by A Van Wyck
He became aware of a robed figure stepping up beside him, a hand lifted and a tongue of fire shot out to lick at the demon archer like a whip. Pebbled skin caught like wax. Enwreathed in holy fire, the creature fell, melting into the press of the enemy.
“Close now.”
He looked up at the battle-priest, uncertain whether the man had truly spoken. Prolonged use of the Gift had split the veins under the skin of the priest’s nose and cheeks and their deep bruises seeped beneath the man’s deathly pallor.
“What?” he bellowed to be heard over the battle din.
The priest seemed to notice the kneeling officer for the first time.
Bloodshot eyes turned on him, their whites horribly yellowed with the price of continuous use of the Gift. Win or lose, the priest wasn’t surviving this. His body was already failing, unraveling at the seams. Knowledge of death lived in the priest’s hard eyes but could not compete with the fiery fervor that burned there.
“Up, captain,” the priest commanded.
He noticed for the first time the arrow piercing his shield arm, the barbed head driven clean through metal, wood and forearm. He snapped the shaft with a deft pass of his sword over his shield’s face. Stabbing the blade into the blood soaked earth, he surrendered the hilt and grasped hold of the arrowhead instead. A hard tug yanked the stub all the way through. He grunted with the pain of it. Seeing no arterial blood spurt from the wound, he put it out of his mind, grasping his sword to lever himself to his feet.
The priest surveyed the besieged line dispassionately.
Aware of something momentous in the offing, he stood in attendance.
“How long?” the priest asked at length. He did not need to explain.
He regarded his pulped and beaten soldiers, held upright only by the force of their conviction and the grace of the goddess. He returned his gaze to the priest.
“Bells ago,” he answered truthfully.
Goddess, if anyone survives to make a song of this, it will be an epic the likes of which this world has never heard…
The priest craned his neck, glassy eyes glinting faintly in the foul light of the battle fog.
At first he thought the man was praying but saw the priest tracked the sun – a sourceless light in the deathly gloom. It was nearing its zenith, though it was hard to tell.
“Enough,” the priest whispered so that he had to strain to hear. “Long enough…”
The priest’s eyes closed and a kind of peace settled over his sagging, discolored features.
Seeing it sent a chill through him.
“Holy one,” he began uncertainly, “what–”
“Prepare to disengage,” the priest commanded.
Retreat?
There was no chance of retreat. It would be a rout. Even if they somehow managed to disengage, the enemy would hound them the whole, short, deadly way to the coast and then what? Swim? They would never make it onto the transports en masse. No, better to die here, looking the enemy in the eye.
The priest lifted spindly arms into the air, his robe’s sleeves sliding down to reveal the angry welts of fresh branding.
Holy scripture, seeping pinpricks of blood, twined their way down the frail looking limbs. The priest’s lips were moving, though if there were any words they were lost in the chaos.
Fire sprouted, dancing on the priest’s upturned palms like flapping birds. Holy breath suffused the robed figure, setting him brightly aglow.
Shocked, he realized the same golden glint was echoed all along the winding defensive line. Down both directions beseeching hands were rising to catch the goddess’s eye.
He stood mute as the angry thunderheads above started to twist like stirred molasses, lit from within by sporadic golden flashes. With a rumble like an avalanche, a pillar of fire reached down from the heavens like the finger of the goddess herself, coiling and angry. And where it touched it woke a wall of flame, marching down the line of battle. It was not alone.
Thousands upon thousands of the enemy were incinerated in a flash. Seeing what came their way, others broke from the line of battle and attempted to flee.
His soldiers sagged, suddenly devoid of foes to fight, too tired to lift leaden limbs to shield them from the heat.
A wall of holy fire stood between them and the recoiling enemy.
“Sound the retreat!” he bellowed through an unbelievably dry mouth into the comparative stillness. “Head for the boats!” Hope was like a balm to his abused voice as he repeated the order. “Head for the boats!”
A horn took up the order to retreat and he looked on as bleeding and flash-burned soldiers made their way past him, supporting injured comrades. All down the line an exodus had begun and as far as he could see figures were making their way toward the coast and the anchored fleet.
He waited until almost all who were able to make the journey to the ships had stumbled past. It took a long time and many, too many, simply lay where they had fallen. Not dead but either unable or unwilling to rise. Finally he turned his gaze on the priest. It was becoming difficult to look at the arrested figure. His flesh had transcended into a white brilliance that was the nucleus of an ever brightening golden glow. But it was still possible, faintly, to make out features. Headed titled back, open eyes milky and devoid of definition.
Serenity surpassing humanity, the wrinkles of mortality smoothed beneath the goddess’s touch.
Goddess send your sacrifice was worth it, holy one.
A soldier stumbled past him, her gait unsteady as she clutched at her arm. It hung dead and unresponsive at her side, its fingers curled into a numb claw that told of severed tendons. He moved to steady her, draping the uninjured arm across his shoulder. And set out for the beach.
Helia watch our burned backsides. Please.
CHAPTER 12 – A NEW DIRECTION
“Walk with me.”
Surprised but not suspicious, he got up to follow Amm. The failed priest led them off toward the river. The day had passed and the lepers were camped out on the edge of a very sympathetic town. Sated and, for the moment, safe, they bantered and joked, their special brand of dark humor flowing thick as tar. Twilight was creeping over the little meadow. It was not the best time of the day to take a walk.
Falling into step beside the enigmatic leper they strolled unhurriedly down to the water. The grassy bank led them in the direction of the village.
If the man wanted to talk he was taking his sweet time about it. It wasn’t as if they didn’t walk enough during the day.
“This town is a river trading port, did you know that?”
The man didn’t wait for him to shake his cloth-swathed head before continuing.
“We’re at the foot of the barrier ranges here. Trade barges ply the rivers, taking produce downriver and, in the spring, loggers float timber down to the lumber mills.”
He said nothing, letting the man talk, wondering if this was a preamble to something serious. Maybe the man was finally going to speak to him about what had nearly happened the night when he’d almost let loose his temper on those village drunkards. But no, that was more than a fortnight gone. Amm would have said something before now if that were an issue. Maybe they’d found out he wasn’t really a leper. He couldn’t see them doing anything physical about it, if so. They’d probably just ask him to leave. There might be some angry or betrayed glances but glances didn’t hurt, did they? And the leper disguise, useful as it was, had brought him far enough away from danger.
“You know,” Amm mused at length, “generations ago, there was a practice where folk used to sell their children to the Temple.”
Alright, so the conversation was taking a mildly surprising detour. He’d been under the impression that the Imperial deity, called Happy or Horny or Homey – or whatever – was all butterflies and rainbows. Finding out otherwise wasn’t too much of a shock. People committed horrors upon one another as a matter of course. Smart, sadistic people were never above spooning self-serving words into the mouths of th
eir silent gods.
Noting his lack of reaction, Amm continued.
“Well, I say sell, but money rarely changed hands. Happened all the time. Families too poor to feed another mouth would cede their child to the Temple to be raised and cared for by the monks. Many became monks, or even priests and priestesses themselves in their later lives. Some became donors – Temple laborers,” the man clarified, seeing his frown. “Many others went on to find their own futures. They were well cared for and even loved, though they mostly had to make do with Helia’s love. The priesthood can be a little… distant sometimes. Not an evil practice, really. It trumps many of the alternatives, at least.”
He nodded agreement. He’d seen some of the alternatives.
“That’s how I came to be with the Temple, in the beginning. Some of the very rural Temples and communities still subscribe to the practice. Unofficially of course.”
At this he cast a glance at the musing man, surprised at finding no resentful twist to the wry smile.
“Once,” Amm went on, “years later, I went looking for my parents. But the Etrigans used to trade young ones between Temples to prevent exactly that kind of thing. It was no more than a passing curiosity. I got over it. For the most part, I was content.”
He left the man to those happier memories, turning his face away from the failed priest’s far off expression. They walked in silence. He scratched at his face where the yellow linen chafed his cheekbones. At length Amm spoke again.
“I was four-and-twenty when my sickness surfaced. At first I thought to hide it but, in the end, I came clean to my Etrigan, Father Comitas. A stern man, but kind. He could have been a Sitter by now but, as he used to say, he enjoys small town life too much. He was more than a good priest, he was a good man who did much good for those as couldn’t do for themselves. But to be able to stay in a position of power, where he could continue to do good, he had to follow the rules. And the rules on leprosy are clear.”
Amm’s expression sobered.
“Living the way I do, seeing the things I’ve seen – the compassion, the kindness – I cannot help but question the holy texts’ assertion that my fellows are somehow forsaken.” The man shook his head, sadness and hints of something that wasn’t quite anger tightening his features. “But it is not yet the time to challenge those long held beliefs. Someday, I hope...” the man sighed, visibly collecting himself.
“The Temple and I,” Amm went on, “did not part on bad terms. Much of what I learned in my former life continues to serve me well. And I like to believe I’m making a difference.”
The leper-priest shared a bright smile with him, not dimmed for all the disease ravaged face.
“And of course there’s all the pretty scenery, sunshine and fresh air.”
He stared, overawed at how little he understood of the man next to him. There were depths of reserve there only hinted at by the man’s quiet smile and gentle gaze. He was glad of his thieves’ wrap, hiding his expression. He had no idea what his face might be showing right now. He still didn’t know what all this had to do with him. If Amm were simply looking for an audience to share his life’s story, they’d left the perfect one back in the meadow. He just hoped the man wasn’t planning on roping him into this future crusade against stubborn beliefs. A crusade was no place for a thief.
“It’s not a bad life,” the leper asserted, continuing their casual stroll. “And I still serve the Temple in my own way. Someone needs to look out for even the most wayward and embittered of the goddess’s children.”
Having never heard the man offer a single prayer, he tried to picture Mad Bergha and Old Paroke and the rest joining in an evening service. The absurdity of the image brought a smile to his face, tickling against the yellow cloth.
“Yes, quite,” the man commented wryly, somehow deducing his smile from his only visible feature – his eyes. “It is far from an easy existence. No one would choose this life who had a choice… or at least, so I thought.”
He felt the smile freeze on his face.
“I can only guess,” the man went on, “at the kind of desperation that would prompt such an act.”
Words of innocent denial wilted on his tongue as he met Amm’s piercing gaze and gentle smile. The game was up. He sighed, halting.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Where were you planning on going?”
The leper continued another dozen paces, finally halting to look over a shoulder.
He shrugged. He had no answer to that and if he had, he’d be a fool to tell anyone. His hunters had already proven amazingly resourceful at tracking him and it wouldn’t do to leave a trail behind for them to find. It already represented a major risk, leaving Amm alive now that the man had exposed him. He frowned, unsure when he’d made the decision not to kill the leper but sure that he wouldn’t.
He looked up.
The man was watching him, the gentle smile unchanged. If the failed priest was aware of his life hanging in the balance – and based on the extraordinary insights so far, that was quite possible – the man didn’t show it. Amm’s eyes were an open invitation as they turned back to the green path.
He stared at the retreating back.
Oh, well…
He might as well see where this was going. He pulled his head covering down around his neck, baring his healthy face. He caught up with Amm a few moments later. They fell into step again.
“So…” he mused uncertainly.
“So,” Amm echoed easily.
Silence as they wandered along the overgrown path.
Finally, he sighed.
“What happens now?”
Amm’s frown was troubled.
“What happened at Hedrick…” the man began hesitantly.
Vivid memories of that night assaulted him. He scowled.
“Do you know,” the older man mused, apparently going off on another tangent, “when I was about sixteen, I accompanied an expedition to one of our missions in Mushan?”
He started slightly at the name of Oaragh’s sister city.
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes. We concentrated mostly on the poorer districts. I learned a great deal about the culture of the underbelly of Farham while I was there.”
“Is that so,” he said weakly. The man was sharp.
“Indeed,” Amm confirmed, reaching over to tug gently at the hood lying about his shoulders. The one he’d stupidly wound into a thief’s pattern, confident it wouldn’t be recognized here, an ocean away.
“Were you any good?” the leper enquired, voice carrying nothing but honest curiosity. Scabbed hands folded behind Amm’s back as they progressed down the verdant river bank.
Oh, piss on it, he thought. The man had had plenty of opportunities to oust him before now. And he’d already decided to leave the once-priest alive.
“Very,” he answered honestly.
“You’ve run a long way,” the man observed.
“Still am.”
“Ah…”
Amm seemed to chew on this while they walked.
“It might be safer,” the leper declared after another score paces, “if you didn’t travel with us anymore.”
He silently agreed. Safer for them, anyway.
“I know some people,” Amm said at length, “who might be able to help you.”
He felt his brow crease in surprise.
“And why would they?”
Amm glanced at him briefly, something akin to an apology in those light eyes.
“Reciprocity,” the man said, a wry twist to the pocked lips.
Immediately wary, he couldn’t help but shrug to feel the comforting weight of his knives. He let his eyes rove along the river bank and in the trees, looking for danger.
“What would I have to do to earn this… help?” he asked, not bothering to hide his reticence.
Amm glanced at his hood again.
“Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with.”
Ah…
“I’ve alr
eady crossed half an ocean,” he growled, surprised at the aggravation he felt. Over the past weeks, he’d been lulled into thinking of Amm as some kind of saint. He should have known better. Disproportionately irked at his naïve lapse, he scowled. This kind of soft thinking was what got people killed. “And I still don’t feel safe. What makes you think your friends can help me in the least?” he challenged.
Just then they stepped from beneath the low hanging branches of the trees and into a vast clearing. Closest to them, turned earth sprouted a field’s worth of reaching stalks. He saw they’d followed the curve of the river past the village and were now coming up on the local Temple. People in rough-spun robes where headed back to the tall stone building at the far end. A bell tolled sonorously, announcing the end of the day.
“Oh,” Amm mused knowledgeably, “they’re very efficacious.”
* * *
“’Tchooooo!”
He wiped his nose. Gingerly, since it had become raw and sensitive over the past week or more. Whether it was some kind of seasonal pollen in the air or just something in the dust of the barge, he didn’t know. Whatever it was, he’d been sneezing like a fiend ever since he’d gotten on this miserable tub.
He sat with his feet dangling over the edge of a crate, one of a stack, tied down tightly with oily netting. The barge was part of a convoy headed for Sutlam, a large river trading post and the official last stop for all inbound barge transport. From his vantage he could see seven barges in front of them, being lazily poled downriver by brawny men and women. Another four followed behind.
Barge people. A squat, sun darkened lot that seemed a community all of their own. They spent their lives on their sun-shaded transports, all of which sported small, brightly painted cabins. These dwelling were complete with chimneys, perched like miniature houses on the broad vessels. The barges were like houses, each claiming its own family. Even now, children were playing and clambering over the stacked cargo like monkeys, their laughter blending with the rustle of the flanking forest and the sweep of the river.