Down, dimly, their harsh steps echoing like the paean of avenging angels, the heavy-linked burden of the damned slithering metallically into the rocky womb of the world like a tethered devil between them, the Vectors of the Cross, Roland and James descended into the eternal heart of their order, sober with purpose, weary with the weight of their faith, the pledge of their souls on their lips:

“I believe in God,

the Father almighty,

creator of heaven and earth.

“I believe in Jesus Christ,

his only Son, our Lord.

He was conceived by the

power of the Holy Spirit

and born of the Virgin Mary.

He suffered under Pontius Pilate,

was crucified, died, and was buried.

He descended into hell.

On the third day he rose again.

He ascended into heaven

and is seated at the right hand of the Father.

He will come again to judge

the living and the dead.

“I believe in the Holy Spirit,

the holy Catholic Church,

the communion of saints,

the forgiveness of sins,

the resurrection of the body,

and the life everlasting.

Amen.”

The heathen spat in fierce defiance, not at any certain point it seemed, but in general principle.

The Holy Node of Unction, that grim black gate of deliverance, lay behind and upward.

The Portal of Descent, manned by the half-geared spider drone, barely able to fulfill its function, was likewise lost to sight and sound above as the reverent gloom closed in.

“File” spake James, senior Vector of the two, as he stepped ahead of the heathen and heard Roland step behind, unsheathing his sword with a rasp of steel that brought an equally harsh rasp of mirth from the throat of their giant charge.

Two paces between each of the three, the shadows crept along down the eerily lit ramp of stone, which switched back upon itself as it cut diagonally, wedged ever more deeply into the root of the mountain, a tiny cyst, filled with the sybarite pus of godless humanity sixty paces long.

At the base of each ramp of stone a dim light flickered from an ancient element, next to an unlit torch and the manual crank spark with which to light it.

Beneath each light was a niche cell, occupied by a spectral figure—some lingering upon the doorstep of Death and Eternal Damnation, others mere vestigial husks of once defiant heathen souls, the wispy beards of some hanging in gray mockery of the bloodstained beard of the giant that shuffled behind James, beneath that worrisome weight of chain.

James was moved to test his own clean-shaven chin with a questioning hand and the beastly heathen grunted, “You pretty enough, cross-slave, to toss your head among kidkind for their sport.”

James ignored this rude baiting as per his Oath of Unction and repeated the Dirge of Faith:

“I believe in God,

the Father almighty,

creator of heaven and earth.”

Their words trailed off together as the profane beast of a man barked, “Enough, you dead-eyed ass-fucks. Let me tell you about the sack of Pittsburg, about dunking faɡɡots under the bridge, packing muds into basements and pouring concrete over their heads, hanging money men from their windows and setting their skyboxes on fire. I was balls deep in that at the age of that freak’s boy-servant. Your vile creator god of sniveling lies cannot forever hide behind these bitch-tomb walls, in these rat holes to Hel’s coward-stench den.”

Roland snarled and slammed his flex-mail fist into the heathen’s back, which brought a deep chuckle in answer to the savage thud.

They now stood ten levels deep before the Purgatory Gate, which might only be lifted from the Gate of Unction above. James tapped the com-link in the flickering light of the element and the face of the altar boy, who had become their darling, who the Rector depended upon evermore, appeared serenely on the link, the Rector’s approving hand, curled monstrously on his shoulder. “Dennis” had been his name. Now, he was simply the last of a kind that had not been replaced, an altar boy, symbol of the innocence that must be rescued from beneath the vile patina of all-embracing Sin, original to them all, savored by this vile heathen behind him, and contradicted in some wonderful way by the angelic face, who spake softly, “On behalf of the Rector of the Cross, of this Holy Node of Cumberland Unction, beyond this Purgative Door, Perdition awaits."

With those awful word sprung from that meek mouth, the double steel doors, painted gray on both sides, yawned open, revealing a dimly lit passage, 15-feet wide, beneath a 12-foot ceiling, stretching 200 feet into the carven rock.

James stood aside as the heathen entered, shoved roughly by Roland, whose ire was up, who became severe on this lowest, most populous plane of Unction.

“I will make a woman of you, cross-slave!” snarled the heathen chief.

Roland aimed the pummel of his sword at the taunting heathen’s kidney, and James stopped him with a word, hissed in urgency, “No.”

Roland’s eyes narrowed icily and the heathen snarled, “You, boss cross-slave, shall die cleanly.”

This man was such a fool, James mused over his heathen ignorance even as he unburdened his soul of responsibility for redemption, and made the decree, “He, who evilly threatens a Vector remains chained for his purgative term. He who does so twice is not granted entry at the gate of his kind. You have thrice damned yourself and may consider last rites before the enemy gate.”

The big, menacing man seemed to expand in exultation and let out a savage ululation, which echoed down the long corridor and brought a deeper silence, for the low murmur of many damned men now ceased and material silence reigned.

Roland snarled up at the giant, “The Mamluks [1] will widen your nether eye, an—”

The firm laying on of the flex-mailed hand of James silenced his brother even as he turned to face their charge, made the sign of the cross and intoned, “May the Lord God have mercy upon your heathen soul.”

That seemed to sober the barbarian to his predicament as the slink of his chains dragging upon the age-glossed floor merged with the stony silence to paint a sound picture of a great metal snake slithering through the pits of Hell.

James crossed himself as he walked behind the right shoulder of the damned and beseeched from within, May the Lord God have mercy upon my condemning soul.

Rise of the Nords is to be continued in #4 Womb of Unction .