Chilled exorcist

Preface One: "What is this book about?"

Dedication: This book is dedicated to my father

Preface One: "What is this book about?"

The action of this book takes place in the third era of Terresia. The protagonist becomes a prisoner of the treaty and is forced to participate in the events of the new development of the Rube Tract. Castle Feanoth has high hopes for a mutually beneficial treaty with Kostegrad, and even Lord Stag is willing to give up his youngest daughter for the Keeper of those lands. The only difficulty is that almost the entirety of the Rube Tract is mired in gray earth, an infestation dangerous to humans, animals and vegetation alike.

At that time, Count Myrtel Feanoth, heir to the castle of the same name and the Barrier Lands, decides to hold a tournament to cull those too weak to participate, to select the most trustworthy warriors who will travel to the Rube Tract to purge it of the hordes of chilled and infected creatures of the Polog of Ignorance. "Anything larger than a perotl must go into the ground," the Count orders.

Finding it insufficient to develop the tract with knights and mercenaries alone, Count Mirtel sent out a call to the Order. He needed specialists who had fought the monsters of the Zagorje – hunters who had spent five years holding back far more fearsome creatures, serving under the control of the Guardian of their fortress. And then the Council of the Fortress of Rukh, having previously assessed the situation, formed a battle group to clear the tract – fourteen fighters, ready to fulfill the Order's commission and bound themselves to it by a treaty.

Separated from kings and edicts, the Hunter holds a very high position in the hierarchy of the Empire. However, he is considered "unclean" by the priests of Hoth. Emperor Retreath Grave Mohawk himself has separated the hunters and given them a special position to allow for trials and investigations of crimes.

Envnir, the book's protagonist, receives not a simple assignment from the Order, but a murderous mission to mop up the tract along with thirteen other hunters of the Chilled. Becoming a participant in the events, he is forced to seek a solution to the problems heaped upon him, and the reaper of the dead has all the means to fulfill the tasks set before him by the Count. Whether he is driven by predestination, or whether his future depends on his will alone, or perhaps both, and whether he will be able to reach the end of the Rubezhny Tract – he will find out on the way.

Preface Two: "A horror tale is…"

Yet the genre of fairy tale horror suggests something like the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. In the practice of some parts of Europe, there was a tradition of telling children scary bedtime stories to make them "sleep better." Growing out of these stories that we read to you and me as children, the actual fairy tales are like the system of modern chess (chess used to have different pieces before they were generally standardized). They were trimmed down and presented in a way that would amuse a child, but not scare them. It is only when you read the older, older versions, where the Tsarevich goes deeper into the forest and he comes across the third Baba-Yaga, the Bone Leg, that you begin to wonder what a modern story in the folkloric horror genre should be like?

The fairy tale style involves small stories. Events that the traveler encounters along the way, whether it's a waystone or the next occupant of the house on chicken legs. This is also the style in which the first stories of the witcher are composed. Geralt arrives in a deserted village and is discovered by a monster, welcoming him in. And it's not just any monster, it can grant wishes. Andrzej Sapkowski worked masterfully with speech and even suggested its progressive development, reflecting the movement and trends of the Russian language when writing his work. In doing so, he set the bar high for anyone daring to try their hand at the dark fantasy genre. In the aftermath, these small stories will grow into something more, a child of purpose will appear. And then people will show and tell for a long time that "this man came from the north…"

I've long been driven by the desire to write something like this. The preparation of a whole, dark, special world dusted on the shelf and waited for the hour when I will return to it. And the time came. I saw a new contest from LITNET and immediately realized – I want to participate in this contest. I have a clear idea of what I want to write about.

If you want to learn about Terresia's past and read additional material, check out the appendices of this book. Appendix One: "Memo". This piece of paper was the reason for the contract. Appendix Two: "The Ages of Terresia" will tell you about the bygone times of this world. Appendix Three: "The Expedition of Jodmungheim and Grave Mohawk", or otherwise "The Legend of Sunset and Dawn". Will elaborate on the events of the journey. Appendix Four: "Letter from Inquisitor Flawkins". Highlights the report that the Inquisitor compiled. Appendix Five: "Map of Terresia: Towns and Villages". Tells briefly what places have been developed by people on Terresia. There is also a visual map here (hopefully I remembered to add it). Appendix Six: "The Prophecy of the Mute-Birth and the Forgotten Monolith". This describes the events that took place immediately after the prophecy, and about Liyam the Grave Mohawk, the first to be killed by his own. Appendix Seven: I decided not to add since I posted pictures in the text.

Ah, yes, of course… ahem… "In a land far, far away lived three people. A Mother, a Father, and their little tiny son, who was barely four…"

Chapter 1: "The New Hunter"

The autumn thunderstorm had finally raged. It hissed and spat splashes into the glazed windows, rare for those places, having taken its turn at the bright and prolific sister-neighbor in caring for its mother – nature. "Here she is again washing dishes and rattling," complain the villagers of those places. "So she'll break all the dishes," others will shake their heads. "And we'll get it too!" will exclaim, as the rushing gust passes over the roofs. And Yellow-Eyed, glancing fiercely at her green-eyed sister, threatened to evict her from the house. Here and there her yellow outfits showed through. But they too disappeared as the dark and starless night fell. The Great Host of Light did not wish to look at the wayward one and did not appear in the heavens. She sat down at the threshold and howled, offended at herself and the whole world, tearing her golden garments to shreds.

And the house was warm. The fire of the fireplace crackled cozily. It was blazing, warming everyone with its dance. The heat from the fire spilled in waves into all the rooms from the huge stone stove. The orange tongue was busy eating the wood, making noises in an unknown crackling language about its cheerful life, or maybe it was just asking for more food.

Time seemed to stop here, and the inclement weather and the Yellow-Eyed One howling under the door no longer disturbed the mother and child. The woman stroked the head of her firstborn, who would not go to sleep without another story. She placed her hand on the child's back. In that moment, nothing existed for them.

"Tell me a story!" the child demanded, rising from the bed. He was barely four, and he still couldn't pronounce the first sound of "runes". He was a baby. The young mother smiled and smoothed his unruly strands of hair.

"Good. You'll have a fairy tale," she said kindly, oblivious to the weather outside the windows.

"It was a long time ago. Back in the olden days, when the Titan Jodcheim had not yet passed through these parts. To the shores of the largest island in the Deep Gulf, the one named Amberlight by the first humans, came a group of living people who had defeated the distant darkness and the Canopy of Ignorance in their homeland. There, on their distant continent, after defeating the named Light, they pursued evil, and, imitating the celestials of the night sleep, destroyed it completely." The mother placed her hand on the child's back. She felt his cautious breathing. She adjusted the blanket. The hide of a boar covered the timbers of the hut in the headboard, it seemed, and she listened intently to the story.

"They were brave heroes that slew many spawn of the dark cover, and therefore they were not frightened by sea monsters. The men of the expedition sailed on two ships, across the Great Dark Frontier. One of the ships was called 'Dawn' and the other was called 'Sunset'. A vast black expanse of water raged beneath them, and the impenetrable Canopy of Ignorance approached from all sides. But the brave mariners overcame their fear, their ships moving farther and farther from the lands where they were born," mother spoke, and her eyes shone brightly. The firelight danced and reflected in them.

"Is the canopy the village land?" questioned the child. His eyes were wide open, wanting to understand new things about the world. The woman smiled, "How could such a thing even occur to her?" And then she realized that the child could see the connection between this and that. And again she was glad to see how clever he was.

"No, come on, Envnir, they're floating on a vast body of water! The Great Dark Frontier. There's no land there at all. Neither dry nor wet, neither light nor gray," she leaned toward him and, seeing the realization in his eyes, kissed the top of his head.

"You have correctly observed that they are of the same nature. They say the Hollow went into the earth, made it bad," the woman nodded, confirming her words. The small crib, more like a bench, was shaking with the movement. "And he hasn't flown since."

"What if he flies again?" the curious child, in its spontaneity, would not stop.

"It won't. The shroud was defeated long ago. The shroud of Ignorance is a kind of darkness that hangs in the air and wants to swallow up the careless traveler. Neither fire nor water can help against it, only special ancient crystals left by hunters and priests. And the gray earth…" The young mother thought for a moment. "…It came afterward. You saw it yourself, remember?" the storyteller noticed the glint of understanding in the child's eyes, and he nodded readily.

"And so, when the brave heroes landed on the island that is now near the mainland on which we live..... The first to land on it was Dümmal Grave Mohawk, the Emperor's distant great-grandfather and the first king of men. His descendants still rule the entire land of Terresia and the archipelago from this Amber Island," the door creaked open and the child's mother turned around. The father of the family finally entered the house and appeared on the threshold. In his hands he was holding damp wood that smelled of fresh tar. "Had to chop some new ones," the young woman guessed. He kicked the mud from his shoes against the threshold and stood motionless.

"The landing near the mainland was the first milestone in the development of new lands that were still hidden by the Hollow of Ignorance." The woman looked up at the man. Their gazes met. He called out to her with a nod to the side and walked into the other room.

"Darling, let me tell you the sequel tomorrow?" she asked, and a traitorous tear ran down her cheek.

"Are you crying?" his question sounded somehow particularly piercing.

"No! I'm just very hot from the fire – my eyes glistened. Please, I've told you a story. Go to bed and tomorrow you'll hear the rest. Okay?" She pulled up the blanket and covered him, got up and walked from the room to the door.

"It's a deal," the child agreed, and the woman went out.

The boy lay and looked at the fire, listening to his calm breathing. The flames played with him, caressing his face and closing his eyes.

"Did you recognize it?" came a muffled voice.

"They will come for him tomorrow," he sighed and answered sadly.

"Didn't you try to challenge the decision?" the first voice persisted.

"How could I…" there was a pause in the speech. "I tried, it didn't help."

"Why don't we just run away?" a tinge of slight madness and hope came into the voice.

The answer was silence.

The silence went on and on. The flames swirled, and the child was distracted by them. He fell asleep without realizing what his parents were saying.

Only then did he hear a muffled sob. Another and another. The hail pounded the roof and swept like a broom under the doorstep. The storm was right over the house. The storm pounded harder and harder at the windows and shutters on all sides, and soon the sobs were inaudible. Yellow-Eyed howled again; she did not regard the grief of others as more important than her own.

Chapter 2: "The Forgotten Village"

The waters of memory flushed as abruptly as they came up to his eyelashes.

Standing at the triple crossroads was a man in black robes. Clothes worn in the Order by the messengers of the night. A tattered cloak flapped in the wind, and a long-brimmed hat pulled upward more like a hood. The wanderer's mouth was safely hidden behind a milchemist's mask to filter the air, but believe me, he crinkled at the taste of memories. Like a cat squeamishly jerking its paw at water, the gloomy traveler tried to forget it as soon as possible. The unpleasant past, it seemed to make him weaker, more vulnerable. He no longer recognized himself in it. There was someone else, naive, with eyes open to the world, ready to believe anything. And here stood a completely different person. A huge block of granite stood in front of him, pointing the way. It was just like him. Like that cold, guiding piece of rock from his memories.

The horse snorted behind him, digging its hoof into the ground, leaving another pothole. The animal demanded to move on again. The man was uneasy, too. A chill ran down his back. Here the hornet had penetrated far to the south. All around, as far as the eye could see, was poisoned gray earth, and only the forest ahead burned with the green fire of life. The traveler lowered his head. His long and black Order cloak whipped around his leather boots with protective metal inserts.

He intercepted his crossbow. On the handle of his weapon, a sling swung up. And on it jingled a token for shooting the chilled. The grim reaper of the restless dead looked forward. His thick, clinging goggles gleamed two scarlet lightning bolts in the reddened strands that hung over the forest of Titan Jodcheim. The lights of the blue vaulted. The cover of night was closing in.

You want to know about the past of this world? I'm not the best storyteller. Look ahead, friend. The titan of the sky, Jodcheim, always walks his usual path, soon to disappear into the distant mountains. There, according to legends, he will fight all the evils of this world and win the battle against Tlekorz the Apprentice. Remembering this name, the exorcist, and judging by his crossbow, it was exactly the killer of uncleanness, spat on the ground, revealing his protective mask.

You want to know why he's called the Apprentice? I have to disappoint you. I don't know. I was taken from my family too soon by the Order's minions, and they don't care about legends. All they care about is that we're good at killing the restless dead. So we don't die every time we meet a cold one in our path. But this isn't about the Order, it's about the legend. Where was I? Oh yes… But in that ancient battle, Jodkheim himself would die, only to be reborn across the sea and follow his own path, returning to the continent from the west of the Light Continent, where the first ships came from. Only he will walk along the blue vault instead of sailing through the Great Dark Frontier to light up the ancient island and the capital city of the same name – Amberesvet the Great – with his mane of hair from afar. The Chill Killer examined his gauntlet.

The first fork road led to the castle of a rebel lord who had decided to no longer serve the Crown of Grave Mohawk. And so his domain lay desolate, and his servants were cold and wandering among the ruins of the castle on a lonely cliff. Many small lords have sought to gain more autonomy, or even independence. Now that the gray earth is spreading so rapidly that I do not recognize even the blooming places where I once was, all has been devoured by the ruinous wasp. And so Fortress Rukh kills anyone who comes within ten paces of the Second Gate of Light. And this is now that the High Priest of Hotta has fled the islands from the amber capital to the Fortress of Rukh. He stole the Titan Child of Jodcheim with him and proclaimed the Thunderbird Lands as the Last Possession of the Light. Now that the dastardly Cult of Bones is influencing the mind of Emperor Retreat of Grave Mohawk, the ruler will only laugh back at the messenger and his troubles. And will drink more wine, looking through the rims of his glass at his subjects – small bugs with insignificant problems. Many have tried, but not all have succeeded.

Lonely walls and stones are what remains of this castle. The name of the local lord is gone from the pages of the annals, and now no one knows who lived there. Perhaps if the village near the castle had been alive, people would still remember, but it was not spared by the oser. People either left or died of starvation. "Perhaps the Light will be merciful to their souls," I thought angrily as I fired an arrow from my crossbow at the rebel who had carelessly approached me. He let out a cry of something akin to surprise and fell to the ground. The rebel lord's dead guard tried sharply to break free, pinned to the ground by the arrow. He flailed his arms, dislodging several emerald green mushrooms that came out from under the visor of his helmet. One of his gauntlets came off, exposing black, rotting flesh. The guard began to groan and lash out, but I knew he wouldn't make it.

"The hunter has decided on a path. The hunter will take the long way," the words of the prophecy of the oracle of Light Jodkheim's oracle rang out again. 'The hunter will go straight to the Dark Forest. There are still survivors there. The village is half a day's journey away.

Why did the hunter choose the central path? Because the last road led back. Through the desolate lands and the small bridge where he once grew up, and went to the dwarves and the Northmen. And the man didn't know it, nor did he guess why he was visited by the memory that the hunter had tried so eagerly to dismiss. Or rather, he knew, for it was at such a stone that he had been given to the Order. But whether it was this one or the other, the hunter couldn't remember. He hesitated, trying to figure it out, but he couldn't guess, too much had changed here. He jumped into the saddle and galloped towards the Darkwoods. There were many stones, and he was alone.....

…

I reached the clearing near the settlement with only two arrows in my quiver. The forest creatures ate them like crazy. They ate the horse, too. Quite ragged and tired, covered in dirt and small cuts, I looked more like a cold than a living person, especially after running away from a nocturnal predator – a Blue Claw, a large and dangerous forest cat. Why was I running away from a stalker? The answer is simple – I don't get paid for them. And there are many like him.

I staggered forward to the fence. From afar, the villagers noticed me and lined up on the walls with weapons. The old townsman didn't want to open the door to me at all, he didn't believe that someone could overcome the forest at night. He ordered the crossbowmen to fire a volley at me, mistaking me for a cold traveler – a common thing. But he changed his mind immediately when a black arrow struck a meter from his head.

"It's a hunter!" The old man shrieked as if for the last time. The liquid and sparse strands of hair that knew no shearer surged in all directions, and his eyes swiveled madly. I had already gotten close enough to get a good look at his image. The silly palming had stopped. The villagers weren't firing in the opposite direction except for the accuracy of their shots, so terrible was their accuracy. One of them had managed to discharge a crossbow into his leg. So in the background, while it was not up to him, one curly-haired boy with freckles kept reloading his crossbow and shooting arrow after arrow. The headman had to come closer and give him a cautionary slap and personally confiscate the weapon.

"Have you got fenugreek in your ears? Didn't you hear the orders?" the old man reprimanded the child.

The chains of the gate rattled, and I covered my heart with my black-gloved hand against the dust as they thudded to the ground. More on instinct than with any benefit. That's what we were taught in the Order. "Whoever covers his face with his hand is dead! You have to cover your heart!" The dust cleared and two men in half armor stepped out cautiously toward me. I thought to myself that I had only seen such armor in Feanoth Castle with the Count's dancers, and it didn't cover anything.

"Look, a living man!" exclaimed one of the guards. The golden-haired one even tried to poke his finger at me to make sure that he wasn't an obsession, but stopped halfway when he met my hard stare.

"He's a creature hunter, so he's already dead…" the other man said, but he had to stop halfway through, the crossbow bolt in his forehead. I was staggering, which made the picture even more graceful.

"Why am I dead?" I asked demandingly. "Oh! I was really very curious!"

Very slowly, as if reluctantly, the villagers raised their crossbows a second time and pointed them at me.

"Don't be angry, all of you who have been in the mountains, well… haven't become half-dead, that's why you cover your face," he was almost choking. He swallowed convulsively, threw a slanting glance at the comrade behind me, who waved his hands, confused. I scrutinised the sweat trickling down his forehead. He rolled his eyes out of his orbits, too. How he was shaking!

"No, they didn't." I unbuckled the mask from my face with my free hand. The lock clicked. The mask crunched rubber and paper, revealing my face. Then I tucked the crossbow into its mount on my back and entered the settlement. If the guards wanted to search me, they seemed to have already changed their minds.

In the meantime, the village chief had descended. He was supported by two young men. It was evident that the descent from the wall, which was mostly of fences and a mound of stones between the old walls, was no longer a feasible task for him. Once at the bottom, he leaned on a knotty but polished stick.

"It's been a long time," he began, and squinted at me, "It's been a long time since we've seen travelers here, but I haven't seen your brother in ten years."

"The creatures coming down from the mountains are more and more dangerous, and the neophytes of the Order are more and more often killed in fights. It takes all their strength to contain them, and almost no one survives the five years it takes to finish their service and return to the world of the living."

"And you survived, then?" the redneck asked. "What a question to ask," I thought. Confused by the age-old wisdom, I even thought about the past. I remembered many things from my past in fragments. How I had passed the rite of passage into the guardians of the fast and how I had woken up after five years of oblivion, lying on my back in the snow.

It was thawing then, the snow was wet, but I remembered the sky, shining with a silvery white light like a pearl. I had seen them when I was still a novice of the Order, unloading boxes in the harbor. The Order's herbalist used them to brew something. The blue light flickered between the clouds, and somewhere high up, strands of Jodkheim flowed, caressing my face. Some marvelous birds were singing, hopping from branch to branch of a pine tree. It was then that I realized that my debt to the Order was paid, that I was free.