I woke up on a bed, and sprang up screaming. I had dreamed that my battle with the Demon still raged on, and I the loser at every turn — torn and dismembered repeatedly. As I sprang from the bed, the pains of my nightmares echoed in the pains of my mortal injuries, so that I thought I was still fighting him. Hands grabbed me, soothing voices spoke to me, but I roared and jostled them all aside; to me they were minions holding me in place, while he, the Demon, my tormentor, held a curved sacrificial blade to my chest. I roared like a cornered beast and flung them across the room with tremendous force.
“Raymond! Calm down! You’re safe!” Barny yelled at me from across the room. Apparently he wasn’t hurt, and I found it odd that I had managed to fling the chubby man across the room.
“We’re not safe,” I called out urgently. “We have to get away!” I added as I inspected my surroundings. Apparently I was in the barracks, surrounded by soldiers, healers, and some of the townsfolk.
“We’re all safe,” Barny repeated.
“Ray?” Simon asked weakly from his bed at my side.
“The Demon! Simon, we have to get away!” I shouted.
“The Demon’s dead, Raymond, he’s dead, you got him,” Barny told me. I stared at him in disbelief.
“Dead?” I asked.
“Dead,” Barny repeated.
“Be sure,” I replied.
“Ray, you tore him limb from limb, then stepped on the remains. Invisible fire then took him to Hell, and there ain’t nothing but scorch marks where once he stood.” Barny explained.
“Ya sure got him!” Another soldier called.
“All hail Raymond!” Yet another applauded, rising his hand in salute. “Slayer of Demons,” he added.
“Cease your vain boasts, you fools!” I roared at them. The room grew silent. “Can’t you see; the darkness isn’t gone! Tis’ merely a recess, and I a broken vessel!” I roared. I heard laughter in my ears; in truth, it resembled the sound of a man gagging, but definitely was an attempt at mirth. I sought out the source of the laughter, my good hand searching for my broken sword.
“Calm down, my hero,” Ingrid said softly. “The darkness surely is gone. Lo and behold, the dawn is here.” She added. My eyes darted to her, still half-deranged, and as they focused on her angelic image, my resolve broke and I could not contain my tears. She held my hand and brought me comfort. My love for her burned still, in agony. Her gaze transformed into one of suffering, and she tried to release her hand from my grasp. I let go instantly, for apparently I had squeezed too hard.
“You’re safe, dearest hero,” she said, hiding her hurt fingers behind her back so that I wouldn’t see. “And we are all in your in your debt,” she continued as she bowed to me.
“Alas, my dear, do not bow,” I replied. “Please, I shall utter no more dark words,” I added. She bent to my cheek and planted a kiss, her lips chilly and soft against my feverish skin. Then she rose up and stood behind her father, who showed only worry for me.
“Lord Durrant?” I asked. The soldiers lowered their heads and said nothing.
“Help me up,” I commanded the nearest person, and he complied. I sat down and inspected my injuries silently. My left arm from elbow to the tips of my fingers lay in heavy bandages, feeling as if it burned still. My torso and hip were likewise bandaged, and hurt just as much.
“They say a miracle saved you,” Ivar said as I contemplated my injuries. I gazed at Ingrid as if from a great distance.
“What does he mean?” I asked, addressing another.
“They say your wounds healed on their own,” Ingrid offered.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“The soldiers that carried you here,” she said.
“And I, too, observed the miracle with my very eyes. Where once organs lay exposed, your flesh knitted together and reformed,” Ivar added.
“We saw you wrestle and slay a dire monster with your bare hands,” called one of the soldiers.
“Aye, we all saw your glory!” Added another as they cheered and nodded their approval.
“What, again, about my injuries?” I asked.
“The healers said you were only lightly wounded, considering what you’ve been through,” Ivar said.
“I see,” I said.
“You’ll probably live. However, there will be scars,” a healer said.
“I understand,” I replied.
“You’re the town’s hero,” another exclaimed.
“I don’t care,” I replied.
“What?” A soldier responded, astonished.
“I don’t care about that,” I replied.
“What about us?” Ingrid quietly asked, and suddenly she seemed to me as fragile as a flower.
“I’m in terrible pain,” I replied. “Now is not a good time …” I said dismissively. I remembered her father’s words, and determined not to put him to shame yet again.
“Yes, dear, of course!” She said, flushing red. “I’m so sorry,” she added, and fled awkwardly. As if she had increased my suffering with her words. How much I cared for her. How she has changed from the young brat that she was to a compassionate woman. How I have changed from a young brat, to a bitter young-old man.
“Simon, we have to go, our work isn’t over,” I stated as soon as she had left.
“I can’t walk, Ray,” Simon replied.
“What need ye done?” My Commander asked.
“Arrest all the priests. They are involved in this dark deed,” I answered.
“I can’t arrest all the priests! The Bishop will have our heads ― surely men of God are not responsible for this,” he protested.
I got up, seeking my broken sword. I found it next to the bed, grabbed it with my right hand, and started walking. Ivar and some of the soldiers followed close behind me. I first visited the battlefield, dearly hoping to see a slain demon there to dispel the horror of my dreams. Sad I was to see that no demon lay there, only a patch of blackened ground and some crusted human blood. The instruments of magic were all gone.
“Where have the tools gone?” I demanded of the soldiers behind me.
“I know nothing! I saw nothing!” Called out one, defensively. My anger burned inside of me, magnified by pain and fueled by despair; I felt cheated. Had I won a fight only to lose the war? I asked myself. Someone had to have taken the artifacts. I knew that the priests were involved and that we still didn’t know the true identity of this Necromancer. Meanwhile, Lord Durrant lay dead and I chase after ghosts.
“I’m gonna get me some answers,” I said through clenched teeth. “Follow or disperse as you see fit,” I told the others and walked round to the church. At least the soldiers all followed.
I procrastinated before entering the church. My sword was shattered; all that was left was a quarter of a blade and a nice-looking hilt. My left hand was encased in heavy bandages, as were my torso and foot. In short, I looked as bad as I felt; my personal odds in combat were slim, and I counted on no one else ― except perhaps Ivar. Abruptly, I had enough of thinking, and I pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
Priests rushed to me, blessed me, and cheered me on. The head priest, however, saw my bloodshot eyes and my menacing gaze. He hurried to get away, crossing himself as if I were the Devil himself.
“Halt!” I called out to him and pointed the remnants of my blade at him. He paused in mid-stride and dared not take another step. The room grew silent as penitents and priests alike watched me in a blend of fear and admiration.
“Confess!” I ordered.
“I’ve committed no sin and shall not be judged by the likes of you,” he replied. He tried to sound self-assured but his voice was shaking. I smelled his fear and loved the scent of it.
“The Lord of Hosts guided my hand and delivered me from the inferno,” I began.
“Amen!” The priests and soldiers called.
“Confess!” I called.
“Begone you fool!” He replied
“I know of the Dark Hand, and I know of your sins,” I bluffed. The head priest inhaled and held his breath, his eyes growing wide.
“Invoking God’s grace, I offer you this single chance to confess and repent your sins …” I said “… or to side with the Devil still and pray that his hand stays mine …” I added with a smile. “… Or to lie, if you think the Devil can protect you from me.” He took the bait, and began sweating like a hog. His eyes darted about, taking in the accusing stares of his parishioners and priests.
“I’ll confess! I’ll confess!” He relented.
“A wise choice,” I replied sternly, smiling internally with a big, wide, and evil grin.
“May I ask for the privacy of the confessional booth?” He requested politely, sweat dripping from his face.
“Of course,” I replied and followed him. He was babbling something to himself, but I failed to focus on his whispers for I was more preoccupied with seeing the inside of a confessional booth for the first time. He began with a short Latin prayer while I waited for him to confess. There was something very wrong with the way he prayed. Though I didn’t know the words, I had heard the prayer before, and his was odd in a way that made me shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Wh-where do I start?” He asked.
“Start with why you did it,” I instructed cryptically. I feared he’d catch on that I knew no details, so I remained as enigmatic as I could and let him do the talking.
“It’s those damned pagans with their witchcraft!” He exploded, as if that excused everything.
“Explain,” I instructed.
“The commoners; they’re so ignorant of the ways of the devil. They’re ruled by witches and warlocks, who govern them with magic. They seek healing from blasphemers and devil-worshiping hags. We … I tried to save their souls,” he said as he attempted to justify his actions.
“How?” I asked.
“I thought you already knew,” he replied.
“I do, but I want you to tell it to me from your point of view,” I countered, once more saving myself.
“I thought it a lesser evil. As Christ suffered for the sins of others, I, too, was ready to give my soul and suffer, so that theirs would eventually be saved,” he elaborated.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I tried to purchase a miracle,” he said flatly.
“Go on,” I instructed.
“A man approached me, Sebastian of Spain. He offered me a bargain; a few wretched lives in exchange for the power to perform miracles,” he said.
“And you just accepted — a man of your stature and in your state of grace?” I asked, by no means intending to be cynical.
“He showed me how he heals; he even raised the dead before these very eyes, like Christ did for Lazarus, whom he favored,” he said.
“So you tried to be Christ?” I asked.
“Isn’t it what we all want; to be like him, clean of sin and full of grace?” He asked.
“So you kidnapped people and delivered them to him?” I asked.
“I only took the damned, wretched criminals, villains, and witches. They were all lost to God anyway,” he said.
“Only those that deserved to be damned?” I questioned.
“Yes! Only those who were damned anyway,” he said.
“What about Charles Potter?” I asked.
“Ogler.” He replied.
“He stared at women?” I inquired, not exactly sure if he did anything further than stare.
“Yes,” The Priest replied firmly.
“Richben?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know the weight of this man’s sins.” The Priest replied proudly, as if one heavy sinner from a bunch of minor ones justifies his own sins.
“Alright,” I began with a challenge “What about the children? Jaunee, the street musician. Bowie’s kids, and Adam, son of Ivar the smith.” I asked, saying my own name without flinching.
“Her hair was red — she had no soul to begin with,” he said venomously. Taking a deep breath, he continued his turret of accusations. “Bowie’s children are illegitimate. He was never properly married. His children are bastards, cursed by God,” he said.
“And Adam?” I dared inquire, to see if he was just giving excuses — covering up for someone behind the scenes, or if he had actual knowledge of each of the victims.
“We took no person by that name, though I have heard Adam was a bully and a brat. He will not be missed,” he said, and I wanted to punch his teeth in.
“What if you’re wrong?” I asked “What if you’ve condemned innocent people — even children, to terrible fates, just because you believe they did something wrong, or they shouldn’t exist?” I challenged him.
“Nobody is innocent,” He replied angrily.
“That’s right,” I agreed, and he seemed stunned by my shift of argument. “Not even you,” I added. He was about to protest, but I wouldn’t let him. “You kidnapped people and sold them to slavery, for crimes which were confessed to you in hopes of pardon and guidance,” I said, then raised my voice. “You were supposed to be their shepherd, helping them, but instead you were their wolf, devouring them. Now tell me — you who fancy judgments so well, what should be the penalty for one who consorts with sorcerers and sells innocents to slavery?” I asked, and he could not answer. His face was red, and his eyes appeared as if they’d pop out of their sockets at any time. He just stared mutely at me. I took a deep breath, and continued the interrogation.
“How do the monsters in the catacombs fit into the picture?” I asked, as if nothing had happened.
“This was when the ordeal got out of hand,” he began, taking a deep breath. “After I closed the deal with Sebastian, his consort approached me; a man by the name of Azimar. He threatened to expose me,” he said.
“Go on,” I commanded. He answered a different question than I asked, but I did not reprimand him for I wanted to hear everything he had to say.
“If I had been exposed, I would have been excommunicated, my soul damned and lost before I had accomplished my goal,” he explained.
“So, what did he want?” I asked.
“Mainly to blackmail me for favors,” he replied.
“And the men in the catacombs?” I asked.
“You would not believe me if I told you.” He said, and his eyes took on a maddened stare. I decided not to press the subject, else he’d go insane before completing his confession.
“So, what of the Dark Hand?” I asked.
“Elder of the Old Ones,” he stated, as if the statement clarified everything.
“Explain,” I ordered.
“I thought you knew,” he replied.
“I’d like to hear your version,” I retorted.
“Long ago, before the age of man, demons roamed the earth. We call them the Old Ones. The one you refer to is an Elder of the Old, which makes him a creature of immense power,” he said. His words amounted to a load of nonsense; the same maddened arguments I heard again, many times in the future when interrogating Heretics.
“Where are the people you kidnapped?” I asked sternly.
“With the Necromancer,” he replied.
“Where?” I pressed.
“He has a mansion outside the town,” he said.
“Where, outside?” I asked.
“It’s hidden by magic; you can’t see it,” he said.
“All doors shall open before me,” I stated. “How do you find it?” I asked.
“They’re all dead anyway. I’m sure of it,” he cried desperately.
“I have to get there regardless,” I replied.
“The Necromancer; he’s powerful beyond your wildest dreams. He commands the Hordes of Hell as if they were pawns,” he explained.
“Nevertheless, I need to know how to get to him,” I persisted sternly, while shaking inside with dread.
“You have to drink the magic potion, and then say the incantation,” he explained.
“Give me the potion and teach me the incantation,” I commanded.
“Yes, of course,” he replied, and proceeded to do just that.
“You do understand I meant no harm. I meant no harm,” he repeated desperately.
“I don’t care about your intentions; I am not your judge,” I replied.
“But you’ve smitten the demon with your bare hands, surely Christ guides you! You must judge me!” He said in despair.
“Why do you want me to judge you?” I asked.
“Because I need to know,” he replied.
“Need to know what?” I asked.
“Need to know that I served God; need to know that He, at least, understands,” he pleaded.
“I do not presume to know the mind of God or his will,” I stated flatly.
“But you’ve been blessed,” he persisted.
“And still I know nothing,” I maintained. His eyes became more desperate as I rose to leave.
“Wait! Please! A moment longer, please,” he begged. “Very well, if I can’t have God’s judgment I’ll settle for yours,” he begged. Rage burned in my mind. I wanted to shove my hands through the wood and tear his heart out for what he did — for what he was asking for, over and over again. Why couldn’t he understand that I was trying to save him from my own wrath?
“Very well, I shall give you your heart’s desire and may you burn with it,” I said. “You tried to play God, sacrificed innocent men to an agent of the Devil in exchange for unearthly powers,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” he agreed, weeping.
“So be your own judge; what would you have said to one guilty of those crimes?” I asked.
“I … please …” he sobbed uncontrollably.
“May you die a horrible death!” I said venomously. “May your Satan claim and torment your worthless soul! And may you thrice be damned for forcing me to be your judge,” I concluded. His weeping took him to realms of madness as I rose from my seat and left. The confession door opened behind me.
“Kill me,” the desperate voice of the head priest cried.
“May you live long and suffer,” I replied without turning to face him. Thus I left the church, contemplating my next adversary, the Necromancer, and his consort Azimar…
I was no fool. I knew beyond a doubt that I was probably incapable of vanquishing true Evil just because I had survived a gruesome ordeal. Whoever these sorcerers were, I was certain they knew their minion failed and that their plans had been made known. I had to devise a tactic, if I were to vanquish them. From all the evidence I had gathered, they were magicians, not men of the sword. I had already defeated their Demon and a few of their minions. It was safe to assume they’d be trying to cover their tracks. A bold, aggressive move on my part would send them into hiding.
‘As long as they’re on the run …’ I thought, ‘… whatever plans they had for Drentwych would have to end. That is my true goal.’
Killing the demon had given my confidence in myself. That’s what I’d been missing all my life; confidence and a sense of purpose.
This was the first day of my life. This was the day I had earned the right to bear a hero’s name. Not because I Succeeded in doing something grand, but because I dared to, and that made all the difference.
Thus I became known as Raymond Demon-Slayer, Hero of Drentwych. I cannot say that the title changed anything inside. I was not magically re-forged into a new person, or even a better one. I cannot say everything in life worked out for me as I would have hoped. Circumstance, tragedy and a few bad choices on my part had their role to play in the forging of my fate. I don’t complain though. I got what I wanted, if not everything that I longed for. I did learn something about heroes though. Heroes are ordinary people, who endure through dire circumstances, and perform acts which make us question human nature in a positive way. A Hero is not without fear; he acts despite fear. A Hero is not without vice; he channels it for positive outcome, as a warrior who rides a ferocious beast. We all have the power to be heroes. All it takes is a spark of hope and tenacity of spirit, to take that first step, beyond words commonly expressed by the vast majority of men. We know in our hearts as we witness with our eyes the wrongs of the world: A Hero is a person who rises above his earthly vices and does something about it. It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. Feeding a stray cat, or standing up to a bully are both heroic actions, one of generosity the other of justice. As for you my readers, I want to inspire you to be heroes yourselves. Rise above your fears; conquer the obstacles that stand in your path. You are heroes when you dare to follow your dreams, when you dare and try to make this world a better place. Never give up, for the path to success is never a straight arrow up, it is a long and winding road, full of obstacles, challenges and failure.
Raymond of Drentwych
