The Night Of The Blood Moon (2)

Kraf’s eyes blazed with hatred as he pronounced the cruelest of judgments.

“No need to bother cutting out his tongue. Open this heretic’s chest while he yet lives, and offer him as a burnt sacrifice to the Lord.”

Even the executioners, hardened to cruelty, faltered for a moment.

In the silence, broken only by Yondalf’s groans, a chill colder than midwinter wrapped itself around everyone.

One executioner glanced at Kraf, as if to confirm he had truly spoken those words.

“Perform the burnt offering.”

Short and clear.

The executioners looked at one another, then nodded reluctantly.

First the eyes, then the teeth, then the tongue. After that, the joints of arms and legs are shattered. By then, without exception, the victim is already dead.

Finally, the head is severed and buried facing down, while the body is buried standing, the neck stump facing heaven. This was the usual method of condemning those who clung to heretical faith to the end.

Though not always with molten silver and lead, as with priestesses or clergy, the rite bore deep religious significance.

The posture ensured head and neck could never reunite—an ultimate curse, condemning them to darkness even on Judgment Day when graves opened.

And now—a burnt offering.

The punishment reserved for the foulest blasphemers.

The same, until the breaking of the joints. Then the body was laid back, chest opened, and burning coals placed inside.

It was an offering, a confession of faith: that the faithful themselves condemned the disobedient and gave them to the Lord as sacrifice.

But…

This was meant only for those guilty of blasphemy most foul, and already dead under judgment’s agony.

But Yondalf still lived.

His eyes bled, his ruined mouth frothed—but he lived.

His pillar was laid back at an angle, so he faced the sky.

While coals were kindled from embers in his hut, rags were stuffed into his eyes and mouth at Kraf’s command.

Many guards and knights fainted. Yet neither Morten nor Fynel scolded them—for even they longed to look away.

‘That mad act—was it truly commanded by the God we worship? Why go so far, why this madness!’

Morten’s body shook.

Seeing him recall the nightmare of pouring silver and lead with his own hands, Fynel rode up and gripped his arm firmly.

“Close your eyes or turn your head, Sir Morten.”

Fynel whispered in his ear.

Even Duke Yodel wished to avert his eyes.

He spoke heavily to Kraf.

“If he resists this far, would it not be mercy to kill him swiftly?”

Kraf shook his head firmly.

“The Lord is jealous, unforgiving, His mercy no less than His sword. His compassion does not extend to idolaters and their devotion. It is for those who abide in His word and love.”

“……”

“That you would speak mercy over this heretic! I know your heart is kind, My Lord, but it is misguided.”

Regretting his words, Yodel turned his gaze helplessly to the burning wood.

When the coals were ready, under Kraf’s order, a potion of narcotic herbs was poured into Yondalf’s mouth.

Executioners stood before him with crescent-shaped blades, chisels thin as leaves, and hammers.

All those standing closed their eyes.

All but the priests felt in their bones the dreadful cruelty of the God they served.

“Remember—witnessing this is itself a confession of faith required of all who join the Tribunal.”

Kraf’s fierce cry!

Yondalf, numb with drugs, had lost all sensation—yet still felt the dull tearing deep inside as they opened him up.

Seeing his heart still beating faintly, Kraf gave the final command.

“Place the coals.”

Even watching was like enduring hell.

Once Yondalf’s body was ash, the Tribunal moved on at Kraf’s signal.

They had wasted much time in Judgment; now the sky was deep with sunset.

The moon would soon rise.

As Elin prepared her nightly hymn to the gods, a sudden chill pierced her heart.

“Ah!”

“Hm? Elin, what’s wrong?”

Ingmar, bringing her necklace, rushed to steady her as she staggered.

Clutching her chest, Elin’s red eyes glowed like rubies.

Though her gaze fell to the ground, what she saw was the Tribunal climbing toward them.

“No…”

In that instant, she understood everything.

The old prophecy—the “Last Oracle”, the night when vile evil invades the nest, and the Egg heralding the Beginning and End is conceived and born into the world.

The day of its fulfillment.

She turned her head, and saw the moon already shrouded in crimson.

“Elin! What is it? What do you see?”

Tears filled Elin’s eyes as she looked up at Ingmar. Alarmed, he shook her shoulders.

“Tell me! What is it? Is it your chest?”

“I… Ingmar… I understand now. I… I was the chosen priestess!”

“What?”

“Ah! My mission as the last priestess is not to hide and live happily with you—it is to ensure the priestess’s bloodline continues through us.”

“What are you saying?”

“My child will end this land and its duchies, and raise a new world! Ingmar, I never told you—but I may already be carrying your child.”

“And you tell me this now!!!”

Ingmar rose grim-faced, picked up his bow and quiver, belting his sword.

“Ingmar, let’s flee! Even now, down the cliff—we may survive!”

Elin wept, but Ingmar strode to the door without flinching.

“If they’ve found us, it won’t be just a few. They may have the whole mountain surrounded. Fleeing together will only expose us.”

“Then what? You mean…alone?”

“Yes. Elin, I’ll buy time. Go now—to Yondalf’s, or to the caves in the mountains! Go alone!”

“No! I can’t! What’s the point without you? I don’t care about the prophecy! If I go, you come with me!”

“Don’t be foolish! Go, now!”

Torches appeared in the distance. Soon countless flames encircled the gorge.

“Go! What are you waiting for? The darkness might yet hide one woman!”

“Ingmar, no. Without you I’m nothing. Even as the last priestess with the Oracle—without you, I can do nothing!”

“I am the last warrior of the Gods, Elin. When Olrun slew giants and dragons, it was our ancestor who cut one horn from the great dragon Nidhogg, made a horn of it, and offered it to Olrun. I, who carry the hidden bloodline of Sigurd and Brynhild! I cannot merely flee before those who hunt the priestess. Above all…”

Ingmar paused to catch his breath.

“If that glorious prophecy is to be fulfilled by our child, then all the more gladly will I die protecting you and our child.”

At that moment, a mighty voice resounded.

—The greater your pain and wrath, your sorrow and despair, the stronger shall be the Egg of Beginning and End. Warrior of the Gods, with your death and blood you shall give it life. Priestess, with the despair of your man’s death you shall grant it power. It is prepared—but its fulfillment rests with you.

The two trembled as they listened. And they realized it was the voice of Olrun, whom they had sung of and worshipped all their lives.

It was a voice they could not resist. The last Priestess and the last Warrior of the Gods—and the prophecy they had dismissed as a mere tale was being fulfilled.

The weight of the world that was, and the world yet to come, pressed down upon them.

“Ingmar! Ingmar!”

Elin clutched him desperately, calling his name.

“Why… Why must it be me? I was so happy, just being with you…”

Holding back tears, Ingmar kissed Elin’s forehead, her cheeks, and her nose.

“To guard the Oracle to the end, to block those who would harm you—that too is Olrun’s command to a warrior. But I swear, I did not remain at your side only for duty. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know…”

“Please, fulfill the Oracle. You know—if it is fulfilled, then no matter how our lives end, it will not be the final end. And promise me this: that you will not watch me die, and that you will not grieve.”

The last promise was impossible to keep. Yet to reassure the warrior walking into death for her sake, Elin forced a pained nod.

Ingmar held her face gently and gave her a final kiss.

“Never forget, Elin. In your eyes is the North Star. Your hair is the first snow upon Yotun Mountain. And your profile—more delicate than the Canyon of Mandelsong…”

With those final words, leaving Elin weeping behind him, Ingmar strode out into the yard.

The Tribunal had already encircled the only house in the gorge. Ingmar kicked apart the fire pit, then hid in the shadows of the wall, nocking an arrow.

His arrow flew at the first guard to step into the yard.

“Urgh!!!”

The arrow quivered in the guard’s chest. As he toppled backward, the torches behind him shook in alarm.

Ingmar shifted in the dark, picking off guards hiding behind trees one by one. The soldiers threw down their torches, but there were too many—their positions could not be concealed.

But his arrows were finite. And the guards, gauging his shots, loosed their own, constraining his movements.

Behind the guards, the knights advanced.

“Tsk, tsk…”

Morten clicked his tongue, unimpressed by the sight.

Fynel’s face flushed with shame. He shouted:

“There’s only one enemy in hiding! Ignore his arrows—rush the house and seize the priestess! Then he’ll have no choice but to come out!”

A clear solution.

For Ingmar, the worst case.

Guards raised shields and swords, charging the hut with a shout.

‘Elin, please!’

Taking a deep breath, Ingmar leapt from the shadows to guard the hut’s doorway.

“There he is!”

But Ingmar, mingled among the guards, could not be shot without risking friendly fire. The archers lowered their bows.

“RAAAAHHH!!!”

Ingmar’s greatsword swept in a rising arc, scraping the earth. With the added momentum of his charge, it shattered a wooden shield and carved through a soldier’s arm and chest.

Spinning like a top, the blade’s centrifugal force severed the ankles of soldiers behind him.

Three guards fell in an instant, and the charge faltered.

In that moment, Ingmar seized a fallen shield, blocked a descending axe, and shoved his foe back with raw strength.

Strength born from the thick waist Elin had once compared to a fir tree.

His foe toppled helplessly, dropping the axe. Ingmar’s blade split the man’s helmeted head in two. Leaping the gushing corpse, Ingmar smashed another guard’s jaw with his shield, dodging a spearpoint.

At Ingmar’s primal ferocity, Morten’s eyes gleamed. As a warrior, his heart pounded.

Fynel gave the order:

“Fall back! Open the line and fire all at once!”

The guards retreated behind their shields, while arrows thudded into Ingmar’s shield, his knees, his feet.

One shaft pierced his instep and dug into the earth. Another shattered his kneecap, jolting him with pain like lightning.

Overwhelmed by agony, Ingmar crashed backward to the ground.

At that moment-

Morten raised his hand, halting the archers.

“Sir Morten, why do you stop them?”

To Yodel’s question, he replied:

“The heretic’s head—I will take it myself…”