Sanctuary (Dominion)

by Kris Kramer

  "Shhh!" Pepin held up his hand, listening. "Horses!" he whispered.

  Ewen hurried to the north window and peeked out. "God help us,” he muttered. “God help us! There’s someone on a horse out there, at the edge of the village. With a torch. They're circling around, looking for her."

  Pepin shot up from the ground and grabbed his pack. He hurried to the south door and cracked it open.

  "How many?" I asked.

  "I see two of them now,” Ewen said. “They’re coming closer."

  “One on this side,” Pepin whispered.

  "It’s the Irish!" Ewen said, his eyes bulging. "We should go, now!"

  "How?” I asked, pretending to be calm, even though my insides churned. “We’re surrounded.”

  "We wait until they give us an opening,” Pepin said, still peeking outside. “Then, we sneak out and make a run for it.”

  Ewen nodded in agreement. “They’ll kill us if they find us in here with her."

  “If we try to escape with her, they’ll hear us. She might scream again.”

  “Then we leave her!” Ewen whispered forcefully. “Let them find her and they’ll never know we were here.”

  I stood my ground. “I didn’t come this far just to leave her behind. Not after all we’ve been through.” Ewen and Pepin looked at me like I was crazy, and the furtive glance they gave each other made it even worse. But I wouldn’t be cowed.

  "Daniel-" Pepin said, before I cut him off.

  "I'm supposed to be dead," I said, squaring my shoulders, daring them to interrupt me. "I should have died in Rogwallow. Or in Eoferwic. But God spared me both times, and this," I pointed to the woman, "is my best hope for understanding why. I don't know what these men outside intend to do with us, but I do know this - God didn’t bring me all the way out here just to be cut down by heathens.”

  I moved next to the woman, and held out my hand. She looked at it curiously, then took it and stood up, waiting next to me. I hoped what I said was true. These Irishmen could be brutal savages, who would just as soon slay us and stick our heads on a pike for daring to cross their lands. But if that were true, why was the woman still alive? Did she hold power over them? I looked at her, and my mind drifted back to the dream I had in Eoferwic. This wasn’t the woman I dreamt of. That woman was beautiful and regal, though sad. This woman seemed broken in every sense of the word. But that didn’t make her any less important.

  “I should run,” I began, “But I can't, because my life is no longer mine. It belongs to God." More words I hadn’t meant to say, but they seemed to fit perfectly now that I’d spoken them. "If you two are able to make it out of here, then you should go. But I’m staying here with her, and I will trust in God to protect us."

  We turned and faced the front door, and I listened for the sound of footsteps running out the door behind me. But I heard none. They’d decided to stay, and I was grateful for that. I only hoped I hadn't doomed them.

  The sound of hoof steps drew near, along with muffled shouting, and I felt the woman squeeze my arm, though her eyes never left the floor. A long, tense moment later, the front door flew open, and several tall men strode inside, warriors, dressed in dark colors and carrying torches that sent long, sharp shadows dancing about on the walls behind us. They wore layers of black-stained wool and leather, but no armor, though they carried swords at their side. They saw us immediately.

  "She's in here!" the first one through the door shouted, holding his torch up to see the four of us better. "And she isn't alone!"

  Swords came free of their scabbards, and I felt my chest tighten, as did the woman's grip on my arm. I glanced over to see her head swaying back and forth slowly, a faint hum escaping her lips. I backed up a step without thinking, then stopped, determined not to run away.

  A total of eight armed men entered the church, each of them dangerous and severe, ready to attack if we gave them a reason to. The ninth person, however, was a small, thin man, slightly hunched, with sinewy, tattooed arms that showed through a sleeveless robe. He wore a thick, fur shawl over his shoulders, and a pointed face dominated by a large nose stared at us from under a headdress of sharpened rib bones arrayed like a peacock’s tail behind a painted horse skull. His beady eyes darted around, finding the woman first, then settling on me.

  "What is this?" he hissed in an accent that was surprisingly not Irish. He stepped forward slowly, resting his weight on a gnarled, wooden walking stick. His movements took him on a wobbly path that first veered far to the left, and then back toward us. Or rather, her. "She's left her home. She never leaves her home." He looked the woman up and down, clearly surprised. He turned to me. "Never."

  I wasn't sure if I should say anything in response, but the longer he watched me, the longer he held the silence, a silence I felt a strong need to fill.

  "I... I brought her here... to," I stammered, hating myself for even talking to this vile man. Somehow, his glare alone made me feel accused, "to be safe. The church is a... holy place." I hesitated at those last words, knowing he was a pagan, who probably cared little about the sanctity of the church.

  He regarded me like a cat with its paw on a wounded mouse, watching it squirm. "That it is. A holy place, indeed. And you speak for the power that resides here?"

  "I... no, I... I do not. I found this woman in her hut, and I brought her here to take care of her. She is not well. Obviously."

  "She never leaves her home," he said again, his small eyes darting back and forth between me and her. "How did you get her here?"

  "I just led her... sire. I tried to help her, with God’s help, and then I brought her here-"

  “God?” he asked, and his expression became sinister, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.

  “I-”, I hesitated, clearly not sure what kind of danger I could be inviting. “Yes. With God’s help. That’s why this church still stands.”

  The man raised his eyebrow at me. "That is a lie. But it’s a lie you would believe, wouldn’t you?” He spat on the floor, a deliberate sign of disrespect. “I am Lorcan, sorcerer and councilor to Cullach, who rules this island. This woman, Avaline, belongs to me, and I will take her back now."

  He stepped closer, and tentatively reached for the woman's arm, Avaline's arm, as if afraid to disturb her. Her gaze never left the ground, but she instinctively moved out of his reach, keeping me between her and the sorcerer. Lorcan frowned, and then lunged for her, grabbing her arm. Avaline screamed, a piercing wail that echoed throughout the building, and she flailed wildly while Lorcan struggled to keep a grip on her.

  "Wait, she's not well!" I said. "You mustn't try to force her-“

  Several men came forward and grabbed her, bumping me out of the way, but she continued to writhe and yell, making it difficult for them to control her.

  "Put her down!" Lorcan shouted, and his men dropped her, and backed away. He rounded on me, his eyes blazing. "You! You brought her here, you bring her out. Show me how you did it, or I will have you skinned and boiled alive like a Christian hare."

  I moved next to Avaline, who lay on the ground, whimpering, but I could still hear the rhythms of her song mixed in. I leaned over, putting my hand carefully on her shoulder.

  "Avaline. I promise everything will be okay. Just... stand up, if you can. All right?"

  She glanced up, looking toward me, but not directly at me. The confusion on her face faded, and she seemed to calm down. She reached a twitching, jittery hand out and I helped her to her feet. She held my arm, and leaned in close.

  "Avaline. That's a beautiful name. Mine is Daniel. Will you walk with me a bit?"

  She allowed me to lead her away from everyone, toward the door, and Lorcan watched me the entire time, fascinated.

  "The witch has a pet," he said, a sneer on his face.

  Chapter 21

  Pepin disappeared. As Lorcan's men escorted us out, I turned to see Ewen behind us, but no sign of the Frank. He must have slipped out just before Lorcan and his men walked in, without anyone ev
en noticing. I should have been elated that he escaped, because of the three of us, Pepin's resourcefulness would come in handy if mounting a rescue attempt. But I didn't feel that way. In all honesty, I felt deserted. Twice now, he'd run away when danger came, and I couldn't tell if it was because he was prudent, or a coward.

  Ewen didn't go easily. He tried to run, but Lorcan's men tackled him, held him down and beat him. I protested, only to be cuffed across the mouth. One of the Irishmen claimed to recognize Ewen as "the one who escaped" and Lorcan agreed. They held Ewen down and tied him up, and Lorcan promised to "do it right, this time," words that sent a chill down my spine. A leash was tied to his wrist bindings and Ewen was led out of the church like an animal. I watched him, heartbroken, as we were taken from the village, but he kept his head down. I wished he'd look at me, though. I needed to see the despair on his face, so I would know he blamed me for this as much as I blamed myself.

  We walked through the night, alongside the men on horseback. They kept a slow pace, surrounding us, but making no attempt to bind Avaline or myself. Lorcan sat on a horse next to me and rummaged through my satchel. I winced at the thought of him tossing out everything I owned and leaving it for the wolves, but he left nothing behind. He flipped through the pages of my journal and stared at my notes, though I'm not sure he could read them. Then he sniffed my cup, and scowled at my extra robe, but he left everything as it was. After that, Lorcan spent the rest of the trip riding some distance behind us, although I still felt his eyes on me, and every time I looked back, he watched me with a crooked grin. It was obvious that he had no love for Christians, which didn’t bode well for me once we reached his camp. His surprise at seeing Avaline in the church was likely the main reason I still lived. I'd done something he couldn’t do. That made me useful, and useful meant alive. At least for a while.

  Avaline moved slowly, but she never appeared tired, or protested at the long journey, and as long as she kept her hand on my arm she didn’t stop or wander away. The land in this part of Ynys Mon, away from the coast, was mostly flat, rocky terrain with low hills and sporadic clumps of trees. The strong moonlight made it easy to see in every direction, and we kept to a well-worn path in the grass, which seemed to be a good indication that they came to this village often, though I couldn't help but wonder why they'd come here tonight. The fact that they needed horses to get here meant they were already on their way to the village before we even arrived. But what would bring them out in the middle of the night to see this woman? Some of the answers to that question made me uneasy, but it also brought to the forefront the fact that I didn't know what this woman, what Avaline, was. Ewen claimed she infected him with his sickness, but based on what I'd seen tonight, I couldn't believe she did it of her own free will. I heard Lorcan's words as we left. I heard him call her a witch. But to me, she just seemed like a sick woman who was somehow under Lorcan's control. Of course, I could be dangerously wrong about that.

  Compared to the taxing, five day journey we'd just finished, our trek to the Irish camp was short. We arrived just as dawn began to break and the sky turned dark purple and grey. Dozens and dozens of tents were strewn across a low, flat hill overlooking a bay to the south, and a steady stream of Irishmen crawled out of them, stretched in pre-dawn light, and watched us approach curiously. Around a hundred horses stood packed together in a makeshift pen on the far side of the camp, along with a dozen or so cows. Chickens, pigs and sheep were penned nearby, too, and some men were already out tending to them. I couldn’t get an exact count of Irishmen, but it was nowhere near the thousand I’d been told. Maybe two hundred. Still a dangerous number.

  Across the water stood a small mountain called Holyhead, a name I would learn later, and I could see the remains of another Roman fort sitting on the edge of a high bluff, overlooking the bay from the south end. I wondered why they hadn't just occupied the fort instead of sitting out here in the open, but those questions left me as we reached the camp’s edge. A group of Irishmen approached us to take the horses, but two men in the back, who wore black robes that draped over their shoulders, arrived to take Ewen to another part of the camp. He looked at me as they led him away, his eyes pleading, but I had no way to help him. All I could do was look back in shared misery.

  The Irishmen escorted me toward a large, white, grotesquely adorned tent sitting near the opposite edge of the camp, closer to the bay. Skulls, bones and other animal parts hung from the tethering ropes holding the tent to the ground, and large brown symbols were painted on the white cloth. Although familiar to me, the meaning of those symbols stayed frustratingly just out of reach of my memory. An older woman sat outside, next to a large, boiling, cast-iron stew pot. She wore a muddy blue robe and leather shoes, and her thick hair was a mix of brown and grey, pulled back into a messy, tangled bun. She kept her head down, but I could see a large burn scar on the left side of her face. She wasn't tied to anything, or chained, so she wasn’t a prisoner, but she also didn’t seem content with her situation. When she saw us approach, her eyes widened, especially at the sight of Avaline, and I sensed a protective glint in her stare.

  The interior of the tent was smoky, and smelled of something pungent and thick that I couldn't identify. Various animal skins hung from the wall, boar, hare, tufts of bear fur, as well as pieces of bone and teeth. Small chunks of limestone, onyx, rubies and borax were piled in one corner, and a stack of small pots and jars lined one of the walls. A clay hearth sat near the middle, next to the support pole.

  Once inside, the two of us had our ankles tied to the center post to keep us from escaping. Lorcan watched everything, and then tested the rope to make sure we couldn't pull free.

  "Now both of you are pets," he said, and sent his black-robed men outside, leaving the three of us alone. "My pets. You will stay with me, and see real power, man of God." His hands squeezed his walking stick as he talked, bulging the thin muscles in his forearm. "Unless your Christian God can somehow free you. Can he do that, priest of God? Can he make the rope disappear, like the water did for your Moses? Or will he leave you here to rot?"

  "I'm not a priest, sire" I said, keeping my voice low and meek. "I'm only a man who has studied the teachings of Christ. Nothing more."

  "Christ?” He pounded his stick into the ground. “His power doesn’t belong here. This is the land of the old gods. Those who created the earth and the trees and the mountains, and gave them to the giants to tend to. And when the giants tired of their burden, they gave it to man. We care for this land, priest, given to us by the old gods, and when they finally return, those who betrayed their trust will burn.” He leaned in closer, and I felt his fetid breath on my face. “Burn.”

  I lowered my head. I could suffer his threats, but I didn’t want to give him any reason to hurt me, or the woman. He took off his headdress and set it carefully on the floor, then crouched next to his jars, opened three of them and sniffed their contents. He reached into one and pulled out a pinch of some black powder, and he threw it at the hearth. Then he stood and stared at me, as if examining the best cuts to make on a pig for slaughter.

  "What is your magic?"

  I glanced up at him, and shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your magic!” He raised his staff, threatening to strike me down. “Tell me!”

  “I-I don't understand.”

  "You think you can hide it?" he wobbled over and leaned close again. "You have magic, don't you? You used it on her. And on him, the man you came with. Show me what it is."

  "There's no magic,” I said. “It was only God's glory. His will. That's all."

  Rage twisted Lorcan’s face, and his mouth tightened.

  “God’s will?” Lorcan closed his eyes, as if in pain. “You think He gives you your magic? You spend all day and night crying and praying and wailing to a god who gives you nothing in return except for more reasons to pray. Your God has no magic to give you! Not like mine.”

  “I don’t understand. Truly-” He cut me of
f with a snap of his fingers and suddenly a fire sprang to life in the hearth. I jumped, startled by its appearance.

  “Did your God make that fire, or did I?”

  He stepped closer, daring me to speak, but fear kept me silent.

  “You can’t even say it, can you? You can’t admit the power out there, power given to me by the old gods, the true gods of Britain. The gods who will wage war with your kind to keep their home.”

  “Sire, I assure you I have no quarrel with you.”

  “Say it!” he yelled, and I scooted back. Even Avaline twitched at the fury in his words. “Tell me who created the fire!” He waved his hand up and down in the air, like the rise and fall of waves on the sea, and I watched the fire roar to life and dim nearly to nothing in response. I’d never seen anything like it, and I stared in revulsion. This was a man in league with the devil. There was no other explanation. I closed my eyes and prayed, but I barely had a chance to begin before I felt Lorcan’s hand smack across my face.

  “You do not get to pray! Your false God will not help you here. This place is strong in the power of the old gods. Too strong for your kind.” He slapped me again.

  “I only wanted to help,” I said. “That’s all. I just wanted to understand.”

  “You will understand. You will know what it feels like to suffer at my hands, as my kind have suffered at yours. For nothing!” He leaned closer. “And when that’s done, you will tell me how your magic works. You will tell me how you made her quiet.”

  *****

  Lorcan's version of suffering meant I had to endure all manner of beatings. Lorcan was a small man, with a thin, frail body, and he was just as strong as he looked. He slapped me and hit me more times than I could count that morning, while trying to goad me into either renouncing my beliefs or admitting that I used magic. But I never feared his physical violence, at least not until he started using his walking stick to smack me about the head and shoulders. When that failed to achieve his desired result, he pulled out a small knife he kept in his rope belt, which he used mostly to threaten me. He would jab me with the dull blade, just enough to hurt without breaking the skin, or drag the blade along my face. It was enough to frighten me, and my unease seemed to affect Avaline as well, who cried out several times. After a haranguing from Lorcan, she cowered onto the floor and held her head in her arms, although every so often I noticed her reach for me.