The Tyranny of the Pure

It was a bright spring morning and the children were playing happily along the banks of the stream. The air was fresh, a light breeze blew in from the sea, carrying with it a faintly, perceptible salt tang. From my vantage point on Giant's rock I could look down across the vale to the small stand of trees that clumped around the stream where it ran out of the valley and down across the meadows to where it joined the river. It was a favourite place of mine and I often came here just to sit and think. I leant back against the boulder and enjoyed the warm sun. It was a perfect morning, the birds sang, the shrieks and carefree chatter of the children and the constant susurrus of the stream as it made its way down the dale soon lulled me into a light sleep.

From her vantage point higher up the bluff Angela watched the young man fall asleep. She too was enjoying the warmth, but it did not heal her pain and anguish. As was usual at times like this Angela's tears often brimmed up and filled her eyes. The sight of children affected her so. In life she had longed for children, as a Forsaken such desires were worthless. Over and over again she asked herself what she had done to deserve her fate. She was consumed with self-pity and despised herself for it. The summer before she had stood in this very place, proud to be a holy paladin, even more proud to have received her mount. Perhaps it had been the sin of pride that brought her down? Yet in her heart she knew that was not true. She had been humble and she had served willingly and with an open mind and heart. Then one day, one terrible day, she had strayed through the pass from the Hinterlands to the Plague lands and been overwhelmed by the Scourge, infected and left to die. The awakening had been terrible. The horror of realising she was the same person but locked within her own corpse had driven her to the edge. Desperate she had returned to her family hoping that her father, the Abbot, would be able to help her. She had scarce escaped with her life, if that be what it could be called. They had not even given her the chance. The fear, vitriol and hatred they showed her. Her father's cries echoed in her ears ...

You are no daughter of mine, you are filth, you are a foul abomination.

And so she had died a second time. The betrayal by those whom she thought had loved and cared for her, excoriated her through and through. And what was her sin? To have been fallen in battle and infected with a disease. How was this her fault? And a slow realisation had begun to come to her; that there was a profound wrongness at the core of the Church's teachings.

The orc band was desperate. Outcasts from the Horde, they had plundered travellers and merchants using the road out of Duskwood into Redridge. But Magistrate Solomon's men had discovered their hideout and they had been harried and driven from Redridge. All night they had fled from the Alliance patrols, and now the few that were left were exhausted, many were carrying severe wounds. Achron, the band leader, knew their plight was dire. Unless they could get to Longshore and escape south they could expect no mercy. In the distance he could hear the hounds and distant shouting and knew that the pursuit was closing in. He cast his eye over the remnants of his band, eight left. They had been twenty nine the night before last. Most had died in the their beds in the first bloody assault, the rest as they had fought their way out of the encircling troops. They had lost them then in the dark. Driving rain had aided them, but then they had run straight into more troopers south of a logging camp. From then it had been a night of increasing desperation, the pursuit drawing ever closer.

"We must keep moving" he hissed. But they all knew that anyway.

Achron peered out of the thicket of bushes where they were hidden. They were at the lip of a small dell, through which a stream ran. He could see half a dozen human young playing and laughing. A horn call echoed out much nearer and Achron looked about wildly. He could hear the approaching soldiers and knew they were out of time. Urging them to their feet he burst out of cover and charged down the slope, heading directly for the children.

I woke with a start, and sat up, looking around. I could hear shouting and the sound of dogs baying, then from out of the bushes away to my left, a band of orcs suddenly appeared running fast down the slope. A horse and rider crashed through the foliage behind them, the trooper wielding a javelin. The orc nearest to him turned about and drew his bow, but he was not fast enough and the trooper ran him threw. I had never seen any creature killed before and I found it shocking. I stood, my hands to my mouth, as the scene unfolded before me. The orcs ran scant feet ahead of the leading rider and reached the scattering, screaming children. The leading orc pounced on one, a young girl, then turned at bay and held his sword at the child's throat. Another rider appeared at the gallop and then pulled up fast, the horse rearing. The orcs stood back to back in a tight circle, each carrying a squirming, struggling child, then at some unseen command they turned and loped off down the dell heading for the river. It all seemed so unreal to me. The troopers held back, unable to attack for fear of hurting the children. But I could not see how the orcs hoped to get away.

Angela saw everything and realised immediately what needed to be done. She dashed down the slope, heading for the clump of trees at the mouth of the valley. She moved fast, leaping wildly and without regard for her own safety. She reached the trees just as the first orc ran past and she leapt out, crashing into the orc. Stunned the orc let go of the child and Angela instantly thrust the child behind her, took out her dirk and plunged it into the orc's eye: a killing thrust. With a roar two orcs dropped their burdens and charged her. But Angela had not forgotten her skills; she side stepped the wild thrust of the first orc and slit his throat, then dodged the second one, tripped him and leapt onto his back and again used her knife to the same effect. The remaining orcs, dismayed and leaderless, dropped their hostages and ran howling and screaming in all directions as the troopers, now joined by several men at arms, took their chance and attacked. Angela rose to her feet and smiled and for the first time since that terrible awakening she felt as if she might have a place and a purpose. She turned to check on the child she had rescued and never saw the mace that crashed across her skull.

And now ?

I was called to stand witness at the trial of the Forsaken, for they captured her and took her back to the dungeons under the cathedral. I will not call it a cathedral of light anymore. I testified to what I had seen; that the Forsaken had saved the children. But the priests and holy warriors did not wish to hear that truth. They wanted a truth in which the Undead led the orcs in a raid to steal our children for their own foul purposes. They did not want a truth wherein a Forsaken was capable of good and honourable deeds. They did not want to acknowledge that none of the Forsaken chose to be such, that they were simply victims. A truth which acknowledged that a Forsaken had a conscience, even a soul, could not be countenanced.

And because I told the truth, that truth also had to be denied. The troopers ? They were easily persuaded. I had given my oath and even so I would not lie. So I must have been the accomplice of the Undead filth, and even more to be vilified for the treachery I had shown.

So this is my last will and testament, for I am condemned to death and will burn at the same stake as the Forsaken. And I shall be proud to stand beside her. The pure of our church have shown me a truth; that no light of understanding or forgiveness exists in their world, that all must be one thing or the other, black or white. Their world is ruled by a tyranny of the pure.

But I know that the Light is within each and everyone of us.

OOC: This story was inspired by the single phrase "the tyranny of the pure", from a wonderful short story by Stephen Donaldson called the Killing Stroke.