CHAPTER THIRTY

Blood in the Snow

Daylight came reluctantly, bringing with it a heavy drape of snow and a chilling wind. Fydelis shivered underneath the layers of cloaks and blankets draped over him as he slumped in the saddle. Ahead, Gareth sat tall, having lashed their horses together to keep from becoming separated in the blinding squalls. Gareth held his shield in front of him to help block some of the wind that blew the snow directly into them. They had only traveled about two hours, but already it was imperative that they find a place to stop, at least until the storm passed. But seeing the road as much as a few paces ahead was already impossible. Fydelis had no clue how Gareth was going to find them shelter. The reflection of a red, throbbing light against the shield drew Fydelis's attention and Gareth looked down at the medallion, then back at Fydelis.

"That way." Fydelis pointed, feeling the sudden hard draw of a dark soul, not far ahead.

Karathis. It had to be. And very likely with him, the Knights of the Faith. He was suddenly beginning to feel a lot warmer as his heart pumped the blood faster through his body. Looking down, he could just barely make out the impressions of tracks in the snow, which meant that they had come through recently enough that the squalls they had been encountering for the last hour or so had not buried them yet.

"There," Gareth called over his shoulder, and Fydelis could make out the dark silhouette of a structure between bursts of white. The only problem now was how to get there without being seen and attacked immediately. There was little doubt that the Crusaders were holed up there, likely waiting out the storm as well. How many there were and how well armed remained to be seen.

Gareth tucked the medallion away to keep its red light hidden. He pointed somewhere to the right of the structure.

"I think I know this place. There should be a large outcropping of stones to the south side. We can guide the horses there."

Fydelis squinted in the general direction that he was pointing. "But won't they have placed their horses there as well?" he asked, doubtfully. None of this felt like a good idea. Unfortunately, it was a necessity in every way at this point. The horses were struggling against the wind and cold, and soon would just outright refuse to move.

"There should be a large stable at the back of the monastery."

"Monastery?" Fydelis muttered. No, this wasn't going to be very good at all.

"It was a common stop during travel to the Temple of the Sacred. It's the monastery of the Brotherhood of the Faith," Gareth clarified.

Struggling all the way, they made it to the tall shelter of stones, and what they found there was disheartening, to say the least.

Gareth was off his horse as soon as he saw the red staining the snow, even before the body came into view. Fydelis approached slowly on his steed, his heart sinking, and anger heating the acid in his guts. He followed the trail with his eyes, the blood that streaked the snow all the way from the tall building to where the man had collapsed in the snow. Gareth checked the robed body of the monk for any sign of life, but Fydelis knew that he had expired, perhaps only moments before they'd reached him, and he wasn't the only one.

"Gareth."

The weather had let up enough that they could make out several more bodies, their blood staining the snow, around the outside of the cathedral.

Gareth rose slowly to his feet, his pale eyes burning. Fydelis watched the tension moving along his jaw. Once he got to the church, there would be no time.

"Ready yourself. I'm coming inside." Fydelis leapt from his horse, having to run a few steps to catch up, then he flung himself at Gareth, his flesh shattering and breaking away as he shed his corporeal form and entered Gareth's skin.

 

***

Gareth barely felt Fydelis become one with him as the anger burning within caused him to forget the cold and the concept of restraint. These monks had been innocent, unarmed men, yet they had been butchered ruthlessly, and for what purpose? To commandeer their shelter? Gareth had met them all before. Every one of the Crusaders had known at least one of these men. They were exemplars of the Faith, living quiet lives of prayer in worship of the Creator. They housed anyone who needed aid, and traveled to the nearby villages to minister to the sick and dying. These men would have put up no fight or argument had the Sunderer himself knocked upon the chantry doors.

He stormed through the snow, and walked straight through the large, double doors and into the vestibule.

Inside, the church was dark and as silent as a tomb. Gareth noticed more bodies, more monks of the Brotherhood of the Faith. His mouth filled with bitter saliva as he smelled the blood— far too fresh, and far too much of it. There was no doubt in his mind that all of the sixteen monks who made this their home had been slaughtered. He stopped as something in an alcove caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

"Shit. Another relic," Fydelis cursed in his brain.

Indeed. He could see the telltale blue-green glow and more dead bodies outlined in the darkness by the relic's sinister holy light.

Gareth turned his gaze forward once more, staring down the length of the center aisle of the large hall. He could now make out the orange glow of torches coming from the long corridor that crossed perpendicular and the shadows moving within.

"Get ready," Gareth said to himself as much as to Fydelis and strode forward. His boots crunched over bits of broken glass from the votives that had been put out along the path to the altar.

The shadows and movement stopped as Gareth grew closer, his fist tightened against the back of his shield as he tried to keep his mind and wits about him.

"Calm, we'll finish this soon enough, Crusader." Fydelis's voice was slow and even in his head.

As Gareth made it to the transept of the church, he was greeted with the sound of many swords ringing as they were unsheathed.

"Hold!" a deep and familiar voice commanded.

The corridor was lined with Knights of the Faith, their armor reflected against the wall of polished plaques, each one bearing the appellation of a deceased monk. Soon, they would be adding more names.

Gareth turned his head towards the voice coming from his left and locked eyes with a man who had once been nearly a father to him, General Karathis.

The general grinned at him, his dark mustache, peppered with gray, curled up like a wicked black leer. He was in full armor, dressed like the hero he'd once been, but all Gareth could see now was a man whose heart had been corrupted by power.

"Lieutenant De'Aubyn, such an unexpected honor."

Gareth's gaze briefly drifted across the faces of men he recognized as their armor creaked from their unconscious movements of acknowledgment. These had once been men under his command. These had been the men who had been told that should Gareth refuse to follow orders, they were to cut him down like a dog. The eyes that looked back at him were as hard and cold as stone, bereft of sympathy or apology of any sort. It pained him to look at them too long, for they all saw him now as their enemy.

"General Karathis," Gareth said, his voice husky as he tried to remain calm.He wanted to offer the General the opportunity to make him understand. "What purpose could the death of these innocent monks… innocent villagers… possibly serve you?" None of this made sense. The general might have gone mad and managed to somehow taint the minds of these soldiers along with him, but the likelihood of that seemed remote. Something had to be driving him, corrupting his view of reality as well as those around him. The relics, perhaps?

Karathis laughed, his voice dripping with condescension and blame. "You as well have murdered in the name of the Faith. You are also tainted with the blood of the innocent and guilty alike."

Gareth's jaw clenched, guilt rising like bile in his throat. "I realize this now. I sought to cleanse the land of evil, and free men's souls from the darkness. Now, I have succumbed to that evil, and my own soul is blackened by sin. But you, General, your darkness taints more than just your soul… what you have done to these people… what you have done to your men…"

Karathis spread out his arms, acknowledging the soldiers who stood armed and ready along both sides of the transept as though they were his own children. His face shone with the pride of a man who had just outwitted the gods. "They chose to follow me willingly, and those who survive will bask in the sunlit gardens of paradise!"

Gareth swallowed back the anger that burned its way up his throat. This was never the intent of the Crusaders; the Army of the Faith never sought victory for their own benefit. What could have possibly driven them so far? His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword.

"You, Gareth De'Aubyn, are a traitor! You could have been part of our victory! But now you will die with all of the others who refuse to embrace the new High God!" Karathis thrust his sword forward and the group of soldiers— many of them Gareth once called friends— surged towards him, their weapons raised and faces distorted by hatred; their voices raised in a battle cry.

"They are not the men you knew." Fydelis's voice reassured in his head.

"What of their souls?" Gareth said through gritted teeth. He raised his shield, preparing to fend off as many blows as he could before using his weapon.

"That will be up to you. It's time to fight."

Gareth felt the dark power begin to surge inside of him as the first blades struck his shield. He blocked the images of the faces he knew, seeing nothing but enemies to smite— a cause from which to emerge victorious. Gareth's sword sheared through armor and flesh as his body became a machine of destruction. Whirling, he used his shield to power through the largest foes, crushing them with a force he could never have mustered as a mere human man. He felt the demon inside of him, moving with him in a dance of pure, ecstatic violence. When he chanced to glance down, he could see as though through his own armor and flesh, the glowing skin of another as the demon both led and followed. Gareth closed his eyes, letting their merged consciousness guide his movements.

The shouts and screams of agony became a choir, the clanging of swords and pounding of shields, percussion. Gareth felt any blows that hit him as through layers of water; they cut, but did not maim, and all movements but his own were in slow motion. He moved with acrobatic grace, the strength of the demon inside him cleaving through metal, skin, and bone in a choreography of cruel efficiency.

And then, it was done.

Gareth stood panting in a circle of bodies. The stench of blood so overpowering that it nearly made him gag. He dropped to one knee, leaning heavily on his sword as he shrugged off his battered shield. His body was exhausted. He glanced up, noticing a shimmer of something in front of him. A row of mirror-like plaques, and in their reflection, he saw Fydelis emerging from his body— but it wasn't Fydelis… not as he'd come to see him. It was a being of light, with snowy white hair and eyes the color of lilacs. Upon its back were two glowing seams that matched the scars he'd seen on Fydelis's human body. As the familiar angel pulled free from his form, the blood that covered Gareth's face stained the hair red, and the eyes sucked up the darkness. The flesh ceased to glow and by the time the phantasm became solid, it was the demon he knew. Fydelis stood with his back to him, his cloven hooves mashing gore and bones as he walked to the edge of the ring of bodies. The scars on his back had become gaping black sores. The transformation complete, he turned to survey the scene, his lion-like tail flicking.

Gareth dropped his head, panting, as the beautiful creature faced him once more. He did not want Fydelis to know what he'd seen, although he was uncertain as to why. No. He knew exactly why… and it was too much for Gareth to grasp right now.

"Twenty souls." Fydelis's voice was a sudden sharpness that cut thorough the blood pounding white noise in Gareth's ears. "More than enough to seal and deliver the contract."

"No," Gareth panted and struggled to his feet. His limbs felt like lead, and he kept his head bowed. "These souls had been affirmed to the Creator. They belong to Him."

"Are you certain?" Fydelis's voice was closer now. Gareth opened his eyes, his gaze sliding up the cloven hoof, the crimson hair covering his shank, then up to the sculpted thigh, the sharp bones of his pelvis crossed with thin chains, the dips and ridges of his torso, all the way up to that face that was, without a doubt, the face of his Fidelity. Why had he not let himself believe it before?

"I am certain."

Fydelis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck beneath his blood-red mane. "Then deliver them as you do. I shall wait outside."

Gareth watched the demon leave the room, moving with the grace of the predator he was, and his heart stuck painfully in his chest. His beloved angel was now this tortured soul, and Gareth could not be certain that it was not he who was to blame for it. "Why not you?" Gareth whispered softly. "Who shall deliver you, my Fidelity?"

And then he clasped his hands in prayer.