The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  After a brisk chat the headman returned. As usual he spoke in his own tongue to the others, pointing north to where wooded hills climbed toward the Sunset Peaks, shrouded in cloud on this grey day. Vanis understood had picked up some words and thought he heard talk of the forest. Then it was his turn, ‘You needn’t feel you have to stay with us, young Bilago,’ he said, using their nickname for Vanis. ‘It will be a hard winter, especially if the snows come. We will camp over there, so at least we can come to the village if there is anything we need. But we are to keep our distance and to stay in the woods out of sight. The innkeeper says you may go into the tavern if you have coin.’

  Vanis nodded. He had enough coin from playing at the taverns in Brookleith as well as from the road on the way there. But he did not wish to spend it all on rooms just yet.

  ‘Can I stay with you this night?’

  ‘Of course,’ Drelo smiled. ‘But you may not wish to wait out the winter.’

  ‘You mean to spend the whole winter in the forest?’ Vanis looked at the distant pines and reddened oak and ash, whose leaves were already thinning, spreading bright autumn carpets about their feet.

  ‘We have seen sickness before and we always retreat to the wilderness to wait until it passes. It protects us both from blame and the disease itself. The road will always be there when we return to it.’

  ‘I can at least help you make camp,’ Vanis said, clasping the Selevian’s shoulder

  ‘Come then, Saint Bilago of Deywich where I never been to, I may have a useful gift for you.’

  So with them Vanis crossed the fields, passed quiet farmsteads and followed the caravan into the woods. There were no good trails for only poachers and robbers came so deep into the forest. The painted carts had to be manhandled along the trail and he helped pitch the camp. The fires were small and wood was conserved. He considered seeking out Gilene but she had been cold to him lately. Again he wondered at women, for the Wayfarer girl had been easy enough with her affections that it seemed to him she would scarcely care if he took another lover for a time. In the morning he helped erect the great tent and other structures to make the small patch of forest into a little village, colorful for its fabrics, yet somewhat joyless in its exile.

  Then he ventured back toward the hamlet and the Crossroads Inn to see who would be traveling to the city. Over his shoulder he carried Drelo’s gift, wrapped in dull cloth - a shortsword in a leather scabbard. The old Monderi had told him the roads would be dangerous and he did not doubt it, but he still had no idea how to use a blade. Money or jewels might have been more useful. Still he took the gift gratefully and thought perhaps he might be able to trade the weapon for something in the city. He had liked life with the wayfarers, but dreaded the prospect of hunting and shivering through the whole winter. A youth spent at the priory had made him soft and he knew himself well enough to know that a life on the road was not all that easy in the warmer months, but it was bearable. In the winter however, it could be the death of him.

  He had forgotten about Caera now, save for the memory of the conquest. She was foolish to think she could travel with him, for her place seemed to be in her town and he knew he’d meet many more women along the way. Their parting had been painful for the girl, and had left a stab of guilt in his own gut, but he reasoned it was better she have tears now than later. The road was no place for a village girl.

  As for his own prospects, the talk of sickness did not trouble him. He was young and strong and had rarely even caught colds. If he could find people traveling south to Bastion there would be safety in numbers. Once there he could take Drelo’s advice and ply his trade playing the lute at taverns or even in noble halls. Though he’d never been there, the city seemed to be just the place for him. But just to be sure, halfway across the wide fields between the forest’s edge and the hamlet, he stopped in a copse and changed back into his monk’s robe.

  Twenty-five

  The rain had cleared as the knight and the Northman rode southward, climbing into foothills then steep crags. The sky became high and blue, with thin clouds that streaked across the horizon, but the air was chilly and promised a bitter winter to come. As they climbed however, a thick mist enveloped them, obscuring the view ahead so that only the winding trail gave them any direction.

  Beland was still feverish, and Algas wondered if the knight had caught the same disease as the rest. He had suffered a cold himself some weeks back, in his flight from Breglyn, and he had recovered well enough. Were the old knight’s coughs and fever just the same or were they symptoms of this dread plague that stalked the land? He thought such a strong man would unlikely be laid low by mere sickness but who knew what the gods decreed?

  They rode quietly. He had been lectured once about the business with the whore and in truth he cared little. The knight paid him and did not otherwise care how he spent his coin. It nagged him that he should be hoarding silver for the time he could hire men but he was making so little it would make no difference paying for a woman once in a while. The whore at Bruan’s Beach had not even been particularly youthful or pretty but he had long too gone without release. Why such a creature should care where he planted his seed was beyond him.

  He had his own complaints now: about the weather, about the hilly back road and camping out. About being hungry and living off short rations and no cooked meat. They drank from mountain streams and avoided stopping long enough to hunt or trap. The rocky, moss-covered Sunset Peaks were home to steep drops and treacherous paths. There were few trees but for the hardy bluethorn bush and the hill ash. The ground was rocky, dry and patched with and thistle and red gorse. They often found themselves dismounting and walking the beasts along narrow trails beside steep cliffs.

  The villages they stopped at were built of haphazard stone huts dug into the and cliffs and hills with goat pens at the sides and holes in their thatched roofs for chimneys. The hardy mountain folk were poor people in stinking furs, suspicious of strangers, with little care for the outside world. Still, the pair had managed to buy some provisions, for such men rarely acquired money and were willing to trade. They bought more bread and cheese and dried goat’s meat, and then they would be off again, scrabbling down damp slopes alongside bubbling white brooks and in a constant mist and fog.

  Occasionally, when the clouds parted he could make out the faded late autumn woods far below on their southward journey. As they paused for rest, a more and more frequent occurrence in the Knight’s condition, Beland almost collapsed. Algas reached to steady him and they tumbled onto the rocky track together. Beland gripped his arm as he tried to stand.

  ‘They’ll come for them,’ he said, his eyes wide and his skin hot.

  ‘Come for what?’ Algas asked.

  ‘The books, they won’t stop.’

  ‘We have no books, Algas reminded him gruffly. The monk took them with him into Northwatch.’

  ‘Dangling on a rope,’ the knight then said. ‘He’ll be dangling on a rope.’

  The man was hopeless. Algas pulled away and let him lie there on his side awhile. He went to fetch the horse from a few paces away where they left it and began to tether it to the other. They’d had women to tend to the ill on Shorha, and he had always left it to them. If the knight were truly as sick as everyone else seemed to be, then surely he should just leave him there.

  But he believed there would be at least more profit in keeping him alive. He would have liked to take the coin purse the knight guarded but that would be all he’d get. Chapel or no, old Beland had paymasters and they provided his own source of coin as well. At the very least he might be rewarded for returning the man’s body to someone.

  Yet, the knight lived. Instead of burying him that evening, Algas brought him down the slopes and to a large village with a stone chapel and low, crumbling stone walls around pastures where fat sheep grazed. Knowing at least that the southlander priests were also usually healers of some sort, he tethered the horses to a tree outside the chapel and helped Beland out of his s
addle. The man needed to be propped up all the way to the chapel’s oaken doors. Algas banged his meaty fist and when someone came to open the door, realized it had not been locked.

  They staggered into the chapel at the young priest’s beckoning and were shown downstairs, where rooms were built into the cellar. There were already several sick folk occupying beds and the priest told Algas to leave the knight with him for the time being.

  ‘What is the name of this town?’ Algas asked.

  ‘Regent’s Sanctuary. It is only a couple of days ride to Juniper Keep, if that is where you’re going.’

  ‘You know the place?’

  ‘How long have you served this knight?’

  Algas bridled at that. He did not think of himself as the knight’s retainer but then realized that must be how it looked. ‘I serve no man,’ he answered coldly. ‘And I need ale.’

  ‘There is a tavern, the Old Ciderhorn. You can find drink there and a room if you can pay.’

  ‘Women?’

  The priest gulped and blushed. Algas realized that a small town like this, away from the main roads, was unlikely to be known for having a plentiful supply of lascivious whores, and a southlander priest was unlikely to direct him to any even if it did. At least he could drink and find some hot food, and he was glad to be away from Beland’s ranting fever-dreams, and deciding the knight’s coin purse was safe in the chapel, made his way to the tavern. It was fair-sized wooden building with plastered walls, across the way from the chapel. There were few people about but those that he did see as he crossed by the central well gave the tall stranger a wide berth. He found a large house with a swinging sign above it painted with the motif of a drinking horn. Two large brown hounds were tied up outside and eyed him lazily. When he entered the tavern, heads turned.

  He took a table near the door, even though the evening was cold and there was a blazing fireplace at the far end that could have afforded more warmth. The bar sat along the left wall of the taproom. There was a handrail that suggested a stairwell went underground behind it, and at the far end of the bar a wide ladder sloped up to a loft. The only other exit was past the ladder and beside the hearth, that could easily lead to more rooms. He stood with hand on hilt and made sure everyone got a good look before he sat. Behind the bar, the innkeeper and his wife stirred. They were a plump couple, not especially young or old. The woman was round-faced and plain wearing a simple headscarf; her husband was red-headed, balding and pock-marked. It was the woman who cautiously came to ask what he wanted.

  ‘Ale,’ the Northman said,’ ‘some bread and stew if you have it.’ He unhitched his sword belt and rested the scabbard across his lap.

  He looked around the taproom and saw that most of the patrons had their heads quietly in their cups. These were dark times with folk falling ill and he had seen how sickness could blight the mood in a drinking hall. Yet there was one table near the hearth that was happy and boisterous – half a dozen men around his age or older drinking heartily, teasing one another, slamming down cups and making far too much noise it seemed for everyone else’s comfort. Once or twice they looked in his direction, with the hard, wry faces of confident men. But otherwise they kept to themselves, and kept the locals cowed. There was a pile of weapons propped in the corner against the wall.

  The ale was drinkable but bitter. The broth was surprisingly good and reminded him of the rabbit stew the old man had fed him after he’d fled the battle at Breglyn. He sat and watched as the few local customers, farming types with big calloused hands and tired brows, trickled out of the tavern. It would be dark outside by now and he wondered if he should check in on the knight. In all likelihood he would be worse by now and dead by morning. It was probably better to pay for board at the inn and collect the coin purse in the morning. He hoped the priest would not charge too much to take the body.

  ‘Oi, you,’ said a voice from his side. He turned to see one of the noisy drinkers approaching his table with a tankard in his fist. He was average height, thick-necked and barrel-chested. He wore simple woolen tunic over a linen shirt, baggy breeches that made him look like a woodsman. His hair was cropped very short and thinning and his round face was full of thinly-disguised contempt.

  ‘You’re a big lad, aren’t you?’

  Algas looked him up and down.

  ‘Look like a northerner, where are you from?’

  He noticed the man’s companions were watching now and the rest of the tavern had gone silent. The innkeeper seemed to find something very interesting at his feet and his wife had sudden business downstairs.

  ‘Don’t talk much do you, Sunshine?’ The man pressed.

  ‘I’m from Northwatch,’ Algas answered him. ‘A village near there.’

  ‘Hyllis is from up there,’ the fellow nodded to one of his men, a wiry fellow with dark hair and a sharp nose.

  ‘Hyllis can do magic, you know,’ the fellow said as he sat. ‘He’s a sorcerer.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Algas said, taking a sip and moving his hand from the scabbard across his lap to the hilt.

  ‘Hyllis, come over,’ the man called.

  ‘And what’s your name?’ The wiry Hyllis asked, probably trying his best to look mysterious.

  ‘Algas,’ the Northman answered. It was a common-enough name among the Normar anyway.

  ‘And I’m Tometh,’ the first said, then turned to his friend. ‘He’s from Northwatch.’

  ‘Long way from home, aren’t you?’ Hyllis noted.

  ‘Did you use sorcery to guess that?’ Algas asked.

  ‘Watch it mate,’ said Tometh. ‘Maybe he’ll use magic to make the coin from your purse disappear.’

  ‘I don’t have all that much,’ Algas replied and it was true. He had paid for his ale and food and had enough for another couple of drinks at best and a bed for the night, if he were staying. He’d be paid in full by the knight once they arrived at their destination, but after the incident at Bruan’s Beach, Beland was withholding his wages in the meantime.

  ‘Enough to buy your new friends a round, eh Sunshine?’ Tometh said, and turned to the bar. ‘Six more ales,’ he called then stopped short as Algas stood to leave.

  He was imposing, a head taller than anyone else in the tavern, and broader of shoulder. He held the scabbard calmly at his side. He did not expect to be argued with.

  ‘Come now Sunshine,’ Tometh insisted as his friends stood at their table and one or two reached for their own swords and axes. ‘Buy us a drink and we’ll all get along just splendid.’

  Algas did not speak, he simply drew his sword. He was outnumbered and if it came to a fight to the death they could probably beat him. But he could kill one or two and he counted on ruffians such as these to be cowed enough by that. But Tometh had drink in him and was beyond such reasoning. Even as Hyllis tried to calm him, he still pushed.

  ‘What, you’re going to fight your way out? Kill me in front of all these folks, when all I asked for is a drink?’ He was sneering, triumphant. He had the numbers on his side and believed he had already won.

  Algas clenched his jaw and gripped his sword more tightly. He had killed a dozen southlander brawlers just like this in battle; men and boys only protecting their homes or fighting for their masters or money, like the fools who had tried to rob him in their boat. He was Northman - he took from the southlanders, they did not take from him. Anywhere else, starting a fight might bring the whole town down on him, yet it looked like the people of Regent’s Sanctuary cared little for Tometh and his companions. And these little men thought they had the upper hand just because of their numbers. He let his sword dangle limp at his side.

  ‘Here,’ he said, reaching for the small pouch that held the few coins on his person. ‘Buy yourselves some drink.’

  He tossed the pouch onto the table and it landed with a muted clink. Tometh’s smile was a look of twisted triumph and he shared the look with his men as he reached for the pouch.

  ‘Stop!’ called Hyllis and reached to pull Tometh b
ack from the table, but he was far too late. Algas raised the sword in a flash and slashed down at the man’s wrist, severing his hand in one fluid chop. For a moment there was silence, then Tometh looked at his hand a few inches away on the table, then at the bloody stump of his wrist and screamed. Bright red fountains of blood spurted from his arm across the table, splashing the floor.

  Algas turned toward the others as Hyllis pulled Tometh away. Tometh was clutching at his wrist where blood was gushing out in bright spurts and screaming, barking like a hound. The others stood with weapons ready but made no move near him. Instead they closed ranks around Tometh as Hyllis dragged him back to safety.

  Algas reached for the pouch and tucked it back into his breeches. He picked up the scabbard and the severed hand and made for the door. The last thing he heard was Tometh scream again as Hyllis thrust the bloody stump of his wrist into the fire.

  Beland woke from his fevered sleep feeling groggy and weak. He had no appetite, he was still tired and he was enraged to hear from the priest that the horses were gone. The northern oaf had started a fight with some brigands who had arrived in town just before they had. When he had retreated to the chapel, they had taken the two mares tethered outside. Without them it would take days to reach Juniper Keep, and that was not a place he had intended to go directly. He had planned to pass through the woods to Brookleith and over the high road to Havenside. Now, without mounts he would be forced to find more and all he could think of was to beseech his superiors at the keep. But if they were to go on foot, it would be a day or two more before he could even be ready for that journey.

  In the meantime, his fever had abated and with no sign of the boils that he had expected, Beland went about piecing together the events of the previous evening. They sat on the steps of the chapel, with the small town spread around them and the tavern just across the square where the well lay. It was a blue sky, a sunny day but the chill was bitter and the trees increasingly barren and bleak. Sapwren called from the woods as the innkeeper and the priest recounted their stories, wand the Northman sat quietly listening.