by C. B. Currie
Apart from Falric, the other two dozen monks and boys that inhabited the priory were pitiful creatures. They worked all day, prayed all night, ate dull and tasteless food and drank so modestly he could hardly call it dinking. They neither sang nor played music and from the noise he heard in the night, some beat themselves and begged forgiveness for whatever crime it was their gods disapproved of. If they’d had anything of value he and his brother would have put the whole miserable lot to the sword by now and taken their wealth, but spies had told the warlords of Shorha there was no gold to be had, and so the monks were left alone and now here he was watching their wretched existence up close. He wished they’d stopped and burned anyway just to spare him this miserable spectacle.
On the third morning, Jendry was seized by a fit of coughing and wheezing and breathlessness so violent it killed him. When they moved his body, they saw his back was rent by savage open sores that had left blood and pus all over the rough sheets of the bedroll he had slept on. Algas had never heard of such an affliction, but Falric claimed to have read of it. By now several monks and the other caravan guard the knight had brought with him had also taken ill. It was after this that Galbry, the other sellsword from the tavern in Northwatch, came to Algas by the cliffs overlooking the wild grey sea.
‘This place is cursed mate,’ he said in his clipped southern accent. ‘The chill air is making them sick, and we’ll be next. I say we take what we can, steal the horses and run.’
Algas was a seafarer, though he could also ride, but even he knew that only the knight’s horse was for riding. The one used for the cart was not good for much else, and would no more take a man on its back than a maiden would at her first night in a brothel.
‘And go where?’ the Northman asked.
‘Anywhere, south, back to Northwatch. The whole lot of them will be sick before long, and maybe us next. I’ve heard how sickness leaps from man to man.’
Algas was no healer but even he knew that those who kept company with the sick were likely to fall ill themselves. ‘What is there to take?’
‘The knight’s coin. He’s old and won’t put up much of a fight. Young Jendry’s friend is too sick to fight at all. He must have dozens of pennies and I saw some silver shillings too.’
Algas knew dozens of coppers and a few silver coins was a tidy sum, but wouldn’t get the two of them far. He could also see that the knight was a warrior and would not likely be an easy kill.
‘How?’
‘We take him in his sleep, or when he’s pissing or cooking. He lets his guard down often enough. We can be away from this pace in an hour.’
Algas had of course considered doing the same several days ago. But he had dismissed it because he suspected the knight would still be a formidable fighter despite his age and because he believed that the knight and his pious order had plenty more money to pay him if he served faithfully – for now at least.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Algas answered, and looked out to sea.
‘Is that a ship?’ Galbry asked.
Beland was called from the boy’s burial rites just as a lay brother started shoveling dirt over his shrouded corpse. The ship bore the white sails emblazoned with a red tree of an official Chapel envoy, and pulled up on the shell-strewn beach just south of the promontory where the priory lay. Several monks and the senior Brother, who claimed the title of prior, made their way down a stony trail and returned with six armed warriors in matching black garb and boiled leather cuirasses, two grey-clad priests and a red-robed deacon. Beland and his two armed helpers joined them all in the refectory, one of the larger buildings, where the monks cooked and dined.
‘My name is Pelryn,’ the deacon announced. He was young for such a rank, perhaps only forty or so, with short hair and an air of pompous self-importance.
The brothers and Beland introduced themselves formally and the deacon looked scornfully at the knight’s brown penitent’s tunic and even more so at the two brutes that accompanied him.
‘We have come on the orders of the Holy Patriarch and the Council of Fathers,’ the deacon continued. ‘There is word of heretics and a new disease stalks the land. We must ensure that the Chapel’s lands and houses are purified.’
‘You will find no heretics here,’ the prior assured him.
‘That is for us to decide,’ the deacon said with a dismissive wave. ‘Is there a Brother Falric here?’
‘In his cell with his books,’ another monk replied.
‘And you, penitent,’ the deacon’s words dripped with disapproval, ‘There’s no chapter house up here. What brings you so far north?’
‘Transporting books,’ he answered dutifully, ‘from Havenside priory.’
‘Ah, Havenside,’ the deacon sighed. His four guards shifted uncomfortably and Beland felt the tension in the room deepen. He also knew the Normar barbarian was feeling the same. He had spent a lifetime around fighting men and this young warrior, by a shift in demeanor, mood or simply the tone of his breathing, and registered the threat as well.
‘Take my man here to fetch him,’ the deacon instructed, and the monk left with one of the four bodyguards.
The deacon turned to Beland. ‘What books did you bring from Havenside?
He wondered what made him so important all of a sudden. ‘Four or five in a bundle,’ the knight answered. ‘I do not know what they were.’
‘And they were given to you by Prior Algwyn, was it?’
Beland nodded cautiously. The way the deacon spoke the name betrayed malice; Algwyn was a friend, though not an especially dear one. Haendric was a close friend and on the whole, Havenside priory was a place he had come to love, not least because of his son. Haendric had been a reader of Heathen texts, though he had always explained it to Beland as getting to know the enemy. Were these the books he’d been tasked with? He was reluctant to speak the priest’s name.
Deacon Pelryn stepped forward and the knight noticed his guards’ hands resting on their sword pommels. ‘Brother Knight, you may be implicated in spreading heresy. Choose your answer wisely.’
The monk returned at that moment with Falric and there was a moment of respite. The deacon looked the small monk over and seemed almost to dismiss him. Then he said, ‘Arrest this man.’
The armed guards stepped forward, and Beland saw that Algas, of all people had drawn his sword and stepped in front of the old cleric. Then Galbry, the other sellsword reached for his weapon but did not draw it.
The deacon was calm. ‘Men, if you care for your souls you will not defend this heretic, he has been spreading heathen teaching.’
‘I have done no such…’ the monk began to protest but was cut short by Galbry grabbing his shoulders.
‘Just hand him over,’ the sellsword said, and started marching the small fellow toward the deacon. Falric waddled reluctantly in shuffling, forced steps.
Beland was a servant of the Faith. He was sworn to fight for Heaven and the twelve realms. But in the voice and the eyes of this deacon – the first he’d ever met – there a cold fire he had never encountered before. He had met clergymen he did not like, or even could not trust. But none he would have called simply cruel. Whatever it was, it was not of the Chapel he had served his entire life, yet he did not know whether to draw his blade to protect the monk or turn him over.
Algas made the decision for them. The Northman’s blade was swinging at the deacon’s men before Beland even realized what was happening. Suddenly there was a flurry of movement and his hand moved involuntarily to his own weapon. He had fought all his life after all to protect the clergy.
It happened quickly, the first two men lunged almost at the same time, but the Northman was larger, much quicker, and with his hefty sword struck both men’s blades aside the clang of steel echoing off the stone walls and ringing in Beland’s ears. As they recovered he charged at one with a downward slash and the other raised his weapon in defense. By then Beland had his own sword out and was parrying an attack from another of the dark-cla
d guards. He lunged forward forcing the man back.
The deacon was shouting, his hands in the air. ‘Stop you fools, we must not shed blood in a house of the Prophet!’
But they did not listen. Algas ran one of the men through after another riposte, and his blood splattered the rushes on the floor of the refectory. Beland shouted angrily as he forced his opponent back yet again. The other two armed guards stood in ready stances with their own swords drawn, protecting the deacon.
‘Beland!’ called the monk Falric and for a moment everyone stopped.
The mercenary Galbry held the Qureshi scimitar he had carried at the monk’s throat. ‘If all they want is this little bastard and the knight, I say we hand them over. Are you with me, Algas?’
Beland looked to the Northman and to the southerner. The deacon was still calling for calm. The wounded man lay twitching and gurgling on the floor in a pool of blood. The rest of the monks cowered beside the tables.
‘I care for my soul,’ the sellsword said.
‘And the priests can pay more than he can?’ the Northman nodded in Beland’s direction.
‘Men, I implore you,’ the deacon pleaded again, the malice replaced by indignant horror at the bloodshed on sacred ground. ‘Put down your blades!’
Beland could scarcely believe his own words when he spoke. ‘No deacon, you will leave with your men. The monk is to remain with us. You may take this one eyed fool if you wish.’
‘The man is hurt…’ one monk stuttered fearfully and scrambled over to the wounded fighter’s side.
It was then Algas lunged. He charged straight at Brother Falric and thrust his sword forward. Only Falric did not fall. Instead Galbry screamed as the blade passed between the monk’s arm and side, piercing his robes and skewering the sellsword behind him. Galbry collapsed bleeding and pale and Falric retreated to the huddled safety of the other monks.
The Northman stepped over Galbry’s crumpled body, grabbed his hair and yanked his head up as the man screamed in pain. He thrust his sword into the mercenary’s throat and the screams turned to gurgling. When he pulled the blade out a jet of dark blood splashed across the floor causing Falric to leap involuntarily backward. Dropping Galbry’s lifeless form, he then turned toward the deacon’s party with a savage, triumphant grin.
‘Come!’ the deacon commanded, and his men hurried toward his side. ‘Take care of that one,’ he ordered the monks, nodding at the wounded man and glaring at them. ‘We will be back with more men. And you, Knight Penitent, had best pray for Heaven’s forgiveness. You are banished from the Faith.’
He stormed out as the monk tending to the wounded man tore a strip of his own robe to staunch the bleeding. ‘This man needs to be taken away immediately.’
Beland followed the deacon’s party to the door and watched them descend the trail toward the beach.
Algas wiped his sword on the dead Galbry’s tunic and brought the scimitar to the knight. ‘I hope those books of yours are worth it.’
Beland wondered at that point what in the world could possibly be worth it. If all men were sinners, he had sinned enough this day.
PART THREE
The Bard
Twenty-two
Rain pelted the road in fat, heavy drops under a leaden sky, soaking Beland through his cloak, armor and tunic. His attire was heavy and clammy and he almost envied the northern barbarian for having such light clothing, though Algas had taken a leather cuirass from the man he’d killed at Wellstone, and he was of course wet too. They both rode horses, the knight’s mare and a half decent riding mare that Beland had paid too much to obtain from the only crofter with the only such horse in the village near the priory.
Leaving Wellstone had been a negotiated affair. The prior had gone to speak with the deacon by the shore and they had come to an arrangement. The monk was to leave with the knight and the Northman. The books were to be handed over. The clergymen from Havenside and the last one of the original armed guards were to stay unmolested, though the latter was sick in bed anyway. The prior assured them that the deacon’s men were not to pursue Beland and Algas as they rode south. They were unable anyway: with only a few of them and no horses they knew they’d be badly mauled. They could still try to intercept Beland by sea, especially if the wind were favorable and they could reach any of the southern ports sooner and gather reinforcements.
Yet Beland thought they wouldn’t bother. The deacon would make his report and Beland would likely be stripped of his vestments and cast out of the order, and that would be the end of it. Killing a hired ruffian was not a capital offense. He doubted the deacon alone had the power to banish him from the Faith altogether. The deacon had the books he’d wanted, and the knight had no idea what made a bunch of heathen texts so important, but outside of these they seemed to have no interest in the knight. The monk Falric who was supposed to have kept the books was a different story, He would have been charged with heresy, a sin against the entire Faith. But though Beland had sworn to protect the clergy and had held to that vow all his life, the deacon’s cold, fervent eyes had told Beland that this harmless old friar was worth protecting against the Chapel authorities. The price of the monk’s skin had been the heathen books.
Brother Falric had been left at Northwatch to fend for himself. He had been adamant he’d fare better in a city than on the roads, and claimed to have friends who would help him. The monk left them at a tavern that was eerily empty and returned in an hour with provisions: dried sausages, hard cheese and bread baked twice over. There was talk in the city of more sickness and the docks were closed, which was welcoming news for the deacon’s seaborne passage might be slowed, but Beland did not otherwise linger. Beland and Algas rode south, and he hoped to reach Havenside before any more trouble did. He knew the source of the books and feared for Algwyn and Haendric and wondered if Vanis had returned to the priory there. They took the main roads and made twice as much speed as they had with a cart and its load to watch over.
Now in the driving rain and the chill of coming winter, they made haste along the roads into a future the knight was ill-prepared for. Conflict and adventure were nothing new, but all his life the Chapel and the Order had guided him, and now he was without that certainty.
‘It pained you didn’t it?’ The Northman spoke, trotting alongside him instead of behind.
‘What did?’
‘Betraying your beliefs.’
‘I did not betray them. I am sworn to protect the Faith and its servants. The monk needed protecting.’
‘From his own?’
Beland did not answer.
‘Would they have killed him?’
‘I suspect so. The Chapel has been known to hang heretics.’
‘What is a heretic?’
Beland realized Algas had to be quite unfamiliar with the finer details of the Faith. ‘One who preaches against doctrine.’
‘Doctrine?’
Beland realized he wasn’t going to get far. ‘We have a set of beliefs, as your people do.’ Algas nodded when the knight looked over. ‘And those who try to change or defy that belief and encourage others to do so are called heretics.’
‘Traitors?’
‘Of a kind, yes.’
‘Then why spare him? I’d kill a traitor.’
‘Who looked more dangerous to you? The priest in red or the old man in brown?’
‘The red priest I suppose,’ The Northman conceded. ‘He had murder in his eyes. Though he looked the type to do it in secret.’
‘That is how they do it,’ Beland said. ‘They take away those who are deemed traitors and have them hanged or beheaded. Or murdered in the night.’
‘And their women and children? Are they just turned out to starve?’
Beland wondered if the Northman was made entirely of bone from the shoulders up. ‘Did you not notice? They have no women. They are sworn not to.’
‘Are you sworn not to?’
‘Yes. The Knights of the Chalice take no wives. We are sworn to d
efend the Chapel and Heaven is our only family.’ It felt like a lie when he remembered his own lapse and his desire to make good on it by being a father to Vanis.
‘But you betrayed your religion didn’t you? That one in the red he was your master.’
‘He outranks me, yes.’
‘What is the penalty? Will you be hung?’
‘I’ll be excommunicated and banished. I might be able to take work at a monastery as a lay brother to atone.’
‘Lay brother?’
‘One who lives and works among the monks but isn’t learned and hasn’t taken the holy vows.’
‘If I were you I’d find a farm and a woman. Earn some money fighting while your sword arm is still good, and get some land.’
Beland doubted his sword arm had that many good years left in it. Certainly not enough to buy land, and he knew little enough about growing or the rearing of animals, or of children. In a few more summers he would be fifty.
Standing on a windswept shore Algas looked out to the waves and dreamed. The sea was churning violently and the sky heavy with dark clouds. The rain had stopped but not a rent of blue showed through that darkening blanket. It was mid afternoon but the days were short this far north and so late in the autumn. The knight was taking a piss behind a tree. The Northman stood with his hand on his hilt and was supposed to be watching for trouble but whenever he saw the sea, his mind wandered easily.
The future he’d imagined when he’d taken this course was harder to see now. The old knight, who’d had all the wealth of the southlander religion behind him, was now a fugitive and would likely run out of coin before long. Then nobody would be paying him and he sorely needed money. He needed more than money if he were to lure men to his cause. He needed reputation, a real and loyal following. All a sellsword could hope for was to hire more sellswords – desperate, hungry men like Galbry. Men who could not truly be trusted. These could hardly be fashioned into his own household warriors who would follow him to the Shorhan isles. He needed to lure back what remained of his brother’s men, but how was he to do that so far from the isles?