Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “Noted,” the Nameless said, placing the revolver back in the box and shutting it.

  “We’ve had word from our scouts,” Hillaire said. “The Holy army has turned around. Babylon is safe, at least for a while.”

  Discreetly, the Nameless sighed in relief. “When are we commencing the plan?”

  “As soon as you think yourself able,” Hillaire said. “Your speech is decent enough; if you measure your words, you shouldn’t arouse any suspicion.”

  “I am ready right now,” the Nameless said, both arms pressed against his chair. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can proceed toward other, worse kinds of agony.

  Hillaire turned to Emile. “When will your crew be good to go?”

  Emile smiled. “Disregarding complications, within the hour.”

  Hillaire looked back at the Nameless, who nodded silently. “Perfect. You’ll be given a change of clothes. Something worn, smelling of the open road. The disguise must be as perfect as it can be.”

  Yes, the Nameless thought. Everything will be executed immaculately. Including the Skull-faced Saint, when his time is due.

  Discreetly, he snuck a peek of Tarantula before facing the sunrise. I must not forget her part. Regardless of her ultimate intentions, the spider-goddess had every chance to minimize casualties, both of this war and the one on crime. Yet instead of approaching the Nameless, she chose to work with the Cleanup Crew, then stab them in the back. Instead of telling him of her plan on time, she forced him into it, planning this for months ahead.

  He ground his teeth, not even trying to hide the act. She says she wants a better world, but only if she can control every actor. I must never forget that.

  “Are you in pain?” asked Emile.

  “No,” said the Nameless. “Merely adjusting.”

  Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about what might have been. Had I joined the old Management, I would have been known as ‘Donkey.’

  Part Three:

  Tugging the Threads

  Chapter Twelve

  Standing in the middle of a vast crowd, Tomas de Silva stared at the newly repurposed altar. All that remained of the statue of the Nameless was its head, now forming a middle part of a new, elevated pulpit. Behind it, the madman known as Ashes posed with arms outstretched.

  Unlike how he’d been instructed, Tomas was alone. He was also out of uniform, which ran contrary to what all guards had been ordered under this state of emergency. Be visible, stick together, and keep your eyes open, he repeated silently. For the moment, he only upheld the third part.

  The shrine had been defiled twice, first by the Nameless and then via the sheriff’s decree, but Ashes managed to turn it into an even greater mockery. Surrounded by four armed and uniformed guards, he didn’t preach as much as scream. Tomas still remembered the way the people responded to the last priest’s speeches: they cheered, hustled for his attention, and regularly injured themselves by accident or intent. This time though, most were just there to watch.

  “We are not on our own!” Ashes roared, showering the first row with his spit. His too long, yet sparse hair, fluttered as his head bobbed. “No man is an island! The Lord made us imperfect individually, but perfect collectively. This is how we gain salvation, my brothers; not by separating from the flock, but by following the shepherd!”

  Not waiting to hear the crowd’s reaction, he turned to the back of the pulpit, tensed his scrawny shoulders, and straightened up someone who was seated behind him. The man’s face was bloody, as were his ragged clothes. What did they do to him? Tomas wondered before realizing that the man’s mutilations were by no means new. The nose was missing, as were the lips, but his thick brown hair contrasted badly with the look of a Skull.

  “But a single bad apple can spoil the whole batch!” Ashes resumed, holding the man up by the collar. By the look of things, his grip was the only thing keeping this Skull up. “And this is one very, very rotten fruit. Speak your name, sinner, that the faithful may know whom to scorn.”

  “F—“ the Skull tried saying, but his own name got stuck in his throat. He gargled, then swallowed, before opening his mouth again. “Franklin Myers.”

  “So nice to meet you, Frank!” Ashes shouted, his frenzied face an inch away from the man’s mutilated one. “Tell me, Frank, what do you do for a living?”

  “I… I am a worshipper,” Franklin said lifelessly.

  “Did I hear ‘idolater?’” Ashes roared, releasing the man and letting his half-limp body thump on the floor. “Did I hear ‘cheapskate?’ Did I hear ‘servant of a false god?’ Did I hear ‘devil-worshipper?’”

  Parts of the congregation murmured. Tomas wasn’t surprised in the least.

  “This slime joined a gang to live off your fat!” Ashes continued. “And when it got hard, he quit! He then chose to seek refuge here, among all places. Like a wolf among sheep, he lived among us, relying on our mercy. Our grace. Our tolerance.” He seemed to spit the word out. “Adding insult to injury, the demon Nameless’ communist insanity let Frankie here not only avoid punishment, but thrive without lifting a finger! Think about it!”

  The murmur deepened, and Ashes’ grin got madder. “I’ve thought about it myself. I’ve thought of it quite a bit while I rotted down in the dungeons. Know what I concluded?” He breathed in, before viciously kicking Franklin in the ribs and causing him to roll on his back. Then, reaching for his side, he pulled out a foot-long knife, lifting it up. “I decided I wasn’t going to let this stand! If none of you wants to make this filth pay for his choices, then it’ll have to be me!”

  Abruptly, Ashes got down on one knee, and the mass went silent. Sounds of struggle became apparent, but they were so slight they might as well have come from the crowd. Just like everyone else, Tomas got up on his toes in an attempt to see, but the pulpit’s elevation prevented anything of the sort. His trigger finger twitched, but only once.

  “Behold!” Ashes rose, both arms up in the air. In his left hand, he still had the knife, but no one was looking at that. Their attention was completely focused on the severed head he held in his right.

  “The price of weakness!” Ashes rocked his grotesque trophy, causing a cascade of red to pour all over his previously white robe. “The cost of worshipping demons! The Skulls out there knew they had done wrong. They admitted their failings and submitted to the true Lord! But this trash—”

  Ashes’ body contorted as he flung the severed head into the middle of the crowd, bathing a swath of people in crimson. It hit the ground with a dull, rolling thump where the people scattered in an attempt to avoid the blood. “This cockroach thought he could escape retribution! Ride without paying! Not on my watch, my brothers! And most certainly not on yours!”

  Someone shoved Tomas from the back. As he moved to let the person move closer, so did five people scuttle onward, driving him even further away from his spot. Having just barely prevented himself from falling on a woman to his left, Tomas once again looked to the pulpit. Ashes didn’t speak anymore. Rather, he posed in an overacted theatric while the mass flocked to see the mutilated head up close.

  First they back off, now they want to see it. Disgusted, Tomas turned away from the scene, and started pushing in the opposite direction. He had seen enough. One of these days, the madness would reach a boiling point. What he would do then, he had no idea.

  ***

  The sun was just as merciless as the last time the Nameless had walked beneath it. However, the lack of nose and lips made this trek through the desert significantly more unpleasant. Out of nothing but habit, he pulled his fingers over the side of his face. There was no hair to obstruct his vision, nor protect him from the heat.

  Not only are these mutilations disgusting, they are also impractical, he thought as he held his grey cloak over the lower side of his face. He had been dropped from the limo some four hours ago, and had spent all that time walking. Only recently had the festering heap of the Underbelly started showing up on the horizon, an
d it took an additional twenty minutes for him to spot an imposing series of white tents in front of it. And as he got closer, the immense size of the military camp became more and more apparent.

  What was I thinking? he asked himself as the white dots around the tent started taking the shapes of humans. There were so many he could barely see the city borders. And those were only the currently active guards. Fighting this monstrosity would have been difficult on its own. Doing it while facing dissent was mad.

  Some of the tabard and hood-wearing men saw him coming and formed a kind of welcoming committee. The others kept overseeing the roads, but the Nameless had no doubt that their eyes were on him as well. He looked around as he approached, noticing that the large tents were surrounded by a large number of smaller ones.

  “Halt!” shouted one of the hooded guards. Aside from eyes that stared through a pair of round holes, his face was completely obscured. Unlike those at Babylon, he bore no automatic weaponry. A sword hung at his hip, and a longbow was wrapped around his torso.

  The Nameless stopped moving, letting his cloak roll down over his chest and showing them his scarred mug.

  “You bear the markings,” another guard said. “I take it you’re here to enlist.”

  “Indeed,” the Nameless carefully pronounced.

  “This way,” a third guard pointed to the nearest (and apparently largest) tent. Dozens of people stood before it, some with obscured faces, others without. All wore white. “Do what they tell you, and be patient.”

  The Nameless looked to the guards, then back to the entrance. Cage-like contraptions sprang up near the base of the tent, reinforcing the canvas and corralling the inhabitants. He hesitated. Compose yourself. The Skulls are a violent bunch of misfits. Corralling them like this is reasonable.

  He started moving, and several guards relaxed their sword-hands. They execute the hesitant. Of course. The gate watch swarmed around him as he got close, stripping him of his worn-out clothes within seconds. He flinched at the thought of his stomach being touched, but thankfully the frisking didn’t hurt. Whatever was done to him when the curse-bag was implanted, it was executed well.

  He got a good look at the men who did the search. Two were hooded, no doubt former Skulls. The third one was fair of hair and bright-eyed. All wore the white, red cross-emblazoned tabard, with more mundane clothes underneath. As pieces of the Nameless’ shroud touched the ground, so did a handful of women collect it, while another one wrote it down on a piece of paper. Out of them all, only one wore the face-hood.

  “You’re clear,” the unmasked man said once the Nameless was completely nude. He extended a hand to another woman, this one in robes that resembled those Chastity had worn. She then gave him a plaque, which he promptly gave the Nameless. “Go in and find a spot. Any spot. Pass the time in whatever way you can. At dusk and noon, someone will come in and read some numbers. When yours is read, you follow that person out and do as they say. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” the Nameless said, taking his plaque. M186. Holding it firmly, he nodded and started walking. The makeshift wall around the tent had a door, and it was opened. He went through, passing through a short corridor with three more rows of sword-bearing guards. Once he’d reached the end, the door behind him shut, and the one in front opened, exposing him to an almost unbearable odor of hundreds of unwashed men.

  The Nameless’ vision blurred as he stepped in. Trying to keep as much of a distance as possible, the nude Skulls stared up, down, and at each other. What passed for their expressions easily communicated a mixture of frustration and boredom.

  How long have they waited in here? the Nameless wondered as the entrance shut behind him. He started moving again, looking for a spot to sit. Countless sets of eyes followed his every move, not out of surprise but due to animalistic alertness. They might be in a cage, but none of these people were broken in. This is a powder keg. And I have jumped in, head-first.

  A suitable spot caught his view, some twenty feet to his right: between a skinny Skull and a complete elephant of a man. Mindful of his steps, he approached the spot, sat with his legs crossed, and placed his plaque upon his lap.

  He shut his eyes, not even trying to say hello. Should anyone attack him for any reason, he would be ready. For now though, the Nameless remembered something he needed to check. Clearing his mind of anything other than the input of his senses, he opened his unseen eye and turned to the flow of faith.

  His suspicions were confirmed. Unlike the time he woke in the cellar, there weren’t even scraps to feed off of. The flow of power that originated from Babylon’s currency, the Cult of the Nameless, or the taking of a life was completely nonexistent. There was only the pouch in his belly, and the dreadful yet essential cold it bled into him.

  He opened his eyes, letting the sensation dissipate. Even though the gris-gris was keeping him alive, the death-magic it was using to do so was thoroughly unpalatable. Not thinking about it would be the best course of action.

  The Nameless sighed as he discreetly looked left and right. There were more men than he could count, and judging by the size of the other tents, this was not the only one. The Skull women were most likely corralled separately. The nudeness is likely meant to be a humiliation. Allowing the future converts intimate contact would diminish its effectiveness.

  He shook his shoulders, causing them to crack as he straightened his spine. Then, lowering his palms to his knees, he relaxed as far as his body would allow. I might as well get comfortable. Who knows how long this will last.

  Hours went by, and the traces of outside illumination slowly dimmed. The men around the Nameless tried to pass the time however they could. Some remained silent, while others took every chance to voice their frustrations to whoever might listen. Luckily, no one seemed particularly interested in the Nameless, and he intended to keep it that way.

  At some point the door opened and in came a group of twenty people, led by a white-clad nun. A set of wheeled tables rolled in behind them, containing hundreds of food portions. The mass of Skulls stirred in reaction, and the Nameless went into a state of alertness.

  “N027,” the nun read from a piece of paper she held before her face. “M234. R097. N124. P175. S067. Please step forward.”

  Six Skulls rose from the pile, approaching the group. Each held up his own plaque. A pair of guards stood before the nun, shielding her from any potential danger.

  “Are you ready for your initiation?” the nun asked.

  The chosen Skulls confirmed their intent, each in their own way.

  “Magnificent,” said the nun. “Follow me, please.” She turned, and the assortment of guards separated, opening the way for the chosen. The six men came through, and the guards joined once more. For a moment, the Nameless doubted the wisdom of letting a woman go unescorted, but reasoned that there was more security outside.

  Suddenly, everyone rose, prompting the Nameless to do the same.

  “For whoever might be new,” shouted one of the guards, “this is how you get fed: one by one, you approach us and we give you a ration. After it’s in your hands, it’s out of ours, so try not to lose it. Understood?”

  The answer came in the form of a frustrated murmur as the Skulls tried to form some semblance of a line. The fat man at the Nameless’ side was particularly determined to get his fill first. He pushed the Nameless aside as if he were a rag doll and tried to do the same with the thin Skull who came next. The other man disagreed.

  “Fuck off, fat fuck!” the thin Skull shouted as he stood his ground.

  Apparently surprised by this act of defiance, the fat Skull stopped moving for a moment. Then his mutilated mug contorted into something even worse, and he drove into the other man, sweeping him off his feet and slamming him into the rest of the line. Like dominoes, some ten Skulls fell over each other, and a torrent of swears and insults flooded the inside of the tent. Unsure of what to do, the Nameless tried taking a step back. Contact with another body made him rethink that choice.r />
  “Don’t want to fight, do we?” a man shouted as a pair of muscled arms wrapped themselves around the Nameless’ neck, forming a lever. They started contracting immediately. “No room for pussies in the Skulls!”

  The Nameless didn’t think. He didn’t consider the consequences of what he was about to do. He was attacked, and his body had been robbed of its uncanny ability to recover. As far as he knew, this was the only life he had.

  I refuse to have it taken from me! he thought as he rocked to the left. Not even trying to relieve the pressure on his windpipe, he tightened every muscle in his right arm, and elbowed his assailant in the stomach. The man’s grip weakened, and the Nameless was free.

  He turned around (and barely avoided tripping on a freshly downed Skull) and got a quick look at his attacker as he took a fighting stance. The man was a wiry sort, with wide shoulders, and barely a hint of fat. His mutilated, square face struggled for the air the Nameless had just blown out of his lungs.

  The Nameless had no intention of letting the matter slide. Inhaling deeply, he stepped forward, feigning a direct attack. The man reacted predictably, trying to intercept the straight jab. But the Nameless ducked underneath this attempted counter and launched his fist up toward the man’s chin at full force. Every muscle on the man’s face rippled when the punch connected, sending him plummeting backward.

  However, there was no room for him to hit the floor. Instead, he fell square on the back of another Skull, who was busy punching the life out of yet another one. Not unlike a hyena interrupted during its meal, the punching Skull threw the Nameless a glare of pure rage.

  One more, the Nameless thought as he raised his fists.

  “Calm down!” a guard shouted from the direction of the door. “You have until the count of three to stop this!”

  The Nameless’ eyes went left and right before refocusing on the Skull before him. Hands bloody, the man straightened himself up. He was about to pounce. Regardless of what the guard said, there was no backing down. Fight or die.