Howdy, all! Okay, that's all the western slang I'm going to try for. Anyway, continuing in a long and glorious tradition, I have created this new Jakkard story for your, um...enjoyment? Let's hope so! So...enjoy!
Seven Spineless Angels
The hot, unforgiving Jakkard sun was beating down mercilessly on Rifle Valley without a single cloud or tree to help block it. And yet, the sound of thunder echoed off the rock faces and the barren ground, immersing all the valley in the fear of the coming storm. But this was no rainstorm. This was no respite from the tyrannical heat of the Wastes. This was a storm of death, and vengeance, and the disingenuous name of justice. This was the storm of the Centaurs, the lawmen, the Ridders.
Just above the lowest point of Rifle Valley sat a long, plain chapel built early in the Wasteward expansion. It had been intended as a place of peace and a place of faith, a sanctuary against the savagery of Jakkard. But nothing else had ever come to this desolate valley. No homes had sprung up here, no shops or taverns, no saloons or cabarets. The prospectors had passed through and passed on, discarding Rifle Valley as a dead loss. Even the small creek that had initially crept its way around two sides of the chapel had dried up. All that was left in Rifle Valley was a single, deep well, the chapel, and those few who dwelled within.
As the sound of thundering hooves pierced the walls of the chapel, two of the three mortal souls within rushed to the window. They were tired, and dirty, and desperate. Their clothes were tattered and disheveled, and soiled almost everywhere with the dirt and dust of the Wastes beyond. Their hair was wild and unkempt, and only slightly less dirty than their clothes thanks to a bit of the water from the well outside. Their bodies were tense as the sound grew louder, and for a long time, their eyes were locked as if in a trance through the open, glassless window at the trail that wound down into the valley.
Suddenly, the man turned and looked downward at his shorter, female companion, turning her body toward him so that he could stare into her large, brown, moistened eyes.
“They’re coming,” was all the man could manage.
The woman stared up at him for a long time before she found the voice to answer. “What can we do?”
The man looked around the chapel. It was a long building, but simple. They were standing near the only door, which had a window on either side facing the trail to the valley. The door led down the center of the chapel, with simple wooden pews in a line on both sides. At the front of the chapel, raised up by three steps, there was a single altar built in the stylized shape of a sun. To either side of the altar, there was a wooden door. One of these doors led to a simple bedroom belonging to the Father of the chapel, who had served here devotedly since the place was first built. The other door led to an even simpler bathroom with little more than a washbasin, a tub, and a pot. Neither of the side rooms had windows or doors leading outside. There was no place to hide, and no place to run.
The man looked back at the woman and took a deep breath. “Say a prayer for me, Kyla. That’s all we got left.”
Kyla closed her eyes, squeezing tears out as she did. She surged forward suddenly, embracing him tightly and burying her face in his chest. “We can make it!” She sobbed, her words muffled by his body. “Come on, Trevo! We’ve made it this far! They can’t chase us forever!”
Trevo grabbed her gently by the shoulders and pushed her away from him. “They ain’t stopped yet, have they? They’re the Ridders, Kyla. They don’t stop. Not ever.”
“But you didn’t do anything!”
Trevo turned away, again looking out the window. The thundering sound was still growing louder, and now the cloud of dust was appearing in the distance, marking the Ridders’ arrival. Time was up.
“That don’t matter to them,” Trevo said, defeated. “It never did. I thought that trial in Tesses would set me free. I was so sure of it. I didn’t do nothing, and that judge knew it. But it didn’t matter. No evidence, no witness but a half-blind drunk, and that judge is still banging his gavel before noon. It ain’t right.”
Kyla reached up and guided Trevo’s head down to her. She kissed him, almost frantically, before pulling away again. “The angels will keep us free. I know it.”
Trevo just shook his head slightly, then cocked it to the side, toward the interior of the chapel. “What do you think of that, Father? Will your precious angels keep us safe?”
The third human in the small chapel was sitting in the last pew just a few steps away, his aged head hung low in impotent despair. “That is not for me to say.”
“’Course it ain’t,” Trevo muttered. “Never is. The Father who came to me in that cell in Tesses didn’t know, neither. So if none of you know anything, what the hell good are you?”
“Trevo,” Kyla soothed, without saying anything more.
The old priest bowed his head lower, searching for an answer. When he didn’t find one, Trevo exhaled slowly.
“I’m sorry, Father Drent,” he said. “This ain’t your fault. It’s just…” he stopped, looking back to the window. He could see the shapes of the Ridders now as black specks within the cloud of dust. “It’s just that justice ain’t fair, that’s all.”
“Nothing ever is,” Drent observed solemnly. “Perhaps I should go speak with them.”
“No use,” Trevo said. “The Ridders ain’t stupid. They know we’re here, and they ain’t leaving ‘til they get us.”
Drent nodded. “Yes, but perhaps I could talk them into mercy. Their duty instructs them to get you dead or alive, and their pragmatism usually suggests ‘dead’ is easier. If I spoke with them, you might be able to give yourself up and live…”
“No.” Trevo interrupted suddenly, his voice forceful but distant. He seemed for a moment like he was going to continue, but only managed to repeat, “No.”
Kyla looked up at him again, her eyes pleading. “Trevo, please! We can’t fight them. We got one gun and half a dozen bullets between us, and there’s nowhere to run! I don’t want to lose you!”
Trevo’s jaw clenched as he shook his head over and over again. “I’m sorry, Kyla. I can’t…I just…can’t. This is my last fight. If the Ridders take me back to Tesses, I ain’t gonna be alive when they do.”
“Trevo,” Kyla cried, burying her face once again in his chest. “Please…”
“It’s no good,” Trevo said, stroking her hair. “It ain’t no good.” He paused for a long time, kissing her head and stroking her dark hair. When he spoke a third time, there was anger sneaking into his voice. “None of it is any damn good!”
He pulled away from her again and wheeled to face Father Drent and the front of the chapel. The priest looked up at Trevo with a profound sorrow in his eyes. “Son, I understand how…”
“You don’t understand nothing!” Trevo shouted. “What the hell’s the point of all this, Father? Huh? What the hell’s the point of your damned angels and all these damned prayers? Tell me!”
Father Drent hung his head even as he shook it. “That’s not for me to say.”
“That again,” Trevo muttered before his voice raised again against the thunder of the approaching Ridders. “Then who does say? If you can’t tell me, who the hell can?”
The Father looked toward the front of the chapel, toward the altar. “Perhaps you could ask them,” he said, mournfully.
Trevo followed the Father’s glance to the sun-shaped altar, and his ire only grew when he saw the shapes standing silently around it. There were seven of them, sullen angels with their cold, inhuman, steely eyes trained on the altar itself. They were wrapped in what appeared to be plain panchos and looked little more than human, apart from their utterly alien demeanor. They had been standing there, completely motionless, since long before Trevo and Kyla had first arrived and sought what little protection the chapel could offer. They had given no reaction whatsoever to the arrival of the lovers, and even now, as the thunder of the Ridders was drawing close, they did not move.
Finally, Trevo’s anger boiled over completely, and he began to yell, this time directing his words toward the angels themselves.
“Well, what do you have to say then?” He demanded. “What good are you angels, huh? What good have you ever done anyone in this whole blasted world?”
The angels, being directly addressed, turned as one to face the angry young man, but not a single one them said a word. They simply stared at him with their metallic eyes, as expressionless and lifeless as a corpse. Trevo stood there for several long moments, breathing heavily under his fury, which was only fueled by their silence.
“Not for you to say either, huh!” Trevo yelled. “What good are you? What good is any of this? The Ridders are here to gun me down, an innocent man! Is that what you angels want? Is that what your mercy brings?”
Again, the angels simply stared, neither speaking nor moving. There was no indication that they even heard Trevo, or if they did, that they understood or cared what he had to say. Kyla took a step forward to stand next to Trevo and implore the angels.
“Please!” She said. “An evil thing is at your door, coming in the name of justice. Isn’t this exactly what angels are supposed to be for? Will you please help us?”
The angels turned back to the altar. One of them spoke, although it was unclear if he was speaking to the lovers, to his companions, or to himself. “We shall help.”
The lovers each felt their heart skip a beat. “You will?” Kyla asked.
“What will you do?” Added Trevo.
“We shall pray for you both,” the angel said without lifting his eyes from the altar.
“What!” Trevo screamed in rage. “You’ll pray! What good will that do us! What are you, spineless? You afraid of the Ridders? Cowards! I’ll fight alone, if I have to! You’re angels, what are you afraid of!”
Without glancing up, the angel simply said, “We shall pray.”
Outside the small chapel, six Centaurs finally came to a halt. The sun was beating down mercilessly, and five of the six pulled out their canteens to take a much-needed drink of precious water. The sixth was the oldest of them, his face covered in a short, white beard that looked brown through the dust of the trail. The path down into Rifle Valley was all hard rock, and the sound of their approach had been magnified by the mountainous terrain around them. There was no question that their quarry knew they were there, and no question what his reaction would be. Sage, the old Centaur, was not looking forward to the showdown that was undoubtedly about to come. While the other, younger Ridders were sating their thirst from the long, hard gallop, Sage made ready for battle, unshouldering his prized rifle. Its long, black barrel was flawless apart from a single notch he had made into it himself, his reminder of the one shot he had ever missed.
Sage sighed as he felt the weight of his gun. It seemed somehow heavier than it once had, as if all the years Sage had galloped the Wastes and piled themselves on his weapon. There were times he could feel that weight in his knees or in his arms, and far more times when he could hear the echoes of hooves and gunshots and screams in his mind. He had been in the Wastes almost from the beginning, since they had first opened up again, and he had seen nearly everything. He had tracked humans, snakes and lizards all across the Wastes, and stared down a basilisk on more than one occasion. And now here he was, cornering just another fleeing criminal in just another forgotten place in the Jakkard.
“You think he’s down there, Sage?” asked Timber, the youngest of the Ridders. This was only his third Rid, and the kid was still learning.
Sage gave a single curt nod. “No question.”
“’Course he’s down there,” Ash spat. He was the one in charge of this Rid, and had been growing increasingly frustrated with Timber’s inane questions. “Nowhere else for him to have gone.”
Timber, in his typical oblivious manner, ignored Ash’s tone and continued to talk, ostensibly speaking to Sage, but in actuality addressing anyone who would listen. “Do you think the rumors are true? That he didn’t do it, I mean?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sage said coldly, making a show of checking his rifle.
“Ridders don’t deal in rumors, Kid,” Ash said. “And we ain’t judges. Judge says he’s guilty, he’s guilty. A guilty man runs, and we rid the Wastes of him. Got it?”
“But what about justice?” Timber asked while Sage cringed a bit.
Ash spat on the dusty ground. “Justice? Not our problem. Ridders are about the law. Never forget that.”
“There’s a difference?” Timber asked.
Ash glared at the younger Centaur. “The difference, Kid, is all the difference. Now shut up and get yourself ready.” Ash turned to the other three Centaurs. “Everyone ready?”
The other Centaurs, two women and a man, voiced their agreement. They had been galloping with Sage and Ash for years, and knew the process well. They were always ready. Ash turned back to Timber, who had drawn two pistols. Timber nodded when Ash looked at him. “Ready.”
Ash trotted over to the oldest of them, who had just finished loading his rifle. “You all set, Sage?”
The bearded Centaur glanced at Ash, making sure to keep his peripheral vision on the chapel’s door and front windows. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Ash stared at Sage for a long moment, trying to read his friend’s face. There seemed to be something there, something behind the old man’s words, something that Ash had never quite heard before. Sage had never been the most enthusiastic of the Ridders, and he had always made it clear that he had a past he wasn’t proud of, but this was something else, something deeper. Finally, though, Ash shook it off and simply nodded.
“Same as always, Ridders,” Ash said to all of them. “Don’t stand together, and try to keep it clean. The law wants him dead or alive; we all know what that means. And no one goes in until we’re sure he’s taken care of. Clear?”
“Clear,” they all answered, all except for Sage, who merely stared through the window at his targets. He felt his age nearly everywhere, but his eyes had never been sharper.
Ash cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he projected his voice outward. It ricocheted against the rocks like a stray bullet.
All three of the humans within the chapel dropped to a sort of standing crouch as the gruff voice echoed through Rifle Valley.
“Trevo!” The voice said. “This is the Ridders! You know why we’re here! Make this easy on yourself and the woman! Give up your guns and come out with your arms wide! You don’t have to die here today!”
Trevo pressed himself against the thick wooden door and took a surreptitious look out the window. There were six of them, spread out in an uneven line. Two of them carried rifles, the other four were armed with pistols, all of which were undoubtedly newer and of better quality than his own. Without truly meaning to, Trevo found himself drawing his gun and holding it upward, at chest level. Kyla looked over at the weapon with tears in her eyes.
“I love you, Trevo,” she said, crying. “I need you. Please don’t do this.”
He looked back at her, his own eyes beginning to water. “I ain’t got a choice, Kyla. If they don’t kill me here, they’ll kill me slowly in prison. I ain’t dying like that.”
“I can’t go on without you, Trevo!” Kyla said, desperately.
“You won’t have me where they’re gonna put me, neither,” Trevo said. “I got six bullets. All I gotta be is perfect, and we’re free, Kyla.”
Kyla looked solemnly from Trevo’s face to the Centaurs beyond the window, then shook her head. “No human’s that good a shot.”
They both nodded, before slowly turning to the angels at the altar. Trevo gulped and narrowed his eyes. “Well?” he said. “You gonna do anything.”
The angel who had spoken earlier moved his head, just enough to stare at Trevo, steely metallic eyes to steely blue. “We shall pray for you both,” he repeated.
Rage overcame Trevo’s face, but when he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “Seven spineless angels,” he said, glancing at his gun. “If I had one more bullet, I’d teach them something and leave those damned Centaurs alone.”
“Trevo,” Kyla began, but Trevo shook his head.
“I love you, Kyla,” he said suddenly. “Whatever happens, always remember that. You’re what made me free.”
Kyla tried to speak, but found that she couldn’t. She backed up to sit with Father Drent behind the nearby wooden pew, staring at her lover and praying, along with the angels at the altar, for them both. Trevo pressed himself against the door and took a deep breath, hoping to calm himself. Then the gruff voice sounded again from the outside, crashing into the chapel like a rockslide.
“Well, Trevo? What’s it gonna be?”
Trevo closed his eyes and, although he was finding it increasingly difficult to believe in, uttered a silent prayer. He had one chance, one hope. He had to be perfect.
When the pistol appeared in the window of the chapel to the door’s left, everyone but Sage tensed, but it was Timber who panicked, firing two shots at the window, both striking the wall beside it. The other Centaurs, even Ash, reacted to the shots, and fired as well. Several of the bullets passed through the left-hand window, the rest scattered around the wall, just as Timber’s had. Only Sage didn’t move, didn’t even react. When Trevo’s pistol appeared out the window to the door’s right, only Sage saw it, but he was not in a position for a good shot. A single blast rang out from the chapel as the fugitive fired, his bullet striking the other male Centaur in the arm. The Centaur howled in pain and rage, dropping his pistol and clenching the wound with his other hand.
“Clever kid,” Ash spat, bitterly. He then turned to the injured Centaur. “Fall back! We’ll handle this.”
The man nodded and moved further back up the trail at an uneven cantor. Timber swallowed hard, his eyes trained on the chapel. “I guess we have our answer.”
Ash nodded. “The only one the Ridders ever get.”
Trevo’s gun appeared a second time in the left-hand window, and again the Centaur’s guns rang out in Rifle Valley, but once again, Trevo pulled it back before they could react. But the Ridders were clever, and even while firing, they watched for him to reappear in the right window. Only Sage, who still had yet to fire, saw the fugitive appear once again in the left window, but even he was too slow to raise his rifle and fire in time. A second shot exploded from the chapel, striking one of the female Centaurs in her left foreleg. She stifled a pained scream, but, like the Centaur before her, fell back, no longer useful in this fight.
As the valley fell into silence again, Timber trotted forward a few steps to stand in-between Sage and Ash. “At least he’s not a very good shot.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ash demanded. “Two shots, two hits. I’d say he’s a damn good shot, and a hell of a lot better than we’ve been.”
“But he’s only hitting legs and arms,” Timber insisted. “He’s getting lucky.”
Ash scoffed. “He’s putting those bullets exactly where he wants them.”
“What?”
Sage shook his head slightly. “He doesn’t need us dead, Timber. He just needs us slowed down.”
“So he’s just trying to get away?”
“Seems like,” Ash said, taking a random shot through the left window.
Timber furrowed his brow. “But, if he doesn’t want to kill us, doesn’t that mean he’s innocent?”
“It don’t mean anything,” Ash snapped. “It means ‘keep your eyes on those damn windows!”
Suddenly, Trevo’s gun was in the right window, and this time, it was no feign. The gun erupted, and the other female Centaur shrieked, blood pouring from her wounded hand. Ash and Timber fired another volley of shots, but Trevo had already ducked back down inside. As the Centaur moved off to join the wounded, Timber shouted over to Sage.
“How come you haven’t shot yet, Sage?”
“You know why I never miss?” Sage answered calmly. “It’s ‘cause I never take stupid shots. You better reload.”
Timber pressed the conversation even as he took the older man’s advice. “Never miss, huh? What about that notch in your gun? How’d you get that?”
Sage’s mind instantly flashed back to that day, years earlier. It wasn’t a part of his life he was proud of, and that day, least of all. But this was hardly the time to reminisce. “I guess I took one stupid shot,” he said, remorsefully. “A shot I never should have taken.”
“Look out!” Ash yelled.
At the warning, Sage brought his rifle up to fire, while Timber panicked and fell to his equine knees, covering up as he did. Unfortunately, Trevo’s shot was aimed at Timber’s lower body, to incapacitate him as he had the others. Timber’s sudden shift, however, sent Trevo’s projectile straight through Timber’s heart. The young Centaur had time to gulp once before his eyes closed and he fell forward into the dust.
“Damn it, Sage, shoot!” Ash yelled, opening fire at both windows.
Sage said nothing, but kept his eyes aimed straight down his rifle’s sight, waiting for the shot he knew would come. When Trevo’s gun materialized in the left window, Sage didn’t move. When it showed in the right window, Sage flinched, but did not pull the trigger. When the chapel door burst open and Trevo fired straight at Ash, Sage took a deep breath and fired as well. Trevo had already stepped back into the darkness of the chapel, and so it was impossible to know whether or not he had hit the human. An instant later, another shot was fired from the chapel door, but the bullet crashed harmlessly into the ground at Sage's hooves.
The old centaur glanced over at Ash, who was bleeding from his left arm. He was clearly in pain, but he refused to even hold the wound, because it would mean holstering his pistol. He looked back at Sage and nodded toward the older man’s rifle. “Well,” he coughed. “Do you get a second notch or not?”
Sage shook his head. “Not sure,” he said. “You want to check?”
Ash shook his head, as well. “You know the rule. No one goes in until we’re sure.”
Sage nodded. “Then we wait and see.”
Kyla reached down and picked up the gun, which was still smoking in the hand of Trevo. She could not entirely bring herself to believe what she had just seen. He had been so close, so near to perfection. If he had just hit one more, they could have made a run for it, and the wounds of the Ridders might just have slowed the Centaurs down long enough for the lovers to get away. They were so close. They could have been free.
But that last shot by the Ridders had ended everything. It was as though Kyla’s heart had stopped at the very moment the bullet had passed through Trevo’s. It had been so strange, so surreal, that Kyla couldn’t even cry out. The moment her lover died, it was as though all of the emotion within her shriveled up and vanished, just like the creek that once wound through Rifle Valley. All that was left was a dried, barren bed of what had once given life.
“I am so sorry, my child,” Father Drent said. “I…I truly wish I could have saved him.”
Kyla nodded. “Please forgive me, Father.”
Drent shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive, child. You did nothing to bring him to this end.”
“I don’t mean forgive me for what I’ve done, Father,” Kyla corrected. “I mean forgive me for what I am about to do.”
“I…” the priest started, but failed. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t go on without him,” she said, staring at Trevo’s body.
The priest shook his head. “You must. This man may not have deserved his fate, but neither do you. His was inescapable, but you are free of it now.”
“No,” Kyla said, shaking her head even harder. “I can never be free. Trevo and I…” she paused, turning her head slightly. “We were the jailors of each other’s hearts. We could only ever be free together. And now…”
Father Drent opened his mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say to Kyla. Finally he turned to the angels, who had been his silent companions for years, whether he had wanted them or not. Drent was not in the habit of speaking to the angels, because he knew they were not in the habit of answering him, but he had to try.
“Are you going to do anything for her?”
The lead angel looked at the Father with sadness reflected in his steely eyes. “We shall pray for them both.”
Drent’s mouth hung open again, and he turned back toward Kyla, who was inching toward the door. She was holding the gun in both hands, but her eyes had yet to leave Trevo’s, which were still open, but unseeing. Drent held up his hands.
“Please! You said you only had six bullets! He shot them all! You can’t win!”
Finally, Kyla looked up at the priest and gave a minute, barely perceivable nod. “I know,” she whispered. Suddenly, she stopped and straightened, her shocked and emotionless expression melting into one of rage. “To hell with your damned angels, Father. Trevo was my angel, and he answered my prayers more than they ever did! But I only have one prayer left, and there’s only one person who can answer it.”
She turned around and thrust her hands through the door, pointing the empty pistol at the same Centaur who had shot Trevo. There was no other sound in the Valley but the echo of the Ridder’s rifle, and the answer to Kyla’s final prayer.
Sage lowered his gun, first to his chest, and then to his waist. After a long moment of silence, he glanced over to Ash and nodded.
“Now we’re sure.”
Ash nodded and holstered his pistol, then began applying pressure to the wound in his left arm. He signaled the other three wounded Ridders to watch the perimeter and begin seeing to Timber’s body, and then nodded for Sage to follow him to the chapel door. The two Centaurs moved slowly and cautiously, with Sage’s rifle never straying from his hip as he trotted toward the chapel door. As they approached, Ash put his hand on his pistol’s handle and nodded forward.
“You go, Sage. I’ll watch your hind legs.”
Sage nodded, and without a word stepped through the doorway. Just inside, he saw the body of Kyla, holding a gun and lying motionlessly on top of Trevo. It did not take the old Ridder long to piece together what had happened, and he briefly ran his finger along the almost pristine surface of his rifle as he noted that he would not need a second notch. A short distance from the bodies, an old priest was kneeling on the floor, evidently praying for the lovers. Sage was about to take another step into the old chapel when his eyes were drawn to the altar and the seven silent angels surrounding it. He froze immediately, and the angels turned toward him.
Sage struggled to speak, but the closest angel held up a single hand. “Leave, Ridder. You have done your duty, and we shall do ours.”
“I…” Sage began, then changed his mind. “What will you do?”
“We shall bring them home,” he said as the angels turned back toward the altar of the sun. “And we shall pray for them both.”
Sage said nothing, but simply began to back up. Just as he was about to leave the chapel, he saw the angels raise their arms and watched in morbid and fearful fascination as their plain panchos began to unfold into great wings which spread out behind them. The sheer awe of the sight sent Sage staggering backwards in shock and the moment he was out of the chapel, he turned around and took off at a gallop.
“Where are you going?” Ash called after him.
“Run!” Sage yelled back, and Ash did. A moment later, one by one, seven angels burst out of the door of the little chapel, the first two carrying the bodies of Kyla and Trevo. The angels banked upward, flying in a uniform spiral straight up into the air before turning and disappearing into the distance. For a long time, the Centaur Ridders just stared into the sky in the direction the angels had flown. In all the years they had galloped the Wastes, they had never seen anything like this. Sage looked down at his rifle and ran one calloused thumb over the notch in its barrel.
“What do we do now?” Ash asked, confounded.
Sage held his head high as he looked back over the valley. “First, we bury Timber. Then I make sure you all get back to Tesses alive and well. And then? Then I’m done.”
“You’re…done?”
Sage nodded. “I got nothing left to see, Ash. And after Timber, I’ll have buried too many Ridders, over too many years.”
Ash looked around, unsure of how to respond. “Of all of us, I never thought you’d trot away, Sage. What will you do?”
Sage glanced down at his rifle one more time, a weapon with which he had only missed once. “I took a stupid shot once.” He paused for a very long time. “It was a mistake. It’s time for me to make amends.”
Together, the Centaur Ridders set to work to bury Timber in Rifle Valley. They worked slowly so as not to disturb their wounds too much, and it was nearly dark when they finally started on their way out of the little valley, their hoovefalls less of a thunderstorm and more of a soft percussion. Through all the time that they talked, and worked, and moved, Father Drent watched them silently from the chapel. He knew evil had been done down in the valley that day, but he could not find the culprit. The Lovers, the Ridders, the Angels, all of them had only done what they had to do, and yet somehow, all that good had amounted to evil. As the Centaurs rode away, Father Drent sank back into the last pew of the old, virtually abandoned chapel. If evil had not been done by any of the others, perhaps he himself had done it. Throughout everything, after all, it was only he who had done nothing. He had ventured out into the Wastes, found this valley, and built this chapel, all because he had wanted to do something, something good.
And yet he had done nothing, and evil had come into the valley. As night descended on his small chapel, Father Drent began to weep and fell to his knees. In the silence of the abandoned valley, Father Drent prayed for the Lovers. He prayed for the Ridders. He prayed for the Angels. But in that dark and silent valley, Father Drent could not pray for himself, the one who needed it most.
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