THE CROSS, MY WEAPON

The first part of a saga. WIP

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

Will abide the shadow of the Almighty.

Psalm 91

Friar Guaire slowly stepped out of the campanile after chiming the morning prayer. A pall as thick as pitch covered the northern horizon, creeping over the hills and through the valleys. The visible churning of the clouds, a violence of untold momentum, bespoke of a horror soon to envelop every land south of the Septentrion, including Brú na Bóinne Barrows where the local village of Gobannus resided and the Friar’s monastery saddled the wooded ridge.

He couldn’t identify what it was or its cause. But he had a hunch, and quickly retreated to his study on the top floor. The door slammed behind him. He craned his head up. Shelves of books and scrolls lined the room, leaving a tiny aperture of a lancelet window overlooking the gales. Running his finger along the rows of leather spines and the native hide of a coppex, he stopped and pulled out one of the few copies of the Codex Galactica, commonly deemed the Third Testament by the more pious circles.

The Codex thunked onto the refectory table, shaking the books and bins of quills piled along its surface. The floor scraped. He sunk into a cushion of plush velvet, too restless to relish in its comfort. Hunching over, he flipped through the codex and perused the Book of Seers.

According to the text, the Seers—prophets from beyond the terrestrial horizons—possessed knowledge of the distant stars that mottled the heavens. The great void of silence abounded with creatures unknown, wickedness unseen from worlds fallen from grace. Over the past several eons however, the Guardians—angelic forces in service to the Lord—restrained much of their influence, protecting the heavens from the claws of the Devil’s servants.

Friar Guaire secured the arms of his chair and twisted around. His age hampered his motility, but the bags under his eyes didn’t lie. The bright sliver of the window between the rows of books was partially occulted by that unholy manifestation festering beyond the Septentrion.

He blustered in disgust.

Returning to the text, one particular passage caught his eye. The Devourers. According to the Gospel of Sannex, a compendium of the eponymous Seer’s accounts near the Great Bulge, described a race of demons loosened from beyond the visible, slipping their way past the vigil of the Guardians and onto unsuspecting worlds.

Of course! he concluded to himself. How else could they bypass the Guardians? By tunneling through existence itself!

He read further, his adamance flaring like the sun at noon.

These sordid spirits from beyond embodied the very definition of chaos. Their motives, desires, and whatever catalyzed their rage, remained as mysterious as the cosmos prior to Creation. From what the Friar could tell after scouring the first few passages, no reason could be ascribed to the creatures’ eternal tantrum. Their purpose was steeped in undoing the very act of Creation, plundering anything consecrated, and defiling what God has deemed Holy. Where there was order, they pursued disorder. Where beauty and elegance gave meaning to the craft exemplified by its builders, they came to tear it down. Consummately, they inverted the cosmos itself.

The Gospel recounted great societies beyond the heavens, razed to the ground or possessed of imperial wickedness, compromising their status as upstanding bastions of justice. Sannex described this infestation as ‘hosting’: the Devourers’ parasitical ability that tainted the kingdoms beyond redemption. Had the Guardians lost their footing on the stellar thresholds, the Devourers would have overtaken the stars, including the very sun under which Friar Guaire examined the Codex.

“So it was written,” he muttered, slitting his eyes.

The mortal truth became clear: no tract of land, no mighty kingdom, and no sun under which the kingdoms thrived, would be unblemished by this Satanic blight.

But how, he puzzled, did such creatures manifest within these horizons? He continued to read.

Every kingdom under God’s asterial throne contained the keys that bound them as one. The nexus, the prophets called it. But that was the extent of its physical evidence presented by the Gospel of Sannex. The finger of God reached every nation, but from what the verses said, only a certain spell would grant the conjuror permission to bridge the heavens and travel abroad. The verse was even marked with a footnote.

He turned to the Gospel of Burning Songs, recalling its namesake had something to do with heat energy. But that was of little consequence. The opening preamble gave an abstract on the following text, as well as a shiver down the Friar’s back.

By the Lord’s deepest admonition, only those who seeketh His will with the bravest and most undefiled of hearts can enter, and he who so unlocks this sacred ingress, let him sing…

The subsequent passage was indecipherable, but its iambic stanzas revealed the holy invocation within. After a couple of recitations, a static charge resonated throughout his mind, flooding into his body as if prickling his entire bloodstream. These words harbored untold power, and he refused to speak anything more of them until the appropriate time. But he needed the antidote.

The next set of verses closed the nexus. Repeating them aloud, he triggered the same surge of pins and needles that tingled his nerves. The sensation was euphoric rather than crippling, a dead ringer of the Lord’s Holy words. They were now burned into his memory, to be recited once again. But that required the greatest commission of all: a massive sacrifice.

The question that prodded him to no end was who burdened themselves with the responsibility of opening it. So far, inquiries were a shot in the dark, as futile as entering a battle without weapons and armor. The gates had already been opened, the nexus infested, and every God-fearing inhabitant under the double moons was now vulnerable.

The Codex shut with a loud thump, unsettling the dust on the trimmings along the shelf-ridden walls. Shutting the door behind him, he ran back down the spiral stairwell, down the hill, and toward a basilica at the center of Gobannus

The Council, evangelical and painfully aware of the omen rimming the Septentrion, unanimously consented to the Friar’s request. In a vow of supererogation in spite of his sixty-seven years, he would travel far beyond the hills and into the unknown northern lands without the aid of transportation.

Friar Guaire kneeled. The Archbishop leaned in with the Holy Seal of Divine Authority, a golden Botonee cross that he placed around the Friar’s neck. In an instant, another surge of energy swelled from his head, down to his chest, and out to his arms and legs. The feeling rivaled the effects of the verses, but far more impactful. The Spirit exploded within, and he called upon the Lord for strength, endurance, and the courage to surrender his life for the sake of the faithful.

Bound by fast, his vittles were few. He carried a small canteen for the streams that meandered the dales and gorges throughout the Barrows he would traverse. The only weapons at his disposal: the Holy Bible, the Seal firmly wrapped around his neck, and the mighty Claidheamh Soluis fastened at his side.

Bidding his village farewell, he uttered Psalm 23:

Even though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death,

I will fear no evil,

for you are with me;

your rod and your staff,

they comfort me.

Firmly planting his hand on the pommel of his sword, he fixed his sight toward the horizon and set forth on his holy crusade.

To be continued…

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Special thanks to Ian Nol for edits and suggestions.

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