V. The two priests stood before the stone archway that led into the slums of Prontera. The capital's indigent quarter lay beyond this open gate, walled away from the rest of the glittering city. Here, old abandoned buildings squatted on rutted roadways. Patchwork houses made from whatever materials were handy sprang up like mushrooms, sad tributes to mankind's resourcefulness. Indeed, the sparkling colors of the capital stopped here, and beyond the gate, only a desolate gray palette touched the streets.
Beside the archway, swordsmen bearing the coat of arms of the Sword of Virtue--Prontera's elite company--commanded a checkpoint. None were allowed entrance or exit until the nature of the mysterious plague was known.
Maraksus Aralnae snorted indignantly as the guards began to frisk them. The swordsmen of the Sword of Virtue insistd that it was Commander Laire Allicran's direct command that everyone passing through be inspected, official business or not. A quick glance around told him that the knight was not present in the area.
A pity. He had a few choice words to say to him right now. Oh, yes.
His companion, Dylan Garwood, stood beside him with hands folded over a bible, serenely submitting to the swordsmen's inspections. Maraksus grumbled even more; it annoyed him the way Dylan acted so...unflappable. But, of course, he knew why his partner was quiet. He was trying to analyze the situation.
It baffled Maraksus, too, this affair of the unknown plague. But he had sorted through what they were told, which wasn't much--that there was a plague in Prontera, that a team of acolytes was dispatched to solve the problem, that the team failed, that they went back mad--and he couldn't make any sense out of it. Prayers of curing did not drive anyone insane, much less the clerics themselves. There was definitely something strange going on here. And Maraksus irritably put off analyzing it until he had more information.
This had been their major function ever since attaining priesthood: troubleshooters, sent in whenever there's something the church needed to smoothen out. And that was why they were here at the archway into the slums.
"You may pass freely, fathers," said the Swordsmen of Virtue almost in unison.
Maraksus wondered briefly if Laire had trained them to do that. He wouldn't put it pass the knight parfait, to nitpick about every little thing. "Why, thank you, swordie. I thought you'd never get it over with," he said scathingly as the two swordsmen bowed to them, touching hand to heart, before retreating to the shade of the outpost.
"Here we go, Marak," said Dylan as he caught his eye. A flu mask of white cloth covered the tall priest's nose and mouth.
Maraksus nodded back, fumbling inside his coat for his own flu mask. It offered questionable protection against whatever plague infected the slums. But at least, he thought in consolation, it lessened the odor that pervaded this quarter of the city. It didn't help that the slums were also the city's trash dump.
As he put on the mask, Dylan closed his eyes in prayer, channeling divine power. For an instant, brilliant golden light shone around the two of them and the enchanting voices of angels rose in song.
Flu masks may not protect us against disease, but the divine might of the gods will.
And the two priests passed through the archway and into the slums of Prontera.
