Chapter 12 - The Four Blessings

The church was a single chamber, a long hall of stone. The light from the votive candles at the altarpiece was the room's only illumination, the sparse golden glow casting long shadows along the wooden pews.

It was cool but not cold here, as I gazed up at the arched, painted roof. Not the now-familiar depictions of saints and the Almighty, as allowed by the Social Ministry; Instead, I looked upon the leader of the Hero’s Party, his head bowed in prayer, haloed in numinous grace as the Four Elemental Gods granted him their blessing.

Who were you? I wondered, leaning my head back against the rough-hewn surface of the pew. One of them? Or someone like me, far from home and with no way back?

What happened to you?

There was a musty stink of rotting axle leaves, mingling with the smoky scent of incense. It was, I supposed, a minor miracle to find this place, left untouched by the Cloven Ones. As it turned out, it was the city's population and the sheer visceral pleasure of looting - blood, and gold - that had captured their full attention.

I suppose they would have defiled this place too, in time. For now, it seemed a precious island of tranquility, amid the great, wounded outrage of the city.

I couldn't remember when I'd last slept. I was somewhere beyond exhaustion, beyond fatigue; the world had taken on a hallucinatory edge, and time seemed to stutter or slow as it would.

I sat there for a long time. People had come and gone, most stopping to light candles at the shrine. For the lost, or those might soon be. Some had cast curious gazes in my direction, but few approached - I assume they thought I was some knight or paladin, seeking solace or clarity after all that had happened.

At some point, a hooded woman had pushed in a cart, heaped high with loaves. She'd handed them out with a brisk, untroubled efficiency, pressing one into my hands before I could refuse. "Thank you," she'd said, and left without another word.

It was still warm from the ovens, so soft it tore in my hands. I hadn't realized how hungry I was, until I'd taken the first bite - And then I was munching away, suddenly ravenous, wiping my mouth on my sleeve once I was done. Even as I brushed crumbs away from my breastplate, it occurred to me that I was, curiously, content; It was as if all I'd seen, all I'd done, was being held at bay until I chose to face it.

Outside, I could hear distant cheering, horns blowing to celebrate both survival and triumph - A great unwinding of tension, after weeks of miserable occupation. There was much to cheer for and much to mourn, but the latter would come once the first flush of victory had faded.

I stood. Slowly, limping, I approached the candle-stand, wondering if I should light an offering, too. A single gold piece clinked as I placed it in the cup, counting out fresh candles from the box.

Five, I thought. One each for Caius, for Skander, for Heiter, Roulle and Jozan. The rest could come later.

There were dozens already burning, when I took up the taper. I wondered, distantly, if there would be space for all of the twenty.

Behind me, the main door opened. The candle flames flickered in the gust of cold air, jumping as the door slammed.

"I knew I would find you here," Sabrine said.

-----------------

When the Holy Army swept in through the gate, it was the beginning of the end for the beastmen. At full charge, the Templar Order and the cavalry had smashed into the enemy mass. Already wounded and reeling from what I'd done, the enemy had stood no chance. 

Their desperate resistance had lasted long enough for the angels to descend, and there was no mercy left in them.

No quarter had been asked for, and none had been given. Jabulani Red Tatter and Luan White Smoke of the Storm Walkers had tried to hold the vengeful knights at bay with magic, but the death of their matriarch had disordered them: Commander Sabrine had ridden through their desperate storms of ice and hails of fire, and put them both to the sword.

As it turned out, Sabrine' most pessimistic estimate had been correct. There had been upwards of five thousand beastmen in the occupied city, which meant that every man in the liberating force was facing five-to-one odds - But then figures had come pouring from the slums, the scorched buildings and the cellars of the ravaged city. Dozens, at first...Then hundreds.

The people of Lyost..

Some had the spears and swords of the militia, others the captured weapons of the demihumans. Some had meat cleavers tied to poles, or the long spikes and meathooks of their trade. Others had nothing more than shards of glass or staves of wood.

But all were armed, and all were furious. It was desperation as much as rage that drove them; they knew that this was their only hope of survival, that this was their only chance to emerge from the ordeal alive.

Except for the few surviving adventurers, they were miserably outclassed by the enemy horde. But they threw themselves into the fight anyway, the way a cornered animal claws and bites at the hunter.

There was little organization to them, other than what the remaining elements of the militia could muster. Essentially, it was a desperate, half-starved mob, slamming into the flank of the beastmen; Dozens died in the first clash, but it only drove the rest on. They were the anvil to the knightly hammer, and - between them - both forces crushed the life out of the occupiers.

The confused, vicious fighting continued through what remained of the night, a great unleashing of violence. The bulk of the beastman force had nowhere left to run, but resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible - the shrieks of their inhuman priests promising them an eternity of bliss in paradise, as long as they fought to the bitter end.

But then the main mass of cavalry slammed into them, and the bitter end came quickly. Armed - mainly - with hooked axes, swords and their own claws, the beastmen had no reach at all. The lances and spears of the cavalry demolished them, leaving the survivors to flee desperately out of the way…

Headfirst into the swelling mob, rising from the shelters and hidden places of the city.

Then the armsmen and infantry arrived, and their assault had been the stake in the heart of the beastmen horde. Scattered elements - mostly individual Cloven One priests and their retinues - were pushed back and pinned down, where the converging forces had seen them ground to nothing.

I had been swept forward by the infantry, caught up in the advance. They had seen the devastation I had left in my wake, but - at that moment - they needed every sword. Carried along by the tide, I knew enough to keep the Interfector in my hands, to head towards the enemy.

I remember only scattered impressions of that time. I had, I think, ceased to function as a human being: Malfunctioning shock had me in an iron grasp. All that remained was to walk, and kill.

When the Cloven Ones had seen the blue flame of the Interfector, they had recoiled. The entire flank had simply rolled up, dark forms scrambling away from that terrible light. They tried to break, but were hemmed in by their panicking kin, by the crush of warriors around them.

Inevitably, beastman had killed beastman. Involuntarily, at first - trampling each other underfoot in their need to get away - but then on purpose, the terrified warriors turning their weapons on each other in a sick desperation to stay alive, to cut their way free of the tightening vise.

It had done them no good. Hammered on all sides, there was simply nowhere left to run to. The converging fronts of the human forces ground them to pieces, and the sheer tumult consumed the last of them. The last shaman, borne aloft on a litter, had shrieked defiance until the final charge had slaughtered the bearers and sent it crashing down. Curses had rained down on our heads, until a spear to the throat had silenced it for good.

All that remained was a last, desperate band of beastmen, hopelessly outnumbered, snapping and snarling with the frantic energy of an animal in a trap. They tried, one last time, to escape the tightening thicket of stabbing spears and slashing swords - But then the blessed banner had risen above the tumult, and the long-bladed lances were held high and straight.

Then the final charge had come, and the demihumans were granted exactly as much mercy as they had shown to the people of Lyost.

None.

-----------------

All around me, there was cheering. Lances brandished in the air, banners thrust heavenward, weapons banging on shields. One by one, faces had turned to each other, realizing the simple truth: Victory was theirs.

In the end, they had lived through it all.

It was a tumult, a tremendous outpouring of emotion. The streets were packed, teeming masses of celebrating soldiers and rejoicing citizens united in a raucous and unstinting expression of triumph, as a wounded city awoke to find it was - miraculously - still alive.

Across the city, thick columns of black smoke continue to rise from the bonfires and sacrificial pits of the beastmen, left to burn in the aftermath of liberation.

Even from here, the devastation was clear, the streets littered with debris, rubble and the bodies of the dead. Hundreds had perished, in that last spasm of violence - But the harrowing inflicted upon Lyost seemed to bother no-one in the crowd.

They were alive. They had won. They were free, and they rejoiced in that simple fact.

Banners were flapping in the dawn air, white petals swirling like confetti. Soldiers were hugged and kissed, lifted up on shoulders like champions. The great prayer bells of the city tolled, wild music playing in great flourishes.

People had got up on roofs and balconies, cheering and waving from windows as streamers fluttered bravely in the morning sky. Hymns were sung, prayers to the Four who had come through - in spectacular fashion - for occupied Lyost.

It was...overwhelming. My armor was battered and charred, and I was covered in cuts and bruises, but I had been kissed and hugged more times than I could count. There was a surreal air to it all, as I stumbled through it like a man in a dream - dazed, dislocated - utterly lost in the all-consuming jubilation.

Stranger still, some of the cheers were for me.

-----------------

"Belmonte! Belmonte of the Order!”

"Caius! Caius of the Chosen!"

"All praises to the Chosen and the Holy King!"

The crowd swarmed around me, wide-eyed and respectful. Dirty hands reached out to touch me or clap me on the shoulders, as I was blessed by ragged, tearful voices. They were all smiles and admiring mutterings, their approval beating against me in a palpable wave-

"Well done, lad!" someone called, and I turned, expecting to see Caius. But no, just a man in a stained coat, smiling through his tears.

"That's him! He's the one who saved us!"

"I'm not-" I tried to say, but my voice was lost in the tumult. Someone draped a garland around my neck, the sweet scent of the blossoms mingling with the smells of dirt, fire, blood and death. It was dizzying, overwhelming; it was a wonder I could keep my footing.

"Gods bless you, Hero-!"

They had seen me, of course. Seen the blue flame of the Interfector, plunging into the serried rows of the beastmen. The fire and chaos I had wrought, as I slew my way through their ranks. That, I think - more than any other - had been the signal for the counterattack, the desperate last sally of militia and conscript-warriors into their erstwhile tormentors.

"Captain Belmonte!”

The greatest concentration of people had gathered around the main square, united in that great rejoicing; Row after row of celebrants lined the streets, smiles stretching into the distance.

"Sabrine! Sabrine of the Order!"

The cheering grew noticeably in volume, and heads turned. A gleaming column rode down the main street, the magnificent standard of the Holy King flying at the very head.

"It's-"

"Prince Valerius-"

"The King! It's the Holy King!"

Flower petals fell in fountains, now. The crowd - pressing in on either side of the road - was held back by the surviving members of the city watch and the militia, wide eyes turned to their new monarch. Some of them were weeping openly; Others knelt, as Prince Valerius rode into the city on his white stallion, raising a hand to the exulting populace.

The press of people around me eased, parting like a river around a stone, drawn to their true savior. As the booming cheer rose, the long column of soldiers and knights worked their slow way forward, passing between the rows of smiling faces and waving arms, through air thick with support and approval.

People streamed along the narrow street, chasing the royal procession. A bouquet was pressed into my hands, then another, but it was clear that the focus of their adoration had turned elsewhere.

And - now that the chance had come at last - I turned, and limped away.

-----------------

It wasn't guilt I felt. Not really.

I had seen what the Cloven Ones had done to the citizens of Lyost. The horrors they had inflicted upon all who opposed them. Seen the bodies on the stakes, the skulls stacked in a monument to their own slaughter. I had killed them in purest self-defense, for it was them or us. On that front, at least, my conscience was clear.

No, what troubled me was all that had come after. The rage, the dislocation, the cold fury that had carried me out of the gatehouse and through the streets, slaying anything in the way. Even now, as I turned it over and over again in my mind, the predominant impression was one of shock, unfiltered and stupefying.

The forces moving around me were out of human scale, and my nervous system simply didn't know how to deal with it. Like a car accident, over and over again - I couldn't understand how I was still upright and walking. Still alive.

I wasn't a violent man. Rather, I never believed myself to be one. But I had reaved a bloody path through Lyost, and left dozens - hundreds - of broken bodies in my wake. I couldn't reconcile that with who I was, and yet…

It had been like a dream. I had been fighting, and fighting against - and somehow, in the dream, I could do whatever I wanted. Whatever I did was the right thing to do, simply because I wanted to do it. No rules, except for the naked truth of power-

And the power was mine.

When I had taken up the Interfector, when I had cut my way through the oncoming horde, there had been no surge of strength, no last-minute gift of power. No flood of unearthly might, into a battered and half-crushed form.

I had simply...stopped holding back. As if the strength had been there all along and I had merely reached for it. The way a man decides - with no particular effort - to sip from a canteen, rather than endure the pangs of thirst.

It was then that I realized: I was no longer in pain. I had been battered by weapons, scorched by the raging firestorm that had consumed the others, but they now seemed awfully distant. Like tribulations endured a long, long time ago. Even my skin had healed, with only the slight rawness that came from a sunburn - As if I'd ventured past the ozone-shields of the arcology, into the stacks below.

The armor, I told myself, but I didn't believe it. Not for a moment.

All the while, one thought haunted me: Why hadn't I done it sooner?

I could have saved them. All of them. Jozan, Heiter, Caius and all the others; A few minutes earlier would have made all the difference.

But I hadn't. And so they were dead.

It's a hard thing - after a life of insignificance, of being no-one in particular - to think about what you could have done.

Like with Gab-

My mind flinched away. I didn’t want to think of my brother, not now; that wound was still too raw.

Sabrine, oblivious to my thoughts, had bowed her head in prayer. Her fingers were clasped before her, bangs swaying lightly against her cheeks as her lips moved in a silent prayer. Faces turned towards her, a low murmur - both admiring and curious - echoing faintly within the cool of the marble nave.

They knew who she was, of course. They knew that she'd saved them all.

The Ashen Templar made the sign of the Four Gods, and rose. Her expression was calm, almost serene, but concern flickered in her eyes as her gaze settled on me.

"Sir Gabriel," she said, in that measured voice of hers. "Are you well?"

"I-" My breath caught. My eyes squeezed shut, just for a moment, as I exhaled slowly. "-I'm fine. Is the city…?"

"The beastmen have been culled," Sabrine said. Matter-of-fact. "We lost upwards of two hundred men, but…" She smiled, and there was something fierce yet sad about it, all at once. "Loyts is ours. A glorious victory, by anyone's standards."

Then, more softly - "We feared you were among the fallen. I am...glad that you are not."

She looked at me for a long moment, as if expecting an answer. When I said nothing, she shook her head - just once - and went on.

"Throne Gazer was a credit to his race. Skander, impetuous but bold. Caius, I shall miss most of all." Sabrine' brown eyes closed, just for a moment; her thoughts distant, as a soft sigh purred from her lips. When she opened them again-

"It's not your fault," Sabrine said, her gaze relentlessly compassionate. "Caius and the others...They knew the risks. So did you. You may mourn them, but...they fell in glory, for the salvation of the Kingdom. None were found wanting."

Carefully, almost tentatively, she reached out. Settled a hand on my shoulder, for a brief moment. Sabrine smelled of clean sweat, of grass, of leather and lapping oils - I could see the new dents in her armor, the stains on her surplice. She must have come right from the battlefield, like the first time I'd met her.

And blood, of course. Always blood.

"-All men die, Sir Gabriel. What matters is how they lived."

It was all I could do to nod, as I looked up at the altarpiece. The air was sweetened by the smoke from the incense burners, curling upwards like steam from the bodies of the fallen.

"Thank you," I lied. "That's...A comfort, I suppose. I just-"

I gestured, taking in the church with a wave of my hand. I wasn't sure what I meant to say.

A knowing nod. "The Four, I've found, are a great comfort in such trying times. Place your trust in Them, and allow Their wisdom to guide you." Sabrine' gaze met mine - "Will you return with me, Sir Gabriel?" she asked. "The people of Lyost would show their gratitude to the Holy Flame, for all you have done for them."

"The...Holy Flame?" I echoed, like an idiot. My confusion must have been apparent, because Sabrine smiled - A faint curve of her lips - a note of pride to her voice.

"-My apologies," she said. "That's what they're calling you, now. The Holy Flame."

A pause, as Sabrine considered this - resting her chin in the steely fingers of her gauntlet, flecks of gore clinging to the knuckles. "Not the title I'd have chosen, but you'll learn that such titles have a way of being chosen for you, rather than the other way round-"

There was a light cough. A pointed clearing of a throat.

I turned. Like a faithful shadow, Lady Arisa Adoniera stood in the aisle - I hadn't even seen her enter. Compared to Sabrine, with her battle-scarred armor and stained cloak, Arisa looked almost pristine. She had a furled fan in one hand, and - I couldn't help but notice - the Ring of Providence on her finger.

There was a second murmur, less admiring and more surprised this time.

"Honored sister," Arisa said. Her gaze went from Sabrine to me, and a small sigh parted her lips. So faint, I could almost have imagined it - but it was there. "May we have a moment?"

Sabrine nodded. Her armor jingled faintly as she straightened, adjusting her sword-belt.

"I hope to speak with you again, later," she said. Her spurs clinked against the stone floor as she stepped away, striding with purpose. As we watched her go, I couldn't help but think that there was something fundamentally invincible about Lady Sabrine - An absolute, indomitable strength of conviction that was impossible not to admire.

It was hard not to be moved by that.

-----------------

We sat together on the pew, as Arisa murmured a brief prayer of her own. As she lowered her hands, I found myself gazing into the flickering flames of the candles. Wondering if the Four Gods were indeed looking on, gathering the faithful into their embrace.

It was, somehow, a comfort - Even if I couldn't quite believe it to be true.

At last, Arisa's eyes opened. At last, she lowered her hands.

"Sir Gabriel-" she began, at the exact moment I said "Who-"

A pause. She gestured for me to go on, only to find that I'd done the same.

Her lips curved in a small smile, softer than I'd ever seen. "It's like a game, isn't it?" she said, a lilt to her voice. "The foxes at the river. Please, go on - You've earned it."

I had a multitude of questions, but - absurdly - my mind had latched onto the very first.

"...Who is Captain Belmonte?" I asked, and a soft laugh parted Arisa's lips. "The Vice-Captain of the Fleet," she said. "They mistook you for him because…"

She gestured, at the Interfector. "-Well. You know."

The smile slipped from her face. "He died when the Prophet sank the Royal Navy," Arisa said, softer now. "A shame. He was a good man."

Ah, I thought. I didn't begrudge the crowd their mistake; Given all that had happened, it seemed the smallest detail.

Arisa drew a slow breath, brushing stray strands of hair back from her cheek. "Sir Gabriel," she said, formally. "The Holy King wishes to express his deep gratitude for your part in the liberation of Lyost. The Templar Order and the Church of the Elemental Gods thanks you for your valor. Without your aid, all would have been lost."

Her gaze met mine, for a moment. "Congratulations, Sir Gabriel.”

"I…" What do you say to that, really? I shook my head, wondering if I was dreaming.

"It's...It's an honor," I said, the words catching in my throat. "I didn't think-"

I would have said more, but all my words were broken and none would come out. Arisa's expression was a little guarded now, a little troubled. Disappointed that I hadn't responded with the expected jubilation, maybe.

I couldn't. It was too sudden, all of it - My mind filled to bursting with all that came before. The candle flames seemed to waver, before my eyes; A faint blurriness to the edge of my vision. Just thinking about it...It made my mouth go dry, my palms prickle as my pulse throbbed in my ears.

Arisa was watching me. Expectant, I think. Waiting for my reply. But something softened in her expression, and she said - Low, almost a murmur:

"Are you all right?"

"Me?" I blinked, wrong-footed. "I…" I swallowed, hard. "They're all dead," I said, at last. "All of them. I can't - I can't stop thinking about it."

"Not everyone," Arisa said, softly, and I felt a surge of hope. This time, her smile was almost apologetic. "Shujiro survived, you know."

Of course he did, I thought, and closed my eyes. "Somehow, I'm not surprised," I said.

Scum had a habit of rising to the top.

A low sigh. "The man is quite deplorable. I'm not sure how you tolerated him."

"I didn't," I said. "He asked to accompany us. It was Caius's decision..."

My throat tightened, and I had to look away.

They were all dead. All of them, except Shujiro. Was Roulle's family alive, somewhere? He would never know, now. And Caius-

We sat in silence. Sunlight shafted down through the high windows, slits in the stone walls of the cathedral. It occurred to me that this place, too, was built like a fortress; a bastion for the faithful, in times of tribulation. I wondered how many times it had been used for that exact purpose.

"I could have…" I began, groping for the words. "I should have done more. If I'd-"

A slim eyebrow arched. "'If'?"

I shook my head. "...It's nothing," I said. "I just - I just wish things were different. That's all."

A silence loomed. Arisa exhaled, breathing out at last - Slowly, her shoulders relaxing as the tension unwound from her form. She seemed at ease now, her fan resting lightly in her hands. Silken strands of exquisitely-coiffed hair, shimmered as she shifted in her seat, making herself comfortable.

"...I'm glad you're alive," she said, at last. "There was heavy fighting at the city square. After the gatehouse - Well, we assumed the worst. I thought…"

Her voice trailed off. Then, sounding almost defensive - "...I thought the holy sword had - burnt you out, somehow. Consumed you."

"Consumed me…?"

Her gaze settled on the sword at my side.

"They say that a Holy Sword, a true Holy Sword, can lay waste to an entire country," Arisa said, wondering. "I believed it to be a mere rumor, but after that blast…" she shook her head, her lips pressing together in a thin line. "-Now I know the tales are true."

"Wait," I said. "You mean you saw-?"

"Everyone did. We could see it from outside the city walls." She eyed me, thoughtfully. "You didn't mean to do that, did you?"

"I...I thought it was the end. The beastmen-" I remembered Heiter, pinned to the wall by two spears. The knives rising and falling, drowning out Roulle's last, desperate scream. "They killed everyone else. Everyone. If we failed-"

The words stuck in my throat. I forced myself to go on, all the same. "...I couldn't let it be for nothing," I said. "-that's all."

I looked down. My gauntlets gleamed, as if freshly polished; the Interfector's flames had scorched them clean. My armor, too, looked almost pristine. It was as if the frantic, lethal events of the past few hours had never happened - Like a dream, a fantasy, gone upon waking.

Arisa's fan touched me gently on the wrist. Softly, now: I could sense the reluctance in her voice, but she went on all the same.

"-You could leave, if you want."

I glanced over at her. My surprise must have been obvious, because she went on.

"It will be...a few days before the ships are made seaworthy, once again." A little sigh, somehow knowing; "The Count will, of course, be on the first one. He was...quite insistent on that point. Shujiro, too - He wishes to return to the Dhala as soon as possible. I'm sure that comes as no surprise."

She didn't meet my eyes, her voice low.

"One could be spared for you, of course. To take you wherever you wish to go."

Wherever I wish to go…

Away from here. Away from the slaughter and horror of someone else's war.

It took me a moment to realize what was being offered. And - in the aftermath - I found myself wondering: Why stay?

There was a whole world out there. A new world, unlike anything I had ever known. On that map, at that low-ago council, they had been simple ink-lines and shading, too abstract to fully grasp. But now...

Something about that phrase resonated within my mind. A world of possibilities and adventure. Lost civilizations and stories not told for thousands of years. Danger, and reward. Some forever playground of youth and all the good things it was ever meant to be. The terror and the intrigue, from all things known and unknown.

There would be other adventures ahead, I knew. I could go anywhere, do anything.

Here, there would only be more bloodshed. More pyramids on skulls, more fleshless forms in the skinning pits.

And yet-

"Do you want me to stay?"

Unbidden, the words left my lips. Too late to be taken back.

Arisa's chin came up, some unknown emotion flitting across her features. Her eyes met mine, for the fraction of a second-

And then, for the first time, Arisa dropped her gaze. She looked down at the floor, biting her lip. Her brow furrowed, a subtle shift to her stance as she half-turned, never quite looking at me. Even her fan hung limp, clasped loosely in one downturned hand.

"I...don't know," Arisa said, at last. Her voice was low, soft. "I've never met anyone like you. Ever." Her hand - guided by some instinct - rose, to touch her right shoulder. "Somehow...It feels like I've done something terrible to you. And I don't know why."

Something about her voice made me feel suddenly, painfully adolescent. A worm of guilt, twisted in my guts as the silence loomed. As it swelled, to engulf all else.

There was a hushed whisper of indrawn breath, a faint rustle of fabric. Then-

"Don't go," Arisa said. "Stay. Please."

And, somehow, it felt like an exorcism. As if, for a fraction of a second, the weight of all that came before had lifted from my shoulders.

I rose from the pew, with the metallic rasp of articulating armor. Outside, the world continued to turn, time never pausing in its relentless march. Winter was coming, a chill bite in the voice of the wind.

Somewhere, the Shrouded Prophet's legions gathered, waiting for their moment. Carrion birds, circling without taking hold.

"All right," I said, and offered my hand. "-all right."

She looked up at me, her eyes glimmering in the light.

And - after a moment - she took it.

Next: Farewells