Photo by Aleksandr Sobolev on Unsplash
North of Monastery Hill
Under the searing sun, the old Hunter, Gemma, and a giant war duck in a helmet followed the path toward the nearby woods. As soon as they entered, the trees cast them in shade. With cooler ground underfoot and relief from the heat, they continued along the dirt road, where dry leaves and undergrowth lay thick. Since none of them needed rest, they continued without stopping.
Gemma turned her head left and right, excited by the different birdsong. Her senses were sharp enough to catch foxes and other animals moving deeper in the woods.
By the time they emerged from the far side, the afternoon sun had lost some of its bite.
The road led them past empty farms and orchards surrounding a small village that now stood abandoned. Those who had once lived there had likely fled during Midlandia’s armed conflicts and had yet to return. Or perhaps too many had died, leaving too few hands to keep the place going against neglect and marauding bandits.
Even with order restored, it would be a long time before life returned to normal.
Ironically, it was Gemma who paid attention to all this, not the old Hunter, who did not spare a single comment for the empty settlement. A pang of guilt went through her as she quietly wondered whether the Monastery, and she herself, had played a part in it.
The weight in her shoulders told her the answer was yes.
From the direction of a different settlement, a tall, cloaked figure came striding toward them.
As soon as Gemma noticed him, the old Hunter quickly said, “Don’t mind him. He's one of mine.”
“One of yours...?” she asked.
“Yes,” the old Hunter replied dismissively.
Only then did Gemma realize he had been there to cut off her escape if she tried to run. Fear and dread stirred anew inside her.
“What will he think of me?” she asked.
“A little surprised, I’d say.”
“I’m scared,” she said, trying for pity.
“He won’t eat you," he replied.
She blurted out, “The duck might.”
At those words, the duck glanced at her as if offended.
“Apologies, Meister Duck,” Gemma said as fast as she could, clearly embarrassed, and only then did the duck turn her neck back toward the road.
Letting out a breath of relief, Gemma turned to the old man again. “If he convinces you to kill me, so I do not become a wandering ghost, how did you find me in the orchard?”
The old man gave an amused snort. “Well, to us, your body glows bright. There is no use trying to escape.”
“Bright...?” she asked, not expecting such an answer.
The old man merely offered a stiff smile, unwilling to say more.
Gemma let out a deep sigh. She had thought herself quite knowledgeable in the art of magic, but as it turned out, the world was truly vast, and she was only one misguided child.
As the man drew near, Gemma recognized him as one of the Hunters she had seen before. The one who had survived the Saint.
She gulped and quickly turned to the old man again. “Are you sure he’ll let me live?”
“He’ll do what I say. Probably.”
Understandably, it did little to reassure her, and she could only mutter weakly, “Probably...”
“I’m more worried about the Lord," the old man said, "but he’s quite reasonable. I lost a brother-in-arms in the fight, so I might as well take you as a replacement.”
That caught Gemma off guard. “You’ve met the Black Lord?”
“A charming man, though hard to read. It is almost as if his mind has been trained against such probing. Now that I think of it, it is no wonder he could best the Saint.”
“Huh...?” Gemma stared at him in utter shock. “The Lord bested the Saint?”
Before they could say more, the man, broad-chested and powerfully built beneath the cloak, joined them and muttered in clear displeasure, “Old man, don’t just pick up stragglers like this. It’s going to be troublesome.”
“I save who I can,” the old man replied, sounding utterly unbothered.
“But not a lich,” Arnaut said coldly, making Gemma tremble a little. “We even lost Alexios.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Gemma muttered weakly, guilt in her voice.
Arnaut ignored her as he warned his Guild Leader, “Even if you want to save her, the Lord will execute her.”
“That’s my problem,” the old man said firmly. “Besides, she’s rather cute, don’t you think?”
Gemma gave an awkward grin.
“Is that it?” Arnaut asked in a troubled tone. “You want another daughter to rise?”
The old man did not answer. Feeling guilty, Gemma stepped in. “My apologies, my apologies,” she said to the newcomer. “Please, give me a chance.”
Instead of calming down, Arnaut drew his sword in a flash. Gemma froze, staring at him in utter shock and fear. Thinking this was the end, she muttered, “Make it painless. I’m innocent—”
“She’s a healer,” the Guild Leader cut in, pulling Gemma closer.
“Every lich is.”
“Then she fits.”
At last, Arnaut let out a long, deep sigh and slid his sword back into its scabbard, but warned, “I dare you, lich. Take even a drop of blood from a dog, and I’m ending you.”
“She won’t.” The old man’s answer was light.
Gemma then muttered, “What about a cut of raw meat? Rabbit? I think I can survive on that.”
Arnaut suddenly clamped a hand around the back of her neck. “No blood.”
Something sparked inside her. Soft-hearted though she was, she could not stand being bullied. She swung her sharp nails swiftly at his arm, but he pulled it back in time. “Why are you so set on starving me?”
“See? She’s not innocent,” Arnaut said to the old man with sudden, unnerving calm.
“You pushed her too hard,” the old man said, dismissing the concern.
Still unconvinced, Arnaut shot her a sharp, murderous glance, as if he meant to bore a hole through her skull, and stepped toward her. Sensing the threat, Gemma swiped at him, but he slapped her hand aside. Before she could react, he was already on her. He caught her by the throat and lifted her with one hand.
“Khk—” She clutched his hand with both of hers, her harder nails digging deep, but Arnaut did not seem to feel it at all.
“You’re going to heal whoever needs healing, without question and without demanding compensation. Cause trouble, and I’ll deal with you myself.”
Utterly shaken, Gemma cried out in fear despite trying her best not to.
“Liches don’t die from suffocation,” Arnaut said, releasing her so suddenly that she crashed to the ground.
“I still black out. It’s still scary,” Gemma cried from the ground, her voice hoarse as she sobbed.
Sighing deeply, Arnaut hauled her back up and brought her to the duck’s saddle. That seemed to calm her, and even the duck appeared to accept it.
The old man merely chuckled as he watched them. It was rough, but their distrust had to be settled one way or another. The sooner it was settled, the sooner they could become a team.
As they walked along the empty road, the old man asked, “How’s the area?”
“Bodies in the woods. Wild animals, but no signs of corruption."
The old man nodded. “The disturbance ended relatively quickly. This province should be fine.”
“It’s Elandia and Nicopola that worry me,” Arnaut said.
To Hunters like them, a large number of unattended bodies was always a problem, for it would certainly attract scavengers. When animals fed on too many human corpses, traces of the Ancient in human blood could corrupt them. If that corruption took root in a place where the dead were plentiful, it could give rise to corrupted beasts. From there, the trouble would only grow. Such creatures turned cunning, almost manlike in their malice, choosing prey with care and slipping from one stretch of woods to another to evade discovery until it was too late.
“We have no manpower to do anything in Nicopola. Hopefully, the mage guild can do its part,” the old man muttered.
Arnaut did not comment on that, but reported, “Aside from that, I’ve seen no other sign of bandit activity.”
“The new Lord seems capable. Order was restored quickly.”
Arnaut glanced at the old man. “Do you think he’s more trustworthy than House Bengrieve?”
“We are here, are we not?” the old man asked, drawing a nod from the younger man.
“I see wisdom in his young eyes,” the old man said after a moment. “He is not the sort to ask for an assassination in exchange for support.”
“A ruler can change,” Arnaut said.
The old man replied with a confident smile. “Time will tell.”
***
4399, Monastery (27 years ago)
Children’s laughter drifted across the meticulously kept lawn. Small figures ran through the bright grass while flower gardens bloomed nearby in gentle colors. Butterflies wandered through the warm morning sun, their wings flickering in the light.
A group of old Sisters with graying hair walked slowly along the clean cobbled path. They looked fresh, their skin lightly reddened yet supple. They had just come from the natural hot baths on the far side of the complex, the very reason the Monastery had been built atop this hard-to-reach hill.
One of the girls watched them with open awe.
The leader of the Sisters, clad in a purple robe, stopped and smiled down at her. “What’s your name, little girl?”
“I’m Angela,” the girl replied brightly.
“Angela,” the old Sister murmured. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“The Abbess gave it to me,” she said proudly.
“Then you should be proud. It is rare for her to choose a name.”
Angela grinned, still lost in the color of the robe, a shade so rich she had never seen anything like it. The old Sister seemed to notice at once. She reached out and gently patted her head. “Someday, you too may wear purple, my child. Someday, as a senior Saint...”
Around them, children ran across the lawn, their laughter rising and falling in the warm air.
...
4426, Monastery (now)
The 126-year-old Sister walked through a corridor still marked by battle and death. She was helped along by two aides and guarded by a heavy escort.
“It is hard to believe all this would end before I was buried,” the Old Sister said as she walked across the dirtied floor, unbothered by the lingering stench.
“Please, don’t say that, Reverend Sister,” one of her aides pleaded.
It had been three days since the fateful battle. The Monastery as many had known it was no more. Even without the Lord’s involvement, the undead attack inside the Monastery had destroyed whatever reputation the Saint and the order once held. Now, accusations flew from every side.
The narcotic incense, laced with sedatives, had come under heavy scrutiny, especially after Sister Anna’s confession about what it truly was and who had ordered her to make it.
The Lord’s bailiffs and officials, drawn from various neighboring places, were working overtime to bring justice to all involved.
A huge number of ordinary Candidates were being questioned, and many had already been swiftly jailed. A few had even been condemned and now awaited execution, pending the completion of the entire investigation. Despite his cooperation, the notorious Uncle was not spared, as many surviving women accused him of drugging them and having his way with them. The accusations had spread through every level of the Monastery, even to the leadership in the Inner Sanctum.
Too many had been disgraced, and the leadership had fallen into such disarray that they had been forced to bring the Old Sister back despite her advanced age, to serve as interim leader while the order was being remade.
Now, as the Old Sister entered the hall, the members of the Monastery lowered their heads, while the Lord’s men remained standing. Guided by one of her students, she made her way to the center, where the group that had gone below had laid out what they had recovered before the two lower floors were sealed with timber and stone.
The air was tense. Mournful sobs came from every side as hundreds of rigid bodies lay there. Spells had been used to keep the bodies cold, slowing their decay and holding back the gruesome stench.
Aided by several younger Sisters, the Old Sister strained herself and knelt near the bodies of the Monastery members, whom witnesses said had taken their own lives around a runic circle.
Another of her students, Emma, said, “The inside of their lips and noses had an unnatural color.”
The Old Sister nodded and said to her people, “Make no mistake. They were made to do this. This was not suicide.”
A wave of sobbing broke through the hall.
Then she saw a severed heads. “Angela,” she muttered, and asked her aide to bring the head to her. With her own hands, she carefully placed it in a basket and covered it with clean linen. She knew Angela had become a questionable figure, but the Old Sister could not bring herself to see her end like this.
At her side, Emma carefully asked, her eyes reddened, “What should we do with them?”
“We’ll burn them,” the Old Sister said, then turned to the crowd in the hall. “In my eyes, they were all my daughters and sons. I will lead the rites and ask the Ancients to grant their souls lasting rest.”
That night, five great pyres burned brightly in the Monastery courtyard.
This would be the last. No one would be allowed to enter the lower levels again, not even a cleaning crew, and truthfully, no volunteers wanted to do it. It was too dangerous. The place would be left as it was.
A Mason Guild representative had put forward a plan. They could break the support pillars and let the floor collapse, burying the lower levels under tons of soil. It would cave in a large part of the Monastery’s courtyard, but the Guild no longer had any say in the matter. The complex was no longer theirs.
The old Healer Guild had come to an end.
A procession of a hundred who had taken part in the battle was moving through the province, spreading word of the undead and of how the Saint had deceived them all. They carried proof of the undead, along with the confessions of common Candidates and Saint Candidates about what had taken place within the Monastery. At this point, the Guild would not endure. It would be replaced by a different order, albeit with a similar name, should the Lord maintain his mercy.
The Hunter Guild had sent a Hunter to oversee the Monastery. Along with the young Hunter already under their care, they were now the masters of this hill. A common Hunter had also arrived to handle the hawk messages.
But the true power belonged to the Lord’s garrison, led by Sir Stefan and Walter. Their men had been reduced to a more manageable five hundred. Another five hundred, fresher and drawn from garrisons in other cities, remained at the foot of the hill as a precaution.
The Old Sister remained in the hall, seated among the mourning crowd that still kept vigil.
From the corridor came a guard, a squire, and a man in a patient’s gown covered by a black doublet, drawing the eyes of those in the hall.
The Old Sister recognized the wearer at once. His penetrating, almost predatory eyes were hard to mistake. Though a little surprised by his recovery, she greeted him first. “Sir Mage Knight, we meet again.”
“Gratitude for the help and the hospitality,” Sir Morton replied, his voice hoarse, though he wore a rare gentle smile.
“Please excuse me for not standing. My knees have given out from performing the rites. And to think I am facing a high-ranking officer.”
“You need not,” Sir Morton said as he took the seat one of his attendants had already pulled out for him.
Only now, with him closer, could she see the many bandages wrapped around his head, body, arms, and hands. “You can already walk. What remarkable healing. But you should not push your body too hard.”
“I was asleep for nearly three days,” Sir Morton began. “I am told you personally healed me when they found me. Otherwise, I would have been left crippled or worse.”
“Don’t mention it. You kept your part of the bargain, and I kept mine.”
Sir Morton nodded at that. “I’ll make sure your actions find their way to the Lord’s ears.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” the Old Sister remarked. “But I fear it will not be enough. The Monastery owes a great moral debt. To think Nay raised undead from the catacombs. Oh, the sacrilege...”
When she was calmer, she added, “Too bad I cannot heal the others as well as I healed you, especially the half-breed. Our knowledge of her kin is too limited.”
“Your Sisters are doing well,” Sir Morton said. “Francisca has been stabilized enough for travel to her kin. I am told a witch shaman will tend to her from there.”
That drew the Old Sister’s interest. “Were I younger, I would have asked to see it with my own eyes and learn from it.”
“I am bound there myself,” Sir Morton said. “If one of your students wishes to learn, she may come.”
The Old Sister studied him for a long moment before speaking. “If it does not trouble you, take Sister Anna with you. She is troubled. There are too many conflicts of interest under this roof. It would be a good distraction for her to learn from the witch shaman, should they allow her to observe.”
“I’ll consult the bailiff on this.”
“They will agree,” the Old Sister said. “A neutral place may help her keep her sanity. And with you as her guardian, her safety will be assured.”
Sir Morton’s expression hardened. “I will not shield her if she is guilty.”
“I ask none of that,” the Old Sister replied.
He gave a single nod. “Then I shall take her.”
“She will be of use to you as well,” the Old Sister said warmly. “Even without her inner vessel, shame as that is, she remains an excellent apothecary. She can assist in your healing.”
***
Lansius
He suddenly drew a deep breath and sneezed. Only then did he realize what he had done. “Gilly,” he blurted out, at once turning to look for him, only to find the bed empty.
Lansius immediately let out a sigh of relief. Audrey would have given him a look if he had woken Gilly like that.
Slowly he realized the ceiling above him was unfamiliar, though he quickly remembered he was traveling.
“Oh,” he muttered, recognizing the airship’s cabin. They were no longer at Campia Manor.
Up in the sky, the airship’s motion was so smooth it was hard to tell they were moving at all, aside from the rush of air over the skin. There was little other sound, save for the faint noise from the sealed engineering chamber.
He recalled that, with their matters settled, they had boarded the airship at dawn on the fifth day after the Monastery had been taken and headed south. A party of horsemen rode below with carts and a support crew. They would lag behind, but that had already been taken into account. The airship would head first to Ornietia, where Lady Ella of Dawn and several retainers had been waiting, then to Ordu Khan for a formal visit before continuing to Korelia.
“I wonder if we’re near Ornietia.”
Lansius yawned.
Slowly, he turned toward the window. One look at the sun’s orange glow told him it was already past noon. “By the Ancients, why did nobody wake me?”
He was about to get out of bed, but the moment he tried, it felt as if the blood drained from his head. He pushed himself up and found he was just strong enough to get out of bed. His steps felt unsteady, but manageable, until his strength suddenly gave way and he lurched forward, nearly falling flat on his face.
Lansius managed to catch himself with both hands. Sweat broke out all over him. It felt as though no strength remained in his body.
Gasping, he pressed a hand to his forehead.
It felt only mildly warm, not feverish.
He let out a long, bitter sigh as he remained seated on the carpeted floor, not knowing what had happened to him. Despite days of rest, he did not seem to be getting any better. It was an unexplainable condition.
Did the mold or fungus from the undead get to me?
Lansius knew that even after living here for three years, that had not made him as robust as the people of this world. He was still a foreigner, and his body might not have the resistance against unfamiliar pathogens or even viruses.
Meaning, it could be serious.
After several moments, not wishing to call for help lest he embarrass himself further, he felt enough strength returning to stand on his own feet. With careful steps, he walked toward the glass window, drawn by the world outside. There, with one hand on the railing, he looked out over the vast yellowing grassland stretching as if without end.
It stirred in him a feeling of home.
Then, far in the distance, he thought he saw a city. Lansius turned to the wall, where they kept an Ekionian monocular, and took it down. He raised it to his eye and, after several tries, managed to bring the city into view. His heart leaped as he recognized it despite its many changes.
“Korelia,” he muttered. He had returned home.
The joy died at once, replaced by a chill in his bones.
What happened to visiting Ornietia and Ordu Khan?
“No way," he muttered grimly. "Have I been asleep this whole time?”
Outside, the vast reddening sky gave him no answer.
***
PS: We have duck, lich, Hunter, the Old Sister, and even Sir Morton in this chapter. And Lansius is finally back in Korelia.😙🎶
It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?
There is still a lot to come. Aside from Korelia, we still have Jungle Mountain, but it won’t drag like the Monastery. I think it’ll be an interesting turn. We also have Sagarius, probably for winter. And the war in Edessa has already turned bloody fast for both sides.🔥
As always in this story, expect the unexpected. Even a beach episode or a secret santa in Korelia might happen.🤗
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆