The Beautiful Who Will Be Damned
Everyone knew the righteousness of the holy crusade
The throbbing behind his eyes woke him from deep trance, still blinking away colors he could not name and places he had never been. At least, the ringing in his ears had finally, blessedly, faded. He stood alone in the circle that had once held the rest of his squad. The ground still bore traces of their boots, even though the faint pre-dawn grays made it hard to decipher.
It had been afternoon when the prayers had begun.
James clenched stiff fingers and bent even stiffer knees. His mouth tasted of ash and sand and saffron. He heard the whispers but left them unanswered—men and women watched him with dark eyes as he entered his tent.
The tent offered more than shelter from the elements. It held a firm cot with two blankets and a thin pillow. His pack lay propped against the foot, always ready for a quick advance or even quicker retreat. James had reached high enough in rank that he no longer had to share with three other people—a perk for being exceptional at murder. Others complained about their quarters (quietly; this was a holy crusade, after all), but James said not a negative word. His sleep was more restful, and the stars shone brighter out here than behind the Gate. The rigid days and nights could no longer keep him within their grasp whilst in the bosom of the wilderness.
The tent held no photographs he cared about; however, he tucked the one worth mentioning in the breast of his shirt. The Seneschals would ask questions he could not answer without him being hanged. His home away from home, only he loathed his ancestral home with its three stories and solid walls and sprawling lands where they kept the horses and sheep. That home had been the jewel of the county—it glistened like the diamonds his mother wore, given by his distant father in apology. Who would glare down his long nose and speak of family pride. James was the middle child and no one’s favorite, so what pride need he care about? Why should he cut himself into acceptable pieces for the place he merely slept in? The tent would do just fine until the campaign was over. Until fighting in mud and watching his comrades lose their sanity in place of their lives was over—until everything was over. James doubted he’d see the end; he doubted he’d see the Gates of Alexander. Oh, Isaac.
The Gog plagued humanity the moment humans touched down from the stars. The original home was long left behind, and the memories ground up like wheat in the carbines of time. Humanity settled on lush lands and staked their claim—the Gog crawled from the mists and attempted to push the fledging adventurers off the white cliffs and into the seas. Humanity built the unbreachable Gates of Alexander and prayed for further revelation. The Creator saw fit to lead them here—which path led to ultimate salvation? Humanity claimed increasing amounts of land over the millennia, yet more often than not, the crusades came up empty. So it goes.
James cared little for salvation. He cared-
The horn sounded. The Gog were coming.
They came in waves, James discovered, on a schedule only they could decipher. Their appearance varied just as much as their attacks. Men and women swore up and down and sideways and on dear granny’s grave The Gog were kin to dragons—much like the red dragon with seven heads and seven crowns that descended upon their home left behind. The Gog had horns and claws, and many a neck was slashed wide open supported the reports. The Gog were also black wisps of smoke that evaded every weapon and every bullet. They were ten feet tall—they were half the height of a man but more ferocious than anything. Shapeshifting and an affront against The Creator; it was the sign of evil.
James killed them anyway, no matter the skin they wore.
That was the same this time. His blade struck at phantoms again and again. The shrieks of agony filled his ears yet did nothing to distract him. He left his brothers and sisters of battle behind, pressing deeper into the wilds. The wilds humanity have tried for generations upon generations to conquer only for the land itself to laugh and consume any who dared go too deep. James knew this; James kept going. The Gog he was tracking had been a decent challenge. It had been smart enough to draw him away from its kin as James was so very good at murder. James spared a thought to how that quality of his would hold up back on the ivory sidewalks and glistening buildings and ornate cathedrals with walls that whispered, “holy.”
Would Isaac be horrified?
No, this Gog was different. Its form smudged the air black like smeared paint on a canvas. James bared his teeth. His thighs burned from having to contend with lifting his feet from soft, sucking ground with every step; however, he didn’t stop. He could not stop. He threw himself forward when he came tantalizingly close—he did not see the ravine.
James woke, again, with his tongue coated with the taste of ash and sand and saffron. He was honestly surprised at the lack of copper, given the fall. The ravine walls were high and impossible to climb. He tested his limbs. No broken bones. Not even pain.
“Good.” The light voice sounded half amused and half wary. James turned to see a young woman sitting against a boulder to his left. The white of her smile contrasted sharply with her dark skin. Her eyes shone gold and lovely behind long, fluttering lashes; her lips plush with a hint of red. She’d have turned the entire company under him stupid. James was reminded of an old schoolmate who sat two rows across and two seats back. The other boys always swarmed around the poor girl while James idly wondered about the appeal. If he didn’t know for a fact that said schoolmate had been left behind the Gates due to pregnancy, he would have thought she’d come to visit.
What had been her name?
“You’re staring so intently. Does my body tempt you?” she asked.
“Who’d be tempted by something so ugly?” James said, looking for his weapon. She laughed at him; no wonder—if she had looked at a mirror at all in her life, she’d know he was lying about the ugliness. She licked her lower lip and tapped a rhythm on her thighs. The bright red cloth formed a skirt with intricate patterns James could not hope to read.
“Your people are strange; you are the strangest of all.”
“Am I?” Giving up his search as a bad job (he hated killing with his hands; Gog left ichor under his fingertips and left behind stains that lasted for days), James stood and examined the red rock that surrounded them. The creek bed had long run dry and would remain so until the warmth of spring returned and brought water with it. The ravine stretched as far as he could see both behind and before him, offering no way out that he could see. James took a deep breath and anchored himself in the sensation of cold, dry air slicing the tender insides of his throat. Through it all, the woman waited for him to finish.
“I’ve been watching you. Usually, your kind wants to live long enough to scurry back to their gate.” She hopped down from her perch and started walking. James furrowed his brow but followed.
“Where do you hail from?” he asked between the crunch of rock beneath their boot. He noted the old rifle on her back. It looked like a veritable antique. The barrel gleamed, however, from clear care and attention. The wood stock also shone and featured curling designs he had trouble pulling his gaze away from.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I have a feeling you saved my life.”
“Your feeling is wrong. I could barely save myself. I ought to be asking what you’re made of.”
James paused in his steps. His sudden stop drew the young woman to halt her steps as well. She smiled at his growing frown.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen the drop. You plummeted like a stone with about the same amount of grace. Yet, here you are, handsome.”
“And what of the Gog?”
“I’m not sure what a Gog is.”
James’s fingers twitched for the weapon that ought to have been nearby but had vanished with no trace. Just like that Gog had vanished; yet this young woman sat waiting. The young woman with gold eyes, he swore, glowed dimly in the fading light of day.
“This cannot,” James said, trailing off. Gog were…everyone knew what Gog were.
The young woman laughed, both kind and mocking. “I wondered if I should have kept you alive, but this has gotten far more interesting!
“Do you people not know whom you are fighting?”
James could do little more than stare. Then, follow her to a cave where they would spend the night. In the morning, the young woman would be gone, but a mark would be left that would take him to a narrow path out of the ravine and back onto the forest plateau. There, James would use the position of the day stars to navigate his way back to camp. He would ignore the reliefs and slaps upon his back as he returned to his tent.
And his mind would remain blank.
I am so pleased to announce that this piece was featured in Top in Fiction’s Week 24, 2024 Vol. 1 Iss. 24. I teared up a bit :’)
It was a fantastic week and the rest of the stories can be found here:
