Chapter 331: Cursed Monastery |
Cursed Monastery
Monastery, Lowest Floor
Dust drifted down as low, indistinct rumbles rolled through the chamber. Not far from Gregory, gurgling and beyond saving, stood a bloodied figure. It was Anna. One of her hands and the cuff of her clothing were stained ochre red. As three men rushed toward her, she screamed. It was deafening, but not the scream of someone in pain or distress. It rang with mockery and taunts. For the two SAR men and the Black Knight, it stripped away any lingering doubt. She was a threat.
The rumbling came again, but the men had already narrowed their focus and cast aside all needless concern. Right now, any suspicion of corrupted magic did not matter. They saw a threat, and they moved to eliminate it.
From the passage between the stacked caskets, another SAR carrying two crossbows saw the attack and joined in. Without hesitation, he leveled his Xbow and loosed a burst of bolts at Anna’s back. Without looking, she tilted her neck to the left like a broken doll, and a burst of ethereal shield flared into being, deflecting them away from her. Even so, it forced her to hold her ground. In front of her, three blades flashed toward her, two thrusts and one overhead slash.
She avoided the lunges with sharp sidesteps, but then had to meet the murderous overhead slash.
Sparks flew as a bloodied knife met and blocked the much larger blade.
Her strength startled all who saw it. Such a lithe body, one that previously could not even support itself, now possessed strength equal to the best of them.
The men were about to let their swords loose, but a voice barked from behind. “Stand aside!”
But they were not the only ones to move. The lithe Anna leaped to an incredible height, almost clearing the wall of caskets, and caught herself on the tallest one. As she hung there, the SAR with the Xbow unleashed a stream of bolts at her. The first bolts struck her clothes. No ethereal shield appeared. She had let her guard down.
Yet, she pulled herself up with one hand in a feat that beggared belief and slipped through the narrow gap between the topmost caskets and the low ceiling like a big spider.
“What happened there?” came shouts from the other side of the wall.
“It’s the woman. She’s possessed!” the SAR with the Xbow shouted, but a heap of caskets crashed into him, forcing him to dive away.
Rumbles sounded again, but nobody could spare them any attention. Sir Morton sprang past the three men and shoved through the collapsing pile, desperate to catch her.
Beyond the crumbling wall of caskets, another voice rang out. “I saw her!”
“Anna!” they heard Saint Candidate Emma cry.
Rapid mechanical cranking rose at once from several men, followed by the quick firing of Xbows and a series of dull thumps.
Then a frantic warning rang out. “She’s coming!”
Hearing that, Sir Morton roared and broke through the wall of caskets, sending broken wood flying left and right. The dead lay scattered around him. But what he found beyond was chaos. The small figure had already cut down two men and was now upon a third, moving with the quick, skittering nimbleness of a spider. If not for their armor, the men would already have fallen. Instead, they had suffered crippling wounds to their limbs.
In a heartbeat, Sir Morton rushed forward just as another man fell, struck by a horizontal cut just above the eyes. The last victim toppled to the side, barely managing to shield his face and neck with his armored wrist and spoil her killing stroke.
“Anna!” Emma called again, desperate as a squire and a bailiff official carried her toward the stairs.
The figure gave no answer and turned toward the eleven men around her.
“She took my bardiche!” the last man she bested warned in a shrill voice.
Seeing Sir Morton closing in from behind her, the SAR Captain seized one of his men’s halberds and rushed at her. “Come then, you scheming bitch! So this was your game all along.”
...
Sir Harold
On the other side of the wall of caskets, the three men and the Vice followed Sir Morton, leaving Sir Harold and the SAR with two crossbows behind. The Commander couldn't help but stop beside the dying Gregory. Kneeling, he turned the man onto his side with one hand so he could breathe more easily in the last moments of his life. With the other hand, he supported his head so it would not fall.
“I’m with you. I’m with you,” Sir Harold told the dying man, now greatly weakened by blood loss.
Gregory’s hands gripped him tightly. His hold was still strong, still fighting for life.
“You’ve done great. Leave your worries behind. We’ll see it through from here,” he said, giving him the kind of words any warrior would wish to hear.
Gregory held on for a long while, his breathing ragged, until his body suddenly jerked. Blood spilled from his mouth, and then his grip gave way.
Death had finally come, even for the loyal and strong.
Again, low rumbles echoed through the floor, as if mocking his passing. Dust drifted down for no clear reason.
Sir Harold gently lowered Gregory to the floor and closed the fallen man’s eyes. “To be killed by treachery,” he muttered, his anger nearly uncontained.
Despite the bitterness of it, the lone SAR could do nothing but watch. With only the two of them on this side of the hall, he had to remain alert and keep watch over the Banneret’s safety.
Beyond the grotesque wall, the shouting and sounds of battle grew louder. It seemed Sir Morton had engaged the woman disguised as the Saint Candidate Anna.
Sir Harold still found it hard to believe that the other Saint Candidate, Emma, had failed to recognize her own friend. There were other possibilities, such as possession, but such things were largely regarded as folktales, mere superstition from the age before the Ageless’ enlightenment.
Sir Harold rose and turned his attention to the bodies arranged in a ring around a woman in luxurious white silk robes. Trusting his gut, he strode toward the center. There was a danger there that he might need to deal with.
The lone SAR followed behind him, his Xbow ready and a loaded cranequin hanging from his back. The lantern chained to his chest plate cast a bright yellow beam. Yet even without it, multiple lanterns lay scattered around them, still burning while their owners lay dead.
Sir Harold reached the outer layer of bodies and, without hesitation, kicked and shoved them aside with great strength, his wrath finally boiling over. “Damn the Saint and this corrupted magic. I’ll pin you all to the wall. This place will burn!”
His voice echoed, answered only by the low rumble.
Ignoring the fighting on the other side, Sir Harold drove through the bodies like a warhorse crashing into a line of men. It was not only anger that drove him, but also the urge to break the suspicious formation, which might have been a magical summoning circle. A dark ritual. Destroying it might help stop whatever the Saint had planned.
He stopped only when he reached the pale figure in white. Like his men, he had never seen the Saint before, but the woman’s radiant beauty and youth, along with her exquisite and lustrous white silken robes, seemed to confirm it.
Towering over the dead woman, Sir Harold felt only a cold stillness. His mind cleared. This was the one who had started the rebellion that killed so many. Tens of thousands had died so she could play at gods and kings. He drew his blade in one swift motion and cut cleanly through her neck.
It was said that beheading could stop not only corrupted magic, but even fell beasts.
Sir Harold watched as the head rolled to a stop. He sighed. He felt nothing, and that did not trouble him. Yet a striking detail caught his eye. Beneath her white robe, she wore a purple gown. He found it odd. The hall wasn't that cold, and the garments looked thick and heavy. After a moment, he let the thought go. The purple cloth soon darkened with blood.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Behind the body, the Great Gemstone stood in silence.
The noise beyond the wall of caskets swelled, drawing them toward their brethren.
“It’s Sir Morton’s voice. Do you think we should help them?” the lone SAR asked.
“No,” Sir Harold said. “We have our own task.”
The low rumbles continued, lending more weight to his judgment.
“This still looks like a magic formation," Sir Harold explained. "I’m going to break it in several more places so it no longer resembles a rune. Stay there and keep watch.”
Greater noise came from the other side of the wall. It only spurred Sir Harold on, and he went on shoving the other bodies aside, breaking the circle of runes.
...
Sir Morton
On the other side of the crumbling wall of caskets, the SAR Captain faced Saint Candidate Anna with his halberd. “Come then, you scheming bitch. So this was your game all along.”
Anna met him head-on with a stolen bardiche. “Game? There was no lie. This little girl did nothing wrong. But now I am her.”
She laughed.
They closed within five steps. Anna struck first, swinging the bardiche in a brutal cut. The broad axe blade slammed against the lower part of the halberd’s shaft as the Captain thrust it forward. Using the force of the clash, he whipped the halberd’s axe head toward her shoulder. She caught the blow on the bardiche shaft, hard and clumsy, and that gave him the chance to bind their weapons.
The clash turned into a struggle.
Grunting, the Captain threw his strength into it. His technique was flawless. Yet to everyone’s disbelief, Anna proved the stronger. She forced the locked weapons to one side and drove the head of her bardiche toward the Captain’s neck.
Sweat dripped from his chin. The muscles in his arms burned, but he was clearly being overpowered. Realizing he could not win the bind, he broke away. A nearly fatal low slash followed at once, and he jerked clear of it. He recovered his stance and raised the butt spike of the halberd, using it to beat aside her second strike, then her third.
Her strength was overwhelming, yet she clearly lacked finesse.
“Who are you inside Anna’s body?” the Captain asked, trying to distract her.
She was about to answer when Sir Morton emerged from the shadows behind her. His flamberge sang sharply through the air.
Anna could only gasp. Her mouth opened wide, and her face tilted toward the ceiling as her body arched from the blow to her back.
“No!” Emma wailed hoarsely as she was dragged upstairs, watching her friend come under attack.
The Captain swung at her bardiche with all his might. The impact knocked the weapon from her grasp, and he caught her right wrist. His gaze turned to Sir Morton. “The thing said it took over Anna’s body.”
“I heard,” Sir Morton said as his gauntleted fingers clamped down on Anna’s shoulder. Her words were the reason he had held back from a thrust that would have killed her outright.
Putting their weight and strength behind it, the two forced Anna to kneel. She resisted, but at last she went down, breathing heavily.
Instead of relief, Sir Morton’s eyes widened. Anna’s body had become wreathed in a surge of magic greater than any he had ever seen. “Get back!” he yelled.
The Captain couldn't react fast enough. Anna’s left hand shot out and seized the SAR Captain’s right wrist, the one restraining her own hand. He tried to pull away, but her grip held firm. Instead, his eyes met hers.
A cruel smile had already formed on her lips. “You seem to be in pain, old man. Let me heal you.”
There was no sympathy in her voice. She began a short chant.
[Heart Rupture]
The man gasped as a terrible force surged through him, like countless fires racing wildly through his body. It was not a curse, but a powerful and reckless healing. Within seconds, the Captain’s heart began to beat so fast that it lost its rhythm and stopped. Just before the blood vessels in his brain could burst, Sir Morton heaved Anna up with one arm, lifting her clear off the floor and breaking the contact.
The Mage Knight gritted his teeth and drove her down in a tight arc, fully intent on killing her by smashing her into the stone floor. He was about to hurl her down with all his strength, but an instant before impact, instinct warned him against it.
Sir Morton held back just enough to spare her from certain death. Even so, Anna hit the floor hard. The air was driven from her lungs, leaving her gasping. The impact cracked her shoulder and ribs.
To the side, the Captain crashed to the floor, his mouth open and his eyes rolled back.
“Captain!” his men approached, trying to help.
However, seeing the incredible magic still surging within her, Sir Morton howled, “Stay away!”
The men stopped dead in their tracks.
His predatory gaze remained fixed on the woman, and only then did he notice that something had changed.
“K,” Anna tried to speak despite the crippling pain that made even her fingers twitch. “K-kill me.”
Taking no chances, for her magic was beyond anything he had seen from any mage, Sir Morton pinned her to the floor with his sabaton planted on her chest and brought his flamberge close to her neck. “Do you trust me?” he demanded coldly.
Her eyes had already rolled, showing white. Her mouth kept muttering. “K-ill…”
Sir Morton inhaled deeply. His aura burst forth, swelling in shifting waves of color. Wind roared around him and sent dust spiraling as a massive dark gauntlet, his spectral claw, formed at his side. Without wasting a moment, he hurled it straight into Anna’s chest.
“Gah!” she cried, recoiling in shock.
The sharp tips of the spectral claw mercilessly dug into her body. Though ethereal, they still drew blood. Her whole body recoiled. Her limbs jerked, and foam gathered at her open mouth. Sir Morton was not finished. He began to mutter an old chant.
“Matres Antiquae
Patres Domini
Audite me!
Me vobis aperio.”
His eyes turned completely gold. His aura swelled until even ordinary men could see it. His spectral claw blazed with the glory of morning light. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, darkness returned once more.
The Mage Knight let out a heavy breath. On the floor, Anna breathed raggedly and in clear pain, yet her face was more relaxed. The spectral claw that had impaled her chest was gone like mist, leaving only blood where it had struck.
Without moving nearer, Sir Morton let some of his magic flow into her.
Anna opened her eyes, her face slick with sweat. The bandages on her head had come undone a while ago, revealing fresh scars still bleeding.
“My magic will ward you against it. It cannot possess you anymore.”
Anna couldn't react. Her body was too broken, and her consciousness faded.
“Sir!” the young Black Knight ran over, followed by many others.
“Assist the wounded. And stay vigilant. We are facing corrupted magic here.”
The men, all of them veterans of many wars, traded glances. Without needing a word, half of them broke away and hurried to their Captain.
“Is she dead?” one of the SAR men demanded, the fatal attack on Gregory weighing heavily on his mind.
“No. She was possessed,” Sir Morton replied, his eyes scanning the hall.
The young Black Knight knelt to check on Anna. “You performed an exorcism on her.”
“Not a Damnation Exorcism, but this might do..." Sir Morton replied. “Even if it's not, she's now too broken to do any harm.”
The men around them exchanged concerned glances. Even lithe, she had given some of the best of the Blue and Bronze nightmares.
“I need answers. She's under my protection,” Sir Morton declared, then walked toward the fallen Captain.
At the man's side, he knelt and ordered, “Remove his chest plate.”
Four men around the Captain did so quickly.
Sir Morton pressed his armored gauntlet to the Captain’s chest. He closed his eyes, then opened them again and turned toward the stairs. “This is critical. Get that other Sister back. We will need her expertise. Pray that her healing is better than mine.”
One SAR member bolted for the stairs without hesitation. The prospect of losing another weighed heavily on everyone.
***
Sir Harold
The hall on their side was dim. Even the numerous lanterns left behind by the suicidal members of the Monastery could not light the whole chamber. At the center, the chandelier had been lowered, but its candles had already melted away. The air was foul and still, heavy with the stench of the dead that lingered without fading.
Sir Harold stopped to catch his breath. Working like a ploughman while clad in armor was taxing. It was also gruesome, for what he pushed aside were bodies. Moreover, his stitched wound had begun to throb. He feared he might have overdone it.
Nearby, the lone SAR adjusted the strap of the cranequin on his back. As he looked around, he couldn't help but notice that the stretch along the wall had largely gone unchecked.
“Sir,” he called.
Sir Harold turned to him. “You found something?”
“Nothing yet. But I’m thinking of checking the wall over there.” He pointed to the left side of the hall.
“You’re hoping to find a stash or supplies they were hiding?” Sir Harold asked.
“Or other threats. I doubt everyone is so willing to kill themselves, even for the Saint.”
Thinking he had done enough damage to the magic formation, Sir Harold picked up a lantern from the floor. “I’ll back you up.”
The SAR member took the point, moving toward the left side of the hall. Hooked to his breastplate, a compact oil lantern cast a bright yellow glow, its polished silver reflector throwing the light a good thirty steps ahead.
Something more than curiosity drew him to that side of the hall. Before long, he was met by the sight of dusty red shoes jutting out.
“Corpses...?” he muttered to himself, stopping. “Why here?”
Despite spotting a couple of bodies and their funerary shoes, he continued forward. With one hand, he angled the lantern’s light upward, and what it revealed was the most grotesque sight he had ever seen in his life.
“What in the Ancient’s name?” he muttered, his voice strained.
Sir Harold walked past the SAR man. His booming voice rang out. “What fuckery is this?”
The SAR had no answer.
Sir Harold’s jaw tightened as he took in the desecration of the dead.
Before them, dead men and women sat side by side on long wooden benches arranged in three rows, each pressed behind heavy desks of rotten old wood. The SAR swept his lantern slowly from left to right, and the dim light revealed more rows of desks and benches, all occupied by the dead.
There were easily more than a hundred corpses. Some had pitched forward over the desks, their slack faces half-hidden in the grime, while others sat twisted where death had seized them, their backs bent against the benches. Their heads hung at ruinous angles, their limbs had stiffened, and their faces were frozen in death. Dust lay thick on their shoulders, sleeves, and hair. Yet their garments still showed that many were either nobles or from wealth.
“I think this is the Catacombs the Sisters spoke of,” the SAR remarked.
“It does not smell rotten,” Sir Harold observed.
“They're not bloated. At least now we know the Monastery’s embalming is outstanding,” he joked dryly.
Sir Harold still stared at the disturbing sight.
It was macabre. The dead had been placed on the benches as if they were meant to witness something.
A burst of light flared from the other side of the wall, startling them.
“What was that?” the SAR man blurted as the light faded again.
Sir Harold remained calm and said, “We brought no alchemist, but we did bring flares.”
The SAR man furrowed his brow. “Is the fight still ongoing?”
“Maybe they’re trying something...”
The light and noise drew them toward the other side of the hall, beyond the wall of caskets. As they approached, the SAR glanced back at the long benches filled with dead bodies. Then it clicked.
“Sir, does this not look like a court to you?”
Sir Harold stopped and turned to look again. The benches, the desks, the whole arrangement, it did resemble a bailiff’s court.
“A court,” Sir Harold echoed. Then his eyes narrowed. “For the dead to judge whom?”
A damp breath of air passed through them. Then they heard it. A slow drip from somewhere among the benches.
The rotten stench suddenly turned unbearable.
Then wood creaked somewhere among the benches.
***
*See notes below