Vengeance Unleashed by a Saint in a Fiery Short Story

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At io9, we take pride in showcasing exceptional fiction from LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE. Each month, we present a captivating story from LIGHTSPEED’s latest issue. This month, immerse yourself in “We Will Bring Siege to the Bastion of Sin that Cries Out in Your Prayer” by Hammond Diehl. Enjoy this enthralling tale!

Experience the Haunting Tale: We Will Bring Siege to the Bastion of Sin

Written by Hammond Diehl

Your admiration for your patron saints—the Marys, Joans, and Catherines—might need reconsideration. While they are often revered, it’s crucial to recognize the underlying power they hold. The reverence may mask a deeper fear, one that can be awakened if you call upon them in your time of need.

Imagine if one day, your fervent prayer is answered by a figure stripped of humanity, adorned with a halo of blazing yellow flames, demanding that you fortify her essence with the remains of the fallen. This moment will challenge everything you believed you wanted. Be prepared for a reckoning.

In the depths of your mind, you may deceive yourself, claiming you sought wisdom and courage. Yet, as you lie in the sterile confines of a hospital bed, grappling with the consequences of your summons, the truth will be stark. You’ll lie to the world, to the medical staff, and perhaps even to yourself as you are sedated, hoping for a moment of grace amidst the chaos.

But this is not the outcome you envisioned.

This is not the divine intervention you sought.

Despite your self-deception, she recognized your intent the moment you called upon her. Embrace this truth, and your chances of survival in the battle you prayed for will be much greater.

She introduced herself through the remnants of her own body, her teeth biting into my forearm. Later, she would claim to have attempted a handshake first, a claim I found hard to believe.
Even in the dimness of early morning, her presence was unmistakable. Her fiery crown illuminated the room, a real halo in every sense. Remember this if you ever need to impress someone during catechism—just don’t gaze directly at it, especially when it’s at its most potent.
Girl, she whispered into my mind. You called me.
Her voice echoed in my thoughts, a comfort in the restless night where my parents’ sleep was anything but sound.
No, I responded silently. Was this my first deception? A recent dream or vision had clouded my memory. The saint’s identity eluded me, panic stealing my words.
You revealed the rampart of sin, she continued. Constructed from the flesh of the damned. As you wished, I will bring siege to it. You must provide me with a chain shirt, a flail made of thorns, and a steed strong enough to lead a charge against a thousand foes.
Now fully awake, I found myself unable to tear my gaze from her, my bare feet retreating toward the door, distancing myself from the skeletal figure standing resolutely between me and the window she had somehow breached.
I stammered that I didn’t possess any armor, then rushed to my wastebasket to vomit as dawn’s light began to filter through the curtains.
She watched me with hollow eyes.
How many mornings have you prayed?
You see not just my mind, but my very being.
A holy light reveals all.
So you understand my plight.
I perceive your need. Now, my armor. My weapon. My steed. Bring them to me.
I didn’t question her logic, unlike any rational person would. Instead, I revealed my meager possessions: , an old pickup truck, and just enough scholarship funds for a single year at a less-than-reputable institution nearby.
Resolved, the saint declared. I shall wear no armor except the mantle of God.
But, I thought, all I need is enough gas money to reach the next clinic. They had shot the doctor at the one down the road, so I needed to reach the next one, just across state lines, but the trip was manageable.
Show me this clinic “down the road.” In your thoughts.
I closed my eyes, focusing intently, and wondered what language this saint had once spoken.
The physician has indeed gone to God.
I remained seated on my bed.
Yup, I thought towards the skeletal figure.
Projectiles.
Indeed.
The saint approached me with an eerie grace, urging me to dress quickly and travel light. I complied, and she clambered onto my back as we made our way downstairs, passing through a living room cluttered with plastic-wrapped furniture and walls adorned with religious novenas. A crucifix of Christ hung over the mantle, his expression one of utter exhaustion.
Outside, we loaded my belongings into the truck. She scrutinized it meticulously, like a general preparing for war.
We will locate the bastion of sin that resonates with your prayers, she proclaimed. And we will lay siege to it.
What bastion of sin? I thought, perplexed.
She chose to ignore my question.
But first, I require more bones.

Those seeking forgiveness make pilgrimages to honor their saints. These journeys are meticulously plotted to maintain a sense of celestial order that delights the angels.
Saints, however, also embark on their own journeys, following paths invisible to us. My saint’s route was known only to her.
As she pointed me towards various highway exits, we ventured into the Maria Stein Shrine of the Holy Relics in Ohio, where we ‘borrowed’ a femur belonging to St. Victoria, who suffered martyrdom in a North African prison. In Louisiana, we liberated a crowbar from a junkyard while the wary dogs lowered their eyes at our approach.
Could this serve as a sword? my saint inquired.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity.
A matching sound emerged from her, echoing through the hollow spaces at her neck, making my laugh seem like a mere croak.
The following day, she wielded the crowbar as we burst into the Church of St. Joseph, where a certain St. Valerie awaited us beneath a canopy of glass and gilded copper. Valerie lent us a spare arm, the last remnant of her being after enduring brutal treatment by Roman soldiers.
Curious about her origins, I asked my saint during our travels along the Floribama line. By then, our group had expanded to include a twelve-year-old girl who had fled to the back seat after her father hurled beer cans at us.
A catacomb, she replied. A lump of ash. A rotting rope swinging from a tree. These details matter not. Let them pass.
With each bone we acquired, my saint grew more imposing; her stature increased with every shoulder and hip bone, expanding her presence. Her face contorted as she removed a mandible to accommodate more hyoids. Ulnas and radii disconnected with eerie pops, hanging in an unsettling display as her frame morphed. Soon, her arms moved with a grace that resembled the fluttering of kite strings as she opened windows to the refreshing breeze.
My legs must be more robust, she declared.
Like, trees? I asked incredulously.
Like the walls of a fortress.
Unbeknownst to me, the radio had been on. As we crossed into a new county, a local talk station blared to life.
Beware, the broadcast warned. Beware of those attempting to corrupt everything pure and good, who aim to introduce harmful ideologies into every school.
My guilt, resting in the back seat, stirred from its slumber, leaning forward.
During catechism, they taught us that every child has the right to be born into the embrace of our lord.
I, the saint responded, was born into the embrace of our lord.
We acquired additional femurs from St. Frances in New York and collected tibias from a St. Bonosa, who was martyred at the tender age of four in the Colosseum.
With each acquisition, my saint’s legs transformed into towering structures, filled with ancient strength and fury.
My vehicle succumbed to mechanical failure a few days later, but by that time, she had outgrown it. She towered over the St. Martin of Tours Church in Louisville, casting shadows over a Ferris wheel precariously balanced between Galveston and the Gulf of Mexico.
Her strides spanned entire city blocks.
She supported us with the ankle bones of the sacrificed and the hip sockets of the disemboweled. Her ribs encircled her torso like protective armor. In that sacred embrace, we found rest.
At times, we noticed a police car trailing us, lights dimmed. The media struggled to comprehend our presence.
We crossed back into Mississippi, likely guided by another saint with a bone to share.
We have arrived, the saint announced.
We confronted a low, one-story structure surrounded by a steel fence and razor wire.
It’s another clinic, I observed. It appears to be open. But . . .
A throng of people, dozens deep, pressed against some kind of automatic gate, their faces flushed with anger, arms and shoulders glistening with sweat. Their eyes glimmered with fury below baseball caps adorned with beer logos and crosses, frayed at the edges from factories far away. They formed a barricade.
The bastion of sin, I realized. A wall of human flesh.
I perched on a clavicle, feeling the warmth of her halo surround me. My saint had gathered a stack of patellas on either shoulder, reminiscent of cannon fodder. The twelve-year-old girl nestled within my saint’s ribcage.
The saint advanced toward the barrier separating the agitated crowd from the clinic, lifting her foot in preparation to allow us passage.
A sharp crack echoed from below. I glanced down at the ribcage. The twelve-year-old stared in disbelief at her left palm, where a hole had appeared.
Another crack. A bullet grazed the tiny St. Maria Goretti’s shin—the same Maria Goretti who, at eleven, forgave her assailant as she succumbed to her injuries.
For a fleeting moment, I felt breathless, the weight of reality pressing down on me. I looked up at my saint, whose halo now stretched upward, piercing the heavens like an impossible tower. Sparks rained down, each one a tiny inferno, too small to cause significant harm on its own.
A fire ignited within me, a seething warmth I had feared, denied, and ultimately nurtured in secret.
For weeks.
My saint steadied me upon her shoulder, the shoulder of St. Agatha, who perished in prison after rejecting a local governor’s advances.
I grasped one of the patella bones, feeling its weight in my hands. I aimed it at a man in camo coveralls and hurled it.
My saint pivoted, her arms whirling like siege engines, fingers poised to crush.
I missed. Several men below, however, did not miss. My saint’s body trembled under the barrage of impacts.
She possessed countless bones.
But no shield.
The twelve-year-old screamed.
Crawling along the saint’s clavicle, I whispered a prayer, one I would later dismiss as mere frantic muttering, and clutched her patchwork jaw. I exerted all my strength to pull.
She was aware.
She opened her mouth wide, and I climbed inside.
If I perish here, I implored, make my bones your shield.
My words erupted from her like a clarion call. Every soul manning that hellish gate heard me.
Another man joined the first, his gaze locking onto me through my saint’s left eye socket. He wielded a weapon so large and modified, it resembled a handheld tank.
I met his stare, leaned out, and smiled.
I had to twist my neck painfully to do what came next. A disk popped in my jaw, but I couldn’t help it. I laughed, searching once more for the halo atop my saint.
The light pierced my vision, and at long last, I beheld the glory.

<h4>Learn More About the Author: Hammond Diehl</h4>
Hammond Diehl has contributed to esteemed publications such as Strange Horizons, Kaleidotrope, Diabolical Plots, and more. Currently residing in Los Angeles, Hamm writes under a pseudonym for safety and comfort. You can follow Hamm on Bluesky @hammonddiehl.bsky.social.

For more exhilarating science fiction and fantasy, be sure to visit LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE. This story made its debut in the November 2024 issue, which also features captivating short stories by Isabel Cañas, Aimee Ogden, Oluwatomiwa Ajeigbe, P H Lee, and Ai Jiang, along with a gripping novella by Ashok K. Banker. You can wait for this month’s stories to be serialized online, or purchase the entire issue in an easy-to-read ebook format for just $4.99, or subscribe to the ebook edition here.

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