by Andy Sparrow
“They cannot.”
“Then we must each go our way,” she gave that same smile he had seen before, when he had parted from her tribe and she had said her false goodbye.
“It must be goodbye this time,” he whispered to her, “you cannot follow me.” Then he held her tightly to his breast and kissed her hair.
“Which ship is yours?” she asked, cheek pressed tight against him, eyes looking sadly along the quay.
“That one. With the sail hoisted. It is ready now, they are waiting just for me.”
“Is it a good ship?” she asked, a tremble in her voice, the tears running freely now.
“Aye, strongly made to weather all storms, just like you.”
He kissed her deeply, held her in one last iron-gripped embrace, and then went without looking back, jumping from the quay to the balustrade of the ship, with a pain inside that ripped his heart.
She watched the ship; the churning wake leaving a trail upon the water that lingered after it had passed from view around a headland. Two men waited for her in an open boat. she scrambled down, refusing their offers of help, and soon the oars made a gentle splashing rhythm that soothed the pain within. They were quite handsome men; perhaps she would enjoy the journey after all.
Chapter 9
The populace rejoiced to see Him enter but his enemies were as cornered beasts that become savage and enraged.
The book of Tarcen. Ch. 41 V. 8
When they came to Hirege smoke was rising from the town in two columns. Torrin steadied a telescope against the rigging and peered through to see the source of the burning. There was a ship in the harbour that still smouldered, though it was now little more than a half drowned ribcage of burnt spars. Beyond, in the square of the town, the marble dome of the temple was consumed by flame. As they drew nearer, a crowd gathered on the quay, angry shouts could be heard, and then a few arrows fell impotently into the sea around them. The gates of the castle were shut tight and blackened by fire. A few bodies could be discerned, lying inertly on the ground close by, little streams of dark liquid seeping from them. On the castle battlements figures waved frantically, and from a small cave at its base, an open boat put to sea. A priest rowed urgently towards them, braving many arrows and angry taunts from the mob.
The priest struggled up the ship’s ladder, leaving his boat to drift away, and came gasping and panting onto the deck. He looked around at the crew and the few priests travelling onboard, and spoke, pausing often to catch his breath.
“Have you come from Etoradom?” They told him they had not, but were bound there next.
“Has news reached you of troubles there?” he asked. No, they said, no news, for they had been departed many moons.
“One moon ago,” he told them, “a ship came bringing rumours. They said that Etoradom was burning, that the people had risen against the church. The story spread around the populace here and there was trouble in the streets. We sent patrols out and punished them harshly but then their anger grew. They came upon us with weapons and made siege at the castle gates. They attack any ship that bears our emblem. Those of the priesthood left in the castle need forces to relieve them, or ships of evacuation. I was sent to tell you this, and to tell Etoradom of our plight if you will take me there.”
“Do you know any more of Etoradom and what has happened there?” asked Torrin.
“I do not. We have had no word from the church, nor orders or instructions, since the news came. But this talk of uprising is surely no more than lies; most likely spread by heretic pirates that have harried and slowed our ships on the crossings here. The holy church will return to cleanse the impurity of these people, the Brothers of Redemption will have much of God's work to do.”
They turned northeast and set course for the havens of Etoradom. The news from the priest disturbed Torrin greatly and he feared for the safety of Valhad and the other servants; he also wondered what fortunes had befallen His Lordship. When they came to the havens the quay overlooked by the castle was still and quiet; no soldiers, priests or dock labourers awaited them. Those onboard looked uneasily around, sensing some deep menace in the silence; a troubled awareness that the world was not as it had been and that every man's station within it was changed in some undiscovered way.
As the ship berthed Torrin jumped ashore, grateful to feel solid ground under his feet, but wary of the unnatural silence. He followed a passage that led up many broad steps to the castle courtyard and found the first bodies lying there; two priests locked in death in the final moments of combat. White knuckles were left in throttling grip around a neck, while the blue hands of the strangled man still clutched the dagger hilt that had pierced his assailant's belly. The rumour said the people had risen against the church, yet here the priests had been killing one another.
“Turn slowly if you wish to live.”
The voice sounded from behind him. He obeyed, with hands held palms upwards, away from his sword hilt. A priest-soldier stood there, or very nearly, for the uniform was not complete; the emblem of Etoradom was missing.
“Who are you?” the soldier asked, finger stroking the crossbow latch.
“A traveller; just returned from far away.”
“What is your name?”
“Torrin.”
“What is your wife’s name?”
Torrin hesitated, surprised by the question.
“She is called Varna.”
“And who is the chief of your tribe?”
“Perrith.”
The priest lowered the crossbow a little and relaxed his trigger finger.
“Then you are he. We must move quickly, there is still danger here.”
“Who are you?” demanded Torrin. “Who sent you? There is only one who knows these things about me.”
“I am Cannis. There is no time to speak now, we must ride at once.”
Cannis turned and strode away. Torrin hurried beside him, passing more bodies as he went.
“What happened here?” asked Torrin, glancing down at the dead priests. Cannis called back to him without slackening his pace.
“This garrison was summoned to put down the rising in Etoradom. Many here refused to obey the orders and so they fought amongst themselves. You will be told more, but now we must ride.”
They mounted two horses that waited saddled and ready. Soon after they were cantering on the open road, but briefly, for Cannis led them into the forest and then weaved a cautious trail between the trees. When they were able to ride side-by-side Torrin spoke to him.
“Only Valhad would know these things that you asked of.”
“Perhaps so,” said Cannis, “but it was another that told me who I must seek, and how he would be known.”
“And who is this person you speak of?”
“That you will know soon, for I am instructed to take you to him.”
Then Cannis was silent, and Torrin could get no further explanation from him.
They emerged from the forest by a village, and Cannis eyed the road ahead cautiously. He led them on past scattered cottages towards the main square, passing a few loitering men who watched them suspiciously, and were all armed with sharpened farm tools. The temple was a blackened ruin, the body of its priest hung from a tree close by; tethered by the foot, arms hanging loosely, body scored with many slashes. On the most complete fragment of the temple wall the banned verse from the Text had been daubed in bold taunting letters. They was a symbol painted too, a horizontal line with each end curling in a spiral like the horns of some animal.
“What does that sign mean?” Torrin whispered to Cannis as they passed.
“It means much and is seen now in many places.”
He would say no more. After a long journey on nearly forgotten paths they reached a forest glade.
“You will wait here,” said Cannis, “while I go to he that awaits us. When I return it will be to lead you to him.”
He trotted away, leaving Torrin alone and bemused. He tethered his horse and slumbered o
n the soft grass, until he was woken by the sound of hooves approaching. Cannis summoned him without dismounting and soon they were picking their way along a steep and rocky track. They came to clearing and he saw another paved road crossing the way, and beyond the distant city of Etoradom caught in the loops of the sun-red river. It was the same place where he had first seen the great city, where the convoy of troops and wagons had halted. A carriage was parked there, horses damp with sweat, the driver hunched and cowled. The windows were veiled, the occupants invisible.
“Dismount,” said Cannis, “and he will come.”
They stepped down, and Cannis took the reins of his mount from him. The carriage door opened and a hooded figure stepped out, but did not walk towards them. It seemed instead that the eyes of the unseen face were drawn to gaze at distant Etoradom. It was only as Torrin approached that the man turned and revealed his face.
“Vasagi.”
“Lordship.”
“You did your task well, Vasagi.”
“I made it easy for the mercenaries to slaughter your enemies, if that is what you mean.”
“Have it as you will, Vasagi. But the task is done and the bargain is complete. Your freedom is granted. You may return to your tribe.”
“And what of Valhad?”
His Lordship sighed and shook his head slowly.
“He will not make the journey with you.”
“You will not release Valhad?”
“He is free to do what he will, Vasagi. But don’t you know in your heart that he will never go back? That you cannot make him go? He is free; free to choose. That was our bargain and I can do no more.”
“He isn’t safe with freedom,” said Torrin bitterly, shaking his head, “not in this place.”
“He must make his own choice,” said His Lordship, “and you must let him. Go home, Vasagi, go home; you are free.”
He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a bulging purse. Then he took Torrin’s hand and laid the heavy pouch in his palm.
“Cannis will take you back to the havens,” he said, “and this will buy you a passage home.”
The money in his palm felt like something foul and decaying that was contaminating his skin. He looked His Lordship up and down, and then reached out and grasped the hem of the cloak where it crossed his master’s chest. He heard the click of crossbow latches and glanced up to see the coachman pointing a weapon towards him. He sensed that, behind him, Cannis too, aimed a bolt between his shoulder blades. Torrin stared back, eye to eye with His Lordship but did not take his hand from the cloak; he pulled it gently open. He wanted to see if the old emblem still hung there and it did not. Instead there was another token of different design, like two spiral horns, and, also concealed beneath the cloak, a white robe.
“Well,” said Torrin, “it seems much has changed in my absence.”
“Indeed it has, Vasagi, but our bargain remains and I intend that it should be honoured; for you have served me well. Cannis will escort you to the havens, and he will ensure that you find the ship to take you home. Goodbye, Vasagi. May God protect you.”
He stepped back up into the coach and it clattered away in a storm of hooves. Torrin watched as it vanished and the forest grew silent again. He turned to look at Cannis, mounted, still holding a crossbow, and then, with a shake of his head and a sigh, he walked to his horse.
They set off, following the same path back towards the coast. Cannis followed a few horse lengths behind; sufficient distance to raise the crossbow if it were needed. To his obvious irritation, Torrin let his mount proceed at a plodding walk, and would not urge it faster. He turned in the saddle, to look back at his escort, and posed many questions.
“When did you last see Valhad?”
“We are not to speak of this.”
“So says His Lordship; but come, there is no harm to it. Valhad is my friend and I want to know how it has been with him.”
Cannis pursed his lips and seemed discomforted. Torrin watched him and guessed correctly the nature of his dilemma.
“Come now,” said Torrin, “I know what you have been told; to beware of spies and impostors, to trust no one and say nothing. But you know now that I am Torrin of the Vasagi and I am sworn by oath to protect Valhad.”
“He has spoken of you,” said Cannis, and then added, “many times.”
“His Lordship told me,” said Torrin, “that Valhad would be sent to the family of Graselle. Their village lies to the west of the city. Does he remain there?”
“He is no longer of that household,” said Cannis, “but that road will lead to him. I break no secret in telling you this, for all of Etoradom knows it.”
Torrin let the conversation change its course and they talked of the forest, of the hunting and the herbs that grew. Cannis gradually relaxed and drew his horse closer. They pressed on, talking of many things, riding side by side. Torrin thought that he seemed a good enough sort, this Cannis, but he still had much to learn. He waited until they were passing grassy tussocks and then, with one swift jab, he pushed Cannis from his horse. He caught the beast by the reins, cantered a few paces clear and called to the figure sprawling on the ground.
“It is not yet time for me to go.”
Then he cantered away, only releasing Cannis’s horse when he had passed from sight.
He trusted that Cannis had told him truthfully, but to further ensure that his path was the right one he returned to the meeting place with His Lordship, and then followed the hoof marks and wheel ruts. The tracks led him to one of the greater, metalled, roads that radiated from the hub of Etoradom. He could see the city distantly, and the tower of the citadel etched against the sky in traceries of blood-red sunlight. There were people on the road, small groups scattered along its length, all moving away from the city. He took the same direction and walked his horse slowly past a family group who were making slow progress, burdened as they were by the bundles that they carried.
“Greetings to you,” Torrin called to them as he drew alongside, “I see there are many travellers on our road.”
They looked up at him with suspicion and some uncertainty. They eyed the leather, mail and the curved sword in its scabbard that beat a plodding rhythm against the horse’s flank.
“You need not fear me,” said Torrin, “I am not a priest. Will you tell me why so many travel this way?”
Reluctantly, and with one eye still on the bobbing sword, the man replied.
“There was terror in the city and many were taken to the Cloisters, many whose only crime was to gather and listen. Then the hidden swords were drawn at last and vengeance taken on the priests. They dare not walk the streets now, but it is still the Synod that watches us from the tower and they will punish us all in time. That is why the people leave.”
“And is there another reason,” asked Torrin, “why this road is chosen? Does it lead to something that people seek?”
The man looked silently up at him, chewing his lip nervously. Torrin sensed that not all the story had been told and now some nagging suspicion prompted his next act. He traced a shape in the air, of two spiral horns. The man, less fearful now, nodded slowly, and imitated the gesture.
“Yes,” he said, “this is the road that leads to him.”
Torrin rode on, passing many more pilgrims on the road. As their numbers grew, and the distance from the city increased they seemed less fearful. If the sign of the horns was made to them they made it boldly back in response and shouted out: “God bless the healer!” There were so many on the road now that Torrin’s progress was slowed, even though the crowd seemed urgent and hurried, as if some event ahead was already due to begin. He threaded his horse between the milling walkers up a gently rising hill until he reached the crest and saw before him a great basin in the hillside that made a huge natural amphitheatre. A multitude of people filled the hollow, an uncountable number with every head turned toward a rocky prominence that rose like a great dais above the crowd. The sun peeped through a cleft in the surrou
nding slopes and shone a single beam upon the outcrop. As the newcomers joined the assembled mass they were hushed to silence. Standing upon the stony platform, almost glowing in the beam of pink sunlight, was a distant tiny figure clad in white, and drifting through the air, faintly, but spoken with a strength and passion that carried it to every listening ear, came the voice of Valhad.
“Before I came to Etoradom I lived far in the south of the world, under the setting sun, with my tribe, who are the Vasagi. I was taught that the Maker of All Things made us free; that he is not our king or our judge…”
Torrin turned his horse carefully amongst the crowd and then picked his way around the outer edge of the rapt listeners, in an arc that would lead him closer to Valhad.
“Then, when I journeyed across the world, I met those of other tribes, and saw the great temples that were built, not just in honour, but also in fear, of that which they called God. And I saw that men, in trying to know that which was unknowable had taken what is bigger, greater and vaster than they could ever understand, and diminished that which they craved to understand; beating it and shaping it like a hot iron under the blows of a hammer until it formed a shape that was simple and familiar…”
Torrin could see, gathered on the rocky podium behind Valhad, a small group of devotees, each wearing the same robes that His Lordship had tried to conceal beneath his cloak.
“And so God becomes king, father, benefactor, judge; becomes tyrant, torturer, executioner. Do not make God a reflection of yourselves, do not break that which is vast to make fragments that fit the palm of your hand, do not paint the rainbow with only black ink upon a white canvas.”
Torrin grew gradually closer and recognised some of the gathered figures. Alasam, Marasil, Draigar, the priest of high rank that had defended Valhad against the patrol of soldiers. And His Lordship, stood amongst them, Lord of the church and empire no more, but now one of the inner circle of the cult of Valhad.
