by Rae Nantes
Rika glanced at Garrock who only shrugged back, and she half expected the entire cathedral to break into an awkward applause. But none came. When Mondego was satisfied, he spoke. "Good day, old friends."
"Mondego," one of them growled. Another cardinal snatched him back into the crowds before he could make any more noise.
Mondego continued. "How wonderful it is that we could all be gathered here today." He talked with his hands, using grandiose movements. "We, the cardinals and bishops, the monks and the friars, the holy men of Christendom, and the guardians of the Word of God. We find ourselves standing on the edge of a new frontier, a new world, a dawn of a new era."
A far door clanked open, and footsteps stomped in. They were French soldiers, armed, with aristocrats lagging behind. Some of the cardinals glanced, but they could not pull their eyes from Mondego.
"They called it magic," Mondego said. "They called it witchcraft, and for centuries, we had always seen it as such." He chuckled to himself. "Fools, we were! We did not yet see the light, the truth, the holy spirit that coursed through our human souls to erupt into fire, or lightning, or geysers of water. We did not understand true worship. These are the powers of prophets, these are the gifts of God, and those who reject it, reject Him."
"Heresy!" one called out. The man threw a pointed finger at him. "Those are the words of a devil's tongue, the words of—"
A gunshot roared through the hall, and the crowd flinched. The man dropped dead, and smoke poured from one of the French soldiers. All gazed at them as they leveled their rifles not at the cultists, but at the cardinals.
"Come with me!" Mondego demanded with open arms. "And let us charge headlong into this new era, this new world, this new religion."
“And under a new religion,” a grizzly voice echoed from the shadow of the center cross. "We must style a new pope." The figure stepped out. Dazzling robes of regal authority, a pristine beard, a resolute posture, and a glittering crown - the King of France.
5: The Serpent
5:1
Vic found Marcion outside his home, sitting at the stone table beneath the tree. His eyes were downcast, and he was slumped over. “What’s wrong?” Vic asked. He spoke not with empathy, but as a problem solver.
Marcion shook his head. “Life, I suppose.”
Vic joined him at the table. “Life.”
Marcion sighed with defeat, then noticed Vic’s demanding gaze. “Lost someone close to me recently. A woman.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Vic picked up a dead leaf to play with. “You were courting this woman?”
“No, we were worlds apart in life. Too different from each other.”
Vic sighed and looked down at his leaf. It crunched in half, then half again. “I can’t give you dating advice, and I’m not the kind of person to confide anything in.”
Marcion couldn’t help but chuckle at that.
“But,” Vic continued. “I know that you’re a damn good man, and you’re a perfect inquisitor. We’ve accomplished much together, we’ve been in thick and thin, you’ve tutored Pierre in his studies, you’ve set up his schooling, you’ve saved me in combat a few times now. You’re reliable, strong, clever, and determined. Whatever it is that you do, I believe in you.”
Marcion couldn’t help but be brightened by this. “Thanks, Vic.”
Vic reached over a pat Marcion on the shoulder. “I’ll be meeting with Pope Leo soon. Will you be joining me?”
Marcion took a sharp breath and stared. “I think you should move your family out of here. War is coming.”
Vic turned a shade pale. “I know, but a cabin in the fields is safer than a city or village. Especially in times of war.”
“There isn’t much time,” Marcion said. “If the armies march on Paris, it can become too dangerous.”
“I have a duty to fulfill,” Vic said.
“And I remember what you told me about conflicting duties,” Marcion countered. “The duty of an Inquisitor and the duty of a father.”
Vic looked away and tapped at the table. He took a deep breath and eased it out. Then, he looked back at Marcion with a single nod. “I will continue to the Vatican. I know I can trust you to help my wife and son in my absence.”
Marcion smiled. “Of course.”
Vic sat again in the cloister of the archbasilica. The sunset was pouring through the tree limbs, and the breeze rustled the leaves. Beside him, Pope Leo hummed along as he reviewed the notebook. His beard seemed to be growing longer by the day.
"You have learned a great deal," the pope said, smiling. "I see that the project has done very well."
"Indeed, Father. It is as you said, that perhaps some of them are forces of their own, inherently unaligned with good or evil."
The pope nodded knowingly. "We should define them by their deeds alone."
"Yet still," Vic sighed. "There are a great many who partake in the sin."
The pope shrugged. "Then do as you will." He handed Vic the notebook. "Have you given it any more thought?"
"Sir?"
"About what I said last time."
"Oh, yes," Vic said. "Admittedly, I am hesitant to believe such a thing, but the more I spend in the presence of them, the more I am willing to believe."
The pope drifted his eyes to his lap. A vague sadness crept over him. "Terrifying, such a thing is, to believe that we are somehow less real than they. It brings up so many grand questions. Was it always this way, and if it wasn't, when did it change? Mayhaps this dream was only created last Thursday, and our memories and thoughts of the past were planted into us."
Vic shook his head. "But would it change anything?"
"For the people, no. For us," the pope trailed off. "For us, a great many things."
A silence drifted between them. A passing conversation echoed out of a nearby window. Then, Vic turned to the pope and said, "About France..."
"There will be war," the pope said. "It is inevitable. I will need to ally myself with King Charles of Spain, both to fight the heresies in the northern empire, and to fight off the schism of Mondego."
Vic gripped his book hard. The leather began to twist and tear. "I apologize, Father. I failed to stop him in time. Had I not been so slow—"
"Do not apologize, friend," the pope stopped him. "The time will come, as we had planned. And as for France, let us take this burden."
Vic tilted his head at the words. "Sir?"
"To defeat the darkness, one must become light," the pope smiled. "The Papal State has no intention to merely sit back and watch the entirety of Christendom burn."
Vic's eyes widened at the realization. "You will be declaring war. On France."
The pope nodded.
"Though I am certain that with the combined might of your forces and Spain, you may prevail against King Francis the heretic, but... Mondego is a powerful user of the dark arts."
The pope's cheeks flushed pink, and he chuckled heartily. "Oh, dear friend, you worry for me."
Vic shook his head with a defeated scoff. A faint smile crept across his lips. "Can I be blamed, Father?"
The pope grunted as he stood up, then he turned to offer a hand to Vic. "Come, come. I have something to show you."
Vic followed him. They walked in silence together through the archbasilica, into branching rooms of busy bishops and friars, and through a false wall in one of the studies. The bookshelves slid open, revealing a torchlit staircase that led further below.
With hesitance, Vic followed him down.
There seemed to be an ancient cavern here, perfectly etched out of stone and marble, no less magnificent than the archbasilica itself. Torches dotted the hall, casting warm glows along their path. A lone stream of water slipped down alongside the walkway, following them as they headed toward the end.
There, two paladins stood with their arms resting on the hilt of their claymores. These were no ordinary knights - they wore the tabard of the Knights of Rhodes, or as they were called now, the Pax Divinus.
Vic's mouth fell open at the sight of it. The purest, most beautiful light was glowing here, emanating from what appeared to be a single fig tree centered in the room. The beam of light shone upwards, through the ceiling to elsewhere, but Vic didn't care. He was simply drawn to the heavenly power the glowed from the tree.
"This," the pope said, "is the strength that will save Christendom."
Vic reached for his notebook the sketch the sight, the sound, the feel, the power, but just as he cracked the book open, he paused.
He shut the book and stowed it away.
5:2
The throne room doors slammed shut as the ambassador marched away. War had just been declared, a coalition against King Francis the heretic and a crusade against the anti-pope Mondego.
It was expected. From Rika’s corner of the room, she could see the unease in the king’s eyes but the excitement in Mondego’s. Several nations had joined the Pope’s forces. Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, united under King Charles who ruled both. Portugal - who was always on Spain’s dick. And England, which would never pass up an opportunity to fight the French. With any crusade, nearly all the various holy orders dotted around Europe would join – including the Pax Divinus.
All of this was the subject to a lengthy discussion between the king and Mondego, none of which Rika cared to listen to.
Garrock whispered to her. “The Paladins have abandoned Rhodes - yes, yes. They have all moved to Rome.”
She scooted a little away from him. “What about the deal?”
“The deal is off, yes? The Turks would not partake in a needless war because it would not benefit them. Their objective was always Rhodes, fated just as Belgrade was - yes, yes.”
Rika sighed in irritation. She had been manipulated again. Just as she was cursing the name of every king and politician everywhere, Garrock whispered again.
“Whatever will you do?”
She looked at him to see his terrible, genuine grin flashing at her. There was no certainty as to whose side he was truly on, and there was certainly no guarantee that he wouldn’t betray her at the last second to capture Ediha.
“I’ll wait,” she told him.
Garrock looked back at Mondego’s conversation with the king. “Yes. A terribly great idea.”
The western world was now at war with Mondego, and even with the might of the French army, there would seem to be no hope in this war, yet Mondego’s hidden smile spoke volumes to her. This was clearly a trap, she didn’t know how, and the Pax Divinus would bring Ediha right into it.
5:3
It was overcast gray, misty wet in the wooded hills south of Bayonne.
The French commander was withdrawing what was left of his troops from the aftermath of a brutal skirmish at the Spanish border. It was a near victory, but at great cost. How many of his men had died? Five thousand, ten? From atop his horse, he paused at the crest of the hill to broadly count among the line of men trudging up the narrow paths. Their armor clacked and rattled in cadence with their steps.
The silence was a testament to their low morale. Many of their brothers in arms had died in a war that was questionable at best. Aside from those awful spell casting mercenaries, few seemed to agree with the king’s conversion to the new religion.
Shouts came from the front of the line, and then a mess of panic. The commander snapped the reins and galloped over to find the closest thing to hell that he could imagine.
Pikes. A forest of pikes and spears sticking out of the ground and on them - French soldiers. The plains were ash. The smell horrifying.
The commander eased his officer’s cap off as he stared wide-eyed at the atrocity. These were the reinforcements he had been promised. He assumed they had deserted like much of the army did at the start of the war. But there they were, massacred, strung up in writhing positions, pierced like decorations with limbs dangling and lifeless mouths agape.
The earth was stained beneath them.
The commander took his first breath in what felt like minutes and felt a sharp stabbing punch into his gut. He grunted at the pain, his skin rippling from the force. He looked down to see a feathered shaft sticking out of him.
One of his lieutenants shouted an order, but it came muffled to him. A roar of thunder, no, a war cry of countless angry warriors poured down from the neighboring hills around him. A hundred, a thousand, five thousand strange soldiers burst from the undergrowth and the trees and the tall grass - each bearing heavy black armor laced with feathers and fur.
The commander could only watch in pain and horror as this unknown force converged on his men, chopping them to bits with oar-shaped weapons and spears, decimating them with sleek black firearms, pinning them down to sink their fangs into their skin.
He tried to speak, but no words could form in his mouth. His vision blurred, the grip on his reins weakened. A dark-skinned man in a long coat stepped beside him, leveled a pistol at his head, and pulled the trigger.
5:4
Ediha and John flashed into a cavern.
The light was dim. Running water trickled beside them. They were in a cave of pristine stone, and two familiar faces met them at the massive doors to some unknown place.
They, too, were members of the Pax Divinus.
John looked down at Ediha. “This is the redemption of light. As it is your last visited temple, holy will become you, and you will drink from it the power. And as it is your last, a reward will be bestowed upon you.”
“A reward?”
“It will be for you to decide.” John smiled. “Or maybe it won’t, who am I to say?” He nodded forward, and Ediha took the hint. This was to be done alone.
The guards offered a lowered their heads at the sight of him, then pushed the doors open. Ediha found the most beautiful light to ever glow. He was enthralled, enslaved to its grace. Its source - a golden veiled woman who sat beside a fig tree. She was peace. She was patience. She was life manifest.
He stepped in, and the doors shut behind him.
5:5
Marcion pounded at the door to Vic’s home. No answer. His handler kept watch up the road, dressed down in simple clothes, nervous at the world around her.
He tapped in a hurry at the windows, peeked in for any movement inside, looked around in the distance, then tapped again. “It’s Marcion,” he shouted. “Is anyone home?” He cupped his hands around his eyes and looked for anyone inside. There was movement at the floor, a rug sliding on its own to reveal a hidden cellar door. A figure climbed out, then hurried over.
The front door cracked open. Vic’s wife stepped out into the sun, her face pale with worry, and her eyes filled with fear.
It told him everything. “Where is he?”
A few breaths later, she spoke. “The city.”
Marcion groaned. “Why,” he said through his teeth, “is Pierre in the city?”
“I told him not to,” she pleaded. “He ran off on his own! He wanted to spy on the heretics for Vic!”
Marcion looked back toward the rolling farmlands for any movement. There was none yet. “You’re not safe here,” he said. “The Spanish army will be here soon.”
She looked around at the house. “But what about—”
“Don’t care,” he said plainly. He turned to his handler. “Take her to Rome. She’ll be safe there.”
Vic’s wife protested as she was forced into the portal. Marcion’s handler turned to him before stepping after. “I assume you’ll go after the kid?”
“It’s my duty,” he said.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to find you in the middle of a warzone.”
Marcion looked back at the plains around the house. In the distance, a line of soldiers marched in columns over a hill. Armor and weapons glinted in the sunlight. Gold and red flags billowed in the breeze. The siege was ab
out to begin. “I’ll find a way,” he said.
5:6
The city was rumbling. Rika could feel it beneath her feet, even on the second floor of the Notre Dame. She stood just under the light of the rose glass windows, hiding beneath the violet-blue light that poured in, casting rays that caught particles of dust that floated about. Beneath her, a congregation of nobles and aristocrats sat in the pews among cultists and players alike.
Rika had covered herself with a hooded cloak and a face mask. She had pissed off countless players due to her antics in the past few weeks, and she didn’t want any needless surprises this far into the endgame.
The crowd was mostly silent, except for a few coughs or isolated conversations, as all here were waiting on the arrival of the king. This was his poorly timed christening ceremony - or a heresy’s equivalent. It was sloppy, she figured, for not even Mondego had shown up yet.
The world rumbled again. Muffled thumps tapped at the rattling windows. The people here were uneasy, for it was obvious to all that Paris was doomed, at least, obvious to anyone but the nipsies. The French army had been decimated due to desertion, and for whatever silly reason, only a fraction had been left to defend the capital. Maybe the rest of the army was battling elsewhere, Rika didn’t know, but it was certain to everyone that Mondego had a plan.
She sensed Garrock inching closer - she could always tell by the way her skin crawled - and she instinctively scooted away. “What the hell is it now?”
“Our presence is requested outside, yes?”
Rika groaned, hopped over the railing to the first floor, then walked out into the light.
In the distance, lines of smoke billowed up into the sky. The rolling thunder of muskets echoed here. The walls were being assaulted, and there was no telling how much time was left before the empty streets would come alive with warfare. Mondego was here, wrapping up a speech to a crowd, no, an army. Yet these weren’t just ordinary soldiers, they were players. One of them stood before Mondego to make demands.
