#10 The Court of the Sanguine Rose
The Bishop of Barfunweltz raised his bejewelled hands in blessing, the folds of his elegantly embroidered chasuble draping serenely from his outstretched arms. Elegant red roses embellished the stole hung about his neck and his cassock of finest linen. Beside him, the Chaplain bore his gold-embroidered mitre. But glorious as his vestments were, he and his congregation knew they were but a sign and pointer to the glory of the beloved Apostle whom they served.
The Bishop looked down upon the congregation before him. Rapt faces smiled up at him, radiant in their holy joy. Both the Remnant (those who had endured the great tribulation) and the Proselytes (those who had more recently become followers of the Way of the Rose) were perfectly united in their unassailable faith. And as they started to sing, their unity was reflected in the lustre and vigour of their beautiful harmonies.
The hymn came to an end; the congregation fell into silent expectation. The Bishop bowed his head in prayer and his flock did likewise, all alike silently beseeching the Apostle to grant their humble request. The anticipation was palpable.
And then The Bishop felt it. A gentle breath of warm wind upon his cheek. He slowly opened his eyes and raised his head. There before him, surrounding his flock like the protective arms of a mother, were the Saints of the Sanguine Rose. Glimmering in purest white, the magnificence of their radiance was almost overwhelming.
The beloved Apostle had reunited His disciples: both the quick and the dead. The glorious martyrs of the Sanguine Rose had been returned to their living successors. In their hour of need, the faithful were united once again to do His work.
And there, in the midst of the saintly host, was His funerary carriage. The presence of the Apostle Himself. The very reason for this great gathering of living and dead. For the Bishop believed - was utterly convinced - that should their worship and service in His presence be sufficient, all their prayers would be answered.
The Apostle would return.
Nay, The Apostle will return.
"Can we get out of here now?" whispered Corporal Leidl. His face was even paler than usual and cold sweat was darkening the mauve of his Glymmsman uniform.
"Yes!" replied Sergeant Alditz, his voice cracking slightly, "We've seen more than enough."
The two soldiers backed off as stealthily as they could through the ruins and tangled briars of Barfunnweltz Cemetery. Both were anxious to return to their officers to make their report, not because of duty or even pride at their discoveries, but mainly because they wanted nothing more than to be as far away from this place as possible.
It had been bad enough to see the revolting ghouls gathering around their foul king. It was hard to know what was worse - the madness in their eyes or the stench of their filth. The ghoul king himself added another layer of terror as he pranced before the hoard in his blood-soaked rags. Then the screaming had started. It had almost looked as though they were singing, but the cacophony was appalling and Leidl and Alditz, grizzled veterans though they were, had been about to run from it.
But then an eerie silence had suddenly fallen as a bitterly cold, supernatural wind had blown among the tombs. And then the true terror had arrived - a huge cloud of Nighthaunt spectres. And in the midst of them, a shimmering hearse pulled by four ghostly steeds. The two Glymmsmen didn't fully understand the significance of these apparitions, but they knew their superiors would require the details.
Pushing through the undergrowth as fast but as quietly as they could, they headed towards the cemetery wall. At one point there were roses growing up against it, making it easier to climb, and the two soldiers gratefully grabbed the vines, ignoring the thorns piercing their hands in their eagerness to escape.
"Damn roses! My doublet is snagged," whispered Alditz, "Wait up!"
Leidl looked down to where his sergeant was struggling just beneath him. His blood ran cold. Sergeant Alditz was not caught upon thorns. Even as he watched, the Glymmsman's black and purple form sank under a sea of slavering, chittering ghouls. How had they come up behind them so swiftly? Desperately clutching for handholds in his panic, Corporal Leidl hauled himself up to the top of the wall. Glancing back he was relieved to see the ghouls would not reach him in time. He turned to leap from the top of the wall and down to safety.
But even as he jumped, he froze in terror. Before him in mid air was a pale and shimmering face. It grinned a rictus smile as its eyes flared hellish green.
Leidl's body never reached the ground.
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