She saw a brilliant silver light part the crowd. Cyril stood at the end of the corridor that had been created. He shone in the gray mist of rain. In his hand was a silvery trident with three gleaming prongs and a large diamond set in the point where they converged with the shaft. The brilliance came from the symbol of Jonath that hung around his neck. A hole had burned through his shirt where the medallion sat, but his flesh underneath was untouched.
Cyril strode forward swinging his trident back and forth. Wherever it touched any of the monsters it left scorch marks and the smell of burning flesh. This did nothing to settle the nauseous feeling in Gruedo’s stomach.
“What took you so long?” Gruedo panted as she stood and turned her back on Cyril and faced the attacking horde.
“They wouldn’t let me out of the pub. They were barring the door. People were banging to get in, and I had to fight my way out.” Cyril sounded calm and in control, as if this was what he knew how to do, and he was born into this job of slaying the unnatural horrors.
Gruedo dodged forward and dropped low, bringing her dagger between the legs of one, cutting at the hamstring in the inner thigh. The beast fell sideways and then began to pull itself up on its other leg. “How did you get the crowd to open it?” she asked ass he came out of a spin that cut a slice across the belly of another.
“I commanded them to open it in the Name of Jonath. They couldn’t resist,” Cyril said as he turned in a half circle, touching three more and watching their flesh peel back, more from the holy power of the ethereal weapon than the force of his cut. “These are undead. Zombies born of whatever power it was that I felt when I woke screaming the other day. Your weapons will not kill them.”
“Looks like they are doing just fine to me,” Gruedo yelled as she struck out again. The stream of undead surrounded them now. The main body pushed past the knot that created a wall around them, seeking other prey.
“Look again,” was all Cyril said. Gruedo looked for a moment at the one she had cut on the inner thigh and saw the wound closing, muscle and sinew knitting together as it did.
“Chanian’s Boots! How am I supposed to kill these things?” she shouted.
“Fire, the power of magic, or the power of a God. Good thing I brought one of those with me.” Cyril began chanting in the dull monotone Gruedo had heard once before in the room of the inn back in Edgewater. “Jonath, I call upon your protection from these unnatural horrors. Give us the power to turn them back, bless our weapons as we do the duty you have given us of protecting those weaker than ourselves.”
As Cyril finished there was a burst of light and the zombies fell backwards as if hit with a wall of lightning. Smoke rose from the front row of walking dead. The other brainless monsters stepped over, or on, them to reach their quarry.
Gruedo felt fear then, but only for a moment. She was not the type ever to be defenseless, and she was not defenseless now. She sheathed one of her daggers and reached into her satchel that was slung, as always, over her shoulder and hung at her hip. She drew out a padded leather case and unlaced it with her teeth as she knelt. She set the open case on the ground and picked a hollow double glass marble from it. She took aim and threw this into the face of one of the zombies that was stepping over its fallen brethren. It exploded spectacularly. Flames enveloped the thing, but it continued forward. The fire spread though. Each zombie it brushed against caught fire easier than it should have.
“Try your weapons again,” Cyril told her as she stabbed at the remaining monsters. Gruedo looked down at the useless dagger in her hand and saw a faint silvery glow. It was not as strong as the one that emanated from Cyril’s trident, but Gruedo grinned anyway and spun into action, grabbing a handful of her glass explosives as she did.
Cyril marched forward with grim determination. He stabbed with the points of his trident and clubbed with the four-foot handle. He chanted an almost constant prayer to Jonath now, calling upon his God to support, protect, and inspire him as well as destroy and vanquish the evil that attacked the town. Gruedo weaved and dodged her way through the thinning crowd of undead. Her weapons now cut with the blessing of Jonath and the wounds did not close and mend as they had before. She used her alchemical bombs to the best advantage, and flung them into tight groups of the rotting creatures.
The townsfolk hid, barring their doors, shuttering their windows, and barricading themselves inside. A few peeked through knotholes or second story windows. Later tales would be told of those that swore that they were outside when the horde of undead marched through town. Some would tell how they fought the things, destroying many. Others would tell how they hid or ran, not willing to test their lives against the monsters’ unlife. Those who died that day would tell the truth, without question.
The battle continued well into the night. The mass of the undead creatures moved on, as if attacking the village was incidental, rather than the goal. After an hour or so, Cyril had destroyed most of the creatures that remained with Gruedo’s help. It fell to them to hunt the remaining creatures in the dark. Some of the city’s braver residents came out, armed with torches, lanterns, and various weapons.
One zombie had become locked in a barn and was scraping at the door, trying to find a way out. When Gruedo opened the door, with Cyril waiting, the creature lurched out towards the crowd of people that had gathered to help. The crowd scattered. Weapons were dropped as they ran, torches were thrown, and lanterns were shattered. Cyril did away with the flesh-eating zombie, but came away with burns along one leg where a lantern someone had dropped had splashed him with flaming oil. The wet and rain stopped the barn and hay from catching fire.
The crowd returned, peeking around the corner of a building before creeping forward. They filtered into the area in front of the barn and stared at the corpse. Many hung back. One figure was larger and would have stood out in any other situation, but went unnoticed in the back of the crowd this night. Cyril sat on a muddy hay bale surrounded by a crowd of concerned - and embarrassed - people, his pants torn open to his thigh and blisters appeared along it.
“Can’t you pray to your God to heal you?” a man asked.
“Yes, but I have asked Jonath for so much this day, I do not wish to ask him for more. Especially when it is for such a selfish reason.” Cyril answered.
“Selfish? You just saved a city, man! What kind of damned god would not give you a little bit of help after that?” the man spat. Cyril looked up, his face pained but his temperament even.
“The kind of god that just saved your ungrateful hide,” Gruedo interrupted, “Cyril, great priest of Jonath, knows when to ask, and what to ask for. Do not question his wisdom, lest he judge you on the next full moon when the priests of Jonath converge for Judgment Day.”
The man looked nervous and backed away from Gruedo’s indignant stare. Cyril raised a hand to stop further argument.
“Actually, questioning wisdom can bring more wisdom, if done in a wise manner. Also, the church does not just judge anyone.” Cyril began to explain. A sharp howl cut the night. The gathered crowd looked around, fear and anxiety showing on their faces. Another howl sounded closer, seeming to be only one street over. The people began to mutter and the word “Werewolf” was heard more than once. Two more howls answered the previous ones. The crowd broke and ran.
Cyril tried to call to the fleeing people, tried to make them understand they would be safer together. The townsfolk followed the philosophy of ‘save yourself’, and ran. The predators would not see it that way and would hunt the slow and weak. Their howls were meant to do exactly what they had done, separate the flock. Cyril stood, and almost fell from the pain in his burns. Gruedo went to help support him, but Cyril waved her away.
“You may need both hands if these people are correct. I will be all right,” Cyril said as he limped forward. Gruedo noticed the trident had disappeared.
“Where’s your trident?” Gruedo asked, sounding worried.
“It only stays with me as long as I will it to. When
the burns happened I lost control and it faded,” Cyril explained, turning the first corner.
“Faded? You mean it wasn’t real, it was just part of your imagination?” Gruedo darted ahead, then knelt and peered around the next building into an alley.
“It was as real as my faith, so it wounded, burned, and laid the dead to a final rest.” Gruedo interrupted Cyril, as she Gruedo hushed him and motioned for him to stop.
A low guttural growl came from the dark of the alley. The clouds still hid the little bit of the moon and the pair had no torches. Cyril began his low chant of prayer again. “Jonath once again I ask for your help and protection, please help me guard this town by showing me what lies in the dark,” he said as Gruedo shushed him again. A hairy form burst from the dark alley, knocking Gruedo over as it flew past, towards Cyril. A flaming ball appeared and hovered over Cyril’s palm, and light burst forth. He threw it towards the form. The humanoid creature was larger than a man, and screamed as it flung its body sideways to avoid the flaming light. Bounding off a wall, it launched itself at the priest. The beast barreled into Cyril, and knocked them both to the ground.
Flames erupted on the creature as Cyril produced another flaming ball and rolled away. Gruedo was already atop the thing, stabbing and slicing with her twin daggers. It screamed again, this time a much more inhuman noise. It stood up, and Gruedo was flung backwards into the wall. As she hit, Cyril heard the breath rush from Gruedo’s body and her head crack against the wall. The beast raised itself to its full height and released a howl into the night. The monster had a wolfish cast to its features, and stood almost seven feet tall. It flexed its clawed hands as it circled Gruedo, who lay dazed against the wall. Cyril lay in the street - his burnt leg twisted beneath him - and called out once again to his God.
It was not for protection this time, or for justice, rather he called to the deep connection Jonath held with the earth. So many people who had been described as the salt of the earth, so many who worked the earth, so many farmers and others called upon Jonath, that the God had formed a bond with the element his worshipers shaped every day. That was what Cyril called upon.
The cobblestones melted under the werewolf’s weight, its paw-like feet sinking into the street, as it became a thick mud. The creature looked down as its foot became stuck. The mud and stone mix rose up its leg, and held it in place, but sought to do more than that.
Gruedo came around a little bit, her bleary eyes focusing on the threat that had stopped a few feet in front of her. As she watched, the creature fell to all fours, which was as natural to it as walking upright, and stretched its body towards her. Its snout was now a less than an arm’s reach from her. Gruedo dug desperately in her satchel.
The beast balanced on its two hind feet and one arm, and stretched one clawed hand towards the rogue. The mud and rock continued to creep up its leg and cocoon it, but it was clear it would be able to reach and kill Gruedo before the living mud could encase it. Gruedo raised her hand in front of her face, a small broken vial in her palm and powder scattered across her hand. She blew.
The monster roared as the dust hit its face and spread across it. It breathed in, as it gasped for more air for the next roar and choked. Its claw that was reaching for Gruedo was now scraping at its own face and the monster had fallen to the side. Gruedo wasted no time. She stood and circled the beast; the hunter was now the hunted. She moved into position and, as smooth as a dancer, slid forward and slipped her blade into the soft tissue under the beast’s arm. The other blade swung around to the tender flesh of the throat and the beast’s roars became gurgles. Blood poured from its wounds, but Gruedo did not stop. She glided moved to a new position, avoiding the creature’s flailing arms and claws. The mud had now encased it to its waist and held it tighter than before.
Another slice appeared just below the ribs on each side to the spine. Gruedo rammed one dagger upward into the base of the skull and jammed the other between the ribs on its left side and into vital organs inside. The creature slumped and laid still.
“Wait, it will revive.” Cyril pointed at the werewolf’s body.
“No, it won’t.” Gruedo knelt beside Cyril to check his leg and other injuries.
“I have researched lycanthropes, they heal wounds at incredible rates,” Cyril objected.
“Look, the powder I threw in its face? Silver nitrate. I use it for certain things I do. I happened to have a bit with me. I know a bit about some things too. I figured if it inhaled it, that may make it susceptible to weapons. Looks liked it worked.” Gruedo gestured towards the body with her chin. The body shrunk, the hair receded, the claws disappeared, and remains showed the form of a naked woman. As Gruedo helped Cyril stand the transformation stopped.
Another howl shattered the night. Cyril and Gruedo both spun towards the noise, though it was distant. They waited, tensed to move. Then another howl sounded in the distance. The pack was moving away and both let out a breath neither had realized they had been holding.
Torches and lanterns lit the avenues as Gruedo lent support to Cyril and the two made their way back to the Two Bit Rest. Mobs of people were scouring the town for any remaining undead. People reacted with varied emotions whenever they spotted Gruedo and Cyril. Sometimes, it was relief that they were not zombies, suspicion that they were out without a group, or awe at the wounds they showed. Other times, it was to brag to anyone about their own exploits that night.
Soon the two sat in the room they would share for the night. They had decided it was better to stay together to keep watch, in case any further excitement happened tonight. Cyril lay back on the wide bed, his leg wrapped and propped on a saddlebag. Gruedo reorganized her satchel and dried out her leather case in front of the fireplace.
“What’s next, Cyril?” Gruedo stacked and shuffled various powders and liquids, as she portioned them out into smaller vials and packets. “Do we press forward into the wilds that these things came from, live in, and know like the back of their hairy paws?”
“No, I don’t think so. I wonder if we could hire a ship to sail into Silver Bay and get us there quicker. I think we should return to Edgewater and check that first.” Cyril leaned back, a cool cloth across his forehead.
Gruedo looked at Cyril’s leg over the top of her collection of vials and bottles. “Are you going to be able to ride three days back to Edgewater with that leg?”
“Do I have a choice? I think I did what Jonath sent me here to do. I also think there was a greater reason for this. I don’t know if it is to help spread the word of Jonath or someone that was saved this night has a greater destiny, but there was a reason.”
Gruedo noticed Cyril’s voice grew more distant. Soon she could hear the priest’s steady breathing above the sound of the slow drizzle outside. Cyril was asleep. She would watch most of the night while the priest slept. Gruedo had never known any holy men and did not put much faith into Gods or magic, but tonight Cyril showed her there was something more in the world than just luck.
5854 – Thon – Talsā – Uthr
They rose early and ate a quick meal at the Bleeding Bitch. The place was packed with people who had been up most of the night. The camaraderie was high and everyone was congratulated someone, consoled someone, or shared in some way with another. Cyril and Gruedo listened to the talk, but became the focus when someone recognized Cyril. Soon a crowd had gathered around their table asking how he destroyed the creatures of the night and how he drove off the rest. The master of the house gave Cyril half off his meal as show of the town’s appreciation. Gruedo had to pay full price.
The two tried to stave off the questions and fawning crowd, each for their own reasons. Cyril did it for humility sake; Gruedo did it because in her line of work it was best to have a low profile. The crowd parted when their new heroes stood to go. As they left, they were clapped on the back until they stung as the sun had burned them, and their hands were shook so much that they ached. They heard well-wishing phrases of many types, but it was one phrase t
hat stopped Cyril in his tracks.
“It is a shame you can’t stay and help find the missing children,” the anonymous voice said from the gathered crowd. Cyril turned towards it and craned his neck as best he could with his injured leg to see who said it.
“What?” asked Cyril, “What missing children?”
“You didn’t hear? Three children were taken from their beds last night,” the master of the house explained.
“No, I didn’t hear. I am sorry to hear that. Were they taken by the undead? Are they dead?” A woman interrupted Cyril and explained.
“No sir, they were not hurt that we could tell. Three children were taken, though, from behind locked doors. No blood found, no broken doors or windows. The parents were close in each case and said there was no way the children could have snuck past them,” she said.
Another took up the story, an old man, “T’was the Corrupt Fae. They have been coming into the cities and towns and stealing children since Kala took their eternal souls for his dark rituals.”
“Why would he need children? Why would the fae?” Cyril asked. The crowd had no further information that helped. A collection of guesses and wives’ tales were all they could offer.
Cyril and Gruedo collected their horses and rode from the city in the dew of the morning. A large shadow followed them, dodging from building to building, keeping out of sight. The rain had moved on and the sun felt warmer to them than it had for many days.
“Well, now we have other reasons to return to Edgewater,” Cyril said and Gruedo looked at him curiously. “To warn of the march of an army of undead, werewolves, and share all we have learned here. The most important reason though is, like a compass needle, the key I have has been pointing in that direction since we returned to our room last night.”
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 17
