Slumrat Rising

Chapter 121: Desecration of False Idols

Chapter 121: Desecration of False Idols

The Anti-Theists had converted a basement for their work. The roof was low, just a bit over two meters. Truth nearly scraped his head along it. All smooth, layered concrete laid by some ancient demon. Not a scrap of ventilation. It was hard to breathe. His only light was the glowing wooden stick in his hands which threw everything into sharp reliefs of neon green and black.

Truth put his back flat to the wall next to the door and eased it open a crack with his left hand. His right hand had pulled back with his sword, ready to run through any bastard that saw the open door and chose to run through.

Credit where it was due- the anti-theists did a great job oiling the hinges. The door eased open, any sound covered by the endless droning noise. Truth steadied his breath. He instinctively reached for Incisive again and again, the spell just disintegrated. He felt acutely naked. It hadn’t been long since he learned the foresight portion of Incisive, but it was habit-forming. There was a comfort in knowing that you couldn’t be ambushed. This basement was a place without comfort.

Truth crouched low and peered through the gap in the door. There were lights hung in here, more glowing green sticks stuck into the walls or sitting in cups on tables or shelves. There was a long, high table in the center of the room. A few people moved around the high table, shadows of black and green. He couldn’t see what they were doing. Well. If he didn’t have magic, then they didn’t have magic. And he liked his odds hand-to-hand.

He eased open the door a little more, leaving his light stick behind the corner. Staying as low as he could, as silently as he could, Truth launched himself into the room. He tried to keep the shelves and large table blocking sight lines. He made it about three steps.

“UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!” One of the shadows screamed. They all spun around to look at Truth, who was rising now, the Tongue sweeping up to collect the head of the nearest Anti-Theist. He could feel himself moving more slowly than he was used to, and there wasn’t as much power in the cut. The shadowy figure got their hands up, blocking the blade with the outside of their forearms. He felt the bones break and saw the body tumbling back, but they held. The arms were bleeding, broken but still attached.

In retrospect, assuming that anti-theists had no magic of their own was foolish.

“Get him!” One yelled, but the shadowy forms were already in motion. Four in total, one down with broken arms, two coming from the right, one coming over the table straight at him. The one on the floor yelled something- they exploded in a ball of… nothing, an expanding sphere of negation, shuddering and tearing the air as it passed. The other three popped off half a second behind. Too fast- no time to dodge. Truth brought up Tongue and braced!

The ripple passed over and through him. It didn’t so much as move a hair. It drove him to one knee, gasping, clutching his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He was sucking in lungful's of air, but somehow, he couldn’t breathe. The anti-cultists swarmed him, fists raining down, boots coming for his ribs, his head. He blocked as best he could, but he couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong; something was very wrong in his chest. The Tongue was screaming, faintly but screaming.

He had to get out. This wasn’t about the mission anymore. He had to escape. Truth muscled the blade around, slicing legs. He caught one in the femoral artery, another across their ankles. He could feel the tendons snap under the blade. He lurched to his feet, catching a heavy right cross on his chin in the process. He got punched in the face. Nobody had done that since he was a kid!

Truth reeled back towards the door. The anti-cultist ran after him, snatching a cleaver off a shelf. Ready to finish the job.

“Pasaele, NO!” the one with two broken arms yelled. Truth stopped his backward scramble, bracing himself and using the two-handed sword like a pike. The anti-cultist ran right onto it, skewering themselves. They… looked like anyone else from Siphios. Truth smashed him across the jaw, broke his nose, and kicked him off the blade. He wasn’t dead yet, but a meter of steel through the gut would keep him out of mischief.

The pain in his chest was getting worse. The anti-cultists were injured but far from beaten. He could run, turning his back on them and their bizarre magics… or he could attack. He thought of the ladder, trapped in a narrow tunnel with mages out of stabbing range below. He almost cried with pain. Then rushed in again.

Whatever it was, it was getting worse. He smashed his pommel down on skulls, knocking them out when he could, sticking the blade into joints, fiddling around to sever the tendons binding arm to shoulder or knee to tibia.

“Too slow, Templar, too slow! You are already dead.” The last of them, the one with two broken arms, laughed wetly. “Aah, if we had even a minute’s warning, you would be dead already.” She looked like one of the ladies shopping in the street outside.

“The hell’s a Templar?” Truth wondered. Then took extra care giving her a traumatic brain injury. He believed her when she said they could have killed him.

Something was deeply, deeply wrong inside of him. He could feel himself starting to collapse. He had to get out. Something about this place. He had to get out. He made his way to the door, bouncing off the frame. Stumbled to the ladder. It looked kilometers long.

Truth wrapped his hands around the metal staple. His hands were so strong this morning. Why did they feel so weak now? He pulled himself up. Foot on the rung. Climb. Try to breathe. Grab the next. Step up. Try to breathe. Grab the next. Step up. Try to breathe. Try to ignore the melting pain in your chest, the way your tendons feel brittle, and your muscles are running away like a knocked over bottle.

The ladder had to be cursed. It wasn’t this long before. It would be impossible for it to have been this long before. Stars danced and spun in front of his eyes, brilliant colors fading to a grey that was the absence of color. A void more total than black.

Light. Normal talisman light. Shining down. Door. Door? Wall hole. No, door. Can’t reach the hole.

sealupsealupsealupDONTABSORBANYTHING TRUTH! You have to SEAL UP! DON’T ABOSRB ANY COSMIC RAYS!

Wha? Truth fell through the hidden door behind the locker. Just a friction lock on this side. Lay on his back, sucking in heavy lungfuls of air. He could finally breathe.

Oh no. NO! SNAP THE CHARM! CALL MERKOVAH NOW! NOW, YOU MISERABLE DUMBFUCK SLUMRAT!

Oh yeah, he had an emergency thingy. Everything hurt. He should get help. Mission scrubbed, come and get me. Clumsy fingers pawed at the pouch on his waist. Everything hurt now. He was breathing, feeling stronger, but everything hurt, and the pain was getting worse and worse. He found the right charm, the triangle clear under his fingers. His vision turned white, migraine pain, long iron nails being pounded into his skull to the rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers convulsively crushed the charm. He didn’t notice.

If the cosmic rays were leaking out of him before, they were flooding in now. More and more. More than his channels could handle. More than he could physically stand. More and more and more! Flooding in to fill the vacuum inside of him.

Third part of Incisive, the scales. Use the scales. I know you haven’t done it before. USE THE SCALES. KEEP OUT THE BAD STUFF!

He tried. He really, really tried. But the migraine, the stabbing fire that covered each and every speck of his body, every droplet of that refined flesh that was sucking in more cosmic energy than his channels could handle. All of it was pain. He could no more cast a spell than walk to Heaven. There was a sudden rush, a cool sensation, and blackness.

____________________________________________

He briefly came to again in a tub of some kind of liquid. He was totally submerged, with a mask covering his face. He had some vague notion that he should be afraid, but before the thought could really take hold, he faded out again.

Sometime later-

“And the mountains will shake, and the hills will be flattened, melting like wax before the flame. The land will be utterly torn apart, and all that exists upon the land shall die, and there will be a judgment upon everyone. But with those who live with his law, he shall make peace. He will protect the chosen, and mercy will be upon them. They will all be God’s people.”

Did he… this sounded kind of familiar? A woman’s voice?

“And under his protection they shall prosper. They shall be blessed. He will help them and a light will appear before them, and there shall be peace between the people and their God.”

Familiar, yeah, but the voice sounded… not right? But familiar?

“See, oh people! He comes with ten thousand of his holy angels to execute judgement on all, to destroy the ungodly and the apostate. To convict all flesh of all the works of their ungodliness which, in their sinfulness, they have committed. To convict them of all the slanderous words sinners have spoken against him.”

“Prophet?” Truth mumbled.

“An old patriarch. Welcome back, Truth.”

He forced his eyes open. Etenesh was sitting on the hard wooden chair in his cell. She had brought a cushion, a stack of books, a jug of water and salt-and-lime flavored plantain chips. She was mid way through a book thick enough to stop an axe blow. Her smile was sincere, and fragile, and as beautiful as anything he had ever seen.

“Truth. May I hug you, please? I really need to hug you right now. I think I’m going to explode otherwise.”

Can’t have that. “C’mere. Hug.” He waved, struggling to move his hand. There was a needle in it, with a drip attached. Etenesh wasn’t fussed, and launched herself bodily across him. The weight of her helped bring him back to his body. Slowly, he became aware of her shivering. She was sobbing, but trying to keep the noise in.

“Shh. Shh. It’s ok. It’s ok.” He patted her shoulder. His coordination was still off. “It’s all ok. I’m here. You are here. Ah. I didn’t get any souvenirs. That’s a shame.”

She hiccoughed. “Souvenirs?”

“There was this crummy little model of Nag Hamadi in bronze. Would have made a great souvenir of Xandre.” He nodded. Faintly.

“Oh, you were out buying souvenirs, and you accidentally fell into a four day coma.”

“I am not usually that clumsy, I promise. And, If I am living up to my name, it was more going to be armed robbery.”

The hiccoughs turned into outraged sputters. “Armed robbery?”

“I really wanted the souvenir, but the price was outrageous. I mean, nine Birr for a not-very-good model? They didn’t even get the big eagle statue out front.”

“Oh, clearly, you were provoked. I understand entirely. Truth Medici, I have been sitting in that chair so long my bum is flattening out, and I am part tree now. I’ve finally caught up with some of the reading I haven’t been doing the last couple of weeks. On account of just sitting there, waiting for you to wake up. Confess at once, and you might be spared the death penalty.”

Well, he didn’t want that, but-

“Merkovah said you wouldn’t, of course.”

“Well, no. I think it would be an actual crime.”

“He said that too.”

“Thoughtful of him.”

“He also mentioned that it was shitty girlfriend behavior to put you on the spot and make you choose between me and the professional requirements of your job.”

Thanks, Merkovah. I have thought many unkind things about you, but you still were looking out for me.

“I agreed, but I still plan to ruthlessly guilt you over this. I have not had a good few days, Truth.”

He nodded. That was fair. “Nail polish.”

“What?”

“That was the other thing that Desrin do, right? Men get their hair cut, and women get their nails polished. I thought, would you like it if I polished your nails? I was going to go to the shop after and see what stuff I would need.”

He smiled down at her. “I don’t know how. Teach me?”