The Sangrook Saga

by Steve Thomas

  That was what the Inquisition did while mercenaries like Hale fought against Caeva Sangrook. The Inquisitor gave Hale a sidelong glance as he walked by. No doubt, he held demon hunters at the same level of disdain that Hale held for Inquisitors. It was an old rivalry.

  Hale sullenly ate his apple, hating the Inquisition as much as he hated his part in it. But they paid well and kept him fed, and he mitigated his service to a corrupt church by denying any contract to hunt a human. Still, he struggled to find any meaningful difference between the Inquisition and the Sangrooks, except that the Sangrooks didn’t dress up their savagery in the trappings of civilization.

  His mind had run this circuit a dozen times before. It always went the same, starting with doubts that he was on the right side, then doubts that there was a right side at all, and finally settling on a gurgling stomach and a passion for fighting. Hale wasn’t one for philosophy. He just wanted to kill demons.

  As his mind spun through the usual rationalizations and dilemmas, he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He spun, fully expecting to find a pickpocket or an accomplice taking advantage of the distracting parade. Instead, he found a spry old man still hanging on to a shock of white hair and practicing a friendly smile beneath a short-cropped beard. Unlike the flashy, militaristic garb of the Inquisition, he wore a humble wool tunic cinched by a hemp belt. His only sign of wealth and status was a bronze brooch emblazoned with the Three Points and pinned to his collar. It marked him as a priest, and Hale trusted the sigil; no one was stupid enough to impersonate a priest in sight of an Inquisition procession.

  The priest tapped Hale’s own medallion, the one that marked him as a demon hunter, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the Heart. “Could I trouble you for a moment of your time?” he asked.

  Hale shrugged and motioned for the priest to lead the way.

  ***

  Hale sat at a small wooden table with a cup of hot water and a plate of stuffed squash in front of him. He was in a private meeting room in a small abbey, the Church of the Converged God in Honor of Luray’s Memory. The Convergence loved their long-winded titles almost as much as they loved naming things after gods who no longer existed. Presumably this had originally been an abbey in the service of a god named Luray, whoever that had been. Or maybe Luray was a king allied to the Converged god, a notable abbot, or simply the man who fronted the money to build this place. Hale had no idea, but clearly there was something memorable about him.

  The priest, who’d introduced himself as Claren, sat across from him. For the past half hour, he’d dodged the question of what he wanted from Hale, and so Hale adopted the policy of saying nothing unless asked a question. So he bit into the squash without a word, waiting for Claren to get to the point.

  “What brought you to Vestige?” Claren asked.

  “Collecting a bounty,” said Hale. “Do you pay out?”

  Claren shook his head. “Why do you fight demons?”

  Hale took another bite and shrugged. “My father taught me how. I got good at it and the Inquisition pays well enough.” The priest’s eyes drooped at that answer, obviously disappointed. Hale continued. “They say I was born for it, that the Haberson clan has done nothing but fight demons for centuries, all the way back to when Kandis Haberson led the charge on Sangrook Manor. If my ancestors helped oust Crisaelva Sangrook, the least I can do is help keep the ghoul population down.” Claren held silent. “Were you expecting something more grandiose?” Hale asked. “Did you expect me to call myself a hero of the people, or tell you that I’m so moved by the word of the Converged God that I feel compelled to go out to fight his enemies?”

  The priest slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure what I expected.”

  “Why expect anything? Why am I here?”

  The priest fidgeted with his cup, turning it in his hands. “I was told to expect a bounty hunter with pale skin and ink-black hair. He would be wearing a ruby heart around his neck. I saw you in the market.” A smirk crept through his attempt at a stony gaze. “Somehow, you managed to stand out against a Penance Parade.”

  “Who told you to look for me?”

  “Why, the Great Pontiff himself. He’s either prescient or shockingly well informed.”

  “You mean the Grand Inquisitor.” No one had held the office of Great Pontiff since Grand Inquisitor Pashel had deposed him. Long ago, the Inquisitors were Convergence mages and detectives charged with rooting out heresy and leading the fight against dark magic. Now, though, the Inquisition was the Convergence, and the Grand Inquisitor ruled them both.

  “I meant the pontiff,” said Claren. “I represent the True Faith of the Converged God, not the Inquisition.”

  Hale groaned and rubbed forehead with an open palm. That was the end of his patience. The food was good enough to indulge an old man for a while, but he didn’t have time for a crackpot’s tales about a secret prophet. He could get that anywhere, and with a cup of wine. “Look, I appreciate the food and drink, but if you can’t pay the bounty and don’t have a job for me, then we’re done here.” He pulled his fur cloak from the back of his chair and slung it around his shoulders.

  Claren stood up and moved to block his path around the table. “There’s a job,” he said. “You’re going to kill Caeva Sangrook.”

  Hale laughed and buttoned his cloak. “What happened to storming the place with a thousand Templars like in the songs?”

  “I don’t have a thousand Templars,” said Claren. “I barely have a hundred, and Caeva would never allow an army to get that close. I need an assassin. I need a demon hunter.”

  Hale shrugged. “Fight a battle one hundred Templars couldn’t win. Sure, I’d love to show them how it’s done. Take me to your Great Pontiff and we’ll work out a fee.”

  With unshakable sincerity, the priest said, “As you wish. I’ll lead the way.”

  ***

  “One above all become one above all become one…” A stooped old man with a long beard and shaking knees paced back and forth behind a barred door, gibbering and wringing his hands.

  Five men sat cross-legged on the floor outside the cell. Their skin and clothes were a moldy green beneath a layer of dust, and their unblinking eyes glowed a faint blue. Hale pointed at one. “Who are they?”

  “Wardens,” said Claren. “They hide the Great Pontiff from the Inquisition and keep his madness from spreading. From the outside, he looks like he’s been excommunicated.”

  Hale raised an eyebrow at this. The Inquisition killed liabilities. It was odd to see the Convergence keep a man alive despite being such a risk. Perhaps these really were practitioners of the old religion.

  Hale leaned against the wall. “And that man in the cage is your Great Pontiff?”

  “He is the Great Pontiff,” said Claren. He deflated almost as soon as he said the words. “The Convergence is not what you think it is. It’s been corrupted by the Despot and his unholy servants, the Sangrook clan.”

  Hale pictured the procession earlier that day. He recalled his sympathy for the captives and his disgust at their treatment, and so his face was stone when he heard Claren’s revelation.

  “You don’t look surprised,” said the priest.

  Hale scratched the back of his neck, then pulled a ghoul’s ear from his pocket. “I killed three ghouls to save an innocent family from being carted off to Caeva’s dungeons. They hadn’t done anything wrong. I came back to Vestige to turn in the bounty, and the Inquisition greeted me with a parade of people being dragged to the Grand Inquisitor’s dungeons. I have a feeling they were innocent, too. So no, I’m not surprised that two cults doing the same shit to the same victims are run by the same assholes.”

  “That’s not exactly the way I’d phrase it,” said Claren. He waved to an acolyte and said, “Fetch the Great Pontiff his tea.” He turned back to Hale. “It just goes to show how bold the Sangrooks have become. We think the first Grand Inquisitor is the one who corrupted the Convergence. But to corrupt a soulbinding network as vast as the Conve
rgence takes time, and the True Faith formed to resist him. The True Faith survived. The line of Great Pontiffs is unbroken. We hide in the open, and I hope you understand that you must keep our secret.”

  “So what happened to him?” asked Hale, nodding toward the Great Pontiff.

  “He tried to infiltrate the Despot by Soulbinding a captive Sangrook thrall, but it didn’t go as planned. The Despot overpowered him and turned the binding around. Now he’s part of both webs, and his mind is being torn apart.”

  The acolyte returned with a steaming cup. Claren knocked on the barred door. “Your holiness, it is time for your daily treatment.”

  “One above all. All become one above all become one above all.” He continued his crazed chanting, then fell silent and turned an ear to Claren. He crept forward. Claren pushed the tea between the bars of the cell, and the Great Pontiff scooped it up and slurped it down. His posture straightened, his shaking limbs grew still, and the nonsensical chanting ceased.

  Hale asked, “What did you just give him?”

  “It’s a tonic we developed to rehabilitate the Despot’s thralls. It helps suppress their soulbinding to him and bring them back to the Convergence. It will grant him a few moments of lucidity.”

  The Great Pontiff approached the bars of his cell with a practiced poise. “Is this Haberson?”

  Claren bowed. “Yes, your holiness.”

  The pontiff turned to Hale. “Show me the Heart, son.”

  Claren nodded urgently at Hale, so he sighed and pulled the ruby heart out from beneath his shirt. The red gemstone glittered in his hand.

  The Great Pontiff flashed a wistful smile. “The Heart of Habrien. It’s real. The Converged God has finally answered our prayers. Have you ever been soulbound to anyone, Haberson?”

  “Never,” he replied.

  “The Heart should allow you to resist soulbindings.”

  “So my father told me.”

  “Have you ever tested it?” the Great Pontiff asked quickly, as if he knew his moment of clarity wouldn’t last. “Have you ever tried to soulbind? We need to know if it works.”

  Hale shook his head. “I’m not going to let one of your priests bleed me.”

  The pontiff scoffed. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Just a light binding. The fun kind. Tell me, do you prefer men or women?”

  Hale shrugged. “Depends on the man and the woman.”

  The Great Pontiff clapped his hands. “Good. Claren, find our guest an acolyte. See who’s available. If all goes well, proceed with the plan.”

  Claren bowed and gave the salute of the Convergence, splayed fingers that closed into a fist. “As you desire. All become one.”

  The Great Pontiff saluted back. “All become one. All become…” he trailed off, biting back the words, then retreated to his bedroll.

  ***

  Hale dressed himself and slid out of the bedroom while the acolyte was meditating in the nude. Claren was waiting for him in a chair in the hall.

  “Did you feel anything?” the priest asked.

  “A mouth around my cock,” said Hale.

  “No spiritual connection? No sense of the greater cosmos filling your soul? No empathy for the whole of mankind?”

  Hale shook his head and grinned. “How do you priests find time to worship your god between all the orgies and imprisoning your pontiffs?”

  Claren smiled back. “We block out an hour a day.” He was loosening up. That put Hale at ease; maybe he could work with this man after all. “Well, I think we’ve established that the Heart will shield you from soulbinding. In fact, I sensed the energy of the bond deflect away from you, like an open door waiting for anyone else to walk through. Do you understand what that means?”

  Hale clasped the Heart of Habrien. “Yes,” he said. “It means I can get close and put a sword in her. Now, about my fee…”

  “I’m sorry the Great Pontiff did not think to negotiate.”

  “The way I see it, this job will put me out of the demon hunting business for good. After all, a dead necromancer can’t send ghouls out to raid the countryside, which means I won’t have any bounties to collect. That doesn’t bother me, though. I can’t keep up with this life forever. I’d rather be the man who ends the Sangrook dynasty, so I’ll need somewhere to retire after I do. I want a plot of land and someone to teach me how to farm it.”

  Claren hemmed and hawed for a moment, then finally reached out a hand. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  Hale shook the proffered hand. “And you’re paying for our food and lodging.”

  “Of course,” said Claren. “Wait, our food and lodging?”

  “This isn’t the kind of job you do alone. I wouldn’t mind a priest at my side. Convergence magic can work wonders.”

  “And you think the two of us—”

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t already planning to escort me,” said Hale. “And not the two of us. The three of us.”

  Claren didn’t contest the accusation. Instead, he seemed to grow an inch. “Who else do you need?”

  ***

  There were many places to drink in Vestige, but only a few that welcomed demon hunters. Hale pushed his way through the door of Old Decker’s. Old Decker himself had died a few years back, but his son never mustered the strength to change the sign.

  Young Decker was behind the bar serving drinks in his grandfather’s deerskin apron. When he saw Hale, though, Young Decker dropped what he was doing and snaked his way over.

  “Hale,” he said with a clap on the arm, “What brings you to Vestige?”

  “Same as usual. Dropping off some trophies and getting ready to head back out.”

  “Who did you forget this time?” Decker asked as he uncorked a bottle of wine.

  “Dypha,” said Hale. “She around?”

  Decker whistled. “She’s stirring up trouble in the back.” He slid a glass of wine across the bar. “On the house. When the fight breaks out, be a doll and move the tables out of the way for me.”

  “No promises,” said Hale. He downed the wine and swam through the crowd until he reached an open room. The crowd was thinner here, but there were a few men gathered around a splintered wooden table. Dypha was seated there in front of a burly man with a saw-dust coated jacket and a brown beard that brushed his chest. A stack of coins and a dozen wooden mugs littered the table between them.

  Dypha was dressed like a humble merchant’s wife, with a red and white checkered, loose-fitting frock and her auburn hair pleated and drawn into a circle around her head. She carefully added a coin to the stack, tilted her head back, and swallowed a cup of wine while the scruffy onlookers cheered and exchanged bets.

  A grin crawled up Hale’s face when he saw her wipe her mouth on the back of her sleeve and slam the cup on the table. She sat up straight and smiled.

  Her competition was not so mirthful. “You’re cheating!” he roared. In a sweeping, unbalanced motion, he stood and flipped the table, sending coins and cups clattering across the floor. He kicked the table into the crowd and grabbed Dypha by the collar of her dress. The crowd went quiet at this. Yelling was one thing, and they would have egged on a fight between two men, but to see a carpenter physically threaten a merchant’s wife was too much even for their broad sensibilities. He ignored the stares and pulled at Dypha’s dress, trying to unseat her.

  She didn’t budge.

  “You see this?” He shouted. “Witchcraft! She’s using magic so I can’t lift her.”

  Dypha’s face had remained perfectly still throughout his display. “Why would I need magic?” she asked. “I have wine. Or rather, you’ve had wine. Quite a bit of it, so sit down, Breman. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  This broke the tension. The crowd laughed, mostly out of relief that Breman was too drunk and weak to lift her.

  That only made things worse. He swung at Dypha. Hale, along with most of the men present, moved to intervene, but Dypha caught the drunken fist in her hand and stood up, pushing Breman to his
knees as she rose. With a disapproving frown, she kicked him between the legs and left him writhing on the floor. There was another round of laughter and the crowd set to work settling the bets, leaving Dypha to collect her spilled winnings from the dirty floor.

  Hale approached and took a knee beside her. “You look ridiculous.”

  An annoyed face turned toward him, then melted into a smile when she recognized him. That smile… It always surprised him how much he’d missed it. “It’s called a hustle, Hale. I can’t exactly pull it off dressed like an artificer. No one would take the bait.”

  “An artificer is a bad bet. A woman of wealth and leisure, with nothing to do all day but drink the good stuff? That’s just a stupid bet.”

  She shook her head and took his arm. “And what brings a crusty old demon hunter to this fine establishment?”

  “Looking for you,” he said. He extended an arm to help her to her feet. “I have a proposition.”

  “Hale Haberson!” she said in mock outrage. It was like they hadn’t spent years apart. “That’s no way to speak to a woman of wealth and leisure.”

  “How is it you’re still the only artificer I know?” he mused, then grunted and turned toward the door. “You coming or not?”

  ***

  Outside, Dypha hooked a hand on Hale’s elbow as they walked together in the dim city light. To any observer, they might be clandestine lovers out for a midnight stroll. “I’ve been hired for a job. The job. I want you with me.”

  “Sounds profitable,” she said.

  “Profitable enough to retire on,” said Hale. “I asked for land, not money. We could settle down and run a farm. Taste a little peace.”

  “Oh, Hale,” she said. “You’re still holding out hope after all these years.”

  “How could I not?” he muttered. He’d never stopped loving her, and had never forgiven himself for losing her.