The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  ‘I can’t let him hurt you anymore,’ he said sharply and grabbed her by the arm. ‘I’ll take you back to your father, now come with me.’

  She struggled against but did so as quietly as she could. She didn’t want them to be found out and did not want Berryck to be harmed. But she couldn’t go with him either for they had no chance of running away.

  ‘Caera!’ She heard a voice and turned to see Hyllis standing by his smoldering fire. ‘What are you doing there?’

  The hands relaxed and Caera was free again. She could run with Berryck, she could make excuses. She could go back to Hyllis. She looked between them for a moment, then started toward the brigand.

  Then she heard a rumbling in the distance, the sound of many hooves galloping, and someone across the camp called out in alarm. Hyllis showed fear in his eyes.

  ‘Riders!’ Berryck exclaimed.

  They came thundering through the camp, several dozen horsemen in white cloaks and rounded steel helms that glinted in the firelight. They were hacking left and right, cutting down panicked sellswords and running over their waking comrades before they could even stand and fight. They threw lit torches into tents forcing the occupants out and knocked over spits and cooking pots as they crashed through the camp.

  ‘It’s the knights of the Chalice!’ Berryck said excitedly, now not bothering to whisper.

  ‘Caera!’ Hyllis called again and ran over to her, his blade drawn.

  Berryck pushed him away and lunged at him, but Hyllis was armed and quicker and more experienced. He sidestepped, cut at Berryck’s face, caught him on the ear as he tried to dodge and the lumbering smith’s son fell to his knees with a yelp of pain.

  ‘Come with me!’ Hyllis said, sword in one hand and the other outstretched. ‘I’ll take you away from here!’

  Staying seemed the best course. People were up and running in panic, a dozen small swordfights had broken out, women were screaming, horses braying and still the white riders were circling the camp. Only Caera’s dark little corner was as yet undisturbed but the battle would soon arrive. Berryck might be in danger if he stood up and Hyllis, with a weapon in his hand would almost certainly be cut down.

  Caera bolted past the bleeding Berryck, still clutching his right ear, ran to the bedroll and grabbed for Hyllis’s satchel.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Berryck demanded in a high, panicked voice.

  ‘Your herbs, your books!’ She said to Hyllis, ignoring Berryck’s questions.

  Hyllis stepped over to her and stopped her hands. ‘Forget the books!’ He snapped. ‘Let’s go, now!’

  The hollered commands, beating hooves and rattling steel of the more organized troops drew nearer. Some tents were ablaze and she could hear the panic of women and the screams of dying men. She turned to see across the camp that one of the riders was directing others over to their campfire, pointing his sword that gleamed in the firelight and barking orders. She looked back at Hyllis as she shouldered the leather bag and stood again.

  ‘They’re just books!’ He said. He had already taken a few steps into the treeline. He looked at her a moment as if he were about to plead with her to follow him again, then simply said, ‘I’m sorry Caera.’

  She realized then the deception. He could probably read no more than she could, much less some tome in a foreign tongue. He may have been taught a word or two of the Qureshi text, or he could have been making that up too. If they were rally the source of his magic he would not abandon them. He didn’t know magic any more than Drunith did, and probably understood less than the old woman did of herbs and healing. He was a swindler, a charlatan who used the fact that he was clever and knew a little more to gain favor with brigands like Barthol and have some sway in their group. But in the end he was nothing but another thief. She watched numbly as he disappeared into the woods.

  Thirty-eight

  Haendric spent a night in Bastion’s gaol by the riverside wall in a cell with half a dozen other men. Some were thieves, some rogues and wanderers and others just unlucky. They coughed and sniffed and pissed in buckets and sat morosely in the cold, and in the morning were rounded up and marched to the fields outside the East Gate where a column of soldiers and stragglers was assembling along Castle Road.

  There was a low mist over the Breadlands that stretched to the horizon, but above the sky was clear, blue and cloudless, promising what passed for a warm winter day to come. Ice frosted the grass and the red birch that lined the road were bare. Few common folk were afoot. Haendric looked north to where they’d be marching, where the white tips of the Sunset Peaks climbed far in the distance. He had taken this road many times in his long years, winding north along the flow of the Rushwater towards the Crossroads Inn and Stables. From there the wooded foothills could be seen and not much further on, the craggy slopes guarded by the stern stone walls of Juniper Keep. He imagined an army camped on the highland fields leading to the fortress gates. Donnal would be there and Haendric thought it ironic he would be among those laying siege to him.

  It was midmorning before the caravan was ready: five wagons, three carts, two dozen cavalry and a motley band of a hundred or so footmen in various states of disarmament and ill-readiness. Many had been pressed, some were volunteers and a few were uniformed men of the watch or the black-clad Guardians. Apart from those few, the rest were a disheveled-looking bunch of men and boys unaccustomed to war or even life on the road. They wore an assortment of rusty plates, faded and brittle leather cuirasses, and carried anything from woodcutting axes to rakes and hoes. There were few real weapons and Haendric wondered whether Vanis’s short sword had ended up in capable hands or in the care of one of these unfortunates.

  There were women and children to follow the camp; whores, cooks, messengers, pages, stable hands, smiths, chickens, dogs and donkeys. Some of the people already looked sick and others would surely catch camp fever when they arrived and he had no doubt that he’d end up tending to them as Scourge victims before the week was through, and that was if he did not become one himself. Sieges took a long time. He’d read of one in the Shield Wars that took more than a year, and Juniper Keep was said to be impregnable. He wondered how many of these people would last the winter, Scourge or not.

  The guards threw loaves of hard bread off the back of one wagon and hungry men shoved and jostled until every piece was scooped up. A pious fellow shared some of his with Haendric, who was still dressed in his brown robes, and he amused on the benefits of being a cleric. Then commands were called, beasts were whipped, men pushed into line and the procession began its slow march north. It was hard going all day, even though the weather cooperated. Haendric was cold in the beginning. Walking for hours kept him warm, though his unaccustomed feet were numb and sore by noon. They did not stop to eat lunch, but instead were goaded and harassed onward, and so they ate hard bread, and chunks of dried fruit and stale cheese on the move. Haendric’s eyes tracked far ahead, north up the road, the wide plains of the Breadlands off his right shoulder as loft pigeons and white tip crows swooped over the baggage train in search of the morsels that people inevitably dropped behind them. It was a beautiful winter day that could have been spent doing anything but marching to war.

  Night fell by the time they reached the Crossroads Inn and Haendric was so tired and footsore he thought he could not go on. The great tavern was a hive of activity, with men, horses and wagons coming and going. There was not room inside for everyone but Haendric reasoned a monk would always be welcome and tried his luck at the door while the rest of the caravan was still unloading and pitching camp in the fields. He had not passed this way for years and did not expect to be recognized, though he hoped being a chapelman would help. It did no good and he was turned away, the innkeeper claiming the establishment was full and having barred his doors against the multitudes outside.

  So Haendric had to sleep a freezing night under a lean-to beside an insufficient campfire, with snoring sellswords and whimpering conscripts on all sides. He was hungry too
, for the victuals supplied had been barely enough to feed the ragtag procession to the next day and while forage had been promised, there was none expected this night. Instead, all were assured there would be provisions at the siege camp. Haendric doubted it would be sufficient.

  The next morning brought aches and pains that the old priest could barely have imagined some years ago. He had spent years living soft at the priory and it had been a comfortable prison. Though he liked the open road he had never longed for it, preferring a fire and a quiet read in the evening. Now he was stiff, his feet blistered and his back and knees throbbing in protest. And there was nothing to read.

  The first patients were brought to him that morning and he was given a small tent and a few bowls and poor cutting implements that looked better suited to a butcher’s work, and presented with a feverish boy who could have done with some sleep, a hungover swordsman who needed no more than a bucket and an archer so far gone with the Scourge that lancing his boils would have done no good even if he had lived through the pain. He hadn’t. And cleaning his hands, Haendric rejoined the caravan as they started north again.

  They reached the camp at midday, rocky crags around the keep walls showing in the distance. The view was clear, though the sky was low and grey compared to the day before. And as they got there, it was obvious that everyone was packing up. Haendric stopped another priest, one in grey robes whom he did not recognize. The man was probably fifty, had a graying beard and was tall and rather lean. His teeth were few and brown. He reeked of ale.

  ‘Forage parties were ambushed for the past three nights straight,’ the cleric told him. ‘We were waiting for food and drink for the camp had been running out. But they won’t come now.’

  ‘Where is everyone going?’ Haendric asked with a parched and tired voice.

  ‘The soldiers will return to bastion, the conscripts to their farms and crofts. Lord Dorand can’t afford to keep an army in the field indefinitely, and besides, messengers say the king has met his cousin at Fallowglen and they’ve made a truce.’

  ‘Fallowglen?’ Haendric did not know the place.

  ‘Some field between Chapelford and Eastcliff. That’s my carriage, I must go.’ And with that the priest reached for a passing wagon and was helped up by several other men. It didn’t look like they had a place for him and no invitation was made. The wheels creaked and cracked as the horses led the wagon south, the way Haendric had come.

  All about him tents were being struck, fires doused, carts loaded and beasts saddled. Much of the procession he’d come with was already turning back. The whores were leaving, dogs milled about anxiously and there was a pile of dead that nobody had even bothered to wrap or shroud. He could tell from a distance they were Scourge victims, with their faces all blackened by swellings, but their corpses dumped so carelessly even he was disappointed.

  Nobody cared anymore what he might do. This was an army that had given up. The hundreds of tents that had spread before the keep in its fastness were already half dismantled. All he had to do was walk away. The Keep was in sight, barely a half-hours’ walk. Donnal and other sympathetic souls who’d heard about Havenside Priory would be there and he had already walked so long and far that a little more would hardly make any difference, despite his aches. Without even bothering to look behind him, Haendric started for the road up to the keep.

  Barthol Malgan was captured along with half a dozen of his men. The rest fled or were killed. One woman was trampled under a horse in the fight and the old carpenter from regent’s Sanctuary had been knocked senseless by a flailing shield. But the hostages of Barthol’s baggage train were rescued now and after the plunder was salvaged from the camp, were escorted by a phalanx of mounted holy knights west toward Juniper Keep.

  Drunith came along, given a place on one of the cartloads of food and other goods and she looked well-rested by the time they were told to dismount and climb the mountain track. As they followed the winding rocky trail they caught glimpses of the valley below them, and a vast encampment spread out on the plain. In the distance she fancied she could see the roof of the Crossroads Inn, but farmsteads and barns were commonplace and she had no idea how far the famous waystation lay from her vantage point.

  Berryck walked closely behind them, downcast. He had not spoken to her since the night before. His ear was covered by a bloodied strip of rag around his head, but otherwise seemed to be in good health. She listened to him and another young man muttering over the battle they had not taken part in as though they knew soldiering as well as the knights who’d rescued them. The thrust of their conversation appeared to be that without supplies, the besieging forces would waver and begin to desert. There had certainly been enough activity in the camp from the glimpses she’d had, but at that distance it had been impossible to tell who was coming or going.

  The small column was brought up the mountainside to a narrow gate, really not much wider than a stable door in the imposing walls of the castle that sat nestled in the craggy foothills of the Sunset Peaks. Up close she could see the battlements manned with white cloaks, the flags of the Order with its Holy Chalice blowing in the breeze and the tall keep tower with long arrow slits for windows. The air was much colder and the wind sharper. It whipped her long hair across her face and she was constantly brushing strands from her eyes.

  Drunith was tired by then and needed help to hobble through the rear gate of the castle and into its wide courtyard. The refugees immediately spread out and sat down in various nooks and crannies: hay piles by the barn, grain sacks by the granary, a mound of leather offcuts next to one of the smaller buildings. The soldiers politely corralled them to one section and an older knight presented himself with several younger knights and a monk in tow who set up a small table, stools and parchment and ink pots.

  ‘My name is Captain Donnal,’ the Order Knight announced, raising his arms to catch people’s attention. He was portly, grizzled and in immaculately shined armor and white tunic. ‘We know you have come far and you must be tired and cold, but we will need you to stay put a while longer while we take your names and villages. Let’s start with those who can walk to the table, shall we?’

  Tired, irritated and unused to taking orders from soldiers, common folk did not seem to know how to react at first. Some of the white-clad knights encouraged a few to step forward: Berryck, Caera, Ellie and some others. Poor Ellie burst into tears and collapsed at the table, wailing and was carried off by some Holy Sisters in white headscarves, who appeared from one of the buildings. Berryck quietly gave his name and residence and pointed out he had served Jandryl Faldon. When Caera reached the front she regretted being among the first, for orderlies passed by just then with large vats of stew and dishes to serve the people who were waiting. She was terribly hungry and hoped she wouldn’t miss her turn.

  ‘Name again please?’ One of the monks asked irritably and she realized he had been speaking to her already when she had gotten distracted by the smell of the broth. She thought it might be hare.

  ‘Caera, of Brookleith.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  Her hand instinctively rubbed her stomach though it was too soon to show. ‘No.’

  ‘Parents?’

  She hesitated. Berryck was already out of earshot. ‘Both dead. They took the Scourge.’

  There was a snort from old Drunith that was so small perhaps she had imagined it.

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Not well,’ she admitted.

  ‘We need cooks and washer women.’

  Cooks and drudges? She thought she’d be sent home, but it sounded as though they were looking to make people stay.

  ‘And healers and seamstresses if you know any.’

  ‘Drunith here is good with herbs,’ she said enthusiastically and pulled her forward.

  The monk looked the ragged old woman up and down and almost wrinkled his nose. ‘Relation?’

  ‘She’s my grandmother.’

  ‘What are you carrying in the bag?’ She
realized most of the other survivors came with no possessions.

  ‘Books.’ She said. She almost blurted out that one was magic but she hardly believed that tale anymore and would not want to be accused of witchery by some busybody, the way people in Brookleith had done to Drunith.

  The monk showed little interest, but the grizzled knight limped forward on a stiff leg. ‘Let me see.’

  Caera handed him the leather satchel and he fished inside. He took the books out one by one and looked at the heathen one more closely, putting down the bag and turning a page or two. He put it back in.

  ‘Over here,’ he called and a younger knight trotted over.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Have these two taken up to the infirmary. The old priest who came in this morning will see them. And get them something to eat first.’

  As they were being led away, Caera noticed the captain eyeing them intently for a moment. He was soon drawn back to his duties as more folk were brought forward. Berryck watched her closely as she was escorted by. They arrived at where a cluster of disheveled folk were crowding around the kitchen hands. Their escort simply commandeered the process until two bowls of stew were secured and handed them to Caera and Drunith. The old hag smiled up at her with her few crooked teeth.

  ‘Always follow the pretty one,’ she chuckled. ‘Opens so many doors.’

  Thirty-nine

  Haendric arrived in time for the funeral. He had asked after Donnal at the gates, and once the knight had come he was let inside and taken into the keep, hearing all that Donnal had learned since leaving Bastion: Beland’s journey north, the flight from Wellstone, the books from Brother Falric, the battle at Regent’s Sanctuary, the Northman absconding - and the wound that had finally killed Beland.

  The knight lay in state in a chamber adjacent to the infirmary, on a plain stone altar reserved for such occasions. He had been dressed in a white tunic again and his sword was clutched to his breast in cold, white hands. He had not been an especially senior knight and had finished his career as a penitent, but in death all sins were forgiven, and since he had served at Juniper Keep for many years, and had died resisting the reach of the deacons, he was the Order’s first hero of this new war.