Chương 49: Vol 1. The Church of Kaelreth’s Ascension: Part 2

Mother Arel let out an exasperated sigh as she heaved a couple of crates on top of each other. This year's spring alms had been more plentiful than usual: crates of flour, dried fruits, candles, folded linens, little clay jars of oil… oh, for the love of Seroth, someone had even donated four entire wheels of cheese, upon which a tiny prayer to the Great Mother had been scratched into the rind. She assumed this sudden uptick in alms was because of the Coniton.

The average person had no say over what would transpire over in Veyrath, physically, anyway, but many commonly tried to spiritually influence it with offerings to the Great Mother. Now, Mother Arel was one for believing in the power of prayer… but she was not so sure this particular devotion ever actually worked. Then again, the last Coniton had been far before she was born. So hey, maybe three stacks of barley were enough to make the Great Mother intervene in Kharani political affairs.

Mother Arel sat on the steps near the altar, taking in the chapel's scenery. The late-night moonlight filtered weakly through the tall stained-glass windows, casting muted reds, blues, and golds across the stone floor. Rows of dark pews stretched towards the great doors at the entrance. The air carried a faint scent of old incense, candle wax, and the spring flowers arranged beneath the altar. She looked to her left and gave a fanged grin of pride and reverence.

Encased in thick glass and surrounded by glimmering gold stood a sheathed sword, raised slightly on a velvet pillow. Dozens of tiny candles burned around it, their flames dancing in the glass. Religious inscriptions were engraved across the dark leather sheath, the lettering so old and fine that you could only read it when you leaned in close. The sheath itself had cracked—the typical weathering that came with age. The Sword of Kaelreth. Was it real, or was it a forgery? Who was to say!

The pilgrims who made their way across Avion to visit her church to see it certainly thought it to be genuine. The stone immediately before the display had been worn due to generations upon generations of pilgrims kneeling before it. Little offerings surrounded the case: dried flowers, handwritten prayers; there was even a cub's crudely carved wooden imitation of the sword. That last one made Mother Arel flick her ears and chuckle. Was that sword genuine…?

Generations of scholars had inspected it, each with their own conclusions. Priestesses had written treatises about it. About three separate High Priestesses of Veyrath had declared it genuine, whereas three others had diplomatically refused to comment on its authenticity. Mother Arel had personally—a long, long time ago—settled on a simpler position: believing it was genuine made people happy, so she was going to believe it to be genuine.

She pulled a tiny wooden prayer-bead set from the pocket of her cassock, then placed it against her left breast. She began to meditate, whispering Hail Seroths and moving one claw against the beads. The world was peaceful— Slam! Mother Arel felt herself thrown onto her back. Snap! The prayer beads tore from her claws. The cord snapped. Little wooden beads scattered across the stones, click-click-clicking beneath pews and into the darkness.

A blur of figures was suddenly all around her, pushing her onto her right, then her left, then onto her stomach. Her cheek hit the stone so hard that one fang cut the inside of her mouth. Something warm and coppery filled her mouth. Then her arms were tied behind her back, and her vision went dark. Muffled sounds were all around her. She felt multiple paws grab her with a tightness that was anything but gentle.

She was being dragged now across the stone floor, then up some stairs, her knees banging against each step. Womp! She felt herself be forced to her knees—more muffled sounds: clackclackclackclack, something-something, talking-talking-talking. Then the bag was lifted. They were on top of the bell tower. She looked up, then caterwauled, thrashing to and fro with her arms still tied, falling to her side. Clack; Clack; Clack; Clack; Clack; Clack. Footsteps. Metal boots greeted her eyeline. She peered up.

A hooded figure with only her russet muzzle visible looked down at her. And despite her visage being bedimmed by the shadow of her cloak, Mother Arel could feel her beady eyes staring deep into her soul; and they were not the soft, loving eyes of Seroth or the Great Mother. They held the hardened, malicious gaze one would expect of the demonic. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Was this demonic?

What had she done to deserve the demonic to pierce the protection of a sanctioned holy site! Swallowing the lump in her throat, she choppily asked, "W-what do you want from me?" The figure said nothing.

"P… please," Mother Arel said, "you want money? I can give you money! The … the vault where we keep the coins the ushers collect, there is a simple padlock on it, the key is in—" The hooded figure brought one finger up to her muzzle. Mother Arel complied.

"We do want your coinage," the figure said. Mother Arel shuddered; the figure spoke with the softness of a man and a patronizing coo in her speech.

"But we would like something else as well."

"W-what would that be?" Mother Arel whispered.

"That pretty little sword of yours."

"No!" Mother Arel spat.

"You must truly be a demon if you think I would betray the church for…" The hooded figure put one finger to her muzzle again.

"Well, that is a shame." The figure reached to her hip.

"I guess we can have a little fun with you before we execute our plan." Mother Arel's eyes gleamed in the reflection of the freshly sharpened blade.

"Now," the figure cooed, "are you ready to go meet Seroth?" Kareth and her party galloped through the quiet late-night streets, coming up to a communal hitching rail, where they reined in their horses and tied them. Kareth's horse gave a snort, then a neigh, turning its head up, but Kareth dug her claws into its neck, and the horse snorted before lying down.

"Alright," Kareth whispered.

"Let us be swift and discreet. We will bust open the front door, retrieve the holy artifact, and make a quick dash for the outskirts."

"It is your lead, Mistress Kareth," Velran said. Kareth nodded. The group slowly approached the entrance of the cathedral, the only sound being the clacking of their sollerets. The weak light of the gibbous moon barely revealed the towering front of the church. But as they got closer, they began to smell… a mixture of unpleasant scents. Blood. Urine. A metallic stink. Rotting eggs. They noticed a swaying silhouette—at first, they thought it was a banner of some sort.

Then it turned; it was very clearly not a banner.

"What—" Tavira said, looking up.

"What madwoman…" Creak… Creak… Creak. Swaying from a rope was a dangling nude body, a priestess, perhaps, judging by the scrap of vestment that was tied to the rope.

"How foul," Velran said. The body's head was limp and in an unnatural position, a look of sheer, fraught terror plastered across her face.

"To kill with such… disregard for the sanctity of the flesh." Kareth snarled; her claws scraped against her sword's hilt; her ears flattened; her tail went rigid, and her jaw muscles pulsed. One eye had been plucked out.

"To hang such a thing above a cathedral… even if it is one run by the heretics," Averin said. Lacerations littered the body. Her fur had been shaved. Selira looked like a scared cub. It made sense. She was four years into adulthood; she probably had not seen much like this. The body turned around, exposing the backside. Kareth's heart dropped. The Sacred Heart of Seroth had been cut into the body's butt cheek—done so in a malformed way, upside down, with a frowny face in the middle.

On the other butt cheek were the words: WRONG HOLE, SEROTH!

"Heathens…" Kareth snarled.

"Who do you think would… do that?" Tavira said, eyeing the heart-shaped wound.

"To mock the Dual-Gods in such a vile way?"

"I do not know," Kareth said evenly, "but if they happen to still be here"—she placed her hand on the handle of her sword—"I am going to make sure they suffer."

"Agreed," Selira said, fully drawing her sword.

"Let us show what happens to those who mock the First Beloved."

"We cannot leave her like this," Selira whispered.

"We will not," Kareth said.

"We will give her a proper burial; she might be of the church's heretical class, but she was still a priestess, one who tried to serve Seroth in life. But first, we find whoever did this." They approached the great doors posthaste, finding it oddly easy to bash them open. And what they saw next made all of them stop, trembling in horror and ire and sadness and more ire and whatever other possible negative emotion there was to feel.