“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

And so his low voice echoed as he traced the Trinity on forehead, heart and shoulders, as reflected by the crosses branded at those very points of benediction. Alone among the brothers of the Maledictine Order, serving at Cumberland Unction, he gazed into the mirrored cross of the Prior, possessed with the most sincere dread that he might detect a strand of weakness in the reflection gathered therein, the only objective reflection cast for its maker in the entire Priory.

The man whom looked back at him had eyes of iron which peered narrowly from the hooded cloak of steely-mail and coal-black wool, nose straight with purpose, cheeks gaunt of the fast, lips thin with resolve. And so must the Rector of this priory and his attendant vectors find their reflection in his eyes, otherwise all was lost. For only they held back the waves of human corruption that washed hatefully about the buttresses of Holy Mother Church before the ice that was the ever-encroaching product of Man’s meddlesome sin.

Despite his well-founded confidence, a very real chill swept down his sinuous spine. Another had come, killing his way willingly into their unforgiving hands, knowingly given over forever into the bowels of the cloistered fortress which held the enemies of the Church, another heathen heart to beat scornfully within these hallowed halls until the falling of the White Night. The Godless savages knew that none of their kind returned from the stolid embrace of The Order Most Severe, as they were known among the Franciscans, Benedictines, Dominicans and even the Jesuits. His was a severe order, born of severe times and he served a stern master, a master he must consult, for he was the point of the holy spear, not the hand that wielded it.

“Lord, hear my prayer,” he intoned, genuflecting before the black, velvet-curtained console containing the image of the Order’s sacred organ at Savanna Unction.

The organ engaged, the tunes of “Here I am, Lord” submerging the chamber in the serene song of the water pipes…

Looking with gathering patience at the unchanging image upon the console as “May Angels Lead You,” lifted his heart, the Prior waited with ever more anticipation. It had been a month—he dare not beseech the Dictor more often, for His Severity had taken up the Cross and might even now be at the outskirts of Rome, might, even now be driving the Moslem dogs from the Once and Future Holy See!

With the question of his superior’s crusading fortunes weighing evermore darkly upon his mind—even as he languished on this heathen frontier—he became anxious, but quashed that unseemly emotion with the aid of “Be Not Afraid,” the serene sounds of the water organ changing tune again as his audience request was processed.

The Prior found himself wondering at the dispositions of the Dictor’s forces in Italy while “You Are Mine” echoed with only the finality a water organ could stir in the human mind, in this cold, concrete sanctuary, dressed in but one black, velvet shroud, home to but one toiling soul.

“On Eagle’s Wings” rang from the unseen water pipes like the whispering tears of Heaven and his heart ached to bursting as the graphic of the Dictor stylistically depicted in the Valley of the Shadow of Death came to cover the console with the only image that would ever grace the console portals of The Maledictine Order so long as it’s priors maintained the Wombs of Unction in these increasingly savage reaches of a hinterland that had, not so many centuries ago returned to the Universal Path.

The Prior heaved himself to his hard-booted feet as a tear dropped to the polished, marble genuflectern with a tiny, shameful splash that smacked hollowly beside the grinding hobnails of his boot, the last he would have the luxury to shed in the long night ahead.

#2 Rector of the Cross

#3 Vector of the Cross

#4 Womb of Unction

#5 Malediction Song

Rise of the Nords is the prequel to Reverent Chandler and the upcoming Night Song of the Nords.