The Benevolent Inquisition

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. I have suffered vampires and werewolves, as well as elves, fairies, unicorns, and about a dozen other monstrosities here for years. But never a dragon. Not till that night…

I was watching my favorite 24-hour news channel in the living room of my little log cabin, nestled here in this thickly forested valley. The stained, battered old recliner I chilled in hardly fit the Swiss chalet décor. On the other hand, my flat screen high-definition TV almost covered the opposite wall.

A painting hung over the rocky mantle to my right. The artist had completed it before Columbus “discovered” America. A cozy fire burned in the hearth below it, crackling warmly against the chill of an early spring night.

Painted on the canvas is a majestic black castle on a hill, banners fluttering from soaring towers, a full moon blazing behind it. Descending from the citadel is a path winding its way down through a forest of black, leafless trees. Looking at the scene, you can almost feel the bitter wind that makes the castle banners snap and see the trees claw their skeletal branches against the moonlit sky...

Meanwhile, “…. entire village of forty-two inhabitants massacred in the Kasai Region," said the TV. "Government officials insist the violence is the work of separatist rebels, and that they will punish the terrorists responsible for this ethnic cleansing. In other news…”

“Sounds like Brother Mobutu is in over his head,” I muttered aloud. “Looks like I’m about to take a trip…”

And there it was-- the sudden thump of approaching footsteps. Alarmed, I clicked at the TV, silencing the news and replacing it with four screens, each from cameras monitoring the front, back and sides of my house. Nothing. Who or whatever was making the footsteps should have been close enough to see, even at night. Worse, my perimeter alarms had not tripped…

“Invisibility!” I shouted and darted to retrieve my Helm of Saint Lucy from the cross-shaped stand that supported my chain mail.

While grabbing the helmet with both hands I froze, for I noticed something different about the painting. Eerily, a tiny figure was about halfway down the road winding from the castle; it has not been there before. Now there could be no mistaking from whence the footsteps came, even as the figure progressively bloomed into a Knight Templar.

Said Knight was in full Crusader gear; helmet, chainmail, white surcoat and shield both emblazoned with a red cross, sword scabbarded in a belt about his waist. He removed his helm as he walked, revealing hair and long beard as white as snow, and a face weathered with years. This man soon popped full size out of the painting and hopped down off the mantle and into my living room. I quickly took a knee to the oaken floorboards, crossed myself and bowed my head.

“Grand Inquisitor,” I proclaimed, “Deus Vult!”

“Deus Vult!” he echoed, and commanded, “Rise, Brother Solomon.”

“Master” said I, and stood up on my feet, adding, “Let me get you some refreshment.”

The boss nodded, so I turned from him and opened a closet. Inside was a female corpse wearing a classic black and white French maid’s uniform. It even had a feather duster in its hand.

“Braaains..!” the thing moaned.

“Drop the duster,” I told it, and it did so. “Go to the kitchen. Then go to the refrigerator. Open the refrigerator. Take the platter on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Take the bottle of wine on the bottom shelf. Close the refrigerator. Bring the platter and the bottle to me.”

“Yesss Masss – ster…” the corpse hissed, and it lurched out of the closet and staggered toward the kitchen.

“Heresy!” the boss roared, and stabbed his gauntleted right index finger at my maid.

Ka-boom! The zombie blew apart with a thunderclap, showering the room with foul gobbets of rotten corpse.

“Dude!” I complained, lifting and spreading my hands. “You got zombie guts all over my brand-new TV! What’s the matter with you?!”

“Brother Solomon!” the Grand Inquisitor barked, eyes flashing with anger. “Quite the racket you’ve got going on here, son. Taking bribes from monsters we are sworn to destroy?”

“We are sworn to protect the innocent,” I retorted, pulling off my shirt. “Here in Monster Valley, I protect people by keeping these monsters isolated from society rather than indulge in the cruel brutality of killing them on sight. And I do not take bribes. The citizens of the Valley graciously provide voluntary donations to their beloved Lord Mayor.”

Once I got my shirt off, I used it to wipe the zombie splatter from the boss, starting with his face.

“We destroy monsters because they kill people,” the old Crusader protested.

“So? Monsters don’t kill a tenth as many people as are killed by other people.”

“Brother Solomon, know ye that these abominations you protect are worthy of death!”

“Are we not all sinners?"

“Young man…!”

“Don’t dismiss me as a kid. Next month I’ll be 100 years old.”

“I escaped the disaster on the Horns of Hattin in the year of our Lord 1187; you’re but a suckling babe.”

By now, my poor shirt had become fully saturated with filth.

“Allow your servant to fetch a proper towel and a bowl of water, Grandmaster.”

“Please do.”

I hustled to the kitchen. When I got there, I squeezed a gout of dishwashing soap into a punchbowl and filled it at the sink. I returned to my Boss with a full bowl of hot, soapy water and some fresh towels.

“I figured you would order me to help Brother Mobutu,” I explained as I worked, cleaning him. “But why come in person for that? You could have just picked up a phone.”

“Brother Mobutu is beyond our help. He’s dead, Solomon.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so, and I am assembling a team of my best Inquisitors to avenge him.”

“I’d be honored to be part of such a team.”

“I’m sure you would, but you’ve got your own problems.”

“Excuse me?”

The Grand Inquisitor pulled off his right gauntlet and picked up my smartphone from the coffee table asking, “What’s the code?”

“Ten ninety-nine, my lord.”

“I could have guessed that myself,” he muttered, tapping away.

He turned toward the TV, and I saw menus from my phone flashing, even through the splatters of zombie filth. Soon, the screen was filled with a horrific scene; aftermath of pitiless slaughter.

“Good Lord!” I gasped.

“What do you see, my son?” asked the Boss.

“A man, a woman, three little ones. Someone tore their camper open and made a bloody mess of them all.”

“This massacre was recorded a little over two miles from this very spot.”

“But that’s impossible. This is a privately funded nature preserve. It’s off limits to campers and hunters and anybody else but the Wardens. I mean, there’s a reason I chose this valley. No one from the outside world is supposed to be here.”

“What about the ski resort?”

“Master, that place is six miles of untamed wilderness to the north of here. And it’s not a straight shot either it’s like, three times that distance of old logging trails. And the whole preserve is surrounded by a fence with signs telling everyone to keep out. How did they get past the fence?”

“Well, you must have gates in this fence to admit those supply trucks, correct?”

“There’s one gate, and the Wardens won’t let anybody in or out without my explicit...”

“…If you wish to stay hidden, why are you only six miles from that resort?”

“The ski resort is cover for all the supplies we need. The resort manager orders supplies, and a portion of those orders reaches the Valley.”

The Grand Inquisitor took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Please forgive me, dear brother,” he sighed. “But I have deceived you in a ruse of war.”

“Excuse me?”

“These murders did not happen in your… Monster Valley. But by your reaction, I see you had nothing to do with this atrocity. I am also satisfied with the steps you have taken to keep the public out of the Valley and your monsters confined therein.”

Before I could stop myself, I shoved the Grand Inquisitor hard enough to slam any college football player into the wall – I should know. But the aged Crusader only staggered.

“You dare!” I howled. “How could you possibly believe that I would have anything to do with… with this!”

“I have seen false Brothers do worse,” my bearded Master calmly replied. “And be honest my son, your methods of monster hunting are… unconventional, to say the least. I was not sure how far you had drifted from our sacred quest.”

“Our sacred quest is to protect innocent people, and I am doing that. Now where were those poor people murdered?

“At an RV park at the ski resort,” the Boss explained. “Our contacts in the resort and in the press have already blamed the tragedy on carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty heater the family brought with them.”

“Wouldn’t it have been more believable to blame it on a bear attack?”

“And what would the ‘dangerous bears’ story do for the reputation of your ski resort?”

“Well, the killers couldn’t have been any of my monsters,” I spat with a defensiveness I did not intend. “They know better. That is a popular ski resort. I dare say the monster who attacked those people is hiding amongst the tourists even now.”

“I had hoped that was the case, my son. But the fact remains that Brother Running Bear has followed the trail of the attackers all the way to Monster Valley.”

“No!”

“Yes. It was I who called them off, Brother Solomon. Without me, a battalion of the Brethren would be burning your town to the ground as we speak and purging the inhabitants with faith and sword. But I can only hold them for so long…”

“Grandmaster please,” I begged, “Give me a week to find out who is responsible for this unspeakable evil!”

“You have three days, my son.”

*

A few minutes after the departure of the Grand Inquisitor found me in full Crusader gear (armor, sword, and all), headed to town, bumping down a narrow, twisty logging trail in a big, four-wheel drive pickup; another fine gift from one of my monsters. Thick forest pressed hard on either side of the trail. I did not need my headlights, because I was wearing the Helm of Saint Lucy. Not that it was that dark in the first place; the full moon was up.

My smartphone is synced to the media in my truck, so I manipulated some buttons on my steering wheel and made a call.

“Hey baby,” an unseen woman purred, her playful voice filling the cab.

“Sheriff,” I snapped. “We have… an issue.”

“Oh?” the Sheriff responded, her voice taking on a more professional tone. “What can I do for my Lord Mayor?”

“I have good reason to believe that some of our citizens went over to the ski resort today and slaughtered an entire family, including three little kids.”

“Good God!”

“Exactly, Sheriff. And we both know who was put in charge of making sure no one exits or enters the Valley without my permission!”

“But… but… Solly I mean, Lord Mayor… according to the Ravens, none of us has left the Valley for the past 24 hours! The Wardens don’t report any unusual activity, either. And I just completed a perimeter scan of the boundary fence with the Mirror in my office, finding no breaches.”

“The Inquisition’s best tracker traced the killers straight to our town, Vanessa!”

“I’ll get to the bottom of this Solly,” the woman insisted. “No one makes a fool of Sheriff Vanessa von Blücher!”

“Calm down, my little butterfly,” I sighed. “We’re all in this together. I want a meeting of the Town Council at the Church. Now. You, me, the Baron, Dr. Hatchet, and Henri.”

“Solly, you know the Baron can’t enter a faithful church.”

“Oh yeah. Well, we’ll do it at your place.”

“Oh, and Henri Lacroix wants to be called ‘Henri Garou’ now.”

“The hell with that. You’re not running around calling yourself Vanessa Nosferatu, are you? The point is…”

It was a curious phenomenon that had cut me off mid-sentence. My medieval chainmail briefly glowed a bright shade of blue, then shed a shower of sparks with a sound like broken glass.

“Solly?” Vanessa asked, worry in her voice.

“Someone just cast a spell at me,” I snarled, trying to ‘Waldo’ my attacker from out of the forested surroundings while safely guiding the truck.

“Jokes on them; your Armor of Righteousness makes you immune to magic. Everyone in the Valley knows that. Looks like we had an outsider sneak in. Perhaps this outsider had a hand in that resort attack.”

“Wow ‘Nessa, you almost sound relieved.”

“I’d much rather be blamed for letting outsiders sneak in, than for letting any of us escape and butcher innocent children! I…”

Bright, blue-white forks of lightning crackled all over the inside of my cab, in a popping, sizzling craze of electricity. The sharp tang of ozone filled my nostrils, my dashboard went black, and the truck ground to a halt.

“Sheriff?” I cried and tried to start the tuck again. Not a sound.

“Vanessa!” I yelled, messing with the phone controls on my steering wheel. Then I looked at the phone itself; completely dead.

There was a tremendous crack! followed by a loud, low groan. Through the windshield I beheld a huge tree falling my way. I clicked open my seatbelt, snatched up my shield from the passenger seat, opened the door, and hurled myself from the truck. I was just in time; the bole of a great pine fell across my truck, crushing the cab like an aluminum beer can as the remaining windows and windshield exploded in blizzards of glass.

As I lay in the dirt road, fountains of earth suddenly erupted all around me. Meanwhile, with staccato dings of punched metal, my truck suddenly sprouted a carpet of holes like a colander. Is it weird that I noticed all of this before I heard the roar of automatic gunfire?

There was a small, sharp hill on the wooded right side of the road, and at the top was a large boulder. I scrambled up over my tree-crushed truck and dashed up the hill through a hail of fire, shouting a few words my grandmother would have slapped me for.

They got me three times before I could make it to cover. Something bounced off the back of my Helm of Saint Lucy with a lurid, ricochet whine. Two more rounds slammed into my back. Not enough to penetrate my armor – thank God – but it still hurt. A lot.

Finally, I hurled myself behind the rock, gasping for breath, groaning with pain.

“I got him, I got him!” someone was crowing. “I know I got him!”

“Quiet Brom!” a young woman complained. “I know I cast invisibility on the team, but just because he can’t see us, doesn’t mean he can’t hear us. Quit shouting!”

The most disturbing thing about all of this was that I recognized their voices.

I twisted about as I lay on the ground and, peeking out from behind the rock, looked up the road.

Five people – teenagers – were running down the road in my direction. There were four boys and one girl. Three of the boys carried Russian style automatic rifles in their hands at the ready, while one carried what looked like a large caliber hunting rifle with scope; apparently, he was the sniper of the team. The girl appeared unarmed.

Because of the Helm of Saint Lucy, I could see that the girl was shrouded in multiple hues of magic, indicating that several spells were active on her person. One of those spells must have been keeping her warm, because while the boys were all bundled up in heavy winter clothing, she was dressed in a thin summer dress with the skirt down to just above her knees, and she walked barefoot. She was also wearing a large iron pentagram on her chest hung on a leather thong about her neck, and with my Helm, I could see the pentagram pulsing malevolently with deep crimson blood magic.

A purple hue cloaked the boys, indicating they were under some kind of illusion enchantment; apparently, invisibility.

“Why didn’t you stop him in the kill zone?” a bespectacled boy complained. "Then we wouldn't have to run!"

“I tried Hans,” the girl retorted. “I cast a sleep spell on him but apparently, he really is like, totally immune to magic. At least his truck wasn’t immune. Neither was that tree.”

My heart fell. The girl was Juno, a human skilled in the forbidden arts, and the daughter of Vanessa’s favorite ghoul. In case you don’t know, a ghoul is a special human servant of a vampire; think Renfield, who worked for Dracula. Ghouls are generally tougher and stronger than normal people.

Two of the boys were brothers, Hans and Greg, ghouls of their vampire grandfather. One was Konrad, a blood doll. A blood doll is essentially ambulatory blood storage, part of a “herd” of humans bound to a particular vampire, in this case, the grandfather of Hans and Greg. The final boy, the one with the hunting rifle, was Brom, a “living” zombie (as opposed to the mindless kind). “Living” zombies rot continuously and will rot to dust without a steady diet of brains, but while human gray matter is most nutritious for them, the brains of any vertebrate will do.

I knew their parents, yet here these kids were apparently intent on murdering me. I remember asking myself, “maybe they don’t know who I am.”

“I’m going to blow the Lord Mayor’s head off myself!” Hans bragged, which answered that question.

I drew my large .45 handgun and dumped out the magazine filled with special bullets. I replaced that mag with one full of normal lead rounds, of which I had thousands in storage. Bullets forged from silver mined from King Solomon’s Mines, blessed by a faithful Pastor, and marinated in holy water that was first drawn from Jacob’s Well on Easter Sunday are expensive, and I didn’t want to waste any on these clowns.

I know what you’re thinking, “they’re just kids”. Well, they’re not just kids, they’re unclean abominations. As a Crusader Knight of the Holy Inquisition, I can kill a monster on sight for literally no reason at all, much less for trying to murder me. The only problem was the girl, who was a normal Human, and not a monster per se. Yes, she was a witch, but purging witches stopped being an Inquisition thing over 200 years ago. I opted to capture her alive if at all possible.

“Maybe they’re all under compulsion,” I muttered as I changed magazines. “Except my Helm does not detect mind control on any of them.”

“Everyone run into the woods over there opposite that rock,” Juno commanded, pointing. “Brom, what are you doing? We’re going over here!”

“I know I hit him!” Brom insisted, striding over to my hiding spot even as the rest of his squad deviated to the forest across the road from me. “He’s behind that rock, bleeding out or already dead.”

“Come on Brom, man…!” Greg complained.

“Let him go!” snapped Juno in disgust. “He never was down with taking orders from a woman, anyway. Good riddance Brom you…” and I won’t repeat her insult.

Brom replied with an equally filthy insult of his own and continued up the little hill at me, crashing through the brush. I lay on my back, brought my knees to my chest, and aimed my weapon upward. Brom was a “living” zombie, so I had to get him in the brain; shoot him anywhere else, and it probably wouldn’t even slow the monster down.

The noise of the zombie crashing ever closer was almost drowned out by the pounding of my heart, but as soon as his face popped out from behind that rock, I centered the barrel of my pistol on his nose and squeezed the trigger. There was a bright flash and impossibly loud bang as the gun kicked in my hands, and the visible results made it obvious I got that brain. Horrifically, Brom continued to stride toward me as if nothing happened, but then he tripped over something and toppled sideways to the ground like a felled tree.

Greg howled a curse word. Konrad shrieked. Hans was rather more communicative.

“He’s dead!” Hans screamed. “Brom’s dead, he’s dead, oh my God!”

“Don’t panic!” Juno shouted. “Get ahold of yourselves our we’re all dead!”

“What do we do?” Konrad wailed.

“Use a telekinesis spell to move the stone out of the way, Juno!” Hans suggested.

“I’ve tried Hans, it’s too heavy. Look, here’s what we do. I’ll use a fire spell…”

“He’s immune to your magic!”

“The trees aren’t immune to my magic, you moron! When the fire flushes him out from behind the rock, you guys light him up!”

“Please don’t set the forest on fire Juno,” begged Konrad. “The lupines will kill us!”

“And who’s going to tell them it was us, you coward? You? Now let’s do this!”

A thin, bright line of flame zoomed out of the forest on the other side of the road and connected with the pine directly behind me, about halfway up the trunk. The whole tree went up like a raging torch. Before long, there was a painfully hot wall of flames roaring behind me.

I lay on my back, my shield on my left arm and my .45 auto in my right hand. Then, bracing myself with my elbows, I planted my boots on the rock and pushed with all my might, howling my determination. Thanks to the Girdle of St. Christopher, the boulder slowly gave way until it began to tumble down the hill.

“Shoot him!” yelled Juno, but I was already up on my feet and running downhill behind the rolling stone as it picked up speed, shielding me from the storm of bullets buzzing my way. The huge rock bowled into the road, bounced up and over the felled tree and then smashed into the woods beyond, scattering my would-be assassins like partridge.

“Stop him, guys!” Juno wailed, backing up, “Cover me!”

With that, she turned and fled the field. Konrad, showing little interest in obeying Juno’s last order, took to his heels as well. But the two ghouls -- Hans and his brother Greg -- obediently stood their ground, both spewing automatic fire as I raised my shield. Greg missed entirely, but Hans’ bullets bounced harmlessly off my Shield of Faith. I raised my handgun…

Bang, bang, bang! Greg threw up his arms and collapsed. He was much tougher than a normal 18-year-old boy, but not so tough he could survive two .45 caliber rounds in his chest and one in his face at close range.

“Greg!” howled Hans, as he slapped a fresh magazine into his weapon.

“You’re alone, son,” I told him. “Tell me what this is all about and I let you live.”

Instead, he replied with an obscenity and raised his weapon at me. So, I shot him too; two in the chest, one in the head.

Except he didn’t fall. And the three spent cartridges from the rounds that hit him, while ejected from my gun, froze in midair. Only then did they start to drift, tumbling slowly toward the ground. Yes, my world was suddenly in slow motion, and that could only mean one thing; my Boots of Saint Sebastian were accelerating my speed to match a threat of supernatural quickness.

I turned at the crash of brush behind me. There I beheld a growling, hunched monstrosity, like a heavily-muscled biped completely covered in fur, half again my height, feet and hands like a man but head like a snarling wolf, each finger tipped with wicked claws. The full moon was behind him, casting silver in his shaggy fur, and he stood suddenly to his full height, threw his head back and howled. Classic.

“Louis Lacroix!” I declared, except I pronounced his name, ‘Lew-wee’. “It’s me boy, Uncle Sol. You mind telling me what the hell’s going…?”

Apparently, he did mind. The werewolf bellowed and charged. I got my Shield up just in time and he crashed into it, knocking me to the ground as he landed on top. With the Girdle of St. Christopher, I had the strength to push up with my shield and legs, throwing the beast up and off, back over my head. Then we both scrambled to our feet.

The magazine of blessed silver bullets sure would have come in real handy about that time, but I was in a face-to-face melee, and there was no way Louis was going to give me the time I needed to switch out my normal lead bullets, which were about as harmful to him as raindrops.

“Talk to me, Louis!” I demanded. "You can’t be under compul…”

He rushed me again, clawing at my face. I raised my Shield in defense, but it was a feint; he grabbed the edge of my Shield, yanking it sideways to open my guard. Then he dug in with his other hand and clawed up my belly with a shower of sparks. I could feel myself bleed; without armor, that blow would have completely disemboweled me. I think the Armor of Righteousness would better protect me if I lived a more righteous life.

Louis was hauling on my Shield like crazy. I released my left-handed grip on one of the two forearm straps and let him yank the thing clean off my arm. He staggered back, off balance, not expecting me to yield my Shield so easily. I used the distraction to drop my gun and draw my Sword of the Spirit from its scabbard. The blade gleamed silver in the moonlight only briefly before holy fire raced from the hilt to the point, bathing the whole blade in livid flames.

The furry, muscle-bound werewolf, brimming with speed and power, howled loud enough to flutter my eardrums. He leapt to the side, landing feet first on the trunk of a tree, then hunched and sprang to another, bouncing rapidly from tree to tree all about me like a frenzied pinball in an obvious attempt to confuse the direction of his attack. He finally launched from behind in a flying tackle, toothy jaws and claws wide, but the Helm of Saint Lucy gives me 360-degree vision, so I ducked. As he was passing over me, I turned and struck with the fiery Sword of the Spirit, and his furry right forearm came off, spinning away in slow motion.

Except the furry arm wasn’t… furry anymore. It was a muscular, scaly reptilian foot, tipped in black talons, and much, much larger...!

The reptilian foot, my handgun, and the three shells I ejected earlier, slowly drifting downwards, plunged suddenly to the ground. Hans finally sagged to the forest floor on his face. Then a dark shadow bloomed over me…

I looked up and behold; a gargantuan horned-headed reptile hovering over the treetops, loudly flapping its leathery batwings, whipping its long tail. The beast had four legs, except one of its two forelegs was vacant from the knee down…

“This… this is impossible!” I gasped, awestruck, despising the evidence of my eyes. “You can’t be… that last dragon was hunted down and slain by the Inquisition over a thousand years ago! You… this is an illusion. It has to be…!"

“Wear you not the Helm of St. Lucy?” the dragon cackled, voice like a hissing serpent, a forked toungue flicking from its mouth. “What do you see?”

“Werewolves can’t turn into dragons,” I insisted.

“You have it exactly backwards, Uncle Sol.”

“Dragons can’t turn into werewolves either.”

“How do you think we survived?” the monster retorted. “The remnant of us who yet live learned how to turn into all kinds of things!”

“What now Louis? You’re going to cremate your Uncle Sol with dragon breath? Seriously?”

“I wish not to start a conflagration that endangers my neighbors and maddens the lupines. We would free the Valley from the Inquisition’s tyranny, not destroy it.”

“Louis,” I sighed, “Just what in the name of all that is holy is going on here, boy?”

“Ask your vampire whore of a Sheriff,” the dragon replied, snickering. “In the meantime, I see that none of your magic toys allow you to fly. And so, I take my leave of thee. Farewell, Crusader. We shall meet again.”

With that, his wings flapped violently – whoosh! -- stirring up a hurricane of leaves and dust as he burst into the sky. By the time I’d cleared the debris from my eyes and reload my handgun with the blessed silver bullets, the dragon was far beyond pistol range.

A massive water elemental and a pack of werewolves arrived to deal with the blaze Juno’s dark magic had kindled. As for me, “Heretic,” was all I could say, awed as I watched Louis soar majestically though the night sky.