The sun began to rise above the horizon, hiding behind gray clouds that covered the entire sky. The door of the tavern ?Warm Welcome? swung open, and a tall figure stepped out onto the quiet streets. As soon as the man crossed the threshold, the cold morning wind slipped through his clothes, sending a shiver down his body. His shaven face twisted with irritation. Clenching his teeth, he wrapped his lean body in a brown cloak made of sheep’s wool.

  The man glanced down the empty street, along which stretched a wide brick road, bordered on both sides by rows of houses, shops, taverns, and workshops. Drawing into his lungs the air clean from the stench of hundreds of bustling bodies, and uttering a brief prayer to Selra in gratitude for the gift of a new day, he began walking along the road.

  But he had barely taken a couple of steps when an astonishing sight appeared before his eyes: through the street the city castle was clearly visible. The majestic structure of white stone standing in the distance had a strict, pointed shape. The spires of its many tall towers gave the impression of pillars upon which the entire sky rested, while the massive gates resembled the gates to the realm of Drum, serving as a silent warning of the fate awaiting anyone who might try to seize the castle by force. The entire scene was complemented by the tall residences of noble houses and incredibly wealthy burghers, which seemed like tiny dots against the vast walls of the castle.

  No matter how many times the man looked at it, the sight always completely absorbed his attention. To him it was like gazing at a mountain—yet one created not by the will of a deity, but by the hands of mortals. And just like a natural landscape, it awakened in him a burning desire for reflection, something he usually resisted, but in the present circumstances he decided to make an exception.

  Various thoughts began to race through his mind. It was difficult to focus on any single one for long—each seemed equally deserving of attention. What had he brought into this world? What would he do when he grew old? Was his soul pure? And if not, how could he know? And… had he forgotten his sword?

  “Julius! Close the door! It’s freezing!” a sharp female voice called from the tavern.

  The adventurer’s entire body twitched almost imperceptibly in surprise. Reflexively, he reached toward the place where his weapon usually hung. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, familiar from years of travel. He hadn’t forgotten it after all.

  “On my way” Julius muttered irritably, mostly just to express his annoyance. How could he consider himself a weapon in the hands of a goddess if he had managed to forget about the door?

  Adjusting his wide-brimmed felt hat, he slammed the tavern door shut with one sharp motion.

  Deciding that he had had enough philosophy for now, Julius set off down the street of the still-sleeping city. He walked slowly, trying to make his steps as quiet as possible. With his ears sharpened, he tried to catch the slightest disturbance in the rhythmic tapping of his boots against the paving stones.

  Meanwhile, his deep-set eyes darted from one side of the street to the other, ready to latch onto any movement. Rull was known to the world for many things, and one of them was the strict maintenance of order. However, the possibility of encountering robbers or bandits did not trouble the adventurer; such people had long since learned to recognize dangerous prey and would never attack an experienced swordsman.

  What truly frightened him was the thought of meeting some unknown creature that might take advantage of the silence and crawl out of one of the many sewer grates. The probability of such a thing was incredibly small, yet from time to time people whispered about another unfortunate soul who had left his home late at night or early in the morning, only for his torn remains to be found a week later drifting through the sewers.

  After several hundred meters, Julius’s eyes caught a foreign presence—but not to the right or left, rather above him. He tilted his head back to get a better look, and his gaze met the gray sky, where a small black shape stood out, resembling a lizard. The creature was very high up, and the adventurer had to squint to notice that it possessed a pair of membranous wings, beating them in unison. Julius was willing to bet that it was a wyvern.

  He stopped and froze. A chill ran through his body—not the kind that raises goosebumps, but the sort that twists one’s insides into a tight knot. It was unclear how large this particular creature was, yet judging by the size of its silhouette, the adventurer assumed it was certainly big. He followed the monster flying above the city with his eyes and silently prayed that the monster would not notice the lone traveler and suddenly dive down.

  Julius tried to calm himself with the thought that if a single wyvern attacked a city like Rull, it would quickly be killed. But that could not guarantee that he himself would not be torn apart by long claws as sharp as swords before that happened. After all, he knew all too well how fast such creatures could be.

  When the wyvern finally flew past, thoughts of imminent death released the adventurer’s mind. Yet he did not lower his head. The reason was a barely visible dot in the sky. He desperately wanted to understand what he was looking at. Perhaps some kind of bird?

  Soon it seemed to Julius that the dot had grown slightly larger. No—just a moment ago it had definitely been smaller! Within seconds everything became clear. The traveler’s eyes widened in surprise and his face went pale.

  Something was falling from the sky directly toward him.

  Rushing into the nearest dark alley with the speed of a tiger, Julius pressed his back against the edge of the wall of what seemed to be an apothecary and silently drew his long sword with its wavy blade, preparing to meet the unknown danger.

  After several seconds of waiting, the adventurer heard a loud splat around the corner. In the city’s silence it sounded deafening, as if one giant had slapped another.

  Suddenly Julius’s nose was pierced by a sharp stench, like the smell of a barrel that had stored rotten fish for three years. Suppressing the urge to vomit, he covered his face with his free hand and peeked around the wall to see the source of the foul odor.

  Spread across several meters of road lay a thick pile of black mass.

  Julius also noticed that the house on the other side of the street was covered with small clumps of the same substance, slowly sliding down its walls. Deciding that thoughts and words were unnecessary here, the traveler sheathed his sword and disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

  After an unknown amount of time spent walking along an unfamiliar route, Julius arrived at a tall fence with cast-iron bars, through which a vast cemetery could clearly be seen. At its center stood a temple dedicated to the god of the dead.

  It was a low building constructed from oak and lacking any of the ornate features typical of temples devoted to other gods, except for a two-meter granite statue depicting a faceless figure in a robe, its bony fingers gripping the hilt of a sword whose flat blade pointed downward.

  After walking a short distance along the grim fence, he approached the gates and, grabbing the chain that bound them shut, began to shake it. A loud, ear-piercing clang of metal striking metal rang out, echoing throughout the surroundings.

  A few seconds later, on the other side of the fence, a woman appeared as if from nowhere. She wore a dark-green robe, and from beneath her hood peeked her young face, pale as chalk, framed by strands of chestnut hair.

  “Mr. Colman, is that you?” the priestess asked as she approached.

  “Yes. My apologies, I had to delay a little,” Julius replied, grimacing slightly as he stepped away from the gate.

  He did not feel much sympathy toward the servants of Drum. They were too apathetic and detached—not to mention that most of them resembled the very undead they fought against. On the other hand, he greatly respected their ascetic way of life, their devotion to duty, and their honesty with everyone and about everything—although that honesty often crossed the boundaries of decency.

  “I had already begun to think you wouldn’t come. I thought that as soon as you heard about the demon, you were scared. But the pride so characteristic of Selra’s followers would not allow you to refuse the assigment,” the priestess said calmly, without a trace of malice or mockery.

  Julius clenched his teeth behind his thin lips. Pride?! He was eager to politely remind this nice woman of her own downsides, but the thought of the uselessness of arguing with a servant of the god of the dead quickly cooled his temper.

  He did not agree with the priestess, but he found the prejudice somewhat justified. More than once he had met brothers and sisters of his own faith who sincerely believed they alone had fully grasped divine wisdom.

  Approaching the gate, the priestess removed a small copper key that hung from her neck and inserted it into the lock binding the chain around the gate. With a quick turn, the lock opened.

  She grasped one of the black iron bars and pulled the gate open. Colman immediately slipped through the opening.

  Before his eyes stretched a vast field of bright green grass and thick shrubs, dotted with tall trees beneath which countless gravestones protruded like mushrooms. Somewhere above, birds were singing. Summer leaves in the treetops partially blocked the sunlight from reaching the ground, preventing it from fully illuminating the paths that wound through the trimmed grass—paths made of stone slabs inscribed with spells meant to protect the peace of the dead.

  Along these paths stood monuments dedicated to the deceased. Each was different from the others, varying in size, material, or age. Some were so old that cracks had formed in them, and the epitaphs had worn away until they could no longer be read.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Julius found himself surprised: how could there be any beauty in such a dreary place? Yet there was something captivating about the fact that the dwelling of the god of dead resembled a blooming garden.

  The sense of beauty quickly faded when Colman remembered that somewhere among these thick trees a monster was hiding—a creature that had already sent several people into the embrace of this place’s master.

  On his way here, Julius had tried to devise a plan for dealing with the abomination, but he had almost no information about the creature he was about to face.

  Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a troubling thought appeared in the adventurer’s mind.

  How could he be sure there was only one creature?

  The adventurer turned to the priestess and pointed at the chain hanging from the open gate.

  “May I take it?” he asked.

  She merely nodded in confirmation and headed toward the wooden temple building. Julius stepped back to the gate, grabbed the dangling links, and began to pull. With the cracking sound of metal scraping against the bars, the chain began sliding off the gate like a snake. Within a few seconds it was entirely in Colman’s hands.

  He figured that, being about a meter and a half long and made of thick, heavy links, the chain could serve as a useful auxiliary weapon if he were attacked from several directions. After all, he had little choice.

  The adventurer made a few test swings, as if wielding a steel whip. Then he wrapped the improvised weapon around his wrist, drew his long sword, and set off toward the danger lurking among the ancient monuments and tall trees.

  As he moved farther along one of the stone paths, Julius Colman began to suspect that something had changed. He could not understand what exactly—until it suddenly dawned on him. He had been so focused on spotting the monster that only now did he realize that the rhythmic singing of the birds had stopped.

  That was a bad sign. A very bad one.

  Birds sense danger well, which could mean only one thing—the creature had made its lair somewhere nearby.

  Julius’s heart began to beat faster. The hand holding his sword tightened on the hilt, and the chain began to unwind with a quiet clatter. Ready to enter a deadly fight at any moment, the adventurer walked several dozen more meters and spotted, beyond the thick trunks of the trees, a building of simple rectangular shape roughly the size of a large pavilion.

  It was a family mausoleum, which surprised Julius slightly. Why had he only just come across it now? Shouldn’t these things be all over the place?

  He was about to head straight toward the tomb, pushing through bushes, graves, and tree trunks, but at the last moment he stopped himself and decided not to leave the path, so as not to lose firm ground beneath his feet or stumble into a possible trap.

  Soon he found himself standing before the dark opening that led into the mausoleum and was able to examine it more closely. Unlike the temple, the tomb was richly decorated with carvings depicting scenes from some family history, while the familiar statue of the faceless swordsman stood upon the edge of the roof.

  Julius looked around. There was nothing but the same graves and trees. Or so he thought—until, remembering the wyvern he had seen earlier, he decided to look upward.

  What he saw made his heart pound twice as fast and his muscles tense to their limit.

  He was looking at a humanoid, tailed creature with gray skin and folded wings behind its back. With one sinewy claw it clung to the massive trunk of a tree, while with the other it held a chunk of raw meat of unknown origin, devouring it with a hight, tooth-filled maw.

  The creature interrupted its disgusting meal and lowered its flat snout, fixing Julius with a piercing stare of red eyes.

  For several moments, a deathly silence hung between man and monster.

  The creature released the piece of meat. It shattered into fragments as it struck one of the gravestones, breaking the silence with a wet, revolting splatter.

  Immediately afterward, the beast pushed off from the tree and, with a furious roar, flew straight toward the adventurer.

  Colman stood motionless, not taking his eyes off the approaching gargoyle. His fear of the lurking danger had been replaced with fanatical hatred for his unholy enemy.

  Just before the monster’s stone claws could tear into his neck, Julius ducked, allowing the gargoyle—unable to overcome its momentum—to fly at full speed into the dark entrance behind him.

  From inside the mausoleum came the heavy sound of stone smashing, followed by a pained screech.

  Taking advantage of his temporary superiority, Julius hid behind one of the stone walls. He needed to come up with a plan—quickly. His sword was almost useless against the creature’s stone skin. An idea came to his mind. He didn’t like it, but he had little time to think of anything better.

  Half a minute later, the winged creature staggered out of the crypt into the daylight. It began sniffing the air with its wide, flat nose, trying to determine where its new prey was.

  Realizing that the gargoyle had come outside, Julius Colman—standing on the roof of the crypt—threw his entire weight against the statue of Drum. With great effort, the statue tipped over the edge.

  The loud scraping of granite warned the creature of danger, and it managed to leap aside just before the monument crashed down.

  Cursing silently, Colman jumped down after the statue, landing on the stone slabs five steps away from the monster. The opponents immediately rushed at each other.

  Dodging the savage strikes of the clawed hands, Julius responded with a sharp thrust of his sword. In an instant, dark blood—black as a moonless night—began to flow from the monster’s left eye socket.

  The gargoyle rewarded the adventurer with a roar of pain and, clutching the wound with a hand, quickly leapt backward. Then it turned its back to the adventurer and began to rise into the air, beating its membranous wings.

  Colman could not allow the creature to escape. The mere thought that such a monstrosity might evade divine justice made his stomach churn.

  Grabbing the chain from the cemetery gates with both hands and using the fallen statue as a big step, he leapt onto the fleeing monster’s back, dragging it back down to the ground. He wrapped the steel around its neck and, throwing his body backward, began to choke it.

  The creature flailed its hands, trying to throw the adventurer off, but it was unable to. Then it tried to tear the chain from its throat, yet the metal proved too strong.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through Julius’s back, as if he had been struck with a rod. He did not need to look back to understand the cause of his suffering—the gargoyle had begun battering him with its stone tail.

  Despite the pain, Colman did not loosen his grip. On the contrary, the chain loop biting into his wrists only tightened around the monster’s neck, while the muscles and tendons in his arms hardened even more.

  After several more swings of its tail, the gargoyle let out a hoarse sigh. The red light in its remaining eye faded, and its body hit the ground with a heavy thud.

  Julius Colman continued choking the lifeless body for a few more seconds. Once he was certain it was truly dead, he dropped chains.

  His back and wrists ached terribly. He needed to catch his breath. Colman was about to sit down on the fallen statue of the god of the dead nearby, but changed his mind at the last moment. Though he followed a different faith, he still tried to treat the sacred symbols of other religions with respect, and he already felt uneasy about having knocked one over and stepped on it.

  He even considered setting it upright again, but the moment he bent down slightly, the burning pain in his back became unbearable—as if it had been scalded with boiling water.

  Abandoning the idea, he waved his hand irritably and, slightly hunched over, walked back toward the temple.

  When he reached the gate, Julius saw the priestess again. She was finishing wrapping a new chain around the gate.

  Watching this proof that he had already been counted among the dead irritated him, but remembering who he was dealing with,he calmed himself.

  “Hey! It’s done!” Colman shouted to the priestess without a trace of joy.

  Though his soul rejoiced after the victory, he’s still burning with pain.

  “I did not believe you would succeed. But since you claim otherwise, I would like to see proof,” the woman replied in the same detached tone.

  “The proof lies by the steps of the crypt. If you follow the central path, you’ll reach it quickly.”

  The priestess looked Julius straight in the eyes. The adventurer did not avert his gaze and stared back defiantly. After a few seconds she turned her eyes toward the depths of the cemetery and stood like that for about twenty seconds, muttering something unintelligible.

  “I believe you,” the priestess finally said.

  After a brief pause, Colman added,

  “In the fight with the gargoyle, I pushed a statue of Drum onto it.”

  He had not wanted to mention it, but what kind of man would he be if, while fighting for justice and truth, he concealed his own sins?

  “It is only a statue—a mere symbol. You did not offend my lord, if that troubles you. In the end, you did it for a good cause. And I would like to reward you.”

  “About time,” Julius said, trying to lift his spirits.

  “Yes,” the priestess replied. “I can give you thirty gold… or we could withdraw into those bushes and sleep together,” she continued coldly.

  Julius was stunned. Ignoring the pain, his hands clenched into fists so tightly that the knuckles hidden beneath his leather gloves turned white. He could endure the constant barbs from the priestess, but this was too much.

  Just imagine! A priestess asking him to help her break the vow she had sworn to the god of the dead—and right in his own domain! Unheard of!

  Colman stared at the priestess with a burning gaze. Julius could understand this woman. They both lived rather lonely and strict lives. And like her, he too had been tempted more than once to stray from the chosen path. Seeing that even the emotionless and ascetic priestess of Drum could not withstand temptation filled Julius’s heart with fear for his own piety.

  The adventurer knew what must be done. He would show this woman what happens to apostates.

  Raising his fist high—heavy as stone—he swung it toward the priestess’s face. But at the very last moment the fist veered aside and, opening, hand landed upon the head of its owner.

  Damnation! He had barely noticed how close he was to sin himself. How quietly evil could creep into one’s mind!

  The woman merely flinched at the sudden movement and quickly handed the adventurer a small handful of shining gold coins, after which she returned to the temple without saying a word.

  The adventurer sighed, weighing the gold in his hand.

  At least his patience had been rewarded.

  Finally leaving the cemetery behind, Julius Colman noticed that the city was slowly beginning to awaken. Shops were gradually opening, and workers and craftsmen were stepping out of their homes to face another day of hard labor.

  For now, he decided to head to the nearest Selra’s temple—to tend to his wounds and offer a prayer.

  A cold morning wind once again blew toward Julius. At one point he noticed a piece of parchment rushing toward him. It kept flipping in the air, making it impossible to tell what was written or drawn on it. Colman tried to catch it, but his wrist was still aching and he could not rise a hand quickly enough to stop the sheet from slaming into his face.

  Instead of the city road, Julius suddenly saw a black-and-white blur before his eyes, vaguely resembling a letter whose ink had been washed away by heavy rain. Stopping, he slowly raised his hand to his face and freed himself from the prison of the paper mask. Now it was much easier for him to examine the contents of the parchment.

  It was not a letter at all, but a large leaflet depicting a muscular bald man with a thick beard, reaching with both hands toward the sacred symbol of Selra — a shield in shape of sun. What caught his attention was that the proportions of the drawing made the man appear larger than the symbol.

  After studying the picture, the adventurer’s gaze moved to the text beneath it, and he began to read silently. It spoke of the legendary prophet Robert Sabens, a man Julius had never heard of, claiming that he was the most faithful servant of Selra and her chosen one. The leaflet also announced his arrival in Rull and proclaimed that today at noon he would speak at the Church of Saint Faben, blessing and healing anyone in need—provided, of course, they had ten gold coins.

  For the third time that morning, Julius Colman felt his insides fill with rage. First the gargoyle, then the priestess, and now this Sabens of theirs. He could hardly believe what he had just read. How had people not already buried such a miraclous man under a pile of filth?

  Most likely this upstart was not even a priest, for any true servant of the faith would think three times before calling himself the chosen of his deity.

  Well then. It seemed he would have to visit this performance!