FALTER

CHAPTER 24: The scorched town (3)

When the children ran outside, the air was still. Everybody else was also standing in the street but it seemed nobody dared to breath.

A procession was marching down towards them, seemingly having entered through the main gate, and when Imti squinted a little, the true horror revealed itself. Leading the march were a group of bloodied and beaten men. Their shirts were off, allowing the blazing midday sun to illuminate their wounds and in their hands they held a long chain attached to two separate swords. They were flinging the chain all around them, letting the blades dig into their skin. The sight of the blood spewing out was enough to make Imti slowly back up until he was behind Ari.

Flanking the screaming men were a long line of white robed individuals. All three of the children recognized the clothing: it was what they wore to church. Two palanquins were seen being carried on the shoulders of some of the people. The one in front was white and simple; the real attention grabber was the one behind. It was twice the size of the one in front, covered in deep red and glinting gold fabric and surrounded by a group of drummers. Guttural vocalizing mixed with the thrumming beats on the drum to produce a discordant cacophony of sound that flew through the air and assaulted the spectator's ears.

What seemed like an eternity passed as Imti, with eyes as wide as could be, watched this terrible performance snake through the main street. The performance of the men in front kicked up clouds of dust and debris from the unclean Norock streets. When they finally stopped, the bloody men in front stopped swinging their swords and instantly went silent. Their expressions changed to ones of immense calm as they stepped aside to allow the first palanquin to come through to the front and be lowered.

The drummers now switched their tune to a more menacingly quiet one. Their humming emanated from the darkest depths of their throat, causing vibrations that the children felt in their bones.

A man stepped out of the curtains, holding a polished wooden box in his hands. His dark face shone against the contrast of his pure white clothing. Goosebumps immediately shot through every nerve in Imti's body. He couldn't articulate it, but there was something so immensely dark in that box that he started wishing it would never be ope

ned. It was a futile hope to hold onto, he realized, as the second palanquin came forwards.

Jingles rang through the long street as the vehicle's seemingly unlimited accessories merrily clashed against each other as it was set down on the ground. Drumsticks banged harder and harder on the drums, their wielders now vocalizing religious chants, as the bishop holding the box kneeled in front of the entrance of the palanquin. The curtains shuffled as a most terrible figure stepped out.

Ever since Imti could make memories, a large chunk of his brain's storage had been dedicated to the various snaking ideologies and labyrinthine stories that made up his religion. There had been rules upon rules, myths upon legends and paragraphs on top of paragraphs to remember to lead the perfect life as described by his teachings. But the young child had wondered often who exactly set this way of life that his entire hometown followed, and the answer was The Leader. The person at the top of the food chain, the one in charge of the various branches of the Church of Mortallurgy. They were the only one who could modify teachings or introduce new doctrines, and their presence was was of great importance, perhaps second only to their actual god, Azrael. Imti had never seen the Leader, not even in illustrations or pictures - media which were looked down upon by the Church - and yet, he instantly recognized the person as they stepped out of the shadows.