by A. D. Green
Nihm might lay calm and unmoving but a battle raged inside her. It was both remarkable and frightening, as if her body warred upon itself. Mercy could discern no trace of the poison and the knife wound remarkably was gone leaving hardly a mark. But it was Nihm’s body that shocked. It burned like an inferno in the aether. She was clearly suffering but there was something else, something other.
Suddenly, the weaving was gone. Ripped apart, absorbed she wasn’t sure. It had happened in an instant leaving no trace it ever existed. Mercy sat back confused, pain lancing through her skull as the connection to her weave was broken.
There was a quiet knock on the door and it opened. Morten appeared carrying a tray with a jug and tumbler on it. “Yes,” Mercy snapped.
“Just changing the trays,” Morten said. He edged into the room, glancing at Mercy out of the corner of his eye. There was something intimidating about the woman, it made him nervous. Setting the tray down Morten picked up the old one, his eyes moving past Mercy to Nihm. His heart skipped. She looked so helpless. Her hair, damp with sweat, was plastered to her head.
Mercy caught his eye. “Finished gawping?” she hissed, so as not to disturb Marron.
“How’s she doing? Will she be alright?” Morten asked before he could stop himself. He stepped towards the bed and looked down. “She looks peaceful.”
Mercy chewed her lip. The lad had served them yesterday and today. He was clearly smitten, she’d seen that look before. And why not, she thought, Nihm was an attractive girl; even dressing like a man couldn’t hide that fact. Not that I’m one to judge, she told herself. The young man looked so concerned she relented.
“She’s a fighter. Whatever demons Nihm battles she’ll pull through,” Then hating herself for the lie, added. “I hope.”
Morten was relieved, a half smile lighting his face. “Aye, she’s a strong spirit alright. I wish I’d been there. I could’ve protected her.”
“Then you’d likely be dead and Nihm lying here with one less friend in the world,” Mercy shot back. Seeing her words hit him like a slap she grunted, annoyed with herself. “Go on. I’ll send word if she awakes.”
Muttering his thanks Morten left the room, head down. Poor fool, Mercy thought, as the door banged shut behind him.
Chapter 32
: Plans and Manipulations
“By all that’s holy Tuko you couldn’t have made a bigger mess of this if you’d tried,” Zoller admonished, furious.
The town was in uproar. Redford had fallen. Rumour had it to urak; savages from tales of old come to life, tales Zoller knew were true. The Black Crow fed fuel to the fire by ordering people in from the surrounding countryside then conscripting any of an age, or who could hold a blade. The rest were sent south, mothers, children, the old and the infirm.
Then, to the town’s shock a double murder. The hunt was on for the killer adding to Zoller’s list of problems. A town this size was hard to hide in. Someone somewhere always saw something. The only saving grace was the sudden influx of people muddying the search.
“So, what have you to say for yourself?” Zoller snapped.
“Sorry Father,” Tuko replied with a shrug.
The little assassin didn’t look it. Zoller tapped his lip pondering. Tuko was a problem. He was tied to him but, Zoller conceded, you can’t change the base nature of a man no more than you could a snake. “You’re sure no one saw you? Can identify you?”
“All that saw me died,” Tuko stated, untroubled.
Probably enjoyed himself, Zoller thought. The man was a killer without conscience. He was his killer though, something which was both useful and dangerous. That Tuko held little fear of Zoller was a concern. Like a wild animal he needed careful handling.
“Not so. There was a third, you wounded a girl,” Zoller prompted.
“She’s good as dead. Blade was dipped in deeproot. She’ll not wake,” Tuko said.
”Well that’s something,” Zoller said. “Now tell me, who were they?”
“Mercenaries far as I could tell. They arrived at the inn earlier. The old man was fast, almost faster than me.” Tuko smiled thinking back on it, his eyes drifting off.
Zoller snapped his fingers irritated. “Concentrate and this will go a lot quicker.” The secret with any dangerous animal was to show no fear. “Were they with the woman?”
“Can’t rightly say, but I think yes. The girl I killed was her brat. Sure of that,” Tuko replied.
“That’s unfortunate. Yes, very unfortunate Tuko.” Zoller sighed. “I guess I’ve only myself to blame. I should’ve sent Holt. He may be more brute and brawn but he wouldn’t have cocked up so royally,” Zoller drummed his fingers on the desk, a sign of nerves and irritation in equal measure.
“Holt would be dead then. Silver hair would have gutted the cocksucker like a pig,” Tuko replied, unmoved.
“You disappoint me. Go, leave me. I’ll decide later what is to be done,” Zoller waved him away.
“Yes Father.” Turning Tuko left the room, passing the hulking form of Holt stood just outside the doorway. The two men studiously ignored each other.
“Holt, come in here,” Zoller growled, vexed at Tuko’s lack of contrition.
“I could snap him like a twig Father if you ask it,” Holt said after closing the door.
“Not now Holt, maybe later,” Zoller replied. The big man was dangerous for entirely different reasons, none as subtle as Tuko’s. He was fanatically loyal to him though, as loyal as a dog, just a shame he shared the intelligence of one.
“Holt, go to Father Mortim. Ask him to attend me on a matter of some import,” Zoller said.
Holt left to do his bidding and Zoller played over various outcomes and possibilities in his mind.
The woman Marron was of the Order. His intuition told him so and it was rarely wrong. Tuko had all but confirmed it. They weren’t mercenaries Tuko had tangled with, he was sure of that. He suspected they were Duncan’s men.
Earlier that morning the sergeant from the bridge had spoken with Zoller. Amos Duncan, unannounced and unheralded, was seen with Lord Richard before and during his war council last night. Zoller didn’t think it coincidence. The Duncans were accordists. If Marron was under their protection she would be hard to get to after Tuko’s mess. Damn the man. It would be too dangerous to show interest in the woman now her daughter lay murdered, that could lead the Black Crow to wonder at it. It wouldn’t be too great a leap then to suspect his complicity. No, that door was shut to him for now.
Besides, the urak changed everything. History books regarding urak were rare and the few he’d read were all in the prohibited section of the church archives. It was unclear in some accounts and contradictory in others but he intuited an urak tribe to be as many as ten thousand strong. One tribe raiding these lands would be formidable and hard to stop. If this was an invasion however, if they came as a clan, then many tribes were here somewhere in the Rivers. It would mean war and the likelihood of Thorsten riding it out was close enough to none as to make no difference.
A shiver of trepidation ran through Zoller. The urak presented a host of worries and possibilities. His immediate concern was getting out of Thorsten before the storm his intuition told him was coming, struck.
He pursed his mouth turning his thoughts to Father Mortim. Everything was riding on this meeting. It would depend on delivery and understanding his quarry.
A good while later the door opened without knocking and Mortim walked in. “You asked to see me Father Zoller.”
Zoller expected his anger and wasn’t disappointed. Mortim wore it like a hat, plain for all to see. It had been a judgement whether to see Mortim in his own chambers or not, a calculated gamble, “Please Father, sit. There are matters I need to discuss. Matters I need your help and counsel on.”
“Maybe you’ve changed, Father, that you would seek my advice.” Disgruntled, Mortim took a seat.
“Meeting with Lord Richard the other night was unplanned as you know,” Zoller began.
Mortim grunted, not liking the reminder of that night and seeing it Zoller moved swiftly on.
“I interrupted a meeting reporting of an urak incursion. I gave them no credence. Urak are from stories of old are they not.” He shook his head. “I believe Lord Kildare bade me be in that place at that time to hear his warning.”
“Really Father?” Mortim snorted in derision.
“I understand your reluctance to believe me. We’ve a history after all,” Zoller said. “We both love Kildare and observe his wishes from different sides of the same coin. I think he brought us together for a purpose.”
“Your arrogance is consistent at least Father,” Mortim quipped.
“Please,” Zoller beseeched, “Kildare knew the Black Crow would not grant your admittance. So he chose me,” Zoller replied. He shook his head. “But you’re right. I’m arrogant and in my arrogance I failed to heed our Lord.”
Mortim said nothing, surprised. It must have pained Zoller to confess his failure. Taking pleasure in Zoller’s discomfort but unsure what to say Mortim waited, sceptical still.
“Kildare intervened again when he sent you word of the boat and we went to the river,” Zoller said. “When I saw the urak my heart sank. I understood his warning then. That I’d been given another chance I send blessings to his greatness.”
He looked at Mortim, heartfelt. “I owe you thanks Father. If not for you I’d have failed in my duty. I’ll not fail it again,” he declared, letting a bit of righteous zeal seep into his voice. Not too much he told himself.
“Whatever do you mean Father?” Mortim asked eyes flaring in suspicion.
“I’m sending you south, to Rivercross. The cardinal left for the conclave a ten day ago but you must warn the church of the urak, tell them what I face here and get them to prepare,” Zoller said. He rose to his feet and painted an earnest look on his face. “The heathen savages move against us. Our Lord Kildare, the soldier, has placed the duty upon us to thrust back this evil.”
Mortim wasn’t really listening, shocked still at Zoller’s declaration that he be sent to Rivercross. This was his church. He’d built it, overseen its construction himself. It had been years in the undertaking, it was his life’s work.
“I’ll not go. This is my place. I won’t hear of it!” Mortim said, his bluster gone, a dread weight sitting in his gut. He couldn’t leave, wouldn’t, not lest the cardinal order it himself.
Clenching his eyes tight shut Mortim thought things through. The cardinal’s scroll, it was authority enough if Zoller decided to enforce it, which the self-righteous bastard would. Glancing across the desk, Mortim knew despite his words and concern Zoller held only disdain for him. It was a sentiment he returned tenfold. Reluctantly he asked. “What of you Father?”
“I stay here, with the people. They’ll have need of our Lord Kildare in these dark times. The Red God must be seen and heard,” Zoller said raising his voice. “It’s my failing; I must stay with the church here.” He watched Mortim carefully, judging his words, trying to assess their impact.
“You’ve worked hard in Thorsten for Kildare’s glory; I’ll not let the church fail now.” Zoller leaned in as he spoke clasping Mortim’s hand, erstwhile and sincere. “Trust me on that.”
Mortim was incredulous. Trust? Never! Zoller was a snake, a schemer after his own ends. What was his angle here? Zoller knew more than he was saying.
Mortim was troubled. These urak, a few dead bodies on a boat and he was to believe Redford had fallen. That the Black Crow, damn his heart, would sit in his castle if the town could fall, its mighty walls breached. No, the Black Crow would run for Rivercross, he was sure of it. The urak was an excuse, another tool Zoller employed to suit his ends. Zoller was manoeuvring for his church. Well this was his parish, his people. He wouldn’t have it!
Mortim suddenly felt uncomfortable. Was this why Zoller had called him here? Surrounded by Zoller's Red Cloaks he was vulnerable. Damn it, he should have refused the summons. Still, he’d be damned before he would take a step back from his beliefs; he never had his whole life and he wouldn’t now. His faith was his anchor. Let Zoller try and take his church. Kildare would protect him.
“No Father. I forbid it,” Mortim declared. He pulled his hand free and looked Zoller hard in the eyes. He wouldn’t back down on this.
“You’re wrong to send me away. I will not go,” Mortim declared. “You’re right we have a history. We’ve never liked each other lets be plain. But I am but a simple priest not versed in the politics of the church. That is your strength.” He paused thinking how to phrase this next.
“Maybe you’re right. Two sides of a coin we may be but my place is here with my church as surely as yours is at Rivercross. You know the priesthood there. I do not. You know High Lord Twyford, the cardinal and all the politics I so hate and despise.”
Mortim stood speaking from his heart. “If you ask that I trust you then so must you trust me. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Kildare speaks through us both. If he does then surely he means for you to return to Rivercross. My duty is here. I’ll not leave it Father. This is where Kildare bids me be.”
Zoller pushed down his euphoria. The meeting hadn’t quite gone as anticipated. No, Mortim had been calm and had thought things through. That he drew the wrong conclusions didn’t really matter, the result was what counted.
Zoller stood and came around his desk. He clasped Mortim’s shoulders embracing him. It was distasteful but worth it to feel Mortim’s discomfort at the contact.
“I’m sorry Father Mortim. I wish I’d not misjudged you so. I see your wisdom. I see you speak from your heart and I feel shamed by it,” Zoller said.
Awkwardly, Mortim patted Zoller on the back. Pleased at least Zoller wouldn’t see the lie on his face. “I pray we’ve both seen the light,” he muttered. The man has no shame Mortim thought, the sooner he is gone from here the better.
Zoller stepped away. “Hopefully this is a new beginning for us.” He sighed. “Thank you. Arrogance and vanity have ever been my burden and you have opened mine eyes to it.” He walked back around the desk. “You’re right, I fear my place is to deal with the cardinal and High Lord Twyford as yours is here with your flock. I trust I’ve your future support as you’ll have mine.”
“Of course,” Mortim smiled, sinking back into his chair.
Zoller saw the lie in Mortim’s eyes as he spoke but really, he didn’t care. The edge was gone from Mortim’s voice too, was that relief? Yes, no doubt as pleased to have me gone as I am to leave this stinking backwater.
“Well then, I’ll hand back charge of your church. I’ll make favourable report of the work you do here,” Zoller declared, smiling. “I'd best prepare to leave at once.”
Mortim stood scraping the chair back roughly. He bowed his thanks. “Safe journey to Rivercross Father,” Turning abruptly he left, back straight, pleased to get out of the room. It occurred to him walking back to his chambers that Zoller had been quick to accede to his wishes. It left a sinking feeling in his stomach that marred his good mood at ridding himself of Zoller.
As the door closed behind Mortim, Zoller allowed himself a little smile. He poured a large glass of wine and sat back in his chair smiling in satisfaction.
Chapter 33
: Unexpected Company
“I’m sorry. I’ve a wife and child to find and I need to bring warning to my people. That’s my duty.” Darion’s announcement was not well received.
R’ell frowned at the man, frustrated. He spoke well, but his K’raal would want to talk to the ilf friend, he was sure of it. He tried an earlier argument. “I ask you to consider the danger. Urak are likely already between you and your town. My K’raal may be able to help you.”
M’rika was more circumspect. “What did Rawrdredtigkah say to you? You looked surprised I think.” M’rika had seemed pensive and quiet since the great bear had left. A thin green line marred her cheek where her skin had been sliced open. She had been marked.
Darion replied to R�
��ell with finality. “I’ve not the time. I’m decided.” Then facing M’rika he considered briefly what to tell her. He didn’t like this business of charge and responsibility, especially for someone that he’d known barely three days. It made him uncomfortable as did her regard of him.
“She asked me to pass a message on to someone,” he said.
“Hmm I see, and what is this message and to whom?” M’rika asked.
Darion didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to say. Something told him Rawr had chosen a moment to talk when he was alone. Maybe the bear didn’t want the ilf to know.
“She told me, the enemy returns. The message was for my Lord.” Darion said. M’rika stared at him a moment too long before turning away. She knows I tell a half-truth, he thought.
There was a flutter of feathers and Darion turned in time to see Bezal, wings back beating, alight upon R’ell’s shoulder. Darion watched the ilf turn his head to the bird as if listening and a moment later smile. R’ell rarely smiled; it was a little disconcerting to see it now, with his pointed canines.
“My K’raal is here,” R’ell announced. Darion sensed a subtle shifting in the nearby ilf. Their shoulders went back and there was an excitement and energy to them.
“He seeks council with you before you leave.” R’ell addressed Darion.
With a deep sigh Darion glanced back at the river. Would it mean crossing the ford again? If so he would be soaked, twice. He didn’t much relish the prospect of starting his journey wet and cold. He looked to the sky, it was almost noon. It would be dark if he was to make his homestead this day.
R’ell watched Darion carefully. Saw him glance at the river and guessed his thoughts. “I can have a litter made if you do not wish to brave the water.”
