Priest (Ratcatchers Book 1)

by Matthew Colville

“I came to the same conclusion,” the bishop said smiling. “We’ll give you the ritual. Once you’ve meted out justice to those who have transgressed, then the dead knight can be replaced and you can come home.”

  Heden looked concerned. The bishop looked at him sympathetically.

  “I can’t obligate you to go. Not anymore,” he smiled again.

  Heden took out the holly at looked at it. Eight pale green berries, never ripening, and one milky white berry.

  “What if the ritual can’t be performed?” Heden asked. Implying that there might be no absolution for the unrighteous death.

  The bishop tilted his head to one side. “Then the order shrinks to eight members. If that’s what you decide,” he said, emphasizing ‘you.’

  Heden took a deep breath and held the holly up to the bright candlelight in the bishop’s office. He twirled the branch. He let his breath out slowly and when he was done, he put the holly back in his vest.

  He got up and offered his hand to the bishop. The two men shook hands. A special ceremony only Heden could observe. Saying nothing, Heden walked toward a bookcase behind and to the left of the bishop’s desk, pulled on an otherwise nondescript book, and the bookcase swung away revealing a lit passageway beyond. The same way he’d come in.

  Heden exited. As soon as the false bookcase swung closed with a ‘click,’ the main door to the room opened and Gwiddon walked in. He flowed into position before the bishop, bowed, pulled his cloak into his right arm with a flourish and sat in the same chair Heden recently occupied.

  He braced his hands together and smiled widely at the bishop.

  “I was right,” the bishop said with some satisfaction as he wiped his hands with a damp white cloth.

  Gwiddon bowed his head.

  “Your instincts were correct,” Gwiddon betrayed a little amusement and chose his words carefully.

  The bishop threw the damp cloth at the younger man and scowled without malice. Gwiddon snatched it out of the air.

  “I was lucky,” the bishop said. “I see that now. Something’s different. I almost didn’t notice it, but our friend has changed somewhat.”

  “He’s certainly changed,” Gwiddon said, remembering the girl back at Heden’s inn.

  “He’s so humorless and dour.”

  “He’s got a sense of humor. Or at least he did.”

  “Ah?” the bishop prompted.

  Gwiddon crossed and uncrossed his legs, delaying. He didn’t want to say what he was about to say.

  “I mentioned this last time. After Andrim….” Gwiddon left it. “You know their knight killed himself. Heden at the inn it’s…it’s the same thing. I don’t know why he said yes, I’m not sure he knows. And then into the Wode of all things. I have no idea what it will do to him. I was surprised he accepted.”

  “Perhaps his own way of ending it. Going into the Wode to die.”

  “Hah,” Gwiddon said. “No, your Grace. Heden would never do that. He’s too....” he was at a loss to explain. “He’d consider that dramatic,” Gwiddon said, putting special emphasis on the last word. “Self-important. He’s too stubborn for that, your Grace.”

  The bishop nodded his understanding. Gwiddon leaned forward and took a biscuit from the bishop’s silver plate. A bee had ridden in on the back of his cloak and now took the opportunity to buzz into flight and land on the colorful biscuit. He brushed it off, annoyed.

  “Should I be afraid for our friend,” the bishop asked, frowning. The bee flew away.

  “Afraid? For Heden?” Gwiddon shook his head. “I know of no one in Celkirk less deserving of concern. Rather, be afraid for the order.”

  “He’ll be far from the city,” the bishop observed. “And he doesn’t know what the Green Order can do.”

  “Well, as to that,” Gwiddon tilted his head in deference. “None of us do. A week ago we’d never heard of them.”

  “Mmm,” the bishop said, turning to look at the bookshelf Heden had disappeared behind.

  Chapter Nine

  Heden arrived at the smithy just after noon, already weary from a long day getting longer. Though it was grey and overcast, it was hot and humid and he wasn’t dressed for it. He had a mail shirt on under his jerkin. When he realized it was the mail that was causing him discomfort, he was surprised to learn he’d put it on. He couldn’t remember doing so. Obviously, he thought, a part of him decided it was appropriate for some reason.

  The smithy was known as the Sun and Anvil because the signs over the entrances had a stylized dawning sun rising over an anvil. The name had originally been Dawnforge, but very few people knew that. Unlike the vastly more advanced city of Capital, where shops and streets were named and the names printed on signs, shops in Vasloria used symbols to communicate what kinds of services you could find inside. It was only by intuition and common consensus that places acquired names. Having been to the distant city of Capital, Heden was surprised signs without words worked so well.

  The dawning sun was one of a handful of symbols, the moon and stars being other common examples, which meant magic could be found within, for a price. Heden couldn’t remember when he learned this, but he was certain the majority of people who came and went didn’t know it. There was no reason they should.

  The Sun & Anvil was more than a blacksmith shop; it handled metalworking of all types and employed over two dozen workmen, including specialists in fine metalwork and jewelry.

  As soon as he was standing outside the wide stone archway, he felt the powerful heat radiating out from the shop. The throng of people on the street gave the place a wide berth to avoid the thick heat in the already humid day.

  Heden stepped inside. It was busy. In the center of the large, warehouse-sized building was the main forge where metals were fired. It was built into a column of stone that went from floor to ceiling. The octagonal shaped building’s ceiling also tilted upward at the center, turning the whole building into a flue.

  There were customers from across the strata of the city talking with workmen. Almost all men, but Heden could see a handful of polder as well, their short, diminutive frames looking a bit like children, but the way they held themselves and moved was subtly alien to the human experience.

  There was nothing subtle about the two massive warbred urq who worked in the place. The wizards who created them decades ago bred no special love for craftsmanship into them, but they were strong and, cast adrift from the war they were made for, searched for jobs that brought honor and kept them away from the public. Living among men went without saying; there was no question of them making a life among the urq.

  The forge was loud, the ring of hammers was loud, everyone in the place had to shout to be heard. Heden stood just inside the doorway.

  There was a knot of people standing off to his right. Heden looked at them. It looked like two patrons and three craftsmen discussing a project. They were all smiling as they talked. It was generally a good place to work and do business.

  One of them caught Heden’s eye and stopped smiling. The rest saw the man’s reaction and turned to look at Heden. The patrons’ faces were blank. The craftsmen all suddenly went grim.

  The man craned his neck, looking farther into the shop at something Heden couldn’t see. Something obscured by the forge. He called out to someone, and then turned to Heden and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Heden nodded and made his way through the shop. As he passed by the craftsmen, they said nothing, just watched him.

  As he rounded the forge, he found what he was looking for.

  There were anvils of all sizes and function in the shop, but this was by far the largest. It was sunk into the ground in a neat bit of engineering that betrayed the influence of its creator, currently using the anvil to hammer on what looked to Heden like a long metal pike.

  The dwarf, owner of the Sun and Anvil, looked up from his work. His squat, square face illuminated by the fierce orange glow of the heated metal, and stared at Heden. He wasn’t the only one in the city, bu
t for a small group of people of a certain generation that included Heden and Gwiddon and many of the people who now ran the city, he was The Dwarf. Just as there were many elvish wodes, but only the Iron Forest was The Wode.

  He was roughly four feet tall and though short, seemed massive. Heden knew he weighed a quarter ton, though he didn’t look it. It seemed to Heden as though the world around the dwarf bent and bowed in an attempt to make itself smaller.

  His dusky brown skin appeared to be flesh. Heden knew this not to be the case. He was one of the stone dwarfs. Known to academics as the Granite Elementals. Any town that had one counted itself lucky. They were master craftsmen in every material, and stone was their preferred medium. His skin was a strange combination of flesh and rock. It was supple, it moved and flexed like skin, but a normal sword would spark off it, deflected as though bouncing off armor.

  The dwarf stared at Heden for a moment, threw his hammer to the ground in disgust. A watching assistant scurried up to the anvil, used a pair of locking tongs to grasp the heated metal pike, and took it to another, smaller anvil to be finished.

  Heden stepped forward and looked down at the dwarf. Many people throughout the shop were watching. The dwarf’s body was hairless. He wore a leather apron and leather pants. His broad face bore a thick scowl and his small eyes fired red. They gave a baleful look, but his eyes always did that. The dwarf radiated back the heat he’d absorbed from the forge.

  “I need one of the swords,” Heden said.

  The dwarf just sneered at him, and waited. Heden realized why.

  “It doesn’t matter which one. You choose.”

  The dwarf spat on the ground and turned his back on Heden. He selected a long metal rod from amongst the scrap on the floor, picked it up and inserted it into a small metal collar set into the bottom of the anvil. He pushed it in, then pulled on it with one strong arm.

  With a burst of steam, the anvil slowly rose out of the ground and slid aside, revealing a large hole in the dirt floor. It was well-lit and walled, and there were steep stairs going down. The dwarf trudged down them soundlessly. Everyone in the building was watching. Many had their mouths open.

  Heden had served the gods for as long as he could remember and one thing he’d learned; they influenced the world in direct and indirect ways. There were several traditions in his culture that deliberately subtracted conscious will from a decision, in order to grant gods or saints the opportunity to step in and influence things. Heden had no way of knowing what the dwarf would choose. Let fate decide.

  Heden had met people who laughed at such things, and for them, probably the saints had no interest in influencing their lives. Heden was not so lucky.

  The dwarf emerged with a long thin object wrapped in plain, dirty cloth. He held it out abruptly, unceremoniously. Heden took it from him carefully.

  He unwrapped the handle revealing the hilt, pommel, and guard of a sword. It was beautiful but full of angles, as though it were built out of complex, geometric shapes. A contrast to the flamboyantly crafted sword guards that were the fashion, such as Gwiddon carried, that looked like flowing pen-strokes carved from gold.

  There was a black gemstone in the pommel. Only a little of the blade was showing, but it was a dull purple-grey metal. Unlike any in the city. The metal threw off a light few humans had seen. It was a kind of glowing violet and it cast Heden’s features into sharp relief.

  “Starkiller,” Heden said, regarding the weapon wryly. “Figures.”

  The dwarf said nothing. He turned his back to Heden and pushed up on the metal rod. He removed it, and threw it aside with a loud clang as the anvil slid back into place, and an assistant brought forth another item for the master’s attention.

  Heden stared at the dwarf’s back for a little while as the whole forge scurried back to work. He didn’t say anything. He looked at the ground for a moment. Then he wrapped up the sword, tucked the whole package under his arm, turned, and left.

  Chapter Ten

  Heden came back to the Hammer and Tongs to find the heavy oak doors standing open. He’d left the doors unlocked and was happy to see that whoever’d come to confront him about whatever hadn’t broken in and cost him a crown for the repair.

  He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t bother unwrapping the sword. He stepped up onto the boards of his inn, and walked through the doors.

  Inside, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust, Heden saw a thick, heavily muscled man standing by the bar on his right, and the cat Ballisantirax, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs to the rooms above. Balli was licking a paw, and then washing herself.

  The man’s face was scratched and bleeding. He was someone’s muscle, Heden had an idea whose, and he probably didn’t feel much pain. It looked like his nose and cheekbones had been professionally broken a few times, so he probably couldn’t feel the razor-thin cuts. Blood streamed down his cheeks and onto his neck and shirt. It looked bad but it was just a cat scratch.

  Heden took note of where the cat was sitting, and felt, though he could not see, someone watching from the top of the stairs.

  The man turned as soon as he heard Heden’s boots, and bellowed; “Is that your fucking cat?”

  Heden smiled and looked at Balli. Ballisantirax went into what Heden thought of as her “cat statue” pose, sitting on her hind quarters, paws placed together in front of her. Her eyes were squinted half-closed, prideful and happy.

  “I’m gonna kill that fucking cat!”

  Heden looked from the cat to the muscle and said, “No you’re not.”

  “You get up there,” the man tried ordering Heden, “and get me that fucking trull.”

  Balli, assured that her Master had things well in hand, turned and trotted up the steps.

  “What’s your name?” Heden wondered, looking askance at the big man. Trying to place him.

  “My name don’t matter, get the girl,” he said.

  “You work for Miss Elowen,” Heden said. He leaned the wrapped sword against a chair.

  “That’s right,” the man said, on firmer ground, the cat apparently forgotten. “And she says ‘Morten, you go find that bitch and bring her back here.’ And here I am,” he said proudly. “Found you myself.”

  “Sure you don’t want to tell me your name?” Heden asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Fuck you!” Morten said. Heden was quite a bit shorter and smaller than the big man. Morten sensed something was wrong. Small men didn’t usually give him any lip.

  Heden shrugged. “Vanora?” he called out. “There’s a man here wants you to go with him. You’re free to go, if you like.”

  “It ain’t up to her!” Morten said, angry and getting confused. This was not how things were supposed to go.

  Heden stared at him and waited in the silence for a moment. When no response was forthcoming, he said, “I don’t think she wants to go with you.”

  “She’s a fucking whore,” the tough said deliberately. “It don’t matter what she wants. She belongs to Miss Elowen.”

  As he spoke, he walked toward Heden until he was standing within an arm’s length.

  “I hate to say this, but I don’t think you’ll last long at the Petal,” Heden said.

  “What?” Morten asked, confused.

  “I mean if Bann finds out you came over here and tried to act tough with me, he’ll say ‘I’m going to have to fire that pigfucker because he’s too stupid to be muscle even at a brothel.’”

  “Fuck you!” Morten said again, and swung a thick fist at Heden. A great roundhouse swing with his right.

  Heden easily and efficiently ducked out of the way, put his foot out, and pulled on Morten’s right shoulder, half-tripping, half-throwing the heavy man into the table on which he and Gwiddon had drinks earlier.

  There was a crash and a grunt. Morten was making a lot of noise.

  “Did you come up with this idea?” Heden asked, looking at the man sprawled on his floor surrounded by the remains of the table. “Take the initiative? Or did you
talk to Bann first?”

  Morten turned over. He was trying to figure out what had happened. He looked up at Heden, a little stunned.

  “You took the initiative, didn’t you?”

  Morten pulled out a dagger. Heden sighed.

  “Really?” he asked.

  Morten lumbered to his feet and came at Heden in a kind of crouch.

  Heden quickly lashed out with his right palm, turning his whole body and driving the heel of his palm into Morten’s face as the man ran at him. There was a loud crunch and Morten dropped the dagger. But Morten’s body kept coming, smashing into Heden.

  Heden stumbled back against the bar, but Morten had collapsed on the ground. He was on his hands and knees, blood and spit pooling on the floor. There was a huur, huur sound as he tried to breathe.

  Heden straightened up. “Alright,” he said. Huur, huur.

  “You broke my fucking nose!” Morten yelled. Huur.

  “It’s okay,” Heden reassured him. Huur. He waited. He went behind the bar and got a small glass and some port.

  “Come on,” Heden said helping Morten to his feet. Morten shook off Heden’s arm and stood, swaying a little. “Here, drink this,” Heden said.

  Morten took the small glass and drank the rich port. It wouldn’t do much except taste good and get Morten’s mind off the pain.

  “Now,” Heden said, slowly. “You’re going to go back to Miss Elowen and tell her you couldn’t get the girl. Tell her I was, ah, you know, waiting for you. Ready. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. But you didn’t get her,” he spoke like he was explaining something to a child, “and I beat the shit out of you.”

  “She’s going to fucking kill me!”

  “Nooo,” Heden said. “She didn’t know it was me. You tell her the girl is at the Hammer and Tongs, and she’ll know it’s me. Probably feel bad she sent you. She won’t kill you. I promise.”

  “What?” Morten said. It was getting hard to understand him as his face swelled up. When he talked, Heden could see his white teeth stained red.

  “Tell her I promised she wouldn’t kill you.”