The Church in Wayfaire

The interior of Wayfaire’s church was much different from the outside. While the exterior was pristine, with its smooth white paint and tall, straight steeple, the inside was much less grand. Dust covered most of the pews while cobwebs lined the ceiling’s corners. The wooden floors were unswept with many of the planks cracked and bent. Even the windows looked unwashed, the dirty panes letting in little to no light.

It certainly looked like this church got little to no visitors.

“Hey, padre?” I asked the cleric as he led me inside the building. “You shtarving for parishioners?”

“Hmm?” The old priest stopped then looked around as if suddenly noticing the state of his church for the first time. “Oh, well, yes. In a manner of speaking. Sadly, the people of this town are not very devout. I give whatever spiritual guidance I can to the few who visit, but mostly the citizens of Wayfaire give this church a wide berth.”

I nodded, looking up at the high ceiling and noticing several spiders living among the rafters. Ick.

“I noticed that the outside looksh fine,” I said.

“Yes. I spend what meager funds I am given to maintain the exterior,” Angus explained. “No one ever visits the inside of the church, but everyone sees it from outside. Might as well make it look pretty for the town.”

I nodded again. Made sense.

Angus continued walking forwards, leading me past the pews. He stopped at the front of the nave where the altar was located, motioning for me to move closer. As I did, I saw something shiny in his hand. I stopped where I was when I realized it was a dagger.

The priest saw my startled look and looked down at the item in his hand. “Oh, calm down. This knife is merely ceremonial.” He began smacking the edge of the blade onto his hand. “See? Dull as rocks.”

Relieved that I wasn’t about to get shanked, I joined the old man by the altar.

“Well, if you aren’t gonna shtick me with it, what are you gonna use that knife for?” I asked.

“This knife is special,” he explained. “Mystical. It’s designed to react to the true Mark of Rekorim. It lets us clerics separate the liars and scoundrels from those truly chosen.”

The night was falling and it was getting dark inside that church. Angus moved over to some candles and held out his hand to them. He muttered some type of incantation under his breath and soon, the wicks on the candles lit themselves.

“Impressive,” I remarked. I never would have thought the old codger was capable of magic.

“Bah. That is child’s play compared to what you Marked are capable of.” He moved to several more candles and lit them in the same way. Soon the interior of the church was glowing golden in candlelight.

“Now then,” he said, moving back to the altar and picking up the dagger. “Let me see your hand.”

I held out my left hand towards him. Angus grasped my claws firmly in his frail fingers, then pulled the sleeve of my coat up to reveal the yellow mark at the back of my hand. He reverently held the blade of the knife over the symbol and waited.

“What now?” I asked.

“Well, now we wait for something to happen,” he said.

Pretty soon, the knife’s blade began to glow softly. It started out as a dim glimmer but within seconds it was a startling silver glare. It all but lit the interior of the church in white light, blocking out the weaker glow of the candles.

“I knew it!” Angus laughed. “I knew my faith would be rewarded. Hallelujah! A Marked has come before us!” It was then that he let his grip on the knife dip lower, whereupon the tip of the blade touched the skin of my mark. A spark of electricity zapped the both of us, and Angus shrieked, losing the grip on the knife. The holy relic clattered loudly onto the wooden floor as it disappeared under a pew, the white light blinking out instantly.

But then the church became lit up by another light. Coming from my hand, the mark on it began to glow a bright, golden radiance. Angus and I stared dumbstruck at the sight, watching as the stylized “V” upon my hand seemed to float above it in the air. It hovered there for a moment before the golden glow pulsed, and it changed shape. What was once the Mark of Rekorim was now a small, shield-shaped lump of metal with an engraving of a dragon on it. The image flickered again, this time transforming into a familiar circular badge with the words “UNITED STATES MARSHALL” written on top of it. The glow began to dim, and soon the tin star transformed back into the stylized “V” shape. The mark floated down to rest on the back of my hand once more, whereupon it stopped its glowing.

Angus and I just stood there, mouths agape.

“What the hell wash that?” I gasped out.

“I… I don’t know.” The old priest seemed alarmed. “This was not written in the scripts! As far as I know, that isn’t supposed to happen! Perhaps it is a message from the gods, or no, perhaps it is merely another sign of your divine origins.” Angus quickly shook his head, then smacked himself on both cheeks. “Enough, enough! No more conjectures! What happened happened, and it was marvelous! This just probably means that you are truly one of Rekorim’s chosen!”

“Well, glad to hear I passed muster,” I said, still somewhat shaken by what had transpired. I looked down at my left hand and saw the mark, then began to wonder just what in the hell it actually was. Mark of a god or not, I was stuck with it and that was what worried me.

Angus had taken off his hat, placing the headwear on top of the altar, then got on his hands and knees and began to search under the pews for the lost dagger.

“What happensh now?” I asked him.

“Now, we prepare,” he said while peering under the pews, eyes narrowed as he attempted to discern the dagger’s location in the dark shadows underneath the seats. “We prepare you for the task ahead of you. I also need to contact my fellows in Malmont, to let them know that I have found one of Rekorim’s chosen.”

“Is that a good idea? I mean, the lasht cleric I met wasn’t too happy when I showed him my mark.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He tried to cut off my hand.”

“I’m guessing he failed.” Angus poked his head out from under the shadows of the pews and looked up at me. “What became of him?”

“I killed him, then took his hat and coat.”

“Ah.” The old priest chuckled then ducked back under the pews.

“I’m kinda surprised that you don’t wanna cut off my hand, either,” I told him, genuinely curious about the old man’s odd behavior. Well, odd for a worshipper of a hell god that is.

“It is true that many in the church are of the opinion that humans are the supreme race on Ventalis. Though our scripture corroborates none of it, they still believe that as the God of Justice’s chosen people, we should be the ones on top. I belong to a small but vocal faction that believes all peoples of the world should worship Rekorim’s greatness. Be they elf, or dwarf, or lizardman, everyone should fall under our great god’s warm embrace.

“Aha!” Angus stood up from his previous position with the lost knife in his grip. He then walked over to the altar and began to clean the dagger with a cloth from his pocket.

“The fact that you exist proves that my faction is in the right,” he continued. “With you as proof, as a lizardman heathen chosen by Rekorim to be one of his champions, the rest of the church must accept our way as the correct one.”

I snorted. Somehow I doubted it would be that simple.

“Oh my, it’s getting late!” Angus suddenly said, looking as if he had just noticed the dark of night. “We should continue this in the morning. Do you have a place to stay.”

“Yeah, at the same inn you found me in,” I told him.

“Oh. Good, good. Meet me here tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock, maybe. Yes, that’ll give me enough time to send out a messenger pigeon to Malmont City.”

“Whatever you shay, Reverend,” I said. I walked off towards the exit, pondering the strange events of this evening. Apparently, they had gods in Hell, and one of them had chosen me to be his little problem solver. That is if you believed what Angus had to say. To me, he seemed crazy enough to be genuine in his beliefs. That meant what he said was true; either that or he believed it to be the truth.

Belief. Humph. I hadn’t been to church since I was seventeen years old, when I had left my old life behind. Now it seems as if I was stuck a prisoner on the whim of some god or demon or whatever, and if I wanted outta this hell then I needed to be a good little dog and roll over.

I took my time getting back to the inn, allowing myself the luxury to enjoy the cooler air of evening. By the time I had gotten back to the inn, it was pretty dark out. Lee was outside the building leaning against the wall chewing on an apple.

“Evening, partner,” he said with a nod of the head. “So, what have you been up to all night?”

I shook my head. “Lee, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The morning started off ordinary enough. I woke up, washed up, got dressed, then went downstairs for breakfast. And yup, you guessed it, the menu was more fish. At least this time they had eggs to go along with it, though these ones tasted differently from chicken eggs. I decided, possibly wisely, not to ask what it was.

I was in the middle of shoveling down my food when a young man entered the inn. I recognized him as being one of the not-sheriff’s not-deputies. He looked around the eating area until he spotted me.

“Mr. Nero?” He asked.

“Yeah?”

“Brogund asked me to come here and fetch you,” he said. “There’s some trouble at the gate.”

I sighed. What was I now, the go-to dog in the city? If there was trouble, couldn’t Brogund and his men handle it themselves?

“Sir, it’s urgent,” the young man insisted.

I sighed. “Fine.”

I guess it wouldn’t be too bad for someone in authority to be owing me a favor or two.

I stood up and followed the young fella out the door. He escorted me with hurried steps to the front gates where a curious sight met me. Outside the gates of town were a whole slew of lizardmen, probably around sixty of them. At first I thought we were being invaded, but then I noticed that most of the group were women and old men. Hell, there were even some children with them.

I arrived at the gate and greeted Brogund. “Morning. You having trouble?”

The dwarf, who had a steady frown on his bearded face, seemed to brighten up when he saw me. “Ah, Nero! Good, you’re here.”

“What’sh up with them?” I asked, pointing my chin towards the large group of lizardmen.

“No clue,” the dwarf said. “They just arrived some forty minutes back. Came out of the swamp like the mist creeping in, then they all headed over here. None of them speak a lick o’ Common, so we have no idea what they want. I was hoping you could do a little translating.”

I almost rolled my eyes. This was what I was here for? And here I thought they needed me to shoot somebody.

“Why call me? Aren’t there other lizardmen in town?” I asked.

“Yeah, but you’re the only one who speaks Common so well. All the words the others know are probably ‘yes, no, how do you do’ or ‘have a good night.’”

“Fine, fine. I’ll go talk to them.” I made my way towards the group, exiting the safety of the wall to do so. If there was trouble I’d be a sitting duck out here with them, but hell if I’d be daunted by some women, old men, and children.

There was a relatively young lizardman at the head of the group. I moved towards him and began speaking in Drakkis. “You folk are a long way from home.”

The lizardman I addressed nodded. He was dressed in a loincloth and leather vest, with a necklace of teeth and bone around his long neck. “We have no home, not anymore.”

I see. “Care to elaborate?”

“We here have fled from our homes,” the lizardman explained. “We are Rock Biters, Powder Mixers, Deep Hunters. We have come from many tribes that no longer exist, tribes devoured by the Fire Breathers.”

“Fire Breathers?” That sounded ominous.

“Yes. They are a new tribe, with fearsome magics. They have the power of the dragons with them, wielding staves that shoot smoke and flames. They are a savage lot, wearing human clothing and waving human banners. They took over each of our tribes, taking our young and making them Fire Breathers themselves.”

Hmm. Sounded like the lizard tribes got into some infighting, and these “Fire Breathers” have taken over. Something about them seemed terribly familiar. Especially that part about “staves that shoot smoke and flames.” I recalled my parting with the Rust Shaper tribe, and giving Thrishop the formula for gunpowder. Could that have something to do with this? It couldn’t have; I didn’t teach Thrishop how to construct firearms, and I doubt he’d figure it out himself in just the few short weeks since I saw him last.

“Why have you come here?” I asked.

“We seek sanctuary. We have heard that the human city in the swamp allows our kind to live among them.” The lizardman looked hopeful.

“They do, but I’m not sure they’re so willing to let so many of you in at once,” I told him.

“Please,” said an old lizardman from the crowd. “We will die out here.”

“It’s not my call,” I told him. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

I returned to the gate and told Brogund what I’d learned.

“Huh, sounds like there’s trouble brewin deep in the swamps,” he said while rubbing his beard. “I suppose we could let ‘em in. They’d have to stay in Old Town, but at least they’ll be out of the swamp.”

From what I gathered, Old Town was the part of Wayfaire that hadn’t been settled in yet. Thus many of the old buildings in the area were dilapidated and all but crumbling to dust. In other words, it wasn’t the good part of town.

“That’sh all well and good,” I said, “but I’d be more worried about the others that will come.”

Brogund frowned. “You think they’ll be more of them?”

“You can bet on it. Whenever there’sh war, refugees tend to follow.”

In the end, Brogund allowed the lizardmen to enter Wayfaire. They were led to Old Town where they set up what we all hoped would be a temporary camp. They were situated in an old square in between six buildings that were still standing. The lizardmen began to set up tents when I started to leave, confident that things were running smoothly.

I wasn’t two steps away from exiting the scene when I spotted a familiar face. Or rather, a familiar horn. Among the refugees was a middle-aged lizardman with a broken horn. The same lizardman that drugged me and sold me into slavery.

I took five stomping steps towards him.

“Hey!” I said, almost shouting. “Remember me, you son of a bitch?”

Broken Horn turned to me and I saw fear and recognition set in his eyes. He backed up as my large form loomed over him. Several of the refugees around us became startled and backed away from me as well.

“I… I…” he started to say.

He didn’t get to finish, as my fist smashed solidly against his snout, breaking off more pieces from his horn.