The Heresy Within

by Rob J. Hayes

  The Heresy Within

  (Book 1 of The Ties that Bind)

  by

  Rob J. Hayes

  Copyright © 2013 by Rob J. Hayes

  (http://www.robjhayes.co.uk)

  Cover design © 2013 by Julio Real

  (http://realnoir13.deviantart.com)

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook may not be re-sold.

  For my father who supported me

  even when he shouldn’t

  and

  For my mother who believed in me

  even when I didn’t.

  Contents

  Part 1 – Friends and Enemies

  Part 2 – Secrets and Lies

  Part 3 – Keep Your Friends Close...

  Part 4 – Two's Company...

  Other books by Rob J. Hayes

  "The Ties That Bind" series

  Book 2 - The Colour of Vengeance

  Book 3 - The Price of Faith

  Part 1 – Friends and Enemies

  The Arbiter

  “Burn them all!”

  Thanquil tried to suppress the sigh that snuck up on him. He failed.

  “Something to say, Arbiter Darkheart?”

  “No, Arbiter Prin,” Thanquil said with a smile. The lanky Arbiter Prin glared back at him with hollow eyes. He was a dangerous man to be on the wrong side of and Thanquil had no intentions of making yet another enemy within the Inquisition. “Only, I'm not sure it's really necessary to burn them.” The words spilled from Thanquil's mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

  Prin's face contorted with rage, a nasty snarl forming on his thin lips and beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. He took a couple of steps forward and Thanquil found himself far too close to Prin for comfort. The man was even uglier up close.

  “Are you in charge here, Arbiter Darkheart?” Hot, sour breath blasted Thanquil in the face with each word and wide, angry eyes bore into his own.

  “No, Arbiter Prin,” Thanquil replied, looking down, looking to the side, looking anywhere but at the ageing Arbiter now invading his personal space.

  “Why are you here?” Prin's voice was deep, too deep for such a skinny man.

  “Just passing through on my way to Sarth.” Thanquil's own voice sounded shaky next to Prin's. “Thought I'd help out seeing as how...”

  “Do I look like I need help, Arbiter Darkheart?” Hot, sour breath again with a strange hint of vanilla.

  Thanquil looked at the gathered crowd; scared faces glanced back and then dropped their eyes to the ground, not wanting to catch an Arbiter's attention. Soldiers, some with swords, others with pikes but all wearing the blue-black of Sarth on their uniforms. Then there was the family tied to stakes in the centre of the town square. Four of them; a mother and father, both plain-looking. The mother cried, the father looked both angry and scared but no tears there. A daughter, just reaching her womanhood was shrieking apologies for something or other and crying out a name over and over; could have been Arcus but Thanquil couldn't tell and didn't care. The fourth member of the family was a small lad, no more than five years old. The boy looked more confused than scared.

  Prin followed Thanquil's gaze and snorted. “What's the matter, Darkheart? Brings back memories?”

  Thanquil put on his very best menacing face and stared a hole through the man in front of him. “Yes, Arbiter Prin, you do look like you need help. But not any of the sort I can give.” He tapped his head with a single finger to drive the insult home. It was a petty and a foolish thing to say, Thanquil knew, but it felt damned good saying it.

  Arbiter Prin snorted again, turned around and stalked towards the bound family. Thanquil felt like sighing with relief but he held it in this time. No use arguing any further, despite the fact that burning the family alive was more than extreme. A simple beheading would have served the purpose just as well and wouldn't have involved the stench of burning flesh which, Thanquil knew first hand, was damned hard to wash out of clothing.

  Thanquil dug his hands into the pockets of his dirty, brown coat and resigned himself to watching a burning. He wasn't going to give Prin the satisfaction of seeing him leave before it was done.

  There was something in his right pocket. Something metal, smaller than a coin but thicker and with stub coming out of the flat side. Thanquil had no idea where it had come from, no idea who he'd stolen it from or when or even where. He had a habit of finding small objects in his pockets. This one seemed to have some sort of engraving on it. He ran a calloused finger across it and recognised the design: a sword in the middle, with a sun above it and a single ray of light shining down. It was a button from an Arbiter's coat. Thanquil looked down at his own brown coat with all of its buckles, buttons and pockets. All eight buttons were still attached. He looked over towards Arbiter Prin, the exact same coat though muddied and a little longer. Two buttons missing. Thanquil grinned, he wasn't about to give the button back. Small victories, Inquisitor Heron had once told him, can defeat even the largest of men, and Arbiter Prin wasn't that large.

  Thanquil removed his hands from his pockets, and then ran them through his mess of greasy hair; it was getting long again, almost down past his ears, and starting to curl. Then he rubbed at the stubble on his chin, which was beginning to verge on being a beard; he'd need to shave soon. Then he started cracking his knuckles one by one. If Prin was going to burn them the least he could do was get on with it.

  “Bloody witch hunters!” someone screamed from the crowd.

  Prin's head snapped around looking for the source of the voice, his hollow eyes bulging from dark sockets, his lips curling up into a horrific sneer.

  “Damn,” Thanquil sighed out then held up a placating hand towards Prin. “You just get on with your burning; I'll deal with the disgruntled masses.”

  Arbiter Prin turned away and Thanquil walked towards the crowd, the soldiers with their pikes and dirty uniforms stood aside to let him pass.

  “Which one of you was it?” Thanquil asked to the crowd.

  “Me,” said an older man. Grey hair dropped in clumps around his weather-beaten face. He looked surprised that he had owned up to it. There were tears in his eyes.

  “You know them?” Thanquil asked again, he didn't like asking questions.

  “That's my boy an' his family. They done nothing wrong.”

  “Yes they have,” Thanquil stated in a firm voice. “They wouldn't be up there if they were innocent. Heresy comes in all shapes and sizes. They have been questioned and they have been found guilty and they will suffer the consequences for their evil.”

  “You're all the same you witch hunters. You don't care...”

  Thanquil's hand shot out and grabbed the man by his tunic, pulling him closer. Thanquil was far from being tall but he seemed to tower over the man. “Be careful what you say, old man. We are not all the same. Arbiter Prin over there would have you whipped for calling him a witch hunter. Be thankful I am more forgiving.” He finished by giving the old man a hard shove, sending him crashing to the earth in a heap and with a yelp of pain. It wasn't something Thanquil enjoyed but he couldn't allow someone talking back to an Arbiter. If he let one off without even a warning soon they'd all be talking back.

  “We are Arbiters,” Thanquil hissed at the crowd. “Trained and sanctioned by the Inquisition.” He let his gaze sweep over all those close by and each one averted their eyes. Then, disgusted with himself, he turned and stalked towards Arbiter Prin.

  “You let him off lightly, Arbiter Darkheart,” Prin said in his deep voice.

  The young boy, still tied to the stake, was watching Thanquil through unnerving, calm eyes. There was no fear there, no anger. Then the boy smiled, only a slight tug at the corner of his mouth and Thanquil saw the same thing Pri
n did, the same thing that had condemned the entire family. Darkness.

  “Get on with it, Prin,” Thanquil growled, unable to take his eyes from the evil he saw in the boy. It was a terrifying thing to behold in one so young.

  Arbiter Prin took a deep breath. “NOW I CLEANSE THESE UNHOLY BODIES,” his voice rang out with unnatural volume. “BY FIRE BE PURGED.” The Arbiter's torch burst into flame, an act that would have even the most dramatic of bards gasping in awe, and he lowered it first towards the father's pyre, then the mother's , then the daughter's, and finally the boy's. Each one took only a moment to catch light and the flames started eating at the wood, growing higher and brighter and hotter with each second as the fire rushed to consume all it could.

  It didn't take long for the screaming to start. Thanquil took a few steps back and watched with a grim mask of determination. Prin joined him.

  “Still think a beheading would have sufficed,” Thanquil said his voice no more than a whisper.

  “Not for the boy.”

  Thanquil watched for a while in silence. After what seemed like an age the screaming stopped but the flames continued to grow hotter and hotter, consuming the pyres; wood, bodies and all.

  “You might be right about that,” he said.

  He'd never seen a tavern so empty, even the rats seemed to be avoiding the place. Thanquil had picked a dark corner of the room to avoid attention and Prin had joined him. For two hours they had been sitting there in silence and Thanquil couldn't say he was enjoying the company. Patrons entered the tavern and those same patrons left immediately after seeing the two Arbiters sat in the corner like shades of death waiting for victims. The tavern owner looked upset. In a usual evening the man would have been busy. Tonight he was serving two grim visitors, and Prin had been nursing the same ale for two hours now. At least Thanquil had the good grace to be on his fourth.

  “Heading to Sarth are you?” Prin asked. The question was so unexpected Thanquil had to check to make sure he hadn't dreamed it. Prin was looking at him, his face gaunt and pale, his mud-brown coat stained and missing two buttons. Thanquil rooted around in his pocket and fingered the Arbiter's button, considered giving it back, decided against it.

  “Aye,” he replied. He tried to think of something else to say but came up blank so took another gulp of his ale to cover the silence.

  “How long has it been since you were last in the capital?”

  “Three years.” Part of Thanquil wished Prin would stop talking, that same part of him wished Prin would just piss off. “Give or take.”

  “Hasn't changed much.”

  “Apart from the God-Emperor being in charge of everything.”

  “You weren't there for his inauguration?” Prin asked. Seemed he was the type of Arbiter who liked to ask questions, as if his compulsion would somehow work on Thanquil.

  “No, I wasn't.”

  “But weren't you...”

  “Yeah, that was me.”

  “Hmmm.” Arbiter Prin seemed to run out of questions. Thanquil sent a prayer of thanks to God and then realised the irony and almost laughed.

  “Still a week's travel to Sarth,” Prin continued his deep voice loud among the deafening silence of the tavern. “Need some company on the road?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “It's not me.”

  “Shame,” Thanquil said with a roll of his eyes, “I was just starting to enjoy your company.” He bit his tongue to stop from saying anything more and then met the open hostility in Arbiter Prin's eyes. “Sorry, Arbiter. So not you…”

  “A girl. Found her a month back in a village on the border. She has potential.”

  Thanquil played with the button in his pocket. “She's been with you for a month; I'm surprised she hasn't set herself on fire.” Again that look of hostility from Prin. Thanquil decided to give up on apologising.

  “She's still a child,” Prin said, his voice little more than a hiss. “Not even in her tenth year. I would think you of all people would understand, Arbiter Darkheart.”

  Thanquil took the button from his pocket, made sure Arbiter Prin saw it then flicked it into the air, caught it and pocketed it again.

  “Fine. I'll do this favour for you, Prin. I'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. Make sure she's ready to travel.”

  Arbiter Prin nodded once and then, with an ugly smile, stood from the table and walked towards the exit. Thanquil couldn't help but notice the man did not pay for his ale.

  Dawn found Thanquil waiting outside the tavern standing with his little chestnut mare staring at him with dull eyes, wondering why it had been taken out of the stables only to stand around waiting. Its bags were packed and it yet here it waited, and Thanquil was in the same boat. He could have just left and let Arbiter Prin deliver the girl to the Inquisition on his own, but if he took the girl, the Arbiter would owe him a favour and he could use a few of those.

  Prin arrived with the girl in tow. She looked young; skin still smooth and eyes still bright, a short crop of messy blonde curls hanging down from her head. She hurried along behind Arbiter Prin glancing up every few steps but, for the most part, keeping her gaze locked on the earth beneath her feet.

  “Sorry we're late,” Arbiter Prin droned in his deep voice. He had managed to find two new buttons from somewhere and had sewn them onto his coat. “This is Arbiter Darkheart,” he said to the girl. “Introduce yourself.”

  “G'day, sir,” the girl said, her voice quiet and soft, “my name is...”

  “I really don't care,” Thanquil interrupted her then turned to Arbiter Prin. “She'll be walking.”

  “Aye, she'll do fine.”

  Thanquil looked at the girl. She didn't seem to own anything, just the rags that passed for clothing on her back, a sturdy-looking pair of boots and the interesting glint of a silver chain around her neck; a necklace of some sort, a keepsake maybe.

  “You owe me, Prin,” Thanquil said but all he received in return was a horrific smile. With that he turned and walked away, the girl hurrying to keep up behind him.

  The Black Thorn

  Betrim leaned against the stone wall eyeing the tavern. Wasn't much of a building, little more than two floors, one with a bar and kitchen, the other with a few rooms and a few beds, all encased in dry, rotting wood with a couple of shuttered windows for air. Still, he'd seen worse, seen much worse up close and personal. He'd been drunk in worse, he'd been hired in worse and he'd been stabbed in worse. All part of the job.

  He leaned and he waited, sometimes getting stiff and shifting his weight, then leaning some more. The other two boys with him didn't seem to like leaning; Green walked around the alley all nervous-like, glancing up and down the street, as like to give away their hiding spot as be the first to spot the target. That there was the reason they called him Green, he was new to the game and the new ones rarely lasted long. No point in naming him for real. Bones was sat on the floor, legs crossed, cleaning his bones with yellow spit and brown rag. Betrim had to admit it was a real impressive collection of bones, not quite worth killing him over though. Not yet at least.

  “Oi!” Betrim hissed at Green. “Get away from the fuckin' street.”

  Green glanced around with a sneer and sauntered towards Betrim. He had a real nasty look about his face, did Green, the kind of look that suggested he really enjoyed hurting folk, really enjoyed killing folk. Betrim, however, would put money on Green never having killed anyone; he would, except that Betrim didn't have any money.

  “Who'r you ta tell me where I should be? You ain't in charge,” Green snarled as he swaggered forwards.

  Betrim said nothing, his hand inching towards the dagger hidden in one of the many pockets of his coat. Boys like Green never lasted long in this game.

  Bones sprang to his feet in between Betrim and Green, towering over them both. He shook his head. “None of us is in charge but that don't make him any less right, Green. You hang back here with us. Swift'll be here when it's time ta move.”

  Green stopp
ed moving but kept staring at Betrim, he snorted then hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it on the ground; it landed three inches from Betrim's boot. Bones winced. The boy was lucky he missed. Betrim had only just got those boots, took them off a drunken sailor, damned good leather too. The sailor hadn't even put up a fight he was so drunk, Betrim had only hit the sod once.

  Bones put a big arm around Green's shoulder, one massive paw dangling at the end, and turned him, steering him away a little. Green sneered over his shoulder at Betrim.

  “Look lad,” Bones said to Green, “ya new ta this game and new ta this crew so I'm gonna impart a little bit o' my friendly knowledge, eh. Experience ya might call it.”

  “What?”

  Bones sighed. “Don't piss off the Black Thorn.”

  Green looked over his shoulder again, his sneer was gone now replaced by what looked to be worry, or fear. Betrim could never be arsed figuring out the difference between the two.

  “He isn't,” Green said to Bones.

  “He is,” Bones said to Green.

  “Shit.”

  “Yep.” Bones sat back down and looked around for his discarded spit-covered rag. “So whiles he ain't in charge, that's true. Don't piss him off.”

  Some men might have grinned, showing Green an almost full set of not quite pearly whites. Some men might have threatened, making sure to put the little shit in his place. Betrim Thorn was not those men. He was more than happy to go back to watching the tavern and leaning on his strip of wall.

  It was the salt air, Betrim reckoned, put him in a somewhat thoughtful mood, reminded him of home. Not that salt air was pleasant. It stung the eyes, turned the throat raw, made skin all... salty. Not that home was a welcome memory either, nothing there but ghosts.

  Betrim decided then that he did not like port towns. Not that Korral could really be called a town, it was little more than a large collection of decaying wooden shacks and a few better faring stone shacks all clustered around a large harbour like flies cluster around a fresh shit. Despite that, Korral had the stones to call itself one of the free cities. All that meant was that it didn't belong to any one kingdom or another, which in Betrim's mind meant somewhere between little and fuck all considering Korral was perched on the southern edge of the untamed wilds and no kingdom wanted shit to do with the wilds anyways. Still, it was as good a place as any to get drunk, to get hired or to get stabbed.