desecration

Desecration

Desecration

A Short Story by,

J W James

The storm raged like no other that had ever been seen by man, the violent winds snapping even the strongest trunks of old oak trees like mere splinters. Bright flashes of white hot lightning tore through the sky, each bolt illuminating the otherwise black countryside as they shattered the ground or fractured the ancient mountains. Even the waters that fell from the heavens came with a furious purpose, washing away hills and fields that had stood for decades, drowning the earth. But this was all nothing compared to what was to come. An evil lurked in this night, more powerful and more depraved than the mighty demons that dwelled in the underworld. This evil had a purpose.

The lands were falling into hard times, the lands under constant threat from invaders, the dark skinned, foreign infidels that threatened to wipe out Christian towns and villages. Those who could hold a sword were summoned by the church, even boys barely old enough to shave. The King himself, was committed to this cause, knowing that any word against the Church would bring about his death. Those who could not fight were used to farm and to work the trades of war as bowyers, fletchers, blacksmiths, and stable hands. Almost no one was beyond the reach of the calls to war. But danger rode the winds. Even where there were no soldiers, there was death. Bands of brigands raped and ravaged, their religion knowing not the glory of the war that the Church for, but the glory of their own greed.

Three riders broke east, fending off what they could of the storm and hoping for some sort of bountiful reward for their toils. They avoided the roads, traveling through shadowy forests, the heavy rains making it difficult even here for them to make good pace and distance. They dressed in black, their coal-dark mounts matching their attire and blending into the lightless night, making them appear easily as specters should anyone manage a glimpse of them. They knew the price for getting caught away from the duty that every man had been called to answer, death coming for them should roaming patrols find them on the run. But little did they care. The thoughts of the treasures that stood unguarded in the many small villages nearby, gave them courage. They had no time for what they believed to be senseless battle. They had no time for God.

It was late, well past midnight and slowly creeping towards dawn when the storm began to ease. The riders were drenched, their cloaks feeling heavy and wet, bearing down on them as armor would. They were just about to seek out shelter when one of them spotted the small village in a clearing not far away. With renewed vigor, they charged forward, their tired mounts struggling in the soft mud that threatened to turn an ankle or break a leg with each step. And then, when they were close enough to see the shutters that had been drawn shut against the storm, they paused. They would go the rest of the way on foot.

The riders quickly tied their mounts, keeping the knots in their lines just tight enough to ensure the horses would not run off, but loose enough that they could make an easy escape should they need to. One by one they stole across the dark expanse that separated the houses of this shire from the trees of the wood, the sounds of their movements masked at times by the still booming thunder. Creeping along the street, they all dreamed of the riches that awaited them here. They would have an easy time of this unguarded place.

They entered the first house through the back door, stepping as lightly as they could, only one of them with a weapon drawn, a club in case they were met by a woman or child. They made quick through the rooms, surprised to find such a house unoccupied, the dwellers of this home obviously taking leave to stay with a neighbor or some kin that they had in the village. gathering what they could find here and placing it in a sack near the door, they allowed their curiosity and greed to take them to another of the finely built houses. "Mayhap, some of the others are empty," one of the thieves whispered, making his companions stop to think on it. "Mayhap, they just up and left this place in fear of the invaders!"

To the surprise of the other thieves, he had been right. Each house was indeed empty, the belongings of every family left behind as if they had just vanished. The thieves filled sack after sack, gathering everything that might fetch a crown or a penny. They grew bolder, stacking their lootings in the middle of the street, dancing as they went on to the next building. And then they simply stopped.

At the very end of the village was a chapel. It was neither small nor grand, but it was a chapel nonetheless. They looked at each other like hungry dogs coming upon a freshly fallen carcass, each thinking of what treasures might await them inside. They broke into a run, their feet sloshing through the deep puddles that grew deeper with the falling rain, their ambitions driving them onward without pause. They had no quarrel with robbing the church as it stood for nothing but another organization of thieves to them. It was one bounty that made them all blind to any sense of conscience or morality. they had visions of riches that would allow them to live like kings for a longer period of time than any of them could have dreamed.

They gathered quickly by the entrance, the thick oak doors opening with only the slightest of squeaks. Peering inside, they could see nothing but blackness, no candles or torches to announce the presence of those who would normally be found here. Smiles formed on their faces as they slipped through the arched doors, the musty scents of abandon filling their noses. They were certain that they were nearing what could amount to retirement for each of them.

Closing the door to prevent the chance of a stray passerby from taking notice of them, they ventured deeper into the hallowed structure. They moved quietly and carefully through the darkness, the one in the back finding his way to a rack of candles and pulling one down. He worked quietly with a flint as the other continued forward, the sounds of his efforts echoing through the darkness. Finally, his sparks ignited the wick, the bright flash making his eyes hurt for just the tiniest of moments. He had yet to notice the figure that stood behind him.

His companions came to an abrupt halt as the small light of the candle broke through the shadows. Seated like good parishioners, in the neatly polished lines of pews, sat the husks of what had once been villagers, their hollow, sunken cheeks marking them as dead. The thieves turned, their horrified faces coming into view as the candle bearer stepped forward. They froze in terror, the face of the shadowy figure who stood behind their unknowing companion coming into view. He was just about to speak when the figure took hold of him.

Two more figures descended from the ceiling, the white habits on their heads marking them as nuns. they took hold of the two trembling thieves and drug them down to the floor. faces contorted as the darkly clad thieves screamed in terror, the jagged- toothed mouths of these unholy creatures latching onto their throats. They struggled, but the strength of these women was far too great for them to match. In mere seconds, their throats were torn as if a wolf had taken hold of them and their blood flowed quickly into the sucking mouths of these nuns.

The candle bearer fought valiantly , his small dagger making purchase into the flesh of the priest who held him in an iron grip. Over and over again, he plunged the steely knife into the creature, but to no avail. The blade came away with no sign of effecting its target. The mouth of the priest drew closer to the thief, its teeth sharp and looking like those of a dog or some other beast. The thief struggled, punching and kicking, all-the-while screaming as he was dragged into the strong clutches of this monstrous being. With a snapping crunch of a sound, the priest closed his jaws around his victim's neck, the struggle finally ending. Moments later, the dull thudding of the thief's body on the floor brought the nuns back from their own revelry.

The priest looked joyfully at the demonic sisters who stood just a short distance away. He motioned towards an empty pew that sat right in front of his pulpit, his silent commands understood. The nuns gathered those they had killed, quickly sitting them where their master had indicated. They made short work of it, gathering the third man and placing him with his companions. A moment was spent on positioning and then the priest moved forward. Taking his usual place, he inspected their chore. To his pleasure, he had three new members of his congregation. The newcomers were now part of his flock.

THE END

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