Chapter 5.5: To Awe! God has Arrived
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling of our Lord
To the Brotherhood, in the holiest capital of Gunnyvere,
Today, our garrison expected the same mercy our Lord had given us on any other day, and thus the soldiers were put on their usual duties. Tragedy soon struck our humble troops, however. On the fourteenth hour, the tides of the winds shifted without notice. The celestial darkened within seconds as the Bastard Goddess retreated from view, and the usual frost became far harsher. We were completely debilitated by the shifting weather, our men forced to assume shelter within our garrison. Soon, a White Out descended upon us. Our garrison was cut from contact for three of our Lord’s hours.
Though we managed to secure our troop’s lives and the integrity of our garrison, we have all but lost contact with the many good hamlets under our watch. Orders to re-establish contact have been given post-haste to all available men, as I fear the period of darkness we have experienced brings certain pests to our doorsteps. May Sol hear our prayers in time like these.
This humble servant requ
The scratches on parchment from a great quill, the sweet smell of tar ink over paper spread over a dark wood table was interrupted by a chilling creak. Creaaak, the old door hinge screeched and completely ruined the atmosphere. He put the quill away, back into the ink bottle. His hands rough and strong, cladded in metal gauntlets, reached towards the nearby candle and snuffed it out. He turned his body, what’s left of it anyway, the rest creaked as it was but artificial replacement.
All this was normal for him. Among the many, many nations and kingdoms still standing in the eternal night, there was perhaps one who shone like a beacon. Solstice, the empire of the Sun, the largest nation of the West and possibly the largest nation still functioned. Here the believers of Sol, the god of fire and the day itself, resided and continued their existence. The Church of Sol, in its eternal wisdom, made the cold waver in the face of their Lord’s might. An empire from the past, Solstice was ancient, bloating from its scale, but still powerful and with enough fervor.
But as any empire before and after it, Solstice could not hold legitimacy and power without martial power. An empire needed soldiers, and the Empire had them to spare. Chief amongst them was the diverse and the flexible…
Battlepriests
Battlepriest was the title reserved for members of a brotherhood of warrior monks who faithfully served Solstice. Only children from highly privileged families, clergy related families or orphans of war with outstanding potential were allowed to be recruited. Trained from a young age, by the time they reached adulthood, the deacons were shaped into both a man of the cloth and a warrior of unmatched skill. Fanatically loyal to the Church’s cause to the point of self-sacrifice, yet some of the most elite fighting force of the empire of Sol in tactics and skill. They were also engaged in more spiritual pursuits, as priests were few and far between. A battlepriest was deadlier than a mere soldier, more praiseworthy than a mere holy man. They honed their bodies, magic, even modified their biology. They were men that were no men at all, and any who graced a battlepriest learned that.
As one of these holy avengers, the man writing his letter supposed that being interrupted was not the worst thing in the world. He had seen far worse. The grandfather clock on the wall pointed 11:14. He rose from his chair, and addressed the man behind the door.
“Does something require my attention, Sir Coonbatch?“
His voice was strange. Obviously masculine, deep and clear, echoed under the roof. Booming, commanding, yet not a hint of hostility. It was mere curiosity, politeness and the need for communication. In any other situation, it could have sounded friendly.
The other person, Sir Coonbatch, was a man dressed in a simple soldier uniform, with thick beige tunic over metal chainmail, a helm with straps, and heavy-duty leather boots. His skin was tanned like it was sunburnt, his hair grey as light ash, his eyes a burning orange, all covered under a hood. His face was not young, but not hardened nor old, like a father to firstborn children. He stood as straight as a tree, his feet together, his right hand over his heart. There was the ever so slight drop of sweat running down his brows.
“Father Felrick… I’ve gathered…”
The Battlepriest stepped forward. A man of stature, befitting of his voice, dwarfing the fully grown Coonbatch by half a pace. His steps were measured, as if all were perfectly calculated, his posture was heavy as the set of full plate armor he was wearing. Cladded in black, trimmed with gold, wearing a beaked helmet like a bird of prey, he was inhuman and grand. That weight, however, betrayed no amount of agility. The warrior priest grasped the door and closed it, quickly and gently that not even the air moved. Under his shadow, Sir Coonbatch felt the dread, which only worsened when the priest began to drone.
“Sir Coonbatch.“
The voice pushed Coonbatch back. For a moment the two men stared at each other, with Coonbatch cranking his neck to meet Father Felrick’s eyes. Silent, before the Father extended his hand and gently grabbed the soldier by his shoulder.
“You must be tired from your mission. My apologies for not joining you on the field, I was… Ruminating. Mere words cannot apologize for my faults. Instead, would a cup of tea suffice?“
Coonbatch sighed, relieved of a pressure he had been under for so long. So, he retreated from the Father’s grasp, stood a little straighter and more relaxed.
“I would be honored. However, we have… Dire reports from the Western part of this territory, Father.”
Felrick’s posture became straight immediately, as if a reflex. He looked at Coonbatch for a split second, and then started walking down the hall towards his right.
“Allow me the details, Sir Coonbatch. Walk and talk.“
The much smaller man followed, keeping up the pace
“Uh, we– The rail town in the West, uhm, it is…”
“Koahl?“
“Yes, that! We’ve managed to secure it and link it up with, ah, local forces… But a problem was noted by some of our reconnaissance squads. It’s…”
At a turn, the Father went down a spiral staircase at a brutish rate, especially for the perfect turns he made at every right interval. With a sigh of fatigue, the smaller man went down as well, attempting to catch up to the Father.
“We’ve had reports – Well, eyewitnesses, more correctly – of giant explosions in the sky of a nearby village, of… Magical origins. Now personally, I would’ve entered to investigate without issue. If… Ah, the troops were in unison, that is. Unfortunately they were, uhm… Not.”
“Retreat?” The Father swerved out of the stairwell, his tone suddenly growing hoarser, “I want the names to the men of your plato–“
“WAIT!” Coonbach suddenly shouted and pleaded. “…If you were to, for example, follow us into danger… we would be more assured in our…”
Coonbatch gulped, choosing his words carefully, less more judgement incurs upon him. “…Faith.”
The Father watched, as if he was testing something in his mind. His head reared here to there, his expression unreadable behind his helmet.
“Are you volunteering?“
“Yes! And- And any men from my platoon as well, your holiness.”
For a split second, the Father put his hand on his chin, tapping the metal and nodded
“Were there any pyromancers with your platoon?“
Coonbatch’s face turned thoughtful for a moment, scratching his chin for a moment.
“If I remember correctly, Miss Schwe was with us.”
“Very well. Have your men at the ready. We will depart in short time.“
Something came up to the smaller man’s throat and remained lodged there.
“Yes, Father.”
With little hesitance, the soldier turned in the opposite direction of the halls and bolted as fast as he could, his chainmail crinkling and his helm jumping. The Father continued his way, much less concerned with what the shorter man had to say. He walked around twenty-six paces through the lantern-lit black stone halls, passing three doors of increasing sturdiness before stopping at the last metal door. He reached for the handle, reading quickly the black plaque with golden words in front of him.
PYROMANTES ARMARIUM
He opened the door gently and was greeted by the smell of burning. The Father closed the door behind him, inspecting the room. This initial quarter of the room consisted of a waiting lounge around ten paces long and seven paces wide, the door on a shorter wall and to its right, another door beside a reception separated by metal bars. Wooden chairs were placed side-by-side on the wall, spaced out evenly and abstained from the doors or the reception. Lanterns dotted around the room at the corners, the flames barely flickering.
Walking to the receptionist area, the father inspected the room behind the bars. It was just a small office that was no longer or wider than four paces, decorated with nothing but a desk, several boxes and a wooden filing cabinet, and lanterns on both sides. An unfamiliar blue-hued flower that glows faintly was in a small vase on the desk, most likely out of personal preferences of the reception area’s commuters. A man of medium build wearing an orange-colored cloak and a black garb underneath sits behind the desk, tapping his fingers. His face was that of a bored complacency, marred by unkempt stubbles, rough looking features, and eyes half closed. As soon as Father Felrick came into view, he sat up straight, eyes became alert.
“Father Felrick! Um… To what do I own the pleasure?”
“Is Miss Schwee in there?”
The receptionist looked at the Father with a raised eyebrow, before he returned to a thick book, flipping through its dusty pages until he arrived at the one he was looking for.
“Yes, Father. She just returned from a patrol you specifically ordered. She told me to “Expect the priest“… I would only assume that’s you she’s referring to.”
“May I enter then?“
“Yes, Father. She’s in the study, or at least, she said that on record. Do be mindful of the sound there, considering all the…”
He pointed vaguely at the priest’s armor. The Father nodded and opened the side door gently. It led him to another hall, of which there were five doors on the left and six on the right. The Father looked to the right. The first door that he came from lead to the reception area, the second a break room as designated by the sign etched on its wood, the third and fourth lead to “CUBICULAS”, the dormitory of these pyromancers. Father Felrick reached for the fifth door.
Made black stone similar to the walls but is paved slightly less roughly and decorated with golden emblems of the sun and three lines spreading from top to bottom of the frame, the fifth door was intimidating. Certainly, there was a sense of weight to it, either from the frame itself or from the heavy iron handlebars. Pulling onto it, the Father slowly and ever so quietly revealed the room on the other side. Waves of heat radiated from within, and when he opened the door fully, he felt like being cooked alive in his armor.
First, the Father noticed the rows upon rows of bookshelves, full of parchment and reading materials. They stretched the entire room, dotted with flickering candles that were the only light sources. Struggling to follow the candlelight, Father Felrick took in the foreboding silence. It didn’t suggest the lack of occupants, but the deliberate efforts to hide their noises
Second, and more importantly, the room reeked of magic, unbearably so. Father Felrick understood the properties and authority of fire, especially the pain it could cause and the risk it posed. He accepted it, but the fear of being burnt alive still crawled into his spine. He didn’t belong here, yet the holy soldier pressed on.
His form heavy and oppressive, the clinks of his armor battled for supremacy against the silence. He drew attention too, both from his presence and how he stumbled in the darkness, exerting caution as much as he could muster. There were others around him, commuters, reminded him of the way he dressed and made him feel small for a quaint second.
As soon as he got to the first row of shelves, a flicker of light and heat appeared behind him. Turning around, the priest turned his head down and saw an orange hooded figure tapping him on the shoulder, while holding a fireball in her free hand. The figure inspected the battlepriest, whispering.
“Don’t tell me that’s… Oh yeah, that’s definitely him.” Her tone and volume changed at that. “Okay everyone, it’s just the priest. It’s fine!”
The other figures scattered back to their duties, reassured. A few remained, simply out of curiosity.
The orange figure turned and walked, their hand revealed to be tanned as they flicked their finger.
“Well, come on then, you were looking for me, weren’t you, Father?”
Felrick stared and followed, extending the quietest of apologies to the many people in the room of books. He closed the door gently as he followed. Now outside of the room, the little ball of fire on the figure’s palm was snuffed out. They undo their hood, revealing a messy array of neck-length hair colored in the hue of ashes. The figure with their back to the Father, huffed and turned around.
“I’m not sure what you were trying to do there. That’s a study, priest!”
The voice is distinctly feminine, but not high pitched. It droned on sometimes as if it was an effort to make out words.
“Studies of us sparkers[1] are supposed to be quiet and eerie – and not where a clergy like you should be concerning himself with. I mean, take a hint!”
The Father looked as the figure pointed at her eyes, the irony not lost on him. Besides the orange outfit, with a embroidered sash around her waist, she had white bandages wrapped around her eyes. She couldn’t peer out but didn’t seem to need to.
“Miss Schwee?” The Father asked
“That’s me.”
The pyromancer had her arms around her chest, and turned gracefully to face the Father.
“At your behest, my holiness.”
Felrick narrowed his eyes behind his helmet, and examined her critically. All pyromancers were odd, even they themselves would say so. They were outcasts, by both volatility and personality, plus culture and practices. Those bandages on Miss Schwee’s eyes weren’t for show. If Felrick were to guess, they were sealed shut by a tragic accident, or by Schwee herself. One may think she’d be handicapped as a combatant, but blindness gave her unique perspective of her surroundings, in a way that could not be seen.
Of course, Felrick knew not if that was factual, merely the explanation he was given for when he barely fitted in his oversized cassock and still had questions about how the world works. He could only take the teachings of the monastery and the other priests about it, and respectfully, he inquired no further.
“Please, walk with me.”
The holy man headed for the exit to the corridor and the pyromancer followed him, smiling, humming and slacking her back. She was a strange sight to be near the priest, their presence contrasted greatly. The pyromancer was as tall as the Father’s chest, her body only half as wide. While he was imposing, she was subtle, lean instead of mean, light instead of hefty. Still, she was not unintimidating. Her robes covered her modestly but not hiding her broad shoulders and the way her arms seemed to exert every little muscle fiber even for the slightest action. Her face scarred by a burn on her left cheek, sinking it in and corrupting an otherwise confident smile and a gentle feature. To put it plainly, she was odd.
They got out of the pyromancer’s halls, giving the receptionist a courtesy goodbye, and only talked once out of any ear shot. Schwee was first, a playful tone in her voice.
“Let me guess, that Coonbatch fellow told you about what happened, didn’t he?”
“Correct. Is it–“
“Magical? Oh yes.” She smiles wide. She didn’t turn, only indicated the person she was talking with by tone alone, “You don’t exert so much force without dipping into the secrets of the arcane. So much bang! in one simple gesture… Mmm, maybe except the Dwarves…”
“Dirt golem’s[2] technology is highly guarded within the mountains of Li’Gondir… I highly doubt that their king would allow anything not tied to the train tract through their borders.“
“Of course, of course. Who would consider that an actual possibility. Explosions, heat, all points to fire… Fire means…”
The duo stopped before a large heavy–set iron door, grey in color and bolted, feeling weighty and overwhelming. Yet, the Battlepriest’s loom over the woman was more oppressive, even without sight.
“A pyromancer. You understood the exact nature of the situation. And yet, you did not act.“
“Actually, I told the patrol to go back!” Schwee smiles wider, “Funny how that–”
“Explain your failure, Miss Schwee.“
The priest’s gauntlet scraped loudly against the metal door, The screech made Schwee stand straight, reminding her of their difference in position. Yet, she did not face him, in complete whimsy and defiance.
“You battlepriests and your fervor. How long have you been fighting for the Church of Sol, Father?”
The Battlepriest stopped and looked away. All he could remember was the Creed, to purge the heretics, the mutants, the abominations and to serve the will of the Church. He remembered the ceremony before the eternal pyre, the tears he shed when glorious Sol vanished from the sky. To be a battle brother is to represent the Brotherhood, to be the face of Sol. From the frozen plains of the frigid wastelands to the four seas, all the way to the edge of Gaia where the abominables hid from Sol’s sword. They shall know his armor, his chants and his sword that struck them down. That was his belief, that was his duty, his very identity.
Gloria Sol.
“An amount of time I cannot sum. For there is no reason to.“
“I imagined you saw your fair share of battle! You are a Battlepriest, after all– You are literally a priest of war! Powerful, valuable, indestructible. It gave you all the confidence in the world, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Just your skill alone, not to mention the augmentations done on your body…”
The Father watched without a noise. The pyromancer took that as a sign to continue.
“I imagine killing even a dozen… No, hundreds of sparks – and you know I meant that by pyromancers – is trivial, right? Once you get a hold of me, all you need to do is run your blade down my, let’s say…” Her fingers trailed downward. “Neck, heart, brains, eyes, abdomen. Somewhere along that line, I’d be dead! That is, if you could reach me.”
From between her palms, the mage conjured a giant fireball right in front of her, giving even the mighty battlepriest a scare. Despite the blinding arcane light, he swore he could see the pyromancer’s cheshire grin behind it as she continued.
“What do you think happens when you fight a pyromancer with control over the battlefield, priest?”
“I will be completely at their mercy, and I will most likely perish.“
Schwee snuffed away ball of flame, satisfied with his measured answer. The ease that she exerted, how even the heat dissipated, and the smug grin across her bandaged face. Felrick irked it, like for one second this blind woman grew back her eyes just to watch him shudder. She even put those hands behind her back, as if she was the one giving him grace.
“I raise a conjecture then. Suppose if two equally volatile pyromancers fought, say, me against the unknown one, then what would the damage look like? Of course, let’s hypothesize that I’m better, and that I come out alive. Even then, without healing miracles or medical assistance, I would perish from the wounds! Then, you would have a dead platoon, and two dead pyromancers.”
“Justifying your cowardice?” The priest challenged
“I’d prefer it be called intelligence.”
Schwee put her hand on the door next to Felrick, feeling it. She leaned in, and the Father took it as a sign to join her. They opened the door together, but he would enter first without holding it for the lady.
“So you came back for what?“
“Equipment. And you too, for assurance.”
Inside was another reception area, with an armored receptionist standing guard over another door. As soon as they entered, the receptionist sprung to his feet, giving them their due greetings.
“Father! And–”
“Inside, please.”
Schwee quickly shushed the man up, putting a finger to his mouthpiece. The armored man looked as if she was about to weld his helmet shut, instinctively moved the seams away from that dainty finger. Even without the Battlepriest behind her, the receptionist would have relented
“G– You may–… Please take your time.”
Schwee sauntered past the receptionist, still keeping an eye on her cautiously. The Battlepriest stayed back, and the pyromancer took her chance to leave him with some jovial words.
“There’s gonna be real monsters, Father. Better prepare a big stick”
She closed the door on him, leaving him with his thoughts. Father Felrick clenched his fist, as if testing what size of a hilt he could hold. A big stick, she said. Certainly, he could do better than that.
[1] A slang term for pyromancers.
[2] A slang term for dwarves.
