Paperthin Hymn

[Tobias Stalt]

I have reduced the world to screams.

Familiar and hot, the distinct stench of burning fills my nostrils. I watch idly as glass cracks and splinters in a frame. The weblike pockmarks disrupt and break my reflection, and I can feel the harsh weight from my own gaze. An imperfect, fractured being trapped within a world tearing itself apart.

Wails of pain and agonized, choking voices rise as a collective in the streets of Archen. Broken bodies dragged from hollow homes piled up in the center of town. It will not be long before the hungry heat takes them, too. The glass is warping now, blackened and deprived of usefulness.

Crash!

The pressure was too great. Glass peppers my face and I feel oddly cool streaks drip down both cheeks. So quickly the introspection fades; with a soft sigh, my mind drifts back to the Hell I've made. Through the crackling embers and shards of dry wood, I see something sobering.

He stares back at me, and in his gaze I find terror. The boy is no older than twelve and shivering, frozen in place. Curly brown hair and soft brown eyes beg me to turn away. He is wrapped in canvas and caked with grime. It is clear that his parents attempted to hide him from us. "You," I call in a harsh voice, "come out."

With a fervent shake of his head, the boy refuses. "Come out," I repeat, "and you will not be harmed."

The softness in my voice is gone. It strikes me like a fist when I hear it. The Tobias I recall from a lifetime ago was wonderful with children. I dreamed of a wife who I would start a family with, an end to the skirt chasing and wandering. Perhaps even a home, one day.

When did that humanity fade?

"Stalt!" The voice jerks my gaze from the boy to the Witch Hunter addressing me. I don't know any of their names. There are many in Archen now I have never seen before. The city is overrun. "Stalt, we have narrowed down the location of the Witch to the city catacombs. What are your orders?"

When he sees the child, the man stops cold. "You know what to do, Stalt." I knew it was coming, but somehow it still hurt. My throat is dry, so when I swallow it stings. I turn my head and close my eyes. "Down to the last child."

"You do it," the words sour on my tongue. I hate this. The Church has gone too far with this order. "I am here to kill a Witch, not a child."

"They are all witches," he corrects me. I wonder if that is the lie he tells himself to justify what he does, or if that is what the Church has decreed. The line blurred for me long ago. "So they will all die like witches. I will be sure to enlighten the Archon about your hesitation."

"Piss on you and the damn Archon," I spit. His expression is almost comical. "If you want him dead, you kill him. Take some responsibility for it. Accept the weight of what you do. That is the difference between you and I, brother." My hand grips the gun at my hip, and I offer it to him. "I have a Witch to kill," I repeat, "you said the Catacombs? When you're finished here, find me there and return my gun."

He accepts the weapon with a dumb expression.

A mire of crimson sloshes beneath my steps as I reenter the fetid streets. The stench of death is making my eyes water. I can taste vomit in my mouth. "Where are the Catacombs," I call across a mountain of bodies, "how can I get to them?"

"The Church at the center of town," a voice returned, "it has been locked from the inside. You will have to break through. The Catacombs are accessible only through the sanctuary."

My lips draw a thin line as I turn my gaze toward Holy Ground. "And Tobias," the voice calls. I look up to see Brother Anton smirking down at me, "you're going to need a rear guard."

With a nod, I accept the boy's offer of aid. Anton slides down the mound of flesh and falls into stride beside me. With a bow slung over his shoulder and a quiver full of arrows, Brother Anton will be a great asset in the trials to come. In another life, Anton might have made a good mercenary. Together we walk toward the Church, sweat drenching our brows.

Behind us, a gun screeches.

[Tobias Stalt]

Death whispered in my ear as the shaft of an arrow races past. It registers in my eye as a sleek stain of black against the hellish backdrop of Archen. The statement it makes in the cultist's face is far louder as the sickening crunch of flesh and bone echoes loudly all around. "Nice shot," I commend Anton for his skill, half because he barely missed my head and half that the cultist still gripped a knife tightly in hand defiantly. "Next time, fire before he manages to sound the alarm."

"Ha ha," the youth retorts as his face twists into a grimace. "I'll let the next one put his pigsticker in your ass, Stalt."

Before I have room for a witty remark, the Church bell begins to toll. "Denebriel fend," Anton mutters beneath his breath. "Seems as they're not as dug in as we thought. Who do they need to signal?"

"Get down!" I barely manage the scream before my body bowls the young initiate over and we roll through the turgid swamp of viscera. Anton coughs and sputters in an attempt to dislodge a mouthful of the waste. He inhales loudly, straining for a breath, but I hold his head down.

A steady rain of arrows slap the wet ground with a chorus of smacks. "Fucking hell!" Anton manages to gasp, "what was that about?"

"Archers," I explain quickly, "we can't approach the Church directly. They've coordinated a defense."

We huddle close to an overturned wagon among the refuse in the street. Unlike most of the wood in Archen, it has yet to catch fire. It will not last, but for now it will serve its final use. "We need to find where the archers are hidden," Anton replies with an uncertain gaze. "Otherwise, they'll force us to withdraw. And if word of Archen gets out, dissenters will gain confidence to speak out against the Church."

Blood not his own drips from his porcelain skin as the fledgling Witch Hunter gnaws at his lip. "All of this for one witch," he states softly. After a moment, he finds his bow and tightens his grip on it. "Why are they so intent on protecting her?"

"I think," comes my honest answer, "they're more preoccupied with defending themselves."

Silently, Brother Anton nocks another arrow. With a grim nod, I take one of the Mithril long knives at my back into hand. I can hear the words to "Harden your Heart to the Heretic" spill from his lips as we survey the area between us and the Church. "Little less than a Kilometer," he states suddenly.

"Every inch a deathtrap," I remind him cooly. "Even if you were to cover me, I doubt I would make it without a few holes."

"We need a suitable distraction," Anton agrees. "But first, we need to figure out where they're positioned."

"I will handle that, I think." Before Anton can reply, I hop the wagon and fling myself forward into the street. I hear them call out the order to open fire and the chill that rushes down my spine feels like regret mixed with acceptance. The better question might have been, "where are they not positioned?"

A veritable storm of arrows rains down from every side. Heat circulates around me and the world seems to spin slowly. My thoughts grow more numb with every frantic step I take. This speed feels incredible, born of terror and necessity, but the arrows are faster. I can see them, barely, as they slam into the ground ahead of me and to either side. I can hear them dig into the dirt all around me, their deadly lullabye threatening to put me to sleep forever.

The pain lances through my arm as three flighted blades tear through flesh and sinew, and one manages to lodge in my bicep. My fingers instantly lose sensation as the shock of it rips through my body. Determination is the sole reason I do not stop. The mission is all I have, but it is enough.

Is it just a job anymore?

Arrows mark my path as I slide through the open door to a still burning home. The foundation is ashen and skeletal now, and it will crumble with the slightest touch. Still, for cover, I could do far worse than a raging inferno. My hand clenches around the arrow shaft and I inhale deeply before applying the pressure to snap it.

"Sonofabitch!" The words howl from my lips unbidden as the jarring pressure grazes my nerves. The Sway, the people of Archen, they are all my enemies now. Some of them are more of a clear and present danger than others. With another hiss, I tear the arrowhead from my wound and crimson splatters across the floor. I have an affinity for bleeding. Camille told me that, once.

Tight lipped, I press my arm toward the flames and my eyes knit shut. The pain is incredible. "Pain is fuel for power," I hiss as the searing heat cauterizes the wound. There is visible scarring, but the flow of blood is stemmed.

I doubt Anton could have marked that many archers during that short span. Any attempt to discern what lies beyond the threshold meets with thick, stifling smoke and tears ripped unbidden from me. "Damn." The destruction is such that I can't be sure of the younger man's well-being.

There is no sense in holding my breath now. A thick layer of sweat coats the outer layer of my flesh, though it offers little respite. With every ill-fated move I make, my chances slowly dwindle. The church grows further away, and the enemy sems limitless in number. I can't wait to regroup

I will do it alone.

A deep breath, and uncomfortable warmth fills my lungs. The dryness lingers in my throat.

[Tobias Stalt]

Skin sloughs off sinew as the world slows down. Dried out air offers no reprieve to my labored lungs as the roof cracks and caves in above me, and the floor smolders slowly to ash. "Tch." My fingers brush over the wicked, stinging sensation and return coated in a milky resin that formerly made up a part of me. The peach colored slime drips tepid from my touch.

It smells like justice, foul and disheartening. The view through a smoky glass window reveals our new world. We bled for this, are still bleeding for it. Once smooth tundra now takes the form of charred earth, and the gray skies burn orange with hellish heat. A mother and her child lay on the ground, still warm but devoid of motion.

The iron flavor on my tongue reminds me that this is so, so real.

"I need a plan." The words crackle from my lips with such a mechanical sound that I pause. The soupy fingertips touch my lips and fumble over the dry folds of flesh dumbly. In a matter of months, they reduced me to ruin. I have never fully committed myself to anything in this life. Mercenary work is the most rewarding venture I have undertaken, and my dedication is directly proportional to the payout.

To see myself broken, battered, and beleaguered for a cause that has nothing to do with me robs me of speech.

"Please," a soft voice rasps. A quick snap of my head reveals the young woman, fair by all standards with auburn hair and bright green eyes. Her body is still warm to the touch, but barely. Light is ebbing fast from her eyes. The culprit embedded in her midsection grabs at my attention. A blade, the manner issued to one of my... the Order. "Please," she repeats. "Help... me..."

There is precious little time, and her wound is mortal. No further inspection is necessary to see it. "I can't help you," I tell her. The blunt honesty in my voice draws her gaze. "The wound is too deep."

Her eyes snap everything inside me. My hand finds her face, and I hold her cheek gently. "There's... no hope?" I have to harden myself to this. I knew the moment she spoke that it was the end for her, but somehow- "please, Denebriel fend, they promised hope. A brighter future..."

Stunned, my eyes widen on the young woman and the weapon lodged in her body. One of the faithful, yet they killed her?

"Brother," she coughed, "brother!"

I pulled her to my chest without hesitstion. "It will be alright," I promise. The same empty promises that brought her to this end, the only thing she ever wanted. "Hush, sister. You go to a home far better than this." Her wails and the warmth of her tears bombard my chest as she beats against me in vain. Her struggle at the end of her life speaks more to me than any words ever have. There is comfort in this knowledge.

Death comes for all of us. No number of soothing words or ritual can prepare us to meet it. No promises of comfort can stay mortality from raging against the end. As her struggle slows, I see him there above us. The harsh, unforgiving spectre who claims her soul meets my gaze.

"You are..."

His faceless stare seems to smile. You know me, Tobias Stalt. The voice echoes in my mind, but it is no voice I have ever heard. The chill is familiar to me, but the inhumanity eludes. You have sent many to meet me. We are old friends, you and I.

"Death." The word leaves my mouth, but he is gone in an instant. The answer leaves only more questions in its wake.

She falls from my open arms, eyes wide and distant. Her lips curve up in a soft smile, as if in her last moments she found that peace I promised. But I know better. "What do you know," I ask her in a quiet voice, "that I cannot?"

Only the wintery wind answers me.