Sanctuary (Dominion)

by Kris Kramer

  "A finger. From his left hand. He lost it while fighting Scots when he was a soldier. He was captured for a short time."

  Oswin nodded and waved us over. "Oslac doesn't tell too many people that story. He must like you."

  I moved past Offa, who'd stepped aside while keeping an eye on Arkael. The others scooted over, making room for two more around the fire. "Thank you so much, my friends. I can't tell you how eager I am to get off my feet and rest." I sat down next to the fire and warmed my hands. "And yes, Oslac can be quite protective of his past. Parts of it, at least. He’ll tell anyone who will listen about the gore and blood he’s seen, though."

  “He does like a good war story, that one,” Oswin agreed.

  "Care to share in our dinner, father?" Ailbert asked. "It's good to have a priest around. The Lord knows these godless men need some saving." Ailbert laughed, while Oswin raised his eyebrow.

  "Woden protects my soul," Oswin said, and his brother nodded in support. "No offense to your sensibilities, though," he said to me.

  "No offense taken. I'd be honored to eat with you. I'm afraid what we have is meager, but you're more than welcome to it." I took what little food we had out of my satchel, noticing that Arkael still stood a few paces behind me, his arms crossed. I would have asked him to join us, but Ailbert distracted me with a shout.

  "Hunlaf!" he called out, peering over his shoulder. "More food!"

  At first I looked at the boy, thinking that's who he spoke to, but it was the person behind the cart who stirred. Except it wasn't a person who appeared around the edge of the cart. It was a dwarf. I stared at him in surprise as he limped to the back of the cart and gathered two more plates and cups, then brought them toward the fire. He was short, obviously, only slightly taller than Ailbert was while seated on his log. His body, his legs and his arms were all thick, though, and powerful. His head was stout and blocky, and his long, unruly red hair and beard made him appear even more so. I hadn't noticed before but a chain ran from a rusted iron collar at the dwarf's neck to the back of the cart, with the middle section lying next to Ailbert. Ailbert must have noticed me staring, because he picked up the chain and tugged.

  “Hunlaf,” Ailbert said, “stop scaring the Christians!” He laughed.

  "No, it's okay. I'm not scared. I've seen dwarves before," I said, a little indignant. Hunlaf handed me a plate with some cooked pork and a chunk of cheese. The aroma was heavenly. "It's a pleasure to meet you." I said, trying not to stare at either the food or the dwarf. Hunlaf looked at me strangely, then grunted and continued his work.

  “I bought him from a peddler up north, who found him trying to pinch his wares,” Ailbert said. Hunlaf grunted at that, too, only louder. “Best money I ever spent! Everywhere I go, the little ones come up to pat him on the head, or tug on his beard. And while they’re busy with the dwarf, I’m selling my wares to their parents. Or stealing time with their mothers!” He laughed again, and I smiled politely.

  Edmar nodded. He was in his forties if I had to guess, but seemed very healthy and well-built, with a full head of grey hair and a thin beard. Given his size, I guessed he’d once been a soldier or laborer. He dressed simply, as did his son, both of whom wore simple wool breeches and cloth tunics, leather boots, and heavy coats. “I seen him do it, too. I don’t know how, but he lures them in, no matter where we go.”

  “You always travel together?” I asked, motioning to all the carts.

  “Ever since Oswin here lost two of his brothers in the middle of the night to those bandits outside Lodis,” Ailbert said. “It was his idea to pull our carts together and travel like this. We each offer different services, so it all works out. I'm a tradesman. I'll give you what I have and I'll take what you have as long as it's a fair bargain. Edmar and Edward, however, are merchants. They sell their goods, and they want honest silver for it. A slight distinction for some," he smiled at Edmar, who was too busy eating a handful of bread to notice, "but not for us. Oswin and Hrodgar make everything they sell, or they sell their services in towns, usually over the winter. So we don't really compete with each other. We all pitch in to keep Offa here with us and looking fearsome and we stay on well-traveled routes. We haven’t had trouble since.”

  Offa bowed his head. Ailbert leaned forward.

  “If I can say, though, father, I feel just as good having you around as well. Can’t hurt to have Christ Almighty,” he pointed at the sky, “favoring us along with a strong blade or two. God be praised.” He raised his drink.

  “Speaking of blades,” Oswin said, looking at Arkael, “what’s your story?”

  Arkael glanced back at him, his face belying nothing. Then he turned to me. “I’m a soldier of God,” he said flatly. I raised my eyebrow, wondering if he was serious, or just playing games with his words, again.

  “Priests need protection, too, these days,” I said, hoping they didn’t think anything strange of us. “Perhaps you heard of the bandits south of here that kill priests? Led by a man named Brannic?”

  “Hell’s teet,” Ailbert straightened up. “There’s nowhere safe left to go, is there?”

  We spoke briefly of Brannic and other bandits in the area, although according to these men the forests were light of robbers this year. After that, we chatted amiably and ate heartily, and Edmar shared a small casket of ale that served to lighten the mood. Eventually, in celebration of having guests at his campfire, and because he was tired of ale, Ailbert produced some wine he'd bought from a Frankish merchant. He'd intended to sell it, but he'd found no buyers yet so he decided we might as well just drink it.

  Fancy wooden cups were handed out by Inar, the boy sitting behind Ailbert, although I waved him off since I already had the cup I’d taken from Humbert. Inar looked to be about eight years old, with shaggy blond hair and hard eyes for a child. He was also mute, though Ailbert didn’t say why. He did little else the rest of the night, other than sit quietly behind Ailbert, staring at the ground. Arkael had waved off the earlier offer of ale, but Ailbert wouldn't have his wine turned away.

  "You haven’t had a drop all night, good sir, and this wine was given to me by a Frank who claimed it was Greek, and that it was fantastic." Arkael raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea what Greek wine tastes like, but maybe you can tell me if he was lying?" He handed the bottle, a large, brown thing, to Arkael, who turned it over in his hand. He opened the top and took a swig.

  "It's not Greek," he said, "but it's close enough."

  That's when the drinking began in earnest, and the merchant’s lips became loose with stories, news and rumors about the lords and ladies of Britain, especially their indiscretions. Arkael made short work of Ailbert's bottle of wine, and he produced two more silver pennies in exchange for another. He didn't say anything while he drank, but I could tell he was getting drunk because his head would loll and his eyes would close and then open again. I even drank some ale, more than I typically do, which would hurt in the morning because this was a particularly strong brew.

  After a while, nearly everyone had retired for the night except for Ailbert, Arkael, Hunlaf, Hrodgar, and myself. Normally, I would have been asleep already, but Ailbert spoke mostly to me all night, and I had trouble trying to find a good enough break in the conversation to thank him for his courtesy and retire.

  “It’s a whole world of sin, Father,” Ailbert said, railing against the society he also seemed to love. “The beautiful women, the wine, the anger and jealousy. How do we live without sinning? It’s not fair to tempt us all day and then punish us for being tempted.”

  “Ha!” Hrodgar laughed. “That’s how the Christians lure you in. They create circles in their arguments that make them seem more important than they really are because you can’t solve them. That’s why I won’t leave Woden. He doesn’t try to trick me, and he doesn’t care about my sins.”

  “That’s because all Woden wants is blood, my friend.”

  “So does God. How many have died in His name, eh?”

  “Some people onl
y learn at the end of a sword,” Ailbert explained. “The difference between Woden and Christ is that those who teach about Christ will do it through reading and speaking first. They will fight only after that. For Woden,” he waved his hand dismissively, “it’s sword first, sword second and sword third. Right up until everyone’s dead and feasting in his great hall.”

  “Ha!” Hrodgar laughed again, finding the whole conversation amusing.

  “Father,” Ailbert turned to me, “help me make this poor man understand his madness, for he does not know any better.”

  I smiled, and tried to think of the simplest way to add to the conversation without getting completely sucked in. I really wanted to go to sleep.

  “You’re asking the wrong man,” Arkael cut in, and the menacing tone of his words caught me off guard. In fact, the jovial nature of our conversation seemed to stop dead in its tracks.

  “I’m not sure the wine agrees with him,” I said, smiling uncomfortably.

  “Shall I take the bottle back?” Ailbert asked. He leaned over and reached out but Arkael ignored him, his eyes stuck on me.

  “Tell me, priest,” he said mockingly, “what do you believe today? Are we all sinners, or just fools?” He slurred those last few words. "I don't appear at your whim, simply because you prayed for help. I am not an angel who flies down from heaven to protect your worthless soul."

  “I never thought you were.” By now, Ailbert, Hunlaf and Hrodgar were watching us intently, not sure what to make of this change in tone.

  "That is a lie." Arkael was right, that was a lie, but I only suspected it briefly, and I didn't want to explain my reasons in front of anyone else.

  "I think he needs to sleep," Hrodgar cut in, “like me.”

  "You can't deny what happened,” I said, letting myself get drawn into the conversation anyway. “I saw what you did, and I had every right to believe that God played a role. I still do. And anything I've done since then has only been an attempt to examine that possibility. And I can only do that by learning about you."

  "Me?” he asked, then shook his head. “You spend so much time trying to learn about me, without ever asking yourself if the effort is worth it. What if you do? What if you learn about me and you find me to be nothing like what you thought?"

  "I think I know enough about you by now-"

  "You know nothing about me, priest," Arkael said, his eyes narrow and accusing. "Nothing."

  I had no words for him in reply. I'd seen him act short with me, or cross, or even annoyed. But the Arkael in front of me now was none of those. Tonight he was angry, and my mind raced to discover what I'd done to make him so.

  "We're all telling stories here, so let me tell you one. A terrible story." Arkael leaned forward and set his bottle down. Then he stood up, grasping the cart for support, and waited until he had his balance. "A man, a farmer, who lived long ago, before your ancestor’s ancestors were even born, was married to a beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman he’s ever known. A powerful warlord invades his land one day, and comes to his village, and one of his soldiers sees this woman. He wants her, so he takes her. But this farmer won’t have that. The warlord, he’s powerful, vicious, and cruel. Kingdoms have fallen at his feet. But the farmer doesn’t care about any of that. He thinks only of his wife. He thinks only about the woman he loves more than anything in the world. So he fights for her. He fights the soldier, and nearly kills him.”

  Arkael leaned over to pick the bottle back up, apparently not done with it.

  “The warlord sees all of this. And he rides over, gets off his horse, and walks up to them, his anger boiling over at being defied. The soldier, he slays on the spot. No soldier of his will be bested by a peasant. The other man, though,” Arkael shook his head, “this husband, with a wife he adores…” He winced again, and rubbed his temple before looking back up at me, glassy-eyed.

  “He spends the next three days tied up in the warlord’s camp, watching every soldier there take his turn with his wife, who was tied up next to him. On the fourth day, the warlord killed him.” He paused, his lips trembling. “It was one of the few times he ever showed mercy.” Arkael took another drink and glared at the fire.

  I wasn't sure what to say. It was an awful story, brutal in its finality. But I found myself more curious why he would even tell it. "Who was he?" I asked.

  "Who?"

  "The farmer. The one who died."

  Arkael looked up at me with wide, guilty eyes, almost as if I’d caught him in a lie. But then he just shook his head. "I don't know." He turned and wandered away from the fire, out into the darkness. "I have no idea," he muttered.

  I would have gone after him but I knew he was in no danger. I assumed a man like Arkael had nothing to fear from anything roaming about in the woods, even while drunk. So I would wait until the morning, until all of us had a chance to rest and regain our wits. Then I would ask my questions, and find out just what tonight had been about.

  *****

  "Hunlaf!" Ailbert's voice woke me with a start, and I half sat, half rolled over at the sound of camp being broken. "Bring those bottles. I can still use those." I looked over to see everyone else awake already and packing their things. Pots, utensils, weapons and jewelry clanged together as everything was stuffed tightly into the wagons. Of course, none of the noise went unnoticed by my throbbing headache.

  Ailbert stood by his cart, lording over the camp like a king while Inar and Hunlaf gathered the few remaining dishes and blankets lying on the ground. Edmar and his son stacked their cups and plates into one of the chests on the second cart, while Oswin and Hrodgar waited by the third, already packed. The only person I couldn’t see was Arkael. I hurried to my feet and looked around, but saw him nowhere nearby.

  “Good morning, Father,” Ailbert said, gracious as ever. “Sleep well?”

  "I’m afraid I’m still recovering from that ale,” I said, wincing from the sunlight, and from standing up too fast. “Where is Arkael?"

  "Not here, my friend," Ailbert said.

  “What do you mean?”

  "He left," Hunlaf said, his deep, gruff voice catching me by surprise. "He came back in the night. Took his pack and left." He pointed north. “That way.”

  That was impossible. He couldn’t have gone. He told me just the other night that I was welcome to travel with him. He let me keep up with him, even though I was slowing him down. Why would he leave now? What had changed?

  "How long ago?" I asked, hoping I could still catch up.

  "Long time ago," the dwarf said.

  My spirits fell, and the dull throbbing in my head became overpowering as I realized my situation. I was in the middle of nowhere, my only protection gone, and I had no idea where to even search for him.

  "Looks like you're alone, friend," Ailbert said, none too helpfully.

  "Good riddance, too," the dwarf added. "Forest was quiet with him around. Wasn't natural."

  I scanned the horizon to the north, but it was no use. No one was there.

  I looked down at my satchel, and at Humbert’s cup which lay on its side next to me, the only item left unpacked from last night’s reverie, and I remembered our conversation, the story Arkael told us, about the farmer and his wife. I struggled to think of any details that might have set him off, that would make him angry enough to disappear into the night. But I could come up with nothing. He was just gone, as unexpectedly as he’d arrived.

  I was alone.

  Part 2

  Eoferwic

  Chapter 8

  “It’s me, Dagbert. Daniel. From the church.”

  The world was cold and rainy when I finally reached the gates of Eoferwic on the afternoon of October 28th, a fitting portent of my days to come. My legs and back ached from six days of arduous travel across the British countryside, and my arms shivered no matter how still I held them. The steady rain from earlier in the day had turned into a light mist, but my clothes were still drenched, and my body chilled to the bone. Traveling in these condit
ions was dangerous, but I could at least be thankful I hadn’t been waylaid by sleet or snow. Even the hardiest of men could find themselves dead on the side of the road after getting caught unprepared in a winter storm.

  An old Roman wall easily twice my height surrounded the southern edge of town, on the near side of the river Ouse, while an earthwork topped with a wooden palisade protected the rest of the city. The thick oak gate at the southwest corner, flanked by the Roman walls, stayed open, which meant there were no enemies nearby. Two lonely soldiers stood guard. One, a young man I didn’t recognize with a bored look on his round, too-trusting face, leaned back against the wall, chewing on a weed, while the other was older, with a haggard face and a thin frame that barely supported the oversized leather jerkin he wore. It was the older one who stood before me with a confused expression.

  “Daniel?” he asked, although I couldn’t tell if he remembered me, or if he said the name to jostle his memory.

  I'd returned home, or at least the closest thing I had to one. I'd grown up here, in this bustling trade town in the southern reaches of Northumbria. My mother brought me here when I was five and died shortly after, leaving me in the care of the church as an orphan. I grew up among the priests, the nuns and the Bishop, caring for their herd, cleaning the place, preparing food, and performing whatever chores they deemed necessary to keep a curious little boy out of their hair. It wasn’t an easy life, but it could have been worse. Some of the priests treated me well, and I still had fond memories of them. But even though they brought me into their fold, I never felt like I belonged here. That’s why I was eager to leave when I did, and why I only returned when I had no other choice.

  Dagbert had been a city guard as long as I could remember. He’d shooed me away plenty of times as a child, and even a few times as a young man. But he was old even then, and as he stared at me, his milky eyes squinting in the hazy evening sunlight, I wondered if his memory might be failing.