"Perhaps the Swordsman was not always the paragon of virtue and heroism, but by worshipping him as such, we have created that ideal of him, to which he is now bound. The Beggar God was once the great Kharna, but now he is the most despised of all the gods. The stories we tell are to help us comprehend the incomprehensible."
"So you're saying that we created the gods we now know?" the Hunter asked, his voice rife with skepticism.
"In essence, yes," Father Reverentus replied. "They existed before we knew them, but our worship has transformed them into the gods they now are. We use the gods as a higher power upon which we place blame for our misfortunes, but who also receive credit for the good in our lives."
"But the gods have no hand in either the good or the bad," the Hunter argued.
"To that, good Hunter," the elderly priest replied, "I must say that I agree. The simple man needs something beyond himself to blame and credit for the bad and the good. If we were to accept all the blame and credit upon ourselves, it would be more than we could bear. Looking back at the horrors perpetrated in the name of the gods, our minds would shatter. Thus, with the gods, mankind has a way to ease its conscience."
The Hunter snorted in derision. "What a load of rot!"
"Aye," Reverentus replied, "but that is ever the way with religions. So few of us know the truth behind the façade. But, let me assure you, the gods are very real. Perhaps they do not play as prominent a role in our lives as the common man believes, but they are there."
"The gods we invented?"
"Yes, the very same." The priest gave him a smile. "I must point out, Hunter, that now is a good time to have these gods. For if they weren't created for a time like now, when the world could very well be facing an untimely end, why would they be needed at all?"
The Hunter could think of no reply, and Reverentus continued, his voice triumphant.
"I tell you this: It is difficult for many to understand the gods, but they are not meant to be understood. Humanity has given them faces and names, but they are indefinable. You cannot know the minds of the gods, cannot guess what they have planned for you. Some never see the hands of the gods in their lives at all. And yet," he said with a mysterious smile, holding up a crooked finger, "there are some in whom the gods take a special interest."
"Let me guess," said the Hunter in a voice heavy with sarcasm, "I am one of those."
The priest nodded, and the grin spreading across the old cleric's face only served to infuriate the Hunter.
"So you're saying," he spat, "the gods have some 'higher destiny' or 'fate' in store for me?"
"I will not waste my breath on empty words," Father Reverentus said, "for I know you have no desire to hear of either 'fate' or 'destiny'. What I will tell you is that there is a task that needs to be fulfilled, and right now you are the only one on the face of Einan in a position to carry it out."
"But why me?"
The old priest shrugged. "That is the question so many of us ask ourselves. Why have I been given this task when there are so many others to carry it out? Why me, gods, why me?" Reverentus stared down at him, his eyes softening. "It is not given to us to know the 'why', Hunter."
"I can't ask why I've been chosen by your gods for this?" the Hunter demanded.
"To be honest, I don't know if you were chosen." The priest gave him an infuriating smile. "What I do know is that your actions have brought us to this point, and you have been given a choice."
Reverentus' gaze pierced the Hunter, as if staring into his soul. "I have seen your heart," the priest said in a soft voice. "You are a killer, but that does not mean your heart is filled with evil. You will find there are many in your line of work that are there out of necessity, or because they know nothing else."
The Hunter struggled for words, but even as he did, his anger faded.
"You are at a crossroads, Hunter," Father Reverentus said. "You have a choice: hunt down the demons, or see the world as you know it come crashing down around you. You have no idea what these things can do…" He trailed off with a shudder.
The priest's words sent chills down the Hunter's spine. In his mind, he saw visions of death, destruction, and carnage. Things of unspeakable horror roamed the world, burning, killing, and laying waste to villages, towns, and cities. Mighty armies fell before the onslaught of the terrible creatures, unable to stand against the ferocity of the demons of nightmare.
As he saw the visions in his mind's eye, Soulhunger's bloodthirsty whispers filled his thoughts. For a moment, the images seemed so real the Hunter nearly thought himself part of the horrors. It was as if he relived these events from memory; they seemed too real to be imaginary.
"For argument's sake," the Hunter said, hesitant, "let's say I do decide to help you. How would I find these demons?"
"You're the Hunter," Reverentus replied. "It's what you do, is it not?"
"Very helpful," snorted the Hunter.
Reverentus shrugged. "We have done our part in keeping you alive, Hunter. I wish I could offer more, but I trust that you will succeed."
"My thanks, Priest," the Hunter replied with a sarcastic sneer.
The priest paused for a moment, seeming to debate something in his mind. "However," he said in a slow voice, "we may be able to offer you weapons to make the task easier."
"Oh? And what manner of weapons can be found in the temple of the Beggar God? Perhaps a holy collection plate or ensorcelled bandages?"
Reverentus glared down at him, saying nothing, but instead turned to the cloth-bound bundle he had deposited on the table next to Soulhunger. The priest's twisted hands unwrapped the ancient, ragged fabric with care, revealing a pair of beautiful blades.
"These are said to be made from the Swordsman's own sword," said the priest, running a loving hand over the weapons, "the only thing that could wound Kharna the Destroyer. The only thing that can kill demons."
The Hunter studied the blade in the priest's hand, taking in the details. The hilt was simple and unadorned, its leather-bound grip worn from use. The sturdy crossguard was notched, as if to catch a foe's weapon. Its blade, three fingers in width, was as long as a man's forearm, with a grooved central ridge. It tapered to a slim point, ideal for thrusting.
The perfect weapon, he thought, reaching out his hand to take it from the priest. Practical, and meant only for killing.
"They may not help you find the demons," Reverentus said, "but they will serve you well once you have located them."
His skin crawled the moment his fingers wrapped around the leather grip. The metal crossguard touched flesh, and he dropped the weapon as if burned. The priest cried out as the sacred blade clattered to the stone floor.
"Iron!" hissed the Hunter. The skin of his hand darkened, and he could almost feel the poison rushing through his weakened body. The voice in his mind screamed at the contact with the metal. "You're going to give me iron blades, you old fool?"
"Aye, iron blades," replied the priest, stooping to retrieve the blade. He held it with reverence, his gnarled fingers curling awkwardly around the dagger's hilt.
"Iron is the only thing that can kill you," Reverentus said in a slow voice, pulling his eyes from the blades to stare down at the Hunter, "but they work on your forefathers almost as well."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow.
"Demons, when they take the form of humans, are nearly impossible to distinguish. They cannot die of sickness, and they live unnaturally long lives. But these blades"—he brandished the weapon with familiar ease—"are poison to the demon. Once the iron has weakened their flesh, they can be killed."
"One small flaw in your plan, Priest," the Hunter sneered. "Just holding the blades will kill me before I leave the temple, much less carry out your precious mission to kill these demons. I would be better off without them."
"But without the Swordsman's blades, you will not be able to kill the demons. It is the only thing—"
"It will not work. You'll have to find some other fool to wield your precious
blades." He tried to stand, but his body refused to cooperate. "And look at me," he snarled in frustration, "too weak to move, much less fight."
Reverentus stared down at him, remaining silent, his expression pensive. "What if I told you," he said in a slow voice, "that I had a way to heal you and allow you to carry the blades."
"You can stop the iron from poisoning me?" the Hunter asked, incredulous. "If so, how?"
"With the only thing able to combat the demon blood running through your veins," replied the priest, his eyes shining. "With the blood of the gods!"
The Hunter stared at the priest. "Blood of the…gods?" Had the old man lost his mind? "What in the frozen hell are you talking about?"
Reverentus rolled his eyes. "It's a symbolic name, you fool, not the actual blood of the gods." He pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, as if to massage away a headache.
"Well?" demanded the Hunter. "What is the name symbolic of, Priest?"
The cleric regarded the Hunter, and when he spoke, his tone was that of a patient adult speaking to an infant. "There exists an ancient ritual, passed down through the millennia, which enables priests to sanctify themselves and purge their bodies of all evil. When the body has been purged thus, the blood is said to be 'as the gods'—pure, untainted, holy."
"And how will this ritual help me? I'm no priest."
"No," the cleric said in a flat voice, "you're not." He muttered something under his breath, which the Hunter chose to ignore.
"So, how will it help me if you purify your blood?" the Hunter asked.
"That is where this comes in handy." Father Reverentus drew something from within his clothing, holding it up for the Hunter to see.
The thin, transparent tube was as long as the Hunter's arm, with a sharp, hollow needle on each end.
"And what in the name of the Illusionist's crooked rod is that?" The last time the Hunter had seen a hollow needle, Lord Jahel had used it to draw his blood.
"Nothing for a tough man like you to be afraid of," said the priest with a sarcastic smile.
The Hunter glared at him, and the priest's smile grew.
"This tube," Reverentus said, "allows me to pass blood from my body to yours."
"What?" the Hunter asked. "You're going to give me your blood?"
"It's the only way, Hunter."
"I haven't even agreed to do this, and already I'm regretting it." The Hunter leaned back in bed and folded his arms over his chest.
"If it makes you feel better," offered the priest, "I've already used it on you."
"What?" The Hunter reflexively reached for the dagger at his side, but his hand found nothing but blankets. "What do you mean, you already used that thing?" He eyed the tube with distaste.
"This thing saved your life," retorted the priest. "When you were first brought in, I was forced to pass some of my blood to you. It was the only way to counteract the spread of iron through your veins. You came dangerously close to the Long Keeper's embrace, and only this"—he held up the tube again—"saved your life."
The Hunter stared at the things as if it would strike at him like a snake. Then the priest's words sank in.
"Wait," said the Hunter, "you gave me your blood?"
"At the time," said the priest, "it seemed like the right thing to do. Perhaps I made a mistake." He gave the Hunter a hard stare. "Perhaps we would have been better off letting you die. The only reason you still live, Hunter, is because you are the only man who can do what is necessary."
The Hunter stared hard at the old priest. Would he really have let me die? He saw hardness in Reverentus’ eyes, and he knew without a doubt that the priest would have killed the Hunter himself had he perceived him to be a threat. So either he trusts that I will accept his task, or else he knows that I can be killed another way.
"The iron in your blood," said Father Reverentus, as if reading his mind, "could still kill you. We managed to stop it from spreading, but there is no telling how much damage it could do if left in your veins." He gave the Hunter a hard stare. "In truth, there is only one thing you can do."
Realization of what the priest had done dawned on the Hunter. "You gave me just enough of your blood to bring me back from the dead, but not enough to heal me completely." The priest remained silent, which confirmed the Hunter's suspicions. "You suspected I wouldn't comply, and thus you kept this as a means of persuasion."
Father Reverentus shrugged, turning his palms upward in a gesture of admission.
"Shrewd, Priest," the Hunter said, a new respect for the old man growing within him. "I will remember this in all of our future dealings."
"If the gods will it," Father Reverentus said, "we will never lay eyes upon each other again.” He rested his hands on the Swordsman's blades, but his eyes traveled to Soulhunger. "You are Bucelarii, and I am sworn to hunt your kind down." Steel shone in his gaze. "I may be old, but I am not yet dead and buried."
The priest's intensity startled the Hunter, and he found himself once again at a loss for words.
"So, Hunter," Father Reverentus spoke, "what is your answer? Will you do what is needed, even if it means facing your own kind?"
His thoughts racing, the Hunter pondered the priest's question.
Should I do this? Is it truly my place to stop these demons from returning to the world? Do I even want to stop their return?
The faces of his dead friends floated before his eyes, and the vision of death and destruction flashed through his mind once more.
I cannot let the people I care for face such horrors. If it means I must put an end to these demons, and thereby “save the world” as the priest says, so be it.
"I will do it," he said, his voice slow, "but know that I will not do it for you, Priest."
"The reason why you do it matters not," the priest responded with a nod of his head, "so long as it is done."
"But," the Hunter spoke quickly, "is this 'blood of the gods' ritual the only thing that will cleanse the iron from my body?"
"If you wish to walk out of this temple. Besides, it will allow you to wield the Swordsman's blades. It is the only way to kill the demons."
Do I dare carry these blades that could lead to my own downfall—my own death? Is it worth the risk?
Farida's smiling face flashed through his mind. It was all he needed to reach a decision.
"Carry out your ritual, Priest," he said.
"I will warn you, Hunter," Reverentus said, holding up an admonishing finger, "even with the purified blood, there will still be a great deal of discomfort from the iron."
"I am accustomed to pain, Priest," the Hunter snarled.
"Good," said the cleric, nodding, "then it is settled."
The priest turned away, reaching for the Swordsman's blades and the tube on the table. "I must gather the others," he said, half to himself. "We must convene tonight."
He faced the Hunter once more. "I will return in a few hours, once the ceremony is complete."
"Not a Watcher-damned chance, Priest," snarled the Hunter. "I'm going to attend this ritual to see exactly what you're doing."
The priest opened his mouth to protest, but the Hunter cut him off. "It may be your blood, but it's my body."
Father Reverentus pondered this for a moment. "The others will not be pleased, Hunter. There will be complaints—"
"They will have to accept it," the Hunter interrupted. "It is the only way I will do what you are asking of me."
Reverentus seemed to mull this over. A scowl grew on his face as he saw the Hunter's unyielding expression.
"There's no chance of talking you out of this, is there?" he asked.
"Not even if the Mistress herself offered to sit on my lap," the Hunter said, his tone resolute.
"Well, then," sighed the old priest, "let's get you out of that bed. We have much to prepare, and little time in which to do it."
The Hunter struggled to move his legs, but refused to admit his own weakness. Clinging to the bed for support, he rose to hi
s feet.
"Lead on, Priest," he said, his heart filled with dread.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"What in the name of the gods is he doing here?" The Beggar Priest's craggy face reddened with rage.
Anger clouded the sea of faces staring at the Hunter. The priests filling the small room were clearly less than pleased to see him, but he was too tired to care. He had barely managed to hobble the short distance to this chamber without leaning on Father Reverentus for support.
Bloody Minstrel, he thought, cursing inwardly. I hope to never be this weak again.
Exhausted, feeling every ache and pain, he slumped against the rigid granite, content to let Father Reverentus speak for him.
"He is here, Brother Paxus," replied Reverentus in a placating tone, "because it is the only way he will do what needs to be done."
To the Hunter's weary body, the hard stone bench beneath him felt wonderfully cool. The flickering torchlight made his head ache. Eyes closed, he inhaled the damp, musty air in the enclosed room, his ears taking in the vociferous protests of the Beggar Priests.
"Without his actions," snarled one, a heavy-set man with jowls that wobbled in his rage, "we wouldn't be in such a precarious situation." The priest punctuated his protests by stabbing a finger at the Hunter. "It is his fault we are here."
"And yet here we are," retorted Father Reverentus, steel in his voice. "We have no other choice in the matter. Would you really allow the demons to triumph, Brother Contritus, because you are too short-sighted to see what must be done?"
Contritus shot a sullen glance at Father Reverentus, who, unperturbed, returned the glares of the priests filling the room with equal force. The mass of white-haired, wrinkled, long-bearded faces around him remained locked in a struggle of wills for long, tense moments.
As he rested his head on the cool stone behind him, he studied the simple, sparse room. A row of benches ran around the circumference of the room. Water leaked from the walls, and he guessed they were beneath the House of Tears. A simple altar stood in the heart of the chamber, but it looked like a relic from a time long past. Dust coated the floor in thick layers. The room appeared to have been unused for years. The shrine, however, had not a speck of dust on it.
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