Ward of the Philosopher

by D. P. Prior

  “The fight between the Archon and the Demiurgos continued on our side of the Void, while Eingana fled among the stars. The Archon succeeded in flinging the Demiurgos back into the Void, this time without Ain’s protection. But rather than wink out of existence, the Demiurgos threw up the Abyss around himself with the sheer force of his will. He is preserved there to this day, trapped at the heart of the infernal realm in a tomb of ice.

  “Meanwhile, Eingana had fallen pregnant following her brother’s unwanted attention. The child she bore was so malformed, it could not exit her womb, and so the Archon slit open her belly with his sword and delivered the aberration. It had the head of a dog and the body of a baboon. Needless to say, Eingana was horrified and abandoned the child, as did the all-caring Archon, who then came here to Urddynoor to guide the old faith in the ways of the Supernal Realm. After the Reckoning, he continued by steering the path of the fledgling Templum. As a sign of his protection, he entrusted his sword to the Keeper in Aeterna, who is tasked with averting the greatest of all evils that the Demiurgos sends against us out of spite for his brother.”

  Deacon’s head spun with all that he was hearing. The Liber touched upon the war in Araboth, but it was quiet on the details.

  Aristodeus gave him room to think, and then finally, Deacon returned to his earlier unspoken question:

  “Why me?”

  “You believe in fate?” Aristodeus said, once more rummaging through the folds of his robe and growing increasingly irritated.

  “No.” Gralia said it was a sin to think such things.

  “Neither do I,” Aristodeus said. “If it helps, consider yourself uniquely created by Nous for a task that no one else can do. Of course, my own view is that there is no substitute for innate aptitude coupled with hard work, discipline, and the guidance of an exceptional teacher. It will be made clear to you one day. For now, all you need do is listen, learn, and do as I instruct. The very worst that could happen is that you will be a great swordsman, a brilliant thinker, and a pious luminary. Is that so bad?”

  “No,” Deacon said, unable to keep the weariness from his tone.

  “You might sound a bit more enthusiastic.”

  “I am.” But for Deacon, the half-lie set him teetering on the brink of a sin. All he really wanted was Jarl’s stories back, his mother fussing over him, and the chance to go to the schoolhouse with all the other children, even at the cost of a bloody nose from Brent Carvin once in a while.

  Aristodeus sighed. “I expected a degree of gratitude, but then, what do I know? There is a gulf of years between us, young Shader. It may be that I need to modify my approach. Tell you what, let’s take a short break.” He patted down his robe. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my pipe, have you?”

  Deacon shook his head.

  At least he didn’t voice the lie this time. In his mind, that made the sin less serious. He’d hidden the pipe earlier, knowing the philosopher would grow too irritable to teach until he’d found it.

  “Must have left it indoors,” Aristodeus said. “Take an hour to yourself. When we resume, let’s go at it with a little more gusto, shall we?”

  “Yes, Magister.”

  The second Aristodeus disappeared inside the house, Deacon slipped through the garden gate and set off at a run through the woods.

  An hour later, he found his father coming down from the hills that sheltered Friston from the sea. Jarl looked tired and haggard, every bit like a man who’d been away from home too long and badly needed a good meal, a hot bath, and bed.

  “Deacon?” Jarl said, stumbling into a run to meet him. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

  “Got the day off,” Deacon lied, wincing at the sins mounting up. Next visit to Brinwood Priory was going to be a long one.

  “So, you came to see your old pa?” Jarl’s face softened, and he ruffled Deacon’s hair.

  It was rare for Jarl to look anything but stern, except at nighttime, when he read to Deacon or made up ghost stories around the hearth fire.

  “I’ve… I’ve missed you, boy.”

  He never called Deacon “son” and only rarely used his name. But at the same time, it was Jarl who encouraged Deacon to call his mother and father by their given names, which is something none of the other children were allowed to do. Gralia berated him about it from time to time, but all she got for her efforts was a huff and a grunt.

  “Then make Aristodeus go away.”

  The words came out more harshly than Deacon intended, and he realized then just how unhappy he’d become.

  “Can’t do that,” Jarl said.

  A horn sounded, and Jarl looked off up the hill he’d just come down.

  “The alarum,” he said. “The Watch must have spotted something. Tell you what, why don’t you tag along?”

  No sooner had they crested the rise, than a man came tearing across the coastal path that ran atop the Downs.

  “Reavers, Jarl!” he yelled before he closed the distance. “Three ships in the Channel.”

  Jarl glanced at Deacon, then they jogged toward the man.

  “Gallic?” Jarl asked.

  Most trouble came from the province of Gallia across the Maranorean Channel.

  The man drew up panting before them. Deacon had never seen him before, but that didn’t mean a thing. Besides the families of some of the local children, he rarely got to see anyone; his mother wouldn’t allow it on account of the risk of corruption.

  “Either that or the Isles,” the man said. “You want us to fire the beacons?”

  Deacon let his gaze run along the line of hills receding into the distance. Atop the highest were set pyramids of wood that could be doused with oil and torched at the first hint of danger.

  “Not yet,” Jarl said. “Let’s get a look at them first.”

  REAVERS

  Atop the clifftop of Craven Head, the wind skirled in hazardous gusts. Deacon blinked against the icy spray coming off the Channel and tried to focus on where his father was pointing. The sea tilted, the ground lurched, and he swayed out toward the edge. Behind his eyes, a corridor of flame opened up. His knees buckled. A yawning black funnel tugged at him, invited him into its depths.

  Strong hands steadied him and led him back a pace. He glanced up at his father’s face, saw the concern in his eyes.

  The hard-men of the Coastal Watch nodded and grumbled. Some of them unconsciously stroked the hafts of spears and axes. Others wrapped fingers around the hilts of scabbarded swords.

  “See them now, boy?” Jarl said.

  Dark smudges lay behind the ocean spray. Deacon squinted until he could make out the black sails of three ships plowing through the surf, white horses leaping away from their keels.

  “Them’s reavers, right enough,” Jon Mori’s father said. He was a big man, as wide as he was tall. With his breastplate hitched up over his paunch, he looked like the comedy knights in the morality plays. “Carracks, if I ain’t very much mistook, but they ain’t from Gallia, of that you can be sure.”

  “Where then, Konin?” Jarl said.

  “That flag they’re flying’s ‘The Impaled Man’. Only scum that will sail under it are from Verusia.” Konin touched his forehead with two fingers in the Nousian manner.

  It came as a surprise, seeing as Jon Mori said his father shat on Nousians; said they were milksops and cowards who hid weakness behind piety. It didn’t make any difference how often Deacon pointed out it was a weakness that had won the Templum most of the known world.

  “Verusia?” Jarl said. There was hesitancy in his voice, as if he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “You sure? Bit out of the way for the Lich Lord’s minions to come pillaging, isn’t it?”

  “I tell you, that’s their flag, Jarl,” Konin said. “I got a bad feeling about this. We should send word to the Templum.”

  Jarl shook his head. “Templum don’t care about us. Maranore’s the arse-end of the Theocracy, far as they’re concerned. And, anyhow, who they gonna send? The ne
arest garrison’s Londdyr. Unless you sprout wings and fly there, it’d take days to get a message to them, and longer for them to make the march, even if they could be bothered.”

  “So, what, then?” a gap-toothed old warrior said. “We evacuate?”

  “That ain’t what I’m saying, Gurn.” Jarl switched his gaze to Deacon and said, “Boy, you best get home. Tell Aristodeus… Just tell him. If anyone knows what to do, he does.”

  Deacon nodded and started back from the edge. Before he’d gotten out of earshot, someone asked, “What have we got that the dead want, Jarl? I mean, it ain’t like any of us has anything worth looting, and even if we did, what would they do with it?”

  Deacon paused just long enough to catch his father’s answer.

  “If what the Gallians say about Verusia is true, they ain’t here for plunder; they’re here for our men, women, and children—fodder for the Lich Lord. So, let’s get busy, lads. Light the beacons.”

  Deacon had never been afraid for his father before. Jarl was a brute of a man, and noble with it. He’d stand toe to toe with anyone and likely get the better of them. But something like dread had crept into his voice, and it seeped beneath Deacon’s skin like an infection.

  He ran along the clifftop a ways then followed the dirt trail down into a gully overlooking a secluded bay. Waves lashed the shore in violent breakers hundreds of feet below. Riding them toward the beach was a fourth ship.

  Deacon’s heart lurched, and he took a faltering step back up the trail, meaning to tell his father; but when he looked again, the ship had gone.

  He shuddered. There had been a black sail, so ragged it could have been woven from cobwebs. He could still almost see it, a phantom against the squall; but the harder he looked, the more he grew convinced it was a trick of the light amplified by his fear.

  It’s not what he was supposed to feel. Fear was weakness. He had a message to deliver, one his father had entrusted to him. Aristodeus would know what to do, Jarl had said. It was the first time his father had acknowledged the philosopher’s worth. Deacon could tell the two of them didn’t get along, and for Jarl to admit he needed Aristodeus’s help was as surprising as it was unsettling. The Coastal Watch had been formed to deter reavers, and until today, no one had doubted their ability to keep the people of the Downs safe. It was mention of Verusia that had gotten Jarl worried. All Deacon knew was that Verusia bordered Gallia, the lands across the Maranorean Channel. No one spoke of it much, and whenever they did, it was in hushed tones and with a touch of the forehead, even for those who did not love Nous.

  When he reached home and pushed through the garden gate, he paused to say a quick prayer at the grave he and Gralia had dug for Nub, then entered through the kitchen door.

  Aristodeus looked up from the dining table, the stem of his pipe wedged in the corner of his mouth, pungent smoke pluming from the bowl. Any ire he’d felt at losing the pipe had apparently vanished now it was back in his possession.

  Gralia crossed the room so quickly, Deacon flinched, as if she were going to hit him. He knew he was being stupid: she’d never laid a finger on him, and neither had Jarl.

  She took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.

  “Where have you been? And didn’t you hear the alarum? Aristodeus has been worried sick.”

  Deacon glanced at the philosopher. He didn’t look worried, leaning back in his chair, blowing smoke rings.

  “There’s reavers in the Channel, Mother.”

  Gralia turned to Aristodeus.

  The philosopher stood and moved to the hearth to tap out his pipe. “The beacons have been lit?” he said over his shoulder.

  “Father’s orders,” Deacon said.

  “How many reavers?”

  “Three ships. From Verusia, they said.”

  Gralia touched her forehead. Her lips began to move in silent petitions to Nous. She released Deacon’s shoulders and fished her prayer cord from her skirt.

  “I thought there was a fourth ship coming in alone,” Deacon said, “but I was just seeing things.”

  “Were you now?” Aristodeus collected his sword from where it leaned beside the hearth. “What else?”

  “Never you mind,” Gralia said. “Jarl’s lads will see them off.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Aristodeus said. “A fourth ship, you say, young Shader, but you couldn’t be sure?”

  “It was like a ghost, Magister. I reckon it was my mind playing tricks again, like when I was ill.”

  Aristodeus shook his head.

  “Father told me to find you, tell you what was happening. He said you’d know what to do.”

  “You see, Gralia,” Aristodeus said, “Jarl doesn’t hate me. He’s just envious of the time I spend with the boy. Go on, young Shader, grab your sword, and you can show me where you saw this mysterious fourth ship.”

  “No,” Gralia said. “It’s too dangerous, and he’s just a boy.”

  “He’ll be with me,” Aristodeus said. “Do you really think he’ll be any safer here if the reavers make shore? Go on now, boy, time’s a wasting.”

  Deacon ran upstairs to his room, pulled his sword out from under the bed, and hurried back down again.

  Aristodeus was already out in the back yard. When Deacon squeezed past his mother to get through the kitchen door, she didn’t move; she was distracted by her unpicking of the knots on the prayer cord.

  Before Aristodeus and Deacon had made it down the garden path, a scream went up from the direction of the village square. Gralia gasped and paused in her unpicking. Aristodeus stiffened and inclined his head, listening.

  Deacon counted his heartbeats, hoping he’d been mistaken, and that the sound was the cry of some strange bird.

  One beat, two, and then the scream came again. This time, it was joined by countless others.

  THE FOURTH SHIP

  The village square was empty when Deacon and Aristodeus reached it. Window shutters had been closed on all the surrounding houses, and the trestle tables of the market traders had been abandoned.

  Aristodeus tapped Deacon on the shoulder and drew his attention to the east.

  The ghost-ship from the bay was gliding down the sheer slope of Heredwin Hill, its prow rearing and pitching through a sea of grass, an unearthly wind ruffling its shredded sails.

  The blood in Deacon’s veins turned to ice, and his teeth started to chatter.

  “Here!” someone cried from the big barn the traders stored their wares in. It was Gerrick Marny, the fat old man who ran the merchant’s guild. Behind him, through the crack of the doors, Deacon could see dozens of people crammed inside.

  Aristodeus tutted. “You’re only making it easier for them,” he called to Gerrick. “What do you think, young Shader? Is it a sound strategy?”

  Deacon thought about it for a second, eyes flitting between the barn and the approaching carrack.

  “They’ll be trapped. The reavers could burn the barn down.”

  “You think that’s likely?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Deacon realized he’d been sloppy in his reasoning. “They’ll be captured, taken to Verusia.”

  “Indeed, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Do you know what the Lich Lord will… No, we’ll save that for when you’re older. Your mother would never let me hear the end of it, if I set your mind in that direction.”

  As Aristodeus strode over to the barn to speak with Gerrick, Deacon stood transfixed by the ghostly ship entering the outskirts of the village and drifting along the main road. Its hull was rotten, encrusted with barnacles and slick with algae. The frayed tatters of its mainsail had the consistency of clouds. Men hung from the rigging by their necks, heads twisted at impossible angles. More were packed onto the forecastle, staring straight ahead with ember eyes. The entire ship was cloaked in a dirty miasma the shade of bruises, and a rancid stench rolled off of it.

  The creak of the barn doors made Deacon glance over his shoulder. A couple of dozen vill
agers, women and old men among them, edged outside holding pitchforks, scythes, shovels, and knives. They were petrified, but Aristodeus must have convinced them to at least put up a fight. It was a case of simple logic, Deacon had learned that much: hide and be taken, or make a stand and create a chance for yourself, no matter how slight. Some of them started to go from house to house, knocking on doors, banging on shutters, hollering for those inside to come out and join them in defending the village. A few people emerged warily, but the majority didn’t respond.

  “I was hoping your father might have finished with the other ships by now and headed back,” Aristodeus said, returning to stand with Deacon and casting an appraising look over the carrack. “It could be that I overestimated the Coastal Watch.” He raised an eyebrow.

  The philosopher knew more than he was letting on. He’d been unruffled by news of the reavers, and not at all surprised by mention of the fourth ship. As he stepped across the square to confront the carrack, he showed no fear, not the slightest hint of concern.

  Deacon felt the heat of shame sting his cheeks. He might have only been seven, but if he was going to be an Elect knight, he had no business being afraid. The Grand Master would never stand for it. He tightened his grip on his shortsword so much, his knuckles turned white.

  The carrack came to a halt with its prow jutting into the village square. Dark mist curled away from the ground beneath its hull. A gangplank was lowered, and men came lumbering down it. They were dressed in rags beneath rusted mail. Some wore helms that bore the dents of the blows that had killed them. For there was no doubt these reavers were dead, even though they were moving. Yet it was no natural gait they had: they lurched, shuffled, and shambled, stiff with rigor. Their eyes were smoldering coals that glared hungrily. Strips of gray flesh hung from yellowish bones, and skeletal fingers clutched the pommels of swords brown with corrosion.

  Despite his new resolve, Deacon started to tremble. His hand grew numb from gripping his sword too tight. He told himself to relax, but his fingers refused to obey.