Valeryctus understands her role in the mortal realm clearer than ever. She is to spearhead a newfound faith birthed of free will. She must complete the whisper’s orders to finalize her new direction. Now, as all the pieces align, she doubts what this whisper’s true intention is.
Part Four
Free will is the gift given to all mortals when they are brought into this world. The ability is an active practice that must be disciplined daily to reinforce its strength. If choice isn’t made into a habit, then the tides of life will wash you aside, locking you into the will of another.
Each passing day Valeryctus is reminded how she has failed to practice her free will, following the path of God directly under the supervision of High Priest Jochen and Sister Batilda. They have been her guide in telling her what she wants and needs to do to live a fulfilling life. Everything they say is, of course, under God’s plan, not hers.
Now she has woken to the years of lies. According to the holy book, the whisper is said to be a demon, but it speaks reason. What type of God would let her live a life like this? Her fellow seminarians are also victims of torture. Poor Tyrmus . . . She’s heard the sounds behind the closed door. He’s only High Priest Jochen’s sinful toy.
Izahl and Kaylor have been indoctrinated, embracing everything High Priest Jochen offers. This all ends now. Valeryctus plans to shatter the chains of conformity and rise to the seat of power. Her will shall be, under the watchful guide of this . . . whisper.
What is your name? Valeryctus asks, sitting in the garden on a stone bench beside the statue of the holy mother, Mary, under the cloudy sky. The weather hasn’t cleared in days ever since she accepted the whisper.
I will share with you, child, the whisper says. Once you have freed me. But I guarantee I am not in any of your books, not anymore.
Why is that? Valeryctus asks.
History has been long mangled and rewritten since the days of the Paladins.
During the Drac Age?
Yes. The Creator was refashioned into God. The Heavenly Kingdoms turned to Heaven, and Dega’Mostikas’s Triangle simplified to Hell. I, among many others, was erased entirely from the scripts. It will not be long before the Drac Age is shortened into a tall tale. So, my name matters little now.
Valeryctus decides to leave the question at that. Since she accepted this whisper into her life, as Evelune of the Shield has, the horrifying dreams have fizzled out. Her sleep is restful, and she is accelerating in her priestly practices. High Priest Jochen and Sister Batilda have been impressed. Little do they know that she is simply acting for the old fools to give her freedom again. This is her will in action.
“When do we strike, Valeryctus?” Evelune asks. She stands in her full suit of steel armour beside the bench, still wearing her churchly tabard draped over the breastplate. “My two men are compliant, understanding that this sign is beyond High Priest Jochen and his corruption.”
“Tonight,” Valeryctus says, still gazing at the statue of Mary. “We first strike Sister Batilda. The whisper demands blood, and we will deliver it. You will lure Sister Batilda out of the garden, inform her of your security checks as you do every evening. Once I arrive, you execute her.”
“Of course.”
“Be careful as we must savour her blood.”
“I will perform the task with precision,” Evelune says.
“Make note of the priests’ words of power,” Valeryctus says.
“I am aware of a priest’s God-given capabilities.”
“Cut off their tongues if needed. They can’t smite you if they can’t pray.”
“We will do what is required.”
“I want your two men to seize High Priest Jochen,” Valeryctus says.
“What of the other seminarians?”
“Have the Shield bring them too, we’ll gather at the back of the chapel and let them witness what we create. We will give them a choice, either kneel before me as a sign of loyalty and follow in this new free will, or die protecting their enslaving faith.”
“Of course,” Evelune says. “I will inform my fellow clerics.”
“Good.”
Evelune leaves Valeryctus in the garden. Now, all the seminarian needs to do is wait. She doesn’t even have the lift a finger on anyone. The Shield will implement her bequest. Those holy warriors are a force to be reckoned with. They aren’t a paladin but are highly skilled in the art of a blade, and priests are no match for them.
See, child? Independence draws those to follow, the whisper says.
I don’t wish to lead cattle, Valeryctus replies.
No, you mustn’t. Then you will be no better than the very thing we are dismantling. You must guide them, as I guide you.
The sun begins to set, disappearing beyond the forest of Zingalg. The gloomy clouds highlight a bright red along their edges, prophesying the horrors to be unleashed upon the blind followers of God tonight. From the opposite perspective, Valeryctus sees it as a celebration, representing blood for the whisper and the rise of choice.
She carries out the rest of her priestly tasks during the day, acting as a good seminarian under the watchful eye of High Priest Jochen. Sister Batilda doesn’t even bother to acknowledge her. Her attention is brought to Kaylor, who she beat several times. Valeryctus is unaware of why. She has lost interest in the daily activities of her fellow colleagues.
High Priest Jochen takes Tyrmus into his private studies most nights. Izahl retreats to his quarters for his private studies. He’s either utterly unaware of every dreadful event occurring in the church or buries his head in God’s books. His time will come, as will Kaylor’s, and as will Tyrmus’s.
The night is born and Tyrmus exits from the back of the chapel and joins Kaylor whose one cheek is red from Sister Batilda’s wrath. Both walk hastily, looking down to the ground in shame. Valeryctus pretends to pray at the front pew, watching Evelune and Sister Batilda exit the foyer and down the stairs, retreating to the garden.
Come to me, the whisper says.
She snags a silver goblet from one of the shrines along the wall just under a stained-glass window of Christ himself on the cross. His face is frowning, as it should be. Her storming down the sanctuary towards the front doors catches the attention of Kaylor and Tyrmus who were just about to head down to the basement. The two simply watch like the sheep they are. Valeryctus is supposed to retreat to her quarters like them.
She exits the sanctuary, through the foyer, out the main door and down the staircase into the breezy night. Evelune and Sister Batilda have entered the garden, strolling peacefully.
The seminarian hurries across the grass, approaching the garden. She slows her pace, spotting Sister Batilda and Evelune standing by the holy Mary statue. She breathes steadily through her nose and out her mouth, feeling the focused energy of excitement channel through her. Removing this wretched woman is her will in action.
“Valeryctus?” Sister Batilda says, noticing her approach. She steps towards Valeryctus. “What on earth are you doing here? You are to retreat to your private studies.”
Evelune slowly walks behind Sister Batilda, drawing her sword.
Come to me.
What if Valeryctus is making a mistake? She’s betraying the Good God and will undoubtedly burn in Hell. If this is indeed a demon toying with her, she will be enslaved by it if she frees it from the scorched earth. Killing Sister Batilda would be punishable by death.
Evelune draws her sword entirely, creating a schwing! noise.
“Evelune?” Sister Batilda spins around as Evelune thrusts the blade into the nun’s gut. The metal rips through the internal organs and pierces past the heart and the spine. The old lady gasps, blood drizzling down her face. The state of shock prevents her from saying anything as Evelune slides the blade free from the body.
Sister Batilda collapses onto the stone ground with blood seeping out of the front and back holes. There is no turning back for Valeryctus. She must embrace her newfound path.
Sister Batilda starts mumbling a prayer . . . words of power.
“Slit her throat,” Valeryctus says, leaning down with the goblet.
Evelune places the sword against Sister Batilda’s whose wound is miraculously healing. The cleric carves into the throat, opening a fresh wound with warm blood pouring down into the silver goblet. The old woman gurgles, sputtering red liquid under the brim of the cup and onto the ground.
Come to me . . .
The two victors are no longer enslaved. Valeryctus raises the silver goblet that drizzles red liquid down the bowl’s outer rim, dripping onto the floor. She marches out of the garden under the moonlight, just as screams come from inside the chapel.
“The Shield has engaged,” Evelune says.
After exiting the garden, the two pause, watching as Izahl, Kaylor, and Tyrmus hurry out of the chapel, down the staircase and towards them. High Priest Jochen’s head flails violently as the two Shield force him to walk, gripping his arms.
“What is the meaning of this! This is blasphemy.” High Priest Jochen shouts.
The Shield let go, and one throws a swift boot into his back, knocking him down the stone staircase, tumbling to the ground. Both men pick him up, dragging him across the path and onto the grass. Blood runs down his scalp as he looks up at Valeryctus and Evelune.
“Treachery! You have betrayed God and walk the path of the Devil.”
“Dear sister Valeryctus!” Izahl asks. “What is going on?”
Kaylor is crying. “Why does the Shield harm God’s followers?”
High Priest Jochen starts chanting, “Father in Heaven, grant me protection to- “
Valeryctus interrupts with a shout. “Silence, priest! If you resist, we’ll cut off your tongue.”
High Priest Jochen clenches his teeth, glaring at her.
“Valeryctus?” Izahl asks again.
“My fellow colleagues,” Valeryctus says, holding the goblet high. She walks in a slow, confident stride towards them. “You will have the choice to embrace your true gift or perish with this ancient, enslaving religion as Sister Batilda has.”
High Priest Jochen’s face twists into a hateful scowl. “You will burn in Hell for all of eternity for what you are committing.”
Valeryctus ignores High Priest Jochen’s curses and says, “bring them.” She leads Evelune, the Shield, and the remaining followers of God to the back of the church to the gated circle. The grey scorched earth remains with small patches of dead grass laying on top. The blacker lines that form the ruins and inner circle light up red with Valeryctus’s presence.
“Evelune, the key.” Valeryctus says.
Evelune sifts through the pockets on her leather utility belt and pulls out a ring of keys. She unlocks the gate and swings it open. It creaks with an elongated squeak, letting Valeryctus enter.
Come to me, child.
She takes her first step into the scorched earth, sending a wave of heat through Valeryctus’s mind. The energy is less harsh than the previous two times she entered the circle. This heat is comforting, and she embraces the energy flowing through her body, electrifying her form with an immense sense of power.
Her vision constricts into the centre of the scorched earth, seeing the darker black outlines are now radiating an amber hue. In the centre, where the blackest portion is, the dirt pulsates with tiny pieces of earth tumbling aside.
Come to me . . .
“Stay here,” Valeryctus commands Evelune while proceeding further into the circle.
Evelune, the Shield, and their captives watch as Valeryctus boldly steps onto the scorched earth. They don’t blink, wholly spellbound with what they are witnessing.
Each step Valeryctus takes, she feels the gravitation of the center grow. She accepts this energy and feels no resistance with her stride. The pulsation moves faster, pushing the dirt aside, and revealing the black hole in the middle of the circle.
Long fingers poke out of the hole with jagged nails. They reach for the sky, curling and extracting in rhythm with the pulse. Valeryctus reaches the centre, looking straight down into the hole to see the base of the large fingers disappear into the void, making it impossible to see its complete form
Bathe me in blood, child. Give me the strength of mortal life.
Valeryctus pours the blood from the goblet into the hole directly onto the hand. The throbbing slows as the red liquid drizzles onto the old pale skin.
Drink the blood with me, the whisper says.
Valeryctus obeys and drinks the remaining droplets from the goblet. The energizing force within her system compresses into her core, where her soul resides. The earth rumbles from the black void. Not quite an earthquake, but it’s enough to raise concern in the mortals awaiting Valeryctus’s next move.
Raise me from this hole, child.
Valeryctus obeys, setting the goblet down and reaching into the pit. Touching the cold, dry fingers, Valeryctus understands the sheer size of this hand. It’s monstrous and clearly belonged to a giant. She moves her hands deeper into the darkness, feeling the superficial palmar arch.
Raise me!
It takes all her strength to lift the goliath hand out of the hole. She roars with might, lifting the blood-drenched hand from the void and earth. This massive hand has an additional thumb on the opposite end, totalling six fingers, each reaching for the sky.
Valeryctus almost loses her balance as the torso-sized palm slams against her chest. The arm-length fingers aid her, pushing against her shoulders to lift itself higher. As it climbs, she comes face to face with a reptilian eye eyeball in the centre of the hand, blinking at her. The hand moves higher up Valeryctus as the two work as one, raising it above her head. Dangling flesh and bone reside where the wrist should be above her skull.
Come to me.
Instinctually, Valeryctus rotates the massive hand and herself to face her witnesses. Her limbs shake from holding the weight of the object. She looks up at the flesh and bone at its base. The innards of the hand contain small red bug-like creatures scurrying inside, slipping between and out of the muscles and tendons. There are dozens of them, moving out of the way for Valeryctus to place her head inside.
“By the power of God! Protect us from this unholy ritual!” High Priest Jochen rambles. “Seminarians, pray with me. God as our witness!”
Tyrmus obeys, and the two priests attempt to perform words of power. Evelune nods at her two men, and they hit them with the blunt end of the swords, knocking them dazed. Tyrmus tries again, and the Shield grabs his throat, strangling him.
Valeryctus places her head inside the hand, letting the warm insectoids and moist flesh surround her. The hand easily slips onto her head, covering her in blood and meat, encasing her in darkness. She can feel the scurrying of the tiny creatures all around, entering her mouth, nose, and ears.
She wishes to scream, now wondering if her slight thought of reason before Sister Batilda’s fate was true. Is this a demon that has consumed her? Her vision returns before she has time to reflect. In the blackness there’s a small golden circle glimmering.
The shape grows, coming closer to her. It radiates light from the core of its smooth surface. Etched in the circle is a modified holy cross, with an open hand in the middle. It has two thumbs and an eye, just like the one mounted on her head. Along the edges of the hand and eye are countless tiny engravings in it, similar to the scorched symbols glowing in the ground.
Three is the symbol, child, the whisper says.
What do you mean, three? Valeryctus asks.
The golden circle envelopes her, followed by the reptilian eye, and then more darkness. A second golden circle appears, growing and passing her, and then a third.
The mind, body, and spirit are what make you, symbolized endlessly throughout history. See behind the curtains of the masked Father, Son and Holy Spirit. With these three unified, your will is unmatched.
The final eye passes her and her true vison returns, letting her see her witnesses and the church. In the core of each six beings in front of her is a glowing golden triangle formed by three radiant orbs—the source of the symbols. The trees, grass, and even the wind have a radiating glow with more tones and hues than she could ever imagine.
The energy centralized in her core divides throughout her body, giving her the strength needed to wear this massive hand on her head. Her legs no longer shake, and she can move freely.
Guide them, my child. As I will guide you. For I am the Weaver, shaper of worlds and bringer of free will.
Of course, Valeryctus obeys, raising her hands up high to be vertically parallel with the monstrous hand helmet that she wears.
“My fellow seminarians,” Valeryctus’s strident voice causes the witnesses to stop everything and focus purely on her in awe and fear. “You have the choice to walk the left-hand path with my guidance under the watchful eye of the Weaver. Or you can follow the poisonous lies of High Priest Jochen and his false god.”
“God will punish you if you follow this demon!” High Priest Jochen shouts. “This is the test of God! Test of your true will! Do not bend or give in.”
“Kneel before the Weaver and me and prove you accept the path of free will. We will be your guide you as you become your own. Accept us, embrace us.”
“By the power of God, I smite the-!” High Priest Jochen shouts.
Tyrmus is the first to kneel, breaking High Priest Jochen’s focused word of power.
“No, no, no!” Kaylor shakes her head fiercely with tears pouring down her face. “God! Please protect us!”
Izahl is the second to kneel. Evelune follows.
“This is your final chance, fellow seminarian Kaylor,” Valeryctus says.
One of the clerics places the sword against Kaylor’s neck. The second cleric places the sword against High Priest Jochen’s.
“God Almighty!” High Priest Jochen shouts.
“Protect us!” Kaylor cries.
Valeryctus brings both hands down simultaneously. The Shield draws their swords back, sliding against the flesh and slicing into the tendons. Blood spews onto the grass as the two priests topple onto the floor beside the loyal followers. The two clerics kneel as thunder cackles in the distance.
I bring you the gift, the Weaver says.
Is this it? Is my destiny to lead these people? Valeryctus asks.
There is more. I bring you the proper guide, the one that once directed me. Together, we can make a better world. Lean back into the hole, child.
Valeryctus obeys, turning and kneeling into the hole. Deep inside, there’s a book with a cover made of charcoal stone. Swirls of gold and red surround this tome. It’s as massive as the hand mounted onto her head. Truthfully, she is unsure if she can carry it, even with the newfound strength.
Lower me, the Weaver says.
As one, Valeryctus and the Weaver lean into the hole, and his fingers snag the massive tome. Valeryctus groans, using her arms to push them up from the dirt, and the two raise the book high. The Weaver grips the tome with both thumbs wrapped around the object resting on his palm.
The Book of Consulo is the key to bending all creationism. It is ours, and we will undo the tyranny that the old world created. As you guide your new followers, we will learn its ancient words, child. These followers will rediscover their free will, unifying their mind, body, and spirit.
Valeryctus extends her hands out as rain trickles down, washing away the blood tainting the ground. The five loyal followers do not move, awaiting the next command.
“My fellow Shield and priests!” Valeryctus shouts. “We bring truth to the New World. We are the Aureate Rise. For we have climbed from the depths of blood, torture, and suffering demonstrated by the ancient religions. We will weave our own path of will.”
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