C. Friedman: Dominion

She cannot allow that to happen.

A strange sense of calm comes over her as she realizes what she must do. As a pitchfork comes thrusting toward her head she forces it aside, steps in towards its wielder, and slams her shield into his face. Stumbling backwards, he cries out as an axe that was meant for her slices into his shoulder. The moment’s triumph should please her, but it does not. The next assailant should worry her, but he does not. Her mind is elsewhere now.

This is her final moment of duty.

She takes one last wild swing at her attackers, trying to force them to back away far enough away that she can gain a moment’s time. The strategy manages to clear a small space around her, but she knows that will not last for long. Men with real lances are headed her way. Once they get within striking distance, she’s finished.

It’s now or never.

Whipping about, she launches herself without warning at the demon. There is no fire in her veins now, nor fury, just an eerie sense of peace, and it is strangely empowering. The creature is still weak from their earlier assault, and apparently her sudden attack has taken it by surprise. Knowing she will have only one blow and must make it count, she swings her sword toward that place in its neck where a thick black vein throbs, putting all her weight behind the effort. If God is with her, perhaps she can take the thing’s head off. If not, if his body is true enough to the human template, then severing a major vein might still bring it down. She prays that it will. Right now that is the only hope these people have, of ever being free of its influence.

But before her blade can connect with the cursed flesh something strikes her on the back of her head, hard enough to dent her half-helm. Her swing goes wild. Something else slams into her back, knocking her off her feet. And then the bulk of the mob engulfs her, a tide of rabid human flesh bristling with rusted blades and twisted pikes, forcing her down to the earth, crushing her beneath its weight until she cannot breathe, she cannot breathe, darkness is closing in and the air will not come -

I am sorry, my God. I have failed you. Forgive me.

The memories vanished.

Shuddering, Faith wrapped her arms around herself. She was grateful to be able to take a deep breath at last, though the effort sent shards of pain lancing through her chest. Where were her fellow hunters now? Almost certainly dead. She prayed they were dead. Death in battle was an honorable end, especially when one was fighting in the name of God. While the possibility of being taken prisoner and sacrificed to a faeborn demon-of being devoured by the very creature one was bound by sacred oath to destroy-would be the ultimate religious defilement.

Now that she could remember the battle clearly, she knew where she was. The demon must have wanted to exact vengeance upon her for her final attack, and had ordered its followers to bring her here. Or perhaps it had done so itself. Either way, she was not to be allowed to die in battle, or even as a messy sacrifice on some pagan altar. That kind of death would be over too swiftly.

They had left her alone in the Forest.

All about her were trees… or rather, what might have been called “trees” in a more wholesome setting. These were twisted, sickly structures, covered with a mottled patchwork of parasitic growths, hollowed out by colonies of nacreous insects. High in the canopy overhead, where sunlight reigned, there might be a smattering of normal life, but everything below that reeked of death and disease. And power. The currents of earth-fae here were so corrupt, so malevolent, that they made her skin crawl. Normally she couldn’t detect such things, lacking an adept’s vision, but in this place the power was so concentrated that she could feel it all about her. Its visceral foulness made her want to vomit.

It was said that all the human nightmares of the world were drawn to this place, where they manifested on such a scale that normal faeborn horrors paled by comparison. A single despairing thought could spawn a host of wraiths, each of them hungering to devour its creator. A normal person who was abandoned here would stand no chance at all; his own fear would take on a life of its own within minutes and consume him. Doubtless that was the fate that the demon had intended for Faith: a desperate and painful demise, fleeing the claws and teeth of her own inner fears until finally they ripped her to pieces.

With a trembling hand she drew her sword from its sheath. The blade was dull to her eyes, and crusted with dried blood from her battle, but she knew that to faeborn creatures it glowed with sacred fire. Had her enemy left her this one weapon because it repelled him so much that he could not bring himself to remove it? Or had he just wanted to prolong her death-struggle? One sword might not be enough to hold every nightmare creature in this blighted realm at bay, but maybe it would encourage her to fight for her life, instead of just surrendering to the inevitable. And thus prolong her dying, and his amusement.

But the demon had not known about her special gift.

Kneeling in the thick loam, holding her weapon upright before her, she let her eyes fix upon the symbol etched into its guard. Two interlocked circles. Two worlds, inextricably linked. She had dedicated her life to cleansing this one of the fae’s corrupt influence. And the One God had blessed her with a special gift to make that mission possible. It was not like the gift that sorcerers enjoyed, which allowed them to mold the fae with their minds. Nor was it like the gift of the adepts, to whom all the shadowy powers of this world were clearly visible. No, her gift was rarer than both those things, and in a world where Workings were a part of everyday life, it was a talent few men would envy. Most would call it a curse. But it had allowed her to become a deadly hunter in the One God’s holy cause, and now it might-just might-save her life.

The fae did not respond to her. Ever. That same dread force which brought men’s secret desires to life and could transform one’s fears into demons never manifested her emotions. It did not bring her luck or misfortune, health or sickness, or any of the myriad other types of gifts and curses that it provided for other men. Oh, what a precious and terrible blessing that was, and how the others knights of the Church envied her! Earth’s blessing, they called it. A sign from God that she had been destined to serve Him.

But just how complete was her immunity? Was she really safe from the fae’s ministrations, or had she just never been in a place where the earth-power was potent enough to test her gift to the breaking point?

Grimly she thought: I am about to find out.

Things were starting to stir in the shadows now, just beyond the range of her sight. Foul, unwholesome things, whose mere proximity made her stomach churn. In the distance she could hear strange chittering sounds, which seemed to be coming closer. Deathly pale insects were starting to emerge from burrows in the trees surrounding her, and were crawling along lichenous branches in her direction. She needed to get out of this place, and fast. But how? The southern border of the Forest was probably closer than any other, but which way was south? The dismal light seemed to be coming from all directions at once; she couldn’t even find a clear enough shadow to watch it shift as the sun moved. In time the angle of light through the trees might become clear enough for her to make out which direction was west… but night would fall soon after that, and then it would be too late.

She had to start moving now.

There was a clear grade to the land surrounding her. If she followed it downhill she would eventually reach running water. There was a river that flowed south through the Forest, and if she could find that she could follow it to safety.