Servant To A Zealous Master

CHAPTER 2

We have left the safety of the Belmont manner, that consecrated ground upon which no evil may tread, and are now upon regular Earthly soil. I feel the powers of darkness that are growing even now.

We face the great wide open and all its dangers, alone. As we travel along the road as much as we can and by midday we see the change. As if stepping into water, our feet ripple upon the solid ground and we know at that very instant, that we are standing upon tainted ground.

Now there is nothing we can turn to, we are truly on our own from here out. I feel vibrations running through the ground. The night draws near and darkness in all its forms is preparing for the assault.

The ground is protesting the violation taking place, but it hasn't the power to stop it. Hands shoot forth like so many stalks of grass and they are soon accompanied by the rest of the body.

They stand in our path, these vile bodies of the dead, taken as unwilling hosts to the evil scourge that would use them to such ends. A great multitude that will continue to accumulate with the progression of the night.

I am not ashamed to admit. I'm worried, but I have only to look to my master. He is as though a pillar or iron, standing resolute before this surge, never wavering, never faltering. He takes hold of the whip tethered to his side, now he is ready. Ready for anything they could possibly throw at him.

He reels back and lets fly the sacred weapon. It graces the flesh of our enemy and a flash of light breaks forth. This is the true power of the whip, it does not strike against the flesh, but rather the spirit.

The unfortunate vessel falls to the ground and stirs no more, as my master recoils the whip ready for his next assault. I too prepare, but am soon taken by a strange sight. Though the whip that my master uses is by all manner of appearance normal, it is changing before my very eyes.

Like an outer skin it is being covered with metal barbs. Now, as my master lashes, not only is the spirit vanquished, but the flesh is torn as well. This seems to lend no real advantage, but it does cause quite a mess.

With each touch of evil, the whip covers more and more with metal and barbs until it's fully covered. My instinct tells me to flee, there are far too many of them for the two of us to handle. But my master doesn't seem to mind at all.

He stands ready, it seems, to fight to the very heart of hell itself. I am given in to two different feelings myself. First, is my human side fearing for my safety and wishing to be anywhere else. Second, is my better side which idolizes the very idea of my master.

The slaughter continues for so long that the night itself cannot keep up and the morning light begins to lighten the world around us. All of the remaining villains, both those still sound and those only in pieces, fall away at the touch of the dawn.

My master remains upright, his every muscle tensed and clutching the whip with a power I thought no man to possess. But he is no ordinary man, he's God's right arm, his chosen protector.

The unholy mass is gone and not a shred of them remains. Still, my master stands, ready to take on the denizens of the night. It seems that's exactly it, the shining of the light chasing away the darkness and all the evil it possesses. With no more threat to contend with, my master collapses.

I take hold of his body so that he does not fall completely to the dust and hold him up. Though he is heavy and slick with perspiration, I hold him all the same. Slowly, I bring him to a rock to rest against. I wipe the sweat off him, as he breathes heavily.

This is the most trying time of all, for we servants of the Belmont masters. Their zeal can be attributed to the like of a berserker rage, in that they ignore all of the bodies signals. They neither grow weary, nor hungry, nor do they feel pain, but as the case with all numbing sensations once the senses return they hit doubly hard.

In such moments it's not uncommon for their very lives to be at risk, but I cannot allow for such a waste. This is after all only the beginning of the journey and these foes naught, but the refuse of evil. To fall against these foes would be unforgivable.

I wring the rag which has accumulated its mass of liquid, while I steal a glance to the whip, as it slowly returns to its original state. And it remains stuck in my master's hand though he no longer grips it.

I turn his hand over and find that the barbs have extended to the handle and stick deep in my master's flesh. He cannot let go even if he wanted to.

This I believe is part of the curse of those who wield the weapon. Though I'm not certain of the details, all I really know is that those who brandish the whip are cursed.

The fever breaks of my master and his eyes open. I offer my hand and he takes it, as I help him to his feet and after only a few moments of weakness he returns to his pillar like state.

This is the power of my master. To return from a state of complete exhaustion to one of alertness, but I know this can't last. He needs rest if he's to fully recover.

We carry on and find ourselves within a short distance of the first town. It's deserted for the most part as most of the people have not yet ventured outside. Those we do meet regard us with a silent dignity.

They know who we are and what our purpose is, but so often those who associate themselves with the Belmont clan, die a violent death. Even I'm not immune, but my death would be a glorious one, in service to my master.

The only ones who dare approach us are those to whom coin is a far greater concern. At a local inn I prepare a meal for my master from our own stores, to replenish his energy. I then see him to a room.

I help him into the bed, strip away the unnecessary articles and place them near to his resting body. I then sit myself down in front of the door, so as to block entry and I rest my head while I fall to sleep.