Chapter 12: Into the Monastery
--
Waxing moon and waning sun,
In darkened shadows, the homeless run;
Autumn gale and winter morn,
Hellish fiend from fire born.
--
Barriers crumbled within realms,
To arms! O' warriors, don your helms;
Lest' darkness reigns forevermore,
Destroy hell's sovereign from within his core.
--
Many moons had waxed and waned since the fall of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye—since the conquering of the Tamoe Monastery. Yet the nightmares had not dissipated into lost memory; for grim reminders of the gruesome end hid, still within shadows.
The outer cloister of the Monastery had been a gay and merry garden—and once, within its lush green compound, the rogue sisters had found respite. But no longer.
The cheer and sunlight had long been cast out—and all that was left of the golden days were but distant memories.
To Saul, the dimmed darkness of the monastery was no more than broken rubble; the derelict ruins of greater days long gone—and yet, at the same time, it was no less than shelter; the very roots of those whom he had learnt to care for.
The outer compounds had been devoid of demonic lifeform—and they'd encountered no difficulty as they'd made their way across the grounds of arid grass to the waypoint. Still, they'd not expected an empty courtyard when they'd returned.
They were thus disappointed; for naught but shadows seemed present.
Saul could sense the tension in the air—feel the bloodlust of the hellspawn, from deep within the monastery barracks. Somehow, the knowledge of impending doom; the ever present shadow of darkness bolstered him—it kept him aware, and brought to his senses the true depth of the situation. The ominous silence was that which caused anxiety. And though he did not ask, he knew that Cordelia felt the same.
They slipped with caution into the barracks; yet every step seemed to echo within the silent walls, annoucing their arrival to those who would hinder their progress. The musky scent of rotting wood and burnt flesh drifted heavily in the air. Within the dimly lit chambers, even shadows worked against them—and it was but determination that kept them strong.
"Oh!"
Saul inhaled sharply—then whipped around, drawing his dagger in a single, fluid motion. "Cordy?" He hissed.
The sorceress flinched, as though she'd been slapped. She shook her head just a touch; and her face was pale. "I'm sorry." She swallowed—then motioned stiffly towards a darkened corner. "I just—"
Saul frowned; he shifted his gaze towards the corner. And almost immediately, he felt the bile arise within his throat—and he was sick to his stomach. He took several long seconds to recover—then turned back towards the sorceress. "No. I understand." He whispered.
It had been a sickening sight. He'd known of the rogues' defeat, and their loss of the monastery—and yet, little had he imagined the details of the event. The bloody mound within the corner was built of broken and bruised rogues—time had ravaged their bodies, and all but bones and rotting flesh had wilted away into ash. Occasionally, one would see a wide-eyed face—the terrors of its previous owner's last hours etched, still, upon its tainted flesh. Hell had shown no mercy; dismembered body parts and pulp-like entrails lined the floors, and decorated the walls.
"Let's just go." Cordelia's voice was somewhat stiff—and it was with rather a grim demeanor that she'd begun to tighten her vambraces. She seemed resigned to the constant threat of death. "Saul."
Saul bit his lip, then nodded. Time did not allow delay—and though he wished proper burial rights for the dead, they simply could not spare the extra hours.
And yet, his heart seemed to have frozen against his chest—a lump formed within his throat as grim understanding came to him.
Theirs was a path tainted with death and despair. They would not escape the realities of deaths; nor could they shy away from the mere thought of broken lives and tainted corpses.
The same understanding seemed to have come to his companion—and though she was clearly troubled, she chose to say naught; and she bore the knowledge of death with surprising strength.
At length, they came to a the end of the chamber—and within the cold grey stone, a dark wooden door had been placed. Lifting a finger to his lips, Saul leaned forward—then pressed his ear against the dusty wood. The sounds were distinct and clear; the enemy was yonder. He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, and motioned for Cordelia to ready herself.
A glint in her eye, she gave her staff an idle twirl. Then she nodded—she was ready.
Saul took a deep breath, shutting his eyes briefly. Half a second later, he took a step backwards—and, lifting his leg, brought the door down with a resounding crash. Silence filled the air for several short breaths—and then Saul released a heavy grunt, and stormed, staff aloft, into the party of demons.
The first to fall were a group of dimunitive devilkin demons—caught in surprise, they had barely had time to react before a single, orange-red orb burst into flames before their very feet. And in the blink of an eye, they were dead—fallen onto the ground in a heap of blood-stained, burnt carcasses.
Saul took but a second to watch as the sparking embers filled the chamber with a warm, glowing blaze. Even as the last of the light dissipated into nothingness, he raised his staff—and with a sickening crack, an ebon-robed rogue collapsed onto the ground; and her blood had barely begun to seep into the carpets when her comrade fell beside her.
By the by, they fought their way through the various outer halls and chambers of the barracks. They left in their wake a bloody trail—carcasses and corpses, burnt and bruised; and these lay in heaping mounds upon the cold stone ground. And it was several long hours later before they deemed it time to halt—for both were greatly wearied.
They took refuge within an antechamber to one of the smaller halls; and it, alone, remained untainted by the blood of the innocents. It was a small, dark room, within which a great number of odds and ends had been stored. Wooden barrels were stacked to the ceiling against one wall—and upon a dusty mantelpiece sat an odd array of porcelain figures. Beneath this mantlepiece was a wooden desk of carved ash—and beside this desk was a shelf, within which rested numerous tomes and scrolls. There were chairs, too; some broken, and some merely dust-covered. Some were carved of wood, and others were wrought of steel. A single candlestand stood within a corner of its own, providing what light it could in the midst of shadow.
"Do you suppose—" Cordelia murmured, her voice low and weary, and several purple bruises were visible upon her cheek. "—that we are near?"
Saul hid the smile upon his face—he turned his back to the sorceress and cleared his throat. He knew that she was exhausted, and past experiences had told him of her testy nature in the face of fatigue. Yet, not a single scowl had crossed her features; and she did not seem likely to bite. The change quite surprised him.
"Six years have passed since last I entered the monastery, Cordy." He wrinkled his nose—then peered mildly into the bookshelf. "I can't remember. But if it bolsters you any, I could lie."
She made a noise rather like an angry cat, but said nothing.
Saul chuckled faintly, though he did not think it wise to further incense her. Instead, he tugged a tome from its place—then frowned.
The other tomes were covered in months' worth of dust and cobweb.
Yet the tome he held was devoid of such filth—as though it had recently been handled.
Saul stiffened, then turned slowly where he stood. Something was clearly amiss—and yet, nothing looked as it shouldn't. Cordelia sat upon a low chair—and in her hand was a half-finished phial of deep blue potion. She was rocking to and fro upon her perch, her brows knitted together in thought; and she seemed not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.
He wrinkled his nose, then returned his gaze to the tome. With tentative fingers, he pulled the cover open; and, squinting slightly in the relative darkness, began to read.
--
Waxing moon and waning sun,
In darkened shadows, the homeless run;
Autumn gale and winter morn,
Hellish fiend from fire born.
--
In silent chamber lies entombed,
Hammer's might and weaver's loom;
O' altar cruel, o' eclipsed light,
Renew the legacy, return to might.
--
Sheltered land neath' skyward oak,
Carcass new in blood shall soak;
Golden sands in windswept vale,
Bring the beast to death so pale.
--
Emerald shore of jungle deep,
Stony ruin, forgotten keep;
Of blackened temple, of shadowed doom,
Upon nation bleak, enshrouded in gloom.
--
Sharpened blade and crumbled home,
Seek the lost, repair the dome;
All is lost ere' terror's dawn,
Yet hope rests within wooden pawn.
--
Barriers crumbled within realms,
To arms! O' warriors, don your helms;
Lest' darkness reigns forevermore,
Destroy hell's sovereign from within his core.
--
The words were faded prints of green and red; and the parchment upon which they had been scribed was crisp—yellowed with age, and thin to the very touch. Saul frowned slightly—the poem had made little sense to him.
"What's that?"
He gasped in surprise—then lifted his gaze. Cordelia had made her way towards him; and her solemn gaze strayed slowly over the words upon the open page. She frowned as she read—and when she'd finished, she released a long, low whistle.
"Well?" Saul tilted his head slightly.
Cordelia shook her head, though her eyes deepened with unspoken thought. "I have never read such a poem before. And it seems more as if it's a—" She paused, scratching gently at her brow. "—a prophesy. The first stanza, does, at the very least."
Saul bit his lip. "What do you make of it?"
"It seems to speak of this monastery, does it not?" Cordelia wrinkled her nose slightly—then subconsciously began to tug at her hair. "In darkened shadows, the homeless run—that would account for the siege of the monastery." And she reached over, tapping her index finger gently upon the line. "Hellish fiend from fire born. Does that not remind you of something?"
Saul blinked in mild surprise. Then, chuckling sheepishly, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "You have an uncanny knack for solving puzzles and riddles. But something's wrong—and someone else has been in here before us." He motioned stiffly towards the other of cobwebbed tomes—then made a face. "This book was clean when I took it. And I doubt demons read."
She inhaled sharply, and within her visage flashed slight apprehension. "Do you suppose he, or she is still in the monastery?"
"I don't know." Saul muttered. He tore the poem-page from the tome—then riffled through the other pages; and they were empty. He returned the tome to its place, then folded the shred of parchment into quarters, before slipping it into the front of his pack. "There's nothing else in here."
Cordelia scowled. She had watched in silent horror as he'd ripped the page from its bindings—and Saul rather understood why. The sorceress loved books.
He gave her a small, guilty smile. "I'm sorry I had to do that. But I've a feeling the poem may mean something which may yet prove useful in our future—and to keep the entire tome is rather a waste of space."
She eyed him reproachfully—then rolled her shoulders back in a slight shrug. "Whatever you feel you must do." She said, waspishly.
Saul sighed; but nodded assent.
It would be a long day.
They made their way steadily into the deeper crypts of the monastery; and by the by, found themselves within the end of a darkened corridor. The long hours of battle had wearied them—and their supply of potion had long since dwindled to but meager amounts. Cordelia held but two dimunitive phials of crimson life within her pack—and one of deepest blue. And though he was loathe to admit it, she knew that her companion had but little strength left within him. He walked, now, with a noticeable limp—and upon his arms and face were several lumps of purple-grey; and these were the wounds blatantly ignored in such circumstances as they were resigned to.
She knew she looked little better—a great bump of a bloody wound had formed upon the side of her head, where she'd hit the wall in an earlier skirmish. And upon her arms were burns of various degrees—some mere skin-wounds, and others an angry red in colour. She felt as weary as she looked—and she was both physically, and mentally strained. It would not be long before her legs gave way.
Saul's eyes were narrowed—with one hand, he twirled his blade in restless movement about his palm. And with the other, he held his staff firm; rigid.
Cordelia knew that look. It was one that decorated the druid's face when he was deep in thought—or wrought with concern. She pursed her lips together, then leaned into his ear. "What is it?" She hissed.
Saul shook his head slightly, then pulled her to the corner of the corridor—a mere stone's throw from the heavy wooden door. "Beyond that door lies something—someone. Be careful when you enter. It is likely that there will be a fight awaiting us." He muttered quietly; and his voice was grim. "How many phials have you left?"
"Two crimson, and one blue." Cordelia bit her lip—and she could see a hint of anxiousness cross the druid's eyes. "And you?"
He took a deep breath. "Two. We should return to the Encampment."
Cordelia stiffened slightly. It had suddenly occurred to her that the day would not come to a pleasant end. She was silent for a moment—then, uncomfortably, "If you want to, we'd have to return to the Outer Cloister. Unless you've a blue-ribboned scroll?"
Saul lifted his eyebrows slightly—and it was with rather a pronounced scowl, that the sorceress had continued.
"I used my last one in the Forgotten Tower. When I was with Kashya." She muttered. "And I—well, I quite forgot to ask Akara to scribe new ones for me."
Saul blinked several times at her. He seemed rather at a loss for words, though he chose to say nothing. Finally, in a lower murmur, "—well. It seems we are in quite a bit of trouble, then." He rubbed gently at the nape of his neck. "But I suppose I share the blame. I quite forgot to replenish my supply of scrolls, as well."
Cordelia crossed her arms, exhaling heavily. Truth be told, she rather appreciated the druid's humility—not many were willing to partake an equal share of blame. Besides, she had told him that she would take care of homebound scrolls. She bit down gently upon her lower lip. "I'll be fine. And I say we storm this last chamber—then return to the encampment for the night. I should think that it is near twilight."
Saul quirked a tiny smile—and he looked just a touch amused. "I agree. But come, now. Do you have enough strength in you for whatever lies in wait for us beyond that door?"
"We'll have to find strength, won't we?" Cordelia said, stiffly. She was exhausted—yet she was mad to finish the battle of the day. The longing to collapse—to simply fall into the sweet grass, and to sleep the night away tugged at her limbs. But she had not forgotten her true mission—nor would she allow herself such luxury in the face of evil. She scowled once more. "Come on."
But Saul was watching her once more—and his dark eyes studied her expression with slight uncertainty. Finally, he spoke; and his voice was low. And to her surprise, he did not refute her choice. "We must be careful."
Cordelia nodded once—and in her head echoed stretches of words—couples of couplets. It was vaguely familiar to her—yet when she tried, she found that she could not place it in her memory. She bit her lower lip.
To arms! To arms! O' warriors of light!
In ranks as one, thou shalt' brave the fight,
Thy spirits be strenghtened and thy hearts be braved;
And thus shalt thy road to glory be paved.
The loud, resounding crash of a collapsing door brought her back to her sordid reality—and shaking her head slightly, Cordelia scowled. The time had come to finish the battles of the day; and poetry would not aid her in such times.
With a low grunt, she narrowed her eyes—then followed the druid into the enveloping cries of hell's minions.
The great roar of feral rage had pierced the chambers long before the giant had burst into sight. He stood at a height of at least seven feet, towering over the druid and his companion. His skin was dry and flaky—and was a faint shade of blue; somehow, it gave him the appearance of one who'd drowned. He wore several layers of furs—the ivory skins of the arctic fox upon his shoulders, and a deep-grey, wolfskin pelt about his torso. In his muscular hands he held a great maul—and upon it were etched several verses in what looked to be ancient Kai'duvah.
Through steel, my enemies despair,
And shadows envelope the fair;
O'er heaven, the darkness shall reign,
And mercy, my kind shall not feign.
Saul winced slightly—then jumped aside to avoid the first blow of hard metal. Behind him, Cordelia was hard at work—and she flung ball after ball of crimson flames towards the many corrupted rogues about the room. Her aim was true; and many fell with explosive roars and echoing cries.
They were in a smithy—easily recognisable, for a great fire had been built within a circular arrangement of bricks; and this stood to a corner of the room, illuminating shadowed crooks and offering cheerful warmth. Like many of the other chambers, this one held traces of human inhabitance from ages past—torn curtains hung limp from blocked window-sills. Demons rather disliked sunlight.
Saul released a low grunt, then jumped hastily aside. The Keeper of the smithy had sensed weakness—for, gnashing his teeth, he'd brought his great maul into the air; and half a second later, had swung it towards the druid with the ease of one lifting a flower. And he'd barely found the time to regain his footing before another crash echoed through the air; the Keeper had struck again.
"Augh!" The druid swore under his breath; and, dodging once more, narrowly avoided the crushing blow of the giant's great maul. He grunted, then got to his feet. Somehow, he rather doubted that he could evade the blows forever.
It was time to strike back.
Saul counted to three under his breath; and with every count, he ducked—for the Keeper was not undaunted. The great maul came towards his head with a metallic whiz—he jumped out of the way, gritting his teeth as he drew his blade from its sheath. And then, as the maul came towards him once more, he straightened, lifting both blade and staff. And with a great roar, the air between the druid and the Keeper burst into flames—and the latter fell back, his furious cries resounding within the grey stone walls.
For several short seconds of silence, Saul thought he could see the still form of the Keeper upon the ground—motionless; perhaps dead. Yet, half a moment later, with a low, dangerous grunt, the giant had gotten to his feet. He snarled—then smashed the metal head of his maul into row of barrels. Saul flinched as bits of splintered wood flew from corner to corner. He could hear Cordelia's soft gasp of surprise—and could only hope that she was spared the pain of injury.
Saul narrowed his eyes, then ducked low to avoid yet another blow—for, with rather a feral growl, the Keeper had struck; and the maul missed the druid's head by a mere breadth's worth of hair.
The druid cursed heavily under his breath; he'd lost his balance. Yet, in a single, silent second, as he lay on his chest, he'd readied his blade; then, with absolutely no warning lunged forward to plunge his blade into the depths of the Keeper's giant thigh.
He'd expected a cry of pain; a shout of anger, or at the very least, acknowledgement of the assault on the Keeper's behalf. Yet, it did not seem as if the giant had noticed the blade within his thigh.
Saul found himself silent with shock—and for several long moments, he gazed towards the Keeper, eyes widened in slight disbelief.
Was his skin really that thick?
Saul had barely had the time to further contemplate the though when the Keeper reached towards him. Saul inhaled sharply, then jumped to his feet—but to no avail. The giant had grabbed a fistful of cloak—and in a single second, had thrown him unceremoniously against the wall.
The hard brick of the wall came upon his back with a sickening crunch. Saul bit down upon his lower lip, muffling the scream within his throat—and his eyes began to water as his vision blurred. Something was broken. He crumbled onto the ground, and found his left arm dangling lifelessly from his shoulder. The thought made him dizzy.
It was then that a single, piercing shriek filled the air—Cordelia had seen his fall. He grunted heavily, then gritted his teeth. She needed him.
Cursing himself, Saul got to his feet, swallowing hard. He tasted blood.
The Keeper screamed his anger—then swung the accursed maul once more. And Saul caught but several seconds' worth of breath; and saw the look of fear within Cordelia's eyes—before all the wind was knocked from him. Every inch of his abdomen ached; and the druid could feel his heart pulsating against the side of his neck. Every breath that expanded his ribcage sent shivers up and down the length of his spine; and he could count at least two bones that felt as if they were misplaced within his body.
Yet he was given no time to recover; for with an almost amused chuckle—one of hell's own, his opponent lifted him into the air before him. And that grey-blue nose was but inches from his own face—one he knew to be wearied, and covered with dirt, grime and blood. The stench of rotting flesh hit the insides of his nose, causing the bile to rise within his throat. Every nerve within his stomach told him to gag.
And yet, amazingly, Saul caught a hold of the wave of nausea within him; caught it and tamed it. He narrowed his eyes—then, summoning all the strength within his broken body, lifted his staff and brought it whipping through the air towards the Keeper's head.
The giant caught the staff—and easily, with a toothless smirk, threw it into a corner of the smithy.
Saul swallowed once more. Somehow, it came to him, at that precise point, that he was in a lot of trouble. Such a thought had never occurred to him before.
The Keeper released a low, rather nasal laugh—and in his crimson eyes flashed a cruel sense of happiness. Sheer, robust happiness at the mere thought of one's death. Saul found himself flinching away; how would he find the strength to look such evil in the eye?
Yet, he did not quite like the idea of him dying in such a manner.
No, he would die like a man—upright, and facing his opponent; eye to eye and face to face.
Even as the Keeper lifted that maul, and placed it beside his head, Saul narrowed his eyes—and with all the courage he could muster turned his face to stare the giant in the eye. And even as a slight streak of apprehension crossed the giant's eyes, Saul kicked out with his right leg—and hit precisely the spot he wished to hit.
The Keeper released his hold of the druid's clothes, crying out in pain and rage. Once more, Saul found himself upon the ground—yet thankfully, naught else seemed injured in the tumble. He grit his teeth, then dragged himself to his feet. His staff and blade were both out of reach—he would have to think fast.
Claws.
Even as the Keeper came charging towards him, Saul swallowed; his heart was pounding, pounding, and it was with rather a grave amount of trepidation that he'd lifted his good hand to summon all the spirits within him.
Half a second later, the Keeper had collided with him—and the mere force of the greater mass was enough to send him crashing onto the ground. Yet his hand was held upright—but it was no longer a hand. In its stead was a great, grey, wolf-like paw—and its claws were poised, ready to strike. And even as the Keeper raised his maul to strike the last of strikes, Saul clenched that paw; took aim, and lunged forward.
And just like that, the Keeper—the Smith was dead. Saul thought he could see traces of relief flooding the blue-grey face; and half a second later, water—crystalline water began to stream from every orifice of the fallen corpse.
Perhaps he had drowned as a man.
Saul took several short breaths—his vision was beginning to blur once more. He thought he could see the faint outline of Cordelia's limp form upon the ground; surrounded by heaps and piles of broken, bloody corpses. Then, he shifted his gaze slightly, and his eyes found the sparking embers of the forge. It was empty.
He could not quite understand why; but a quick wave of disappointment had begun to overcome him. Had he been expecting to find something within the monastery barracks?
Saul found he no longer remembered.
And then the world went black.
Author's Note: Three cheers for Saul! You people seem to love Cordy so much. Its not that I mind, I love her. But I also love Saul at the same time! We shouldn't neglect our Saul. He's lovable too. :p
Anyhow! I'd like to state for a fact that I think this is possibly one of my better fighting scenes. I tried a new way of writing—I actually went and outlined every single move of the battle before actually writing it. I find that it's somewhat clearer and more.. detailed, in a way?
Gore is dedicated to Ophelion, who's so very kindly reviewed me so many times, here and on DeviantArt. Check out my account if you want. (My nickname there is 'Persephine', for those of you who want to know!) I've got some pictures of Saul and Cordy up there, along with a character that has not made herself shown yet. Also, I've got a picture of Oread there, for those of you who read Ophelion's 'Bowslingers'.
I'd like to thank Luna, for the very nice, very kind review that she's left me. And also, I'd like to thank WingF for the favourite!
Thanks again, you guys. And please try to review? Pretty please with sugar on top?
This is Emmy, signing out for now! Ciao!