Dissent

Sebastean, wrapped in his customary black armor, strides fearlessly into town. Shocked Seraphs follow him with wide eyes, keeping a respectful distance and whispering to their comrades, searching about for weapons.

The familiar buildings of Halfmoon Grove are now adorned with the banner of the Seraphic Priesthood, lavender symbols on an emerald flag, colors that clash to the eyes of anyone but a priest. Whereas before, the town was a small gathering of perhaps two hundred humans, sprinkled with the other races for flavor, it has become a Seraph soldier camp. White hair, broad wings, and gleaming armor fill the streets.

Taking this all in, Sebastean sighs. This place has really gone to the dogs. Inhaling deeply, he channels enough power to amplify his own voice.

“Who’s in charge here?” he bellows, rattling nearby windows. “I am Sebastean Arc and I demand to speak to your commanding officer!”

The assembled crowd, perhaps twenty Seraphs brave enough to stay close, stirs. Finally, someone steps forward, if only a few inches. “Our Chaplain is on an errand. In his absence, I speak for the Seraph province of Halfmoon. Why have you come?”

Night-dark eyes narrow. “Halfmoon is no Seraph place. In recognition of this, I demand that your soldiers and clergy depart. We have allowed the presence of a church and of missionary Malhien, but this is over the line.”

“Allowed?” The soldier growls, encouraged by his indignation. “You have no say in what is allowed, raceless. We are here on a mission of purity. The people of Halfmoon abandoned it when we showed up. We simply moved into vacant buildings.”

“They are no longer vacant.”

“Then where are your people?” The soldier taunts. “Where did they go?”

“Vacation. I have a lovely beach house, I had them over for a holiday.”

The Seraphs stare in confusion. Is this some kind of a joke? Perhaps the abomination has finally succumbed to madness, as Dackorec has been suggesting. Looking to the speaking soldier for instruction, the soldiers’ grips on their spears tighten as one.

“The basic fact is this, raceless.” The soldier pulls a datapad from his tunic, reading aloud. “We are here in order to take certain criminals as prisoners, in order that they might be tried by a court of the Seraphic Priesthood. They are instructed to surrender, to accompany us back to Vale Traelis, where they will be tried as war criminals.”

Sebastean smirks. “Just curious, what’s the going penalty for war crime? Since their conviction is a foregone conclusion and we both know it.”

“Summary execution, by the spear. The accused are as follows: Daniel Franklin. Carolyn Reese. Aelia Gageruek. Evan North. And the Abomination… that’s you, raceless.” The soldier replaces his datapad and takes a spear, offered by one of his comrades. “Come peacefully, and your friends will be the only ones harmed. Struggle in vain, and the people of Halfmoon will suffer.”

Sebastean takes a step forward, causing the assembled soldiers to flinch. Beginning to look angry, stares the speaker in the eyes. “Sounds like war crimes to me. The answer from Halfmoon is as follows:

“Get the f**k out.”

Sebastean casts his hands out, flickering black light dancing at his fingertips, but it’s from the side that the attack comes. Living flames, taller than a man, roar across the town center and ignite several Seraphs in a row. When the others move to escape the blaze, a collective shout of surprise goes up as they find their feet have been bound to the earth by a lattice of thick, woody roots.

Hacking at his boots with the spear, the speaker shouts angrily, “All your dark magics won’t save you, abomination!”

“They aren’t all his,” Oden calls, emerging from behind a storefront, menacing in black leather armor. Living fire drips from his hands, burns in his eyes. Across the square, Sylvia and Tyrone seem to appear from nowhere. Sylvia’s eyes shine with a deep green light, the source of the root trap.

Sebastean grins, approaching the tiring speaker casually, while the others burn behind him. “You,” he begins, “Will live. You will contact your chaplain and tell him not to come back. You will leave Halfmoon and not return. No Seraph in armor will ever be welcome here again. Halfmoon is a place of peace.”

He reaches around the speaker’s back and grips the wings there, channeling cold shadows. Feathers grow brittle, crumbling to dust in the dark, until the wings are no more than black-tipped stumps. Sebastean grins cruelly. “Although you’d never know it, to deal with me. Now run away.”

* * *

“That was messed up.”

“Not now, Oden.”

Sebastean growls at the hand on his shoulder, and turns to face Oden with a scowl. “I said not now.”

“Now! I’ve got some serious f*****g problems with what just happened, and you need to listen to me!”

Ten minutes have passed since the ambush, during which the small team hasn’t seen another Seraph soldier. The wingless speaker, shivering and stumbling, left town in as much of a hurry as could be managed. Now, as the group splits into pairs to sweep houses, silence falls over Halfmoon.

Only the ringing sounds of an argument can be heard.

“What doubts?”

Oden kicks open a door and strides in, hands ablaze, but nobody’s there. He sighs and the flames extinguish. “Like how you had me burn a pile of defenseless soldiers. I thought we’d be fighting, not just executing people.”

“What’s the difference?” Sebastean asks, examining a closet full of Seraphic tunics. Apparently they’d really begun to move in.

“The difference is, killing them like that, when they couldn’t fight back, was awful. You really don’t understand that I feel guilty about that?”

“I don’t see why an enemy needs to be stabbing you in order for you to kill him. The only difference is, you might get killed instead. My way, you won’t. Do you not see the appeal in that?”

Oden glances over his shoulder at the taller man, disturbed. “Of course I don’t want to be killed. But I also don’t want to be a f*****g Nazi.”

“People keep throwing that word around. What does it mean?”

“The Nazis were humans who exterminated innocent people, defenseless people, in order to eliminate some imagined threat those people posed.”

“The Seraphic Priesthood isn’t a pretend threat. They kidnapped you, Oden!”

“Not these ones! I judge people on a case-by-case basis, and as far as I know these guys would have just flown off once we’d said our piece!”

The pair leaves the house, looking around for Sylvia and Tyrone. Sebastean rolls his eyes. “Perhaps. Now we’ll never know.”

“You’re sick.”

“Maybe.” Sebastean stalks towards the next house, drawing his knife, eyes dark. “But I’m the kind of sick that’ll get you all through this nonsense. I can live with being the lesser of two evils.”

“Just make sure you stay the lesser,” Oden mutters, unaware that Sebastean hears him.