by CW Thomas
They approached the church, a tall structure of solid gray stone with a steep angular roof from which hang long tapestries of tan and brown. The symbol of Omneesah adorned the drapes, a yellow circle presiding over a wave. Placidous had explained that this signified the presence of the Allgod as he transcended the world above and the world below.
The front door to the weathered narthex opened sending out a group of five nuns in garb similar to Ariella’s. Leading them was an abbot, followed by another priest who wore a spotless belted alb that made the filthy robe Placidous wore look even more horrific. The nuns went like mother hens to the young children.
The two men greeted Placidous. They chatted in Efferousian for a short while before retreating back inside with Ariella.
The nuns brought out bread and water, which the refugees eagerly consumed, including Broderick, who had not been able to quell the ache in his stomach since their first night on Efferous.
He sat down on the grass alongside Preston and Nash. They were soon joined by Clint who had a look of contempt on his brooding face.
“Religious freaks,” he mumbled. “You know why they’re so nice, don’t you? They want to lure you in so they can shove their putrid beliefs down your throat, meaningless speeches you’ll be asked to cough up coin for.”
“Clint, you’re such a moron,” Nash said.
“What did you say to me?”
“Knock it off,” Brayden said. “Both of you. At least we’ve got food to eat and shelter tonight, which is more than we’ve had in almost three weeks.”
“I vote that Clint sleeps in the barn,” Nash said.
Clint jumped up. “I’m going to shove my fist in your mouth!”
“Hey!” Brayden shouted.
The door to the monastery creaked open and Placidous stepped outside once again. He was with the same two men as before, along with a grim looking priest and a man Broderick assumed was the duktori. He stood apart from the other two with his silvery hair and brown robe that was adorned with a gold sash. He had a look of compassion on his aged face as he looked over the mob of shabby refugees gathered before the doors of his church.
“Look at Ariella,” Preston whispered.
Broderick had to peer around Clint before he spotted the former nun, who had been stripped of the rest of her habit and given a plain cream-colored shift to wear. The most startling change, however, was her shaved head. Broderick recalled hearing how this was often done as a sign of shame. Ariella was smiling though, despite the tears in her eyes.
Khalous walked up to her and gave her a hug that lasted for several long moments.
“Uh, what’s going on here?” Nash asked.
“Not very observant, are we?” Pick said, standing behind the boys. “She gave up her life in the church for Khalous.”
“Why?” Broderick asked.
“Why do you think, dummy?” said Nash.
Clint rolled his eyes and sighed in disgust.
Broderick watched alongside Brayden, Clint, Preston, Nash and Pick as the nuns ushered Dana, Nairnah, and the other refugees into the church, leaving the older boys outside with the men, including the dark-robed duktori and his serious-faced advisor.
The duktori shook Khalous’ hand and said, “My name is Bendrosi. I am the duktori of this chapel.” He gestured toward the other robed man over his right shoulder. “This is Brother Gravis. Welcome.” He spoke the language of Edhen, but his words were broken and thick with the Efferousian accent.
“Khalous Marloch.” The captain pointed to Pick and Stoneman, and ticked off their names. “Thank you for having us.”
“I apologize, but I’m afraid we have run out of room,” Bendrosi said. “Our orphanage is overflowing as it is. We can accommodate the youngest among you, but all we have left for your men and the older boys is the loft in the barn, which you are more than welcome to.”
Clint sighed in disgust, unashamed to express his displeasure.
“Actually,” Khalous began, casting a brief glance toward the brown clapboard barn, “that’s preferable.” He took Bendrosi by the shoulder and led him and Gravis a short distance away from the group where the three of them spoke together at some length.
“What are they talking about?” Nash asked.
“Probably you,” Preston said.
“What did I do?”
“You mean apart from being annoying?”
“Hold your tongues, boys,” Pick said.
Broderick noticed Pick and Stoneman exchanging nervous glances, like they knew what the captain was up to.
“Is he sure about this?” asked Pick.
“Cap’ain’s always sure,” Stoneman replied.
“Does that mean I have to like it?”
“Nope.”
Whatever Khalous and the abbot were talking about it didn’t sit well with the stern-faced Prior Gravis. He argued with them at some length. Bendrosi remained calm while Khalous stood firm with crossed arms.
Bendrosi and Gravis retreated into the monastery.
“Stand up,” Khalous said to the boys after he had returned to the group. He eyed each and every one of them for a moment, his thick fingers stroking the grizzled beard on his chin.
“What did they think of your master plan?” Pick asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Khalous said. “The duktori is a reasonable man, but we can’t expect everyone under him to welcome us so warmly.”
“Gravis didn’t look too pleased.”
“Forget about him for now.”
The door to the church opened and a boy jogged over to the group. He looked about twelve, an Efferousian judging by his tanned skin and black locks. He had a quick looking physique and square brow that gave him a constant air of seriousness.
“Are you the one Bendrosi told me about?” Khalous asked.
The boy nodded.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Taighfinn Torinfinn Deelyous,” the boy said. “Son of Torinfinn and Sorcha Deelyous.”
“Gunna give me a headache tryin’ say all ’at,” Stoneman grumbled.
“I vote we call him, Boy,” Pick said, raising his hand. “All in favor?”
The boy’s serious expression made it difficult to tell if he was offended or not. “Some calls me Ty,” he said.
“Even better,” Pick said. “Two letters instead of three. I like it.”
Stoneman shrugged his heavy shoulders. “He can stay.”
“Ty is too old to live among the women and children,” Khalous said. “The lodgings here are almost full, so he’s going to stay with us.” He looked at Ty and put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re a rough bunch, so I apologize in advance.”
“Don’t be having worries for me, sir,” the boy said.
Khalous looked at the ground. “Listen up now.” His tone had darkened, like a veteran warrior to his unit on the eve of battle. All at once Broderick knew that something was about to change. “Some of us have to learn to grow up a little faster than we’d like,” he began. “A few weeks ago you were all ten, eleven, twelve years old, well on your way to becoming men, but today I tell you that you are men.” His eyes moved from one boy to the next, a gaze that imbued confidence and hope. “Your training begins tomorrow. The duktori doesn’t condone violence, so we’ll train off the grounds, but we’ll live here in the barn and earn our keep. You will learn to fight. You will learn to survive.”
An excitement had risen within Broderick that thrilled and terrified him, told him that something was beginning, a tidal wave of retribution, right here among this group of eleven.
Slowly he raised his hand to speak.
Khalous looked at him. “Yes?”
“Does this mean we’re going back to Aberdour?” he asked.
“Do you want to?”
Broderick looked to Brayden, then Nash and Preston. When none of them responded, his eyes went to Khalous and he nodded.
“Why?” Khalous said.
“I want to help my sisters. I want to
help Edhen, and kill the bloody Black King.”
Khalous smiled. “And do you think you have the means to do that?”
Sighing in shame that bordered on embarrassment, Broderick said, “No. Not yet.”
Khalous put a hand on his shoulder. “Good lad. You will.” His eyes drifted over the bunch. “Listen to me and you will.”
“We’re really going back?” Nash said.
“We are. It will take time, but yes. We are.”
A few murmurs of approval whispered through the group.
“To all the hells with the Black King,” Pick said.
“How long?” Broderick asked.
Khalous’ smile faded. “Some of that depends on you. But give me time, and I promise I’ll turn you all into the most deadly fighting force the world has ever seen.”
BRYNLEE
The door to the back of the wagon cage swung open on creaky hinges and the sore, exhausted female prisoners of Aberdour filed out. Brynlee held Scarlett close as they were led single file to a cobblestone plaza where they were chained four to a post in a busy market section of Edhen’s capital. Some of the girls dropped to their knees, too weak from months of cramped travel to even stand.
The crowded market streets of Perth gave off a suffocating feel. Busy consumers browsed carts loaded with goods while merchants hocked jewelry, perfume, weapons, pottery, dried foods and more. High stone buildings eclipsed the late summer sun, plunging the market district into a shadowy epicenter of commerce that stunk of small animals and fish.
Brynlee began to notice a large number of wealthy looking men and women lining up on the street in front of her. Their probing eyes made her feel self-conscious. She huddled on the ground with Scarlett who trembled as she observed the gathering spectators.
“Look at me,” Brynlee said. “Remember our home? Remember Aberdour?”
Scarlett seemed confused for a moment, but then nodded her head.
“Do you remember Broderick and Lia trying to climb the banister up the spiral staircase? Lia could do it easy, and none of us thought Broderick could do it, but he did.”
Scarlett smiled a little, which encouraged Brynlee to go on.
“I was always trying to get Lia to play dolls with us, but she never wanted to. One day mama made her play with us, so Lia took the dolls, all of them, every single doll, and hid them all throughout the castle, and then she had a contest to see who could find the most.” She forced a giggle. “Such a silly way to play dolls, isn’t it?”
Scarlett nodded.
“Brayden on the other hand, his idea of playing dolls was to put them on trial for black magic and behead them. He used to—”
“My lovelies!” came the joyous shout of a short, pot-bellied man. He sauntered up to the row of prisoners in a long velvety red tunic, arms open wide, fingers adorned with gold rings. Adjusting the wreath of tiny green leaves and white flowers that sat atop his balding head, he said, “Welcome, welcome, welcome! Stand, please, all of you. Let me look at you.”
One by one the girls rose to their feet, heads down, eyes worried and nervous.
“My name is Morogh Slagenach,” the man said, “but you’ll soon learn that most people call me Mungo. It’s an unusual name, I know, but—” he thrust a finger into the air, “—unusual is what folks remember best.” He smiled. “And that’s good for business.”
Mungo waved his hand at Captain Fess Rummick, inviting him to join them. The mean-spirited captain, who had escorted the prisoners from Aberdour along with several hundred black soldiers, looked as irritated as he did exhausted.
“Captain, you have done well,” Mungo said. “They are lovely. They look a little chubby though. What have you been feeding them?”
“Porridge,” the captain answered. “Just like you asked.”
A lie, Brynlee knew. The company’s cook, Efrem, had tried to feed the girls porridge, but Fess had told him not to on more than one occasion.
“Uh-huh.”
Mungo walked up to the line of chained girls. He eyed them for a moment before singling out Oriana, the thirteen-year-old sister of the now deceased Othella. Mungo cupped her chin and lifted her eyes to his. He gasped and pressed a hand to his heart. “Oh, what breathtaking eyes. Tell me, my beauty, what have they been feeding you?”
Oriana looked too terrified to answer. Her eyes went to Fess whose grim, rough shaven face had found a way to look even more menacing.
“Please, child, you can tell me. It’s all right.”
When the words, “Bread and cheese,” slipped out of her mouth, Mungo’s jaw went tight with rage, his fists clenched and he staggered back. He grit his teeth as he walked up to the captain.
“Bread and cheese,” he repeated. And then, in a voice that made the air explode, he roared, “BREAD AND CHEESE!”
Fess winced, like a dog receiving a scolding.
“Bread and cheese makes whores fat,” Mungo fumed. “I told you to feed them oats and rice. Oats and rice.” He stormed away from the captain, kicking at the ground. “Bread and cheese,” he muttered. “Of all the incompetent, stupid…” He looked at the captain. “Get out of my sight!”
Fess left in a storm of rage.
Brynlee smirked, as did the other girls.
Their smiles were short lived, however, when the eccentric Mungo turned his attention back onto them.
He walked up to Brynlee and Scarlett. “How old are you, child?”
“Seven, sir.”
“And that one?” he pointed to Scarlett.
“Um, she doesn’t speak. She is five.”
“She doesn’t speak?” Mungo said, perplexed. “Is she a halfwit?”
“No, sir. She is not a halfwit. She just can’t speak.”
“I see. And how long have you been locked in that abysmal wagon?”
“About three and a half moons, sir.”
Mungo clamped a hand over his face in disgust. “Three and a half moons. Gods take that man’s life. Tell me, child, are you tired of being locked away in there?”
Brynlee hesitated a moment before nodding.
“Are you hungry?”
With a little more urgency, she nodded again.
“Come work for me and you will know rest, food, and a soft place to sleep.” Mungo turned to address the rest of the girls. “That goes for all of you. You are my property now. Serve me well and you shall never know cold or hunger ever again.”
A few murmurs of relief and even joy emerged from the girls.
Brynlee wondered what kind of work the fat Mungo had in mind.
Six horsemen came thundering down the street, interrupting Mungo’s speech. They skidded to a halt in front of the prisoners. One of the horsemen, a beast of soldier, wore black armor from neck to toe and a long black cape fringed with a white stripe. He landed with a crash on his feet upon dismount.
Behind him rode three guards who were gathered around a woman in a long dark purple robe. Her bright green eyes scanned the row of girls and came to rest upon Brynlee. The woman’s vivid eyes were unnerving, Brynlee thought, and cold despite their emerald glow.
The sixth rider was a man whose physique was lean and fit. He had oily black hair brushed back snuggly over his scalp. He dismounted and approached the green-eyed woman, took her hand like a gentleman, and helped her down. Then the two of them walked up to Mungo hand-in-hand.
Mungo bowed. “My Lord Ustus Rapere,” he said. “Your presence brings me honor.” He reached for the hand of the cloaked woman. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure, my lady.”
“Demulier Congrave,” she said in beautiful lilting voice.
“And I believe you know our illustrious lord marshal,” Ustus said, motioning toward the massive man in black armor. “Sir Komor Raven. Back from another victory for our high king.”
Komor approached Mungo, towering over his already short stature by a good two feet.
“Ah, yes,” Mungo said with a broad grin. “Your reputation precedes you, lord marshal. Congratulations on
your victory.”
Komor dipped his head in thanks, but his face remained expressionless.
“Please, accept from me a token of appreciation on behalf of all the good citizens of Perth.” Mungo waved his hand to the row of new slave girls. “Whichever one you like.”
Komor looked over the row of terrified young women. He pointed to a girl around the age of fifteen whose name Brynlee did not know. Mungo snapped his fingers, and a nearby guard unlocked the girl’s bonds and brought her to Komor. The towering man stood like a mountain over the small girl. He grabbed her chin and tilted her head from side to side, examining her.
“She’ll do,” he said.
Mungo clapped his hands. “Marvelous!”
“A worthy prize for the realm’s fiercest warrior,” Demulier said.
Komor walked off with his heavy arm around the small girl.
Brynlee stifled her tears when Demulier walked toward her. The woman moved like a goddess, exquisite and smooth, with long legs that revealed a lithe frame under her gown with every step she took. Her eyes went back and fourth between Brynlee and another young girl named Nessah.
“I like this one,” she said, and she pointed toward Nessah.
Brynlee exhaled a sigh of relief.
But then the woman’s finger pivoted back toward her. “And this one,” she added. “Bring them both just in case.”
“Of course, madam,” Mungo said. He snapped his fingers and a guard came forward to undo their chains.
Brynlee fought the panic rising within her as Scarlett latched onto her shirt.
“It’s all right,” Brynlee said. “It’s all right. It’s all right.” But her own tears exposed her lie as they streamed down her cheeks unbidden.
The moment Brynlee had been dreading arrived, the moment where she was torn away from the last of her family forever. Scarlett’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream of protest that cleaved Brynlee’s heart in two.
The guard lifted her up off the ground, tearing her from her baby sister’s clutches.
He muscled her and Neesah over toward Demulier. The woman gestured a hand to the open doorway of a nearby building.
“You said this won’t take long, correct?” Mungo said.