The first light of dawn crept over Maskorudeath like a hesitant thief, pale gold spilling across rooftops and dirt streets that no living foot would tread again. An eerie wind moved through the silence, cold and slow, carrying the iron reek of spilled blood and opened bowels. It rattled broken windows, lifted strands of grey hair from severed heads, and stirred the black feathers of the vultures that had already descended in a gluttonous parliament.
"CAW! CAW!"
Dozens of them hopped and squabbled among the corpses, tearing strips of flesh with wet, deliberate sounds. One bird tugged free a length of intestine and flapped away, pursued by three jealous cousins. This was their ambrosia, heaven-sent.
Then the ground began to tremble.
Low at first, like distant thunder, then sharper, iron-shod hooves drumming that scattered the vultures skyward in an explosion of wings and indignant croaking.
From the eastern road came the riders.
Ten white destriers, each the size of a draft horse yet built with the lean ferocity of war mounts. Dark runes crawled across their hides like living tattoos, glowing faintly with cold blue light. Their manes and tails streamed like war banners. The lead stallion tossed his head and snorted, as if offended by the stench of death.
"Halt!"
The command cracked like a whip.
The riders pulled up in perfect unison.
The leader swung down first. Hit boots hit the blood-crusted earth without a splash. Black cloak with white stripes running diagonally across the chest, high collar, face masked in matte darkness. Long black hair spilled over his shoulders, tied low. Even masked, his eyes were visible, sharp, pale grey, and far too old for the youthful face they occupied. Pinned to his collar: a golden-silver badge stamped with the numeral 9.
The others dismounted behind him in similar manner.
"Shoo, you greedy bastards!"
A lanky man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow strode forward, waving his arms at the lingering vultures.
The birds hissed but retreated to the rooftops. The scarred man turned to the masked youth.
"Provost Kirill, sir. What in the seven hells happened here?"
"Meldov…"
Kirill didn't answer immediately. He walked deeper into the street, cloak whispering over severed limbs and glassy-eyed faces. His boots left faint prints in the congealing lake of blood.
Meldov, the scarred Apostle followed, grimacing. "We got the runner's message just before dawn.
"Tumor sighted, possible multiple casualties.' But this…"
He gestured at a woman whose torso had been opened from sternum to pelvis with surgical neatness. "This isn't possession. These people are still people. Just dead."
Kirill crouched beside a child no older than eight, whose tiny arm had been removed at the shoulder with a single clean cut. He brushed a strand of hair from the boy's forehead, almost tenderly.
"No mutation. No Sarx residue. No veins, no bone-spikes, no screaming mouths in the chest." His voice was soft, almost conversational, yet it carried to every Apostle. "Tumors devour, corrupt, wear the skin like clothing. They don't leave neat corpses behind for the birds."
Hindar, the only woman in the Church, stepped closer; gauntleted hand resting on her waist.
"Then what do you suppose did this, Provost?" Her tone was clipped, professional, but her knuckles were white.
Kirill stood slowly. "Three possibilities. One: a human madman with a very sharp blade and a lot of time. Two: a rogue Priest who's forgotten the Creed. Three…" He paused and scanned the carnage again. "A devil wearing an infant's face."
Meldov spat to the side. "A devil? You're joking."
"I don't joke about slaughter."
Kirill's gaze flicked to a set of tiny, bloody footprints leading away from an eviscerated old woman toward the well. Bare feet. Five toes. Barely larger than his thumb.
"These bodies are still warm. Whatever did this is close. Maybe still watching."
Hindar already had her Ascending-Stone in hand, a polished flat disc. "I'll call the Cleaners. They'll need three wagons at least."
"Do it," Kirill said. "Tell them to bring incense and salt, lots of salt."
Meldov kicked at a severed hand. "And us, Provost? We ride back and write reports?"
Kirill turned. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and hooked two fingers under the edge of his mask which concealed his mouth.
The apostles took one instinctive step backward; everyone except Hindar, who simply lowered her eyes as she wrote a message on the Ascending-Stone.
"No… We hunt."
Kirill pulled the mask down.
His mouth opened, not wide, just enough, and from it poured birds.
Not flesh, not feather at first. Light given shape. Dozens, hundreds of pale doves made of shimmering scripture, verses in a language no living tongue had ever spoken. They burst into the sky in a rushing spiral, wings beating without sound, each bird's eyes glowing the same cold grey as Kirill's own.
The apostles watched, as they always did, with something between reverence and unease.
"Poulion Parakolosis."
Kirill's voice was strangely layered now, as though the birds spoke with him. "Find the scent. Find the blood that does not belong to the dead."
Whoosh! Whoosh!
The flock scattered in every direction like a silent white storm vanishing over rooftops and treelines.
Kirill slid the mask back into place. The runes on the horses flared brighter, eager.
He vaulted into the saddle. The stallion reared once, impatient.
"Mount up. We ride until the birds sing or the culprit bleeds."
Meldov grinned despite himself, swinging onto his own horse. "And when we find it?"
Kirill's eyes were winter steel.
"Then we remind whatever it is that the Convent still keeps its promises. We bring it hell."
He dug his heels in. The great stallion lunged forward, hooves striking sparks from the stones. Behind him, Church Number Nine thundered out of Maskorudeath. Ten riders in black and white, chasing a ghost made of scripture and vengeance while the vultures circled overhead and waited for them to fail.
…
Church (Convent terminology)
A small, elite strike unit of the Holy Convent, officially known as an "Apostolic Church." Typically composed of 7–12 ordained Priests (called Apostles) who have awakened and mastered their Gospels. Each Church is assigned a number (e.g., Church No. 9) and is led by a Provost – the strongest or most senior Apostle in the unit.
Churches are deployed for high-threat missions: extermination of evolved or intelligent Tumors, containment of Sarx rifts, execution of rogue Priests, or investigation of incidents that normal clergy cannot handle. They operate with near-absolute authority in the field and answer only to the Convent's Council of Archbishops.
In short: the Convent's sword and scalpel; where one Priest fails, an entire Church is sent to finish the job.