At sharp six in the morning, Anandil Homa traversed the length of the Cathedral’s courtyard to the lake-facing corner that narrowed into an elegant arch-shaped veranda. She came to a halt at the base of Saint Marian Awynyth’s statue and bowed in reverence.
Anandil’s head was crowned with the nine-spoked illuminated glass headdress of the Order of Saint Awynyth, which bathed her surroundings in a dull yellow light. She carried a long, black-stone sceptre, which she thought was a burden, as it served no purpose whatsoever in her clerical duties. Fur from her face and neck had been properly sheared to expose her rosy pink skin. There were black swirling lines carefully painted on her face, which ran from her eyes upwards to her ossified forehead and down over her cheekbones towards the bone spurs on her chin. If being a half-Poban, half-Calcar did not make her look unusual enough, the sacrosanct facepaint surely did.
She was dressed in the Cathedral’s scarlet-coloured robes, under which she had clandestinely put on a corset to cover up her masculine frame. The oestrogen regimen she had followed had done some magic in reshaping her physique, but she thought it had not been enough.
Every morning she would come here, where none could hear her speak, and utter the first words of the day in the softest tone and the lowest pitch she could vocalise. She had practised this for many years, but her voice remained annoyingly hoarse and deep.
‘Ugh, I will have to go under the knife,’ she mumbled to herself, scowling. ‘It would probably leave a scar… but it’s my only option.’ She looked around, even though she knew there would not be a single soul in the courtyard. As the Abbess of Neva, a city in the Rud’vyr district of Xerbia, the cathedral and convent were under her authority, and no one would dare disturb her “morning prayers.” ‘Curse my religious decree! Why did I have to go and become a monk? Any invasive meddling means… I’ll never be allowed to transcend!’
She looked up at the stone face of Lady Awynyth, florid in the colours of dawn. How smooth and delicate was the Lady’s countenance! If only humans could attain godhood without pursuing a strenuous life amongst monks. Twenty-one years Anandil served at this Cathedral, and not once had the face of the statue looked any different. Sometimes, she thought, she saw Lady Awynyth in her dreams — not in the abstract ones she saw in the middle of the night — but in the ones she experienced close to dawn that lingered in the mind just before wakefulness. But the Lady never said a word, only looked at her in mock arrogance.
The first half-Poban, half-Calcar abbess of the Order of Saint Awynyth in centuries — ‘like that means anything to anyone,’ she continued, shaking her head bitterly. ‘The first transgender abbess would have made a headline! But… There were many before me. Arh!’
The Order of Saint Awynyth, as a religion, had spread from Neva, from this very cathedral in Rud’vyr, to all parts of the Purged Lands over the last ten millennia. It had been especially successful in Aeroz, where the Order had been critical in raising the city from its shambles, thus acquiring a position as one of the seven confederacies alongside M.A.R.T. and the Knights of Evalon. There was a Church of Saint Awynyth in most corners of the known world — except in Asenya. Those heathens believed in Goddess Gaia… Their beliefs are nothing but myths! Them and their sacrilegious Council of Breeders...
Anandil took a deep breath. Mornings were not a time to be grouchy — she had all day for that. The victims of her grouchiness would usually end up being the poor friars who worked tirelessly to meet her needs —- the Order’s needs, she corrected herself.
She eyed the babe carved into Lady Awynyth’s arms. Kyrytth… the only son of the Lady. He had deceived her. He was supposed to lead her people! Not stray from the path and disappear into the uncharted south! He has since then been accused of heresy, and whatever titles had been bestowed upon him were stripped off. The Order declared that he was cursed and destined to roam the lands as a monster if he ever returned.
The dawn brought an eerie yellow-green glow that covered the calm waters of Lake Na’mel. The sun began to rise behind the ruins of Neva’ar Drift — the ancient fortress floating on the lake. The highway that led from Neva to the abandoned fortress, shone brilliantly in the sunlight, causing the abbess to blink and look away. When her eyes adjusted, she looked back at the shore. Moving away from the statue she paced slowly towards the iron railings that lined the edge of the courtyard. Dragging the long sceptre, which made a grinding sound as it slid on the flat-stone floor, she came to a stop at the very end of the arch.
Four merchant vessels were moored at the port. These were old boats, from the times before the Divine Purge. Of course, back then they ran on nuclear fuel, but now the engines were tainted with Shuffle Dust, which they had to import from Aeroz. Dastardly expensive it was — but shipping anything from Kalgez would be very difficult without these vessels. Such transportation had its hassles too — dealing with the Kalgezi and their ruddy Neolish tongue was a nightmare for the abbess. The Aewylen language that was spoken amongst the disciples within Neva was divine in comparison.
Two more vessels made their way from a southern port on the lake, which was connected to the Kalgezi trade route, carefully avoiding the buoys set up far away from the nearest port of Neva’ar Drift. None would venture close to that accursed city. All of Rud’vyr believed it to be haunted, or some such nonsense that Anandil refused to believe. Today would be another day wasted; getting the uncouth Kalgezi to properly transfer the paid goods would take up most of her time — or so the abbess thought.
It was half past six. Anandil was still pacing testily in the veranda when a resounding knell was heard from the cathedral, followed by an alarm that echoed throughout the citadel. ‘Kyrytth’s nuts! What now?'
Friar Dew hobbled into the enormous prayer hall from behind the dais wearing a full armour set, adjusting his mechanical left arm as if it had come loose. He had seen the abbess go for her morning prayers to the courtyard, and that’s where he expected to find her and provide the grim details of the cause of the alarm. He hopped down from the dais and made his way between the rows of benches towards the other end.
‘What? What now? What in the Lady’s name is happening?’ Anandil stormed into the room from the great eastern door, yelling over the deafening alarm that echoed within, amplifying the cacophony. ‘Friar, an update if you’ve finished fiddling with your arm!’
The friar was caught unawares and fumbled around, dropped his arm onto the velvety carpet, and stood in attention as the abbess approached. ‘An attack… Your Grace! From… from Urumoi!’
‘Nonsense,’ she waved, stomping past him towards the intricately designed glass throne on the dais. ‘No army can get past those mountains. Attack can only come from the lake!’
The friar wheeled around, forgetting his arm on the floor between the benches, and chased after his abbess, ‘It’s just what they say, My Abbess! We received a distress signal from the northwestern bastions… it’s not an army! It’s some sort of… ghost.’
The abbess halted and turned so quickly that the friar had no time to stop, and bumped directly into her tall frame, and then apologised profusely. Anandil’s brow was knotted and her mouth was twisted in wrath, ‘What did you say? A ghost?’
‘I’m afraid so, Your… Humbleness,’ he whimpered as she looked at him with a stern gaze.
Anandil looked sideways, assessing the situation. This was not the time to be riled up — she had to think calmly. A Ghost of Urumoi? After all these years? She cleared her throat and whispered into the communication chip attached to her scarlet-coloured collar, ‘All units ready to engage the enemy at the northeastern bastions. Use all available step-pods.’
She turned slowly back towards the dais, and this time she marched methodically to the throne, leaving the friar confused. She removed her crown and placed it upon the soft cushion seat of the throne. It would be a burden running around with it. She laid the sceptre beside it as well, glad to be rid of it.
‘Friar Dew,’ she continued in a low voice, but loud enough for him to hear and scurry back towards her. ‘Get my gear ready.’
The walls that had protected the citadel of Neva from the wildlife and ruffians in the Urumoi Mountains lay crumbled, destroyed. The bastions too had been blown away by large boulders that seemed to have been catapulted from the base of mountains. The battle had quickly moved to Saint’s Way, the wide cobbled road that ran across Neva from north to south.
Townsfolk ran helter-skelter, screaming at the top of their lungs, trying to get away from the northern assault. A shadowy figure zipped from one corner to another, causing the strong, stone wall towers to explode and scatter debris upon the innocent people. A maniacal laughter rang across the area, a gurgling rasp and then a childish chuckle. Snipers from towers and bastions shot bullets that did no good, as the shadow was quick, hiding amongst the debris or in nooks, from where it could cause more havoc.
A band of Cathedral monks appeared on their step-pods, racing towards the crazed “ghost”, Abbess Anandil Homa at the lead. When the ghost was in view, Anandil balanced the handle of the step-pod with her left hand, leaving her right hand free to produce a handgun from her holster belt. She had to swerve around the fleeing townspeople. The ghost showed no intention of leaving without a fight. Her monks had already fired a few rounds, missing every time.
A chunk of stone hurled towards Anandil and smashed the step-pod from under her, sending the abbess hurling into a hedge. Escaping with nothing but a few scratches, she pushed herself up, picked up her weapon that had flown a few feet away, and sprinted back into action. The ghost was in view again, cackling like a wicked demon.
‘Abbess, it seems to be moving towards the Cathedral,’ came a voice from a low lying balcony. Looking up she saw a monk with a hand machine gun.
‘Show me your weapon,’ she hissed, and the monk bent over the railings as ordered. Anandil grabbed the gun from the monk, ‘I’ll take that. Get to the roof and round up more snipers!’
With a heavy gun in one arm she aimed in the general direction of the ghost and began firing furiously, being careful about the civilians. The shadow was on the left behind a residential building, then right, behind a clock tower. It rushed to the roof of a building and then into a shop, all the time causing destruction in its wake. The hand machine gun ran out of rounds. You can never get these to aim anyway, thought Anandil as she cast the useless weapon away.
The shadow was now on the street, standing still, as if taunting her. The maniacal laughter rang through the district again, high-pitched and menacing. The abbess was sure she had the shot this time. Holding her handgun with both hands she peered through the aiming scope. Time seemed to slow down as she concentrated, like it did during practice everyday. The disciples of Saint Awynyth were trained fighters. They did not need guards to protect their citadels. Cowardice was shunned. Their hatred towards Kyrytth had been justified by this dogma. He was a coward, so the scriptures read, who would choose the path of trickery and deceit than meet the enemy head on.
Aware of the empty rounds in her hand gun, she unloaded the used cartridges which bounced and rolled on to the cobbled street, ringing like little bells falling on a smooth floor. With a swift motion she reloaded and pulled the trigger, but at the last moment she hesitated, letting the bullet fly up into the sky.
The cause of her hesitation was a white-faced townsman running towards her, screaming his head out. The ghost had disappeared again. She shut her eyes to calm herself, and marched towards the civilian.
‘Move!’ She growled, forgetting to mask her deep voice, as she shoved the poor townsman out of the way. But it was too late. The shadow was retreating towards Urumoi. ‘Chase that ghost into its lair!’ She ordered, hissing into her communication device.
A monk came to a stop beside her to see if she needed assistance. She pushed him out of his pod, ‘Get out! Go shut off that infernal alarm!’ She pushed the pod with her feet, accelerating to full speed and hurried after the Ghost towards the northern exit along with the rest of her fighters.
The ghost zigzagged across Saint’s Way, back the way it came, and out through the broken gate towards the thick forest at the base of Urumoi Mountains. The monks came to a stop at the line of eucalypts knowing well that they would have to continue by foot.
‘Halt!’ Anandil hissed and alighted from her step-pod, peering into the dully lit interior of the forest.
The ghost had stopped, as well, a few metres into the thicket. Two grey eyes peered out through the vapoury exterior. The ghost writhed within itself, slowly taking form — the vapour swirled and transformed into a woman, dressed in yellow and black. She had ash blonde hair and large grey eyes, and she smiled — a menacing ear-to-ear smile — that exposed her stony fangs. And as quickly as she had materialised, she disappeared.
Friar Dew stumbled close to the abbess, whispering, ‘Is that… what I think it is, Your Holiness?’
‘Summon a meeting of the Order,’ replied Anandil in a whisper, not taking her eyes off the last seen location of the ghost. ‘Do not speak of this to anyone, all of you!’
‘What of the townsfolk,’ Friar Dew argued, and when the abbess turned toward him he bowed respectfully, ‘... My Abbess.’
‘We cannot let the people know about a… a ghost,’ she whispered, looking around at the dozen monks who surrounded her through narrowed eyes. ‘At least… not till we’re very sure.’
The dozen monks nodded in agreement and were ordered to head back into Neva to begin repairs.
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