The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)
Page 12
The leader stood alone on the shore, looked up at the high, craggy peak of the island. He had a blond beard but in the fading light, the shade from the rim of his polished helm hid his eyes at this distance. He shook his head. Algas wouldn’t have wanted to climb such a peak either, but he had nowhere else to hide.
One half of the warriors climbed the winding path up the slope until it branched and petered out in the crags. They returned to the beach and discussed something with the leader. All of the men were looking up now and from his hiding place in the rocks, he wondered if they could spot him. He had no chance against so many men. Last night’s fight had been with fishermen and bully-boys, but these looked like professional swordsmen. However if they could find the Northman and attack his position, they would be forced to fight single file up a narrow cliff face. It would be costly and though they would kill him in the end, they would lose a few of their number for certain.
That was even if they knew he was there. They may have been searching for something else entirely – his cousin perhaps. Or perhaps they were just keeping an eye out. The blood that had splashed all over the fishing boat had gotten plenty of time to stain the planks and benches before the morning’s rain washed most of it away and that could not have gone unmissed as the sailors searched it. As if reading his own thoughts the leader was called to the boat, stalked over and peered in to it. He turned away again and looked up the hill.
Then he shouted to his men and they began to fall back to their own ship. Half the warriors climbed aboard, and half stayed in the shallows with some of the crew to push the craft out. Then they all got in and with oars, began to turn the boat back out to sea. Before long the sails had taken wind again and the boat was returning south. It was near dark.
The fishing boat could be recovered if they thought it abandoned, but they would have to return with more sailors and few men sailed at night unless they were smugglers, or running from something. They would be back in the morning, Algas expected, at best several hours after dawn since they’d have to start from whichever port south they’d come. He was in no condition to leave now, with a cough beginning to wrack his body and his limbs aching. He would have to leave at first light and just hope he could stay ahead.
Algas was up before the dawn, after sleeping poorly and awaking often in fits of coughing. The chill consumed him that day with a blocked nose, ringing ears, constant aches and a foggy head. He was tired and parched but had no appetite. The boat was undamaged. The men on the beach could have fired it or scuttled it by staving a hole in the hull, but presumably wanted to reclaim it intact. They may have just thought it belong to a fisherman who was camping out and seen no need to investigate. Nothing had been taken from it.
So he pushed the heavy vessel off the beach, rowed out of the maze of islets and coves, unfurled the sail and took to the small wind, which was enough to carry him slowly northwards. He sailed wide of the shore and even waved to another fishing craft that passed on its way out to the captain’s favorite patch of sea, hoping that gesture at least was less conspicuous than sailing alone and trying to avoid everyone.
After some hours, with the sun finally warming his cold back as grey gulls swooped and scudded overhead, the warrior finally passed out of the Crags and there were no other boats around. Rock seals slipped gracefully through the water, trailing the boat in the hope of offal being cast overboard. He toyed with the idea of clubbing one, but knew they’d never come that close. Instead he thought of pursuit. The soldiers yesterday might have come from Northwatch, but for the lack of the local lord’s colors, which he knew to be yellow and green. There were no painted shields, in fact only a couple of them had carried shields at all, as far as he could recall.
So he passed wide of the last great city in the north and tacked on toward the desolate Tussock Coast and eventually, the Shorhan Isles. It was another night in the cold, when despite the chill weather, he felt his fever lightening and his appetite return, and in the morning he saw the first of the grassy, windswept islands that he and his brother had claimed years before.
It was an easy sail from here, though he was tired, feeling weak and had not eaten since the fish he’d caught more than a day past, one of which he’d been forced to finish cold. These were rocky and gorse-covered isles, haunted by fur seal and gannet, and rich with herring and mackerel. There were some small farmsteads where sheep were raised, and a few fishing huts on some of the outer islands. Some were the homes of original southlander inhabitants, others relatives of his brother’s oath-men. All came under the protection of his cousin Gerwulf now, or so Algas presumed since his brother’s death and in his own absence.
In all, the Shorhan Isles were made up of a dozen or so grassy, hilly islands that spread southwest from a long peninsula. The ships and soldiers of the southlander kingdom did not come here, for it was a stronghold that had been won and held by sea raiders for a generation now, and was ever a wild place, distant and poor of soil. It had fish aplenty, but then so did the rest of the sea, and the pilots of southern fishing craft had learned to steer clear rather than risk capture and enslavement.
The largest of the islands, big enough for a fort, farms, forests, streams and several small lakes, was Shorha. This was also the name of the jarldom his brother had claimed some years past. As he drifted into the island’s south-facing harbor, he saw the great wooden walls atop earthworks, smoke smudging the cloudy afternoon sky, and a pier with two longships drawn up alongside Gerwulf’s ship. There were many smaller boats and another longship that he and his brother had been building on the stony beach beside, and the Northman felt his cares released. His brother may be dead but he was home at last. He looked forward to the shelter of the long mead hall and the warmth of its great firepit; to sharing his escape with his cousin and drinking in lament to the kin they had lost in battle.
He steered the boat into the bay and let it run aground. His throat was hoarse, but he called out to some of the folk on the shore, women and boys hauling in nets, an elderly man smoking fish. They nodded, some waved, and he hurried up the beach toward the gate of the palisade.
The gates closed as he approached. He slowed his gait and called to the men atop the ramparts, whom he recognized.
‘Halbir, Gomruth!’
The two warriors stood still. They looked at one another and Halbir said something to someone behind the wall below him that Algas could not hear.
‘Open the gates,’ the Northman insisted, thinking it was ill timing for a jest, ‘I’ve come back. It’s good to see you well.’
Gerwulf climbed up the ramparts behind the men and peered down at his cousin. He was a large man like Algas was and Gormir had been, with flowing golden hair and a thick beard to match. He was older and heavier and was dressed in his fine mail shirt, a sword belt and a cloak of sealskin. He wore a bronze circlet around his head and looked every bit the jarl Gormir had been.
‘You ran, Algas,’ Gerwulf said flatly, ‘You fled the battle like a woman.’
The unexpected insult stung. It was sudden and sharp and among the worst accusations a Normar warrior could muster. In a mead hall it would be grounds for a fight, and such fights often led to bloodshed if the master of the hall had not the foresight to disarm his men and guests.
‘You fled,’ Algas retorted with a croaky voice. ‘We all did, but we lived.’ They had all survived and he had expected they’d be happy to see him.
‘A coward and a woman!’ Gerwulf shouted, spitting over the rampart onto the ground. He looked around at the men who offered forced laughter.
Algas was incensed. He had been told for as long as he could remember that on the day of his birth, his father had thrown down a sword before him and said to the newborn that he would inherit no land or gold, but that he must earn his way with steel alone. So it had been for his brothers, for Gerwulf and for all the men of their people who reckoned themselves men. No man who made his fortune by his sword would stand such an insult.
‘Come fight me
then Gerwulf!’ The warrior croaked, drawing his blade. He coughed and had to fight not to double up. ‘You, who ran first, who took ship before the battle had finished, you stand on my brother’s wall and call me a woman? Fight me!’
Gerwulf laughed again, and so did some of the men now. Algas bridled.
‘Are you the jarl now? Is that what you call yourself?’
‘It’s what the men call me. Men, Algas, not women who run!’
‘Then fight if you’re a man!’
Gerwulf did not answer. He took a throwing spear from Gomruth and held it up in his hand. ‘Cowards who run are hunted like boar,’ he called, ‘should I spear you like a boar, woman?’
Algas’s world had shattered. He had no home now. Part of him understood that his cousin could not usurp the jarldom then let him return. His own claim was stronger and the leadership of the colony would be open to challenge. Nor could Gerwulf just kill him, for some of the men surely had some sentiment for him. Algas had to be seen to abandon his people. But what he did not understand was why, for Gerwulf had ever been a loyal and faithful retainer.
‘Take this, and spear some fish with it,’ Gerwulf shouted and threw the spear. It landed in the ground a few paces from Algas. Shaking his head the warrior took it. He toyed with the idea of throwing it back, of skewering his cousin’s well-fed belly, but thought better of it. It might work on close ranks, or a man distracted in battle, but Gerwulf would easily step aside as Algas would have, which is why Gerwulf had not bothered to throw it directly at him.
Wordlessly, tiredly, he sheathed his sword and carried the short-hafted spear as he returned to the beach. The people working on the shore had stopped and were staring at him balefully, and for a moment he wanted to spear the old man who’d been smoking fish moments earlier. But unfocused rage would be a waste of energy and life and if he were ever to press his claim then he would need legitimacy. He thought for a moment of offering those few people coins, to show the generosity that sea-jarls must display, but realized that now he would need his money more than ever.
Algas returned to his boat, masking his aching joints and pounding head and stifling a pressing cough that welled in his chest. He pushed the craft out into the tide and leaped over the strakes to the rowing bench. Watching the men on the battlements of his home grow smaller, he rowed southeast toward the shore again.
Fifteen
There was a time when pride would have driven Father Haendric to walk to Bastion. It would take a couple of days and he’d have to stop overnight in the meager loft that doubled as the inn at Taryn Mill, but he was a humble priest and humble priests took to the road and suffered that small hardship gladly in the service of the Faith. But he was old now and the countryside was said to be troubled of late and after the assault on Father Caddock only two weeks before, he was glad to be riding on the prior’s wagon.
He sat across from Algwyn on the back of the wagon, covered by a hide tent to protect them from the rain. The back was open however and they could watch the countryside about them from there. Scattered showers swept across the road behind them, sunlight from between the fast rushing clouds, making the drops dance like fleeting embers in the wind. The wagon was driven by a lay brother and escorted by several more, all armed. They were not experienced fighters but this was a well-travelled stretch of road.
The prior had brought the young novice who usually assisted him, and now sat up front with the driver to allow the two older clerics to speak, but otherwise there were no more clergymen. He had also brought customary gifts for Bishop Aldric in Bastion, and for the archbishop when he arrived at Castlereach. These were mostly wine, cheese and sausages from the priory’s reputable stores; Havenside’s produce was held in high regard, mostly due to Algwyn’s efforts and exacting standards.
Haendric despaired of young Vanis, especially in this weather, and wondered if the truant novice had even now returned, but that was not a topic of discussion for the road. Prior Algwyn had made his choice and it had been his choice to make; Haendric had said his words, for all the good they might do. Other matters were pressing and the prior had to visit the capital. Algwyn would take a riverboat to Castlreach from Bastion; Haendric would stop in Bastion to beseech the Bishop for a transfer.
That conversation had not been easy. Algwyn and Haendric were firm friends. The prior had always relied on the priest’s advice and his healing touch in the infirmary. Algwyn was also an advocate of freer reading of the Strictures, and of foreign religious tracts, and had allowed Haendric to pursue his studies in peace. Yet there had always been things they disagreed on, the lad Vanis being one, and it was disappointing to the prior to hear that Haendric wished to leave, perhaps especially so in such times. Yet Algwyn had acquiesced, preoccupied with his concern about the deacons, rumors of heresy and purges as well as the day-to-day running of the priory, which had become quite dramatic since the robbery and the scandal with Vanis and the village girl.
After a late morning start, and an afternoon on the road lashed by frequent showers, the walls of Bastion loomed before them in the watery evening sun. People were going to and fro, carts laden and donkeys lumbering under heavy sacks. There was much business in the city ahead of the annual autumn fair, when merchants, performers, street sellers, fortune tellers and tricksters came from the shires around to ply their wares and trades.
‘The bishop could send you to a quiet place,’ Algwyn warned, ‘somewhere like Wellstone.’
‘I need a quiet place.’ Haendric said. ‘I’m getting old.’
‘We both are. I’ve little stomach for the road anymore.’
‘What do you expect the archbishop to say?’
‘As much as I’ve told you. No more heathen reading. The deacons will be displeased.’
‘Will it be enough to satisfy them?’
‘They’re never truly satisfied, but they should quiet down. Or perhaps the Patriarch is even more zealous than we feared.’
‘In which case?’
Algwyn shrugged. ‘Demotion, transfer, some stiff steeple-climber assigned to Havenside? I don’t know. The Chapel service was ever a place for ambitious men, and we are always in the minority there. Even among the novices at the priory I think there are lads from good families who think it their natural place to run a priory someday. If it’s modesty we wanted, we’d all be seeking a simple life in a quiet parish.’
‘I’ll be near enough to visit,’ Haendric assured him.
‘And too old to travel.’ Algwyn scoffed. ‘I know there is more to our faith than the Strictures have said. What have you found in the heathen texts?’
‘The usual disagreements,’ Haendric replied dismissively. ‘How the Prophet lived and died, what he said to whom; the miracles, the chalice. The rest is just their poetry and folk tales.’
‘The archbishop warned me that the deacons fear the east. They fear heresy and conflict coming from the heathens. The Twelve Realms have been too long without a war and when kings scheme they are quick to accuse each other of transgressions of the Faith.’
‘And losing the Holy City still requires blame,’ Haendric observed. ‘Who has Heaven’s disfavor this year? The Ventish, the Augslanders, our own king?’
‘You’re too cynical, friend.’ The prior retorted, ‘but probably right this time. It was the right thing to do to get rid of the books. Perhaps when all this suspicion has passed we can recall them.’
‘I fear it will require a new Patriarch and the latest is only fifty or so and in excellent health.’
‘That sentiment alone would be heresy in Selevia. You’d be excommunicated.’
‘If the Chapel Fathers could read our hearts, we’d all be excommunicated. They want us to be more than men.’
The driver called back to them that the gates were ahead. Algwyn nodded and roused himself as the wagon slowed to a stop. The novice appeared at the back of the wagon to help the prior down and Haendric after him. They walked to the gatehouse to greet the guards with their business.
The main road led almost directly to the Great Chapel, which sat at an intersection across from the Laughing Cockerel Inn, but the wagon turned off to the left before that crossroads and made for Bastion’s own small priory opposite the guard barracks, hard against the south wall. There they stopped in to greet the prior while the lay brothers unloaded the wagon, and the three clerics set off on foot to the Great Chapel, a few minutes’ walk away.
The cathedral was a magnificent building and though Haendric had visited a few in his years, he was always awed by them. Its high steeple of the bell tower loomed over the city as they approached. The doors were twenty feet high and made of heavy polished oak. Inside, they were greeted by a long vaulted ceiling; stained glass windows depicting the lives of the saints filtered in the dying light and great candles burned in lavish holders all along the main hall. At the far end stood a high altar surrounded by reliquaries and behind it along the far wall were the stone coffins of saints, princes and overlords from decades and centuries past. Redcheek sparrows flittered around under the vaulted ceiling. It was a marvel to behold.
The visitors announced themselves quietly to a portly grey-robed priest who hurried off to fetch the bishop from his chambers at the rear. As they walked slowly past rows of finely carved and polished benches a few of the city’s more pious residents were finishing up evening prayers before leaving. They waited near the altar, silently admiring the craftsmanship and each perhaps finding his own peace in this great house of their faith. The door at the rear opened and Bishop Aldric walked in.