Night's Blood

The rain thundered down around him and clouds hung low overhead in the blackness of night. His skin was sodden. His hair was a matted mess. And yet he stood still in the darkness all around him. A pile of something fleshy lay in front of him, unmoving. His sword lay at his side. It glistened. Droplets of water covered its length, which was already well-shined enough. A thousand and one reflections of that night still existed in those droplets. He had to kill that thing that was left of what was once a person. Who it used to be, he didn’t know, but he knew that what he had done was necessary. It couldn’t have ended any other way. As he lifted the sword to his face, blood began to fill the droplets. He almost felt remorse as he gazed into them. But not quite. He began turning his sword, admiring its length and its curved shape like a fang. His fang. He let it fall back down to his side.

And then it began to rain blood.

Noticing this, he held out his hand in curiosity. The drops fell into his hand and quickly pooled into a viscous, red puddle. He brought it closer to his face and, almost mindlessly, he cautiously brought it to his mouth, extending his tongue. It made a tiny indentation in the puddle and he retracted his tongue back into his mouth. He had confirmed to himself that it was indeed the stuff of life. Exactly as he had planned. The seer had foretold it. Three nights ago, he had come to her in the dead of night. Expectedly, she had been awake. The oracle knows not the night, she had told him. What is it you wish to see? He had made his request, and she had provided it. Now he knew that he had to return. He had to give her payment for her services. He dropped his hand down and gore dripped from it. He was now drenched, and the rain continued to fall. He turned away from the pile of meat below him. It was time to leave. Mud squelched beneath his already-dirtied boots. His black robe turned a brown-red as the mud combined with the gore soaked into it. He trekked through the blackness, alone as ever: just the way he liked it. The trees lurched out at him, like monsters in the dark. And yet, he thought sadistically. I am the one that children are afraid of. He let loose a raspy laugh. It echoed through the empty forest. There was no one here but him. Suddenly regaining control of himself, he abruptly stopped laughing and continued on. After enough time had passed, he finally came to the gate of the town. He passed through the gate without opening it. He pulled his sword out of its ancient scabbard.

“Grisinel,” he called it. “Show me thy way.”

Although it did not visibly change, he felt a change, a pull in a certain direction. He followed the instincts created by the sword. It led him through dirty, empty streets. The houses were packed together to the point of their boards bulging out. They were run down heaps more than buildings, and their windows dark. The streets were lit by white lamps, projecting a ghastly light onto the road itself. It was covered in leaves, inside which blood pooled. They were empty, save a few emancipated dogs, who ran at the sight of him. A leaf crumbled beneath his foot and he looked down to see the blood spread out from underneath it. The slightest hint of a smile appeared on his lips, only to disappear as his sword pulled him further. He continued on, and finally, the sword stopped. He looked around. It looked the same as the rest of the city: run down houses and empty streets. However, there was one house he recognized: the smallest amount of warm, orange light escaped its highest window. This time he truly smiled, for it was the house of the seer. He sheathed his sword, and without hesitating, he walked up to the rickety old door. The boards were rotting, but the metal bands that leapt across it held them in place despite their decrepit condition. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t locked; it swung open with ease, and he entered the house.

He walked without fear of causing noise: he knew that she expected him to come. Up the stairs he went, careful to watch his step, for the stairs were in a similar condition to the door. The hallway was tight. Only room for one person to use the stairs. No one would be able to walk past him. He stopped at their landing in front of a shut door in slightly better condition than the rest of the house. The same orange light he had seen earlier spilled out from the crack beneath the door. He grasped the door handle and swung the door open.

The room inside was brightly lit by a lantern hanging on a metal stand in the corner of the room, by the window. The flames made his shadows dance on the walls. The rest of the room was cluttered, with books, chairs, and obscure and unnamed implements lying about on the floor, tables, and any other surface. The seer sat in a chair by the lantern. It was adorned with all sorts of ancient inscriptions, unreadable by any normal mortal. The seer herself looked older than the stars themselves. Her eyes were sunken into her skull and most of her hair was gone. What was left was stringy and gray, and it hung down the sides of her head. Her skin was wrinkled and mottled, and it covered a figure so small that her legs were atop the chair. Around her was a tattered green robe with similar inscriptions to the chair on its edges, made in gold. As he entered, she turned to face him.

“Ahh… Vycktor… I am pleased to see you…” Her voice was hoarse, and she barely managed to say the words. “Is… there a service I may provide…? Or perhaps you have come… to grant me my payment?” Her entire body shivered as if she struggled to make sound come out of her throat. “Please… sit down…” She coughed, and spit flew from her mouth.

“I would prefer not to.” Vycktor approached her slowly. “I’m only here to give you your payment.”

“Oh… thank you…”

Vycktor continued closer. Finally, he stood directly in front of her. He towered over her tiny silhouette as he stared at her.

“My time is… over…” She strove to force the words from her mouth.

Vycktor drew his sword. Reflections of the lantern’s flames danced along its length. The seer didn’t make a single sound as he took her life. The sword slashed across her throat, but no blood came out. She simply slumped over, dead.

Satisfied with his work, Vycktor turned around to leave, but then paused. He craned his head to face behind him, and then quickly grabbed the lantern before he left. Down the staircase, out the door. The street was exactly as he had left it. White lights and dead leaves, but this time, his lantern’s orange warmth contrasted the harsh paleness of the streetlamps. Fortunately, the rain had stopped, and all was quiet. The clouds had cleared enough that the moon’s light fell down into the street. Now he could see his true goal: a massive stone church that rose into the sky, much further into the town. That would be his destination, and this time he could guide himself by the light of the moon.

He strode through the streets with confidence. The white lamplight cast his shadows onto darkened and dilapidated houses, but no one stirred. The park he eventually reached in front of the cathedral had a walkway through the center. Trees and lamps lined the curbs, and large fields were on either side. But as he strode up the walkway, there was not a soul. No one to prevent him from committing the cardinal sin. The church loomed up before him: a massive stone box, more than 150 meters tall. It had two wings going off the sides of it, and was extensively adorned in gothic ornaments. On its top was a spire reaching far into the air, with a huge stained glass window in its center depicting the pale moon in all its glory. It was time.

The doors were immense by themselves: at least 20 meters tall. They were made of ancient wood that had stood the test of time, and did not open easily. Vycktor had to push with all of his might to get them even open enough for him to fit through.

The inside of the cathedral was darkened, but not pitch black: rays of moonlight shone through the windows, shining onto many places, the least of which was the shrine which lay at the back atop a pedestal. The vaulted ceiling rose high above it. He held his lantern aloft as he walked towards it and ascended the steps that led to it. Finally, before him lay what he had set out for: a small stone ellipse, about the size of a pomegranate. Etched into it was an image of the sun and moon circling around a small sphere in the center of the shape. He looked hungrily at it and set down the lantern beside it, and then unsheathed his sword once again.

“Arrathach!” he screamed as he raised the hilt above the stone. “Grant me thy power!”

His sword turned crimson as a bolt of blood-red lightning shattered through the ceiling and connected with the sword as he thrust the handle down, smashing the seal. An otherworldly screech echoed through the whole of the building, shaking it to its very foundations. And then silence was once again all that there was.

He turned around, face solemn, and left the lantern. It would burn itself out eventually.  He sheathed his sword and walked out of the still-dark church. He didn’t bother shutting the doors: they would know that he had been there in any case. As he stepped back out onto the front stairs, he stopped and looked to the sky. The moon hung in the center of the sky, far above. It appeared redder than it ever had been, and cast a ghostly, crimson-hued light onto everything it touched.

A sick smile touched his lips. His work was completed. He had served his purpose. And he was satisfied. The only thing left to do was the ritual he had waited so long for, the ritual that was done at the end of every servant’s service. He took his sword from his belt one last time and held it in front of him, point-in. He mentally prepared himself, whispering something inaudible before his final action. He plunged the sword through him, and it came out the other end. Blood spurted from the open wound and he fell to his knees on the church steps. But as he used his dying breath, he did not scream; instead, a demented, gleeful laugh came from him as he fell face-first onto the cold, hard rock. 

It started with his lower half. In a horrible dance of flesh and fur, his still legs elongated and grew another set of joints. His feet transformed into a set of enormous five-fingered paws, with long claws on every finger. His arms changed in a similar fashion: they became longer and skinnier, with his hands changing into paws similar to that of his legs. His body became emancipated and furry, like that of a stray dog, and his skin turned to a dirty gray, matching the matted and dull condition of his fur. Two twisted antlers sprouted from his back. Finally, his mouth expanded from his head, and became a snout. His eyes fell out of his head, leaving two empty sockets, and multiple teeth fell out of his now-canine-like mouth.

His mouth opened, and his tongue fell out, wriggling onto the ground, leaving a red stain on the steps before it stopped moving. His body began to move once again, and he raised his mangy, starving body off of the steps.

Now, he screamed: a scream of agony, a scream of pain. It reverberated across the plaza, shattering the windows of the church, and he scampered off into the night.