“Be ready, the ones with the swords will be…” but the Jarl was cut off by the clash of steel and eternal silver. The other Faithful Servants had arrived.
Haliel had swooped past one of the straggling Wildmen and sliced through him with his burning blade. The other Faithful Servant was Agrael, a silver swordsman. He had tried to strike the Jarl down, but one of the other men had gotten in the way. The third Faithful Servant was Kael, and he was snatching his lightning-bringing spear out of the dead Wildman down the hill.
Unlike previous times, the Faithful servants did not veer off into the sky. Instead, they turned around and came back for another pass.
“Finally! You cowards will stay and fight!” screamed Bjorn Flametooth in rage and fear.
“Strange thing to say for someone who tried an ambush on a settlement full of women and children in the dead of night,” intoned the deep voice of Agrael as he swept to a stop next to the jarl’s group. The Servant’s sword flashed out in response to three different attacks as he landed.
The flamewright jarl summoned his strength and put his crooked finger to his chin. Inhaling deeply, he blasted the being with his fiery gift. Flames swept out and enveloped the winged Servant. When the feathers blackened, the jarl began to rejoice.
But, the Servant flapped his wings while striking down another of the jarl’s men. The fire that had been wreathing the Servant was tossed aside like vapor in the wind.
Cries and moans were rising from all around the Bjorn Flametooth. Another clap of thunder and that tingling smell told him that he was down to a handful of warriors at most. To his left, the silver sword was singing though the last of his men. To his right, a flaming blade was dropping Wildmen like wheat stalks at harvest. In front of him, he saw a golden-haired statue of a being with a spear drawn back, wings glittering in the morning sun..
“Wait!” he cried out, dropping to his knees. “I surrender! I’m a Gifted One. You can have me as a prisoner to ransom!”
A Wildman’s head with a burnt neck rolled past his knees as he sat, looking up at Kael. “I am very valuable! My Lady will ransom me back. I’ve even got some considerable funds of my own, I’d be willing to…”
“Silence,” commanded Kael in a low rolling voice like thunder.
Jarl Bjorn Flametooth, was now a jarl of none. He sat silently as he was told to.
The three Faithful Servants stood towering over the man in his now ridiculous red armor. They looked from one to another and then began speaking in the Ancient Tongue. Bjorn Flametooth had no idea what they were saying.
“What shall we do with him?” Agrael asked looking at Haliel.
Haliel did not answer immediately.
Kael said placidly, “I say we slay him like the others. He led a sneak attack against women and children.”
Agrael looked grieved. “We cannot slay him. He has given himself up and is now a prisoner. The Wandering Isle has been clear about this since the end of the First War. I don’t understand why you are always so violent.”
Kael’s eyebrows dropped into an expression as dark as stormclouds. “The First War is not over. Nor will it be over until our King opens the Door. We are always at war with these traitorous vermin. They are no different than the Exiles.”
Haliel looked deep in thought as his two fellow Servants rehashed their debate that he had heard many times before.
“We either obey the Wandering Isle, or it is we who are no better than the Exiles. Besides, you know that these Sons of Enoch can repent of their sins and turn to our King. That puts them in a whole different category from our fallen brethren.”
Haliel finally broke his silence. “Repent of their sins, but not escape the consequences of them.”
The other two Servants fell silent as Haliel bent down onto one knee in front of the miserable jarl. Looking into the man’s eyes, he asked, “Are you a great warrior?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve killed many men in battle, even other Gifted Ones, and once a Chosen One. That was one of my Lady’s rivals. She will pay good coin to get me back, I assure you.” The jarl was still uncertain, but he thought perhaps things were looking up.
“Are you ruthless and cunning?” asked Haliel with an inquisitive tone.
“Why do you ask? Do you have a job for me?” asked the Jarl before he caught himself and responded more directly. “Yes, of course. You can’t be successful in my line of work otherwise.”
“Give me examples,” commanded Haliel flatly.
“Well, there was this other village that wouldn’t pay my Lady’s tribute. Not this one here, another one. Well, I only had ten men with me, but I wanted to get this village crossed off my list, so I didn’t want to have to go back to Ravensberg for reinforcements. So, I just grabbed a kid out of the crowd and fast as you please, I set him alight like dry wood on a bondfire. Made a perfect example. Not one more peep out of them. I got the tribute for my Lady. Didn’t lose a single man. I even deducted one from their tribute for the kid I roasted to show them I was magnanimous.”
Haliel’s face was stony as he stood up and took a step back.
In the Ancient Tongue he quoted a Sojourner scripture to his fellow Servants, “For he is cast into a net by his own feet, And he walks into a snare.”
Both of them simply nodded in agreement.
To the Jarl in the Boreal tongue, Haliel commanded, “On your feet.”
Bjorn Flametooth stood up feeling relieved. They were surely going to march him off somewhere to lock him up and wait for a ransom payment.
“By the words of your own tongue, you have confessed to breaking the commandment of your Maker and Rightful Lord, ‘Thou shalt not commit murder.’”
The Jarl looked at the strange being in puzzlement.
“As is just and right by all that is Holy in the Celestial City and all below, I hereby condemn you to a death fitting your sin.”
The flamewright opened and closed his mouth stupidly, unable to understand how this could be happening. “Don’t you know how much I’m worth?”
“I know how much you could have been worth. I was there before your fathers set foot on the Holy Mountain. I was there before they waged war on the Numa. But now, you have broken the Lord’s law, and your life is forfeit.”
Haliel brought his sword up to the leg of the flamewright.
For the first time in his life, Bjorn Flametooth felt too much heat. Flamewrights are not hurt by normal heat and fire. But, Haliel’s sword was not normal fire. It was made of holy fire from the censor that he bore before the throne of the King Himself. The flames were not of the Kosmos, but of the Ouranos.
Jarl Bjorn Flametooth felt his clothing catch fire, and then the panic set in when he realized that the flames were burning him. He had seen enough people die this way to know exactly what was going to happen.
The three Faithful Servants watch the jarl burn with more sympathy than he had ever had for any of his victims.
“Fitting, but unsatisfying as always,” grumbled Kael.
“After that little admission of his, I was ready to do it myself,” admitted Agrael.
Before Haliel could add anything, both Kael and Agrael suddenly took on glazed looks. He knew they were receiving messages from the Wandering Isle. He wondered if they would need to meditate to receive the full meanings or if the messages were simple enough to get in a light trance. Moments later, he got his answer.
Agrael looked at him with disappointment. “I must go. I’m off to Fireheart. I’m to be told more when I get there. It was good to fight beside you again, Haliel. And you as well, Kael. Like old times in the First War. Perhaps we’ll get to do it again soon. May the King guide you both!”
“And you!” both Servants responded as Agrael launched himself into the air. His wingbeats were steady and strong as he climbed toward the south.
“I too have been called away, Haliel. The Kingdom of the Four Peaks. That shall be a long flight. It is always the way with the Wandering Isle. Many orders and no explanations.” Kael�
��s voice did not hide his frustration.
“We exist to serve our King, Kael. And, I know you are a good and faithful Servant. I must assume that I am to await my next orders here. Godspeed.”
As Kael took flight and began winging his way southeast, Haliel watched in perfect stillness.
Pyter stopped watching here. The sun was high in the sky over his sheep, and Pyter already knew that the Faithful Servant collected wood from the forest, built a pyre, and burned the bodies before he’d flown back to the Sojourner settlement. The thought that he might see one of these magnificent beings return to earth to serve God again thrilled Pyter.
It was little disconcerting because he had just watched three of them kill twenty warriors in a few moments. Pyter tried to reconcile it to himself out loud.
“They were God’s Servants. They were vanquishing evil men and abominations. If they hadn’t, even more innocent people would have been killed.”
Still, watching the battle always brought a certain uncomfortable heat to Pyter’s blood. He did not love violence, but it did appeal to him in some ways. He certainly saw its usefulness. That usefulness was why he had hatched his special plan a week before. The plan paled in comparison to possibly seeing a Faithful Servant or Exile fall, but it was his plan. He was going to finish it.
Pyter’s plan had been complicated by Ulric’s presence. But with him away, things were actually simpler, more dangerous, but simpler. Pyter and Anya were never supposed to speak of their Blessings to anyone, ever. So, he had tried to keep things hidden from Ulric. Pyter had never quite understood why he had to do that, but he knew it had something to do with the thrall trade. The Svenhus Kingdom down the river and all points north still followed Boreal tradition and kept thralls. They were slaves who were no better than livestock according to Boreal law.
The stone’s memories of the battle were still echoing in Pyter’s mind. He took out his hunting dagger and unnecessarily sharpened it on his whetstone. He did not have the fine ability of many stonewrights to shape a sharp edge onto a metal blade yet. He could flow metal into rough shapes, even small rounded ones like the letters on his copper plate, but putting on a fine edge was still beyond him. So, he looked for the proper type of stone in the bottom of the valley, while the flock grazed on the hillside behind him.
It took him a while to find what he was looking for, but eventually he had a nice collection. The stones had just the right combinations of materials in them for his purposes. Pyter took one of the smaller stones and held it in the palm of his left hand. He concentrated on the stone, the connection between it and his skin, the structure of the stone itself. After a few moments, the stone suddenly melted into a puddle in his hand. Pyter caused the stone to flow over his forearm to near his elbow and solidify. He took up the next stone and repeated the process.
Looking out across the hills, back towards the tower and town, Pyter wondered how his sister was passing the time. At least he had his task before him. She was stuck in town with little more than chores to distract her.
Pyter did not begrudge her the smaller responsibilities and certainly not the lesser dangers. In fact, he loved the fact that he could stand in for her. I would gladly take on dangers if it means Anya doesn’t have to.
Well, I’m going to train more than just stoneshaping and aetherial manipulations. I’m going to face real dangers on my own. Fine, I admit I’m doing it in the safest way I can figure out. I’m not a fool. Learning to face danger won’t help me if I end up dead.
Eventually, Pyter covered his entire left forearm with a skin of stone. It made his arm heavier, but less so than he had expected. With his aetherial gift, Pyter could move his heavy arm with the power of his mind as well as his muscles. He took his hunting knife into his free hand, and went looking for the wolf.
Anya had been able to sleep a little longer than Pyter, since the sun could not wake her. She slept in the underground living quarters beneath the little wooden chapel building. The rooms and tunnels that honeycombed the area under the walled village were built by southerners, trying to hunker down against the cold. The arrangement had its benefits and its drawbacks.
For example, Anya woke up at almost midday with no light in her eyes. She knew from the groggy feeling in her arms and legs that she had badly overslept. I can’t believe my neck feels like this, she complained to herself. Why didn’t I wake myself up and move around when it started hurting? Well, I guess I almost died yesterday, so it could be a lot worse.
Normally, the sound of Gilm moving about in the next room or up in the chapel above would have woken her. He was still gone, tending to Ulric the Elder.
Anya climbed up the stone steps and peeked out into the chapel. Empty of course, it was only the third day of the week. The light from one of the tall, narrow windows was very close to its own base.
Realizing how late she was rising, she scurried downstairs. A little flame kindled in her palm to help light her way. Living underground was not as inconvenient for a flamewright as for others. Anya dressed, washed her face in the basin with water from the reservoir, and hurried over to the shelves. She took a delicate stone bowl that Pyter had made her as a gift and scooped some flour from the barrel. Concentrating for a moment and touching the surface of the water in the reservoir, Anya made a little bird shape of water leap up into the bowl. It was an odd way to measure, but Gilm had taught her all sorts of little ways to practice using her Blessings. The only way to get better and stronger was to keep practicing.
That was why Gilm had her baking these loaves of bread every day in this special way. Though I don’t get to tell anyone about my method, she grumped to herself. Gilm was adamant about Anya keeping her Blessings secret. She wasn’t sure why Gilm could so openly practice his Blessing. She thought, Perhaps when I’ve mastered them enough, maybe then I’ll be able to tell others about how God has blessed me.
Anya mixed up the dough with the little hunk of leftover dough from the day before. She held her left hand near the side of the bowl but not quite touching. Little flames tickled and fluttered around her fingers, radiating a very practiced amount of heat as she moved her hand all around the outside of the bowl. She sat concentrating for many long minutes, using her Blessings not only to warm the dough, but also to try to hold in the water as well. With the fingertips of her right hand gently touching the surface of the dough, Anya struggled to find the little threads of vapor trying to rise from the mass of flour, salt, yeast, and water. The more she focused, the more she could see the water within the dough, and the more she could bend it to her will. Gilm said this sort of thing was good practice for healing.
Healing often consisted of delicate manipulation of the water-based fluids within the patient’s body. If the healer was practiced and skilled, it could involve introducing new fluids and directing those through the body to the proper places. According to one of the tomes she had read, someone who could control the flow of blood within another’s body could do other things besides heal. Anya found those possibilities revolting beyond words.
After the dough had risen, Anya sliced off a little lump for tomorrow’s leaven, then shaped the rest into eight long loaves. These she put on a flat, raised stone set across two blocks in the hearth. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on unseen flowing energy. From her outstretched palm, a red flower of fire filled the space under the stone. She tugged with her mind and other hand, and a few licking flames arched up from the space under the stone and over the top of the dough. Soon, Anya had a loop of flame heating the bread all around.
Her sweaty face radiated triumph. This process sapped her strength, but the looping pattern helped. The pattern was her own clever idea, too. After a year of baking bread, Anya had acclimated to the exertion. It was now no more tiring than walking briskly with a light load. Besides, she would have plenty of time to recover before that evening’s potential excitement.
Once the loaves were done, Anya hurried to wrap six of them in a clean towel. She was going to deliver th
ese to the innkeeper’s wife, Brunhild, as Gilm had promised that she would. Anya reminded herself to be sure to say, “Thank you,” for the silver obolus that Brunhild would pay her. She would express gratitude even though she knew the innkeeper’s wife would split each of the six large loaves in half and sell the pieces for a copper cholkus. That worked out to twelve cholkoi or two whole oboloi for the inn. Gilm had patiently explained that the low price made sense. Anya had the advantage of not spending time, money, or effort on firewood. Brunhild already had the hungry farmers under her roof on market days. They were practically captive customers for the large lady of the inn.
Still, it’s the injustice of the thing, sniffed Anya as she headed out the chapel door, basket on arm. Her slight offense was turned to sudden gratitude when she actually dropped off the bread.
“Me li’l baker, do ya remember when ya roasted those two fine fowl fer me a couple ta weeks after Son’s Feast?” asked Brunhild in her thick accent. She had moved to the village years before, but never lost the sound of the Baymuth Highlands.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Anya, fighting not to add that she had butchered and cleaned the birds as well as roasted them. It was her most traumatic memory. During the butchering, Gilm had actually insisted on given her a lesson on how to control blood flow inside a living (for the moment in that case) creature. She had nearly thrown up.
“Ya did such good spices, and roasted ‘em so fine. Da ya think ya could do that fer me again this day? Young Karl brought some birds that he wants ta share with the other men this evenin’. He’s a gonna butter them up afore he gets their meade orders. He’s got three birds that needs roastin’. He brought an old, worn out layin hen that he was gonna trade me ta do da cookin. I’d give ya that bird if ya just did the cookin up real fine like ya did afore.” Brunhild had an excessively jolly look on her circular face.
Anya was almost certain that Brunhild had gotten more for the cooking of the three birds than just a worn-out laying hen. However, the offer was actually terrific for Anya on one condition.
Blessings and Trials (Exiles and Sojourners Book 1) Page 11
