The voice in the Hunter's mind cried in revulsion at being in the temple, but the pain of his injuries drowned it out. It faded to a dull, complaining whisper as he lay back, sipping the bitter tea. He studied the room around him with wary eyes, waiting in tense silence for the priest to speak.
"My name," said the cleric, "is Father Reverentus. As you have no doubt guessed, I am a servant of the Beggar God."
"What am I doing here?" the Hunter croaked, his throat dry.
"You were brought here to die," the priest replied. "The woman who brought you here said you fell from a high place."
"Woman?" the Hunter asked, curious. A memory of a familiar scent drifted through his mind. "Who was she?"
"Her face was covered, and she refused to give me a name," Reverentus said, shrugging. "She said you needed our help and left you here. It turns out that was the best thing she could have done."
"Why is that?" the Hunter asked.
"The sisters at The Sanctuary have been trained to deal with more mundane injuries. Given your unique physiology, I dare say they would have been far out of their depth."
"Unique physiology?" Confusion mixed with his anger at the priest's vague answers. "What in the Watcher's name does that mean?"
The priest stared at him for a moment, disbelief and skepticism written on his face. Then, slowly, realization dawned, and he nodded.
"Of course," replied the priest. "You don't know who you are. What you are." He seemed unsurprised at the Hunter's ignorance.
"Stop being cryptic, Priest. What do you know about me?"
The priest lowered himself into the chair, his joints creaking. Leaning back, he steepled his fingers and stared at the Hunter.
"I know everything about you, Hunter," he said, his voice slow. "How much I will tell you remains to be seen. After what you've done…"
"I've done nothing more than what I was paid to do," snapped the Hunter. "Yes, I killed your priest. Is that what you want to hear? Do you expect an apology from me?"
"No." Anger flashed in the old priest's eyes. "I expect no apology from a creature like you. As you say, you were just doing what you were paid to do."
The Hunter tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. Breathing hard, his strength fleeing, he fell back.
"Yes," said Reverentus, his voice hard, "you will be weak for days to come, unless drastic measures are taken to reverse the effects of the iron."
"And now that you have me in your clutches," snarled the Hunter, "you want to kill me in retribution for the death of your priest."
The old cleric's gaze traveled to Soulhunger where it lay on the table. His gnarled fingers twitched, as if aching to reach out and grasp the blade.
"While you deserve death," said Father Reverentus, visibly struggling to control his anger, "let's just say that the situation demands we take a different approach. As a result of your actions, we find ourselves in need of your services."
The Hunter sat staring, his mouth agape. He struggled to find the words, but none came. After a long moment, laughter bubbled from his chest.
"The Beggar Priests, in need of an assassin!" His laugh turned to a cough, and a spasm racked his body. When the fit passed, he studied the old priest, a sarcastic grin splitting his face. "Did someone take one of the temple's candlesticks? Or run off with the collection plate?"
The priest failed to find humor in the Hunter's words, and sat with a mirthless expression until the Hunter's laughter faded to weak chuckles.
"Had your fun?" the old man demanded. "Are you ready to hear why you still live, even though you deserve death?"
"Tell me, old man," the Hunter said, his voice as hard as the glare on Reverentus’ face.
"Then listen well, Hunter. Listen, and you may learn the truth of your past, as well as the reason we have brought you back from the Keeper's embrace."
The truth of my past? The Hunter's mind raced. Long had he wondered about the holes in his memory. If this is a chance to find out more, it's worth letting the priest speak his piece.
His eyes wandered once more to Soulhunger where it lay on the table. I can always leave, if necessary.
"To explain your part in all of this, I must tell you an ancient tale, one that few in Voramis—or the world, for that matter—have heard." The old man's voice rang out with a strength that belied his age. "In order to understand just what you are, Hunter, you must know whence you came."
Father Reverentus’ voice changed as he spoke, growing strong and resonant.
"Our world has always been ruled by thirteen gods, among them the great Kharna—god of war. Einan was his proving ground, for he led the thirteen gods to victory over the ancient beings who once claimed this world as their own. The other gods held him in high esteem, and none save Kiro, the Master, wielded more power in the Council of Gods."
The priest warmed to the topic, his face growing more animated as he spoke.
"By the side of Kharna stood his radiant goddess of devotion, love, and beauty, the fair Alzara. Together, these two gods stood for all of the virtues to which mankind aspires."
A smile wreathed the priest's face for a moment, but his expression darkened as he continued. "Then came the day Kharna no longer contented himself with being just one god among many. He sought to rule over all the gods, to replace the Master on his throne."
"He waged war on the other gods, a terrible war that shook the heavens and the earth. He summoned foul creatures from the depths of some unknown hell to serve as his minions, and to wreak death and havoc on the world. He transformed himself into the god of destruction and bloodlust."
The Hunter listened to the priest's story, though he was tempted to protest that he had heard the tales of the War of Gods—all of Voramis had.
"Humanity suffered greatly at the hands of the demons during the War of Gods, and the gods found themselves losing the battle. Only one god, the Swordsman, could stand against Kharna. He rallied the other gods in the fight against the Destroyer, and met Kharna in combat over the mountains of Pellean. Their struggle tore mountains apart, caused the sea to rise and swallow entire continents. While the Swordsman fought the Destroyer, Kharna's army of demons killed humans by the millions. The blood of the fallen fed the Destroyer, increasing his power until it seemed as if he would prevail over the Swordsman."
"Only thanks to the trickery of the Illusionist and the Watcher in the Dark did the gods manage to stop Kharna from destroying the world. The Swordsman sacrificed himself in order to stop the Destroyer. He held Kharna fast, even as the Destroyer's blade pierced his heart, giving the Watcher the opportunity to stab him with an iron blade. The iron poisoned Kharna, slowing him and allowing the Illusionist to create a spell to bind him."
"The eleven remaining gods, seeing what Kharna had done, knew they must combine their powers in order to stop him. They banished the Destroyer to the Hell from whence he had summoned the demons. His consort, the beautiful Alzara, wept for her lost lover. She wandered the heavens in search of his true spirit—the spirit of the Kharna that once was, the noble, valiant god of war. She became the Lonely Goddess, ever weeping for her lost love, the god who very nearly ended the world."
Father Reverentus paused to take a sip of his tea. When he spoke again, his words came slowly, his voice contemplative.
"This is the tale of the War of Gods told by the priests to the people, but there is more to the story—much more that few today have ever been told." The old cleric shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position.
The pause only served to rouse the Hunter's curiosity. "Go on, Priest," he said, trying to hide his eagerness. Despite his mistrust, the tale fascinated the Hunter. He had heard the same legends as the rest of Einan, but the idea that there was more to them intrigued him.
"Patience," the old priest said with a smile. He shifted to a more comfortable position and studied the Hunter once more.
"In order to maintain the cosmic balance," Reverentus said, his voice solemn, "there must a
lways be thirteen gods—or so the ancient texts say. While the blades of the Destroyer had killed the Swordsman's body, his spirit lived on. His corpse was interred deep in the ground beneath where his temple now stands.
"As for Kharna, the Destroyer, the gods knew he could not be destroyed without threatening the very fabric of the world. They entrapped his spirit in the deepest of the forgotten hells, but the shell of his flesh remained. The gods changed his body, transforming him from the glorious, noble Kharna he had once been into a broken creature. In an attempt to teach him humility, they gave him a name that would forever remind him of his place."
"The Beggar God?" the Hunter asked, incredulous. "The Beggar God was once the Destroyer?"
"Yes," the priest responded with a simple nod. "It is a hard thing to swallow, and few today would believe. And yet, there are those who know the undeniable truth. The Beggar God was created by the gods as most of Voramis believe, but he was created from the body of the banished Destroyer."
"Watcher's breath!" His mind raced, and curiosity burned within him.
But if all this is true, how do I fit into it? He wanted to know more—to know how he was connected to it all—yet Father Reverentus seemed in no hurry to talk. The old cleric simply sat and sipped his tea, an enigmatic smile on his face.
"Keeper damn you, Priest," the Hunter growled, his impatience mounting. "Finish your story, or I'll—"
"Do what?" demanded the priest, his eyes flashing again. "Leap from that bed and run your accursed dagger through me like you did Brother Securus? You'd steal my soul from my body as you did his?"
The Hunter's mouth hung open, his thoughts racing. How does he know of Soulhunger, of what it can do? How much is he not telling me?
Rage burned through the priest's mask of calm as he leapt to his feet and shouted, "I wish you would attempt it, Hunter." The man's glare pierced him like a hot knife. "I may not be as young as I once was, but you're too weak to do more than lie there. By the gods, it would be sweet justice for what you did to Brother Securus." The old man's hands flexed and relaxed, his chest heaving with rage as he stared at the Hunter.
The priest's outburst took the Hunter by surprise, and he gaped up at the fury in the old man's eyes. A tense silence filled the room as they stared at each other. Then, with a visible effort, the old priest unclenched his fists and took deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself. He sat back down, his expression carefully neutral.
"Enough of that," the priest said, his voice tight and clipped. "I will continue with my tale. But first, some tea."
Reverentus stood and poured tea into both cups, handing one to the Hunter before reaching for his own. The old priest dashed the now-tepid liquid down his throat. His knees popped as he sat once more, and, steepling his fingers, resumed speaking in a controlled voice.
"The gods had cast down the Destroyer, but when they turned their eyes to the world below, they saw it had been ruined. Death, destruction, and horror had been unleashed upon the world, and Kharna's demons still roamed free. The gods sought to cast out all of the demons summoned by the Destroyer, sending the creatures back to their hells. Now we come to the part of the tale that few alive today know."
The Hunter leaned forward, eager to hear more of the mesmerizing tale.
"After the fall of their god," Father Reverentus continued, "the demons discovered a way to hide from the faces of the gods. They took on mortal form, masquerading as humans and living among them. As long as they kept their true form hidden and never used their powers, the gods could not tell them apart from the humans.
"For long years, demons lived among mankind, evading the gaze of the gods. These demons-turned-humans discovered the pleasures of man, particularly the joys of intimacy between man and woman. In their human forms, they were able to reproduce. The offspring born of this unholy union were more than human, but not fully demon."
The Hunter's mind raced. Could it be?
"Eventually," the priest continued, "the gods discovered their secret and cast them out of the world. They gathered together all of their half-human offspring, and debated what to do with them. After much counsel, the gods determined that these demonic progeny were a plague that needed to be eradicated. These creatures were greater than the humans with whom they shared the world, and would ever be a threat.
"The gods destroyed hundreds of thousands of the demonic offspring, but the Beggar God intervened. He pled for mercy, reasoning that the creatures were still half-human and thus deserved a chance to live. His arguments swayed the gods, who decided to let the last handful of them remain on Einan.
"However," Father Reverentus said, raising a finger as if lecturing a recalcitrant student, "not all the gods contented themselves with this judgment. Derelana, Lady of Vengeance and lover to the Swordsman, placed a curse on these half-demon progeny. 'Let them eternally wander the world lost and alone,' she proclaimed. The gods erased the creatures' memories and spread them across the face of Einan, never to find one another.
"Though the gods allowed these creatures to live, mankind never forgave them for the sins of their hellish fathers. The followers of the Lady of Vengeance, the Warrior Priests, hunted them to extinction in revenge for the death and destruction brought on the world by the demons. As far as we know, all of the Forgotten Ones have been killed—save one."
The priest stared at the Hunter, studying his expression.
"What?" asked the Hunter, impatient to hear the rest of the story.
"In the tongue of the Serenii, the 'Bucelarii' means 'Forgotten Ones'. The Bucelarii are the offspring of the demons, and only one of them remains living to this day."
Both Dannaros and the Beggar Priest called me by that name.
Realization dawned on him.
"I am that one. I am the last Bucelarii."
"Yes," the old priest nodded, "the last of a race all but wiped from the face of Einan. Though you remember little of your life, you have wandered our world for thousands of years."
The Hunter sat in stunned silence, struggling to take in the priest's revelation. His thoughts whirled in a chaotic jumble, yet relief mixed with the horror. He had finally found an answer to a question he had long pondered.
I am a Bucelarii, the thought repeated itself.
"So you're telling me," he said, his voice hesitant, "I am the immortal offspring of hellish creatures who roamed the world thousands of years ago, in the days of the gods?"
"In essence, yes," Father Reverentus said, nodding.
"And I'm the only one of my kind left?"
"As far as we know," the priest replied. He seemed to see the confusion on the Hunter's face. "I know it's a lot to take in, so I'll give you a moment."
The old priest climbed slowly to his feet. His gnarled fingers gripped the handle of the teapot, and he walked toward the door.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, his voice filled with understanding. "When I return, I will try to answer any questions you may have."
The old man's departure went all but unnoticed by the Hunter, who lay unmoving in his bed, his stomach roiling and his thoughts filled with confusion.
I am the descendant of demons.
His mind, fractured by the overwhelming information, struggled to absorb everything. Chills coursed through him, yet cold sweat rolled down his chest. His clammy hands began to shake, and blood pounded in his ears.
Half-demon. Bucelarii. Last of my race.
Despite the disbelief flooding him, he felt an odd sense of relief. It all made sense—his long life, his inability to die, the effects of iron.
It could fit.
Though it may not have been what he had expected, he finally had answers about who he was—what he was.
But a demon? It was hard for him to believe, and yet the priest had said it with no hesitation in his voice. Is it even possible?
A memory flashed through his mind, of a tapestry he had seen years ago in the Temple of Heroes. It depicted horrible creatures of nightmare, ravaging th
e world of Einan as the gods waged war in the heavens. He had mocked the inhuman shapes, but the very idea of being related to the creatures appalled him and filled him with revulsion.
Minutes passed in numb silence. Visions of terrifying demonic hordes rampaged through the Hunter's mind, and with increasing horror, he saw his face among the ranks of monsters. His heart thumped in his chest, his stomach churned, and he felt as if he would vomit.
The sound of the door opening broke him from his reverie. In one hand, Father Reverentus clasped a cloth-bound bundle to his breast, the teapot held in the other. The bundle clanked as the priest placed it on the table.
Reverentus filled the Hunter's cup with steaming tea, and, moving with care, passed it to his patient. In his stupor, the Hunter hardly noticed the scalding liquid burning his mouth.
"A bit much to take in, I see," said the old priest, nodding in understanding. "You'll want proof that I'm speaking the truth, won't you?"
The Hunter nodded again.
"Very well," Father Reverentus said. He rested ancient fingers on Soulhunger. The weapon still sat in its sheath, but…
"Soulhunger?" the Hunter asked, reaching out as if to touch the blade. The dagger whispered gently, its words filling his mind. "That is your proof?"
"Soulhunger, you call the blade?" The priest mused on this for a moment. "A fitting name," he said, nodding, "given its purpose."
"Purpose?"
"Of course," the priest said, almost apologetically, "you wouldn't know the origin of the blade." He pulled it from its sheath, holding it up to the light of the candle. "This," he said, an odd tightness in his voice, "is the last of the weapons forged by the Destroyer for his demonic army."
The old priest winced as he held the blade, and Soulhunger's voice protested, sounding angry in the Hunter's mind. Father Reverentus seemed to age a decade in the space of a few heartbeats. It looked as if just gripping the blade required tremendous effort.
Slowly, the cleric sheathed Soulhunger, almost dropping it on the table. He sucked in deep breaths, leaning against the wall to steady himself.
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