He was walking when he left for the chapel.
D’Jenn mounted his horse and clucked the beast into motion, headed down the street. He rode past a pair of shops—one for sundries, another for herbs—and turned a corner. The chapel was a squat building on the corner of the only intersection in town. It had a low stone fence around a well-trimmed yard. The eight gods were depicted on a wooden archway over the front gate, much like the one at Aram’s house.
The chaplain was outside when D’Jenn rode up, locking the gate with large metal key. He was an old fellow with thin hands and a long, pointed nose. He paused at D’Jenn’s approach and affected a smile.
“I hope you haven’t come to see the prisoners. They’re locked in the stables, and the Alderman says no gawking, so no one gets inside.”
“No one?” D’Jenn patted his horse on the neck and let the reins fall. “My friend didn’t come by here?”
The chaplain shook his head. “No one’s been here. Alderman’s orders. You’d take care to keep riding, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“Gods in the Void.” D’Jenn gave the priest a conciliatory smile for the curse. “Apologies. A Lesmiran fellow hasn’t come by here?”
The chaplain shook his head again. “No one’s been here, as I said. Do you need something else? Sanctuary for the night? Do you wish to give an offering?”
D’Jenn smiled. “Not tonight.”
“Tonight isn’t good enough for the gods, young man?”
D’Jenn waved the priest away and clucked again to his horse. The old man returned to locking his gate as D’Jenn moved back toward The Lame Packhorse. He trotted around the street for a few moments, waiting for Merrick to show.
Where could he have gone?
Merrick knew that Aram had spoken with the traders. He knew that D’Jenn would be occupied with talking to the girl, and he knew there was one place where Raven was likely to turn up. Anger blossomed in D’Jenn’s stomach. Merrick had been fixated on saving Raven’s life.
The bastard’s gone back to Aram’s cottage!
D’Jenn let out another curse and put spurs to his horse.
***
Aram’s home was a dark, silent blotch against the shadowed trees.
D’Jenn approached at a walk, bending his ears to the darkness. The horse’s hooves made rhythmic thudding noises on the packed dirt of the trail. Insects sang in the woods. The air felt like a wet blanket on D’Jenn’s skin. The smell of sap was thick in his nose.
Time to listen beyond the reach of the normal senses.
With a deep breath, D’Jenn reached into the core of his being and awakened his Kai.
The forested trail leapt into vibrant focus. The moon was a giant beacon in the sky, shining silver light through the leaves to paint patterns on the ground. The chorus of insects permeated everything, though D’Jenn could pick out tiny differences in the voices singing from the brush. His horse smelled of sweat and dirt, while the clothing on D’Jenn’s body put off the smell of old leather and dusty fabric.
Magic moved through everything, waxing and waning to currents beyond D’Jenn’s understanding. His Kai hummed, bringing him the resonance of the ether—the invisible plane from which magic flowed. Turning his mind to his magical senses, D’Jenn listened to his Kai.
It brought him a picture of the homestead in his mind, a representation constructed of vibrating tones and the quiet buzz of the night. Aram’s home had a warm, comfortable feel to it. His family had lived here for years, leaving their mark both on the land and in the ether. The faces of the gods carved over his doorway shone in D’Jenn’s senses—the result of care and attention leaving its mark. Other parts of the home shone in a similar fashion, but none so much as the arch over the door.
D’Jenn allowed his horse to approach the home as he listened with his Kai, keeping his eyes closed to the night. His magical senses were superior for sensing danger, and there were things his eyes couldn’t discern. The house thrummed with the energy of long, quiet years to his Kai, but D’Jenn’s ears heard nothing but the chittering calls of insects.
D’Jenn ran his senses through the home and around the clearing. A living person would shine like a beacon to a wizard’s Kai—any living thing would. Insects moved everywhere, like tiny stars crawling on the ground. A horse was standing in the backyard, probably chewing on the grass. There were no people, which made D’Jenn feel both relieved and anxious.
Is that Merrick’s horse out back?
D’Jenn dismounted in the front yard and moved inside. The door scraped against the floor when he opened it. The inside of the home was as silent as the yard.
Using his Kai to utter a low tone in the ether, D’Jenn brought a globe of light into being. It hovered just over his shoulder, stretching his shadow across the floor. Scattered implements were lying on the boards—clothing, dinnerware, and other things useful for home life. D’Jenn stepped over them as he moved for the kitchen.
The townspeople can be as rough as they please, doesn’t mean I have to tread on Aram’s things.
In the kitchen, D’Jenn found the breadbasket sitting on its side. Only one loaf remained, and most of it had been eaten. The bucket of water from earlier in the day was sitting on the table. There were puddles of water around it, as well as wet spots on the floor. A kerchief sat on the table, stained pink with blood. The water had a rusty tinge.
Raven must’ve cleaned his wound here, maybe put a wrapping on his hand. A bolt through the hand wouldn’t kill the boy, but it would be painful and would bleed like a leaky cup. Every time Raven tried to close his fist, the wound would open again. D’Jenn tried to imagine Raven standing over the table, scrubbing at his bloody hand with the wet kerchief.
“Until Merrick got here, anyway.” D’Jenn looked toward the back of the house. “Did he interrupt you while you were seeing to your hand?”
D’Jenn moved around the table and back into the hallway. There was another door at the rear of the house. It stood ajar, allowing the song of the insects to filter through the open space. Bringing his magical light with him, D’Jenn pushed the door open and stepped outside.
The back yard was larger than D’Jenn would have expected. It was hidden from the trail leading to the house, which gave it a feeling of seclusion. There were more implements outside, but these seemed to have escaped the ransacking. Three axes and a selection of saws were lying against the side of the house, stacked in a neat row. A pair of sawhorses were pushed up beside them.
At the opposite corner of the home was a large circular trough full of standing water. Merrick’s horse was drinking from the trough when D’Jenn walked outside. It made a chuffing noise as the light illuminated the yard. It blinked and walked over to D’Jenn, nuzzling at his hand.
“Where’s your rider, old boy?” D’Jenn scratched between the horse’s eyes. “Did he leave you here by yourself?”
The horse nuzzled his hand and returned to the trough.
The yard itself was a huge expanse of cleared ground carpeted in thick grass. Most of the trees had been cleared away, though a single ancient oak stood in the middle of the yard. Oak trees were tough to remove and pleasing to the eye, so D’Jenn could understand why Aram had chosen to leave it. Something in the boughs caught D’Jenn’s attention and he walked over to examine the tree. With a gesture, he sent his magical light floating toward the branches.
Merrick’s body hung in the tree.
His arms and legs were outstretched, pierced by the branches and pulled wide. More twigs had stabbed him through the chest, or snaked twisting fingers into his mouth and eyes. His hands were curled into pained fists, though the tree limbs had wrenched those open, too. Blood had poured down the front of his body in a torrent, leaking from a thousand wounds. It covered the trunk of the old tree and stained the grass below.
“Fuck the gods, Merrick.” D’Jenn stared at the body under his cold magical light. “I tried to tell you. Why couldn’t you bloody listen?”
A wind blew t
hrough the trees, making the dripping blood flutter in the breeze.
“What did you do—try to talk him down? Try to save him?” D’Jenn sighed and crouched to his haunches. He rubbed his face in his hands and shook his head. “Poor bastard.”
How was D’Jenn supposed to manage this situation on his own? Rogue wizards he could deal with—Merrick had been right about him being a killer. What gave D’Jenn pause was the townspeople. Merrick had been the one with all the smiles, all the charisma.
He probably thought he could come up here, talk to Raven, and have the whole mess sorted before the Sherriff’s men got to town. Now Merrick was dead and D’Jenn was alone. An angry mob was gathering in town, and the local authorities were getting involved. D’Jenn was even more of an outsider to the residents of Rockman’s Ford than Merrick had been.
“How am I supposed to keep everything from boiling over now?”
Raven would be headed back to town—D’Jenn was sure of it. He would know the townspeople had taken Aram and Kira, who were obviously connected to him in some way. He had nowhere to go, nothing to ground him, and more power than he knew how to use.
None of this is good. D’Jenn wished he had time to get word to the Mage Tower, but things were moving too fast. The Sherriff would ride into town on the morrow and start asking questions. Aram and Kira were being held at the chapel, and the people of Rockman’s Ford were gathering in town. Raven was headed right into the midst of that chaotic brew.
No one in town understands the danger. They have no idea what’s coming for them.
D’Jenn rose from his crouch after he’d gathered his worries. He used magic to remove Merrick’s body from the tree. He burned it to ash with magical fire, muttering a prayer to the gods over the flames. Merrick burned in silence, and D’Jenn felt a twinge of sorrow as his soul left for the Void.
He gathered Merrick’s horse and headed for town. The night was as quiet as before, but D’Jenn kept his magical senses awake. The woods seemed threatening after the night’s events. D’Jenn was exhausted, but his determination was strong.
The town might need to watch out for Raven, but Raven needs to watch out for me.
Kill Them All
D’Jenn snapped awake the next morning as the sun filtered into the chapel.
His back ached from the hard floor of the church. Dust motes floated in the light cast through tall windows, illuminating a modest circle of wooden benches. The altar sat in the center of the chapel, with seven wooden statues facing outward—the gods minus Saarnok, Lord of Bones. Worship of Saarnok had long fallen out of favor with the church, though his name was still feared enough to be respected.
I wonder if Aram carved those statues.
D’Jenn rose from the floor and dusted his clothing. The doors to the chapel were still closed, though the chaplain would be along any moment to open them. Chapels in any town under the faith of the Church Victorious opened their doors at sunrise and closed them after dusk. D’Jenn had taken the chaplain’s offer for Sanctuary after leaving Aram’s cottage, much to the irritation of the old priest. Sanctuary was never refused by the faithful, though the chaplain had grumbled about young upstarts dragging old men from their beds.
Aram and Kira were locked in the stables, under the watchful eyes of a pair of townsmen. D’Jenn had debated trying to get in to speak with them, but he’d given up on the idea. Merrick had been right—Aram had no interest in seeing D’Jenn’s face again. There would be no explanations from him, and Kira wouldn’t speak without her father’s leave.
In the end, it didn’t matter—Raven would come for them. If he cared enough to return to their home, he’d care enough to come to town and free them, if he could. When he showed, D’Jenn would be waiting.
If he ever bloody shows.
He’d spent part of the night laying wards around the chapel. They weren’t dangerous defensive wards, just tiny spells that would alert D’Jenn if someone with Eindor’s Blessing passed by. The townsmen had given him odd looks while he paced the street around the chapel, muttering to himself and dropping pebbles in the dirt. If they’d had questions for him, they had declined to ask them.
D’Jenn had waited all night for the wards to trip, but there had been nothing.
Creaking metal announced the priest outside. D’Jenn wiped his face and walked to the door. He assisted the old man in opening the chapel, who thanked him with a quiet grunt and a nod. The chaplain took up a straw broom once the doors were open and started sweeping between the benches. D’Jenn walked to the double doors and looked at the street.
“No one’s roused just yet, young man, but that yard will be full of people come noon-time.”
D’Jenn turned to the sound of the old priest’s voice. “Is this where your people hold court, then?”
The priest nodded. “Everyone is entitled to speak their peace before the God of Justice, even here. What better place to tell one’s tale than beneath the eyes of the gods themselves?”
“Who will speak for the accused?”
The priest sighed and put the broom away. “I sent a rider to the capital requesting an Arbiter from the Order of Bast yesterday. The Sherriff will be here any moment, though. The law allows him to investigate and pass judgment himself, in the absence of an Arbiter.”
D’Jenn looked back to the street. “Do you think he will?”
“The Sherriff is not a kind man.” The priest joined D’Jenn at the doorway. “I’ve been in this town ever since I left the Cloister—maybe forty years. In that time, the County has been under the rule of the Robinton family. First Renalt, and now his son, Arnolt.”
“You don’t like them.”
The priest waved a dismissive hand. “I’m a man of the gods. It’s not up to me to speak on the worthiness of the nobility. My kingdom is one of the heart, and the eternal Void beyond.”
D’Jenn snorted. “What do you think the gods will say of the Robintons?”
“Only a fool claims to know the minds of the gods.” The priest walked to the side of the doorway and pulled out a rickety stool. D’Jenn helped him sit, and the priest thanked him with a pat on the hand. “It’s my back, you know. Gets stiffer every bloody year.”
“Are you nervous about today?”
The priest nodded. “About three years ago, the Sherriff came through Rockman’s Ford. Surveyed the farmland, took the names of anyone with skills. Renewed everyone’s oaths, that sort of thing.”
“What happened?”
“There was a boy—Jannick. He was no older than ten springs. Not a bad young man, but playful.” The priest sighed and looked over the chapel’s yard. “His friends dared him to steal a knife from one of the men-at-arms. It was wrong, I admit that, but nothing that a touch of hard labor wouldn’t fix.”
“The lad was caught?”
“Aye. The Sherriff thought it was important that he make an example. He had Jannick whipped for thievery.”
D’Jenn winced. “A boy of ten?”
“He still has the scars on his back.” The priest reached into his robe and took out a pouch of chewing leaf. “Arnolt’s father had just died, you understand, so it was important he assert his rule. His face was as empty as the night during the whipping. Today…well, I fear today will be little different.”
“What does the law say? You’re obliged to know that, right?”
The priest gave him a baleful look as he filled his lip with tobacco. “Don’t call my duties into question, young man. I’ve been a chaplain for longer than you’ve been alive.”
D’Jenn made a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry. It’s not the same everywhere.”
“Apology accepted. The law concerning sorcery is clear—sorcerers who use their power without harming anyone are exiled. Those who harm, whether directly or indirectly, are to be executed forthwith.”
“Just like that?” D’Jenn snapped his fingers. “Why so bloodthirsty?”
The priest sighed. “Do you think the Alderman of Rockman’s Ford could hold a sorcerer
in chains? Not even the Sherriff could do that. If they’re caught, they’re executed.”
“How?”
“There’s no standard method.” The priest spit to the side. “It’s never happened in Rockman’s Ford as far as I know. I’ve never heard of it happening in the County, for that matter.”
“One of the local boys told me the Alderman plans to burn people at the stake.”
The priest shook his head. “I would never stand for something so barbaric. If they must be killed, it will probably be hanging.”
D’Jenn gestured toward the rear of the chapel, where the stables were built. “You can’t hang them for using magic—they haven’t used any! Neither of them has the gift.”
The priest gave him a suspicious look. “Doesn’t matter. Shundovian law says that anyone who assists in breaking the King’s laws shall be punished as if they committed the acts themselves. I will speak in their favor, young man, but there is little else I can do. The law is clear.”
D’Jenn sighed and leaned against the door frame. “And if the killer shows up? What then?”
“The Sheriff will bring his men.” The old priest gazed into the street for a moment. “A search will be conducted, I’m sure.”
“How many men does the Sheriff have?”
“Ask him when he gets here, boy, I don’t know.” The priest softened the comment with a smile. “Did you find your friend, by the way?”
The sight of Merrick’s body flashed through D’Jenn’s mind.
“Aye, I found him.”
“Good.” The priest rose from the stool and walked back into the chapel. “I offered the gods something good this morning. I’ll spend the rest of the morning in prayer. Maybe the gods will listen, boy. It’s all we can do.”
“Maybe they will.” D’Jenn smiled at the old man and turned back to the street. “Maybe they will.”
***
Arnolt Robinton was a tall man in his early middle years. He had short hair and a neat, black beard. His only expressions seemed to be degrees of the same pensive scowl.
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