Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  The sailors circled more.

  One dodged in and dodged back, daring Thomas to attack, daring Thomas to leave the bale behind him and expose his back.

  The others laughed in low tones.

  This is the game. Cats with a cornered mouse. They are in no hurry.

  “Gold and your life,” the second sailor whispered. “But only after you beg to be spared.”

  The other two chortled agreement.

  Until that moment, Thomas had felt the deep cold of fear. His blood would soak the rough wood at his feet; that he knew. But their taunts filled him with a building anger, and his fear became distant.

  “Beg?” Thomas said in a voice he hardly recognized as his. “Should I die, you will die with me. This is a fight that will cost you dearly.”

  The yellow-eyed sailor mimicked his voice with a high-pitched giggle. “This is a fight that will cost you dearly.”

  That slow-growing anger suddenly overwhelmed Thomas. He became quiet with a fury that could barely be restrained.

  He lifted his sword and pointed it directly at the yellow-eyed sailor and spoke with compressed rage. “You shall be the first to taste doom.”

  The yellow-eyed sailor slapped his neck. Then, incredibly, as Thomas lowered his sword to a protective stance, the yellow-eyed sailor sank to his knees, then soundlessly fell face forward onto the deck.

  What madness is this?

  Thomas had no time to wonder. The second sailor betrayed a movement, and Thomas whirled to face him. Still carried by that consuming rage, Thomas pointed his sword at the man’s eyes.

  The man grunted with pain, eyes wide and gleaming with surprise in the moonlight. He, too, dropped to his knees and tumbled forward to land as heavily as a sack of fish.

  What madness is this?

  Thomas answered his own bewilderment. Whatever it might be, this is not the time to question.

  He spun on the third sailor, who now staggered back in fear.

  Thomas raised his sword and advanced.

  “No!” the man shrieked loudly in terror. “Not me!”

  Then he gasped, as if slapped hard across the face. His mouth gaped open, then shut before he pitched forward.

  That shriek had pierced the night air, and from behind Thomas came the sounds of men moving through the ship.

  He gathered his cloak about him, scooped Beast into his other arm, and fled toward the ladder.

  Thomas had fourteen nights and fifteen days to contemplate the miracle that had saved his life, fourteen nights and fifteen days of solitude to puzzle the events. For not a single member of the crew dared disturb him.

  The three sailors had risen the next day from stupor, unable to explain to the crew members who had dragged them away what evil had befallen them at the command of Thomas’s sword.

  Each day, the cook’s assistant had been sent with food. Each day, the cook’s assistant had darted away without even daring to look Thomas in the eye.

  While fourteen nights and fifteen days was enough time for the shallow slice on his arm to heal, it was not enough time for Thomas to make sense those scant minutes of rage beneath the moonlight.

  Many times, indeed, he had taken his sword and pointed it at objects around him, disbelieving that it might have an effect, but half-expecting the object to fall or move, so complete was his inability to understand how he, in his rage, had been able to fell three sailors intent on his death, without touching one.

  And for fourteen nights and fifteen days, he fought the strange sensation that he should know what had happened. That somewhere deep in his memory, there was a vital clue in those strange events.

  On the sixteenth day, he remembered. Like a blast of snow-filled air, it struck him with a force that froze him midway through a troubled pace.

  No, it cannot be!

  Thomas strained to recall words that had been spoken to him in near panic the night Magnus fell to the Priests of the Holy Grail.

  He had been hidden in a stable, saved from death only because of his guise as a beggar, while the castle fell.

  As Thomas projected his mind backward, the smells and sounds returned as if he were there again. The pungent warmth of horses and hay, the stamping of restless hooves, the blanket of darkness, a tired, frightened old woman clutching his arm, and the messenger in front of him.

  “M’lord,” Tiny John had blurted, “the priests appeared within the castle as if from the very walls! Like hordes of rats. They—”

  “Robert of Uleran,” Thomas had interrupted with a leaden voice. He wanted to sit beside the old woman and, along with her, moan in low tones. “How did he die?”

  “Die?”

  “You informed me that he spoke his last words.”

  “Last words to me, m’lord. Guards were falling in all directions, slapping themselves as they fell! The priests claimed it was the hand of God and called for all to lay down their arms. It was then that Robert of Uleran pushed this puppy into my arms and told me to flee, told me to give you warning so that you’d not return to the castle …”

  No, it cannot be, Thomas repeated as he remembered. Yet the Druids had posed as those false Priests of the Holy Grail; the Druids had mysteriously appeared within the castle—undoubtedly through the secret passages, which only in his last hours there had Thomas discovered riddled Magnus—and the Druids had somehow struck down the well-armed soldiers within.

  Guards were falling in all directions, slapping themselves as they fell.

  Yellow-eye had slapped himself, then fallen.

  A Druid was aboard this same ship.

  Thomas had little time to search or wonder. An hour later, a shout reached him from the sailor on watch at the top of the mast.

  The port of Lisbon had been sighted.

  To present myself as bait would be difficult under any circumstance, thought Thomas. But to be bait without knowing the predator, and to be bait in a strange town with no idea where to spring and set the trap is sheer lunacy.

  Especially if that strange town is a danger in itself.

  Lisbon sat at the mouth of the wide and slow River Tagus, a river deep enough to bring the ships in and out of the harbor area. The town itself was nestled between the river and two chains of hills rising on each side. It was one of the greatest shipping centers of Europe, for the Portuguese were some of the best sailors in the world.

  Thomas stood at the end of a crowded street that led to the great docks of Lisbon. He leaned from one foot to the other, hoping to give an appearance of the uncertainty that he truly felt.

  Which eyes follow me now?

  Impossible to decide.

  Hundreds upon hundreds, perhaps thousands of people flooded the docks of Lisbon. Swaggering men of the sea, cackling hags, merchants pompously wrapped in fine silk, soldiers, bellowing fish sellers.

  Sea gulls screamed and swooped. Wild and vicious cats, fat from fish offal, slunk from shadow to shadow. Rats, bold and large, scurried up or down the thick ropes that tethered ships to shore.

  It was confusion driven by a single purpose. Greed. Those canny enough to survive the chaos—human or animal—also thrived in the chaos. Those who couldn’t were often found in the forgotten corners of alleys and never received a proper burial.

  Thomas knew he needed to find such an alley, if only to finally expose his follower. And he only had a few hours of sunlight left. For he knew he would need the protection of a legion of angels should he be foolish enough to wander these corners of hell in the dark.

  He moved forward, glad once again for the comfort of the puppy beneath his arm.

  It took half of the remaining daylight to find the proper place for ambush.

  He had glanced behind him occasionally, only during the moments he pretended to examine a merchant’s wares. Spices from Africa once, exquisite pottery from Rome another time, and strange objects of glass called spectacles, which the bulky man with the too-wide smile had assured him were the latest rage among highbred men and ladies all across Europe.
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  Not once had Thomas spotted a pursuer during those quick backward glances. Yet he dared not hope that meant he was alone or safe. Not after the strangeness of men collapsing because of an upraised sword.

  Then, during his wanderings, he had noticed a side alley leading away from the busy street. He walked through once and discovered it opened, after much twisting and turning, onto another busy street. The alley itself held many hidden doorways, already darkened by the shadows of late afternoon.

  So Thomas circled, an action that cost him much of his precious time. In the maze of streets, it was no easy task to find the original entrance to the alley again.

  Once inside that tiny corridor between ancient stone houses, Thomas smiled. Here, away from the bustle of the rest of the town, it was almost quiet. And, as with the first time through, it was empty of any passersby. He could safely assume any person who traveled through it behind him was his follower.

  Thomas rounded a corner and slipped into a doorway.

  He set Beast down, fumbled through his travel pouch for a piece of dried meat, then set that on the cobblestone.

  “Chew on that, you little monster,” Thomas whispered. “I have no need for your untimely interference again.”

  Beast sat on his hindquarters and happily attacked the dried meat in silence.

  Will it be flight or fight? Thomas wondered. His heart hammered against his ribs as each second passed. He knew he was well hidden in the shadows of the doorway. He could choose to let the follower move on and in turn stalk the stalker, or he could step out and challenge his unknown pursuer. Which would it be?

  More seconds passed, each measured by several rapid beats of his heart.

  Beast remained silent.

  Thomas did not hear footsteps. Rather, his pursuer moved along the cobblestone so quietly that only his long shadow stretching out before him hinted at his arrival.

  When the figure appeared in sight, head and neck straining ahead to see Thomas, the decision came instantly.

  Fight.

  For the figure was barely the size of a boy.

  Thomas reached out and grasped for the shoulder of the small figure. His reaction was so quick that Thomas only managed a handful of cloth as that figure spun away and sprinted forward.

  But not before Thomas recognized the filthy face and hat.

  The cook’s assistant.

  Thomas bolted from the doorway in pursuit.

  The cook’s assistant? Surely he is a mere messenger or spy. Yet his capture is my only link to his masters.

  Thomas ignored the pain of his feet slamming against the hard and irregular cobblestone. He ducked and twisted through the corners of the tiny alley, gaining rapidly on the figure in front.

  Behind Thomas came the frantic barking of the puppy as he joined in this wonderful game.

  Thomas closed in, now near enough to hear the heaving of breath ahead.

  Three steps. Two steps. A single step away. Now tackle!

  Thomas dove and wrapped his arms around the cook’s assistant. Together, they tumbled in a ball of arms and legs.

  Get atop! Grasp those wrists! Don’t let him reach for a dagger!

  Thomas fought and scrambled, surprised at the wild strength of this smaller figure. For a moment, he managed to sit squarely on his opponent’s stomach. A convulsive buck threw him off, and Thomas landed dazed.

  The cook’s assistant scuttled sideways, but Thomas managed to roll over and reach around his waist and pull him back close into his body.

  Then Thomas froze.

  This is not what I should expect from a cook’s assistant. Not a yielding softness of body that is more like …

  Angry words from this mute cook’s assistant interrupted his amazement and confirmed his suspicion.

  … more like that of a woman.

  “Unhand me, you murderous traitor.”

  It was the voice of Katherine.

  Thomas scrambled to his feet and grabbed her wrist to help her upward.

  She slapped his hand away and reached her feet with a grace that made Thomas feel awkward.

  Even without the hat that had always cast shade over her face aboard the ship, those layers of dirt and that filthy hair cropped short still made it difficult to recognize her, yet it truly was Katherine.

  She glared hatred at him and spat on the ground beside him.

  Yes, it is she indeed.

  The puppy skidded to a halt between them.

  Thomas barely noticed.

  “You … what … how?”

  He did not finish his stammered sentence.

  Katherine looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened.

  There was a slight rustle and the sound of rushing air. Then a terrible black pain against his skull overwhelmed him.

  When he woke, it only took several seconds to realize he was in a crude jail. Alone.

  Thomas groaned aloud. He touched the back of his head—a foolish move, for he already knew how badly it ached, and his gentle probing of a large lump brought renewed stabs of pain.

  Early-evening light filtered through a tiny square hole hewn through the stone.

  The dimming light showed a straw-littered floor, stone walls worn smooth with time, so confining that he could touch all four easily from the center of the cell.

  Thomas stood, and groaned again.

  He felt an incredible thirst and staggered to the door. He thumped it weakly.

  What evil has befallen me now?

  As he waited for a response, he puzzled over this turn of events. Who has thrown me here? Why? Did that devil’s child Katherine have others to help?

  There was no answer, so Thomas thumped the door again. The impact of the heel of his hand against wood worsened the throbbing of his head.

  My cloak. My gold. The old man’s book. My sword and sheath. Gone.

  It finally dawned on Thomas that he had been stripped down to his undergarments.

  In anger, he pounded the door again.

  “Release me,” he croaked through a parched throat. “Return my belongings.”

  Faint footsteps outside the door reached him as the echoes of his words faded in the twilight of his cell.

  Then, a slight scraping of wood against wood as someone outside slid back the cover of a small partition high in the door.

  “Your majesty,” a cackling voice called in sarcastic English heavily accented with thickened Portuguese vowels. “Come closer.”

  Thomas did.

  “Do you stand before the door?” that voice queried. “Beneath the window?”

  Thomas looked directly above him at the hole in the door, which permitted the voice to float clearly through.

  “Yes,” Thomas answered.

  “Good. Here’s something to shut your mouth for the night.”

  Without warning, a cascade of filthy water arched through the opening. Drenched thoroughly, Thomas could only sputter.

  “And I’ve got buckets more if that doesn’t instruct you on manners. Now let me sleep.”

  The partition slammed shut, and footsteps outside retreated.

  Thomas moved back to the side of his cell and gathered straw around him. Already he was beginning to shiver.

  Shortly after the first star appeared in the small, square patch of sky that Thomas could see from his huddled position, across his feet ran the first rat of many in a long, sleepless night.

  “Your majesty has a visitor.” That heavy Portuguese accent interrupted Thomas’s dreams.

  Thomas opened gritty eyes to look upward at the face of a wrinkled gnome. A toothless grin leered down at him.

  “Why should you enjoy sleep?” the voice continued.

  Thomas began to focus, and the ancient gnome became an old tiny man with blackened gums that smacked and slobbered each word. “If I’m to be wakened this early, so must you.”

  The gnomelike man pointed back over his shoulder at the open doorway. “Why a common thief like you would receive such a visitor is beyond any mortal’s u
nderstanding.”

  Thomas ignored the man. And ignored the constant throbbing of his head, the itching of straw and flea bites, and the thirst that squeezed his throat.

  He was transfixed by his visitor.

  Katherine.

  Not the Katherine he had seen in any form before. Not the Katherine as a noble friend, disguised as a freak in the wrapping of bandages. Not as the Katherine whose long blond hair had flowed in the moonlight during her visits as a midnight messenger. Not the Katherine who had betrayed him first to the Druids, then the outlaws. Not the Katherine covered with grime as a cook’s assistant.

  Thomas gaped at the transformation.

  Gone was the filth. Gone were the rags.

  Instead, a long cape of fine silk almost reached her feet. Holding the cloak in place was an oval clasp, showing a sword engraved into fine metal. Her neck and wrists glittered with exquisite jewelry. Her hair—still short—had been trimmed and altered to highlight the delicate curves of her cheekbones.

  She would put a queen to shame.

  Thomas fought against the surge of warmth that struck him at that mysterious and aloof smile.

  She is one of them, he warned himself, one of the Druids who have taken Magnus.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she shook her head slightly to caution him against it.

  “This most certainly is my runaway servant,” she said sternly. “I shall see he is whipped thoroughly.”

  Servant?

  The gnomelike man nodded with understanding. “Feed them and clothe them and still they show no gratitude.”

  Servant?

  “I have spoken to the authorities,” Katherine continued. “The boy that this”—Katherine sniffed scorn and pointed at Thomas—“scoundrel attacked has not reappeared to seek compensation. Given that, and the fortune in gold that changed from my hands to the magistrate’s, I have been granted permission for his return.”

  The gnomelike man somehow shook his head in sympathy. “Is he worth this?”

  “A promise to his mother, a longtime servant,” Katherine answered. “She was dear to our family, and we vowed never to let her son stray.”

  “Ah,” the jailer said.