Chương 20: Vol 1. The Offering

The hooded figure stood rigidly. For a while, nobody moved. The only sound was the hiss of smoke curling from Morton's revolver. Tahir sat holding the blanket to his chin, petrified like a hare, his ears pinned flat, his eyes wide and wet, his whole body quivering horribly. The figure kept her blade raised. Morton cocked the hammer of his revolver.

"I asked you a damn question," he said, his voice low and rough with anger.

"Who the hell are you?" Morton kept the gun trained on the figure. The heaviness of his breathing was palpable. The figure cocked her head.

"Please," she said, "for Seroth's sake, hand over the boy."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Morton said.

"He has been chosen."

"By whom?"

"By those who loved the first man before all others. By the one who died for us. By the one whose blood splatters against our muzzles. He will make an excellent offering." Morton snorted.

"Lady, fuckin' hell, I don't know what typa creepy bedtime story you came waltzing out of, but I suggest you go back there before I make that hood nice and ventilated." The blade glimmered in the gibbous moonlight.

"If blood must be spilled before the offering," the figure said solemnly, "then blood will be spilled." The figure dashed forward. Morton fired off a few more shots, but she dodged them with inhuman speed, her cloak snapping behind her as bullets tore through empty air before hitting the wall, splintering more wood across the floor. She swung the blade. Morton ducked and drove his fist square into her stomach. The figure staggered back.

Morton seized the opportunity and punched her across the face, snapping her head swiftly to the side. For a second, she faltered. The figure regained her composure and launched herself toward Morton again. Morton fired again and again until his chamber had been emptied. He backpedalled, hands moving quickly as he reloaded, then fired a few more rounds. The figure dropped low, then sprang high, vanishing beneath and above each line of fire.

A bullet punched through the cracked pitcher, exploding it into wet shards across the floorboards.

"God fuckin' damnit," Morton snarled as he fired off more shots until his chamber was empty once more. For a brief moment, the room held its breath. The tavern below had gone eerily quiet. Smoke curled from Morton's revolver. The oil lamp trembled on its weak peg. Tahir sat completely frozen beneath the blanket, his claws sunk deep into the fabric. Morton could feel blood sliding warmly beneath his eye. The woman planted one foot against the bedframe and sprang sideways. The blade glimmered in the low lamplight.

Morton just barely leaned back in time, the edge of the blade slicing a small wound below his eye. Morton grabbed the ramshackle chair near the bed and hurled it at her. It broke and splintered across her torso, causing her to stagger onto her rump; she did not stay down for long. Her eyes flicked to Tahir. Morton saw it. He snarled.

"Oh, no you don't." She sprinted toward the bed. Morton lunged through the air and caught her by the cloak, yanking her to the floor. The two wrestled across the floor in a brutal tangle of fists, claws, and knees. The figure managed to dig her claws into Morton's face, tearing off a chunk of his beard and leaving bloody lines. Morton cringed. She had managed to twist the blade deep into his leg. It felt as if his thigh were on fire. He hissed through his teeth and drove his elbow into her jaw.

They crashed into the wall. The oil lamp swung to and fro chaotically, the shadows morphing and leaping around the room like frenzied animals. Tahir could not breathe. His instincts were telling him to curl beneath the blanket and vanish like a cub. His paws throbbed. His legs trembled. He watched Morton bleed more and more. He looked to his side. The basin sat near his bed. With trembling paws, Tahir grabbed the basin and flung it as hard as he could.

It hit her wrist and bounced across the floorboards with dull clangs. She yelped, letting go of Morton. Morton got to his feet, then whacked her in the face. She rolled across the floor and hit the wall. Her blade slid across the floor, landing beneath Morton's foot. She slowly got up. She stood there, her posture limp. Blood ran from beneath her hood, dripping onto the floor. She laughed. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Not too loud, not too soft.

Not madly. Not joyfully.

"Oh, how long it has been since I shared in the pain of Seroth." Morton raised his revolver and tried to shoot, but she was too fast. She stepped right in front of him and dug her claws into his neck. He cringed as they sank far too close to his jugular. They wrestled and stumbled around the room until Morton pressed her against the window. The glass cracked, and the two crashed to the ground, tangled together. Morton felt the window frame crack beneath him. She coughed up blood, splattering it onto Morton's beard.

They continued exchanging blows until she managed to wiggle her way out, drop from the window, and run toward the tree line. Morton grabbed his revolver and fired the last round in the cylinder. She caterwauled as it hit her arm, causing it to fall to her side, her sleeve caked in blood. Still, she continued to limp off. Morton felt a similar pain in his leg. He limped over to the entrance of the inn.

The innkeeper looked like she was about to tear his head off, but she put her paws up when he pointed the barrel at her.

"What is—" she started.

"None of your damn business. We will be takin' our shit and leaving, got it?"

"Uh… yeah," she nodded. Morton climbed back upstairs to the room, groaning as he picked up Tahir's luggage.

"Come on, kid," Morton said sternly.

"Looks like we will be taking a nice little midnight stroll."

"Uh, okay," Tahir said softly. He got up and grabbed Morton's hand. They climbed down the stairs. The patrons were staring. Morton didn't care. He forced himself out of the inn and into a brisk walk down the road. The cool night air struck Morton sharply. The fire in his thigh was roaring now, bright enough to make his vision spot along the edges. He gritted his teeth. Still, he kept moving. Tahir's paw trembled in his hand, small and balmy. He kept his revolver out.

He had reloaded before leaving the room, hands shaking but practiced. If anyone came after Tahir again, mark his words, he would make sure the devil himself got his bastard little hands on them for all eternity. Vessa limped through the forest, her breath coming in wet, ragged pulls that tugged on her cracked ribs.

"Bastard… bastard… bastard…" she mumbled under her breath. Her wounded arm hung uselessly, blood dripping from her sleeve onto the undergrowth. One of her eyes was swollen shut. She felt splinters tangled in her fur. As she walked, she kept tripping over roots. She was in immense pain. Good. Pain was not necessarily failure. Rather, it could be remembrance. With every little throb in her arm, every sharp breath in her ribs, every trickle of blood soaking into her fur, there was another prayer to Seroth.

The first man had suffered tremendously. The first man had bled. The first man had been torn from this horrible world by disgusting, demon-infested sinners who could not bear the purity of his infinite love. So Vessa would suffer too. She would bleed too. Suffering would be her calling.

"Human…" she thought. What an interesting creature. She cursed. It was clear to her that the human had gotten help from the underworld; this male-lady of his. Demons. She whispered a small prayer under her breath. The evil of the world would not get to her. Not now, not ever. The ruined shrine awaited her beneath the trees, swallowed up by moss and thorn. Seroth's stone face had been weathered smooth by the rain, but his sacred heart remained visible, carved deep into his chest.

Old offerings lay at the statue's base: wilted roses, cracked clay cups with rotted food inside, and little carved wooden hearts that had swollen from water damage. Someone had tied the cloths of marriage around the branches above, which wavered in the wind. She fell to her knees. It began to rain—first in little dribbles, then it began to pour. The ground beneath her became muddy, and the wet fabric clung tightly around her. She took a few deep breaths. Damnit. Damnit.

Damnit— A figure came out from behind the shrine. The high priestess. She wore no hood. Rain ran freely down her grey muzzle and gathered at the point of her chin. Her eyes were calm and hollow.

"Sister Vessa," she said evenly.

"High Priestess," she said reverently.

"I am afraid I have failed you. I have failed Seroth." Saying those words hurt more than any damage she had sustained. Vessa bowed deeply and reverently until her muzzle was submerged in the mud.

"Oh?" the high priestess said. She looked Vessa's injured body up and down.

"And how did that happen? You are one of my best collectors."

"It was…" she said bitterly, "that man."

"A boy?" the high priestess said.

"No, no, a man. Not Kharani, not an elf, not an orc, no, something else. I think he called himself a… a human."

"And this… human, he bested you?"

"Yes, High Priestess. And he has the stench of demon all over him." The high priestess got to her knees.

"He is mortal, correct?"

"Yes," Vessa said confidently.

"I felt it beneath my claws. Whatever he is, he is made of flesh like anyone else. And he has a boy with him…"

"Is this how you got into combat with him?"

"Yes."

"Well," the high priestess said evenly, "we cannot have a sacrificial lamb go to waste. Seroth will look down upon it. Do you know where they are?"

"I think I saw them heading westward." The high priestess smiled.

"Sister, we will avenge what this heretic has done to you. Mark my words, they both will burn before the altar tonight." Behind her, more figures stepped from between the trees. One. Then another. Then another. Before her, the entire community was gathered, their black robes drinking the rain. Vessa smiled into the mud.