Arcanist In Another World-Chapter 48: Sickness

Edric took sight of the walls around him. It was a simple church. What few pews were there in the hall looked to be left to rot under the soot-filled, foggy air that hung in a dreamy haze. Dust sat thickly over the wooden pillars, stuffed in between the stone columns of the church that were riddled with time-marked holes, all suffering from a measly built foundation carried out in a hurry.

It was always the case with these pit towns, as the Church scarcely saw any worth in investing in golden armaments and richly painted murals for a place where men had no other choice but to turn into the Blessed Father to forget their pitiful existence.

Odd that the less you give a man, the more you find he becomes invested in the fairy tales. Guess you have to believe all this suffering must be worth something.

Their armored feet thumped a grim tune across the pews as Father Harmon led their little group inside the church, flanked by the company agent whose name was something something Richards. He wore a leathery coat over his well-tended shirt, trousers smoothed to perfection and lacked even a single stain to suggest he was manning a miner’s town. Then again, these company folk had a reputation to keep.

We’re not entirely different, are we? I’m just serving under a different company, one that deals in faith as a business.

“It started a month prior,” Father Harmon said in his quiet voice, still quivering after having seen a group of Templars knocking on the door of his church. He tried to make amendments, pleading mostly, to rid himself of the heavy shame that he’d not been there to welcome them when Edric’s team had just arrived at Brackley. Thus far, Edric thought he had done a manageable job.

“A dozen dead by the mines,” the Richards guy said, one hand over his robust mustache whose tips curled vainly. He sneaked a glance or two from Edric now and then and seemed to be in a state of helplessness as to how he should behave in the presence of the God’s Templars. “Another dozen down in the basement. We have a third dozen who can still work, but if it spreads, we will have to stop the operation. Hundreds will be left jobless, Honored Templar, with debts they have yet to pay.”

“Quite the circle you have in these pit towns, Richards,” Edric said with stately observation, settling on a piercing gaze deep into the man’s little, beady brown eyes. “You pay them scrips that’s only good in your company’s shop, then take a cut from the pay for the shacks you’ve built for the operation. For whatever reason, I find it hard to believe that your main worry is these honest men’s fast-approaching misery. You looked to be more bothered by your company’s diminishing profits.”

“Nonsense!” Richards made for a sweep of his hand as though he was accused of men slaughtering, then flinched when Dain’s huge bulk, clad in perfectly golden plates, took a little step as an early notice. “My apologies,” he tried to get his way by giving them a bow of his head, then turned meekly like a little lad. “But I’m afraid this doesn’t change the immediate trouble we’re facing in Brackley.”

“That was your company’s name, wasn't it?” Edric said, to which the Richards guy nodded weakly. “And how many men are you employing in this little town?”

“About one thousand in total, Honored Templar.”

“Nine hundred sixty-five, Esteemed Vanguard,” Father Harmon corrected him with a sideways look. He was the shape in flesh and bones of the word Priest, of devotion and belief, shown clearly by his shining pate whose edges were no doubt shaved regularly every morning. His cassock carried the Golden Sword on its back with perfect smoothness, and a golden chain dangled from between his tightly clasped fingers, leading to a little sword that was the holy sign of the Blessed Father.

“And what of the operation?” Edric asked. “Is the mine still active?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Father Harmon’s voice hardened. “Against our very insistent efforts, I may add. As many of us presumed, the last few Acts our esteemed King had rallied enough politicians to sign have paved a clean way for inevitable corruption. The local churches have no say in matters of management in company-owned towns anymore.”

“So it should be,” Richards said with surprising conviction. “Business and religion are two different sides, and they do not belong to the same coin. If the business was up to the Church’s beliefs, then Melton would’ve gone piss-poor in a minute! We’d have men dying of hunger and thirst, of filth and cold just like how it was in the late fifteents! And yet look at us, now, dear Father. Melton has become the trade hub of the new world, the pearl of the Haven’s Sea! Our new King has shown everyone how wise a visionary he is in a mere few years!”

Tell it to the poor still suffering from those decisions. I’m sure they’d be mighty glad to hear a word from a fellow like you.

“Is that why you came with your tail between your legs when your police refused to go deep in the mines, Richards? You speak of wealth and prosperity, yet forget, in your rich ignorance, the true horrors of the Shadow waiting for a chance to seep through the cracks of our world. The cracks you, godless men, unknowingly feed with your vile ways. But when the times take a bad turn, you come pleading to God's men to cleanse your sins. Is this the truth of the visionary wisdom you businessmen so often praise?”

Richards scowled at the Father. “I’m a man of God, Father. You of all people should know that. The faith I have for the Blessed Father shall ever live in my heart, but real life is a different matter. We have already sealed that troubling tunnel. You can’t possibly expect me to close the whole mine—“

“Enough,” Edric demanded as they started down the stairs, the walls silent and cold around them. Times might be changing in the Melton Kingdom, but he wasn’t here to listen to a pair of men babbling about certain beliefs and different views.

Then came a sharp stench. The acrid odor of sweat, mixed with mildew and damp, followed by the sight of beds lined in an orderly row across the basement. A dozen of them, in total, Edric observed, all upon which rested sickly men with but only a single Priest tending them.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Bloody sight,” Mas grumbled the moment he laid an eye over the broken men. “Looks like they’ve been eaten by a Sweeper, Captain.”

Edric reached for the sword sheathed in his belt, taking sight of the Umbral cocked into the pommel to see if it was giving any reaction to the sight. It was silent, which didn’t explain why these men had half of their bodies missing and the other half coated with bloody bandages that only left their faces in the open.

“This tunnel,” Edric said as he moved over to one of the beds, scowling down at a young man who looked no older than twenty, stubs of his legs patched with bandages dripping with sickly blood. “Is the sickness only limited to the men who’d taken a step inside that place?”

“Indeed,” Father Harmon was quick to answer, taking his place beside Edric with haste. “Three teams, all headed by their respectable foremen, three dozen men in total, were tasked with drilling that node. Supposed to be the richest vein in the mine, so the effort was more crowded than usual.”

“Then?”

“We’ve found C-grade manastones inside the vein,” the Richards guy managed to sound proud as though the lives of three dozen men were a bargain against such discovery.

“That’s when this whole thing started,” Father Harmon frowned deeply at him before gazing at Edric. He gestured at the sick men, then. “It’s not that our skills don't work, Captain. They work as they should, as effectively as usual. Trouble is, the moment we take our hands off them, the sickness returns and eats away the skin and bones.”

“So, there’s no real cure?” Edric muttered. He had a few ideas as to what this could mean, but before he came to conclusions, he wanted to get a better look at the situation here. “Can you remove the bandages?”

“Captain—“

“Do it,” Mas said from behind him, which promptly forced Father Harmon to tear off the bandages slowly while the young man remained deeply asleep. The Richards guy gagged the moment the young man’s skin was revealed and scurried off to the side with a hand clamped shut over his mouth.

Guess there’s a clear difference in experience, eh, Richards?

Edric, instead, focused on the pale skin with dead patches dangling from the side of the stomach. Bloody holes through all of it, crimson liquid bubbling like a thick pit of oil, a cloud of acrid smoke wafting off from them. There was nothing below the waist other than a pair of small stubs, the remainder of the man’s legs.

“That looks familiar,” Mas said.

“Uh,” Dain grunted his approval.

“Go, get a rest. We’ll take a look at this tunnel tomorrow.” Edric said to the pair of them, and they obliged, leaving a baffled Father Harmon as they made for the stairs.

It took a moment for Father Harmon to gather himself and another for Richards to come stumbling over to them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Captain?” Father Harmon asked. “Do you know what’s the cause of this horrible sickness? Just now ,you seem to—“

“I have a theory, Father,” Edric nodded at them while keeping his face straight.

“A theory?” Richards muttered weakly. “Something bad, isn’t it?”

“Well, here’s to hoping I’m wrong on this one,” Edric shrugged when the two men shivered at his words. “Don’t worry,” he smiled them a good smile. “Latel,y I’ve been scarcely proven right.”

…..

Valens trudged off from between the wooden shacks, one hand clutched at the tails of his coat as the cold battered him hard across the chest. It was freezing in the night here in Brackley, with ghostly cries of the wind keeping him company. That, and the insisting guy who was on his tails for some time.

“Told you it’d be the sword that you’re facing,” came a voice, a whisper in the night. Garran appeared a moment after with one hand over the sheath dangling from his belt, but the smile round his lips betrayed his intentions.

“I’d always preferred my strolls to be silent and relaxing. Never been a fan of big crowds,” Valens said as he shifted to the side, turned to his back, and gave him a simple nod. His sound vision already picked the unique frequencies of the man, and yet he knew Garran could’ve appeared an inch before his face without him noticing. There was a sneaky side to the man with what seemed like dozens of points poured into Dexterity.

“I knew you’d be the first one out.” Garran cracked his neck and stepped over to him. “Blessed Father knows I can use some company. These little towns can kill a man’s soul. Kill it with insidious precision.”

“You do this a lot, don’t you?” Valens said. “Wandering about from one town to another, never quite settling on a single place. Must be a tough life.”

“Not really.” Garran shrugged. “Contrary to expectations, little town folk don’t go around chasing shadows all the time. Hard work keeps them too occupied to focus on the world outside, but there’s bound to be a few rotten apples.”

“That’s the reason for your little sour skit? To scare off the potential rotten apples?” Valens asked. “Seems reasonable.”

“We have a reputation to keep, Healer.” Garran dusted the surface of his chest piece. “It helps that they see us as these aloof, mighty forces of God here to deliver His holy judgment.”

“Fear is a great tool,” Valens nodded. “Though you could always use some advertisement if your wish is to keep people informed about the response of their likelihood of getting involved with dark work. Newspapers for one seem like a great choice.”

“That’s just bad business,” Garran shook his head. “The last time the Divine Orders tried something like that the number of evil classes boomed. The moment you give them attention, and show that you care, they tend to think of it as an achievement. Something they can use to gather a bunch of fools. We already have too many of them in big cities.”

“Evil classes,” Valens muttered, slightly intrigued. “So the odd ritual and a soul that’s gone astray are not your only worries, eh?”

“I’m afraid not,” Garran said with a shake of his head. Then he glanced at him up and down. “So, did you find what’s wrong with that old foreman, or were you just interested in getting to know an old miner and hearing his regrets? Didn’t know you have that quality to you.”

“Why?” Valens was nearly offended. “Do I look like someone who would enjoy the pains of another man? I’m a Healer. I heal people. That’s what I do.”

“We’re still doing this, I see…” Garran said to him. “But why play at all? Why jest and act as though you’re a simple guy out to make life worth living for a bunch of peasants? You don’t think after you’d displayed that Inferno of yours that we would believe your saintly intentions, do you? One doesn’t simply burn the shadows, then expect people to shrug it off.”

“That’s not very Templarish of you, I daresay,” Valens said. “Questioning a lost man about his motives… Shouldn’t you be helping me to find my way?”

“We’ve taken you in, have we not?” Garran chuckled. “Not everyone gets to have a group of Templars accompany them on their journey. That’s as safe as anyone can get.”

“To be questioned, that is,” Valens said.

“Eh, at least the intention is there. That’s something to appreciate, I’d say,” Garran shrugged. “So, did the old man have something to say or not?”

“I’m not sure,” Valens said, looking back over his shoulder to the wooden shacks standing still in the dead of the night. “But If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it has something to do with that tunnel.”

“A tunnel?”

“Deep in the mine,” Valens nodded. “I was on my way to the church to check the other, more serious cases. To get a better understanding.”

The thumping of the steps echoed across the street as Garren perked up at the sounds. “Looks like there’d be no need to burden yourself,” he said, squinting toward the church. “They’re coming. We’ll be hearing about it soon enough.”

…..

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