by A. D. Green
The fear coursing through Sand ebbed and a sense of calm overcame him. He’d known Mable his whole life. In truth he was more a father to him than his own. Death approached, there was no doubt about that. It brought its own kind of peace. He turned from his friend and drew his sword before sinking down into the wheat.
Crawling past his friend, parting stalks of wheat, Sand moved slowly away. He froze when he heard the heavy tramp of feet growing swiftly louder and the swishing of wheat parting. He waited and was lucky, the first dozen or so passed by him no more than five paces away.
The luck though didn’t last. A giant stepped close, no more than a pace away. He was fearsome to look upon. A large head painted red, matted hair pulled back and tied in a cue down his back. Its face was flat, with a broad nose and ridged eyes that sat too far apart. It grinned at Sand, showing a mouth full of large square teeth as it reached for the hilt jutting up past its shoulder.
Sand didn’t hesitate, exploding forward, driving his sword low into the brute’s stomach. Screaming in pain the giant doubled over, falling to its knees as Sand whipped his blade back out. Struggling, bearing its teeth and glaring hatred, the giant reached again for his sword hilt. Sand thrust punching his blade into the exposed throat.
With adrenaline burning his veins, Sand turned raising his bloody sword. But he was too late and too slow. Another giant stood with sword held high. The pommel slammed down onto Sand’s head and he crumpled into the blackness of oblivion.
Chapter 12
: Red Priest
The carriage entered Thorsten from the south, through Riversgate, escorted by a dozen Red Cloaks. Inside sat Father Henrik Zoller, weary from a long journey, a ten day from Rivercross. He was not happy, felt dirty despite looking immaculate in his red cassock. Zoller hated feeling unclean.
The Black Crows on the gate eyed them as they passed but knew better than to stop them and draw the ire of the Red Cloaks. They were the militant arm of the church of Kildare, the god of war and death and were highly trained and disciplined in their craft.
At least they know to fear us Zoller thought as the guards waved them through. He frowned. They should have been here a day earlier but the carriage broke an axle and needed repair at Greenholme. Then, as they neared Thorsten, a glut of farmers and merchants filling the road slowed them. It never took long for his Red Cloaks to drive them aside but sheep and cattle had no fear of the Red God and the carriage often ground to a halt whilst the beasts were herded from the road.
Thorsten was a good size town and busy. Zoller had never been before and observed out the carriage window with interest. This was as close to the wilds as he’d ever been and the people reflected this, looking hardy and rough to his eyes. There were the odd few better dressed strutting around, often with a guard or servant trailing after. It’s the same in every city Zoller thought it’s just a matter of scale. There was something amiss though nagging at him and it took a while to come to him. There were no beggars, no street urchins. Maybe not the same as every city he mused.
The town and streets were well maintained but it was still ripe with humanity and Zoller held a scented kerchief to his nose to hide the stench. The press of people made it a slow journey to the town centre and uncomfortable. Many glared at the carriage, their looks unfriendly and in some cases hostile. Father Mortim’s handy work Zoller surmised.
Day’s end approached. Stall holders and market traders were packing up and the town centre emptying when the carriage drew up by the large box like church of the Red God. It was solid and made of gold stone, though looked more yellow than the gold it purported to be. Five years since its construction was completed, it was in Zoller’s view, a vanity. The gold stone had been shipped by barge at great expense from Rivercross and beyond. Tall stained glass windows stood like knife slashes in the walls guarded by stone gargoyles and grotesques. All in all it was quite intimidating, Zoller admitted and quite, quite ugly.
The castle stood next to the church, its black stone walls a stark contrast. Its ancient keep dominated the skyline, strong, solid and grim. Zoller was impressed. He noted the guards stood at post outside the castles gate were well armed and attired and watched his carriage with interest.
The door opened and Zoller alighted. Two Red Cloaks had already slid from their mounts and were awaiting him. The rest headed for the back of the church where the chapterhouse and stable block were located.
“Tuko, Holt, attend me,” Zoller gestured to the two guards. “And you, bring my impedimenta,” he ordered the Red Cloak holding the carriage door.
“Your what, Father?” the Red Cloak stammered.
“My cases,” Zoller waved at the luggage on top of the carriage.
“Yes Father.” The Red Cloak bowed his head shutting the carriage door.
A young man dressed in the orange robes of an acolyte appeared. Hurrying down the church steps he knelt bowing his head.
“Welcome Father, this is a great honour. Father Mortim was not expecting you. We received no prior word of your visit.”
“May you hear the Red God,” Zoller intoned, placing a hand on the acolyte’s head in blessing.
The youth stood and moved to Zoller’s side but back a pace. Together they walked the steps to the church.
“How is Father Mortim? He must be busy that he hasn’t the time to greet me.” A small rebuke and likely wasted, but one Zoller couldn't resist making.
“Father Mortim is always busy Father,” the young man replied glancing over his shoulder at the two Red Cloaks. Little and large they were an odd pair and looked anything but holy or pious; more cutthroat than churchmen.
The large was the biggest man he’d ever seen and the ugliest. He’d lost an eye and his head looked misshapen, like a kettle pan with a big dent in the side. His companion was the polar opposite, small, dark skinned and slim with a rough beard. No doubt an attempt to hide the tattooed cross on his cheek, a sign in the Eastern lands given to mark a criminal. He moved with a languid saunter and had an evil set to his eyes. The acolyte felt a moment of fear that kept him frozen.
“Of course, serving the Red God we are all busy, no?” drawled Zoller marching into the church with Tuko and Holt at his heels, leaving the young acolyte staring after them.
Zoller felt instantly familiar with the church; it was laid out in the prescribed fashion. The large bell tower dominated the entrance and led through to a large central aisle where the faithful met to hear readings and sermons. The ceiling was high and vaulted and this, along with the stained glass windows, was supposed to create a feeling of reverence and grandeur. Zoller looked at it all critically, feeling anything but. Compared to the cathedral at Rivercross this was a poor show indeed. Why had the cardinal really sent him here he wondered for the hundredth time. He thought back on their last meeting.
“That fool Mortim needs taking in hand Zoller.” Cardinal Maxim Tortuga was a large fat man. His face was fleshy, his bald head smooth and shiny from where he oiled it. Small dark eyes peeped through folds of skin like raisins in a bun. Many under estimated him but Zoller knew the Cardinal had a sharp and cunning intellect. Ruthless too, those that crossed him tended to meet the Red God earlier than they'd have liked.
“How so eminence?” Zoller had seen Father Mortim’s latest accounts and they were all favourable. Still what Red Priest would report anything different?
“Agh, that zealot is causing havoc. His actions threaten to undo all my good work, all the concessions I have won!” The cardinal was clearly agitated; Zoller had rarely seen him so vexed. His neck was red and he was starting to spit as he talked, always a dangerous sign. “I need you up there.”
Zoller froze. He had history with Mortim and not the good kind. He was a dangerous man, pious, fanatical and stupid; the worst kind of dangerous in Zoller’s experience. Mortim lacked any subtlety, a blunt instrument to be wielded by the priesthood, not given a church.
They’d been acolytes together, a singularly unhappy experience for Zoller. That h
e had risen far under the Cardinal’s tutelage and Mortim sent to Thorsten, a backwater town of no significance, had been vindication enough, but now? The cardinal knew their history so what game did he play.
“Your will Eminence, to what end might I ask?”
“I need you to take matters into hand, to instil upon Father Mortim that these are delicate times. Look what I have achieved. The Accord rescinded and the Order banished on pain of death from the Rivers. A great victory for us and a mighty concession from High Lord Twyford that was hard fought and hard won by me!” The Cardinal slammed his hand on the desk to emphasize his point.
Zoller knew that sometimes the best answers came when no questions were asked so he waited.
The cardinal considered Zoller before speaking again. “I’ve just come from Twyford. He was very angry, seems Father Mortim has been burning people, prominent people and well liked, without trial mind you and declaring them heretics.”
“I see,” Zoller responded.
“Do you see Father?” the cardinal snapped. “He is indiscriminate, burning women and children. Lord Bouchemeax, may his black heart burn in hellfire, has all but threatened to burn our church and chapterhouse down. He’s a traditionalist and never wanted the Accord over turned. The man’s a heretic as is Twyford. They all are!” the cardinal declared puffing angrily. He paused to catch his breath. “For now we need Twyford and Twyford needs Bouchemeax since he is facing war with the Westlands.”
Zoller knew all this, it was hard to hide war preparations after all, but hearing the cardinal confirm things was satisfying.
The cardinal continued, “I need Mortim reined in. We need to win the people to our cause Henrik. Mortim only uses fear to do this. Fear is a tool like any other but it should be used sparingly. You know this more than anyone.”
Zoller’s eyes flashed at the rebuke. That incident happened years ago and yet the cardinal still felt the need to beat him with it every now and then. Why? Zoller fumed. Not at the petty jibe, that was a distraction. He calmed himself, thinking. No, the question was why him?
The conclave of cardinals was set for the next full tri-moon in Kingsland. Kingsland, the heart of the nine provinces was far to the south a long journey. Travel was planned in the next few days. It had taken Zoller a year of manipulating the cardinal and priesthood hierarchy to be blessed with attending. Now in a moment his plans were undone. Clearly he’d been compromised and out manoeuvred. He’d have to ponder this later; he’d have plenty of time he told himself bitterly.
“I need you Father; you're someone I can trust to sort this mess out,” Cardinal Tortuga said.
Zoller knew his ego was being played too. Arguing his case was pointless, the decision was made. “Thank you your eminence, I am but a humble servant. You do me too much honour.”
“Honour well deserved Father I have complete faith you’ll resolve this matter to my satisfaction.” The cardinal sounded magnanimous, but as Zoller locked eyes with the fat old man sitting behind his desk he saw a coldness there he’d not seen before. Someone has sullied my position. Betrayed then, but by who? Even without thinking the list was a long one.
“So what is my remit? What powers and authority will you grant me eminence?” he asked.
“You’re to give Father Mortim a sealed scroll in which I’ve given him specific instruction.” The cardinal indicated three scrolls that lay on his desk.
“One scroll’s for Father Mortim the other two for you.” He answered Zoller’s unspoken question. “Your first scroll is a copy of my orders to Mortim, the other your authority to remove him from office. To be used with care and only if Mortim has disobeyed my orders or the spirit of them,” Tortuga paused to let the point sink in. “Don’t break the scrolls seal until you have to, in which case you will assume the stewardship of the church at Thorsten until further notice. It may, if the situation arises, help to rebuild community ties by burning Mortim at that stake he’s so fond of. Just a suggestion on my part you understand?” The cardinal smiled.
As Zoller's heart sunk he couldn’t help but admire the old bastard for the traps he’d laid as he realised how well the cardinal and others had out played him.
The staccato beat of feet on stone broke his reverie. Their footsteps reverberated in the vaulted space of the nave as Zoller and his party made their way to a large oak door at the back of the room, the acolyte rushing ahead to open it. “Allow me to announce you Father Zoller?”
“No need boy, Father Mortim and I are old friends.” Zoller pushed by into the room beyond. It was large and in the middle stood a statue, a depiction of a giant man with the sword of fire in one hand and the book of death in the other. Around its base were prayer mats several of which were occupied by acolytes in orange robes. None turned at their sudden entrance and Zoller was pleased at their discipline. He gave the statue a baleful glance unimpressed with its crudeness as he marched around it.
There were three doors at the back. Zoller took the left side door just as it opened. A Red Priest looking agitated stood on the other side fastening his sash. His eyes flared in recognition.
“Father Zoller, an unexpected surprise. Why are you here?”
“Come Father Mortim, is that any way to greet a weary brother after an arduous journey,” Zoller replied smiling. “Perhaps after some refreshment we can talk business, yes?”
“I don’t deal in business, only Kildare’s work.” Mortim’s nostril’s flared and he glanced briefly at the two Red Cloaks. “Your men can stay in the lodge out back near the stables. They can’t stay here. I’ll need to oust some acolytes to make a room free for you. Strange his eminence didn’t send word ahead of your arrival,” Mortim declared.
“Strange indeed, yet here I am.” Zoller couldn’t resist the jibe. “As for business, church business is the Red God’s business yes? And no need to disrupt the acolytes Father, I’m a simple man. I’ll stay with my men,” Zoller said. “Perhaps we could meet in your chambers later tonight, say ten? That will allow me time to bath and take refreshment and you time to finish dressing.”
Mortim glared. “Perhaps the good Father might do better to meditate and pray first. Acolyte Nicolas will show you to the guards' lodge and fetch you when I’m ready to meet with you.” Turning he marched off.
“Don’t think he much cares for the likes of us, or you either for that matter Father,” said the swarthy little Red Cloak at Zoller's back. Zoller silenced him with a look.
Nicholas led them out the back of the church to a courtyard enclosed by a stone wall. Along its far length ran a stable block and work sheds, whilst butting up against the church was a two storied building containing a chapter house at one end and a guard lodge at the other.
Thorsten only numbered ten Red Cloaks and the lodge was easily big enough to accommodate them and Zoller’s party. A disgruntled Red Cloak, lead brother of the Thorsten Chapter, was quietly moved from the largest room to make way for Zoller who immediately set about ordering a bath. Finally he could get himself clean.
Chapter 13
: The Broken Axe
Nihm and Marron found room at the Broken Axe Inn. It was early in the harvest season and Vic the landlord had room a plenty for Marron, a regular of his.
“Tis early in the season to be seein you Marron, din’t expect ya for another month,” he queried.
“Ah well, circumstance has brought us early this year Vic, how’s Viv?” Marron replied.
Vic was a tall man of middle years with a pot belly leaking over the top of his trousers. He had a shock of red hair receding at the front but long at the back, tied in a queue that failed to keep it all in check. He had a broad open face with ruddy cheeks and a ready smile.
“Aye she’s well, ye’ll see for yourself soon no doubt,” he replied. “I’ll get Mort to help settle your ponies. Use one of the stables for your hounds.” All four dogs had come to greet Vic and bustled around his legs vying for his attention. He gave them a rough pat.
“Now, now, you scoundrels,
Vic knows what ya want eh!” His hand dipped into his pocket and appeared again to feed them some morsel.
“Go on away with you now.” He pushed them away before yelling over his shoulder. “MORT! Guests here, where are ya boy?”
A young man a little older than Nihm appeared from round the side of the inn carrying a water bucket in each hand.
“No need ta shout.” He was a handsome youth, tall and slim with a mass of red hair and green eyes that had a sparkle to match his smile. The family resemblance was obvious. Nihm coloured a little as he approached. “Ah welcome my ladies, give me but a moment.”
Vic took the water buckets from Mort and disappeared into the inn. The three of them set about unhitching the cart.
“Tis fine to see you again Nihm, looks like ye’ve grown a bit since spring.” Mort chattered as he worked.
Nihm felt her colour rising. Infuriated with herself she blurted out the first response that came into her head. “Your hair’s a mess; it needs cutting.”
Mort stopped and raised his hands to his head feeling his mass of hair, with a quizzical look on his face. “Why Nihm, whatever do ya mean? What’s wrong wid me hair like?”
“What, no nothing, you have nice hair, just it needs a trim is all.” Nihm stammered.
“Ah well if you insist, I’ll bring eh the shears and you can make me more respectable like,” Mort replied seriously.
Nihm stared at him unsure and Mort burst out laughing. “Ah Nihm, your face what a look.”
Nihm scowled then, unable to stop herself, grinned back.
It warmed Marron to see. They’d not had much to smile about the last five days. Still didn’t but it was nice to hear the pair laughing as they worked.
It didn’t take long to get the ponies settled and rubbed down. The stables were well maintained and already had full water troughs and hay bales in. They unpacked the cart and moved their goods into the largest stable and at Mort’s suggestion housed the dogs there as well.
