Faith is patience. Resilient in its timeless endurance, faith remains a steadfast sanctuary for lost and weary wanderers of epochs burdened with strife and discontent. Yet faith is not without tribulation. All must pass through the valley of shadow, where hope is naught but a dim light, a distant memory of halcyon days, long since forgotten. And as the afternoon sun drifted towards uncertain horizons, golden light fading behind a veil of grief laden clouds , Izrak Laav came upon a church in the outskirts of the Old City.

It was a stout building, despite its age. The log walls yet stood, supporting a terraced roof and large turrets capped with onion-shaped domes. They had been painted with enchanting shades of blue, green and yellow, but the paint had long since chipped and faded. An eight-pointed cross still gleamed atop the central dome.

The Icon of the Redeemer. The symbol of a foreign religion. My father’s faith.

Carried on the edge of a sword, the Redeemer’s Word had swept through Enostran along with the invading army. The old rulers, and the old gods, fell swiftly. Izrak’s father never told him where he had come from, of his homeland; he claimed that Enostran was his only home. Izrak’s mother converted when his parents married, and did not speak of his father’s past.

Boards whined and creaked as the mercenary ascended the stairs of the church. Sigils of swords, set in relief upon the face of the great iron doors, burned with rust gathered along their edges. He hesitated at the entrance.

Izrak had not set foot inside a church of the Redeemer since he was a young man. This had been a beautiful place once. Yet even then, the faith had begun to fail, and the people fell back into the old ways. He pushed against the doors. They opened with ease, and the dead man stepped inside.

Light entered through small cracks in the roof, falling in golden, glimmering shafts across the haze of dust hanging in the air. Warped boards groaned underfoot as Izrak moved into the nave. A soft click sounded from the right. Looking over, the mercenary saw a small door, crooked in its battered frame. Walking over, he took hold of the pitted iron handle. Izrak faltered. What should I say to her … after all this time? His grip loosened on the handle. How can I make her trust me? Again….

Shaking his head, the mercenary opened the door.

Squealing on its hinges, the door opened into what was once a small office. A bookshelf was set against the left wall, rotten books scattered over broken, dust-coated shelves. A moldering rug, worn and frayed, lay upon the floor. At the far end, windows of stained glass, miraculously preserved, overlooked a writing desk, overturned, laying upon its side. A tarnished candelabrum lay bent and twisted beside it.

Slowly, Izrak approached the desk. He heard it now, just as before: the muffled staccato of strained breaths, the shifting of threadbare cloth over wood, the shuffle of feet pressing a trembling body against the fragile desk that could offer neither shelter nor protection. Just like that night.

An umbral mélange fell over the mercenary’s mind. Witch-fire smoldered in the pits of his eyes as his jaw quivered. Hand closing around the pouch, Izrak stood petrified. Tremors racked his body as phantom claws tore at his consciousness. Torn asunder… Torn in two. Torn to pieces. Tearing. Ripping. Feeding….

Hollow voices called out to him from the periphery of his fading sight; for joy and for pain, out of love and out of hate, they cry out to the dead man. They bled into one voice, faint, terrified, and alone, yet slipped through the woeful chorus—a cold blade into a cold heart. She cried out for help. She needs you. Go to her. Protect her. Save her!

Vision suddenly cleared, Izraktook hold of the desk and shoved it aside. And wide, hazel eyes met his shadowed gaze. Flaxen tresses hung in matted strands over cheeks crusted with dried blood. Mud covered feet thrashed as she tried to back away, but her fear-stricken body refused to respond. Izrak reached out for the girl. Driven beyond desperation, the girl’s hand flashed out, seized the candelabrum, then hurled it at him.

Centuries of battle experience had somehow failed the mercenary against such a simple, childish trick, and in a parody of self-preservation, he lifted his arm to guard against the projectile. Childish. Simple. But it was enough. The girl was already rushing past him towards the door when the mercenary lowered his arm. Izrak whirled about as she nearly ripped the door out of its frame. “Elishei! Stop!”

At the sound of her name, the girl froze in the doorway, her chest heaving, one hand clutching the handle.

“Please….” Izrak held out his hands, inching closer. “I will not harm you.” Another step.

Elishei’s eyes flicked to the sword on his belt. A board popped, breaking under his dead weight. She fled; the door slamming shut behind her.

“Elishei!” Izrak charged the door, tearing it from its hinges, flinging it aside as he rushed into the nave. Only the dust remained to receive him. The girl had vanished.

The doors of the narthex remained shut. Izrak was certain he would have seen her leave that way. Assuming Elishei was still within the church, the mercenary entered the nave, his footsteps echoing with haunting resonance throughout the silent chamber as he passed rows of crumbling pews.

A large altar stood before him at the end of the chamber. Providing shelter, a stone ciborium, supported by four pillars, nearly reached the ceiling. The altar’s base of carved stone displayed the symbol of the church. Somehow, spots of vibrant color remained, but most of it was now covered in grime or weathered away. Izrak’s fingers played over the rough fibers of the pouch at his hip as he gazed upon the altar. The last time I was here….

Rusted hinges moaned as the main doors opened. Izrak’s hand moved to his sword as the rush of soft fabric coursed over the decrepit planks as a gentle brook. He turned. A skeleton dressed in white shambled down the aisle.

As it approached, muscles and sinew spread over the macabre frame from some unseen center. Long, chocolate locks flowed from the crown of its skull, weaving into a thick braid as alabaster flesh materialized over the exposed tissue. Izrak stood paralyzed as the specter mounted the altar, taking her place before him.

She looked at him, and lids closed over the hollow pits. Opening them once more; her eyes were honey, warm and sweet. Lebi. It cannot be… Some force pulsed within Izrak’s chest. Only once. And never again.

Lebi smiled, her cheeks flushed—the bloom of a winter rose.

“Do you remember,” her voice a discordant melody, “the last words you spoke to me?” She reached out with ghostly fingers, caressing the sharp bone of Izrak’s cheeks. All faded into darkness.

II

ONLY ONCE

III

SOMEONE ELSE

Lebi stood in front of the door, her trembling hand hovering over the knob. Nerves fraying at the edges, all she wanted was sleep; yet she feared entering her own bedroom. Lebi’s eyes watered as the fetid odor seeping from under the door harried her nose. He was in there. And his rising anger seemed to choke the life out of any space he occupied.

Am I being unfair? After all, he had only been back a few weeks. The ghosts of his years of battle still haunted his mind, broken by his return from death. Lebi sent her husband to war. Someone else came back.

Breathing deep, she opened the door and passed into the room. A pair of candles flickered upon a side table. Beside them rested a woven pouch.

Lebi’s languid gaze lingered on its rough-spun, soiled fabric as gooseflesh crawled over her arms and back. She never told him of her nightmare, the one still tormenting her, about the night he returned home: Lebi moved to the front door, drawn by a faint scratching upon its wooden planks; she opened the door, and a being raised from the pits of Hell stumbled over the threshold, the pouch clutched in pallid hands. He uttered a single word, a name…

Starlight spilled in through the window at the end of the room, washing her husband’s writing desk in silver hues. And there Izrak sat, clothed in simple garb, thin strands of blonde hair hanging limp from sunken temples. The room was quiet except for the scratching of quill on parchment, and the rattle of breath, bereft of life.

At the sound of the door closing, the scratching ceased for a moment, then continued.

“Cila is in bed. She could not stop talking about her morning with you.” Her smile shriveled into a frown. “Ryol still has not come home. I am worried about him. Will you not go look for your son?”

Izrak set down his quill and faced her. “Worry not. Ryol is hardly without protection?”

His hollow gaze chilled her blood. Lebi held herself, rubbing her shoulders. “All he wants is for you to teach him. To be like you.”

“Like me…” The dead man turned away. “He should pray such a curse never befalls him. No. My son will never be a soldier.”

“That is not for you to decide! Why can you not just—”

Quill and parchment jumped as Izrak’s fist slammed against the desk. Lebi started, her heart hammering in her chest. She calmed herself, then moved closer, her hand reaching for Izrak’s shoulder. She pulled away.

“Bogda found another of his pigs mutilated this morning. What was left of it, anyway.”

Izrak lowered his head in his hands. “Forgive me, Lebi. My hunger grows. Nothing I do seems to sate it.” The dead man continued his writing. “And she will not tell me what to do. I call out to her day after day. Still … she refuses to heed me.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but Lebi wiped them away.

“I am glad to see you writing again.” Peering over his shoulder, she looked to see what he had written. That name. Countless times, filling page after page. Lebi sighed, then moved to the table, her gaze fixed upon the pouch. What does he keep in here?

“Izrak,” she said, reaching for the pouch, “who is Kalis?”

The chair crashed against the wall as Izrak shot to his feet. “Do not touch her!” he roared. His body quivered with unrestrained rage as he approached her.

Lebi blanched, stumbled back onto the bed as the candles flickered out, plunging the room into darkness. She screamed.

The dead man, wreathed in shadow, drew near with hitched steps. His eyes flared orange, pits set with burning coals….

About the Author:

Lee Patton is a Christian and Army veteran from North Dakota. His work has been published in The Literary Fantasy Magazine and The Penmen Review. Fascinated with mythic tales of mighty heroes and dark terrors, Lee dwells in the realm of fantasy, where faith and courage are carried on the edge of a blade. In his free time, Lee is reading vintage Sword & Sorcery, exercising, and learning the Russian language.

Heed The Call and discover more at: Deathless Realms – Fantasy Tales of Lee Patton.

A Valley of Shadow Schedule:

• Part One: 28 Feb. 2025

• Part Two: 28 March 2025

• Part Three: 25 April 2025

• Part Four: 30 May 2025

• Part Five: 27 June 2025