CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A Knight's Duty

Fydelis could see that Gareth had been affected by the news that the Knight Crusaders had come through Halmsbrooke to protect its corrupt mayor. He was silent as they retrieved the armor and weapons he'd hidden in an abandoned shed not far from Rul's home, but his forehead was lined with the furrows of contemplation.

"Is this my ultimate mission then?" Gareth finally said, looking at the medallion that now pulsed steadily in his hand. "To destroy the order I once served?" He looked at Fydelis with a smile that belied the anguish in his once hopeful blue eyes. Fydelis looked away, his heart squeezing around each beat of blood through his far too human chest.

"No. Not your order. Just those who have corrupted it, I think… I don't know." He didn't actually, but all signs were pointing to something far bigger than just the collection of some wayward souls. "I have to go. I'll meet you inside." Fydelis tapped his temple. He called silently to his master to transform him, and his physical form shivered like leaves, falling away into nothing as he stepped inside of Gareth, bonding to his spirit.

It was a painful sensation for him, but not because it needed to be. Malaketh enjoyed his suffering, especially when it was tied to Gareth, so each entry and exit was like being shoved through jagged shards of broken glass. Yet, once he was inside, he could almost taste the warmth his body yearned for. Gareth's spirit was enormous, powerful, loving, and pure. Unfortunately, Fydelis was only allowed to bond with the broken pieces— to fill in the cracks where doubt and sadness lay. He didn't care. He'd take what he could get.

 

***

The sensation of Fydelis slipping inside of him was a little like stepping into a cool lake. Not unpleasant, almost exhilarating, and once he was inside, Gareth felt almost whole.

It had been years since he'd worn his armor, and if anything, it had grown a bit looser on him. It was difficult to maintain the bulk of muscle he'd carried before because his life had become nearly sedentary by comparison.

"No helmet?" Fydelis's voice questioned from his mind.

"No. I feel it only fair to let the sinner see who comes for him."

"If you say so."

Gareth finally picked up the medallion once more and held it up, watching the shadows swirl inside of it. They seemed almost sluggish now, as though the red pulse had thickened the magick that kept them bound. He closed his eyes, and with a heavy sigh, slipped the thick silver chain over his head.

The weight of the thing was substantial, but more distressing was the sensation like barbs digging into his chest as the gem's power took hold of him.

"It's bonded to you now. You'll see the world a bit differently, I'm afraid." Fydelis sounded apologetic.

Gareth opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. The world around him looked immediately sharper, but more than that, he could see a pulse of red light curving around corners and between buildings, appearing to emanate from a particular location. Its rhythm corresponded to the throbbing of the gem's light, like a heartbeat.

"You'll see them now. Souls, I mean. The red ones are the ones you're after."

"I'm not certain that is such a bad thing." It certainly would have come in handy as a Crusader, when he was sent to cleanse the land of heretics and demons. How many innocent people had he killed in the name of the Faith?

"Don't think about it. You'll just make yourself crazy," Fydelis said.

"You can hear my thoughts?"

"No. I just know you. Let's go, it's nearly nightfall."

The streets were practically deserted as Gareth moved through the town. The few men who were about shrunk from him as he passed, their bodies outlined by sickly-colored auras that moved and changed like crawling insects. Gareth stopped and stared at one, interested in how he saw occasional flashes of white or violet underneath the anemic swamp-green of the rest of his aura.

"What am I seeing?" Gareth asked aloud.

"Life, bits of dreams… every man begins as a child; every man has something good that has happened to him— at least once. No matter how small, it is rarely completely smothered by what they become."

"Can any of them be saved?" Gareth thought about his own childhood, and hoped that the times of joy would never be so lost to him that they became tiny pinpricks of light through the murkiness of his spirit.

"Unseat this mayor. That may give them hope."

The thought gave Gareth a little hope as well. The people he would be killing were those who'd destroyed the lives of others. They were souls already forsaken; beyond redemption. He continued on through the darkness, his conscience soothed for the time being.

No lamps were lit in the square, and the windows of many buildings remained dark, but Gareth could feel the eyes upon him. His boots crunched over the dirt path as the last remnants of the setting sun turned the western sky into a rainbow of reds and violets.

"The old man and his daughter did a good job of getting word out. Not a whore in sight." Fydelis chuckled.

The only lights on were those at the end of the square and up a small rise; the mayor's house, no doubt. Undaunted, Gareth moved on, shield at his arm and hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Not surprisingly, he was met by a man whose aura was darkened by the red that bled over from the man he sought elsewhere. The man had his sword drawn and carried himself as a guard.

"Turn around and leave unless you want to become a smudge in the center of town," the guard growled, curling his upper lip.

"My battle is not with you. Let me pass." Gareth knew it was pointless to try and reason his way to the mayor, but his conscience made him offer the man the option to save his own life.

"Behind you," Fydelis whispered in his brain.

Yes. He'd suspected as much. As soon as he felt the presence draw close enough, Gareth yanked out his sword and thrust the blade straight back. He raised his shield fast enough to block the charge from the front, as the man behind him fell away from his blade with a gurgling groan and a solid thump. Bashing the first man with his shield, he turned to meet another group of attackers coming up from the rear.

Mercenaries, no doubt, judging by their clothing and their style of fighting. Their armor was mainly patchwork pieces of leather and plate, and their movements were abrupt and easily countered. Gareth was thankful that he saw none of his brethren among them.

For the most part, Fydelis seemed to let him work on his own, only occasionally aiding him with whispers. That is, until the archers started. The first arrow bounced off of his armor, and bits of wood shattered, the splinters catching in his hair. Now he was beginning to rethink his choice to forgo his helmet. But Fydelis drew a shield of energy around him so that the arrows never got through.

Gareth moved through the group, easily anticipating every man's move before they made it. Whether it was experience, Fydelis's influence, or a combination of both, didn't matter to him now. He had one goal, and anything standing in his way would move or be knocked aside. He used his shield more than his sword, to shove the guards back, although several had run away as soon as the glow from Fydelis's barrier began to illuminate him.

The skirmish over, Gareth made his way to the large house, noticing that the welcoming light was no longer visible.

"Hiding in the dark like the insect he is," Fydelis said.

"How many more are inside?"

"Just the mayor, some servants, and a few women. Looks like he threw everything he had at you out here."

"The archers?"

"Apparently not paid well enough to deal with magick. They've run off as well."

"Good. I've no desire to hurt anyone else."

The medallion began to throb like a slow heartbeat as Gareth approached the front door.

"For what did this man sell his soul?"

"Power and influence… and sexual prowess. Hm. Maybe you should have asked for that one yourself."

Gareth rolled his eyes. Incorrigible even now. "Is now the time for this?"

"Just an observation."

Gareth nearly told him to save it for later, but he knew regardless of what he said, Fydelis would do whatever Fydelis wanted to do. He tried the door and, not surprisingly, found that it was locked.

"Kick it in," Fydelis suggested.

Gareth took a step back, then thrust his leg forward, hitting the heavy wooden door in the center. He expected to feel a shudder of contact with the solid surface travel through his muscles and bones, but the door exploded inward with what felt like a light tap. Gareth stepped into the house, over the splintered wood, and blinked a few times to allow his vision to adjust. Having Fydelis on board allowed him to see much more clearly in the dark and he took in the opulence of the entry hall. The floor was inlaid with polished stone tiles, cut to almost precise octagons in different shades of gray. In the center of the hall stood a large, bronze statue of an elegantly dressed man, whose face was unremarkable, save for the glittering diamonds where his eyes should be.

"Ugh. I'll bet if it dropped its pants there'd be a ruby head on its—"

"Yes. I understand the point you're making, Fydelis." Gareth sneered up at the statue. "Such monumental overindulgence while children starve in the street. Creator forgive me, but I will enjoy this."

The gem began to pulse a bit faster and Gareth assumed it was reacting to the man's proximity as they moved through one lavishly decorated room after another.

When he got to the kitchens, he found all of the servants huddled into the pantry, holding kitchen knives for self-defense. There were thirteen— six men and seven women, and all but the cook were young and attractive, and dressed in clothing that was far too revealing to be prudent. Gareth crouched before a young man in the front who sought to defend the group, noticing how his hand trembled. The boy barely looked old enough to shave.

"How old are you, son?" Gareth asked him kindly.

The boy's hand dropped slightly, his muscles becoming less rigid. "Fifteen."

Gareth looked over the rest of them and saw that most of them appeared to be of similar age.

"Please, ser," the raspy whisper of the older female cook drew his attention. "These are only children— please, have pity on them, kill me if you demand blood."

"Nella, no!" A young woman hugged the cook and the cook held her, whispering soft reassurances.

"She's become their mother," Fydelis said to him from inside. "I suspect that their families are dead."

"You are orphans?" Gareth asked the young man.

"Y-yes, ser. He— the mayor…"

"I understand." Gareth stood up slowly and addressed the group.

"The path is clear to the village. Take as much wealth as you can carry and find a safe place. There are many empty buildings in town." His eyes met the teary, thankful gaze of the cook.

"Bless you, ser, you were truly sent by the Creator…"

Gareth offered a terse nod that was acknowledgment, not agreement, but it was something she need not know. He turned on his heel and strode from the room. Fydelis was, thankfully, without commentary for the moment.

Gareth went room by room, finding several occupied by young women in various states of undress and immodesty. He sent them all out, telling them to take what they could carry and leave. When he got to the last door in a long hallway on the second floor, the gem on his chest flared with a hungering glow and pulsed like the heart of a man who would soon be meeting death. Had Gareth any compassion left, he might have felt sorry for the wretch, but the mayor had earned nothing but Gareth's desire to see him ended.

The lock on the door was easily broken by shoving his shoulder against the ornate wooden barricade, and as soon as he stepped inside, Gareth was struck by a bottle thrown from across the room. He'd managed to bring up his shield in time to deflect it from hitting his face, and wine ran down the front of it, diluting the spots of blood that already speckled the metal.

He lowered the shield, his eyes meeting the man who'd thrown the bottle. The mayor was less remarkable than even his questionable likeness in the main hall, and he crouched behind a crying woman on the bed. She was holding the sheet to her breasts as the coward used her as a shield for himself. A name flashed into Gareth's mind, and Gareth said it aloud, "Mayor Raburn Johnnes, I've come to collect something that's overdue."

Johnnes's eyes bugged— not the brilliance of diamonds, but the color of dull stone— and he raised a knife to the woman's throat. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she tried to keep the sobs from forcing her pale neck closer to the blade.

"Stay back or you'll wear her blood!" Johnnes threatened, placing a little nick along her skin that raised a line of crimson.

Gareth battled the conflicting emotions and arguments with himself in his head. His time as a soldier taught him that some sacrifices were necessary to promote the greater good, but his time as a priest showed him how even the smallest life could influence greater things. This thing he had to do was certainly good for the village and the world, but the reason he did it was for the benefit of an evil thing. Gareth closed his eyes. "I have no choice," he murmured, directing his words at Fydelis and his apology to the woman.

Gareth began to step forward, his sword leveled at his quarry, when he felt cold slither through him and saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Before he could turn his head, the woman screamed and came rushing towards Gareth, seeking shelter against his armor. On the bed, the mayor bellowed his own terror. Fydelis stood on the mattress in all his demonic glory, holding the man's wrist at an unnatural angle. The knife had dropped to the bed beside him.

"No! No! He promised! Karathis promised me immortality! It's not supposed to happen like this!"

Gareth felt a moment of displacement when his former commander's name reached his ears. He looked to Fydelis, who met Gareth's eyes and offered him a slow nod.

Gareth would have preferred that he'd killed the man in battle, but Johannes was a coward, and so he would be given a fitting death. He spoke softly to the woman, "Go now, cover yourself and don't look back. You will be safe." He gave her a moment to struggle, sobbing, into a robe, then watched her leave the room and hurry down the staircase.

As he stepped forward towards the bed, the sound of his heavy boots hitting the wooden planking echoed in the stillness of the dark room, made brighter by Fydelis's presence within him. Gareth thrust out his arm. His sword pierced the man's chest, sliding through the spaces in his ribs where it met and cleaved his heart. As a Crusader, Gareth had sent many men to their deaths, and he remembered the faces of every one of them. The contorted agony, the disbelief, then the emptiness that slackened their features as their lives and spirits left them. This was different, and terrible, and unsettlingly satisfying.

The mayor opened his mouth in a gurgling cry, raising his face to the heavens as his eyes rolled back in his skull. His body began to pitch and shudder on the end of the blade and the red blood running from the fatal wound turned black and foamy. Sour smoke began to rise from his open mouth, his ears, and his nostrils. His skin turned darker, as though he were being cooked from the inside. And still, he screamed.

Fydelis watched the scene with an expression of mild interest, but nothing that appeared gleeful for the benefit of his master. Gareth watched him, and their eyes met over the writhing man's head.

Something stirred in Gareth, something confusing and almost painful when he gazed into Fydelis's dark and haunted eyes. Fydelis looked away first, and they both became distracted by the spiraling shapes moving faster in the gem. They rose like a black vortex, spinning and drawing the black smoke from Johnnes's shuddering body. His screams had become more of a gurgling squeal, and they were muffled as the smoke was pulled inside of the funnel of shadows.

At last, with one smooth gesture, Gareth withdrew his sword from the mayor's chest. The body seemed to split open across the seam, and a red glowing mass, writhing like worms, rose out of the opening and was drawn into the spinning force. Without warning, the spiral sucked it in and collapsed back inside the gem, and the energy of the blow caused Gareth to stumble back a few steps.

The room became silent. Around the edge of the curtains, the blue-tinted glow of the wee hours before dawn barely brightened the room, and a faint vapor of putrescence tainted the air. The thing on the bed was hardly recognizable as a man. The blackened skin stretched taut over bones, and an empty hole in its chest showed the inside had turned to charcoal. It appeared as though the man had been dead a hundred years and not for only a few moments.

Fydelis shook himself, reminiscent of a beast shedding water, and the demonic appearance gave way to the appearance of a young human once more. Fydelis went to the large wooden wardrobe in the room, pulling out some clothes. He dressed quickly, being roughly the same size as the now deceased mayor, and sat down to slip on some boots.

"Grab a few things— money or whatever we can use— then we'll go and tell the town."

When Fydelis stood up, Gareth couldn't help but appreciate how much like a young noble he looked in the fine clothes. Was that what he'd been then? A prince who ranked somewhere above humankind? Looking at him now, Gareth could imagine a regal stance to that handsome figure, often weighed down by regret. Fydelis caught him staring and cocked his head, raising an arched brow.

"You look— ah, um… That color and style suits you," Gareth stammered, trying to focus his attention anywhere but where it wanted to remain.

"Does it suit you?" Fydelis practically purred.

Gareth swallowed hard and turned away, glad for his metal plating. "It's time we left."