The Sangrook Saga

by Steve Thomas

  And there was a healer seated in a corner, wrapped in a red and white striped cloak. People were lined up for a moment of her time in exchange for an offering.

  After Darbo and Reylla excused themselves to bed, Pashel sat and watched her, wondering if he should take the opportunity to ease his roiling blood. It had been three days since his last full treatment, and every day added more risk. He watched as she sucked the pain from a man suffering arthritis. She closed a hunter’s wound. She helped a drunk sober up in time to walk home.

  One by one, those gathered in the great room trickled out. The healer’s queue emptied. She took a few minutes for a cup of wine and a plate of cheese, generously provided by the innkeeper of course, then stood and grabbed her walking stick. As she passed Pashel, she paused for a moment. “Do you need help, my son?”

  Out here, the Convergence was less intertwined, a natural consequence of having fewer people to soulbind with. A good healer was a conduit to a larger network, capable of diffusing physical and spiritual maladies away, but she wasn’t half as connected as the average acolyte. If he asked her to share the burden of his roiling blood, she would not leave unscathed, if she left at all. No, the right decision was to face his curse alone until he returned home where the priestesses and acolytes were better equipped to help him, and understood the cost to themselves. Besides, after Reylla had reminded him of the dark side of their religion, he’d had enough of the Convergence for one night.

  “No,” he said.

  With a nod, she said only, “All become one,” and Pashel stared into his empty cup until he could no longer hear the healer’s walking stick clicking against the floor.

  ***

  Pashel dreamed that night, alone in his bed. The nightmare was a familiar one that had plagued him as long as he could remember.

  He huddled in a cave. Blood rained from the sky, pooling at the mouth of the cave and flowing toward him. The wind howled like a banshee, and men screamed in horror and pain every time it sang. Pashel stood and backed away deeper into safety, away from blood and wind and terror. And then it all died down. Silence struck and a radiant hand reached out to him.

  But when he took the hand, accepted the help, thorns sprouted and enveloped him, squeezing his life away.

  Pashel snapped awake with a pounding headache and roiling blood, sweat dripping down his chest. He stumbled out of bed and groped inside his pack for his medicine. He swallowed a mouthful, not bothering to measure it out, and braced himself.

  His blood burned like an alchemist’s lab. His body steamed and convulsed as he screamed into his pillow. All he could think about was the pain, the isolation, the curse.

  At last, his body settled down. His breathing slowed, his heart fell back to a steady beat, and the pain drifted away.

  ***

  He awoke to a knock on the door. Pashel could sense that Darbo was on the other side and opened the door with a flick of the mind. Unlocking and unlatching were among the first spells an inquisitor learned. Pashel lay face-down on his bed and felt Darbo take a seat by his legs.

  “I sensed it when you woke up last night. That felt like a bad one.”

  “It will only get worse,” Pashel said. “This is a long mission.”

  “I’ll help you through it. We are brothers of the Order.” He chuckled to himself. “Well, I suppose I’m not going to be as useful as an acolyte…”

  Pashel groaned. He was in no mood for jokes.

  Darbo sighed. “She really got to you last night, didn’t she?”

  Pashel mustered the energy to sit up. “You know about my disease. I’m stranded out here with only half my medicine. You know it takes everything I have to stay clean. Remember my first mission?”

  Darbo nodded. “You killed the suspect because he wouldn’t confess.”

  “I lost control,” said Pashel. “The Convergence was telling me to capture him and bring him in for questioning, but something inside me needed to kill. I felt like an animal.”

  “It hasn’t happened since.”

  “Because I’m partnered with you now, and you understand me. I can rely on you to…” He trailed off. All these years in the Convergence, a web of telepathy and empathic magic, and he couldn’t even speak freely with a friend. “And now I have to deal with Reylla threatening to take me in just because I’m sick. I thought I was safe, and all it takes is one foreign Templar—”

  Darbo held up a hand. “You know, it’s a funny thing. The Great Pontiff is directly soulbound to the Converged God, and yet by the time his thoughts trickle down to us, we only hear what we want to hear. Our minds are stronger. Where Reylla comes from, the teachings are different. Who’s to say which one of us is right? We aren’t equipped to judge. But I believe in you. I remember when we were kids, and you couldn’t even pray without breaking out in hives. But now, with the rites and medicine every day, you’re a loyal, respected inquisitor. You’re winning. Whatever is inside you, whatever’s twisting your soul into knots, you’re beating it. Your mind is stronger. I spoke with Reylla last night. She understands now. She won’t speak against you again.”

  Hearing that was like drinking a glass of water after a long day in the sun. “Thanks, Darbo. I—”

  Darbo stood abruptly and trotted to the doorway. “Now put a shirt on. Just because we’re all soulbound together doesn’t mean we don’t need boundaries. And come eat your breakfast so we can get back on the road.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

  ***

  “We left them just like we found them,” said Rige, a watchman from Redbramble, through a drooping brown mustache. “We didn’t want to interfere with your investigation.” He had led them here after a quick breakfast.

  No one wanted to interfere with the Order of Haspeth. Except heretics, of course. A desire to hinder an inquisition was one of the many tell-tale signs of a heretic, at least among people like Reylla. Pashel, on the other hand, wished that people could get over their fear of being irrationally arrested so they could be of use to him.

  He surveyed the bodies. Six men still hung from the tree in the muddy valley between two hills. Four were young men in their prime, with broad shoulders and muscular torsos. One was old enough to be any of their father, and the last was so old he might have been dug out of a grave before being strung up. All six wore nothing but scars and tattoos, with the mark of the Despot carved into each chest.

  Indeed, they were just how Rige had found them. There was no trace of decay, not even a stench. No scavengers had fed from the dead. Pashel couldn’t even see an insect bite.

  “This is unnatural,” said Reylla. “Why would the Despot preserve these corpses?”

  “Because they aren’t dead,” said Pashel.

  Darbo scoffed. “So you’re telling me that six men walked up to this tree, hanged themselves, and what? Took a nap for a straight week? Or do they only climb back up into those nooses when someone is looking?”

  “We’ve had a man watching at all hours since we found them, sir,” said Rige. “It’s unwise to neglect an agent of the Despot, even a dead one.”

  “True words,” said Reylla. She circled the muddy ground around the trees with her eyes fixed on the men. “Where’s your witness?”

  “She won’t leave her house while these men hang,” said Rige. “She says she is too disturbed.”

  Reylla nudged at a dangling foot with the back of her hand. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Stop touching my evidence,” said Pashel. Reylla scowled and he shook his head. “Obviously, it’s some form of stasis spell. And stand still. You’re messing up the footprints. Look, they came in pairs, each pair from a different direction. The lines are perfectly straight. That corroborates the woman’s story. If they were being brought against their will, the tracks would show it. No one walks in a straight line to his own lynching. Besides, there are only two sets of tracks from each direction. And they weren’t carried because the footprints are too shallow and there’s no evidence that someone was ever off b
alance.” He crouched and rested his hands on his knees. “So that means the most likely course of events is that they came willingly and the stasis spell was cast just before they faked their deaths.”

  “Can you break it?” asked Darbo. “Maybe we can interrogate one of them.”

  Pashel nodded. He was well-versed in dispelling and counter-spells. In field work, inquisitors had two roles: intelligence gathering and providing anti-witchcraft support so the Templars would be free to drive steel through enemies of the faith. “Do you have a preference?”

  “The old man,” said Reylla. “I’d rather fight him.”

  “The old one is usually the witch,” said Darbo.

  “That’s why we have an inquisitor,” she said. Coming from anyone else, Pashel might have taken that as a joke, but her eyes were as cold as her voice. He shook his head and reached for the pouch of bone meal in his pocket. With it, he carefully drew the Three Points on the grass, large enough to fit his hand inside the triangle.

  With the Points drawn, Pashel took a sip of his medicine. It wasn’t a full dose, just enough to turn his stomach and calm his blood for the magic to come lest the conflict within him come to a boil. He shivered, then knelt, closed his eyes, and began the incantation for a general counter-spell. With any luck, he would revive the old man without taxing his own magical knowledge or tapping into the telepathic net of the Convergence. He had been taught since youth that there was no shame in drawing strength from the other members, but when it came to spell-casting, it had become a matter of pride for Pashel to succeed on his own.

  He let the magical power well inside his casting symbol, then channeled it through himself and probed at the hanged man. He was right that the man was alive. He felt the faint link of connection that all people shared. He felt also the spark of magical energy that both froze and sustained him.

  He heard Darbo’s voice faintly calling for him, but pushed the thought aside. He needed to focus. He let the magical energy wash over his target, probing for any chinks in the enemy spell. If it were an easy spell to break, he wouldn’t have to do much else.

  “Pashel.”

  And then he felt a sudden release, like leaning on a door that jerked open from the other side.

  This was a trap.

  “Pashel!” Darbo’s voice was louder, more insistent now. He felt a push on his shoulder. Then a shove.

  Pashel broke out of his trance as a flame arced over his head. He was on the ground; Darbo had tackled and pinned him. The grass to his side was scorched, and he felt a rising heat.

  “They planned for this,” said Pashel.

  Darbo rolled off him and both men hopped to their feet. The old hanged man was burning. His whole body glowed like coals and flames licked his eyes and shoulders. The rope around his neck smoldered.

  “What did you do?” shouted Reylla.

  “A basic general counter-spell,” said Pashel. “Clearly, the witch built a trigger into the stasis enchantment.”

  “You should have been prepared for that,” she said. Her sword and shield were in hand, and her shoulders heaved from the shock of the attack.

  “Not helpful,” said Darbo. “Rige, go back to town and deliver a message to the priest. Tell him that we’ve engaged the heretic’s soldiers and that we need more Templars.” He unsheathed his sword and raised his shield while Rige dashed away.

  As Rige ran, a cool wind filled the valley and the old man’s skin smoldered like the last coals of a fire. Then his eyes flared open once more. And they stared directly at Pashel.

  “Watch out!” shouted Darbo as a whirlwind of flame erupted at Pashel’s feet. The inquisitor leapt to the side, narrowly dodging incineration. He fell into a roll and tumbled back to his casting Points. He lay a hand in the center, cautiously watching for the witch’s next move. Darbo crouched, ready to pounce, while Reylla cautiously stepped forward and skewered one of the young men. Though her sword pierced his stomach, the blade pulled out clean.

  The witch’s old eyes lit up once more, but this time, he turned his head to the side. The cool breeze came again as the witch sucked heat from the air, and the grass all around them in that muddy valley yellowed, browned, and burned. A whirlwind of fire spun around the old man, churning and burning and expanding. Quickly, Pashel threw up an aura to protect himself and his companions from the flames.

  They were engulfed in fire for a few precious seconds, but Pashel’s magic kept the heat at bay. When it lifted, the old man and his four remaining companions were fully aflame like scarecrows in a burning field. One by one, their nooses turned to ash and they dropped to the earth.

  They charged.

  Darbo and Reylla launched themselves between the enemy and Pashel. The inquisitor, meanwhile, took a position at his casting symbol and threw up a cylindrical wall around himself. This wasn’t out of cowardice, but necessity. He would support them with magic of his own and control the fight from safety.

  Darbo and Reylla were partners in all things, and that included battle. They moved like a pair of wolves, each motion fine-tuned to strike at an enemy or protect the other. Darbo lashed out at a burning man while Reylla spun around his back to kick another enemy in the chest before he could summon a flame, while Darbo raised his shield to defend them both from another blast.

  Pashel surveyed the resources at his disposal. The valley was mostly empty save for grass and shrubs. There was no obvious source of water to douse the flames, even if magical fire could be drowned. He had only the earth itself, and so he called on it. He plunged his hand into the Three Points and a stone hand erupted to grab a burning man’s ankle. With a jerk, he dragged the man into the depths and left him there to suffocate.

  This got the old man’s attention. He turned his fiery eyes to Pashel and stalked toward the inquisitor, ignoring the Templars’ attempts to corral him. He circled the magic wall, deftly hopping over Pashel’s stone hands, scraping against the magic barrier with his finger to leave a trail of floating ash.

  Under the tree, Darbo and Reylla attacked with a coordinated pincer maneuver, their swords crossing through the gut of a burning man. But as the blades passed out the other side, they were red-hot and dripping. The man fell, but so did the molten blades. The wards Pashel had conjured would prevent their skin from feeling the heat, but their weapons and shields were too far removed. Now all they had were their shields.

  Two burning men were left, plus the leader whose eyes never left Pashel. Reylla bashed at one of them with her shield. It blackened and smoked, but held. How many more hits could it take? Darbo threw his shield at the same man, then launched himself at the other. He tackled and punched and kicked at the enemy as they wrestled and struggled for dominance.

  The old man marked his claim on Pashel’s full attention by spitting a fireball at his barrier. It spiraled like a ribbon around a maypole before finally sinking to the ground with a puff of light.

  The old man smirked, then bolted into a sprint off between the hills.

  Neither Darbo nor the man he had tackled were moving. Reylla was struggling against the remaining foe. Pashel could help them, but that would mean letting the old man, the leader, the witch, the heretic escape. It was either his friends or the mission, and the Convergence taught him that he would commune with his fallen friends again someday. There was only one choice.

  Pashel dropped his barrier and gave chase. Darbo and Reylla would have to fend for themselves. The old man led him through the valley and into a grove. Perhaps he hoped to lose Pashel amongst the trees, but his burning body exuded a beacon of smoke and left a trial of ash. There was no hiding.

  The scorched earth led Pashel to a river. The old man stood on the edge, his feet kicking up wisps of steam. He was still smiling. “You left your friends behind, inquisitor. Do you plan to fight me alone? Do you even know what it means to be alone?”

  Pashel didn’t speak. Instead, he drew his sword, clutched his prayer beads as a substitute casting implement, and advanced.

  Th
e old man laughed. “I’m glad it was you. Anyone else would have been a wasted effort.” He took a step back and plunged into the river in a cloud of steam.

  Pashel gave chase. He dove into the water, pushing aside the questions bubbling up into his mind. What would a heretic want with him? How had he arranged a trap for a specific inquisitor? These weren’t important. All that mattered was where the heretic went and how Pashel could catch him.

  The weight of his equipment was too much of a burden in the water. He dropped his sword and unhooked his belt, then pulled off his mail shirt and his padded tunic, leaving all his gear to to rust on the riverbed. The medicine was the only item of any true value to him. Perhaps he could return to recover it, but the mission was more important than his own health and he couldn’t swim in his armor.

  He followed the heretic through the river, the icy water washing the heat of battle from his skin. The old man dove beneath the surface and Pashel trailed him through a cavern. There was no where to come up for air, and yet the cavern went on and on. His lungs burned with exhaustion by the time he saw the heretic suddenly rise and leave the water.

  Pashel followed suit and emerged in a cavern. He gasped for air and crawled onto land to see that this place was no mere cave. A bookshelf of roughly lashed together driftwood leaned precariously against the stone wall. A mound of blankets served as a makeshift bed. Pots and pans were scattered about, along with books, scrolls, and scraps of vellum.