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Chapter 1

Tolen was alone inside Saint Cartrand’s chapel. Light in three colors shined down on him as he crouched with a rag in his hands beneath the chapel’s glorious stained-glass window. Today was his cleaning day--one of his many jobs here in the monastery. At fourteen years old, Tolen was old enough to clean the chapel alone, though it was hardly a task he relished.

At the moment he was resting--leaning against the wall on the far side of the chapel. Upon the window above him, Michaleus the liberator stood tall and mighty--a flowing-haired hero with burning eyes, a fiery halo and two blades of purest light. The white, yellow and violet colored glass cast shimmering images across the otherwise gray chapel interior.

Tolen stood up, putting the rag into a pocket of his simple orphan’s cassock, and brushing back his thick black mane of hair from a face that was a bit too swarthy and a tad too sharply-angled to be from Arasoni lineage. The window was done--polished to perfection. Next was the marble altar, then the three dozen pews, and then the windows near the front of the chapel. He was already done with the floor, the hardest part.

Tolen sighed and took the rag back in hand again. For a moment, his eyes--a curiously jade-colored shade of green--glanced over the chapel. The pews, altar, windows…ah, yes, he nearly forgot about the two statues lining the entry; one of the Liberator himself, another depicting Saint Cartrand--a taciturn looking man with a heavy beard and a thick book in one hand. Cartrand’s statue almost seemed to glare at him as he looked towards it, as if berating him for not cleaning it yet.

Tolen pulled his eyes away and went to the pews. Up and down, left and right, he worked his rag across their wooden surface, cleaning dust and grime and all the varied filth upon them. From the ones closest to the altar he worked his way to the back. The pews in the back were the only truly dirty ones, really--the ones where the orphans sat. Here at Saint Cartrand’s, the Church blessed the poor orphans of the world with its hospitality, housing twenty-two of them in total, including Tolen, who was one of the oldest.

He had always lived here. He didn’t know if it was a good life or a bad life; to him it was just life. Every day was doing chores, saying prayers, a morning mass, an evening mass, a few classes and three meals. Apparently there was a world outside of the monastery, but at fourteen years old it was just a rumor to him. Once or twice a pilgrim’s circus would come by and show them animals and acts from distant lands, and occasionally the monastery would have an odd visitor from a far-away church. Mostly it was just him, the other orphans, and the clergy.

Tolen continued to clean the pews…shining them as well as he could. He didn’t really like this job, but he knew Mother Verana--the head priestess here--wouldn’t settle for anything less than shiny, pristine and close to divine. Thus, he continued to clean them for close to an hour.

Finally, Tolen was finished. Now just the windows, those statues, and he would be done. He crumpled up his now filthy rag and tossed it back into a bucket in the chapel’s corner.

It was then that he felt something; a shiver running across the back of his neck and up his spine; like the feeling of being watched. He could feel it, moving up his spine and into his head. Then he felt dirty. Greasy, disgusting, even sinful. It was like everything bad in the world was suddenly inside of him…throbbing, pulsating, reaching to get out. He nearly fell over.

Tolen took a deep breath, pushing the feeling into the back of his mind. Not today. He did not need this today. He pulled a clean rag from his pocket, shook his head, and got ready to finish his job. As he looked around the chapel again, he felt a bit better. Odd, he thought for a moment. It had never happened to him in here.

##

The Saeitus first came to him soon after he turned ten. It was a gray and hazy day out on the monastery grounds. He remembered little else about the day, save for the fact that a group of red-robed men had come to see Verana earlier--the Red Priests. Tolen sat alone in the shadow of a crumbling old statue that stood in the grass just below the monastery’s path. The day was heavy, he remembered that. Oppressive, the blanket of clouds in the sky feeling like they were about to come down and choke him. Nearby, the other children laughed and played; some kicking around an old leather ball that one of the visiting circuses had left that year, others playing games of pretend and playing at knights. Tolen would have joined in, but today just felt wrong. He just sat there, in the shadow of the old faceless statue; a thing that had supposedly stood there before the monastery itself was even built. Nobody could remember who it depicted, and the face had crumbled away years ago. He saw them all around; enjoying themselves despite the dreary day. Some of the boys pushed each-other in mock-battle, while the girls sat in the grass and held a mock court--their empress being pretty, yellow-haired Bethany. His ears were filled with shouts and giggles as he watched from the shadow of his statue. It all started to feel like a haze to him then--all their motions growing slower and slower. As Tolen stared out at the other children, it was as if he was seeing all of them die before his eyes. He could sense the darkness in each of them, like a worming serpent wound about their hearts, slowly devouring them from within. He felt something deep inside of him throbbing, crying to be let out--screaming to his mind. Everything was slowly fading away, fading to inky redness that spilled from the edge of his vision inward. The last thing Tolen remembered of that scene was Bethany--her gray eyes filling with tears as she ran over to his slumped form.

Then Tolen knew he had dreamed. He couldn’t remember it all--just flashes of odd things: pulsating, throbbing, alive things. He remembered fear, anger, hopelessness and finally rage. Screaming, tearing, digging--then finally gasping for air as he awoke with a cold sweat in his own bed, Verana standing over him.

He explained the whole thing to her. Verana looked worried for a moment, her kind brown eyes hiding unspoken feelings. Then she smiled, wiped his head with a warm cloth, and spoke to him in soft words.

"You are special, Tolen," she said, as he lay there in bed, feeling disgusting, corrupt and strangely greasy. "What you felt back there--it is your gift from God."

"What do you mean, Mother?"

"You are feeling what many great people have felt over the ages--it is called the Saeitus--the sin-sense. Like many of the saints and even the holy Aeter themselves, you can feel the presence of bad things."

Ten-year-old Tolen just sat there and listened.

"Like we teach at the sermons, there is a bit of badness, a bit of sin in every human being. We are born with it, and it stays with us until the day we die and the Liberator takes it away. That ‘sin’ is a part of the universe--a left-over from the corruption brought to us by the Old Gods and the fallen one Chevultegon. That is what you felt earlier."

"But…but Mother Verana," he asked. "It felt terrible…how can it be a gift from God?"

"Our God, dearest child, works in mysterious ways. The Saeitus is one of those ways. The evil in our world is ever-present…you can simply feel it. I know…it may seem unpleasant at first, but the Liberator clearly knew you were capable of handling it; and thus, it is your gift from him. Many great people over the years have been born with it, just like you."

"Like who?"

"Saint Caudilla of Ellianther, for instance, or Saint Lakkis; or even Sir Lawrence Calliban. I had the pleasure of meeting him once: a true hero and a man of God ." Verana smiled warmly at him, and for some reason it made him feel better. "Once you wake up more, I can tell you some of the stories."

"S-sure," he stammered, eager for anything to distract his mind from the filth that felt like it was growing inside him.

##

Tolen sat down at a pew, getting his bearings. He wished he knew why he felt like this, or what triggered it. Mostly it was at random. Everyone had sinful thoughts, apparently, and likely he was just picking up on them. Strange, since he was alone here, and wasn’t doing anything evil. He could still feel it, pounding in the back of his mind…there, but quieter than it had been a minute go. Tolen always thought that it had something to do with his family, perhaps something passed on from a mother or father. Of course, he never knew his family. The orphans and the priests were the closest thing he had to one. He didn’t even have a surname.

Verana called it a gift from God, but at times like this he wasn’t sure how it was a gift at all. Verana had told him countless tales of how wonderful saints had used such a power for good. Everyone knew the tales of Sir Calliban the demon-slayer, a man who had reputedly developed the Saeitus while working with the Church, and used it to track down and slay monsters of all sorts. Tolen had always imagined being like Sir Calliban, being a hero, using the Saeitus for something beneficial. But right now, sitting in this empty chapel with a rag in his hands, he didn’t feel like any sort of hero, or a saint for that matter. He just felt greasy, nauseous and shaky.

Tolen shook such thoughts out of his head. He needed to finish the cleaning soon, get to dinner, then prepare for evening mass. He walked over to the windows. Cleaning them was easy enough, and the Saeitus didn’t rear its ugly head. He polished them both in minutes, and was soon ready for the two statues--the biggest dust-collectors in the chapel.

As Tolen began cleaning Cartrand’s dour form, he felt it again--poking at the edges of his consciousness, throbbing in the depths of his being. It suddenly washed over him like a wave crashing against a breaker. He looked up to see Saint Cartrand’s eyes staring down at him, piercing his soul, judging him for his sinfulness. Tolen wrenched his head back. It was growing worse. He could feel it all through his body now--greasy, horrible, like a bucket of wretchedness spilled over him. Dark spots formed on the edge of his vision, and his heart began to beat faster and faster, at an irregular and strange pace. Tolen fell to the ground, feeling the depths of the Saeitus overcoming him. For a second, as he lay down on the cold stone floor, an image flashed in his mind--the silhouette of a man on a mountain...a red, burning sky in the background. Horns covered the man’s head like a crown. He heard a chorus of screams echoing through his head. Louder and louder, more voices adding to them, growing in intensity each instant.

And then quiet. Then he was again lying on the chapel floor, his head bruised, his mind numb. Tolen pulled himself up. He quickly rubbed down the two statues without looking at them, then put his rag away, took his bucket, and stumbled out of the room. Hopefully this was the end of it.

##

The clatter of metal plates and pans drifted to his ears from the nearby kitchen, as Tolen found his way to an empty table in the back of the monastery’s mess hall. The hall itself was a long, dark, windowless chamber, lit by six torches set into wall sconces. A reddish light filled his eyesight, and from the kitchen, he could already detect the scent of baking bread and onion soup. Aside from a few monks and Tolen, the tables were relatively empty. He had arrived early, the force of the Saeitus still upon him--its sick feeling still crawling across his skin, while remnants of his prior vision still stuck in his mind. Tolen knew he needed to eat something--the Saeitus always left him drained and empty--and plus, he wanted to get in and out of here as quickly as possible, without having to deal with any of the other orphans. Despite his desires, it looked as though the cooks were taking their time today; and with onion soup, nonetheless. He hated onion soup--hated anything to have to do with onions--foul-tasting, noxious things whose taste lingered in his mouth for hours after eating them. Tolen refused to eat onions, even cooked and in a soup. Still, at least the bread would fill him up. He sighed, placing an elbow on the table and resting his chin on a hand as he waited for the cooks to begin bringing out the meal.

Shadows drifted across the torch-lit floor as others began drifting into the hall and sitting at their customary tables; more monks, followed by old Father Terlin, a semi-retired priest whose beard fell to just below his stomach. After several minutes some of the off-duty church guards began coming in--Karl and Jayson, two burlier men in their twenties who wore short-swords and simple leather armor. Soon, the other children began coming into the hall.

There was Jimmy--fat-faced, thick-armed and pale-skinned, who strode boldly into the hall, accompanied by Tad and Jorden, his constant entourage. Jimmy briefly glanced over at Tolen as his band entered the hall, then looked to Jorden and chuckled, muttering some likely-offensive comment under his breath. The fat-headed boy, his face glistening in the torch-light, looked over to Tolen; a smirk on his face, his mouth open as if about to say something. Tolen just gave him a dead-eyed, hateful glare, as their eyes met for a brief moment. Something in his gaze must have tipped Jimmy off to Tolen’s unpleasant mood. The boy said nothing, looked away, and ushered his companions to sit with him at a table on the furthest end of the hall. Tolen was glad of it.

After Jimmy and his band, others began arriving at the mess hall--Garel and Jeran, who were brothers; Andru, Boras, Reln and Mevin, Mira and Ryk as well. Janisa, Nedrek, Douvria, Kolran, Loyl and Tarris came in shortly after; likely just finished with their mid-day classes. Then, of course, there was Bethany--regal, flaxen-haired and elegant. She strode into the hall with the grace of a saint, her eyes drawn briefly to Tolen before she turned away and went to sit with Mira, Douvria and Janisa at the usual "girls’ table".

For a moment, as he sat there, his eyes barely open, he imagined her--Bethany--coming to his table. She would ask him how he was doing, a concerned tone in her voice, as if she noticed his oddness today, somehow knew about his Saeitus. They would talk, his green eyes meeting her sweet sky-blues, an understanding smile on her face. He would tell her everything--about the Saeitus, his odd feelings--and somehow, she would understand, and her kind, caressing smile would soothe the hurt that still seethed inside of him.

But still she sat at her girls’ table--her back straight as she recounted a lesson to her open-eared companions. Bethany never looked his way. Thus, Tolen sat there in a daze, admiring her like a man would admire a lovely view from afar. He could feel the Saeitus still beating away in his gut--or perhaps it was merely his hungry belly.

The last person to enter the hall was Caly. Caly was an oddity in the monastery. A girl of eight: short-cropped, cherry-red hair, and large dark eyes that seemed to stare off into something that few others could see. Caly was small, unassuming and quiet. She never said a word unless spoken to first. Unlike the other children, who seemed mostly uncomfortable around Tolen, Caly barely seemed to notice him, let alone be afraid of him. Thus, he watched as the little girl took her food and sat down at the table, just opposite him. She never said a word to him, but began munching on her bread, paying more attention to it than the person right across from her. She often sat at his table--he had no idea why. They hardly talked. Neither did they seem to have anything whatsoever to talk about. He hardly knew anything about the little thing--only that she was the sole survivor of a small peasant village that where everyone had died of a sudden plague. Caly had been found alone among the fields when she was three, barely conscious and hardly even aware of what had happened to her family and village. She never spoke of it, and Tolen knew it was none of his business, so he never asked. Nonetheless, little Caly was his only constant companion in the common hall--silent, uncaring and perhaps oblivious--but a kind of kindred spirit nevertheless. He was glad when she sat down. Another person would keep Jimmy and his idiots away.

The food came and it was mediocre, as always. Tolen was starting not to like food very much. He took not more than a sip of the onion soup, regretting it as he tasted the strong aroma of the evil vegetables entering his mouth. He began nibbling at the bread, discovering that he wasn’t really that hungry after all. A half-loaf into his stomach and Tolen knew he wasn’t eating any more. So he washed the bread down with a chug of water, cleaned his plate off, and sat back down, waiting for the monks to call meal-time over.

Again, he felt it seething in his deep gut. From his center on out, Tolen could sense it crawling up--the Saeitus, sending a shivery pulse across his body. As it reached his heart it began beating faster. It felt like he needed to wretch, but as always, he couldn’t. Everything in the dining hall was fuzzy; hazy forms outlined in a red hue. Tolen knew he was shaking, and dug his hands into the wood of the table to steady himself. Across from him, Caly still ate her food, not noticing him one bit. He could feel the others looking his way. Jimmy was probably pointing and chuckling--Bethany, giving a concerned glance his way and shaking her head. Even mild-mannered Mira would likely raise an eyebrow. To his eyes, however, they all became blurs--hazy masses of light, shadow and flurried movement. Then, as Tolen’s heartbeat increased, the world slowed to a crawl. He could see everything in them now--their spirits, dancing inside their bodies like bunched-up lightning, each one lined in a coat of slick, oily darkness: darkness that dripped through their bodies and leaked onto everything they touched. This whole place was covered in it--stinking, fetid, greasy corruption. Tolen could feel the sweat oozing from his forehead and dripping down his hair. He reached for his cup and practically drenched his mouth in water, closing his eyes as it swam into his throat. He slammed the cup on to the table and everything was normal again. He didn’t know if they were all still looking at him, and in truth, he had no idea if any of them had really noticed anything, or if it was just his Saeitus-paranoia.

Then Brother Benson stepped through the rear doors, shouting in a deep voice, signaling the end of supper. Tolen thanked the Liberator that this was over.

###

Tolen looked up at turbulent gray sky, dark clouds floating past like great whales in a sea of atmosphere. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the day’s obscuring sky, letting the wind blow at his thick black hair, and watching the panorama of forest and mountains that surrounded the monastery. Up here on the roof, he could think. He could breathe. He could clear his mind--or at least attempt to.

Tolen felt like he was about to explode--like something wretched, crawly and disgusting was ready to tear from his body and come into the world. He felt on-edge and paranoid; as if somehow, something buried deep inside of him knew something terrible was about to happen. This was nothing unusual, he told himself. It happened all the time to him. He took a deep breathe, shook his head, and stood up from his place on the flat rooftop.

Though only fourteen years old, Tolen seemed tall for his age, and not nearly as lanky as most boys in the monastery. People always told him he looked older than he really was--or that just looking at him, they really couldn’t tell what age he might be. Mother Verana had always told him it was the look in his eyes…a look that hinted at wisdom beyond years, knowledge before life, and secrets that even he did not know. In their jade-colored green depths, she said that great secrets were hidden. Citing the doctrine of reincarnation, she said that perhaps he had been someone great in a past life. Tolen didn’t know. He didn’t think he was wise, smart, or anything of the sort. The others all thought he was some kind of freak, anyway. Especially at times like these…especially when he experienced the Saeitus. He could never talk to any of them about it…and the priests would just think he was some sort of insane heretic.

Thus, he was up here on the monastery’s roof. He always came here when he needed to be alone. All his life had been spent down in the monastery below. The other orphans--twenty-two in total--were wards of the church, just like him, children whose parents had been killed, vanished, or otherwise left them. Just like him, this place was home for them. Tolen had lived all his years here, beside them. Still he often felt an outsider among them…always the strange boy who looked foreign and acted strange. His eyes were a different color from all of theirs, his face was angled differently, and half the time he couldn’t think of a single sociable word to say. Some of the kids thought there was something creepy about him. Whatever. He couldn’t care less, or so he told himself. They could all rot with the Fallen One. Tolen balled his fists thinking about them, then suddenly flinched as the sick feeling came upon him again, like maggots under his flesh. There was no way he was going to evening mass tonight.

Tolen began pacing, walking back and forth along the length of the flat roof, winding his way around the seven statues of the Aeter Lords that watched over this place, trying to ignore his feeling as much as he could. The statues were all bizarre looking things: like people, but all with oddities about them: an eye in the middle of a forehead, one or even several sets of wings on their backs, or horns upon their heads. The Aeter were gods of a sort, so said Mother Verana. They were the good spirits who had aided Michaleus the Liberator in his battles against the other gods, who were all insane and corrupt. The Seven were their leaders--kings and queens of the heavenly race that dwelt on the far-off world of Aeterra. Some of the other children were afraid of these statues, saying that they looked scary. Tolen didn’t mind. Something about them here made him feel comfortable, in ways that the people below did not. He sighed. Tolen knew Mother Verana would be angry with him for missing her lecture tonight. Verana ran the monastery below like her personal kingdom; and while her hand was strict and her ideals strong, there was a kind side to her as well--a side suggesting something other than just a stern Priestess of the Purple Robes. Verana was the closest thing he knew to a real mother…thus, he couldn’t help but feel a bit bad.

Still, there was no chance he would sit through a sermon tonight. Tolen leaned back against one of the Aeter statues, the statue of Lord Aramos, a six-winged, crest-headed man who faced the north-east. He looked out over the lands--forested and wild, alive and free--the opposite of the cold and sterile monastery below. There lay, some days away, the place known as Mount Massarc.

Massarc was a gray and barren mountain, topped by a sunken crater. Surrounded by miles of green forest, most thought of it as an eyesore. It stood leering over the lands below, casting its dark shadow over the nearby towns. Tolen had always wondered about that mountain--the children always told stories about that place--stories of ghosts, heretics and monsters. They said that horrible things used to go on there, back in the old days. The monks, and even Verana, refused to speak of it. Tolen liked the mountain. It was strange, different, mysteries and shunned…like him.

It was already starting to get dark--the shining sun beginning to set below the southern horizon. For a few minutes he watched the sunset--finding a bit of comfort in watching the last rays of the sun cast their reddish glow across the distant mountains. It was nice, in a way, looking out into the world. He had never been anywhere but here, after all. At times he would imagine what the world was like--a world of conflict and violence, or so said the priests--a world of hatred, sin, and vice, where people were hurt, robbed and killed. It sounded pretty interesting to him, and from up here it didn’t look altogether bad. Mother Verana had once told him, after repeated questioning, where he was from. She said he was born somewhere in the far-off deserts of Feltemar, though when he asked her the exact place, or who his parents had been; she refused to say any more. Perhaps he would visit there some day.

For now it was just this monastery. Maybe he would grow up here, become a monk, and live the rest of his days praying. That is, if they let him become a monk…with his Saeitus and everything…from what the teachers said, some people in the Church wouldn’t take too kindly to things like that. Some of the boys even said how the Church would hurt people if they didn’t seem normal. All his life he had heard tales of witch-burnings and heretics thrown into dungeons. Even Mother Verana had told him not to be open about his Saeitus. Though Saints were known to manifest it, so were sorcerers…and few were proclaimed saints in life. Thus, Tolen seldom told anyone about the Saeitus.

Such were his thoughts as he sat against the statue and looked out over the world beyond his home. Soon, the sun had sunken down into distant vistas. Darkness covered the land, and up above the world’s ever-present moon could be seen; as there and as full as ever. Some of the monks said the moon use to move, used to ‘wax’ and ‘wane’, back in ancient times. They said some of their books had proof of it. Now, of course, it lay still, and few sought to question it on that matter.

Tolen stood up from his place by the statue. He began the walk back to the roof’s edge, realizing that he was feeling a bit better. Then, as he got to the very edge of the roof, he felt it again--a shiver on the back of his neck, followed by something else--a surge of pain, of anguish, of rage--like a wave, crashing against his soul. Tolen nearly fell off the roof. His eyes were drawn to something beyond the monastery, on a hill not far away….or rather, to someone.

He saw the fellow for but an instant--a man who reminded him of nothing more than a dog. Human, of course, but with a strangely canine look to his face--yellowish eyes sunken in an oversized skull, a low jaw-bone and a long face, and though it was hard to tell from here, the man looked big--bigger than any person Tolen knew. For a moment their eyes met--yellow-to-jade--and he thought he could see the dog-faced man smile at him. Then he blinked and the strange character was gone.

Tolen spent several minutes on the roof, looking out to try and see the man again. He saw nothing but the darkness, covered by the white sheen of moonlight. There was no dog-man. Perhaps he had imagined it. He knew he hadn’t. Again he felt the after-affects of the Saeitus seeping through him.

He tried not to think too much about it. Tolen soon climbed off the roof, down a gutter-drain and into a back window of the monastery. The trip back to his room was brief. He avoided the other students, and particularly the monks. He didn’t need anyone questioning him on this. Back in his simple room, he fell onto his straw mattress and practically passed out, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

From A Stronger Steel, Prologue

Prologue

The fetus opened his eyes for the first time. His body was soft, his limbs feeble, his skin unused. His vision was faint, but all around him he could tell he was surrounded in a kind of viscous, translucent sack. Beyond that everything was pink, pulsating and alive. All his existence was warmth: wet, calm, comforting warmth. He could feel this place pumping life into his body through a fleshy tube that protruded from his midriff. Everything felt new. He was soft, feeble and sticky. His muscles could barely fathom the strength to kick weakly at the fleshy wall surrounding him. His eyes could barely see ahead of him, only enough to discern light and a bit of color. The unborn child’s body felt uncomfortable, as if it wasn’t his body at all, but some shabbily made vehicle he was only using temporarily.

The fetus wasn’t sure how long he had been here before waking up. Perhaps he had always been here, or maybe he had never existed before opening his eyes. Perhaps all the universe was this cramped fleshy hole. Yet deep inside of him he knew it was not. A part of him could almost remember something else; something before this. Shadowy memories, still lingering in his soul, hinted at a greater existence--of strength, of power, of destiny. Yet his newly formed brain was still mushy, his thoughts indistinct and any memories that may have been there were unreachable.

The first thoughts of his newly made mind were confusion; he didn’t know where he was, why he was here, or where he was going. It was only him, his awkward little body, and the enclosing wall of flesh that kept him trapped. Yet from deep in his gut, from the core of his being, the yet unborn entity felt a strange kind of assurance; a sensation empowering and confident, letting him know that things would soon make sense. It was as if something inside of him knew more than he did; was wiser, older and stronger than he was. Perhaps it was that part of him that still remembered what it was like before this awkward new body and the strange pink walls.

Still, if that secretive part of him knew more, it was silent. Thus the fetus was left to himself, floating in his morass of bodily fluids. He did not know how long he floated there. He could feel his body slowly growing, fed constantly through the cord at his waist. Though he was ever-changing, his environment was constant; the fleshy walls, moving at their normal rate, the solid and regular thumping of the large heart somewhere above. Then everything changed.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound vibrating through mucus and fluid, he began to hear a drone--like the chanting of a dozen entities. Regular syllables, guttural, harsh, warlike; their tone one of discipline and command, yet tainted with rage. For what might have been days he heard it. At first it was strange and alien. Then it became normal: a regular part of his existence. Like a lullaby it reverberated through his body, comforting and at the same time invigorating. The chant went on and on. The infant felt it grow stronger after a week. He could sense it changing, its tempo rising, its anger and empowerment raising in crescendo. After two weeks it grew soft and low--like the growl of a beast waiting to pounce. He could feel the chant awakening something; something deep within his body and soul. It was then that his vision changed from fuzzy to clear. He could see, not only light, but every detail of the pink sack he was trapped in. Where before his muscles were soft and delicate, he now felt them tighten as his body took on a new strength. Everything that had been dormant in him was starting to wake up.

The chanting grew louder and louder. More voices joined it, and as the chanting grew louder, the fetus’ hearing seemed to grow more acute as well. Then it stopped. For the first time in weeks, all he could hear was his own heart-beat and the larger one above him. Then the walls began closing in on him.

Closer and closer they came, until he had no room to move and nowhere to go. They pushed at him, tossing him forward, towards where he did not know. He tried resisting, tried fighting, but he couldn’t get a grip on any of the slick walls, and was instead twisted and turned by their constant motion. All became a blur of contractions and gushing fluid. He could hear a tormented scream from somewhere above, and the constant heartbeat became quick and hectic. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The child felt himself choking. The cord of flesh that had before brought him life was now around his neck, threatening to take that life away. He tried pulling it aside, but despite his strength he couldn’t seem to get the right position, as the contacting walls pushed him one way and the cord refused to let go.

He felt himself unable to breathe at all. His vision became unsteady. Everything took on a reddish haze. Spots formed on the edges of his sight. Perhaps this life would be over before it began. No! He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t let this kill him! The Fetus tried with one last desperate surge of strength to break the cord’s hold on him…but only pushed it further into his neck. There was nothing he could do. He was going to die.

At that moment, everything human in the fetus stopped. At the moment of near-death, humanity gave way and the thing which had been sleeping inside the boy took over. All his vision was coated in red, as black claws emerged from his hands and feet. A crown of tiny horns ripped from the soft bone of his skull. His eyes burned with a fiery green light, and his teeth transformed into fangs. With his rapidly growing muscles the beast tore at the cord and walls that threatened him. He clawed and bit, not caring at the blood that oozed everywhere nor the horrid death-screams that came from above. He ripped and scratched, digging through the flesh-wall that had so long made him a prisoner, covered in a stream of blood and tissue while unconscious chaos filled his mind. The demon child tore at flesh and broke through bone, until he tasted his first gulp of air and emerged triumphant through the abdomen of a woman who had, moments ago, stopped screaming.

The newborn looked around with surprise and exhaustion as his vision came back and his mind became his own. His horns sunk back into his head. His claws and fangs withdrew. His eyes lost their glow. He looked around at the strange room--filled with men in black robes, its walls covered in runes and lined with pillars in the shape of snarling beasts. Then the babe looked up at his mother’s face--twisted in an expression of agony, her tear-drenched eyes displaying shock and horror, but a bittersweet love as well. As she breathed her last breath, the infant began to cry.

##

Dargas, Master of Swords, could feel the hand of destiny guiding him that day. Energy filled his body—a gentle shiver running from the crown his head to the base of his spine. The Master of Swords had not felt so alive since before his manhood had been taken from him more than twenty years back. But now all of that did not matter. Now he stood above such petty issues. He had made his sacrifices, and now they were all coming to fruition.

He stood at the center of the ritual circle, inky darkness stretching across the corners of the immense dungeon chamber where his disciples had done their work. His arms were raised above him, holding the blood-covered, naked infant to the blackness above. His black robe wrapped around his body, hiding any features. It covered all save for his mask, a mask of purest white, opaque and yet glistening with the sheen of metal. The mask was the face of a man; serene, placid, expressionless—with a single horn jutting from between the eyes, and two tusk-like protrusions at either cheek. Beneath the mask he surveyed the room with cool blue eyes, watching silently as the disciples around him put out their dim red candles and began concluding the ritual. At his feet, the mother of the child stirred no more—as expected, the birth had been fatal.

Finally, he told himself as he muttered the final prayers to his sleeping god. The ritual was a success. After years of work, decades of research and untold sacrifice. Dargas, Master of Swords, intoned the customary prayers to his god T’lakkor, though he knew that the prayers fell on deaf ears. A prayer of protection for the child, of strength, of courage, of virtue. He said the prayers for the nine disciples gathered in a circle around him, their heads bowed to the earthy floor below. But he knew in his heart that the god of strife did not answer prayers. Not yet.

One-by-one he watched as the disciples put out the red candles in their hands. As the last light faded from the chamber, Dargas knew they were finished. Feeling a sense of satisfaction washing over him, Master Dargas lowered the baby and cradled it in his arms.

“It is finished,” he said to the gathered black-robed men. “The ritual is complete. Now do as instructed.” Without a word, the eight others obeyed; two of them began wrapping the woman’s corpse in a heavy tarp, while several others hurried to leave the chamber through a spiral staircase near the rear.

Dargas took himself the opposite way, taking the baby and swaddling it in a coarse woolen blanket he took from the folds of his robe. Dargas motioned for one young disciple to follow him, making his way though the torchlit archway at the southern end of the great ritual chamber.

Now he stood in a smaller room—an antechamber of withered red sandstone walls, ancient frescoes on the walls faded with time and ill maintenance, several teetering pillars still standing; snarling, beastlike and menacing, just like the ones behind him. At the far end of the room another archway led to a staircase, from which he could feel a rush of warm desert air, scented with cactus flowers. Against one of the pillars was a cradle, taken from one of the castle servants for this very reason. He stepped over and gently placed the baby boy down into it.

Dargas couldn’t help but smile as he removed his mask and undid the hood of his robe, revealing a smooth bald head beneath. He looked down at the baby that now lay in its first cradle, wrapped in a blanket and looking around at the world with its curious jade-green eyes—innocent, and yet with a certain knowing, empowered look in them.

Dargas placed his steel mask onto a nearby table, took a few steps over to the cradle, and bowed his head in silent prayer to his god. This was truly his blessing. His reward for years of labor and faithful service. The child was the greatest gift his Lord could have given him. No, he realized, not his blessing: the world’s blessing. A new chance for this shattered, damned planet. A final opportunity for mankind to realize its destiny.

The child would do so much; become so much more. This, then, was their hope. Just as the Shining Tyrant had foretold on the shores of Sahavris. Even the sickly visions of that prophet boy confirmed it.

Two of his disciples entered the room from behind him, clad in their traditional black robes, hoods over their heads. He could see that they carried a human-sized bundle, wrapped in bloody white rags.

“Take the body and incinerate it,” he said in a crisp, clear voice, pointing to the rag-wrapped corpse of the host-mother. “Its purpose has been served.”

Dargas lowered his head as they walked away with the corpse—off to the palace kitchens, no doubt, and the ovens that still operated there. In a way, he wished it could have been different—that the girl could have lived. He felt a pang of regret at the girl’s fate; but knew in his heart that it had been necessary for the greater good. In the end, in the next world, she would thank him along with the others. Sacrifices needed to be made, and perhaps his was the greatest sacrifice of all.

Dargas took a deep breath, letting his well-ordered mind slash away all thoughts and worries like enemies on a battlefield. He once again picked up the child and held the tiny bundle in his calloused hands; a warm mass of quivering, shaking flesh, breathing heavy beneath the sturdy woolen blanket. For a moment he could not help but think of the baby as a weak and vulnerable thing, bereft of parents, of love, of caring. Yet such potential lay within that boy: like a tiny seed that would one day grow to become the grandest tree. For the first time in many years, Daragas allowed himself to smile, and felt the beginings of tears welling up in his cool blue eyes. For but an instant, the bald-headed eunuch felt like the father that his own choices could never let him become.

For but an instant, Master Dargas of the Red Priesthood felt a surge of parental instinct. But only for an instant, before he reached into his mind and he killed those feelings like he had killed all others. This boy needed no such coddlings, after all. One such as he had no need of a mother to nurture him, nor a father to protect him. Such a child was born for greater things.

“Hand me the bottle,” said Dargas, nodding to the black-cloaked disciple standing with his back to the nearby pillar. Without a word the man did so, and Dargas began feeding the infant, waiting calmly as the babe began suckling the still-warm milk from the bottle. Several minutes passed, and it seemed the baby had finished its meal and was drifting into sleep. Dargas took the half-empty bottle from the child and handed it back to his silent disciple.

As the bottle passed from one hand to the other, Dargas heard a crash from the nearby staircase. They were here already, he realized, hearing the clatter of metal on metal from the same direction. Shouts and curses echoed from above, mixed with the screams of the dying. Dargas did not blink. The time was at hand, he told himself. All according to plan. Soon Priestess Verana would breach the inner wall of the fortress, along with some fool witch-hunter she had brought along. They would rush down the stairs, shout their prayers and their condmening words, and promplty slay all those involved in heretical activity. Dargas smiled to himself. Almost all, he noted.

He placed the still sleeping baby boy onto a nearby bench, then reached back to his hood and with a single motion, Dargas tore off his black cloak, revealing the distinctive red sash he wore beneath it, the garment of a very different sort of priest. The servant behind him gasped as he saw the mark of his sworn enemies, his mouth beginning to open as if he was about to say something to Dargas.

As if in preemptive answer, the bald-headed man swiftly reached into the folds of his sash, drew forth a long, curved heavy blade, smiled gently, and stabbed the servant cleanly in the throat. The younger man fell back, colappsing in a heap without a sound.

“The sleeping king will thank you for your service,” whispered Dargas, bowing to the fallen disciple. He wiped his sword on the dead man’s robe, sheathed it once more, and calmly turned around, picked up the baby, and headed for the staircase. He did not know if his ruse would still work, but perhaps it would give him the time he needed.

Within moments, the Master of Swords had navigated the familiar tunnels of Calav Fortress. He pushed open a creaky wooden door, and was finally greeted by the sight of warm orange light on his pale skin. Outside, he stood in the neglected courtyard gardens of the ancient fortress. Dry, shriveled trees flapping weakly in the hot winds; squat, unwholesome looking brush clinging to the cracked ground below. Above him, the sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows over the withered sandstone walls of the fortress below. To either side of the keep stood the grand red walls of Calav Pass, the same color as the squat, ill-tended building he had just left.

Dargas had little time to appreciate the scenery; already approaching his position was a party of a dozen people: armored men, several mounted, the rest on foot: all clad in chainmail and wearing the tabbard of the United Church—his ‘allies’, so to speak. At their head stood a young woman; pale blonde hair short-cropped to her head, her vulture-like visage observing the courtyard with a disdainful judgement. She wore a sash like his own, though the woman’s remaining hair let all know that she had not yet cleansed her sex. The soldiers poured into the courtyard and held their positions; the young woman stepped forward, along with a man in a longcoat that seemed vaguely familiar to Dargas. Suddenly he felt it: a feeling in the pit of his stomach. He sensed at that moment that they knew. The ruse would work no longer.

“Ah, Verana,” said Dargas, waving to the woman with his right hand, which was not grasping the child. “It seems you have arrived just in time.”

“F-father Dargas,” shouted the young woman, a slight quiver in her voice. “By order of the Arch-Vicar you are officially stripped of your office and placed under arrest, until such time as your crimes may be investigated by the Red Priesthood.” She said with words full of strength and loudness. Still Dargas could sense the fear in her.

“Under arrest, girl? You have no authority over me. If you recall, I am your master, and you my student.”

“No longer, Dargas. Your dealings with the witch and her cabal are known, and your presence in this place only affirms our suspicions. Hand over the baby and surrender to us, and it will look better in your trial.”

“I think not, child,” sneered Dargas. “Whatever my guilt or innocence, you should know better than to confront your superiors. And if all of your accusations are true, you know I will never surrender.”

“Then you must die, sorcerer,” said the man’s voice; deep, cultured, with a vague foreign accent. The voice’s owner stepped out from behind Verana. The demon-slayer, noted Dargas. Though he was not a tall man he stood a head over the Master of Swords. The man took a step forward, his leather armor crinkling as he walked, his tan colored duster blowing in the warm desert wind.

“Ah, the great Sir Lawrence Calliban,” said Dargas, looking straight at him. “I am glad they thought me worthy of your attention.”

Sir Calliban stared right back at him: a man of around thirty years, his face dominated by a long nose, a cleft chin, and a distinctly well-groomed handlebar mostache. His reddish-brown hair was long, straight, and tied back into a tail. He looked at Dargas, shook his head, and reached back for his sword, drawing it with a quick, steady motion. The sword was an odd one: as long as a greatsword, with a blade as thin as a shaving razor. In the bright sun it’s polished surface shone like a beam of light.

“No more words, sorcerer—I make no bargains with traitors. Stand back, m’lady”, Calliban stepped in front of Verana. “The scent of corruption is strong in this man.”

Dargas drew his own blade—the same crescent-curved sword he had killed his own disciple with, a type popular among the churchmen. Though not his preferred weapon, it would have to do. Finally he would put the legendary skills of the demon-slayer to the test.

Sister Verana took a few steps backward, and Dargas could see her body beginning to tense as she drew in a deep breath and pushed the palms of her hands together. He took one look at her, focused his thoughts outward, and watched as her body was flung across the courtyard and slammed against the fortress wall. He heard her groan in pain as she fell, a cloud of red-brown dust wallowing up around her. Dargas could sense the anger in Calliban as the demon-hunter took another step forward and raised his thin sword. He placed the still-sleeping baby in the doorway behind him.

As Calliban approached him, several of the soldiers moved for the main gate of the keep, to block the entry. Most of the others began making a circle around the knight and his apparent victim. Dargas almost regreted having to slaughter them, but knew from personal experience that Churchmen were stubborn fools who would never be persuaded.

Calliban’s blade sliced through the air with a chirping whistle and surprising speed. Dargas rolled to the side and got to his feet in time to deflect Calliban’s next attack. Then Dargas took a few paces back, away from the basement entry. He needed to take the fight away from the child. He paused, taking a deep breath as he saw Calliban glancing over his defenses.

For a moment, Dargas and Sir Lawrence just stood there, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Then, in an instant both men hurled themselves forward, running towards one another with swords blades slashing, colliding with a heavy metallic clang that split the thick air and sent a shower of sparks across the courtyard. Slicing, thrusting, parrying—blades clashed and rang like church-bells in that old withered garden as the two combatants tested one another, their blades not meeting flesh a single time.

Lawrence Calliban’s thin sword sailed through the air with grace and precision, and he moved with it fluid, dance-like style—like a fencer used to fighting under the sea. His sword whistled as he slashed through the air, its unique construction making it almost as much an instrument of music as of murder.

The tales about that man were true, then; noted Dargas as he stepped backward to block another one of Calliban’s long sideways slashes. He was reputedly one of the greatest sword fighters in the world—a master of his strange style, developed battling beings that were not altogether human. Rumor said that he had gotten that weapon—that thin whistling sword, from the faerie folk of legend. Dargas didn’t know if the rumors were true, and he didn’t care. The knight’s fighting style was unique, to be sure—but it had one flaw. Dargas noted that at times Calliban moved his weapon too fast, putting too much energy into each swing, tiring himself out far too quicky. As the witch-hunter took a wide slash that forced Dargas to duck downward, the Master of Swords could sense his opponent wearing himself down, beads of sweat already dripping from his brow. It was clear he was used to fighting opponents larger than mere men.

So Dargas let his ego step back. He waited, shifting to defensive maneuvers. As Calliban leaped at him he tried to stay as far away as possible. The demon-slayer pressed his offensive, so Dargas spun around and started backing away, towards a portion of the gardens that stood in front of Calav Fortress’ old main gate, where a grime-covered fountain stood, lined with crumbling angelic forms. Calliban continued to take swings at him, though the Master of Swords remained on the defensive. Attacking took far more energy, and so Dargas waited, letting himself get slowly pushed towards the rear portion of the gardens.

Finally, the Master felt his left foot hit the base of the old fountain. He waited just a moment longer, letting the witch-hunter take one last swing at his impeccable defenses—yet another parry. Then he lifted his curved blade over his right shoulder and swung with all the might in his tightly-wound body. Calliban lifted his blade up to block, but it didn’t matter. Dargas let the momentum of the swing take him, and let his body go with it—pushing aside the demon-slayer’s flimsy weapon and slicing right through his coat and the armor beneath. Calliban screamed as Dargas’ heavy blade sliced through skin and bone, cutting a wide gash across his chest and upper abdomen. The Master felt himself pulled along with his great blade for another moment, before his muscles finally regained control and he found himself standing above Calliban, who was just barely pulling himself to his feet—wounded, but still alive, having apparently rolled with the hit.

At that moment he heard the clatter of boots on stone. One glance at the outer archway revealed another six church soldiers, weapons drawn and running towards the ongoing battle. Verana had been wise to bring extra men: just as he had taught her.

“Bring the sorcerer down,” shouted Calliban as he jumped to his feet, ignoring his own bleeding gash. All six of the soldiers began running towards him, two of them moving to circle him from behind. Standard battle training told Dargas that he should step back more, to prevent them from surrounding him. Instead he held his ground.

Let these unenlightened fools come, he told himself, as several of the soldiers charged at him, crescent blades pointed in front of them. The Master lowered his sword, letting his energy focus inward, drawing most of his attention to a spot in the middle of his upper abdomen, where he could feel all his anger building up, waiting to be unleashed.

“May the Liberator’s violet flame burn you!” shouted a stout, bearded soldier in his native Kelvisian tongue.

Dargas continued to draw inward, taking a deep breath, barely dodging a long slash from the bearded man. He briefly heard a shuffle from behind him—from the wall where he had thrown Verana. At the height of his inward breath, Dargas briefly visualized the energy in his body rippling outward at a rapid pace. Then he screamed— a deep, vibratory, shaking scream.

As the negative energy poured out of him like water from an overfilled barrel, the three soldiers rushing him were all knocked to the ground, the two nearest—including the bearded man—screaming as their faces were shattered. The others reeled back, stumbling from the shock and perhaps bereft of their senses. Dargas saw Sir Calliban rolling away, another wound now visible on his left arm. The Master of Swords smiled a hellish smile, drew up his sword and planted it into the chest of nearest soldier.

It was then that he noticed it: the baby was gone, the doorway where he had left it standing horribly empty. The priestess was nowhere to be seen. Clever girl. She DID know better than to confront her betters, apparently.

“Your plan is ruined, heretic,” said Sir Calliban, getting to his feet. “Your battle is lost, despite your sorcery.” Several more of the soldiers began approaching Dargas’ position.

He knew Calliban spoke the truth. Dargas looked sidways again, as the remaining soldiers got to their feet and began shaking off the effects of his scream. By the time he defeated these men, Verana would be too far to catch. Without the child, the battle was pointless.

So he walked away. Dargas moved swiftly backward, sure to maintain his defensive stance as Calliban and another man began moving towards him. He moved towards the wall near the gate, where the sun was casting a heavy shadow.

“Just surrender, Father Dargas. You have nowhere to run,”

“In that, you are wrong,” said Dargas, as he stepped into the cool shadow under the gate-wall. In an instant, he focused his mind into the darkness of the shadow, feeling it wrapping around him like tendrils. Cool, calm, refreshing. He let the darkenss embrace him, as Calliban leapt forward and swung his sword straight at his face. Dargas allowed the darkness to draw him in, to swallow his body and make it just as shadowy as it. He felt cold and hollow as Calliban’s blade sliced where his body once stood, and let his consciousness dissolve into the darkness as his secret training took over. From there, it was only the safety of oblivion for him.