The Heresy Within

by Rob J. Hayes

  Outside the footsteps were long gone and the whispered voices gone with them. Still, Thanquil could hear far away music, distant and muffled but the only other sound was the faint hiss and pop of burning candles.

  Second corridor down. Thanquil turned one way then the other. No choice but to pick a direction and hope. He went right, slipped past one adjoining corridor and then, with a glance to check it was clear turned down the next. The mansion was huge, Thanquil couldn't guess at just how big from his brief view of the building but he had to wonder how many rooms it had. A prince of the Five Kingdoms had once boasted to him the royal palace had three thousand rooms which seemed a bit excessive by any standards. Lord Xho's mansion was no palace but its rooms must have numbered in the hundreds at least.

  Second door on the right. He stopped outside the door for a while, pressed his ear to it and strained to hear even the slightest of sounds. He whispered a quick blessing of hearing and noise swamped in around him. The music, still muffled became loud; the candles sounded so close; padded footsteps a long way away, still quiet even with the blessing; a half-whispered curse followed by thump but not from this room; a bird call outside somewhere in the night; a grunting, groaning, moaning sound that could only come from sexual activities sounded close by.

  Thanquil stopped whispering the blessing and twisted the door handle before slipping into the room. What he saw made him forget to close the door after him. There was blood. Blood everywhere, the bed, the floor, the walls, the furniture, even the ceiling a good ten feet above was dripping blood.

  Two bodies lay on the bed, both opened up, innards pulled out. One was a huge carcass, a man and a fat one at that. Without a doubt it was Colth. The other was thinner, smaller, and younger, with black skin and, at one time, breasts but not now. Both were... gone. Where, Thanquil could not say.

  He approached, careful to step over or around the blood on the floor, making sure to dodge any spots where it dripped from the ceiling, walking on his toes. Closer he went and closer, fighting the urge to gag. So much blood. He needed to investigate, to see if any clues existed as to the nature of the killing.

  The bodies looked to be cut open by a blade, sharp but serrated, ragged flesh attested to that. Both must have been dead before, they could not have gone through such butchery without screaming loud enough to drown the music in the great hall. Both corpses were naked. Lord Colth's cock was missing, cut off with only a torn, bloody wound to show.

  Thanquil had seen many things in his time as Arbiter. He'd seen and in fact had been the cause of burnings. He'd seen murder in a horrifying variety of forms. Bodies cut up, torn up. It never failed to affect him though, never failed to make him sick to his stomach. This was no normal murder, someone was sending a message, he was certain of that.

  Thanquil felt a drop of blood tap him on the shoulder, fallen from the ceiling, and it was all he could do not to wretch. He turned and fled from the room, leaving the slaughter behind.

  The Black Thorn

  Betrim pulled open the top draw, nothing. The second draw; nothing. The third; nothing. Three rooms he'd been in and each one was more fancily decorated than the last and not one had a single damned thing worth stealing. For the most part they were empty barring the furniture itself and, while he had no doubt it was worth a few bits, escaping with a wardrobe strapped to his back did not seem a good idea.

  Even the sconces on the wall were ugly things made of dark grey iron. Betrim had never been in a mansion before but he was sure everything was supposed to be made from gold. As it was Betrim owned more gold himself than he'd seen in the mansion so far and that came to a grand total of one bit. Far from a fortune.

  He checked the wardrobe; good-looking hardwood, he reckoned, imported from somewhere far off. Empty. There was a large mirror Betrim reckoned was worth a lot but it was as tall as him and he didn't like his chances of getting it out the mansion without breaking it and breaking mirrors was bad luck, everyone said. He'd had more than enough bad luck of late already.

  He considered bundling up the curtains and having off with them but who the hell would buy a set of curtains? No one he knew. He hoped Swift was having a better time of it. They'd broken into the estate no problem, wasn't hard when the owner built in a secret tunnel entrance that turned out to be not so secret. The Boss had left Bones to guard the entrance as it also happened to be their exit and the rest had slipped across the gardens, running from shadow to shadow when guard patrols weren't looking. They'd climbed to the first floor and Swift had opened them a window, nice and quiet. When inside the Boss had taken Henry and Green to do the job while Betrim and Swift were to steal anything worth a bit that wasn't nailed down. So far all Betrim had to show for his night of thievery was three bronze bits that he'd found in a discarded pair of britches in one of the rooms.

  The Boss, Henry and Green would be done with the killing by now and that meant it was time for Betrim to get out as well. Fact was he didn't want to be here when the body was found; chances are the Boss would leave him to his fate in that case.

  Betrim checked under the bed. Bare except for a shiny looking bed pan. Looked to be made out of good metal, steel maybe, and it was empty. Good steel was worth a few bits to the right people so Betrim grabbed it and gave it a quick sniff. Smelled clean, not that it would stop Betrim from stealing it even if it wasn’t.

  With bed pan in hand he walked to the door, opened it and stuck his head out, looking both ways down the corridor to make sure it was empty. It was. He stepped out just as another man stepped out of a doorway two doors down.

  He recognised the man in a moment. Short with short hair and a short stubbly beard and the coat. The coat that identified him as an enemy of the Black Thorn.

  The Arbiter stared at Betrim so Betrim just stared right back. Just like a wolf, if Betrim turned and ran the Arbiter would have to chase him, it was their way. Better to stand his ground and hope to get lucky and kill the fucker. Betrim didn't much like counting on luck, always seemed to turn on you at the last moment.

  The Arbiter looked down at Betrim's three fingered hand. With a twinge of annoyance Betrim threw the bed pan away.

  “Black Thorn...” the Arbiter said.

  “Arbiter,” Betrim replied. Didn't seem like there was much else worth saying so Betrim unhooked his hand axe from his belt and charged, a shout escaping from his lips as he did.

  The Arbiter dodged the first swing of the axe as he was drawing his sword and then blocked the second swing. Then the bastard attacked; two lightning fast jabs with his little sword. Betrim ducked the first, caught the second and then the Arbiter's left fist seemed to come out of nowhere and cracked him in the face. It felt like being hit with an anvil and might well have done for some men but the Black Thorn was not one of those men.

  Betrim steadied himself with a three-fingered hand on the wall and spat out some blood, no teeth though, he was glad for that, last thing he needed was to be uglied up even more. He was glad for something else too; Jezzet was not with the Arbiter. There were very few people the Black Thorn was scared of fighting and Jezzet Vel'urn happened to be right near the top of that list.

  Both men watched each other; Betrim with axe in hand, the Arbiter with his sword and neither wanting to be the one to fall. Betrim almost surprised himself when he chopped at the Arbiter so he was pretty sure that bastard must have been surprised but he blocked it all the same and started muttering to himself, chanting some bloody words the Black Thorn couldn't understand.

  Again Betrim chopped but this time the Arbiter brushed the attack away as if it was nothing and then started raining wild slashing blows at Betrim. Again and again Betrim blocked and blocked, falling back all the while. The Arbiter was too fast, too strong. Magic, Betrim knew for certain. Bloody witch hunters were always cheating.

  He saw an opening, brief but it was there all the same. Betrim snatched a small knife from his belt and lunged at the Arbiter's face. The witch hunter tried to spin away from the attack, stumbled i
nto a wall and then scrambled away on all fours as Betrim buried his axe in the wall where the Arbiter's head had been just a moment before.

  When the Arbiter stood back up he was bleeding. A small cut on his left cheek just an inch below his eye made it look almost like he was weeping blood. Betrim found he was grinning and he knew that was never a pleasant sight, tended to scare most folk into running but not an Arbiter.

  He heard footsteps, sounded like a number of them and they sounded like heavy boots running on stone floor. Guards appeared at the end of the corridor behind the Arbiter, two of them. Betrim risked a glance backwards and saw another two. One of them spoke to his fellow and then ran off, no doubt going for more guards. The three remaining guards started forwards.

  Betrim looked at the Arbiter. The man looked about as worried as Betrim felt. He glanced first at the Black Thorn, then at the approaching guards, then back again. Betrim had only one guard, the way he saw it that meant he had twice the chances of survival.

  “Put down your weapons and surrender,” said one of the lads approaching the Arbiter. Then he glanced into the open door, into the room the Arbiter had come from and Betrim saw the colour drain from his face.

  The Arbiter sighed.

  The guard with the pale face looked at the Arbiter, then the Black Thorn, then the guard behind Betrim. “Kill them.”

  The guard came onto Betrim swinging a heavy sword like he was trying to chop wood with it. It was a simple thing for Betrim to brush the weapon away, smash the guard in his face with an elbow and then plant his axe in the guard's face. It bit deep into his skull right about where his eye was and the man went down in a gurgle and spray of blood.

  Betrim wrenched his axe free, bits of bone and flesh came with it. He turned and chopped at the occupied Arbiter. The witch hunter saw the attack coming and managed to block with his sword. One of his guards was already down and the other attacked while the Arbiter's sword was occupied. Didn't count as one of the Black Thorn's but he'd take it. Seven Arbiters dead sounded better than six.

  At the last moment the Arbiter drew a small string-less crossbow from his belt, aimed and pulled the trigger.

  BANG!

  Betrim stumbled backwards shaking his head, trying to stop the ringing in his ears. The guard collapsed on the stone floor with a small hole through his breastplate, through his chest. A spatter of blood on the wall behind. The Arbiter tucked the little string-less crossbow back into his belt and turned towards Betrim again.

  The Arbiter took a step forward. Betrim took a step backward. Killing witch hunters was always tricky. They used magic and didn't care who got hurt. Betrim had once used a woman as a hostage; the Arbiter had just stabbed both her and the Black Thorn at the same time.

  Again the witch hunter started whispering some words, this time to his sword. Betrim was just getting ready to attack when the Arbiter smashed the hilt of his sword against the wall. The wall split and cracked, a huge rent in the stone sped along the wall towards Betrim. As the crack reached level with Betrim the wall exploded outwards in a hail of stone and wood and plaster. For a moment Betrim went down on one knee as a large brick hit him in the side of the head. For a moment his vision went dark and it took a few shakes of his head before he could see again.

  “Black Thorn,” the Arbiter said again, the cut on his face was still bleeding, fat drops of red dropped down to stain his coat. “Why did you...”

  Betrim didn't give the bastard a chance to finish his question. He threw the knife in his left hand with an easy flick of the wrist. Betrim had long ago puzzled out how to throw a knife with only three fingers, only problem was it was never on target. The small blade stuck into the Arbiter's right leg and the witch hunter went down, falling backwards with a bellow of pain.

  The Black Thorn's grin returned as he stalked forwards. The Arbiter struggled back to his knees, grimacing in pain.

  “Thorn!” Betrim glanced behind him; Swift was stood at the end of the corridor waving like he was on fire.

  “What?”

  “RUN!” Then Swift was gone.

  As the Arbiter pulled himself back to his feet Betrim saw the guards behind him. A corridor full of angry looking men, all armed and edging closer. Betrim was never good with numbers but he could count to ten and then some and the guards were already closer to then some. The Arbiter glanced behind him and then back and for a brief moment Betrim thought he saw fear on the man's face.

  “Good luck,” Betrim said with a grin before he turned and ran, hoping that the Boss hadn't decided to leave him behind.

  The BladeMaster

  It hadn't taken long once the Arbiter had left for men to start presenting themselves to Jezzet. The first had been a handsome enough man though little more than a boy in truth. A thin fuzz of sand coloured hair stood out on his chin, a pointed jaw, straight nose, and deep blue eyes. He had bowed low and tried to take Jezzet's hand. She'd pulled away and almost punched the boy until she remembered men liked to kiss women's hands in some places. Seemed a dangerous prospect to her, you never knew where a person's hands had been. Her own had been in some pretty rough places.

  The handsome youth had straightened with an awkward smile but didn't run off straight away. He'd taken a step closer to Jez and said, “Would the lady care to dance?”

  Jezzet snorted at him and replied with. “I'd care not to dance.”

  The boy had given up after that. Walking away with a look of utter confusion on his face as if he couldn't quite understand why Jezzet hadn't swooned at his attentions. Truth was it seemed to take very little to impress these fancy ladies. One pretty faced man seemed to get them all moist.

  The second man was older, Jezzet reckoned close to his fiftieth year, but no less bold. He stepped close to Jez, too close. She stepped backwards and he followed so she stepped back again, he followed again. They continued in that strange parody of a dance for six steps before he smiled at her in a disarming fashion. Jezzet could have kept stepping away from him for the entire night, she made sure to keep track of everyone around her.

  “My name is Lord Albert Brind,” the man said in voice like honey and accompanied by a blast of wine scented air.

  “Lord of where?” Jezzet asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “You can't be a Lord without somewhere to be Lord of and you're about as blooded as I am so...”

  Again the man smiled but with a lot less warmth this time. “I'm Lord of Ellinworth. It's a holding in Acanthia, do you know where that is?”

  That might have brought a smile to Jezzet's lips if it hadn't been so patronising. I was born in Acanthia you stupid bastard. She'd spent the first twenty years of her life in the merchant town of Truridge and they were not a pleasant twenty years.

  “I've never heard of it, it must be a very minor holding. I should go.” She turned and almost knocked into another man. Jezzet was certain he hadn't been there a moment ago. He must move as quiet as a ghost.

  “I am shorry. Completely my fault, mish...”

  “Jezzet,” she replied without thinking. The man was more than a little drunk but no less handsome for it. His jaw and eyes gave away his blooded heritage and his red cheeks gave him a friendly appeal.

  “Mish Jezzzzzet,” he smiled.

  Definitely blooded. Say what you want of the rich bastards but they are pretty.

  “Is a pretty name... and a pretty face.”

  “And you are?”

  The man's mouth made an 'O' shape. “I'm terribly shorry. My mannersss are all over the place.” He leaned towards her and she could smell the alcohol on him, it overpowered the perfume he was wearing which Jezzet counted as a good thing. Men shouldn't wear perfume.

  “I think I may be a little bit drunk,” he drawled at her.

  “Uh huh.”

  “My name ish Anders and is a pleashhure... a pleashure to meet you, Jezzzzzet.”

  “Right.” Jezzet glanced around the room and then back again, Anders was still smiling at her, swaying on his feet ju
st a little. He was a little taller than Thanquil with long dark hair. His green silken suit looked well-worn and stained in places but there was something about the man that set Jezzet’s nerves on edge.

  “Truth ish,” he said leaning forwards a little as he swayed. “I find theesh things terribly dull. How does a beautiful, very, very beautiful, woman like yourshelf shtand them?”

  Jezzet levelled a stare at him. “I count the number of armed people in the room and make sure I know where they all are.”

  “Really?” He sounded very surprised.

  “Twelve guards, four by each wall and each carrying a long sword and wearing a plate cuirass. Three seem a little green but at least two are veterans.”

  Anders gazed around the room although in his state Jezzet doubted he could see that far. They were quite near one of the walls though, a great glass window behind Anders had a guard either side of it. “That ish quite impresshive.”

  “Eight others, bodyguards most like. Two mingling as guests, one armed with a short-sword, the other with a long curved knife. Six around the walls; two talking by the hearth both armed with iron clubs and four at various spots well away from each other all armed with swords and wearing studded leather.”

  Anders was nodding like a bird. “I think you misshed two though.”

  Jezzet narrowed her eyes at the man. Something is wrong here, Jez.

  “There ish you for a shtart.”

  Jez took a step away from him. “What?” She noticed a small drop of blood on the shoulder of Anders' suit.

  Anders smiled at her but made no move towards her. “You have a shord... a sword. Underneath that pretty blue dresh... dres.... dress. Shtrapped to your leg.” He patted his leg to show her where he meant.