The chimes of the Chapel of St. Verana rang, yet none came to amass, even though they swung and pealed every morning when the sun, demure in its earliness, peeked through the curves of the eastern mountains; and rightly so, for there were neither towns nor villages, nor castle-cities nor fortresses, within or near those woods, save for a few camps where dwelt unsavoury men and women who dabbled in unsavoury business. It is a surprise, then, that the Chapel of St. Verana had stood as long as it had, and that no desecration had taken place there except that of uncaring, inexorable Father Time—for mortals, as they are, no matter how evil, despair death, and thus keep a semblance of belief in superstition, in gods, and in their avatars, and the most devout became divine: the saints and martyrs.
It certainly helped, too, that St. Verana had once been a thief pardoned by a certain goddess, whose name none of Romie's Heretics cared to know. Save for Rodrigo de Quixada, who, as mentioned before, was a crusader of some forgotten faith. In this roguery, many came to respect St. Verana, once known as Verana the Seamstress before her martyrdom; and many in the business of knavery felt a kinship toward her: not of faith, but of life. Therefore, it was known to Erik that St. Verana was the matron saint of the damned: the paupers, thieves, blackguards, harlots, and all others who suck the fat of society's underbelly; only if, and it is a gigantic if, their crimes were done yet they remain to have a heart of gold. To Erik, that had always been a terrible irony, since his mentor and father-figure, Conrad the Con, had once spoken of this very saint of the damned.
Erik snapped out of his dwelling on the numerous tales he had heard from his mentor about the Lady of Thieves, and turned his sight toward the exterior of the ruined chapel, which he caught only in part, for they were kneeling behind the guise of bushes. First to stir into action was the ever-haughty, and the source of Erik's fervent irritation, Charle the Portender; second, Rodrigo de Quixada, who strode out from the rim of the woods with great confidence in his assurance that there were no footprints branding the earth around, and therefore none had been here but air; third stood the Najib, who walked ahead, looking around the scenery in awe of the desolation such an architecture exuded, murmuring to himself—for he could not keep his mouth shut—wondering who would erect such a grand monument of faith as this chapel in the middle of nowhere; and last to stand was Erik, ever more cautious, yet cautious most toward Charle the Portender, whom he had seen wander far from the camp at noontide prior, when all others had been lulled into deep slumber.
"Look at this place, huh? We can just waltz in," Charle the Portender joyously intoned as he twirled with his arms spread wide. "No trouble at all."
Erstwhile, as the worn cloth of Charle the Portender's dandy attire lifted, Erik noticed, having kept a close and scrupulous eye on the rat, a hilt of a dagger that had not been there before, wedged at his belt on the right side. From this, Erik could only surmise that wherever Charle had gone the previous night, he must have conspired with himself or someone; the latter seemed likelier than the former, for a dagger so grandly made could hardly have escaped his notice otherwise. And none in their party bore it within them until now, until Charle the Portender. Henceforth they crossed the last threshold to the new world as they stepped into that relic of old, and the rattling walls of the chapel, like old bones with weathered veneer peeling to ash, made them acutely aware that within these hallowed halls, none had borne witness nor left footprints for many years of its solitude. The dust was so disturbed by the sudden coming of chaos that each step they took lifted it in clouds, as though the place itself exhaled after long silence.
Apart from the still pews and dirt-shrouded stained glass: whose colours had dulled as the sun sifted through the smut, no longer bearing the kaleidoscopic hues they once had when freshly assembled; and the numerous steel and iron bowls and weathered wooden tables, nothing caught the attention of Romie's Heretics. Only the altar, so fabulously crafted by meticulous, steady hands, drew their gaze; for even though dust had long begotten its finer details, it still inspired wonder and awe to the eye. There, in the middle of that forgotten art, stood a shut door like the mouth to the world below; and since there were no graves outside, beyond the steel-pointed fences beside, it must mean the cadaver lay within some catacombs beyond those very doors.
Rodrigo de Quixada, feeling the weight of his faith return, knelt upon one knee before the altar and prayed; in that instant, he seemed a knight-errant-to-be, blessed by St. Verana's phantom herself. Meanwhile, the ever-rogue that was Charle the Portender, having not in mind the magnitude of the moment nor the reverence for the old wind that lived within these walls, snooped around the worshipping hall for scraps he might sell after the terrible quest they had sought. The Najib shifted nearer to Erik, his eyes fearful as they drifted over the relics of this godly vessel mounted upon soil, and spoke in a whisper the simplest words he had ever let past his lips:
"I will stay here while you take the relic beneath."
Erik did so without hesitance and descended into the catacombs to which the door led. It was indeed dark, save for the luminescence of gemstones that had trapped light within their crystal; thus Erik had not a worry, for it was enough—sufficient—for him to see the catacombs that were, surprisingly, only a room long and wide. In the middle stood a sarcophagus of old marble, untouched for untold decades, resting idly; and within, when Erik pushed aside its heavy lid, lay the clothed bones of St. Verana. Erik found himself, in that moment, kneeling beside the marble, reaching inside while chuckling to himself at the irrationality of mortals who would place a price upon the dead body of a revered figure in a doctored history. It was a ridiculous notion, one that led him to ponder a surreal vision of his mentor swinging from the gallows for crimes they had shared, and he knew well the money the Thief-Taker General had gained from it. To put value in life, and in death as well: a macabre jest of the mind he would never comprehend.
Perhaps it had been a hefty length since he began pondering, for he heard the door leading into the catacombs creak open, and one of his peers came down—perhaps to tell him to hurry. Yet instead of the Najib's soft command or Rodrigo de Quixada's solemn tone, no speech came. Only three heavy footsteps and the sound of something dragging, thumping down the stairs. It was no surprise then to see three figures descend, along with two familiar dead men, being led by the tallest among them. Romualdez came first; at his side was a smiling Charle the Portender, and on the other, Rue Kent, who dragged behind him the bodies of the fallen: the Najib and Rodrigo de Quixada. And although Erik, in that moment, felt the urge to fly into a bout of fury, he understood at once that, at the very least, both the youngest and the oldest had died at peace with themselves. If a gooder, gentler, happier place in the life-after exists, then there they shall be, seated in their soft-cushioned rest—no more doubts, no more fears. No more.
"I knew this would eventually happen," Erik said calmly. "Treacherous as you may be, you have astounded me so. Your greed knows no bounds, and indeed, your conspirators should be aware of this. Or perhaps they already are, no? For the moment you saw this aristocrat, I heard his name leave your mouth. You are to kill me here, now, yes?"
The treacherous party only laughed, amused at the gall of Erik to speak so venomously while facing certain death. Erik raised his hands upward, as if to surrender, before slowly using one to draw a cigarette and lighter from his coat pocket.
"Could you humour me to a final smoke?"
"It matters little," Charle the Portender replied, smiling still. "And as you said, you've foreseen this. As much as it is on my hands that they've died, or on us three, the guilt is not rid of you, for you could have stopped me, and did not, mate."
"That's right," Erik said simply, placing the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. Along with the smoke, other words left his lungs: "And I shall carry them with me, along with the rest I've kept in stow."
"You won't have to carry it for long. Kent will kill you here after you're done with that stick—" Before Romualdez could finish, Erik let the lighter slip from his fingers. It fell upon the open sarcophagus, and since its lid had been left ajar, the fire took quickly. The inferno raged and swelled, and while Erik stood smoking with his hands still raised, the bones of St. Verana blackened, then crumbled—ashes melding into ashes.
Romualdez snarled, dog-like. "Kill the damn bastard!"
Kent drew his longsword from its blood-stained sheath and swung with all his might, intent on cleaving Erik de Noir. Only to strike the wall, the room too narrow for his flourish. Erik rolled behind the sarcophagus, though the marble seared to the touch, and flicked his wrist to reveal a small hand-cannon. He fired once, the steel ball striking Rue Kent upon his exposed jaw as he strained to wrench his sword free. The blow was ruinous. Kent dropped the hilt, clutching his shattered jaw as if to hold its shape together. In fear, for they had never known how to fight and rely merely on manipulation and speech, Charle the Portender and Romualdez fled, scurrying up the stair and locking the door behind them, leaving Erik de Noir alone among the dead. And in this, the silence of Erik de Noir, who had not spoken of himself since their meeting, had paid off dearly for they do not know the extent of Erik's capabilities and the seemingly otherworldly attribute that he has, or his wit and the experience that sharpened such cunning.
Erik chambered his wrist-gun and blew the doorknob clean off; when he heard the two flee past the door again, he kicked the frame with vigour and felt, for a heartbeat, the light of divinity and the gravitas of St. Verana's hall. Mercy was not for the vilest of his kind; he drew his daggers and hurled both at the rats: Romualdez the aristocrat and the backstabbing Charle. The hall answered with echoes of their pain as if struck by the very goddess who once blessed that place; yet none heard them but deadmen, and Erik's numb ears. Few words were spoken as he sauntered to Romualdez's begging form: a stab to the neck; a golden pouch torn from his coat; another slit to the throat to rid him of air, and Erik gave no pardon nor speech. The man had seven minutes before death; why waste them on farewell that Romualdez does not deserve?
Charle the Portender, however, still laughed though blood filled his lungs and weighed his words. "Good graces, I've been upped this time. I see you, Erik, I see you," he coughed, turning to face the kneeling man one last time. "I see you now, and I shall see you again; for no matter what you hold dear, you are neither saint nor martyr; your sins are not vanquished by each good act. I shall see you in the life-after; there we will spin yarns and I shall mock you. You will see."
"You will," Erik said, smiling a little as he stood and aimed his gun at Charle's forehead. "And I shall keep my promise evermore: this ordeal done, I shall shoot you on the forehead. In there, below, I will act upon this promise as every moon and sun settles anew in our damned paradise. Goodbye, Charle; you will not be missed."
He did as he promised; the boom of black powder reverberated. Then silence returned. Erik walked to the altar, took his cantina, poured it over the front and the cloth, ignited it, and walked out. Erik de Noir was the only one left of Romie's Heretics; thus the band was no more, as they were no more. No matter their deeds or their sins, there is no use looking back.
Erik understood they only became what they once were; and that he shall be, too: dust and ashes in the wind.