by Matt Turner
“I tossed aside my eyes for the Fallen Father, but even I can see the truth,” Brother Vaux’s head said. “Brother Antonio told me all. Take off that one’s hood.”
The townsfolk in the pews began to angrily rise to their feet. Their mumbled, enraged whispers were difficult to make out, except for two words: a suicide.
“Come and try it,” Plague growled. A knife appeared in both of his hands as he crouched into a defensive posture, ready to strike.
“Allow me to finish Brother Taoiseach’s sermon.” The muscles and nerves in Brother Vaux’s empty eye sockets began to twitch and dance excitedly as the Flagellants spread out throughout the church. There was a crash as a heavy bar slammed against the door behind them. They were trapped. “Lady Prophet Ellie has taught us that the greatest sin of all is flesh. But do you know what the second greatest sin of all is?”
The Flagellant missing his tongue suddenly barreled forward at Plague, hoping to catch him off guard. The Horseman neatly side-stepped his attack and buried a dagger at the base of his skull, instantly paralyzing him.
“The second greatest sin is waste. All things serve the Fallen Father in the end, even those that once drove us to sin…like our bodies.”
“John, behind you!” Plague yelled out.
There was no time to do anything but react—John spun around, expecting to meet his death, and then stared in shock at the massive branch that protruded from his arm directly into the abdomen of another Flagellant. The impaled man’s reaction was little more than a grimace of pain.
“That is why the Church is the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace’s primary supplier of that most rarest of foods.” Brother Vaux bit down on something in his mouth, hard, and then spat out a lump of something red and bloody. He smiled as one of the Flagellants scraped it off the pulpit and swallowed it down. “Meat.”
“Holy shit, he is a Suicide!” the man who had first questioned Plague said in amazement.
“Then let’s fucking kill him!” the woman screamed. The congregation roared its assent, and then they blindly rushed forward.
“The good people of Bromios have a similar outlook.” Brother Antonio was in the front line of the charge; Plague hacked off his arm and kicked the Flagellant in the chest so hard that he flew backward, bowling over half a dozen more of the zealots. “But they make their trade off a different sort of flesh, the kind of flesh that can only be found in one place: the Forest of Suicides.”
“Shit!” John screamed. The Flagellant he had impaled on his branch was still stuck; no matter how hard he thrashed it about, the damned man would just not move. In a fury, he jerked the branch about with all his might, whiplashing it into the pews, sending out spatters of wood and blood as the sheer force of the blow reduced the Flagellant’s body to a bloody pulp that stained the entire congregation.
“Wood. There’s only one place it grows in all of the Kingdom, and you destroyed it, didn’t you, Horseman?”
Wood… For a heartbeat, John paused as he looked at the red-stained branch extending from his arm. The same color had been present in the trees in that wretched forest…the same color that stained the wooden walls around him… He noticed the plethora of axes the charging townsfolk possessed, and the horrible pieces of the puzzle began to click together.
“You burnt my trade, Suicide!” The sturdy woman charged at John, swinging the common axe of a lumberjack. She swung the blade around into his chest, spraying bits of bark outward as he reeled back onto the floor. From far away, John could hear Plague screaming out his name as the woman slammed a boot into his face and raised her axe up for the final blow.
“We shall send your body to the Prophets, Horseman—once we’ve had our fill, of course. And as for you, Suicide…”
John weakly struggled to get back up, but it was no use: the wound in his chest was far too painful, the screams of the mob too overwhelming. Let it all end, he thought despairingly as he slumped back to the ground, waiting for the axe head to slam down into him. Just let it end. Something wet dribbled from his face and onto the dusty wooden floor. To his surprise, the clear fluid slipped into a crack covered by the dust and flowed through it like a miniature river, cutting through the dirt and debris of years.
“…we shall use your body as the root of a grand new Forest. The wood trade will return, and the Kingdom will thank us.”
The crack wasn’t really a crack after all; it was an indentation in the wood—an indentation that suddenly became a crystal-clear image: the outline of a human face. It was another Suicide, John realized—one who had been cut down and used as nothing more than lumber by monsters in human flesh.
The logger swung her axe down at his head.
John raised his face to look at her, eye-to-eye. With his free hand, he desperately called on all the powers that Plague claimed the Horsemen to have.
And then he prayed.
17
Life in the army of Hell wasn’t that different than life in any other army, Simon decided. There were tedious drills, endless squabbles over chain of command, and a never-ending emphasis on discipline, discipline, discipline. In that regard, the Thirteenth Legion had even the old army of crusaders he had once commanded beat. Even Simon had blinked and looked away the first time one of his fellow conscripts was crucified upside-down in front of the entire legion for stealing a few scraps of food from the officer’s quarters. He still hung up there, in front of the drill square, still screaming curses and threats down at the other men. But, as more transgressions inevitably happened and more of the profligates (as Longinus the Prophet called them) were nailed up, it became easier and easier to tune their cries out.
They deserve it, Simon thought approvingly every time he marched past the transgressors. Sinners, all of them. He was self-aware enough to recognize the hypocrisy of his words, but he always brutally clamped down on the thought. He was a crusader, a soldier of Christ—he must have been sent to this hellish domain for a reason, damn it. Surely there was some demon or monster that he was supposed to slay, something that threatened God’s domain, and then he would be rewarded with eternal—
A steel-toed boot came down on his unprotected foot. “Fuck!” Simon bellowed in surprise and pain as his toes cracked nastily.
“Sorry about that, Lord Crusader.” Victor grinned nastily at him. “I didn’t see you there.”
“You little bastard,” Simon snarled. Victor—or, as most called him behind his back, Tricky Vic—had had it in for him the instant the two Prophets had brought the fresh haul of slaves in to augment the Thirteenth’s ranks. Shouldn’t have told them my name, Simon seethed. Admitting that he was a lord had marked him as a target from the very beginning, no matter how many arms he broke and skulls he punched in.
“Careful, m’lord.” Tricky Vic wagged a disapproving finger in Simon’s face. “I’m your superior, y’know.”
This was only barely true; as one of the newest recruits, Simon had been given the shittiest equipment in the entire legion: sandals, ragged trousers, a rough leather jerkin, and a single knife. Even marching was a chore; he was still chained to twenty other soldiers. Vic, for his part, was allowed to walk free, and even had a shirt of chain mail to go along with his pike and saber. Neither of them were even close to the senior members of the rank and file, who bore a plethora of exotic weapons that Simon still didn’t understand.
“Let it go, Simon,” one of the recruits linked to him by the chains said. “You want to get whipped again?”
Simon gritted his teeth at the foul memory. The whip had stung like hell, but it had been a light punishment compared to what the legion normally dished out. That didn’t change the fact that the beating had been so bad he had very nearly pissed himself. They had even slapped a pair of manacles on his wrists to make sure that he didn’t attempt anything like that in the future. He bit his lip and forced himself to remain silent.
“It seems his lordship is in one of his foul moods,” Victor cooed. He reached out and gently patted Simon on the
head. “Look at that nasty face. Would his lordship like a lollipop to—AGH—”
Simon jerked his head up and latched his teeth onto Victor’s hand.
“Let GO!” Victor screeched as Simon’s teeth cut through skin and muscle to the bones of his fingers. “You BASTARD—” He lunged for his saber, but Simon yanked his head back, pulling Victor forward and off-balance—finally within reach of his shackled arms.
All around him, soldiers were screaming and barking orders, but Simon paid no mind to the line of slaves desperately trying to tear him backward with the chain that bound him. He wrapped his hands around Victor’s neck in a great hug, allowing the shackles to twist around the other man’s throat.
“WAIT—” Victor screamed, but it was too late.
With all of his might, Simon pulled the chain tight in one explosive movement. There was a screech of bone against metal, a pop of steel, and suddenly a geyser of blood sprayed into his face as Tricky Vic’s head wordlessly fell from its body.
I didn’t pull that hard, Simon thought in surprise as Victor’s head continued to shriek and scream in the dust. In astonishment, he looked down at the manacles that had bound his hands and saw that they had been shattered by the sheer force of his attack. What devilry is this? Something on his right shoulder seemed to tighten and shift in reply. He unconsciously stretched his arm back and touched a raised piece of flesh that bulged beneath his leather jerkin—a vague memory came back to him of noticing it on the ship.
The chain connecting him to the other slaves tightened, but it might as well have been the bite of a fly. He seized it with one hand and gave it an experimental yank. It immediately slackened as the twenty men pulling on it were jerked forward and tumbled to the ground. Now that was interesting. He jerked it again and grinned as the others chained to him cursed and coughed as they were dragged several feet along the ground.
A great strength coursed through his veins. My purpose, he thought in exultation. He rose to his feet and kicked Tricky Vic’s screaming head a hundred feet into the air. “Hear me, damned!” Lord Simon de Montfort called out grandly to the realm of the dead. “I am a soldier of Christ! I am a crusader! I am Lord Simo—”
Something slammed and wrapped around his throat, cutting his grand proclamation off mid-sentence. He coughed and choked and reached for the iron links of the whip to wrench it away, ignoring the iron barbs that tore into his hands and neck, drawing miniature rivers of blood.
“My, you’re an interesting one, aren’t you?” Fritz the Prophet drawled. He gently tugged back with his barbed chainwhip, bringing Simon down to his knees. “I wouldn’t struggle if I were you—the barbs go deeper the more you squirm.”
He was right—the serrated metal teeth build into the whip were already inching their way through Simon’s flesh to his windpipe. Any more and he would lose consciousness, and likely wake up to find himself nailed to a cross. Simon forced himself to remain still. He let out a muffled curse as the Prophet gently tugged on the whip, pulling him forward.
“Nothing to see here!” Fritz called out to the staring practice field. “This one and I are just going to have a little chat.” With that, he pulled Simon away from the gathered legion, through the line of crucified men, and into one of the large warehouses scattered about the camp.
Simon immediately caught the scent of spilled entrails as they entered. A torture chamber, he realized.
“Much better.” Fritz gave one last tug, slamming Simon down on the ground on his back. “Now tell me, what’s your name, friend?”
Simon coughed up a mouthful of blood in response.
“My mistake.” Fritz nodded. He whipped his wrist backward, and suddenly the chainwhip loosened from Simon’s throat and snapped back into the hand of its owner. “Now, what’s your name?”
“Simon de Montfort,” Simon choked out. “Lord of Montfort-l’Amaury and a score of other estates, leader of God’s Holy Crusade against the Cathar heresy, commander of fifty thousand men…” His voice trailed off as he went through the various titles; he had gone a long time without someone interrupting him halfway.
But Fritz only nodded and waited for him to finish. “Simon de Montfort?” he asked incredulously. “Are you the Simon de Montfort? Leader of the Albigensian Crusade?”
Albigensian? Was that what they called it after he had died? “Aye,” Simon said, feeling absurdly grateful to the man. Finally, some recognition! “The Battle of Muret, the fall of Montpellier—I did it all.”
“I read about you as a child,” Fritz said in wonder. “Even in the Fatherland, your exploits are legendary. To think I would actually meet you in the flesh…”
“If you’re going to crucify me, get the hell on with it,” Simon growled. “But know that asshole had it coming.”
“Oh, we’re agreed there.” Fritz nodded. “The Thirteenth is filled with degenerates like that. If it were up to me, we’d exterminate them all, but it’s rather difficult to keep someone dead down here, isn’t it?” He lazily drew a knife with his free hand and hurled it into a rack of meat hanging down the ceiling. “Even the idiots in the Church of the Fallen Father have trouble with that.”
The man was not planning on torturing him—not yet anyway—and he seemed to know of Simon’s history. “I was slain at Carcassonne,” Simon slowly said. “My son Amaury was there. Tell me, do you know if he lived?” Hope grew in his chest as Fritz frowned in thought.
“I don’t know,” the Prophet said. “I’m sorry.” He knelt and held out a hand.
As swift as his hopes had risen, they were crushed yet again. Even the barbs of the chainwhip had not hurt so much. Simon sighed and blinked away the moisture in his eyes.
“But what I do know—” Just as Simon reached for his hand, Fritz pulled it back and punched him in the face, blacking one of his eyes. With a smooth motion, he kicked a foot under Simon’s back and flipped him onto his belly. “—Are the massacres of Béziers and Termes, Butcher of God. I think the Kingdom could find a man of your talents very useful.” The blade-tipped end of the chainwhip lashed out, slicing the back of Simon’s leather jerkin in half and leaving a thin laceration down the length of his spinal column.
Simon braced himself for the chainwhip to come down again, but there was nothing—only a sharp inhalation of breath from Fritz, and suddenly the Prophet reached down and dragged him up to his feet. “Congratulations, de Montfort.” He smiled at Simon’s confused expression. “You’ve just been promoted.” He lazily flicked his weapon out and shattered the manacles about Simon’s wrists in two.
“What?” Simon said in dumbfound shock. “I don’t understand—”
“By the power vested in me by the High Council of the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace, blah blah blah, I promote you to be my personal bodyguard.” Fritz gave Simon an unnerving smile. “This will be a very profitable partnership for me, I’m sure. Just make me one promise.”
Simon did not like the look on the Prophet’s face. It reminded him of a stained-glass window he had once seen depicting Judas in the depths of Hell—those same cunning eyes, those same vaguely handsome features that masked the true intent of the Great Betrayer. “What would that be?”
“Don’t tell Longinus.” Fritz’s voice dropped any hint of friendliness or companionship; all that was left was cold steel. “If you go telling anyone—especially him—about what you just did, there won’t be a hole in Hell you can hide in from me.”
He wants something. Simon had dealt with enough greedy nobles in his time to know that much. But what could it be? Unbidden, the raised lump of flesh on his right shoulder itched in the air; Fritz’s chainwhip had exposed his entire back to the cold. He started to move his hand to scratch at it—and then forced himself to stop the motion as Fritz’s eyes glimmered. What does he know?
“You’re a lucky man, de Montfort.” Fritz flicked a switch on the wall, illuminating the entire warehouse—and revealing the dozens upon dozens of rows of meat slabs hanging from the ceiling. “Longinus likes to rese
rve crucifixions for cowards and thieves. For those who attack their own comrades—he just gives them over to the Flagellants.”
Simon gazed out over the slabs of bleeding, rotting meat with abject horror.
Fritz chuckled at his expression. “Why so tense, de Montfort? It’s no different than what you and I did in our previous lives. Just more efficient—and endlessly repeatable. Now, do you pledge to serve me or not?”
“Aye,” Simon muttered. “I give my oath—”
“Your agreement is good enough,” Fritz interrupted. “Oaths are nothing in the Kingdom. They all get broken anyway. The only two motivators us Prophets need are the fear of pain and the pain of fear. Understand?”
“Aye,” Simon grunted. He made an inward vow to give the Prophet some pain of his own one day.
“Vunderbar.” Fritz smiled. “Then let us go, bodyguard. There’s some hunting to be done.” He flicked the switch in the warehouse as they left, plunging the ragged bodies into darkness once again.
After he had outfitted Simon with a new set of armor—a steel breastplate, some padded trousers, and an expensive pair of boots (he made sure to select materials his weapons could easily penetrate)—Fritz took him to the armory and presented him with an old-fashioned Zweihänder. The lord eyed the two-meter-long German sword skeptically, but was able to handle its heavy weight incredibly easily—as Fritz had known he would.
“It’s rather large, isn’t it?” Simon asked, unconsciously using the crude Latin that was the lingua franca of Hell.
“All the better for hacking and bludgeoning,” Fritz replied in German. He immediately switched over to English. “There isn’t much point in rapiers and half-assed blades when your opponents are already dead.”
“Aye, that’s true,” Simon murmured back in English as he carefully examined the blade.
I have him. Fritz had already tried out Italian, French, and even a smattering of Russian (the filthy language left a bitter taste in his mouth) on the lord, and somehow he had understood every single language as though he were fluent in it, responding so naturally that it seemed he hadn’t even realized they were constantly switching languages. That, paired with his astounding strength, had immediately led Fritz to suspect something—and his theory was confirmed, when lo and behold, he had found the telltale Mark on Simon’s back. It wasn’t quite as same as the one that Longinus bore, but any fool could see the similarity.