by Dorian Hart
Less than a half hour’s walk from the Arch the group broke free of the forest. A gusting and salty breeze slapped Tor in the face, while gulls wheeled and cried overhead, riding the wind. He stood at the bottom of a long grassy slope that rose to a wide cliff overlooking the sea, and when Tor shaded his eyes to block the rising sun, he saw a stone building perched there upon the bluff.
“It’s a church of Brechen!” he said.
“Stands to reason,” said Dranko. “It is a fishing village, after all.”
“Why would a fire worshipper be heading toward a church of the Sea God?” Morningstar wondered aloud.
“’Cause he likes fish?” said Dranko.
Who knew what dangers could lie ahead? By unspoken agreement they trudged up the hill. Tor sped his stride until he was out in front, then drew his sword. No one objected.
The increasing grade of the slope forced them to veer away from the church building as they approached. They crested a final weedy rise and struck a wide gravel path that snaked away from the church, tip-toeing along the cliff top back toward the heart of the town.
The building itself was unassuming as churches went, solid mortared stone inset with small stained glass windows, predominately blue and green. The largest of these displayed a series of foam-topped waves, and from the tallest wave an arm was extended, gripping a sea-blue sword.
“Services to Brechen are at sunrise and sunset,” said Tor. “My father…” He bit his lip. “I mean, since I grew up on an island, we revered Brechen most among the Travelers.”
“Hope someone’s still here then,” said Kibi.
“Should we knock?” asked Ernie.
“Depends,” said Dranko, keeping his voice low. “Are we charging in with weapons drawn, or is this more of a friendly social call?”
“We’re here for information,” said Aravia. “We can always resort to violence if we’re pushed to it.”
Tor struck the door several times with its teardrop-shaped brass knocker. When no one came after two minutes, he knocked a second time.
“No one’s home,” said Dranko. He tried the handle, but the door didn’t open. “Aravia, can you—”
A rasping sound came from inside, as of a bar being lifted. The wooden door swung inward. There, looking out, stood a tall, heavyset man with a coarse grey beard, just as Morningstar had described, though he was wearing a long sea-green frock over a light blue shirt. Ocean waves had been stitched up and down the panels of the frock.
His eyes fell upon Tor, who was still holding his sword unsheathed, and he took a quick step backward. His hands went up in a gesture of supplication.
“I’ve got no valuables here, good master!” he exclaimed. “But this house is protected by Brechen, the Seablade, Master of the Waves, so tread ye armed across my threshold at your peril!”
It took Tor a second to understand that he himself was causing this reaction. He quickly sheathed his sword.
“We aren’t bandits!” said Ernie. “We only want to come in and talk.”
The bearded priest lowered his arms and gave them a searching look. “You’re not from the village, of that I’m certain, but in my long years here I’ve had no visitors such as ye. From where do ye hail?”
“We hail from Harkran, mostly,” said Dranko. “That’s a long way from here, and our feet are pretty sore, so we’d appreciate it if we could come in, sit down, and have a chat with you. Might we know your name, father?”
“Travelers are always welcome in the house of Brechen,” said the man. “I am Father Hodge, humble servant of the Seablade. But if you would come upon His holy ground, I must ask you to leave your weapons outside.”
“No offense,” said Dranko, “but given that your God is called the Seablade, I’m sure He wouldn’t mind us holding on to our stuff.” He took a small step forward and inched his foot into the doorway. “Father Hodge, we need to talk to you about where you were last night, and what you saw, and we’d like to do it in as civilized a fashion as possible.”
Tor was delighted that Dranko had cut to the chase so quickly. He expected one of two things to happen next: either Hodge would make a run for it, maybe to a hidden back door out of the church, or he’d launch an attack, probably with some kind of magical unholy fire, but instead Hodge stared at them for about three tense seconds before his expression nearly collapsed in relief.
“Are you sure ye weren’t followed?” he asked, bending forward and speaking quietly. “The townsfolk…they…”
“Yeah, we know,” said Dranko. “And no, we weren’t followed.”
“And you’ve seen it, with your own eyes?”
Dranko nodded.
“Then come in, quickly, and keep your weapons. I’d feel safer that way.”
Tor’s arm and back muscles relaxed. He had been fully prepared for a melee, thinking that Father Hodge was responsible for the strange ritual in the woods, but all things considered this was preferable. He followed Father Hodge into the church. The priest of Brechen poked his head outside one final time after they were in, then hastily closed and barred the door.
The church was nothing like the enormous shrine to Brechen in his father’s castle back home. This one was mostly one room, small as naves went, with only a single line of wooden pews. The stained glass, attractive as it was, didn’t admit much light, but six large hanging braziers had been lit along the walls. Hodge motioned for them to sit in one of the pews, and he stood in the adjacent row so he could face them.
“Are you here about the arch?” he asked.
“Yes!” said Tor, assuming that Dranko had already broken the ice on the topic. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Only what I’ve seen with my own eyes,” said Father Hodge. “Every night the same. Thirty come from the town, a different thirty each time. They come a-wandering up to the woods in their nightclothes just afore midnight. Like sheep they are, sleepwalkers all, unmindful of cold or rain. The arch—you know about the arch—it lights up and throws off heat, but the folk aren’t burned. When the light dies down again, the folk stagger back to their beds, and have no memory of it the next morn. But they’re tired, weak. Whatever’s happening, it’s drawing life out of those poor people.”
“And how did you find out this was going on?” asked Dranko.
Father Hodge started to answer but checked himself. “How do I know I can trust ye?” he asked. “Will ye swear on Brechen’s name, under His roof, that you’re not mixed up in this business? That you’re not involved in what’s causing this devil’s work?”
“We swear!” said Tor. “On Brechen’s sword, I swear we’d like to help those people and figure out what’s going on.”
“Good then,” said Father Hodge. “I’ll tell ye.” He paused, looking at each member of Horn’s Company as though trying to gauge their merit. “There was a man. He had lived in town a long time, a quiet man of middling years who came to services twice every week. Never thought much about him, but he seemed harmless enough. Nearly three months ago he stayed behind after sunset services and told me he had something urgent to discuss. I’d never seen him so distraught. His name was Levec.”
“Oh!” said Tor. “We were hoping to find him.”
Aravia sighed.
“I can’t help ye with that, friend,” said Father Hodge. “Levec, he told me that some powerful person had sent him to town years before, to keep an eye on an ancient arch in the forest. Said it had great magic and could be used to ill purpose. Now everyone in town knows about the arch in the woods, but it was just a curiosity from a forgotten age. We’d never seen anything magic about it. But Levec told me he had made some terrible discovery about the arch and needed to sail to Lanei to learn more. He urged me to visit the arch each night at midnight, stay well hidden, and observe everything I saw. Told me to keep a journal of which townsfolk visited each night, or as many as I could tell in the dark. Had me note how long that infernal glow stayed lit, and anything else I thought worthy of his interest. He’d be back,
he said, soon as he could. Levec was on the next merchant ship when it departed, and that’s the last I’ve seen or heard of the man. But I’ve been doing as he asked, night after night, and I guess ye know what I’ve seen out there. Do you know what devilry is cooking?”
There wasn’t any reason not to tell Father Hodge everything they knew, and indeed Tor had already opened his mouth to start, but Dranko spoke first.
“Not exactly. In fact, it sounds like you already know more than we do. I’d love to see the notes you’ve been taking.”
“And one question,” said Aravia. “Why were you wearing red robes last night instead of something Brechenish?”
Father Hodge laughed. “A suspicious lot are ye, but I can’t blame ye for that. The nights are chilly in the woods, as I realized after a few trips out for Levec. My religious raiment is not much for keeping a man warm.” He grabbed his blue frock and rubbed its thin fabric between finger and thumb. “But afore she passed on, blessed be she now in the ocean’s arms, my wife knit me a warmer set of robes, and her favorite color was always red. I pray that the Seablade be not offended, but I’ll be no good to Him if I die of chill.”
“I guess not,” said Dranko.
“If you’ll wait here,” said Father Hodge, “I’ll bring ye my notes. They’re locked away safe in my office as I can’t discount that one of my congregation is behind this strange business.”
He slid himself out from between the two rows of pews and walked down the aisle to the sanctuary, then opened a small door there and disappeared inside.
“This is working out better than I expected,” said Ernie. “He’s the next best thing to Levec, I guess.”
“I still don’t trust him,” said Dranko. “His story is too…too neat. And for someone so worried, he trusted us too quickly.”
“I agree with Ernie,” said Tor. “Dranko you should learn to…to trust—”
Another thought appeared in his head, the way thoughts sometimes did, a rabbit poking its head out of a hole. “Oh. Wait.”
“What?” asked Morningstar.
“Just something I remembered about priests of Brechen. They’re not allowed to be married. I don’t even think they’re allowed to have been married. Something about being married to the sea, and Brechen’s wrath if—”
“Crap!” said Dranko. “I knew it. He’s probably running away right now!”
The office door opened, and Hodge stepped out, holding a paper in one hand.
“Oh,” said Tor. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Nifi Infernix!” shouted Hodge.
All six of the hanging braziers erupted into blooming fireballs that roared upward to scorch the ceiling. Tor instinctively closed his eyes and shielded his face from the oven-blast of heat. When he opened his eyes again the air had become translucently orange, an effect not unlike what they had seen beneath the arch the previous night. Up on the top step of the sanctuary, Hodge was waving his arms and chanting.
“You were saying?” Dranko growled.
Tor only experienced the shame of poor judgment for a second before it was overcome with a jubilant realization of how simple things had just become. He reached to draw his sword.
He couldn’t. His arm would hardly move, and for that matter his legs had become nearly paralyzed. All he could do was turn his head—barely—and doing so revealed that his friends were experiencing the same effect.
Also it was growing warmer, rapidly.
“Infidels!” Hodge bellowed. “I have long been ready for an intrusion such as this. Levec told me his full tale before his bones blackened for the glory of the Burning God. There is no power in your tiny land to hinder our return.”
The temperature rose further, drawing out sweat all over Tor’s body, and even as he struggled to take a single step toward Hodge, he wondered if it might get so hot as to set him and his friends on fire, and the thought of Aravia dying that way filled him with rage, but his anger was useless against Hodge’s spell; it was as if his whole body were immersed in a hot, thick glue that had nearly hardened.
“Great Lord Nifi, God of Fire and Destruction, I make of these foolish interlopers an offering. I pray they hasten our crossing as the prophecies foretell!”
Morningstar shrieked; she was trying to bring up her hands to cover her face, but her arms moved in slow motion, and the others were crying out, though Tor could barely hear them over the roaring of the braziers. The heat was most definitely increasing as Hodge continued to chant, and Tor attempted another step, and was strong enough to make a few inches of headway, but it was hopeless, he’d never escape the scorching light before he went up in flames, and his dreams of Horn’s Company saving the world from the evil emperor were coming to an excruciating end. He had let everybody down.
Two arms grabbed him around the waist and lifted him off the ground. Someone was trying to make sure he couldn’t escape the heat; he tried to squirm from their grasp.
“Hold still, Tor!”
It was Kibi! The stonecutter had lifted him up and was now staggering toward the end of the pew.
“Aravia says the braziers are focusin’ Hodge’s magic,” Kibi gasped. Tor marveled that Kibi could move at all. Step by step Tor was carried toward the wall, and Kibi coughed and spluttered as he set Tor down beneath the brazier, but even as Tor struggled to raise his arms, he realized it was just out of his reach, because while in ordinary circumstances he could have easily jumped up to grab it, Hodge’s miasma of searing air was too potent.
The ends of Kibi’s beard were curling, but he picked up Tor again, this time wrapping his arms around Tor’s thighs, and with what must have been a superhuman effort he hoisted Tor into the air, raising him over a foot off the ground.
“Grab it, lad! Tip the damn thing over!”
Tor raised his arms. His whole body was in hot, stinging pain, but he managed it, hooking the fingertips of both hands over the lip of the brazier just as Kibi’s strength gave out, and gravity worked in their favor; as Tor dropped to the floor, the brazier tipped over and poured out several dozen tiny red stones, falling upon Tor and Kibi and burning like hot coals from a campfire, but as they spilled out of the brazier, the orange light that was baking him alive went out.
Master Elgus had often required Tor to swing a double-weight sword for several minutes before sparring because after growing used to an overweight weapon, his muscles would feel that much stronger once his real sword was back in his hand. Having had his limbs mired in Hodge’s thick, burning light, Tor’s entire body now felt powerful, buoyant, liberated, and putting aside the pain from his burns, he rushed down the aisle beside the wall, drawing his sword as he ran.
Hodge’s expression had gone from jubilant to angry. The servant of Nifi raised his arm and launched a melon-sized ball of flames from his fingertips, so Tor kicked off the wall and dove down behind the second row of pews, hearing the fireball crackle overhead and explode against the wall behind him, and a shower of sparks fell sizzling into his hair and onto his clothes, but it had clearly missed, so undaunted he leapt to his feet, and there was Ernie dashing down the opposite aisle. Hodge turned and bolted for the door to his sanctuary, slamming it shut just as Tor and Ernie reached it together, and though Tor led with his shoulder, which should have busted it wide open, Hodge had barred the door from the inside, so Tor bounced off and the impact on his burned skin made him scream.
Even so, he was prepared to fling himself at the door as many times as it took to flush out Hodge, but that was not necessary. Aravia shouted from the back of the church and Hodge’s office door exploded from its hinges. From the corner of his eye Tor saw Aravia flying backward through the air, landing awkwardly on a pew several rows back.
Filled with fury, he brought up his sword and stepped toward Hodge, who stood defiantly inside his small office.
“It matters not what ye do to me, lad,” said Hodge. His right hand was glowing a cherry red. “It’s set in motion as Nifi demands, and our armies will burn your toy kingdom
to the ground.”
“We’ll see about that!” shouted Ernie, standing next to Tor with Pyknite in his hand. “There won’t be any—”
Hodge punched the air in front of Ernie, and a blazing ball of light burst at the baker’s chest. Ernie sailed backward out the door, trailing smoke.
“So shall suffer all of the Burning God’s enemies!” said Hodge, turning to Tor. “His purging fires will cleanse the—”
Tor didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence; he jammed the point of his sword into Hodge’s throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ERNIE’S SMOKING BODY soared from Hodge’s office. Tor emerged immediately after, blood smeared on the end of his sword. His skin was pink and raw, and looked as though it had been daubed with red paint in a dozen different places.
Kibi prayed that Ernie was still alive. He rushed down the aisle toward the front of the nave. “Is he—?”
“I killed him,” said Tor, but the boy’s voice was frantic. “Dranko! Ernie’s badly hurt! Hodge hit him right in the chest!”
Dranko groaned. Like Tor his skin was blistered, but he stumbled into the aisle and hurried to the front of the church. Morningstar had curled into a ball on the floor, and Aravia was sprawled over a pew in the back. She must have miscast her door-busting spell and knocked herself silly. Hodge’s fire had done a number, and no mistake.
Tor was right about Ernie. The baker had a horrific burn upon his chest, about as bad as Kibi had ever seen. Hodge’s fire blast had seared a hole right through Ernie’s shirt, and his skin was a sludgy black and pink mess.
“You can channel again, right?” asked Tor. “You have to save him!”
“I don’t know!” Dranko barked. “Just calm down. When I…when Mrs. Horn died, Grey Wolf was right in my face and I couldn’t concentrate. Give me some peace!”
Tor shut up right away. Hard to blame him for being in a panic, though.