Chapter 9 Indo: Greater Good Be Damned

We shadowed Syeda through the labyrinthine hideout, a twisted maze that echoed eerie whispers. The tour unfolded like a dark ballet, each step revealing another macabre act in the necromantic symphony. My mental map traced the sinister network of rooms, noting each practitioner of the forbidden arts we encountered.

There were at least 8 necromancers, 96 lesser undead such as zombies and animated bones, 30 Wights, 12 Revenants, 34 warrior cultists who championed their cause, and 6 Shadows. There were likely twice or even thrice the number of Shadows, as the corridors were still dimly lit and it was difficult to make out how many Shadows or other spirits there may be with us.

Yet, amid this dark census, one ominous note reverberated—the impending ritual Syeda cryptically alluded to, poised to unfold with the shroud of nightfall. This enigma anchored my thoughts as we roamed, uncertain of its implications.

In the meantime, we could relax and do as we pleased until then. Some of the other necromancers went out for fresh air or to defile the dead in some way. Osei, sage-like in his wisdom, advised vigilance—partnership as a safeguard against the unknown. He and Guan went out to explore the cult some more, gathering information on other hideouts, should there be any. This was neither my nor Martin's forte, so we stayed back in the barracks or whatever they called where the warriors mingle. Martin was playing some dice with other people, Drokkar, and Elves. I, on the other hand, observed the game, a silent strategist studying the players' nuances. It wasn't just a diversion but an investment in understanding, a tactical survey for potential future upheavals.

There was little concern about the brawn within the cult; Thorbak, the towering Drokkar, commanded respect but stood vulnerable. His armor was meager and his step lacked fluidity. He could be slain in seconds by our various tools. Their warriors, novice in comparison to battle-hardened crusaders, posed little threat. The very notion that this was their primary stronghold was dubious; our apprehensions seemed misplaced in this chamber of aspiring malevolence.

"It's time for the ritual," intoned one of the cultists. Martin beckoned me subtly, a nod that threaded through the audience. I followed, maintaining a calculated distance from Martin as we traversed the grotesque assembly. We arrived at a spacious hall, its architecture reminiscent of a university lecture hall, yet twisted by the presence of demonic summoning circles and a sinister altar. In the room's focal point, a necromancer presided over the sacrificial altar, surrounded by six others genuflecting around a massive summoning circle. All the necromancers from our earlier encounters were present except for the enigmatic Viknesh.

"Welcome, family! Welcome!" proclaimed the necromancer at the altar. "Tonight shall be glorious, as four new volunteers embrace the beauty of our Dread Father. The beauty of death! Death, brethren, is not an end but a new genesis. Eternal life awaits those who seek retribution in the Dread Father, those who embrace his teachings. We have seen the truth. We do not fear the darkness; we embrace it! For through darkness, new life emerges. Darkness precedes light, the cradle of creation. Everything that exists arises from the primordial dark."

Applause resounded, a cacophony of hands colliding, including myself, to mask my true sentiment. The others couldn't have felt right about this. It was a perverse rendition of our sacred sermons. They revered Necros as if he were a deity, promising the same tenets we preached but warped into corruption.

"And we shall extend the reach of darkness to all. Those prepared will welcome it, retaining their sanity and values while receiving the gift of eternity. Those who reject its power and beauty will suffer for their folly, becoming eternal slaves to those who embrace the abyss. They comprehend not the value of the gift bestowed upon them. We shall usher forth death to birth life! The world will be bathed in streams of blood, drowning the arrogant in the fluids of existence. Bring forth the blind!"

In that ominous moment, two figures ushered forward peasants. Yet, they were not men; I could sense the vile essence emanating from them — demons, Ghouls by all likelihood. Lesser demons capable of shapeshifting, masking their presence from the untrained eye. One of the Ghouls effortlessly hoisted a peasant, slamming him onto the sacrificial altar.

"P-p-please! D-don't kill m-m-me!" The pitiful man's pleas reverberated through the dark chamber, his tears weaving a morbid mosaic on his terror-stricken face. I knew, however, that his desperate cries were futile in this malevolent assembly. His pleas were like sweet music in this room of wicked men, awakening a sinister delight. As he begged for mercy, a resolve grew within me to avenge him, and all others fated for this sacrificial hell. Yet, the harsh reality demanded a sacrifice of its own — for the greater good and the lives of countless others, we had to remain in the shadows, silently observing the desolation.

"You will sing my praises soon enough. You know not the gift you are to receive." The Ghoul restrained him, a pawn in this dark chess game. The necromancer extended his hand, seizing the man's soul with sinister proficiency. With unholy arts, he transmitted the captive's life essence to the necromancers encircling the ominous sigil. They invoked their Dread Father, the demonic emissary of darkness, and a pall descended upon what was once a sacred gift from God. The man's lifeless body lay on the altar, devoid of soul, a husk haunted by an unnatural semblance of existence. The dark mage above him gestured with a flourish.

"Rise." The body ascended, a grotesque parody of its former self, an affront to the natural order God intended. He was now a Wight.

The necromancer repeated this unholy process with the next victim, a woman slightly older than myself. Her pleas mirrored the man's earlier, both futile and heart-wrenching. Despite our moral revulsion, we, the righteous men, held our ground, our sacrifice of empathy and action tethered to the pursuit of information that might unveil the cult leader's designs. The subsequent sacrifices were warriors, some not human, but each met the same grim fate. Curses spewed from their lips, a defiant symphony before the inevitable end. Then, the cultists brought forth a child to the sacrificial altar, a boy no older than seven. A surge of rage consumed me as I yearned for nothing but the demise of these abominable monsters. The call of the greater good clashed with my tumultuous heart, and I could not remain idle as they condemned this innocent child. Greater good be damned!

I hurled an explosive toward the summoning circle. Swift as a thought, I withdrew my pistol and took aim at the sorcerer by the altar. The shot found its mark, burying itself between his eyes. Brains splattered across the wall, a gruesome masterpiece painted in the span of a heartbeat. With deadly precision, I fired a second bullet into the explosive, unleashing a concussive symphony that left the remaining necromancers in a state of discord—some dead, others maimed, all caught in the maelstrom of violence. Yet, I found myself encircled.

Blades gleamed, and maces swung with ominous intent. There was no room for hesitation. Swift as a flicker, I drew my azure-colored runestone, unleashing a blinding light that cloaked me in momentary invisibility. In the ensuing disarray, I danced through their confusion, a phantom eluding the desperate strikes. As blind swings cut through the air, I leaped and ran atop their heads, leaving behind a relentless whirlwind of slicing cuts raining down. Each strike, if not fatal, left an indelible gash etched upon the faces of those who dared to oppose. Amidst the commotion of screams and explosive echoes, I knew I was not alone. My brothers fought by my side, an unyielding force of four inquisitors.

There was no time to seek them out; I trusted they would endure. My focus was honed on the boy by the altar. Despite the intelligent foes converging upon us, my concern heightened with the unleashed horde of zombies and lesser undead. Now free from the necromancers' control, they posed an additional threat. Parrying, cutting, dodging, thrusting—each movement flowed seamlessly into the next. The impact of my strikes mirrored a relentless paintbrush, staining the walls and floor of this twisted sanctuary with the thick blood of its occupants. I carved through a dozen men and women, a symphony of chaos swirling around me as I landed on the ground near the summoning circle.

Thorbak, brandishing a shamshir, charged toward me. Without hesitation, I launched my chakram at his lower left leg. The enchanted disc sliced through flesh and bone like a blade through warm butter before it magically made its way through the air back to my hand. The colossal creature wailed in agony, and in an act of mercy, I severed his head before he crumpled to the ground. Two men aimed their pistols at me, but I infused my chakram with Essence, transforming it into a barrier that deflected their bullets. In response, I dispatched them with a single shot each, ending their lives in the blink of an eye.

From the shadows, a symphony of moans from soulless demons and the heart-wrenching screams of the child echoed. In my grip, the emblem of our divine authority, the holy cross, pulsed with an amber-colored runestone's energy. As Essence coursed through me, I transformed the sacred symbol into a whip of brilliant golden light, a manifestation of righteous power. Whipping around, I faced the walking corpse, reaching for the child, rebuking the abomination with a lash that banished it back to the depths of hell.

Rushing to the boy's side, a grotesque ballet unfolded—dead men and soon-to-be-dead men surged toward me. With each crack of the divine whip, they dropped like insects. Some, discerning the futility of a direct assault, attacked from a distance, but even their efforts were futile. Before the might of God's warriors, nothing could stand.

Arrogance clouded my senses. The summoning circle behind me glowed an ominous red, an unearthly aura enveloping it. The necromancers' bodies withered, their blood forming a morbid portal on the saturated ground. Through the waygate emanated a malevolence akin to Christelle's power but corrupted and vile. Instinctively, I rushed to the child, weaving Essence into a protective shield—not against physical blows, but to veil our presence from whatever abomination might emerge from hell.

Seizing the child's arm, he resisted vehemently, pleading to be set free. "Let me go!"

"No, child. You must come with me if you wish to live." Time allowed no room for debate. Lifting the boy over my shoulder, I sprinted from the room. Casting a fleeting glance to see if Guan and my brothers were safe, a sense of impending danger gripped me.

A Shadow extended its claws toward my heart, and in the nick of time, I evaded a fatal blow. However, the demon severed a tendon on my left shoulder, rendering it temporarily useless. The safety of the child now took precedence—I could not afford to ensure the well-being of others at the risk of the innocent life on my shoulder. I didn't care if I died, but the kid…

The echoes of pursuit followed me, a relentless melody of danger. Dropping an explosive behind me, I knew it would hinder most pursuers, but the Shadow, an entity born of the abyss, would remain unfazed. It didn't matter—I couldn't afford to stop. The malevolent force beyond the waygate hinted at a devil, a greater demon, or something equally diabolical capable of snuffing out my life in seconds. My chances against the hordes of undead lurking in the shadows were more favorable than facing whatever loomed behind me. Hope lingered for the safety of my comrades; I could only trust they had made it out.

Amidst the darkness, I navigated blindly with only one functional arm, hampered by the burden of the child. The clattering of bones and the putrid stench of decay indicated the presence of lesser demons trailing my every move. Taking a risk, I veered into an unexplored corridor, unsure of what awaited but certain that the path we had come from would mean doom for the child.

"Where are my mom and dad?" The boy's whining interrupted my thoughts, but I had no time for sentiment.

"I don't know, kid, but now is not the time."

"No, we have to go back to get them!"

"If they were back there, they're dead. Now quiet, or we will soon join them." The child protested, flailing in my grasp. To silence his cries, I reached for my cross, powered by the amber runestone, normally used for healing but capable of purging evil. Sensing danger, I channeled its power, unleashing an invisible wave of holy energy that exorcized the demons and undead around me. The runestone, now dim, would regenerate power with time, but its current state limited its utility. Thankfully, I still held the azure runestone, a source of light and command over storms.

"Boy, I need my arm. If I place you down, I need you to stick by me. These halls are dangerous, and should you stray, I promise you will be torn apart limb by limb, and I would not be able to do anything to save you."

Despite the boy's continued whining and pouting, I gently placed him on the ground. My Essence reserve was a precious asset, and I couldn't afford to use it to pacify him. It might be our shield against a more imminent threat. He had been warned, and if he chose to cry despite that, I needed my good arm ready for a potential fight. The corridor, narrow and confining, rendered my whip impractical, as well as my ranged weaponry. The longsword was equally unsuitable with only one functional arm. Thus, I opted for my blessed morningstar, using my injured arm to hold the small blue stone, creating a soft, calming light.

As the hall illuminated, I saw a scattering of bones and corpses around us, lifeless and inert. If any shades lingered, my exorcizing wave had banished them back to the shadows of Hades.

Pressing forward, the young one clung to my arm, which held the precious light. His sobbing persisted, disrupting any semblance of stealth. Stealth was a luxury we couldn't afford. With the limited duration of my concealment blessing, we needed to move swiftly. Time was not on our side, but the Lord was.