Tooth & Nail

18

Saint John sat near the glow of a massive campfire. He’d ordered it built big tonight, and there were three times as many guards posted. Most of the reapers were already asleep. Even Brother Marty was dozing.

Saint John sat apart from everyone and stared deep into the chaotic heart of the fire, watching the snakes of flame twist and tangle and writhe.

He listened to the crackle and pop of the wood as the purifying fire consumed it.

And he listened to the sounds of the night.

Listening for…

For what?

The sad laughter of a stranger?

The howl of a wolf?

“I will cleanse this world of all flesh, all life,” he told the flames, speaking in a voice so soft he could barely hear his own words. “I am a saint of the Night Church. We own the night, we hold it in the palm of our hand. There is no force in this world or any other that can stand against us.”

Although his voice was quiet, he spoke with the force and cadence of a litany. Repeating each phrase, each promise, each vow.

Repeating and repeating it until he believed it once again.

That, however, took all night.

Tomorrow, with the dawn, he would take his army of the living and the dead and set out with a will toward Haven. Toward the first of the Nine Towns. There were hard weeks of forced marches ahead of him. His army would have to forage and provision, and that would lose them hours, days. It didn’t matter.

Even if there were things out in the night that he didn’t understand, he had his army and he served the will of Thanatos, all praise to his darkness.

He finally slept, and for the first time since his troops attacked the caravan, he had a smile burned onto his hard mouth.