Rashnir grinned as he sat, feeling content about his day. He had borrowed Kyrius’ lyre before the angel left with the ranger’s mentor. At Zeh-Ahbe’s suggestion, Rashnir and he went out for some cool air. Zeh-Ahbe’ wanted some time to read from the Word but he’d also wanted a little seclusion. He needed someone to come with him, however, to loan him his or her Logos so that he could immerse himself in its reading. He remained unable to draw the ethereal sword for himself.
Zeh-Ahbe’ studied Rashnir’s flaming blade intently. His mood relaxed as Rashnir strummed a few simple chord progressions. Finally finding a hook, he played a few songs that Kyrius had taught him.
As the former werewolf read, the words seemed to pour off of the blade and into Zeh-Ahbe’s heart. Every passage seemed full of significance in his life, each verse a personal word from the Lord who had created him. A long while had passed, and still he read with fervor. Rashnir’s strums became less and less frequent as the string’s bit into the musician’s finger tips.
Zeh-Ahbe’ scanned the text of the prophet Isaiah when his eyes halted on a particular passage; he read it and reread it. “The wolf shall also dwell with the lamb.” The phrase seemed stuck in his mind, and he meditated on it as if it was a mantra. He took comfort in the irony that leapt from text to heart. “The wolf shall also dwell with the Lamb.” Zeh-Ahbe’ knew beyond doubt that the Lord loved and cared for him. Those deep fears and insecurities about his inability to draw a holy sword melted away in the heat of that peace.
Zeh-Ahbe’ began praising the Lord and thanking him; Rashnir’s strumming had long since stopped and the warrior had fallen asleep against a nearby stump. The sound of his friend’s spontaneous worship pulled Rashnir out of his slumber.
Rashnir did a double take and leapt to his feet.
“Zeh-Ahbe’, Zeh-Ahbe’,” he called.
“Yes, what is it,” he laughed at his startled friend.
“It’s… you?” Rashnir’s eyes scanned him up and down and only then did Zeh-Ahbe’ notice any change.
Zeh-Ahbe’ looked downward at his arms, marveling at both his body and his eyesight. His senses had opened and his body transformed. Zeh-Ahbe’ had been shapeshifted while he’d read and meditated on that passage. He stood now as an immense, powerful werewolf—much as he’d been prior to ever meeting Rashnir and Kevin in Grinden.
The members of tribe Say-awr’ had always been the least among the wolf clans; their peers had given them a reputation for being comparatively weak and scrawny. While they had been superhuman, they lacked some of the same abilities and prowess that others of their ilk possessed. Now, the weakness of the Say-awr’ had fled in full. The leaders of even the strongest tribes would stand smaller in stature than the impressive creature Zeh-Ahbe’ had transformed into; even the vaunted Mil-khaw-mah’ would stand inferior.
None could call Zeh-Ahbe’ mangy any longer. Muscle and thick hide encased the believer; his fur shone milky white and he resembled a wintered timber wolf by all appearance. His light fur revealed a type of tattooing imprinted on his skin like a handwritten script. The words of the Logos now branded the tribal leader.
The werewolf relaxed his will and the lupine features receded as he transformed himself back into his human form. Zeh-Ahbe’s body seemed to wilt back down into a human shape. He eagerly turned his hand over and looked at his palms. The scar of the kil-yaw’s scald remained, and yet, it too had been transformed. Examining the mark, Zeh-Ahbe’ recognized it was now made of tiny words; just as the blades of the Christians’ swords were etched with the Word of God, so too was his hand. He bore a new mark of ownership from the Lord.
Zeh-Ahbe’ stared awestruck; he finally embraced his friend. The werewolf could only smile and quote the scripture which had impacted him so greatly, “The wolf shall also dwell with the Lamb.”
Rashnir returned his friend’s embrace and clapped him on the back. He laughed, “I think, Zeh-Ahbe’, that you have just become a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
***
The night air darkened over Driscul as the fog rolled in off of the lake; the mist rebounded off from closed shutters and ebbed through the streets. Only a few lanterns lit the streets of the lakeside town. What dim light illuminated the road guided the steps of the two Christians as they made their way back towards their inn. They had been up so late discussing the miracle of Zeh-Ahbe’s transformation that they had lost complete track of the hour.
They were not bothered by the darkness and they sang as they went. They sang a song that they had learned from Kevin. The foreign preacher’s songs had been so unlike the songs of their realm—the words proclaimed hope.
Rashnir stopped short and stood at attention as Zeh-Ahbe’ continued onward for a few more steps. Zeh-Ahbe’ walked back to Rashnir whose attention had become fixated on a closed shutter.
His joy had so quickly turned to concern. Zeh-Ahbe’ whispered a question, “What is it?”
“Shh… I hear another song being sung… do you hear it?” He put up a hand to stay his friend and crept closer to the shutter.
The song became clearer when they concentrated on it. A spiritual darkness crept around their hearts as the words permeated spirit and mind; the fog rolled in thicker and the words rose in pitch.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you more than you could know,
I hate you the most because I am you.
Oh, how I hate you so.
More and more I want to see you burned,
To be nothing more than breeze-blown chaff.
And every time I throttle you—kill you,
Bludgeon your cadaver,
You rise like crème to the top
I hate you.
I hate you.
Why will you continue alive?
I hate you.
I bid you to come and die.
Skulking around the caverns of my mind,
An old skin trying to crawl out of my mouth
And envelop me all.
You parasite! Disguised as my brother.
Your love sickens me and I know you want
To consume me.
And
I hate you!
I hate you!
You are my curse.
All that you are—
Just some fleshy soul-hearse.
I hate you more with every verse.
You just hover around my head,
Like some kind of scavenger,
Looking to exploit a weakness.
At a stumble,
You flock to me—
Like maggots to carrion.
Disguised as medicine—
You bring disease!
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you –oh so much now.
I hate you who are and is me.
I hate you-what makes me fall.
I hate your liquid impulse,
Your flogging of self-control,
I feel your veneration of hedonism clawing
Out from my body like one trapped in a crypt.
The ichor of it radiates from the pit of my gut
Like dark rays from a black sun.
I hate you!
I hate you!
I hate you more than you could know.
I hate you the most because I am you!
Oh, how I hate you so.
I hate you, the accuser and crafter of masks.
My plaguer, my curse, bane of my existence.
You will be eradicated and I triumphant,
Bidding farewell to the flesh!
It was difficult to distinguish them, but there were two voices in that evil, rapping song. One voice wept with brokenness and despair; the second voice brimmed with malice too vile to be human. Each voice sang different parts, as if contesting with each other.
Rashnir and Zeh-Ahbe’ darted into the darkest part of the road as the door of the house opened. Two fig
ures stumbled into the street. The concerned Christians assessed the situation from the shadows and watched the shadowy figures.
Emerging first was a young man. He looked plain and wore the same dark, drawn features as most of folk in Driscul. Dressed only in his undergarments, he looked as if he’d been pulled from bed. The figure that followed moved like shadow with its ethereal appearance. It guided the man forward in its supernatural thrall. A dark robe and the wide-brimmed hat worn by mourners concealed the creature’s face. Around its neck hung several talismans and he carried a thin rod that might have been a walking stick if it hadn’t been too thin.
The underdressed man wailed despondently and tried turning back, each time he spun his eyes yearned for his home. Something about him made it seem like he still slept. Every time, the dark figure gently placed an arm around him and turned him back to the path which he guided him on. He appeared as a friend who consoled him, and yet a distinctly evil aura permeated about this scene. The two Christians followed at a distance and kept out of sight.
In few minutes time, they’d meandered several city blocks and their destination was clear. The tearful one continued walking, guided by his master, though he kept looking back to his home; he wanted to go back, but the continually whispered songs shattered his will.
Switching into his werewolf form, Zeh-Ahbe’ sprinted ahead several blocks, taking a nearby avenue to pass by in secret. He peeked out into an intersection and signaled to Rashnir. They planned to apprehend the men before they could reach the Luciferian temple and dash the poor man against the wicked altar.
With intense weeping and moaning, the master and prey approached the intersection. Faster than either could react, an eleven-foot tall ghostly white werewolf leapt out of the shadows and snatched up the human, before leaping away again. Zeh-Ahbe’ latched onto the side of a nearby building with one large, clawed hand from his free arm, his other arm cradled the wailing human. He clambered onto the rooftop and disappeared quickly out of sight.
Just as Zeh-Ahbe’ hurdled through the night, Rashnir pitched himself out from the darkness and tackled the cloaked figure. They thrashed and tumbled through the intersection, peeling the stranger’s cloak back. Even before the creature’s gnarled visage features was revealed, Rashnir knew what he was dealing with; spiritual discernment screamed deeply in his spirit that this creature was demonic in origin.
They rolled and struggled until the creature kicked free from Rashnir’s grip. Both scrambled to their feet and Rashnir locked eyes with the thing. He was ready to grapple the humanoid again and take down death’s herald.
The creature resembled an aberrant version of Jorge or Kyrius—fair features, long, willowy white hair, and fair skin. His jaw was square and hairless with smooth skin and it was both muscular and well fed. The only things that distinguished the creature as different was its shorter size and those black eyes which burned hollow and dead. It circled opposite of Rashnir, and warily kept its distance from the Christian warrior.
Rashnir demanded answers from it.
“Who are you? What do you want here?”
The creature gave no reply; he only smiled wickedly, baring his decayed teeth. They were gnarled and stained bloody red and yellow; they looked rotted and appeared busted and chiseled like the wicked tongs protruding from the nearby altar. The vile thing started cooing a soft song in some foreign language.
Rashnir’s spirit immediately warned of the demon’s thrall and shrank in on itself like a defensive turtle. The ranger shouted with interruption; “Your spells and powers have no authority on me. Tell me, demon, who are you and what do you want here? I command you in the name of Christ!”
The demon cringed at the mention of the name. A panicked fire lit inside those vacant eyes. It gave a compelled answer, having no other choice when commanded in the Name.
“I am a demon of despair,” his words oozed with evil, “I am here to feed, I and my brothers.”
Rashnir drew his holy sword from the air with righteous anger. The blade burst forth in holy flames. The demon shrieked as the shekinah light revealed the loathsome demon for what it really was and forced him into his true form. Its fair skin and features melted and twisted, puncturing the disguise and proving it a lie to those who did not know the true appearance of those angels cast beyond God’s glory.
The demon twisted into a hideous and grisly thing as if it had died and decayed long ago; its arms and legs became thin and shriveled like crow’s feet, ending with talon-like toenails. With leprous and bursting skin on the macabre face, the thin and torn out hair fell in sheaves of deterioration. Fat fell from its midsection in rolls as years of gluttony had paunched his belly to obesity far beyond that which his frame should carry and his bulbous belly tottered on the tiny legs. With wings long shrunken, atrophied, and unable to support the great weight that it had gathered about its center, the beast turned to flee on foot. The demon was also faster than one would think and it quickly escaped, shrieking and screaming into the distance.
The shrill sound pierced the night as Rashnir pursued the noisy monster. His breaths came in ragged puffs as he chased the evil being through the city streets. Azure flames trailed from his flaming sword like a brilliant wake through the night.
Seeing the holy warrior hot on his tail, the fleeing demon burst through the double doors of the Luciferian temple and ran straight over the edge, pitching head over heels into the pit below. Rashnir kept hot on his heels, but slid to a stop before the statue of the demon exaporeh’-omahee, just before the floor gave way to nothingness.
Rashnir collected himself, stood, and looked into the pit. Below him waited a small gathering of similar demons. They looked upward with obsequious expectation. Their nasty mouths waited, open, expecting a feast of flesh from the despairing folk whom they’d lured to the altar. The mindless things resembled some vile nest of baby birds anticipating their next meal.
The demon he’d pursued flung itself to the far edge of the pit, beyond the altar. Its hungry brothers ignored the alarm and pushed the panicked demon aside. Rashnir towered above them and the other minor demons continued their open-mouthed stare, misunderstanding the intentions of the man who stood on the ledge before the altar; they began to softly coo with their bewitching, siren song.
With righteous fury, the Christian warrior pulled his blade to his side and held it over the pit; the blazing, blue flames of the Holy Spirit illuminated the interior of the hole. The demons erupted in sheer terror when confronted with the light of the Spirit. They went into a frenzy of fear and clawed at the walls trying to escape. In selfishness and hysteria, they pulled each other back into the pit, trying to make good their own escapes, not allowing any peers to escape first.
Rashnir stood over them for a second, assessing the situation and checking his spirit for the proper course of action. Then, Rashnir leapt over the altar and into the pit; he dropped into a roll on the ground and came up swinging. The demons fled from him, but impaired each other’s escape.
The Christian walked around the altar, almost leisurely, and struck down the crazed demons with his sword, severing limb from body, leaving the once heavenly beings to a deathless and lifeless existence that would be their destiny in this fallen realm. Forever trapped in their bodies to await the coming of the flames in which they would perish eternally, their decision against their Creator, eons ago, now condemned them. Rashnir hacked and chopped at the embodiments of evil; there was no spiritual annihilation—these beings could never feel the escape of death.
Moments later, Rashnir crawled back over the lip of the ridge, pulling himself beyond the pit. He had eliminated the demonic threat of despair and toppled that awful altar. Rashnir slashed down the effigy of exaporeh’-omahee and cast him into the pit as well. He exited the small temple and walked around the exterior. Finding the weight-bearing supports, he drew his sword and cut through them with powerful swipes of his supernatural sword. A few cuts later and the back half of the temple colla
psed in on itself, sealing the altar’s pit permanently.
He sat on the grass outside of the temple, feeling good about what he had done. The Luciferian order probably wouldn’t even notice one tiny, vandalized building. This temple was really just a means for demonic nourishment and probably channeled some sort of dark energies to the patron demon, exaporeh’-omahee.
Rashnir relaxed and watched as the sun slowly crawled skyward on the horizon, warming him and burning off the fog. For the first time since arriving there, it seemed like the colors in Driscul were more than drab grays and sepia tones. Finally, the light seemed to fully penetrate the darkened sky and reach the city.
After a sleepy walk back, Rashnir met up with his friends for breakfast in the Full Flagon Inn. He wearily pulled a chair to the table and sat with them as Zeh-Ahbe’ finished telling the others about how he had gained access once again to his werewolf form, and more importantly, to the Logos.
Katerna and her parents sat with them too, as well as the man whom Zeh-Ahbe’ had saved last night from certain suicide. His wife and two little girls accompanied the man. These people, last night, had all joined the Christians’ ranks.
Rashnir thought of breaking into the conversation with the line, “You’ll never guess what happened to me last night.” He thought better of it. Thinking on Zeh-Ahbe’s miracle, plus the addition of two new Christian families, nothing felt impossible and no event seemed unbelievable.
***
Wynn did not appreciate outsourcing his talents, even if his master commanded it. He showed no emotion and made no sign about how much Khadron unnerved him. Wynn, like all his brother acolytes, had mastered the discipline of staying deep inside himself.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 39
