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

by C. B. Currie

  ‘And the Order will fight for him? Please he’s just another ambitious noble, looking for a throne!’

  ‘The Order of the Chalice was started on this very isle, by an ancestor of his if you recall. We are sworn to do Heaven’s duty even more so than the Patriarch’s. If he and his deacons want to slaughter half the clergy in the kingdom then we cannot condone it. The High Commander in Castlereach has closed the keep. The ‘Guardians’ can try beating that door down if they like but they’ll be in for a fight. It won’t be the same as butchering a few priests.’

  Haendric could hear the anger in Donnal’s voice, but also the lust. He was a lifelong warrior, cosseted too long due to his age and wounds. He would fight against the very Faith that had given him cause if it meant one last battle. ‘Lord Kenwal at Northwatch was angered when a deacon turned up with some of those black cloaks demanding to search for a fugitive monk. He sent them away. Jandryl Faldon in Brookleith can gather men for us too…’

  ‘Oh please,’ Haendric raised a hand. ‘This talk is making my head spin. I care not what high lords plot as long as I can minister to those who need it. What of Havenside, did any survive? Caddock, Cellim?

  ‘I don’t know. I heard only that they sacked the place looking for those books. They killed everyone, I’m told, burned the library, but they must have spared some lay brothers or novices. These are the sons of nobles and surely the King would not be so foolish as to goad their families any more. But I don’t have names. It’s a ruin now. I am sorry.’

  Haendric stifled a croak of anguish. He had spent many happy years at Havenside, its quiet chapel and cloisters, its warm library and his own cell with a small stove; the autumn hills so beautiful and different from these dark, stinking alleys. Algwyn, Vanis, the monks and priests, all gone now. And the books, those hundreds of priceless volumes. For what? In the name of the very Faith he still donned his robes under, and led the people in prayer for. At least Vanis likely lived, though Heaven knows what might have happened to him on the roads. These were his family, and now he had nobody. And he, here, lying about his very identity. Was this the Chapel he had served all his life?

  ‘They sacked Wellstone too,’ Donnal said dourly. ‘That was where the monk at Northwatch was from. No word of Beland.’

  More slaughter, more burned books, and Haendric wondered if Beland had been at Wellstone when they came whether he’d have put up a fight, for the penitent’s commitment to the Faith seemed stronger than Donnal’s.

  ‘What will you do?’ He asked the knight.

  ‘I ride tomorrow with the brothers from the Chapter House. The Order is mobilizing and we’re needed at the Keep. Lord Dorand is meeting the commander soon. For now it looks like the bishop and the deacon’s men patrol the city. It is not safe for you here, come with us.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Haendric said and he surprised himself in his lack of hesitation. ‘My duty is to the sick. I have saved nearly half of them.’

  ‘Sooner or later they will find you and your book.’

  ‘Let them,’ Haendric muttered.

  ‘The morning after tomorrow,’ Donnal said. ‘Come to the chapter house then and we can leave together. You cannot save this city from the Scourge all by yourself.’’

  ‘I’ll speak with you tomorrow then,’ Haendric replied. ‘But I must tend to the sick now.’

  The once bustling city had taken on a deathly pall as winter began to descend. The trees had fallen bare, rain came frequently and when it wasn’t rain it was frost. Walking the slushy streets by day, Haendric could hear coughing or sobbing from the closed and shuttered houses; walking by night was no longer a danger, even in The Gutters, for thieves and footpads were just as fearful of the Scourge and remained indoors. Chapel bells rang daily to announce another funeral for those who had means. Those who didn’t were buried in those paupers’ graves, outside the walls, where Haendric and the locals removed bodies daily.

  Gildreth, the woman who helped at the hospice, had died that morning. The fever and boils had taken her as surely as the others, and she’d passed her final hours wheezing and feverish. Haendric had tended her as best he could then buried her outside the walls with the rest. Her interment marked three score for Haendric and the House of Enduring Grace; the city had seen several hundred pass altogether.

  The priest now tended to the ill alone. He rose at dawn, worked lancing boils, dressing wounds, soothing fevers and burying the lost till sundown, then ate and worked into the evening when he was needed, or snatched some reading time with his heathen tome and notebook whenever he could. The sick had taken over the makeshift chapel, but another warehouse across the muddy alley had become available and he had moved the small pulpit and wooden carving of the Lifetree that all places of worship required to the new location and held evening services for the gutterfolk. Normally they were not the most pious lot: harlots, gamblers, thieves, liars and vagabonds; the type who would otherwise avoid the chapel. But in trying times people turned to faith and as Brother Handers, he was apparently the only clergyman left in the run-down neighborhood. So each evening he donned his monkish habit and stood on the pallets that made his pulpit and tried to soothe the souls of those who had lost loved ones and feared for their own lives.

  When he was done the night before Donnal was to leave , Haendric locked the new chapel – a vacant barn and returned not far across the muddy alley to the old sick house. His foot crunched through the thin layer of ice over a rut and his leather-clad foot was soaked in freezing water, for the boots were full of holes. He arrived at the hospice bitter and cold but driven to seek more knowledge. He retreated quietly to his chamber to uncover the heathen book. He had heard Donnal’s claim before, in his translations, and there between the cursive, backward-scrolling Qureshi text and his own notes, he found the passage he was looking for.

  The unnamed Qureshi had been chased from a town where he had refused to pray at the patron’s altar. The priests of that town - mentors, they were called – had demanded that all men who passed through pay tribute to Heaven at their lord’s temple. The man had stood outside the temple in the dusty desert air and lectured the townsfolk. ‘The path to Heaven lies not in the temple but in your own hearts. Lay hands on the troubles of others and feel the power of the earth and you will be rewarded in the afterlife.’

  Haendric drew out Brother Januth’s old and tattered copy of the Strictures and found the corresponding verse. ‘Seek Heaven in your hearts and lay healing hands on your neighbors, for goodness in this life is rewarded in the next.’

  Touch. Heal. One word in Qureshi carried both meanings, for it was a language of intricate context – one of the reasons it was so difficult to translate. The other, he loathed to admit, was that he’d never been there, he’d never heard it spoken by a native, it was a three-hundred-year-old dialect and he’d never been that good in the first place. He mouthed the word, ‘Ashlaq.’ He didn’t feel any different, but he understood now, understood as if he had known it all along. These were the Prophet’s own words, repeated almost the same in their own Holy Strictures. He understood what it was the deacons must want. He wondered too, if they had gotten their hands on the books sent to Wellstone or if they had arrived before Beland.

  He wrapped the book, opened a flask of wine and sat by the flickering candle in that cold cabin, wrapped in two blankets. The darkness was closing around him. It would only be a matter of time before the authorities heard of a rogue monk, Brother Handers, tending the sick and preaching in a warehouse. The bishop might not have cared how long Januth had run his little chapel, for at least it kept the rabble out of the good houses of worship. But how long would a man like the archdeacon tolerate a rogue preacher? He could draw too much attention to himself, yet he could not in good conscience abandon the needy. If the path to Heaven were truly in his own heart then he had to decide which branch of the road it lay on, and soon.

  Twenty-eight

  Logwyn, the village priest at Regent’s Sanctuary, had gone with the sic
k and dying to a cellar in a stone house across the village. They had buried one already by afternoon. The townsfolk, who numbered perhaps a hundred and a half, had huddled into the stone chapel’s nave and spilled over into the rooms behind and below. The Northman had worked like an ox, hauling barrels and helping upturn the cart until there was a man-high barricade in a half-circle around the chapel door. Then he had carried pail after pail from the well to douse the boards until they were soaked enough to protect from being quickly set afire. Half a dozen men had been drafted – two old veterans, two overweight and reluctant, and two green boys. The broken cobblestone courtyard between the chapel and the green that had passed for a village square in Regent’s Sanctuary had been transformed for siege.

  The only other man who could have fought had been a retainer in his thirties who had access to the only riding horse left in the town. This man had been dispatched to Brookleith to carry word of the brigands. He would have to ride the road southwest, past the southwestern tip of the woods that separated the villages by leagues and through the chill, marshy lowlands, to a fork in the road that branched to the Crossroads Inn westward and back east toward Brookleith. On a swift horse the journey could take half a day, but the mare had looked past her prime. Going directly through the woods via the traditional trail between the two settlements would be only an hour or two on horseback, but that was where the gang of thieves lurked.

  Now with the sun setting over the peaks that were named for it and casting long pale shadows on the cold grey land, Beland sat on the steps to the chapel and surveyed the village tiredly. The chapel courtyard faced east toward the woods, across a low field that sloped down to the dark edge of the forest, where knotted and twisted greybarks leaned over a few distant farmhouses. They would come from the woods. He looked back past the chapel and most of the rest of the houses to the foothills rising above them. The sun caught his eye as its fading rays winked brightly from behind the near ridges and cast a dull orange glow across the square.

  The villagers were frightened. They did not expect to live. They expected more than a dozen brigands to return, perhaps as many as twice that number. The priest had kept track of reports of gangs in the area and he believed that at least three now worked together. They had robbed a caravan that had traveled too late on the road between Regent’s Sanctuary and the Crossroads Inn. Some of them may have been responsible for the death of a wandering friar found in the woods some months before. One girl from an outlying hamlet had been taken by several men when she’d strayed too far for firewood, and had returned bloodied and ravished the following morning.

  Armed patrols from Juniper Keep had tapered off in recent weeks. The lack of order in recent times had emboldened these men to the point they felt they could just walk into the village and drink at the tavern. If the Northman had not been there, they would likely have hurt someone, robbed the place, perhaps they’d have killed someone if any locals had dared put up a fight.

  The local landowner - an untitled warrior with a small manor on the northwestern slopes above town - , had sent his sons on his two good horses to Brookleith at Jandryl’s request. His wife had taken ill and he could not go himself. The man they’d sent with the mare also served as his rider. Beland would have liked to have the rider, for he at least had claimed to have some training in swordcraft, but he reckoned it better to send for help urgently. He trusted the Northman’s sword arm.

  Two of the local men, one a woodcutter with his axe, another a farmer with a rusted pitchfork, leaned on the barricade and joked nervously. Two more warmed themselves by a brazier brought from the tavern, which the innkeeper had set up between the chapel door and the barricade. One bent to fetch another log from the pile beside it and dropped it twice from shaking fingers.

  Beland wore his mail coat, carried his sword and round shield. Algas wore the leather cuirass he had taken at Wellstone and had his own large sword, which could be wielded with two hands as well as one. None of the men had armor of any use, though one had gotten his hands on an old helmet. One man and one boy had hunting bows but few arrows. The boys looked sullen and fearful.

  Algas sat calmly on the steps watching the darkening fields, and Beland went to him.

  ‘I expect they will try to flank.’

  The Northman rewarded at him with a bored glance. Beland knew young warriors thought they knew everything, for he had been one once. He ignored the look and continued. ‘Some will go for the front of the barricade, others will come at the sides. Probably the main attack. Some might break the windows of the chapel but they’re too high to climb inside easily. If they try to throw in torches, the folk inside have water to douse fires.’

  ‘They’re not that clever,’ Algas commented.

  ‘They may be. One or two of them will have fought in someone’s army somewhere. Perhaps against your people.’

  The Northman nodded and looked at the ground pensively. Beland continued.

  ‘You fight well, I’ve seen you, but these men, they will need to be led.’

  ‘You can lead,’ Algas grunted.

  ‘They will not want to risk too many men. We’ll have to keep fire off the barricade. They’ll want to smoke us out. There is something I need you to…’

  ‘Torches!’ The innkeeper called. Beland turned and Algas stood. There were firelights at the wood’s edge. First they saw the horses, two with riders, and these beasts were undoubtedly the ones taken the night before. Almost a dozen men clustered around the two mounted ones as they trotted forward. So far these were the only ones they could see. They calmly approached the barricades and Beland could sense the nervousness of the locals as the brigands confidently crossed the field.

  Some had mismatched armor, and most had swords and war axes. A few had crudely-fashioned pikes. One or two had old battered shields. All had hard, uncompromising faces.

  The men stopped a few dozen paces from the well and one of the riders trotted forward, accompanied by a stocky brute with a sword belt and shield. The rider had a leather cuirass and good boots. There was an axe at his belt and a shield strapped to his back. He had a domed iron helmet that looked like an old design, but was well-polished. His face was lined, older, perhaps near Beland’s age, with graying stubble and deep scars. He rode right to the barricaded and easily identified Beland as the man to speak to.

  ‘One of my lads has a quarrel with you lot.’ His accent was local, and marked him as common, but not simple. This man was no thief or wastrel’s son. His family must have had means at some point.

  ‘We have none with you,’ Beland said sternly. ‘Be on your way.’

  The man smiled back at his companions. The gesture was meant to remind Beland who had the numbers.

  ‘You look tired, Brother Knight,’ the man said, showing mock deference. ‘Folk have been ill of late, are you sure you’re not unwell?’

  ‘Leave now.’ Beland said. Of course he was tired, and angered by the ruffian’s insolence. They were not going in any case so he may as well force the issue.

  ‘The northern bastard. He assaulted our lad here,’ the leader said and nodded at the man with the shield. Beland noticed the shield was over the right hand and looked at Algas, who smiled coldly.

  ‘Give us the Northman, and a cartload of silver and we’ll be away.’

  Beland knew that the village could not muster a cartload of coins of any sort and expected the brigand also knew. Perhaps a few pouches. He also knew they were hardly likely to leave without exacting a higher price. They would want to loot the town themselves, to take the women and livestock. These men saw opportunity in the lawlessness of the time. The villagers would be lucky not to see their whole town burned to the ground.

  ‘He owes me a hand!’ the stocky man with the shield snapped. He was silenced by a look from the man on horseback.

  ‘We will stay thank you,’ Beland said.

  The man nodded, turned his horse and rode off. His companion sneered back and followed.

  ‘They’ll keep us b
usy at the front here while someone attacks from the sides,’ Beland told Algas. ‘The horses aren’t trained for fighting and you don’t attack barricades with horses anyway. Have the men hard up against the boards.’

  He turned to the men and signaled them to their places. Weapons clinked and boots scraped. The frightened-looking villagers moved to where they’d been instructed to stand, with nervous glances at one another.

  Then the first flaming arrows flew in from the north, between houses, and skidded off the stone of the chapel walls or thudded into the barricade. The men cowered behind their barricade as a few more arrows connected, but all failed to light the damp boards of the carts and shelves. Beland guessed there had to be no more than four archers hidden out and their job seemed to be to scare everyone. It worked for the faces of the locals betrayed abject terror beneath a veneer of resolve.

  Then there was a rush of action from the north and under another short hail of arrows, a dozen men charged at the barricade. The defenders at least rushed to that spot, some climbing on a makeshift platform of barrels to wave their weapons at anyone trying to get over, but the men seemed to be trying instead to pull at the lower crates and fence posts, trying to undermine the defenses. The villagers passed up heavy stones that Beland had ensured were placed earlier and hurled them down. A few of the robbers retreated after taking some hard hits on their heads and shoulders.

  The sound of glass breaking startled the knight and he heard screaming from inside the chapel. Beland watched as Algas ran to the door, was let in from the inside and let it slam heavily behind him. There were further sounds of a commotion and then it died down. The Northman returned, shortly, his sword drawn and bloody.

  ‘I cut one in the face and they pulled the other inside.’ He was panting, but calm. ‘There was a ladder, but we got that too.’

  The main force was advancing now: the two riders and the remainder of the brigands. Their leader knew his trade and he had not seen such organized banditry before. They would attempt a frontal assault, for it was obvious the defenses would not last long. Then the grim butchery of battle would begin, that shield on shield pushing and jabbing, the screaming and the stink of guts and spilled bowels. The cohort on the left flank renewed its assault from the north, men launching themselves at the barricade in a bid to climb over it. Algas leaped atop the barrels and swung his sword at them and several fell back, while others tried for a different spot a few paces away. One boy back by the chapel steps loosed an arrow and took a man in the cheek. He fell back screaming and clutching at the shaft in his face.