Zero's Bullet [Hellsing/Familiar of Zero]

[Ridtom]

I'm guesing Cromwell's angel might be Mina Harker?

 

[Random Mudkip]

I'm guesing Cromwell's angel might be Mina Harker?

Click to shrink...

These lips are sealed. :3

 

[Random Mudkip]

Chapter XXII: Prisoner​

She knocked on the door, all the while fiddling with the collar of her new uniform. The stiffness of the fabric chafed her sensitive skin, especially around her neck and wrists where the collar and cuffs were buttoned tight. The dark haired girl wondered if it truly was a physical discomfort she was feeling due to the coarse material, or whether it was the fact that she was wearing the uniform itself that was the problem. For years she had went out of her way to avoid the men clad in the dark gray dress of the SS, and now here she was, one of them.

A traitor.

That was what the others in the neighborhood had called her. Not to her face, of course, but she had heard their whispering. Frankly, it annoyed her to no end. Couldn't they see that she was doing this for them? That she was putting on this awful uniform for their sakes? Because of her current position things in the neighborhood were so much better than they used to be. Regular supplies and necessities were being delivered to her uncle's shop, supplies that allowed her neighbors to buy the essentials they needed to survive. Even the SA were less of a presence there; none of those thugs dared to come anywhere near her neighborhood to harass its residents.

But still, the people who lived there resented her. They whispered about her behind her back. They looked upon her with distrust as well as disgust. She had even heard one girl, a girl she had once thought of as a friend, call her a "nazi's whore" during an overheard conversation.

But the betrayal that hurt most though was Greta. She had always been close to her cousin, ever since both were small children. In the past, she thought of the older blond girl as a sister. But now even dear Greta seemed to hate her. Before accepting the Major's offer, Gretal was always so warm and forthcoming with her, and the two of them could share any secret. Nothing could break them apart. Now though her cousin was icily polite and indifferent. Greta no longer wished to spend time with her whenever she finished work or her studies. She barely said two words to her since she had accepted the position with Millennium, and to be frank, her cousin's rejection cut into her like a knife.

Her uncle had seen Greta's treatment of her and sympathized; he had whispered a promise that he would talk to his daughter, ask her to stop being so cruel. She would often hear the father and daughter arguing, sometimes quite loudly, about how she was being treated, but Greta would not be swayed. The blond girl remained ever cold whenever the two of them would meet. Eventually, the dark haired girl found herself returning her cousin's disdain, until one day the two just stopped bothering to interact. They became ghosts to each other, ignoring each other's presence, both trying to pretend the other didn't exist.

Thankfully, things with her mother and father were a bit better. Her wage as a member of Millennium was substantial, enough that her mother could quit her job at the factory. The Major had also pulled a few strings and her father was able to get a position at a local institute. It wasn't as prestigious as his previous job at the university, but it was still a teaching position.

"It's a start," her father had told her with a smile when he began his first day, ever optimistic that things would get better.

Despite her misgivings, her father was right. Things were getting better, at least for the people she knew. Outside her neighborhood, though, things were vastly different. Jews, as well as those others who did not fit into the new vision of Germany Hitler was building, were not faring quite as well. She tried not to think of them, of their plight and the injustices they were currently suffering. She had enough to deal with taking care of her own family, after all. Like her father had said, Germany was in transition. After a bit more time, when the economy rose and emotions settled down, things would get better. The country would recover.

The dark haired girl fiddled with her tie and tugged at her collar before once again reaching up to knock on the door. After the third knock, a cheery voice from the other side shouted, "Enter!" The girl took a deep breath and pulled at one of her braids, making sure both plaits of dark hair were straight and untangled, before turning the knob and entering.

Inside the large office was the same chubby man in the SS uniform that had visited her uncle's shop to recruit her some weeks back. He was seated behind a dark wooden desk reading through a large stack of paperwork, the pale hazel eyes behind the spectacles shining with what seemed like ever-lasting amusement.

"Ah, Second Lieutenant #######! Glad to see you again!" the Major greeted with a smile as she stood before him and saluted. "Come, come. Have a seat. Would you like a drink? Tea, perhaps?"

The dark haired girl shook her head as she sat in one of the small, stiff-backed chairs in front of his desk. "No, thank you, sir. You wished to see me?"

"Yes, yes. I just wanted to congratulate you on your performance yesterday," the Major shuffled through one of the large piles of papers on his desk, flipping through the sheets until he found what he was looking for. "Ah!" The blond man pulled out a folder and flipped open its contents with relish. "Here we go! The results for your evaluation. Hmm…" He swiftly skimmed through the notes, his lips twisting up into a pleased smile. "Yes, yes! Just as I thought, near perfect scores all around. Marksmanship is superb, as I thought it would be, as is your physical health, though you seem to have a history of migraines."

"Yes, Major," she spoke, a bit embarrassed that this man she barely knew had access to her medical exam results. "I've had them since I was a child."

"Hmm, hardly matters, I'm sure it's nothing," the man muttered as he continued reading the file. "Ah, but most interesting are these results. You scored seventy-eight percent correct on the card test, forty percent on the insight test. Oh, and you managed to find eight out of ten mice in the M3 test. Very impressive. Your extra sensory abilities score quite high."

"Thank you, sir." The girl could only nod and smile at the man's praise. Internally, she frowned, as she recalled those last set of strange tests the doctors had her perform. It was a series of bizarre trials, where they had her pick out shapes from a pile of cards, or had her try to guess the next image that would pop up from a random set that was projected onto a screen in front of her. Another test had her searching for some mice that the researchers had hidden inside an enclosed room, a task that she needed to complete within five minutes. She had no clue what those strange men in lab coats were attempting to ascertain from such bizarre examinations, but they had to have been important if the Major was gushing about her results so much.

"Oh, no, my dear. Thank you! You may not believe so at the moment, but your aid is allowing us to advance science and the progress of the German people! You should be quite proud of yourself!"

"I am, Major. Thank you for this opportunity." The girl gave the chubby man her most earnest smile. Despite the man before her being a Nazi, he had still done much to help her family and friends. She had to be grateful for his assistance, if nothing else.

"You are most welcome, and it is my pleasure to have you with us." The man grinned, then reached for one of the files atop the piles on his desk. "Anyway, on to more banal matters." He picked up a folder and handed it and its contents to her.

"Sir?" The dark haired girl asked as she took the thick envelope from him.

"Inside are official notes and forms, some of which you will need to sign, so that we can change your name." Seeing the girl's eyes grow wide at his words, the Major shook his head and smiled sadly. "I know, I know, it's such a bother. But this is all for your sake, you must understand. It's been brought to my attention that your surname is a bit too… Semitic for our ranks. Many in our organization feel that it would be best if your moniker were changed to better suit the ideals of the National Socialist German Worker's Party." The blond man shrugged, looking just a bit put out. "It's merely for appearance's sake, you see."

"Y-yes. I see." The girl bit her lip, unsure of how to take this news. She had realized that taking up this position with Millennium would call for sacrifices on her part, but she didn't realize that she would be losing her own name. As she opened the folder and began to skim through the documents, she idly wondered what her parents would say when they heard this news. Her mother would probably be angry as she hadn't wanted her to take up the Major's offer to begin with, but she wasn't sure how her father would react. He was a prideful man, most would say overly so. Although he was greatly in favor of her joining Millennium, would his opinion change once he learned that she had to change her name, to abandon his, all so that she could pretend that half her heritage didn't exist?

As she quietly mulled over these thoughts, one line of text in the documents she was skimming through caught her eye. She pursed her lips as she read through the line, a tight frown of distaste forming on her face. The line she was reading was the one that contained her new name, the name that the Major had chosen for her.

"Rip Van Winkle?" the girl asked, her blue eyes moving off the page to find her superior leaning against his desk grinning at her.

"Yes, I thought it quite apt. It is from an old American folk tale. Have you heard of it?"

The girl shook her head no.

"Ah. Well, it is a very good story." The Major leaned back into his chair and chuckled. "It is about a man who falls into a deep, dark sleep. His slumber is so long and immersive that he doesn't wake up for a long, long time. But once his long sleep ends, once he finally awoke from that dark, immersed hibernation… he finds that the world has changed."

The Major leaned forwards, his elbows atop the desk with his gloved fingers entwined in front of his face. Behind his shiny spectacles, the hazel eyes were shining bright with almost manic glee. "This name is very apt for you, my dear. I see you as that man in the story, sleeping soundly through the years. But once you wake up… oh yes! Once you awaken…"

The Major then smiled. This smile was not silly, or joking, or anything like whatever other benign smirk he usually wore. This current smile he wore was the same smile a wolf has when he is just about to sink his teeth into a cornered deer's neck.

"Once you awaken, Rip Van Winkle… you will change the world."

0​

Rip's eyes fluttered open, and she cringed slightly to find that sunlight was touching her skin. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs of the dream memories away; she did not have the luxury of worrying about them at the moment. Right now she needed her full concentration if she was to survive her coming ordeal.

Last night, after being captured by Baron Milan's cadre of vampires, she was bound and carried across the rooftops to Tristania's palace whereupon her shadowy captors entered through an unused back entrance. Still injured from her altercation with the priest from Iscariot, Rip had no choice but to let these sad excuses for vampires drag her around like a sorry sack of potatoes. They took her past the walls, silently making their way through the shadowy alcoves and down the deeper dungeons into the bowels of the palace. The dark group passed numerous armed sentries on the way down, but the uniformed men only nodded at the vampire's leader before allowing them to pass through.

Eventually the group arrived in a large circular room. The floors were bare stone and swept of all dirt and other refuse, the surface of the hard material looking shiny and scrubbed clean. Along the eastern edge of the rounded walls were six large but barred windows, each open to the night sky which allowed bright moonlight to pour into the otherwise dark room. At the center of the cell a pair of shackles hung from chains attached to the high ceiling; the metal from the restraints were strange as they shone blue in the moonlight and had several complex runes etched into the chains.

A thin middle aged man met her vampire captors inside the room, and from his smell Rip could tell that he was human. The man was dressed in the robes of a mage, though the lack of finery and bright coloration upon them denoted him as more of a scholar than a ruling class noble.

"Is this the specimen?" the human asked the lead vampire rather gruffly, his small eyes shining wildly as he looked Rip over. His voice sounded wheezy, as if he had trouble remembering to breathe on occasion. "She doesn't seem like much."

"It's her," the female vampire stated. "Don't let her appearance fool you, Professor Lambert. This… creature killed Baron Milan and almost took down his ghoul." The woman frowned for a moment, mulling over her thoughts before continuing. "The information we were sold is also accurate. This woman is the Gandalfr, as the runes upon her left hand will testify to."

"Oh?" The thin man walked forwards and yanked up Rip's bound hands, pulling off her left glove to examine the runic symbols etched into the flesh. "Are you sure these are genuine?"

"Yes," the vampire replied. "I saw her do battle with Pope Victor's Black Inquisitor. She did quite well against him, and lasted longer than anyone on record who has ever stood up to that lunatic. More new information has sprung to light as well, as our observations on them allowed us to discover that this Father Montoya is the Windalfr, the so-called Right Hand. It would explain some of his impressive abilities, though not all."

"Is that right? Fascinating!" Professor Lambert dropped Rip's hand and began to tap his chin, his thick bushy eyebrows furrowing up in deep thought. "That means that His Holyness, or someone working for or within the Church, is a Void Mage as well! What does this mean, I wonder? The Left and Right Hands of God appearing all of the sudden. Questions, questions, so many questions! Bah." The man shook his head, then turned away and began to walk towards the hanging shackles in the center of the room. "Such quandaries can be answered later. Right now our concern is the specimen."

The vampires followed the mage, two of whom shoved Rip along with them.

"Chain her," the human stated, and her vampire wardens were quick to follow his instructions.

"Vhat are you doing?" Rip protested as two of the cloaked vampires pulled her towards the center of the room before yanking her arms up and clamping a manacle to each wrist. Rip grit her teeth as the two men were not at all gentle in their ministrations; her broken left wrist exploded in agony upon the rough handling and she almost yelled out due to the pain.

"Quiet," the human mage chided. Lambert stepped over to a nearby desk where piles of books and scrolls had been laid out. He took up a quill and began to scribble some notes on a blank parchment, absent-mindedly muttering to himself as he did so.

Rip glared at the man, not at all liking his attitude. He reminded her too much of a younger, less creepy Doktor. She struggled with the chains of her restraints in futility, her body much too weak and injured to prove effective in breaking free. Sadly, Rip had the feeling that even if she were in prime health, the shackles upon her wrists were most likely enchanted by some weird magical spell and would probably prevent even her full strength from breaking through them.

"Keep still," the lead vampire told her. "We will not harm you, despite how much we might wish to. Her Majesty has forbidden your death."

Whatever comfort Rip would have received from her statement was quickly stifled by Professor Lambert's words. "Thankfully, Her Majesty has tasked us with studying your physiology and finding your weaknesses. It shall be truly enlightening! Imagine, a whole new species of vampire! I cannot wait to get to work."

Rip whimpered in fear when the man opened a nearby satchel and began to lay out his equipment onto the desk. Several of the instruments looked to be made of silver, and very, very sharp.

"Y-you can't do this!" She said with gritted teeth. Her glowing blue eyes flicked over to the lead vampire, whose dark lips were twisted upwards into a content smirk.

"We can. And we will," the woman stated simply. "We serve the Crown, and you are a threat to it. We don't know who you are, we don't know what you are. All we know is who you claim to be, Rip Van Winkle."

The vampire sniper's blood ran cold upon hearing her name spoken aloud by her enemy. She supposed she should have known that they would discover her identity eventually, since these people had said that they worked for Princess Henrietta, who was Louise's close friend. It was still unnerving to be discovered though, after hiding her true nature for so long.

"My name is Daphne," the lead vampire told her. "You should know it, as you may wish to scream and beg me while the Professor here is cutting you open and fiddling with your insides."

"Bah! I do not 'fiddle,'" the human stated in an insulted tone. He continued to examine his tools, making sure the blades and saws were adequately sharp.

Rip directed a fierce glare at Daphne. "Me, beg you?" she stated coldly. "Don't make me laugh. You sink I vould be afraid of pathetic little monsters like you? You are nossing. I have met ze devil himself, had gotten so close zat I could smell his fetid breath. You and all your little blood-sucking cronies are nossing but toothless, neutered dogs at ze beck and call of a little girl sitting atop the throne of a veak, pitiful country in a vorthless, primitive continent on an insignificant, putrid vorld!"

The artificial vampire snarled, then spat a glob of bloody saliva onto the cold stone at her feet. "Beg you? Hah! Bitch, do your vorst."

Daphne frowned upon hearing her words, her pallid, porcelain-like features grimacing in distaste. Eventually, the vampire shrugged, before turning towards Lambert. "You heard the lady, Professor. She's all yours."

The thin man laughed. "Of course, Lady Daphne. With pleasure." He picked up a long, vicious looking scalpel and began to walk towards Rip's chained form.

What followed were hours and hours of pain.

Lambert started by slicing open her belly to observe her internal organs. It was obvious they expected her to heal as fast as the vampires of this world did, but upon seeing that she wasn't regenerating her captors panicked, with Daphne almost calling for a healer. Professor Lambert was able to calm his vampiric cohorts though, as he observed that the skin at the edges of Rip's abdominal wound had begun to stitch themselves together albeit at a much slower rate than native vampires. Although their initial scare had been eased, Daphne decided to err on the side of caution and forbade any more invasive surgical procedures. Lambert was at first irritated, but he quickly got over it as he still had other toys to play with.

For hours upon hours the tests commenced. They splashed her with blessed water. No reaction. They tossed salt in her face. No reaction. Casted a spell that flashed a bright, pulsing light in front of her. She flinched, but no adverse reaction. They stuck long blades of various metals into her arms and legs, making sure to avoid any vital areas in her body. No reaction from iron, steel, gold, nickel, or lead. They were quite pleased to see her skin darken and blood sizzle a bit when she was stabbed with a sliver of silver. Lambert cheerfully marked the data onto his notes.

The tests went on and on, and throughout the torture Rip held firm. She never had that big of a pain tolerance, so she knew that she wouldn't be able to hold back from crying and whimpering as they cut and burned her. But she managed to hold out and refused to scream, and she would be damned if she'd give these bastards the satisfaction of hearing her beg them for mercy. She had been through much, much worse than this, after all. Much worse.

Her captors also made her ingest numerous substances, all in order to gauge her reaction to them. She was made to drink some type of animal blood, either pig or cow she wasn't sure which, but that ended up with her vomiting all over herself and her brand new clothing. If her mind hadn't been so clouded with pain she might have complained about that. She was then made to drink a bottle of human blood, but since it wasn't fresh her body couldn't take it in. Rip had an even more violent reaction to ingesting that, as blood began to leak from her eyes and ears as well as her mouth.

"Curious," Lambert said as he marked down the results on his scroll. At least Rip thought he might have said something at the time. Drinking dead blood was not healthy for her kind, and she was feeling extremely nauseous and light headed. "It seems that this creature might only gain sustenance from blood if it is fresh from a living body."

"That's awful," Daphne stated. Funny, Rip thought. She actually sounded kind of sad. "Try the other samples. Hopefully we can find something to feed this creature without having to kill anyone."

They then began to force her to drink what tasted like sweat, as well as several batches of… other things. Mostly bodily fluids. Rip couldn't for the life of her figure out why they were doing that, but thankfully the disgusting feeding didn't last too long and she fell blissfully unconscious. She would have been grateful if she hadn't started dreaming.

Rip shook her head, banishing the recollections from the night before. She silently vowed that those responsible for all the pain and humiliation she had suffered would pay dearly. She'd get her revenge against Daphne, as well as that vile sadistic mage Lambert. Rip would kill them slowly, savor their suffering. That would happen later though; right now she had to concentrate on setting herself free.

Once more, the bound vampire pulled at the shackles clasped around her wrists. After only a few seconds of struggle against the metal restraints, Rip knew that it was futile. Her body was still very weak at the moment. Although she could tell that her wounds from the previous night had mostly healed, she hadn't fed in quite a while. In order to regain her full strength, she needed to drink some fresh human blood or her body would steadily grow weaker and weaker until she fell into a deep coma. That couldn't be allowed to happen. She had to get back to Louise-

"Millenium!" she hissed, angrily rejecting the stray thought. "I have to get back to Millenium. Ze Major vill need me…"

It was getting so hard to think. Her mind felt woozy. Slow. It couldn't just be from the lack of blood though, something else was affecting her. Was it all the filth that they fed her last night? Or did they do something else to her after she passed out? Was it a spell?

Rip's internal musings were cut off when she heard the door of her cell clang open. Through the haze of her foggy mind she could sense that there were four people outside her cell. Two of them didn't have heartbeats, which meant that they were vampires. The two that weren't entered the cell, stepping into the bright sunlight that filtered in through the barred windows overhead.

"Fascinating!" Professor Lambert stated with wide-eyed glee as he rushed over to her bound form and began to poke and prod her sore body. "The specimen is completely capable of withstanding direct sunlight! No other vampire in my knowledge has ever survived direct exposure to the sun's rays." The thin mage grabbed Rip roughly by the chin and lifted up her sloping head. He leaned in close, examining her dull eyes to check the dilation of her irises.

Huh, Rip thought absently as the man continued to examine her eyes. My glasses are missing. I wonder where I left them last.

"You mean you didn't know she was immune to the sun, yet you left her bound and locked in a room that was open to the dawn's light?" spoke up the human woman who had come inside the cell with him. She was tall, though not as tall as Rip herself, with short blond hair and dark green eyes. She was also clad in a coat of armor with both a sword and flintlock pistol strapped to her belt. A pristine white cape hung tightly around her shoulders, one that was marked with a rank symbol stitched in gold thread upon the shoulder. She was obviously a knight of some, one that served the royal family directly.

"Oh, come now, Chevalier de Milan. I know what I'm doing," Lambert snorted, sounding somewhat annoyed with his compatriot's chiding. He looked away from his examination of Rip, turning his head in order to address the female knight directly. "During my examination of the specimen last night, I was sure that she had many immunities that ordinary vampires just don't-"

His explanation was suddenly cut short when, in an explosion of motion, Rip van Winkle lunged her head forwards and sank her now razor sharp teeth into the mage's exposed neck. Lambert let out a short shriek that was cut off as soon as the vampire latched onto his flesh.

The knight cursed as she saw the previously docile prisoner suddenly attack the professor. She quickly drew her pistol and aimed its sights at the monster's head; unfortunately due to Lambert's panicked flailing, she could not gain an adequate target.

"Agnes, wait!" The vampire from last night, Daphne, called out from the shadows outside the cell. As much as she wanted to, she could not enter the bright, sun-lit room without bursting into flame. "Her Majesty wants the prisoner alive! Do not kill her!"

The knight, Agnes, cursed once more before jamming the pistol back into its holster. She then rushed forwards and grabbed Lambert's twitching shoulders, trying with all her strength to pull the poor man free from the vicious vampire's clutches. She considered herself a strong woman, as she trained both night and day in order to hone her body to its fullest so that she could serve the kingdom of Tristain to the best of her ability. Sadly, her strength was no match for the monster's. Try as she might, she just could not wrest him away from the vampire's jaws.

"Let him go!" The blond night shouted. She continued to pull at Lambert, then began delivering swift, crude blows to the dark haired woman's face in an attempt to get her to free her jaws from the mage's neck. As the seconds ticked by Lambert turned paler and paler until his struggles began to cease, and his eyes slowly began to recede up into his skull.

The loud commotion brought three guards rushing into the cell, all of whom quickly joined Agnes in her attempts to free Lambert. Daphne once more warned them not to kill Rip, and the men tried their best to pull the hungry vampire off the now convulsing mage. Eventually the vampire let go of her prey and the guards were able to pull the man away. They rushed him to the other side of the sun-lit cell, as far away from the shackled prisoner who had attacked him. Once the man was laid out onto the stone floor, Agnes checked his breathing while one of the guards grabbed his wrist and checked for a pulse.

"He's not breathing," Agnes stated. She looked down at the mage's sunken face. Only the whites of his eyes were showing within their sockets, and the only color upon his pale flesh was the red from the torn, gaping wound in his throat.

The guard who was checking his pulse dropped Lambert's hand, then placed his ear against the man's chest. When he couldn't hear a heartbeat, the guard looked up at Agnes and shook his head. "He's gone."

The female knight grit her teeth, then turned her furious eyes towards the dark haired woman who was hanging from a set of enchanted manacles that hung from the ceiling. Gone was the confused, barely conscious waif that she had first seen when she entered the cell. In its place stood a lithe, dangerous beast.

Rip Van Winkle stood tall and confident, pushing up her chest as she stretched out the kinks in her back. After popping a few of stiff joints, the vampire met Agnes' angry stare and gave the knight a cheerful, friendly smile. The effect was somewhat ruined by her dripping, blood-stained lips.

"My, my," she told the knight in a light, affable tone. "You know, zhat vas the first time I've ever eaten a mage." Rip then grinned, her teeth sharp like daggers. "Zey taste just like chicken."

0​

Corporal Timson sighed as he and two other guardsmen laid out Professor Lambert's corpse atop an old wooden table in one of the lower dungeon's store rooms. Although the young guard didn't know the mage very well, he had met the professor numerous times during his duties maintaining the mostly empty dungeon. The middle aged mage wasn't what he would have called friendly, but unlike most other nobles within the palace the man didn't treat him or the other guards like vermin that was beneath notice.

"What happened to him?" the young man asked one of the guards who had brought the body in.

"You don't want to know. Trust me," the older man stated. He brushed at his tunic, causing the younger guard to note several splotches of red upon the white cloth. The older guardsman stared down at the dead mage, then said, "Cover him up, will you?" before rushing out of the room.

Timson sighed, shaking his head at the professor's body. He frowned, feeling queasy upon seeing the grisly wound at his neck, but to the corporal that wasn't the worst part. Lambert looked horrifyingly pale, as if he had just had all the blood drained from his body.

"Poor old bastard," Timson said. He grabbed an aged, frayed tarp that had been strewn over a nearby barrel, then moved to cover the corpse with it. He suddenly jerked back in surprise though when he saw the professor's face start twitching. The young man almost screamed in fright, but the body in front of him began to hack and cough.

"By the Founder! He's still alive!" The corporal rushed over to the convulsing body and pressed his hands to the mage's torn neck, hoping that such an action would help the man continue breathing. "Help!" Timson shouted to the open door of the store room. "He's still alive!"

"What's all this racket?" called out his sergeant as the large, brawny guard clambered into the room.

"Sarge!" Timson shouted, turning his head to look back at the older man. "The professor! He's still alive!"

The corporal turned his attention back to the twitching body on the table, but upon seeing Lambert's face the young man's blood turned cold and his eyes widened in terror. Laying upon the table was not a man, but a monster. It still had Lambert's thin face, of course, but there was no way this… thing was Lambert. Its eyes were wide open and glowed with an unearthly violet light. Its skin was a mottled shade, the color of a fresh bruise. And its mouth… dear God, its mouth. Within it grew out long, barbed fangs that dripped ooze and bile.

Timson screamed as the creature's suddenly clawed hands grabbed him, its unholy strength pulling him down into those fangs.

0​

Rip Van Winkle watched, and waited.

She was currently still shackled, still in the same circular cell. It had been about half an hour since she had fed on that idiot Lambert, and she grinned happily as she could still feel his warmth within her belly. It was amazing what a difference a meal made. She was no longer tired, or dizzy. Her mind felt sharp, like a sword's edge.

Three guardsmen, fully enclosed in plate armor, stood around her and armed with pole arms. They made sure to stay well away from her reach, and Rip could smell the alluring scent of their fear as the men's sweat dripped from within the armor. It was almost funny, watching all those formally dressed knights and soldiers, in their armor and regulation finery, running around in an almost panic as they tried to decide how to handle the situation.

Rip glanced over at the Knight, Agnes, who had taken full command. She was ordering everyone around and trying her best to lose herself in the rank and file of the military machine. Giving orders, receiving orders, all just attempts to forget that only minutes ago she had let a man die on her watch. She was a fool, thinking she was in control, when any true commander would have seen that things were completely out of control.

Then there was Daphne, the vampire dog. Rip turned her head to observe the vampire, who in turn was observing her. Daphne and her lone compatriot stood in the shadows by the cell doors, trying to keep out of the guardsmen's way. They stood stock still, attention fully focused on her. On Rip Van Winkle, their helpless prisoner. Or not so helpless, as they had discovered. The two native vampires probably thought that they were in no danger from her; after all, they were vampires, too. Powerful, unswayable, not like the poor weakling mortals that scuffled about around them. They probably thought that they were in control as well. In control of themselves, and of her.

Oh how wrong they were. How wrong they all were.

Rip Van Winkle stood where she was, silent and waiting. Unlike everyone else here, in this cell, in this dungeon, those who thought they were in control, she remained calm and collected. Unlike the others, her breathing stayed steady. Her heart beat slow and steadfast. For unlike them, Rip Van Winkle was in control.

The vampire sniper sighed contentedly and tilted her head back, listening with her enhanced hearing as some several floors below her came the sounds of screaming and the clamoring of swords. They were much too faint for the humans, and even the native vampires, to hear through the layers of rock and stone. But her unholy and artificial senses allowed her to listen, and to feel. Her sixth sense granted her the ability to observe as, one by one, heartbeats stopped and the screaming turned silent. It wouldn't be too long now until her children emerged from the deeper levels of the dungeons and came for her.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" Agnes asked angrily.

Rip widened her eyes in faux shock. "Oh! Es tut mir leid." She apologized.

"Stop looking so smug," the knight told her. "I don't know what Her Highness has planned for you, but you are never getting out of here. Not if I can help it. So don't try anything stupid like that again. There is one of you, and an army of us. You won't make it very far, even if you did break those chains."

"Oh, yes. I agree," Rip told her with a nod. Agnes frowned, then shook her head and looked away. Rip had to suppress a grin. It wouldn't be long now until she had an army of her own. Then we'll see who is in control of whom.

 

[Ridtom]

No one expects the Ghoulish Inquisition?

 

[Khaine]

Awesome stuff I can't wait to see the next chapter.

 

[Random Mudkip]

Chapter 23: Iscariot​

The night was a hot one, with the air arid unlike the humid atmosphere that he was used to in Manila. The dry heat stung the priest's nose, forcing him to blow it into a handkerchief in order to relieve the irritation. Father Montoya's dark eyes scanned the airport lobby while he cleared his stubborn sinuses, a calm stare taking in the multiple races and nationalities that rushed past him on the way to their flights. Eventually his observations caught sight of a young man in the black garb of a Roman Catholic priest, one that was holding a small cardboard sign with his name on it.

The tall Filipino stepped through the rushing passengers, his darkly clad form cutting through the river of bodies like a salmon swimming upstream. He received a few glances of annoyance, as well as several true looks of scorn when they saw his gray cassock and silver crucifix. The man ignored it, as such attention was to be expected in a Muslim nation.

"Welcome to Dubai, Paladin Montoya," the young priest greeted him in Latin. He led Montoya outside the airport where a black sedan was parked by the entrance waiting for them. The young priest opened the rear door for Montoya and as soon as his guest was situated, got into the seat next to him.

"Have the others arrived?" the Paladin asked and received a nod form the young priest.

The drive to their destination took over an hour, but thankfully the interior of the sedan was fully air conditioned so heat from the desert air outside was not felt by its occupants. Montoya watched the sights of Dubai pass by from his window, and felt quite impressed by how much the city had grown and modernized since he had been here last.

Their destination was a small, ordinary looking house at the outskirts of the city. It was in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and due to lateness of the hour no one was in the streets to see the black sedan pull into the open gates of the house. In the driveway, two vehicles identical to his were parked.

There were two priests at the front door of the home to greet Montoya as he entered. The men gave the Paladin a nod each in greeting, and one of them unlocked the door to allow him inside. The young priest whom he journeyed with stayed outside the home, as did his driver.

Montoya made his way into the living room of the house. He found it easily because it was the only room in the dwelling that was both lit and furnished. There was a television in front of a large couch, as well as a long dining table with three chairs. One man sat at the couch watching the local news, and another stood leaning against the far wall, a grim frown on his face. Montoya knew both the men, as he had trained and bled with them not twenty years past when the Church had bestowed upon them their calling.

The situation must be serious if they called three of us down here, Montoya thought.

The two other priests were Paladins as well, both wearing the gray cassocks that were synonymous with Vatican Section XIII. The man on the couch was Father Heito Piedoso, Paladin of Latin America. Like all Paladins, he was tall and powerfully built. He had a dark complexion and neatly trimmed short hair. His pale blue eyes spoke of some European ancestry, and overall he was a handsome man, one who received much attention from women even though he is a priest and thus sworn to celibacy. The other man in the room was Father Alexander Anderson, Paladin of Western Europe. Unlike the clean cut Piedoso or the grimly tidy Montoya, Father Anderson looked wildly unkempt. His short blond hair was uncombed and merely brushed back, which caused the unruly strands to stick upwards into tangled spikes. His scarred face was also unshaven, and the man was famous in Section XIII for sporting a perpetual five o'clock shadow.

"Bout time you got here," Anderson spoke up in English with a heavy Scottish accent. "Heito and I've been sitting here for three hours, all while our prey continues to run loose, staining God's fair soil with its foul footsteps."

Montoya ignored the irritated Scotsman, choosing instead to address the Brazilian priest who was watching the television with a bored expression. "What is our target?"

Father Piedoso continued to flip through the channels with a remote control as he began an explanation of the mission that brought them here to Dubai. "It seems that a cult of blood suckers have resurrected an ancient vampire called a Gallu. Not much is known about this subspecies, only that they are stronger than regular vampires, faster, and can shape shift. They also need to feed a lot more often than regular blood suckers, so you can probably imagine the body count that we'll have to clean up. Thankfully, the morons who brought this thing back to life did so in a nation of infidels, so none of our flock were in danger. Regardless, His Holyness wants this Gallu destroyed."

The Filipino priest sighed in irritation. Why can't these countries handle their own problems? He had enough troubles battling the local vampire tribes in the South East Asia region without having to fly off to the four corners of the world to take out some other regions' pests.

Despite his misgivings, Montoya could understand the Pope's concerns. If this Gallu creature created more of its kind here, then they would eventually spread to Catholic lands. It was best to crush the potential threat here and now while its status was that: potential. Sadly, the Persian Gulf region had no Paladin stationed to watch it. And so, that was why he and his brothers were here.

"What of the vampires who resurrected this… creature?" Montoya asked.

"Dead," Piedoso chuckled. "As I said, idiots. The first thing the Gallu ate was them."

"Too bad," Anderson grunted. "I would have loved to send those leeches back into the fires of the Inferno."

Montoya couldn't help but agree.

"Well then, shall we go?" The Brazilian priest smiled as he shut off the television. "After killing the vampires, the Gallu ate the people in the neighborhood where the vampires resided. After a day had passed, it ate the next neighborhood, and so on and so on. Thankfully we heard of this fiasco and got here before the monster could move on into Dubai proper. Our brothers managed to chase it away from the city, but it made its way to a small village just outside the city limits. Let's go."

The three Paladins exited the house and got into their respective black sedans whereupon their drivers transported them to a dusty little village about ten miles outside of Dubai. Already they could see the signs of devastation, with abandoned cars blocking the roads and several corpses littering the streets. Montoya frowned upon seeing such destruction. If only Iscariot had a presence in this region, all this could have been avoided. Presently, Section XIII was the most powerful organization combating supernatural threats in the world. They had been battling the forces of darkness for over two thousand years, and had a sphere of influence that encompassed most of the planet. In fact, the only regions in which they didn't hold sway were the Middle East, the United States, the UK, Russia and parts of Eastern Europe, as well as China. Of those regions, only the US, UK, and China had their own organizations dealing with supernatural threats, each of which were, if not outright hostile, then extremely uncooperative to the Vatican Section XIII.

The black cars stopped a few blocks from the heart of the village. There were other Iscariot operatives on location, and they directed the three Paladins to the area where the Gallu was last spotted. The three priests said a quick prayer and recited their anthem before taking to the rooftops to pursue their quarry. The Paladins were on the move for about five minutes before all hell broke loose.

In the intervening days since the Gallu had been quarantined within the village, it seemed that it had gotten quite busy. Not only had it created an army of ghouls from the local population, but it had transformed several people into Gallu as well. The Paladins not only had to deal with the ancient vampire but its spawn as well, all the while their backup was busy contending with the dozens of slavering ghouls that were attacking them in the streets.

As he fought the monsters up on the rooftops, Montoya observed that these Gallu were definitely unlike the usual vampires he fought. They were faster, tougher, and much more hardy than the regular Nosferatu that he had killed in the past. They were completely hairless, their pale skin almost transparent in the moonlight. Their eyes also glowed with a pale, sickly yellow light unlike the usual red incandescence that normal vampires showed. Their shape shifting abilities were also much greater than the regular vampires' as the ones Montoya fought had grown bat-like wings right in front of his eyes before taking to the air. Their regeneration was also much greater, as they healed any wound almost instantly.

Despite the new abilities these Gallu exhibited, Montoya found that they still died as regular vampires did. A quick piercing to the heart or decapitation with his swords put down the foul beasts permanently. He saw one of the flying vampires engulfed in flame before exploding into dust when Piedoso bathed the area around him in holy sunlight.

The original Gallu, seeing that its children were being slaughtered, quickly took off. It vaulted across the rooftops to put distance between itself and the three deadly Paladins, before it too grew wings and flew away.

"Bloody coward!" Anderson shouted at the fleeing vampire. One of the Gallu leapt towards him, claws and fangs held out and ready to tear him to pieces, but a quick flick of the Scottsman's wrist sent three blessed bayonets sailing through the air to impale it in the head, heart, and belly. "Heito! Renaldo!" he shouted, not even glancing at the dead Gallu's impaled corpse as it collapsed at his feet. "You two stay here and clean up these demon filth. I'm going after mamma, and teach her ugly face the ways of the Almighty's love." The blond Paladin let out a laugh as he stepped over the Gallu he had killed, then leapt away to pursue the fleeing ancient.

Despite going alone, Montoya was sure that Anderson would have no problems defeating the original Gallu. Out of the twelve Paladins currently within Iscariot, Alexander Anderson was perhaps the most powerful one. Unlike Piedoso, whose abilities were purely magical, and himself, whose abilities were created purely through science, Anderson had a healthy mix of both magical and technological powers. Combine those with his formidable combat skills and fanatical devotion to the cause and you have one hell of a vampire killer. He was simply the best.

"My my, that man certainly loves his work," Piedoso chuckled as he incinerated one of the Gallu into ashes with holy flame.

"Indeed," Montoya agreed as he hurled a silver nail directly into the heart of one of the monsters. "His faith is truly reverent."

After dispatching the last of the Gallu, the two Paladins leaped down into the streets to assist their agents with the ghouls. Five minutes later, the village was quiet once more. Bodies of the undead littered the street corners, pieces of monsters decorating the walls and rooftops of the houses and shops. The Iscariot members cheered when the last ghoul went down.

Ten minutes after that Anderson returned, carrying the severed head of the ancient Gallu.

"Mission accomplished," the Scottish Paladin said simply as he handed the head to a nearby Iscariot agent.

With that, the Paladins went their separate ways. Piedoso said a friendly farewell, Anderson did not. Montoya stayed back to supervise the cleanup of the village and watched his brothers' black sedans drive away. The sun was slowly rising and Iscariot needed to be quick to get rid of any evidence of supernatural occurrences. The entire village would probably have to be burned down and a cover story of a gas leak or industrial accident written up.

The sounds of screams and gunfire caught the priest's attention, and he swiftly shot forwards in the direction of the commotion. The Paladin's sprint brought him to the center of the village where a group of what looked to be civilians had been gathered, men women and children kneeling on the ground as Iscariot agents stood around them. Montoya stopped at the edge of the square and watched as the agents pulled some the weeping and pleading citizens up to their feet and pushed them towards the wall of a nearby butcher's shop whereupon they were summarily gunned down with automatic fire. Women screamed as children wept, all the while the men pleaded with the agents in Arabic, many begging the gray coated men to spare their families.

"What is going on here?" Montoya asked as he strode over to the lead priest in charge of the agents. He believed the man's name was Espinoza, a tall muscular Spaniard in his late twenties.

"Nothing, Paladin," Espinoza said as he calmly watched his men brutally murdering the civilians. "Just taking care of the survivors. These… 'people' saw too much, and they must be gotten rid of."

"Stop!" Montoya shouted just as the agents had lined up another group of people against the walls and were preparing to fire. The agents ceased their actions, many glancing at Espinoza with confused looks on their faces.

"Is there a problem, Father Montoya?" Espinoza asked with an annoyed expression. "The sun is almost up and we need to get a move on."

"Proper procedure for dealing with civilian witnesses is memory wipe and hospitalization," Montoya stated, his voice hard and tight. His black eyes glared at Espinoza with a fury he rarely showed, his fists clenched tight and deadly at his sides.

"For Christian witnesses, yes," Espinoza explained calmly, weathering the Paladin's barely restrained fury. "But these are Muslim dogs," the man laughed, then pointed to the weeping, screaming civilians. "Look at them, nothing but animals. They may claim to worship the same God as we do, but they are nothing but vermin. Almost as bad as the Protestants. We need not waste time and resources on this filth."

"Let them go. NOW." Montoya snarled. "That is an order, Father Espinoza."

The Spaniard had the gall to laugh in his face. "Sorry, my friend. But this action has been sanctioned by Bishop Rosewood himself. So you see, we are completely under the grace of God Himself." Espinoza motioned for his men to continue, and the Paladin flinched upon hearing the gunfire resound behind him.

Montoya gritted his teeth. His gut clenched. How could the head of Iscariot allow such an evil action to occur? How could his brothers in Section XIII carry out such a heinous order? This cannot be God's will.

The Paladin looked back to the citizens and saw that another group had been pushed towards the wall, ready to be murdered. His eyes saw one little boy, no older than five, crying and clutching at his mother as she held him in her arms, the woman muttering a whispered, desperate prayer to God for aid. Montoya felt ill. He knew personally that this was wrong, but his duty to his Church and his faith in its leadership stayed his hand. Both his conscience and his faith warred within him, and he knew that before the day was done one of those things would not survive the outcome of the decision he was forcing himself to make.

And all the while Espinoza looked upon him with a satisfied grin, loving the fact that he had one of the almighty and powerful Paladins under his heel. Powerless to do anything.

Or so he thought.

Montoya let out a deep, loud breath, then turned his dark eyes back to the lead agent. "Let. Them. Go." To lend more weight to his words, the Paladin gripped both hilts of his swords.

For the first time, Espinoza looked worried. His smug grin vanished, and he took a step back. "Father Montoya. Think of what you're doing!" He hissed. The other agents turned their attention to both men, all of them sharing worried looks at what was transpiring. "We act under the orders of the Head of Iscariot! Bishop Rosewood has the blessing of His Holyness, Pope John Paul II, who in turn serves God's will on earth! To act against us now is to act against God Himself!"

The Paladin's broad shoulders clenched as his face twisted in fury. Espinoza almost fell over in terror, but he managed to remain standing as he watched Father Montoya close his eyes. In just a few seconds, the man's face calmed and his shoulders slackened. Espinoza let out a breath of relief, at least until he heard the Paladin's next words.

"So be it," Father Montoya stated before his eyes opened and his swords lashed out cross-wise, slicing Espinoza's head cleanly off his shoulders.

The other Iscariot agents gaped upon seeing the tall Paladin kill their leader. A half second of shocked silence passed, a moment which seemed to press into eternity as everyone within the town square tried to process what had just happened and what had to occur. Finally, the long silence was broken when one terrified agent drew his rifle up and began firing at Montoya. His fellows followed his lead and opened fire as well.

Big mistake.

The Paladin's invulnerable flesh shrugged off the gunfire as he leaped forwards with both swords drawn. He tried to be merciful and kill his former comrades swiftly, but his actions only proved to be brutal and merciless in their efficiency. He sliced, stabbed and decapitated the agents, doing what he did best as he took life without hesitation. Yet Montoya felt ill and sick to his bones; he always hated killing people. Unlike vampires, they always went down so easily. Killing a human being felt like destroying a priceless porcelain vase; they were so precious, so fragile. It just felt wrong to harm them.

Yet destroy them he did, all for the sake of his conscience. When the final agent died, he stood back and took in the death he had wrought. For the first time in his life he felt tears leak form his eyes. He had known many of the men here personally. He had fought alongside them numerous times, had watched most of them grow from young boys to fully clothed men of the faith. Now they lay dead, their blood staining his swords and clothing.

As he stood there, doubts began to surface. Did he do the right thing? He just turned his back on God, his faith, everything he believed in. He just slaughtered his brothers, all for the sake of non-believers he didn't even know. As he stood on that blood-strewn street, Renaldo Montoya was devastated. His faith lay in tatters, scattered amongst the bodies of his fallen brethren, brethren who he himself had mercilessly killed. He had sworn an oath to uphold the creed of Iscariot, to wipe out all the threats against the Church and to obey all orders his superiors had given. To stand by his brothers and sisters in defense of God's will.

Now he had nothing.

A loud cheer brought Montoya out of his dark thoughts. He glanced up and saw the civilians celebrating in relief, many sobbing and clutching at their families, crying out to God in thanks. Several of the men came up to him and thanked him profusely, tears of joy leaking form their eyes and looks of gratitude plain on their faces. He had saved them, these people. They were innocents in all this, caught up in the war between Heaven and Hell. He should be happy to have helped them.

But he was not. At that moment, standing amongst the bodies of his former friends and allies, Montoya could not help but feel resentment at these people, at these innocents. He hated them for being what they were, for being alive when his brothers were dead. For forcing him to choose his conscience over his faith.

"Go!" He told them, using some of the few words in Arabic that he knew to get them to leave. "Run! Now!"

The people heard the urgency in his voice and obeyed. They ran, many getting into cars, and left the village presumably to get aid from the authorities in Dubai. Montoya remained where he was, standing amidst the bodies of the dead, like a battered old scarecrow standing vigil amongst a crop of withered wheat. Some hours later, helicopters from the Vatican arrived.

Montoya surrendered without a fight.

0​

"It's time."

Cardinal Quincy looked away from the open window where he had been contemplating the peace of the gardens below. It was an altogether quiet evening, one that was unseasonably warm for this time of year in Romalia. He was in his private villa, relaxing and waiting for the time to strike. From the words of his companion, it was obvious that the time had arrived.

Quincy nodded, then moved to his chambers to put on the robes of his office. The white and gold finery suited him well, he thought. It had been a long, hard road to get to his esteemed position, and he would be damned if he would give it up without a fight. Already he had heard rumors that the pompous little boy who was calling himself Pope was planning on restructuring the official administration of the Church. It was no secret that the young Pope frowned upon the so-called excesses of the ruling Cardinals, and wanted to use the vast wealth and resources of Romalia to help the poor and in need.

What utter foolishness! The Church of Romalia and its priests were the personification of the will of God and Brimir in this world. In order to keep their prestige and power among the commoners and nobility, then they must look the part! That was the reason for the majestic cathedrals and intricate tapestries, the fine artistic paintings and magnificent sculptures! In order to keep its authority, Romalia needed to look like Heaven upon earth. The city needed to be the envy of all Brimiric civilization. If all the priests of Romalia looked like beggars, then the Church would not receive the respect of the royal families of the Kingdoms. They were the ones who truly gave the Church their legitimacy. If the nations of Halkagenia began to doubt the power and prominence of the Church, then they may abandon Romalia and even splinter off to make their own churches. Then where will they be? It would be a travesty for each nation to have a separate denomination of the faith, with each catering to the wants and likes of said nations. It would be madness! A shattered religion would spell doom to all Brimiric civilization. One of the only reasons that the nations of Halkagenia hadn't devolved into a constant state of war was the fact that Romalia was always there to mediate and keep the often unruly kingdoms from killing each other. Pope Victor's foolish and naïve plans would doom the entire continent.

Cardinal Quincy blamed this mess on that foreigner heretic, the dark skinned man who called himself Father Montoya. The Inquisitor had been a confidant of the Pope since the young man had been a child, so his foreign ideas had most likely been poisoning the boy for years. Hopefully the damage could still be repaired and Pope Victor could be convinced to step back and allow a new Pope to be recognized.

That was where his new allies in Reconquista came in. Quincy knew it was a risky maneuver and that if he failed the consequences would be quite dire. But the future of not only the Church but the entire Brimiric civilization lay in the balance.

After getting dressed in his white and golden robes, Quincy exited his villa escorted by three of his personal guards. The man from Reconquista met them by his carriage, which was parked waiting at the gates of his estate.

"Are your men ready?" Quincy asked.

The Reconquista agent was a young man with brown hair and a pale complexion. He was a good looking lad, almost unreasonably so. Quincy forced his excitement to calm when the young man smiled; the cardinal had been suppressing his vile lusts for years, but the handsome boy in front of him made it very difficult to think of anything else.

"Of course, Your Eminence," the young man said, his voice as sinful as his beauty. "Reconquista stands ready to aid you. Are your forces arrayed as well?"

The Cardinal nodded as he climbed into the carriage. "Yes. Those loyal to me and our cause are ready to act."

Once his three guards and the Reconquista agent had seated themselves inside the carriage, the driver whipped the horses and they began to move swiftly through the paved streets of Romalia. This night was the perfect time for his allies to perform their little coup. The Pope was currently sequestered at the Papal villa with his closest supporters and advisors. They were holding a meeting to discuss what to do with the recent events occurring in Albion. News had just reached them of Prince Wales' death. With the Crown Prince's demise, the civil war in the island nation was all but over. Reconquista had won, and soon the entire political structure of the continent would change to reflect this news. The Papal villa was remote and not as easily defended as the main basilica in the center of the city where His Holyness usually took residence. The security would be minimal at best, and the guards there would be easily overwhelmed by the combined forces of Reconquista and Quincy's followers.

The Cardinal frowned, then prayed that tonight would go smoothly and with minimal bloodshed. He had no desire to see anyone die, not even the foolish Pope who was all but dooming them all. But he would do what was necessary to save his Church, and to save his civilization. One way or another, change was coming. Whether such change would be ushered in by him or his enemies was a choice that was purely in God's hands now.

0
​

"Father Montoya."

The former Paladin blinked his eyes, his mind slowly becoming clearer from the hazy fog of unconsciousness. He lifted his heavy head from the cold tiles of the floor, fighting off a wave of dizziness that assaulted his senses as he slowly and painfully pulled himself into a seated position. His captors had been pumping sarin gas into the small room constantly since he had been brought here. Although the poison didn't kill him, it knocked him out well enough for his jailers to consider him contained.

"Look at you, Father Montoya. How sad I am to see you so fallen from grace."

Montoya frowned, idly wondering how filthy he looked right now. It had been many days since the incident in Dubai, and countless more since they had begun poisoning his air. The priest prided himself on keeping a staid and well-groomed appearance; to know that he was most likely covered in sweat, his chin unshaven and harsh with stubble, knowing that his usually slicked back hair was uncombed and grimy… it irked him, and his pride.

"I must look worse than Anderson," Montoya thought with grim humor.

The man who had entered his cell and was currently standing over him was the complete opposite. He was pristinely clean, his vestments consisting of a black cassock and red sash both recently washed and pressed. Although the man was well into his sixties he still had the powerful build of his youth, and his sheer size and bulk spoke much of the days he spent as a field agent of Iscariot.

"I had much respect for you, Father Montoya. Out of all the Paladins under my command, you were the one who showed the most stalwart discipline. You struck me as a man of true humility, a servant of God who truly was unquestioning in his faith."

Montoya looked away from the man's accusing stare, his dark eyes dropping to his lap in shame.

"Yet here we are now. You murdered your own brothers in arms, and for what? To save the lives of a few non-believers?" Bishop Rosewood sighed, shaking his head in disgust as he began to pace. The Canadian clenched and unclenched his large fists in agitation as he continued speaking, his voice firm but bleeding with regret. "Did it not occur to you, Father Montoya, that some of those 'innocents' that you so casually let go could have been a Gallu in disguise?" Rosewood stopped pacing and glared at the seated priest, his bright blue eyes almost shining with his fury. "You knew that this sub species is new to us, you knew that not all of its abilities were accounted for. And you damn well knew that these blood suckers could change their shape at will. And YET you so casually let a group of potential threats just casually make their way to a large population center after killing your own men."

Montoya grit his teeth and shut his eyes. His shoulders trembled in horror at the Bishop's words, knowing that they were true. He should have known, he should have realized that those people were a threat. That one or more of them could have been vampires in hiding. He had killed his own brothers, murdered them without mercy, and for what? He had dishonored himself, he had broken his vows to both the Church and God. He had failed in his duties to destroy all forms of evil in the world.

Bishop Rosewood bent forwards and squatted next to the former Paladin's seated form, his lined face still tight with anger. "I just wanted you to know," the old man said, his voice heavy with disgust. "A few hours after we picked you up, we received word from authorities in Dubai about some mysterious deaths."

Montoya's eyes widened in horror at the Bishop's words.

"Yeah, one of those people you let go turned out to be Gallu. It went on a killing spree for two days before Anderson and Piedoso could put it down. It killed 32 people before they did though." Rosewood leaned in until his face was directly in front of the broken priest's. "Those deaths are on your head, Montoya. Along with the fifteen Iscariot Agents you put down."

The Bishop stood up, brushing his cassock of dust as he did so. "Since we have no idea how to kill you without using a tactical nuclear weapon, we're going to remand you to life in confinement. In other words, we'll probably just lock that door over there and brick it shut. Then fill the hallway outside with concrete. I'm hoping that a weeks without food or water will be enough to do you in, because believe it or not I do not want to see you suffer. Despite what you did, Montoya, you are still my brother. You are still a soldier of Iscariot. You just lost your way."

Rosewood turned away from the priest then began walking towards the exit with hard, heavy steps. "I'll pray that you find peace, brother. God be with you." The door clanged loudly shut behind him.

The lights went out soon after that, quickly followed by the air. The sounds of bricks being piled and mortar being laid could be heard outside the metal door, but Montoya ignored it all. He sat on the floor in the dark, surrounded by his misery and wept. How could he be such a fool? How could providing mercy to those who needed it have turned out so badly? He wished he could take it all back, do it over again. He prayed to God that he would be given a second chance, a way to make amends for the sins he committed due to his lack of faith.

Montoya didn't know how long he sat there in the bitter darkness, but it felt like an eternity. With the vents shut off, the air within the cell was stifling and stale. This was the reason he became startled when a fresh, cool breeze suddenly blew across his sweat and tear stained face. The former Paladin's head shot up and he beheld a glorious sight. Before him was a large, circular void glowing with a bright viridian radiance. It was the greenest thing the priest had ever seen, and fresh sounds and scents seemed to emanate from within it.

The portal seemed to be calling out to him, drawing him in. No, it was something behind the portal, on the other side. Renaldo Montoya smiled, and reached out a hand. All his previous sorrow was swept away by the sight of the impossible doorway before him. For what else could this thing be but God's answer to his desperate prayer?

0​

The operation to take the Papal villa proceeded swiftly. As soon as Cardinal Quincy and his entourage met up with the rest of his main supporters, the clergyman gave word to proceed with the attack. His main force was composed of over a hundred men, most of whom were militia from the households of Romalian noble families sympathetic to his cause. These men were supplemented by local mercenaries and members of the Papal Guard who were loyal to Quincy. The remaining forces were troops from Albion who were sent there by Reconquista in order to help oust Pope Victor from the seat of power. In total, the insurrection numbered around three hundred fighters with some forty mages leading them.

The security in the villa numbered a paltry hundred Papal Guardsmen.

Not only were the defenders severely outnumbered, but they would be unable to call for help either. At that very moment, Quincy's agents had blocked off or destroyed the roads and bridges leading up to the estate. It would take hours for a sizeable force to arrive, and by then it would be too late. Pope Victor would be in their custody, and Romalia would be in his hands.

The first parts of the villa to be taken were the main and side gates, the only two entrances to the compound. Quincy had agents within the security staff as well, men who were instructed to cause a distraction amongst the guardsmen long enough for his forces to swoop in and take control. The plan went off without a hitch and the Cardinal was quite proud of how swiftly and easily taking the gate houses went. He made note to commend those traitors who had performed so admirably later.

The rest of the operation did not go as smoothly. Quincy's forces had begun to march from the gates through the front lawn and the back gardens en masse, each man moving swiftly but with silence through the dark. Since stealth was key for the operation, they had eschewed from using any heavy armor or weapons; thus they were able to move quickly and quietly though they would be at a disadvantage in direct combat.

Unfortunately for his men, someone within the villa spotted them and sounded the alarm. Papal Guardsmen quickly armed themselves with swords and polearms and met the invaders. Soon vicious combat was being fought along the pristine courtyards of the palatial estate. The fighting was intense but over quickly as the sheer number of Quincy's forces hammered the surprised Guardsmen's defenses. They were forced to fall back and attempted to seal off the interior of the compound, but wooden doors were no match for mages. Within ten minutes from the beginning of combat, the fighting moved into the villa itself and its once pristine floors became slick with blood, its gold gilded walls blackened by spellfire.

The Cardinal and his retinue moved their way into the villa as soon as they were informed that the fighting had died down. Several of his cohorts tittered in amusement, remarking about how simple an operation it had turned out to capture the most powerful man in Halkagenia. Quincy though remained silent, putting out an air of steely indifference. Within him, the old cardinal was feeling nothing but relief. He was smart enough to know how risky this move had been. It was quite the gamble to try to seize control so brazenly, and only he knew how close failure would have been if just a few factors were not in their favor.

The most important factor of course was that of the Black Inquisitor's absence. If that man, Father Montoya, had been here at the Villa, or anywhere within Romalia, his plan was doomed to failure. Quincy wasn't exactly sure how that man had gotten such unholy strength, or even if he were a man at all, but he knew that he would need a lot more than three hundred men to take on such a monster. The priest, in his simple black garb and silent deadly demeanor, was one of the reasons Pope Victor was able to put forth so many of his radical reforms without being questioned openly by the other Cardinals. The young Pope had dedicated of the funds collected from the nobility into projects to help the poor and needy; he had set up orphanages and sick houses in the poorest parts of the continent, had priests and holy clergy tend to the ill and starving of Romalia. No Pope in history would have gotten away with such foolishness, but because Victor had that unkillable foreign devil by his side no one in the Church dared question his authority.

Of course, the commoners loved him for his foolishness. Attendance by the laymen were in record highs and opinion of the Church among the rabble was quite positive. Victor was extremely popular with the common man, but sadly it was the opinion of the nobility that mattered. The nobles, both here in Romalia and in the other kingdoms, saw the blatant wasting of their alms and were beginning to question the young Pope's leadership. Already there were rumors of jokes and mockery being openly told about the "kindly" Pope in the royal courts of various nations; such behavior would never have been tolerated a generation ago. Already Cardinal Quincy could feel the reigns of control being pulled away from the Church, and it was only a matter of time before one of the Brimiric kingdoms pulled away from Romalia.

And when one pulls away, the others would be sure to follow.

He could not let that happen. Quincy would be damned if he let six thousand years of power and tradition collapse due to the whims of one spoiled and soft-hearted brat. He would grab the reigns of power and steer Romalia down the right path.

As he stepped through the ruined portal of the front doors and into the villa, Quincy frowned. All around him, the ancient building stood. Damaged. Desecrated. Blood covered the marble floors. Ash and soot marred the beautiful sculptures and windows. Bodies of Papal Guardsmen lay everywhere, their once golden robes now stained with ugly red. The Cardinal sighed and spoke a quiet prayer, one in which he begged God for forgiveness at what he had done, and all that he was about to do. Once his resolve returned, Quincy strode through the ruined halls with forceful steps, his retinue following.

"Keep faith, Cardinal Quincy," said the sinfully beautiful man from Albion as he locked step alongside the aging holy man. His blood red eyes almost seemed to be glowing from beneath the shadows of his hood. "All this bloodshed is in God's name."

Quincy frowned at his words but continued walking.

0​

All around him was the fetid stench of illness and the oppressive weight of squalor. The ramshackle homes made up of the trash the nobles of the city had thrown out, the cracked cobbles of the streets wet with urine and excrement, the sick and the dying laying amongst the filth. It was such a familiar sight to Renaldo Montoya's eyes; he had grown up in similar conditions to these poor forgotten souls. He had grown up in sickness, had known disease. He knew of the constant, almost unwinnable fight that the children living in this hellhole lived daily. He too had fought for scraps, had stolen and harmed. Yet unlike those others observing from the outside, those who saw the squalor and shook their heads in pity or disgust, he had seen this horrid life from within. He knew that despite appearances, the people who lived here were not animals. They were not savages. They were the forgotten, the unfortunate. They were merely born into a life like everyone else; the only difference was that their lives were not as fortunate as most. Yet they still had morals, they still had honor. They had rules that they did not break. They had community. They had family. They had each other.

In Renaldo's case though, there had been an outlet for his misery. There was a place he could go to in order to escape the daily hell of his life. In his world, there was the Church. When life was just too painful to bear, when a friend died or his father behaved too cruelly, the young Renaldo could always run to the local Church. There he could sit in the pews and stare in wonder at the paintings and sculptures on the walls. There he could look up at the beautiful stained glass windows and dream of better things. The priest and nuns there took good care of him and the other children who came to them, giving them what food and clothing they could. They taught him about good and evil, Heaven and Hell, about Jesus Christ and all his wonderful works. They taught him that this life, this horrible empty life, was not the true life. It was but a test. True living came after, up in heaven. If you could pass the test that God was giving you. If you could live a good life, free of sin. If you could bear all the burdens that this life could give you, if you could withstand all the blows and beatings that life would throw at you, if you could harden yourself enough to shrug off any injury this life could inflict upon you and not stray from your path… then you could ascend to Heaven and be with God.

Those kindly priests and nuns saved Renaldo, as well as many other children in that squalid shanty town. Yet, in a sense, they damned him as well. They had instilled upon him an almost unbreakable faith and devotion to the word of God. That faith, that devotion, lead him into the arms of the Church. To Vatican Section XIII. To Iscariot. All members of that order swore to do all they could, regardless of how callous or how cruel, in order to fight evil in its many myriad, deadly forms. To do so they undertook the ultimate sacrifice: they condemned their souls to Hell. They were the followers of the Apostle Judas, after all. Their creed was to do what was necessary, to do what was right and for the greater good. In order to succeed in their aim, the members of Iscariot had to commit evil. Much, much evil. Doing so would blacken their hearts, but never their faith. Their devotion to Christ and God the Almighty was unwavering. Though they would suffer for all the sins they had wrought, though they would burn for all eternity in the Inferno, all members of Iscariot would do so proudly and with joy.

They were the ultimate contradiction. They were the ultimate hypocrites. They were Iscariot, and they would burn with grace.

"Father Montoya?" The soft voice brought the priest out of his memories, and he looked down upon the small form of the young boy with him. His fair hair and complexion made him stand out amongst the other rabble in the slum, as did his clean skin and pristine white clothing. The boy's blue eyes looked up at him with the innocence that only youth could provide, one all but untouched by the cruelties of life. Renaldo wondered if he had ever had such innocent eyes when he was this boy's age. He very much doubted it.

"Yes, Vittorio?" the priest asked his charge. The Cardinals back in the Grand Cathedral, as well as the boy's poor mother, would balk and rage if they ever discovered that he had taken the young and future Pope to such a place, but Renaldo thought that the boy should see more than the gilded cage they kept him in. If Vittorio were to grow up to be the Pope of this world, then he needed to see ALL of the world. Both ugly and beautiful.

"Why are these people living here?" Vittorio, soon to be known as Victor, asked, his innocence very much evident from the honest confusion in his voice. "This place is horrible. Why don't they move away somewhere better?"

The Black Priest smiled grimly. "They can't," he explained. "This is their lot in life, their test. They have no means to leave, nor any place to leave to. Here they must stay, they have no choice."

The young boy frowned. He looked around at the dilapidated hovels and the vermin infested streets. He quickly looked up, his eyes wide and urgent. "Can't they get help? Surely someone should help them?"

Renaldo shook his head. "In my world, people such as these did have help. The Church, my church, helped the poor and the needy. That was it's original purpose, after all. To spread the word of God by helping those in need." Of course, this world had no such Church. Unlike the Church of Christ, the Church of Brimir was set up to spread magic and the will of the nobility; they had no time for the poor and downtrodden. At least, that's what the mages of today say. The Brimiric faith was much, much older than Christianity. In six thousand years' time, many things can change. Politics, culture. Who truly knows now what the Founder Brimir wanted for his people, other than God?

"Well, why can't our Church help?" Vittorio asked him.

Ah. And there was his opening. "They don't want to," Renaldo told the boy simply. Truth was always simple, regardless of what those in power wish you to believe.

Vittorio frowned, then looked away. The young boy had an almost angry expression on his face, and it was almost comical to see such a youthful, cherubic face look so petulant. "Well, when I become Pope, I WILL help them," Vittorio stated simply.

Renaldo smiled. It had been two years since he had been summoned here, to this strange world of magic and sorcery. Two years since he had been charged with the supervision and protection of this young, future Pope. To be his Right Hand. To guide him.

That was why he was brought here by God, why he was given his second chance after failing so badly in his former duties. This was his way to atone for his lack of faith. A way for Renaldo Montoya to do some good for all the evil he had wrought.

"Good," Renaldo told the boy.

Whatever evil threatens this world and this boy, he would be sure to destroy it. As God is his witness, he would do whatever it takes to annihilate all that menace the good. Whether they be monster, or man.

Amen.

0​

The Papal villa was secure. Quincy's forces had taken the entire compound with the exception of the chapel, which was where the Pope and his remaining forces had retreated to. It was only a matter of time, then Romalia would be his. Victor only had a handful of guardsmen left with him, along with those few Cardinals who served as his advisors. Quincy and his supporters still had over two hundred odd soldiers and all of their mages. Victory was inevitable.

The conquering Cardinal and his main supporters, Clerics and Cardinals who were loyal to Church of Brimir and wished to save it from doom as he did, marched forwards through the devastated villa in the direction of the chapel. Their Reconquista ally followed, the hood of his dark cloak pulled high over his beautiful features. The soldiers along the way made room for them, standing aside in the narrow halls to let the group through, some raising hands to their brow in salute.

This is how it should be, Cardinal Quincy thought to himself as he looked around the men who had secured him his victory. Commoners deferring to their betters, not the other way around. Pope Victor would have us serve the peasantry, to waste precious resources and manpower to alleviate their suffering. What misguided foolishness and sheer short-sightedness! Only the young could be so reckless.

These men here, tough; they would be rewarded, Quincy would see to that. The families of those brave fallen would be taken care of as well. Despite their low status in the social order, such bravery and dedication to the faith must be shown proper remuneration. Loyal dogs should get their well-deserved scraps, after all.

Soon the Cardinal and his entourage arrived at the chapel doors. The halls that lead into the sanctuary were wide and spacious, allowing a large number of his troops to be gathered for the final push in. The men made way for him as he and his cohorts pushed through, stopping once they stood before the chapel's large old oak doors. Chiseled upon the wooden gateway were intricate carvings depicting the life of the Founder Brimir, from his rise as the first and only Void Mage to the expulsion of the human race from the Holy Lands. The prophesized retaking of humanity's ancestral home as well as the subsequent destruction of the elves were also illustrated, along with the glory of eternity in Valhalla granted to those brave souls who fought for such a righteous goal. The carvings had been commissioned over two hundred years ago from the famous Germanian artist Georg Zern. It was a piece glorifying the great deeds of Brimir as well as a priceless work of art from a master of his craft.

"Unfortunate," Quincy stated as he drew his wand. "Ready yourselves, men!"

The soldiers around him drew up their swords and polearms, the few ones with muskets affixing their bayonets. His entourage girded themselves for the fight as well, each mage clutching their wands and staves tightly. Only the man from Albion remained unmoving, his dark scarlet eyes watching proceedings with an air of disinterest.

"Fireball!" Quincy shouted upon the end of his incantation. He sent the orb of magical flame directly into the chapel doors, causing the old wooden portal to explode inwards in a deafening cacophony of noise and fire. One of his cohorts immediately casted a counterspell, causing the blaze from the explosion to extinguish. Once the fires were quelled his soldiers swiftly stormed into the chapel's battered entrance and soon the sounds of renewed fighting could be heard.

The remaining guardsmen loyal to the Pope were promptly put down, and once the captain of his soldiers gave word that the chapel was secured Quincy and the rest of the rebellion's leadership entered. They stepped over the freshly bleeding corpses of the Papal guards, pouring into the holy shrine and marching down the aisle like conquering heroes. At the other of the chapel, standing tall and unmoved in the apse, was Pope Victor and those Cardinals loyal to him. Moonlight was shining in from the numerous stained glass windows which provided most of the light inside the relatively small church. The tiny flames of hundreds of candles lining the chapel's aisles and transepts also added to the illumination. The mood inside the building was soft and somber, very fitting for the end of a Pope.

Cardinal Quincy quickly marched down the nave towards the Pope and his advisors, wanting to get this bit of unpleasantness over and done with. The others in the leadership followed, each smiling in prideful triumph as they looked upon the Pope and his cowering advisors. They were proud and with good reason: they had just achieved the impossible. Their small conspiracy had taken over the reigns of the Holy Church itself. With it they could control the fate of all the people, commoner and nobility alike, within Halkagenia.

"Quincy! You are responsible for this?" Cardinal Voghn, one of the men standing with Victor, shouted in aghast disbelief. Voghn was ancient even by many Cardinals' standards; he was bent and stooped over, a frail man in his late 8o's who by all accounts should have died decades ago. He was the oldest member of the Council of Cardinals, and was looked upon by his contemporaries as one of the main leaders of the Church. He was second only to the Pope in power, though in Quincy's opinion he may as well have not existed. Voghn was one of the boy's most ardent supporters and took to conceding with the Pope on all matters. He was just another bleeding heart fool, obsessed with the plight of the commoners.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" the old Cardinal asked him.

"Yes, I do," Quincy stated. He stopped directly in front of the chapel's apse as his soldiers surrounded the Pope and his retinue, their swords still wet with the blood of the guardsmen. "I… we are taking back control of this holy institution, to put it back upon the course that God and the Founder intended. No more will this Church serve the whims of a spoiled, misguided boy."

"You fool," Voghn spat. "You arrogant idiot. This is a blatant power grab, plain and simple! Don't pretend it's anything else!"

Quincy laughed. "Say what you wish, old man. It will not change the fact that we are the victors, and you are the doomed. But we are kind men, and we will show mercy to those who stand with us." He turned his eyes to the Pope. All throughout his exchange with Voghn, the young man remained silent, his manner surprisingly calm and collected for someone being held at the end of numerous sword points. "Pope Victor, or should I call you Vittorio now instead?" Quincy grinned, silently awaiting a response to his barb, but the young Pope remained silent. The Cardinal frowned, then continued. "Regardless, young Victor, I implore you to end this peacefully. Step down from your position without any fuss or complaint and I will guarantee your life, as well as the lives of your compatriots. Please, let go of your pride and think of the innocent. Too much blood has been spilled already. End this bloodshed now."

The Pope had closed his eyes, seeming to all to be immersed in deep thought. Quincy sighed, holding his breath, praying that the young fool would accept. By all reasons he should; he was at the mercy of his enemies, with no hope of rescue whatsoever. It was the smart thing to do. He had to accept his terms.

When Victor opened his eyes though, Quincy knew that the young man would not. The Pope's eyes were hard and cold, the usual warmth and kindness that was usually there completely absent. Expunged. All the Cardinal could see in them now was a cold, steely determination.

And rage.

"You are correct in one thing, Quincy," Pope Victor spoke, his voice hard with fury. "I will end this. This… atrocity that you have perpetrated. This madness that you have brought into my home, into God's home. You are right, this bloodshed will end. But not in peace. No, no." The young man's voice steadily grew deeper as his fury rose, and many in Quincy's retinue backed away from the almost palpable hate emanating from the young man's body. "This will end, but not in peace. It will end in blood. Violence. Death."

The Pope looked away from Quincy and his gaze fell on those men who followed him. "Betrayers. Back stabbers. Traitors. All of you have stained your souls with this heinous act." He addressed both the Cardinals who led the revolt as well as the common soldiers who obeyed them. None were spared his condemnation. "I implore all of you to do one thing: pray. God, in His infinite grace, will forgive you. I guarantee that he will show you mercy." His cold blue eyes moved back to Quincy, and the fury within them seemed to simmer to a boil. "But I will not."

Quincy could not help himself. He flinched.

Of all the arrogant, boorish stupidity! The Cardinal seethed. He had wanted to show this foolish boy mercy, he truly did. But what did he get for his kindness? Nothing but insults, threats, and a metaphorical spit in the face. So be it. If this pathetic excuse for a Pope wanted to die, then he would very well grant him his wish!

"Do you hear that?" The man from Reconquista suddenly asked, snapping Quincy out of his livid thoughts.

"What?" The Cardinal asked in an irritated tone. "Can't you see I'm-"

"Silence!" The man hissed. The authority in his voice brokered no argument, and the Cardinal forced himself to quiet.

Long, tense seconds passed as the Reconquista agent held his head aloft, his beautiful face scrunched up in concentration as if he were trying to hear something from very far away. Soon though, Quincy too began to hear something. It sounded pretty far in the distance, the noise resembling loud pops and bangs. As the seconds rolled by, the sounds got louder. And closer.

"What is that?" Quincy asked. The strange clamor sounded like musket fire, but different. It was hard to describe, but they sounded… cleaner. More uniform. The discharges also came forth much more quickly than musket fire should, with many of the pops and bangs happening almost right on top of the previous sound, giving the impression of a loud military drum being rattled.

Before long shouts and screams of alarm followed the strange bangs and thunderclaps, and Quincy's men began to look about in panic.

"What is going on?" The Cardinal asked, sweat beginning to bead upon his forehead. The sounds of screaming and the strange rattling bangs had gotten closer to the chapel. "You!" He called out to one of his soldiers, a young man who had a look of steady fright on his face. "Go see what's going on!"

"Y-yes sir!" The man saluted before turning around and rushing towards the chapel's ruined entrance. He pushed his way through the throngs of Quincy's troops, most of whom had shuffled together in a close formation, swords and pikes held high and facing the door readying themselves for anything.

The men didn't have to wait long as the chapel's six stained glass windows suddenly exploded inwards, showering everyone below in brightly colored glass. The soldiers shouted in alarm, men gasped and screamed, and soon dark figures fell into the chapel from the shattered windows, rappelling inside from ropes secured atop the roof of the villa.

The newcomers were a peculiar lot, dressed in gray robes with dark clothing underneath. They had men and women in their ranks, though the concealing garb prevented quick identification of their sex. In their hands the strangers held bizarre devices, some resembling metallic muskets while others were completely alien to Quincy's eyes. Those objects pulled at a memory of his, and soon he remembered that had seen their like before. It was many years ago when he was still a young cleric, back in the Church's artifact vaults; the weapons these people wielded were very much like the relics their forces had been gathering from various expeditions into the Holy Lands.

But what concerned him the most aside from their weapons were the silver amulets these fighters wore. He had seen that symbol before, of two intersecting perpendicular bars that resembled crossed swords. These were the same symbols that that foreign heretic was praying to.

"No," Quincy gasped. "No, no no!" There was no way he could be here! He was still in Tristain looking for that fake Void mage! How could he have arrived back in Romalia so quickly? Unless he flew back, there was no way that the Black Inquisitor should be back so soon. "W-who are these heathens?" The Cardinal demanded, turning to Victor.

The young pope was standing silently upon the apse, all fury and indignation now gone from his face. He was now kindly smiling at the current proceedings, his eyes calm and complacent. Several more of the gray robed mercenaries fell from the windows, moving swiftly after landing to surround the Pope and his retinue. Their strange weapons were raised up and aimed at Quincy's soldiers, daring any of his men to move.

"Don't just stand there!" shouted the Reconquista agent at his awestruck allies. "Kill them!"

Such an order seemed all that was needed to knock the men out of their shock, and soon the rebellious soldiers shouted and rushed forwards, seeking to impale these newcomers upon their blades. Their offensive was quickly terminated when the gray robed fighters opened up with their exotic muskets, cutting down the first group of the soldiers to attack. To the horror of everyone in Quincy's faction, these muskets seemed quite advanced, capable of firing more than one shot without being reloaded. Dozens of soldiers fell, each man shredded in gunfire. Those soldiers behind the unfortunate ones fell back, knowing full well that they stood no chance of even getting close to anyone wielding a repeating musket.

One of the Cardinals in Quincy's group began to chant a spell, but a bullet to his head quickly put an end to his resistance. The mage's head exploded, showering his cohorts with his blood and brains. The other Cardinals in the group shrieked and dropped their wands, raising their hands in surrender.

"How… no," Quincy turned to Victor again, not bothering to wipe the scarlet filth that was dripping off his face. "What have you done? W-who are they?" he asked.

"You heard him," a deep, grave voice spoke up from the chapel's entrance. Everyone turned towards the source and Quincy paled upon seeing Father Montoya standing at the portal. His two swords were drawn, one of silver blade, the other blessed iron, and both dripped wetly with the blood of his loyal men. The demonic foreigner looked up with black eyes and Quincy felt his blood chill. "This man asked you a question. Tell him, you soldiers of God. Who are we?"

"We are the soldiers of Iscariot!" shouted the gray robed soldiers in unison. The mages in Quincy's group cowered and whimpered at their loud proclamation, two Cardinals even dropping to their knees in fright. "We are Judas Iscariot!"

"Well then, Iscariot," The Black Inquisitor continued. "Tell me. What do you hold in your right hand?"

"Daggers and Poison!" Shouted the gray robed soldiers in answer.

"Well then, my soldiers of Iscariot. Tell me," Montoya continued. "What do you have in your left hand?"

"Thirty pieces of silver and a straw rope!"

One of the rebel soldiers panicked and made a dash for the entrance, not giving a damn if Montoya blocked the only exit out of this deathtrap. In the man's panicked mind, the black priest was just one man, one that was armed with swords and not the frightening weaponry of the monsters in gray. He figured he would have a much better chance against him than against the numerous maniacs wielding repeating muskets. Sadly, the poor soldier never got to test his mettle against the Inquisitor, as he was quickly shredded to pieces by numerous gunfire. The other rebel soldiers saw their comrade fall and all of them quickly dropped their weapons in surrender, lest they too be cut down.

"Now then," Father Montoya began to stride into the room, his gait slow but steady as he stepped towards the rebels. "Show these people who you are, my soldiers of Iscariot. Show them what mercy we would want shown upon ourselves."

With those words, the gray robed soldiers took aim and began to mercilessly gun down the unarmed men. The rebel soldiers panicked and tried to run, but there was no escape from the hail of gunfire. Over and over shots rang true, as bullets of various calibers rained death down upon the traitors to the Church.

"We are apostles, yet not apostles, we are believers, yet not believers, we are disciples, yet not disciples," Montoya sounded off as he waded into the sea of screaming and dying men. His swords lashed out, cutting down those attempting to flee as if they were nothing but strands of hair. Many were bisected cleanly through the middle, their spilled innards and still twitching corpses adding to the piles of the slaughtered. "We are heretics, yet not heretics. We are soldiers in the service of death who bow our heads in reverence to our Lord, and whose prayers are bound amongst the withered bodies of our enemies."

One of the dying grasped a hand around Montoya's ankle, his bloody face looking up at the priest, his tearful eyes silently pleading for mercy. The Black Priest gave him none, as he delivered a quick powerful kick that shattered his skull.

"Our Poison served at every supper. Our Daggers flashing in the moonlight." Some shots missed their targets and ended up hitting him, but Montoya shrugged off the impacts, the bullets merely bouncing off his invincible skin. "We are the apostles of Judas Iscariot, we are his holy flock of assassins, and upon the hour at which we are called, we cast our 30 pieces of silver into the sight of the holy and hang ourselves with a rope of straw."

With one final cleave of his sword, the last rebel soldier fell. The poor man's head rolled across the bloody wooden floor and landed directly at Quincy's feet. The Cardinal shrieked and kicked the severed head away, noting with grief the accusing look permanently etched into its dead face.

Cardinal Quincy looked up from the bloody floor and gazed upon the waste and devastation wrought. More than sixty of his loyal men were lay butchered, dead at his feet. Who knew how many countless more had been massacred outside? This wasn't what he wanted. The death count was supposed to be low. Reparations would have been made to the families of the fallen. He wanted to save the Church with as minimal amount of violence as he could.

But this… this was obscene! This was vulgar and heinous! Such cruelty, brutality. How could God have allowed this horror to take place?

"This… is insanity." Quincy turned his pale, horrified face back to the Pope. Victor met his gaze and returned it with a kind smile. "Y-you armed… heretics with… holy instruments? This… this is heresy!" Quincy shouted. Tears began to leak from his eyes as he pointed an accusing finger at the Pope and his supporters. "You are all heretics! Voghn, Pope Victor, all of you!"

"You're one to talk of heresy," Father Montoya stated. "When you bring a demon into the house of God."

Confused, the Cardinal turned to face the priest and ask him what he meant. He never got the chance though, as the agent from Reconquista suddenly burst forwards in an explosion of speed. Quincy's eyes widened in shock when the man's beautiful visage transformed, turning into a vile, demonic caricature. Red light flared brightly from his eyes and rows of vicious fangs erupted form his mouth. Claws grew from his fingertips, each gouging bits and splinters from the wooden floor as he scrambled forwards. The former man snarled like an animal as he rushed towards the platform upon which the Pope stood.

The gray robed soldiers opened fire, pouring a literal rain of lead into the monster. Though it did slow down the beast, it did not stop him as he continued to move forwards despite the numerous wounds gouged into his flesh. Suddenly the demon screamed out in an inhuman roar as Father Montoya's silver blade erupted from its chest, the bright blade having pierced its heart through the back. The Black Priest finished off the monster by slicing off its head with his iron sword. The demon's corpse fell to the wooden floor with a wet thud. In moments the body vanished, disintegrating into foul shadow until nothing was left.

"W-what?" Quincy gasped. The other Cardinals in his retinue were just as shocked, many looking utterly sick upon realizing that they had been in league with the legions of Hell. "No…"

"You allowed a demon to influence you, Quincy," The Pope said. The young man's voice was now soft and mannered, so different from the furious tone he had spoken with before. "Through your pride and greed, the Devil was able to worm his way into your heart. You have strayed from the path, and now you shall face your punishment."

"No," Quincy continued to deny, though deep down he knew the truth. He had been prideful, arrogant. He had coveted the seat of the Pope. He had lusted after power, had desired the wealth of his office. He had grown indolent in his luxurious lifestyle and was ravenous for more. With all his foolishness he had let loose his wrath, and thus death had come to him. He deserved this.

"No," he continued to say, falling to his knees and weeping. "No." He glanced up as Father Montoya stepped up to him, swords bloody and dripping. "God is with me," he told the dark eyed priest as tears fell from his eyes. "God is with me!"

"No. He's not," Pope Victor stated cruelly as Montoya's blade fell.

 

[Ridtom]

I wonder whether the Bishop was telling the truth about the Guella actually hidding in the group.

 

[Xynth]

Watched. So, so very watched.