Chapter 43: Fifty Feet Below

"You're endangering all of us, not protecting anyone—"

​

It only takes a matter of minutes to sprint back to the courtyard. You know the evidence of your holy alliance is still in the hands and hearts of countless citizens, as every golden flower has been plucked. Even the last of the sapphire and ruby has been stripped away.

The last of the high afternoon sun catches off of spears and shields. Every guard seems to have their head turned to you, but only two call out. One is extremely broad shouldered, attentive, and bristles at the sight of you headed his way. The other, Brother Duval, is as healthy as you've ever seen him.

Brother Duval loosens the grip on his spear as you break across the stone, then he hails you. "Father Anscham! What's the problem...?"

Your comrade trails off. His face falls at your visible distress.

"Step aside," you huff, glancing up to the guard tower. Its stone is silent, innocuous, and there is no indication of a demon lying within.

The guard opposite of your brother in arms continues to puff out his chest. He's young, with a full head of jet-black hair and a beard to match. He's nearly as built as Brother Trebbeck, and every muscle behind his torn robes seems to be intent on blocking the door to the keep.

Both priests look to each other. Brother Duval quickly mutters, "excuse me, Father."

A sarcastic smile is directed at you through the priest's greased beard. "Father."

The brunette turns his back to you, and spits at the priest beside him, "what's your problem—?"

"I don't give a shit," he snaps.

"You owe him your ass—"

"You don't know what I owe."

"I owe him my ass. You do too. Move."

The audacious priest literally flexes. "Make me."

"Don't be dense."

"Don't be a kiss ass." He whips his head to you, smiling again. "With due respect, Father, this tower is under the protection of the Church of Flesh. I can't let you through."

Brother Duval tenses, keeping his hand on his spear. He clearly wants to shoulder-check the other man, and is restraining himself for your sake.

Looking down to the bearded priest, you let a little shadow cast over him as you lean his way. "How fortunate. As the Father of the Church of Mercy, protecting others is my top priority." Your voice drops to a murmur. "Do you require a demonstration?"

The man stays put, but Brother Duval shoulder checks him. You take a few steps forward and keep Ray at your side while your ally barks, "move your ass, then."

Restraint and wasted muscle does little to aid your movement, but you move with Brother Duval to completely shove aside the obstinate priest. Your combined efforts get him to almost stagger. Only by keeping a firm grasp on his spear does he stay on his feet. You move to stride completely past him, but are grabbed by your upper arm.

His grip is crushing, easily encompasses the entirety of your emaciated limb, and is enough of a shock for the man to pull back as if he put his hand to a flame. He looks to you with more judgement than he has any right to display, but winces as you snap, "test my patience again. Find out why my weakness alone was fit to be blessed by Flesh." You prompt the devotee by your side. "Brother Duval—"

He shoves the ingrate aside. "Move your shit."

That darkened beard twitches in aggravation while Brother Duval makes use of full key ring. Iron and copper undoes the lock to the tower. You're greeted by a spiral staircase, and gesture for Ray to move ahead of you.

"You're insane." The bearded priest won't let up. "It's a threat. You're endangering all of us, not protecting anyone—"

It's difficult to not smile as you turn to face him. "I suppose you know Mercy?"

"No, but—"

Your grin broadens. "I think you do. You think you have some semblance of understanding. You think me naive, while claiming others know nothing of you. What do you think you know of me?"

"I at least know you're a fucking—"

You take a step forward, hands clasped, shifting right back into a grimace. "A demon? A blasphemer? A madman? Do you really want to continue to test my patience? It is one of the few vows I have not taken, Brother." In a whisper, you lean just a little closer. "For everything you may wish to call me, I am not a liar. Do you truly wish to find out how much validity is behind each one of these accusations? Would you like to know exactly how a man of all the Gods can tame a demon—"

The obstinate man happily shoves aside Brother Duval, who is right up against his shoulder. He spits, "you're sick. You're fucking sick. See if I care. You'll need all the Gods to do a damn thing." He makes a show of wiping the hand that grabbed you on the side of his robes. "Well? Go on. Let Father Friedrich know you helped one of his men sin while you're at it. He'll be so happy to hear that you're fucking with his orders—"

You're already heading up the stairs. The man outside is literally beneath you.

His irate voice calls after you, "—and his command, and his men!"

There's a thud, likely from Brother Duval pushing the man against the wall. Hurried steps come back after you. The brunette— the man who's life you saved half a dozen times in a single fight— nearly crashes into you on the stair thanks to how quickly he's moving.

Brother Duval has the ring of keys in his hand. He thrusts the entire collection into your palm. Smiling weakly, he murmurs, "there's a door under the rug. Take the ladder to the fifth level. These are for the first through the fourth. The smallest copper key is for the door at the top of the stair. Probably don't need to worry about the rest. You're looking for the demon you...?"

"Saved. Yes."

"I don't know where exactly they're keeping him. I shouldn't leave my post, even for this, but— you should probably hurry."

At the word 'ladder,' you glance at Ray. Your boy is blissfully unaware of his inability to follow you. He's looking between you and Brother Duval without complaint or a single care beyond your safety.

Putting both hands on the priest's shoulders before you has him draw back slightly. Brother Duval raises his eyebrows while you keep hold of him, imploring him, "please. I cannot ask you to abandon your duty, but Ray— will you keep an eye on him and the door?"

"Is that all?" His shoulders relax. "I'd feel better being the one up there, anyways." As you sigh in relief, his weak smile broadens. "If anyone asks, I bet I could say you wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

With a quick pat on the man's shoulders (you're not even listening anymore), you head to the very top of the stairs. The massive key ring is nearly impossible to keep quiet under the tremor in your hands, but you manage to not make a racket.

Quick work is made of opening the lock, stashing the key ring in your satchel, then opening the heavy banded wood door. All of Father Wilhelm's things have been removed from the small post. His note on the door, the smoke, the blue, and all hope of respite are gone. The room is unfurnished and bare, save for the thick rug in the center of the tower, and a little sunlight filtering in through slits in the walls.

You sweep off the rug, and are greeted by an unusual defense. Multiple rows of wood are interlocked in a pattern, flush to the floor, but recessed deeply into the stone itself.

"Just a sec—" Brother Duval comes up from behind you on the stair, props his spear against a far wall, then hurries past you to kneel beside the lock.

You take a moment to usher a few commands to Ray: to bring no harm to the priest next to you, to give him a wide berth, to sit, to rest.

Said priest curses a number of times, muttering about a combination and trap doors. His efforts ultimately elicit a strange sound from the wooden barrier.

It clicks.

Music

With a grating, dragging, taxing motion, the priest of Flesh heaves the top most band of the door open. The entire device works itself apart once the first beam is removed, opening inwards.

The scent of mildew, candle wax, and old blood hits you. The source of soft, red light is visible only as you take a firm step forward and look down.

Dozens, if not hundreds of candles are placed on every rock and groove in an incredibly deep shaft. Where you stand, the entrance is incredibly narrow, but as the shaft gets deeper, it widens considerably. It's difficult to make out the bottom, despite the dim light within, as it must end over fifty feet below the surface. Ladders are precariously propped up against the walls, though each one is dug deeply into the ground it rests on for stability.

You immediately move to climb. "Ray, stay. Good boy. Thank you for your kindness, Brother Duval. I will be right back."

He shakes his head. "Yeah. Don't get yourself hurt."

Not wanting to make any promises you can't keep, you put what little weight you have on the first few rungs. There's no complaint. No wobbling.

As you climb down, you can see that some of the recesses in the walls continue deeply into the dark. Candles are placed periodically in wax-coated nooks which likely having never been cleaned, since piles of the red substance clings to the walls, along with dense mold, and streaks of faded crimson. A few smears of the blood and gore are so thick in places, they still appear sticky.

Dropping to the base of the first ladder— glancing around wildly— you see four doors surrounding the small ledge you stand on. Given how narrow the platform is, and how unusual this entire shaft is, you strongly suspect that this entrance is strictly used for emergency access.

Guiding a dog into this passage would be nearly impossible, let alone a demon comprised of Flesh.

Carefully maneuvering to another ladder, you continue to descend. The second floor houses twice as many passages.

The third has twice as many more.

The fourth is so broad, it takes a moment to cross to the final ladder.

You look up to the trap door, which is now at least fifty feet above. The outline of Brother Duval's head can just barely be seen peering down. A flurry of motion obscures the entrance, since he's waving, but he doesn't dare to call out.

I should not be down here.

Swallowing hard, you move as quickly as you can to the last ladder.

Descending to the fifth floor, you cling hard to the last few rungs. There is a singular door at its base. The heavy wooden defense is protected by what looks to be extremely complex iron locks. Ten more doors just like it are on the same level, down passages of stone. Candles illuminate small gaps in the corridor just ahead, but a great amount of shadow lies between.

Is this merely a re-purposed ruin? Or—

You can hear voices crying out in the distance. They're inaudible, muffled by the defense of the Church of Flesh. You image that their shrieks may be for help, for blood, or for death. It's impossible to say.

​

You're so accustomed to listening in the dark— picking up on the shift between trickling water in stone, or an unexpected footstep— that every sound feels horrifically amplified.

Despite the cries in the distance, you hear someone coming before they can possibly see you.

It's not just someone. There are multiple steps walking out of rhythm. It's at least two people.

The door at the top of the passage is still open.

Music

Pulling your hands off the rung of the ladder, you think back to the movement of an ally. One who worked alongside a demon. A heathen, a thief, and a killer.

Dropping your weight toe to heel, you restrain every urge to run. You're as thin as a corpse, and equally silent. It only take a few steps with your long legs to cross away from the ladder and entirely into shadow.

Leaning back against the cold stone as flush as you can get your shallow chest and stomach, you can feel the touch of death. It's frigid this far below the surface, and utterly unlike the ruins you've traversed before. Moisture clings onto the rock, seeping against the back of your robes as the footsteps come closer.

The compulsion to move and the hitch your breath is kept at bay by placing both hands over your nose and mouth. You press further back against the damp wall, praying that you'll go unnoticed. As an extra precaution— fearing for the gold in your hair and eyes catching on the light— you slip your hood over your hair and brow at the last possible second.

Two guards walk by. They're priests, outfitted in tightly fitted crimson robes. Every inch of them is covered. Gloves, aprons, and even cloth about their faces obscures almost all of their skin from view in an uncharacteristic display for the Church of Flesh. More alarming still is that the cloth is stained not with dye, but with viscera. Even through the fingers over your face— contrasting harshly with the familiar scent of herbs and metal— you catch wafting fresh blood.

The sound of yells, screams, and something that's possibly a plea has incessantly punctuated the air since you descended. Yet both priests are unquestionably silent while they look around intently. The closer they draw, the more you can notice that they are both around your age— maybe a little older. And despite being significantly shorter than you, they're imposing, and incredibly attentive. Their heads and faces (what you can see of them) may be shaved clean, but their cultivated strength is indicative of years of devotion.

One glances upwards, towards the ladder. It's the slimmer of the two (which isn't saying much). He crosses his tightly sleeved arms, and couldn't sound more skeptical. "You said you heard voices?"

"Don't." The broader priest frowns. "I heard what I heard." He follows the priest's eyes upwards, and so do you.

Not a speck of light is cast down from the peak of the tower. Brother Duval must have closed the trap door, but you don't dare to breathe a sigh of relief.

Both men turn back around, looking intently into the shadow and reddened light.

"Sure you do. Bastards and butchers, is that right?" The skeptic says.

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm really—"

"Seriously. Shut up."

Both men stop walking. The larger of the two priests leans his ear against the door directly behind the ladder. He pulls away after a moment, shaking his head. Another particularly horrific scream lances the air, though he doesn't jump.

"Maybe it was my imagination."

"Your head's going soft. I'll be taking you to Sister Cardeeeew at this rate—"

He groans, before both men in laugh in unison. "Don't!"

The guards turn and head back the way they came. One passes so close to the wall that you nearly gasp. Resisting the urge with every fiber of your being, you remain motionless, listening intently as they walk away.

"Hasn't said a word in days, right?" The curious priest whispers, "the bastard?"

"Worse. You're surprised?"

"After how much the new arrival is running his mouth—?"

The guard's voice drops both in tone and in volume. "Won't for long."

You're rapidly losing the trail of conversation, despite straining to pick it up over the shouts.

Easing your burning lungs by taking a shallow breath behind your hands, you get just enough relief to gather your thoughts.

More than enough to press on.

You stick to the shadows, moving as steadily as you can. Your height and light weight makes the motion laughably easy. You flit between the steep breaks in the stone, avoiding exposure for all but a second or two, and ultimately peek around the corner of the end of the wing.

Keeping your face concealed behind the edge of your hood is a necessary precaution. You pull back as covertly and quickly as you can, struggling again to not take a deep breath in. It was only the briefest of glances, but no fewer than fifteen priests of Flesh are all stationed throughout the corridor ahead. Its singular hallway is flanked on either side by several narrow corridors. Each narrow corridor ends abruptly with a heavily locked door, and each door is guarded by at least one holy man.

The stone and barred doors are horrifically familiar.

It reminds you of your first years in the Church of Mercy.

Quelling every urge to turn and run, you try to sear the glance into your memory. Every single guard is twice as broad as you are, and armed to the teeth. While the majority are wielding spears and shields, a few also possess armor. You're certain several have helmets, and thought you spotted one possessing leg guards— though it's difficult to say, as some have their backs turned towards you. They're gathering together in the center of the hallway, either intent on discovering your location, or they're all bored out of their minds.

Eavesdropping is a welcome respite from the tortured moans and pleas that are increasingly audible.

"Any luck?"

"Gil's going soft."

"You'd be the first to know, wouldn't you—"

"Shut it. Any of you hear anything?"

"Let me move—!"

"FLAY ME AGAIN, HARDER! SEE WHAT GOOD IT DOES!"

"Help—"

"Not over the fucking commotion."

"How long?"

There's a rustling, the sound of something glass-like being tapped on. Multiple sighs of relief follow.

"Unchangeable my ass."

"Ralf, you're a heathen and an idiot—"

"What? I've been praying to get out of here since dawn—"

"KILL ME!"

"Save me!"

"STOP the NOISE!"

The last voice threatens to make your legs give out. The rasp is unmistakable. It's Jonathan Friedrich. The demon of fear.

"—and a genius, and a blessing—"

"Get a room."

"All taken, I'm afraid. Even the sick ward's packed to the brim."

"Can't believe the demon is getting better treatment than we are."

"Trade places with me, handsome~"

"I'll chew my arms off again if I can't get moved—"

"STOP TALKING—!" There's a cracking noise, followed by a sob.

"I'm more than ready to call it, this is some shit."

"I've had worse."

"Relief isn't coming 'til sunset, hold your fucking horses."

A collective groan.

"You all sure you didn't hear anything?"

The mutual exasperation seems to reach a fever pitch, exploding at Gil.

"No."

"I will if you keep saying it—"

"Cut it out."

"Seriously, of all the stupid shit—"

"Nah."

"Do you need me to hold your skirts and go check with you again, Sister?"

"Shut the fuck up. No." The particularly paranoid priest makes a hushing sound.

"You're wasting your Time," Ralf happily teases, to everyone's audible horror.

"Shut up, lunatic."

There's a long pause, while everyone's armor and weapons restlessly moves. All of the demons within the building appear to have stopped begging or talking.

"I told you, it hates the noise—"

There's only a low sobbing coming from one of the rooms. It's deep into the hallway, and so faint you can barely catch it, though it seems to be rising from the right.

Someone is walking towards that direction. Likely the paranoid man who heard you descend.

Knowing full well that you have minutes to spare— listening intently to the room ahead— you wait. Several of the guards resume complaining to one another in turn, though this time they're far quieter.

I need a distraction.

There's a clinking sound. Keys on a chain.

May all the Gods forgive me.