The Fiery Hand of Katakarus

One of the Myths of Ixonia

Dec 13, 2023

*Monastery Graveyard in the Snow* [Cropped] by Caspar David Friedrich

The snow drifted lazily about the ruined monastery, the old home of the Cult of Katakarus. The archway door stood proud, as did the dizzyingly tall altar windows that, along with the surrounding oaks and yews, valiantly strove to touch the clouds. The glass had long since shattered but the stone remained, intact somehow. Stony paths in the ground revealed where walls had been, thick slabs, uneven and cracked, where the rooms had been but that was all. Only the archway and windows remained, along with a crumbling altar centred between the two.

Maewund kicked the snow as he lead the procession of twenty inside the crumbling ruins. He had been here before. Had performed the ritual before, but this time there was a jolt to the air or perhaps it was merely the mid-winter cold. He could not afford to lose faith a second time. Dungral entered beside him, the other eighteen processed in pairs behind them. Maewund hid his hands in his sleeves for an ounce of warmth as he and Dungral parted to walk crescents either side of what remained of the altar stone. The others did the same until Maewund and Dungral stood side-by-side at one end and the others formed a circle around the altar. The smooth, flat altar stood proud and untouched by the snow, heraldry at each end long since worn away along with branches and leaves carved about the base.

'Some of you have stood here before, most of you have not, either way listen closely. Do not attempt to talk once the chant takes hold. Do not interact with anything that is not one of us. We are here for to banish an evil spirit, a powerful one that has rebuffed us before leaving us without the luxury of failure this time,' Maewund pressed his hands together and closed his eyes to begin the chant. The others followed suit.

'Ustu maerim pofirgu lomus. Castierum molentae ustu qoru restae lomus,' Maewund began in a deep boiling tone. The rest followed and the words echoed from the twenty monks down to the snow and up to the night sky. Maewund's head spun and a heady fog clogged his mind. The smell of sandalwood and rosemary filled his nostrils and clawed at his throat, dry and rasping. Still Maewund repeated the lines again and again and again until the sound was reverberated back at him. He opened his eyes to flickering candlelight and plumes of smoke wilting overhead rolling like clouds against the vaulted ceiling. Glass had returned to the windows, replete with saints and creatures like fire-breathing ilyoks and the steel clawed bagolys. The door was closed, a horrid wind battered the monastery. The oaks and yews raged outside while fire burned in the many fireplaces of the main hall. Long dead monks walked the halls once again fidgeting with their robes, praying, or in silent meditation. An old friend passed Maewund and he fought the urge to reach out and say hello. The monks of the monastery weaved around and through the circle of twenty without ever noticing them, such were the rules of miracles.

A younger monk, his hair freshly shorn, muttered something aloud. A plea. A prayer. As someone he recognised shuffled past. 'My brother... do you not see me?' but the monastery monk carried on by, unbeknownst.

'Shh!' Dungral hissed. The sharp noise bounced up and up reverberating off the fluted columns. The monks of the monastery and the twenty all looked up as a chandelier rocked and hot white wax rained down.

'It comes,' Maewund said.

The fires gutted out, the wind burrowed through the chimneys scattering fire and ash across the hall, and the glass windows shattered. With it came a black mist glittering with a thousand eyes and thousands of teeth. The monastery monks screamed, some of the twenty did too.

'Margo protum,' Maewund clapped his hands and a great bubble enveloped the twenty, the obsidian mist moulded over the bubble, spreading throughout the great hall. Blinking eyes and gnawing teeth pressed against the protection miracle causing great ripples and casting multicoloured cones across its surface. The youngest of the twenty broke the circle. He stumbled toward the altar, running a hand over his freshly shorn scalp, and gawped up at the evil spirit, that creature of mist. 'Leofric, return to your post,' Maewund ordered with an even, sharp tone.

The boy didn't listen. Leofric walked hip first into the altar and wheezed, he caught himself with both hands on the rough stone and stared down, eyes widening until almost entirely white. He screamed, his face becoming enveloped in black mist.

Maewund's heart mingled with his guts, his concentration pulled taut and unwinding like old rope. Leofric's screams were muffled by the shadow entombing his head and he ran wildly about and crashed into the miracle. The bubble cracked and burst into raindrops that soaked the monks, the spirit fell with the rain like a torrent of water from a cut gourd. Maewund and Dungral performed their sigils causing the air to burn about them with short lived flame. The evil mist burned and shrank from the holy fire. 'Quickly! Your sigils! Your miracles! Call on the power of Katakarus! You must!'

But it was too late, panic had set in and with it the death of the mind. Leofric wailed as he rolled on the floor, the evil spirit gnawing at his head, his arms, his legs, tattered robes lay around him and a pool of blood began to spread beneath him. Three monks hurried for the door but that was no hope, this was not their world and beyond the monastery lay nothing real. While Maewund and Dungral retreated to the semi-circle bay beneath the tall shattered windows the monks of the monastery were calling upon Katakarus yet the words fell limp from their lips and bereft of power. Maewund's heart sank further and he wondered how long his own connection would last.

The black mist tightened and coalesced into a dense patch at the east door that led into the sleeping quarters. With each foot the mist retreated revealed a dead monk, a devoured corpse, a destroyed relic. It had all happened so fast. So fast. Maewund thought he was ready, thought they were all ready, but they weren't. He looked over to the elder of the monastery laying on his back, panting, with blood drenching his legs. The old man caught Maewund's gaze and nodded.

How can he see me? Maewund thought. That didn't happen last time.

'Casargo!' the elder bellowed and a great explosion of light and sound radiated from the man and took the form of the monastery with a shimmer. The evil spirit made a gurgling screech that may have been laugh and enveloped the elder, devouring him to the bone. The black mist of eyes and teeth rose to the roof and slammed into the stone vault. The building rocked and the miracle glistened. The spirit growled and charged into the roof, the roof broke and crumbled to the floor yet the spirit remained trapped by a shimmering wall of light. The dark being screeched and crashed into the walls of stone and light again and again yet as the monastery fell to ruin the elder's miracle remained sturdy.

Maewund helped Dungral to his feet, blood trickled down from the bearded monk's ear. He surveyed the ruin, almost to its present date state save for the corpses. So many corpses. None had survived and now it fell to Maewund and Dungral to destroy the spirit or flee.

'Iiiii ssseeeeee yoouuuuu,' the evil spirit circled overhead before diving at Maewund. 'Youuuuu arrrrrrre ffffffarr frrrrrommm hoooome,' the black mist coiled and widened into a maw.

'Cal gos rotus!' Maewund channelled Katakarus's power and punched toward the mist. A force shoved the monk to the floor and buffeted the spirit till it became thin and transparent.

'Terrato ai blistus,' Dungral growled. An arrow of light pierced a hole in the spirit and the two halves separated like tearing parchment.

The evil spirit cackled from both parts floating over head traversing wary circles around the monks. 'Issss thattttt alll yoouuuurr god prrrroviiidessss? WEAK! PITIFUL!' the thousands of eyes bulged from the mist.

Maewund's stomach turned to water, a searing pain stabbed between his eyes and he fell to his knees clutching his head and screaming. Dungral fell to the floor, arching his back, his fingers flexed like those of a dead man. He rolled and shouted wordlessly. Dungral... he's the problem... if I... NO! That's the evil talking. Two voices vied in his head, shouting over the blinding pain, one belonged to him and the other to the spirit. If the spirit won then, well that would explain how the monks lost their faith. He centred himself, pushing the thought of pain to the periphery and accepting it as a part of him rather than an intrusion. Rising to his knees he prayed silently without ceasing, sweat drenched his back from the effort, the weight of the evil spirits influence threatening to buckle him over. Yet he defied the evil for that was his duty.

'Sintesia,' his lips quivered with the effort to form the syllables, such was the pain. Both halves of the demonic mist surged for Maewund, its teeth chattering and gnawing. It grazed Maewund's nose. A great blue flame erupted from the altar, great cerulean fingers grew long and formed a cage around the evil spirit. The black mist ceased its magic and flew upward, smashing into the elder monk's seal. The blue flames entwined themselves around the two halves of the evil spirit. Maewund focussed on the miracle, directing the fire and praying for his faith to remain insurmountable as the slightest doubt or distraction would be his undoing. The tendrils of flame locked against one another and the great hand dragged the evil spirit down to the altar. Lower and lower they went until the flames descended below the altar. The evil spirit fought and roared until it was deep below the earth, exiled to the Rift.

Dungral lay on his back, unconscious but breathing, a stream of blood knotting his beard. Maewund dragged him towards the altar and lay a hand upon the stone. The world flickered and Maewund felt snow upon his head and the peace of the forest all around him.