Sinner: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga)

by Mark Teppo

  “Why?” she begged. “Why did you kill Otto?”

  “Me? Kill your husband?” The magistrate shook his head. “I did no such thing.” He actually appeared hurt at her accusation, and for a moment her resolve wavered. Washe truly innocent? Had he given false testimony to the priest simply to ensure that her trial was swift and decisive? The inquisitor had remanded her to the magistrate’s custody for punishment. Maybe he was trying to help?

  The magistrate stood and undid his belt. “Lie on your back,” he said, lightly slapping the leather against the palm of his hand.

  As soon as he touched her, she fought back.

  “Look!” Andreas pointed. “A crowd is gathering.” He sprinted toward the green, leaving Raphael behind. They had been walking swiftly back toward the inn, both men considering what they had seen, and they had failed to notice the mob gathering outside the inn until they had nearly reached their destination. While Andreas sprinted ahead, Raphael paused to catch his breath. The younger man was not wearing mail as he was, and while he was accustomed to the weight, running in armor always sapped one’s strength quickly.

  Raphael caught his breath and hurried after Andreas. He loosened his sword in his scabbard, preparing for the worst.

  The panorama that greeted him was much the same as it had been earlier in the day, though the villagers as a whole were more agitated. A number of torches had already been lit, both to ward off the coming night and to fire the pyre. Andreas had positioned himself between the inn and the pyre, sword drawn. Opposing him were a half dozen of the inquisitor’s men, armed with both short spears and swords, and behind them were the magistrate and the forlorn shape of the accused, Gerda.

  There was no sign of the inquisitor.

  Raphael paused at the edge of the crowd, adjusted his clothing for a moment or two while he calmed his breathing, and then, in his loudest and most commanding voice, he shouted, “Hold fast.”

  His words cut through the noise of the crowd, and the attention of the mob swarmed toward him. He drew his sword and strode forward, his chest thrust out, his sword held tightly in his hand. He glared at the people at the nearest edge of the crowd, daring them to stand in his way, and they melted before him. Radiating an icy rage, he stalked through the crowd toward the pyre.

  “What action is this?” he demanded as he reached the group clustered around the pyre. “Did the inquisitor not set her punishment for the morrow? Are you denying this woman an opportunity to repent and recant her heresy?”

  “She is unrepentant,” the magistrate said. The flickering light from the torches made several narrow scratches on the man’s left cheek glisten. They had not been there earlier in the day, Raphael noted.

  “As would I be if you tried to force yourself on me,” Raphael said, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, an angry murmur ran through the crowd.

  The woman raised her head and stared at him. For all the pain in her face, her gaze was strong and willful. He felt his breath hitch in his chest slightly. Whatever ordeal she had suffered through had hardened her resolve. So like Elisabeth, he thought.

  “The inquisitor placed her in our care,” he heard himself say.

  “You refused,” came another voice.

  At the edge of the crowd, the inquisitor sat on his big black horse, the remaining pair of his men behind him, also mounted. “You refused to accept the responsibility I asked of you,” the inquisitor reminded Raphael.

  “I accept it now,” Raphael said.

  “To what end?” the inquisitor inquired, both annoyed and curious.

  “Who accused her of her crimes?” Raphael demanded. “What witnesses came forth to testify of her culpability?”

  “I have no need to elucidate the tribunal to you, sir,” the inquisitor said. “You have no authority to make such demands of me.”

  “No?” Raphael raised his sword and rested it on his shoulder so that it was plainly visible, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andreas move to his right, positioning himself farther away. “Good woman Gerda,” Raphael called, “I am Raphael, a Knight Initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. That is Andreas, a Knight Initiate of the same. We inquire if you are in need of assistance.”

  The magistrate struggled to clap his hand over Gerda’s mouth, but she pulled herself free of his grip. “Yes,” she said. “I am—”

  The magistrate drew his sword. He grabbed Gerda by the hair and pulled her back to him, laying his sword across her breast and throat. “Shut up, witch,” he snarled.

  Raphael turned his gaze toward the inquisitor. “She is under our protection now, Konrad von Marburg,” he said, very clearly failing to offer any honorifics in his address. “And we say you failed in your ecclesiastic duties as an inquisitor of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. You accused the wrong person.”

  “You think too highly of yourself and your order, Raphael,” the inquisitor snarled. “My will is absolute. I am the Church. These people’s lives belong to me.”

  “No,” Andreas corrected. “They belong to God.”

  “Good people,” Raphael shouted before the inquisitor could respond, “this priest claims he watches over you, but has he protected you? This morning you woke to find one of yours cruelly murdered. Since then, have you not noticed others missing? A woman and two men. Look around you. Is someone else not missing their loved ones? Has the Church kept you safe?”

  The inquisitor stared at the crowd as they reacted to Raphael’s words. Their voices rose in a cacophony of confusion and questions, until a consensus was reached. The noise died as quickly as it had begun, and in that silence, Raphael heard three names called out.

  “Magistrate,” he said, directing the crowd’s attention. “Do you know where these townsfolk might be?” The magistrate laughed at him, a note of panic in his voice. He tugged Gerda closer to him, his sword blade rising dangerously close to her throat.

  Raphael eyed the distance between them and judged it too far. He glanced at Andreas and saw that the young knight had made the same determination. He looked back at the magistrate, attempting to determine the man’s temperament and panic.

  “You know the old ways,” the magistrate shouted, more at the crowd than at Raphael. “Our harvests are failing.” He yanked at Gerda’s hair, pulling her head back and exposing her throat. “Our women are becoming barren. What else could we do?” His voice became more and more shrill, struggling to rise above the swelling noise of the crowd. From the hubbub, Raphael heard as many people agreeing with the magistrate as arguing against him.

  And then the sound of a woman’s laugh cut through all the confusion, silencing all dissent. “You killed Otto because you wanted me,” Gerda said. “It had nothing to do with the old ways or the harvest or the fact that I am unable to bear children. You saw me and you wanted me.” She stood up straight, tilting her head back so she could look the magistrate in the face. “And you will never have me.”

  “No!” Raphael shouted, trying to stop what he knew was going to happen.

  Looking straight at Raphael, Gerda collapsed. Her throat came down on the magistrate’s blade.

  When the magistrate realized what Gerda was attempting to do, he shoved her away as if to distance himself from any responsibility of her actions. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Raphael dropped his sword and rushed to her, fumbling with his cloak as he tried to press the coarse fabric against her throat. Everyone was transfixed by the knight’s efforts.

  Everyone except Andreas.

  Having checked the position and disposition of the six guards, he swept his gaze toward their master. The inquisitor leaned forward in his saddle, a mixed expression of disgust and wry amusement on his face. None of his men had shown any eagerness to engage with Andreas, and so he knew they would not act without an explicit signal. Judging from the priest’s expression, the situation was still poised on the edge of a blade.

  Raphael eased Gerda to the ground, a bundle of his cloak shoved against her neck. He was tal
king to her in a low voice, and her gaze was locked on his face, her body shivering.

  The magistrate stood frozen, his sword almost forgotten in his hand.

  That’s the sword, Andreas thought. That’s the one that killed the others. The magistrate was not a trained swordsman, that much had been obvious by the cuts on the bodies in the woods, but he knew enough to not hesitate when he had to use it.

  “Kill them,” the inquisitor said, making a sudden declaration. “This entire village is a pit of heresy and should be purged by sword and fire.” His men stirred, their hands tightening on their weapons. “These knights, the woman, this blasphemous monster”—the last was directed at the magistrate—“and burn everything. Let nothing remain of this blight.”

  Andreas tightened his grip on his sword.

  That was all the signal he needed.

  The first man raised his sword too late, and Andreas’s strike crumpled his defense. Some of the force of Andreas’s attack was deflected, but it was still strong enough to split the man’s helm.

  Andreas jerked his sword free and pivoted, dropping the blade into the low guard as the second man charged at him with a leveled spear. Andreas swung his sword in a rapid arc, flicking the blade from one side of his body to the other. He felt the steel slide along the shaft of the spear, and with a flick, he diverted the spear into the ground. He placed his foot on the shaft of the weapon, pinning it, and jerked his hands up, whipping the tip of his sword across his opponent’s throat. He stepped back with his other foot, bringing his sword up and around to connect with the back of the choking man’s neck. A mercy stroke, for the man was going to bleed out from the neat cut across his throat.

  The third and fourth men came at him simultaneously, and Andreas dodged to the outside of the man on his right, batting the man’s blade into the path of the other man. As they tangled, he slashed across the back of the right-hand man’s thigh and then shoved him against his fellow.

  The last two men were already fleeing, having decided the inquisitor was not paying them enough to die in this village. Especially when the inquisitor and the other mounted men had already left.

  The one guard still in fighting condition untangled himself from his wounded companion and came at Andreas, approaching with a healthy caution. He finally found the nerve to attack, and Andreas found him lacking in the bind. He stepped in, swept his left arm over the other man’s arms, and turned, drawing the man’s wrists into the crook of his arm and stripping the blade from the man’s suddenly slack fingers. From there, it was easy to bash the man in the face with the pommel of his sword, breaking his nose and driving the fight out of him.

  Andreas checked the field, fairly certain he had disposed of all threats, and he caught sight of the magistrate rousing himself from his torpor.

  The man gripped his sword tight as he focused his anger on the two who had wronged him most: Gerda and Raphael.

  Andreas cast about for some way to stop him in time and darted for the spear dropped by one of the inquisitor’s men. He scooped it up, gauged its heft, and felt it to be too heavy for much distance. But it wasn’t going to have to fly far. He got his weight behind the throw and hurled the spear.

  As the magistrate raised his sword over Gerda and Raphael, the spear struck him square in the chest, splitting his ribs and lifting him off his feet. He tumbled to the ground, quivered once, blood spurting from his mouth, and then lay still.

  Raphael had not even looked up.

  “Lie still,” Raphael insisted. “I can bind your wound if you let me work.”

  “Why?” Gerda rasped, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She tried to smile. “I will see my Otto soon. Why would I want to stay here?”

  Raphael had no answer for her.

  “Did you find him?” she asked.

  “We did.”

  “Bring his body here,” she said. She coughed, choking on the blood in her throat, and more of it ran from her mouth as she turned her head. “Let us be together,” she whispered, her voice fading. “In the old way. Scatter our ashes over the fields. Let us be the offering.” She reached up, touching his face, and he felt her blood mingle with the tear on his cheek. “Let me go,” she said.

  “I’m trying,” Raphael said. “It is very hard to do.”

  “I know,” she sighed, closing her eyes.

  HUMILIS

  Andreas stood at the edge of the field beside Raphael’s majestic and patient horse and idly ran his hands through the beast’s glossy mane as he watched Raphael pace back and forth across the fallow earth.

  Tiny white clouds floated in Raphael’s wake as he scattered handfuls of ash from a basket clutched beneath his other arm. A playful wind had blown a fair amount of the ash of the lovers back at Raphael, and his torso and legs were lightly dusted by the time he was finished with his task.

  “Pulvis es et in pulveram reverteris,” Raphael said as he came over to Andreas. He seemed to notice the ash on his clothing and brushed vainly at it for a moment before giving up with a shrug.

  “Were we wrong?” Andreas asked.

  Raphael shook his head. “I don’t know, Andreas. I have fought Saracens beneath the banner of Christ. I have fought alongside Moors in Iberia. I have stood with pagans against the Church. Our own order tries to forget its past, and have we lost our way as a result? These people had a relationship with this land that existed for generations. Who are we to say that what we have brought them is better or worse?”

  Andreas patted Raphael’s horse. “Maybe it is best to be simple knights,” he said. “Defend our honor and the honor of those who cannot defend themselves.”

  Raphael offered him a wan smile. “I admire your simplicity.”

  “Good,” Andreas said. “Then perhaps you will not mind my company on the way to Mainz.”

  “Why do you think I am going to Mainz?” Raphael asked, a note of cautious curiosity in his voice.

  “I wish to speak with the Archbishop there,” Andreas said, ignoring Raphael’s question. “The abbey at Lorsch used to have a library, but the monks tell me it was closed on the Archbishop’s order. I wanted to ask him why.”

  “The library,” Raphael said slowly, as if he was examining Andreas’s words for some hidden meaning. “At Lorsch.”

  “Yes.” Andreas shrugged. “Though I suppose we might run into the inquisitor,” he added as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him.

  “He did leave awfully suddenly,” Raphael mused, feigning a similar innocence.

  “It does only seem right that we let him know how his tribunal turned out, don’t you think? In case he wants to send a report to Rome.”

  Raphael laughed. “Your simplicity has an unnerving daring to it, Andreas.”

  “I am but a mere sword.” Andreas extended his arm, fingers outstretched. “Point me in the direction of our enemies.”

  Raphael clapped the younger man on the shoulder and climbed into the saddle of his horse. He raised his hand against the morning glare and made a show of looking from horizon to horizon.

  “That way,” he said, pointing to the east.

  . END .

  Raphael and Andreas return in The Mongoliad.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Fleetwood Robbins, who was not the least bit flustered by the sudden appearance of this manuscript in his inbox, and to the writers of the Mongoliad trilogy—Greg, Erik, Joe, E.D., Cooper, and Neal—who graciously let me run off with these two characters for a little while.

  About the Author

  Photo by Leslie Howle

  Mark Teppo is the author of the Codex of Souls urban fantasy series as well as the upcoming eco-thriller Earth Thirst.

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  TITLE PAGE

  EPIGRAPH

  CONTENTS

  LUXURIA

  GULA

  AVARITIA

  ACEDIA

  IRA

  INVIDIA

  SUPERBIA

&nbs
p; HUMILIS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR