The other brothers of the order sent us off the morning of our departure. Gathered at the main gate, they thanked the Hedge Pilgrim—an honorific name they bestowed on me—for his aid and gave me a pleasant deal of sweet wine, poultices, and several days' worth of food. As a sympathy for my sacrifice, which came in the form of my disfigurement, they put together a humble sum of lovok as a more transferable compensation.

  Granvich traveled lightly; his monastic dress, which was more appropriately described as a single contiguous bolt of wool with a hole punched through for the head, an over-shoulder sack containing ascetic foods and water, and his walking stick. He kept a carving of the Candles clung to his neck—a tight metal chain that dug into the flesh with tiny, polished barbs from which a large medallion hung depicting 27 candles, one for each of the Saintly Martyrs. The flame of each burning wick met in the center and swirled into the shape of the sun adorned with a holy crown of 13 points representing the original martyrs. Seemingly out of respect for my familial traditions, he obscured the fetish as best he could once the eyes of the other monks had left our view.

  The journey to the reliquary was two days but was more like one and a half with such a small and swift party of two. The weather was still warm enough that traveling the roads was not so dangerous as to wager one's life against the cold, but the forests of the mountains had begun to change. I could not help but forget our rushed inclination when the scenic views of the red and orange leaves caught the shimmering of the light just before and just after midday. And when the sun was rising or setting, the deep blues and shimmering teals of the Greer Trees were so beautiful I could be convinced that any creature—human, beast, or demon—would have to stop and appreciate their fleeting seasonal appearance.

  I remember Granvich and I had stopped briefly by the river that ran west toward the monastery to rest, and we spoke of the valley.

  “Do you know why this valley was named for the Vanbatar?” Granvich asked.

  “I haven’t any idea, but I was always curious,” I admitted. “I assume some great martyrdom occurred here?”

  Granvich hooted a laugh and smiled, “No, nothing like that, my son. It is much simpler than that.” He leaned back upon a boulder and took in an appreciative inhalation. “When the Saintly Ones appeared, this is where they would go to collect their thoughts. It was a place of peace and solitude to them, untouched by the corruptions of humanity and its kings. It is a harsh place for the weakness inherent to humanity, especially during the winter, and so it has remained mostly unsettled, save for the hardiest and most blessed among us.”

  “My people settled here first if you recall.”

  “I am well aware,” Granvich replied, turning a knowing smile toward me. As I have said, he was a charitable man, and this truth extended to all his matters. He was quick to compliment others, even heretics when such a compliment was due to a person or their people.

  I smiled back at him. We finished our lunch and continued until the sun retired. Toward the end of our day’s trek, we came across a camp of wagoneers along the road, and they naively flagged us down with warm greetings and offers to join them by the fire.

  Granvich and I considered it silently, and I replied as we tried to hurry past to distance ourselves before we could set up camp. “Dark things spread through the valley, friends, and we are a company that would only draw them closer.”

  The head of the caravan responded with a laugh and met us on the road, “Dark things spread, you say? That’s just nighttime, pilgrims.”

  “You mistake my words for a polite declination. They are a warning. Demons have assailed the Brothers of the Olovfian Order.”

  Granvich confirmed as much, knowing the weight of truth that carried on his vestments, “What my companion says is true. We’ve spent nearly the week burning the dead.”

  The man looked worriedly upon us. “Then I must change my asking to an imploring. We have no warriors among our flock, but you two are survivors. Surely, having you by our side will offer some protection.”

  “You do not understand. We will only draw a greater possibility of death toward you.”

  “But without you, we will definitely perish. Please. Stay. We have children with us.”

  When we passed the wagons, I did not notice them and asked, “Where?”

  “Asleep already, in the wagon beds. The thought of them not waking to the morning sun…” The man tried to pull at our sympathies, and it worked. Granvich looked at me pleadingly, and when I sighed, he smiled. We agreed to join the wagoneers and shared our bread and wine with them as the sun finished setting and the holy twinkling settled in the cloudless sky above.

  Fear fought against tingling drunkenness as the men and women of the wagons joined their children and fell asleep. Granvich had whispered his commitment to staying awake for the nightly watch to me hours earlier but had forgotten his age and, expectedly, fell asleep curved up like a hound by the fire. I nervously fuddled with the sheath of the silver sword, both a reminder of its existence and my inexperience with using it. Inevitably, the exhaustion of the day’s forced march caught up with me and I dozed off.

  I woke slowly sometime later as something rolled into my foot. I wiped my eyes and looked at what I initially believed was a ball, only to find the bleeding, freshly severed head of the caravan master. Luckily, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, leaving me as the direct witness to the gruesome games of a team of impish fiends. The body of the caravan master had been butchered quietly; the imps hushed as they fought and squabbled over the arms and legs they pulled from his torso.

  I weighed my options in the few precise seconds before they would realize I had woken up. My hand stalled on the pommel of my sword, and I looked around as best I could without moving my head. Granvich was still asleep next to me, but I could see the rustling shadows of the imps behind the heavy tarp of one of the wagons the children were in and watched as dark splatterings seeped through the canvas. The only art known to demons is that of the medium of blood and death, and the children were made to be paints for the brushes of impish claws.

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  I prayed for the first time in my life at that moment, and then my desperate pleas were answered under the gaze of the Saintly. The St. Olovf himself spoke soothing words between my ears and called forth a blinding retribution. When the flash had passed, the imps were left stunned, and when I drew my blade, I found that great vines and a bark carapace stronger than any human metal had enveloped it. Wildly, I swung my blade as I charged against the imps. I screamed like a madman, and the blade redefined the laws of possibility. The vines whipped forth, bladed with flat sheets of the razor-sharp carapace, and the imps that once consumed the caravan master were minced and diced before my very eyes.

  Granvich awoke and began shouting in a panic as the imps in the wagon tore through the canvas, their claws and maws drenched and clambering with the blood of innocence. He ducked, and I turned my heel toward the advancing demons, swinging my sword again as the wrath of St. Olovf guided my arm. Granvich and I were soaked in the torrent of blood that dispensed from the impish mound of flesh just created, and the sulfuric smell and chunks of fiendish flesh that hit us were so overwhelming that neither of us could keep our dinners down.

  The few straggling imps that remained retreated into the woods at my successful routing, and we set about calming our nerves and searching for any survivors of the raid. Buried under the slag of corpses in the tent was one: a girl of 12 years, Lubina, who survived by feigning death and digging under the mutilated bodies of her younger siblings. I hurriedly rescued her from the familial carnage she drowned in and tried my best to clean away the innards of her family that smeared her face and knotted her hair.

  Her eyes never blinked, but I tried to hide her haunted stares from seeing the camp. She demanded to be shown the imps and when Granvich and I both protested, she sank her teeth into my thumb until I released her. Lubina pushed past us and cried a guttural and primal shriek as she kicked the fragments of the imps that remained recognizable. She reached into the fire, gripped a burning log with her bare hands, and set about torching the demons. She sneered and cried as she watched their ashes sweep away with the wind. When her rage subsided, she lost consciousness.

  Granvich cared for her wounds and cleaned her with what spare fresh water we could find. When he had finished, we lashed the girl to my back, took what supplies we needed from the wreckage of the camp, and made the decision to begin traveling. Fearing that the imps would return with more significant numbers, we risked traversing the road at night, assuming being mobile was better than being still. The hours passed slowly before the rising sun gave us great relief from our terror, and by the early afternoon, we had reached the famed reliquary of old.

  The orphan girl woke up as we set camp and began preparing lunch. She was hesitant and frightened of us, screaming and crying as whatever horrifying nightmare that came in her dreams faded. We gave her space and kept our hands visible to show her we meant no threat, and I was so committed to ensuring a healthy adjustment back to reality that I had purposefully left my sword next to her bedroll. She grabbed it as she scrambled away, and all my fears and unfathomable worries mounted in anticipation. She turned the blade to us, begging to wake from her torment. Then, she turned the blade on herself and cried out for her mother and father.

  The tip pushed against her belly with the heavy rising and falling of her breaths, but she hesitated to complete the deed. I never would have blamed her had she chosen to end her life, but such a choice would be heavy to watch a child make. Fortune favors the bold, as they say, and my choice to subtly arm her paid off in the form of a tiny droplet of trust that would begin the foundations of a lake.

  She shared her name with gentle prying—Lubina, as I said—and eventually reached stability. Granvich shared with her a bowl of the stew he had prepared and broke bread for her in prayer. When asked if the lighting of candles in honor of the deceased would be appropriate, Lubina responded positively, and together, they prepared the wax and wicks, and the names of her family were entrenched within the finished molds. I stayed my distance during the ceremony but found comfort in their repentance of sins and calls for saintly embracement.

  I could see in her eyes that she blamed the Saints for what had happened. Granvich could, too. But her conviction and faith only hardened as she processed the disconcerting things she saw and was forced to do. Her anger knew no limitations; our mutual enemy did not realize the enemy they made that day, but I did.

  “We must delve now. The sooner we can be on the road again, the better.” I said.

  “I must go with you, and the girl cannot stay here alone,” Granvich replied.

  “I’ll come,” Rubina interjected. “Let me come with you. I can help. I can be useful.”

  “No doubt of you exists within me, Lubina. You are a strong girl, a resilient girl. But we do not know what we’ll face below. The reliquary has been left untouched for decades—the last anyone delved into it was before even our friend was born.” Granvich said, looking at me.

  “The Leper isn’t that old—though remarkably old for his condition.” She said.

  Granvich and I looked at each other in confusion, and I asked, “Leper?”

  “You’re a Leper, aren’t you?” Her words hesitated as she began to doubt the manners of what she was saying. She gently pointed toward her face and then to mine.

  “Oh—Lubina, no. No, it’s not—” Granvich began before I interrupted him.

  “Demons assaulted the Monastery of St. Olovf two days ago. When I cut through one of their legs, it tipped over, and an acid sloshed from its mouth.”

  “Right—False Leper, then.”

  I thought about telling the girl my name at that moment. To give her some excuse not to call me such a hurtful thing. But she had been through so much already. If I gave her my name, she may become attached. I had no way of knowing how long I would survive, and truthfully, I did not believe I would last much longer at the rate by which demons seemed to flock to me. If she intended to insult me with the name, perhaps I deserved the dishonor of it. It was me who, inadvertently, led to the demise of everything she loved. She was stuck with us. I could do her this one favor.

  “False Leper, then,” I repeated, to Granvich’s surprise. “The girl comes with us. I will take the lead and a torch. Lubina will stay in the middle, and Granvich, you take the rear with a torch as well. Does that sound agreeable?”

  Lubina and Granvich nodded. We collected what supplies we needed and spread them between our backpacks in case we were separated. The entrance to the reliquary was relatively hidden. It was carved into the natural cliff face of the mountainside and allowed to become overgrown with vegetation. The stone slab door had several indentations, each in the shape of a flame, hovering above the 27 Candles.

  Granvich reached for his head and carefully tore a small bundle of hairs from it, ensuring the roots came with them before dipping them into the small trickle of blood they created. He dabbed the makeshift brush and his bodily paint into each indentation before lighting the bundle of hair on his torch. A sacrifice of blood from the faithful, embellished by the flame of the righteous, opened the ancient door before us.