Castile hurried back to his quarters to prepare, knowing just what he needed. The words of the True still rang in his ears. "It is time we ventured out once more..." No matter how dire it was, this was what he had been waiting for.
The unlocking of the gates meant it was time to open the gift from his father. Castile's father had not been a Harbinger, let alone a member of the church. A farmer just outside the city of Ulrich, he took little interest in anything beyond getting the greatest yield. Holding little respect for that wealth-hunting ideal, Castile left for the church when he was just hitting his teenage years. Disappointed but understanding that the call had taken him away, he bestowed upon his son one of few gifts he'd ever given; a simple, but well-crafted longsword. Castile had taken an oath to himself that he would never hold it unless he meant to use it. If there was a time for that, it would be now.
Quietly within his small, cramped quarters, he reached beneath his bed. He dusted off the layers that had gathered on it over his time here, revealing a smooth, dark leather scabbard, fine etching on the edges. Undoubtedly it was of some quality, a miracle in itself that his father was in possession of it. Pulling it loose, the sword was far weightier than the practice weapons he would use in the training grounds, but its fine balance more than made up for the change. He checked behind his back to see if any others had returned to the Harbinger quarters, but found himself alone. It only seemed appropriate to take a few practice swings. Conjuring the heroic deeds that race through a young man's head, he cut imaginary enemies to pieces. His heart pounded with excitement, but still, a deep, disconcerting fear. He had yet to truly swing a weapon in any danger. Charging a fake foe in his bedroom was not enough to gauge how he'd truly act.
Suddenly feeling a tinge of embarrassment, he returned the sword to the scabbard, patted down his clothes until they were somewhat free from dirt and wrinkles, and made his way to the gates. They were massive stone structures, seemingly indomitable. It was both a point of pride and a sense of security for the Seraph's Chosen to be hidden away behind such a impregnable defensive structure. Of course, to Castile, it served often to remind him just how true it was that he couldn't leave.
The sun moved lazily into its horizon as he approached the gate, filling the sky with brilliant reds and yellows. Dusk, at long last, was approaching. Castile arrived needlessly early and waited, the anticipation making it feel as if ages had passed. Finally, the members of the Exalted – the highest ranking of each order – arrived in their full, brilliant apparel. Truly, they were a sight to behold, the epitome of graceful, humble strength. The king's guard that dared defy the evils of the land and join the order would be given a tremendous sight!
The armour for the women and the men would have been indistinguishable save for the coloured ribbons to mark their respective orders, as well as the notable difference in size. The Gloried's leader, for example, could have served as the gates himself. Brilliant gilded metal covered his massive form, swooping off his knees, shoulders and hands in slight curvatures, symbolizing the ascent to the angels above. His helm, like that of all the others save for the additional space to cover his massive, powerful neck, held three spikes pointed upwards. While some may mistake it for a crown, there was no semblance of superiority, but rather a meaning of reaching towards the heavens.
Only their weapons differed with any significance. The Gloried leader carried a shield and spear, reminding all of their role to not only battle against evil but to protect those in need. The Harbinger, Dietrich, carried a hatchet and a long, curved knife – weapons as well as practical tools while braving the elements. Different still was the leader of the Cleansers, a strikingly large woman that held a curious staff that reached just beyond her head. The weapon seemed to radiate light, glowing in her hands and bathing her armour and those around her in a gentle, calming luminescence, like a candle on a quiet night.
The spectacle of their arrival was jaw-dropping. Castile felt the surging pride in his order that Uriel briefly had shaken. He had never seen these weapons or armour before, but had heard of them through his hours of training that went beyond the physical and focused on the scriptures and lore of the church. They were wildly different from the traditional, stripped-down style of the monks, opting instead for glory and prestige. They were, after all, gifts from the angels themselves, as the old tomes told. How he would cherish being the one to wear the Harbingers' most revered armour, holding aloft the knife and hatchet.
Upon seeing the strength of his people, Castile wondered why the True had been so reluctant to tell the order why the gates were closed. Clearly, the Seraph's Chosen were immensely powerful, and it was indeed their duty to strike the evil from the land. What purpose was served in waiting? Why were the members kept in the dark as they were? As a young member of the order, perhaps he was simply not privy to this information, but that was typically not the manner of the church. Further, the True may have been waiting for allies like the ones set to arrive shortly. King's guard! He'd heard tales of their heroics and prowess in battle. Hopefully they would be enough.
The thought would have to wait. The Exalted came to the centre of the gates and formed an orderly line, many of the classes falling in behind them in a vague semblance of order. Due to the Seraph's Chosen's heavy emphasis on fierce independence – especially the Harbingers - they found it difficult to make a show of standard, military style direction. The lines were haphazard, and if it were not for the glowing, beautiful Exalted at the front, they would look almost comical. Castile noticed a number of his class, as well as others, making their way up the ramparts to greet their new brothers in arms there. Unable to contain his excitement, he joined them, hoping for the first glimpse. He rushed up the stone steps where he had spent hours looking past the trees for whatever was out there, and now he would see them in the flesh. The moment was a turning point in his life; he could feel it in his very soul.
Just as the sun bid the day its usual farewell, the first signs of the arrival of the rebellious king’s guards came from the trees. While they could see nothing yet, they could certainly hear them. The sounds of shifting metal and the clanging of militarized lockstep. It echoed in the chill air of the empty night, the wind even seeming to pay homage to the coming soldiers. Even the most resolute monks gave a hushed gasp of hope and anticipation.
The first made their way from the trees. A line of ten, each carrying a long, gleaming halberd above their shoulders with tall, pointed shields at their side. They were clad in dark, painted metal, almost invisible in the dying sunlight. In front, one man held the symbol of Ulrich on a banner attached to a lengthy spear; a raven, wings spread, upon a rich purple background. They moved as if of one mind, perfectly in time, and stopped abruptly fifty yards from the gate.
An impressive showing, but only ten men, even as disciplined and practiced as they were, was surely not enough to fight whatever force was coming to meet them. Nevertheless, the bars blocking the massive gate to the world were lifted, and at long last, the creaks and groans of the last barrier to isolation were pulled apart. Castile gripped his father's weapon, shivering in both the cold and the intense energy he tried his best to stifle.
Once the gates were open, the ten moved forward only a few feet, and were replaced by a near identical set of ten. Each taking another few steps forward, they too were replaced by another set – and another, and another! Fifty men in all! Now, it was beginning to look like a sizable force. Castile looked at those beside him, beaming, and saw that he was not the only one transfixed on the scene, hopeful and taken in by the moment. The monks had remained resolute for so long, and now the long wait had come in the form of lines of soldiers, ready to fight shoulder to shoulder with them. Their discipline was impressive; how they managed to move as one cohesive group while being just a number of revolutionaries was beyond him.
They entered through the gates, each a faceless warrior, obscured by heavy black helmets. The Exalted made way for them, separating into two sides. Not a single monk could do anything beyond stare unblinking at the soldiers, a picture of strength and discipline. The lead man, the banner carrier, stepped forward towards the True. He pulled from his waist a small horn, and blew it with all his might. The sound rang loud and clear, echoing in the cold air. It was low, a deep rumble rather than a triumphant roar. It seemed to be an odd choice for an arrival of soldiers hoping to unite.
He would never forget that sound for the rest of his life.
From the trees, scores of additional soldiers came through, marching in the same disciplined lockstep as the last set. Another hundred – two hundred! - came through the trees. It wasn't that, however, that marked such a moment; it was the figure behind them. He blinked, and hoped his imagination was getting the better of him. It couldn't be! Castile knew the figure mercifully not from experience but from the old books of lore of the order, tales of monsters and demons the church had overcome in its glorious past. Behind the lines of soldiers a small body floated slowly, almost carelessly, across the field. Covered in rags from the neck down, only its feet were exposed, dangling in the empty air as it glided across the land a foot above the grass. The skin on its bare feet and slightly exposed fingers was pale, almost translucent, in the passing light. What stood before him could only be one thing. A being known as the Faded.
A demon had entered the field, and it was walking just behind their would-be brothers in arms. He thought to yell at the soldiers, warning them of the monster among them, but caught himself as he realized the grim reality of what was transpiring. It did not mean to ambush them. It guided them. They have been betrayed.
He peered closer while the monks at the back of the line were still celebrating, not yet having seen the foreboding figure coming steadily towards them. Only the monks at the top of the ramparts could spot the demon in their midst. They frantically tried to warn their brethren, but their voices were drowned out by the celebratory clanging of steel and the horns that marked the arrival.
Castile could see the Faded clearly now. A mask was strapped into the back of its pale skull. The front was long, hanging below its neck. Two holes were put in place of eyes, and an elongated, jagged “mouth” was scratched from one edge all the way down the looping front and back up the other side. He had heard that if it lifted its sleeve, horrific bats would fly from the opening to tear at vulnerable throats and rip the armour off the goodhearted soldiers who would dare to stand against such a beast. He prayed desperately to the angels that the old tales were just that, and maybe it was as vulnerable as its frail form seemed to appear.
Was it even the only demon amongst the force? Periodically, Castile would also spot a strange shape in the battle lines, existing only on the fringes of his sight. Black as pitch and slipping in and out of shadows, he could not entirely be sure the thing existed at all. It met him only with a passing interest; the greater threat was clear as day.
As the men and women on the walls saw the force that had been perceived as their saviours for what it truly was, a sudden and irreversible chaos erupted. Eventually word was passed down to those on the lower levels, and the panic was so strong and sudden to be nearly tangible. The lines of soldiers, having been allowed into the church grounds by invitation from the owners themselves, set upon the stunned monks.
Long spears pierced flesh as the Exalted desperately tried to gather both their wits and their forces. The Gloried fell into line the fastest, creating a phalanx that rivalled the black-clad soldiers before them. The rest soon followed, but only after having lost many of their respective classes to the spears of the enemy before they even knew a battle had begun.
Once the sense of surprise passed, Castile held his sword with renewed purpose and moved towards the stairs of the ramparts. Of course, he wasn't the only one who had thought this, and soon a rush of monks moved towards them to join in the fray. The soldiers had planned well, however. Anticipating the rush of bodies from the ramparts, small contingents rushed the stairs and held any that moved to join the battle at bay with their long, deadly spears. Trapped, they could only watch as the mass of black armoured soldiers grew larger as their numbers were reinforced. Those that stood against them, while fighting valiantly, were slowly pushed back.
Still, Castile felt a mad hope in his people. This was the Seraph's Chosen – monks who had trained both physically and mentally for their entire lives. Each one was worth two of those soldiers, and the Exalted, ten. While still reeling from the sudden change of events, he found his eyes moving to Dietrich, the head of the Harbingers. With the pragmatism and patience of an experienced hunter, he bided his time and struck carefully against his foes. Catching thrusting spears with his axe, twisting it free of the attacker's grip and stabbing deftly with his dagger, bodies piled around him.
The leader of the Gloried was no less stunning. Parrying thrust after thrust with his shield, he would stab back with tremendous speed and force, powerful arms still having the finesse to strike his enemies through the shoulder or the eyes, or wherever else the armour was not fully covering.
Perhaps the most impressive – and near unbelievable – was the Exalted leader of the Cleansers. Castile had seen holy magic before, but only when used in healing or purifying the corruption from lands, items or sometimes even people that had fallen prey to evil. Now, she wielded it as a weapon, covering the enemy in magnificent, brilliant beams of light that drove the enemy back and sizzled the skin beneath their armour. The leaders of the Guides and Members, also wielding angel-gifted weapons, added their own magics as well, lighting the sky with such power as to make the night mimic the day.
Under the discipline of the Gloried and the powers of the Exalted, it appeared as though the line was holding. They had formed a ragged half-circle, splitting the enemy forces into two groups; one storming the gates and the other holding the line at the exit of the ramparts where Castile was still forced to only watch the chaos. The injured were pulled back from the line, healed by Cleansers using whatever herbs and salves they could muster, while the Guides beseeched the angels for support and assistance. The effect of the surprise assault was beginning to wane, and the monks had found their foothold.
That is, until the Faded finished its slow, lethargic approach, floating just behind the line. One of the beams of light cut towards it, but it twisted, not moving the lower half of its body, and avoided it with an ease that belied its decrepit form. Rising up again, it raised its bony, sinewy arms out wide, exposing the gaps in its ragged sleeves. From there, nightmarish bats poured forth just as they had from the legends. Rushing to the front lines, they landed on the backs and near the necks of the defenders, tearing at skin and distracting them long enough to let the enemy soldiers find a gap and stab through their resolute defences. Things were turning, and still, Castile could only watch in horror and amazement. For a moment, he considered leaping from the ramparts and hoping to land well enough to join the fight, so desperate he was to help. The thought was fleeting, and he wisely chose to wait for his time and the stairs to clear.
Amongst the dreadful sounds of dying men and women, the shrieks of bats and the clanging of weapons and armour, a voice whispered to him. Strangely, it sounded vaguely like that of his own mother, soft and familiar but with a message of true horror.
You'll watch them drown, drown in the blood, gasp for air, die in the flood.
Castile looked behind him, thinking someone had whispered it in his ear. A man stood there, but he looked similarly perplexed, and with what little room they had cramped on the ramparts as the monks battled to reach their brothers and sisters, he could only shrug. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that same familiar, dark shape slip in and out of his peripherals.
Shrugging it off as a singular, strange occurrence, Castile's eyes returned to the battlefield. The True was centred now, reminding those around him what it meant to be the leader of the church. Swings from his massive sword cut a swath through the attackers, opening their ranks and disrupting their positions. Bats assaulted him, but struggled to find a hold through the slick, pristine armour. Grabbing one with a gauntleted hand, he threw it to the ground and stomped on its body before returning to the soldiers that were rapidly approaching. It was masterful, somehow a spot of calm in utter chaos.
They'll all be mine, mine in time, he'll strike us down, and join the line.
Castile whipped around, grabbing the man behind him by the front of his tunic. “What are you saying to me? Why are you speaking in a woman's voice?”
“Let go of me! I'm not your enemy, they're down there cutting us up one by one!” Notably, his voice was deep and raspy. Castile stared into the man's eyes, quietly assessing if he believed what he was saying. “You heard it too, then,” the man said. Castile nodded in return. “Sounded like my brother...” The man pursed his lips and shook his head, gripping tighter the small axe he held in his hand, the only weapon he had brought. Likely the only weapon he had.
A wretched screech of pain caused Castile to turn again, a howl so loud and high many of the monks covered their ears to block it out. A beam from one of the Exalted had caught the Faded in the shoulder, leaving a smouldering hole where rotted fabric and its thin, wispy body had once been. In response, it threw its arms forward and commanded its hellish bats to return to the attack, centred now on the lead of the Cleansers. They tore at her armour, and as a cohesive unit succeeded in removing her helmet. She swatted at them in vain as they tore the flesh from her head and ripped at her face, adding her screams of torment to the cacophony of horrid sounds of battle. The bats returned to their master, flying up its sleeve. Right before Castile's eyes, the demon's wound was mended, bubbling and then reforming its battered skin.
The Cleanser is dead, dead from the flight, and without her stand, we bring the night.
The shape. He saw it again, this time more clearly. It approached the True, who was battered and bleeding but far from fading. He must be protected! Whatever that demon was, it was planning something terrible. Castile pushed through the crowd and stood high on the edge of the ramparts, doing his best attempt at yelling over the many voices and cries. “Protect the True! A monster comes for him!”
The shape crept up before their heroic leader, forming two feet from him, vaguely in the shape of a human. Immediately, the True swung for the creature. “Help him! Help him now!” Castile yelled over the clamour. However, it all seemed for naught – the sword cut cleanly through the thing, turning it into a fine mist that congealed upon the True's sword.
“No,” Castile said, awestruck, knowing that whatever this strange being was, it was not to be felled so easily.
It seemed to flow up the weapon, and find its way into cracks and holes in the armour of the True. “No!” Castile yelled again, as the great, triumphant leader of all he had ever known, the pinnacle of his order and the best of all he represented, fell to one knee. He tore at his armour in vain, such fine craftsmanship serving to protect him so effectively, now becoming his tomb. He did not scream out in pain, nor did he weep or sob or curse. He simply toppled over, joining the ranks of the dead and gone.
Incensed at the loss of their leader, monks at the end of the stairs leading down from the ramparts redoubled their efforts and finally opened a line to break out from their positions. In their fury, one shoulder caught Castile's knee as he stood upon the ramparts. He overbalanced and fell backwards from the wall, his last image being Dietrich, the paragon of his caste, finally being overcome by the horde of soldiers.
He heard one final whisper on his descent.
I have not gone, gone from this fight, it will all be complete, with the snuff of the light.
