The Heresy Within

by Rob J. Hayes

  The Black Thorn

  Betrim sat at the camp fire staring into the flames as they danced and fought to see which one could reach furthest into the darkness. He chewed on a strip of charred horse flesh, tasted like shoe but meat was meat. He took a swig of the bottle in his hand, cheap spirit, tasted like fire and vomit. That seemed a little odd, alcohol tended to taste like vomit coming up not going down.

  Bones sat cross legged on the bare earth cleaning his bones with yellow spit and brown rag. The giant grinned as he went about his grisly business and bled from half a hundred small cuts. Swift lay on the ground, one leg twisted at a horrific angle, snoring. Betrim didn't reckon the bastard was asleep but then Swift liked to play stupid games like that.

  The Boss tore a strip of seared horseflesh from the spit and shoved it into the bloody mess of jagged bone and raw flesh that had once been his face. Betrim could see muscles twitching there but there was no face, no nose, no eyes, no mouth. Just spurting blood and a horrible squelching noise.

  “How'd ya do it?” came Green's voice. Betrim found the boy's body sitting across from him; he could see it through the flames. Green's head was laying on the floor just a couple of feet away.

  “Do what?” Betrim asked the head.

  “How'd ya kill 'em? The Arbiters?”

  How a decapitated head could speak should have been a matter for concern, Betrim knew, instead he just ignored it and looked for Henry. The little imp was nowhere to be seen. Fled or dead he didn't know but she wasn't here amongst this gruesome company.

  Somewhere Betrim heard the laughing dogs of the wilds laughing at him. Seemed they were laughing at him at least. They'd be here soon enough to feast upon the corpses of his dead friends... and Green.

  “Get up,” the bloody mess of the Boss' head said in a voice that wasn't his. “Get up!”

  Betrim felt something tapping his foot, he looked down to find Green's head had rolled closer and was bumping against his boot. Pushing itself with his tongue.

  “Get up!” the Boss' faceless face insisted.

  Betrim tried to open his eyes. Felt like the weight of the world was pulling his eyelids back shut. He started to drift off again.

  “Get up! By Volmar if you don't get up I'll call the guard.”

  Again Betrim tore his eyelids open and let out a groan. It felt like someone was stamping on his head... from inside his skull. Every bit of him felt heavy, sluggish, and painful.

  He was lying on something hard and wooden, felt a lot like floor and Betrim had slept on enough floors to know what one felt like. There was something wet and foul smelling under his mouth, up by his nose.

  “Vomit...” Betrim said to himself.

  “Yes, vomit! Vomit which I will have to clean before the next person wants to stay here.”

  “Here?” Betrim asked as he scrabbled at the wooden floor with his hands and pushed himself up. It felt like trying to lift a small house.

  “Yes. Here. Get up and go. Now! You've already stayed here too long. I should have called the guard.”

  “Too long...” Betrim said. Fragments of memory were coming back to him. He had stumbled into this inn, slapped his last bits on the counter and demanded a room. He glanced at the window, it was still dark.

  “Yes! Too long! Now go!”

  Betrim looked at the tall, skinny, ugly man. “It's still night. I paid for...”

  “You paid for a night. You've been here a night and a day.”

  “What?” Betrim's head screamed in pain with each pounding thump. His hand went to the Arbiter's charm around his neck, the one that should keep away the hangover, it was gone. “Ya sayin' it's tomorrow... already?”

  “Tomorrow. Tonight. Get out!”

  “Fuck! I gotta... go.” Betrim lurched to his feet and stumbled as the world span around him. He hit the wall and caught himself on it then fumbled his way to the door.

  “Arrgh.” He doubled over and retched. Vile, burning acid spattered the floor and Betrim caught a whiff of urine. Seems he'd pissed himself at some point.

  “GET OUT!”

  Betrim stumbled his way to the stairs and started down them, his head pounding all the way down. He tripped on the last two steps and hit the ground face first; only at the last moment did he think to turn his head to stop the fall from breaking his nose.

  He pushed himself back to his feet, stumbled into a table and staggered towards the door. Outside the night was cool and crisp. Something seemed wrong about that, Sarth was never cool. “It's night...”

  Betrim span, the world span the other way and he crashed into someone. A woman hit the stone with a gasp of pain. Betrim fought the urge to vomit again, swallowed it down. By all the Gods he wished he still had that charm. Someone grabbed Betrim by his leathers, a man, tall and broad.

  “How dare you...”

  “What time is it?” Betrim asked.

  “What?”

  Betrim shrugged the man's hands off and grabbed him by his fancy cloth shirt, and shook him. “What fuckin' time is?”

  “Uhh... umm... About two hours after dusk.”

  “Fuck!” Betrim shouted, blasting the man with sour breath. “Which way to the Inquisition?”

  “I...uh...”

  “WHICH FUCKIN' WAY?”

  The man pointed, Betrim shoved him to the floor next to the woman, and turned in the direction he had pointed and started running.

  His feet pounded on the stone ground in a steady rhythm with the beating inside of his head. Despite the darkness the world felt so bright Betrim found himself squinting as Sarth span past him in a drunken blur. Buildings loomed over him in towering white silence. People stared at him or ignored him, it made no matter, some even shouted after him but their words were lost, drowned out by the deafening drum inside his skull.

  He was looking for something he recognised, anything, a landmark, a tavern, a shop, a brothel, a church. The second time he stopped to retch up what little was left in his stomach Betrim had the idea to look up. The black tower of the Inquisition loomed above the city of Sarth, swaying and bending over the white buildings below it like some great drunken tower about to vomit over the pristine...

  Betrim shook himself, there was no time. He had to find Kessick. Had to kill the Arbiter before he reached the Inquisitor's estate. Too many of Betrim's friends had died of late; Bones, the Boss, Swift, Henry, all gone, dead or fled, all gone. He wasn't about to let that happen again. He had few enough friends left in this world he wasn't about to let the last two die because he was too drunk to hold up his end of the bargain.

  The Black Thorn tried to figure out where he was and where he needed to be. The Inquisition tower was close, crowding the sky above him like a dark monolith. Kessick went right out of the gates so Betrim could cut him off by going left. It seemed to make sense so he stumbled into another run and cut left through alleys and byways, hoping he didn't come across one of the Sarth canals, not that a dip in some water wouldn't do his smell the world of good.

  Betrim stumbled out into a large street. In front of him was a bakery he recognised. He'd been this way before many times, always while following Kessick. He turned to his right and ran, sprinted. The world focused in around him until the Black Thorn was watching through a muted, painful blur of a tunnel.

  Up ahead he saw a coat, the coat. Betrim unhooked his axe from his belt and gritted his teeth. Fifteen paces from Kessick the Black Thorn slid to a halt and launched his hand axe.

  “KESSICK!” Betrim roared.

  The Arbiter just started to turn as the axe head bit into his back with a solid 'THUMP'. The body hit the stone floor face first.

  The Arbiter

  Thanquil stood outside Inquisitor Heron's estate and waited in the shadows, hidden from view by the trunk of a large, ancient oak. He waited and he watched. She was there; he had seen her enter an hour ago, no doubt sitting down to an evening meal by now.

  He twisted a small, pewter necklace around his fingers. Necklaces were one of the hardes
t things to steal from a person. To take something from around a woman's neck without her noticing was a skill not many possessed. It had taken Thanquil years to learn but learn it he did, much to the shock of some of the other thieves.

  It was nerves, he decided then. He was nervous and it was scaring him into inaction. By now Jez should have killed Kosh; the Black Thorn, assuming he hadn't just fled, should have taken care of Kessick. Only Inquisitor Heron remained and she needed to be dealt with before she heard of the other's deaths.

  He slipped his arms through the sleeves of his coat and tugged the leather garment straight. If he was going to do this he was going to do it as an Arbiter of the Inquisition. He stashed the necklace in one pocket and checked the others, making sure he remembered where each of his runes were hidden, where the charms were secreted away. It had been months since he'd last worn his Arbiter's coat but now he was it felt right, almost as if a part of him had been missing but was now restored. Thanquil made one final check of his preparations; a sleepless charm wrapped around his left arm, it wouldn't do to be knocked unconscious, his sword loosened in its scabbard, his pistol loaded and tucked away in his belt.

  The guards blocked him at the gate. Two big men in white and both looked more than a little nervous. Thanquil stared at each of them in turn.

  “Arbiter Thanquil Darkheart here to see the Inquisitor. Stand aside.”

  “Uhh,” the bigger of the two guards bit his lip, a brown lip; the man chewed too much casher weed. “Do you... have an appointment?”

  Thanquil spat, a nasty habit he'd picked up from somewhere. “Wasn't aware I needed one. Move aside or I will move you.”

  The guard looked pained. “Yes, sir.” He stepped away and Thanquil strode past them both, through the open gate and into the Inquisitor's grounds.

  It was a beautiful estate, Thanquil couldn't deny; flower beds in every colour he could imagine all lit by the ruddy orange glow of hanging lanterns. Short grass; a gardener's worst nightmare. An eight-tiered fountain with crushed white marble in each bowl to allow the water to filter and drain.

  Thanquil approached the main door, took a deep, steadying breath and knocked. It took only a few moments before the door was opened. A thin, balding man stood on the threshold, bathed in the warm light that spilled out from behind him.

  “Arbiter Thanquil Darkheart here to see the Inquisitor,” Thanquil said in his most officious tone.

  “Regarding?”

  Thanquil stared at the man in silence.

  “Of course. If you'll follow me, Arbiter...”

  “No. I'll wait out here. Go fetch your master.”

  “You want me to... Of course.”

  The servant turned and hurried away. Thanquil walked back down the path a short way. If he was going to fight an Inquisitor he'd rather not do it in a confined space.

  It didn't take long for the Inquisitor to respond to his summons. She walked out of the doorway to her mansion with an easy grace and a warm smile that lit up her already beautiful face even in the dim lantern light.

  Inquisitor Selice Heron looked to be only a little older than Thanquil himself but the truth, he knew, was that she had lived for close to eighty years. The slightest hint of crow's feet had begun to show at the corners of her eyes but other than that she looked no older than the first time he had seen her forty years previous. Her face was soft and caring, beautiful in a kind way that belied her position as an Inquisitor. Her hair was long and blonde, tied into a braid that reached down to the small of her back, and her eyes shone with a blue light even in the darkness. She wore a light set of cotton trousers and a matching shirt underneath her Inquisitor's coat; identical to an Arbiter's except for being white instead of brown, somehow it made her seem pure and holy and for a moment Thanquil was unsure.

  “Arbiter Thanquil,” her voice soft and fluid. “We have been worried. It has been months since you last contacted the Inquisition. We feared the worst.”

  His hands were shaking a little, just like when he needed to steal something. Inquisitor Heron was standing right there in front of him. He knew he should attack, not give her chance to defend herself. The Black Thorn had said, 'The way ta kill an Arbiter is not ta let 'em know ya comin', that went doubly true for an Inquisitor. But she was Inquisitor Heron, the kindest of the Inquisitors, the only one who ever had a good word to say about him. The only one who didn't look at him like he was a heretic.

  “Arbiter, are you alright?” she asked in a sweet voice. There was no compulsion there, no will trying to subvert his own. In training the Inquisition forced an Arbiter to use the compulsion until they were unable to ask questions without using it; there was no way around it, even the Grand Inquisitor was bound by it. But the compulsion was a power given to them by their belief in Volmar. If an Arbiter or an Inquisitor turned away from the faith... Then Thanquil noticed Inquisitor Heron was armed; a cruel looking black steel sword hung from her belt, its jagged blade unsheathed and waiting.

  “Why?” Thanquil asked, his own compulsion crashing against the Inquisitor's will like a wave hitting a cliff. The question was too broad, too unfocused, even if she hadn't been protected it would not have worked.

  “Why what, Arbiter?”

  “Why betray the Inquisition?”

  “What are you talking about, Thanquil? I would never...”

  “I know about you and H'ost. I know about Kessick. I know about the contract, Inquisitor,” Thanquil interrupted her plea of innocence.

  Inquisitor Heron sighed. “Did H'ost at least put up a fight? He shouldn't even have known about the contract. That must have been Kessick's fault.”

  The Inquisitor took a step forwards off the porch of her mansion and towards Thanquil. She smiled at him, a predator's smile. “But how much do you know?”

  Thanquil backed away. “I know you're putting creatures from the void into people's bodies. Is that how you turned Kosh?”

  She giggled. “Kosh? He came to me on his own. He saw the truth; all I did was confirm it for him. You, of all people, should see it too, Thanquil Darkheart.”

  “What truth?”

  “Do you remember when Arbiter Yellon brought you in, Thanquil?” she asked him. “He was a very pretty man that one but such a vicious streak. I was a newly graduated Arbiter myself and I saw him walk you in, one hand on your shoulder. He stopped in the middle of the compound and said, 'This boy's name is Thanquil Darkheart'. Do you remember? The day he gave you that name. I do. All around you Arbiters and servants alike stared at you in disgust or laughed at you but you met all of their stares head on and didn't flinch. All they saw in you was a child of two heretics burned for their evil but not me. I saw something else in you, potential.”

  Truth was Thanquil barely remembered that day; he had been somewhere close to eight years old, half-starved and he'd just watched his own parents burning, screaming. He remembered very little of that day or of the weeks that followed but he remembered the scorn, the derision. He was the first Darkheart in the Inquisition for near a thousand years; after all, a child born of heresy was more like to turn to the darkness.

  “Do you have a reason for bringing that up, Inquisitor?”

  “The Inquisition has grown stagnant. Too bogged down in tradition and prejudice, unable to see power even when it is in front of them.” She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. “A thousand years ago all the Inquisitors were as powerful as our Grand Inquisitor Vance. Now? Now he is dying remnant of the past. Too stubborn, like the rest, to realise that their time is at an end. The Inquisition isn't strong enough to stand up to the darkness that's coming, Thanquil.

  “Kosh saw it as I did, how could he not, one as powerful as him could easily see the others around him were not his match. He came to me for guidance, seeking answers that he already knew but asking the wrong questions. I showed him the truth...”

  “By putting a demon from the void in his body?” Again Thanquil's compulsion crashed against her will, impotent and powerle
ss.

  “I can show you the truth as well, Thanquil. I can show you what's coming. It's time to choose a side.”

  “I already have.”

  She laughed. “They don't even realise what they have in you, do they. They mock you, scorn you, fear you and yet you are the one that's here fighting for their survival like some sort of paragon of misguided justice.”

  Thanquil drew his sword and held it in front of him, edging forwards a step. “Kosh and Kessick are both dead, Inquisitor.”

  “What?” For the first time uncertainty crossed her beautiful face. “You couldn't have...”

  “I didn't come back to Sarth alone.”

  “Tell me, Arbiter Darkheart, once you are dead, do you think even a single one of them will believe you were anything more than a heretic? Even if you should succeed in killing me the Inquisition will kill you for it.”

  “Once you're dead they'll find the proof, they'll find the contract,” Thanquil pressed for information.

  Inquisitor Heron laughed. “Do you believe I'd leave such a dangerous artefact lying around, Arbiter? No. The contract is safe; I am the only person who could ever retrieve it.”

  “The void,” Thanquil said.

  She smiled. “Yes. The demons of the void are sworn to obey the Inquisition and I ordered them to take the contract and never speak of it to anyone but myself.”

  If that was true then there was no proof. The Inquisitor was right; Thanquil would be killed by the Inquisition on suspicion of heresy even if he should win.

  Then Inquisitor Heron's sword was in her hand and with a silent grin she came at him.

  The BladeMaster

  She watched the blood well up around the blade of the dagger; a thin red line ran down the Arbiter's skin and soaked into the silk bed linen. She needed to get dressed, put on some real clothing, and fetch the whore mistress to deal with the body.

  Then I need to go check on Thanquil. He might need my help.

  Jez pushed herself up onto her knees and wiped between her legs with a corner of the bed sheet.