Chapter CLXXXII – Those who humble themselves will be fought.

57th of Summer 5860
Outskirts of Ancoire, Hallow Duchy of Ancoire

A monastery, way out in the steppes of Ancoire.

The hallowed grounds of the monastery had become a battlefield. While the walls had been long breached by explosives, the sisters had plugged the openings by constructing makeshift barricades out of furniture and rubble. Fences had been uprooted and sharpened into stakes, desks tipped over to make walls, windows broken and glass scattered on the ground. The gardens of the convent were filled with little hills, of the dead sisters and soldiers, which hadn’t had time yet to have gravestones made for them. The sisters left alive were much more heavily armed, having taken the flintlocks and armor of the PS members.

There was an apocalyptic feeling in the air. Despite the sunny day, nobody had a sunny disposition. Rather they were patrolling, praying, looking for any signs of intruders that may be gathering on the outside. Normally the sisters weren’t ones for needless chatter, ascetics they were, but conversation had completely disappeared from their tongue. It was mostly replaced with simple questions akin to “have you seen anything?”

Head Sister Meyra was standing on the balcony of the second floor of the dorms. It was a good vantage point that gave her a view over the whole compound. She was accompanied by a few sisters using the balcony as a high ground, carrying the flintlocks that they had learned how to operate from the captured soldiers. There was only the sound of the wind whistling by them. Meyra knew that their supplies were running low; food was limited, so was their manpower. Yet, their enemies seemed endless. “Here they are.”

She could see another contingent of the Protection Squadron was making their way up to the monastery. These ones were much different in terms of equipment, carrying large shields, batons, and cuirasses. Their usual headwear, of the steel helmet, had the new addition of a mask covering their face to it. Glass covered their eyes, allowing them to see while providing protection. Protection against what exactly was a question yet to be answered.

The sisters scattered, taking their positions around the monastery. The guns waited for the men to draw close enough, those with the staves waited for them to charge. Considering that the men had melee weapons, it was clear that they planned to charge. Not that they seemed to be in a rush, with them stopping at a distance away from musket range to regroup.

Or so it seemed.

Meyra could see from her vantage point that they had only stopped to let the back ranks file forward. These men didn’t carry the shields or the batons, rather, they seemed to have hand cannons with massive barrels. The men took out metal balls from their bags, lit them on fire, and inserted them into the barrels. Then they aimed high, and with a great kaboom, the metal balls landed inside the walls of the monastery. A trail of smoke followed the flight of the balls, not stopping when they landed. Quickly, very quickly, the garden was covered in smoke.

As she was on a higher floor, Meyra initially stood far from the sudden smoke. However, from within the smoke, she could hear coughing, crying, even shrieking. It was a cacophony of the most unpleasant sounds that got more and more intense as the smoke spread around the area. The fact that she couldn’t see even see the ground below, let alone anybody else, made it worse. It was like the souls of the damned had escaped from the metal balls, covering the area with their ghastly bodies and cries of pain. Soon the smoke drifted upward, reaching Meyra, and she immediately understood that it indeed must be some sort of dark magic curse. A sharp pain suddenly infested her lungs, like a myriad pins stabbing in unison, then getting back up and stabbing again and again… and the pins were on fire, she was on fire, and it was as if she saw the visage of the Divine and was condemned by It. Her eyes teared up, she couldn’t bear to open them, and it was as if they were stabbed by pins also. One by one, pins up and down, countless of them inside and outside.

Before she knew, she had joined the chorus of the shrieking damned. It was the dark arts for sure, or perhaps a divine to test their faith, or perhaps divine punishment for having gone against the Empire. Whatever it was, she was certainly in no shape to think about it. All she was able to do was shout into the smoke. After a while, perhaps a few seconds, perhaps a minute, perhaps more, she at least managed to open her eyes. The endless sea of white and gray didn’t help much to alleviate her concerns though. The swirling souls of the damned were certainly not a pleasant sight. She looked around for somebody, anybody, everybody.

A rush of footsteps approached, the rustling of grass, the clink and clank of armor… and all of a sudden, out of the fog, it was one of the Protection Squadron. His eyes could barely be seen behind the fogged-up glass, nor could his face be made out behind the mask. The cuirass was painted black, and so was his gambeson, and so was his baton. The Empire clearly didn’t pay much money for dye. There was no need to be fashionable to make its will palatable. It’s will was found in the boot, the helmet, the baton, an obedience to one’s superior.

So, the boot of the Empire had come to claim Meyra at last. For the soldier saw a crying, helpless mess in front of him, a “degenerate antisocial” whose ilk had somehow claimed many of his comrades’ lives and routed them many other times. A remnant of the Old Empire and its decrepit, decadent system which allowed so many women to live an idle life dedicated to anything but the state. The worst of the worst, beneath scum.

The baton swung down, to hammer down the nails that stuck out.