The masked man looked uncertain for a moment, “Sure, I’ll have to make a few arrangements, but I can manage that.” It was about this time that they heard a woman’s cry from an alley nearby. Whoever she was she was clearly in distress, but her scream was cut short by a sickening thump, as if she had been struck hard.
Islana and Delia exchanged questioning glances, startled for a moment, then they saw Thomas and Mor Dai running for the alley. “Stop!” Thomas yelled at the entrance to the alleyway, addressing a group of men who held a young woman in the shadows.
One of them turned and addressed the cleric and Mor Dai, the others had not yet come into their view, “Now, I’d think it would be better for all concerned if you two lads turned and walked away. Go find your own wench; we’re not of a mind to share tonight.” The thug had an evil grin, his lips contorted into a smirk.
Thomas started to address him, “I’m afraid we can’t...,” but his reply was cut short by Mor Dai’s loud challenge.
“Stand and deliver!” The street avenger had already unsheathed his rapier and was striding rapidly toward the men. Thomas felt the air move as Islana and Grom ran past him, while Delia stopped beside him and brought out her bow.
This is about to turn into a bloodbath. Thomas thought to himself. The time for words was done, however. The man who had spoken to them brought out a wicked blade as Mor Dai approached. Two of the others released the girl and drew daggers and clubs, preparing to fight as well. The fourth kept a firm grip on the girl.
Things moved quickly from there, Mor Dai was in among them and his rapier was already red with blood. The first man was still crumpling to the ground clutching his belly as Mor Dai approached the other two, Grom and Islana close behind him. The last two fought viciously but were no match for the three seasoned fighters, but even as they struggled, the fourth man realized things weren’t going well. He shoved the girl aside and brought out a long knife, preparing to gut her and run before his companions were overcome.
Flames lit the scene for a moment, as a bolt of fire leapt from Thomas’ hands, striking him full in the face. Screaming, he dropped the knife, batting at his burning hair before suddenly falling to the ground. His neck had sprouted one of Delia’s arrows. Almost as quickly as it had started, it was over. Four men lay sprawled on the cobblestones; all but one already dead, and the last one didn’t look as if he would survive long without quick attention.
The girl they had been accosting sat on the ground, her back against the wall, her face blank. She seemed to be in shock. Thomas approached her slowly; afraid he might frighten her more, “It’s alright, we’re here to help. Are you hurt anywhere?”
Blinking she looked up at him, for a moment she seemed uncomprehending, but then her reserve broke, and she began to cry. Standing suddenly, she threw herself into Thomas’ arms, sobbing. “Oh thank the gods! I thought they were going to kill me, or—or—but you… Thank you!” Her tears were flowing freely but Thomas couldn’t help but be aware of her soft form pressed against him.
This isn’t quite how I imagined this scenario, he thought. In truth, although she was a damsel in distress, she was anything but beautiful. Mousy brown hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and her face was extremely plain, if not homely, despite her young age. The girl continued to thank him, and he began to grow embarrassed, after all his part in her rescue had been quite small. Behind him he could hear Delia speaking to Islana. “And here I thought you were the only competition,” she said this with a barely hidden laugh.
Mor Dai stepped in and addressed the girl, and Thomas was glad for the distraction, “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, could you tell us your name and where you live? We’d be glad to escort you home.”
She looked up from Thomas’ shoulder but kept a firm grip on him, “It’s Darcy, sir. My mom’s going to kill me for being out too late.” She lowered her eyes for a moment, before raising them again to stare at Thomas, “But you saved me, you—and your friends. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Thomas was beginning to get an idea of how the girl had wound up in her previous predicament. She seemed extremely naïve, and entirely too quick to put her trust in strange men. “It was nothing,” he replied. “Nothing any decent folk wouldn’t do. Now if you’ll just tell us where you live, we’ll make sure you get back safe tonight.”
“I live by the tannery, a few streets over, it isn’t far. I don’t mind if you walk me, but you needn’t trouble your friends…” She was gazing at Thomas with an uncomfortably intent stare.
Just then a whistle sounded and several of the town watch ran up, “Everyone hold! What’s going on here?” The speaker was a young watchman with blond hair and an honest face. Thomas glanced around at his friends. Grom stood by silently, bloody axe still in his hands, Delia was near him with a casual stance, no trace of anxiety about her. Islana was next to Thomas, tense, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew her hand was near her sword. Mor Dai had vanished like a shadow.
“My name is Deacon Thomas, of the temple of Delwyn. We were just coming down the street when we heard this young lady calling for help over…”
“He saved me! They all did, them ruffians were beating on me something fierce because I didn’t want to give them what they wanted, when these kind folk appeared and stopped them.” Naturally, she was still clinging to Thomas like a lost child, but her story was helped by the visible swelling of her lip and cheek. She’d likely have a nasty bruise in the morning.
“Ok slow down, I’ll want the details from each of you, one at a time,” said the watchman. He nodded at Thomas, “If you’d be so kind as to start.”
“Certainly, Sergeant…,” Thomas let the words trail off, “…I’m sorry I haven’t gotten your name yet.”
“Wilkins, Corporal Wilkins.” The watchman replied. It took them a good half hour to relay all the details to him, even though the fight itself had taken no more than a minute or so. In the end, the watchman was satisfied, if not impressed.
“I’m glad you lot were here. We could use more citizens like yourselves. I’ll be glad to see that the girl gets home safely, but would you mind dropping by the watch house in the morning to make a deposition?” He seemed genuine in his thanks.
Thomas frowned, “I’ll do my best, Corporal, but I have important duties to attend to for the church. It might be a few days before I’m free.”
Wilkins regarded him somberly, “I’d advise you to come in as soon as possible. My report will show this as an act of civic duty, but should anyone present a grievance for these men, the magistrate might change that to a possible homicide if you don’t present your side in person.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Thomas.
After the watchmen had left, with the reluctant Darcy in tow, Mor Dai apologized, “I fear my actions may have brought you trouble. I hope this doesn’t delay your mission.”
Thomas let his eyes sweep across the others, from Islana, to Grom, to Delia. None of them would have done any differently, even had Mor Dai not leapt into action first. “None of us could have ignored that, Mor Dai. The blame is not yours.”
Chapter 15
The Saints
Thomas slept fitfully that night.
Abbot Whitmire had decided to mobilize the temple guard the next morning, since facing a potentially large and dangerous band of outlaws was beyond the scope of what their small group could be expected to handle. It seemed Thomas’ deposition at the guard headquarters would have to wait.
Despite his anxiety, Thomas went to sleep almost as soon as he put head to pillow. When he opened his eyes again he expected to see the first light of dawn peeping in through his window, but instead he saw only a dimly lit room.
A room that was not his own.
He tried to sit up, only to discover he was already standing. Around him were rough-hewn stone walls. On one side stood an iron door, with no window or handle. Runes marked the stone on every side, though they were hard to see. Their color was a midnight black,
so dark they seemed to swallow whatever light reached them.
Turning around, he found the source of light, a young girl sat in the middle of the floor, radiating a warm glow no brighter than that of a candle. Iron manacles encased her wrists and ankles, fastening her cruelly to the floor with iron chains. Red-gold hair covered her face, but when she looked up it fell away, allowing Thomas to see her features. He knew her.
“Sarah!” he gasped.
“Thomas,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
He tried to go to her, but he quickly discovered his body would not move. He was stuck in place, like a fly in amber. “Why are you apologizing to me?” he asked. “You’re the one in chains. What happened?”
She smiled sadly at him, “Don’t fear for me, Thomas. Things are as they had to be. I only wish I could have given you more time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tomorrow you must find me,” she told him. “The bandits are only a distraction. Ignore them. You must go south.”
“How will I find you?” he asked worriedly. “Half the world lies south of here…”
“Listen to your heart, it will tell you when you are near,” she answered. “You will meet a man who will guide you; follow where he leads, but do not trust him.”
Thomas frowned in puzzlement, “If I shouldn’t trust him, why would I follow him?”
Sarah looked down, “Because he is my ally in this, not yours. He shares the same goal, but given the chance, he would destroy you.”
He strained to get closer, but try as he might his body would not move. He wanted to free her, to hold her. Thomas felt the distance separating them as though it were a physical pain in his chest. “How will I know him?” he asked in desperation. “What does he look like?”
The chains that held her were beginning to glow with heat, and smoke rose from Sarah’s flesh. It was an acrid smell that burned Thomas’s nose. Despite her suffering, Sarah’s face remained smooth, “I do not know what appearance he has chosen, but it doesn’t matter. He is looking for you. Head south and he will find you.”
Frustration threatened to overwhelm him. Thomas wanted to scream, but he fought hard to keep his self-control. “How will I recognize him?”
Sarah lifted one hand, reaching toward him, and the metal at her wrist began glowing more forcefully. The skin around it was turning black. “The paladins will know him…”
And then the world shattered, splintering like broken glass. Sitting up, Thomas found himself in his bed once more, his face covered in sweat. The window was still dark, morning had not yet arrived, but he could sleep no longer.
The dream had seemed real, it felt real, but he didn’t know what to think of it. Standing, he put on his nightrobe. Dawn was close, he might as well take advantage of the temple bath to wash himself one last time before setting out. He wanted to dismiss the dream, but as he prepared to step out of the room he smelled it one more time, the scent of burning flesh.
***
“Are you sure?” asked Father Whitmire. “This wasn’t just a nightmare?”
“No, Father,” answered Thomas.
The Abbot looked at Sir Brevis, “We will do as he suggests then.”
The Grand Master’s mouth opened in shock, “You would ignore the only lead we have in favor of a—a dream?!”
Whitmire nodded, “It is my decision to make.”
The paladin’s eyes narrowed, “Only in time of peace, in times of war my authority supersedes yours.”
“This is not a time of war,” said the Abbot calmly.
“The chalice has been stolen!” protested Sir Brevis. “We are about to send out a military force to recover it. I could easily argue that we are in a time of war.”
Whitmire arched one brow, “But you won’t. You are going to do as young Thomas asks.”
Sir Brevis glared at him, “Why?”
Father Whitmire addressed Thomas, “Bare your chest for the Grand Master.”
“What?” said Thomas, startled.
“Show him your chest.”
“But, Your Grace…,” Thomas started to argue.
“Do it.”
Red-faced, Thomas removed his robe and pulled his undertunic over his head. He was sensitive about showing his strange birthmark to others. He knew what it looked like now, but he didn’t understand why it was pertinent to their discussion.
The paladin’s eyes grew wide as he took in the strange mark on Thomas’ chest. “By Saint Virgil!” he swore loudly.
“Exactly,” replied Whitmire dryly. “What will you do now, Master of Paladins?”
Brevis answered immediately, “We ride south.”
The Grand Master left the room to hurry his men along in their preparations, but Thomas stayed behind with the abbot. He began pulling his overtunic back on, but his mind was full of questions, “If this mark is so important, why hadn’t you told him about it before?”
Father Whitmire leveled a calm gaze at him, “I’ve only told two about your stigma, Brother Jenkins, and now Sir Brevis. I felt it best to keep it a secret.”
“Even from the Grand Master?”
The older priest stood and walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. “How much have you learned about the saints?”
The sudden change of subjects took Thomas off-guard, “We studied them under Brother Jenkins, but there were so many…”
The sun was dawning over the temple wall, casting Whitmire’s face in stark relief, “Your orphan girl, Sarah, didn’t teach you about them? I gathered she lectured you rather extensively about theology.”
Thomas had no idea where this was leading, but he answered simply, “No, Your Grace.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Only if you explain it,” said Thomas sourly.
“Do you know how one becomes a saint?”
“The senior priests hold a conclave, usually after the prospective candidate’s death and vote on whether…,” he began.
“Not that,” interrupted Whitmire. “That’s how we recognize them, but we have a number of criteria that are examined when making that decision. Lifetime service, achievements, and frequently martyrdom, those are some of the most important things we consider, but what most laymen don’t realize, is that more than half of those chosen have a stigma similar to yours. Sometimes it isn’t discovered until their bodies are examined after death, but whether before or after, it carries great weight in the deliberations.”
“You keep calling it a stigma. I thought it was a birthmark,” said Thomas.
“It’s a sign from our Lady…,” said the priest. “…a sign of favor, of blessing, and perhaps a curse as well.”
Thomas frowned, “How would a sign from Delwyn be a curse?”
The Abbott turned to face him, “Do you remember how Saint Virgil died? He was a martyr, tortured for seven days while he refused to give up the location of the Chalice of Light to our enemies. He bore the same mark you do, although his was on his lower back. Almost without exception, the men and women who have borne that mark eventually became martyrs, and most of them died painful deaths.”
“But not all of them, right?” asked Thomas hopefully.
Whitmire laughed ruefully, “Study their lives if you want to lose sleep at night. The mark you bear is a blessing, a sign of hope to those of us who follow Delwyn, but for those who bear it, it should be considered a warning.”
“I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked,” said Thomas.
“Would you forsake Her service?” asked Father Whitmire. “If you could avoid whatever lies in store for you and live a quiet and happy life, would you choose to turn your back on Her?”
He gave it serious thought for a moment, but it didn’t take him long. Thomas could still remember the day he had sworn fealty to Sarah. He hadn’t known she was a goddess then, but the image of her, with the sunlight streaming through her hair had been burned into his mind. There was no uncertainty in his voice when
he answered, “No.”
“Then we should go down and make ready to ride south. We have a long day ahead of us.”
Chapter 16
Roast Pig
The weather was sunny, and the air warmed quickly as they rode from Port Weston along the South road. Thomas began to sweat during the first hour and he felt sorry for Islana. It had to be even hotter in the armor she wore, though she gave little sign of it.
They rode in the largest company Thomas had ever been a part of, twenty men at arms and nine paladins together with seven priests, if you excluded the Abbot, the Grand Master, and his friends from the count.
Grom and Islana were both expected to remain in their respective places within the small column of riders, but Delia was under no such constraint. Riding along the right side of the group, she nudged her horse into a canter and caught up to where Thomas rode near the front. She ignored a few odd looks from the priests as she drew close to him, “I can understand everyone else that’s here, but why is he riding with us?”
Her eyes and a gesture with her thumb indicated the target of her question, Mor Dai Melgehm. The masked vigilante rode at the rear of the group, conspicuous in the fact that he fit in with none of the other riders.
Thomas shrugged, “When I told him we weren’t going north to check out the bandits he said he would ride with us anyway.”
“But why did the Abbot allow it?” she wondered aloud.
“I gave a good report of him yesterday but…,” began Thomas.
“Delia,” interrupted Sir Brevis. “Ride forward a mile or two and see what the road is like.”
She pursed her lips sourly but obediently kicked her horse into a fast trot, leaving the group behind. Once she was out of earshot, Whitmire and Brevis exchanged glances before the paladin spoke again, “If we’ve got a ranger with us we might as well make use of her and scout ahead.”
Thomas listened but didn’t comment. The road they were on was well traveled and unlikely to offer any surprises. He doubted the senior paladin’s decision had been because of any real need for scouting.
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