A Paladin/Cleric fantasy in a vaguely Americana setting. After a certain tragedy and improptu eye transplant, Sherman must learn the ways of the Order as he fights back against the ever-growing horde of the Contemptible Contagion.
Per Deum Lux
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Prologue
John's sour mood had been steadily getting worse for a month, and it looked like it wasn't about to get better any time soon.
Each morning, he woke up to a nagging cow of a wife, dragging him out of his blessed four hours of sleep. The kids would already be up, screaming and charging around the house like a trio of humanoid typhoons. His breakfast would consist of only black coffee and a bitter orange—the doctor said that anything more would be "bad for his heart"—and took a full hour to corral the kids into the car for work. He'd be lucky if Joel didn't throw up in the back seat before he got there, with the other two hellions screeching and singing in horrible off-key pop trash the entire half hour it took to get there. Another hour to work—traffic, as always, was stop-and-go the whole way there—to clock into a job that worked him far too long and paid him far too little.
Nine hours of meetings, bosses, office politics, and bullies later, he got home to a home that was no more organized than the aftermath of an earthquake. His dinner— reheated leftovers that were starting to go bad—was washed down with water and a pharmacy's worth of medications. Then, he spent his final hours doing the paperwork for that stupid lawsuit, the deadline for which loomed ever and ever closer. Then, he'd fight his constant, mounting anxiety and ulcer until a stressful sleep overtook him.
John didn't know how much more of this he could handle before he just snapped, like a support beam that had been rotted out by mold and rain. Where had it all gone wrong? Where had his life turned into such a nightmare? He remembered being happy, once. He remembered having a reason for why he ground his heart into pulp and his soul into dust. He remembered thinking that it was all worth it, in the end, if he could just hold on a bit longer.
He didn't remember what that reason was anymore.
Today, the traffic was particularly egregious. Some moron had gone of the center divide, causing a six-car pileup that promised another stern talking-to. He wouldn't get fired, oh no. He wasn't that lucky. To make his luck worse, there was some construction going on around the building where he worked, meaning that he had to walk several blocks around to get to the entrance. What a rotten start of a day. He—
He paused mid-step, narrowly avoiding getting rainwater on his suit pants. What was that sound just now? He strained his ears, searching for that odd noise over the din of construction and traffic. It had sounded like . . . almost like a chuckle, or distant thunder. He glanced up and down the alleyway, concerned if there were some drug addicts or homeless people he should worry about. Finding nothing, he shrugged, blamed it on his nerves, and went to work.
"And just where have you been?!" his boss demanded.
He mumbled a half-hearted apology and tried to get to his desk. A pudgy arm blocked the way.
"You know, I've had it about to here with you, Stevenson," his boss chided, wagging a sausage-like digit under John's nose. "Late constantly? Never paying attention during meetings? You're bringing company morale down! You're hampering the efficiency of the workers!"
John barely noticed his coworkers looking on in sympathetic embarrassment. He was more preoccupied with keeping his face from morphing into the mask of fury he knew reflected his heart.
His boss prattled on for a few minutes more in full view of the office, berating and degrading him in corporate-friendly, HR-approved vocabulary. Then, blessedly, he left to go snack on his third donut of the hour and harass some poor intern.
"I'm sorry about that," said Stacey, one of his office mates. She was a pretty thing, with a kind smile and a word of encouragement for everyone. "He's been harsh on everyone today."
He grunted, his face softening just a tad from its stoic, controlled mask. "That bad?"
"You don't know the half of it," said annoying-yet-harmless Chad, rolling his chair on over to them. "He came in furious today. Probably due to the construction making him take the long way around."
"Gods know he can't fit through the alleyways around here," John muttered, causing Stacey to laugh. It sounded like the gentle chime of summer bells, light and full of life. Before long, he felt himself smiling for probably the first time in days. It felt good.
"Hey, the rest of the guys were going to go bowling this Saturday," Chad said. "You wanna join us? I know your life's been hell lately. Might be good to take some time off."
He frowned. That did sound like a good idea. He deserved some time off, anyways. Chad apparently took his silence as an invitation to sweeten the deal, because he followed that up with, "Well, the guys, Stacey, Cammy, and some of the other people in the office, that is."
He caught Stacey's smile out of the corner of his eyes. For a brief moment, that sounded really good. Just him, away from all of his problems, together with the few people he could consider friends in any capacity . . . and pretty Stacey was there as well, with her dazzling smile, her deep eyes—
With a jolt that jarred him down to his very core, he realized just what he was doing. No, he thought to himself, horrified. No, even if his wife was far from the looker she used to be, and even if he was sure she hated his guts for her own mess of issues, he was not about to cheat on his wife. He politely declined, his face once more schooling itself into a steel mask.
The rest of the day passed by in horrid tumult. He didn't eat lunch or dinner, consumed by that queasy feeling of guilt for even that brief moment of wandering.
"And what in the gods' name do you think you're doing?" his wife demanded as he sat down on the couch, TV on in an attempt to drown his internal tempest.
"I—"
"I swear to all that is holy, you never actually help out around where it's needed," she continued on, steamrolling his words before they had a chance to live. "You know that there's too much to be done, and yet here you are, watching TV! It's like you don't even care, do you? If you really did care, you'd already have that leaky faucet taken care of! Sometimes, it feels like I'm the only one who does anything around here!"
As she continued on, he felt the guilt within him immediately come under attack by a sudden, strange surge of defiance. No, he wasn't going to feel guilty about this. He had every right to feel the way he did! It was only natural! Maybe he would go on Saturday, if just to get some respite from that horrid hag. And if she found out? Good! Let her! Maybe that'd shut her up! No—he'd make sure she knew! Maybe then she'd give him the godsdamned quiet he godsdamned deserved!
Guilt went on a counter-offensive, stabbing him with poisoned knives in all his soft places. You horrible man, it said in dulcet tones. You know how hard your wife works, how much she loves you, and this is how you repay her?
Is THIS how she repays ME!? Defiance demanded.
Look at you. Weak. Pathetic. A snivelling little worm of a man. Lowest of the low.
How DARE you say that! I REFUSE to feel that way!
"—and then Charlie's medical bills—you're not even listening, are you?! Again! You're not even trying! I bet you don't even want to try! You're just like your no-good father—abandoning everything the moment the going gets rough!"
"Don't you EVER say that to me again!" John suddenly snapped. The inside war suddenly stopped, replaced by a burning fire that threatened to char his heart black. "Don't you EVER compare me to that—that pile of garbage, you hear?!"
His wife looked stunned for a second before immediately taking a defensive position. "Oh, NOW you decide to talk back! Gods in pantheon above, I swear, it's like you only listen when it's about you, isn't it?!"
"I am nothing like my father, you hear?!"
"You're sure doing a good job of showing that, aren't you?! Who's had to bring Joel home from baseball every day? Not you, that's for certain! Who's had to call those insurance providers, since you've not done that, despite the fact that you said you would? Oh, by the way—the sink's still not fixed, if you haven't noticed!"
"Woman, I swear, if you say one more thing—"
"You'll hit me?" his wife said. He froze, and she had the gall to look smug. "And then what? You'll be just like your father!"
"You—"
"Mom, dad, stop fighting!" Charlie was crying, now.
"Oh, look at what you've done!" his wife snapped, immediately turning to Charlie, who had been at the table doing some homework. "Ssh, ssh, it's okay, Charlie. Daddy was just going to apologize, wasn't he?" she shot him a venomous glare.
"You—"
Charlie began crying again, and in the other room, Joel was yelling something, and now the dog was barking, and his wife was lecturing again, and the noise, noise, noise, noise, NOISE—
A ringing in his skull, shuddering all the way down to his tailbone, and an inky-black feeling like tar—
He had to get out. He had to get some air. He had to leave.
He didn't remember leaving his house, or getting in his car, or even driving to the freeway. Before he knew it, he was going ninety miles an hour down Highway V23.
The ringing in his head hadn't stopped. That feeling of inky-black welling up inside him continued to rise, filling up past his eyes.
A siren joined the mix, bright red and blue colors piercing through the black of the night.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" said the officer—a fat, doughy man looking far too confident and self-important.
John just wanted it all to stop. All the noise, that disgusting feeling inside, the blackness creeping around the edges of his eyes.
"I'm going to need you to step out of your vehicle nice and slow-like," said the officer.
"Do you want everything to stop?" said the man in the hat, whispering sweet nothings from just behind his ear in the same tone of Guilt and Defiance. "For them to all leave you alone. For them to all give you the respect you deserve. For you to finally take your life back."
Oh, gods, did he wish.
"Of course I do," he whispered.
"What's that?" said the officer. "Speak up. Hey, I said speak up!"
"Shut up."
"Watch it," the officer warned, one hand on his baton. "Do you know who you're—"
"I said shut up!" John roared in a voice like a waterfall—when did I sound like that?—and the ink spilled up and over his eyes.
The cop screamed as a something surged up and out, drawing strength and form from the night. It shambled over, slamming into the cop and sending him into the highway sign twenty feet above. It unfurled ebon wings and took to the skies, opening its pale skull in a silent howl. Like a bolt of black lightning, it shot away into the moonless sky, swallowed up by the clouds and gone from sight.
John did not see any of this. He remained, boneless and unmoving, with wide-open eyes and frothy mouth, on the cracked asphalt of the freeway. He didn't move when a car ran over his limp leg, didn't move when a horrified driver illuminated him with his phone, and didn't move when rushed paramedics carted him and the officer away to the hospital.
All John saw was darkness. All he heard were the echoes of his own screams and the laughter of the man in the hat.
Each morning, he woke up to a nagging cow of a wife, dragging him out of his blessed four hours of sleep. The kids would already be up, screaming and charging around the house like a trio of humanoid typhoons. His breakfast would consist of only black coffee and a bitter orange—the doctor said that anything more would be "bad for his heart"—and took a full hour to corral the kids into the car for work. He'd be lucky if Joel didn't throw up in the back seat before he got there, with the other two hellions screeching and singing in horrible off-key pop trash the entire half hour it took to get there. Another hour to work—traffic, as always, was stop-and-go the whole way there—to clock into a job that worked him far too long and paid him far too little.
Nine hours of meetings, bosses, office politics, and bullies later, he got home to a home that was no more organized than the aftermath of an earthquake. His dinner— reheated leftovers that were starting to go bad—was washed down with water and a pharmacy's worth of medications. Then, he spent his final hours doing the paperwork for that stupid lawsuit, the deadline for which loomed ever and ever closer. Then, he'd fight his constant, mounting anxiety and ulcer until a stressful sleep overtook him.
John didn't know how much more of this he could handle before he just snapped, like a support beam that had been rotted out by mold and rain. Where had it all gone wrong? Where had his life turned into such a nightmare? He remembered being happy, once. He remembered having a reason for why he ground his heart into pulp and his soul into dust. He remembered thinking that it was all worth it, in the end, if he could just hold on a bit longer.
He didn't remember what that reason was anymore.
Today, the traffic was particularly egregious. Some moron had gone of the center divide, causing a six-car pileup that promised another stern talking-to. He wouldn't get fired, oh no. He wasn't that lucky. To make his luck worse, there was some construction going on around the building where he worked, meaning that he had to walk several blocks around to get to the entrance. What a rotten start of a day. He—
He paused mid-step, narrowly avoiding getting rainwater on his suit pants. What was that sound just now? He strained his ears, searching for that odd noise over the din of construction and traffic. It had sounded like . . . almost like a chuckle, or distant thunder. He glanced up and down the alleyway, concerned if there were some drug addicts or homeless people he should worry about. Finding nothing, he shrugged, blamed it on his nerves, and went to work.
"And just where have you been?!" his boss demanded.
He mumbled a half-hearted apology and tried to get to his desk. A pudgy arm blocked the way.
"You know, I've had it about to here with you, Stevenson," his boss chided, wagging a sausage-like digit under John's nose. "Late constantly? Never paying attention during meetings? You're bringing company morale down! You're hampering the efficiency of the workers!"
John barely noticed his coworkers looking on in sympathetic embarrassment. He was more preoccupied with keeping his face from morphing into the mask of fury he knew reflected his heart.
His boss prattled on for a few minutes more in full view of the office, berating and degrading him in corporate-friendly, HR-approved vocabulary. Then, blessedly, he left to go snack on his third donut of the hour and harass some poor intern.
"I'm sorry about that," said Stacey, one of his office mates. She was a pretty thing, with a kind smile and a word of encouragement for everyone. "He's been harsh on everyone today."
He grunted, his face softening just a tad from its stoic, controlled mask. "That bad?"
"You don't know the half of it," said annoying-yet-harmless Chad, rolling his chair on over to them. "He came in furious today. Probably due to the construction making him take the long way around."
"Gods know he can't fit through the alleyways around here," John muttered, causing Stacey to laugh. It sounded like the gentle chime of summer bells, light and full of life. Before long, he felt himself smiling for probably the first time in days. It felt good.
"Hey, the rest of the guys were going to go bowling this Saturday," Chad said. "You wanna join us? I know your life's been hell lately. Might be good to take some time off."
He frowned. That did sound like a good idea. He deserved some time off, anyways. Chad apparently took his silence as an invitation to sweeten the deal, because he followed that up with, "Well, the guys, Stacey, Cammy, and some of the other people in the office, that is."
He caught Stacey's smile out of the corner of his eyes. For a brief moment, that sounded really good. Just him, away from all of his problems, together with the few people he could consider friends in any capacity . . . and pretty Stacey was there as well, with her dazzling smile, her deep eyes—
With a jolt that jarred him down to his very core, he realized just what he was doing. No, he thought to himself, horrified. No, even if his wife was far from the looker she used to be, and even if he was sure she hated his guts for her own mess of issues, he was not about to cheat on his wife. He politely declined, his face once more schooling itself into a steel mask.
The rest of the day passed by in horrid tumult. He didn't eat lunch or dinner, consumed by that queasy feeling of guilt for even that brief moment of wandering.
"And what in the gods' name do you think you're doing?" his wife demanded as he sat down on the couch, TV on in an attempt to drown his internal tempest.
"I—"
"I swear to all that is holy, you never actually help out around where it's needed," she continued on, steamrolling his words before they had a chance to live. "You know that there's too much to be done, and yet here you are, watching TV! It's like you don't even care, do you? If you really did care, you'd already have that leaky faucet taken care of! Sometimes, it feels like I'm the only one who does anything around here!"
As she continued on, he felt the guilt within him immediately come under attack by a sudden, strange surge of defiance. No, he wasn't going to feel guilty about this. He had every right to feel the way he did! It was only natural! Maybe he would go on Saturday, if just to get some respite from that horrid hag. And if she found out? Good! Let her! Maybe that'd shut her up! No—he'd make sure she knew! Maybe then she'd give him the godsdamned quiet he godsdamned deserved!
Guilt went on a counter-offensive, stabbing him with poisoned knives in all his soft places. You horrible man, it said in dulcet tones. You know how hard your wife works, how much she loves you, and this is how you repay her?
Is THIS how she repays ME!? Defiance demanded.
Look at you. Weak. Pathetic. A snivelling little worm of a man. Lowest of the low.
How DARE you say that! I REFUSE to feel that way!
"—and then Charlie's medical bills—you're not even listening, are you?! Again! You're not even trying! I bet you don't even want to try! You're just like your no-good father—abandoning everything the moment the going gets rough!"
"Don't you EVER say that to me again!" John suddenly snapped. The inside war suddenly stopped, replaced by a burning fire that threatened to char his heart black. "Don't you EVER compare me to that—that pile of garbage, you hear?!"
His wife looked stunned for a second before immediately taking a defensive position. "Oh, NOW you decide to talk back! Gods in pantheon above, I swear, it's like you only listen when it's about you, isn't it?!"
"I am nothing like my father, you hear?!"
"You're sure doing a good job of showing that, aren't you?! Who's had to bring Joel home from baseball every day? Not you, that's for certain! Who's had to call those insurance providers, since you've not done that, despite the fact that you said you would? Oh, by the way—the sink's still not fixed, if you haven't noticed!"
"Woman, I swear, if you say one more thing—"
"You'll hit me?" his wife said. He froze, and she had the gall to look smug. "And then what? You'll be just like your father!"
"You—"
"Mom, dad, stop fighting!" Charlie was crying, now.
"Oh, look at what you've done!" his wife snapped, immediately turning to Charlie, who had been at the table doing some homework. "Ssh, ssh, it's okay, Charlie. Daddy was just going to apologize, wasn't he?" she shot him a venomous glare.
"You—"
Charlie began crying again, and in the other room, Joel was yelling something, and now the dog was barking, and his wife was lecturing again, and the noise, noise, noise, noise, NOISE—
A ringing in his skull, shuddering all the way down to his tailbone, and an inky-black feeling like tar—
He had to get out. He had to get some air. He had to leave.
He didn't remember leaving his house, or getting in his car, or even driving to the freeway. Before he knew it, he was going ninety miles an hour down Highway V23.
The ringing in his head hadn't stopped. That feeling of inky-black welling up inside him continued to rise, filling up past his eyes.
A siren joined the mix, bright red and blue colors piercing through the black of the night.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" said the officer—a fat, doughy man looking far too confident and self-important.
John just wanted it all to stop. All the noise, that disgusting feeling inside, the blackness creeping around the edges of his eyes.
"I'm going to need you to step out of your vehicle nice and slow-like," said the officer.
"Do you want everything to stop?" said the man in the hat, whispering sweet nothings from just behind his ear in the same tone of Guilt and Defiance. "For them to all leave you alone. For them to all give you the respect you deserve. For you to finally take your life back."
Oh, gods, did he wish.
"Of course I do," he whispered.
"What's that?" said the officer. "Speak up. Hey, I said speak up!"
"Shut up."
"Watch it," the officer warned, one hand on his baton. "Do you know who you're—"
"I said shut up!" John roared in a voice like a waterfall—when did I sound like that?—and the ink spilled up and over his eyes.
The cop screamed as a something surged up and out, drawing strength and form from the night. It shambled over, slamming into the cop and sending him into the highway sign twenty feet above. It unfurled ebon wings and took to the skies, opening its pale skull in a silent howl. Like a bolt of black lightning, it shot away into the moonless sky, swallowed up by the clouds and gone from sight.
John did not see any of this. He remained, boneless and unmoving, with wide-open eyes and frothy mouth, on the cracked asphalt of the freeway. He didn't move when a car ran over his limp leg, didn't move when a horrified driver illuminated him with his phone, and didn't move when rushed paramedics carted him and the officer away to the hospital.
All John saw was darkness. All he heard were the echoes of his own screams and the laughter of the man in the hat.
Chapter 1-1
When Sherman Hok'ee Knox was still very young, and his Grandmother was still alive, she would often tell the young boy not to go out on nights where the moon was new.
"It's a bad sign, my Sherman," she would say. "Nothing good comes out at night, least of all when there's no moon."
"Like the wendigo?" the young Sherman had asked, excited. He had always enjoyed Grandmother's story time, especially during spooky nights where the wind howled and the clouds covered the stars.
"Not just that one," she said, gently ruffling his hair. "There are other things out there, and no less dangerous. Why, that reminds me of the time that Coyote—"
"Woman, are you filling that hok'ee brat's head with nonsense again?!" Grandfather's voice cut her off like a knife in the dark. "What did I say last time?!"
Grandmother looked pained before smiling sadly. "Give me a moment, Sherman. I'm going to make sure that your grandfather doesn't hurt himself."
"He's drunk again," Sherman said, pulling his knees to his chest.
It wasn't a question, and Grandmother didn't have the heart to lie. Instead, she disappeared out of his room and headed down the hall, her gentle footsteps gradually replaced by heated voices and occasional shouts. Sometimes Grandmother would come back to finish her story, and sometimes Sherman would turn off his own light and pull the covers up tight, doing his best to ignore the sound of his Grandmother's tears in the hallway. He learned quite early on that real monsters don't come from stories and fables.
The memory of nights like that always resurfaced on moonless nights, clinging to the back of Sherman's head like moss on a tree. He took a deep breath, pushing down his worries. Tonight wasn't a night for stewing in his own mind. Tonight was a night for celebration, for revelry! Such thoughts had no room on Graduation Night!
Sherman pulled his Takeda Stormchaser 530 into the parking lot of Barney Bigg's Bar and Grill. He checked his phone, scrolling past the flood of messages and typed in a quick arrival message. Then, he fixed his hair in the motorcycle's mirror, straightened his tie, and pushed open the bar doors to a chorus of cheers and applause.
"There he is!" cried Johnny Crowe. "There's good 'ol 82!"
Sherman was immediately pulled into a group hug by a small swarm of football players, one he eagerly leaned into.
"You're finally here!" said Karey Wheeler.
"What took you so long, man?!" said Oliver Takeda.
"Sorry, sorry," Sherman laughed, the mood of the gathering sweeping his worries away. "I got held up after the ceremony."
"They got you working for that internship already?" Karey asked, aghast. "C'mon, man, it's our graduation day!"
"It's not that bad," he said sheepishly, slightly defensive. "Professor Dominguez gets back from his trip today and asked if I could help prepare some files he was looking for."
"Nerd!" someone called out, and Sherman was assaulted by a vocal avalanche of like pejoratives. He rolled his eyes, letting the good-natured ribbing fill him with some of that warm affection his classmates so easily infused in him.
The door jingled, and yet another of Sherman's late classmates arrived, and Sherman joined in the chorus of cheers as they welcomed the newcomer.
The hours passed by as the graduation party continued on in full force. There was singing, drinking, dancing, and even an impromptu wrestling match that ended in a broken bench and an irate bartender. The students that caused that—two guys from the football team—would be called in the future to work off their debt.
Sherman himself didn't drink too much—he had seen the dangers that overindulgence could do. So, he stayed sober, in control, and aware for any further incidents. Nonetheless, he had a good time. He was cheering and clapping along with his friends as Johnny flawlessly performed a spectacular breakdance routine when his phone buzzed.
Meet me at my office as soon as you can. Tonight, if possible.
--Dominguez
Sherman's eyebrows raised. In all his time with the Archaeology Department, he had never known the professor to be so curt like this. Professor Antonio Dominguez was typically of a more relaxed, genial sort. This message was practically the equivalent of a shouted demand.
Sherman stood from his stool, drawing a few stares. "Sorry, guys," he apologized. "I have to go." He was met with a chorus of "awwws" and "boos". "The Professor just got back. Seems like it's important."
"Nerd!" Oliver shouted, currently putting Marlin Sweeney in a headlock. Marlin echoed the sentiment.
"You're such a teacher's pet," Karey teased.
Sherman feigned offense. "Excuse you. I am no teacher's pet—" he ignored the immediate response of "No, you are" and continued on. "—and I'm sure whatever Professor Dominguez has is important enough to call me away."
"Antony's just come back from a trip, right? To Auld Yorkland?" Johnny said, not bothering to stop his dance.
"Yup. Come back from a pre-Lionian ruin, actually. They've been trying to get into that place for quite some time now."
Johnny completed a spin and vaulted to his feet. He wobbled, his balance compromised slightly from the festivities, and pointed to the door. "Yo, so he's got some, like, Montana Steve treasure with him?" he asked.
"I . . . maybe?" Sherman asked, considering. Something like that would be cause for the Professor's strange behavior. "I doubt it, but I won't say it's impossible."
"Yeah! Actual treasure!" Johnny cheered. The crowd cheered with him, though it was debatable if they had heard what he had said or if it was Johnny's natural charisma.
"This is straight out of a movie, or something!" said Emma Blackadder, her eyes shining.
Sherman held up his hands. "I doubt it's treasure, or ancient artifacts, or anything fancy like that. More than likely it's just something important for my internship."
"C'mon, let's go!" Oliver shouted, already heading towards the door. Marlin took the opportunity to dump a pitcher of water on Oliver's head, and then cackled as he danced out of range of retaliation.
"Guys, please," Sherman half-heartedly pleaded, fighting the smile that threatened to form. "I suppose you can come if you want, just . . . don't expect anything."
His words fell on deaf ears as a fair chunk of the graduation party filtered out of the bar to head to their cars. Sherman shook his head, followed them outside, and once again found himself on the road towards the University of Nortasura, Santa Carmen.
The dark road from the restaurant to the university campus was brighter than it had been before, now illuminated by the headlights of a quarter-dozen cars. Not everyone decided to go on Sherman's spontaneous adventure—as a matter of fact, the majority decided to stay where there was food, drink, and music. The ones that had come—Johnny, Karey, Oliver, Marlin, Emma, and a few others—were dormmates, fellow football players, or from his department. Over the years, he had grown rather fond of those silly people that had intruded in onto his life, and was glad he had let them.
The hour was past midnight by the time they arrived at the Archaeology Department. The light in Professor Dominguez's study was on, and Sherman could see the Professor's salt-and-pepper hair through the blinds of the lit window. The door was unlocked, and Sherman quickly entered and made his way up to the third floor where the Professor's office was.
"Professor!" Sherman said, breaking out into a wide grin.
Professor Dominguez looked up sharply, a worried face relaxing with relief when he saw the young man. "Sherman! There you are!"
The Professor was a man of average height, his neck slightly stooped from constantly bending over dusty tomes. He was clad in his normal dress shirt, slacks, and vest, with his tweed jacket draped over the back of his chair and round hat atop its peg. He would walk around the classroom with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye, ready to lecture about whatever strange quirk of history they were learning about for that day.
He paused suddenly, as if he were remembering something that he had since forgotten. "Ah, that's right. Congratulations on your graduation! Top of the class and everything!"
"One of them," Sherman said fairly. "And the only reason why I made top ten is because of Jimothy's accident."
Dominguez harrumphed. "My boy, nonsense. You achieved that spot through your own hard work. Take pride in yourself."
Sherman felt his chest swell with pride, and he couldn't help but smile wider. "Thank you, Professor."
"Of course, my boy," the Professor said with a twinkle in his eye. "But, ah, now's not the time for that. Take a look at this."
Sherman idly saw the first of the cars pull into the driveway as Professor Dominguez opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bundle of cloth. Grasping the cloth in two hands as if it were a particularly precious jewel, he gingerly set it upon the desk and set about at untying the kerchief with fingers that seemed to Sherman to tremble slightly.
" . . . Professor, what is it?" Sherman asked once the cloth had fallen away.
"It's a bad sign, my Sherman," she would say. "Nothing good comes out at night, least of all when there's no moon."
"Like the wendigo?" the young Sherman had asked, excited. He had always enjoyed Grandmother's story time, especially during spooky nights where the wind howled and the clouds covered the stars.
"Not just that one," she said, gently ruffling his hair. "There are other things out there, and no less dangerous. Why, that reminds me of the time that Coyote—"
"Woman, are you filling that hok'ee brat's head with nonsense again?!" Grandfather's voice cut her off like a knife in the dark. "What did I say last time?!"
Grandmother looked pained before smiling sadly. "Give me a moment, Sherman. I'm going to make sure that your grandfather doesn't hurt himself."
"He's drunk again," Sherman said, pulling his knees to his chest.
It wasn't a question, and Grandmother didn't have the heart to lie. Instead, she disappeared out of his room and headed down the hall, her gentle footsteps gradually replaced by heated voices and occasional shouts. Sometimes Grandmother would come back to finish her story, and sometimes Sherman would turn off his own light and pull the covers up tight, doing his best to ignore the sound of his Grandmother's tears in the hallway. He learned quite early on that real monsters don't come from stories and fables.
The memory of nights like that always resurfaced on moonless nights, clinging to the back of Sherman's head like moss on a tree. He took a deep breath, pushing down his worries. Tonight wasn't a night for stewing in his own mind. Tonight was a night for celebration, for revelry! Such thoughts had no room on Graduation Night!
Sherman pulled his Takeda Stormchaser 530 into the parking lot of Barney Bigg's Bar and Grill. He checked his phone, scrolling past the flood of messages and typed in a quick arrival message. Then, he fixed his hair in the motorcycle's mirror, straightened his tie, and pushed open the bar doors to a chorus of cheers and applause.
"There he is!" cried Johnny Crowe. "There's good 'ol 82!"
Sherman was immediately pulled into a group hug by a small swarm of football players, one he eagerly leaned into.
"You're finally here!" said Karey Wheeler.
"What took you so long, man?!" said Oliver Takeda.
"Sorry, sorry," Sherman laughed, the mood of the gathering sweeping his worries away. "I got held up after the ceremony."
"They got you working for that internship already?" Karey asked, aghast. "C'mon, man, it's our graduation day!"
"It's not that bad," he said sheepishly, slightly defensive. "Professor Dominguez gets back from his trip today and asked if I could help prepare some files he was looking for."
"Nerd!" someone called out, and Sherman was assaulted by a vocal avalanche of like pejoratives. He rolled his eyes, letting the good-natured ribbing fill him with some of that warm affection his classmates so easily infused in him.
The door jingled, and yet another of Sherman's late classmates arrived, and Sherman joined in the chorus of cheers as they welcomed the newcomer.
The hours passed by as the graduation party continued on in full force. There was singing, drinking, dancing, and even an impromptu wrestling match that ended in a broken bench and an irate bartender. The students that caused that—two guys from the football team—would be called in the future to work off their debt.
Sherman himself didn't drink too much—he had seen the dangers that overindulgence could do. So, he stayed sober, in control, and aware for any further incidents. Nonetheless, he had a good time. He was cheering and clapping along with his friends as Johnny flawlessly performed a spectacular breakdance routine when his phone buzzed.
Meet me at my office as soon as you can. Tonight, if possible.
--Dominguez
Sherman's eyebrows raised. In all his time with the Archaeology Department, he had never known the professor to be so curt like this. Professor Antonio Dominguez was typically of a more relaxed, genial sort. This message was practically the equivalent of a shouted demand.
Sherman stood from his stool, drawing a few stares. "Sorry, guys," he apologized. "I have to go." He was met with a chorus of "awwws" and "boos". "The Professor just got back. Seems like it's important."
"Nerd!" Oliver shouted, currently putting Marlin Sweeney in a headlock. Marlin echoed the sentiment.
"You're such a teacher's pet," Karey teased.
Sherman feigned offense. "Excuse you. I am no teacher's pet—" he ignored the immediate response of "No, you are" and continued on. "—and I'm sure whatever Professor Dominguez has is important enough to call me away."
"Antony's just come back from a trip, right? To Auld Yorkland?" Johnny said, not bothering to stop his dance.
"Yup. Come back from a pre-Lionian ruin, actually. They've been trying to get into that place for quite some time now."
Johnny completed a spin and vaulted to his feet. He wobbled, his balance compromised slightly from the festivities, and pointed to the door. "Yo, so he's got some, like, Montana Steve treasure with him?" he asked.
"I . . . maybe?" Sherman asked, considering. Something like that would be cause for the Professor's strange behavior. "I doubt it, but I won't say it's impossible."
"Yeah! Actual treasure!" Johnny cheered. The crowd cheered with him, though it was debatable if they had heard what he had said or if it was Johnny's natural charisma.
"This is straight out of a movie, or something!" said Emma Blackadder, her eyes shining.
Sherman held up his hands. "I doubt it's treasure, or ancient artifacts, or anything fancy like that. More than likely it's just something important for my internship."
"C'mon, let's go!" Oliver shouted, already heading towards the door. Marlin took the opportunity to dump a pitcher of water on Oliver's head, and then cackled as he danced out of range of retaliation.
"Guys, please," Sherman half-heartedly pleaded, fighting the smile that threatened to form. "I suppose you can come if you want, just . . . don't expect anything."
His words fell on deaf ears as a fair chunk of the graduation party filtered out of the bar to head to their cars. Sherman shook his head, followed them outside, and once again found himself on the road towards the University of Nortasura, Santa Carmen.
The dark road from the restaurant to the university campus was brighter than it had been before, now illuminated by the headlights of a quarter-dozen cars. Not everyone decided to go on Sherman's spontaneous adventure—as a matter of fact, the majority decided to stay where there was food, drink, and music. The ones that had come—Johnny, Karey, Oliver, Marlin, Emma, and a few others—were dormmates, fellow football players, or from his department. Over the years, he had grown rather fond of those silly people that had intruded in onto his life, and was glad he had let them.
The hour was past midnight by the time they arrived at the Archaeology Department. The light in Professor Dominguez's study was on, and Sherman could see the Professor's salt-and-pepper hair through the blinds of the lit window. The door was unlocked, and Sherman quickly entered and made his way up to the third floor where the Professor's office was.
"Professor!" Sherman said, breaking out into a wide grin.
Professor Dominguez looked up sharply, a worried face relaxing with relief when he saw the young man. "Sherman! There you are!"
The Professor was a man of average height, his neck slightly stooped from constantly bending over dusty tomes. He was clad in his normal dress shirt, slacks, and vest, with his tweed jacket draped over the back of his chair and round hat atop its peg. He would walk around the classroom with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye, ready to lecture about whatever strange quirk of history they were learning about for that day.
He paused suddenly, as if he were remembering something that he had since forgotten. "Ah, that's right. Congratulations on your graduation! Top of the class and everything!"
"One of them," Sherman said fairly. "And the only reason why I made top ten is because of Jimothy's accident."
Dominguez harrumphed. "My boy, nonsense. You achieved that spot through your own hard work. Take pride in yourself."
Sherman felt his chest swell with pride, and he couldn't help but smile wider. "Thank you, Professor."
"Of course, my boy," the Professor said with a twinkle in his eye. "But, ah, now's not the time for that. Take a look at this."
Sherman idly saw the first of the cars pull into the driveway as Professor Dominguez opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bundle of cloth. Grasping the cloth in two hands as if it were a particularly precious jewel, he gingerly set it upon the desk and set about at untying the kerchief with fingers that seemed to Sherman to tremble slightly.
" . . . Professor, what is it?" Sherman asked once the cloth had fallen away.
Chapter 1-2
The object that stood before them was a curious relic of stone. It was a small pyramid, as long and wide as a man's arm and slightly taller, engraved a curious insignia: an eye, set within a triangle, surrounded by a sunburst etching. The symbol was engraved on each of the pyramid's sides, with no such marking on the bottom of the pyramid.
"This, my dear Sherman," the Professor said, leaning in conspiratorially, "is an artifact form pre-Lionian Auld Yorkland. I trust you can follow that trail?"
Sherman attempted to cast his mind back to his recent lessons on the place, attempting to swim through the sea of muddled information and useless information that finals and graduation had left him with. It took him an embarrassingly long time, but, eventually, he resurfaced with the tail-end of a thought.
"A stone pyramid with eyes on all sides," he muttered. "that reminds me of that one symbol used by the Kingdom of Liberthasia. The . . . Eye of Prudence?"
"The Eye of Providence," corrected the Professor gently. "The symbol of the Divine Eye that watches over all mankind. Remember, what meaning did this symbol have in that kingdom?"
Again, he leapt back into the murky depths of memory, and again her resurfaced with prize in hand. "The Kingdom of Liberthasia used the Eye of Providence in a number of places," he recited, recalling that particular passage of a far-too-expensive textbook, "but none moreso than the Templars of the Seven Torches. This organization was dedicated to a 'Pantheon of Light' that was claimed to protect the world from evil." Even as he spoke, his voice halted as his mind caught up to what he was saying. "Professor, are you telling me that this relic is from an esoteric order of knights and wizards?"
"Indeed," Professor Dominguez replied, his eyes shining proudly. "My boy, this is what I've been trying to find for years. You know that one tale of my great-grandfather's diary I've told before in class?"
"Yes?"
"That was the key to finding this," he said, puffing out his chest. "Papi Tito, explorer extraordinaire, leaving one last gift for his family."
"Yo, Sherman, is that—"
Johnny burst onto the scene with the grace of a drunken panda, which may not have been entirely inaccurate to his current state. Professor Dominguez started, and Sherman rushed over to place himself between the overly-excitable man and the hundreds of valuable objects in the Professor's office.
"You have to stay outside," Sherman warned. "Especially now. You're in no space to be near such delicate things."
"Aw, c'mon!"
"No, Johnny."
Johnny must still have had some part of his mind clear, because he caught the suddenly-stern look on Sherman's face and nodded. "Fine, fine, I getcha, Sherm. I'll make sure everyone else stays away as well."
With that, he immediately turned around and repeated what Sherman had just told him to the crowd of onlookers that had just stepped into the hall.
"All right!" someone said back.
" . . . So, Sherm," Johnny said. "Is that—"
Sherman sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. "It actually is."
Johnny grinned. "Mad rad, my dude."
"Mad rad," Sherman said back, shaking his head. "I'll see if I can't snap some pics for the group, but no promises. You know how the Professor can be about such things."
Johnny waved him off, using the wall to balance as he made his way back to their friends. Sherman turned back to the Professor, who had quickly draped the kerchief over the artifact during the confrontation.
"What, Professor?" Sherman chuckled, taking out his phone. "You don't need to worry about Johnny. He's loud and kind of annoying, but he's a good man. He won't steal."
" . . . It's not Mr. Crowe I'm worried about," Professor Dominguez said, a touch of worry in his voice that Sherman hadn't noticed before. "I . . . well. I can't say, but I've been having the strangest feeling ever since I got back. Like something watching me."
"Maybe it's a night spirit," Sherman said wryly. "You know, a wendigo or bigfoot or a vampire."
" . . . I wouldn't use those names lightly, Sherman. You of all people should know not to do that."
His mind flashed back to his Grandmother's tales, a cold comfort on lonely nights. "Professor, monsters in those stories aren't real. They're just made up to scare kids, or they're used to explain natural phenomenon."
"I thought you were religious," Professor Doinguez said, an eyebrow raised.
Sherman snorted. "I'm a proud member of the Church of the Light, yeah. But the gods made the world in a rational way, with things that can be explained through logic, reason, and natural science. Monsters like that fly against their will."
" . . . Maybe," Dominguez said, though he sounded only as if he were merely humoring Sherman. "Be warned, Sherman. I believe the world is not at all as it appears to be."
Sherman shrugged at that. Professor Dominguez did hold a few strange beliefs, so this latest one about childhood night terrors didn't surprise him. "If you say so, Professor." He paused. " . . . Can I take a few pictures for the guys?"
Reluctantly, it seemed, Professor Dominguez re-opened the parcel. Sherman took a few photos before leaving with a bow and a word of thanks. He jogged down the hallway to meet back up with his friends, leaving the Professor to wrap the artifact back up and put it away.
"Show us!" Karey said the moment the young man walked into view.
He handed over his phone, allowing the group to ogle the curious relic. "You probably shouldn't go back there," Sherman began as he noticed one student slump against the wall, " . . . especially in your all's current states."
"You hear that? No bothering the professor!" Johnny barked, which seemed to get more of a response.
"Just what is this thing?" someone asked.
"A pyramid, duh." Marlin chuckled.
"Well, duh. I meant what is it?"
"The Professor's still trying to figure that one out. Honestly, it could be anything." Sherman paused. "I bet it some religious artifact."
"Boring," Oliver complained.
"Boring?" Sherman repeated, eyebrows raised. "This could be the discovery of a lifetime, and you call it boring?"
"Yeah," Oliver said. "Where's your sense of excitement? It could be from some precursor race or from an alien visit! Maybe it was given to us by the gods!"
That got a few chuckles. "What, you think the gods are just going to leave their stuff lying around like that?" Karey said.
"I'm pretty sure that's blasphemy," Marlin said. "Too bad, Oliver. You're going to die."
"We'll be sure to attend your funeral," Sherman said.
"Aw, forget all of you," Oliver grumbled. "The artifact looked stupid anyways."
The gathered graduates laughed, and Oliver soon joined them. The minutes began to fly by as they talked about secret relics and remnants of old civilizations and conspiracy theories, and Sherman smiled to himself as a comfortable warmth settled into his chest. Yes, these were good people. Even if he never saw them again, he'd always enjoy the time he had with them. He—
That train of thought was stopped by a crashing noise and a yell. He stood up, leaving the others behind as he quickly headed over to the Professor's office. "Professor? Is everything all right?" he asked.
He turned the door, expecting to see the Professor on the floor, surrounded by some clutter and fallen artifacts. He would smile and laugh, before taking Sherman's hand and offer to help clean up the place. "Merely knocked something over," the Professor would say, and they'd have a laugh.
Instead, he found Professor Dominguez lying a pool of his own blood as a nightmare monster stared him straight in the eyes.
"This, my dear Sherman," the Professor said, leaning in conspiratorially, "is an artifact form pre-Lionian Auld Yorkland. I trust you can follow that trail?"
Sherman attempted to cast his mind back to his recent lessons on the place, attempting to swim through the sea of muddled information and useless information that finals and graduation had left him with. It took him an embarrassingly long time, but, eventually, he resurfaced with the tail-end of a thought.
"A stone pyramid with eyes on all sides," he muttered. "that reminds me of that one symbol used by the Kingdom of Liberthasia. The . . . Eye of Prudence?"
"The Eye of Providence," corrected the Professor gently. "The symbol of the Divine Eye that watches over all mankind. Remember, what meaning did this symbol have in that kingdom?"
Again, he leapt back into the murky depths of memory, and again her resurfaced with prize in hand. "The Kingdom of Liberthasia used the Eye of Providence in a number of places," he recited, recalling that particular passage of a far-too-expensive textbook, "but none moreso than the Templars of the Seven Torches. This organization was dedicated to a 'Pantheon of Light' that was claimed to protect the world from evil." Even as he spoke, his voice halted as his mind caught up to what he was saying. "Professor, are you telling me that this relic is from an esoteric order of knights and wizards?"
"Indeed," Professor Dominguez replied, his eyes shining proudly. "My boy, this is what I've been trying to find for years. You know that one tale of my great-grandfather's diary I've told before in class?"
"Yes?"
"That was the key to finding this," he said, puffing out his chest. "Papi Tito, explorer extraordinaire, leaving one last gift for his family."
"Yo, Sherman, is that—"
Johnny burst onto the scene with the grace of a drunken panda, which may not have been entirely inaccurate to his current state. Professor Dominguez started, and Sherman rushed over to place himself between the overly-excitable man and the hundreds of valuable objects in the Professor's office.
"You have to stay outside," Sherman warned. "Especially now. You're in no space to be near such delicate things."
"Aw, c'mon!"
"No, Johnny."
Johnny must still have had some part of his mind clear, because he caught the suddenly-stern look on Sherman's face and nodded. "Fine, fine, I getcha, Sherm. I'll make sure everyone else stays away as well."
With that, he immediately turned around and repeated what Sherman had just told him to the crowd of onlookers that had just stepped into the hall.
"All right!" someone said back.
" . . . So, Sherm," Johnny said. "Is that—"
Sherman sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. "It actually is."
Johnny grinned. "Mad rad, my dude."
"Mad rad," Sherman said back, shaking his head. "I'll see if I can't snap some pics for the group, but no promises. You know how the Professor can be about such things."
Johnny waved him off, using the wall to balance as he made his way back to their friends. Sherman turned back to the Professor, who had quickly draped the kerchief over the artifact during the confrontation.
"What, Professor?" Sherman chuckled, taking out his phone. "You don't need to worry about Johnny. He's loud and kind of annoying, but he's a good man. He won't steal."
" . . . It's not Mr. Crowe I'm worried about," Professor Dominguez said, a touch of worry in his voice that Sherman hadn't noticed before. "I . . . well. I can't say, but I've been having the strangest feeling ever since I got back. Like something watching me."
"Maybe it's a night spirit," Sherman said wryly. "You know, a wendigo or bigfoot or a vampire."
" . . . I wouldn't use those names lightly, Sherman. You of all people should know not to do that."
His mind flashed back to his Grandmother's tales, a cold comfort on lonely nights. "Professor, monsters in those stories aren't real. They're just made up to scare kids, or they're used to explain natural phenomenon."
"I thought you were religious," Professor Doinguez said, an eyebrow raised.
Sherman snorted. "I'm a proud member of the Church of the Light, yeah. But the gods made the world in a rational way, with things that can be explained through logic, reason, and natural science. Monsters like that fly against their will."
" . . . Maybe," Dominguez said, though he sounded only as if he were merely humoring Sherman. "Be warned, Sherman. I believe the world is not at all as it appears to be."
Sherman shrugged at that. Professor Dominguez did hold a few strange beliefs, so this latest one about childhood night terrors didn't surprise him. "If you say so, Professor." He paused. " . . . Can I take a few pictures for the guys?"
Reluctantly, it seemed, Professor Dominguez re-opened the parcel. Sherman took a few photos before leaving with a bow and a word of thanks. He jogged down the hallway to meet back up with his friends, leaving the Professor to wrap the artifact back up and put it away.
"Show us!" Karey said the moment the young man walked into view.
He handed over his phone, allowing the group to ogle the curious relic. "You probably shouldn't go back there," Sherman began as he noticed one student slump against the wall, " . . . especially in your all's current states."
"You hear that? No bothering the professor!" Johnny barked, which seemed to get more of a response.
"Just what is this thing?" someone asked.
"A pyramid, duh." Marlin chuckled.
"Well, duh. I meant what is it?"
"The Professor's still trying to figure that one out. Honestly, it could be anything." Sherman paused. "I bet it some religious artifact."
"Boring," Oliver complained.
"Boring?" Sherman repeated, eyebrows raised. "This could be the discovery of a lifetime, and you call it boring?"
"Yeah," Oliver said. "Where's your sense of excitement? It could be from some precursor race or from an alien visit! Maybe it was given to us by the gods!"
That got a few chuckles. "What, you think the gods are just going to leave their stuff lying around like that?" Karey said.
"I'm pretty sure that's blasphemy," Marlin said. "Too bad, Oliver. You're going to die."
"We'll be sure to attend your funeral," Sherman said.
"Aw, forget all of you," Oliver grumbled. "The artifact looked stupid anyways."
The gathered graduates laughed, and Oliver soon joined them. The minutes began to fly by as they talked about secret relics and remnants of old civilizations and conspiracy theories, and Sherman smiled to himself as a comfortable warmth settled into his chest. Yes, these were good people. Even if he never saw them again, he'd always enjoy the time he had with them. He—
That train of thought was stopped by a crashing noise and a yell. He stood up, leaving the others behind as he quickly headed over to the Professor's office. "Professor? Is everything all right?" he asked.
He turned the door, expecting to see the Professor on the floor, surrounded by some clutter and fallen artifacts. He would smile and laugh, before taking Sherman's hand and offer to help clean up the place. "Merely knocked something over," the Professor would say, and they'd have a laugh.
Instead, he found Professor Dominguez lying a pool of his own blood as a nightmare monster stared him straight in the eyes.
Chapter 2
The monster before him resembled, mostly, some kind of twisted bird. Though its body was as pitch-black as ink's shadow, Sherman could vaguely make out a hunched body, digitigrade legs that ended in backwards hands, wings that looked like they were made out of bone, and spiny crest. The only part of the creature that wasn't black was its blood-red skull, shaped halfway between a plague doctor's mask and a saw. It stared at Sherman out of dark, empty sockets, and Sherman felt that if he stared into those black pits he would be driven mad.
Sherman stumbled back, fumbling with trembling fingers for his handgun. His fingers grasped naught but air and belt-leather, and the coherent part of Sherman cursed the fact that he had left his gun at home as per graduation rules.
"Hey, what's going on?" Johnny's voice said from down the hall.
"S-stay back!" Sherman shouted, his voice quavering slightly.
The creature began to slowly walk—no, crawl, with its long bone-wings tap-tap-tapping on the hard floor—towards Sherman, its head staying completely motionless even as its body moved around it.
"Sherman, what—oh gods what is that?!" Johnny cried.
Sherman didn't answer. He kept on backing up, until, with a start, he realized his back was at the opposite wall.
Someone let out a scream.
The thing's head slowly, ponderously, deliberately, swiveled on over to the gathering crowd of horrified graduates milled. It opened its great beak, and there was a low whistling sound. It snapped its beak shut with a click, and with a trilling, unnatural screech, began to charge the students.
Sherman couldn't move. He couldn't will his body to run, or distract the beast, or do anything. He felt as if his limbs were encased in solid stone, his heart in the coldest ice. The screams started, and Sherman couldn't move.
Something hit him in the chest, and it seemed like time started again. He gasped, fumbled, and caught the strange pyramid—strangely light—and started at Professor Dominguez, who was, by miracle of the gods, still alive. The man had dragged himself to his feet, and was clutching the desk for support.
"Sherman!" the Professor boomed, authority radiating off of him. "That Contagion must not be allowed to have that Eye! Get out of here, as far away as you can! Help will surely be on the way!"
"Professor, your injuries—"
"Too late for me, my boy. There's only one thing I can do." The Professor stepped out into the hallway, limping and trailing blood onto the floor. He placed one bloody palm onto Sherman's shoulder, and then shoved him away. "Now fly! Flee this place!"
He then turned. "Creature! F-foul beast of the night! Here I am—your prey yet lives!"
He screamed a primal scream, and, with strength that Sherman didn't know that the older man had in him, charged down the hall. Sherman, acting on pure obedient student instinct, fled. Somehow, he found himself back on his motorcycle, gunning the engine, and speeding off into the night.
For a moment, he thought he was safe. He sped down the vacant street, ignoring the red lights and stop signs as he clutched the relic to his chest. Nothing was on his mind save the his Professor's last order.
Flee.
An inhuman cry split the night. There was a rush of wind, then pain, and suddenly Sherman found himself on the asphalt. His motorcycle had run headfirst into the wall, and the pyramid—
There!
He scrambled, crawling on bloody elbows. He reached out, and, suddenly, a sharp, red spear lanced through his arm. He screamed.
The thing pulled back its beak, looking at him with those infinite holes. It set off warning bells in the back of Sherman's head. It was wrong—corrupt. Impure. Hateful. Spiteful. Alien. Deplorable. It was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong—
The thing slowly looked over to where the pyramid was. It let out a low gurgle, a click, and, with lighting fast speed, tore the top half of Sherman's ear off.
He screamed again. He screamed as jabbed at his other arm, his back, his neck, taking out chunks each time it did. Why was it doing this? How was it doing this? Why him? Why did it want the artifact? Why did he abandon his friends? Why did he freeze up like that? Was this even real? Where was everybody else? Was he going to die?
I don't want to die, he screamed a wordless scream. Somebody, help me. Please, gods, help me.
His finger brushed the pyramid, and the artifact shone with a bright light.
There was a sound like a hammer on a bell, backed by a choir of angels. The creature shrieked, flapping its wings as it attempted to get away. The eyes on the artifact glowed, and the relic began to twist, bend, break, and fold in on itself.
For the second time that night, Sherman could only watch in stunned silence.
The glowing mass that had once been the pyramid suddenly broke apart into a million tiny motes of light. They swirled about in the air for a fraction of a second, and, suddenly, there was a great flash.
Sherman opened his eyes—
The world turned into words.
airoxygenstreetstonelightfearpainbloodironmotorcylceconfusionpainContagiongasdarknighthumanstarslight
His vision exploded into symbols and letters. Everything was text. The ground, the sky, his hands. It was if the entire world had suddenly changed into text. He could recognize some of them, could read some of them. They didn't go away when he blinked or screwed his eyes shut.
He made the mistake of looking up, and his vision was filled with infinite overlapping text.
It was too much to handle. Sherman collapsed, his vision fading at the edges, the words starting to disappear. Yet even as the blackness claimed him, he thought he saw a flash of silver. A black-red mass hit the stone floor, and the last thing Sherman saw before he slipped to unconscious was a sword that shone with a soft light.
---
He stood on a wind-swept plain underneath a dark, stormy sky. The black clouds flashed with violet lightning, illuminating the grass that wasn't already fuel for the flames in the distance. The howling gale sounded like a wounded wolf's cry, chilling and mournful. In the distance, the city burned.
He tried to take a step back as the ground ripped open and twisted, gnarled hands reached out, grasping at the air like drowning men grasping for salvation. He scrambled, but the hands latched onto his feet, his ankles, his shins, his legs, pulling him down into the earth. He tried to scream, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was the crackling fire and h owling wind.
There was a peal of lightning, and a sound like ten thousand choirs singing. Light burst forth from the clouds, slamming into the field in a flood of power. He then saw her.
A woman—that is, if a star could be a woman—descended from the clouds, clothed in radiance and crowned with fire. In her right hand was a torch of white flame, and with her left she reached down and grasped his waiting hand. At her touch, strength filled him like a bolt of lightning, and the hands around him burned and fled into the shadows.
As she pulled him to his feet, she spoke. It was as if the stars themselves sang, like the hearts of man burst into chorus all at once. Yet she spoke no words that he could understand. Her words echoed across the mountains like an earthquake and slid off his mind like water.
She began to glow, brighter and brighter, until it was like looking at the sun itself. He closed his eyes, flinching back, as he was pulled into the air. The earth fell away beneath him, and the clouds parted, revealing a golden sky, a grand temple, and an eternal fire that stretched from horizon to horizon.
There were six stars that shone out of that great, infinite flame. The goddess, the seventh, continued to speak those not-words that shook him to his very core.
Then, he understood.
"Awaken, son of light," said the goddess. "Wake and choose."
Suddenly the fire engulfed him, and the light grew brighter, brighter, and
Sherman stumbled back, fumbling with trembling fingers for his handgun. His fingers grasped naught but air and belt-leather, and the coherent part of Sherman cursed the fact that he had left his gun at home as per graduation rules.
"Hey, what's going on?" Johnny's voice said from down the hall.
"S-stay back!" Sherman shouted, his voice quavering slightly.
The creature began to slowly walk—no, crawl, with its long bone-wings tap-tap-tapping on the hard floor—towards Sherman, its head staying completely motionless even as its body moved around it.
"Sherman, what—oh gods what is that?!" Johnny cried.
Sherman didn't answer. He kept on backing up, until, with a start, he realized his back was at the opposite wall.
Someone let out a scream.
The thing's head slowly, ponderously, deliberately, swiveled on over to the gathering crowd of horrified graduates milled. It opened its great beak, and there was a low whistling sound. It snapped its beak shut with a click, and with a trilling, unnatural screech, began to charge the students.
Sherman couldn't move. He couldn't will his body to run, or distract the beast, or do anything. He felt as if his limbs were encased in solid stone, his heart in the coldest ice. The screams started, and Sherman couldn't move.
Something hit him in the chest, and it seemed like time started again. He gasped, fumbled, and caught the strange pyramid—strangely light—and started at Professor Dominguez, who was, by miracle of the gods, still alive. The man had dragged himself to his feet, and was clutching the desk for support.
"Sherman!" the Professor boomed, authority radiating off of him. "That Contagion must not be allowed to have that Eye! Get out of here, as far away as you can! Help will surely be on the way!"
"Professor, your injuries—"
"Too late for me, my boy. There's only one thing I can do." The Professor stepped out into the hallway, limping and trailing blood onto the floor. He placed one bloody palm onto Sherman's shoulder, and then shoved him away. "Now fly! Flee this place!"
He then turned. "Creature! F-foul beast of the night! Here I am—your prey yet lives!"
He screamed a primal scream, and, with strength that Sherman didn't know that the older man had in him, charged down the hall. Sherman, acting on pure obedient student instinct, fled. Somehow, he found himself back on his motorcycle, gunning the engine, and speeding off into the night.
For a moment, he thought he was safe. He sped down the vacant street, ignoring the red lights and stop signs as he clutched the relic to his chest. Nothing was on his mind save the his Professor's last order.
Flee.
An inhuman cry split the night. There was a rush of wind, then pain, and suddenly Sherman found himself on the asphalt. His motorcycle had run headfirst into the wall, and the pyramid—
There!
He scrambled, crawling on bloody elbows. He reached out, and, suddenly, a sharp, red spear lanced through his arm. He screamed.
The thing pulled back its beak, looking at him with those infinite holes. It set off warning bells in the back of Sherman's head. It was wrong—corrupt. Impure. Hateful. Spiteful. Alien. Deplorable. It was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong—
The thing slowly looked over to where the pyramid was. It let out a low gurgle, a click, and, with lighting fast speed, tore the top half of Sherman's ear off.
He screamed again. He screamed as jabbed at his other arm, his back, his neck, taking out chunks each time it did. Why was it doing this? How was it doing this? Why him? Why did it want the artifact? Why did he abandon his friends? Why did he freeze up like that? Was this even real? Where was everybody else? Was he going to die?
I don't want to die, he screamed a wordless scream. Somebody, help me. Please, gods, help me.
His finger brushed the pyramid, and the artifact shone with a bright light.
There was a sound like a hammer on a bell, backed by a choir of angels. The creature shrieked, flapping its wings as it attempted to get away. The eyes on the artifact glowed, and the relic began to twist, bend, break, and fold in on itself.
For the second time that night, Sherman could only watch in stunned silence.
The glowing mass that had once been the pyramid suddenly broke apart into a million tiny motes of light. They swirled about in the air for a fraction of a second, and, suddenly, there was a great flash.
Sherman opened his eyes—
The world turned into words.
airoxygenstreetstonelightfearpainbloodironmotorcylceconfusionpainContagiongasdarknighthumanstarslight
His vision exploded into symbols and letters. Everything was text. The ground, the sky, his hands. It was if the entire world had suddenly changed into text. He could recognize some of them, could read some of them. They didn't go away when he blinked or screwed his eyes shut.
He made the mistake of looking up, and his vision was filled with infinite overlapping text.
It was too much to handle. Sherman collapsed, his vision fading at the edges, the words starting to disappear. Yet even as the blackness claimed him, he thought he saw a flash of silver. A black-red mass hit the stone floor, and the last thing Sherman saw before he slipped to unconscious was a sword that shone with a soft light.
---
He stood on a wind-swept plain underneath a dark, stormy sky. The black clouds flashed with violet lightning, illuminating the grass that wasn't already fuel for the flames in the distance. The howling gale sounded like a wounded wolf's cry, chilling and mournful. In the distance, the city burned.
He tried to take a step back as the ground ripped open and twisted, gnarled hands reached out, grasping at the air like drowning men grasping for salvation. He scrambled, but the hands latched onto his feet, his ankles, his shins, his legs, pulling him down into the earth. He tried to scream, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was the crackling fire and h owling wind.
There was a peal of lightning, and a sound like ten thousand choirs singing. Light burst forth from the clouds, slamming into the field in a flood of power. He then saw her.
A woman—that is, if a star could be a woman—descended from the clouds, clothed in radiance and crowned with fire. In her right hand was a torch of white flame, and with her left she reached down and grasped his waiting hand. At her touch, strength filled him like a bolt of lightning, and the hands around him burned and fled into the shadows.
As she pulled him to his feet, she spoke. It was as if the stars themselves sang, like the hearts of man burst into chorus all at once. Yet she spoke no words that he could understand. Her words echoed across the mountains like an earthquake and slid off his mind like water.
She began to glow, brighter and brighter, until it was like looking at the sun itself. He closed his eyes, flinching back, as he was pulled into the air. The earth fell away beneath him, and the clouds parted, revealing a golden sky, a grand temple, and an eternal fire that stretched from horizon to horizon.
There were six stars that shone out of that great, infinite flame. The goddess, the seventh, continued to speak those not-words that shook him to his very core.
Then, he understood.
"Awaken, son of light," said the goddess. "Wake and choose."
Suddenly the fire engulfed him, and the light grew brighter, brighter, and
Chapter 3
Sherman gasped awake.
"Are you all right?" said a stranger's voice.
He blinked, the memory of his strange dream fading away. He soon realized two things: the first, he hurt all over. The next, he was in a hospital, covered in bandages and with an IV drip in his arm.
He looked over to the nurse that had spoke. "I . . . ." he began, his throat dry. "I could use some water."
The nurse nodded, taking his temperature before leaving to fulfill his request. Sherman leaned back into his pillow, letting his memories sort themselves out in his head.
"You're awake."
Sherman looked up. A wiry, thin man limped into the room, his prosthetic leg clacking on the smooth hospital tile. He stood slightly stooped, and the way he leaned on his cane, combined with his fancy-looking three-piece suit, weathered face, and greying hair gave Sherman the impression of the way he supposed grandfathers were supposed to look. Yet despite his appearance, the old man protruded an aura of strength.
"I am," Sherman agreed, trying to prop himself up to greet the stranger. A thought sparked in the back of his mind, vague and formless, and Sherman let it go until it manifested properly. "Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"
The old man gave him a critical eye, looking down a hawkish nose at the invalid Sherman. It took him a second to say anything, during which Sherman couldn't help but feel like he made some kind of mistake.
"What have you done with the Eye of Providence?" he said at last.
Sherman's eyes went wide. "You—how do you know about that?"
The old man tapped his cane upon the ground, a sharp, solid crack that seemed to reverberate throughout the room. "I know you're a smart kid, Knox. You—" he paused, his eyes narrowing. "Wait."
He held out a gnarled hand, which, to Sherman's shock, started glowing with a faint white light. There was a feeling like a hot wind blowing from his toes up to his head, lingering just a second at his eyes, before the feeling suddenly vanished.
" . . . I see," the old man said, his hand fading as it lowered. "This . . . this is a problem."
With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, leading a worried, frustrated, and utterly flabbergasted Sherman behind.
Sherman was informed that he had been in some kind of accident—a gas explosion at the University—and was found by that old man in the middle of the street. That sounded mostly right, though half-remembered nightmares of darkness and blood nagged at him. He was told that he was lucky, for a number of people were in critical condition who were there at the same time.
The old man re-appeared approximately an hour or so later, waiting until the nurse had finished with her check-up and let him know that he had a clean bill of health, and they just wanted to keep him one more night in case.
"Have you had strange dreams lately?" the old man asked bluntly as soon as the nurse was gone.
Sherman blinked, surprised. "I, er, no—"
Darkness, hands, light, radiance, fire, eternity
" . . . yes? Though I assume that's because I was in an accident."
"You dreamt of the Goddess of Freedom, kid?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. "Is that who she was?"
The old man closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "All right, kid. Because I hate beating around the bush, I'm gonna get straight to the point. Lady Liberthasia herself has chosen you to be one of her War-Priests—a Cleric of the Order of the Sacred Torch. You know that monster that attacked you the other day?"
"That—that was real?!" Sherman's eyes flew open. "That thing—that bird—wait, no the Professor! Is he—"
"Dead," said the old man bluntly. "And I don't like the chances for your friends. Sorry, kid."
Sherman exhaled slowly. He could feel a well of emotion surging up, mixing with all the strange and horrible new information he was just given—but not yet. Hold on for just a bit longer. " . . . So a monster killed my friends?"
The old man nodded. "The Contemptible Contagion. As a Cleric, it's your job to hunt them down and prevent such things from happening again. Your training will begin as soon as you're free from this hospital."
Sherman took another deep, calming breath. In, out. In, out. Focus. " . . . I see," he said. "And if I say no?"
"You can't," said the old man. "Especially not you."
" . . . What do you mean?"
"I don't know how you've done it, but you've got the Eye of Providence in your eye, kid," the old man said, shaking his head. "That's a relic the Order needs."
"If it's in there, can't you just remove it?"
"What, you think I can? I can take out your eye, if that's what your asking. You fine being half-blind, kid?"
Sherman took yet another breath. In, out, in, out, in, out.
The old man, at long last, seemed to take pity on him. "It's a lot," he agreed. "Take what time you need. We'll be waiting for you when you are."
With that, he turned and limped out of the door.
Sherman waited several moments before leaning back into his pillow. He closed his eyes, took a final, shuddering breath, and allowed himself to mourn.
---
He didn't see the old man the next day. The person who came to greet him, to his surprise and relief, was one Gabriel Johnson.
"Pastor," he greeted with a nod of his head.
Pastor Gabriel Johnson of the Church of the Torch of Winstead Park was practically the opposite of the old man from the previous day. He was tall, oval-shaped, and dressed in his usual collared shirt and jeans. Furthermore, he almost always had a brilliant smile and a friendly word for anyone he met, church-goer or no. "Sherman, my lad!" the Pastor said, his excellent moustache bristling as he spoke. "How are you?"
Sherman thought it over. "Pretty bad," he said honestly. "I still ache, I've just been told I've been drafted in some kind of monster war, and my friends—" he stopped, emotion suddenly closing his throat.
Pastor Gabriel gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. "Indeed. I am so, so sorry, Sherman. Is there anything I can do for you?"
Sherman took a moment to compose himself, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "Sorry," he apologized out of habit.
"Don't be sorry, lad. You've been through a lot through the past few days. That, and Sword-Brother Francisco isn't . . . the most genteel of people."
"I take it that's who was here yesterday? You know him?"
"He didn't even give you his name?" Gabriel said with a huff, a current of surprised frustration entering his voice. "No, that makes sense for him. Yes, to answer your question, I do know him. I am, after all, well aware of the Order and its practices. I have to be."
"So it's real?" Sherman asked. "A secret church society dedicated to fighting monsters?"
"You have the gist of it, lad." The Pastor drew up a chair, sighing softly as he sat down next to Sherman's bed. "I'll admit, I don't know too much, as the goddess has not seen fit to bless me with the constitution of her warriors. I do know that it is a great honor."
"I'm sure," Sherman said off-handedly. "I just . . . ."
Pastor Gabriel leaned forward. "What's on your mind?"
Sherman took another breath. For all the time he had been attending the Church, for all the time he had known Pastor Gabriel, he had always proven a reliable confident, even to the sins and doubts Sherman would have thought were taboo or even blasphemous. He supposed that one more confession couldn't hurt. "I . . . just wish I had a choice," he admitted. "The goddess . . . I'm sure she has a plan. But why me? Why now? Why like this? Why my—" he broke off.
"Oh, lad," Pastor Gabriel said. He waited until Sherman had gotten composed once again before continuing. "Well, there's one thing you're wrong about. You do have a choice in all of this."
"I . . . I do?"
"Of course. That's another thing I'll need to talk to Francisco about," Gabriel muttered. "No, you do have a choice, lad. You wouldn't be the first, or the last, to get that specific call from the goddess and reject it. It is not a command, and thus not a sin to reject. It is merely an offered opportunity."
Sherman felt one of his many weights lift off of his chest. "I see," he said, exhaling. "But what about my eye?"
"Yes, that's a tricky bit of business," Gabriel agreed. "But there are plenty of ways for you to utilize the Eye in ways that don't involve becoming a Cleric. And if you'd have it removed entirely? We'll find a way—one that doesn't involve you losing an eye."
Another weight removed, and Sherman leaned back in his bed, feeling like he had just run a marathon. "Thank you," he said after a long second.
"Of course," Gabriel said, smiling warmly.
Pastor Gabriel left after some more small talk, once more reassuring Sherman that he would be there for him. It reassured Sherman that his Pastor, as always, was there to lean on.
He was unable to see his friends in intensive care. It was probably for the best, as Sherman didn't know if he could handle seeing his friends in such a state, the scales between life and death slowly tipping towards one side.
His motorcycle, outside of a few scratches and dents, seemed to have made it out of the incident in functional order. He figured that a good drive would clear his head, so he took to the road and hit the back country trails.
He let the tempest of feelings and emotions play out silently in his head as he sped along the highway, letting the cool mountain breeze wash over and through him. Part of him still couldn't believe that the Professor and his other friends were dead. Part of him could very much believe it, and raged at the goddess for allowing this to happen. Part of him had already begun to accept that well, that was life, there's not much he could do but move on.
Well, there was one thing he could do. It would solve much of the tumult inside him.
True, but he didn't like being coerced.
Coerced? No. The goddess was giving him an opportunity of both vengeance and protection. To strike back against the very evil that tore his friends from him.
Vengeance? Is that really why he should be doing this?
It was better than doing nothing. Besides, it's not like it's only vengeance. He had plenty of other reasons.
These and other similar thoughts raced through his head during his ride and during the following week. He measured his options, compared his prospects, and called Pastor Gabriel once or twice. He visited his friends that had been released from the hospital, each of them coping in their own way. Some, like Emma were reclusive, still in shock. Others, like Johnny tried to pretend that nothing happened. Marlin refused to see Sherman entirely. Sherman let him be.
It was after Professor Dominguez's funeral where he made his decision.
The funeral was a sober affair—the man was beloved by the faculty and the student body. Practically the entire archaeology department showed up to attend. There was hardly a dry eye, for the service, despite being short, was powerful and moving.
Sherman soon found himself on the front doorstep of the Church of the Torch of Winstead Park, which had functionally been his second home for the past ten years. Taking a deep breath, he made his way around to the offices, and notified the receptionist that he was there to see Paster Gabriel.
The wait was short. Apparently, the Pastor had been waiting for him—him, and Blade-Brother Francisco. Both of them were situated in the Pastor's office, the former behind his desk and the old man leaning against the wall, cane in hand.
"Sherman," the Pastor greeted, taking off his glasses when he entered the room.
"I've come to join the Order," Sherman said immediately. No sense in beating around the bush. He figured that Francisco would appreciate that.
He was right—he thought he saw the older man's lips twitch upwards in a grim smile. "Told you," Francisco said.
"Sherman, are you sure?" the Pastor asked. "This is a very large step for you to take."
"I am."
"Then welcome to the Order, kid," Francisco said. He placed a sticky note on the desk as he walked on by, giving Sherman a rough pat on the shoulder. "Your training begins right away. Be there within the hour."
Sherman watched him go, turning back to examine the sticky note. On it were written directions to a public park not too far away. It was one that he'd been to many times before, preparing for the current football season. "That's . . . that's it?"
Gabriel sighed. "Once again, that man has absolutely no sense of propriety. But yes, that's . . . about it." He gave Sherman a discerning look. "Sherman, is this really what you want to do?"
Sherman paused before nodding. "It is. I . . . I don't want what happened to me to happen to other people."
And to make those things pay.
Gabriel didn't seem terribly satisfied with that answer, but he let the matter drop.
"No initiation ceremony or anything?" Sherman asked after a second. "I thought there would be more pomp and circumstance to joining a secret organization. And more paperwork, too."
"Don't get your hopes up. You might have paperwork to do yet," Gabriel said wryly. "I don't actually understand how the process really works myself, and I'm curious to see how it's done. Blade-Brothers are a strange, rare beast, and not many are inducted into the Order very often. I'd like to tag along, if you don't mind."
"I don't," Sherman said. "I think I'd almost prefer you along."
Gabriel smiled and made a note to his secretary, and the two left the Church, taking the Pastor's car through the city to where Sherman's new life would begin.
"Are you all right?" said a stranger's voice.
He blinked, the memory of his strange dream fading away. He soon realized two things: the first, he hurt all over. The next, he was in a hospital, covered in bandages and with an IV drip in his arm.
He looked over to the nurse that had spoke. "I . . . ." he began, his throat dry. "I could use some water."
The nurse nodded, taking his temperature before leaving to fulfill his request. Sherman leaned back into his pillow, letting his memories sort themselves out in his head.
"You're awake."
Sherman looked up. A wiry, thin man limped into the room, his prosthetic leg clacking on the smooth hospital tile. He stood slightly stooped, and the way he leaned on his cane, combined with his fancy-looking three-piece suit, weathered face, and greying hair gave Sherman the impression of the way he supposed grandfathers were supposed to look. Yet despite his appearance, the old man protruded an aura of strength.
"I am," Sherman agreed, trying to prop himself up to greet the stranger. A thought sparked in the back of his mind, vague and formless, and Sherman let it go until it manifested properly. "Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"
The old man gave him a critical eye, looking down a hawkish nose at the invalid Sherman. It took him a second to say anything, during which Sherman couldn't help but feel like he made some kind of mistake.
"What have you done with the Eye of Providence?" he said at last.
Sherman's eyes went wide. "You—how do you know about that?"
The old man tapped his cane upon the ground, a sharp, solid crack that seemed to reverberate throughout the room. "I know you're a smart kid, Knox. You—" he paused, his eyes narrowing. "Wait."
He held out a gnarled hand, which, to Sherman's shock, started glowing with a faint white light. There was a feeling like a hot wind blowing from his toes up to his head, lingering just a second at his eyes, before the feeling suddenly vanished.
" . . . I see," the old man said, his hand fading as it lowered. "This . . . this is a problem."
With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, leading a worried, frustrated, and utterly flabbergasted Sherman behind.
Sherman was informed that he had been in some kind of accident—a gas explosion at the University—and was found by that old man in the middle of the street. That sounded mostly right, though half-remembered nightmares of darkness and blood nagged at him. He was told that he was lucky, for a number of people were in critical condition who were there at the same time.
The old man re-appeared approximately an hour or so later, waiting until the nurse had finished with her check-up and let him know that he had a clean bill of health, and they just wanted to keep him one more night in case.
"Have you had strange dreams lately?" the old man asked bluntly as soon as the nurse was gone.
Sherman blinked, surprised. "I, er, no—"
Darkness, hands, light, radiance, fire, eternity
" . . . yes? Though I assume that's because I was in an accident."
"You dreamt of the Goddess of Freedom, kid?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. "Is that who she was?"
The old man closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "All right, kid. Because I hate beating around the bush, I'm gonna get straight to the point. Lady Liberthasia herself has chosen you to be one of her War-Priests—a Cleric of the Order of the Sacred Torch. You know that monster that attacked you the other day?"
"That—that was real?!" Sherman's eyes flew open. "That thing—that bird—wait, no the Professor! Is he—"
"Dead," said the old man bluntly. "And I don't like the chances for your friends. Sorry, kid."
Sherman exhaled slowly. He could feel a well of emotion surging up, mixing with all the strange and horrible new information he was just given—but not yet. Hold on for just a bit longer. " . . . So a monster killed my friends?"
The old man nodded. "The Contemptible Contagion. As a Cleric, it's your job to hunt them down and prevent such things from happening again. Your training will begin as soon as you're free from this hospital."
Sherman took another deep, calming breath. In, out. In, out. Focus. " . . . I see," he said. "And if I say no?"
"You can't," said the old man. "Especially not you."
" . . . What do you mean?"
"I don't know how you've done it, but you've got the Eye of Providence in your eye, kid," the old man said, shaking his head. "That's a relic the Order needs."
"If it's in there, can't you just remove it?"
"What, you think I can? I can take out your eye, if that's what your asking. You fine being half-blind, kid?"
Sherman took yet another breath. In, out, in, out, in, out.
The old man, at long last, seemed to take pity on him. "It's a lot," he agreed. "Take what time you need. We'll be waiting for you when you are."
With that, he turned and limped out of the door.
Sherman waited several moments before leaning back into his pillow. He closed his eyes, took a final, shuddering breath, and allowed himself to mourn.
---
He didn't see the old man the next day. The person who came to greet him, to his surprise and relief, was one Gabriel Johnson.
"Pastor," he greeted with a nod of his head.
Pastor Gabriel Johnson of the Church of the Torch of Winstead Park was practically the opposite of the old man from the previous day. He was tall, oval-shaped, and dressed in his usual collared shirt and jeans. Furthermore, he almost always had a brilliant smile and a friendly word for anyone he met, church-goer or no. "Sherman, my lad!" the Pastor said, his excellent moustache bristling as he spoke. "How are you?"
Sherman thought it over. "Pretty bad," he said honestly. "I still ache, I've just been told I've been drafted in some kind of monster war, and my friends—" he stopped, emotion suddenly closing his throat.
Pastor Gabriel gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. "Indeed. I am so, so sorry, Sherman. Is there anything I can do for you?"
Sherman took a moment to compose himself, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "Sorry," he apologized out of habit.
"Don't be sorry, lad. You've been through a lot through the past few days. That, and Sword-Brother Francisco isn't . . . the most genteel of people."
"I take it that's who was here yesterday? You know him?"
"He didn't even give you his name?" Gabriel said with a huff, a current of surprised frustration entering his voice. "No, that makes sense for him. Yes, to answer your question, I do know him. I am, after all, well aware of the Order and its practices. I have to be."
"So it's real?" Sherman asked. "A secret church society dedicated to fighting monsters?"
"You have the gist of it, lad." The Pastor drew up a chair, sighing softly as he sat down next to Sherman's bed. "I'll admit, I don't know too much, as the goddess has not seen fit to bless me with the constitution of her warriors. I do know that it is a great honor."
"I'm sure," Sherman said off-handedly. "I just . . . ."
Pastor Gabriel leaned forward. "What's on your mind?"
Sherman took another breath. For all the time he had been attending the Church, for all the time he had known Pastor Gabriel, he had always proven a reliable confident, even to the sins and doubts Sherman would have thought were taboo or even blasphemous. He supposed that one more confession couldn't hurt. "I . . . just wish I had a choice," he admitted. "The goddess . . . I'm sure she has a plan. But why me? Why now? Why like this? Why my—" he broke off.
"Oh, lad," Pastor Gabriel said. He waited until Sherman had gotten composed once again before continuing. "Well, there's one thing you're wrong about. You do have a choice in all of this."
"I . . . I do?"
"Of course. That's another thing I'll need to talk to Francisco about," Gabriel muttered. "No, you do have a choice, lad. You wouldn't be the first, or the last, to get that specific call from the goddess and reject it. It is not a command, and thus not a sin to reject. It is merely an offered opportunity."
Sherman felt one of his many weights lift off of his chest. "I see," he said, exhaling. "But what about my eye?"
"Yes, that's a tricky bit of business," Gabriel agreed. "But there are plenty of ways for you to utilize the Eye in ways that don't involve becoming a Cleric. And if you'd have it removed entirely? We'll find a way—one that doesn't involve you losing an eye."
Another weight removed, and Sherman leaned back in his bed, feeling like he had just run a marathon. "Thank you," he said after a long second.
"Of course," Gabriel said, smiling warmly.
Pastor Gabriel left after some more small talk, once more reassuring Sherman that he would be there for him. It reassured Sherman that his Pastor, as always, was there to lean on.
He was unable to see his friends in intensive care. It was probably for the best, as Sherman didn't know if he could handle seeing his friends in such a state, the scales between life and death slowly tipping towards one side.
His motorcycle, outside of a few scratches and dents, seemed to have made it out of the incident in functional order. He figured that a good drive would clear his head, so he took to the road and hit the back country trails.
He let the tempest of feelings and emotions play out silently in his head as he sped along the highway, letting the cool mountain breeze wash over and through him. Part of him still couldn't believe that the Professor and his other friends were dead. Part of him could very much believe it, and raged at the goddess for allowing this to happen. Part of him had already begun to accept that well, that was life, there's not much he could do but move on.
Well, there was one thing he could do. It would solve much of the tumult inside him.
True, but he didn't like being coerced.
Coerced? No. The goddess was giving him an opportunity of both vengeance and protection. To strike back against the very evil that tore his friends from him.
Vengeance? Is that really why he should be doing this?
It was better than doing nothing. Besides, it's not like it's only vengeance. He had plenty of other reasons.
These and other similar thoughts raced through his head during his ride and during the following week. He measured his options, compared his prospects, and called Pastor Gabriel once or twice. He visited his friends that had been released from the hospital, each of them coping in their own way. Some, like Emma were reclusive, still in shock. Others, like Johnny tried to pretend that nothing happened. Marlin refused to see Sherman entirely. Sherman let him be.
It was after Professor Dominguez's funeral where he made his decision.
The funeral was a sober affair—the man was beloved by the faculty and the student body. Practically the entire archaeology department showed up to attend. There was hardly a dry eye, for the service, despite being short, was powerful and moving.
Sherman soon found himself on the front doorstep of the Church of the Torch of Winstead Park, which had functionally been his second home for the past ten years. Taking a deep breath, he made his way around to the offices, and notified the receptionist that he was there to see Paster Gabriel.
The wait was short. Apparently, the Pastor had been waiting for him—him, and Blade-Brother Francisco. Both of them were situated in the Pastor's office, the former behind his desk and the old man leaning against the wall, cane in hand.
"Sherman," the Pastor greeted, taking off his glasses when he entered the room.
"I've come to join the Order," Sherman said immediately. No sense in beating around the bush. He figured that Francisco would appreciate that.
He was right—he thought he saw the older man's lips twitch upwards in a grim smile. "Told you," Francisco said.
"Sherman, are you sure?" the Pastor asked. "This is a very large step for you to take."
"I am."
"Then welcome to the Order, kid," Francisco said. He placed a sticky note on the desk as he walked on by, giving Sherman a rough pat on the shoulder. "Your training begins right away. Be there within the hour."
Sherman watched him go, turning back to examine the sticky note. On it were written directions to a public park not too far away. It was one that he'd been to many times before, preparing for the current football season. "That's . . . that's it?"
Gabriel sighed. "Once again, that man has absolutely no sense of propriety. But yes, that's . . . about it." He gave Sherman a discerning look. "Sherman, is this really what you want to do?"
Sherman paused before nodding. "It is. I . . . I don't want what happened to me to happen to other people."
And to make those things pay.
Gabriel didn't seem terribly satisfied with that answer, but he let the matter drop.
"No initiation ceremony or anything?" Sherman asked after a second. "I thought there would be more pomp and circumstance to joining a secret organization. And more paperwork, too."
"Don't get your hopes up. You might have paperwork to do yet," Gabriel said wryly. "I don't actually understand how the process really works myself, and I'm curious to see how it's done. Blade-Brothers are a strange, rare beast, and not many are inducted into the Order very often. I'd like to tag along, if you don't mind."
"I don't," Sherman said. "I think I'd almost prefer you along."
Gabriel smiled and made a note to his secretary, and the two left the Church, taking the Pastor's car through the city to where Sherman's new life would begin.
Chapter 4-1
The park was around ten square acres of green turf and open field. Lone trees sporadically dotted the park, with a cluster of them off in one corner of the property forming a small wooded area. On the other side was a sand pit, jungle gym, parking lot, and "enrichment center" building that had bathrooms and other facilities for the park staff to use.
It was a midweek afternoon, and, given that Sherman's University ended early, there were relatively few people out and about. There were some families playing on the metal play structure and a few people playing with their dogs in the nearby grassy fields.
Sherman and Gabriel crossed the entire field to make it to the wooded section where Blade-Brother Francisco was waiting. The old man, remarkably, was leaning against a tree trunk as he stood upon a branch more than fifteen feet in the air.
"How—" Sherman began.
"Beats me," Gabriel said, once again shaking his head. "That man . . . ."
"You're here too, Pastor?" Francisco said as they approached.
"Is there a problem with that?"
"Some might think. I don't care. Watch if you want, just don't get in his way."
Gabriel shook his head before clapping Sherman on the shoulder. "You've got this, lad."
Sherman nodded. He watched as Francisco leapt out of the tree in an arcing tumble and landed on one leg. "I take it that's something I'll need to be able to do?"
"Eventually," Francisco agreed. "For now, though, just focus on one thing."
He reached behind a tree and tossed a wooden training sword to Sherman. He caught it and stared at it. "What's this?"
"Survive."
In an instant, Francisco fell upon Sherman like a fiend from the Three Hells. The old man's cane swept up and out like a sword, instantly striking Sherman in the shoulder and nearly causing him to drop his sword. Sherman tried to get some space, but no matter what the old man was there, stabbing, slashing, attacking from each angle. Sherman managed to deflect a few hits, and managed to tank the majority of them thanks to his natural bulk, but the blows were starting to add up.
Sherman's back hit a tree, and he realized that he'd need to go on the offensive or risk defeat. There was little time to think. Even now Francisco's blows rained down upon him. So, he hurled his sword straight at his opponent.
Francisco easily batted the sword away with a twist of his cane. Yet in that very motion, Sherman lunged forward, tackling the older man to the ground. Sherman's arms were longer, his muscles larger, and his weight greater, and quickly slammed the older man to the ground. For a second, he was worried that he had hurt Francisco. He wasn't quite used to fighting crippled old men, after all. However, the acrobatics he had displayed earlier gave him some reprieve from that worry.
The edge of the sword pressed up against his neck pushed those thoughts away entirely.
"Good," Francisco said, pushing Sherman away with a startlingly strong hand. He stood up, and gave the weapon that took the cane's place a twirl. "You're going to need those kinds of instincts to survive as a Cleric." He paused, glancing at his sword for a second. He then twirled it around once more, and when it had completed its revolution, the cane was once more in his hand.
"How . . . ?" Sherman asked, blinking. Surely that was some mere sleight-of-hand trick, right?
"What, did you think that Clerics fought the Contagion with mortal weapons, did you? No sword or gun's going to kill those things." Francisco opened his hand, and, to Sherman's shock, the cane faded away. He held out his other hand, and the cane appeared in a flash of white light.
"Your Holy Weapon is your primary tool against the Contagion threat. Each Holy Weapon takes a form unique to its wielder." Fransico drew the length of the sword from the cane, which shone with a soft light even in the bright day.
Something clicked in Sherman's mind. The shape of that sword . . . "That was you who saved me!"
"Yes." Francisco sheathed the sword, and suddenly leaned against the cane, looking very, very tired. "I, too, was the one who failed to save the Professor. I had failed to detect the Contagion until it was too late. Hate me if you must. I'm here to train you so you don't fail like I did."
Sherman didn't know what to say to that, so instead he asked, "So how do I get my own Holy Weapon? Where do I get one?"
"It can't be given to you. It must come from within."
" . . . What?"
"That's something I can't help you with, kid. You've had the dream, you've made the decision to become a Cleric. The next step is to be able to call upon the weapon formed from your heart." He straightened. "In the meantime, I want to test your athleticism."
He made Sherman run some obstacles that he had set up before hand—dashes, sprints, tree climbing, bag boxing, jumping from tree to tree, and other physical tests that Sherman hadn't gone through since his football days. Midway through, Pastor Gabriel left, apologizing about his need to get back to work. After that, he went back to sparring with Francisco. He went home to his apartment that evening, tired and confused, but this time with something of a goal in mind.
Given that he had just graduated with a degree in archaeology, Sherman did not have a proper job yet. He currently had a small part-time delivery service where he bustled food and equipment parts and other such things from place to place, sometimes even from town to town. It wasn't the best job in the world, but it had helped him pay through college, and let him cover the bills for the apartment he rented with several other guys from Uni. That left plenty of time for him to get into shape for becoming a Cleric.
Training was grueling. He met Francisco at the park at dawn, getting physical fitness drills done before weapons drills. Sherman, after all, didn't know what kind of form his Holy Weapon would take, so Francisco made him learn the basics for all kinds of weapons—swords, spears, bows, shields, throwing knives, et cetera. After that, he took a break to do some "meditation exercises," as Francisco called them, where he focused on the various teachings of the Church. Those were mostly an exercise in futility, but there were flashes of something that kept Sherman trying, day after day, hour after hour. Then, it was sparring until Francisco had enough or Sherman collapsed. Often Sherman would need to leave for a delivery, whereupon they would continue when he got back. This process continued for several weeks, with nothing to show for it.
Sherman's frustration at being unable to get this simple task done continued to mount, day after day, failure after failure. It didn't help matters any that Francisco continuously refused to give him any advice on the matter, telling him to work out, do some meditation, and pay attention in Church service. Sherman really didn't know what that last bit had to do with summoning a supernatural weapon intended to slay monsters of the night, and, of course, Francisco refused to elaborate.
It was nearly a month into that basic training that the Cleric decided to take Sherman out on an expedition.
"One of the Contagion's been spotted around here," Francisco said, reading a message on his phone. "Well call it early here. Now, you're going to experience what Cleric duty typically involves."
As night fell, Francisco drove Sherman out into the suburbs that intersected the forest and the foothill of the mountain the University town was located on. They passed a gated community and turned onto a road that was significantly less paved than the main streets they had just turned from. They traveled through a dark back-country, leaving the suburbs behind and heading out into the hills. They stopped several times along that road, pulling over as Francisco instructed Sherman to set up a peculiar device at each stop.
"This is what's known as a Relic," Francisco said, handing Sherman a silver spike with an odd, hexagonal head. "These are tools developed by the Order to supplement a Cleric's Holy Weapon."
He then demonstrated how to set up the device, driving it into the ground and holding out a glowing palm over it. The head opened up like a blossoming flower, revealing a curious crystalline tip that shone faintly in the moonlight.
At the next stop, he instructed that Sherman trigger the Relic himself. Reluctantly, and with no small amount of worry, Sherman took the Relic and drove it into the gravelly soil as he had seen. Then, he held out his hand, and waited.
"C'mon!" Francisco said after a minute. "Hurry up! What are you waiting for?"
"I don't seem to be able to do this."
"Kid, I don't want to hear any excuses."
"I mean I can't, because you never taught me." Sherman snapped, almost immediately regretting it.
Francisco paused. "I never did?"
"No, you didn't."
Francisco shook his head. "Then why didn't you say so?" he asked. "Kids these days. Never speaking up when they should."
Sherman's eyebrow twitched slightly, but he managed to keep a lid on his frustration. "How do I go about doing . . . whatever it is you did?"
"Spending Divine Energy? Focus on the Wellspring inside you and picture what you want to manifest."
Sherman blinked, taken aback. "I . . . what do you mean?"
"Haven't you noticed that new energy inside you whenever you pray or do something that aligns with the Virtues?"
Sherman opened his mouth to deny, but he paused. He had felt something like that when he would pray to the goddess at night. He said a quick but sincere prayer of thanks and guidance, and, sure enough, he was suddenly aware that there was a tingle, or buzz, or hum, that vibrated right on the outskirts of sense. The more he focused on it, the more distinct it became, quickly taking up residence somewhere in the center of his heart. It thrummed slightly with an unknown rhythm and meter, and Sherman felt lighter, somehow.
"Like that. Now shove it in that Relic."
Sherman frowned, looked down, and nearly gasped. His hand—it was glowing with that same soft light that Francisco's had been. He stretched out his hand, imagining glow reaching out from his hand and touching the spike's head. There was a flicker, then a buzz, then a feeling like the inside of his heart extending through his chest and arms then finally emerging from his palm. The light shone brighter, and the spike's head opened in that petal-like way that it had for Francisco.
"That . . . that's Divine Energy?"
Francisco nodded. "Congratulations. Now get back inside, we have more to do."
As they drove away, Sherman spoke back up, still starting at his hands. "So what are we doing, anyways?"
"Setting a perimeter. The Silverspikes of Saint Vesuvius emit a field that allows to draw the Contagion's attention. However, these things don't really work around people—don't ask me why, I don't know—so we need to be out in the hills a bit."
Sherman nodded. As they drove, Sherman tried to replicate the feat he has just pulled off, adjusting variables here and there to figure out how exactly it would work. He was able to summon that energy to his hands approximately six out of every ten tries by his estimates.
"Don't wear yourself out, kid," Francisco said. "I appreciate the hustle, but Divine Energy don't recharge fast. Keep somma your juice for emergencies."
The moon was bright in the sky by the time they finished their last Silverspike setup. Then, they drove back to the place Francisco said was the middle of the network of spikes they had set up, and, then, they waited.
It was a midweek afternoon, and, given that Sherman's University ended early, there were relatively few people out and about. There were some families playing on the metal play structure and a few people playing with their dogs in the nearby grassy fields.
Sherman and Gabriel crossed the entire field to make it to the wooded section where Blade-Brother Francisco was waiting. The old man, remarkably, was leaning against a tree trunk as he stood upon a branch more than fifteen feet in the air.
"How—" Sherman began.
"Beats me," Gabriel said, once again shaking his head. "That man . . . ."
"You're here too, Pastor?" Francisco said as they approached.
"Is there a problem with that?"
"Some might think. I don't care. Watch if you want, just don't get in his way."
Gabriel shook his head before clapping Sherman on the shoulder. "You've got this, lad."
Sherman nodded. He watched as Francisco leapt out of the tree in an arcing tumble and landed on one leg. "I take it that's something I'll need to be able to do?"
"Eventually," Francisco agreed. "For now, though, just focus on one thing."
He reached behind a tree and tossed a wooden training sword to Sherman. He caught it and stared at it. "What's this?"
"Survive."
In an instant, Francisco fell upon Sherman like a fiend from the Three Hells. The old man's cane swept up and out like a sword, instantly striking Sherman in the shoulder and nearly causing him to drop his sword. Sherman tried to get some space, but no matter what the old man was there, stabbing, slashing, attacking from each angle. Sherman managed to deflect a few hits, and managed to tank the majority of them thanks to his natural bulk, but the blows were starting to add up.
Sherman's back hit a tree, and he realized that he'd need to go on the offensive or risk defeat. There was little time to think. Even now Francisco's blows rained down upon him. So, he hurled his sword straight at his opponent.
Francisco easily batted the sword away with a twist of his cane. Yet in that very motion, Sherman lunged forward, tackling the older man to the ground. Sherman's arms were longer, his muscles larger, and his weight greater, and quickly slammed the older man to the ground. For a second, he was worried that he had hurt Francisco. He wasn't quite used to fighting crippled old men, after all. However, the acrobatics he had displayed earlier gave him some reprieve from that worry.
The edge of the sword pressed up against his neck pushed those thoughts away entirely.
"Good," Francisco said, pushing Sherman away with a startlingly strong hand. He stood up, and gave the weapon that took the cane's place a twirl. "You're going to need those kinds of instincts to survive as a Cleric." He paused, glancing at his sword for a second. He then twirled it around once more, and when it had completed its revolution, the cane was once more in his hand.
"How . . . ?" Sherman asked, blinking. Surely that was some mere sleight-of-hand trick, right?
"What, did you think that Clerics fought the Contagion with mortal weapons, did you? No sword or gun's going to kill those things." Francisco opened his hand, and, to Sherman's shock, the cane faded away. He held out his other hand, and the cane appeared in a flash of white light.
"Your Holy Weapon is your primary tool against the Contagion threat. Each Holy Weapon takes a form unique to its wielder." Fransico drew the length of the sword from the cane, which shone with a soft light even in the bright day.
Something clicked in Sherman's mind. The shape of that sword . . . "That was you who saved me!"
"Yes." Francisco sheathed the sword, and suddenly leaned against the cane, looking very, very tired. "I, too, was the one who failed to save the Professor. I had failed to detect the Contagion until it was too late. Hate me if you must. I'm here to train you so you don't fail like I did."
Sherman didn't know what to say to that, so instead he asked, "So how do I get my own Holy Weapon? Where do I get one?"
"It can't be given to you. It must come from within."
" . . . What?"
"That's something I can't help you with, kid. You've had the dream, you've made the decision to become a Cleric. The next step is to be able to call upon the weapon formed from your heart." He straightened. "In the meantime, I want to test your athleticism."
He made Sherman run some obstacles that he had set up before hand—dashes, sprints, tree climbing, bag boxing, jumping from tree to tree, and other physical tests that Sherman hadn't gone through since his football days. Midway through, Pastor Gabriel left, apologizing about his need to get back to work. After that, he went back to sparring with Francisco. He went home to his apartment that evening, tired and confused, but this time with something of a goal in mind.
Given that he had just graduated with a degree in archaeology, Sherman did not have a proper job yet. He currently had a small part-time delivery service where he bustled food and equipment parts and other such things from place to place, sometimes even from town to town. It wasn't the best job in the world, but it had helped him pay through college, and let him cover the bills for the apartment he rented with several other guys from Uni. That left plenty of time for him to get into shape for becoming a Cleric.
Training was grueling. He met Francisco at the park at dawn, getting physical fitness drills done before weapons drills. Sherman, after all, didn't know what kind of form his Holy Weapon would take, so Francisco made him learn the basics for all kinds of weapons—swords, spears, bows, shields, throwing knives, et cetera. After that, he took a break to do some "meditation exercises," as Francisco called them, where he focused on the various teachings of the Church. Those were mostly an exercise in futility, but there were flashes of something that kept Sherman trying, day after day, hour after hour. Then, it was sparring until Francisco had enough or Sherman collapsed. Often Sherman would need to leave for a delivery, whereupon they would continue when he got back. This process continued for several weeks, with nothing to show for it.
Sherman's frustration at being unable to get this simple task done continued to mount, day after day, failure after failure. It didn't help matters any that Francisco continuously refused to give him any advice on the matter, telling him to work out, do some meditation, and pay attention in Church service. Sherman really didn't know what that last bit had to do with summoning a supernatural weapon intended to slay monsters of the night, and, of course, Francisco refused to elaborate.
It was nearly a month into that basic training that the Cleric decided to take Sherman out on an expedition.
"One of the Contagion's been spotted around here," Francisco said, reading a message on his phone. "Well call it early here. Now, you're going to experience what Cleric duty typically involves."
As night fell, Francisco drove Sherman out into the suburbs that intersected the forest and the foothill of the mountain the University town was located on. They passed a gated community and turned onto a road that was significantly less paved than the main streets they had just turned from. They traveled through a dark back-country, leaving the suburbs behind and heading out into the hills. They stopped several times along that road, pulling over as Francisco instructed Sherman to set up a peculiar device at each stop.
"This is what's known as a Relic," Francisco said, handing Sherman a silver spike with an odd, hexagonal head. "These are tools developed by the Order to supplement a Cleric's Holy Weapon."
He then demonstrated how to set up the device, driving it into the ground and holding out a glowing palm over it. The head opened up like a blossoming flower, revealing a curious crystalline tip that shone faintly in the moonlight.
At the next stop, he instructed that Sherman trigger the Relic himself. Reluctantly, and with no small amount of worry, Sherman took the Relic and drove it into the gravelly soil as he had seen. Then, he held out his hand, and waited.
"C'mon!" Francisco said after a minute. "Hurry up! What are you waiting for?"
"I don't seem to be able to do this."
"Kid, I don't want to hear any excuses."
"I mean I can't, because you never taught me." Sherman snapped, almost immediately regretting it.
Francisco paused. "I never did?"
"No, you didn't."
Francisco shook his head. "Then why didn't you say so?" he asked. "Kids these days. Never speaking up when they should."
Sherman's eyebrow twitched slightly, but he managed to keep a lid on his frustration. "How do I go about doing . . . whatever it is you did?"
"Spending Divine Energy? Focus on the Wellspring inside you and picture what you want to manifest."
Sherman blinked, taken aback. "I . . . what do you mean?"
"Haven't you noticed that new energy inside you whenever you pray or do something that aligns with the Virtues?"
Sherman opened his mouth to deny, but he paused. He had felt something like that when he would pray to the goddess at night. He said a quick but sincere prayer of thanks and guidance, and, sure enough, he was suddenly aware that there was a tingle, or buzz, or hum, that vibrated right on the outskirts of sense. The more he focused on it, the more distinct it became, quickly taking up residence somewhere in the center of his heart. It thrummed slightly with an unknown rhythm and meter, and Sherman felt lighter, somehow.
"Like that. Now shove it in that Relic."
Sherman frowned, looked down, and nearly gasped. His hand—it was glowing with that same soft light that Francisco's had been. He stretched out his hand, imagining glow reaching out from his hand and touching the spike's head. There was a flicker, then a buzz, then a feeling like the inside of his heart extending through his chest and arms then finally emerging from his palm. The light shone brighter, and the spike's head opened in that petal-like way that it had for Francisco.
"That . . . that's Divine Energy?"
Francisco nodded. "Congratulations. Now get back inside, we have more to do."
As they drove away, Sherman spoke back up, still starting at his hands. "So what are we doing, anyways?"
"Setting a perimeter. The Silverspikes of Saint Vesuvius emit a field that allows to draw the Contagion's attention. However, these things don't really work around people—don't ask me why, I don't know—so we need to be out in the hills a bit."
Sherman nodded. As they drove, Sherman tried to replicate the feat he has just pulled off, adjusting variables here and there to figure out how exactly it would work. He was able to summon that energy to his hands approximately six out of every ten tries by his estimates.
"Don't wear yourself out, kid," Francisco said. "I appreciate the hustle, but Divine Energy don't recharge fast. Keep somma your juice for emergencies."
The moon was bright in the sky by the time they finished their last Silverspike setup. Then, they drove back to the place Francisco said was the middle of the network of spikes they had set up, and, then, they waited.
Chapter 4-2
"When I eventually go to kill that Contagion," Francisco said suddenly, "stay with the car. I don't got my Armor on me, so I won't be able to protect you as efficiently. Stay put."
Sherman nodded. Another minute of silence passed before he asked, "So, what are they?"
"Hm?"
"The monsters—the Corruptive Contagion?"
"Contemptible Contagion. And beats me, I don't know."
" . . . Really?"
"Don't give me that look, kid. I'm not one of them scholars or biologists or whatever it is that study those freaks. I just get called in to kill the things." He continued his vigil out of the car window, scanning the darkness before glancing at his phone. "They're supposed to attracted to human emotions and suffering. That's all I know."
Another pause. Then, suddenly, Francisco's phone let out a shrill ping, startling Sherman.
"There it is! Hold tight, kid!"
With a screech of his tires, Francisco put the car into its top gear before shooting down that barely-paved asphalt path. Sherman was forced to grab onto the panic bar as Francisco took the sharp turns at upwards of fifty miles an hour. The bright beams of light illuminated the passing trees as they sped out of the country back towards the city.
They soon arrived at an illuminated street somewhere between the back country, the city proper, and the suburbs. Sure enough, a strange, misshapen, inky-black thing that looked like the mix between a snake and a crocodile wearing a crimson mask crawled with surprising speed in the direction of the city.
The car screeched to a halt and Francisco was out, blade drawn, before the car had ceased moving completely.
Sherman watched in awe as Francisco and the thing dueled. Francisco's blade cut gleaming swaths of light through the darkness, illuminating the inky body of the creature with each feint and thrust, while the Contagion twisted and slunk out of the way with feline grace. It was fascinating, almost, and Sherman found himself nearly mesmerized by the deadly display. Once, Francisco scored, drawing a gash of inky blood from the Contagion. Twice, the Contagion scored, its long fangs scraping against Francisco's arm and its claws snagging at his legs. Sherman was so engrossed in the fight—with every bit of ground gained and lost, with the way Francisco was steadily gaining the upper hand, with the fact that such things even existed outside the realm of fiction—that he almost didn't notice the second Contagion.
It was a small movement that tipped him off. A ripple in the dark. He tore himself away from the fight and peered, suspicious, into the shadows beyond the light. His hand dropped to the handgun at his waist as he tuned out the sounds of combat from outside. Francisco had said that the things weren't vulnerable to "mortal weapons," but it was better than nothing. He scanned, his eyes narrowing further as he attempted to see anything out of the ordinary. He strained, focusing all his effort into finding whatever it was—then, the world seemed to go strange. He felt the Divine Energy twist inside him, moving up towards his right eye, and suddenly, for a fraction of a second, he saw the outline of another one of the crocodile-snake creatures against the dark.
He threw open the car door and automatically drew his pistol. The strange effect had faded, but now that Sherman was at a different angle and knew where to look, he could see the roiling, inky ebon of the reptilian creature. He watched as it slowly crept away from the light—then, with startling speed, shot away across the street, as fast as a car, in the direction of the suburbs.
Sherman opened his mouth to shout a warning to Francisco, but he saw that the Cleric was still dealing with the first Contagion. Were he to shout, the Cleric's concentration might be broken, leading to him getting hurt. If not, the Contagion would more than likely get away. He had a choice to make. Say nothing? Wait until afterwards?
He took a deep breath and drew his gun. He flipped off the safety, aimed at the rapidly-retreating Contagion, and fired.
To Sherman's horrified amazement, he saw the point of impact the bullet made on the creature—a slow ripple from the base of the Contagion's neck. It reminded him of those slow-motion ballistic dummy videos somewhat. He saw the bullet slowly emerge from the center of the ripple and drop to the floor, crumpled and misshaped.
It immediately whipped its long, snakelike head around. Even from that distance, Sherman could see its empty black eye-holes boring into him. Sherman took an involuntary step back, his quivering hands throwing off his aim. He took another breath to steady himself, forced his hands to stop shaking, and fired again.
The thing opened its jaw in a silent hiss of anger as the bullets struck it twice more. Once again, the shots had no effect aside from making it angry. The moment that second shot was fired the beast sprinted at him.
For a second, Sherman was frozen in the grip of startled terror. He had made a huge mistake. What was he thinking? Francisco had told him to wait in the car. How stupid was he to make himself a target like that? He had no means to defend himself—
Even as the beast bore down upon him, its jaws snapping close right where his face was mere seconds ago as he threw himself out of the way, he steeled himself. No. He was a Cleric. He was chosen by the gods themselves. He would not be a victim to these foul creatures again! He would defeat this thing, here and now, and nobody else would suffer like he did!
A fire sparked inside his breast.
Holy goddess of light, he prayed, grant me your strength. Let me strike down the foes of the Light and rid this world of their accursed menace!
He held onto that feeling of stubborn determination, of defiance, of survival, of righteous anger in the midst of fear. He searched inside for that wellspring of Divine Energy that Francisco had taught him how to access, and focused, even as he retreated from the Contagion's lunging fangs.
In the back of his mind, a name echoed.
What's that?
. . .
I can't hear you.
. . .
I see. So that's what you are.
The beast's jaws latched onto his wrist, and pain surged through Sherman's body. It threatened to pull him off-balance—yet even as he screamed out in agony, he planted his feet and extended his other hand. He felt a surge of power, and his hand suddenly shone with the light of a hundred torches.
<IMPACT RICHTER>
The light swirled and took form. A long handle and broad hammer-head, formed of a white metal and inlaid with golden designs, gave off a soft gleam in the streetlight.
Sherman raised the sledgehammer—it was as light as a feather in his hand—and swung with all of his might.
Though the thing tried to get out of the way, the hammer-head slammed into the Contagion's main body with a sound like a gong and a gunshot. The beast buckled, the fangs on his arm loosening, and Sherman tore his arm free. It scrabbled, attempting to flee. Sherman gripped Impact Richter in both hands, and, with a mighty yell, smashed the thing's head into the pavement below. The Contagion's head, caught between the mighty divine hammer and the now-shattered pavement, gave way.
He stood, breathing heavily, staring at the dissolving corpse on the ground as Francisco rushed on over.
"I heard gunshots and a cry. I thought I told you to—"
He broke off, noticing the dead Contagion, the wounds on Sherman's arm, and, most importantly, the glowing hammer.
"Well now," he said. "Congratulations, kid. Color me surprised."
Sherman nodded. Another minute of silence passed before he asked, "So, what are they?"
"Hm?"
"The monsters—the Corruptive Contagion?"
"Contemptible Contagion. And beats me, I don't know."
" . . . Really?"
"Don't give me that look, kid. I'm not one of them scholars or biologists or whatever it is that study those freaks. I just get called in to kill the things." He continued his vigil out of the car window, scanning the darkness before glancing at his phone. "They're supposed to attracted to human emotions and suffering. That's all I know."
Another pause. Then, suddenly, Francisco's phone let out a shrill ping, startling Sherman.
"There it is! Hold tight, kid!"
With a screech of his tires, Francisco put the car into its top gear before shooting down that barely-paved asphalt path. Sherman was forced to grab onto the panic bar as Francisco took the sharp turns at upwards of fifty miles an hour. The bright beams of light illuminated the passing trees as they sped out of the country back towards the city.
They soon arrived at an illuminated street somewhere between the back country, the city proper, and the suburbs. Sure enough, a strange, misshapen, inky-black thing that looked like the mix between a snake and a crocodile wearing a crimson mask crawled with surprising speed in the direction of the city.
The car screeched to a halt and Francisco was out, blade drawn, before the car had ceased moving completely.
Sherman watched in awe as Francisco and the thing dueled. Francisco's blade cut gleaming swaths of light through the darkness, illuminating the inky body of the creature with each feint and thrust, while the Contagion twisted and slunk out of the way with feline grace. It was fascinating, almost, and Sherman found himself nearly mesmerized by the deadly display. Once, Francisco scored, drawing a gash of inky blood from the Contagion. Twice, the Contagion scored, its long fangs scraping against Francisco's arm and its claws snagging at his legs. Sherman was so engrossed in the fight—with every bit of ground gained and lost, with the way Francisco was steadily gaining the upper hand, with the fact that such things even existed outside the realm of fiction—that he almost didn't notice the second Contagion.
It was a small movement that tipped him off. A ripple in the dark. He tore himself away from the fight and peered, suspicious, into the shadows beyond the light. His hand dropped to the handgun at his waist as he tuned out the sounds of combat from outside. Francisco had said that the things weren't vulnerable to "mortal weapons," but it was better than nothing. He scanned, his eyes narrowing further as he attempted to see anything out of the ordinary. He strained, focusing all his effort into finding whatever it was—then, the world seemed to go strange. He felt the Divine Energy twist inside him, moving up towards his right eye, and suddenly, for a fraction of a second, he saw the outline of another one of the crocodile-snake creatures against the dark.
He threw open the car door and automatically drew his pistol. The strange effect had faded, but now that Sherman was at a different angle and knew where to look, he could see the roiling, inky ebon of the reptilian creature. He watched as it slowly crept away from the light—then, with startling speed, shot away across the street, as fast as a car, in the direction of the suburbs.
Sherman opened his mouth to shout a warning to Francisco, but he saw that the Cleric was still dealing with the first Contagion. Were he to shout, the Cleric's concentration might be broken, leading to him getting hurt. If not, the Contagion would more than likely get away. He had a choice to make. Say nothing? Wait until afterwards?
He took a deep breath and drew his gun. He flipped off the safety, aimed at the rapidly-retreating Contagion, and fired.
To Sherman's horrified amazement, he saw the point of impact the bullet made on the creature—a slow ripple from the base of the Contagion's neck. It reminded him of those slow-motion ballistic dummy videos somewhat. He saw the bullet slowly emerge from the center of the ripple and drop to the floor, crumpled and misshaped.
It immediately whipped its long, snakelike head around. Even from that distance, Sherman could see its empty black eye-holes boring into him. Sherman took an involuntary step back, his quivering hands throwing off his aim. He took another breath to steady himself, forced his hands to stop shaking, and fired again.
The thing opened its jaw in a silent hiss of anger as the bullets struck it twice more. Once again, the shots had no effect aside from making it angry. The moment that second shot was fired the beast sprinted at him.
For a second, Sherman was frozen in the grip of startled terror. He had made a huge mistake. What was he thinking? Francisco had told him to wait in the car. How stupid was he to make himself a target like that? He had no means to defend himself—
Even as the beast bore down upon him, its jaws snapping close right where his face was mere seconds ago as he threw himself out of the way, he steeled himself. No. He was a Cleric. He was chosen by the gods themselves. He would not be a victim to these foul creatures again! He would defeat this thing, here and now, and nobody else would suffer like he did!
A fire sparked inside his breast.
Holy goddess of light, he prayed, grant me your strength. Let me strike down the foes of the Light and rid this world of their accursed menace!
He held onto that feeling of stubborn determination, of defiance, of survival, of righteous anger in the midst of fear. He searched inside for that wellspring of Divine Energy that Francisco had taught him how to access, and focused, even as he retreated from the Contagion's lunging fangs.
In the back of his mind, a name echoed.
What's that?
. . .
I can't hear you.
. . .
I see. So that's what you are.
The beast's jaws latched onto his wrist, and pain surged through Sherman's body. It threatened to pull him off-balance—yet even as he screamed out in agony, he planted his feet and extended his other hand. He felt a surge of power, and his hand suddenly shone with the light of a hundred torches.
<IMPACT RICHTER>
The light swirled and took form. A long handle and broad hammer-head, formed of a white metal and inlaid with golden designs, gave off a soft gleam in the streetlight.
Sherman raised the sledgehammer—it was as light as a feather in his hand—and swung with all of his might.
Though the thing tried to get out of the way, the hammer-head slammed into the Contagion's main body with a sound like a gong and a gunshot. The beast buckled, the fangs on his arm loosening, and Sherman tore his arm free. It scrabbled, attempting to flee. Sherman gripped Impact Richter in both hands, and, with a mighty yell, smashed the thing's head into the pavement below. The Contagion's head, caught between the mighty divine hammer and the now-shattered pavement, gave way.
He stood, breathing heavily, staring at the dissolving corpse on the ground as Francisco rushed on over.
"I heard gunshots and a cry. I thought I told you to—"
He broke off, noticing the dead Contagion, the wounds on Sherman's arm, and, most importantly, the glowing hammer.
"Well now," he said. "Congratulations, kid. Color me surprised."
Chapter 5
"What's your Weapon's name, kid?" Francisco asked the next day.
They stood once more in the park, situated amongst the trees like they had been for the past month. Sherman's left arm was in a sling. Apparently, now that he had manifested his Divine Weapon, he would recover quite a bit faster than "mere mortals"—but also Contagion left wounds that were hard to heal, which meant that for the time being Sherman needed to keep his arm in as gentle of a state as possible.
Sherman held out his hand, recalled the feeling of the previous night, put his will and effort into calling forth the sledgehammer from the depths of his soul. In a burst of light, it appeared.
"Impact Richter," Sherman said. "At least, that's what feels right."
Francisco nodded. "Good. You've managed to both summon your Divine Weapon and you've gotten your first Contagion kill. Sometimes it takes months or even years for that to happen for a Cleric."
Francisco summoned his own Weapon, the cane-sword appearing in a flicker of light.
"Gentleel Vesalius has served me for nigh on thirty years at this point. You must come to understand your Weapon as well as you know the back of your own hand or your own face, kid. Especially since there's more to your Weapon than its appearance."
"What do you mean?"
"Tell me, kid. Notice anything strange about your hammer?"
Sherman frowned, hefting it. "It's way lighter than a hammer this size should be. Yet I can still feel a weight to it."
He gave a practice swing, the sledgehammer wooshing though the air almost like a sword. "Yeah. I can feel weight. It doesn't hurt, but I can tell that it's there."
"Each Divine Weapon will have a number of special things to 'em aside from their ability to harm Contagion," Francisco said. "For example, I never have to sharpen Vesalius. It will never rust, grow dull, or break. It will always be the right weight. I can leave it at home, fly all the way to Almoai, and it'll appear in my hands in an instant if I desire." He paused. "Plus, it works as a light if I don't have one."
Sherman frowned. "Really? That feels . . . sacrilegious."
"Nothin' in the texts sayin' I can't." He shrugged. "In any case, there's another real important thing to know about your Weapon."
"Uh-huh?"
Francisco pointed the tip of his sword at Sherman, who immediately fell into a defensive stance, hammer raised. Yet instead of fighting, Sherman suddenly found that his arm—where the Contagion had attacked him—began to feel better. He dropped his hammer and began to unbind his sling. He was greeted with the sight of pink flesh that, while still wounded and damaged, was a far cry from the open wounds they had been mere moments before.
"Each Divine Weapon has a special ability that only it can do," Francisco said. "Mine can use a bit of your stamina and calories to speed up your healin'. What your Impact Richter can do is something you're gonna have to figure out for yourself."
Sherman nodded, still staring in wonder at his arm. Francisco helped wrap the bandage up, and Sherman noticed that he had suddenly grown hungry. Movement caught his eye, and Sherman instinctively caught the energy bar Francisco had tossed him.
He quickly scarfed the bar down, thinking as he did. There was a moment yesterday when his eye had gone all strange, right? Was that his hammer could do?
"Francisco, last night I felt something strange," he said.
"Hm?"
He explained what had happened, about how he was able to see the Contagion for a brief second.
"A strange feeling in your eye then you saw it?" Francisco mused. "I don't know. If your Weapon took the form of a glass eye, or a pair of spectacles, maybe. What eye was it?"
"My right," Sherman said, and suddenly realized what the Cleric was getting at. "Are you saying that it might be that Eye of Providence?"
"Could be. I don't know much about that, either. Just know it's valuable."
He frowned, a months-old memory scratching at his mind. "That reminds me. On the night of the attack, my vision went all strange. It seemed as if the entire world had been turned into . . . words."
"Hm," Francisco said, frowning. "Once again, I don't know what to tell you, kid. Sure wounds like something an Eye of Providence would do, but I don't know. I'll ask about it. In the meantime," he said, nodding towards the Impact Richter, "get to gettin' good with that hammer of yours."
With a nod, Sherman took up his Divine Weapon and began to train.
Sherman was glad for Francisco's requirement that he practice with multiple weapons. Even outside of the "just in case" scenarios that Francisco talked about, Sherman found himself adopting multiple fighting styles into what he used for the hammer. He formed the basis for his techniques from his training with halberds, spears, and other polearms. Add a dash of kendo, a sprinkling of zweihander, and soon Sherman found himself with something that, if not comfortable, seemed to suit the sledgehammer best. The regular weapons training, while not ceasing outright, certainly took a back seat to Sherman becoming more and more proficient with his Divine Weapon.
Training continued on as normal. In addition to the physical workouts, sparring, and Sherman's own weapon drills, Francisco added a new challenge designed specifically to get Sherman to manipulate Divine Energy.
"You've got the feel for it," Francisco said. "There's plenty of little things you'll need to learn how to do with it than summon your Weapon or activate Relics. There's an entire library of Divine Techniques out there for Clerics to use, and you'll need to learn at least a handful of them if you want to survive in the field."
As opposed to the physical training—which he excelled at, given his past history of football—Sherman's attempts at manipulating his own Divine Energy seemed to be doomed to failure. He managed only the gentle light he had managed earlier, and getting that to increase in intensity seemed an entire mountain all on its own.
"Well, Clerics all have their strengths and weaknesses," Francisco allowed. "Some are good with their Weapon, some are good with Techniques. You'd better hope your ability's a good one if you can't use Techniques."
So, Sherman redoubled his efforts. Though, eventually, he was paid for his efforts, he was paid little, and improvement in the way of Energy manipulation was a long way in coming.
"Hm," Francisco said one day. The old man was sitting on a tree branch, looking at his phone as Sherman continued his
Sherman paused in the middle of a spear form adjusted for the Impact Richter. "What is it?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It seems that you're not the only Cleric to awaken recently," he said. "Seems there's been a number in this country alone, let alone worldwide. Hm."
"You said that Clerics are rare to awaken, right?"
"I did, and they are. The fact that so many Clerics are being made in such a short period of time . . . ." he paused, frowning. "And right after the Eye of Providence was found. I don't like it."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"Yes," Francisco said, "and no. It could just mean that there's a sudden insurgence of Cleric-compatible people out of nowhere."
"There could be a Revival in the faith going on in the country," Sherman suggested.
Francisco snorted. "Yeah, right. There's a few other possibilities, but the one that worries me is that the gods want more Clerics for something in the future. Like they're drafting soldiers for war, or somethin'."
"The Contagion? Maybe they're formed in cycles. Once every fifty years or so."
"Hm," Francisco said noncommittally. "Whatever it is, it's bad news for you, kid. Hopefully you won't have to go through your Trials before you've even figured out what your Divine Weapon does."
"I take it that's a future step? The Trials, that is."
"Sharp kid," Francisco nodded. "When a fledgling Novitiate—that's you—is determined by his teacher to be ready, they go all the way to the Holy See of the god that granted them their powers to take a trial alongside the other Novitiates. Pass, and you become a Neophyte Cleric, assigned to a squadron of other Neophytes and lead on missions under a Cleric of rank Archbishop or higher."
"And that's you?"
Francisco barked a short, coarse laugh. "What, me? Naw, kid, I'm just a War-Bishop. That's one step above War-Priest, which is one step above Neophyte." He tapped his wooden leg on the tree trunk he was sitting next to. "Leg's not exactly good for promotion. Plus, it sounds like too much work. Let the youngsters full of spice and whiskey go for it. I'm fine with where I am right here."
He trailed off, and Sherman thought he detected a wistful note in the older man's tone. However, he said nothing more on the matter, instead barking at Sherman to continue his training.
Sherman went with Francisco on every single Contagion hunt the old man went on. It turned out that Sherman's previous victories over the beasts weren't necessarily a perfect indicator of future successes—as a matter of fact, out of the two cases that popped up over the next few months, Sherman was unable to take kill any Contagion without outside assistance. Thankfully, he didn't suffer any other such dramatic wounds as he had suffered during his first Contagion kill.
"Well, it's too be expected, after all. You're still a Novitiate—still green. Guess you got lucky on that first one."
Francisco didn't seem to think of it as too big a deal, so Sherman decided to feel the same, forcing away worries and thoughts of incompetency—thoughts that weren't quite helped by his lack of progress in either his Weapon or his Energy.
"How often do Contagion pop up?" Sherman asked as they drove home from Sherman's fourth Contagion encounter. "Is this frequency normal? Or is it a bit light, given that we're all the way out here in the country?"
"It's . . . still considered in the normal range, especially for out here," Francisco said. "There's more in the cities or bigger towns. You'll see an uptick in Contagion generation during Finals week or after a playoff game or Election season . . . or after a disaster, or in a warzone. Those are particularly dangerous to deal with."
If they're attracted to human emotion, I can see the link, Sherman mused internally. Something's still bothering him, though.
He said as much aloud, and Francisco sighed. "Like I said, you're a sharp kid. Four Contagion in four months? In summer vacation, all the way out here? It's not unheard of, but it's not like they show up every time someone has a bad day. It takes quite a bit for them to appear. It's just . . . I don't like it."
And he's already worried about all the new Clerics, Sherman recalled. "You think it's connected to the new Clerics showing up?"
"I don't know," was the answer.
In the end, however, the event that ended Sherman's official training with Francisco wasn't a big, flashy event. It wasn't the identification of his Divine Weapon's ability, nor was it a breakthrough in his Techniques, nor was it a sudden outbreak of Clerics. No, the event was merely a deadline.
" . . . Tasi's tea," Francisco swore at his phone.
Sherman paused in the middle of his work-out. "What is it?" he asked.
Francisco tossed him the phone, speaking as Sherman read. "Trials for all Novitiates who have manifested their Divine Weapons," he said. "Harvest festival."
"That's a month from now," Sherman said, his own eyebrows creasing. "Isn't that too soon? I'm pretty sure I'm not ready."
"You aren't," Francisco agreed bluntly. "But it seems like you don't have any choice. Just what are they thinking? Don't the know that this is how—" he cut himself off. "Kid, how's it all going?"
"Not good enough," Sherman said. "I can make my hand glow, but that's about it."
"You'll never need a flashlight again," Francisco muttered. "All right. I didn't want to do this, since it has a chance of harming you, but it seems I have no choice. Kid, hold this image in your mind."
Francisco raised his hands and sword towards Sherman. Immediately, Sherman felt three things at once—incredible power, burning pain, and a soothing cool. It lasted for only seven seconds, but those seven seconds were agony. He grit his teeth, preventing himself from crying out. Then, it was gone, leaving only a lingering ache and a tiredness in his limbs. Once again, he began to feel hungry.
"What . . . ." Sherman panted, "What in the light was that?!"
"Sorry, kid. Had to hit you with the only enhancement Technique I knew," Francisco said. He grimaced, clearly displeased with what he had just done. "No time to take it low and slow. It boosts your strength at the cost of pain, but I used Vesalius to repair what damage it caused."
"A little warning would have been better," Sherman muttered, irritated. Sure, no lasting harm, no foul, but he didn't exactly appreciate what, in a different circumstance, could have been actual torture.
"Would it have helped?"
"Maybe!"
Francisco paused. "Yeah, you're right. My bad, kid. I'll make it up to you later. But first—do you have that image in your head? Not the pain, not my ability, but of the strength."
Sherman paused, putting aside his irritation and indignation for the moment. He focused, keeping that feeling in mind. Once more, he gave a mental prayer, also taking hold of that feeling.
Suddenly, for an instant, there was a spark, and Sherman's body flooded with energy. It was gone quickly, and that strength he felt was marginal—but it was there. He could tell. There was something else, too, a foreign feeling of a battery buzzing inside his heart. In a single heartbeat, that core of power had sent out a pulse of energy to his body. No, not so much a pulse, as it was a great machine that had been turned on for a fraction of a second.
"I think so," he realized. "I think I felt something. And there's this weird sensation—like I've got a new muscle or something, but not a muscle."
"That's the Divine Energy inside you, kid. All right. Maybe you won't die horribly after all." He breathed out. "Good. This last month, you're going to be workin' 'till you drop."
Francisco was true to his word. Francisco, from the time Sherman arrived to the time he left, expected Sherman to be "flexing" that Divine Energy muscle, keeping it on and supplying him power. It was rough going at first—Sherman would often last only several seconds before feeling the spark sputter and vanish—but he kept going on at it. Slowly, the time Sherman could spend holding onto that connection grew, and before the month was up, he was able to go a full training day with Divine Energy empowering him. It became almost as second nature, as easy as breathing or walking.
The power boost he got from that constant background energy flow was slight but noticeable. Sherman soon found that the weights he had lifted before—which, while formidable, were nowhere near what professional athletes could lift—were now easy and comfortable to do. Within the span of a month, he had gone from "strong and fit, yet not professionally so" to someone who could keep up with Olympic athletes. He could run faster, jump higher, react quicker, and punch harder. Things hurt less in general, and he found himself to heal even more quickly as normal. He didn't tire as easily. His senses seemed more—more vibrant, more acute. It wasn't enough to overwhelm him, but it was enough that he was often surprised by how he could notice freckles on a person's face from all the way across the park.
In the end, however, he neither manifested the Impact Richter's ability nor significantly improved the other aspects of his Divine Energy usage. It disappointed him, but it couldn't be helped.
At last, the day came. Francisco had bought the two of them tickets on a plane ride over to Brightfire, the Holy See of Liberthasia, Goddess of Freedom. Given that Sherman lived in the northern part of the West Coast, and Brightfire was located in the Midwest of the Commonwealth of Columbia, the flight itself would be six hours long roundabouts, and a roadtrip was out of the question.
They packed and got their affairs in order. Soon, they found themselves on Flight 130, bound from Santa Carmen, Nortasura, to Brightfire, Arina.
"I hate going back to Brightfire," Francisco muttered as they settled themselves. "Everybody there's a stuck-up pain in the keister." He paused. "Well, there's a few reliable folks. But my point stands."
"That doesn't surprise me," Sherman muttered.
"Respect your elders, kid," Francisco said, pulling out a sleeping mask to drape over his face.
Some minutes passed and the plane's engines began to whir.
"For the record," Sherman said as they began to take off, "I forgive you."
"Hm?" Francisco muttered.
"For the thing you did last month that helped me unlock my Divine Energy."
"You've been on that for a month?" he asked.
"No," Sherman said. "I just . . . well, never got around to it. We were always busy. So, I forgive you."
"I haven't apologized."
"I know. I'm forgiving you anyways."
"Hm. Maybe you shouldn't."
"It's part of the Pantheon's teachings."
"I know. Still, though. Sometimes people don't deserve forgiveness."
" . . . Yeah. I know that."
Francisco lifted his mask to glance at him, but when Sherman said no more, he put the mask back on. Sherman soon found himself nodding off as well. The airplane's engines thrummed, humming in a relaxing manner that Sherman could feel in his bones. He fell asleep in the sky, thirty thousand feet above the ground.
They stood once more in the park, situated amongst the trees like they had been for the past month. Sherman's left arm was in a sling. Apparently, now that he had manifested his Divine Weapon, he would recover quite a bit faster than "mere mortals"—but also Contagion left wounds that were hard to heal, which meant that for the time being Sherman needed to keep his arm in as gentle of a state as possible.
Sherman held out his hand, recalled the feeling of the previous night, put his will and effort into calling forth the sledgehammer from the depths of his soul. In a burst of light, it appeared.
"Impact Richter," Sherman said. "At least, that's what feels right."
Francisco nodded. "Good. You've managed to both summon your Divine Weapon and you've gotten your first Contagion kill. Sometimes it takes months or even years for that to happen for a Cleric."
Francisco summoned his own Weapon, the cane-sword appearing in a flicker of light.
"Gentleel Vesalius has served me for nigh on thirty years at this point. You must come to understand your Weapon as well as you know the back of your own hand or your own face, kid. Especially since there's more to your Weapon than its appearance."
"What do you mean?"
"Tell me, kid. Notice anything strange about your hammer?"
Sherman frowned, hefting it. "It's way lighter than a hammer this size should be. Yet I can still feel a weight to it."
He gave a practice swing, the sledgehammer wooshing though the air almost like a sword. "Yeah. I can feel weight. It doesn't hurt, but I can tell that it's there."
"Each Divine Weapon will have a number of special things to 'em aside from their ability to harm Contagion," Francisco said. "For example, I never have to sharpen Vesalius. It will never rust, grow dull, or break. It will always be the right weight. I can leave it at home, fly all the way to Almoai, and it'll appear in my hands in an instant if I desire." He paused. "Plus, it works as a light if I don't have one."
Sherman frowned. "Really? That feels . . . sacrilegious."
"Nothin' in the texts sayin' I can't." He shrugged. "In any case, there's another real important thing to know about your Weapon."
"Uh-huh?"
Francisco pointed the tip of his sword at Sherman, who immediately fell into a defensive stance, hammer raised. Yet instead of fighting, Sherman suddenly found that his arm—where the Contagion had attacked him—began to feel better. He dropped his hammer and began to unbind his sling. He was greeted with the sight of pink flesh that, while still wounded and damaged, was a far cry from the open wounds they had been mere moments before.
"Each Divine Weapon has a special ability that only it can do," Francisco said. "Mine can use a bit of your stamina and calories to speed up your healin'. What your Impact Richter can do is something you're gonna have to figure out for yourself."
Sherman nodded, still staring in wonder at his arm. Francisco helped wrap the bandage up, and Sherman noticed that he had suddenly grown hungry. Movement caught his eye, and Sherman instinctively caught the energy bar Francisco had tossed him.
He quickly scarfed the bar down, thinking as he did. There was a moment yesterday when his eye had gone all strange, right? Was that his hammer could do?
"Francisco, last night I felt something strange," he said.
"Hm?"
He explained what had happened, about how he was able to see the Contagion for a brief second.
"A strange feeling in your eye then you saw it?" Francisco mused. "I don't know. If your Weapon took the form of a glass eye, or a pair of spectacles, maybe. What eye was it?"
"My right," Sherman said, and suddenly realized what the Cleric was getting at. "Are you saying that it might be that Eye of Providence?"
"Could be. I don't know much about that, either. Just know it's valuable."
He frowned, a months-old memory scratching at his mind. "That reminds me. On the night of the attack, my vision went all strange. It seemed as if the entire world had been turned into . . . words."
"Hm," Francisco said, frowning. "Once again, I don't know what to tell you, kid. Sure wounds like something an Eye of Providence would do, but I don't know. I'll ask about it. In the meantime," he said, nodding towards the Impact Richter, "get to gettin' good with that hammer of yours."
With a nod, Sherman took up his Divine Weapon and began to train.
Sherman was glad for Francisco's requirement that he practice with multiple weapons. Even outside of the "just in case" scenarios that Francisco talked about, Sherman found himself adopting multiple fighting styles into what he used for the hammer. He formed the basis for his techniques from his training with halberds, spears, and other polearms. Add a dash of kendo, a sprinkling of zweihander, and soon Sherman found himself with something that, if not comfortable, seemed to suit the sledgehammer best. The regular weapons training, while not ceasing outright, certainly took a back seat to Sherman becoming more and more proficient with his Divine Weapon.
Training continued on as normal. In addition to the physical workouts, sparring, and Sherman's own weapon drills, Francisco added a new challenge designed specifically to get Sherman to manipulate Divine Energy.
"You've got the feel for it," Francisco said. "There's plenty of little things you'll need to learn how to do with it than summon your Weapon or activate Relics. There's an entire library of Divine Techniques out there for Clerics to use, and you'll need to learn at least a handful of them if you want to survive in the field."
As opposed to the physical training—which he excelled at, given his past history of football—Sherman's attempts at manipulating his own Divine Energy seemed to be doomed to failure. He managed only the gentle light he had managed earlier, and getting that to increase in intensity seemed an entire mountain all on its own.
"Well, Clerics all have their strengths and weaknesses," Francisco allowed. "Some are good with their Weapon, some are good with Techniques. You'd better hope your ability's a good one if you can't use Techniques."
So, Sherman redoubled his efforts. Though, eventually, he was paid for his efforts, he was paid little, and improvement in the way of Energy manipulation was a long way in coming.
"Hm," Francisco said one day. The old man was sitting on a tree branch, looking at his phone as Sherman continued his
Sherman paused in the middle of a spear form adjusted for the Impact Richter. "What is it?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It seems that you're not the only Cleric to awaken recently," he said. "Seems there's been a number in this country alone, let alone worldwide. Hm."
"You said that Clerics are rare to awaken, right?"
"I did, and they are. The fact that so many Clerics are being made in such a short period of time . . . ." he paused, frowning. "And right after the Eye of Providence was found. I don't like it."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"Yes," Francisco said, "and no. It could just mean that there's a sudden insurgence of Cleric-compatible people out of nowhere."
"There could be a Revival in the faith going on in the country," Sherman suggested.
Francisco snorted. "Yeah, right. There's a few other possibilities, but the one that worries me is that the gods want more Clerics for something in the future. Like they're drafting soldiers for war, or somethin'."
"The Contagion? Maybe they're formed in cycles. Once every fifty years or so."
"Hm," Francisco said noncommittally. "Whatever it is, it's bad news for you, kid. Hopefully you won't have to go through your Trials before you've even figured out what your Divine Weapon does."
"I take it that's a future step? The Trials, that is."
"Sharp kid," Francisco nodded. "When a fledgling Novitiate—that's you—is determined by his teacher to be ready, they go all the way to the Holy See of the god that granted them their powers to take a trial alongside the other Novitiates. Pass, and you become a Neophyte Cleric, assigned to a squadron of other Neophytes and lead on missions under a Cleric of rank Archbishop or higher."
"And that's you?"
Francisco barked a short, coarse laugh. "What, me? Naw, kid, I'm just a War-Bishop. That's one step above War-Priest, which is one step above Neophyte." He tapped his wooden leg on the tree trunk he was sitting next to. "Leg's not exactly good for promotion. Plus, it sounds like too much work. Let the youngsters full of spice and whiskey go for it. I'm fine with where I am right here."
He trailed off, and Sherman thought he detected a wistful note in the older man's tone. However, he said nothing more on the matter, instead barking at Sherman to continue his training.
Sherman went with Francisco on every single Contagion hunt the old man went on. It turned out that Sherman's previous victories over the beasts weren't necessarily a perfect indicator of future successes—as a matter of fact, out of the two cases that popped up over the next few months, Sherman was unable to take kill any Contagion without outside assistance. Thankfully, he didn't suffer any other such dramatic wounds as he had suffered during his first Contagion kill.
"Well, it's too be expected, after all. You're still a Novitiate—still green. Guess you got lucky on that first one."
Francisco didn't seem to think of it as too big a deal, so Sherman decided to feel the same, forcing away worries and thoughts of incompetency—thoughts that weren't quite helped by his lack of progress in either his Weapon or his Energy.
"How often do Contagion pop up?" Sherman asked as they drove home from Sherman's fourth Contagion encounter. "Is this frequency normal? Or is it a bit light, given that we're all the way out here in the country?"
"It's . . . still considered in the normal range, especially for out here," Francisco said. "There's more in the cities or bigger towns. You'll see an uptick in Contagion generation during Finals week or after a playoff game or Election season . . . or after a disaster, or in a warzone. Those are particularly dangerous to deal with."
If they're attracted to human emotion, I can see the link, Sherman mused internally. Something's still bothering him, though.
He said as much aloud, and Francisco sighed. "Like I said, you're a sharp kid. Four Contagion in four months? In summer vacation, all the way out here? It's not unheard of, but it's not like they show up every time someone has a bad day. It takes quite a bit for them to appear. It's just . . . I don't like it."
And he's already worried about all the new Clerics, Sherman recalled. "You think it's connected to the new Clerics showing up?"
"I don't know," was the answer.
In the end, however, the event that ended Sherman's official training with Francisco wasn't a big, flashy event. It wasn't the identification of his Divine Weapon's ability, nor was it a breakthrough in his Techniques, nor was it a sudden outbreak of Clerics. No, the event was merely a deadline.
" . . . Tasi's tea," Francisco swore at his phone.
Sherman paused in the middle of his work-out. "What is it?" he asked.
Francisco tossed him the phone, speaking as Sherman read. "Trials for all Novitiates who have manifested their Divine Weapons," he said. "Harvest festival."
"That's a month from now," Sherman said, his own eyebrows creasing. "Isn't that too soon? I'm pretty sure I'm not ready."
"You aren't," Francisco agreed bluntly. "But it seems like you don't have any choice. Just what are they thinking? Don't the know that this is how—" he cut himself off. "Kid, how's it all going?"
"Not good enough," Sherman said. "I can make my hand glow, but that's about it."
"You'll never need a flashlight again," Francisco muttered. "All right. I didn't want to do this, since it has a chance of harming you, but it seems I have no choice. Kid, hold this image in your mind."
Francisco raised his hands and sword towards Sherman. Immediately, Sherman felt three things at once—incredible power, burning pain, and a soothing cool. It lasted for only seven seconds, but those seven seconds were agony. He grit his teeth, preventing himself from crying out. Then, it was gone, leaving only a lingering ache and a tiredness in his limbs. Once again, he began to feel hungry.
"What . . . ." Sherman panted, "What in the light was that?!"
"Sorry, kid. Had to hit you with the only enhancement Technique I knew," Francisco said. He grimaced, clearly displeased with what he had just done. "No time to take it low and slow. It boosts your strength at the cost of pain, but I used Vesalius to repair what damage it caused."
"A little warning would have been better," Sherman muttered, irritated. Sure, no lasting harm, no foul, but he didn't exactly appreciate what, in a different circumstance, could have been actual torture.
"Would it have helped?"
"Maybe!"
Francisco paused. "Yeah, you're right. My bad, kid. I'll make it up to you later. But first—do you have that image in your head? Not the pain, not my ability, but of the strength."
Sherman paused, putting aside his irritation and indignation for the moment. He focused, keeping that feeling in mind. Once more, he gave a mental prayer, also taking hold of that feeling.
Suddenly, for an instant, there was a spark, and Sherman's body flooded with energy. It was gone quickly, and that strength he felt was marginal—but it was there. He could tell. There was something else, too, a foreign feeling of a battery buzzing inside his heart. In a single heartbeat, that core of power had sent out a pulse of energy to his body. No, not so much a pulse, as it was a great machine that had been turned on for a fraction of a second.
"I think so," he realized. "I think I felt something. And there's this weird sensation—like I've got a new muscle or something, but not a muscle."
"That's the Divine Energy inside you, kid. All right. Maybe you won't die horribly after all." He breathed out. "Good. This last month, you're going to be workin' 'till you drop."
Francisco was true to his word. Francisco, from the time Sherman arrived to the time he left, expected Sherman to be "flexing" that Divine Energy muscle, keeping it on and supplying him power. It was rough going at first—Sherman would often last only several seconds before feeling the spark sputter and vanish—but he kept going on at it. Slowly, the time Sherman could spend holding onto that connection grew, and before the month was up, he was able to go a full training day with Divine Energy empowering him. It became almost as second nature, as easy as breathing or walking.
The power boost he got from that constant background energy flow was slight but noticeable. Sherman soon found that the weights he had lifted before—which, while formidable, were nowhere near what professional athletes could lift—were now easy and comfortable to do. Within the span of a month, he had gone from "strong and fit, yet not professionally so" to someone who could keep up with Olympic athletes. He could run faster, jump higher, react quicker, and punch harder. Things hurt less in general, and he found himself to heal even more quickly as normal. He didn't tire as easily. His senses seemed more—more vibrant, more acute. It wasn't enough to overwhelm him, but it was enough that he was often surprised by how he could notice freckles on a person's face from all the way across the park.
In the end, however, he neither manifested the Impact Richter's ability nor significantly improved the other aspects of his Divine Energy usage. It disappointed him, but it couldn't be helped.
At last, the day came. Francisco had bought the two of them tickets on a plane ride over to Brightfire, the Holy See of Liberthasia, Goddess of Freedom. Given that Sherman lived in the northern part of the West Coast, and Brightfire was located in the Midwest of the Commonwealth of Columbia, the flight itself would be six hours long roundabouts, and a roadtrip was out of the question.
They packed and got their affairs in order. Soon, they found themselves on Flight 130, bound from Santa Carmen, Nortasura, to Brightfire, Arina.
"I hate going back to Brightfire," Francisco muttered as they settled themselves. "Everybody there's a stuck-up pain in the keister." He paused. "Well, there's a few reliable folks. But my point stands."
"That doesn't surprise me," Sherman muttered.
"Respect your elders, kid," Francisco said, pulling out a sleeping mask to drape over his face.
Some minutes passed and the plane's engines began to whir.
"For the record," Sherman said as they began to take off, "I forgive you."
"Hm?" Francisco muttered.
"For the thing you did last month that helped me unlock my Divine Energy."
"You've been on that for a month?" he asked.
"No," Sherman said. "I just . . . well, never got around to it. We were always busy. So, I forgive you."
"I haven't apologized."
"I know. I'm forgiving you anyways."
"Hm. Maybe you shouldn't."
"It's part of the Pantheon's teachings."
"I know. Still, though. Sometimes people don't deserve forgiveness."
" . . . Yeah. I know that."
Francisco lifted his mask to glance at him, but when Sherman said no more, he put the mask back on. Sherman soon found himself nodding off as well. The airplane's engines thrummed, humming in a relaxing manner that Sherman could feel in his bones. He fell asleep in the sky, thirty thousand feet above the ground.
Chapter 6
In the months following Professor Dominguez's funeral, Sherman's life had been nothing but distractions and work. Practically from sunup to sundown, he was out and about, either training or working. He had very little time for rest and relaxation, save for church services on Sunday, mealtime, and the long rides his job would occasionally require of him. His apartment mates, whom he regarded as "close friends," occasionally popped in to wonder where he had been recently. He had previously been free enough to go out and hang with them on the regular, but that had stopped after his graduation.
"New side gig," he had said. They seemed to take that on its face, congratulated him on the "raise," and generally let things be.
He still visited Pastor Gabriel constantly. The Pastor would occasionally visit his practice at the park with Blade-Brother Francisco, trying to help out where he could. Sherman as well often sought him out, seeking advice and counselling on the situation. As a matter of fact, even with how little Sherman had progressed in terms of his Impact Richter's ability and his Divine Energy manipulation, he was sure he wouldn't have gotten as far as he did without Gabriel's help.
"Don't worry about your job and expenses for now," Gabriel said a month before the Trials. "Just focus on your Cleric duties. It's the church's job to help you all out—as a matter of fact, we have a specific portion of our budget set aside for this very purpose."
That was a load off of Sherman's back. What wasn't was how little things had seemed to change for his college friends. No matter how many times he visited over the four months of the attack, it was always the same. Marlin, in particular, was always home, always telling Sherman that he didn't want to see anybody. Johnny, on the other hand, was never home, presumably always off on some errand or engagement.
Sherman couldn't blame them, to be honest. If he hadn't had a new sense of purpose and a goal, he might have retreated himself.
However, it seemed that the flight to Brightflame had a curious effect. As Sherman grew closer and closer to his destination, he found that the worries of his home life were further and further away from his mind. Instead, a looming anxiety, uncertainty, and a small amount of excitement took its place.
Even from the air Sherman could tell that the city of Brightflame was something else. The "Crown Jewel of the Midwest" certainly lived up to the name. The city was filled with bright, shining towers that stood tall and proud like vigilant spears. A sea of green trees broke up the modern design, giving the place an almost natural feel. Yet the most impressive thing was what had to have been the Holy See, the capital of those who worshipped Lady Liberthasia. In the direct center of the city was a smaller city that more resembled a fortress than anything else. It was surrounded on all sides by an enormous wall hundreds of feet tall and clearly wide enough for people to drive on. In there was the largest building—a massive cathedral, with spires reaching higher than all the other skyscrapers around it. In the courtyard of the Holy See was an enormous statue of Lady Liberthasia facing the west, one hand bearing a torch and the other outstretched to the horizon.
"Wow," Sherman said, his eyes widening. He had been to big cities before—even lived in one for a while—but this was something else. "I had no idea we had cities like this."
"It's a lot," Francisco agreed. The earlier announcement from the pilot that they were descending seemed to have woken him up. "Even if I don't care for the pomp and circumstance of the place, it's certainly a respectable sight."
"I'm not surprised," Sherman mused. "This entire place is rather . . . ."
"Gaudy? Overbearing? Shiny?"
"Ostentatious," Sherman settled. "Humility is a virtue, after all. Yet so is proclaiming the glory of the gods via good works."
"Hm."
The plane landed without issue at Brightflame International Airport. Sherman was hit with a blast of heat the moment he stepped outside of the plane—a muggy, wet heat that clung to him and threatened to drench his shirt in sweat. It was a completely different heat than the dry summers he was used to on the West Coast. He didn't exactly care for it, but in the end being too hot was being better than being too cold.
The airport was crowded. As a matter of fact, it was the most crowded airport that Sherman had ever seen. There were people of all shapes, sizes, and colors out and about, coming from all places in the country and even outside of it. As they made their way to the baggage claim, he began to notice that a disproportionate number of them seemed to bear symbols, iconography, and paraphernalia relating to the Pantheon of Light.
"There's a lot of Pantheans here," Sherman said as they waited for their luggage, two checked-in bags each.
"Of course. We're in the world capital for Liberthasian worship. This is practically the city's main export."
Sherman glanced around, looked at the amount of posters and merchandise that dealt with the Pantheon, its teachings, its lore, and its worshippers in some way or another, and found that he couldn't exactly disagree.
By the time they had gotten their luggage, grabbed a public bus, made their way to the Holy See, gotten past the line inside the Holy See, and arrived at the hotel they'd be staying at for a day or two, it had been four hours since touchdown, ten hours since takeoff, twelve hours since they got to the airport, fourteen hours since Sherman had woken up early that morning, and already dark due to the three hour time difference between the two places.
"Get some rest, kid," Francisco said as Sherman placed his bags in the corner of their shared room, "Gods know you'll need it for what's ahead."
Heeding that advice, Sherman took a quick shower and immediately passed out in his bed.
Given that they had arrived on a Thursday and the first important event was on a Saturday, Sherman was allowed to take Friday off. Francisco told him to go explore the town, get some rest, do whatever—just be up bright and early on Saturday morning at 6:00 AM to get ready for the 7:30 morning service. That was something that Sherman, as a Cleric, had to attend. Francisco then proceeded to toss five twenty-loaf notes on the bed and leave.
Even though he was still tired, Sherman knew that slacking off on training—at least a little bit—would go against all the work he had done that summer. He grabbed a towel and headed down to the hotel's gym.
The gym, as he figured, was small and lacking in most amenities. There was only a single multi-exercise machine along with a few free weights and an exercise ball in a room about the size of an apartment bedroom. Still, Sherman had made do with worse before during his high school and college football days. He quickly ran into a second problem—he had far outgrown the weight limit that the simple hotel gym offered. As a matter of fact, he was sure that it wouldn't have been effective for him before he started his Divine Energy physical training. Even though he gave the exercise room his best shot, he left disappointed. He washed his face and was soon out on the streets of Brightflame.
Like the day before, it was hot and muggy, even at approximately eight in the morning. He heard a couple of people complaining about the heat as he left the hotel, internally sympathizing with the evident tourists. They faded from his mind as he stepped out into the hot air and bright morning sun, already focused on his task at hand.
Sherman, whenever he traveled for an away game, always had something of a little ritual he liked to do when he had the time. First thing would be to find a local burger place—preferably not a chain, but that'd do in a pinch—and get a full meal for breakfast. That was something that the football team had roped him into doing, and something that he'd roped others into doing long since.
Sherman found a burger place easy enough. Even at this early in the morning, the restraint seemed quite full of bustling employees and hungry customers. Thankfully, this one didn't only serve breakfast before 10, and thus Sherman was able to get his cheeseburger, fries, and vanilla cola without any issue.
The football team's reasoning was simple: in order to beat someone, you had to understand him. The best way to understand somebody was to see what his home was like. The best way to do that was to see what kind of food he ate. Therefore, ordering a local cheeseburger and soda was the best way to understand his enemy.
Sherman, back when he was still ignorant in the ways of science and warfare, had said that seemed like a mere excuse to get fast food. The response he got was to let the results speak for themselves. Seeing as they won, and that every time they did win they had ordered some kind of local food beforehand, Sherman was "forced" to concede the logic behind such actions.
The meal itself wasn't the best he'd ever had, but it was far better than the generic fast food he'd been expecting, especially given the cheap price. Satisfied, Sherman left the restaurant to head to the second item on his to-do list: to obtain a Diagonal Picture of the Most Interesting Thing In Town.
The requirements of Most Interesting Thing were, of course, subjective, and varied from person to person. The most common unifier, then, was that it was not allowed to be directly related to the reason why they were there. In short, it had to be something interesting, not just work. In Sherman's case, that meant no pictures of the Church-made architecture, or Clerics, or the massive cathedral in the center of town. He decided to head on out via foot, briefly lamenting the lack of his motorcycle.
Even though the Holy See, the walled sub-city inside Brightflame proper, was designed for foot travel, Sherman found that it was many square miles large, and there would be no way he'd be able to explore the entire city in a single visit, let alone one afternoon. Still, he gave it his best shot, and had explored a good section of the city before he got hungry enough for lunch. A street food truck parked by a nearby park served his purposes, and soon he had both a tasty Yorkland-style hot dog and a shady tree to relax under.
His leisure, however, was soon interrupted by a deluge of car horns. He frowned, setting aside his second hot dog to see a cavalcade of black-and-silver cars, slowly making their way up Main Street to the central cathedral, Our Lady of the Brightflame. He looked on with a curious and steadily-growing crowd at the procession, watching with some fascination as drivers proceeded to lean out the window and yell at some of the pedestrians who weren't quick enough to scramble out of their way.
"What's going on?" he heard someone ask.
"Beats me," someone else said. "Hey, wait, isn't that the Zakynthos logo? That's the Z and there's the iris."
"The Zakynthos Group? What's an arms manufacturing company doing here?"
"Beats me."
"Aren't they supposed to have ties with Grant Grahamford?"
"The general? What's he got to do with any of this?"
"Doesn't he attend Our Lady of the Bright Flame? And isn't he in town this weekend?"
"Oh, is that why there's so many people here? Huh. Didn't think there were such things as celebrity generals."
"Neither did I, but you saw those crowds."
Sherman stopped paying attention there and returned his focus to the cavalcade. Movement was slow, tempers were rising, and men in black suits were starting to get out of the cars. Sherman tilted his phone forty-five degrees and took a diagonal shot of the commotion. Even if were headed to the same place, there was no way it was connected to his Cleric business. After all, Francisco had told him that while there were many that did know about Clerics, it was mostly a well-kept secret by the Church.
He watched as the men in black suits yelled at a few pedestrians, before they noticed that some of the crowd had their phones out. They got back inside, and the cars made their slow, stop-and-go way down Main Street towards the cathedral.
With two sights and a lunch down, Sherman figured it was probably best to figure out where he'd leave his signature. That was the easiest to do, with the only rule being "no vandalization."
Whereas the buildings outside the wall were composed of modern material and of a modern fashion, the buildings inside the Holy See were typically composed of stone. The architecture appeared to be a hundreds-year-old take on thousand-year-old building styles, updating it with the proper techniques at the time while still keeping the same marble decorations, reliefs, patterns, and devices that characterized so much of the Old Jovian art style. Our Lady of the Bright Flame followed that same design, and from everywhere in Holy See—and even most places in Brightflame proper—one could see the high arches, massive pillars, vaulted ceilings, and enormous carvings of saints, prophets, holy figures, and religious iconography that surrounded the outside of the cathedral.
Sherman didn't end up going anywhere near that massive building that day. Instead, he ended up finding an antiques shop off the main street. He bought something that reminded him of Professor Dominguez, got permission from the clerk to leave his signature on the doorframe, and headed out to a recommendation for a light dinner. Then, he went back to his hotel room to unwind, relax, and prepare for what would undoubtedly be one of the most important days of his life.
"New side gig," he had said. They seemed to take that on its face, congratulated him on the "raise," and generally let things be.
He still visited Pastor Gabriel constantly. The Pastor would occasionally visit his practice at the park with Blade-Brother Francisco, trying to help out where he could. Sherman as well often sought him out, seeking advice and counselling on the situation. As a matter of fact, even with how little Sherman had progressed in terms of his Impact Richter's ability and his Divine Energy manipulation, he was sure he wouldn't have gotten as far as he did without Gabriel's help.
"Don't worry about your job and expenses for now," Gabriel said a month before the Trials. "Just focus on your Cleric duties. It's the church's job to help you all out—as a matter of fact, we have a specific portion of our budget set aside for this very purpose."
That was a load off of Sherman's back. What wasn't was how little things had seemed to change for his college friends. No matter how many times he visited over the four months of the attack, it was always the same. Marlin, in particular, was always home, always telling Sherman that he didn't want to see anybody. Johnny, on the other hand, was never home, presumably always off on some errand or engagement.
Sherman couldn't blame them, to be honest. If he hadn't had a new sense of purpose and a goal, he might have retreated himself.
However, it seemed that the flight to Brightflame had a curious effect. As Sherman grew closer and closer to his destination, he found that the worries of his home life were further and further away from his mind. Instead, a looming anxiety, uncertainty, and a small amount of excitement took its place.
Even from the air Sherman could tell that the city of Brightflame was something else. The "Crown Jewel of the Midwest" certainly lived up to the name. The city was filled with bright, shining towers that stood tall and proud like vigilant spears. A sea of green trees broke up the modern design, giving the place an almost natural feel. Yet the most impressive thing was what had to have been the Holy See, the capital of those who worshipped Lady Liberthasia. In the direct center of the city was a smaller city that more resembled a fortress than anything else. It was surrounded on all sides by an enormous wall hundreds of feet tall and clearly wide enough for people to drive on. In there was the largest building—a massive cathedral, with spires reaching higher than all the other skyscrapers around it. In the courtyard of the Holy See was an enormous statue of Lady Liberthasia facing the west, one hand bearing a torch and the other outstretched to the horizon.
"Wow," Sherman said, his eyes widening. He had been to big cities before—even lived in one for a while—but this was something else. "I had no idea we had cities like this."
"It's a lot," Francisco agreed. The earlier announcement from the pilot that they were descending seemed to have woken him up. "Even if I don't care for the pomp and circumstance of the place, it's certainly a respectable sight."
"I'm not surprised," Sherman mused. "This entire place is rather . . . ."
"Gaudy? Overbearing? Shiny?"
"Ostentatious," Sherman settled. "Humility is a virtue, after all. Yet so is proclaiming the glory of the gods via good works."
"Hm."
The plane landed without issue at Brightflame International Airport. Sherman was hit with a blast of heat the moment he stepped outside of the plane—a muggy, wet heat that clung to him and threatened to drench his shirt in sweat. It was a completely different heat than the dry summers he was used to on the West Coast. He didn't exactly care for it, but in the end being too hot was being better than being too cold.
The airport was crowded. As a matter of fact, it was the most crowded airport that Sherman had ever seen. There were people of all shapes, sizes, and colors out and about, coming from all places in the country and even outside of it. As they made their way to the baggage claim, he began to notice that a disproportionate number of them seemed to bear symbols, iconography, and paraphernalia relating to the Pantheon of Light.
"There's a lot of Pantheans here," Sherman said as they waited for their luggage, two checked-in bags each.
"Of course. We're in the world capital for Liberthasian worship. This is practically the city's main export."
Sherman glanced around, looked at the amount of posters and merchandise that dealt with the Pantheon, its teachings, its lore, and its worshippers in some way or another, and found that he couldn't exactly disagree.
By the time they had gotten their luggage, grabbed a public bus, made their way to the Holy See, gotten past the line inside the Holy See, and arrived at the hotel they'd be staying at for a day or two, it had been four hours since touchdown, ten hours since takeoff, twelve hours since they got to the airport, fourteen hours since Sherman had woken up early that morning, and already dark due to the three hour time difference between the two places.
"Get some rest, kid," Francisco said as Sherman placed his bags in the corner of their shared room, "Gods know you'll need it for what's ahead."
Heeding that advice, Sherman took a quick shower and immediately passed out in his bed.
Given that they had arrived on a Thursday and the first important event was on a Saturday, Sherman was allowed to take Friday off. Francisco told him to go explore the town, get some rest, do whatever—just be up bright and early on Saturday morning at 6:00 AM to get ready for the 7:30 morning service. That was something that Sherman, as a Cleric, had to attend. Francisco then proceeded to toss five twenty-loaf notes on the bed and leave.
Even though he was still tired, Sherman knew that slacking off on training—at least a little bit—would go against all the work he had done that summer. He grabbed a towel and headed down to the hotel's gym.
The gym, as he figured, was small and lacking in most amenities. There was only a single multi-exercise machine along with a few free weights and an exercise ball in a room about the size of an apartment bedroom. Still, Sherman had made do with worse before during his high school and college football days. He quickly ran into a second problem—he had far outgrown the weight limit that the simple hotel gym offered. As a matter of fact, he was sure that it wouldn't have been effective for him before he started his Divine Energy physical training. Even though he gave the exercise room his best shot, he left disappointed. He washed his face and was soon out on the streets of Brightflame.
Like the day before, it was hot and muggy, even at approximately eight in the morning. He heard a couple of people complaining about the heat as he left the hotel, internally sympathizing with the evident tourists. They faded from his mind as he stepped out into the hot air and bright morning sun, already focused on his task at hand.
Sherman, whenever he traveled for an away game, always had something of a little ritual he liked to do when he had the time. First thing would be to find a local burger place—preferably not a chain, but that'd do in a pinch—and get a full meal for breakfast. That was something that the football team had roped him into doing, and something that he'd roped others into doing long since.
Sherman found a burger place easy enough. Even at this early in the morning, the restraint seemed quite full of bustling employees and hungry customers. Thankfully, this one didn't only serve breakfast before 10, and thus Sherman was able to get his cheeseburger, fries, and vanilla cola without any issue.
The football team's reasoning was simple: in order to beat someone, you had to understand him. The best way to understand somebody was to see what his home was like. The best way to do that was to see what kind of food he ate. Therefore, ordering a local cheeseburger and soda was the best way to understand his enemy.
Sherman, back when he was still ignorant in the ways of science and warfare, had said that seemed like a mere excuse to get fast food. The response he got was to let the results speak for themselves. Seeing as they won, and that every time they did win they had ordered some kind of local food beforehand, Sherman was "forced" to concede the logic behind such actions.
The meal itself wasn't the best he'd ever had, but it was far better than the generic fast food he'd been expecting, especially given the cheap price. Satisfied, Sherman left the restaurant to head to the second item on his to-do list: to obtain a Diagonal Picture of the Most Interesting Thing In Town.
The requirements of Most Interesting Thing were, of course, subjective, and varied from person to person. The most common unifier, then, was that it was not allowed to be directly related to the reason why they were there. In short, it had to be something interesting, not just work. In Sherman's case, that meant no pictures of the Church-made architecture, or Clerics, or the massive cathedral in the center of town. He decided to head on out via foot, briefly lamenting the lack of his motorcycle.
Even though the Holy See, the walled sub-city inside Brightflame proper, was designed for foot travel, Sherman found that it was many square miles large, and there would be no way he'd be able to explore the entire city in a single visit, let alone one afternoon. Still, he gave it his best shot, and had explored a good section of the city before he got hungry enough for lunch. A street food truck parked by a nearby park served his purposes, and soon he had both a tasty Yorkland-style hot dog and a shady tree to relax under.
His leisure, however, was soon interrupted by a deluge of car horns. He frowned, setting aside his second hot dog to see a cavalcade of black-and-silver cars, slowly making their way up Main Street to the central cathedral, Our Lady of the Brightflame. He looked on with a curious and steadily-growing crowd at the procession, watching with some fascination as drivers proceeded to lean out the window and yell at some of the pedestrians who weren't quick enough to scramble out of their way.
"What's going on?" he heard someone ask.
"Beats me," someone else said. "Hey, wait, isn't that the Zakynthos logo? That's the Z and there's the iris."
"The Zakynthos Group? What's an arms manufacturing company doing here?"
"Beats me."
"Aren't they supposed to have ties with Grant Grahamford?"
"The general? What's he got to do with any of this?"
"Doesn't he attend Our Lady of the Bright Flame? And isn't he in town this weekend?"
"Oh, is that why there's so many people here? Huh. Didn't think there were such things as celebrity generals."
"Neither did I, but you saw those crowds."
Sherman stopped paying attention there and returned his focus to the cavalcade. Movement was slow, tempers were rising, and men in black suits were starting to get out of the cars. Sherman tilted his phone forty-five degrees and took a diagonal shot of the commotion. Even if were headed to the same place, there was no way it was connected to his Cleric business. After all, Francisco had told him that while there were many that did know about Clerics, it was mostly a well-kept secret by the Church.
He watched as the men in black suits yelled at a few pedestrians, before they noticed that some of the crowd had their phones out. They got back inside, and the cars made their slow, stop-and-go way down Main Street towards the cathedral.
With two sights and a lunch down, Sherman figured it was probably best to figure out where he'd leave his signature. That was the easiest to do, with the only rule being "no vandalization."
Whereas the buildings outside the wall were composed of modern material and of a modern fashion, the buildings inside the Holy See were typically composed of stone. The architecture appeared to be a hundreds-year-old take on thousand-year-old building styles, updating it with the proper techniques at the time while still keeping the same marble decorations, reliefs, patterns, and devices that characterized so much of the Old Jovian art style. Our Lady of the Bright Flame followed that same design, and from everywhere in Holy See—and even most places in Brightflame proper—one could see the high arches, massive pillars, vaulted ceilings, and enormous carvings of saints, prophets, holy figures, and religious iconography that surrounded the outside of the cathedral.
Sherman didn't end up going anywhere near that massive building that day. Instead, he ended up finding an antiques shop off the main street. He bought something that reminded him of Professor Dominguez, got permission from the clerk to leave his signature on the doorframe, and headed out to a recommendation for a light dinner. Then, he went back to his hotel room to unwind, relax, and prepare for what would undoubtedly be one of the most important days of his life.
Chapter 7
That day had to be one of the most boring days of Sherman's life.
As instructed, he had been up bright and early the next day—as a matter of fact, he was up before Francisco. They put on their Saturday best—which, for Sherman, was a halfway-decent suit that still fit him from prom—and joined an ever-growing river of people marching their way up Main Street to head to morning service at Our Lady of the Bright Flames. It was the only chapel in the Holy See, after all, and had more than enough room to seat the entire population of the city—at least, that's what Sherman had been told yesterday. He wondered just how the cathedral could fit so many people inside. They passed by no shortage of vendors selling holy artifacts, trinkets, balms, incense, and other such material. It was in poor taste—after all, the Scriptures taught against such practices. Food, however, was fine, and Sherman ended up buying a sweet-and-savory breakfast pastry for both him and Francisco. It wasn't that bad, all things considered.
By the time they arrived, the massive bells in the even more massive spires were ringing a deafening proclamation of the time, and that service would be starting soon. Sherman and Francisco squeezed through the door, and Sherman soon got his answer to the seating question.
They were ushered this way and that and up and down hallways until they eventually emerged at what seemed to be the biggest sports stadium Sherman had ever seen. The entire place was like a massive arena, with thousands—if not tens of thousands—of seats. They were tiered, all leading down to a central arena, where a raised podium was backed by an army of orchestral musicians and chorists. At various points massive screens had been installed, presumably to focus on the preacher and aid with his sermon. At the very, very top of the cathedral was a massive stain-glass dome of a roof, depicting the Seven Gods of the Pantheon of Light, with Lady Liberthasia in the center. As always, in one hand, she bore a torch. The other was outstretched, whether in welcome or in command Sherman did not know.
As more people began to fill in the seats, the noise began to rise, and Sherman began to feel a little overwhelmed. The only churches he had been to previously were small, intimate affairs, with the largest one seating maybe two hundred people on a good day. This . . . this super church was something new, and it wasn't something Sherman was sure he liked.
Francisco patted him on the shoulder, clearly sensing Sherman's trepidation. "Yeah, I feel the same way, kid."
Eventually, the bell struck the hour, and the choir immediately burst into song. It was the type of grand performance that Sherman would have expected from a classical concert or an opera house. Every note was perfect, every singer on-key and on pitch, all instruments tuned to perfection. The songs they sang were a mix of ancient psalms, old hymns, and even modern worship music, which felt strange given the setting. The music was so loud and the bass so tangible that Sherman almost began to worry that the roof would cave in.
In contrast to the bombastic display of music that assaulted them so early in the morning, the message—delivered by a bent, balding old man—was as dry and boring as the desert sand. It was probably the most basic message Sherman had ever heard. It wasn't challenging, it wasn't inspiriting, it didn't cut down to the very soul, exposing unseen sin or errant ways. No, it was safe, tame, and very, very boring. Sherman had to fight the whole time to not fall asleep. Once again, he found he preferred the message style of his old church.
The service went on, and on, and on, for hours and hours. There were many, many times where Sherman had to stifle a yawn or prevent himself from nodding off. Francisco had no such reservations, and had even fallen asleep soon after the music stopped. Yet though Sherman could see the odd person struggling with similar issues in that massive crowd of dozens of thousands present, the vast majority were listening in stoic silence or raptured attention. There was the odd murmur of agreement or mutter of "amen!", but the vast majority of the room was as silent as a tomb save for the preacher who seemed a mile away.
Sherman, bored out of his mind, decided to see just what kind of people were in the crowd. After all, this weekend was the weekend where all the new Novitiates gathered for the Trials, which meant that this place was supposed to be swarming with Clerics. How many of these people were of the Order? How many were teachers or Novitiates like him? One in every thousand? Half that? Double that?
He let his eyes wander over the massive crowd. The vast, vast majority of the people were in either suits or elegant dresses both in a variety of colors, though mostly in black and white. The next most common group was those in military outfits, both the ceremonial uniform and camouflaged fatigues. There was an entire section of people all in red, next to orange, yellow, green, blue, and finally violet, making a visible rainbow even from all the way up where Sherman was. Nearby, there were a handful of people in more casual clothes, from polos and jeans to Kahuna-style palm tree-patterned button-down shirts and cargo shorts. The preacher himself was draped in ceremonial-looking robes, with a long tassel bearing a stylized torch-flame on both sides. The choir in the back were all wearing black choir robes, and the orchestra was clad in black suits and dresses.
After what seemed like hours, the sermon finally wrapped to a close. The audience stood and clapped, cheering, as the band struck up two final songs to sing. Sherman himself gave a polite clap, but in the end felt it a hollow thing. All this physical grandeur, all this money, all this time—and yet the sermon itself was hardly of any substance. What a shame. Pastor Gabriel could do more with a hundredth of a hundredth of this place's budget.
As people began to file out of the sanctum, Sherman was prevented from joining by Francisco. The Cleric shook his head. "Just wait. We're not in any rush."
"Don't we have somewhere to get to?"
"We do," Francisco agreed, "but that can wait until afterwards. Just wait for now. Sit back down."
Unsure, Sherman did as told. As the people filed out, Sherman began to notice that, in fact, there were a number of other groups waiting around just like he was. Mostly, they were the odd family here and there that were waiting around for practicality's sake—the lines out were very long, after all, and there was no point in standing just to wait. Yet aside from them there were pairs of people, one older and one younger, or trios with one older and two younger. There was a group of about ten all in black complete with black sunglasses. Some of the military people had stayed behind as well. Sherman observed them, and noted that some of them were doing the same.
"Check your phone, kid," said Francisco suddenly as the last of the crowd was finally standing to leave.
He frowned and did so, having turned his phone off for the service. He had a single message from an unknown messenger. As he read it, his breath caught in his chest and his eyes widened.
"NOVITIATE OF THE ORDER OF THE SACRED TORCH," it read. "BE AT FLOOR 100 BY 1:30 PM. ATTENDANCE MANDATORY."
"You've got a summons, kid," Francisco said, finally rising himself as he put his own phone away. "A real troublesome one at that. Best not keep them waiting."
Sherman nodded and followed the Cleric out of the room. As they left, Sherman noticed that, at last, the other groups were leaving as well.
So those are the other Novitiates, Sherman thought. I wonder what they're all like.
They reached a hallway, and Sherman turned aside to use an elevator.
"Wait, kid, not that one," Francisco said, leading him to a different elevator.
"Aren't we going—"
Inside the elevator Francisco selected was a doorman clad in a white suit. The Cleric flashed something on his phone at him, and the doorman nodded, pressing a button as Sherman got in.
"We can't take normal elevators," Francisco explained. "No clue why they don't allow normal ones to go to the top. Makes no sense."
The ride up was long and slightly awkward, with neither Francisco nor the doorman speaking the entire way up. After several minutes of pure silence, the bell dinged on floor one hundred.
"This isn't the top floor, though," Sherman said as the door closed behind them.
"Hm? No, of course it's not. There's about ten more above us." Francisco shook his head.
Floor 100 was far, far different than the rest of the cathedral. Back down below, the walls had been white, decorated with pictures and artwork and illuminated with bright light in a way that reminded Sherman of that fancy hotel he had stayed at once for football. It was all glitz and glamour and showy construction, designed to show off the wealth to the congress passing through its halls on the way to the various sanctuaries. This place, however, seemed formed of dull gray stone. A crimson carpet ran down the hallway to a set of wooden double doors, and the suits of armor lining the walls reminded Sherman of a castle.
"Right through there," Francisco said, adjusting his hat. "Go on, kid."
Sherman nodded, took a deep breath, and opened one of the large double doors.
The nearly cavernous open room must have been two or even three floors tall. Dozens of large, round tables stood in the center, surrounded on all sides by soft chairs, covered in a white tablecloth. Banners of white, red, blue, and gold draped down from the ceiling, displaying images of heroes of the faith and saints. Even the carpet was fancy, seemingly flecked with silver and gold thread. At the top was a similar stained-glass dome to the one that was in the cathedral's main theater: the images of the gods of the Pantheon of Light, with the Goddess of Freedom in the middle surrounded by the other six. Yet unlike the one down below, this image depicted the gods not as they traditionally were, in robes and with their associated iconography. These gods were dressed in full suits of armor and carrying weapons. Liberthasia, for example, s torch was replaced with a flaming sword, and in her other hand she held a flag. It was strange, seeing the gods in such a manner. Typically, the emphasis of the gods was on their connection to the Light and its teachings, and less the story of how the Pantheon was formed in the first place.
Already the tables were halfway full, with around seventy sharply-dressed people seated sporadically throughout the affair. Some tables were completely full—like one table that had that group of sunglasses and suits—while others had one or two at most.
Francisco sat down at an empty table and Sherman followed suit. Fancy-looking silverware and plates were already set down at the table, and a variety of breads, cheeses, and other similar things were on the table. Sherman glanced around, and, seeing that Francisco and others had already started partaking in the food laid before them, followed suit.
"A lunch party?" Sherman asked quietly as he buttered a roll.
"Hm," Francisco said. "Something like that. Lotta talking, though."
As the clock ticked closer to 1:30, more and more people began to fill up that spacious room. They ended up having to bring in more tables to handle all the Clerics and Novitiates that were arriving. Soon, the room was abuzz with chatter, small talk, and curious and nervous wonderings as to what, exactly, was going on.
The clock struck 1:30, and the doors burst open.
A little old man walked in, and Sherman realized that it was the preacher who had spoke that morning. Suddenly, the room rose from their seats to stand—including Francisco. Sherman scrambled to follow suit, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Elsewhere in the room, someone did knock over their chair, eliciting a pained grunt. The man walked through the pathway that had been set up in the middle of the tables to the long table at the head of the room. He sat at its center, and was soon joined by his procession—men in suits, women in dresses, both in choral robes, both in ceremonial uniforms. Finally, at last, five people entered, taking up spaces on either side of the preacher. The first was a tall, elegant, dark-skinned woman in a long white dress with an equally white hat, adorned in expensive-looking jewelry. The second was a tanned man in full military fatigues with bars and stripes pinned to his breast, his hair cropped combat-short. The third was a swarthy man in a long, red-and-white striped jacket, complete with a tall hat upon his head. The fourth was pale, dark-haired woman in a smart pantsuit, a briefcase tucked under her arm. The last was a blonde man in honest-to-gods knight armor, complete with a flowing white cape. All of them had one article in common—a shining gold brooch pinned to the left breast. The last sat at the preacher's right hand, while the first at his left.
"Now presenting the His Holiness the Pope of the Church of the Seven Flames of Liberthasia, Pietro MacArthur Solomon" said the man in armor. "All stand and present yourselves."
Francisco stood at attention, his face stone. Sherman copied him, making the same strange salute—both arms bent, his left arm forward and up, his right arm forward and left, crossed at the wrists.
"All non-Cleric personnel be seated," said the spokesman. "All Clerics and Novitiates, remain standing."
"Now presenting the Cardinals of Freedom's Torch. Presenting the Choir Director, Natasha Hosier." The elegant woman bowed slightly.
"Presenting Grahamford F. Bradley, Four-Star General of the Commonwealth of Columbia." The military man nodded.
"Presenting Ringmaster Otto van Barnum of Barnum's Travelling Fun Fair Festival." The pin-striped man tipped his hat.
"Presenting Dr. Salkhouse Quaker, M.D." The woman in the suit gave a sharp nod.
"And presenting Washington Pendragon, Mayor of Brightflame City," he said, before giving a half bow of his own. "All be seated and heed the words of His Holiness."
As they sat, the preacher—Pope, rather—stood and began to speak.
"Welcome back, Blade-Brothers of the Order of Liberthasia," he said, and his voice was stronger and more passionate than it was during the sermon. "And welcome, Novitiates. Doubtless this is all a confusion to you, and I admit that current circumstances are . . . unique. But first—I am sure you are all hungry. Let us sharpen our attentions on the whetstone of lunch, then."
He clapped, and food was wheeled out on rolling carts. Servers passed on by, handing out roast chicken, sandwiches, prime rib, slices of pizza, mashed potatoes, vegetable stir-fry, and all sorts of other foodstuffs to the various assembled. It all seemed to be traditional Columbian fare, though there were some foreign options scattered about here and there. Francisco ended up with a steak and Sherman ended up with a plate of pasta. It was actually pretty good, all things considered.
The Pope let them eat for a few minutes before he started to speak. "I trust that your Cleric teachers have informed you of the basics of Cleric work," he said. "You are all here to drive back and eliminate the Contemptible Contagion, monsters of shadow and fear that prey upon humanity. Each of you has been chosen by Lady Liberthasia herself. You have traveled here from across the country—no, the world—in order to join our esteemed ranks. For that, you will be taking a series of Trials. You will be receiving the time and date of the trials on your phones tomorrow morning, so be ready."
His speech went on, talking some about the Order, what it meant to be a Cleric, and some of the specific rules and conduct that Clerics were expected to abide by. It was stuff Sherman had all heard before—always put the people first, behave in a manner that reflects well on the Church, and use your abilities to help out people in need. Common stuff, really, though the speech was more convincing here than the other had been hours ago. Was it the intimacy of the room, Sherman wondered, or was the Pope using his better material for them? If so, why?
Lunch went on, and eventually dessert was brought out—a slice of chocolate cake. Sherman had had better.
Eventually, the Pope dismissed them, and they all slowly began to file out of the room. Some stuck around and tried to talk with each other. Sherman wondered if he should, but Francisco started to head out straight away, and he didn't want to be left behind.
"That was . . . ." Sherman began when they were alone.
"A pain," Francisco said.
Sherman agreed, but didn't want to say it, so he didn't. Instead, he asked, "Can you tell me anything about these Trials?"
"No."
" . . . Really?"
"Can't," Francisco said, his usual frown deeper than normal. "Would that I could, but I can't. Not a peep."
"Any advice at all?"
" . . . None that I haven't said in the past four months," Francisco said. "Trust in your training and your instincts. That's what'll keep you alive."
The rest of the evening passed without affair, and Sherman, tired from the day's ordeal, decided to head to bed early. He laid out everything for the next day—a mixture of football and hockey gear from his highschool and college days, including his jersey and his motorcycle helmet.
With everything set up for the next day, he hit the sack to prepare for whatever would come for him, joining the already-asleep Francisco in the realm of sleepers.
He was awoken by his phone blaring an emergency alarm at 12:01 AM.
"BE AT JOHN H TERN NATIONAL PARK AT 2:30 AM," an anonymous message said. Sherman was unsure of how it managed to trigger his phone's emergency alert, but it had all the same. "FAILURE TO ARRIVE WILL MEAN INSTANT DISQUALIFICATION."
As instructed, he had been up bright and early the next day—as a matter of fact, he was up before Francisco. They put on their Saturday best—which, for Sherman, was a halfway-decent suit that still fit him from prom—and joined an ever-growing river of people marching their way up Main Street to head to morning service at Our Lady of the Bright Flames. It was the only chapel in the Holy See, after all, and had more than enough room to seat the entire population of the city—at least, that's what Sherman had been told yesterday. He wondered just how the cathedral could fit so many people inside. They passed by no shortage of vendors selling holy artifacts, trinkets, balms, incense, and other such material. It was in poor taste—after all, the Scriptures taught against such practices. Food, however, was fine, and Sherman ended up buying a sweet-and-savory breakfast pastry for both him and Francisco. It wasn't that bad, all things considered.
By the time they arrived, the massive bells in the even more massive spires were ringing a deafening proclamation of the time, and that service would be starting soon. Sherman and Francisco squeezed through the door, and Sherman soon got his answer to the seating question.
They were ushered this way and that and up and down hallways until they eventually emerged at what seemed to be the biggest sports stadium Sherman had ever seen. The entire place was like a massive arena, with thousands—if not tens of thousands—of seats. They were tiered, all leading down to a central arena, where a raised podium was backed by an army of orchestral musicians and chorists. At various points massive screens had been installed, presumably to focus on the preacher and aid with his sermon. At the very, very top of the cathedral was a massive stain-glass dome of a roof, depicting the Seven Gods of the Pantheon of Light, with Lady Liberthasia in the center. As always, in one hand, she bore a torch. The other was outstretched, whether in welcome or in command Sherman did not know.
As more people began to fill in the seats, the noise began to rise, and Sherman began to feel a little overwhelmed. The only churches he had been to previously were small, intimate affairs, with the largest one seating maybe two hundred people on a good day. This . . . this super church was something new, and it wasn't something Sherman was sure he liked.
Francisco patted him on the shoulder, clearly sensing Sherman's trepidation. "Yeah, I feel the same way, kid."
Eventually, the bell struck the hour, and the choir immediately burst into song. It was the type of grand performance that Sherman would have expected from a classical concert or an opera house. Every note was perfect, every singer on-key and on pitch, all instruments tuned to perfection. The songs they sang were a mix of ancient psalms, old hymns, and even modern worship music, which felt strange given the setting. The music was so loud and the bass so tangible that Sherman almost began to worry that the roof would cave in.
In contrast to the bombastic display of music that assaulted them so early in the morning, the message—delivered by a bent, balding old man—was as dry and boring as the desert sand. It was probably the most basic message Sherman had ever heard. It wasn't challenging, it wasn't inspiriting, it didn't cut down to the very soul, exposing unseen sin or errant ways. No, it was safe, tame, and very, very boring. Sherman had to fight the whole time to not fall asleep. Once again, he found he preferred the message style of his old church.
The service went on, and on, and on, for hours and hours. There were many, many times where Sherman had to stifle a yawn or prevent himself from nodding off. Francisco had no such reservations, and had even fallen asleep soon after the music stopped. Yet though Sherman could see the odd person struggling with similar issues in that massive crowd of dozens of thousands present, the vast majority were listening in stoic silence or raptured attention. There was the odd murmur of agreement or mutter of "amen!", but the vast majority of the room was as silent as a tomb save for the preacher who seemed a mile away.
Sherman, bored out of his mind, decided to see just what kind of people were in the crowd. After all, this weekend was the weekend where all the new Novitiates gathered for the Trials, which meant that this place was supposed to be swarming with Clerics. How many of these people were of the Order? How many were teachers or Novitiates like him? One in every thousand? Half that? Double that?
He let his eyes wander over the massive crowd. The vast, vast majority of the people were in either suits or elegant dresses both in a variety of colors, though mostly in black and white. The next most common group was those in military outfits, both the ceremonial uniform and camouflaged fatigues. There was an entire section of people all in red, next to orange, yellow, green, blue, and finally violet, making a visible rainbow even from all the way up where Sherman was. Nearby, there were a handful of people in more casual clothes, from polos and jeans to Kahuna-style palm tree-patterned button-down shirts and cargo shorts. The preacher himself was draped in ceremonial-looking robes, with a long tassel bearing a stylized torch-flame on both sides. The choir in the back were all wearing black choir robes, and the orchestra was clad in black suits and dresses.
After what seemed like hours, the sermon finally wrapped to a close. The audience stood and clapped, cheering, as the band struck up two final songs to sing. Sherman himself gave a polite clap, but in the end felt it a hollow thing. All this physical grandeur, all this money, all this time—and yet the sermon itself was hardly of any substance. What a shame. Pastor Gabriel could do more with a hundredth of a hundredth of this place's budget.
As people began to file out of the sanctum, Sherman was prevented from joining by Francisco. The Cleric shook his head. "Just wait. We're not in any rush."
"Don't we have somewhere to get to?"
"We do," Francisco agreed, "but that can wait until afterwards. Just wait for now. Sit back down."
Unsure, Sherman did as told. As the people filed out, Sherman began to notice that, in fact, there were a number of other groups waiting around just like he was. Mostly, they were the odd family here and there that were waiting around for practicality's sake—the lines out were very long, after all, and there was no point in standing just to wait. Yet aside from them there were pairs of people, one older and one younger, or trios with one older and two younger. There was a group of about ten all in black complete with black sunglasses. Some of the military people had stayed behind as well. Sherman observed them, and noted that some of them were doing the same.
"Check your phone, kid," said Francisco suddenly as the last of the crowd was finally standing to leave.
He frowned and did so, having turned his phone off for the service. He had a single message from an unknown messenger. As he read it, his breath caught in his chest and his eyes widened.
"NOVITIATE OF THE ORDER OF THE SACRED TORCH," it read. "BE AT FLOOR 100 BY 1:30 PM. ATTENDANCE MANDATORY."
"You've got a summons, kid," Francisco said, finally rising himself as he put his own phone away. "A real troublesome one at that. Best not keep them waiting."
Sherman nodded and followed the Cleric out of the room. As they left, Sherman noticed that, at last, the other groups were leaving as well.
So those are the other Novitiates, Sherman thought. I wonder what they're all like.
They reached a hallway, and Sherman turned aside to use an elevator.
"Wait, kid, not that one," Francisco said, leading him to a different elevator.
"Aren't we going—"
Inside the elevator Francisco selected was a doorman clad in a white suit. The Cleric flashed something on his phone at him, and the doorman nodded, pressing a button as Sherman got in.
"We can't take normal elevators," Francisco explained. "No clue why they don't allow normal ones to go to the top. Makes no sense."
The ride up was long and slightly awkward, with neither Francisco nor the doorman speaking the entire way up. After several minutes of pure silence, the bell dinged on floor one hundred.
"This isn't the top floor, though," Sherman said as the door closed behind them.
"Hm? No, of course it's not. There's about ten more above us." Francisco shook his head.
Floor 100 was far, far different than the rest of the cathedral. Back down below, the walls had been white, decorated with pictures and artwork and illuminated with bright light in a way that reminded Sherman of that fancy hotel he had stayed at once for football. It was all glitz and glamour and showy construction, designed to show off the wealth to the congress passing through its halls on the way to the various sanctuaries. This place, however, seemed formed of dull gray stone. A crimson carpet ran down the hallway to a set of wooden double doors, and the suits of armor lining the walls reminded Sherman of a castle.
"Right through there," Francisco said, adjusting his hat. "Go on, kid."
Sherman nodded, took a deep breath, and opened one of the large double doors.
The nearly cavernous open room must have been two or even three floors tall. Dozens of large, round tables stood in the center, surrounded on all sides by soft chairs, covered in a white tablecloth. Banners of white, red, blue, and gold draped down from the ceiling, displaying images of heroes of the faith and saints. Even the carpet was fancy, seemingly flecked with silver and gold thread. At the top was a similar stained-glass dome to the one that was in the cathedral's main theater: the images of the gods of the Pantheon of Light, with the Goddess of Freedom in the middle surrounded by the other six. Yet unlike the one down below, this image depicted the gods not as they traditionally were, in robes and with their associated iconography. These gods were dressed in full suits of armor and carrying weapons. Liberthasia, for example, s torch was replaced with a flaming sword, and in her other hand she held a flag. It was strange, seeing the gods in such a manner. Typically, the emphasis of the gods was on their connection to the Light and its teachings, and less the story of how the Pantheon was formed in the first place.
Already the tables were halfway full, with around seventy sharply-dressed people seated sporadically throughout the affair. Some tables were completely full—like one table that had that group of sunglasses and suits—while others had one or two at most.
Francisco sat down at an empty table and Sherman followed suit. Fancy-looking silverware and plates were already set down at the table, and a variety of breads, cheeses, and other similar things were on the table. Sherman glanced around, and, seeing that Francisco and others had already started partaking in the food laid before them, followed suit.
"A lunch party?" Sherman asked quietly as he buttered a roll.
"Hm," Francisco said. "Something like that. Lotta talking, though."
As the clock ticked closer to 1:30, more and more people began to fill up that spacious room. They ended up having to bring in more tables to handle all the Clerics and Novitiates that were arriving. Soon, the room was abuzz with chatter, small talk, and curious and nervous wonderings as to what, exactly, was going on.
The clock struck 1:30, and the doors burst open.
A little old man walked in, and Sherman realized that it was the preacher who had spoke that morning. Suddenly, the room rose from their seats to stand—including Francisco. Sherman scrambled to follow suit, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Elsewhere in the room, someone did knock over their chair, eliciting a pained grunt. The man walked through the pathway that had been set up in the middle of the tables to the long table at the head of the room. He sat at its center, and was soon joined by his procession—men in suits, women in dresses, both in choral robes, both in ceremonial uniforms. Finally, at last, five people entered, taking up spaces on either side of the preacher. The first was a tall, elegant, dark-skinned woman in a long white dress with an equally white hat, adorned in expensive-looking jewelry. The second was a tanned man in full military fatigues with bars and stripes pinned to his breast, his hair cropped combat-short. The third was a swarthy man in a long, red-and-white striped jacket, complete with a tall hat upon his head. The fourth was pale, dark-haired woman in a smart pantsuit, a briefcase tucked under her arm. The last was a blonde man in honest-to-gods knight armor, complete with a flowing white cape. All of them had one article in common—a shining gold brooch pinned to the left breast. The last sat at the preacher's right hand, while the first at his left.
"Now presenting the His Holiness the Pope of the Church of the Seven Flames of Liberthasia, Pietro MacArthur Solomon" said the man in armor. "All stand and present yourselves."
Francisco stood at attention, his face stone. Sherman copied him, making the same strange salute—both arms bent, his left arm forward and up, his right arm forward and left, crossed at the wrists.
"All non-Cleric personnel be seated," said the spokesman. "All Clerics and Novitiates, remain standing."
"Now presenting the Cardinals of Freedom's Torch. Presenting the Choir Director, Natasha Hosier." The elegant woman bowed slightly.
"Presenting Grahamford F. Bradley, Four-Star General of the Commonwealth of Columbia." The military man nodded.
"Presenting Ringmaster Otto van Barnum of Barnum's Travelling Fun Fair Festival." The pin-striped man tipped his hat.
"Presenting Dr. Salkhouse Quaker, M.D." The woman in the suit gave a sharp nod.
"And presenting Washington Pendragon, Mayor of Brightflame City," he said, before giving a half bow of his own. "All be seated and heed the words of His Holiness."
As they sat, the preacher—Pope, rather—stood and began to speak.
"Welcome back, Blade-Brothers of the Order of Liberthasia," he said, and his voice was stronger and more passionate than it was during the sermon. "And welcome, Novitiates. Doubtless this is all a confusion to you, and I admit that current circumstances are . . . unique. But first—I am sure you are all hungry. Let us sharpen our attentions on the whetstone of lunch, then."
He clapped, and food was wheeled out on rolling carts. Servers passed on by, handing out roast chicken, sandwiches, prime rib, slices of pizza, mashed potatoes, vegetable stir-fry, and all sorts of other foodstuffs to the various assembled. It all seemed to be traditional Columbian fare, though there were some foreign options scattered about here and there. Francisco ended up with a steak and Sherman ended up with a plate of pasta. It was actually pretty good, all things considered.
The Pope let them eat for a few minutes before he started to speak. "I trust that your Cleric teachers have informed you of the basics of Cleric work," he said. "You are all here to drive back and eliminate the Contemptible Contagion, monsters of shadow and fear that prey upon humanity. Each of you has been chosen by Lady Liberthasia herself. You have traveled here from across the country—no, the world—in order to join our esteemed ranks. For that, you will be taking a series of Trials. You will be receiving the time and date of the trials on your phones tomorrow morning, so be ready."
His speech went on, talking some about the Order, what it meant to be a Cleric, and some of the specific rules and conduct that Clerics were expected to abide by. It was stuff Sherman had all heard before—always put the people first, behave in a manner that reflects well on the Church, and use your abilities to help out people in need. Common stuff, really, though the speech was more convincing here than the other had been hours ago. Was it the intimacy of the room, Sherman wondered, or was the Pope using his better material for them? If so, why?
Lunch went on, and eventually dessert was brought out—a slice of chocolate cake. Sherman had had better.
Eventually, the Pope dismissed them, and they all slowly began to file out of the room. Some stuck around and tried to talk with each other. Sherman wondered if he should, but Francisco started to head out straight away, and he didn't want to be left behind.
"That was . . . ." Sherman began when they were alone.
"A pain," Francisco said.
Sherman agreed, but didn't want to say it, so he didn't. Instead, he asked, "Can you tell me anything about these Trials?"
"No."
" . . . Really?"
"Can't," Francisco said, his usual frown deeper than normal. "Would that I could, but I can't. Not a peep."
"Any advice at all?"
" . . . None that I haven't said in the past four months," Francisco said. "Trust in your training and your instincts. That's what'll keep you alive."
The rest of the evening passed without affair, and Sherman, tired from the day's ordeal, decided to head to bed early. He laid out everything for the next day—a mixture of football and hockey gear from his highschool and college days, including his jersey and his motorcycle helmet.
With everything set up for the next day, he hit the sack to prepare for whatever would come for him, joining the already-asleep Francisco in the realm of sleepers.
He was awoken by his phone blaring an emergency alarm at 12:01 AM.
"BE AT JOHN H TERN NATIONAL PARK AT 2:30 AM," an anonymous message said. Sherman was unsure of how it managed to trigger his phone's emergency alert, but it had all the same. "FAILURE TO ARRIVE WILL MEAN INSTANT DISQUALIFICATION."