Short Story: New Faith

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Though, saying that didn't do the angel justice: she wasn't beautiful in the crude sense of form and feature. Truthfully, I was blinded to that by the true beauty that came from within, that outshone and eclipsed any physical form, and that captured my mind and heart with its radiance. When I looked at her, I didn't see a body at all, or even a mind. What I saw was a soul.

The one perfect soul.

Seraphiel...

The first time I saw her outside of the Holy Transmissions was a transformative experience, despite how far away she had been. I remember her talking to the crowds in the open air congregation, exhorting them to greater devotion and support of the republic, and to fight against the twin threats of the Blight and the encroaching Valrath Dominion. And while her message was bombastic, her tone had been gentle, personal. It felt at the time as if she was speaking directly to me and not to the crowd of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, that packed the outdoor amphitheatre.

I remember being so transfixed I didn't even feel the hand placed on my shoulder as the friend with whom I had attended the rally informed me that she and the group we had come with were leaving.

“Milva... Milva! We're going to move on and join the line of supplicants... are you coming? Milva?”

Yet all I could do was stand and stare.

I had gone to the recruitment centres the very next day to sign up and fight alongside the faithful, just as she had asked. And yet, when I stood upon the threshold of the temple barracks, I hesitated. Was I worthy? Was my faith, new as it was, enough? Or would it be seen as an insult to come before the truly faithful in my current state? I suddenly felt unready, incomplete, and to try to join the Templars, Seraphiel's most holy warriors, in that state felt as though it would have been an affront to her divine perfection.

In the end, I had turned away and instead applied to the regular Concordia military and was accepted into the infantry.

◊◊◊

Six months later, I found myself on the frontlines to the north east of the republic, on the borders of Blight infested wastelands. The military was stretched and a large mass of Blighted had been spotted moving towards Concordia from the North-East, enough to destroy a whole city, so even fresh recruits had been dispatched. They had to be stopped. And so, we crouched in an ancient network of concrete trenches and bunkers, remnants of a decades old war that went badly awry for the Republic, fortifications built in desperation when it was thought the full force of the Valrath military's prowess would fall upon Concordia from the seas to the north as well as the skies to the south. In the end, the appearance of Seraphiel and her angels forestalled the Valrath Dominion and invasion by the dreaded armies of the Vampire Lords never came to this region. Instead, something far worse came in its place. A creeping horror. An existential threat.

The squad I had been assigned to lined up in our section of trench, nervously awaiting the arrival of the Blight. There were eight of us in all, just one of a great many infantry squads stretched in a thin line across the northern wastes, those few that could be deployed in time. There was Rigel, our squad leader, Banshee, our heavy gunner, Huck, Ban, Jak, the twins, Lexie and Duffy, and me, the raw recruit. The others seemed to take the tension of impending battle in their stride, but the waiting was getting to me.

Reaching into the pocket of my fatigues, my fingers probed for the reassuring touch of a small metallic object. I drew it forth and held it protectively in my hand. It was a fetish, a tiny metal sculpture of a winged eye on a chain. The eye radiated a great many pointed metal spikes, like the rays of a tiny sun, and I clutched it in my hand, feeling the points prick lightly against the skin of my fingertips in a comfortingly real way. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to center myself around the fetish.

“You nervous, kid?” asked a familiar voice from above. I looked up into the face of Huck, our corporal. “That a good luck charm you're holding?”

I nodded.

“I bought it from a vendor on the day...”

On the day I saw Seraphiel for the first time. On the day I decided to join up.

I didn't say it. The rest of my squad were suspicious of the new faith and its members. I didn't want to antagonize them, or turn them against me, especially not here, at the front lines.

“Don't worry, kid, I'll look out for you. Just remember: keep your head on a swivel. The Blight don't have guns, so you won't even need to keep your head below the parapet. Just pick your targets and make your shots count.”

I nodded, trying to feel the reassurance he so obviously wanted to supply. Instead, I was left with an unsettling thought: if the Blight didn't use guns, then why were we in trenches at all? Why did we have barricades to hide behind?

“Here come the Templars,” called Ban from further down the trench.

“Damn show-boaters with their big swords. Who do they think they're impressing?” muttered Banshee, to my left. Her heavy rifle was slung across her knees as the gunner lounged against the pale aggregate wall of the entrenchment. She seemed at ease, but I could detect a whip-like tension in her posture.

I looked up as a series of shadows flitted across the grey sky above. A squad of Templars were leaping across our trench at impressive speed, trailing their large swords behind them. As the last one cleared the gap, I climbed up onto the fighting step and peered over the top of the battlement, winding the chain of my Seraphiel fetish around my gloved hand and pressing the protective charm into the leather palm of my fingerless glove. I gripped my rifle and sighted along it, out into the wasteland. The Templars were already almost lost in the pockmarked landscape as they raced towards the enemy's front lines.

In the far distance, I could see the first signs of the Blight approaching – the landscape shifting like it was alive, an illusion born of the fact that I couldn't yet make out any individual Blighted. There must have been a lot of them. The Templars would be the first to engage the undead monsters, many of whom would have once been our own comrades, infected and horrifically changed during combat out in the badlands. It was a terrifying thought that my own fate could well be the same as theirs.

Swallowing hard, I ducked back down into the trench.

“Damn show-boaters,” repeated Banshee, sourly, glancing up at me.

“You don't like the Templars?” I asked her.

“Those zealots?” spat Banshee. “Girl, I'd rather fight next to a robot than one of those fanatics. You say or do something to offend their precious Seraphiel, you're just as likely to get one of those big swords through your gut as a Blighted is...”

“Unshakeable faith is a two-edged sword,” agreed Jak from not far away. He punctuated his contribution by spitting on the floor.

“I heard they don't get blighted,” said another voice from further away, either Duffy or Lexie, I thought. “No matter how badly they get wounded, they don't turn.”

“All right everyone, on your feet,” came the commanding voice of Rigel, our squad leader. “Orders from up top, we're to hold this line no matter what they throw at us. There's a lot of Blighted out there heading straight for us and Command hasn't had time to redistribute forces from other combat zones to cover us, so expect heavy fighting to come. All right, firing positions!”

We all took up positions against the trench edge, aiming our guns out into no man's land. Looking left and right, I could see my entire unit was with me, ready for what was to come: Sullen Banshee, hefting her heavy rifle; Huck, our corporal, silent and steady; Ban, the joker, grinning nervously in anticipation; Rigel, our squad leader, growling out orders and encouragement to stiffen our resolve; Jak, Lexie, Duffy... and on down the line, our squad joining with countless other squads crouching in the entrenchment, ready to hold the line against the oncoming dead.

I could see the Blighted were closing fast now. I could even make out individuals in the sprinting mass. There was no sign of the sword-wielding faithful.

“Uh, sir? Where are the Templars?” asked Ban. “Weren't they supposed to be blunting their charge? I can see an awful lot of targets out there and they don't seem to be slowing down, any...”

“Never mind about the zealots,” replied Rigel, “just focus on doing your own job."

I gritted my teeth and sighted along my gun, trying to pick a target in the undulating mass of bodies. There were way too many of them.

“Okay,” said Rigel, “here they come! OPEN FIRE!”

At first, our guns seemed to do a good job of slowing the charging dead. Our line opened up in concert, throwing bodies back into the onrushing mass. Banshee's heavy rifle chugging next to me, stitched holes in the Blighted line, punching the monsters off their feet with each impact.

But it wasn't to last.

The line that had slowed bunched in the face of those still oncoming, the dead were simply pushed along by the masses behind, and soon they were rapidly closing the gap once more.

“Oh fuck! They're going to hit us!” yelled Jak.

“Hold the line!” cried Huck.

And then they were upon us, our thin line bearing the brunt of the undead charge.

After that, memory only seemed to come in short bursts: I remembered the Blight breaking over the lip of the trench. A cascade of monstrosities that swarmed our meagre defenders. I remembered the enveloping stench of death and Huck suddenly not being beside me any more. One moment he was there, standing next to me, then he was gone, nothing but a smear of red in his place. I never saw what happened to Ban, Duffy or Lexie, but Jak was lifted into the air by two Blighted and torn in half between them. Banshee was dragged screaming from the trench, firing her heavy machine-gun all the while. A monster smashed me to the ground, scoring a deep wound in my chest with its clawed hand before moving on to decapitate Rigel who was attempting to come to my aid.

And then I remember the gunfire becoming sporadic.

The carnage and noise of only moments before stilled as my awareness drew in. I lay for an indeterminate amount of time, agony in my chest spreading to my limbs and up my neck. It burned and ached all at once, swallowing me in pain. At some point, I became aware of a hulking form towering over me. A blighted monster, once a human, now a mass of dead grey flesh stretched tautly over wiry sinew, with glowing crystalline spikes sprouting from its papery skin. It raised its mutated claws.

And a sword blade erupted from its chest.

The Blighted crumpled to the floor, revealing the saviour behind. A blessed Templar. Somewhere inside my tortured body, my heart sang at the sight.

For a moment, the Templar looked down at me, deep pity on her face as our eyes met. I reached out for her, but she was gone, leaving me to writhe on the floor of my trench.

Time became fractured, the sounds of gunfire and fighting became distant. The screams too, though they took on a melodic form, like music played over a distant radio, or in a faraway room of a large house. My skin burned, my vision clouded with red mist, my tongue seemed to swell in my mouth. I felt like I was losing myself. The music of the screams became more beautiful still and I began to surrender to its call...

And then light. Painful light.

A figure was above me, one that should have been beautiful, but which burned me from the inside and made me snarl. I wanted to lash out at it, but the new strength that was coming had yet to enervate my limbs. All I could do was reach my gloved hands towards the bright figure. Something dangled from my right hand, something only vaguely familiar to me. An eye. Wings. Points like rays cast by the sun. Then words reached me through the reddening haze, an incredibly powerful, yet impossibly gentle voice spoke.

“Peace,” said a voice. Something touched my chest, right above my heart, and suddenly the burning sensation that was crawling across my skin began to recede. Slowly, but with great relief, my vision began to clear once more.

An angel stood above me. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The perfect soul.

“A burgeoning faith requires sacrifice, daughter,” Seraphiel told me, the words vibrating at the very core of my being. “I believe you have made yours. Be at peace.”

And then the figure was gone and the world was swallowed in darkness.

◊◊◊

Several weeks later, I stepped across the threshold of the temple barracks. The clerics there received me warmly, they washed my feet and hands, they anointed my head and eventually they showed me into a richly appointed room and had me sit before a grand desk inhabited by another of their militant-priestly order, one dressed in simple robes. And I told him my story.

When it was over, the recruitment cleric bowed his head and clasped his hands, then turned a beatific smile on me.

“I see from your application your full name is Milva Kontorski, is that correct?” I nodded. “Born on the First of Seraph, ASR 53...Quite an auspicious birthdate, if I may say so?” I nodded again and returned his smile. “So tell me, daughter-of-the-faith: why is it that you wish to become a Templar?”

For just the tiniest moment, I hesitated. I glanced again at the fetish held in my hand. An eye. Wings. The rays of the sun. Then certainty flooded through me like the balm of Seraphiel's touch.

“Because... I wish to dedicate my life to the one perfect soul...”