana. He would have to exterminate the cult wherever in New Spain it reached, and as it was one of the Devil's servants, it would be far reaching indeed.
