“What are you talking about?”
“A dove arrived this morning from our Prince! You murdered the Blue Priest! You are a messenger of Felzor!”
The enraged priest lunged at Traven. Knocking the man back, the Hero fled out a side door and onto the street. Unfortunately an angry mob had already gathered. Against just the priests, Traven might have had a chance to subdue them without harm, but this throng carried rocks and sticks. Running, the Hero prayed he could trust the Commander. If the man had been untrue in his admiration, Traven was already dead.
***
Crystalia threw herself down the street. The garrison was a long way, and she needed to find the Commander before any harm fell upon Traven. What was happening? She was the one nearly killed by poison, but the priests were blaming him. It was all too confusing.
All she knew was that Traven was in the gravest of danger. Crystalia had seen the priests in such fervor only once before. Years ago they had stoned a young novice and his male lover. She had been only seven at the time, but the memory was still fresh in her mind. The Commander was Traven’s only hope. The stern man had come to Last Hitch after the stoning and reined in the priests. The Commander would see that justice was served here, too. She was certain.
The sound of hoof beats rang from a side alley. Crystalia darted down the narrow passage and found several of the garrison’s men on foot and the Commander astride his steed. The guards tried to block her path, but she squirmed under their grasp and ran up to the older man.
“Sir, the Hero! First they tried to poison him. Now the priests mean to stone him. I’m certain of it! You need to save him!”
“Whoa. Child. What are you speaking of?”
“At the tea. It was tainted. The widow said so. Then the priests, they burst in with murder in their eyes,” Crystalia blurted out.
“Damn them.” The Commander turned to two of his men. “You take the package to the garrison. The rest, follow me!”
Before the Commander left, he turned back to Crystalia. “Child, the Hero might be needing his horse about now.”
Lauger, of course! Crystalia did not wait for the Commander to ride off. She was too busy sprinting towards Viola’s stable.
***
Traven could not hide long. The townsfolk knew these streets well, and the Hero was groping to remember which direction lay the town’s gate. Stumbling out into the main street, Traven recognized the area. It was the commons, the area where the Sacrifice was to have taken place. The altar had been reassembled, and by the look of the set-up, the priests were no longer content with a baby goat as an offering.
But to sacrifice a human? Such things had been shunned long ago. Nevertheless, Traven remembered the look in Cecil’s eyes. These priests were blinded by religious zeal. With the accusation against him, those men would not hesitate to slit his throat and call it devotion.
Traven tried to slip down a side passage, but it was clogged with townspeople. Each road poured out more angry citizens. The Hero spun around, looking for another escape route, but each one was choked with citizens armed with the utensils of their trade; the smith wielded a solid looking hammer, the baker shook a rolling pin and the banker — the very man Traven was to have dinner with — flaunted a sharp-looking quill.
Under any other circumstance, the Hero might have laughed. Unfortunately, these men and their unusual weapons meant him as much harm as an army equipped with lances. Backing up, Traven realized that he was being herded towards the common. With more and more people pouring into the streets, the Hero found himself trapped.
The priests arrived with a flurry of shouts. The crowd moved aside to let the red-faced zealots through. “Prepare the altar! The Winter King will have his due! The blood of the demon will wash away his crime!”
Traven gripped his sword more tightly. While the Hero wished these villagers no harm, he would not submit without resistance. Beyond fondness for his life, Traven had no desire to have his blood spilt upon the altar. With the fuel from his sacrifice, the Winter King would decimate the town. Last Hitch would just be another Fort — frozen and dead.
***
Crystalia rushed headlong into the barn. Lauger was agitated and stomped his foot as she opened the latch to his stall. The stallion did not scare her though. Traven needed her, and she would not fail him. She would throw herself onto pikes if it would benefit her love.
“Shh... it’s all right. Shh...” Crystalia slid the bridle off the hook and held it up for Lauger to sniff. “Please let me put this on. Your master needs you.”
The horse tossed his head but did not back away.
“Child, what are you doing here?” a man’s voice asked from behind.
Crystalia nearly jumped out of her skin as Lauger snorted menacingly. She turned to find Viola’s butler looking down his hawkish nose at her.
“I... the Hero needs...”
The servant looked around, then opened the stall door wider. “We must hurry. The Winter priests just left with Master Hammond. They mean to sacrifice the Hero.”
Heart in her throat, Crystalia nodded and inched towards Lauger.
“No, just let him have his head. He’ll find Traven.”
“But his saddle and gear, won’t he need —”
The man put a hand on her shoulder. “Child, if we saddle the horse, the others will know we assisted Traven. They will slit our throats as surely as they will his.”
Crystalia’s words were brave, but her hands shook. “I don’t care.”
“Traven would not want you hurt in his stead. He knocked the poisoned cup from your hand. If he were here, he would tell you to take care.”
How Crystalia wished she could be more brave. She wished the Commander or Traven had told her exactly what to do. Everything was happening too quickly.
“But he’ll need shelter and food...”
The servant shook his head. “Getting him his horse will have to be enough.”
Tragically, Crystalia had to agree. But there had to be more they could do. “Go to old mare’s stall. Get her blanket and oat bag.” Crystalia turned on her heel.
“Now!” she shouted to the butler as Traven had to her. There was no time to argue. The blanket would afford a little more warmth, and, in a pinch, Traven could eat the oats.
Quickly Crystalia hooked the large horse blanket over Lauger’s back and slipped the oat bag over his neck, letting it dangle. The servant opened the barn door, and Crystalia slapped the horse on the rump.
“Get out! Go! Shoo!”
Lauger did not need much encouragement. As soon as he smelled the excitement in the air, the horse was off like an arrow, nearly flying down the cobblestones.
“Thank you,” Crystalia said to the butler before she, too, bolted into the alley. The girl ran down the street, then took the next alleyway — a shortcut to the commons. With every fiber of her being, she prayed for Traven. Prayed that the gods loved him as much as she did.
***
“What in the gods’ names is going on here?” the Commander bellowed.
Traven released a long-held breath. Finally there might be some end to this madness. A few of the townsfolk had tried to charge him, but the Hero had repelled them without much injury. Nevertheless, the rabble was getting braver and ready to sacrifice their neighbor upon his sword so they might mob him. The Hero had seen this ploy work too many times in too many towns against too many good Knights.
Cecil waved the parchment as if it were written by the Winter King himself. “The Hero is a traitor! He murdered the Blue Priest! Read for yourself.”
The Commander ripped the paper from the man’s hand, his eyes rapidly scanning the paper. “What say you, Hero?”
Before Traven could answer, Cecil screamed, “Liar!”
“Enough!” the Commander bellowed. “I will not have this —”
A scream rose from the back of the crowd and spread like wildfire as a horse was dragged forward. On its back was slung the wrapped body of the dead girl
.
“This is the Hero’s work! He means to kill us all!”
The mob roared with fury and surged forward. Only Lauger’s wild charge into the commons prevented their onslaught. The black stallion flailed with his hooves and kicked viciously at the crowd. Blood splattered on the cobblestones, scaring the populace back a few steps. In a single motion, Traven swung himself up onto Lauger’s back, not caring where the blanket or oat bag had come from.
The Commander tried to regain control, but the throng was a force unto itself.
“Burn him!” Cecil screamed, and the crowd immediately picked up the cry.
Waves of hysteria crashed over Traven. The mob had crossed the line. They were ready for blood on their hands. The Hero could feel it. The Commander must have sensed the shift in mood as well, for the older man waved to the guards, and the gate creaked opened.
The Commander clenched his jaw. “There will be no human sacrifice. It was not he who committed this horrible crime.”
“He’s blinded you. The Winter King has spoken to me!” Cecil ranted, half-mad with power and ale.
Traven tried to keep Lauger from bolting out the gate. The Hero would give the Commander a chance to calm the crowd, but if the wind shifted, he would make for the gate.
The Commander looked over the crowd, which seethed with rage. Finally, the older man sighed and gave Traven a look of apology before speaking. “Then I invoke the Shaladar. We will deliver him back to the Plains.”
Cecil ran at the Commander. “Never. The Winter King will have him!”
The Commander’s horse danced away from the priest as he drew his sword. “Then the King shall have him. Or do you think the god not capable of meting out his own justice? Do you now act for the god as well as speak for him?”
The priest’s face flushed a brilliant red. His veins throbbed, and his cheeks bellowed in and out like a prairie grouse. Traven carefully urged Lauger towards the now-opened gate. The Commander took advantage of the priest’s inability to articulate his rage.
The Commander stared into the priest’s eyes. “He is banished. Does anyone oppose my order?”
“I want —”
Cecil stopped mid-sentence as the Commander’s sword flicked to his neck. The priest had to stretch his chin skyward to keep the blade from biting his skin.
“I ask again. Does anyone oppose my order?” This time no one stepped forward. The Commander swung his horse about to face Traven.
“Last Hitch banishes thee.” The Commander held Traven’s eyes as his tone dropped. “Do not bother traveling west or south, they will know of the priests’ wrath.” The next three words, he pronounced carefully. “It is done.”
Traven opened his mouth to reply, but a rock flew from the throng, hitting Lauger squarely in the flank. The warhorse sprang forward as another hail of stones pelted them both. Digging in his heel, Traven urged Lauger towards the gate. Given his head, the horse charged out the gate.
But which way to turn? What had the Commander meant? The only path left to Traven was either north or east. To turn north was certain suicide. The Ice Scabs and Blinding Storms hailed from that direction. There was a reason this town was called Last Hitch. To the east was no better. The Plains stretched out, unbroken, to the rocky coastline. There was no port, no seaside town to offer shelter. Just miles of barren cliffs at the water’s edge. What was the Commander thinking?
The Hero had no pack, no saddle, no coin. Traven was leaving the damnable town worse off than he’d come, but in a strange way, he was giddy. The Hero had his life, and that was more than many a branded heretic had left. Now his survival was in the hands of the Winter King. Traven shook his head. He had best enjoy the little time left to him, for the Hero was fairly certain the snowy god knew how to hold a grudge.
***
“No!” Crystalia screamed as Lauger’s tail disappeared past the gate.
Edging her way through the incensed mob, Crystalia broke free and ran out into the snow banks. Lauger’s slick black coat stood out against the white, but the warhorse was charging away, his rider never looking back.
“No!” The girl sobbed as she threw herself to the ground.
It was not supposed to end like this. Where was the long, tearful good-bye? Since the moment she’d met him, Crystalia had dreamed of their parting. The Hero was to have encircled her with his arms. Time would have stopped, she was certain of it. How could her fellow citizens have been so cruel? Did they not know this Hero was her love?
Mr. Brandley spat into the snow. “I hope the Scabs get ’em.”
Crystalia’s rage found a target, “He’s done nothing to you! He was good and noble and fought to save us all.”
“You’d think so, you little harlot!” Mrs. Levins screamed.
Mr. Brandley kicked snow in her direction. “Whore! Traitor!”
Crystalia cringed as the townsfolk vented their frustration at her. A rock flew through the air, catching her on the forehead. As she curled into a ball, dozens of stones pelted her. Blood flowed from her cut and blinded her. How could the day have gone so horribly awry? Her own town meant to kill her. Not once in a day, but twice. What insanity plagued Last Hitch?
“Get away!” the Commander shouted as he grabbed the back of her dress and hauled her up onto his horse. The Commander spurred into the wedge of townsfolk and they scattered like autumn leaves under a stiff wind.
“Who are you?” the Commander bellowed at Mr. Brandley. The man stood frozen, a blank expression on his face. “A stoner of the innocent? A fear-driven fool?” The Commander brought his horse around. “Which is it?”
No one offered an answer. The townsfolk began to mill, and the few lucky souls who were on the outer edge bled into the alleyways, away from the Commander’s rage.
“Curfew begins immediately. Anyone caught outside their homes in one half hour will be imprisoned. Have I made myself clear?”
On his mark, the guards moved in on the crowd. Coming to their senses, most of the throng melted away until soon only the priests and a few stubborn men stayed in the commons. Crystalia clung to the Commander’s shirt as he urged his mount across the square.
“Anyone caught outside,” the Commander said to Cecil.
“You can’t —”
“Please. Challenge my authority. I long to arrest you, priest. Those townsfolk can turn on you just as quickly as they did the Hero.”
Cecil and the other priests stood defiant, but Crystalia could see their hands shaking and the paleness of their skin. After a moment, the priests broke and rushed towards their temple. Once the last of the crowd was dispersed, the Commander guided his horse towards Crystalia’s shop.
It was then that Crystalia realized she was with the man who had doomed her love. Before she could think, Crystalia pounded her fists on his back.
“You! You’ve killed him!” she sobbed.
The Commander turned on her, but rather than anger, the man’s face wore a look of exhaustion. “He’s safer out there than he is here, child.”
Crystalia prepared another insult, but he patted her clenched fist. “Think on it. If Widow Masser could be prevailed upon to poison the Hero, what chance would he have? Each morsel, each sip, he took could have been his last.”
“But she warned —”
The Commander’s face turned stern. “Do not be so blind, Crystalia. There are others in this town who would gladly let you die if it gave them a chance to strike down Traven.”
It could not be true! Crystalia wished her ears could clamp shut, so that she could never hear another word about poisons or sacrifices. But as much as she wanted to deny the Commander’s words, the girl knew them to be true. Still, the Hero’s fate weighed upon her soul. If out on the barren Plains, with naught but a horse blanket was safer, what chance did Traven have?
***
Jory entered the garrison and waved off the soldiers scurrying to do his bidding. He wanted to have nothing to do with them. Frustrated, he took the steps two at a time, hurr
ying to be alone with his thoughts. His anger was so great that it nearly blinded him. And that would serve no one. He needed to use his anger to uproot the evil that so cleverly manipulated the day’s events.
Their plans had succeeded so splendidly that Jory thought to check his own coat for puppet strings. His men had not found the child’s body. It was left for them to discover. The poison in the Hero’s tea was but one of several schemes to undo Traven. The plots had followed one right after the other with frightening precision. Jory was certain the mysterious letter declaring the Blue Priest’s murder would now be “lost” in the confusion, never allowing its authenticity to be verified.
Slamming his fist upon the desk, Jory grabbed his spyglass and searched out the window across the Plains. Far off to the east was a glint of black. Traven.
Jory sighed. At least the Hero had taken his advice and headed east. Not that the old man was certain the east meant any safer passage than the others, but something in Jory had been changed by the Hero’s arrival. Long-stifled memories were resurfacing, and old stories took on new urgency.
Decades ago, long before Jory had even received his lieutenant stripes, there were tales of the East. The most adventuresome had claimed that one of the seven Folds laid out upon the wasteland. It was those stories and his own sense of desperation that had swayed the Commander to send the Hero east. Jory only hoped that he did not live to regret it his advice.
*****
The seed is planted
Tears flow
A bond is forged
*****
CHAPTER 4
7 Folds of Winter Page 6