Wheat from the Chaff

Half-buried in the snow was a strange looking contraption with several visible metallic parts. Zulema swung the snath of her scythe around and cautiously tried poking the device with the end while Lucia watched on silently.

At the slightest touch from the scythe’s bottom, various visible gears inside the contraption turned rapidly and a large puff of sand was dispersed into the air from a small funnel at the top. The two girls took a few steps back, trying not to let any of the strange cloud reach them.

Zulema looked over to Lucia without saying a word and motioned to the circular scarlet device seamlessly embedded into the wrist of her armor. Designed to look like a solemnly closed eye, the oculus opened to reveal a high-tech screen with various archaic religious passages scrolling across the display. In contrast to the gilded sleeve’s antiquated design, the proprietary contrivance was a modern conception supplemented alongside the advent of technology and was used strictly between the higher clergy of the Scarlet Church.

Tapping the screensaver a number of times to bypass the extra layer of security, a small, holographic glyphpanel materialized above the screen, allowing Zulema to begin swiping an encoded message to the other priestess standing next to her.

Lucia followed suit and repeated the same motions with her own device. A silent conversation passed between the two through their Scarlet-Straps.

Z: It’s one of their traps.

L: i can see that

L: i guess its safe to assume no one else has been by here

Z: Except those soldiers. I think this might be a perfect chance for us.

L: to ambush??

L: and interrogate?? 😊😊😊

Z: Mm.

Z: We might be waiting her a while though. Who knows when they’ll come by to check on it.

L: whatever gets me action fastest! you knoe ive been dying to use my shooting star 🤭

L: if i cant break a mind i can always crack a skull!! 😝

Z: Follow me.

The pair moved soundlessly to a suitable spot between the trees nearby and prepared to stand by like predators hunting for their prey. They remained silent while they waited, communicating solely through their devices. Zulema rarely, if ever, sent typed messages to friends, much less so during work for the Church. It all felt quite impersonal to her, preferring the old-fashioned methods, except in moments when she found it totally necessary. Even with Alma, she found it easier to just call her—finding the familiar sound of her sister’s voice to help keep her heart and mind steady during her otherwise volatile life. Therefore, she found it quite ironic that in the course of important missions—where personal contact was strictly prohibited—were when she needed that reassurance most of all.

The two priestesses found themselves waiting for hours in what would normally be harsh, unrelenting conditions. Of course, the Church were nothing if not prepared for situations where their holy assassins found themselves at battle with the inhuman elements. The replete runic engravings found on their armor actually served a much important purpose. The first of which was to keep the wearer at a constant, comfortable temperature—as well as keeping them invisible to any sort of infrared sensors or thermal-detecting magical augmentations.

The murky light of the sun had completely vanished by the time the sounds of crunching snow had alerted them to the presence of enemy soldiers closing in on the vicinity. Zulema had found herself fresh out of viable topics for conversation with her partner and was beginning to scramble for anything to talk about. The screen of her strap had quickly begun to fill with a surge of “Snore” emojis before the incoming swell of foreign voices knocked her partner Lucia out of her reverie and had set her on high-alert. The two tilted their heads and fixed their ears in the direction of the growing presence of their foes’ footsteps accompanied by what could only be described as mundane conversation. Being that they were neighboring countries, both warring provinces shared a language, albeit with a slightly differing dialect. As such, Zulema could easily understand the flow of their dialogue.

“Perhaps this time the prey will have stayed in the trap, rather than being sniffed out by their fellow Malachian perrin,” spoke a laidback voice.

“Aye, brother. We cannot afford any more losses after what those bastards did to our poor comrades. They still have not fucking found Ishvar’s head,” spoke the second voice, much gruffer than the first.

“It was with the Yellow King’s blessing we could even identify his sorry ass,” spat the first voice before letting out a pained laugh. “That was still intact at least.”

“It was for the best. At least now he won’t have to experience the pain of learning of his wife’s whoredom.”

“Hoh? Was she fucking someone besides you?”

“Well it would sure as shit explain this itch!”

The two men laugh, louder than before.

“Piss!” shouted the gruff-sounding solider. “There’s nothing here! Brother, come help me refill the damn trap!”

His partner soldier attempted to answer, only to find his tongue had lost all sensation. An intense feeling of pins and needles replaced all feeling in his mouth. What came from him instead was a frenzied glossolalia of words.

“What? Speak up, asshole!”

The panicked soldier with his useless tongue ran to his partner only to tumble forward face-first into the icy snow, the sensation quickly draining from his legs.

“Brother! Are you having a stroke? What’s the matter with you?!”

Only gibberish escaped the lips of the increasingly distressed soldier, who was futilely attempting to keep his body from fully collapsing into the deep, freezing ground. A loud, sickening crunch then silenced his voice completely.

A dark, elongated object covered in hefty, metallic spikes had embedded deeply into the back of the skull of the grounded soldier. A horrified expression had frozen on his face at the moment of impact, red tears running down one eye that was now bulging abnormally out of its socket. Crimson blood and brain matter splattered the already filthy snow surrounding his freshly slain body.

The spiked oblong gruesomely buried into the dead soldier’s head was attached to a chain that connected to a long, brass handle that was currently being held by a dark figure in a hooded veil.

“Hah? Gatin caught your tongue? Phew! That tongue wagging was getting annoying!” cried Lucia. The priestess was standing over the fallen soldier, in her hands was the handle of her weapon. “There’s nothing like threshing the brain from a Kuranesian head.”

The hooded priestess tugged at the striking end of her buried weapon, pulling the head of the dead soldier along with it before letting it slink back down into the snow. The menacing woman gave another forceful yank, detaching her bloodied weapon from the shattered skull and proceeding to spin the flail over her head. Extra bits and gory remains were sent flying onto the surrounding trees, coating the frozen bark in a warm, gooey mess.

The sickening display sent the gruff-sounding soldier tumbling back into the snow.

“What matter of demon are you?!”

“Oh, comrade. The answer to that isn’t going to matter in a minute.” Lucia stared deep into the enemy’s eyes from the single, ocular opening in her silken veil. The color of her iris began to intensify in an eerie scarlet glow, while the pupil in the center began to quickly rotate. “I’m asking the questions here now.”