His boots clinked on the tiles of the church. The match in his hand not yet lit. He walked with a swift confidence and the villagers cowered at the sight of him. He stopped at the back of the room and removed his knife from the belt around his waist.
"My patience grows thin Father Grey, now tell me where is the girl" he growled
A slender priest emerged from behind the curtain. He had grey hair peppered with the black remnants of his youth and his eyes were a watery blue. Cloaked in all white he walked past the man and towards the children crying on the floor. He held their faces in his hands and smiled weakly.
"She's not here" he whispered "she left two weeks ago and I don't know where to"
Anger exploded from the man with the knife and he threw one of the benches at the wall.
For a moment he just stared at the cracked wood and splinters on the tiles before walking towards the priest. He grabbed him by the neck and held his knife to his throat.
"Well as you are of no more use to me..." said the man "there is no need keeping you around any longer" and he sliced his knife along his throat.
Blood sprayed his face as the priest fell to the floor. His eyes slowly dimming as his blood ran across the tiles. The man stepped over him and wiped his knife on his sleeve. The children wailed and ran from the building. He then took his match and lit it aflame. Anger flashed across his face and he poured the remaining alcohol, stolen from the tavern barrels, over the priest and the holy texts. Dropping the match he walked away as the church slowly started to catch fire.
He walked out into the cobbled streets of the village where the houses and shops were already burning. His knights had been ordered to kill the men and that they were. The women had collected their children and were screaming at the knights to stop as they grieved their murdered husbands, brothers and sons. The man picked up his cloak and reattached it to the the back of the shirt he was wearing. It was now stained red in many areas and a long tear ran down the middle exposing his chest. The cloak was a deep shade of blue and made him stand out in comparison to the red flames surrounding him.
He was angry, angry that his journey to this pathetic place was a waste of time. But he would find answers at any cost. The knights had finished disposing of the men and were aimlessly looking towards him for orders.
"What should we do with the women?" whispered one of the knights
The smoke was getting thicker as the flames spread to another building. The church was crumbling, shedding bricks like crumbs. There was no hope left here. Only blood and ash.
"Kill them all" said Blue Cloak with a sigh
Mothers clutched their children screaming pleas of frightened sorrow. Children wept into their skirts terrified by the gleaming swords of the knights. But the men were dead. No one would protect them from the ruthless steel. Heavy boots walked forward. There was a glint of hesitation in their eyes, but they knew better than to disobey orders. Swords were raised and the blood of innocents was yet again spilled.
Blue Cloak had his back turned to the slaughter behind him, calmly watching as the fire reached the fields. The glow illuminates his face and the scar running down his right eye gleams with a red tinge. In the light his eyes are so dark they seem black but as the flames dance across the corn they become gold. He is a fallen angel, but the angels who fell became demons. He sighs to himself and turns back to watch the slaughter.
Corpses litter the ground, their blood stains the cobbles black. The moon rises above the village and the shimmer makes the blood almost sparkle. Mangled faces are shown in the light, their faces etched with their final moments of sorrow and fear. It is a horrific sight but the man feels nothing. One of the knights is sick in a barrel and the rest look close to vomiting themselves. Blue Cloak strictly orders the knights to collect the horses. Their faces are white from the terrible actions they performed. To kill innocent people was not a task they were used to. The moon shined on them and turns their pale completions even brighter. They are ghosts of the men they were only a few hours ago, haunted by the faces of villagers they never knew.
The last horse is attached to the wagon and the knights mindlessly mount their horses. Blue cloak elegantly swings himself on to the back of the wagon and it starts to slowly move down the bumpy country path. He catches a last glance at the blood and the flames and the twisted bodies and slowly smiles. The knights are silent for the entire gruelling journey back. Only speaking when necessary. They will never be the same and are frightened of the men they have become.
Death frightens all those who are mortal. Our lives are short and cruel but death is the only thing uncertain. People don't like uncertainty and above all, those who are weak hearted.
But not the man with the blue cloak.
Nothing frightens him.
Not ghosts, not pain nor death.
Only her.
