by Walter Rhein
Father Ivory stepped forward.
“Have you heard any rumors?” he said in a slow, tight-lipped voice.
The woman gave the priest a terrified look.
“Please m’lord … what do you mean?” she asked.
“Rumors,” Father Ivory repeated, half-cordially, “anything. Anything you feel I might find of interest.”
The woman thought for a minute and shook her head earnestly.
“No m’lord … surely there’s nothing I could say that would be of interest to you.”
“Are you sure?” Ivory said, smiling.
“Yes,” she replied instantly. “I don’t know nothing about nothing.”
“Not even about a girl?”
“No.”
Father Ivory smiled.
“Come now, I just want to know. Have you heard about an attractive young woman with the power to heal?”
The old woman paused.
“It’s not the kind of rumor that you would be apt to forget,” Father Ivory purred.
“Yes,” the woman intoned in question. At the word, Father Ivory’s face relaxed visibly, so the woman continued with greater confidence. “Yes, I have heard that rumor m’lord, if it pleases ye.”
“What did you hear?” Ivory continued. “That she can heal any ill with just a touch?”
“Yes,” the woman replied smartly.
“That she was traveling in the company of a man and a boy?”
“Yes,” the woman said, gaining confidence now, “that’s the very one.”
She smiled, revealing her one tooth to the tall priest.
“Did you also hear that these three had defied the earl?” Father Ivory screamed, his face twisting into a mass of rage. The woman dropped her head in terror. She began to stutter incoherently.
“But … m’lord … no … I … I…”
Father Ivory had heard enough. He nodded to the nearest Nightshade, who kneeled over the woman.
The woman looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
Slowly, the man pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves. Then, almost ceremoniously, he reached his arm out wide, his hand clenched in a fist. For a long moment he stood, waiting, his hand a weapon ready to strike.
The seconds ticked away. The woman couldn’t take it anymore.
“Please…” she said.
It was the supplication the priest had been waiting for.
“Now,” snapped Father Ivory.
There was a resounding slap as the Nightshade struck the woman hard in the face. Blood and saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“There is no healer, do you understand?” Father Ivory said calmly.
Slap! The Nightshade struck her again.
“There are no miracles outside the power of the church.”
Slap!
“I am the ultimate authority!”
Slap!
“I alone. Do you understand?”
The woman turned to look at him with swollen eyes. Already, half of her face was bruised and inflamed.
“Yessss,” she managed to slur.
“Good, woman,” Father Ivory replied, patting her on the shoulder. “Good, good, woman.”
He nodded and the Nightshade reached forward. The woman flinched, but the warrior meant only to release her from her bonds.
The beaten peasant shakily got to her feet and looked at the two men in abject confusion.
“Go on,” Father Ivory said gesturing to the door. “Your time here is done. Lightbringer be with you.”
Failing to hold back tears, the woman shuffled forward. In a moment, she had reached the door and then was free of the warehouse.
Father Ivory watched her go.
“I’ll beat this rumor out of the mind of every peasant in all of Miscony if I have to,” he grumbled. “Perhaps that will save us from having to burn more villages.” He glanced back at the Nightshade who was helping him and sighed, then he returned his gaze to the now-bloodied chair.
“Bring another one.”
Chapter 21
The Training Commences
Malik stepped back and regarded his handiwork. They found an ample-sized cave near the hot spring and Malik had labored the last few days to close it off with a wall of branches and fallen limbs.
Noah looked at it and smiled. “It’s hardly a proper house, but it will have to do,” he said.
The young lad ripped some leafy branches into segments and stuck them between the cracks of Malik’s wall.
“When I’m done with this,” he said cheerfully, “It will look just like an innocent bush growing against the rock face.”
“One can never be too careful,” Malik replied gruffly. “You don’t know who might be looking for you.” The words carried a degree of menace, but in truth, Malik was pleased. Inside, the cave split into several chambers, and there was even a stream of heated water that emerged from one of the walls. Malik doubted many kings could claim the luxury of having warm water run through their bed chambers.
“It’s only food we’ll have to worry about now. That, and proper bedding,” he grumbled.
“Oh nonsense,” Noah replied. “I’ve taken a walk along where the hot spring runs down the mountain. About a mile on it connects with a river, and there are plenty of fish that conglomerate near the warm waters.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll be there all winter,” Malik replied.
“Baaahh,” Noah grunted. “If we can’t find fish, we’ll find game in this valley, if not game then vegetables. It’s paradise.”
Malik nodded slowly. In truth, even he couldn’t find much to worry about in their current environment. The valley was huge, and it was peppered with hot springs. As a result, there were several square miles of land locked in a perpetual summer. Had it not been so well hidden in the highest mountain passes, Malik was sure it would have been settled long before now.
“Well,” he grumbled, “what about the bedding? We hardly have the necessary requirements for proper sleeping quarters.”
“Yes, I’m still thinking that one over,” said the resourceful Noah. “There has to be an improvement over stacks of leaves.”
Jasmine stepped from the cave and dusted herself off.
“Sheesh,” she exclaimed coughing and slapping her hands together, “It’s still a mess in there, you’d think we’d have things a little bit more under control after a month.”
Malik inclined his head.
“It’s better to keep busy,” he said. “It will make the winter go faster. By the time spring arrives, I expect we’ll have built a tiny village.”
He glanced around the mountains. The hot vapor from the springs expanded into a mushroom-like cloud as it hit the cold winter air. From above, he thought, it must look like an impenetrable fog hanging over the valley. The day they had first spotted the heated pool had been a fortunate exception. Sometimes raindrops fell as the mist melted the falling snow that blanketed the high peaks.
It was difficult to judge time because he almost never had a clear view of the sun. Still, he decided now was an opportune moment to change tasks.
“Cadets,” he barked. “Arm yourselves.”
Noah and Jasmine snapped to attention, then scurried off to retrieve wooden swords they had carved for their training.
Malik stifled a laugh at their enthusiasm. They had been working at it since they arrived at the springs, and the children had yet to grow bored with the game. Only recently had they begun even minor grumbling over the maneuvers that Malik put them through.
In just a few seconds, the two siblings stood before Malik, wooden swords in their hands.
Malik nodded. Then something changed in his visage. For the preceding weeks, he hadn’t really been able to see the siblings as warriors. Their motions had been too sloppy, too undisciplined. But today, for the first time, he saw progress. They stood rigid, waiting for his orders, and Malik was reminded of the formations he had been a part of in his youth at Camden.
; He shook the thoughts out of his mind and began.
“Position one,” he snapped.
Noah and Jasmine dropped their swords to their hips as though the weapons were sheathed.
“Position two,” Malik cried.
Now the unsheathed swords were extended at arm’s length. The knees of both the children were bent, and the left leg was offset backwards.
“Position three!”
This position required the second hand be brought to the hilt of the sword, which was drawn in closer to the body.
Malik walked around them, adjusting their body positions slightly. When he was satisfied, he ran them through another series, calling out the numbers faster and faster, then calling them out in random order.
Soon, beads of sweat ran down both Noah and Jasmine’s faces.
The images recalled memories to Malik’s mind. Then he was back in Camden, surrounded by children, undergoing the same drill.
“Elbows bent!” cried a voice, and this time it was Oberon Keels’.
“Didn’t you hear me! Bend it!”
And Malik had to suffer the rough hands on his body, bending him into proper position.
“Get it right! Malik! By the gods! GET IT RIGHT!”
And the hands tightened upon him, bringing black marks to the surface of the skin, and all the while, Malik looked forward.
Stared forward, vacantly.
Strove for perfection so they wouldn’t have to beat him.
“Malik?”
Malik breathed deeply, his sword was in his hand; his position was perfect.
“Malik?”
What could they want?
“Malik,” and now a soft hand was touching him on the shoulder.
Malik blinked and looked down. It was Noah.
He coughed and realized with surprise he was holding his weapon at the ready. He quickly sheathed it.
“Get back in position,” he muttered.
“But …”
“Do it!” he barked, and as soon as he spoke, Malik realized the words were unnecessarily harsh. Noah stepped back quietly.
For a moment, Malik struggled with what to do. Part of him wanted to apologize, to pat the boy on the head and tell him he’d done well.
But then a voice whispered in his mind.
It was the voice of Oberon Keels.
And though he hated it, and it made his blood crawl, he knew the words it spoke were true.
This is not a game! This is life or death! You must be perfect, for anything else means the end of you!
“Position twelve,” Malik cried out.
“Awww,” Noah grumbled, “can’t we spar?”
Malik’s head swiveled to the boy instantly.
Noah fell silent, but the damage was already done.
Malik reached down and picked up a flimsy stick about a foot and a half long.
“You wish to spar?” he said, threatening.
“Well…” Noah stuttered.
“Then begin, I am awaiting your attack.”
“Uhhh,” Noah replied, “perhaps it would be best if we continued…”
“Spar with me!” Malik snapped.
Noah stepped forward and made a sloppy pass at Malik’s knee.
Malik stepped to the side with a minimal effort.
“Position twelve,” he snapped, bringing his body into the appropriate position. The stick he held in his hand whistled through the air and snapped hard against the knuckle on Noah’s thumb. The young boy yelped in pain, his sword falling to the ground.
Malik watched him as he shook his hand, desperately trying to regain the feeling in his injured digit. Malik’s eyes twinkled with a hard light.
“If you spar now, it will only reinforce your bad habits. To win a duel, you must be disciplined. You must go through the routines perfect a thousand times. A million times! You must make them instinctive, so even when you are facing an opponent who wants to kill you, even with all the fire and excitement coursing through your veins, your steps, your thrusts, your defenses will be precise. It is only this discipline that can protect you. Do you understand?”
Noah looked Malik hard in the eyes. For a moment, the lean fighter thought the seed of a protest was growing there. But Noah relented and bowed his head.
Seeing the surrender, Malik felt a sudden shame. Again, the image of Oberon came furiously to his mind, froth and spittle flying from his mouth as he berated Malik’s positions. Malik shook his head, and this time he pushed the image away. He took a deep breath, and spoke softly.
“It was you who wished to learn the sword,” he said calmly. “I’m sorry, but to learn it well, there will be pain involved.” He paused, and noticed that both Noah and Jasmine were looking fixedly at the ground. “If you wish to quit, simply advise me.”
He fell silent.
A long, somber moment passed.
Then Jasmine spoke.
“I wish to learn.”
“As do I,” added Noah.
Malik smiled to himself. They were strong children.
“Good,” he said, the edge returning to his voice. “Now pick up your sword, Noah.”
Noah did so.
Again they went through the routines.
This time, there was not a word of complaint.
Chapter 22
Progress Report?
Denz guided his horse through the knee-deep snow that covered the grounds leading to the castle. He had been away for many weeks and he had no further news of the refugees.
He hunched himself beneath his heavy cloak as the snowflakes drifted lazily about him.
“It’s folly,” he grumbled, staring angrily forward.
The castle provoked his ire, for he knew it contained the earl and the earl was being foolish.
As Denz had suggested months ago, the refugees had disappeared. Somehow, the earl couldn’t understand how difficult it was to find three people who wished to remain hidden. He was going wild of late, accusing everyone, even Denz, of being in on a conspiracy against him.
As the horse crossed the drawbridge, Denz shook his head.
He was tired.
He was cold.
He was soul-sick from what he had seen.
Back in the mountains, Father Ivory was smashing down on the populace with a righteous fury.
“Another fool,” Denz grumbled, but this time he silenced himself. He was within the castle walls now, there was no way to tell who might be listening.
Still, the words rang true in his thoughts.
Father Ivory was going from town to town, lecturing about the falseness of the “healing whore,” as he called the girl. He couldn’t see that he was singlehandedly keeping their legend alive. He was making martyrs out of them, and of every man, woman, and child he punished in their pursuit.
Denz shook his head again and dismounted.
A retainer took the reins of his horse as another approached him.
“The earl wishes to see you immediately,” he said.
Denz nodded and followed the man through a series of corridors that eventually came to the castle’s courtyard.
The earl stood in the center, dressed in elegant winter wear that Denz judged wouldn’t have kept him warm for more than thirty minutes in the wild.
But the earl didn’t have to brave the wild with any frequency.
Perhaps that was his problem.
“Ah, Denz,” the earl said with a surprising smile, “so good that you have come. I’ve just received word from Father Ivory on his progress.”
Denz nodded. The earl’s lighthearted manner confused him.
“In fact, he sent me this cart,” said the earl, gesturing to a rickety farmer’s cart that sat ominously in the center of the courtyard.
Denz eyed it suspiciously. Something about it made his skin crawl. Black liquid seeped from between its planks, and crows were fluttering about it like pestilent flying rats.
“Go on,” the earl said, urging Denz forward, “have a look.”
The
weapons-master glanced at the earl before eying the cart. Haltingly, he took a step, then another. As he neared, he saw the liquid in the cart had stained the snow beneath it. There was also the smell of rotting meat.
“Go on,” hissed the earl, “pull back the tarp and have a look at what Father Ivory sent me.”
Revulsion seized Denz as he stretched out his hand. The tarp was thick and gray, but it too was darkened with splotchy stains.
He grasped the tarp, and pulled.
A stench assailed him and he instinctively covered his mouth.
His eyes widened in horror as he looked at the work of a madman.
The cart was filled with severed heads.
Eyes stared blankly out from bloody wads of mussed hair. Swollen tongues extended from gaping mouths.
Denz had to bite back his rising bile.
“Traitors,” the earl said casually, “liars, thieves. Father Ivory sent me an interesting ledger detailing their crimes. It’s fascinating reading, complete with sketches to identify each head, though I don’t think I am going to bother with that. It’s a bit … nasty.”
The earl wrinkled his nose and tapped delicately at it with his handkerchief.
Denz found himself trembling slightly.
“He’s gone mad,” he said, finally, between clenched teeth.
“Excuse me?” the earl replied.
“Father Ivory,” Denz clarified, “he’s insane. He’s simply traveling from village to village. The Nightshades are burning everything in sight. This can’t continue.”
The earl stared at Denz for a long minute before replying. When he spoke, his voice was silky smooth.
“But they’re traitors,” he purred.
“Father Ivory is the traitor,” Denz snapped back. “He’s instigating a rebellion, can’t you see that?”
Again, there was a pause as the earl considered his words.
“I do not doubt Father Ivory’s loyalty,” he whispered threateningly. “Yours, on the other hand, is in serious question.”
“Mine?” Denz barked stupefied.
“Where is your cart of miscreants? What have you been doing all this time? I grow weary of receiving nothing but reports of your failures.”
“But, m’lord, I rode these many months in pursuit of the…”
“You brought me nothing!” the earl screamed. He raised his hand into the air. A battalion of armed men burst into the courtyard.
