Chapter 7: Chapter 6: The Devout of Justice (II)

Merryweather plodded through the muck, her hooves sinking deep into the mud with every step. Whatever path had been laid through this swamp had been submerged by the recent rains, and only the occasional lantern post told of where it could be found. Gulliver ensured his mount moved with great care, aware that a single misstep could lead his mare plummeting into deeper water.

It had been a bit over a day since the last time he had come across any sign of human civilization, and that had been little more than a boathouse and a couple of huts. He was far off the roads that were found on his map, and deeper into the mire than even the locals liked to travel. But he pressed forward regardless, driven by that scent in the air which he couldn’t ignore – that of a fiend.

He was aware that he was fast running out of time. Already, it was becoming questionable if he could reach his original destination even if he turned around right now. The weight of the black envelope in his pack felt like it was dragging him down.

It was not a responsibility Gulliver had ever asked for. When he had to summoned back to The Temple of Law for the first time in years, he had no idea what to expect. His crusade had led him to the furthest reaches of the Easterlands, so it must have been serious for them to recall him from the field. But in his wildest dreams he could never have expected the responsibility he would be tasked with.

“The Tournament Lyris?” he asked, dumbfounded.

He’d been kneeling in front of the Seat of Diktat at the heart of the temple. Light poured in through the crystalline windows, the pattern illuminating the seat of each of the bishops in a different color. And in each of those seats, a look of disproval was clear on its occupant.

The archbishop, whose seat alone was illuminated in pure white, was not only the head of both the priesthood and the Order Devout, but also the voice of Israfiel, the God of Justice, Law, and Retribution. When he spoke, his authority was such that it was as if Israfiel had spoken them Himself. Questioning his commands bordered on blasphemy.

“My humblest apologies,’ Gulliver quickly corrected himself. “I was merely surprised.”

Archbishop Callandar stroked his long, grey beard. “The coming trials will be among the toughest you have faced since you swore your oath. There must not be a shred of doubt lingering in your soul. If you have concerns, I would have you voice them now.”

Now that he had permission to speak his mind, Gulliver was eager to do so. “When I picked up the sword of retribution, I did so with a singular purpose in mind: to slay fiends and those that conspire with them. That purpose kept me pushing forward through initiation, training, and culling. It was at the heart of the vow I took when I knelt here all those years ago. And it is has kept me going even as both mind and body have become battered and worn. To unsheathe my sword in competition, even as a representative of our Order – I would not be able to draw upon such conviction.”

“Retribution is but one pillar of our faith,” Bishop Tinte, illuminated in red, reminded him. And fiends are not the only who deserve its wrath. Or do you interpret the Mantra different?”

“I know the words of the Mantra well, and I can recite the interpretations taught to me by rote,” Gulliver replied. “But I also know what is in my heart when I speak the words and call upon the divinity.”

The archbishop raised a hand, forestalling further argument from the bishop. “Devout Gulliver’s understanding of the Mantra is not in question. The might our Lord grants him is unparalleled. Though it may ease our champion’s heart to learn his goals are not so unaligned with his new task.”

Gulliver knelt in silence, bidding the archbishop to continue.

“Why do you think our Order responds to the invitation for the Tournament Lyris?” Callandar asked. “We have but a small need for the Lyris itself, and our store will meet that need for some time yet. So why then risk some of our mightiest Devout in competition?”

That was curious. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer,” Gulliver admitted.

“It is because controlling who doesn’t get control over the Lyris can be more important than controlling who does,” the archbishop explained. “There are those who enter the tournament with dark ambitions, whose victory could lead to strife for all the land for years to come. It has happened in the past, and we must prevent it from happening again.”

“Are you implying that there are those who pact with fiends among the contestants?”

‘I can not say for certain,” the archbishop admitted. “But I can say they regularly make an appearance. There is no rule forbidding their participating, and their lot is drawn to any chance at power. We do not require you to claim victory over the entire tournament, but to ensure that none of these black-hearted individuals obtain the crown.”

“Then my doubts are no more,” Gulliver declared. “I vow that no fiend lover will dictate the future of the Lyris.”

He was given permission to approach the seat and accepted the black envelope which contained the Order’s invitation.

“Know we do not ask this from you lightly,” Archbishop Callandar declared. “We know how important your crusade is – not just to you, but to the Order. The reports of your victories raise our hearts during these troubled times. However, the Devout number few these days, and fewer still who can call upon the divine might.”

“Our recruitment always dwindles during times of peace,” Bishop Tinte added. “Fools think the fiends are gone just because they are no longer beating down their door, with no thought to who is keeping them at bay.”

“That is why, while your primary goal is to prevent the foul-hearted from claiming victory, it is also imperative that you properly display your power,” the archbishop commanded. “The future of our order may depend on you serving as a reminder of what the Devout of Justice stand for.”

With his final instructions received, Gulliver had quickly packed and set off on Merryweather towards the tournament ground. But when he caught the whiff of a fiend lurking within the swamp, he could not help but be compelled to follow. His detour had taken him deeper and deeper into the muck, far off his intended path.

His persistence was finally rewarded when a village came into view. It was a small settlement of humble cottages with thatched roofs surrounding a few wooden piers that stretched out onto the lake. Everything looked like it had been caked in several layers of mud: the buildings, the fenceposts, and the people.

Gulliver dismounted Merryweather and tied her to a lamppost just outside the village, then gratefully removed his helmet. The swamp was interminably humid and he felt like he was melting in his armor. He had fortunately chosen a lighter set, under the assumption that mobility was going to be more important than an extra layer of steel when facing Lyris users. But even though his armor simply consisted of a breastplate, a layer of black leathers, and the long gauntlet that stretched from his left elbow to the back of his hand, that was more than enough to cook him in this weather.

He tried to push the blond hair that had become matted to his forehead with sweat out of his eyes. His fingers instinctively ran along old scars that crossed the top of his head. Deciding he wanted to try to come off as less intimidating, he let the hair sit where it was, where it was at least covering most of his scars.

Carrying his helmet under his arm and with his broadsword sheathed on his back, he walked into the village. Quickly, there were many eyes upon him. Not surprising, given they likely didn’t get many visitors out here. Though the way they looked at him was off in some way. It reminded him of a way a feral dog might regard a person: nervous, curious, and ready to bite if they got too close.

The scent of the fiend told him he was closer, but it was not in the village. He was also not sensing any fiendish pacts from the villagers, which he was grateful for. Drawing your sword on some peasant in the middle of the swamp was not a great way to make friends. But there definitely was a fiend nearby, and he intended to figure out where.

This close, the villagers may have had run-ins with the monster. Any information he could gather here would be useful, though the villagers were not looking particularly talkative. When his ears picked up the sound of a woman crying, he knew where to start. He found her sitting on the steps of a cottage, face in her hands, sobs flowing. Perhaps someone who had lost a relative to the fiend? Only one way to find out.

“Excuse me, miss,” Gulliver said. “I am Gulliver, Devout of Justice. I have traveled here on a mission of vanquishing evil and protecting people. Can I ask you what is amiss?”

She looked at him with befuddled, red-rimmed eyes. “Huh? You’re – you’re a Devout?”

“That’s right. I’m a Devout of the Order of Israfiel.” He held up the amulet that he wore around his neck which bore the Order’s symbol: a set of scales at balance, on one side of which rested a sword, and the other sat a book of laws. “I’m here to help with any dangers this village might be facing. Has something happened recently?”

There was a minute of silence as the woman tried to sort out her thoughts. “I – tried …”

“You tried what?”

As if suddenly realizing he was real, her eyes widened. “Please, you need to –“

A hand grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Go inside Isabelle,” a rough looking man commanded.

The woman lingered there for a second, giving Gulliver a desperate look, before finally doing as she was commanded.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t speak to my wife any further, outside,” the man growled. His voice was threatening, though his demeanor was withdrawn. His eyes spoke of a heavy lack of sleep.

“I’m here to help,” Gulliver replied. “Whatever is troubling you and your wife, I can deal with it.”

“Outsiders can’t help us with our problems,” the man insisted. “Now please – leave us be.”

He went inside and slammed the door shut, leaving Gulliver alone to plan his next move.

His alone time didn’t last long, as another, far older man approached him.

“I’m Martin, the village chief of this village,” the old man introduced himself. “And you’re not welcome here. We are a self-sustaining community, and we don’t deal with outsiders. Particularly not ones such as yourself.”

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Though he doubted it would get him anywhere, Gulliver still tried an introduction of his own. “I’m Gulliver, a Devout of Justice. I have traveled here on a mission –“

“I don’t care much for your titles, or what your reasons for coming here are. We used to look to outsiders for help. Begged for it, even, but when are cries weren’t being ignored, they were answered by the most incompetent fools to ever be given one of your fancy titles. So we learned how to take care o’ our problems ourselves. And part of that is keeping you fools away.”

Gulliver had heard similar speeches before, and seen the look that was on the chief’s face just as many times. In isolated villages, remote settlements, and towns on the frontier. So far from society that it was impossible to regularly patrol them, and where responses to emergencies were a long time coming. Gulliver didn’t blame the chief for his nihilism towards outsiders, but he did resent the additional difficulty that came from the attitude.

“Very well,” Gulliver said, pretending to concede. “But it was a long journey here. My horse needs to be fed and watered, and I could use a moment to check on my supplies if I’m to make the journey back through the swamp.”

The chief growled under his breath. “Fine. Tend to your horse then be on your way. If you’re still about by nightfall, you’ll learn that our tongues aren’t the only sharp tools we possess.”

Threatening a Devout so directly could itself be considered a crime worthy of the deliverance of justice. Some of the more stringent members of the Order might have already condemned the chief. But Gulliver was only really concerned with one part of the Order’s laws, the part that concerned fiends.

Things had just been made far more difficult for him in that pursuit. If the villagers had been hesitant to talk to him before, now they outright avoided even looking at him. Their leader had spoken, and they had no intention of defying him. As Gulliver went through the motions of providing Merryweather with food and water, he considered whether the quickest course of action would be to ride out in the swamp beyond the village to search for the fiend by scent alone. But this was unfamiliar territory, with great risk of him getting lost or sucked into the bog. He needed at least some kind of direction.

And there was only one villager who was likely to give it to him. He made sure he always kept the house that Isabelle had gone into in sight, even as he went to the well to fetch water, or as he made a show of measuring his trial rations. If she didn’t come out before nightfall, he might have to think up a more drastic action to get the information he needed.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that, as a couple of hours later he spotted her. She left the cottage, closing the door softly behind her. Then she glanced around, checking to see if anyone was looking at her. Her eyes and Gulliver’s briefly met before she darted off. It was a bit more difficult for Gulliver to move without notice, but once he found a moment when no eyes were on him, he slipped away to follow her.

He found her behind a woodshed, pacing back and forth like a cornered animal. When she saw him, she became frantic.

“Please! You have to understand! We never wanted to give her up! We tried to fight it! When the chief came, my husband had his axe ready, but they pushed me down, and they grabbed my husband when he tried to help me … there wasn’t anything we could do! The chief kept saying it was for the best, for the good of village, everything would work out, but now you’re here …”

Gulliver held out a hand to stop her. “Take a breath. What has happened? Who did they take?”

“Our daughter,” the woman sobbed out. “They took her and gave her to the forest guardian, to take as his bride, but she’s just a little girl …”

“Where?”

“The guardian’s lair is a few miles north, following the shoreline along the lake and into the covered grove. There’s a cave –“

Gulliver did not wait to hear the rest. He was already rushing back to Merryweather, hoping it was not too late.

Fiends did not take wives. It was a lie told to those foolish enough to negotiate with them so they would be less hesitant to make the sacrifice. Easier to sleep at night thinking your daughter or sister was still alive and playing homemaker in some dim cavern than if they knew what fate really befell them. The fiends did keep the sacrifice alive for a short time – so they could drain the life slowly out of them. Once their victim was left barely clinging to life, they were killed, usually in a cruel and brutal way. What remained of their corpses would be kept as trophies to decorate their lairs.

Merryweather raced along the lakeside, and Gulliver had to trust her instincts in forging their path. There wasn’t time to carefully pick their steps. More than once, her hooves slipped on smooth stones that were hidden beneath the muck, but she was able to quickly recover without so much as slowing down.

The scent of fiend grew stronger as they went. By the time they reached the covered grove, where the overgrowth and trees came together to form a curtain that shaded the land, the scent had become overwhelming.

Gulliver dismounted and patted the winded mare. “Wait here, and if you sense any danger, return to the village.”

The mare exhaled heavily, which he took as assent.

The wind blew through the trees, but it provided no relief from the humidity. It felt sickly, like a beast breathing down your neck. This supposed ‘forest guardian’ was aware of his presence. Good. He hoped it felt fear.

He gripped his amulet tightly, readying himself for the battle ahead. It’s Lyris core allowed him to tap into the might of divinity when reciting His Mantra, but that is not what he drew strength from. It was the ashes he had filled it with that mattered to him.

“Alina. Gabriella. Watch over me.”

It didn’t take long to find its lair. The scents of death and corruption were unmistakable. Gulliver drew the broadsword from its sheath on his back and took cautious steps inside.

The light quickly faded, as if the sun refused to shine through the entrance. In moments, Gulliver was left in pitch black.

A high pitched, scratchy laugh surrounded him, “Oh, what do we have here? Hm … I’m not partial to the taste of older ones. You’ve already spoiled your life, made it bitter. Ah, but it would be rude for me to deny a morsel that has taken the effort to deliver itself to be. I’ve already had a good meal, but I’ve always got room for a snack.”

Gulliver could hear scratching along the walls, the floors, the ceiling. It was getting closer, and it wanted him to know it. The fiend wanted to intimidate him. Make him lose his composure in his fear. But it wasn’t Gulliver who should be afraid.

He waited until the fiend got close, close enough that he could clearly hear its ragged breath, before speaking the first words of the Mantra. “This is the command of the God of Law: Be the light that guides the righteous and blinds the wicked.”

His sword burst into a brilliant light, as pure as the sun’s rays. It illuminated the cave, as well as his target. A disgusting creature -its body seeming like rotting wood, its limbs twisted branches that came together into wicked claws, its face disturbing human, with its leathery skin pulled tight like a mask. It recoiled from the light, shielding its eyes with one of its arms.

Gulliver didn’t hesitate to strike. He brought his broadsword down on that arm in a single downward stroke. The arm may have looked wooden, but it cut like flesh. The sword took a chunk out of it, splashing black ichor across the ground.

The forest guardian screamed in pain and anger. It struck back with its other arm, trying to pierce him with its claws. Gulliver held out his gauntleted arm like a shield and caught the attack. The claws scratched across the surface of the metal but couldn’t piece it. Gulliver countered with a backlash from his sword and succeeded in severing several of those claws.

With another cry, the creature leaped away from him. It dropped to all four and scrambled away, a roach exposed to the light that now sought to hide. Gulliver let it get some distance before following, hoping it would lead him to the child. With the light from his sword as his guide, he descended deeper into the lair.

The heart of the lair was a hollow where the roots of dozens of trees descended from the ceiling and twisted their way down the walls and across the ground. In those roots were bones and skulls, some still with bits of flesh left clinging to them. The fiend’s trophies. Gulliver scanned the wall and saw her, bound against the wall – a young girl. Her eyes were closed, and Gulliver couldn’t tell if she was breathing, but that she was still in one piece was a good sign.

The roots on the floor began to shift around him, coming towards him like dozens of snakes. They wrapped around his ankles and tried to pull him down.

“This is the command of the God of Justice: Be the pillar that holds up the innocence and casts down the guilty.”

With the Mantra spoken, Gulliver felt a surge of power flow within him. His strength multiplied, and the roots that were wrapped around him could no longer budge him. He raised one foot, and then another, causing the wooden tendrils to snap and break as they tried to hold onto him.

He caught a flash of movement to his side and turned just in time to see the forest guardian leaping from the wall towards him. His broadsword came sweeping around in a horizontal strike, but the creature’s chest proved a harder target and the steel was deflected, knocking Gulliver’s sword-arm out of position. The fiend crashed into him and wrapped its tendrils arms tight around his body. It squeezed with enough force that Gulliver could feel the metal in his breastplate begin to bend. A normal man would have been shattered under this force, but Gulliver was empowered by divinity.

Pushing his arms out from his side, Gulliver forced the tendrils apart, until finally the one that Gulliver cut earlier snapped along its wound. Gulliver took the opportunity to slam his shoulder into the creature, sending it sprawling forward.

Now that he had located the girl, it was time to end this. Gulliver spoke the final words of his Mantra. “This is the command of the God of Retribution: For those who have inflicted harm on the defenseless, return that pain tenfold.”

The light shining from his sword intensified, and with it came heat. The warmth flowed from the blade in regular pulses, like a heartbeat.

The creature was on the ground, clutching its severed limb. “Stop! Stop this right now! Let us talk!”

Gulliver had no desire to hear out the bargains of a fiend. He brought his broadsword down in a mighty overhead swing. There were the sounds of sizzling and burning when the sword connected with the creature’s chest. It seared straight through, nearly severing the forest guardian in half.

It collapsed to the ground, crying out pathetically as it tried in vain to hold its two halves together with its remaining arm.

“We had a deal!” it cried. “The human chief and I had a deal! I protect the village, and they feed me. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain!”

Gulliver held his sword up above its head. “Israfiel does not recognize your contract.”

The sword came down, severing the fiend’s head from its shoulder. The body went limp as life faded away from it.

He didn’t waste time savoring the victory. Quickly rushing to the girl, he cut her free from the branches and laid her on the ground. Hopefully it was not too late.

Her eyes fluttered open. She was dazed and exhausted, but alive.

Gulliver sighed in relief. “You’re alright. I swear, nothing will harm you anymore.”

The girl shut her eyes again, but her breathing came steady. Gulliver cradled her in his arms and carried her back out of the cave. There he carefully laid her atop Merryweather’s saddle before carefully leading the horse back towards the village.

His return caused quite the commotion. The villagers surrounded him, talking in quick, hushed voices. Some sounded relieved, others frightened.

Isabelle pushed herself through the crowd and rushed towards him. Gulliver carefully lifted the girl from the saddle and handed her to her mother. She sobbed as she embraced her child. Nearby, her husband dropped to his knees, saying words of thanks. Whether they were meant for Gulliver or whatever god he worshipped was unclear.

Not everyone was as ecstatic about his return. As Chief Martin quickly demonstrated.

The old man puffed up his chest as he approached Gulliver. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you know what’s going to happen to our village now? The forest guardian was the least of our problems, and now that it’s gone, we’re all in danger. Our village will never survive –“

The chief suddenly went silent as Gulliver drew his sword.

“W-What?” Martin stammered. “What is the meaning of this?”

Gulliver’s voice was grave. “Those who treat with fiends share in their crimes. So, too, do they share in their punishments. This is the law of Israfiel.”

“I – I had to do it. There was no other choice!” The chief no longer sounded authoritative, but more like the coward he actually was. “We had no one else we can rely on, only by making sacrifices to the forest guardian could we survive!”

The sword piercing into his chest silenced him. Gulliver put an arm on his shoulder and pulled him closer to ensure the sword went all the way through. The old man let out a few guttural noises before his body went limp, sliding off the sword and collapsing into a heap on the ground.

Gulliver looked around at the villagers surrounding him, daring them to try and take revenge. He knew the chief had not been alone in making that pact. He knew that the villagers had worked together to take that child from her parents and hand her to the fiend. If any of them wanted to attack him, he would be glad to bring justice down upon them.

But like the cowards they were, they did nothing. They kept their distance, not daring to even look at the body of the man they once followed.

The chief was right – this village would never survive. But it wasn’t for the lack of outside help, or the threats they faced. It was because its people were weak.

He sheathed his sword, satisfied to let the chief solely take the punishment for the sins of the village. Then he saddled up on Merryweather and rode out of the village.

There was still a long road ahead of him and not much time to ride it. Hopefully, a few days of hard riding would allow him to make up for lost time. Merryweather would likely complain, but she would understand.

The Tournament Lyris would not wait for them.