Amukelo could hear the whispering doubts of the women around him, "It's all for nothing... They'll punish us." He longed to say something to rekindle their hope, to make them believe in the possibility of freedom, but he knew time was against them.
His mind raced with plans and strategies as he whispered back to them, "Stay close to me. When I move, you move. No noise, no hesitation. Holag will guard the back. If anything goes wrong, follow him. Understand?" Some of the women nodded with a faint glimmer of hope, but many still wore the same lifeless, resigned expressions as before.
Amukelo glanced back at Holag, who appeared to be struggling to keep himself together. His face seemed to say, *Me? Protect them?* But Amukelo had no other choice, and they had no time for debate.
"Holag, you're at the back," Amukelo whispered firmly. "If anything comes up from behind, you'll protect them." Holag nodded nervously, gripping the handle of his weapon with visibly trembling hands.
The narrow stairs stretched ahead, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Amukelo led the line, with Eliss immediately behind him, her eyes focused on his back as if it was the only lifeline she had.
The other women followed closely, and Holag brought up the rear, trying his best to walk quietly but constantly looking over his shoulder.
After a grueling ascent, they finally reached the top, arriving at the large wooden doors that led back into the church. Amukelo could hear the muffled voices of conversation on the other side. He paused, holding his breath as he listened, straining to make sense of what they were saying. The light from the keyhole caught his eye, and he knelt to peek through it. The keyhole was wide enough for him to glimpse the situation in the church.
His breath hitched as he took in the scene before him. A group of about ten men in dark robes, similar to the monk from before, stood gathered around a grand figure at the center.
The man in elaborate ceremonial robes adorned with gold and crimson embroidery. The robes dripped with fresh blood, smeared across the fabric like brush strokes on a gruesome canvas.
The priest, as Amukelo guessed, had a hunchback and walked with a twisted, ritualistic elegance, his every movement almost serpentine. He held a long staff with intricate carvings of twisted faces, their expressions frozen in agony and torment. His thin, crooked fingers stroked the handle of the staff in an unsettlingly tender manner as if cherishing its touch.
The priest's face was haunting: hollow cheeks, a sharp nose, and eyes that seemed to bore into you even from a distance. His skin was pale and stretched, like leather over bone.
Surrounding this figure were about twenty soldiers, their armor similar to those who escorted Amukelo earlier. Most of these guards were visibly frightened, their eyes darting nervously around, weapons gripped tightly in their hands. They seemed ready to react but also paralyzed by fear, uncertain of what awaited them. The commander who had brought Amukelo to the church earlier stood before the priest, speaking in a tone of obsequiousness and anxiety.
"Forgive us, Your Holiness," the commander said, bowing slightly, trying to placate the priest with his servile demeanor. "We... we brought him as you requested, but... there were some delays. Please, your holiness, understand that it was not my intent to displease you..."
Amukelo's grip on his sword tightened as he heard the panicked, apologetic tone of the commander trying to explain the situation to the priest. He couldn't make out every word clearly, but the conversation painted a grim picture.
"I don't know where they are. I promise they haven't left the church. No one has exited through the main doors, and all the windows are secure... They must still be here, somewhere," the commander stammered, desperation lacing his voice. The priest's reply was ice-cold and calculating, "Good. That means they are still somewhere in the church. There are no other exits."
The priest's voice rang out, clear and authoritarian, "We have to find them. Do you understand!? Search every dungeon." With that, he waved his hand, dismissing the commander and sending the monks towards all of the doors.
Amukelo's eyes darted to the women huddled behind him, who looked to him for direction, their faces etched with fear. He didn't have time to explain. He turned to Eliss, grabbing her by the shoulders, and whispered urgently, "Move back. Alert the others, and under no circumstances try to get through these doors. Do you understand?"
Eliss's face twisted in confusion, "What? Why—?" But Amukelo's hands pushed her back firmly, urgency in his touch. "We don't have time!" he whispered harshly, as the footsteps of one of the monks drew closer. Eliss stumbled into the arms of the women behind her, who steadied her, looking equally alarmed.
Amukelo took a few deep breaths and steadied his grip on the sword. He had to act fast. The door burst open, and a monk in dark robes stepped through, a self-assured smirk on his face.
But his confidence was short-lived; with one swift, decisive move, Amukelo struck, and the blade of his sword slashed clean through the monk's throat. Blood sprayed the walls as the monk collapsed lifelessly to the floor.
Amukelo shoved the door closed behind him with a forceful slam, his hand pressed against the wood to seal it shut. His heart raced as he stood there, back to the door, facing the entire congregation within the church.
The priest's eyes met his, a calm, unnerving grin spreading across his face. The robed followers and guards turned to face Amukelo, the atmosphere shifting from tense anticipation to a sudden, electrifying focus.
"Well, well," the priest said, his voice carrying a disturbingly calm and even pleasant tone, "you saved us time. And here I was expecting a prolonged search. Tell me, what were you doing down there? And where is the second man that was supposed to be with you?" His eyes were locked on Amukelo, but the smirk on his face was that of a cat toying with a mouse.
Amukelo didn't flinch, meeting the priest's gaze with a glare of his own, full of defiance and rage. "That," he replied coldly, "is none of your business. You claim there are no escapes, but you won't find him—or any of your victims. You clearly don't know your church as well as you think." It was a bold lie, but one Amukelo hoped would buy time. If he could make the priest believe there were hidden tunnels or a secret exit, then maybe—just maybe—the others would have a chance.
The priest's brow furrowed, just for a moment, as though pondering the statement. Then his lips curled back into that disconcerting smile, and he shook his head slowly, with amusement, "Don't worry," he said softly, "Even if what you say is true, they won't get far. We will catch them shortly." His eyes, dark and unwavering, moved to the sword in Amukelo's hand, and a flash of recognition crossed his face.
"Ah..." he whispered, almost reverently, "Your blade... a legendary elven sword, am I correct?" His fingers, skeletal and pale, twitched with an almost imperceptible longing.
Amukelo's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the hilt as he braced himself for what was about to come next. The priest's gaze was almost... adoring, as if he coveted the sword with every fiber of his being.
Then the priest spoke, his voice dripping with condescension and allure, "But there is no need for violence, no need for bloodshed. If you wish to make it out alive, there is a simple way. Surrender the sword to me... submit yourself to my authority, and I will spare you. Do so, and all this—" he gestured to the guards, the monks, the bloodstained church—"will be over for you. So... what will you do?" The priest's smile widened as though savoring a victory he had already won.