A Gryloas short story: Evil Unto Evil

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Right, a sudden whim just took me and I cooked this up in a very short time. I don't think it's very well done, but I'm just going to post it here anyway.

Note: It has almost nothing at all to do with my usual cast of characters and has an utterly new protagonist.

So, tell me what you think.

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Evil unto evil
Mercy, long past
So empowered
I execute this sentence thus
- Prayer of Saint Kallas

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The walls of the room were cracked and filthy. Cobwebs infested the ceiling corners. Rats squeaked and scurried in the patches of shadow cast by the weak sunlight streaming in between the boards covering the only window. Motes of dust floated lazily through the air. The bed was lice-ridden and stank of the room’s former tenant. A heavy crossbow with a repeating mechanism lay across its length, along with a case of steel-tipped quarrels. More than seven daggers were stacked beside the crossbow, sharpened to insane, shrieking keenness. A spiked mace was propped against the bed-stand.

He had not slept in days, looking tirelessly between the boards of the window at the manor house in the distance. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression almost desperate. Soon, it would be the time to move. Soon, it would be the time to strike. He suppressed an eager chuckle and wrung his wrists from the sheer anticipation. Yes. Soon.

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Haethon Malkeste, lord and governor of Beacus, a city in northern Gryloas reclined on his chair, sipping his wine from a crystal glass. Before him, the various nobles of his domain twirled about on ballroom floor in dance while a quartet of musicians strove to entertain them. Haethon sighed and emptied his glass before holding it out so that his steward could take it.

“ More wine, milord?” The faithful servant enquired. Haethon shook his head dismissively.

“ No thanks, Felgorth. I have had enough to drink this night.” He replied, rubbing his wrinkled temples. He was not a young man anymore, having said farewell to his fortieth year a long time ago. Once, he rode beside the King in the Succession Wars. Now, he could hardly hold a lance level. His gaze fell upon a dancing young noble who had the same strong, sturdy frame he possessed in his youth. The young man’s face was alight with pleasure at the activity, since he was the reason the dance had been held in the first place. Jaeklas, young master of Beacus, had returned from his weeklong incarceration in the holding cells of the Royal Courts of Law in triumph.

“ The courts have cleared him, milord.” Felgorth said, understanding his master’s worry.

“ Yes, they have.” Haethon covered his face with one gnarled, massive hand. That hand snapped down abruptly and swept across to dash the bottle of wine off its perch on a nearby stand into a thousand glittering shards upon the floor. “ But he is not innocent!”

The sound of breaking glass combined with those last few words which Haethon had roared, stunned the dancers and musicians into silence. The lord rose abruptly from his seat, sneering at the looks of disbelief directed at him. Spinning on his heel, Haethon stalked off to his personal chambers.

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The straps of a steel-capped boots were secured. Spiked gauntlets went over rough, callused hands. Daggers were rammed into sheaths. A mace was clipped to a belt. A leather cuirass dyed ebon was fastened over a heavily muscled torso. Cases of steel-tipped quarrels were slung in a bandolier across the cuirass. He snatched up his repeating crossbow.

The moon broke through the clouds momentarily, sending a beam of cold, blue light between the window boards. It illuminated a face. A face with its teeth bared in a leer of delight.

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“ Whatever is the matter, dear father?” Jaeklas asked, speaking to the lord of Beacus’s back. “ Why the sudden flare of temper? You should really come out and speak to your people instead of brooding in your room like this.”

“ What were you thinking then?” Haethon responded with a question of his own. He looked down at his own hands, knowing that his son, who took after him so much in likeness, had similar appendages. “ Please, tell me. I am unable to comprehend just how it is possible.”

“ What are you talking about?” The young master of Beacus frowned in puzzlement. He spread his hands and chuckled lightly. “ Your mind is overburdened by too many inconsequential things, father. Come with me. We shall have a drink or two with Lord Millon and his friends. That should serve to ease your nerves.”

“ When you had your hands around that girl’s neck…her cries could be heard throughout the whole manor!” Haethon said, his voice trembling with fear. “ Why did you not stop then? Her screams went on for hours! And her body…!”

The lord bent over and threw up on his bedroom floor as he recalled the revulsion that had overcome him when he saw the remains of his son’s victim. He was a veteran of many campaigns and had fought in a dozen battles. He was no stranger to bloodshed and carnage upon the battlefield but one look at the mutilated carcass the servants removed from Jaeklas’s chambers had seared an image into his mind that had haunted his dreams ever since.

“ Why…? What made it possible for you to torment her for so long?” Haethon clawed at his face, sheer horror clawing at the edges of his sanity at the fact that he had sired the monster that now stood behind him. “ She shrieked and sobbed and begged and cried…I…I heard it all…Why? Why did you not stop when you could?”

“ Ah…” Jaeklas’s features hardened into a sneer of contempt. “ You are missing the point entirely, father. Why did you not come to stop me, instead of huddling in your room like you are doing now? Why did none of the servants storm my chambers, though they knew full well what I was doing to that whore inside? Why, father? Why did you spend almost a quarter of the family fortune to buy off the judge?”

“ Why…?” Haethon broke off into sobs. It was the tormented weeping of a disheartened old man whose world had fallen apart before his eyes. “ I was…afraid. I was…”

“ You were weak!” Jaeklas laughed. “ Rather than confront evil, you chose to hide from it! The same can be said of every man and woman in this household! Rather than see evil punished, you chose to yearn for the sheer futility of its repentance! Ah, how I adore this existence, filled with weaklings such as you, father! You are all sheep waiting to be dragged off and slaughtered, doing little more than bleat in protest when one of your number is taken away to feed the appetites of someone like me!”

The lord of Beacus had no further reply. Kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, he covered his face with his hands and wept loudly. A grin of triumph came over Jaeklas’s features as he left to rejoin the carousing and to raise a glass to toast the beauty of evil.

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He walked openly down the street, heading towards the main gates of the manor house. The moonlight glinted off the spikes adorning his armor. His face was wreathed in shadow, featureless save for his teeth, bared in a leer. The guards at the gate noticed his approach and did not take too long to see that he had a crossbow held in one hand.

“ Halt! Entrance to the lord’s dance is by invitation only!” One of them, clueless beyond all measure cried out in challenge. The other one took a single look at the crossbow held in the stranger’s hand and dropped his pike before running off into the night.

A quarrel shrieked through the night and smacked into the gatepost. The guard who challenged him turned speechless as his bladder emptied itself. His pike fell from nerveless hands and he ran off, whimpering in fear.

The stranger walked up to the gates and pushed them open.

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His name was Ekardios. He knew little else about himself beyond that. Two years ago, he woke and rose from a bed, his mind a blank slate and his body bearing terrible scars that spoke of wounds that would have claimed the lives of most men. The ghostly visage of a man in gray robes, his face hidden within the shadows of his cowl had appeared before him. That phantasm named itself Saint Kallas and put a holy book into his hands before telling him to go forth and act upon its teachings.

He was to tear the black hearts from the chests of fiends everywhere, be they mortal or otherwise. He was to cleanse their foulness in the raging flames of retribution regardless of the cost. There was no degree of severity in his eyes. If an individual had been deemed worthy of his attention, it did not matter how twisted that individual’s deeds had been or what merits he previously had.

“ Saint Kallas, I do thy bidding this night.” He held a clenched fist to his chest as he looked up into the sky and prayed. “ Give me strength, that I may see thy will done!”

He was to bring evil unto evil.

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“ And so she…” Jaeklas bit off his speech at the agonized scream in the courtyard outside. He heard the captain of his household guards sound the call-to-arms. Worried mutters arose from the ranks of the amassed nobles as fighting men poured from their billets and dashed towards the courtyard.

“ I say! Whatever is going on, milord Jaeklas?” A perfumed fop questioned his host. The young master of Beacus did not deign to reply. His eyes gleamed in delight as he stared at the direction of the courtyard as if in delighted anticipation.

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“ Halt! Halt, I say!” The guard captain leveled his sword menacingly at Ekardios. Two of his men lay at his feet. One unconscious and the other cradling a broken arm and sobbing from the pain.

“ You can not stop me.” Ekardios replied, undeterred in the least. “ No one can stand before the will of Saint Kallas!”

“ Saint…Saint Kallas?” The captain exchanged astonished looks with a few of his men. Ekardios had not been idle during the two years since he had been charged with his holy quest. He had carved a path of carnage over much of Gryloas in the name of Saint Kallas. There was so much evil to be found everywhere, and even more to punish. Saint Kallas’s teachings have been demonstrated in the piles of corpses and burnt buildings he had left behind and spread by word of mouth throughout much of the western kingdom. The world knew that Saint Kallas struck only against those who had committed the most heinous of atrocities and young master’s Jaeklas’s deed had become common knowledge to the general populace of Beacus.

“ So…you have come for the young master, then?” The captain asked tentatively. Ekardios’s only response was a toothy grin. The guardsmen shuffled on their feat uneasily. According to the songs sung by bards about Saint Kallas, entire guilds of assassins, thieves, and battalions of mercenary-turned-brigands have been annihilated by the single follower of the mysterious deity.

Ekardios began advancing again and this time, the guardsmen parted ranks so that he would not be hindered. The doors to the ballroom swung open to reveal Jaeklas within, surrounded by his own posse of armed men. The young noble sneered at the frightened faces of his father’s guardsmen. The upper crust of Beacus’s society had retreated to the upper floors, where they now looked down upon the coming confrontation between their host and the mysterious intruder.

“ Yes, it is him, no doubt.” A slender man clad in a gray doublet and matching hose said. “ I can never forget that thrice-damned symbol of Saint Kallas etched upon the chest of his armor!”

“ Vindrax the blade-master.” Ekardios said in recognition. “ I was worried that we would never meet again!”

“ You will die this time, you madman! You slaughtered my entire family a year ago!” Vindrax snarled, drawing his rapier. “ I shall torture you to a slow, agonizing death over the course of a few months!”

“ Your family died because they got in my way. They would still be alive if you had not tried to escape.” Ekardios replied. “ Your ten-year-old son held onto my leg long enough for you to leap onto your horse and get beyond the range of my bow.”

The follower of Saint Kallas drew a dagger from his belt. It was crusted with dried blood. “ He did not suffer much, if you have to know. I refrained from cleaning this blade in anticipation for our reunion, Vindrax.”

“ You monster!” Vindrax roared and began to advance but Jaeklas held him back. There was a speculative look on the young lord’s face.

“ So you are the famed acolyte of Saint Kallas, a scourge of evil and a destroyer of wrongdoers. I had thought you to be some self-righteous vigilante set on doing good through his actions but obviously, I am wrong. Tell me then, why are you so set on your current course? Why do you kill evil men?” He asked.

“ There are two answers to that question. Firstly, it is Saint Kallas’s decree that I wreak evil unto evil.” Ekardios explained patiently, eyeing the horde of armed men before him with no fear. He grinned again. “ Secondly, it is because I hate them.”

Jaeklas threw his head back and laughed in appreciation. There was genuine delight in his eyes. “ I see. We are indeed kindred spirits. It is a pity that you have to die tonight.”

He turned around and walked over to where his father had sat, pouring himself a glass of wine. Vindrax growled at the thugs the young lord had put him in command of. “ Kill him!”

The thugs surged forward in a cursing, snarling, and spitting mob, brandishing their weapons in readiness to cut down the upstart intruder that dared to threaten their employer. The repeating crossbow snapped up in Ekardios’s hand and its mechanism whirred and twanged repeatedly.

A quarrel took a fat, bald killer in the eye with enough force to burst through his skull and embed itself in the throat of the man behind him. Another pair of thugs had their lungs perforated. One man collapsed, shrieking and clutching at his groin. Yet another had his skull nailed to a pillar. Two more fell, scrabbling at their wounds in vain. Vindrax dragged a screaming underling in front of him before leaping away. A quarrel punched into unfortunate minion’s throat. The crossbow clicked emptily.

Ekardios set his bow down calmly and unclipped his mace from his belt. He raised it above his head and brought it down on the first man to reach him, a pimply, uncertain youth with an inexperienced grip on his sword. The mace crashed through the poorly forged blade and scattered the contents of the youth’s skull. He leaned back to avoid the sweep of another thug’s sword before extricating his mace and hammering it into his assailant’s ribs. As the second swordsman keeled over, Ekardios kicked him in the throat, crushing his windpipe and sending him into a gasping and wheezing frenzy for the last few moments of his life.

The next attacker was a large warrior, clad in a steel breastplate and wielding a notched axe. He swept his axe across in a bid to spill Ekardios’s viscera. The follower of Saint Kallas stepped forward and seized the axe by its haft before it could bite into his flesh. His counterstroke with his spiked mace tore the warrior’s head from his shoulders and sent it flying into a comrade’s face with a sickening crack. The gory phenomenon caused the thugs to pause in their charge. Ekardios took advantage of the reprieve to snap off the empty casing for his crossbow and replace it with a fresh one, winding the crank of its mechanism so that clicked properly back into place.

“ Kill him! Vindrax shrieked at the thugs. “ Kill him before he reloads, you fools!”

It was too late. Ekardios leveled his crossbow again and felled another nine men where they stood. He began to reload his bow once more. Lord Jaeklas’s hired killers have swiftly lost their stomach for any further conflict. One by one, they turned to flee, ignoring Vindrax’s exhortations and threats. Ekardios shot another nine of them in the back, leaving only one or two of Jaeklas’s hirelings alive.

“ Do not worry. I have memorized their faces.” Ekardios told Vindrax, in an almost conversational tone. “ I shall hunt them down and murder them after this.”

The blade-master was stricken with fear. His limbs trembled as he beheld the follower of Saint Kallas reloading his dreadful weapon once again. The snap of the bow’s mechanism that indicated its readiness galvanized him into action. He lunged at Ekardios with his rapier. Saint Kallas’s acolyte sidestepped the lunge and drew the dagger stained with the blood of the blade-master’s son. He held it up before him.

“ See this? This is what happens when you run! Do not try to escape this time, Vindrax. I promise you that innocents will die if you do!” Ekardios told him. Vindrax cried out in horror and grief as he struck again and again at the acolyte. Ekardios drew another dagger and parried the blade-master’s thrusts, picking them off with his dual blades. Sweat beaded down Vindrax’s face. He had graduated from the war-academy as a blade-master, marking him as one of the finest swordsmen in Gryloas, though he knew in his heart how hollow a title that was when faced with the incarnation of death itself in Ekardios. He had been part of a slaving syndicate a year ago until the acolyte of Saint Kallas had appeared and slew every man and woman who had a hand in its operation. He had fled, and found sanctuary in the patronage of Lord Jaeklas. This sanctuary had proven false. His patron’s very deeds have brought about this reunion with his old nemesis.

“ Damn you! Damn you!” Vindrax cursed Ekardios. “ You cut my wife’s throat before me! You strangled my father to death! You threw my infant daughter against a wall! Damn you, monster! Die!”

“ I stabbed your son through the chest.” Ekardios held up the bloodstained dagger again, his manic grin never fading despite the exertion of his numerous parries. Vindrax screamed in renewed fury and intensified his assault to no avail. The acolyte let the blade-master play his momentum out before launching his counterattack. Cuts, swipes, and thrusts faster than the eye can see left Vindrax reeling off balance. A gash appeared on his fine clothes. His cheek was sliced open. Eventually, Vindrax’s rapier went clattering across the room, a dagger embedded in his right wrist.

Ekardios still held the dagger that ended the life of the blade-master’s son in his hand. He looked down upon Vindrax’s horror-filled visage for a moment before ramming that blade into his chest. The blade-master fell on his back and wheezed a few times before expiring.

“ Bravo. Bravo.” Jaeklas applauded Ekardios as the acolyte retrieved his crossbow. Ekardios aimed the crossbow at the noble. Jaeklas’s smiled in delight. “ Yes! Do it! It will be a pleasure to die at the hands of a greater monster than I!”

A steel-tipped quarrel cut across the air, to slice through the armored torso of Lord Haethon who had come to the defense of his son in full battle-gear and burst out through the other side to embed itself in Jaeklas’s gut, its course diverted. A cavalry broadsword clattered to the floor as father and son fell. Jaeklas was still very much alive and he cried out in dismay at the sight of his father dying before him. Pink blood foamed in bubbles from Haethon’s mouth. The steward, seeing his lord’s predicament, drew his sword and charged at Ekardios shrieking the family’s battlecry. The acolyte ended his life with a quarrel to the skull.

Ekardios walked over to Jaeklas, who was cradling his father’s head despite his own agony. He looked up at the acolyte of Saint Kallas with tears in his eyes.

“ Why? Why?” He asked.

“ To abide evil is to be guilty of it. He was next.” Ekardios leveled his crossbow at Jaeklas’s skull.

He pulled the trigger once and walked away. No one dared to hinder his departure.

 

Very well written, so far I have enjoyed all the your writings that I have read. I really do enjoy reading about the darker sides of things, and you seem to be the resident master of evil.

I don't know how much potential there is for development of the plot/characters, but it makes a great short story.

 

hehe, this is interesting... a Lawful Evil (as i see it) guy, killing other evil folks.

Nicely done

 

Good! Good!

Evil! Evil!

Didn't expect Jaeklas to be such a pansy though.
Like the story anyhow.

 

Here's another story, folks.

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Evil Unto Evil
Darkness, unto worse
Hell’s afire
I cleanse this world thus

- Prayer of St. Kallas, Verse 2.

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“ Thank you, sir…” The old woman bowed as best as her stiff back allowed but her benefactor clasped her by the forearms and shook his head, indicating that there was no need for the gesture of respect. There were tears in her eyes as she looked over her shoulder at the bag of gold on the only table in her hovel and her grandson dozing off on his cot. They would eat well for the next few weeks. Little Tom would be able to continue attending the public school.

“ You’ve been helping the families on this street for years, sir and we don’t even know your name.” She continued. “ Please, let me make you a warm meal at least.”

He shook his head again before trudging off, dragging his cart laden with money, provisions, and medicine behind him. There were still many families to visit and he had to give a lesson at the public school in the late afternoon later.

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The tattered gray robe draped over his armor whipped wildly in the wind as he made his way across the snow-covered landscape. His features were hidden by the robe’s cowl, as were his numerous weapons and the manic leer on his face.

He was here to execute the will of Saint Kallas.

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Evening fell and the man once known as Muendal sat down on the only stool in his hut, his entire body aching with fatigue. By his efforts and expense, the village would live through the winter until the next planting season came. The year’s harvest had been disastrous due to both a shortage of labor and poor farming conditions. It had not been any better for the last six years and the peasants would have perished a long time ago if Muendal had not helped them.

Each year, he would travel to the city and withdraw a substantial amount of gold from his personal fortune held in the Royal bank. A significant amount of that money would be spent on provisions and other various amenities, which would be distributed to those who needed it most. He divided the remainder of his gold evenly amongst the families. When the planting season came, he added the strength of his arms and back to the communal efforts of the peasants, asking for nothing in return. His gestures were not met with ingratitude. Smiles and cheerful greetings were directed at him everywhere he went and the village’s children took great delight in trailing behind him, chattering and laughing.

Yet, he knew no peace. His nights were spent in hours of sleepless contemplation. Dozing off from sheer exhaustion meant a glimpse of the nightmares that plagued him incessantly. He looked down at his hands. They were rough and callused after many years of life as a farmer. Once, they held pincers and tongs heated a glowing red from burning coals. With them, he had extracted countless confessions from enemies of the Church. He had torn the eyes and lips from men, women, and children in the name of his god. Their screams resounding in his ears, he had peeled strips of flesh from them. He had shattered the skulls of infants before their wailing mothers. Their suffering in this world was immaterial in view of the heavenly paradise that would await them in the afterlife. If their souls had to be cleansed by the mutilation of their flesh, so be it. He would do his god’s will and steer such wayward souls kicking and screaming back onto the path of salvation, whether they wanted it or not. As Inquisitor Muendal, he had lost count of the number of people he had brought to a slow, torturous death for his Church and god.

A decade ago, a band of Church Knights captured a band of heretics who worshipped the Moon Goddess. Their High Priestess was a woman in her early thirties, having only succeeded her predecessor recently. Inquisitor Muendal received them with open arms in his bloody chamber of purification. Half of the heretics renounced their goddess the moment they beheld the racks filled with instruments of pain. Muendal smiled and blessed them, saying that they were well on the way to redemption. After that, he had them flayed alive and their screaming carcasses hung on meat hooks for many hours until they passed from life. The rest of the heretics were not so eager to convert after witnessing the plight of their former comrades. At this, the Inquisitor sighed in genuine remorse.

“ Your friends are now basking in the glory of our Lord.” He tried to reason with them. “ Why do you insist on spurning His love for you? Come, renounce your evil beliefs and return to the fold of righteousness.”

“ You say that your deity loves us but I see little evidence of that fact.” The High Priestess replied. “ The teachings of your Church preach incessantly on hellfire, retribution, and the destruction of your enemies. That is no doctrine of love and you are no priest. You are a butcher and a nemesis of freedom and reason.”

“ How much would a heretic like yourself know about His holy teachings?” Muendal wondered.

“ I was once a sister in a convent.” She told him. “ It took the better part of my life but I eventually learned the vileness of your tyrannical god and turned my back on it. I found the Moon Goddess then, and she spoke to me of kindness, benevolence, and most of all, tolerance, something your god is sorely lacking in!”

“ He is your God, too.” There was a look of true sadness and pity on the Inquisitor’s face. “ Evil can never be tolerated, madam. It can only be met with righteous wrath. If there is evil to be found in humanity, then it must be extracted with blades, spikes, and pincers if necessary.”

“ You were once blessed in His sight and lived by His grace. Yet, you still turned away from Him. Your sins are all the more serious for that fact.” Muendal bared his teeth in an involuntary leer of delight and held up a pronged instrument. “ I shall be pleased to cleanse your flesh of this vileness.”

The heretics renounced their faith rapidly enough and were sent shrieking into the embrace of the Lord but their High Priestess stubbornly refused to oblige. Muendal tortured her for months, as enchanted by her beauty as her will to cling to her faith. His obsession grew and she became all that he lived for. Her screams were as music to his ears. He knew untold delight at the sight of her blood flowing down her pale flesh. Still, she refused all of his demands to convert.

The months stretched into a year and Muendal continued to entertain his beloved High Priestess in his chamber of purification. He would service no others at this point, directing any newly arrived heretics to his fellow Inquisitors. He no longer broke her bones and cut her flesh to purify her. He did so because it brought him pleasure.

“ You do not seem to pray anymore.” She said through blood caked lips as the Inquisitor stretched her out on a rack. Muendal did not deign to answer her until he had had his way with a whip for an hour. After that, he fell to his knees beside her and clasped her broken and mutilated hand in his.

“ I love you, madam.” He sobbed. “ Convert, in the name of mercy, praise the Lord and I shall release you into his eternal glory. Please, do so and spare me this agony.”

“ Mercy?” She whispered. “ Two members of my circle were children. Did you show them mercy? Why should you have mercy when you have shown them none?”

Muendal got to his feet so that he could behold the object of his affections. A look of disbelief came over his face.

“ No!” He cried in denial. The High Priestess’s eyes were now closed as she passed into the realm of death. The Moon Goddess had reached out and delivered her most faithful follower from Muendal’s clutches despite all his skill at the inflicting of prolonged agony. In this conflict of divine interests, the heretic’s false deity had prevailed. What was Muendal then, deprived of both his faith and his beloved?

He left the Holy Citadel that very same day, arranging for all his monetary possessions to be transferred to a bank in a city held by the forces of the excommunicated King Blackmire the First. Years of wandering followed before he arrived in the village he now resided in. He did not know what he hoped to achieve by doing what he did now but he found that he greatly preferred the smell of freshly turned earth to that of spilt blood. The joyful chatter of the children that constantly badgered him throughout the day were more agreeable to his ears than even the most exquisite screams of his beloved. He held a hoe much better than he had ever held a pincer or a blade.

Still, there would be a reckoning. Now that his eyes were open, he knew that events transpiring on the earthly level were infinitely more important and prone to causality. Muendal doused his lantern.

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Graek reined in his warhorse as he beheld the village from his perch atop the cliff. He looked over his shoulder and growled at his second-in-command.

“ This is a miserable flea pit, you imbecile! We have little to gain by raiding it!”
“ One of them gents is rich, boss! I don’t know why he lives like a clodhopper but he hauls back a hefty amount of gold every year and distributes it among his neighbors!” The weasel-like bandit protested.

“ One of them charitable folk, eh?” Graek wheeled his mount around. He spat into the snow. “ All that gold will be better off in our hands, boys!”
His followers, a ragtag collection of bandits cheered and whooped at that proclamation. Their exhortations died down as their leader raised his hand for silence.

“ This village is uncomfortably close to the Blackguard patrol routes. We don’t want them coming after us, do we?” He asked. His men exchanged glances before shaking their heads. For all their eagerness to burn and pillage, none of them were willing to face a cadre of Blackguards in battle. Graek’s thick and battered lips split in a grin.

“ Then we must be swift! Strike hard and kill everyone in the village!” He cried. “ Make sure no one survives! Have your way with the women if you must but make sure that there is not a single living soul there by dawn tomorrow!”

The bandits raised their voices in cheers once again. Graek laughed and applied his spurs to his mount, leading his band of scum to what promised to be a hearty session of carnage. They found their way barred, however, by a single figure clad in a gray robe.

“ Who are you?” Graek demanded, drawing his cavalry saber. The stranger standing before them was huge in stature, more than eight feet tall. His broad shoulders and thick arms spoke of inhuman strength. He pulled back his cowl so that his features were illuminated in the moonlight.
Ekardios’s face was clean-shaven. He had a high forehead and a blunt nose. His lips were thin above his square jaw. A mop of disheveled black hair flew wildly in the wind. He clasped his hands before him as if in prayer.

“ The little fool’s praying!” His lieutenant jeered. Graek gestured for him to be silent so that he could catch the prayer’s words, a perplexed frown forming on his face as he did so. He had heard rumors and fireside tales of an individual he did not want to meet…

“ Evil unto evil…” The rest of the prayer was borne away by the shrieking wind but the bandit leader had heard enough. The moonlight glinting off the symbol etched on the stranger’s armor as he took off his robe confirmed his suspicions.

“ Kill him!” Graek shrieked, pointing his saber at Ekardios. “ Kill the bastard! Kill him!”

A trio of his followers howled in delight as they obliged, spurring their mounts into a gallop and snapping lances into position. Graek was not content, however. He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the bandits.

“ All of you! Charge!” He commanded. “ All of you, you maggoty whoresons! Go!”

His bloodthirsty band needed little prompting. As one, they brandished their weapons and thundered towards where Ekardios stood. In contrast, Graek turned his mount around and began galloping off in the opposite direction. He had no wish to confront the infamous acolyte of Saint Kallas.
A whistling sound filled the air, audible even over the thunder of steel-shod hooves. A bandit shrieked in agony as he was torn from his mount to slam into a comrade behind him, their bodies transfixed by a quarrel fired from the gigantic crossbow the stranger suddenly held in his hands. A man’s head came free from its shoulders with a shaft lodged deeply in his skull. Ekardios took aim calmly and depressed the trigger on his bow again and again, wreaking terrible carnage on the closely packed ranks of the charging bandits. The carcasses of men and horses fell over one another, halting the charge before it could even cover half the distance to where the acolyte stood. Finally, the only response to his pull on the trigger was an empty click. Ekardios set the bow down carefully and took out a pair of metal poles strapped to his back. Individually, they were about three feet in length. He snapped them together to form a heavy staff and depressed a switch on it. A blade sprang from one of its ends.

“ By the gods! He’s charging us!” A bandit shrieked in fear, the limbs of his mount entangled with numerous corpses littering the snow. He tried to bring his mace up in a parry but Ekardios’s bladed staff took off his weapon arm along with his head. The acolyte spun his dreadful weapon in his powerful hands before whipping it across to slice another man in half at the waist. He rammed its blunt end into a bandit’s throat. The blade came whistling up to cut apart a horse and its rider. They shrieked in agony as they died. It was difficult to tell which scream was the more bestial one. Another sidelong sweep sent an unlucky trio flying away in a tangle of torn flesh.

By now, the remainder of the bandits has rallied somewhat and they looked around in vain for their leader. Graek was nowhere to be found.

“ Fear not.” Ekardios told them. He was covered in the blood of both man and horse. He began advancing on the surviving bandits. “ No one escapes. You will be reunited with him soon enough.”

“ He’s only one man, you worms!” Graek’s lieutenant snarled at them. “ There are still more than thirty of us left! What can one man do against us?”

A dagger whistled through the air to punch into his throat. The bandit scrabbled uselessly at the hilt sticking out from his wound before collapsing from his mount. Ekardios continued his advance, a wry grin adorning his gore-stained face.

“ Yes. What can one man do?” He echoed the lieutenant’s words mockingly. “ Do not run away, children. There are still so many of you. Stay here and play with me. After all, what can one man do?”

An unreasoning fear came over the bandits. They shrieked and charged at the acolyte instead of turning to flee. Foaming at the mouth, it never occurred to them that Ekardios would be unable to pursue them on foot. The foremost of them swung his axe down at Ekardios. He sidestepped it and rammed his stiffened fingers into the bandit’s side, crushing his ribs and puncturing his lungs. Holding the impaled man above his head, he flung the writhing bandit into the next one in line. Having cleared some space for himself, Ekardios hefted his bladed staff again and grinned.

“ That’s the spirit, my brothers!” He cried, confronting a charging mass of hooves and lances. “ Let us play out our damnation to its greatest glories!”

**************************************************

The moment Muendal stepped out of his hut; he knew that something was amiss. The stench of spilt blood filled the chill morning air. He went back in again and took out a wrapped bundle from underneath his bed. It was a knight’s sword, bequeathed unto him as a ceremonial present by the Captain General of the Church Knights. He was not unfamiliar with its usage.

“ Sir!” A young man ran up to him, panting breathlessly. “ There’s…there…”

“ Calm down, child. Catch your breath.” Muendal said, helping him to where he could lean against the walls of his hut.

“ Sir! Something terrible and strange has occurred on the cliff overlooking the village!” The youth told him after he regained his composure somewhat. “ I was going for an early stroll when I saw corpses piled high in the snow. There was blood everywhere, sir!”

“ Go inform the village elder about this now!” Muendal unwrapped his sword and strapped its belt around his waist. The youth gaped at the sight of the magnificent weapon but Muendal gestured for him to make haste. “ Hurry, child! Do as you are told!”

The former-Inquisitor ran up the cliff, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His body had been honed after almost ten years of hard living but his anxiety came not from physical exertion. Something inexplicable tugged at his consciousness this day, troubling and unsettling him.

He crested the slope and gaped in awestruck horror at the scene of carnage before him. Men and horses lay dead everywhere, stabbed, cut, impaled, or perforated by strangely designed quarrels. Blood ran in crimson streams through the trampled snow. A quick look at the corpses identified them as the former mercenaries-turned-bandits so common in the aftermath of the Succession Wars. There was little doubt that this band of scum had originally planned to raid the village.

A sudden creaking sound had him spinning on his heel and drawing his sword. Ekardios stood there, winding the crank on his repeating crossbow until the mechanism snapped back into place. The acolyte was drenched from head to toe in blood, his own included. He limped and clutched his side as he approached Muendal.

“ Who are you?” The former-Inquisitor demanded. “ Did you kill all these men?”

“ My name is unimportant. All you need to know is that I follow the teachings of Saint Kallas, and that I have come for you this day.” Ekardios answered.

“ What?” Muendal was utterly mystified by the cryptic answer.

“ Inquisitor Muendal of the Celestial Church.” Ekardios identified him. “ You have tortured hundreds of souls to death in the name of your vile god and in the cause of righteousness. I am here to kill you.”

“ I see.” Muendal dropped his sword. His arms slumped to his sides. There was an expression of tired relief on his face. “ Do so, then.”

Ekardios smiled as he leveled his crossbow at Muendal’s head. “ Evil unto evil…”

“ Stop!” An elderly man’s voice filled the air. The acolyte frowned in curiosity and turned to regard the speaker. It was the village elder, accompanied by most of the villagers. “ Why do you seek this man’s life? Since he came among us years ago, he has brought nothing but charity and goodwill to our troubled village. He has saved our lives many times over in a world so harsh and cruel. If he has committed any sin at all in the past, he must have surely redeemed himself.”

Tears of gratitude rolled down Muendal’s cheeks. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. Ekardios lowered his bow.

“ There are some crimes for which no redemption is possible, old man.” He said. “ For such individuals, there is only retribution. The Inquisitor knows it in his heart, hence his inner torment.”

“ That is true.” Muendal wiped the tears from his face with the back of his sleeve. “ I shall not try to stop you from killing me. However, there are a few things I must put in order first, follower of Saint Kallas. Would you grant me an hour to set things right?”

Ekardios flipped a switch on his bow, releasing the mechanism’s tension and hooked it on his back. “ Yes.”

Muendal knelt and prostrated himself in gratitude but the acolyte simply looked up into the sky and marked the position of the sun.

“ Your hour begins now.”
**************************************************

“ Take this document to the bank, sir. You will gain access to whatever is left of my fortune.” Muendal pressed a sealed envelope into the village elder’s hands. The old man wept in gratitude.

“ Run for your life, young man.” He exhorted the former Inquisitor. “ We will try to hold him back while you flee.”

“ He will kill all of you if you do so.” Muendal informed the elder. “ He is a monster, not unlike the one I see whenever I have the chance to look at a mirror. No, none of you must intervene no matter what happens to me the moment I step out of this hut.”

Ekardios was waiting for him as he emerged from his hut. The acolyte was reading from a book bound in black leather. The same symbol etched on his chest had been stamped on the book’s cover. It was a holy tome of the faith of Saint Kallas. Ekardios’s lips were moving and it became evident that he was reciting a passage from the book.

“ Redemption is a lie. Virtue can never erase sin. Retribution is the only answer for those who have become worthy of Saint Kallas’s judgment.” The acolyte read. He snapped the book shut and looked up to regard the former Inquisitor.

“ Your hour is up.” He said. Muendal nodded. Ekardios reached out and grasped the sides of his head.

Sudden recognition filled the former Inquisitor’s eyes. “ You! You’re Brother Ekardios! Paladin of…”

A terrible crack of bone resounded through the air as the acolyte twisted Muendal’s head around on his shoulders. He let the convulsing body fall to the dirt and began walking away amidst the despairing wails and moans of the villagers.

“ Murderer!” An old woman shrieked at his back. “ If the young gentlemen has committed crimes in the name of his god, how much better are you by killing him in the name of yours?”

Ekardios looked over his shoulder and grinned toothily. “ I am worse.”

 

awww, man... you truly do have an E in your alignment

Perhaps you need to try and write something more light side of the force? more goody-six-shoes.
To cheer you up a bit

 

More vileness for reading!

**************************************************

Evil Unto Evil
Depravity, a plague
Compassion is for the weak
I shall triumph with Hate
- Prayer of St. Kallas, 3rd verse

**************************************************

For the first time in years, he dreamt. She sat across the table, smiling at him. He did not know her name but it mattered little. The fires of Saint Kallas that sustained him were absent and without them, he felt weak, faint, and withdrawn. He found his vision fading, and his head drawing closer to the tabletop. Despite this, he tried to fix his gaze on her. Her smile had become sad now as she reached out and stroked his head once.

He tried to speak, though he did not know what to say but he found that his mouth would form no words. She turned and began walking away into the darkness.

**************************************************

He woke from his slumber, feeling the familiar surge of strength that flowed through his limbs and inflamed his mind with fury. Saint Kallas was with him, as always. He had spent the night propped against a tree by the roadside, fearless of brigands or highwaymen. The sun was rising over a distant horizon, stretching out its weak rays across the desolate landscape of the western kingdom. He scanned the area swiftly. There was evil everywhere, and fresh depravities being born every minute. It was a world of nightmares made flesh and terror incarnate. Tyrants embodied justice and murderers were heroes. Ekardios smiled brightly.

He loved it.

**************************************************

The gravestones came in sight. The wind lashed the yellowing weeds growing at their base against their worn surfaces. A slight figure knelt before them, her small hands clasped in prayer before her chest. She turned around as the gravel crunched under Ekardios’s boots and gasped in fear at the sight of the acolyte. He paid her little attention as he walked up to the gravestones to stare intently upon them for a few moments.

“ Evil is present here.” He muttered under his breath. The acolyte turned towards the west and made as if to head there but the girl called out to him in astonishment.

“ The monastery of the Silent Mind lies there, sir!” She cried out, fear tingeing her voice. “ It is dangerous to travel there!”

Ekardios looked over his shoulder at her and frowned contemplatively. “ Tell me of this monastery, girl.”

She hesitated before she stammered her reply. “ The Order of the Silent Mind resides within it and its Abbot rules my village in the absence of a noble governor. He is not receptive to strangers, sir.”

“I have never heard of this particular Order and I did not know this area was inhabited at all until you spoke of a village nearby.” The acolyte wondered aloud. The girl laughed softly at that statement.

“ I always knew my village was isolated but never to the extent that your words might suggest!” She chirped.

“ This is most strange…” Ekardios looked upwards at the gray, cloud-covered sky. “ Still, Saint Kallas has brought me here for a purpose and I shall fulfill it.”

“ Sir…?” This time, it was the girl’s turn to frown in puzzlement at the acolyte’s strange words.

“ You are extremely well-spoken for a village girl.” Ekardios observed. She laughed again, perceiving the enquiry as a compliment and executed a perfect curtsey.

“ Thank you for your kind words, sir.” She replied. “ My name is Meralli Cinkha, granddaughter of Abshelm Cinkha the poet. He has moved to this village in his old age.”

“ Abshelm Cinkha?” The acolyte frowned again, disbelief and recognition in his eyes. He shook his head slightly. “ This cannot be…”

“ You recognize my grandfather’s work!” Meralli declared. “ Then you must be a man of letters, sir!”

“ I can read and write. Little more.” Ekardios muttered absently, confusion racing through his thoughts.

“ I have introduced myself, sir, but you have not done the same.” Meralli pointed out, with a touch of mock indignation.

“ My name is Ekardios.” He turned towards the west again and folded his arms, deep in thought. With a final shrug, he adjusted his robes and began walking again.

“ You must not go to the monastery, mister Ekardios!” Meralli cried out. The acolyte ignored her pleas but another figure approaching on horseback halted him in his tracks.

The rider was a huge man clad in loose robes with long, flowing sleeves. He had a bundle slung over his shoulder. Ekardios glanced back and saw the terror that was evident on Meralli’s face as the rider approached the gravestones to loom over the girl.

He flung the bundle that he had been carrying unceremoniously upon the dirt before pulling on his reins and returning back where he had come from. Soon, he and his mount had disappeared into the mist that hung over the trail leading west.

His curiosity piqued, Ekardios walked over to the bundle as Meralli was peeling away the sackcloth around it. She gasped in fear and fell back as its contents were revealed. The acolyte’s features hardened.

A woman’s corpse lay within, drained of blood. Meralli buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. Ekardios reached down and pushed the corpse’s head to the side. There were twin puncture wounds on its neck.

“ Vampires?” He mused, looking back towards the trail to the west. “ But he walked in the sunlight!”

“ That was Sera, the baker’s daughter.” Meralli sniffed as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“ What is going on around here?” Ekardios demanded in consternation. “ What manner of beings make up the Order of the Silent Mind?”

“ If you would help me carry Sera back home, mister Ekardios, my grandfather will gladly explain everything.” She said.

“ Very well.” The acolyte replied, though his gaze was directed towards the west.

**************************************************

A crowd of curious folk had gathered outside the house of Abshelm Cinkha, bumping shoulders in order to get a good luck at the stranger that Meralli had brought back along with Sera’s corpse. Ekardios ignored them totally.

“ Please forgive them, mister Ekardios.” Meralli pleaded. “ We have not had a visitor since the Abbot forbade any of us to leave the village.”

“ I see. Therefore, his predations on your people have gone unreported to the King’s Blackguards.” The acolyte reasoned.

“ The King?” Meralli asked. “ Blackguards? Whatever are you talking about?”

“ Your village must have been isolated for many years indeed.” Ekardios said leaning his elbows on the table he was seated at. “ The Blackguards are the elite enforcer knights of King Arkados Blackmire the First. They patrol the country and seldom do they fail in enforcing the royal concept of Justice.”

“ We…we never knew.” The girl said quietly. An elderly man emerged from the depths of the house, balancing himself tremulously on his walking stick. Despite his advanced age, his eyes still shone with the evidence of a keen wit and profound wisdom.

“ The Succession Wars have ended?” He asked his voice filled with surprise.

“ It has, old man. After countless battlefields piled shoulder-high with corpses, it has ended.” Ekardios told him. He stood up to loom over the poet. “ But I am not here today to bring news of the outside world to you. Tell me of the Order of the Silent Mind.”

At this, Abshelm sighed and shook his head sadly. “ Aye, I shall gladly inform you of the terrible circumstances this village is caught in. Have a seat if you will, sir.”

“ My patience draws thin.” Ekardios replied. “ Make your explanation quick and to the point.”

“ The Abbot once used to be a warrior-ascetic who championed the cause of righteousness and the protection of the weak.” Abshelm began. “ He used to visit me for many discussions on the crafting of verse and of philosophical matters. He was a fine man, widely respected by his numerous disciples and the common folk under his protection. Then the day came when he took in a friend from his youth, a man named Nathen. A few days later, the monastery gates were barred from the inside and no one responded to our anxious enquiries.”

“ It sounds like a classic case of a vampire plague.” Ekardios muttered casually, his brow furrowed in thought. “ But…go on.”

“ It was nearly a month later when the gates reopened once more early in the morning. The Abbot, accompanied by a host of his disciples, visited our village. He declared that none of us were to leave the village under pain of death.” Abshelm continued, his face turning pale as he recalled that dreadful day. At the poet’s mention of morning, Ekardios frowned again but he remained silent so that the tale could proceed. “ He then demanded that a maiden from the village be sent to the monastery every three months in return for their continued protection of the area.”

“ And the whole lot of you complied willingly?” The acolyte asked with a sneer of disdain.

“ We were powerless to resist. A few of the young men railed in protest but the Abbot’s disciples tore them apart like rag dolls.” The poet reached out and clasped Meralli’s shoulder. “ My son and his wife were adventurers. When they heard of my plight, they entrusted young Meralli to my care before setting forth to confront the Abbot. Their severed heads were found on the village outskirts three days later.”

Tears sprang into Abshelm’s eyes but Ekardios was hardly generous in his sympathy. Instead, there was a familiar manic gleam in his eyes as he surveyed the poet and the villagers gathered outside the house. “ To abide evil is…evil. Every man and woman in this village is guilty.”

“ What…what are you trying to say, mister Ekardios?” Abshelm asked. The acolyte seized the old man by the collar and hoisted him into the air. With his other hand, he drew a dagger.

“ Evil unto evil…” He chanted, pulling back his hand in readiness to strike. Terrified cries arose amongst the villagers gathered outside the house. He felt a slight pressure on his weapon hand and looked out of the corner of his eye to see that Meralli had thrown herself around it in a vain attempt to stop him.

“ No! Don’t kill my grandfather!” She shrieked, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Despite her obvious terror, Ekardios could see a hint of steel-like resolve underneath her fair appearance.

“ No one can deny the will of Saint Kallas!” He flung the girl aside with a casual sweep of his arm. She crashed heavily into the wall with a pained cry. The acolyte returned his attention to the poet he held by the collar.

“ You’re insane!” Abshelm gasped. “ Why are you doing this?”

Ekardios gestured at the crowd of terrified villagers outside. “ You are about to be painfully murdered but all your neighbors can do is gape in astonishment and fear. This entire village has proven to be evil twice over by standing by impotently.”

“ What do you expect them to do about it?” Abshelm spat back into the acolyte’s face angrily. “ They are but ordinary folk, with children and families to consider. Each man and woman has but one life. Would you begrudge them if they choose not to throw it away in opposition of insane tyrants such as yourself?”

“ Excuses!” Ekardios laughed. “ The onlooker is as guilty as the perpetrator. Thus says Saint Kallas! His will be done!”

The acolyte frowned then, and looked down to see a kitchen knife embedded in his side with Meralli’s small hands wrapped about its hilt. He swept her aside contemptuously and plucked the knife from the wound. Though it bled copiously, it was not deep. He smiled grimly and let go of the poet’s collar. Abshelm fell unceremoniously onto his rump.

“ You are beneath my regard.” He sneered, reaching out to the side to retrieve his haversack and a long wooden case. Ekardios strode out of the door and down the village streets. The crowd parted before him, their eyes averted and their faces pale.

**************************************************

The sun began to set as he traveled west along the rocky landscape. Ekardios halted in his tracks.

“ What are you doing here?” He asked, without looking back. Meralli emerged sheepishly from behind a boulder.

“ I’m sorry I stabbed you, mister Ekardios.” She began. “ But it seemed as if you were really going to kill my grandfather then.”

“ I was.” The acolyte replied, his voice cold and flat. “ Along with every man and woman I deemed to be evil in the village.”

“ But you did not, unlike the disciples of the Silent Mind.” The girl walked up to stand beside him. The top of her head barely came up to his waist. “ All in all, I think you taught the villagers a valuable lesson indeed.”

“ Weaklings.” Ekardios muttered in disgust. He began walking again and Meralli had to scuttle to keep up with his long strides. After a few moments, he frowned at the girl. “ What are do you think you’re doing?”

“ Nothing in particular.” She quipped lightly. “ What do you think you’re doing by heading to the monastery?”

“ I am going to kill everyone inside and burn the building to the ground.” Ekardios said. “ I shall cleanse this evil from the world.”

“ You keep speaking of fighting evil, mister Ekardios, like a hero from the old tales.” Meralli commented, a curious look on her face.

“ I do not fight evil. That is a job for the ‘heroes’ you speak of.” A tinge of contempt was present in the acolyte’s voice. He resumed his journey. “ I kill people who harbor it in their hearts in the name of Saint Kallas.”

“ You’re a religious man, mister Ekardios?” She asked. “ A priest of this deity you call Saint Kallas?”

“ A religious man?” Ekardios considered the statement for a few moments before throwing back his head and roaring with uncharacteristic laughter that echoed off the landscape littered with boulders and crags. Meralli smiled uneasily at this outburst of emotion.

“ Yes. I am a priest of sorts.” He said, after he recovered his composure. “ I execute his will on this world, like any other priest of any other religion.”

“ Tell me of Saint Kallas.” Meralli requested. “ His teachings must be very different from those of the Celestial Church.”

“ Saint Kallas is a god of madness and murder. He tells me to kill evil people in his name and I do so. He has no mercy and no compassion. His judgment is absolute and supersedes all earthly authorities and morals.” Ekardios recited the words of the holy book he kept in his haversack mechanically.

“ How many people do you have in your church?” The girl asked as she skipped alongside the acolyte.

“ Aside from the old man who gave me my weapons and armor and who is now dead, I know of no other worshipper of Saint Kallas.” He replied.

“ I see. It must be a terrible life to lead.” She murmured softly.

“ I have known no other.” Ekardios paused to examine the gravel at his feet. A few minutes of contemplation went by before he shook his head in disgust. There was no way he could track anyone in such terrain.

“ Sera and I were the last two girls in the village three months ago.” Meralli said abruptly.

“ The last two maidens, you mean.” Ekardios responded without looking back at her. The girl blushed furiously.

“ We drew lots to determine the order we were taken to the monastery.” She went on. “ By sheer fortune or misfortune, I was to be the last to go.”

“ And now your time has come.” The acolyte stood up. “ Are you afraid?”

“ Of course I am. But with my departure, the monastery will have no reason to detain the villagers anymore. They will be free to leave and begin their lives anew.” The girl reasoned, her voice trembling but resolute. “ It is a small price to pay.”

“ You are misguided in your naivety.” Ekardios pointed out. “ The monastery will indeed have no reason to detain your people any longer, as you say. However, they cannot risk them reporting this to the authorities. A thousand Blackguards will storm this place within a month if the villagers are allowed to leave.”

“ You cannot mean…” Meralli gasped in horror.

“ They will kill every single one of the villagers.” The acolyte declared. At this, the girl buried her face in her hands and broke down in tears. Ekardios looked on dispassionately for a while before turning to the west once more. He took a single step before he stopped. He placed the wooden case he carried on the ground and flicked a catch on it. It creaked apart and he withdrew a gigantic crossbow from its depths along with a bandolier strapped with quarrel-filled cases. The bandolier went over his torso and a case was slapped into the crossbow’s mechanism. He began winding the crank.

“ What is it, mister Ekardios?” Meralli began but the acolyte gestured for her to be silent. A quartet of robed figures emerged from the mist, led by the gigantic rider that had deposited Sera’s corpse at the gravestones.

“ How astute of you, stranger.” The leader said. “ That is the Abbot’s intention indeed. We were going to collect the young lady and wipe out the village. It looks as if she has saved us half of the trouble.”

“ That will be difficult to do if you are dead.” The acolyte brought his bow up and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. A quarrel tore into a robed man’s skull while another two leapt aside frantically to avoid the screaming projectiles. The leader reached out with one hand and snatched the quarrel meant for his throat out of the air. He sneered, an expression that was mirrored on Ekardios’s face.

“ The warrior monks of the Silent Mind are not like the assorted miscreants you have been killing, follower of Saint Kallas.” He declared.

“ You know of Saint Kallas.” Ekardios said, his words as much of a statement as a question.

“ Of course we do.” The leader snapped the quarrel between his fingers and grinned. “ I am Janev, the monastery’s most senior disciple. I shall take great pleasure in ending your life.”

The two lesser monks dashed forwards at Janev’s gesture. Ekardios put a quarrel through one of them before the other reached him. The monk knocked aside his bow and slammed a fist into the acolyte’s ribs. Ekardios reached out and seized him by the scruff of his neck before hurling him aside. The monk turned in midair and landed on his feet, only to come face to face with Ekardios’s bow.

The acolyte felt a terrific impact as Janev’s flying kick knocked him off his feet. He lost his grasp on his bow as he went tumbling across the dirt.

“ Bring her back to the master.” He instructed his fellow disciple. The monk nodded and seized Meralli by the waist, ignoring her screams and flailing limbs. They disappeared into the mist.

Ekardios heaved himself to his feet, bright red blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His breaths were accompanied by shallow wheezes. Janev’s kick had shattered the ribs on his left side and the broken bones have punctured and collapsed a lung.

“ You are still alive?” The monastery’s senior disciple mused, walking over to the acolyte. “ Not many can survive a blow like that.”

“ Evil…” Ekardios chanted as he unhooked a rod from his belt. With a flick of his wrist, the collapsible rod lengthened to three feet. A switch on its handle caused spikes to protrude from its end. “ Unto evil…”

Janev struck him across the face with a heavy punch, staggering him. The monk’s following blow was directed at his broken ribs, causing a fresh gout of blood to spew from Ekardios’s ribs. He easily avoided the acolyte’s clumsy swing of his mace and punched him again in the face. Ekardios growled and lashed out once more, only to have the momentum of his blow halted by Janev seizing his forearm. An uppercut snapped his head back and a kick to chest sent Ekardios sprawling into the dirt.

“ Your spirit is commendable, follower of Saint Kallas, but the warriors of the Silent Mind are unequaled in battle.” Janev said as he walked over to where the acolyte lay on his back. “ We are perfect in our discipline of body and soul. No coarse brawler like you can compare to our mastery of combat.”

“ You spew a lot of trash from your mouth for someone belonging to the order with the term ‘silent’ in its name.” Ekardios grunted as he got up. “ Looks like the mouth tends to shoot itself off when the mind is silent and empty.”

“ Ah! A humorous man!” Janev observed mockingly. He struck Ekardios again with his fist, knocking him back a few steps. “ Looks like I shall be duly entertained tonight, my comedic friend.”

Ekardios roared and swung his mace. Janev ducked under the blow and kicked the weapon out of the acolyte’s hand as it neared the end of its arc. The monk’s foot snapped back to smack into Ekardios’s face. He kneed him in the midriff before flooring him once more with a punch.

Lying on his back, his vision red-rimmed and blood half-choking his windpipe, Ekardios drew the dagger he kept in a shoulder sheath and pointed it at Janev. The monk sighed in mock frustration and shrugged.

“ What good will that do you, my friend?” He asked, stepping forwards to loom over the acolyte. “ Nevertheless, you have been a good sport. I shall have to kill you swiftly now and go on to destroy the village.”

The monk’s hands stiffened as he readied them to deliver a killing strike. “ You should feel honored to die at the hands of a perfect warrior!”

“ A perfect warrior?” Ekardios spat. “ You are nothing more than a glorified thug!”

“ And you, my friend, are nothing more than a self-righteous madman.” Janev drew back his hands. Ekardios depressed a switch on the hilt of his dagger, triggering the spring-loaded mechanism within. The blade shot out from its handle and sliced into the monk’s midriff. Janev gasped and staggered back, clutching his wound.

“ What’s the matter?” Ekardios got to his feet unsteadily as the monk gasped and scrabbled at the blade embedded in his body. “ Is that the way a perfect warrior should behave because of a trifling flesh wound like that?”

The empty hilt fell to the ground as he locked his hands around the monk’s neck. Janev wheezed and flailed but the strength had gone from his limbs.

“ Evil…unto evil.” Ekardios said. He strangled the monk until his eyes bulged from their sockets and his robes were soiled with urine and excrement. Tossing the corpse aside, the acolyte retrieved his crossbow and gathered his equipment.

He limped west.

 

Great stuff!!!

He's finally met his match. I wonder how his future confrontation with the Abbot turns out.

Keep it coming Shura!

 

hehe this isnt much of a short story any more

anyway good work i like how some people are able to stand up to your characters

 

*blinks*

Okay... this was... great. Brilliant. Absolutely magnificent. I liked the fact that you glossed over most of the deaths in a matter-of-factly manner and did not glorify in the goe like in some earlier works.

Great going!

 

Here's the next part, folks!

**************************************************

Evil Unto Evil
Before me, all sins are bared
The shadows cannot hide
Vileness is everywhere

**************************************************

The mournful sobbing of a woman filled his ears, echoing off the unseen boundaries of the sanguine emptiness he found himself in. The sobbing varied in pitch and tone, ranging from profound, heartbreaking sorrow to malicious, bloodcurdling wails tinged with madness. The cries would turn into wild, desperate pleas for mercy every once in a while. A deep, sadistic laughter accompanied the wails and shrieks.

He recognized it as his own voice.

**************************************************

Ekardios found himself facedown in the dirt, choking on his own lifeblood. He coughed violently to clear his airways somewhat. With a collapsed lung, the acolyte dragged himself to his feet. The agony of his wounds tore through his consciousness and darkness began creeping into the fringes of his vision again.

He gritted his teeth in a snarl of resolve. He would not be stopped by mere pain. He could not be stopped. He was the hand of retribution, the instrument of violent death. A quick glance at the crossbow clenched tightly in his hand confirmed its readiness.

There was evil ahead. It filled the air with its intangible nature, a siren’s call to the acolyte. A step forward sent pain lancing through his body. He grinned and took another step. His grin widened at the increased agony. Still, he kept moving forwards, gaining momentum with every step.

There was evil ahead and that was all that mattered.

**************************************************

The monastery gates were partially open. A warrior monk stood without, apparently waiting for Janev’s return. Ekardios emerged from the ever-present mist instead, like a great looming shadow. The monk had time for a single gasp of shock before he was nailed to the wooden gates by a pair of quarrels. The momentum of the transfixed corpse swung one half of the gates wide open on its hinges.

Ekardios entered the monastery’s main courtyard. Another monk regarded him with a look of utter bafflement before snatching up a mallet and slamming it into a brass gong beside him. The gong reverberated through the thick, hanging air, echoing off the monastery’s architecture and the uneven surrounding terrain. Ekardios aimed his crossbow and sent a bolt screeching into the monk’s face, the projectile’s force tearing his head right off his shoulders. A flickering lamp from within the monastery’s main building revealed a multitude of silhouettes gathering behind the paper screen doors. The remaining quarrels in the crossbow sliced through the doors and into the bodies of those behind it. Blood spurted onto the screen doors, accompanied by cries of alarm and agony.

A flick of a switch had the empty quarrel case leaping from its slot on the bow. It clattered into the dust. Ekardios reached for another casing and snapped it into place. He began to turn the crank on the bow’s mechanism calmly. The cries of pain and surprise turned into angry oaths that promised death to the acolyte. The screen doors burst apart and a mob of furious warrior monks emerged. They spotted Ekardios instantly.

“ Kill the intruder!” One of the monks cried, pointing at Ekardios. The bow’s mechanism clicked into readiness and its sights were leveled once again. As they beheld the deadly weapon, the monks scattered in an acrobatic display of leaps and flips. Their expertise proved to be of no avail in the face of Ekardios’s marksmanship. He aimed his shots at points where the monks’ tumbles would bring them. Nine quarrels found their mark, one of them bursting through a torso to bury itself deep into a skull behind. Disciples of the Silent Mind fell from the air in a shower of blood, shot out from their somersaults or back-flips. The empty case was ejected once more and another one took its place. The bow’s mechanism clicked ominously as Ekardios worked the crank.

The surviving monks did not hesitate this time. They drew daggers from the folds of their robes and charged, hollering the war cry of the Silent Mind. They covered half the distance before Ekardios swung up his bow. A pair of monks fell screaming in pain, stapled to each other through the gut by a quarrel. Another got shot through the throat. He choked, gasped and clawed at his wound as he died slowly. A look of glee came into Ekardios’s eyes as he shot a young disciple barely out of manhood at pointblank range, scattering his viscera through the gaping hole punched through his torso all over his comrades.

Yet one more fell to a pointblank shot before a monk kicked the bow aside and lunged at Ekardios with a dagger. The acolyte’s other massive hand came snapping down, seizing his assailant’s head and almost engulfing it. He turned the head around on its shoulders with a violent snap before kicking it into the path of another pair of monks. They faltered in their charge only to be rewarded with a quarrel each. A particularly burly disciple of the Silent Mind staggered backwards, a shaft jutting from his shattered chest. His quick-witted companion seized the heavy corpse by its shoulders and attempted to use it as a shield against Ekardios’s deadly bow.

The acolyte frowned and adjusted his aim slightly. The next quarrel punched through a less resistant portion of the corpse’s flesh and tore into the wielder of the macabre shield. And then only two more of the disciples remained. One of them leapt high into the air while the other dropped into a crouching run. Ekardios squeezed off his last shot at the airborne monk, sending him into a bloody, shrieking twirl of limbs. The last monk sank his dagger into Ekardios’s unwounded side. He grinned smugly at his success until the acolyte dropped his baleful gaze upon him. The monk’s head went flying through the air, ripped from its shoulders by a single blow from Ekardios’s fist.

Ekardios plucked out the dagger embedded in his flank contemptuously, blood flowing over his leathers. Reaching into a small pouch attached to his belt, he pulled out a small wad of bandages and bound the wound. A pair of hands clapped in appreciative applause, followed by low, deep laughter. The acolyte’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the figure that emerged from the monastery’s main building.

He was a middle-aged man, his wild hair swept back from his graying temples. He was clad in the robes of the Silent Mind but an elaborate sash adorned his waist, signifying his rank. The Abbot was powerfully built, almost as tall as Ekardios and even more thickly muscled. He carried no weapons. He did not need any.

“ Well done! An excellent display of battle prowess!” He cried jubilantly as he beheld the butchered corpses of his disciples. “ You are a warrior of exceptional capability, follower of Saint Kallas!”

Ekardios did not respond to the compliment. He replaced the empty casing on his bow and began winding the crank. The Abbot walked amidst the carnage, examining the field of battle and muttering to himself as he did so. Every now and then, he would cup his chin in his hand as he regarded a corpse’s position thoughtfully before moving on.

Another individual emerged from the monastery, stepping out from the porch only when it was sure that the sun had set. It took the form of a slight young man, quivering weakly with every step. The subterfuge did not work on Ekardios, though. He recognized the undead creature for what it was instantly, confirming his initial suspicions.

“ Vampire.” He snarled, his voice filled with venom and loathing. The young man’s mouth curled into a twisted smile, revealing canine fangs.

“ Velkuas the Ungodly, at your service.” The vampire bowed mockingly. He stumbled and caught himself on a pillar. “ As you can see, sir, I am rather indisposed at the moment. To remedy this situation, I shall require something from the little lady whose rescue you have evidently come to.”

Ekardios fired his crossbow, sending a pair of quarrels streaking towards Velkuas. The Abbot moved in a blur, his hands whipping out to snatch the steel-tipped shafts from the air. Velkuas laughed in delight and patted the Abbot on the shoulder.

“ Thank you, my friend.” He said, turning to enter the monastery’s interior again. “ I require the life-force of but one more maiden for my spell, after which my strength will return.”
“ Go, then.” The Abbot snapped the quarrels in his hands like dry twigs. “ I trust you will fulfill your end of the bargain?”

“ Do not worry yourself on that account.” Velkuas began walking away, his body lurching with every step. “ Simply make sure that I am not disturbed.”

“ I direct your own words back at yourself.” The Abbot laughed, waving his hand dismissively. “ There is no need to be worried. The follower of Saint Kallas goes to his god’s embrace this night.”

“ Big words.” Ekardios snarled, dropping his useless crossbow and unhitching the poles strapped on his back. “ Let us see you back them up!”

“ Your spirit is admirable, though it will avail you little now.” The Abbot approached to stand before his opponent. Ekardios snapped his poles together and depressed a switch upon it. A blade sprang from one of its ends. The Abbot grinned contemptuously at the weapon. “ That toy will not help either.”

The bladed staff spun in Ekardios’s hands once by his side, then above his head. He pivoted on a heel, bringing his weapon around in a mighty backhand that arced for the Abbot’s throat. The Abbot never lost his mocking grin. As the blade sliced in, he raised a single finger against its flat, lifting it above his head and down again in passing. He lowered his stance and planted the same hand, palm open, on Ekardios’s chest.

“ It ends.” The Abbot said. The stone paving of the monastery’s courtyard splintered and cracked under his leading foot. Before Ekardios could pull away, he felt a tremendous rushing force against his chest that blasted him off his feet. The force of the Abbot’s blow threw him across the courtyard and into the partially closed half of the monastery’s gate. He crashed through the heavy wood and into the dirt beyond. The ever-present mist flowed in to obscure the place where he fell.

“ Pathetic.” The Abbot muttered, dusting his hands. He looked over the corpses of his disciples again and shrugged as if their deaths were little more than a minor inconvenience. A dagger cut through the air to sink into a supporting pillar as he ascended the short flight of steps back into the monastery. He turned around with a look of mild surprise on his face.

Ekardios’s massive form emerged from the mists, looming over the carnage in the courtyard. He still held his bladed staff in his hands and a look that promised death was etched onto his snarling features. Blood ran freely down his chin and from his nose. Thin streams of the red fluid dribbled from his ears and the corners of his eyes, evidence of the Abbot’s blow.

“ Still alive?” The Abbot walked down the steps again, his tone contemplative. He nodded at Ekardios’s side, where his ribs have been obviously shattered. “ My disciple has not left you unmarked but yet you are still standing even after my blow. Your force of will must be mighty indeed if it can fuel your efforts even now.”

Ekardios limped forwards one step at a time. He stopped abruptly and coughed, a torrent of bright red blood pouring from between his lips. The acolyte’s body swayed but he maintained his poise by grounding the butt of his staff into the courtyard’s paving. The Abbot threw his head back and laughed loudly in amusement.

“ You are bleeding internally, follower of Saint Kallas!” He observed, in between chuckles. “ Along with a collapsed lung, you are unlikely to see the next dawn! Lie down and pass from this existence in peace!”

“ Never.” Ekardios spat out a final mouthful of blood and began limping forwards again. “ As long as there is evil, I shall never fall! You have been judged and deemed to be worthy of Saint Kallas’s wrath. Prepare to die!”

The Abbot renewed his laughter. He placed his hands on his hips and roared in genuine amusement. “ By the gods! If only these cretins,” he waved a hand to indicate his butchered disciples. “ Had one tenth of your will! You have truly impressed me, follower of Saint Kallas!”

“ Evil unto evil…” Ekardios was now within striking range. He pulled back his weapon with a resolute snarl. “ Mercy, long past…”

“ It shall be an honor to send you to your god’s embrace!” The Abbot clenched his fists. Ekardios roared and thrust his bladed staff out like a spear. The Abbot sidestepped the blow easily, letting the staff flash past his waist. Ekardios depressed yet another switch on his weapon and it fell apart into its original halves. The bladed portion, driven by the momentum of Ekardios’s blow, flew on to embed itself into a supporting pillar where it hung quivering. There was a barely audible click as yet another blade sprang out from its exposed end.

Whipping his shortened pole around, Ekardios tried to cudgel the Abbot with it. The Abbot caught the weapon in one hand. He bent the metal pole merely by flexing his fingers. Undeterred, Ekardios clenched his gauntleted fist and threw a punch. The blow sailed harmlessly over the Abbot’s shoulders as he leaned away from it casually. The Abbot seized Ekardios by the collar and pulled him close so that he could glare into the acolyte’s bloody eyes.

“ Enough.” He said. A knee to the gut folded Ekardios over, followed by a kick that snapped his head back. The Abbot caught Ekardios’s wrist as he fell away and hammered yet another punch into his midriff. Two more kicks, one to the chest and another to the face followed. Ekardios sank to his knees, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.

“ This!” The Abbot clenched a fist and held it aloft against the moonlight that abruptly shone through a break in the clouds. “ This is perfection! The pinnacle of mastery in the warlike arts, which every true warrior aspires to! I have attained this! I have become the greatest warrior this world has ever seen! Can you imagine the greatness I personify, follower of Saint Kallas?”

“ Of course not!” The Abbot went on, expecting no answer and receiving none. “ You are merely a slave of an insignificant power! A deity’s tool! You will never come close to attaining any level of greatness at all! But even this will pass, for I am only blood and flesh. Already, my youth fades and with it, my strength. I shall not accept that! I cannot accept that!”

“ And so you seek immortality by aiding a vampire?” Ekardios spat derisively. “Every mortal faces a battle against time. We are born, we live, and then we die! This is the natural law! There can be no other way!”

“ I shall break this law.” The Abbot replied, as if he sought self-vindication for his terrible deeds. “ As the greatest warrior in the world, I am not subject to that which binds the common rabble!”

“ The greatest warrior in the world?” Ekardios gave vent to a short bark of laughter despite his agony. “ You are nothing but a cowardly weakling! I have seen those who have not the tiniest fraction of your prowess but are endowed with a thousand times more heart than you!”

“ Ah yes, you must mean the girl. A most delightful little child.” The Abbot’s eyes gleamed in the dim moonlight. “ It is truly a pity that she must die for my benefit.”

“ I am not concerned with her plight. I am merely here to kill you all.” Ekardios hammered his fist on the ground. A barbed spike sprang from his gauntlet. He rammed the spike into the Abbot’s thigh.

The Abbot hissed in pain at the unexpected blow and seized Ekardios’s hand by the wrist. Ekardios snarled and twisted the spike in the wound so that the barbs hooked onto flesh, hindering any attempts at swift extraction. He reached out with his other hand, catching the Abbot by the collar of his robes.

“ You shall die now!” The Abbot roared, placing his palm over Ekardios’s forehead. The acolyte responded with a growl of effort as he hoisted his opponent into the air, foiling the Abbot’s deadly strike. The Abbot switched tactics. His vice-like fingers found a grip on Ekardios’s throat, digging in as they sought to crush his windpipe. Ekardios gritted his teeth against the pain, took a single step, and kicked off into a leap, caught in a deadly grapple with the Abbot.

The other end of the bladed staff embedded in the pillar gleamed coldly. Ekardios impaled the Abbot upon it, spearing him through the heart. Blood burst from between the Abbot’s lips. He tried to cough but his strength faded too swiftly for him to even do that. He did not feel the laceration of his flesh as Ekardios tore his gauntlet spike free. As his vision dimmed, the last thing he saw was Ekardios standing over him with his fist drawn back, a terrible leer of triumph on the acolyte’s face.

The spiked gauntlet swept in. The sound of a wet crack filled the night air.

**************************************************

In a chamber illuminated only by the sanguine glow cast from flickering candles arranged to form a pentagram, Velkuas unfurled a scroll. He did not even bother to look upon Meralli’s struggling form. She was gagged and bound to a short stone pillar in the center of the pentagram.

“ Fear not, little morsel.” Velkuas said distractedly. “ You should take comfort that your sacrifice will contribute to the betterment of a far greater design. Surely it is much better than eking out a miserable existence as a clodhopper, is it not?”

Meralli struggled uselessly against her bonds, tears flowing down the sides of her face. She looked up, however, as she heard the sound of a steel-shod boot scraping across the monastery’s wooden floors. Velkuas heard it as well and a genuine look of disbelief came across his feral features. He snapped his gaze back down to the scroll and began incanting the arcane syllables scribed onto it. The sanguine radiance from the candles grew in intensity as each word fell from the vampire’s lips.

Velkuas made a few passes in the air, ending with a final, single gesture in Meralli’s direction. A ray of darkness sprang from his outstretched finger to stab into the girl’s torso. She gasped and convulsed as a terrible chill began to permeate her limbs. Velkuas grinned as he felt Meralli’s life-force surge into him, magnified a thousand times by his spell and the girl’s purity. He threw back his head, reveling in the rejuvenation of his withered frame.

“ Time to die forever, vampire.” Ekardios’s voice retained its customary coldness as he stepped into the chamber. The acolyte was severely wounded but his features displayed no loss of resolve. He tossed a mangled object at Velkuas’s feet. The vampire frowned as he beheld the Abbot’s shattered skull and the brains oozing from a huge, ragged hole in its temples.

“ So the buffoon was not as great a warrior as he claimed to be.” Velkuas sneered. A fiery red glow began to burn in the vampire’s eyes as he continued draining Meralli’s life-force. “ No matter! There is no way you can reverse the spell! With my strength restored, I shall destroy you!”

Ekardios raised his bow and shot the vampire twice in the face and once in the gut. The quarrels tore through Velkuas’s garments but they bounced off his flesh uselessly.

“ Mortal weapons cannot harm me, fool!” Velkuas was no longer stooping. He stood with his back straight now and his arms outstretched, connected to Meralli by an ebon-hued beam. The girl’s complexion had turned pale, a fact evident even in the dim light of the chamber. Her head sagged weakly as she directed an imploring gaze at Ekardios, hoping that the acolyte would deliver her.

“ They will harm her.” Ekardios said matter-of-factly, adjusting his aim so that Meralli now fell within the sights of his bow. A flicker of alarm ran over Velkuas’s face.

“ What?” He cried out, genuinely surprised. “ You would not!”

“ Why not?” Ekardios turned so that he looked into Meralli’s eyes. “ You have placed little enough value on the lives of the maidens consumed in your spells. Why should I be obliged to regard them in any other way?”

“ But…but are you not a champion of some self-proclaimed deity of righteousness?” Velkuas stammered. “ How will you answer to your god if you killed the girl?”

“ A deity…of righteousness?” Ekardios grinned in amusement. “ Your knowledge of Saint Kallas is utterly incorrect. I destroy the forces of evil with the very vileness they embody! I oppress the oppressors! I murder the murderers! I care nothing for innocents caught in my personal war!”

His words were directed as much at Meralli as they were directed towards Velkuas. The girl nodded weakly. Ekardios’s finger tightened on the bow’s trigger.

“ You cannot do this!” Velkuas protested, reaching out in the acolyte’s direction. Ekardios’s grin widened, though it had a different quality to it now. There was a slight click. A quarrel streaked through the air in a blur. It nailed Meralli’s head to the pillar she had been tied to.

“ NO!” The vampire shrieked in denial as his spell faded away, along with his hopes for rejuvenation. “ The ritual had to be completed for its effects to be permanent! You have undone months of effort!”

“ You will be next.” Ekardios’s replied curtly, dropping his bow and advancing to where Velkuas stood wringing his wrists in frustration and anger. The vampire snapped his gaze to the acolyte as he approached and bared his fangs with a hiss.

“ Your bungling has cost me dear, puny mortal!” Velkuas spread his arms in readiness to cast a spell. “ I shall torment your spirit for eternity with my sorcery!”

Ekardios reached out and snared one of Velkuas’s skinny wrists in his massive hand. The vampire yelped in surprise but he regained his composure swiftly.

“ And what will you do now, pitiful madman?” Velkuas sneered. “ I may have lost the strength of my kind but you have nothing to harm me with!”

Ekardios drew a broad-bladed dagger strapped to the small of his back. Smoke began to hiss from the leather on his gloves and the stench of burnt flesh filled the air. He held it up so that Velkuas could look upon it. Terrified recognition washed across the vampire’s face.

“ I took this off the corpse of a paladin who tried to use it on me.” Ekardios said, his tone almost conversational. “ It burnt my flesh and created such a terrible wound that I lay unconscious for an entire week before it began to heal. Apparently, it seems as if this blade has been forged for the destruction of creatures such as you and I.”

“ Die!” Velkuas stammered his way through an incantation and sent a surge of searing energy pulsing into Ekardios’s body. The acolyte convulsed as veins burst and tendons snapped. Blood gushed anew from between his lips but he snapped his gaze down again on the vampire. His manic grin remained. Disbelief flooded Velkuas’s features.

“ What manner of creature are you? Are you truly human?” The vampire whimpered. Ekardios roared in laughter even as his lifeblood stained the floor. He rammed the holy blade into Velkuas’s chest, the force of the blow sending the vampire staggering back. Flames burst from where the hilt jutted from Velkuas’s torso. He shrieked in agony and flailed his limbs wildly as his flesh dissolved. With a final, titanic effort, he staggered back towards Ekardios and reached for the acolyte’s throat.

“ I shall drag you to hell with me!” Velkuas cried. Ekardios swept aside the vampire’s feeble efforts easily.

“ Save a place there for me, my friend.” He drew back his fist and punched the hilt of the holy blade squarely upon its pommel. There was a dry, crackling sound as Velkuas’s ribs gave way. The holy blade burst through the vampire’s body and embedded itself in the wall. Velkuas gave a final wail of impotent despair before he collapsed. Only ashes remained to mark the vampire’s passing within moments.

Agony lancing through his body, Ekardios staggered over to Meralli’s corpse. He tore the quarrel free and cut the ropes that bound her.

“ You are not the first child I have killed in the course of my insane crusade.” Ekardios said quietly. Hoisting the girl’s corpse over his shoulder, he turned to leave.

**************************************************

Moonlight flooded the monastery’s entrance. The clouds had utterly vanished, revealing a clear and coldly beautiful night sky.

The Abbot stood before him, utterly unmarked. Ekardios snarled at the unexpected sight and clenched his fists, ready to do battle before he realized that something was amiss. The moonlight shone through the Abbot’s form. Gone was the sense of malevolence that he had formerly emanated. Instead, there was a look of rueful gratitude on his ghostly features. Looking over the Abbot’s shoulders, Ekardios beheld the disciples of the Silent Mind standing behind him, their hands clasped contemplatively before them. Further behind stood the villagers. All of them possessed the same unearthly, ethereal quality the Abbot had.

Ekardios abruptly noticed the absence of Meralli’s corpse on his shoulder. He looked down to see the girl skipping to where her grandfather Abshelm was emerging from his place amongst the ghostly crowd. They stopped a few paces behind the Abbot.

“ What…what is this?” Ekardios asked, the battle-fever leaving his eyes.

“ All that you have experienced actually occurred in the five-hundred and sixty-seventh year of the Succession Wars.” The Abbot spoke softly. Ekardios blinked in surprise.

“ That’s nearly a hundred years ago!” He muttered.

“ As spirits, we have little notion of how much time has passed since our deaths, follower of Saint Kallas. We only know that your actions have set us free and we thank you for that.” The Abbot clasped his hands before him and bowed. His disciples and the villagers followed suit.

“ I do not understand.” Ekardios replied, dropping to one knee as his strength faded.

“ Velkuas the Ungodly fled to my monastery then, severely wounded in a battle against the hero known as the Black Crane. He played upon my vanity and desire for immortality and I fell for his wiles. You fought my misguided self just now, follower of Saint Kallas. You know what manner of man I was. In return for his promise of eternal life, I sacrificed the villagers my Order were obliged to protect to his vile designs. There was no one to stop him. No one to stop me.” The Abbot sighed. “ Velkuas regained his strength and went through with his promise. My disciples and I had his dark gift bestowed upon us. We were immortal and invincible, or so we thought, and we made plans to sweep out into the world, ravaging and consuming all who stood in our way. A single man barred our advance, though. He had arrived too late, but he had arrived nevertheless. It was the Black Crane, a warrior without peer. He dispatched us all swiftly with his shimmering blade. Even with his restored strength and his great sorcery, Velkuas was no match for him. He put an end to our evil before it had a chance to infect the rest of the world. We were trapped here as spirits near the place of our deaths, however, awaiting the arrival of someone like you.”

“ What did you need me for?” Ekardios was utterly mystified. “ What role did I play in bringing about your emancipation?”

“ A grave injustice had been committed here and its sheer malignance has held us captive up till now. An individual had to arrive on the last day of Velkuas’s rejuvenation ritual and he had to wreak retributive judgment upon the Order of the Silent Mind, which has gone astray. Only then will the fates be appeased and our spirits free to seek the afterlife.” The Abbot smiled. “ As a representative of Saint Kallas’s will, you have played that role to its fullest.”

“ So I have been battling illusions all along?” Ekardios coughed up another mouthful of blood. Blackness had begun to creep in on the corners of his vision.

“ No, we are not illusions. You have been drawn into an alternate plane of existence formed by the collective wills of my disciples and the villagers. Everything that has befallen you is real enough.” There was a look of genuine regret on the Abbot’s face. “ I am afraid you have delivered our spirits at the cost of your life.”

“ I am not so easily killed, spirit!” Ekardios snarled. He pushed himself up, grasping his crossbow in one hand. He began walking away, paying the grateful looks the spirits directed at him no attention. Meralli’s shade ran after him and caught him by the wrist.

“ Thank you.” She said. Ekardios halted in his tracks and he began to laugh so violently that his shoulders heaved and buckled.

“ You would thank me for killing you, child?” The acolyte asked in between bouts of laughter. He laughed on for a few moments before he fell to his knees again. His blood had formed a puddle where he stood and his complexion had turned an ashen gray from shock and blood loss. His features were uncharacteristically somber as he looked at the girl’s shade.

“ Go then, child. Go.” He said softly. “ Go to where evil can never touch you again.”

Meralli nodded and walked over to where her grandfather stood. Hand in hand, they faded from this plane of existence, along with the Order of the Silent Mind and the other villagers. The acolyte of Saint Kallas was left kneeling alone, bathed in the cold blue moonlight as his life ebbed from him.

 

What can I say? Great stuff

 

Shura is a brilliant bastard!

 

Unbelievable. Literally, a stunning work!
Are you sure you are not some writer in 'guise? That tale you wove is of exceptional quality and class. hope to know more of the exploits of Ekardios, if it was not his death that I read in the last sentence.

Keep it up. Full praises to you!!!!

 

Shura, you rock.

This is freaky and awesome.

 

All of the above!

 

i post this on Shura's behalf..

Evil Unto Evil
Innocence, false trust
Even gods will quail
Before my wrath


Mitchka arrived home just before sunset. He opened the rickety door of the hut in which he lived and entered. He swiftly lit a tallow stub so that he could see sufficiently well enough to prepare the evening meal. A handful of coarse grain boiled and mashed into a thin gruel was all that would feed him, his sister, Fleura, and their mysterious guest.

A weak cough announced Fleura’s presence, a child of barely eleven winters who toiled the days away repairing the clothes of the village’s wealthier residents. Her cheeks were pale and gaunt. A consumptive disease wracked her slight, trembling frame. Mitchka wore the skin of his hands away at the cobbler’s shop everyday in order to amass enough coin so that he might purchase the herbs required to soothe her agony and cure her affliction. A soft-spoken, bumbling middle-aged man who called himself a ‘doctor’ had recommended the prescription before Father Belguary ran him out of town, threatening to burn him at the stake for heresy. Mitchka could no longer recall the doctor’s name, though he would never forget his kindly face and gentle demeanor.

“ I’ll get dinner ready soon, Fleura.” Mitchka said as he fanned the twig-fed flames beneath their only pot feverishly. “Just sit down and rest.”

“ Missus Gumder’s daughter wanted me to embroider a cat’s face on every one of her blouses.” Fleura began her daily gossiping as she took a seat at the hut’s shaky table. “ So I did! Missus Gumder wasn’t very happy about that!”

Mitchka laughed out loud at that. Their village housed many eccentrics, though kindness was never lacking in their midst. Fleura chattered on as they ate their meal, her bubbly speeches interrupted only by occasional fits of coughing. Her affliction was becoming more serious by the day, a fact that was not lost upon Mitchka. All that he needed was another week’s wages before he could make the two-day journey into the nearest town and purchase the prescribed herbs. He fervently hoped little Fleura could hold on till then. A third bowl of gruel had been set aside to cool.

“How’s he?” Mitchka asked. Fleura shrugged.

“Still the same. He sleeps all day, mumbling under his breath.” The girl replied, frowning worriedly. “Shouldn’t we bring him to the chapel? Father Belguary would know what to do with his wounds.”

“No! I don’t know why…but it might not be a good idea to bring him to the churchmen.” Mitchka said. He had lost his faith in the teachings of the Celestial Church a long time ago. However, voicing such sentiments in this part of the world would result in an agonizing death as a heretic. Within a week of his arrival at the village’s pulpit, Father Belguary burnt Mister Fale and his entire family at the stake for worshipping the Moon Goddess. Once the mace-wielding churchmen overwhelmed a wounded Blackguard once. They then proceeded to torture him publicly in the village square for days before burning him at the stake like Mister Fale and his children. Mitchka remembered that particular incident distinctly. The Blackguard’s grim resolution and his final words proclaiming the glory of the Demon King were etched firmly upon his mind.

“ALL GLORY! ALL GLORY TO BLACKMIRE!” He had cried, over and over again until Father Belguary wrenched his tongue out with a pair of smithy pliers.

Fleura sighed in mock exasperation. She took up the bowl of gruel and walked over to the back of the hut, where their guest lay on his back, covered with a crude blanket. Mitchka followed her, bringing along the lit tallow stub. He pulled away the blanket so that he could examine the stranger’s wounds. Miraculously, there were no signs of infection. He had not expected the daily application of rags soaked in the water of the mineral rich stream behind their hut to his wounds to be so effective. As his sister poured the gruel gently down the stranger’s throat, Mitchka could not help but wonder for the umpteenth time about his identity. The siblings had discovered the gigantic man afloat in the stream one morning, grievously wounded and delirious. They led him to their hut, whereupon he had collapsed into the coma that still held him in its thrall.

He was still unconscious after a week, though his wounds seemed to be healing. The stranger’s complexion lost its earlier corpse-like pallor two days ago and his breathing had become deep and smooth since then. Mitchka had stowed the stranger’s armor beneath a loose floorboard, along with an arsenal of weaponry that would have outfitted a small band of warriors. The spiked armor bore a curious crest that he could not identify. It was a skeletal hand curled into a grasping claw, broken off an inch at the wrist. A bloodshot eye adorned the fleshless palm. Three crimson drops fell from the eye. It was a symbol of hope to Mitchka, despite its morbid nature. He would never know how he made the apparently irreconcilable connection. In any case, he had no wish to condemn another man to the Blackguard’s fate.

“Mitchka!” Fleura’s frightened squeak roused him from his reverie. The stranger’s eyes were now open. His gaze fell on the siblings and they shied away from its sheer intensity.

“Good evening, sir.” Mitchka said, quickly recovering his composure. “My name is Mitchka, a cobbler’s apprentice. You have been sleeping here for almost a week. We are glad you seem to be getting better. Your belongings are under that floorboard so there’s no need to worry.”

The stranger’s eyelids fluttered momentarily before they closed again. After a few tense moments of silence, Fleura gingerly retrieved the bowl of gruel.
They left him to his repose.


A thousand agonies wracked his body. An inner fire burned within, sustaining his will and keeping him from death’s domain. Saint Kallas made no promises. He never did.

Yet he knew he would not die this day. Monsters draped in human skin, scum, and filth still drew breath upon this world. His job was not done.
He would not die.


“Damn it.” The cobbler turned and spat into the street as Father Belguary approached. He cast Mitchka a sideways glance. “He’s here for you, boy. Be mindful what you say.”

A pair of churchmen trailed the priest, their maces hooked prominently on their belts. Mitchka gulped and swallowed fearfully as Father Belguary loomed over him.

“You have not been attending Church for the last three weeks, my boy.” He said. “ Do you fear so little for your soul?”

“I…I…had to finish all this leatherwork, Father Belguary.” Mitchka stammered. “I work every day of the week…”

“And for what purpose?” The priest’s expression darkened. “What do you need all this coin for?”

“I…I…” Tears brimmed at the corners of the youth’s eyes. The cobbler muttered and got off his stool but a stern glare from the armed churchmen made him back away.

“Answer me, child. As your priest, I am held accountable for your soul in the eyes of the Lord.” Father Belguary seized Mitchka’s collar and hauled him off his feet.

“I…I need to buy the herbs for Fleura, sir.” Tears flowed down Mitchka’s cheeks. The priest growled and shook him violently.

“I thought I told you not to heed that heretic’s words!” Father Belguary screamed. His high pitched and maniacal voice carried out into the village square, attracting the attention of every villager within earshot.

“You couldn’t heal her!” Mitchka protested. A few months ago, when Fleura first contracted her illness, the first thing Mitchka did was to bring her to Father Belguary. The priest’s prayers to the Celestial One had no effect on the sick girl, much to his dismay.

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, child.” Father Belguary recited. “Accept your loss and be blessed in the eyes of our Creator.”
“No one’s taking her away!” Mitchka struggled and tore free from the priest’s grasp. “If the Lord will not heal her, then I’ll find someone else who can!”

“Blasphemy!” Father Belguary hit Mitchka across the side of the face, sending him sprawling. “You, a damned sinner, presume to make demands of your Creator? Your arrogance sickens me!”

“Hold out his arm.” The priest instructed one of his churchmen. The holy warrior complied. Mitchka struggled uselessly for a few moments before he was pinned face down into the dirt with his right arm stretched out.

“Your earthly concerns have set you upon the road to damnation, child. Did the Lord not say to cast aside the limb that offends? Since you lack the moral strength to do so, I shall fulfill my duty as your priest and do it for you.” Father Belguary gestured to the other churchman who unhitched his mace, an expression of solemn piety upon his face.

“No! Father Belguary!” The cobbler rushed up. “Don’t do this, Father! He’s just a boy! I’ll give him a good talking to! I’ll make sure he goes to Church! Please! He’s just a boy!”

“The best lessons are learnt young, Mister Vanter.”

The priest replied. A heavy blow from the churchman’s fist ended the cobbler’s protests. The mace swung down. The crack of bone filled the air. A child started crying. Her mother carried her away before her wails reached Father Belguary’s ears.

Mitchka shrieked and thrashed, cradling his broken arm. The priest planted a foot on his chest and looked down upon him.

“I shall see you in Church tomorrow, my child. Do not force me to take away more than what you have already lost.” Father Belguary’s referral to Fleura was obvious.


“God bless you.”


The blacksmith and the barrel-maker set Mitchka’s arm as best as they could while Missus Gumder splinted and bandaged it.


“Why didn’t you tell me you needed coin for your sister’s sickness, boy?” Mister Vanter asked as he rubbed his bruised jaw gingerly.

“I would have gladly paid for whatever herbs she needed.”

“I…I’m sorry, sir…” Mitchka replied, in between sobs. “It’s just that…after our mother died, I promised myself never to rely on someone else again.”

“You silly child.” Missus Gumder reprimanded him gently. “You’re one of us. You only had to ask.”
“You would have gotten into trouble with Father Belguary if you helped.” Mitchka pointed out. The villagers had no response in the face of that sobering fact.


The pain was no less intense. But the madness flared even brighter now. He had crawled inch by bloody inch back to life.

An eternity of battle, a mountain of corpses, and rivers of blood awaited him. Saint Kallas did not call. The mad god was silent, staring at his progress through eyeless sockets.
Fuelled by hate, he had returned.



Fleura cried over his broken arm that evening, more upset over her brother’s agony than the effective signing of her death warrant. Mitchka consoled her as best as he could, though he broke down into bouts of weeping as well. Fleura had to prepare the evening meal. They barely had enough to eat but she divided their meager fare into three equal portions as always.

She found the stranger awake this time, though. He took the bowl from her wordlessly and finished the gruel in a single swallow. Fleura cried out to Mitchka as the stranger pulled away his blankets and stood up, his head nearly grazing the hut’s ceiling.


Brother and sister cowered before the giant who took in the youth’s splint, the girl’s frail frame, and their tear-streaked faces. When he spoke, it was in a voice that promised death.


“Tell me.”


“I have enough gold upon me to pay for your sister’s herbs ten times over.” Ekardios said. “Why did you not use it?”


“I’m not a thief, sir!” Mitchka replied with a touch of indignation. The acolyte, with his belongings retrieved from beneath the floorboard and spread out before him, took up a cloth pouch and gave it to Fleura. It was heavy with coin.

“We’re not beggars either!” The cobbler’s apprentice asserted.

“Fees for my food and lodging.” Ekardios said firmly. Fleura undid the strings on the pouch and gasped in wonder.

“I cannot count them all, Mitchka!” She breathed. Mitchka’s eyes widened in awe as he beheld the sheer amount of wealth Ekardios carried.

“A week’s lodging at the inn costs five coppers. The same at my hut costs even less, sir. I simply do not have the change for even a single gold coin.” Mitchka protested.

“So how do you propose I pay, then?” There was a touch of dry humor in the acolyte’s voice.

“No payment is necessary, sir. I couldn’t possibly leave you to die where I found you.” The cobbler’s apprentice took the pouch from Fleura and held it out to Ekardios, struggling under its weight. “You’ll need the money to purchase rich food for yourself to aid your recovery. You’re still very weak and your health is precarious at best, sir.”

“Given my weakness,” A grin tugged at the corner of Ekardios’s mouth. “ I cannot possibly carry that heavy pouch about. Keep it.”

“But…!” Mitchka’s protests were cut off by a fit of coughing from Fleura. His resolve weakened. “But…”

“Keep it.” Ekardios replied. He turned his attention to his equipment, bringing the light of a tallow stub to bear upon it. “I hope you will be charitable enough to let me use up this candle.”

“Go…go ahead, sir!”

“Thank you.” The acolyte reached out and picked up his crossbow.


Mitchka’s dreams were feverish and vivid that night. The throbbing agony of his right arm only worsened it. A low voice intruded into his consciousness and he recognized it as Ekardios’s. The man was reciting something softly to himself as he worked on his weapons.

“Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil. Evil unto evil…”


The cobbler’s apprentice opened his eyes slightly and saw the look of unholy madness upon Ekardios’s face, illuminated by the light from the tallow stub. Cold sweat broke out upon his body and he shut his eyes tightly until sheer exhaustion overwhelmed him.


The sun was just above the horizon by the time Mitchka awoke. Fleura was still asleep, breathing raggedly but with a look of serenity upon her face that he had never seen before. The dawn’s weak rays glinted off the ebon-hued leather of Ekardios’s spiked armor. The acolyte was standing at the doorway, facing daylight for the first time in many days.

“Good morning, sir.” Mitchka greeted him, rubbing his eyes sleepily with his good hand. Ekardios eyed the youth’s splint and nodded in approval.

“That arm has been well set. See that you do not remove the splint for the next few weeks.” He said. “You will likely regain the use of both hands if you tend it carefully.”

“Thanks, sir.” Mitchka eyed the crest on Ekardios’s armor curiously. “Who are you, sir? Are you a Blackguard from the Land of the Damned?”

“No. I am not a Blackguard from the Kingdom of Gryloas.” Ekardios adjusted the buckles on his cuirass and clipped on yet another dagger to his belt. “I execute Saint Kallas’s will everywhere I go. That is my mission.”

“Saint Kallas?”

“My god, the deity of murder and madness. Like the Celestial One is yours.” The acolyte tightened the straps on his boots before pointing at the crucifix adorning the doorway.

“He is no god of mine!” Mitchka growled bitterly. “He would have taken my sister away if not for you! Tell me of your god, sir! I’m sure he’s a much more reasonable one!”

Ekardios laughed weakly, though there was none of his customary cruelty in his mirth. “Have you not heard what I just said, young master Mitchka? Saint Kallas is the god of murder and madness. He has no church and only one worshipper at a time or less.”

He held his crossbow out handle-first to the cobbler’s apprentice. “Take this weapon, Mitchka. Take it and shoot me in the head. Then the teachings of Saint Kallas will be made known to you.”

Mitchka shied away from the fearsome weapon. “I…I can’t do it, sir!”

“May you never be able to do so.”

Ekardios flicked a switch on the bow, releasing the tension in its mechanism.

“What…what do you mean by executing the will of Saint Kallas?” The cobbler’s apprentice asked tentatively, his curiosity unsatisfied.

“Saint Kallas tells me to bring evil unto evil. Thus, I kill evil people.” Ekardios replied. “His will is simply this. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“A noble aspiration, sir!” Mitchka exclaimed enthusiastically. “You are truly a hero!”

“No. There is nothing heroic in murder, Mitchka.” Ekardios said firmly. “Never forget that or I will have to come after you one day.”

“I may only be a simple villager but I’m less naïve than I look, sir.” Mitchka’s voice was somber as he spoke. “Peddlers from the town and other villages bring news and I’ve heard them talk. There are so many people dying out there simply because of the appetites of others. Children are treated like animals and tormented to please monsters. The peddlers cannot do anything because they’re bound by the Church’s edicts over here and by the Demon King’s laws in the Land of the Damned.”

“We, the common folk are even more powerless. How can a farmer risk his life in helping his neighbor’s daughter fight off a brigand when he has a wife and two children waiting for him back home? I see the contempt in your eyes, sir but please let me finish. That very same farmer will feel no lack of torment for his failure to intervene. Even if he does confront that brigand, he has only the strength of his rough, callused hands and a hoe to wield. He would only anger the brigand at best, resulting in the deaths of both himself and his neighbor’s daughter. How would his family survive without him?”

“Do you have a family, sir? No? Any loved ones? Friends? The look on your face says ‘no’. You’re free to do what you’re doing, then. You can do what no one else can do, sir and what you do will make the world a safer place. What else are you besides a hero?” The cobbler ended his lengthy speech, his voice full of earnest, innocent hope. Ekardios remained silent for a long time.

“Thank you, young master Mitchka.” He said after some contemplation. “You are a great thinker, though your views are still unrefined. You should travel to the city of Terun in Gryloas and enter the schools there.”

“Go…go to the Land of the Damned?” Mitchka stammered uncertainly. We…we can’t leave…”

“What kind of future will you have here?” Ekardios pointed at Fleura, still peacefully asleep. “What kind of future will she have here? What will you do when that gold runs out and she needs more herbs? What will you do when Father Belguary comes to break your other hand?”

“But…but…”Ekardios patted the youth’s shoulder once.

“Someone whose face I can no longer remember told me something once. I shall repeat it to thank you for your kindness.” The acolyte turned towards the doorway and began walking out again.

“When everything is uncertain, and the future is fearful, strike forth, walk out. Seize your future, grasp the light before you, and forge your destiny with every breath you draw.”

“What about you, sir?” Mitchka called after Ekardios. The acolyte looked over his shoulder. The rising sun framed his huge silhouette in a blinding outline.

“I have to cleanse this town of evil.”


The church bells tolled but the villagers stayed in their homes, stricken by a deathly, inexplicable fear. Father Belguary was livid at the fact that not a single member of his congregation deigned to attend his sermon. He called his churchmen together and they strode into the village streets, intent on putting the fear of the Lord into the hearts of sinners. One man barred their way less than a dozen paces from the church. He was clad in spiked, ebon-hued armor and he held an outlandish crossbow in his hand. Father Belguary recognized the symbol upon his chest instantly.

“You!” The priest snarled, pointing an accusing finger at the acolyte.
“Yes, me.” Ekardios pointed his crossbow at the churchmen and pulled the trigger. A holy warrior fell, kicking and gurgling wetly because of the hole in his throat. “Evil unto evil!”

“Kill him! Purify the demon-worshipper in the name of the Lord!” Father Belguary cried. The churchmen rushed forwards, their faces ablaze with religious zeal. There were fifteen of them. Eight of them died by Ekardios’s bow before he dropped it and unhooked his own mace from his belt. The metal pole on his back slipped free from its sling. A flick of a switch caused a blade to sprout from one end.

A churchman’s mace clipped Ekardios’s temple as the acolyte ducked too slowly. His body was still weak from his earlier incapacitation and his reflexes dulled by inactivity.

Nevertheless, the glancing blow did not prevent Ekardios from ramming his spiked mace up into his opponent’s groin. He tore the bloody weapon free and kicked the corpse away, spinning his bladed pole in his other hand. It opened a man’s throat, sliced a face away, spilled intestines, and came to rest deep within the ribs of a hapless holy warrior.

Ekardios released that weapon, letting the corpse it was embedded in fall to the dirt. The remaining two churchmen exchanged frightened glances, unwilling to approach the warrior who had so easily consigned all their fellows to death.
“Who wishes to join their deity next?” Ekardios asked. The churchmen backed away, whimpering despite Father Belguary’s threats and exhortations.

“How does it feel to be on the receiving end of all the violence and terror you have perpetrated, servants of the Celestial One? How does it feel to be executed in the name of another deity’s dogma?” The acolyte advanced, mace in hand. One of the churchmen lost his nerve and charged, screaming out a prayer to the Celestial One. The spikes on Ekardios’s mace buried themselves into his ribs, doubling him over. The acolyte tore out the weapon, releasing a deluge of blood and gore that spilled into the dirt.
“No! I surrender!” The remaining holy warrior fell to his knees and threw away his weapon. “I renounce the Celestial One and the Church! Please don’t kill me! Please! I beg you!”

“How many of your victims have made similar pleas?” Ekardios asked, looming over the cowering churchman. “Your repentance will not bring them back to life, nor will it undo their suffering. Nevertheless, I accept your surrender.”

“Thank you, kind sir! Thank you! Thank…” Ekardios’s mace rose and fell. The acolyte spat onto the headless corpse, still twitching in a puddle of blood.

“Burn in hell, you worthless bastard.” His gaze fell upon Father Belguary. “And now, you.”

“I condemn you in the name of the Lord, demon-worshipper! I abjure thee!” The priest shrieked. “Your sins have earned you an eternity of damnation in fire and brimstone! God will punish you!”

Ekardios’s mace pulverized one of the priest’s kneecaps. Father Belguary squealed in terror and fell on his face. The acolyte’s heavy boot pinned him to the dirt.

“Where’s your god now?” Ekardios asked. “If you represent him and I represent mine, this symbolizes a battle between two deities on an earthly plain. This is what my god is capable of doing to yours.”

The spiked mace crushed Father Belguary’s fingers. He interrupted his prayers and threats long enough to scream in pain.

“Yes. Squeal, priest. Squeal for me.” Ekardios said. “Your screams are like music to my ears.”

The acolyte clamped one of Father Belguary’s ears between his fingers and tore it off with a single jerk. The screams rose to a crescendo.

“You...! You…dare to defile the Church like this? What gives you the right to do so, demon-worshipper?” Father Belguary snarled. Ekardios pulled him to his feet and punched him across the face with a spiked gauntlet, tearing off his lips and nose.

“The right to bring evil unto evil.” He declared.

“You would presume to call the Lord evil? Who are you to judge Him? He is the Creator of existence! Your demonic standards do not apply to him!” The priest was defiant to the end.

“I shall apply my standards to whomever I wish.” Ekardios replied, seizing the priest by his collar and dragging him into the church. “I shall judge whomever I wish. That is the right of every living, sentient being.”

“What…what are you doing?” Father Belguary demanded as Ekardios dragged him to the altar. The cross of the Celestial One hung above it. Ekardios opened a pouch and retrieved a handful of crossbow quarrels.

“I shall let you die like the one you deem a savior.”


The screams took hours to cease. Father Belguary’s blood drenched the cross it had been nailed onto. It was splattered upon the altar. Ekardios sat in a pew, leaning back as he enjoyed the spectacle. When he had had enough, he walked out into the streets again and retrieved his crossbow and blade. The villagers have emerged from their respective homes and they now thronged around the acolyte, murmuring fearfully.

“The Holy City will send Church Knights, Inquisitors, and maybe even a Paladin because of this fiasco…” The cobbler muttered. His wife elbowed him in the ribs forcefully.

“We can no longer stay in this village, stranger. Thanks to you.” The blacksmith commented. Ekardios let his gaze roam until it fell onto Mitchka and Fleura. The siblings beheld their murderous benefactor for a few moments before Ekardios nodded once and turned around to walk away.

“What did I tell you, young master Mitchka?” He said, without turning around. A look of resolve came over the youth’s face.

“To forge our destinies with every breath we draw!” Mitchka replied. A rare, genuine smile graced Ekardios’s scarred face.

The acolyte of Saint Kallas left the village then.

 

wow great work!!

are you going to keep writing? i hope u do, this stuffs great!

[ April 14, 2004, 05:29: Message edited by: Elusia ]

 

So we still have Shura's magnificent work decorating the SP boards
Me like that very, very much.

I do have a few comments now, at last.
You're showing Gryloas as a completely dark, bleak world full of evil. Why not switch sides for a little while and spend some time writing a more goody goody story inside it?
I'm sure you wouldnt stand writing it from start to end in one shot, describing all the holy and merciful acts over many pages So what if you write it simultaneous to the darker story?
Depending on your mood of course. Might lighen you up a bit. IMO you really need it, hehe
No doubt you have another majestic plan for the whole story in place already and are just stiching the story together now. At least that's the feeling i got from reading everything you posted here up to now. I must say it's way better than making the story up on the spot.

It's a damned (literaly) good story!
No, wait, it's not good at all. Heh, it's egoistic above all.

And... Khementi i hope you know this isnt directed at your posts, but at Shura