Myron hobbled along with his cane, moving to the courtyard ity. Buildings all around him had been reduced to mere rubble, but the chapel still stood, tall and untouched by time. Though it wasn’t time alone that ruined this place he thought as he stepped over a mortar shell. The guards by the chapel’s double doors didn’t notice him until he’d gotten close. Not that it would have mattered; most of these loons from the Cult of the Second didn’t use ranged weaponry. They believed it was disgraceful not to stare into their victims eyes. ”Halt,” the younger-looking guard ordered, moving to intercept Myron. Myron complied, leaning heavily on his cane and idly swinging his and handful of his dreadlocks while the guard inspected him. “What business do you have here?” he asked, keeping his sword between them.
“I need to speak with War.” Myron answered, his African accent coming out in rasps. “I hear he came across an item from the well. You could say I’m a bit of a collector.”
The guard looked back at his comrade at the door, unsure. Myron couldn't see the gesture the guard made, but the young one seemed pleased. “March to the chapel, ahead of me.”
“Why all the security?” Myron joked, moving ahead purposefully slow. “Is War afraid I’d beat him one-on-one?” The guard just growled and pushed him onward. The other guard, a woman, stopped them and pointed at Myron’s cane.
“If you want to meet War, you’ll have to go in unarmed.” Myron looked down at his cane. It was a crooked stick, maybe driftwood, with a skull ornamenting the top. The skull had the same dreadlocks he had, plus a few traditional shaman braids here and there, as well as sharp, jagged teeth.
“My cane?” Myron asked. “It wont bite, I promise.”
“If you want in, give me the stick.”
“It doesn’t like being called a stick.”
“What?”
“It’s quite self-conscious, could you apologize?” Myron asked, handing over the cane. The guard snatched it up without another word, and opened one of the doors wide. Myron was led through and up the aisles, past the pristine stained glass, perfectly upkept despite its surroundings. Bibles still sat in each pew, dutifully waiting to be called upon. They went to the pulpit, where Myron was told to stop while the female guard went a little further and knelt.
“My Lord, an outsider seeks audience with his holiness.” It was all Myron could do to stifle a contemptuous snort. The shafts of light from the stained glass windows shifted, melding their colors together. They all met at a point in front of the woman guard, shining with blinding light. Then, in a bright flash, the lights solidified, changing to form arms, legs, a head. When they finally faded, a muscular man clad in armor with multiple scabbards was left in its place.
“Nice entrance.” Myron complimented. The young guard glared at him, but he continued. “My name is Myron, but some people call me-”
“The Witchdoctor.” War finished. Myron thought his voice would be a little deeper, possibly booming with authority. This phoney just sounded like a whiny adolescent, which, in truth, he could very well be. The so-called War’s armor clinked as he came forward, and the kneeling guard had to scramble out of the way, dropping Myrons cane. “You have a lot of nerve showing your face here heretic.” The young guard was talking into some kind of radio, telling whoever was listening to meet at the chapel. Oh well Myron thought. I never hoped to solve this amicably, anyway.
“I suppose you’re the punk claiming to be the second horseman of the apocalypse. It’s not a very good act, most horsemen have horses.” War grabbed Myron by his collar, lifting him off his feet.
“You would question my divine right, vermin?” Myron heard the steady thrum of footsteps behind him. Their reinforcements must have arrived.
“I’m questioning divinity in general,” Myron said, playing for time. He made a note of his cane’s position; just behind War, where the guard had dropped it. “I’ve always been more superstitious than religious. But while we are seeing, quite literally, eye to eye, maybe we could talk business. I heard you’ve found a Well item.”
War started laughing, and his minions laughed with him. With his free hand, he unsheathed one of his swords, a rapier with an impossibly thin blade. “You think I would give Heaven’s Light to a blasphemer like you?”
“I suppose someone like you wouldn’t be interested in money...” What with all the people your little posse steal from. Myron held his tongue. He saw he’d have to get things rolling. “But I’d be willing to trade you my cane. I can always make another one, it’s just a stick.” The cane rolled over, the skull now facing the ceiling, but nobody seemed to notice.
“What use would I have for a stick borne of blasphemous witchcraft?” The cane wobbled unnaturally, and now stood erect, staring at them with empty sockets. Some of the cultists started to murmur warnings, but none of the seemed particularly eager to interrupt War.
“Are you sure? I made it with the skull and hair of a piranha-frog, and those things are not easy to kill.” All Myron needed was one more outburst…
“Listen, wretch,” War said, pulling Myron in close. “My world has no need for heretics like you, just as I have no need for that stupid stick.” The can flew off the ground, sinking its teeth into War’s unarmored neck. Myron grabbed his cane by the hair, yanking it free as War let him drop to the ground. War roared in pain, gripping at his wound and batting away a follower that rushed to his side.
Cultists started rushing up the aisles. Myron turned to face them, swinging his cane upward in a two-handed swipe, and a wave of purple energy rolled forward. It tossed people and pews alike into the air, sending them crashing down in flailing heaps.
The young guard charged from behind him, slashing wildly with his sword. The first swing was easily sidestepped, and the next was too wide, allowing Myron to infiltrate the guard’s reach. Before he could make another maneuver, Myron raised his cane, touching the bottom to the guard’s forehead. The guard froze in mid-swing, his eyes rolling back into his head before Myron pushed lightly, causing him to tip over his heels and fall with a graceless thud.
Myron started towards the female guard and War, stepping over the unconscious guard. The female guard stepped forward, ready to defend her master. Myron rose his cane over his head, driving it into the floor. And there it stood, scrutinizing them with a sightless gaze.
“It doesn’t like being called a stick. Please apologize.” The guard was speechless looking between the cane and Myron. When War started to stand, the cane’s dreadlocks rose into a halo around it, and somewhere in its eyes a purple flame ignited. The female guard suddenly dashed forward, swinging for Myron. The cane lept from the ground, power fizzing all around it, and sent out a shockwave in front of it. The guard turned, moving through the shockwave, her progress only hindered. Myron pressed his hands together, feeling the sigils on his palms burn as power transferred from the cane to him. When the guard was close, he released his hands, sending the power to his fingertips and letting loose a storm of purple lightning. One of the shots hit the guard in her mid section, sending her flying over War’s head and through a stained glass image of a baby in a manger.
“Well then,” Myron said, chuckling his delight and brushing his hands on his pants. “That was fun.” Myron held out his hand, and the cane flew into it. He walked towards War, who by now was taking off a scabbard and tossing it at Myron’s feet.
“Take it! Take the sword, just let me live!” Myron bent down, surveying the rapier once more. It was from the Well, alright. He slung it over his shoulder and pointed his cane at War, who rose his hands in defense. A glowing purple chain spat out of thin air, wrapping itself around War’s wrists, then binding his ankles until the false deity was hogtied.
“That should hold you until our warden arrives. I hope you use your life sentence to think long and hard about choosing a new faith, maybe one where you aren’t a god.” Myron turned to leave, and saw that many of the cultists had gotten up from their spill. None of them had their swords drawn, and they all stared at the ground. “When the normal authorities arrive, I’d better not hear word of any runners.” Myron struck the ground with his cane, and the upturned pews rose, clearing a path to the door. He let them drop behind him on his way out, and then his phone rang. There was a familiar, slightly abrasive voice on the line.
“Where the hell ARE you? We just got an influx of trainees, and you’re off in… North Carolina?!”
“Calm down, Vermillion.” Myron said in a soothing tone. “I found the item we were looking for, and I incapacitated the criminal that’s been calling himself War… you’re welcome.”
The air nearby shimmered. Faint particles of red began to fly around like a swarm of furious bees. At the epicenter, something opened, and a woman stepped through. Her hair was kept short, and a long leather glove covered her entire left arm. Or, rather, the space her left arm both did and did not exist in.
“Enforcement’s knocking at our door.” Vermillion said. “We need you defending the facility.”
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Well, it took place in future Durham, at least. Great to finally get some of these ideas down.
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