by Walter Rhein
When Noah’s feet were nearly touching Father Ivory’s robes, he stopped.
Father Ivory was shuddering now. His huddled body shivered with pain and agonized moans. With the last vestiges of strength that were quickly slipping from his crushed mortal form, he looked up with a face of fear. Yet, even in his final moments, the fear held a touch of defiance.
“What would you have of me?”
“Recognition,” Noah said simply.
“Recognition?” the words were incredulous from Ivory’s lips.
“For starters,” Noah replied.
“Recognition of what? Of your divinity? Of my error in persecuting your family? Is it enough if I recognize these things?”
Noah was silent.
Father Ivory contemplated. He was, after all, a man of the courts and his rise within the clergy would not have been possible were he not a man of compromise. If the foolish boy only wanted a few worthless words to spare him, then why not trade them for a chance at life, a chance at restoration? The forces of good invariably rewarded the penitent, isn’t that what the scriptures said? Ivory could plot his vengeance later; for now, he would be content just to survive.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, I was wrong. Yes, you are clearly the divine. I have recanted. I pledge myself to you. Can you forgive me?”
The room was silent.
A heavy weight seemed to descend.
Malik, Michael, Alec and Gerard seemed to be watching the events from a great distance. They hardly seemed able to breathe, such was the importance of the scene before them. So captivated and concerned was Malik, that he reached his hand down to the hilt of his sword for comfort. It was an old habit, one that he had developed in all the dark times throughout his decade of flight. The feel of the bone beneath his hand had always calmed him.
But not this time.
With a start, Malik broke from his reverie and looked down to where his sword should have been.
The weapon was gone!
Casting about, Malik scanned the floor, the chair where Noah had been tied, anywhere and everywhere to find his lost blade.
It had vanished.
Terror gripping his heart, Malik let his gaze fall back upon Noah… and he was put at ease.
The young boy held the bone sword easily in a downward grip in his right hand.
How had he, Malik, not seen it there before?
Noah spoke, and all Malik’s reflections were forgotten.
“No,” Noah said, “I’m afraid I cannot ever forgive you.”
He lifted the bone sword and brought it smashing down with a tremendous blow that severed Father Ivory’s head from his shoulders.
The head rolled across the room and came to rest at Malik’s feet. He stared into the eyes that gazed skyward, still locked in an expression that was a mix between a sense of superiority and absolute and utter surprise.
Shocked, Malik gazed back at Noah. Whatever divine strength had been supporting him suddenly evaporated. Malik hardly had any time to react as the young boy’s head lolled forward and he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Chapter 31
What News?
Denz hiked briskly through the woods, patting himself with loud slaps to keep the circulation going in his arms. The leather shirt his mysterious benefactor had given him was better than nothing, but it was hardly appropriate winter wear. Denz had torn a section from his under-cloth and wrapped it around his head in the style of the Nomdine traders who often passed through Miscony. Passing for one of their number wouldn’t allay suspicion, for the Nomdine were considered no better than pirates in most parts, but it might keep him from being recognized. Most people who saw a Nomdine trader quickly looked away.
Denz walked along the old road, keeping his arms close to his torso to conserve body heat. The gap in his under-cloth around his abdomen caused his skin to stand up in the cold, but Denz pushed the discomfort out of his mind.
It was better than the cell.
It was better than the company of rats.
Once his cage had been opened, slipping out of the castle had been no great task. Denz knew every nook and cranny of the stone structure and was conversant with every point of entry. Thus, it was fairly easy to slip back out into the world without being seen.
He had made his way down the old road in the dark of night and was now just reaching the outskirts of the nearest village. Even in the early hours of the day, elderly men and women were setting up their stands. A couple of them cast Denz suspicious looks, but he wasn’t afraid of anyone recognizing him. His garb and the week’s growth of a beard had changed his appearance considerably.
He approached the stand of a man selling heavy winter ponchos.
“How much?” he asked, indicating his selection with his eyes rather than pulling his hands away from his chest to point.
“It looks like you’re in need of it,” the seller replied. “What can you pay?”
Denz pulled three of the coppers out of his little purse. There was still one left, but he was hoping to parlay that into food.
“It’s not much,” he said, handing it over.
The old man hefted the coins for a moment and then eyed Denz appraisingly.
“No, it’s not, but I’m guessing it’s the best offer I’m going to get today.”
He pocketed the money and passed the poncho over to Denz, who wriggled into it appreciatively.
“What news?” he asked, trying to sound casual, his head muffled by the poncho he was sliding into.
“The same,” the man said looking away. “Another cartload of hands and heads came through today. They’re punishing us hard for the sin this time, whatever it originally was.”
The peasant man shrugged partly in sadness, partly in annoyance.
Denz gritted his teeth, then tilted his head in thought. Father Ivory was trying to quell the talk. He wondered how well his tactics were working.
“Any word on the girl or the boy? You know,” his voice dropped low, “the healers …”
The old man behind the stand looked up with a sparkle in his eye, then dropped his head again. When he spoke, there was electricity in his voice.
“Up toward Pinehill they are, that’s where the Father’s been looking for them.” His voice dropped so low, Denz could hardly hear it. “They say she’s been touched by another power, they say she’s here to deliver us from all this…” he gestured around, smiling slightly, then he laughed. “Actually, I’d be happy enough with things, if only the soldiers didn’t come. It’s the beatings I can’t stand. All she’d have to do is rid us of that and I’d be content.”
Denz nodded, his eyes flickering with steel.
The peasant looked at Denz and suddenly seemed to notice something he didn’t like. A flash of fear spread across his face, and he backed away into his little hovel.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he stammered, “I’ve got some—er—appointments…”
He scrambled off.
Denz was so baffled by this behavior that he whirled around to see if some danger was approaching.
There was nothing.
But something had set the man off. Unless…
A flicker of a smile touched Denz’s mouth.
Unless he had recognized the weapons-master…
Denz shook his head and started walking. It was the look he surmised, the look of a free man that gave him away.
Such a thing was so foreign to these peasants that it scared them.
Suddenly Denz paused in his tracks.
Scared them?
Or inspired them?
He rubbed his mouth reflectively for a moment, and then nodded. Suddenly a warmth passed through him, a warmth of purpose and of resolve.
He knew what he had to do.
“Which way’s Pinehill?” he called out to a passing stranger.
The man turned his head and signaled, and before he had even looked back, Denz was on his way.
Chapter 32
Let Rise the Queen
>
Noah opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. The light was intense and seemed to pierce his brain like a lightning bolt. He groaned.
“Aw, come on now,” a voice said, “don’t be such a baby. We’ve all been through your little healing fire. It’s not so bad.”
Reluctantly, Noah opened one eye to see Malik’s face beaming down at him. The lean warrior responded with a playful slap on the shoulder.
“You see,” he said, smiling, “you’re fine.”
Noah closed his eyes again, but the second he did so, the image of Father Ivory appeared behind his lids and he jerked spasmodically. He let out a brief cry of terror. Malik caught him in strong hands.
“It’s alright, the danger’s passed,” he said soothingly.
Noah opened his eyes again and glanced about like a terrified animal. All he could remember was the cutting…the pain…
“Is he…”
“He’s dead,” Malik answered, a look of surprise crossing his features. “You pretty much assured that when you cut off his head.”
Noah’s face took on the look of confusion.
“I…” he queried in a whisper, his voice trailing off to nothing.
After a moment, the boy nodded and suddenly his face became hard.
“I want to see the body.”
Malik regarded the youth for a long while before inclining his head almost imperceptibly. He stepped aside.
They were still in the great hall where the fight had taken place, though the storm had quit several hours ago and the fire had been put out. In the room were Alec, Michael and Malik. Gerard had gone looking for Jasmine in the hills. Noah’s presence made him assume that Jasmine followed the raiding party as well.
“Where?” Noah whispered. “Where’s Father Ivory?
Malik turned and gestured.
Noah looked in the indicated direction.
Lying in the corner, forgotten, ignored, was a crumpled body.
Noah gulped air, and then took several timid steps forward.
At first, it looked like a heap of cloth discarded in the damp and dark.
Noah tilted his head.
Somehow, the body seemed much smaller than it had before. It seemed almost as nothing without the rampaging spirit of the demon it had once possessed.
“You decapitated him,” Malik said bluntly, the words coming out in a monotone.
“No less than he deserved,” Noah replied.
Noah shuffled closer.
He looked at the hands that lay on the floor, severed from the rest of the body.
Long, elegant fingers that were ever clothed in expensive silk gloves.
He focused his attention.
The hands!
And suddenly they were alive again, drifting down, down, down at him clutching a biting knife.
Cutting!
Hurting!
For a moment, Noah shrunk back like a frightened animal; then, he leaped forward to land heel-first on the priest’s severed appendages. Up and down went his legs, smashing Father Ivory’s gloved fingers. He then moved on to the lifeless body.
“You killed my father!” Noah screamed, the words were garbled with rage and almost unintelligible. “You tortured me!” He exhaled and the words were half-shriek, half-sob. “You tortured me!”
Over and over again he stomped the cold and lifeless body and then he cast about for the head of the lifeless priest. So quick and so ferocious was his attack that the other companions hardly had time to react. In the end, it was Malik who remembered himself and jumped forward to restrain the lad. He grabbed Noah in a bear hug and pulled him away, sobbing.
“He’s dead, lad, he can’t hurt you anymore,” he said soothingly as Noah sobbed into his chest.
The group stood in shocked silence for a few moments as Noah had it out. The ferocity of his emotions, the memories of his torture, and his frustration over his loss mingled together and expelled themselves in gasping tears. Malik stood and absorbed as much of the anguish into himself as he could.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
After a surprisingly short amount of time, Noah stepped back and wiped his face in embarrassment. With wide, glistening eyes, he looked at the others.
“Some hero, huh?” he said with a self-conscious, reproachful smile.
But Malik looked at him sincerely.
“You were nearly tortured to death, young one,” he said in a fatherly tone. “In fact, any one of us would have died. You healed yourself.”
Noah seemed suddenly confused.
“No…” he stuttered, “Jasmine’s the one with the power. It’s she who can…”
“Noah,” Malik said, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder kindly. “You did it. Jasmine can heal others but the skill wasn’t lost on you. You apparently can heal yourself; we all saw it. It’s a rare talent. It allowed you to come back from an experience that would have felled an average man. Remember that during your next moment of self-reproach and allow yourself some forgiveness, for without a doubt you are the strongest among us.”
Noah tried to laugh off the comment, but Malik’s gaze was firm and the young lad eventually had to relent and nod quietly to himself.
“Why’d you pull me off him,” Noah asked after a moment, gesturing with his chin to the body of father Ivory.
“We need the body to be recognizable,” Malik replied.
The squint in Noah’s eyes indicated he didn’t understand. Malik smiled.
“Recognizable to the Earl of Miscony,” the lean warrior said, “I have plans for this rogue dog.” Beyond that Malik didn’t elaborate.
Noah leaned back, suddenly exhausted.
“Just tell me when Jasmine gets here,” he said. “I think I need to sleep.”
A few hours later, Gerard entered the great hall with Jasmine.
The young woman ran to her brother and embraced him warmly, then she leaned back and pointed at him accusingly.
“How could you leave me up at the springs all by myself?”
“I … I’m sorry, I was stupid,” Noah said reproachfully. Then his face scrunched up in confusion.
“Wait a minute,” he said, “how did you get here so fast?”
“I found her on the trail,” Gerard said with a laugh. “Luckily, she was cleverer than you and stopped to build a lean-to to wait out the blizzard.”
Noah’s eyes flashed to Jasmine.
“Father’s trick with the pine boughs and the downed trunk?”
“The same.”
“What?” Alec asked in confusion.
Jasmine laughed.
“You find a fallen tree that’s still connected to its stump. The trunk makes a backbone and you cover the sides with pine boughs to make a shelter. You can do it in a few minutes.”
“And it keeps the snow off,” Gerard replied approvingly.
“When did you leave the mountain?” Noah asked.
“The morning after you did,” Jasmine replied. “When I found you were gone, I wasn’t about to sit there doing nothing. Now what’s this I hear about healing?” She laughed. “I thought I was the only one in the family with any talent.”
At the words, the memory of Noah’s ordeal flashed across his features darkly. Jasmine noticed the look with confusion, but Alec distracted her from prying for details.
“Speaking of healing,” Alec said, gesturing at his shoulder where the Nightshade arrow had pierced him.
“Oh my!” Jasmine gasped. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
She sprung to the wounded young man and placed her hands on him delicately. Within a few seconds, the familiar soothing white light appeared. Alec’s head tilted back at the peace she brought him.
“You certainly do have a delicate touch,” he said with a disarming smile. Jasmine blushed and looked down shyly.
Michael cleared his throat.
“I know I’m not quite as pretty as my brother,” and at that even Alec blushed, “but if you don’t mind.” H
e gestured to his arrow wound.
“Oh, of course,” Jasmine exclaimed. A few seconds later, Michael was swinging his arm experimentally.
“As good as new.” He laughed.
Malik cleared his throat. The room fell silent as everyone turned to the tall warrior, but oddly, his attention was fixed to the entryway to the great chamber. The companions turned to follow his gaze, and Jasmine let out a gasp at what she saw.
There were people huddled there!
Broken people, peasants, dressed in homespun rags. Most of them wore blood-soaked bandages on some part of their bodies, no doubt the work of Father Ivory’s inquisition.
There was a long moment of silence, and then a feeble elderly lady gathered up the courage to speak.
“So it is true,” she whispered. “You have the touch.”
Jasmine flushed and began to bow her head, but Malik stepped forth and took her elbow.
“Stand proud,” he whispered sharply into her ear. “These people need a hero.”
“But I’m not…”
“Stand proud,” he hissed again through clenched teeth.
So Jasmine stood, and suddenly she took on an aspect of divinity. The light glistened off her golden hair, and her inherent kindness and nobility was reflected in her softly set jaw.
“I can heal you,” she said simply.
“Will you heal me?” the old woman asked.
“Why of course,” Jasmine responded stepping forward. Again, Malik grabbed her. Surprised, Jasmine turned to Malik with a questioning look.
“Make them come to you,” he said.
“But she’s wounded …” Jasmine whispered.
“I’m sorry for that, but this is the way it has to be. More is at stake here than you realize, young one. In the end, you’ll have to lead them, and it won’t be practical if they become accustomed to you going out of your way for their convenience. That’s not what leadership is.”
“But that’s cruel!”
“It’s the way it has to be,” he hissed again.
Jasmine locked eyes with Malik for a long moment, but the lean warrior’s iron grip did not loosen, nor did his gaze waver, and by the time Jasmine looked away, the old lady had already arrived at her feet, a line of people forming behind her.
