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

by C. B. Currie

  ‘Business is slow Brother, and patrons getting fewer with this sickness about,’ he said. ‘I can’t spare a room unless you can pay.’

  Vanis could not – not at the Cockerel’s rate. He would have to find a cheaper inn or a generous patron. Now he would have more time than he’d expected to get to know the city. But with the confidence of youth and the belief that he could maintain the excuse that he was a monk for a while longer, he stepped out into the cold early winter morning determined to make some progress.

  The sky was fresh and thick clouds were gathering. The breeze was slight but chilly, blowing the last of the autumn leaves from trees and bushes between houses and in kitchen gardens. Standing at the crossroads he could look right and see the east gate, where he had entered. Just past the cathedral the road bent slightly and he could see down it to another gate to the northwest. There was another tavern directly across the street and diagonally, the gardens in front of some stately townhouses. Alleys and side streets drew away from the main roads wherever he could see a gap in the buildings. A keep loomed above the rooftops to the west.

  The city was livelier than it had been after dark, but still solemn. The stalls were open and shopkeepers called meekly to passersby; people trundled down the street with their heads low. A pair of young nobles passed by, in ermine and flamboyant hats, one holding a hooded falcon on his gloved forearm and they were the only two carrying out a lively conversation. An old man pulled a handcart along the main road toward the north gate, two small draped bodies lying side by side in it, pale bare feet dangling over the end.

  He saw armed men in the colorful livery of the town watch, but also those dressed in dour black like the ones who’d told him about Havenside. These were escorting a prisoner, a hooded man with his hands bound in front of him and they took him down the street to the south that led to the priory. He followed them a while and saw them enter a small walled fort opposite the priory gates and was very glad he had not sought shelter in that house of worship the night before.

  ‘He was preaching by the side of the road,’ voice from behind told him, hushed and conspiratorial. Vanis turned to see a local man in simple shirt, tunic and breeches, carrying a grain sack in two spindly arms. His was not young, not old and bore the sun-creased face and sinewy muscles of years of hard labor. ‘He was saying all is lost and we must repent for the Scourge was sent to punish us. The archdeacon’s men don’t like any unlicensed preachers, so after a couple of mornings they told him not to do it again. He was back today.’

  The fellow then walked away on his business, leaving Vanis alone. He suddenly felt vulnerable and hurried back toward the main road. He had really no idea where to go when a pair of young children, grubby-faced and wearing frayed clothes accosted him.

  ‘Please Father,’ said the older one, a girl with sharp blue eyes, ‘Our father is sick and needs his last rites.’

  Vanis was about to chuckle and point out that he was a monk, not a priest, when the children’s mother appeared. She was in her twenties perhaps, but haggard and thin, bonneted and meek. She spoke with the same common accent as the children, as most unlearned folk. ‘Brother, I am sorry. Can we take some of your time? My husband is dying and we can’t find a priest to see to him. We can spare some coin.’

  For a moment, Vanis was taken aback. Even if he were qualified to read someone’s dying rites, he would not have thought to charge money. None of the clergy at Havenside would have dreamed of doing such a thing, but he had heard from Haendric how some wayward priests and monks took coin for their services. Wandering pardoners could give letters of forgiveness for a donation and summoners to the Chapel courts were known to take bribes to look the other way. And Vanis needed to earn his way. Since he wasn’t even a real monk, what harm would it be to give these folk some peace of mind in return for a copper or two?

  ‘Show me to him,’ he said.

  Thirty

  Algas and Beland rode with Jandryl Faldon and half his men back through the woods toward Brookleith. Six riders had stayed at Regent’s Sanctuary and were joined by two dozen footmen who had arrived very early in the morning after a hard march. More of the villagers at Regent’s Sanctuary had taken sick in the night and the priest Logwyn had been busy sorting and tending them when they had left. Algas had been glad to be away from the place until he heard that the next town had just as many people who had fallen ill, and several who had already died. He contented himself with his own certainty that he was as strong as an ox and had never been truly sick in his life.

  The knight Beland seemed to have recovered. He rode at the front of the column with the landlord whose riders had rescued them. Algas had taken a shallow cut on the arm that Father Logwyn had sutured, and it bothered him a little. He had been certain of a warrior’s death that night, knowing he had been outnumbered and determined to kill as many foemen as he could before he was cut down himself. It was the death he should have had at Breglyn, and he would be drinking in the Hall of the Dead with his brother and their fellow warriors by now.

  But he had lived and they had died. He had been looking forward to killing the one-handed fool Tometh, but that one had slipped away in the chaos. He hadn’t seen the sly-looking one they’d claimed was a sorcerer, but he must have been in the fight somewhere. But when the horsemen had charged in among them the leader had been one of the first to flee. Algas had killed several of the brigands. The man he had slashed in the chapel had been found hiding in a sheep pen and Jandryl had hanged him in the morning. The horsemen had killed half a dozen more, but the rest had escaped and would be licking their wounds somewhere in the twisted paths of the forest around them. They would most certainly not be looking for another fight.

  Taking the eastward trail through the woods they rode several hours and came out behind high fields, well before midday. The village of Brookleith lay nestled on low flat ground below the barren winter fields; a cluster of wooden houses, several barns and a stone chapel. Across the fields ahead the ground rose into a slope that climbed to wooded hills, a thin trail snaking its way up from the village to a ridgeline that stretched away to the south. The slope was quite bare at its bottom, with a lone tree standing between the fields and the trail. Beyond that, the lower forest still had some golden leaves, but became increasingly bleak and bare higher up.

  Many folk came out to greet their landlord as he returned. They were a tall lot, well-fed, with pretty girls and strong-looking men. But they also looked pained, and somewhat anxious, and Algas imagined this sickness must be beginning to take its toll on the families here as it had seemed to in the last village. They of course had their pathetic faith to buoy them. The southlanders were quick to retreat to their houses of worship where they prayed for deliverance from whatever ailed them, but the sanctified walls would not have protected them from the brigands the previous night, and those who had been taken to their sickbeds in the chapel had died nonetheless. A man did not beg the gods for things he could take for himself. If he wanted safety he built walls; if he had enemies he killed them. If he were sick, he painted runes and wards on his skin and sacrificed livestock to keep the spirits away. Only a fool would think crying to Heaven could somehow hold the world at bay.

  They stopped in the middle of the town, where the chapel faced a couple of taverns and larger houses, dismounted by a stable and were shown into one of the inns, a sign swinging above showed the picture of a golden crown. The taproom was large and spacious, with a high ceiling and a warm hearth. But few people were there. They were met by the priest and several other men, dour-faced and deferential to the landlord in their midst. Jandryl sat Beland and Algas down and called for refreshments. A very comely girl brought them drinks and food. She was tall, round faced with big brown eyes and honey-colored hair. She was well built, like a Normar woman, with full breasts and wide hips. His eyes followed her skirts hungrily as she left the room.

  ‘Juniper Keep is only a day’s ride,’ the nobleman told them, ‘though you’ll have to stop at
the Crossroads Inn if you leave today.’

  ‘We had best rest,’ Beland said. ‘I have just recovered from a fever, and I did not sleep much.’

  Some of the men exchanged glances, and Algas knew what they were thinking for he had wondered the same. Had the knight suffered from the same illness that now stalked the ports and towns and somehow pulled through? It seemed unlikely when folk were dying left and right. Perhaps it had been a cold and nothing more. Algas for his part had slept like a pup after the battle. He’d been brought stew and ale and had gotten happily drunk, and fallen into a fitful slumber. The only need lacking had been a woman.

  Now he sat across from the nobleman and a panel of strangers that eyed him suspiciously and listened to the chapel knight catch up on the local news. The comely girl was behind the bar of the taproom and he was facing away from her, so he couldn’t even amuse himself watching her while the southlanders prattled on. Instead he imagined those womanly curves unclothed and entertained that fantasy awhile.

  ‘The leader of those brigands is named Barthol Malgan,’ Jandryl told them. ‘He actually hails from near Havenside but fought overseas as a sellsword for years. Now he’s back and his gang seems to have gained leadership over other groups of vagabonds that roamed these parts.’

  ‘What’s he doing back?’

  ‘His father owned land and lost it to debt. The priory at Havenside took it over years ago. He was always looking for a new lord to make him rich and without one, he’ll happily turn to brigandage. We dealt a serious blow to him last night, thanks to you.’

  ‘Thank the Northman,’ Beland nodded toward Algas. ‘He did most of the killing.’

  ‘There was trouble with them too, but they were defeated at Breglyn,’ Jandryl told them. ‘Their chieftain accepted terms though and embraced the Faith. He now guards the northern coast in the name of the King. I forget his name now.’

  Algas knew the name, though he would not mention his cousin here. So Gerwulf had indeed become the legitimate lord of the Shorhan isles. That would make unseating him someday a difficult proposition. At that moment Jandryl sent the locals away from the table so that only the three of them and one of the landlord’s sons remained.

  ‘Of course,’ Jandryl went on, ‘I doubt that Shorha would provide men for the king if it comes to a rebellion. There are too few of them and they’re too far away. If this new northern lord has any sense he’ll wait and see if there is a new king to kneel to.’

  ‘A new king?’

  ‘The nobles are fed up with the king and his piety. The country is suffering from this plague – a Scourge, the bishops call it – and all the king does is send his deacons and their black-cloaked Guardians to look for heretics to kill. Already they executed a prior in Bastion and the archbishop in Castlereach.’

  Algas tried to hide his amusement. The thought of these pious clergymen having each other murdered was entertaining. From all he’d heard they were supposed to be men of peace. He was not a man of peace, and would gut that bastard cousin of his the first chance he got. But he had no idea how to get that chance. If he showed up at the palisade on his own again they’d kill him first.

  ‘So rebellion it is?’ Beland asked. To Algas the knight looked tired and drawn. He did not look like he welcomed any more battles. To his people however, battle meant riches. Choosing the right side could be the road to wealth and power.

  ‘This is not decided yet,’ Jandryl said. ‘But we will meet tomorrow night at Juniper Keep. Lord Dorand, the Knight Commander, a dozen other landowners. An envoy from the King’s cousin will be there. Travel with us tomorrow. That’s where you’re headed isn’t it?’

  Algas watched for Beland’s reaction. They were headed for Havenside as far as he knew and as far as he knew the knight did not wish to share that news. He was surprised when Beland spoke.

  ‘I have business at Havenside first. I can return to Juniper Keep after that. As a penitent, I must fulfill my duty.’

  Jandryl looked taken aback. ‘But Havenside is gone. Its prior was the one beheaded in Bastion and the archdeacon’s men went and burned the priory to the ground.’

  ‘They did what?’ The knight demanded.

  ‘These men are ruthless, Jandryl said. ‘They are using the Scourge as an excuse to remake the country from the Chapel up. The king is surrounded by ambitious men who answer to the Chapel Fathers across the sea. If they’re not stopped they’ll tear down the entire kingdom before the winter is out.’

  Algas looked at Beland again and saw rage. It was concealed, restrained, cold and controlled, but he knew anger when he saw it, for he’d had a father and the men of his people were ever quick to temper. The knight’s hand withdrew from his mug and moved to the pommel of his sword as if by instinct.

  ‘Then we ride with you tomorrow to the Keep.’

  Caera woke early and left the loft she shared with her younger brothers with a spring in her step. She went to the well behind her father’s tavern, The King’s Ransom, and fetched a pail of water, returning it to the step beside the back door before picking up a basket and setting off across the wood plank footbridge over the ditch. The morning was warmer than it had been of late. The sun was gentle on her face and though a gold-tinged mist rose from dew on the ground, her breath did not fog in the air.

  Over the ditch and past a cluster of cottages, the ground climbed toward the high fields behind Brookleith. The woods stood beyond, dark and imposing and fronted by the knotted and bent pines that were so familiar. The town had lived in fear these past few days; fear of the brigands and of the Scourge. But while several folk had died of the disease, her own family remained untouched by the sickness, and no new cases had been reported in days. The thieves that had stalked the woods were said to be broken and scattered, thanks to the chapel knight and the Northman who had arrived the previous day from Regent’s Sanctuary.

  Now it seemed that Brookleith might just lay untouched by the kingdom’s troubles. Jandryl Faldon would take men away and even dull Berryck had volunteered, but she was sure the nobles would sort it out among themselves and they would return soon. She hoped that it would not come to battle, for while she did not care for Berryck enough to marry him, she didn’t want to see him harmed either. She crossed the field at the corner nearest the village, past the old woman’s hovel near the wood’s edge. The last of the season’s berries should be there for picking and an early start gave her time away from her family and other chores to enjoy her own thoughts.

  She wondered how far Vanis had gotten, if he was still with the Selevians or if he had made his way to the city as he had spoken of. She had never been further than the Crossroads Inn or Regent’s Sanctuary. Even Petal had at least visited Havenside and Bastion. Traveling all the way to Bastion seemed like a long an arduous journey, yet Vanis had claimed it would only take a couple of days. She wondered if all the sin and lasciviousness of the city was real or just talk. She had heard of opulence too: finely-dressed noblewomen and merchants’ wives. She wondered if she would ever marry a merchant and live in luxury in the city. Or perhaps a warrior, like the Northman, Algas.

  That one was rugged, tall and broad-shouldered and she had thought he might be handsome under all the stubble and dirt. But his face was also hard, brutal, that of a fighting man. He was not at all like Vanis, the bard who had been her lover until he’d left her in tears. But he was different and in Brookleith, different was exciting. She had been curious about him and stayed up as late as her father would allow her. But apart from exchanging a few looks as she brought more ale, they had not spoken and nor did he seem much interested in striking up a conversation. No matter, for he and the knight would be gone this morning, leaving her alone in her little village where other folk only ever stopped in, but where she was doomed to stay, if the Scourge didn’t take them all first.

  There was a grove of trees on the bank that sloped down towards the forest, where wild berries grew and the villagers came to take their share. The morning frost had not harmed t
he bluethorn bushes, though there were fewer and fewer berries to find with fruit this late in the season. Enough at least for her mother to make a pie with, and she set about rummaging and picking from bush to bush. She had spent sunny afternoons with Vanis on this slope and felt a pang of regret. She also felt a flash of anger as she recalled Petal Harnith’s warnings that boys will get what they want and move on. She might have seen that coming, but had thought her Vanis had been different from the rascals that Petal boasted of.

  Branches cracked and she heard voices laughing and she looked up, suddenly fearful of brigands, but saw only a pair of huntsmen from the village. They emerged from the woods, carrying bows and a brace of hares, splashed crossed the brook between the bank and the edge of the forest and headed back toward Brookleith. One waved to her and they disappeared down the slope to the village. She turned back to the berry bushes and moved down toward the brook. It was quiet, bubbling gently and she considered sitting for a moment to enjoy the morning calm.

  She busied herself about the bushes for a few minutes more and then heard some more rustling of leaves, cracking of twigs, and looked up to see who it was this time.

  Across the stream, much nearer to her, another figure emerged from the woods carrying a hare and with a sword at his side - the Northman she had seen at the inn, Algas. His long hair was tied behind his head and he carried a water flask on a strap over his shoulder. He was dressed in his simple hide breeches and a linen shirt. He looked cleaner than the day before, but still had a stubbly face.