Chapter 95: The March to War

Chapter 95: The March to War

In a world of darkness, a man with a little light was king. That’s what they said about him, though Brother Faerbar downplayed it. No matter what accolades his brothers tried to place upon him, he would only accept Paragon. That was why they marched, after all. They were a vengeful crusade that would see justice done for their fallen god.

He had almost ten thousand men with him now. Less than half were true warriors in any real sense, but most of them had Siddrim’s light in their eyes, and they walked with purpose. No matter how many detours they had to make because the roads were washed out or bridges were toppled, they found a way.

On peaceful days, sometimes whole villages would join their numbers as they passed toward Fallravea. Those were the minority, though. Most days now involved minor skirmishes with the dead. They seemed to have erupted from every passing graveyard and family plot that they passed through now.

None of the small bands of zombies and skeletons were particularly dangerous, but they were a nearly constant nuisance. They no longer even waited for full dark to harry his men and would often attack as soon as there was only a single star left in the sky, slowing their march more than causing casualties.

“That’s the real aim,” Brother Faerbar insisted around the fires of his war council at night. “The evil has been sorely wounded by the light, and it fears us. Even now, it waits for arrival.”This chapter was first shared on the Ñøv€lß1n platform.

“How could it possibly know we are coming,” someone asked. “How could you know that?”

“Because it is inevitable,” the Templar spoke, gazing into the coals of the fire. “Because darkness exists to be purged by the light, and it knows that we will never be safe until all the flickering candles of the righteous are snuffed for good and all.”

They were still two days out from the capital of Greshen County, so the conversation devolved from that into pure theology after that. It was a conversation that Brother Faerbar welcomed, even if he was no theologian. He’d told his men days ago that Siddrim had been struck dead in a titanic battle by an opponent that had lain in wait for him like a spider or a viper, but most still did not believe it.

How could they? Did they not still all shine with Siddrim’s radiance? Could they not still feel his love? None of that changed his certainty, though. Their god was lost, and this terrible gift left Brother Faerbar reliving that losing battle every night, though he was not sure if those dreams were meant to warn him about what awaited or to goad him to action. It did both, though he was pleased that no one else was forced to watch what had happened to his apprentice.

Brother Faerbar’s heart went out to Todd. He’d tried too hard to fight the darkness, but in the end, he’d fallen victim to the sins of his youth, and in doing so, he’d become a weapon himself. By the end, it was obvious he’d been driven half-made and was little more than a gibbering stake being driven through the breast of their god.

Still, he vowed not to let the same thing happen to him or to any other holy man who traveled with him. Cadres were always stronger because of their strength in numbers, and ultimately, it was Brother Faerbar’s mistake to send his young protege on a mission alone. He would rectify that, he vowed. He would rectify everything.

They could not afford to stay here long, of course. There was still a week of marching ahead of them, but a few days would be enough to right this shambles. It was only a few years ago when he’d bled to purify this place from Oroza’s taint, and he would be damned if he’d let all of that effort go to waste.

The following day, they had a brief trial for the priest, as tradition required, before finding him guilty of dereliction of duty and the abandonment of his post in the face of the enemy. Normally, such charges would be met with a public bonfire so that he would be allowed to repent with his final screams, but given the acute shortage of firewood and the vast number of bodies that needed to be burned outside the walls of the city, a simple hanging was had instead.

It brought Brother Faerbar no joy to hang one of his own, but cowardice in the face of what they were facing was the last thing that they needed. The tragic waste of the day did have one silver lining, though. It brought those with an excess of darkness from their soul crawling out of the woodwork to watch the spectacle.

He had as many of these as he could see rounded up and executed as well, though he had to be selective, of course. If he’d lined up a date with the headman for everyone with a little darkness, the city would be scourged clean, but it was easy to look someone in the eyes and see the difference between a fallible man who indulged in a little theft or whoring, and a demon wearing the flesh of a man that was a blight upon the world. He no longer needed the inquisition to make such choices. He was the Paragon now, and as he spoke, the world moved to obey him.

Slowly, over the next three days, peace was restored, and though hunger was not wiped out by any means, the number of men and women who died each day slowed to a trickle as light purged the darkness from the bodies of his people. Along with the help and hope they offered, his light spread further, too. Most nights, he could walk and see lights in the eyes of those who took a peek at his procession as he walked through the streets.

“Hope is contagious,” he liked to say whenever one of his me asked him about the sight. “All one needs to do to let the light into their soul is to see the good it does in the world. Remember that, even if I should fall.”

He hoped that they would because his survival was hardly guaranteed. Men who led from the front rarely lasted long. That was why, even before all this, the only old men in the Brotherhood of the Purgative Flame were those priests and high priests who stood at the apex. He was past forty now, and it was starting to show.

Still, he wouldn’t let his age slow him down more than he’d let the plague or the zombies, and he walked everywhere he went in his plate mail so that he was constantly ready for attacks. Still, he announced that they would leave on the morrow. He just had one more thing to decide on: the baby.

Priest Cawleon had at least had the good sense to bring the child with him when he’d fled the city in shame, but there were no good answers regarding Leo the fifth, the last of his name. Brother Faerbar could send him back to Siddrimar or leave him here, of course, but both of those felt wrong. Leaving him in the care of anyone else felt like something he should not do. There was something to this child, and if the Templar had been able to find even a scrap of evil in its soul, he would have killed it himself.

There wasn’t any, though, so in the end, he was forced into the only decision that made any sense to him: he would have to take the child with him. On his face, it was ridiculous, of course, but his army was over ten thousand strong now, and there was no end to the number of orphans and camp followers that tagged along at the rear and the fringes. One more squealing mouth and a nursemaid would not add to that in any appreciable way.

It was a decision he agonized over, but by the time he was ready to depart, it felt right. That child was important, and when the time came, he would find out how and see justice done.