Chapter 6: Cinders of the Occult

"Kindle my paradise."​

Things have been hard enough. The last thing I want to deal with right now is another greater demon.

Though your hand is trembling slightly as you hold the torch aloft, you pay it little mind. While your body feels better than it has in a long time, your head is still a mess. Rolling the parchment back up and stowing it safely in your pack, you turn your attention forward. There's no sight or sound of anyone, but trying to not get washed away in a storm of self-pity is proving more and more difficult as voices echo in your head.

"Keep an eye on him. We still don't know what he's capable of."

"Come on, handsome..."

"Father—?! There's no way you—"

"I knew he was sick."

Your footsteps quicken— desperate to put more distance between yourself and the room the women occupied. Ray pants alongside you and whines just slightly. It must be obvious how anxious you are. You run over how else you could have played out the situation over and over again, trying to think of some other way things could have gone. Yet no matter how you try to spin the situation, you keep coming back to the same conclusion.

I can't stop pushing people away.

Your footsteps slow.

Everyone leaves— or I run away.

You barely notice the light that's growing from the end of the corridor.

What's wrong with me?

You come to a complete stop, and put your head in your free hand. Ray rubs his nose against the side of your robes. He affectionately nuzzles you as you try to keep a straight face, and break out into nervous laughter. "Ehehe. At least— at least I can talk to you, Ray. Heh— we've— we've been friends longer than anyone else has stuck around me before. I've probably said more to you than to anyone else. You— did you know that...?"

You kneel down next to the mastiff, and bury your face in his coat. He whines, and cuddles you back as you try not to cry.

I've been down here at least a week with only a single lead. Even if I can't stop alienating people, and have burned every bridge that I've crossed— save for Storm's— I'm probably just stressed.

Sniffing, you hold onto Ray a little tighter.

There's nothing wrong with me. I nearly died twice. Three times, if the seizure counts. Anyone would be acting strangely in my position. I just need to calm down.

"The Gods are down here with me— even if no one else is."

The task at hand requires all your focus. Drying your eyes, you look to either end of the passage. Though your vision is blurred, the need for torches decreases the closer you walk towards a new source of light. Blood-red candles dot the floor every few yards as you walk. They emanate with a faint glow— similar to what you saw in the chamber with the greater demon. Ray shows no signs of stress or alarm. You hesitantly poke one candle with the end of your torch. Its flame doesn't respond to wind, or even a firm touch.

Sorcery.

​

Peering around the nearest corner reveals a broad opening, with many more candles illuminating it. Some hang suspended in the air, while others rest on the floor of the ruins. Crude rock rises to a high stone ceiling. Bars obstruct many of the passages leading out in all directions. You press on, grateful for both the map in hand, and the women who have thoroughly traversed this labyrinth.

The eerie silence is only punctuated by the scuffing of your shoes against the floor, and Ray's panting. Heightened senses and the utmost caution presses deeper on into the chamber.

Just around the corner— following the path you've charted— your slow steps save you from a fall. You shout in surprise, and put out an arm to hold Ray back. Your boy obediently hangs back.

Soft footsteps come from one of the large chamber's many passages.

Mercy. Whatever it is must have heard me.

You look over the ledge. A steep and sheer descent is broken up by steps carved into the stone wall at your feet. Candles continue on a stretch of stone so far below that their light is merely pin-pricks.

Your voice is barely perceptible. "Ray."

He growls aggressively, while staying close by your side. Taking a step away from the ledge, you quickly set down the torch. It's not needed with all the candle light, and your mace and shield are a more prudent choice. The steps are barely audible, but you brace yourself for several minutes. Some demons are intelligent enough to try to lull humans into a false sense of security. You've seen it before.

Though it's hard not to wonder if you imagined the sound, you don't relax. Taking a few steps boldly forward, you leave the sharp decline behind you. "Come, Ray."

The sound of the footsteps suddenly intensifies. As you swing your weapon and shield around, your green eyes go wide.

Across the corridor runs the smallest creature you've seen in quite a few years. The demon's skull is bare upon only its face. Spikes run along all the rest of its head, and down all of its back. Tattered rags adorn its body, but the fabric collapses in on exposed bones, and a hollow center. You almost breathe a sigh of relief at the imp as it eyes you curiously. Bile dribbles from its bony mouth. It's keeping its distance— obviously trying to size you up before attacking. Its small feet barely makes a sound as it scurries slightly closer.

You smugly look down at your dog. This is child's play, but there are likely more around here. Staying on high alert is befitting of the Father of the Church of Mercy. But the question isn't how much Mercy to demonstrate here. The question is how quickly to kill this imp before its allies arrive. They travel in packs if their kin hasn't already been picked off— and this one doesn't look nearly bloody enough for your liking.

You tighten your grip around your mace— and hesitate to strike. Giving into violent impulses may grant you temporary relief from your angst, but it's not a permanent solution. It's noisy, and bloody, and it may be wiser to call upon Spirit. Seeking out other imps through Her could avoid an alarm or an ambush.

While the weak demon skitters around the corridor before you, you're conflicted. It slowly inches forward and back in the same fashion as a trained swordsman. Despite it wielding nothing but a rusty sickle, your blood is pumping.

The anticipation of violence is accompanied by familiar apprehension. You've had to push yourself in the ruins more frequently than you'd like. You've been closer to violence more frequently still.

A chill runs down your spine as you think back to your recent prayer to Vengeance, and how closely He brought you to Malimos' violent history. The chill turns to a cold sweat as you recall how horrifically close you felt to the Catalyst. You nearly triggered the phenomenon.

The weakness within the hearts of mankind is near and dear to you. After all, you've felt it many times before.

Edwin's screams rip through your skull, as his broken body writhes on the ground at your feet. Blood and bile drips from your hands and mouth onto the bones protruding from his tortured flesh. The building pressure in your head— and the desire to kill your tormentor— left no pity for this boy in your heart. He had broken just as many of your bones.

Your first prayer to Vengeance was a miracle. For Him to have blessed a child was nearly unheard of. It felt unbelievably good. As you collapsed to the floor— clutching in on yourself— the agony was perfect.

The damage was done.

"Richard?! What's— what's wrong with you?! Oh. Oh, by all the Gods—!"

You don't know whether it was your mother pulling you away, your own will, or the Gods Themselves that saved you from the Catalyst. The God of retribution left nearly as quickly as He had come.

You HAD to know why. Why were you so weak? Why were you so susceptible to temptation? Why did you feel it again and again? How could you feel the Catalyst, and live to tell the tale? You studied obsessively for years afterwards— pouring your long and lonely years with the Church of Mercy into purpose. Vengeance made things all the worse. Losing your temper. Losing those you loved. Fighting the darkness within the hearts of mankind.

You have been taught the importance of restraint— and for you, it is crucial. Temperance. Restraint. Self-control. Mercy.

You're in a cold sweat now, as you stare at the imp. It seems to sense that you're distracted, and lunges at you with it's weapon. The tense and sweaty grip on your mace swings low, and deflects its attack readily. The creature is nearly as weak as you are. The force of the impact travels up through your main arm, but you do not falter. The threat here is something far greater than a single imp.

No matter how much time I spend down here, I can't forget my mission.

The coarse leather and wood of your shield is held tighter still. Ray whines— practically begging you to allow him to attack the demon.

"No."

You shift your weight to take a single step forward. The imp bristles, and swings again with a poor attempt at a feint. You instantly see through its ruse, and bring your shield into the blow. Its scythe drags over the bloody, wooden surface just as you strike back.

There's no place for Mercy here. The bluntest side of your mace is brought down upon the imp's spiked head with a sickening crunch. Its skull caves in with a dry crack, and instantly crumbles. It's as if the demon is made of dust, and gives almost no resistance.

Before you can stumble forward, you shift your weight, pry out the flanged weapon, and swing again.

Ray continues whining, but you needed this. Red seeps into the edges of your vision with a vicious and eager third blow. Its head is no more. The imp's body slumps to the floor, as its weapon uselessly clatters beside it. A cold sweat clings your scruffy and untamed hair to your face and neck. There's no blood to speak of. Eyeing the end of your mace with disgust, you mutter to the dust and bile adorning it. "Ancient..."

Small, hurried steps echo out from several more of the open passages. The confusing, amplified acoustics of the large chamber you're in makes placing their precise location next to impossible.

Ray's whining turns to growling. Your heart is in your throat. "Let them come."

Even as footsteps rapidly approach, you close your eyes and hold onto Mercy's symbol. You utter a minor prayer— more to calm yourself than to ask anything of the Goddess. "My restraint is my peace."

At least twenty more imps must be coming. The first one was bait. "But my peace shall be broken."

The cacophony of steps draws nearer. You open your eyes— burning as they are with repression. "Grant me detachment. Grant me peace. Grant me Mercy."

The holy symbol is released, to tighten your hands around the mace and shield. Though they're slick with sweat, the hold on your defense stays firm. The rate of your pulse drops, as the overwhelming sound echoes all around.

I may be susceptible to the Catalyst, but I am far from helpless.

"By me, Ray." Imps may be the lowest demons in their hierarchy, but you know to not underestimate them. While one alone is no trouble, a handful can be lethal. The number that you're hearing...

The footsteps are moving about the walls now. "They've honeycombed the walls?"

Spinning in place to search for anything that can give you an advantage or a safe position reveals a small outcropping. It would be too narrow for most men, but will serve you just fine. You back up, pinning yourself against the uneven surface. Your thin silhouette is barely visible among the candles and dim lighting. Ray dutifully slips beside you. His smaller form is even more hidden. "Quiet, boy."

You wait— clutching at your holy symbol— and don't dare to speak again. Slowly kneeling down to keep your shield at Ray's height is the most you risk.

Just when you think that the footsteps have stopped, the imps slowly appear from around many corners. They furtively lead with the tips of arrowheads, bows, knives, and countless spikes from their own bodies. This smaller and weaker variety of demons are still a lethal threat. A menagerie of broken limbs, bloodied bones and exposed tissue creeps and sneaks over the cavern's floor.

​

You kiss your holy symbol with sweaty palms. Placing it once more over the rapid beat of your heart, you whisper to your eager companion. "Now."

Ray leaps into the fray, and fearlessly tears into the closest imp. They're hiding in the walls, and around every corner. You sprint forward to meet him and skid to a halt. Shield high, you cry out while deflecting a shower of ranged weapons. "My restraint is my weakness!"

The volley is relentless. As Ray growls viciously and tears the head clean off of the demon in his jaws, the staggered assault continues. Through the rain of rusty weaponry, a few imps dare to run out. They're pierced through and collapse before ever reaching you.

The smell of dust and bile is hot in the air from the decapitated demon that slumps before your boy's proud and eager jaws. You implore your Goddess, "Mercy."

As Her blessed name leaves your lips, the walls rain with enemies. They were far closer than you suspected, and are upon you in an instant. Each word that you utter is punctuated by a dodge, a cleave into broken limbs, and a quick glance to even more attackers. "Meet me! Come unto me— unto my compassion!"

A flying imp bee-lines for your head through the chaos. You'd love to laugh with satisfaction as your mace slams the winged creature out from the air, and into the floor with a wet crunch— but you feverishly keep up the prayer instead. A wave of euphoria washes out to you, as a Goddess reaches out with Her blessing.

"Rejoice, unto the Father's RIGHTEOUSNESS—!"

Warmth extends through your chest as if She was holding you in Her arms. The same heat is rivaled by a rush against the wall of enemies before you. Shield high, you slam the leading demons straight to the floor. All that try to stand and oppose you are crushed under your weapon. It begins to glow with a gentle light as Mercy guides your hand. The entire cavern becomes illuminated. Golden radiance meets and overcomes the blood-red candlelight all around.

You can't wave to Ray to call him forward, but he stays close enough to defend. You duck down to shield him, as you steadily push across to the opposite side of the room. A path of destruction is left in your wake. Slamming your back to the wall, you dig into a nearby hiding spot and rip out an imp from its cover. Your prayer intermingles with its screams. "He who delivers Your blessings unto your adversaries—!" You crush the demon underhand. The effort of smashing his skull against a nearby wall does nothing to exacerbate the soreness that should be all throughout your limbs. Instead, your racing heart and the sweat on your brow is invigorating. "Relief from my distress! Merciful Goddess!"

There's ample crevices to clear out. Keeping your shield and body low, you withdraw from the swarming main chamber into another corridor. Ray tears into another rocky corner to extract another foe. His gnashing teeth instantly crush the demon's skull. In a tuft of dust and grit, you hold your ground. Warm. Breathing heavily. Sensitive to every last sensation. "Mercy, who arouses my compassion—Your generosity is without equal!"

The swarms of imps hiding in the walls up ahead have changed ammunition. The clinking of glass all around whispers like a lover in your ear. With Ray hot on your heels you tear down a side passage and softly continue to pray. "Lend me Your bosom, that I might better take You. Kindle my paradise, and I shall best serve You."

A glass vial smashes to the floor nearby. Plumes of smoke fill the corridor rapidly. Ray appears to be be unharmed— but the second you take your eyes off of the onslaught, an arrow grazes your shoulder. The metal neither stings nor brings you any harm. The slick and foul substance that coated the barbed weapon immediately seeps back out from the wound. Before the weapon clinks off of the wall at your back, warmth radiates from the site of the blow.

Mercy's hand. Mercy's love.

The gentle tone you've assumed drops to a whisper. "My weakness is Your strength."

Dramatically fewer arrows pelt towards you and your raised shield. They're retreating, or you've killed more than you suspected. With your back to the wall, you know that you need to finish this.

"Ray. Hide." He immediately obeys the command, and conceals himself behind your shield and robes. The dust and bile from his jaws and face gets all over your frame, but you can't care. Mercy doesn't care. She's with you. Her warmth is all over you.

I won't jeopardize this moment on a handful of imps.

As the smoke begins to dissipate, you lose yourself to a low and heavy whisper. The metal symbol of your station is wrapped between your fingers. The prayer that leaves your lips is punctuated by the clink of metal in your hands. The soothing embrace of a lover. The steady firing of arrows. Sweat sticks to the back of your robes and trickles down your neck. "Though Your vessel cracks with furor, you fill us with grace." Infatuation with the dark and slick gore, and the gorgeous gold of a Goddess' symbol seizes you. "Thank you." Her hands are warm to the touch. "Mercy—"

You brace yourself. Every imp you can see through the last of the smoke is another word of thanks that falls from your lips. They're out of ammunition. Makeshift weapons of simple rocks, splintered wood, and demonic corpses point straight at you and Ray. A few of the monsters step forward with only their horns out for their protection— yet they all fearlessly step over the bodies of their fallen comrades.

You match their procession with one, deliberate step forward. The attempt to bait out an attack works flawlessly. Every imp that possesses a spiked appendage simultaneously rips off an improvised throwing knife. You swing your shield up, and catch a volley of the makeshift darts with expert precision. Not a single scratch gets on you or your boy. A simple command to him carries lethal intent. "With me, Ray."

The fire in your tone gives one of the imps pause.

You step forward.

A demon steps back.

One of the imps outright panics, and hurls a glass vial straight at you. As the the blackened, venomous container soars through the air, you realize it holds sorcerery within. Before it can strike you, a holy light flares forth. Not only does the burst of radiance prevent the caustic liquid from burning straight through your shield— the entire contents of the container drip harmlessly to the floor.

A deep pit instantly burns through the stone underfoot. The demon that tossed the container turns on a heel, and tries to run.

A smile paints your features as you point your mace towards the offending imp. "Ray!"

Your dog leaps through the air to kill. You leap behind him, while bashing every potential threat aside with renewed force. Mercy's symbol draws close against the palm of your hand, flush against the hilt of your weapon. The heated metal drives down with all the force you possess.

The last remaining demons' skulls smolder. Sunlight is in the palm of your hand. The air is intoxicating. Shouts of ecstasy intermingle with the slaughter. You lose yourself.

Standing among radiant and burning bodies, you breathe hard. A few more blessed moments are spent relishing the sensation of your Goddess. Streaks of gold and warm yellow light fades from your eyes, while looking around in the low candlelight.

Your heavy breathing slows. The low-burning torch you set down can still be seen flickering around the bend. Before even wiping the sweat from your brow, you set about wiping the soot and embers from Mercy's holy symbol. It's buffed to a shine before you're satisfied. Meanwhile, Ray paces around you. He's clearly worn out from the fight, but still keeps on high alert. He's searching for more to kill. Love and longing is still all through your voice as you talk him down from his homicidal fervor. "Easy, boy. Good boy."

Viscera and guts litter the floor from the many demons you and your dog tore to pieces. Dust and bile is so thick upon your mace and shield, you're certain you will be incapable of completely cleaning them ever again. More of the filth covers you from head to toe. You wipe streaks of gore from your face, while musing that this is a small price to pay for Mercy's embrace.

Even if I can't feel Her now, Mercy is always with me.

Mercy's warmth eventually dissipates from your body. A healthy burn is left in its wake. The strain of the fight isn't weighing on you like it should, and this fire is nothing like the blessing of Flesh. You hesitate to pause, or to rest. Even taking anything out of your pack seems like a risk while deciding on how to proceed from here.

The healthy burn makes way for the rapid beat of your heart, a burn in your lungs, and a flush upon your face. Only a few deep breaths later, and you set about removing your backpack.

Ray is on edge from the fight as well. He paces around you, nudging at the few imps lying about the floor to confirm your kill.

Prayer and exertion has smoothed out the usual stutters and pauses from your tone. It feels phenomenal to be dealing with creatures you know how to handle. "Easy. Easy, Ray. They're dead. Come here, boy."

You fish out Ofelia's parting gift from your pack, and pat Ray on the head after he's bounded over. Though he sits politely for training, you give him his reward without further ceremony. You kneel down beside him and glare with (justified) paranoia at the surrounding, spiked, dried out corpses. "You're welcome." The instant he's done inhaling the roots and vegetables, your boy plops down on the floor and looks to you with wide eyes. You scratch his ears, and sweetly command him to stay put.

He could use the rest. I'll have to wait until I'm sure we're safe.

Walking over to the imp that first threw the enchanted glass vial at you, you carefully prod at it with the end of your mace. The motion cracks its flesh. Bits of dust float off of its corpse. The closer you scrutinize it, the older is seems.

No blood. It's been a very long time since these demons have suffered another human.

Thinking back to your teachings from Father Edmund, you try to determine how old these demons must be. However, there are no telling markers here. No runes carved into their flesh. No blood. They couldn't even speak. Cautiously lifting aside the imp's rags— with your long hands wrapped up into your sleeves— you search for pockets or anything else hidden on its person. The clinking of glass gets your attention. There are three, small, glass vials within the imp's filthy clothes. They're no longer than your pinky finger, and are filled to the brim. Holding one of the containers up to the scarlet light makes your trained eyes go wide. A black substance smolders and smokes within.

"Cinders of the occult. Mercy. This is the work of a dark creature."

With a bow of your head, you say a small prayer. Were it not for Mercy's protection, this sorcery could have killed you or Ray instantly. Wrapping your hands was the right call. The liquid's properties can catch fire from the slightest heat, so you delicately settle all three to the floor.

A mindful search of the other imps reveals no gold or possessions, save for a handful of stashed appendages that double as daggers. Poisoned arrows litter the floor as well. It's extremely dissatisfying.

The utmost caution is used to conduct a more thorough inspection of the imp with wings. For the briefest of moments, you catch a marking of some sort inscribed on the leathery skin of the creature. Experience and panic has you pull back rapidly. It saves your sight.

A flash of blinding purple light bursts forth from the imp, and lights its body into a surreal flame. By the time the light dissipates enough to dare bringing your arm down from your eyes, only a line of runes is left on the ground. The script is burned straight into the ground— in the same language as one you've transcribed from the walls of the waterway.

​

Ray whines from the spot you commanded him to stay in. Your heart skips a beat— terrified that he'd been hurt from the light— but he's simply scared for your safety. You fidget with your holy symbol. There might still be enough time and safety here to investigate.

As quickly as you're able, you produce a scrap of parchment and make a duplicate of the runes with your neat writing. It should be easy enough to decipher the symbols at a later time— when you aren't surrounded by evidence of slaughter. Ray continues to whine as you put up the spoils. It's unusual. He normally doesn't complain this much when commanded to stay.

You pause with your work and walk over to him, with a quick glance around. Concern that you've spent too much time here creeps into your voice. "What is it, boy?"

There's no pointing in any concrete direction. He continues to whine, and you have to assume that the source of his worry is deeper into the ruins. "We'll be out of here soon." You pat him on his head, not wanting to torment him with further questioning. "It's okay."

The cinders of the occult need to be secured. You return to the sinister mixtures— fingers shaking— and get a spare undershirt from your pack. With great difficulty, you manage to keep your hands steady enough to make a small package around each one. As much cushion as you can create goes around them in knots and folds, before stashing the entire bundle in a side pocket of your bag.

Mercy forbid it, but I doubt I'll have the time to dig through all this equipment if the need arises.

Ray's whining intensifies as you move over to the other imps. The tremor is back in your hands tenfold. You know better than to dismiss his behavior— especially if he's frightened of something you don't suspect to be a threat. "Tell me, Ray. Up."

The instant he picks himself up, your dog moves to bolt down the corridor. He still knows better than to wander out of your sight. Circles are made just up ahead, with increasingly higher pitched whines. You swiftly snatch three of the demon's dagger-like barbs off from their corpses, and shove them in another compartment of your backpack. Brows furrowed, you come up behind Ray, and usher him forward. "Slow, boy. Show me."

He's extremely bothered by having to slow down, and whines all the harder. Your growing concern mounts as the two of you continue on ahead. There's something that can be heard through the walls.

Screaming.

Crying.

Moaning.