they faded, all was dark and quiet.
BANT WOKE BENEATH the stars next to a crackling fire. His head throbbed. He tried to raise a hand to touch it but his arms were tangled under blankets. Hezekiah sat next to him, running a whetstone along the edge of his axe. Behind the prophet lay a pile of reptilian corpses.
“I feared for your life, Bant Bitterwood,” Hezekiah said.
Suddenly, Bant remembered. He kicked aside his covers and jumped to his feet.
“Do not flee,” Hezekiah said. “You may be confused by what you witnessed today. Put it from your mind. You are still called by the Lord to do his work. Do not falter.”
“You… you aren’t human,” Bant said.
“No,” Hezekiah said.
“Are you angel, or devil?”
“Neither,” the cleric answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the edge of his axe. “I am a machine. A carefully crafted tool charged with ensuring that the greatest truth ever entrusted to men shall not perish. For over a thousand years I have performed the duties given to me by my maker.”
“I don’t understand,” Bant said.
“Understanding isn’t required, Bant Bitterwood. All that matters is that you have faith. In my long centuries wandering this world, I have seen many men loyal to the Lord lose their faith after events like this. I hope you will prove stronger.”
“You’ve lied to me all these years!”
“I never claimed to be human, Bant Bitterwood.”
“What have I done?” Bant said, cradling his head in his hands. “I’ve given up everything to follow you.”
“You’ve given up nothing,” Hezekiah said sternly. Then, more softly, “The Lord will provide.”
“Don’t talk to me!” Ban shouted. “You were willing to let the dragons kill Recanna!”
Hezekiah shrugged. “I have sown the seeds of the word. Your fellow villagers have grown ripe in their love of the Lord. Perhaps the Lord has chosen to harvest the crop.”
“I’m going back,” Bant said, looking around the camp for his pack.
“That would be inadvisable,” Hezekiah said. He sat aside the whetstone and began to polish the axe with a piece of soft leather.
“I don’t want your advice.”
“My mission requires me to purge uncooperative nonbelievers. Refuse to carry out your missionary duties and I will be forced to regard you as fallen. You stand with the Lord or you stand against him. There is no middle ground.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“I’m informing you,” Hezekiah said, holding the axe so that the firelight danced along its polished surface. He looked satisfied with his work. “With proper care, a good tool can last forever,” he said.
“You can’t stop me,” Bant said, looking over his shoulder into the darkness. He was disoriented, but he thought he recognized enough of the landscape to know where he was. “I’m going home.”
“I doubt that is possible,” Hezekiah said. “Christdale may no longer exist. Thirty dragons fled and they moved in the direction of the village. I watched the smoke rise from that direction as night fell.”
“You’re lying,” said Bant.
Hezekiah shook his head. “If your family is dead, Bant Bitterwood, it is now vital you remain faithful. You wish to reunite with them in heaven, do you not?”
“You son of a bitch,” Bant growled. He turned and ran into the night, following the rough road back to the village. The night was moonless and the stars glittered like frost clinging to the sky. Dark shadows chased him, raced before him, thrust across the path to trip him. Each time he fell, he lifted himself once more and ran. His heart pounded in his ears. His lungs burned with each rasping breath. Hot daggers pierced his side. At last, after running for an eternity, he smelled the familiar scents of his home fields.
Then he smelled smoke.
He ran through the orchards, remembering the night so long ago when he had searched the darkness to find Recanna. He could see the red glow of light from ahead. He raced from under the thick trees into the starlit field. In the distance the embers of Christdale smoldered in the night breeze.
“No!” he shouted as he saw the charred remains that had once been his home. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, weeping.
“Recanna!” he cried. “Recanna!” No one answered. He crawled into the black ash, burning his hands and knees as he dug through the hot rubble. He could barely recognize the shards of his life… Was this charred and broken clay the plate he’d eaten his breakfast on? Was this mound of smoldering cloth the bed he’d slept in the night before? Blisters formed on his fingers as he dug, looking for any sign of his family. He coughed and wheezed in the smoke rising from the rubble; he could barely see anything through his tears. His random path through the ruins at last led him away from the coals and onto a patch of dry earth that had once been his front yard. He collapsed, his raw and bleeding hands and knees no longer able to support his weight.
He lay there, breathless and numb, hearing only the crackle of embers. He had no strength to even open his eyes. After a long time he heard footsteps.
“You see now the truth in my words, Bant Bitterwood,” Hezekiah said, his voice calm and even. “There is nothing left for you here. The Lord has cleared all obstacles to our mission.”
Bant rose and turned to face the prophet he had followed all these years.
“Lies!” he shouted, rushing forward, pounding his blistered fists against Hezekiah’s stone-hard chest. “Every word from your lips is a lie!”
“You are distressed,” Hezekiah said, showing no pain from the blows.
“God damn you!” Bant cried, falling to his knees. It felt as if his fingers were broken. “God damn you.”
“Watch your tongue,” said the prophet. “Blasphemy risks your mortal soul.”
“Go to hell!”
“Bant Bitterwood, I have walked this world for over ten centuries. I am capable of patience. This morning you were a true servant of God. You cannot renounce your faith so quickly. I will attribute your blasphemy to your distress, and spare you, for now. I will go and leave you to your grieving.”
The black-robed prophet turned away, becoming a dark shadow against a dark sky. His voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as he said, “I shall return in three days. Prepare yourself. If you have sought the forgiveness of the Lord at this time, I, too, shall forgive you. We shall never speak again of your shameful behavior. But be warned: If you continue down the sinner’s path, or if you fail to meet me here on the appointed day, I will slay you when next we meet.”
“Kill me now,” Bant said, his head hung low. His broken hands lay useless on the ground before him. “Everything I loved is gone. Everything I believed has been a lie.”
“I have given you my judgment. I go now to rest. My maker built me well, but it will take time to repair the damage done. Three days, Bant Bitterwood.”
The prophet’s shadow dissolved into the night. Bant couldn’t stop weeping. He crawled over the broken ground toward the ash that had once been his home.
Was it all a lie? Hezekiah’s promise of a Lord watching over him, of a heavenly reward? Had he devoted his life to some absurd fiction? Could he believe in anything now?
In the dim light Bant could just make out the footprints of the dragons that had stood before the door. Seeing the truth of what the beasts had done didn’t require even a mustard seed of faith.
His most fundamental beliefs were shattered.
All that he cherished, lost.
He no longer wanted to live in this barren world.
In the absence of love and faith, a single realization filled him as he stared at the dragon’s footprint, pouring into his body in a hot wave like strong drink. He turned his face toward the starry sky and cursed till his voice trailed off in laughter. He still knew how to hate. And hate, he knew, could change the world.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: BLASPHET
