Unlike the many Nordic forts and forts in which John and Andrew laid siege in their day, Greenland was not designed to withstand an attack. Dexter had made an attempt to set up a barricade on the outer doors with all the materials he could find, which brought little effort to the soldiers, and John led the attack inside, in the spacious outer cloister of the cathedral. Once a place of quiet reflection, now the cloister looked more like the many battlefields that John had seen on the campaign trail, or the looted villages he had witnessed as a child. The floor was dark with patches of dried blood and the lifeless bodies from which he had been spilled some of Dexter's deformed creatures who, in their insane savagery, began to attack each other. Bits of the ground were scorched black because of the burps that burped fire. The whole place reeked of sulfur, bile and death, although there was little time to waste with it. The many horrors that still lived within the walls of Greenland were rising from their sleep and moving to intercept the crowd of mounted men who were bursting into the courtyard led by John. John spurred Carpeado to join the fight.
The first creature they encountered was trampled to death by the mare, the second beheaded by a swing of John's sword. The blade he wielded was not his favorite - the one that had been destroyed by the projections - but it was no less lethal than the other. The third monster attacked him from outside the field of vision - the swollen, infected carcasses of some oily tentacle curled around the fist of his right gauntlet and pulled him out of the saddle. His left foot was caught in the stirrup when he fell headfirst from Carpeado's flank. The tentacle released John's wrist and retracted, leaving a corroded trail around the gauntlet.
While John was struggling to free himself from the stirrup, he glimpsed, upside down, the beast that will bring him down approaching. Even when he got close, it was difficult to see what exactly was from that opposite perspective. John still had the sword in his hand, and he struck wildly in the direction of the beast to keep it away, gaining enough time to finally free his tangled foot and straighten up.
When he got up and stood in front of the growling animal, it occurred to him that he was no more recognizable in the right perspective than when he was upside down. His scaly, armored body was sinuous and slender, and he moved like a snake, despite his four vaguely canine legs, elongated nose, and pointed ears. Its curved, jointed tail rose and curled, like a scorpion's. But where the stinger would be, the tail opened like the petals of a rough flower to reveal the tentacle that had knocked John down inside. That tentacle dripped and squirmed like a grotesquely distended tongue. 'What was this horror in the past?' thought John. He examined her for familiar features, some visual clue to her anatomy before Dexter profaned him. 'Some kind of dog? A wolf, perhaps? '
It was hard to say. Even for someone familiar with Harley's bestiary, there was always something new to freeze blood and shake faith in God. 'What kind of God, in the end, would tolerate such blasphemy on His Earth?' The tentacle crackled like a cobra's tail and launched itself at John again, this time trying to pull out his sword. But John was lighter; he took a quick step to the side and, with a top-down blow, broke the tentacle in two.
The meandering beast screamed as it retracted the bloody stump and, enraged, advanced on John, opening its mouth wide to expose the rows of canine teeth dripping with drool. The animal's body advanced low, less than two feet from the ground; so when he started at John, he simply jumped on the creature and stuck the sword in its back, between the scales that ran along the spine
The beast screamed louder and louder and stirred in despair, while John plunged the sword deeper, impaling it. Yet the beast refused to die until John turned the blade to open the trembling body, causing a wider wound and spilling blood in a growing puddle under his body.
When the beast finally stopped, John drew his sword and turned - to examine the scene. The battle was now in full swing, its men scattered across the courtyard, facing various types of beasts deformed in melee. Watching as they cut and slashed their way through the monstrous flock, John was increasingly satisfied with the fight outside, which seemed to be well under way. Even though they were outnumbered, it was clear that their men faced even worse situations in time of war, these animal monstrosities were just one of many challenges they faced in their lives, these creatures were just animals that Dexter had conjured in desperation, still they were terrifying, but less than the humanoid varieties that warriors had grown accustomed to killing.
John headed for the cathedral, where he knew he must find the source of all that disgrace and death, and where it would finally end once and for all. The wooden door was blocked, but it gave in with two strokes of John's sword, and he entered the central hall. Sunlight came in through the narrow slits in the windows and over the rows of benches that stretched into the darkness to the bottom, where the high altar was covered with shadows. With his sword still in place, John moved carefully down the center aisle, his footsteps echoing on the stone tiles. As he continued farther inside, the sounds of battle outside faded, and he suddenly realized how quiet and silent everything had become. 'A church should be quiet, but not like that. That ... it wasn't peace, it was just ... nothing. ' There was an enveloping, almost suffocating feeling, that whatever a man could carry inside himself to protect himself from despair or to bring him relief or comfort, he was somehow left behind, abandoned, upon entering that atrium. It was the most unsettling sensation John had ever felt, and in that moment he knew exactly what it was. The presence of genuine evil. He moved carefully, aware that some of Dexter's hideous monstrosities might be lurking between any of the rows of benches he passed. And when he got closer to the presbytery, where the cathedral altar was, and his eyes got used to the darkness, he slowed down. It was then that he began to identify the silhouette of a figure in a cover, seated, immobile.
"Dexter," he whispered to himself, so low that not even a soul on the bench closest to him could have heard, and yet the figure in the cloak sitting fifty feet away rose as if his name was heard.
"Address me as Supreme Archbishop or Your Sanctified Grace, your inferior plebeian," said Dexter. He had a soft voice, and yet, when the voice reached John, it seemed to echo powerfully around him, in a way that had nothing to do with the way a sound propagated in a place like that. That, too, John knew, was for something different, something twisted that was at work. Dexter took a step closer under a beam of sunlight, and John's suspicion was confirmed. Whatever dark magic the archbishop had been immersed in for the past few months, it had consumed him extremely. His face was pale and dry, his complexion had withered to the point of skeletal fragility. And the eyes ... the eyes were the worst of all, deeply yellowed and bloodshot. It barely looked human.
When John looked at him with disgust and dismay, he contemplated the final bitter truth of the power that Dexter had unleashed. Such was its evil influence that it radiated not only externally to form corrupt and wretched creatures of its intended victims, but also within, to slowly and gradually impose the same fate on any man who employed it. Although others might have hesitated out of commiseration at what appeared to be little more than a pathetic and distressed old man, John was not fooled; he knew how much more dangerous Dexter was than he appeared to be.
Harley had given him a new protection blessing, in his armor, before he rode into battle, but he still didn't take too much chances; he quickly traveled the distance to Dexter in order to overthrow the corrupt priest before he could summon one of his infernal spells. But, to his surprise, the archbishop made no effort to defend himself; he did not raise his hand or murmur a word when John climbed the steps from where he was - not even when John grabbed him by the throat and forced him backward on the altar, the sword at the cleric's throat. 'It's too easy'.
John was disturbed for a moment by the thought, but put it aside to concentrate on the task. It was then that he hesitated, looking at the archbishop for the first time from so close, Close enough to feel the archbishop's terrible sour breath, to see every ok grooved nail on his face. And he realized that it was not the yellowish, bloodshot appearance of Dexter's eyes that disturbed him; it was the way the priest looked at him. He looked at John with wild eyes, without blinking, as if he had gone through something beyond imaginable, heinous, and never returned completely.
John saw in that moment that Dexter's magic had not only corrupted his body, but his mind, casting him into the depths of irretrievable madness. Killing him would be an act of not just justice, but mercy. And yet, something prevented his hand. The blade of the sword was almost an inch from Dexter's pulsing throat; the force of cutting an apple would be enough to open its flesh and watch life drain from it. But there was something about the catatonic, supernatural look in the man. It penetrated John, seemed to almost lurk within him, into the soul. It was he who was holding that weak and helpless old man at the point of the sword; so why did you feel so ... vulnerable?
"So you led this war against me," said Dexter from the altar. "He murdered my children, he separated my family. Sir John the Savage."
'How does he know my name?' "Your children?" Replied John, disgusted. "Those corrupt and enslaved innocent men and women?"
But Dexter didn't seem to hear him, lost in his demented fantasies. "No one understands revenge better than God," said the archbishop at last. A sly smile broke across his face, revealing a mouthful of crooked, rotten teeth. "That's why He supports your motivation. I was weak, but I took care to retain what little of my power was left, in the hope that you would be the first to find me. Getting close enough. And now here you are. Give it to me. "
It was then that John noticed the scroll spread over the altar beside Dexter. Pages and pages of handwritten doodles in a language he couldn't understand, and didn't recognize at first. Then he remembered where that writing will come from earlier - in the transcripts of Dexter's scrolls that Harley had made memory of in his effort to perfect the protective counter spells. John knew that the papers on the altar could not be the original scrolls, as Joshua will assure him that they had all been destroyed.
'So, what were they?' He saw that the ink on the top was fresh, he saw the feather on the side. John grabbed the parchment with his free hand and held it up to Dexter.
"What is that?" He asked angrily. "What is this?"
Dexter just snorted, but didn't respond. He was no longer looking into John's eyes, but he was looking down at his chest. The archbishop's gaze focused on the silver scarab-shaped pendant that hung from John's neck.
"Perfect," whispered Dexter with a wide smile. And then, with surprising speed, he reached up with his right hand and slammed John's chest plate, his fingers spread wide, his palm covering the medallion and pressing against the armor. The knight grabbed Dexter's wrist and tried to push his hand away, but it didn't move; the apparently decrepit old man was much stronger than one might think. Dexter looked at John with a degenerate, incandescent hatred. He pressed his hand tighter against John's chest and began to mutter something entangling. It was strange and unintelligible to John, but he knew immediately that it was an enchantment. He felt an uncomfortable heat rise in his chest and looked down; he saw the breastplate begin to glow under Dexter's palm.
To his horror, he realized that Dexter was melting the armor. The archbishop's hand grew brighter and hotter, like a blacksmith's forge, and John's chest softened as Dexter pressed harder, his hand sinking into the tempered metal. John screamed when he felt the flesh under the armor start to burn. He couldn't think of anything else but to bury the sword in Dexter's throat. Blood bubbled from the immense wound when the blade came down, but the cleric still murmured in that infernal tongue, his voice now an empty hiss, spitting out every word in the knight like poison and pushing his hand deeper and deeper, through John's melted armor. touch the meat under it. Their screams echoed around the cathedral walls. The heat was excruciating. In desperation, John pulled the sword away and struck Dexter's neck across the side, pushing downward, breaking tendons and muscles until he went through the archbishop's flesh and his head fell and rolled away to the end of the altar and onto the stone floor .
Just then, the clergyman's strength finally gave way, allowing John to take his hand away from his chest. Dexter's body fell lifeless and hit the ground, forming a pile of flesh. But. although it had freed itself, John's breastplate still glowed and burned his skin. Dropping his sword, he desperately tried to unbuckle his armor just as Andrew burst through the door at the other end of the ship, a group of men at the rear, Harley among them.
Andrew saw John writhing in apparent distress and ran to assist him, helping to untie the bands that held the chest plate before pulling it out - the metal was so hot it burned his hands when he did it - and threw it on the floor , smoke still rising from the melted opening in the shape of Dexter's hand. John's legs gave out and he fell back on the altar, panting.
Andrew knelt before him and gave him water to drink while Harley examined the wound. The tunic that John wore under his chest had also been burned, revealing a horrible scar of flesh plastered in the center of his chest, as if it had been marked with a hot iron. Inspecting more than he realized that the shape of the burn, like none he had ever seen before, was frighteningly reminiscent of a scarab.
"This burn is serious. It must be treated immediately," he said.
"I'm going to get someone," said Andrew, and got up urgently to leave.
"No," replied John with what little strength he had left. "It's just a burn. I'm going to survive. Take care of the other injured first."
Andrew nodded, then took a moment to watch the scene. The molten chest plate. The pages of parchment strewn on the floor. Dexter's fallen body and, several meters ahead, the head "In the name of God, what happened here?" He asked. John just closed his eyes, exhausted. Even if I had the strength to try to explain, I had no idea where to start.
Harley and John were standing in the presbytery and watched Dexter burn. His men made a wooden pyre, lifted the body, soon there would be nothing left of the air, decapitated on it and set fire to the bishop as well as ashes thrown into the wind. The head had already been burned separately, its charred remains handed over to a rider to be scattered on the southeastern coast of Theliwyth.
John would not risk anything with this man, even in death. As he watched the flames lick Dexter's promised body, his hand went over the bandage that covered the burn on his chest. The ointment that had been applied did little to alleviate the aching throbbing beneath him. Worse, his scarab pendant, one of the few material things he valued, had been lost, melted to nothing; all that was left of him was the curious shape mark that Dexter's hand had burned in his flesh.
Harley emerged from the hall door. He picked up a pile of parchments gathered from the altar inside and studied them when he approached John. Each page seemed to be more perplexing than the last. He looked up in time to see John taking his hand from the wound in his chest, embarrassed.
"Are you sure everything is okay?" Asked Harley.
"It's nothing," said John, his attention fixed firmly on the papers Harley carried. "What did you find out?"
"It's curious," said Harley as he flipped through the pages. "It is the language of the scrolls, but what I see here did not appear in any of them. I would remember, this is the original work of the archbishop. I believe I was trying to expand the understanding and mastery of the magic that you will learn, to develop it to a higher level , more advanced."
"For what purpose?"
"That I cannot say, at least without further studies. Much of what he wrote here is beyond my ability to understand. At best, I venture to say that, after his defeat at Aylesbury, he started working on a way to improve the potency of magic to counteract my symbols of protection or perhaps create more powerful beasts. And perhaps I would have succeeded, if we had not grasped it when ... This is advanced learning, far beyond anything that was recorded on the original scrolls. . After we get back to Wythchester, I will have more time to study and maybe find out what he .. "
John took the scrolls from Harley's hands and tossed them into the fire. Harley looked on in shock as the flames eagerly engulfed them, the pages reviving, brilliant, as they were consumed. "Dexter is dead," said John as he watched the flames reduce the parchments to a tangle of blackened and incandescent ashes, finally blown away. "And the evil he created dies with him." The knight then walked away, leaving Harley to face the fire.