Chapter 8

The knight breathed deeply. Trepidation overtook his eyes, trembling like a glass of swirling wine.

Dane continued, "There's an opening in the cliff just under the cathedral. A soul asked me to tell you that the Tyrant, a serpent, turned right."

Sir spoke, his voice still. "…right leads inside the House, and left to the dry section of the well.

Dane did not understand why the Tyrant entered the cathedral, much less cause a distraction to enter it. A Tyrant could have waltzed right in after slaughtering everyone and everything in its way. Its legion of serpents could have done the same…why did it need a distraction?

The knight shook his head. "Stay here and keep an eye on the cliff, boy. Shout for me if it comes back out."

He ran back up the hill, moving faster than anyone with gray hair had the right to. Dane did as he was told, but his eyes were cold. He did not like being ordered around. But now was not the time to soothe his pride, not that he could, so he begrudgingly put it aside, silently admonishing his vanity.

He found it absurd that even in this situation, with a Tyrant ahead of him, his pride stayed intact. Even though he had spent the week cursing himself, and his heart trembled with fear of a Tyrant, he resisted its goading. His pride remained. He was vain, he admitted to himself as he warily looked at the gate.

Jackal stood beside him silently. They watched the imposing gate that seemed to be getting larger and larger with each moment.

A while after, Sir returned with another man in tow. The man was dressed in extravagant but ordinary robes. The cloth in and of itself was nothing extraordinary. It was when the light hit it that it caught one's attention. A dozen hues of reds, blues, and greens reflected off the whitish cloth, making the man seem like a dim beacon in the night.

He had a full head of black hair and a pleasant smile with kind eyes beneath soft wrinkles. Tied to his robe's belt was a weaponless sheath. The almost unceasing chatter of the souls around him disappeared. They stared warily at the sheath. They saw something that Dane did not, perhaps.

He didn't get much time to think. The man extended his hand and introduced himself. "I am Atticus of the House."

Dane shook his hand. "I am Dane."

The knight said speedily. "He is the priest of the House. The three of us will enter the cathedral, and so will our men."

As he spoke, fifty men donning leather armor carrying torches descended with pale faces. Dane could see their clammy fingers tightly gripping their weapons and torches. They were terrified. Dane thought they had every right to be.

Atticus spoke up, looking at Dane. "We wished to enter the cathedral from the front. But we saw serpents in every nook and cranny through the windows. Fighting them would alert the Tyrant. We must enter through the gate in the cliff."

Dane listened, puzzled. "The Tyrant entered through there. Would there not be more serpents following it?"

"There wouldn't be any in the cave," Atticus replied confidently. "Come, we must be on our way before it is too late."

There was a hint of urgency in his mellow eyes. Dane wanted to ask, but the priest's eyes hinted not to do so.

The entourage of the town's guard reached and climbed over the natural parapet without stopping. Dane, the priest, and the knight were at the vanguard. They did not look below themselves. They would not have the courage to move forward if they did. The fall was high, and most would not survive falling into water from that high.

The narrow mountain road groaned as they walked forward. It did not help the soldiers' composure.

Dane kept his hands free, ready to plunge them into cracks in the mountain wall should the road fail beneath him. His stomach rumbled as he walked, almost inaudible amidst the creaking of rock and shuffling of feet. But the knight heard it. He whispered something to a soldier beside him, and the man offered him a small loaf of rye bread from his bag.

Dane accepted it delightedly. He hadn't eaten for a week and felt weak. Some of his fatigue was mitigated by his enhanced physique, fortunately. The bread was earthy and left a sour taste in his mouth. Dane did not mind it.

Atticus explained the situation to the party, though he focused on Dane.

"The House is home to a relic, a gift of the Lord. The corrupted one, let it be accursed, is after it, or so I believe. I know not why else it would prefer a distraction over a massacre. The relic loathes human blood and all death. The damned creature knows this, somehow. It is intelligent, so do not take it to be mindless," he paused. "Or it will be your death."

Dane eyed the sheath as he spoke. He wanted to know what was so special about it. Jackal came with him, but she was jittery. She did not walk on the road. Instead, she flew next to Dane over the fall, giving Atticus a wide berth, and kept her eyes on him and his sheath relentlessly.

Atticus did not seem to care for her antics, though Dane knew he could see her. The mysterious priest gave her a thoughtful glance now and then, an apologetic smile finding his lips. He was a very expressive man. His eyes lit up with respect when he looked at Jackal. Perhaps it was because she was the only dead soul anywhere near him.

Dane looked over his shoulder. All the other ghosts stood by the natural parapet, not daring to move an inch closer to the host.

His mind itched with curiosity, but he opted not to ask Jackal. Though the knight and priest knew he could see souls, he did not want the soldiers he would entrust with his life to think he was a madman, or worse, an evil wizard or whatever folk tales the Dream Realm was home to.

"We must be careful as we enter the House. Evil things are locked inside its basement. I will deal with them as best I can, but be on your toes. They can be terrifying," the priest said. "Keep in mind that when we find ourselves at odds with the Tyrant's minions, we must kill them, let not a single one escape. The more death we can shroud the place in, the lesser the chances are that the Relic will be useful for the Tyrant. Even if it costs us our lives, we must do this."

The knight and the priest were hellbent on killing the Tyrant. How would they accomplish that herculean task? Dane did not know. But he was sure it was the key to solving the 'conflict' of this Nightmare. He had no choice in this matter.

Atticus left some words unsaid. They all saw through it. If human blood is spilled, it would be as beneficial as death. His meaning was clear. Kill or be killed. Regardless, death was required to keep the Tyrant from using the relic.

Dane did not understand what Atticus hoped to gain or prevent from that. The relic was, perhaps, the only thing keeping the Tyrant from killing all of them. Dane would have preferred to leverage that to force the Tyrant into a corner. But the priest, the knight, and even the soldiers didn't care.

They knew. They tacitly agreed that dying was better than losing the relic.

It was a march of death, and Dane did not like it one bit. In the darkness, their eyes burned with self-sacrifice and duty. Dane's eyes blazed with resolution and his form of duty, to live, to honor his sister. He would not let himself be killed for people that weren't real.

Dane felt someone looking at him. It was the knight, Sir. Dane met his eyes and saw that they burned uneasily as he looked at Dane, different from the rest. It might have been pity. He did not know for sure.

Their cause was not his cause, and his cause was not their cause. If a chance arose for him to solve the conflict of the Nightmare, even if it meant losing the relic or bringing the town to ruin, he would take it. If he had to betray them amid the chaos, so be it. Maybe the others felt the same way about him.