The advance toward the entranceway is a study in caution, the soldiers checking every angle ahead, behind, and above as they make their slow way into Smyrna. The arched tunnel is utterly dark, the ancient torches held in its brass cressets long ago burned away. Flashlights are affixed to rifles, and Thomas incants a simple prayer, bringing forth a balm of light that shines from his eyes. Golden fire becomes his gaze.
At the end of the corridor stands the door to the monastery proper, heavy and carved with the stories of martyrs and saints. Nothing can be heard from beyond. As the group forms up -- nervous in the close confines, Thomas casts them open. They are unbarred.
Utter darkness looms beyond, through which their light cannot penetrate. A pall of dread settles over the company, an unsettling silence before, tight-lipped, Thomas signals Diogenes to lead the way. The assassin steps through, his pistols drawn....
...and gasps. Coming from the taciturn man, the sound is one of shock and sudden fright. It echoes from the others as they each arrive in turn.
Gleaming daylight greets them, unclouded, glaring and oppressive.
They stand once more outside the monastery, Smyrna looming a hundred feet distant.
The way back has vanished to every sense, along with the IFV and the other soldiers.
And there are... shapes. Writhing forms upon the dunes, hundreds upon hundreds, laying a scattered trail once more into Smyrna's dark ingress.
It does not take long to see them for what they are: Children. Dead children. Slaughtered children, eviscerated, decapitated, dismembered, impaled, quartered, hanged, burned. They all wear robes of blackspun cloth, splotched and drenched with sheening white blood from their myriad wounds.
There are no screams, though their mouths twist in expressions of uttermost agony.
Dead, and animate. Possessed. On their knees, beseeching Heaven.
And no time is wasted. Ordering his men to conserve their ammunition, Thomas steps forth, beckoning Diogenes to his side. They split off in opposite directions, east and west.
Casting back the sleeves of his robe, Diogenes curls back his palms and sends an impulse to the psycho-active weapons buried in the flesh of his wrists. There is a hiss, and then fire. Endless fire, reaching fifty, a hundred feet, devouring grotesque flesh, searing bone to ash, burning away the sight of the ungodly children.
Across from him, on the other side of the yard, Thomas merely surveys the scene with his pulsing eyes. A moment passes, another, then his spirit flares with zeal and fury.
Everything he surveys becomes an inferno.
Facing away from each other, the two servants of the Celestrine begin the cleansing.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.