Deus Necros

Clementine turned his head to one side, then the other, studying the man in the mirror.

The changes went far beyond anything dye or an illusion could accomplish. His jaw had narrowed, his cheekbones sat higher, and the small scar near his chin had disappeared. In its place was the weathered complexion of a middle-aged priest accustomed to traveling between villages.

Gray touched the sides of his hair, which Hoyo had cut in the plain style favored by provincial members of the Holy Church.

”Praise be to the Divine Light.”

The voice was deeper than his own, roughened by an age his throat had never possessed. Clementine smiled and repeated the phrase at a different pitch.

”Even the voice is perfect. How did you manage that?”

Behind him, Hoyo wiped blood from his hands with a white towel.

”The throat was suitable. Vocal cords are physical structures like anything else. Once I had the right ones, I adjusted the tension and the surrounding tissue to produce the voice you wanted.”

Clementine’s smile weakened as he watched Hoyo clean between his fingers.

”You make replacing someone’s throat sound remarkably ordinary.”

”It is ordinary for me.”

Hoyo folded the towel and dropped it onto the table. Clementine returned his attention to the mirror.

Father Pedri stared back at him.

The name belonged to an unremarkable provincial priest from a church most people would never have heard of. Nobody looking at that face would think of a fugitive wanted across half the Empire.

The door opened, and the Treacherous Fanged Wolf entered in human form.

His broad werewolf frame had given way to a tall, lean man in a dark traveling coat. The blindfold remained in place, the only immediately familiar part of his appearance. Clementine found the disguise unpleasant for the same reason he admired Hoyo’s work: there was nothing visibly false about it.

”You’re finished?” the werewolf asked.

Clementine spread his hands. ”You’re looking at the result. I would say Hoyo has done rather well.”

”Let me hear the priest.”

”May the gods guide your path, my child,” Clementine said, adopting a patient smile.

The Treacherous Fanged Wolf tilted his head toward him.

”You sound old. That should do.”

”I had hoped for something more flattering after spending so long on the table.”

”Then ask someone who wasn’t responsible for choosing the identity.”

Hoyo leaned against the workbench. ”Are we ready to leave?”

”Almost. We checked both identities again. The available records have been adjusted where necessary, and we have traced the people most likely to recognize either of you.”

Hoyo straightened slightly as the werewolf turned toward him.

”Your name is Vask.”

The blue interface at the edge of his vision already displayed it.

[VASK]

The name had replaced Hiro’s in several sections of the transferred Hero interface. Hoyo still found that strange to look at. He had spent most of his life taking pieces from other people, but arms, eyes, and organs were simple things compared to what he had taken this time.

A destiny required considerably more work to conceal.

”Vask was an orphan raised under the care of a village church,” the werewolf continued. ”He had no family that we could find and few close acquaintances. He was quiet, worked when told, and rarely caused trouble.”

”How convenient,” Hoyo said.

”It saves you from having to invent relatives. He learned enough swordsmanship to defend himself against animals or the occasional bandit, but he received no formal training.”

Hoyo glanced at the sword leaning against the table.

Rust appeared to cover much of its blade. The weapon had been prepared to look nearly worthless, though anyone sensitive to Holy energy would recognize that its appearance was misleading.

It had absorbed far too much power to be ordinary.

The Council of Betrayers had kept the Hero’s Sword hidden. This one carried enough Holy energy to support the story of an otherwise unremarkable orphan who had begun performing extraordinary deeds.

”A few people from Vask’s village left years ago,” the werewolf said. ”Merchants, travelers, and one family that moved deeper into Lotostra. They should recognize you if you cross paths.”

Hoyo touched his new face.

”And if they expect me to remember them?”

”They haven’t seen Vask in years. You resemble him closely enough for their memories to supply most of what they expect. Age can explain a change in speech, and hardship can explain a change in temperament.”

Clementine stepped away from the mirror.

”What about Father Pedri? Priests tend to be remembered by more than a few childhood acquaintances.”

”That required more work.”

The werewolf’s casual tone made Clementine pause.

”What sort of work?”

”A cleansing.”

Hoyo looked toward him. ”You killed the people who knew him.”

”Not directly. The small church Father Pedri belonged to was attacked by a third party. Bandits can be remarkably useful when properly encouraged.”

Clementine studied the blindfolded face.

”So the church was destroyed, and nobody can connect its destruction to us.”

”That is the intention.”

”Were there survivors?” Hoyo asked.

”Enough to establish what happened. You need witnesses to the tragedy. An account with nobody left to confirm it becomes troublesome when someone starts asking questions.”

Hoyo pushed away from the table.

”Then Father Pedri escapes the destruction of his church thanks to his generous heart that went to help a village under a vicious plague. He however only managed to save one child who was touched by divinity in that village. The good heart of the father who went to save the child saved him from being a victim to the bandits that raided them.” the werewolf added.

Clementine’s eyes remained on him for a moment before he nodded.

”An aging priest who has lost his church, traveling with a young man who has lost his home. Both seeking refuge and guidance in Solania.”

”Tragic enough to invite sympathy and ordinary enough to be believed,” the werewolf said.

”Useful,” Clementine observed.

”That too.”

Hoyo lifted the sword and tested its weight.

”What happens when we reach Solania?”

”You need to concern yourself with the journey first. Walking into the Holy Order’s care and announcing that you are the Hero will accomplish very little.”

”I have the Hero’s quest and his heart. I could show them.”

”And spend the following weeks being examined by priests who want to know why a newly summoned Hero’s heart is inside an orphan from Lotostra.”

Hoyo considered that possibility. Being subjected to someone else’s curiosity held little appeal.

”What do you suggest?”

”A reputation. Slay monsters, stop bandits, save villages, and heal people when the opportunity permits. Give them deeds to discuss before you give them a claim to investigate.”

The werewolf tapped the rusty blade, then turned toward Clementine.

”Make certain there are witnesses.”

Clementine smiled. ”So we have become performers.”

”You always were. Now you know what the audience expects.”

Hoyo looked toward the interface again.

[ETERNAL QUEST]

[Slay the Demon King.]

The command remained unchanged, attached to him with the same certainty it had once belonged to Hiro.

That was the part he found most amusing. They had stolen the Hero’s heart, his obligation, and his place in the cycle, and the world had accepted the transfer.

The face and history were false. His claim to be the Hero was not.

”What have you prepared along the route?” Hoyo asked.

The werewolf turned back toward him.

”You sound certain that I have prepared something.”

”You told us the journey matters. I doubt you intend to leave it to chance.”

A smile appeared beneath the blindfold.

”Several Council members have contributed resources or information. Others had problems along your route that needed solving. Monsters, criminals, and situations in which a young man arriving at the right moment could earn considerable gratitude.”

”Did you manufacture those problems?”

”Some of them. Others we simply chose not to resolve ourselves.”

Hoyo laughed. ”That sounds more believable.”

”By the time you reach Solania, people should already know the name Vask. Father Pedri will be remembered as the humble priest who guided him.”

Clementine gave a shallow bow.

”The role suits me.”

”You will begin with ordinary people,” the werewolf continued. ”Their accounts will reach nobles, military officials, and eventually the Church. Let the reputation grow ahead of you.”

”And then the gods will have to acknowledge him,” Clementine said.

”They will have to acknowledge that their Hero has returned wearing a face they never chose.”

Hoyo liked that.

He rested the sword against his shoulder and nodded toward the door.

”Then we should begin.”

Clementine collected his belongings, but the werewolf raised a hand before either could pass.

”There is one thing you will practice from this moment onward. He is Father Pedri, and you are Vask.”

”I know my own name,” Hoyo said.

”No. You know Vask’s name. You need to answer to it without thinking.”

Hoyo’s expression flattened, but the werewolf continued.

”Use those names when you wake, when you argue, and when you think nobody is listening. Use them when you are injured, exhausted, drunk, or surprised. If either of you shouts ’Hoyo’ or ’Clementine’ in front of the wrong person after everything we have arranged, I may kill you myself.”