A few heartbeats passed before Pax responded. When he did, his tone was softer than Kurt would have expected. I’m done being led by the leash. If what you’re saying is true, then I’ll help, Kurt. But you don’t have my trust. Not yet, at least.
Kurt nodded. That was more than he could have hoped for. It said much that Pax was willing to help Kurt. That, despite his father’s absence, he had grown up to be a good man.
“Inquisitor Kurt, Inquisitor Pax,” D’Nai intoned, standing before the throne Mastus had once occupied. The monumental links of chain hanging against the wall haloed her person. “Both Judges hath bonded. Just as all links are strengthened when interconnected, with the binding of your souls, the two of you have become greater than the sum of your parts. You have once again, and for the first time, become Judges; dedicating your very souls to the service and salvation of Cre’.”
We don’t have time for this.
“It’ll be quick,” Kurt hissed.
“The time has come,” D’Nai continued, “the Judges have been summoned. They come to us armored in conviction.”
The acolytes came forward, disrobing Kurt, then fitting him with undergarments, and helping dress him in crisp black trousers, knee-high boots, and a buttoned white tunic of exceptional material.
Next, Kurt pulled his arms through a waist-length black leather jacket sporting red and white accents. He didn’t miss the seamlessly integrated armored plates woven into the coat. Kurt extended both hands and was fitted with leather gloves studded at the knuckles. The clothing’s weight was reassuringly snug.
“The Judges' deeds shall be cloaked beneath the halo of our mandate: to illuminate Nil’s darkness no matter the cost.” The traditional wide-brimmed hat of the Inquisition was placed atop Kurt’s head, the stovepipe design having stayed in vogue despite his decades in solitude. It hid a Judge’s intentions quite well.
Gonna look a fool in that cap of yours.
Kurt smirked. Some of the humor he’d glimpsed while skimming his son’s life was returning.
The Arch-Inquisitor continued as a single acolyte came forward with the next relic. “The Judge is above mortal laws. Those that obstruct his path, he sunders.”
The acolyte approached Kurt with what appeared to be a rifle that had been sawed off at the half. The firearm sported a glistening black coat along the stock, grip, and barrel—two barrels in fact. The action and firing mechanism was of filigreed pearl, and featured none of the typical hammer, cock, and pan of a flintlock. Instead, there were two hammers prefacing the intricately designed barrels. Kurt held it, the weight sturdy yet well distributed. He noted a lever where stock and barrels met.
Flick ‘er right.
Kurt did so, marveling at how the gun’s mid-section collapsed open. He peered down the well-oiled breech, admiring the clever assemblage of bolts, firing pins, as well as the inertial force the weapon was designed to absorb when fired.
Called a double-barrel shotgun. Pull back one or both hammers to fire as many slugs at a time. Kicks like a mule. You can also pop in buckshot for a wide spread. Less range, but pokes all kinds of holes in folk.
The same acolyte offered Kurt a bandolier of cartridges varying in color, which the Judge wrapped over his shoulder and chest. He loaded both barrels with slugs whose cartridges were brown. Kurt’s fellow Judge informed him that these were standard rounds.
He looked to the acolyte who had offered him the weapon. “I assume we’re still calling it Dirge?”
The acolyte nodded. “This type of weapon is called a shotgun, Judge Kurt.”
Kurt slammed the weapon’s mid-section home. “Yes, I’m aware.”
The last Dirge had been a beauty, but it was as tall as a Southlander in high heels, and despite its sturdy craftsmanship, the rifle had still misfired from time to time. He holstered Dirge within a leather pouch strapped behind his right shoulder, confident that that wasn’t going to happen this time around.
Another foul breeze whipped at the torches, causing the light to falter and flare.
Get on with it. She’s carving Her way into the monastery.
“We have to hurry, Arch-Inquisitor.”
“And so we shall.” D’Nai beckoned the next acolyte forward. “The Judges carve through the darkness. Blazing, yet stalwart symbols of hope in dark times.”
Another acolyte came forth and knelt before Kurt, two blades raised almost as if in supplication. While Dirge had been altered to meet the technological advances of the times, Kurt was relieved to see no such modifications had been made to Ignis and Brimstone.
Ignis sported a brilliant white and crimson grip, a crescent crossguard, and a pommel containing viscous liquid Kurt knew all too well. The blade itself warped and weaved in a wicked fashion; the burning zeal of the Inquisition made manifest.
If Ignis was the wilder of the twin blades, then Brimstone was the rigid embodiment of the Inquisition’s mandate. It sported a black and white grip, while the crossguard had been designed with a more strict esthetic in mind. The blade’s surface was a milky white that, under the right lighting, took on a yellowish hue. While there were no oils in its pommel, Brimstone’s humility was but a facade cloaking its true potential. When wielded by Judges of equal skill, the blades were a force of nature.
Ain’t my hatchet, but those’ll do well enough.
Kurt took a few practice swings, unafraid of harming anyone near him. Despite their time apart, the swords still felt like an extension of himself. Ignis and Brimstone hummed through the air in sympathetic arcs and flourishes before coming to rest at his sides. An acolyte came forth with scabbards equal in beauty to the weapons they had housed for centuries. Kurt sheathed both blades before buckling the scabbards around his waist.
Get my pistols, too.
“Judge Pax would like his pis—”
The Arch-Inquisitor produced two polished six-shooters from her robes. An acolyte approached with a chest holster at the same moment. “I assumed as much. And tell him to be a bit more judicious when using our more rarified rounds, yes?”
Tell her to fuck off. I’m done taking orders from the Inquisition.
“He solemnly swears, Arch-Inquisitor D’Nai,” Kurt said. The Judge strapped the holsters beneath his jacket, slotting both pistols snug within their leather pockets. He allowed himself a moment to relish in the solidity of this moment. After having hidden in that oceanic hell for decades, hiding from his very own children, he was finally in a position to save them.
“Kurt and Pax: I hereby name thee Judges. Judges of those blinded by Nil’s dark promises,” D’Nai hesitated after that bit, but continued, “Judges of the zealot.” D’Nai paused. “And Judges of Nil.”
Both men felt the weight of their duty sink in; Pax’s fiery determination tempered by Kurt’s centuries of cold contemplation.
Another gale burst to life, sweeping through the monastery, and extinguishing numerous torches including those illuminating the ceremonial double doors the Arch-Inquisitor and her retinue had entered from.
Time’s up.
Kurt looked to D’Nai. “Gather our people and get out of here.” Kurt could see his breath, though it hung in the air far too long before dissipating.
D’Nai nodded, leading her people toward the doors exiting the chilled monastery. They entered the darkness, and it sounded as though all had made it beyond the ceremonial doors before they slammed shut. A young man’s voice remained in the monastery with Kurt. He pounded at the doors, pleading for his fellow acolytes to open them. Kurt went to him but stopped as a roar he knew all too well silenced the panicking acolyte. The sicking hiss of cloth, skin, and muscle parted by blade preceded the splatter of something wet.
What in the hell is that?
“Not what. Who.”
The top half of the acolyte, trailing ropey entrails, landed at Kurt’s feet. He sputtered, coughed, then died.
A giant of a man emerged from the shadows. Black irises, punctuated by moonlit pupils, peeked through whipping-
wild hair. In his beard was a braided collection of carnal offerings to the goddess who had poisoned his soul. Similar adornments hung from the thick furs swaddling his umbra-coated body which warped and weaved in a way both Judges knew all too well.
“Y’ohvinghr,” he rumbled in a northern language Kurt hadn’t heard in centuries, and remembered little of.
“Drusus,” Kurt said. “Son.”
So Her Judges have umbras, but we don’t? This is some grade-A horshit, is what it is.
Drusus took a step forward, his boot leaving a bloody print on the tiled floor. He hefted a bastard sword as tall as Kurt over one shoulder that left evaporating black tendrils in its wake. “Y’ohvinghr!”
“Beg,” came a woman’s voice from behind Kurt. He spun to see her standing at a nearby pew like some misplaced worshipper. Similarly darkened eyes scrutinized Kurt from beneath her hooded robe. “Typical. You’ve been so neglectful a father that you can’t even understand one of your own children.” The woman shook her head. “Drusus is telling you to beg, and you should do as he says, Father.”
It was Valia, Kurt’s very first child. She had always been direct and implacable; traits Kurt had once respected in his first born. Now? Now it left a hole in his heart.
So, she’s like my great-great-great step-sister or something?
“Add quite a few more ‘greats’ in there, and yes, Pax, you’d be correct.”
Valia cocked her head, grinning. “Pax. What an ironic name to give your last son.” Those cold eyes were unmoved by her expression. “And he will be your last.” Her smile dropped. “I killed you once, Father. I’ll do it again. Just, not so quickly this time.”
She killed you?
“Slit our throats in the middle of the night.” The sense of satisfaction Kurt felt within Valia as they bled out still haunted him. “She’d already been corrupted by Nil then, but I was too blind to see what was happening to her.”
“You may not believe me, Father, but I did that for you. You’ve fought against the way of things for far too long.” She produced an exquisite rapier from her robes. “She'll be waiting for you in the Conventus. Then we can end the line of Judges once and for all; we can end this futile war of yours.”
“Please, Valia, you know what Nil once was and can be again. There is a way to reverse what’s happened to Her. I can save you. All of you. Just stay your hand and Father will fix you.”
“We don’t need fixing,” Valia spat. “We’re free now. We no longer resist the way of things. Unlike you, we’ve come to accept Nil’s darkness. You’re just too stubborn, too controlling to accept the truth.”
Kurt let his hand fall. “Everything I’ve done, I did to rescue you and all the Judges from Her darkness. To put things back the way they once were.”
Did you, Kurt?
“Is that how you see it, Father? You wrested control from us! Took away the one thing we had left: you took away our freedom. We spent centuries watching one another become poisoned as you came and went; quashing our attempts at becoming the next Judge; to fight back against Nil. All so you could put things back to the way they ‘once were’. You’ve always been so afraid of change.”
You just smothered them so you could take control, eh? Sounds about right.
“Do you know how hard it was to watch everyone I loved being consumed by Her? I held out as long as I could, Father. Truly, I did, but eventually even I could see the way of things,” Valia said. “There’s no going back to those days in the light. They died with the Nil you refuse to let go of.”
“You’ve made your decision then,” Kurt croaked. “I can’t save you?”
That kind of thinking’s what got you in this mess.
Drusus dragged his blade along the ground as he approached.
“That’s always been the problem with you, Father. You thought it was your job to save us, to save the world. It’s time we freed you from such misplaced obligations. Soon, you’ll be part of the family once more, and the cycle of things shall commence in full.” Valia flourished her sword, leaving withering shadows in its wake. “And to our poor, misguided brother imprisoned within this shell of a man: Know that I tried to save you back in the Conventus, to make you more than just another slave to the Inquisition,” she leveled her sword at Kurt, “but Father, controlling as ever, just couldn’t allow it.”
Pax’s anger flared white-hot. Don’t trust you a damn bit, Kurt, but I ain’t dying today, and I sure as hell ain’t going back to being bait for your daughter. Let’s get to work.
Pax was right. It was time. Kurt unsheathed Ignis and jammed its pommel against his thigh. Thick oils oozed down the fuller of the blade. “I am sorry, my children. I have failed you both.” With a flourish, he slid Brimstone from its sheath and struck its sister blade. The sparks touched off the oil, wreathing Ignis in flames; the pungent smell of burning oil and sulfur defusing the monastery.
A hissing blade and the swish of robes closed in on Kurt from either side.
“Pax,” Kurt whispered. “You know how I said you needed to crawl before walking?”
Aw hell.
“I need you to sprint.”
Drusus thundered toward Kurt at the center of the monastery. The Judge charged his indomitable son, rolling beneath the horizontal swing of his bastard sword, and dragged Brimstone across the man’s thigh, parting his umbra with ease. Drusus stumbled, but before Kurt could purify the wound with Ignis, the corrupted Judge unleashed a backhand that sent Kurt rolling atop and over the altar. He rolled to a stop beneath the immense links of chain; barely avoiding burning himself with Ignis.
Kurt and Pax groaned.
What was that? Thought you’d been at this for a while?
Kurt coughed. “It would appear I’m a bit rusty.”
Pax’s form bulged, attempting to separate himself from Kurt’s body. Better scrape the rust off then. Can’t break free yet.
Kurt kept an eye on Valia as he stood. Knowing her, she would wait until the moment was right to poke holes through his defenses. Drusus was rounding the altar, teeth bared. It was now or never. “I need your help, Son.”
Don’t call me your son!
Kurt could feel his fellow Judge slamming against the prison that was Kurt’s body. The sensation was disorienting, but he needed Pax now. “You want to know why I gave you that ‘damned’ name, Son?”
Because you’re a bastard. Because it was the only goodbye you could manage before abandoning Ma and me. Kurt’s soul shuddered as Pax attempted to break free once more.
“It’s because I know how harsh this world is. That it was going to try and break you. That you’d have to grow up tough without me there to lift you up when you scraped your knees.”
Stop it! I wasted my life chasing after you, after shadows!
“Like father, like son.” Kurt leaned over and spat, staring Drusus down. He readied his swords. “Now are you going to show me the man you’ve become, or the bastard I left to rot?”
Pax raged to the surface, pushing past the semi-permeable barrier of Kurt, and into his own separate body. He stood face-to-face with his fellow Judge.
Kurt smiled. “Knew you could do it, Pax.”
“Kiss my ass.” Pax yanked Brimstone from Kurt’s hand, as well as one of his pistols. “Just try and keep up, old man.”
“Keep your brother busy.”
Pax turned to face his lumbering sibling. He spoke over his shoulder, “And what’ll you be doing?”
“Taking care of my daughter.”
Both men went after their charges.
Drusus coiled, preparing to unleash a severe horizontal swipe of his bastard sword. Pax leveled his pistol at the brute’s knee and fired. The impact sent the man to the ground, his swing going low and wild. Pax hopped over it, closing the gap, and point-blank, fired another round at Drusus’ forehead, causing his head to reel back. The larger man rolled backward with the force of Pax’s shot and came up to standing, his blade at guard.
The Judge cursed.
The shadowy giant wrenched his sword in a low swing, then redirected the momentum of his strike into an overhead chop that could cleave one Pax into two. Pax skirted back from the first attack, and sidled the next before kneecapping Drusus with another shot of his pistol, and carving a furrow through the inky armor covering his shoulder with Brimstone. The man grunted as he went down to one knee again.
Pax winked.
Faster than he’d have thought possible, Drusus shoulder-charged Pax, sending him flying onto his back. His monolithic brother loomed overhead, rearing back to carve the Judge down the middle.
Kurt, already dueling with Valia, sensed Pax’s dread and leapt back as he unholstered Dirge. Pulling one hammer back, he let the shotgun roar. The weapon’s recoil threw Kurt’s arm up, actually bucking it out of the way of an elegant stroke Valia had aimed at his wrist.
Pax winced as the slug ricocheted off Drusus’ blade, knocking his attack wide. The bastard sword smashed the marble to the side of Pax’s face, peppering him with chalky splinters. Not wasting the opportunity, Pax aimed his pistol at Drusus’ groin, and unleashed every round he had until he reached the last one in the chamber.
He pulled the trigger.
The phosphorus round burst to life, slithering across Drusus’ umbra. The larger man yelped, dropping his sword, and swiping at the blinding chemicals assailing his crotch. Squinting, Pax leapt to his feet and harried the man’s umbra with Brimstone. Dazed, Drusus went down to one knee for the third time. Pax grinned as he slashed at his long-lost brother’s neck—
Which Drusus caught with one umbra-coated hand. The two men wrestled with the blade as the corrupted Judge—coated in white flames—came up to a crouch, then clamped Brimstone between both hands, ignoring the black blood seeping between his fingers as he stood to his full height. Off-balance, Pax was unable to remove Brimstone from the man’s grip.
He sighed. “Well, shit.”
Drusus winked, then delivered a rib-cracking kick to Pax’s chest. He was hurled, sword still in hand, ten paces away from his brother, rolling to a stop. Face pressed against the cold tile floor, he watched his brother pick up his pistol, scrutinizing the tiny weapon in his massive hands. Drusus chucked the weapon at Pax, the pistol sliding to a stop before his face. “Better not say—”
The First Stain Page 8