The sword dipped under his guard and landed strong against the padding on his ribs. Castile wheezed and dropped to one knee, having been struck far more than the average day. His opponent was Berenger, a Gloried, albeit a slight, young one. Castile outweighed him by a couple dozen pounds, most likely. He had always been on the heavier side, with a layer of fat concealing a reasonable amount of muscle that made him stronger than he appeared. On most days, he would have swung his weapon with enough strength to keep the smaller man off balance through brute force if not through skill, but the day was not his. Focus was required in the sparring circles, a small arena behind the main hall used for the demonstration and skill acquisition of the fighting arts, and today that was what he lacked.
While he was desperate to concentrate on the task at hand, he could do little to ward off his attention drifting to the gates opening to the outside world. Fanciful thoughts of heroics and exploration flooded his mind, and every time he failed in blocking it out, he’d find the end of Berenger’s weapons instead. His injured rib cage was a testament to his fading concentration.
“Do you wish for a moment?” Berenger asked in a high voice. By the angels, he was more of a boy than a man. Shame coloured Castile's face.
“No, no, I can...” Castile pushed himself to his feet and felt just how hard those last few blows had landed. “Perhaps I do,” he said, returning again to one knee. He needed water, desperately. The day was unseasonably hot, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead and rolled into his thin, patchy beard. The sun was unforgiving for a task such as sparring, and the heat was taking a heavy toll, even with the positioning of the arena. Placed near the back of the church, it overlooked the water and the steep cliffs beyond, allowing the sea air to chill them as they practiced. However, it could only do so much. The leathers meant to protect him were also cooking him alive. Rolling over onto his back, he tried to at least catch his breath if he couldn’t escape the heat.
Looking dreamily up to the sky, he closed out the sounds around him - the standard grunts of exertion and pain mixed with the clashing of weapons. The blue sky changed not in the slightest, but in his mind he was looking at it from another place, one far outside the gates and unbeknownst to him. Castile charged, defeating all manner of beasts and demons and wretched people that would stand in the way of the angels and the Seraph's Chosen, all in his mind's eye. The Preacher class, purple-robed men of calm and wisdom, typically older men who had moved on from the days of fighting, had long taught him of the heroics of past members of the order. Like many young monks, he longed to one day be named amongst those heroes. Of course, the Preachers would also warn him of the dangers of foolish pride.
Whispers brought him back. Two men were talking quietly, and one word in particular caught his interest; “Uriel.” The Gloried he had spoken with in the hall just a few days before. Still pretending to lay absent-mindedly in the field, he tilted his head towards them as they sat and recovered from their own sparring. Castile could hardly see them from his position, but that didn’t matter so long as he could hear them. He knew it was wrong to listen in when he shouldn't, and for that he felt ashamed, but talk of Uriel meant talk of someone with experience of life beyond the gates. It was not something he could afford to miss.
“...says the king's men are coming, and I for one believe him,” came a voice of an older man.
“Agh, I don't know...” came a lower voice than the last. “What interest would they have here? They haven't come our way in years. Too busy pilfering the peasants is what they're doing.”
“Well, that's just it. Seems a few of 'em might be getting tired of the king-sanctioned thievery, and they're looking to play it straight. I know, I'll believe it when I see it...” he said, trailing off.
“Anything to get the gates open,” the man grumbled, keeping his voice down so low Castile could hardly hear it.
“I hear that. I’d ask him about it myself, but they took him in for questioning on the world outside, and I haven’t seen him around since. Lots to catch up on, I suppose.”
For Castile, it was reassuring that he wasn't the only one that wished the gates to open. For a moment, he considered asking them to reveal more of what they've heard passed through the grapevine, but thought better of it. Best to keep looking up at the clear skies and hoping. That is, until a hand waved in front of his vision.
“Another round?” Berenger asked.
“Another round.” He grabbed his hand and accepted the help up, knowing that if indeed the gates were opened someday it would be best to be physically prepared for whatever mysteries are out there. They grabbed their weapons and returned to the circle, but before they began their sparring session Castile couldn’t help but voice what he’d been thinking about. “Why don't we know what's out there?” he asked, thinking it best to clear his mind before making a fool of himself again.
Berenger looked taken aback. “Where'd that come from?”
“Don't pretend you haven't wondered about it yourself.”
“I have,” he conceded. “But not much point to it. Might be that they don't know what's out there themselves, just that there's something wrong and it's best to shield ourselves from it rather than find ourselves prey to it.”
“So we hide in here until all the world falls apart?” Castile spat, frustrated at hearing the same line of defence that had come from so many in the church.
Berenger held up his hands. “What do you want from me? I'm a Gloried. They point me at what to fight, I fight it. And if they don’t point, well… I wait until they do.”
Almost matching in time with his last word, the bells from the main hall began to toll. Immediately, Castile wondered if he had fallen asleep while looking lazily to the sky, and had missed much of the training session. So accustomed to the sound, he had assumed it had just rang once, as was common to signify the change in scheduled duties. It slowly dawned on him and his partner that this time, it was three. Immediately, Berenger ran for the Commons, a meeting ground of all the castes that lie between their separate lodgings. The last time three tolls were sounded was when the gates were closed. Castile didn’t know in what way, but he knew their world was about to change drastically.
The Commons was simple, spartan architecture, as were all the locations built specially for the monks. Uncomfortable stone seating encircled a larger central platform, each section belonging to a caste, each behind their respective leaders. He sat with his fellow Harbingers. Dietrich, their leader after having risen to the rank of Exalted, was already there ahead of him. His large moustache hid any hint of emotion upon his face. Claw marks from wild animals tamed or defeated in the wilderness marked every revealed part of his body. Still, he was a comforting presence. The leaders were the embodiment of what each caste was meant to be. Dietrich was a man Castile looked up to and idolised.
However, he was not the one they had all come to see. That belonged to the head of the whole order. It was the True who stood at the front upon the platform, the direct link from humanity to the angels themselves. As was common for the monks, he wore nothing particularly beyond the ordinary. Average clothes, stained with the dirt and sweat of working in the fields. The only piece that distinguished him as the leader of the order was his immaculate shoulder ribbon, similar to Castile's in size and material, and differing only in that it was the purest white. It was blessed by the angels themselves long ago, preventing any dirt and grime that could sour its appearance. But even that was not what made the man such a startling figure.
His image was almost a caricature of the triumphant, noble hero. Somehow, his look of extreme confidence – a jetting chin, rigid posture, the intensity of his gaze – took nothing from his air of humility. His smile was still gentle and warm, his features strong but not unwelcoming. His position was well-earned, and his presence here reminded those in attendance that while their situation looked bleak, there was always a strong hand at the helm. Elias, the True – the representation of the best of their order.
“Seraph's Chosen,” he called, quieting the crowd instantly. His voice sounded hardly beyond a whisper, as if speaking to each member directly. Castile casually wondered if it was also enhanced by some angelic gift bestowed upon him. “My people.” He smiled, dimples
crossing his cheeks. “It has been so long now, having been sequestered within our gates. You've shown patience and resolve, calm and belief. All this built on faith in the church's word that a great evil has taken hold of the land beyond. Faith in what I’ve put forth to you. For that, I thank you, for your resolve and your stoicism.”
Castile looked to his left and right, seeing Gloried rapping large fists on their chests and Menders nodding their quiet agreement. This was what Uriel didn't understand; the church was indivisible, indomitable. Why keep the gates closed when no evil could ever penetrate these walls? Not with the angel’s own earthly force protecting it as a cohesive unit.
“I have long ago made the decision to lock the entrance to the church, to block those that would harm us from ever doing so. I did this because I, myself, did not yet understand the truth. The world around us was changing, but I was unsure how. I know better now of the world beyond the gates.” He turned solemn, quieter. “Take heart - the news will not be easy to hear.”
Castile's jaw slackened. His heart pounded ceaselessly in his chest, so strong he
felt it could burst from beneath the bone. This was it. He was to learn all of what he had been longing to know.
The True, if crestfallen, still appeared resolute. “A great evil has taken hold across many of the farms, towns, and – I fear – Ulrich itself.” Whispers and gulps came from the crowd, but settled quickly. Ulrich was the largest city in the area, a beacon of commerce and immensely powerful. To have it fall to whatever evil the True spoke of was dire indeed. “But sadly, that is not all I have to report. It is the nature of the evil that concerns me so. Seraph's Chosen, hear me now, for you'll remember this moment for the rest of your time, as it may be the ultimate call of our order.” He took a deep breath. Not a sound could be heard across the whole of the stone circle. “I have reason to believe demons have returned to this realm.”
Gasps erupted from the crowd, and from the faint of heart came screams. The Gloried, and any others who were able-bodied and full of righteous fury, yelled in anger, but at what or whom even they surely did not know. A few reflexively grabbed for weapons they could not find; others buried their heads in their hands. Castile, meanwhile, was unsure on how to feel.
Demons were legendary creatures, as wretched and horrifying as the angels are tranquil and harmonious. The ancient texts warned of their coming when man had pushed too far in the continuum of good and evil towards the latter side, spawning them as a physical manifestation of their bloodlust or greed, lust or envy. When let loose upon the world, they tempt those weak enough to hear them with artifacts and relics of great power, similar to that of the angels but tainted with a terrible, demonic presence. The Seraph's Chosen had earned and cherished gifts from the angels, and had sought out and cleansed many of those relics, a main task of their order. Truly, the return of demons was dire indeed.
A sense of fear welled deep in his heart, but he found his fists clenched in anticipation. A name for himself was there to be had. Through great trials, opportunity. While those around him howled their displeasure in one manner or another, Castile sat in uncharacteristic quiet, a strange mix of fear and excitement.
“Hold, now,” came the True's calming voice. He raised his arms and lowered them for calm, and a return to the quiet the monks cherish and respect. Normally, the True would chastise them for such an outburst, but few could be expected to hold their tongue at such a time. “All is not lost. For those of you that feel fear of these demons, remember the light within your hearts. It is our duty to combat them, through the deeds of the angels or with the spear and shield of justice. The world has shifted to evil, yes – otherwise the demons would not be among us today - but we hope only slightly. It is our role to turn it back. From within these gates, we cannot do so. Too long have we been separated from the outside world. It is time we ventured out once more, to be the bringers of goodwill again.” He surveyed the crowd, those intense eyes seemingly transfixed on each individual as they passed from side to side, vigilant. “Our enemies are strong, but we are stronger still!”
“Angels watch!” Dietrich, the head of the Harbingers, called out from the front of the row of steps before Castile. To see him yell out unprompted was so out of the norm, especially for one of the Exalted, yet it filled Castile with a zealous pride. A few called after him as well, and the True had to wait for the crowd to gather their senses before he could continue. The suddenly quiet Harbinger could only muster a soft “angels watch” under his breath, so transfixed on the incredible, suddenly bellicose event.
“While I am blessed to have such fervorous, willing members of this order by my side, I am further pleased to announce that we need not worry of battling these wretches alone. One of our own, the Gloried by the name of Uriel, has made contact with a handful of king's guards that are still loyal to the righteous path. Seasoned warriors all, they will help us bring order and justice to these lands plagued by the evils of the world. Exalted! Don your finest. The rest, from the Menders to the Gloried, find what weapons you can. Meet us at the gates at dusk, as our new brothers in arms mean to leave their patrols en masse and join us. We should hope to look our best. A show of strength will bolster their hearts.” Through this all, the True looked calm and composed. He reminded them all of what they aspired to be. “We must be the guiding light through these dark times.”
He left his small, stone platform, composed and assured. The rest scattered this way and that, looking to be as formal – and as military – as they could. The Exalted hurried to don their finest armour, passed down from ages before. The rest just took what they could; a few just grabbed their sharpest farming tools and heaviest clothing, as there wasn't even so much as enough training swords for all of them. The defense of the church had always been threefold: a strict regimen of training, combat and survival; the obvious wall that lined its border; and just as importantly, a rare need for any of it. The land was of no great worth, and a siege on a church would label the attacker an enemy of all that was good.
But demons cared little for what was good.
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