Loopbreaker

Standing outside a shrine to the gods Francis didn’t really worship felt weird.

Well… maybe it’s not that I don’t believe in them--it's more of why the heck should I even think about them? What have they ever done for me?

Struggling with that thought, he almost jumped straight up when Baxter put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you excited?” the king asked. “I remember the first time I ever met a priestess. I mean, I’d met a few when I was a child, but the first one I remember was when I was seven. She had this aura that radiated from her. Since then… none of those moments with any of the priest or priestess have been like that.”

“Why is that?” Francis asked.

“I was older and my position had changed, so the power they held over me was different. Back then, I was just a prince, caught up in the knowledge that the priestess spoke to the goddess Meilora. There were stories of her healing power and those she had saved. All for the right donation, of course.”

“Is it always based around that? How much money one donates?”

Nodding slowly, Baxter held up a small pouch. “Seems like a foolish system, doesn’t it? What use could gods have for our money? How many Reevotort gold crowns are required to earn the favor of a god? What do they even do with them?”

Francis waited for an answer to the questions Baxter had asked. It took a few seconds for him to realize that none were coming. So, he set himself and motioned toward the tent opening, where two people stood, covered from head to toe in a red robe and each holding a spear.

“I’m ready.”

“Good!” Baxter exclaimed. “I have things to do, and I’m certain the priestess Eldorin Sybil does not want to be kept waiting.”

As Francis and Baxter walked closer, the pair of guards bowed slightly, and then each pulled a section of the tent apart, providing an entrance inside.

Immediately, the scent of perfume and smoking wood tickled his nose; Francis peered inside, wondering what he would find.

A little bit of the sense of awe was lost. There were no grand gold statues, powerful paintings, or anything else that he’d imagined a place dedicated to the four gods would have.

Instead, there was only one large rug, which had a strange pattern running through it. Red lines connected and diverged, each one coming to rest under a square beneath one of the four stone statues. It contrasted sharply with the black part of the rest of the rug.

Blue light radiated from lanterns hanging from the edge of the tent.

Standing before the statues was a woman, maybe five feet tall at the very most. Her black hair shimmered in the light, and her white robe had red lines running around her sleeves.

“King Baxter! I am honored by your visit!” she said. “Is this the Sage?”

“Priestess Eldorin Sybil, it is I who am honored, and yes, this is Sage Francis.”

He felt a hand press against his back and realized he had stopped moving when the King gave him a nudge to move forward.

The older woman’s face flashed a warm smile. Although she had a few wrinkles, she was attractive and natural-looking. Her brown eyes studied him with each step he took.

“Priestess,” Francis said, bowing his head.

A slight chuckle came, and she held out both of her hands.

Gazing at them and then at her, Francis hesitated.

“I promise I won’t bite,” Eldorin teased.

Taking the last step between them, he put his hand in hers and felt the calluses, surprised to find a woman of her status with such rough hands.

A trickle of something flowed through their connection, and the Priestess closed her eyes.

Suddenly her hands gripped his, like a vise or some trap--they held on, and both of her eyes flung open, a snarl appearing upon her face.

The worst part of her new visage was the silver glow in her eyes.

“WHO IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS TAINT I SENSE?!”

Gone was the soft and gentle voice of the woman he had met a moment ago. Now, it was like thunder, booming through the tent.

Her grip grew tighter with every heartbeat, and he glanced at Baxter, who was frowning. No matter how much Francis struggled, he was unable to free himself from the short woman.

“I… I’m Francis Lancaster. Just a humble man.”

“LIES! YOU BEAR THE TAINT OF THE FALSE GODS! I SENSE–”

Francis felt two sharp pokes in his back. The pain traveled through his chest..

He was lifted off his feet, feeling the pain of his ribs and lungs bending and tearing. Francis glanced down and saw two points sticking out of his chest.

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Blood ran down the metal, ruining the new outfit he wore. Each drop that fell upon the rug made the red lines seem to glow. His mind struggled to comprehend what was happening.

They stabbed me? From behind? Why…

A notification appeared when both hands were crushed, distracting his thoughts.

[ Pain Resistance Increased - 17 ]

A hand appeared around his throat, and Francis found himself staring into the eyes of Eldorin or whatever god had imbued her.

“YOU ARE AN ABOMINATION! DIE!”

***

The sound of the morning bell rang out.

"It's earlier than usual," Michael grunted as he sat up. "What gives?"

Francis didn’t reply; instead, his hand reached up and touched his throat.

It ached. He couldn’t remember ever hurting like this after coming back from a death, and yet he could still feel the fingers and thumb that had crushed his neck like a piece of paper.

“Hey, wake up,” Michaled called out. “We don’t want to be late.”

“I… I know. Sorry.” Francis sat up and saw his brother frowning as he looked over.

“You okay?” Michael asked. “You said sorry. And in that tone? You never talk like that.”

“It’s… a bad dream. Something I’d rather not talk about.”

His brother shrugged and grabbed a boot. “Well, get dressed, we don’t want to be late.”

Francis let his body take over while his mind tried to figure out what had taken place. He grabbed his boots and began getting dressed.

Taint? Was the priestess talking about whatever that creature was that tried to take me over? Is that what she meant?”

“Hey, moron, let’s go!” Michael called out.

***

“You sure you’re okay?” Michael asked. “This is the best meal we’ve had in forever, yet you’ve barely eaten anything.”

Francis nodded, his fork moving around the meat on his plate as he sat there, still lost in his thoughts.

“Yeah… just thinking about what is going to happen soon.”

“Really? I mean, you came in dead last. You and I both know you shouldn’t have been last.”

Francis nodded and set his fork down. “I’m just glad David made it.”

Michael snorted and shook his head.

“That guy didn’t look happy about you basically herding him into town. Do you think he was going to try and run off?”

“Maybe. I just know he needed a little encouragement to keep going.” Francis pushed his plate away and stood. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.”

“You sure? I can come,” Michael said.

Waving his hand, Francis bid his brother to stay. “Don’t worry, just a lot of things on my mind.”

It felt weird as he walked through the town, listening to the sounds of the people going about their lives, all seemingly oblivious to what was just a few days away. They laughed, told jokes, transported goods, argued, and lived like there would be no change to their way of life at all.

He knew that if the army failed, everyone here would most likely die--or wish they were dead. Francis didn’t want to imagine what those beasts might do to anyone they caught outside of that battle.

Soon, he found himself at the gate. Two guards stood there, watching him.

It was the road they had come in on.

“You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, boy, are you?” one of the guards asked.

Glancing at the older man who had taken a step toward him, hand on his sword, Francis shook his head.

“Please. Leaving this town at night and going into those woods would be dumber than trying to make a break for it.”

The guard grunted and moved his hand off his weapon with a nod.

“Seems you aren’t stupid after all,” the older man replied. “You’re the third one from your group who came here tonight. The other two had a different look in their eyes than you do, though. Had we not been here, I’m certain they would have run.”

Part of him wanted to ask what those boys looked like, but it didn’t matter. They would be dead in a few days. He couldn’t save them all, just like he couldn’t save Michael or stop this strange series of events.

“Is there a place… where people fight? For money?” Francis asked.

Both guards glanced at each other and then burst into laughter.

“You’re thinking of trying to earn some coin?” the other guard asked. “We know what kind of warriors come from Phillip’s training, and you’re not up to the level those fights require. Or are you trying to get hurt so bad that you think they’ll keep you from the front lines?”

Francis frowned, shaking his head at the older guard who had spoken again. “I’m looking for money. I need more coins if I want to try and buy some better equipment. And trust me, I ain’t going to lose.”

Each man chuckled, though the older man shrugged and motioned off toward one of the streets behind him. “Go three blocks that way. You’ll see a shop with a hideous painting of a sailor out front. Go left. Another two blocks will take you to a warehouse area. In about another… hour, there should be a few men there who will be willing to fight for money. Just don’t blame me when you come back barely able to move.”

Francis nodded and turned, unsure what he wanted to do but knowing he needed to relieve some of the frustration that filled him. If he could make a little coin, perhaps get a better weapon and some armor, maybe he could find a new way to get stronger.

***

The smell of piss, sweat, and bad alcohol filled the air; inside, over forty men and fifteen women shouted and yelled.

Francis had found the warehouse and believed he would have to prove himself in some way to fight, but they had gladly welcomed him in. No one seemed to care that he was young and foolish enough to venture here.

A long time ago, he and Michael had stumbled upon one of these places in a town. After that, they’d learned that most larger towns had something like this. Neither of them had any desire to fight after witnessing the state the loser had left in, but Francis knew he wouldn’t be the loser tonight.

“What are the odds?” Francis asked.

The woman wrapping his hands with a few thin strips of cloth chuckled. He could smell the alcohol on her breath and wondered if she had showered in the last several days.

“On you? Five to one. They’re being nice with those odds, as there isn’t a soul in here willing to bet on you versus L.”

“L? Like the letter or?” Francis asked.

“Just L, boy. You can see him from here. This ain't his first fight, and he hasn’t lost more than a few times ever. Maybe he’ll take it easy on you and end it quickly, or maybe he won’t. Just know you’re lucky you didn’t get someone far worse. If they had put you up against Cutter…”

She stopped talking, shaking her head and spat.

“Okay. Well, I want to bet one silver on myself.”

She looked up at him and frowned. “You’re serious?”

“I am. What’s your name?”

The dirty-blond-haired woman scoffed and then sighed. “Lourana. Do you really want to waste all that money? If you lose–”

“When I win, it’s five silver.”

With all the grace of a drunk, the woman snorted and spat out a glob of mucus. “And that kind of thinking is why you’ll go home with nothing, boy. This ain’t no game.”

“Still, I want to bet on myself.”

Tying the last piece of cloth, she stood up and cursed under her breath. “Give me a minute. I’ll get the one who handles that.”

Francis watched her walk away and talk with a pudgy, older man, who laughed.

He waddled over and shook his head. “Lourana says you want to bet on yourself. One silver?”

“Yup.”

“Show me.”

Digging the coin from his pocket, Francis saw the man’s lips curl upward. A moment later, he pulled out a pad of paper, scribbled on it, and handed it to Francis.

“Pay now. Collect if you win.”

Francis handed the coin over and took the paper, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

“You can tell them I’m ready whenever,” Francis said.

Laughing, the round man moved back to where he had been, and soon someone started banging on a metal bell.