HERETIC
by Mitch Sweet

Book I: Enkindled

Chapter 1

He was back there again, the suffocating heat threatening to sear flesh from bone, the acrid smoke burning his lungs, as he desperately tried to maintain his focus. This is what his curiosity, his doubt, his need to know had finally driven him to: this moment, wherein both of their existences – their very selves – hung in the balance, a yawning precipice of torment threatening to swallow them utterly for any misstep. Yet in that moment, clutching the obsidian dagger pressed against his left palm, his sight was captivated by one solitary vision.

Her.

Aloft before him – beautiful, terrible, smoldering; just as she had appeared to him over the many months during which he had delved ever deeper through the veil to the infernal places in which she dwelled, to which she was bound. But now – now she was so very, unbearably tangible, so real.

Her burning gaze was fixed upon him, and he had no choice but to meet it, a myriad of emotions communicated between them in flashes. Anxious curiosity: how would he, this impulsive creature, choose to act in this critical moment? Earnest fear: what fresh anguish awaited should this last, desperate gambit fail? And finally, he glimpsed it, as the iron grip with which she held her will slackened for but a moment. A glimmer of hope: trust, however desperate, from one soul to another. And for him, that was enough.

His eyes whipped to his hand as he drew the dagger across his outstretched palm with a sudden, dramatic stroke. Blood spilled over the etched stone tablet that sat ominously before him, the black blade cauterizing the ragged wound almost as soon as it had been made. The dark stone drank the blood in greedily, briefly shimmered, then abruptly disappeared, drawn impossibly in on itself and leaving only a wisp of tainted ash and smoke in its wake. Then, something which could only barely be described as sound boomed, reverberating around them both. Amusement. Derision. Hunger.

And a horrible, fathomless patience.

He looked up frantically, the dagger falling numbly from his grip, their eyes locking again. All was still for a moment as she looked down upon him, her burning eyes wide, her face a shifting mask of amazement, bewilderment. And courage.

Then came the pain.

A searing chain plunged into his chest and tore at his heart. It began drawing them together, tethering them both at their cores, its pull unyielding, undeniable, and excruciating. He could do nothing but focus on the blazing coals of her eyes, drawing ever closer, as the cost of the bargain they had just sealed became manifest. Yet in those moments of agony, with his mind racing maddeningly between fear, exultation, and insanity, something unexpected escaped his lips: laughter, framed by a wild, ecstatic smile. It was but the first step on a brutally long road, yes, but it had finally – and so very painfully – been made tangible.

As the chain drew her inexorably ever nearer, the heat only grew more intense, the pain ever more inescapable. Her scorching fire washed over him and threatened to obliterate his very existence. It burned the air from his lungs. It scoured away all barriers between them. It was a blazing inferno that finally … embraced him.

His world was nothing else now. Nothing but blazing light. Nothing but consuming fire. Nothing but searing flame.

Her flame.

Chapter 2

The forest lay quiet as day drew toward evening, its usual woodland murmur broken only slightly by a heavy, steady traveler's tread pacing dutifully along the narrow trail cutting through its heart. Shaking the fatigue and the ever-fresh burning memory from his mind, he continued his walk as comfortably as his encumbrance would allow. A dark, broad cloak shifted with each step, the telltale glint of armored plate occasionally peeking through the gaps, along with the jingle of woven chainmail. A shield hung strapped across his back, and under that a heavy-headed halberd, slung diagonally from shoulder to hip. He was doing his level best to stop the polearm from snagging on the occasional dipping branches that had begun to encroach upon the path, but he had been meeting with – at best – moderate success. As he walked, his eyes roved along the edges of the trail, his ears straining to pick out any sound seemingly out of place within the droning forest hum that provided the backdrop for his journey.

Just as monotony and boredom began to once again press against the edges of his attention, he heard it: three loud cries, in even timing, from a dove with no business being active this late in the day. He returned the call as he had been instructed: two cries in response, to which two more were promptly returned from deeper in the wood. Recognizing the signal, he stopped his walk at the trail's center, his arms and armor clanking in mild objection to the abrupt halt. He raised his right hand, palm outward and open, and waited.

After a handful of breaths, three shapes began to slowly materialize out of the woodland murk into the forms of humans, as they left the brush at the road's edges and approached the traveler at the center of the path. They arrayed themselves before him, each wearing minimal, light armor and bearing simple, unadorned weaponry suited to their rural surroundings. One of their number stepped forward, an older man whose face had seen its fair share of weathering and whose eyes weighed and measured this stranger standing before him.

"Are you him, then?" the older man asked brusquely, stopping three paces away and letting his silence finish the question.

Hoping to put the three at ease, he pulled back the cowl of his cloak and smiled reassuringly in response. They tensed at his movements nonetheless, hands hovering near their weapons. Making a show of very slowly reaching his outstretched hand into his cloak, he drew out a plain parchment letter, with a seal of three birds' heads at its end and displayed it to the three that faced him. "I bring the letter with your request for aid, marked with what I assume is your seal. Is that not sufficient? I doubt you get many travelling this way these days, much less alone."

"True. It's indeed the seal of our village… or at least it used to be, until – ah, you know well enough what's sprung up around here." The older man briefly paused as he looked this very particular stranger up and down again. "You don't look much like a cleric."

"I never claimed to be. Your request was for someone who was familiar in dealing with the infernal – you weren't very particular beyond that."

The older man grunted assent, and the beginnings of a weary smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "We'll take whatever help we can get at this point – desperation has its way of making us less choosy." He reached out his hand in introduction. "Bryn, of the Three Vales."

"Rion," he replied simply, clasping the offered hand.

Bryn shrugged and motioned behind him. "Come. We should get to our camp – we can speak there."

Rion nodded as he moved to follow Bryn over the edge of the trail and into the thick of the woods. As they walked, Rion looked over at the other two members of his erstwhile escort: a man and woman, definitively younger, their glances darting furtively between him and their immediate surroundings. They had clearly been hardened by what they had seen, and their jaws were set with determination. Such acute resolve would continue to be needed, he was certain, and likely soon tested.

After half an hour's walk, the four reached a slight clearing nestled deeper into the thick tree cover, a grouping of tents slowly resolving into view. As they walked to the center of the encampment, Rion observed the folk working busily amongst the canvas shelters. Men and women, young and old, all equally displaced, yet all contributing however they could to prepare for the conflict that was inevitably to come. And, somehow, to just survive until then. As they passed various groups of people in the midst of their duties – drilling combat maneuvers, mending armor, preparing food, guarding the perimeter – they were met with inquisitive, hopeful glances, most clearly focusing on this stranger now making his way through their particular corner of the world. Rion met their gazes kindly and hoped his expression could calm their worry, if but a little. He shifted his cloak further behind his back, revealing his weathered plate and chain armor, as much to reassure those watching him pass by as to also release some of the smoke from the fires that his travelling garb had been particularly keen about holding onto.

As they wended their way toward the large tent at the camp's center, Bryn glanced back at Rion again. He looked over the exposed armor, the single oversized, heavy gauntlet hanging from his belt, and the halberd's shaft poking out from behind his back. His eyes finally fixed upon the holy symbol pinned to Rion's left hip. "You look like you've come well-armed, at least." He grunted briefly, as his finger tapped the symbol, "So, what's this, then?"

Rion glanced at the sigil bound to his waist. The evening light glimmered across the engraved image: a sunrise set within a stylized flame. He gave a grim smile, his eyes glinting in the surrounding camp's firelight. "Another life… I told you, I'm no cleric. But I serve in my own way. And I well know what you face here." Bryn nodded, seemingly resigned to the fact that he would get nothing more out of him.

When they finally arrived at the central tent, Bryn held back the flap and beckoned Rion in. "Our small council is waiting – now, with you here, we need to decide on a course of action." Rion nodded, bent his head, and passed under the flap into the tent. Simple oil lamps lit the interior, and he saw two people seated at its center: an older woman – her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, dark eyes intensely examining the newcomer entering their space – and a middle-aged man miserably hunched over and huddled into his worn cleric's robes, tiredly glancing up at this new, unfamiliar face. Bryn followed Rion in, the other two escorts taking up posts at the tent's exterior, on either side of the entryway. Bryn took his place in a third, empty chair and cleared his throat, "I must introduce Vama, our elder and mayor, and Belin, our town's cleric. We represent the Three Vales in exile, which has called for aid." Bryn reached out his hand, and Rion dutifully handed over the parchment letter he had previously displayed to them. Bryn handed the document to Vama, and continued, "This is Rion, one who has answered our call and brought a demand letter bearing our sigil. He brings his strength and his experience with such … infernal matters."

Rion gave a bow at the serviceable introduction and met the gazes of the other two council members in turn before speaking. "Thank you. I passed through the Three Vales some months ago, but I saw nothing of what you are facing now. The changes to the wood are more than evident, only growing worse the closer to town you come… I can scarcely imagine how things look in the Three Vales proper now. Tell me what has happened."

Chapter 3

The conversation had run longer into the night than Rion had expected or intended, but in truth, none would sleep particularly well facing what was to come the next day. The small council had ultimately agreed to his aggressive plan, but not without some initial skepticism. In the end, though, they didn't have many other options, and precious little time to waste. Supplies were running thin and the wood was becoming lean in edible game, due in no small part to the corruption seeping out from the Three Vales. Moreover, the town could not be left occupied by its invaders for much longer – dislodging them would only grow ever more difficult as the days dragged on.

As Rion sat in his tent, removing his armor and kindling the small stove in its corner, a burning thought licked against the edges of his mind. He smiled gently. "As ready as we will ever be, no?" he said to the empty air. His eyes briefly glinted a golden red. "Yes, yes, of course they are suspicious. They have cause to be, after what they've seen already. That doesn't mean they are not grateful."

A wave of heat ran through his body, and the air around him shimmered. "It doesn't matter – we hold to what we swore. Always," he murmured. Gradually, a subtle wreath of flame took shape in the air and draped itself across his shoulders, flowing around his neck and down his chest; Rion sat back in his camp chair, closing his eyes and embracing the heat. "You know it will never come to that, not while I draw breath. Exculpat xi bez mich'k an…"

The rustling of his tent flap jolted Rion to attention, with the wreath of fire and its heat disappearing in an instant and leaving his body abruptly cold. He looked up to see Bryn with one foot already through the tent's opening, his expression quizzical and gaze jumping rapidly about. Seeing Rion rising up from his camp chair with a start, Bryn held up his hand and muttered an apology. "I'm sorry, I could have sworn I heard… nevermind." He glanced at the meager camp stove burning quietly in the corner and shook his head. "All in order here?"

Rion nodded. "Just preparing my gear and focusing my mind on the task ahead of us tomorrow. We all should take as much rest as possible, though. We'll need every bit of strength we can muster."

"I was sure…" the older man shook his head again. "No matter. I suppose the nerves are making me jumpy as a pup."

"Completely understandable," Rion smiled, as he walked up and clapped a hand on Bryn's shoulder. "Rest well. I will see you in the morning."

"Til morning, then," Bryn said, briefly inclining his head before leaving.

Rion stood quietly a moment to be certain Bryn had left and finally let out a relieved sigh. Shaking his head, he briskly strode over to the tent flaps and began to rather emphatically and properly tie them down for the night. He felt the flickering flame at the edge of his thoughts again, inquisitive and curious. "No, clearly not here," he answered, whispering as he worked. A brief sadness, frustration pulsed into him. "I know… I know. We will be on our way again soon."

He crouched down to do a final pass on the sharpness of his halberd's edges and to oil the intricate whirring mechanisms of his gauntlet and armor, the familiar routine easing his mind as he worked steadily into the night.

Chapter 4

The midday sun shone steadily as the armed contingent from the camp approached the outer walls of the town of Three Vales itself. Rion strode at the head of what could vaguely pass as a formation, with Bryn at his side. Vama and Belin walked further back at the core of the group, protectively flanked by a dedicated guard. They were no more than a hundred strong, but the town of Three Vales was never significant because of its size. Its central location and role as a gathering place and hub for the surrounding valley communities made it vital for the commerce and social cohesion of the region. Ironically, it was the very same reason that its abrupt occupation was exerting such an outsized influence. Rion's mind ran through his internal calculation for the thousandth time: a hundred willing fighters should be enough for the task ahead. But there was really no alternative, after all – it would simply have to be. As Rion walked, light glinted off the large, brass-colored gauntlet he wore on his right hand. A series of support struts, joints, and mechanisms linked it to the back of his armor's chest-plate, the spinning components within whirring steadily as his gauntleted arm easily hefted the large-headed halberd single-handedly. Sunrays played on the front of the tall shield he bore on his other arm, as he led the desperate yet hopeful folk of the Three Vales back toward their long-time home.

As they approached the walls, a resounding creak could be heard emanating out from the town as its gates ponderously swung open, echoing off the darkened ramparts. Rion and the townsfolks' contingent halted a good few hundred meters away, giving whatever was coming out wide berth. Still, they were close enough to catch small glimpses of what had been transpiring inside since they were driven out. The rustic homes they had known their whole lives now appeared somehow… wrong, as if their outer edges were in the process of sloughing off a layer of skin. Something akin to dark lichen clung to anything it could, giving off a sickly, oily sheen. The air itself seemed shadowed, somehow denser, suffocating. Rion steadied his breath, not permitting panicked memories to clatter unbidden about his mind – he acknowledged his fear, but mentally packed it off to where it belonged. There was no mistaking it: the touch of the infernal was here. And its heralds were now marching out through the gates.

* * *

Get the full story - find Heretic on Amazon! →