First Mission 5 – All Hollowed
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Their ride was anything but accommodating. Metal brackets along the wagon's sides had stabbed into their backs with every bump, forcing the company to huddle together in the middle most uncomfortably. The iron-barred walls made Verna feel as if she were a prisoner, and she was certain the others shared her sentiment. Each one of them wore a look of sullen resignation, though none wore it quite so well as Percelle.
"I wish the Matron had warned us how torturous this ride would be," he moaned. Unlike them, Medeline had taken a seat up front with the enigmatic driver of the cart. "I'd rather have walked. This is murder on my poor back!"
"Bollocks to your back," Fordin growled, clutching at his bandaged abdomen. "You weren't nearly rent in two by those monsters. They didn't so much as scratch your pretty face."
This brought a proud grin to their companion's lips. "Yes, even those dumb beasts wouldn't dare harm a hair on this handsome head. Unlike you, they recognized my worth, and rightly feared me."
Calvert sighed. "Percelle, that head would make a worthy bucket for all it holds."
For once, the mouthy herald was at a loss for words, and Verna had to stifle a smile to spare the poor man's ego.
They rode on in silence for some time, until Cliope's gentle voice broke the spell. "I just realized," she began, "we've almost reached our destination, but we've barely talked about what we might find there. Shouldn't we be discussing the possibilities, so as to prepare?"
"I expect we'll find nothing more than mindless hollows," Calvert replied. "What else would there be? The town's undoubtedly fallen to the curse, like so many others. Though we may face great numbers, those villagers were simple peasants in their past lives. They do not have a warrior's training. We have the Matron to lead us, and we will use our wits to outsmart the wretches. I'm confident we can handle them without a fuss."
"Yes, of course," the priestess nodded. "And yet, I wonder why we received no word of this. Do we not have clergymen within the village? Why did they not send for us sooner, if such a threat was spreading?"
At this, Calvert shrugged, trying to mask his unease. "That's something we'll have to discover once we get there. It's possible the undead cut off access to the roadways, or perhaps the messengers were all lost to those beasts in the swamp."
"Whatever the case may be, we'll be sure to avenge our brothers," Lendrey said, fists clenched tight around the shaft of his halberd. "We'll kill every last one of those undead bastards. It will be a slaughter."
"And what if our brothers have joined the hollows?"
As one, the others turned to Verna with brows raised, and she met their astonished looks evenly. "If they are indeed fallen, they'll have most likely succumbed to the curse as well. The Darksign does not discriminate between peasant nor priest. Are you prepared to lay your fellow clergymen to rest, if it comes to that?"
The companions glanced at each other, mulling over her suggestion in discomfort, until one of them found the courage to answer. "We must be," Marth stated, much to Verna's surprise. After all, it was for his sake that she had spoken. "If our brothers have gone hollow, it's the least we can do for them. We shall take their lives out of respect, then burn the bodies until they are naught but ash. We will do all we can to keep them from rising once more."
The heralds nodded in agreement, though their mood remained somber. Even if such a thing must be done, no one was looking forward to the prospect.
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At long last, the wagon came to a shuddering halt. There was a wave of relief among its occupants as the disheveled driver came around to unlatch the rear gate. "Out with ya now," she grumbled. "I've taken y'all as far as I can."
Before them rose a soaring tower built into a cliffside, and at its base, Matron Medeline had thrown open a pair of heavy oak doors. "Come now, children," the evangelist ushered them in with glee. "Stretch your sore backsides and sharpen those sleepy eyes. New Arston awaits us!"
As the driver spurred her undead hounds into motion, and the cart barreled off down the hillside, the company obediently fell in line. Without a word, they followed their leader into a torchlit hall supported by sturdy pillars. Their footsteps echoed against the stone walls as they made their way to the adjoining room, where a short staircase curled towards a wooden lift. Medeline ordered them up in three groups — first, her and two heralds, then the priestesses, and last the remaining soldiers. Verna gripped the railing tightly as creaking chains dragged them upward, causing the shoddy platform to tremble unnervingly. However, they reached the top without incident, and joined the others on the middle floor of the tower.
This hallway was littered with dozens of half-melted candles, casting eerie shadows along the cold walls. As the Matron led them to the closed doors at the other end, a steady noise reverberated across the chamber, almost like an axe chipping away at a sturdy greatwood. It seemed to be coming from the top of the tower, but Verna had no time to ponder it. The doors grated open, and they stepped out into New Arston.
Unsurprisingly, the dilapidated village had already fallen to ruin and decay. Crumbling shacks balanced precariously atop ledges, some of them already missing walls or roofs. Twisted trees grew unchecked, their leafless branches encroaching on the buildings' boundaries, betraying the carelessness of the inhabitants. Some of the townsfolk were in sight, their clothes as tattered and worn as the rest of their village, their exposed skin shriveled and dark.
It was just as the Church had feared. These people had all gone hollow.
The animated corpses wandered about aimlessly, sometimes poking and prodding at the dirt with their pitchforks, as if attempting to recall their lost purpose. From behind one of the cottages, a much larger undead lumbered forward, a cage chained to his broad back and a wicked double-handled saw in his grips. At the sight of this monstrosity, Verna instinctively drew her Astora blade, even as the blood rushed to her boots. She had seen hollows before, but never one of such stature.
"Be at ready," the Matron cautioned, "but do not attack unless I say." She ventured forward carefully, her charges trailing close behind, each with their shield raised and weapon aimed.
As they approached, the hooded brute staggered around to face them. A hoarse growl rumbled from his throat, and his fingers tightened on the saw. Verna tensed, suddenly wishing that she too had a shield, as her parrying dagger would be utterly useless against such a thing. The hollow's shoulders heaved with a violent bellow, but as the team prepared for a fight, the saw blade whipped aside, cutting down three villagers in a single motion.
The heralds watched on, repulsed, as the hulking undead swung his cage to the ground and began stuffing the bloodied bodies inside. While he was occupied, practically ignoring the newcomers entirely, Medeline motioned for her party to move forward. They stepped silently past the lout, each expecting him to strike again at any moment, but he remained engrossed in his gruesome task.
Soon, they caught sight of two more oversized hollows standing beside a boiling cauldron. Like the first, they barely acknowledged the clergymen, staring instead into the bubbling broth as if entranced. They were absentmindedly tossing in raw meat from heavy sacks, and Verna caught sight of human limbs being thrown in without pause. She had to forcibly swallow back her rising bile, and refused to think of what they might further do to those limbs once they had softened into stew. Something was terribly wrong with this village, something beyond the undead curse.
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The company crossed over a short cobblestone bridge that spanned a jagged chasm, the floor of which was littered with bleached bones and broken rubble. They arrived at a small clearing that was thankfully devoid of hollows, allowing them a brief respite, and the chance to speak unhindered.
"What the devil was that all about?" Percelle muttered. "I thought hollows were supposed to be mindless husks. They didn't even bother attacking us."
"Perhaps they aren't completely gone, yet?" Calvert proposed. "Maybe we caught them before they went fully hollow."
"Could be," Marth agreed. "Not all hollows are crazed fiends. These villagers seem to be clinging to their last shreds of humanity, staving off the madness of death."
"They looked pretty dead to me," Lendrey said.
That cracking noise continued to echo through the air, and Verna could not help but gaze up at the tower to discern its source. Her mouth parted in fascination as she caught sight of a lone giant at its peak, firing an endless barrage of arrows into the village from his greatbow. Its drawstring, no doubt as thick as her arm, snapped loudly with each shot, a declaration of the deadly impact that was sure to follow.
"A servant of the Church," Medeline explained, noting the herald's interest, and the others soon spotted the giant as well. "It is quite fortunate that he still holds his post. Take heart, children, for we are not alone in our mission."
The troupe traveled down a rocky road, leading to a looming monastery at the end of a wide staircase. Above them sat a handful of naked hollows curled up along a ledge, cradling their hairless heads and rocking steadily. Verna could hear them weeping pitifully, obviously deranged, yet they made no move as the clergymen passed. She prayed Marth was right, but something told her there was more to this than met the eye. However, she did not want to voice her fears unfounded, so she remained quiet.
As they neared the staircase, something rose from behind a tree. The party halted abruptly as a skeletal dog loped towards them, barking and gnashing its fangs. "Hounds!" the Matron called out as two more beasts sprang into view, charging eagerly towards their perceived prey.
Lendrey met the first dog head-on. He jabbed with his halberd as it lunged, impaling the hound upon its pointed tip. As it flailed its legs and snapped its jaw, Verna rushed forward, taking off half the thing's head with her blade. The creature went limp as a second one crashed into Calvert's shield, only to have its neck pierced by Marth's spearhead, pinning it to the ground. Calvert landed a second blow to finish off the writhing animal.
The last dog bounded straight through their ranks, slipping past Fordin's spear thrust and pouncing on one of the unprotected priestesses. She shrieked as its fangs found her arm. It tore through flesh and muscle, shaking her limb like a flimsy rope. Cliope cried out as she rushed to her fellow cleric's aid, unarmed but unwilling to stand by and watch. Before she or anyone else could act, though, the Matron's spiked mace slammed down.
The beast was flattened under the blow, its festering guts spewing out from its sides. Its jaws remained locked around the priestess's arm in a death-grip, even as its skull clung to its body by a few sinewy strands. Cliope immediately ran to unhinge the dog's mouth, ignoring the viscera squishing beneath her shoes, and the Matron spun on the heralds indignantly.
"Get that blasted thing off her!" she bellowed, and they jumped to obey. As they carefully removed the creature's fangs from the weeping woman, Medeline approached Percelle, who stood stiff as a board, eyes suddenly brimming with fear beneath the husky woman's glare.
"Tell me, boy," she hissed between clenched teeth, "have you suddenly become afflicted with stupor? Have your limbs ceased to respond? Why did you stand idle while a cleric was being assaulted?"
"I... I'm sorry, Matron," he stammered. "It was... it moved so fast, I—"
In an instant, the evangelist's heavy book cracked the herald across the face, nearly knocking his helmet loose. "Rubbish!" she spat. "Fordin found ample time to strike, and he's barely recovered from the last skirmish you slept through!" She gripped the quivering man by the collar and pulled him close, mere inches from her mirthless grin. "You'd best find your balls fast, little man, or I'll be forced to check if they're still attached."
She released Percelle, blood streaming from his bruised nose, then turned to the others. "Two of you go and check that door ahead, see what's behind it. We shall wait here and waste precious resources healing our healer."
"I'll go," Marth volunteered promptly. "Lendrey, with me." His companion nodded, and they followed their orders with haste, lest they give their leader any more reason to become enraged.
"Matron," the wounded priestess struggled to speak between wracking sobs, "Forgive me... I should have been more cautious..."
"Nonsense," Medeline huffed. "It's the heralds' duty to protect you from harm, and their fault that you suffered any." She stared each of them in the face, making certain her words were being heard. "And I'm sure they know well enough that if our clerics should fall, there will be little to hold back death from claiming every last one of us. It's the clerics' duty to keep us alive. If you can't even protect them, how do you expect to protect yourselves? You won't! You will die, and you will all end up like that!" She thrust a finger towards the moaning hollows behind them. "Worthless wretches without a soul to share between them! Is that what you want? Is that all your training and preparation will amount to?"
"No, Matron," the heralds spoke as one.
The evangelist drew a deep, steadying breath. "Then prove it."
While Cliope healed the priestess's arm, Marth and Lendrey returned from their brief scouting. "The doors are locked tight, Matron," Marth informed her. "No way through. We tried."
"Seems like some kind of church," Lendrey ventured to guess. "I doubt anyone would be using it now, given the state this town's in."
Medeline peered over them at the ominous building. "I suppose you're right. In that case, we move on past those hollows, towards the town's center." She took the cleric's arm, inspecting it with a care that was uncommon for her, then nodded satisfactorily. "Let's go."
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They journeyed on into the village, keeping a wary eye on the weeping undead, regardless of how unthreatening they might have seemed. Everyone was on edge after the Matron's scolding, as if finally realizing the severity of their mission. There was no more banter, no more questions. Even Percelle remained silent, though he sniffed occasionally as he wiped the trickling blood from his face. Despite the man's impotence, Verna could not help but feel sympathy for him. It was mere days ago that they had all been at the cathedral, where the greatest danger they faced was Captain Brommand's disapproval. Now, their very lives depended on each other. At least Percelle had smartened up at long last, if only to avoid drawing further ire from Medeline.
As they made their way through an alley, with buildings sagging overhead on rotted foundations, Marth dared to speak again. "Where is everyone? Even if the townsfolk were cursed, there should be many more than what we've seen. There are no hollows here, no bodies... nothing."
Medeline stroked her hairy chin. "I've been wondering that myself. Something is not right."
Verna could not be sure if she felt better or worse at hearing her own fears spoken aloud.
A stable lay ahead, and inside, a couple hollows were prodding at bales of hay with rusted pitchforks. As the party entered, the gaunt figures paused to stare at them with empty sockets, putting everyone on guard. The Matron paused for only a moment, then cautiously continued past. She never took her eyes off the undead, and they gazed back without expression, devoid of fear or anger. They watched the clergymen follow close behind, keeping the priestesses safe behind raised shields, but even this defensive gesture drew no response. Once they had passed through the stable, the undead peasants returned to their fruitless labor, and the heralds shared anxious glances. Verna was starting to think she would rather be attacked; at least then she would know how to respond to the situation.
"Oh, goodness me," Medeline whispered, startling the others with her abrupt sobriety. Then, as they gazed across an old wooden bridge to the spectacle beyond, they understood.
Before them lay a wide clearing filled with countless hollows. Their sudden numbers were startling, but even more so were their actions. Each and every one of them was bowing in unison to a burning greatwood in the midst of their congregation, raising and lowering their arms as if venerating the fiery tree. Verna nearly dropped her sword at the sight. The Church elders had shared many tales of the undead, but she could not remember ever hearing of such a thing.
Apparently, from their Matron's reaction, neither had she.
"Look, there," Medeline spoke in a hushed tone, pointing towards the base of the burning tree. As if to further stretch their disbelief, they spotted another evangelist leading the hollows in prayer, her book clutched tightly to her breast. At her side was a blue-robed cleric, his hollowing apparent even from that distance. He too bowed to the greatwood in worship, pressing his face against the dirt with each decline.
As Verna stared on, perplexed, the Matron unexpectedly walked forward into the roiling sea of hollows. After a hesitant moment, the others forced themselves to follow, even though they were cowed by the sheer number of undead. They stepped warily through the bodies, careful not to touch any of them for fear that the entire assembly would rise up against the interlopers.
Somehow, Medeline steered her portly self through the crowd without a fuss, eyes locked on the woman at their center. "Clerane?" she said as she neared, recognizing the figure from their cathedral. "Oh, good sister, what has become of you?"
"Ahh..." the evangelist moaned incoherently. "Ahh... the trees..."
"Please, Clerane," the Matron beseeched her, "try to recall yourself. You must. What in the Lord's name has happened here?"
The evangelist raised her head to behold the inferno, its flames reflecting in her black eyes. "Ohh... the trees... They burn... they burn for us..."
For once, Medeline's thin lips sagged into a troubled frown. "Why do they burn, sister? Tell me."
The evangelist finally turned to her counterpart, as if noticing her for the first time, and her smile stretched impossibly wide. "Absolution..."
As the Matron struggled to make sense of this answer, Cliope suddenly gasped behind her. As one, the clergymen looked to the direction she was facing, and together, they saw what had startled her so. There in the distance, between the crumbling buildings, were perhaps fifty men or more marching towards them. The sounds of their heavy bootsteps could already be heard, and the sun glistened off their wicked, matching greatswords. More terrifying than those hefty blades, however, were the rows of pointed helmets that shadowed their faces.
"Merciful Gwyn," Calvert swore breathlessly. "It's the Legion."