Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  “If Vicente Santos is not the Prophet, then who is?”

  Prelado Scrupulous smiled. “He is The One God’s voice in a mortal shell. You will see, señor. You will see. Come with me now. Sister Pía is inside praying. I will fetch her for you.”

  Fox the Runt followed the priest and was shocked by what he saw. There were hundreds of folk inside dancing, singing, and chanting. He had had no idea there were so many Santosians in the entire world, let alone in Santuario del Guerrero.

  “Sister Pía is very special,” the prelado said, the hint of a threat in his voice. “The One God Himself has touched her. Woe unto any who would harm her.”

  Fox the Runt said nothing. He had no intention of harming Pía. And he agreed with Prelado Scrupulous. She was special. Anyone harming her would face not only the prelado’s anger but his as well.

  “Wait here,” Prelado Scrupulous said when they reached the church’s sanctuary. “I will fetch Pía. In the meantime, I will have one of our Healers tend you.” The Santosian Healer was a Red Cloak. Doña Teófila the Mender was a sour-faced woman with eyes the color of over-boiled asparagus. She looked over the cut on his hip, tended it with ointment, and bandaged it. “A small wound, Nordling. No need for Healing.”

  That was a relief to him. As far as he was concerned, Healing was Muumban magic, and he would rather avoid it if he could. As she finished with the bandage, Fox the Runt pointed out an elderly Kusini Watu woman in the throes of a convulsion. Her eyes had rolled back in her head so that she appeared to be without pupils. She babbled in gibberish while other congregants crowded round, listening raptly as if she spoke with the voice of Creador Himself. “What is wrong with that woman, Doña Mender?”

  Teófila the Mender’s face lit up like Shimabito fireworks. She nodded her head, beaming like the proud aunt of a gifted child. “You are in the home of The One God, Nordling, and here, the faithful are often overcome by el Espectro Bendecido, the Blessed Specter of The One God, and so moved to speak the holy language of the First Tongue.”

  Fox the Runt was doubtful. The old, black-skinned woman and the other Santosians looked like lunatics in the grip of a collective seizure. Would acceptance of the teachings of Vicente Santos turn him into a slavering maniac as well? He began to rethink his interest in the Santos Creadorians. Their method of worship seemed too zealous. It offended his sense of reason. He rubbed his temples as his headache returned with a vengeance.

  “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,” Doña Mender said. “Give your soul to the Prophet.”

  Fox the Runt was unsure how to respond. It was difficult to concentrate on anything past the stabbing in his skull. Doña smiled, but there was little warmth in it. “You are in pain, Señor Von Hammerhead?”

  He nodded.

  “It is because you resist The One God’s truth. Pain is The One God’s way of telling us something is wrong. If you cut yourself, it hurts. If you felt no pain from the injury, you might ignore the wound until it festered and killed you. The pain you feel now is The One God telling you that your soul is festering, señor. Do not ignore your damaged spirit. Dress it with The One God’s love. Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi.”

  The Red Cloak paused as if waiting for him to respond. He felt stupid, not sure of what he was expected to say.

  Doña Mender said, “When someone says to you, ‘Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,’ you answer with, ‘Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi.’ But only if you accept Creador as the one true god and the Prophet as His Mortal Voice. It means, ‘My soul belongs to the Prophet.’ ”

  Fox the Runt nodded but was not quite ready to say the words and commit to the Prophet, The One God, and the Santosians, not after witnessing their strange behavior. The Red Cloak smiled—an expression laced with condescension, Fox the Runt thought—and then said, “Think on what we have discussed.”

  Doña Mender scurried away, dodging zealous Santosians as she disappeared into the back of the church. Fox the Runt leaned against a tapestry-draped wall, massaging his temples. The crush of people, the stink of sweaty bodies, and the noise of fervent voices lifted in song and prayer were stifling.

  The congregants hurled themselves into wild gyrations and dancing, or fell into violent fits during which they rolled on the floor, kicking and shouting gibberish. He stared in wide-eyed, openmouthed fascination, for he had never seen people behave with such utter lack of inhibition.

  Heeding his curiosity, he sought to get a closer look at the babbling Kusini Watu woman and the other worshipping Santosians. He slid his back along the wall, creeping deeper into the sanctuary, and hovered behind one of the thick white columns spaced throughout the temple.

  “Seisakusha’s Tail,” he gasped, astonished by what he beheld in the Kusini Watu’s face. It was not madness that had gripped the old woman and the others. It was joy.

  The Santosians were drunk on jubilation more potent than any narcotic. In his wretched life, Fox the Runt had never even conceived that such unblemished joy could exist. The bliss emanating from the old black woman hung in the air like a sweet vapor, so intoxicating it wrung salt water from his eyes. He breathed deeply of it. Elation filled his lungs, swam through his veins, coursed through his heart. This was the flawless rapture Pía and the Red Cloak had spoken of.

  Fox the Runt had given his loyalty to the Shimabito goddess, but he had never experienced anything like this from Her. Truthfully, his life under Seisakusha was only slightly less wretched than it had been under Schöpfer. He was unhappy. Usually angry. He was dirt poor, without a pot to piss in. Worse, he spent every morning cleaning other people’s piss pots, all for a scrap of bread and a bowl of stinky, fishy gruel. But these Santosians were filled with such potent, heady happiness that he had mistaken it for madness. The One God gave His followers a gift of joy so great it intoxicated, and what had Seisakusha given him?

  Shit.

  The old Kusini Watu woman stirred from her reverie, contentment upon her creased face. She nodded to him and smiled. “Welcome, brother.”

  Whatever doubts he held faded before the light of the old woman and the other Santosians. Theirs was a peace he longed for. “My name is Fox the Ru—my name is Zwergfuchs. I am new to the church.”

  “Welcome, Zwergfuchs. I am Tinashe.” The old woman took his face into her knotted fingers and kissed him on the forehead. Tinashe’s lips barely brushed against his skin, but it moved him to tears, for she had given him more genuine acceptance and affection in that single gesture than his mother had shown him his entire life. His mind went deaf before the truth his heart spoke to him. He was where he belonged. His spirit had found haven.

  “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,” Tinashe said. “Give your soul to the Prophet.”

  “Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi,” he said, committing to the words with the whole of his heart. “My soul belongs to the Prophet.”

  The instant the pledge crossed his lips, his headache dissipated, smoke on the wind. And though he still felt anger over the many injustices plaguing the world, that indignation was tempered. Over the next few minutes, he contemplated this new feeling, unsure of what to call it. Tinashe, and Santosians of every shape, size, and color, embraced him. They welcomed him to the great family of faithful followers of The One God. It was in the embrace of his fellow Santosians that he found a name for the new feeling blossoming in his heart. For the first time in his life, Fox the Runt knew love.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pía’s Sin

  Fox the Runt had never been welcomed anywhere, certainly not with the enthusiasm shown by Tinashe and the other Santosians. They listened with sincere interest as he spoke of his life, the ill treatment he had suffered from his family and neighbors in the Nordländer, the perils he had faced during his pilgrimage to the city of opportunity in the Reinos del Oeste, his time as Turd Nanny at Temple Seisakusha. He even told them of the unprovoked attack he suffered while walking to the temple
, though he left out the bit about slitting the highborn girl’s throat. Still, he spoke more of himself in those few minutes than he had the entire sixteen years prior, all the while smiling so hard his face ached.

  He should have known it was too good a thing to last.

  A commotion at the back of the sanctuary startled him. He turned toward it. Several pews had been knocked over by a large Nord dressed in leather and furs. The big man glared at him, his pale face twisted in disgust. Apparently not all Santosians were as capable of the unconditional love Tinashe and the others had shown. The Nord pointed at him, bellowing, “Du! Komm hier! Come here!”

  Fox the Runt returned the Nord’s angry glare but had no intention of heeding his summons. He relaxed into a defensive stance, convinced the Nord was looking for a fight. Such was the way with his people. Most of his life Nords had abused him because of his size. Always they sought to punish him for something he had no control over. It saddened and angered him that even here, in this sacred place where The One God welcomed him, his fellow Nords would not.

  The Nord came straight for him, pushing a path through the Santosians, as determined as a rockslide. He loomed over him, thin lips twisted in distaste. Fox the Runt chose three vulnerable targets on the Nord’s massive body, the throat, the knee, and the groin, and waited. Should the Nord instigate violence, Fox the Runt would incapacitate him. He would try not to kill the big man, but he would not try too hard. He did not want to offend Pía or the other Santosians by spilling blood in their holy place, but he would be damned before he allowed another Nord to bully him. Not here, now, or anywhere ever. Those days were long behind him.

  The towering Nord growled at him in Nordzunge, “Willkommen, Bruder! Willkommen in der Kirche der ein Gott!”

  It had been a few years since Fox the Runt had heard the old language of his people spoken. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he had heard the Nord correctly. And then the Nord’s grim expression changed. The corners of his thin lips twitched and gave way to a smile. The big man laughed and held his arms wide as if to embrace him. “Do you not speak Nordzunge? I said, ‘Welcome, brother! Welcome to the house of The One God, Fearless One!’ ”

  Tinashe whispered, “Karl greets all Nords similarly. He thinks it is funny.”

  Fox the Runt understood the Nord’s humor on a detached, purely intellectual level, but he took no joy in it, not at first. His mistrust of Nords went too deep. Still, it was hard to be angry with someone so cordial and warm. Karl bubbled over with friendliness. Fox the Runt exhaled the tension from his body and went to shake the Nord’s hand; Karl wrapped him in a hug and yanked him off his feet, laughing. The embrace made his hip wound ache, but he ignored it. He would never show weakness before another Nord. “I am Karl von Whitewolf of Kalterhund’s Line in Kristallspitzen.”

  “Zwergfuchs,” Fox the Runt said as Karl lowered him gently to the floor, “Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line. Kalteströme.”

  Karl frowned. “Zwergfuchs? Surely this is not your true name. What is your given name?”

  “Zwergfuchs is the only name I was given. Though most call me by the Alltongue, Fox the Runt.”

  “This is no good!” Karl said, “I will call you Fuchs. Ja, by your leave, I will call you Fox. Is good?”

  He liked Karl, Nord or no. “Ja. It is very good, Karl.”

  “It warms my heart to see my fellow Nords accept the Prophet,” Karl said. “The One God’s truth is strong enough to penetrate even our thick skulls, ja?”

  Fox the Runt laughed, and then mused on how rare it was that he did so. He enjoyed speaking with Karl and the other Santosians, but he had come for Pía, and he wondered what kept her while Karl shared a bit of his history. Fox the Runt paid attention as best he could, but his gaze kept listing to the back of the sanctuary, searching for Pía. He began to worry. Did she not want to see him after all? He fretted as Karl spoke of how he had come to Santuario del Guerrero for the Torneo, and found The One God’s truth the very day he arrived.

  “Are you competing?” Fox the Runt asked.

  Karl shook his head. “Nein. I cannot. My bruder, Jürgen, is a Red Cloak. Red Cloak kin are forbidden to compete. Conflicting interests.”

  Fox the Runt nodded. “I suppose it would be hard to be impartial toward your family.”

  The Red Cloaks were respected Healers. During Torneo, one from each kingdom was chosen to treat injuries and keep fatalities to a minimum. They also acted as judges, officials, and referees, settling any disputes amongst Torneo competitors.

  “And you, Fox?” Karl said. “Will you compete this year?”

  He nodded.

  Karl smiled and looked him over. “Ashi-Kobushi trained?”

  “Ja.”

  Karl laughed. “This is good! Because we are big, we Nords often underestimate little bushi. I have seen many little bushi knock big Nords on their arsches.”

  Fox the Runt laughed. Karl was funny, good-natured, and surprisingly clever for a Nord. He had not judged Fox the Runt because of his size, but actually embraced him as a brother. He could not recall the last time he had so enjoyed the company of a Nord.

  Then he saw Pía.

  She seemed to float toward him, dressed in the white robes and scarlet sash of an Adept on the verge of being raised to full Santosian priestess. She did not smile nor meet his gaze. Her eyes flitted here and there as if she were nervous, embarrassed that he had come asking for her. But that could not be. She had invited him. Had she not believed he would answer her invitation?

  Karl said something, but Fox the Runt was too captivated by Pía to hear it. Karl laughed. “We will talk later, Fox. I think you have important things to discuss with the fräulein.”

  Karl and the other Santosians left him alone with Pía. She took his hands into her own. “Welcome, Señor Zwergfuchs. Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi.”

  The words came easily to his lips, and a surge of joy accompanied them, “Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi, Pía. I give my soul to the Prophet.”

  She embraced him, but it was hesitant, clumsy, and uncertain. Though he knew the hug was only of fellowship and welcome, he held her tight, not bothering to disguise his passion for her, his want.

  Pía pulled away, still holding him by the shoulders, but keeping him at arm’s length. “I am so happy you decided to come here, Señor Zwergfuchs.”

  “As am I, Sister.”

  “You will learn much of The One God’s truth tonight, and tomorrow the Prophet himself will speak. You may attend as my guest. I promise you, when you hear his words, you will be changed forever.”

  “I am already changed. I have found my soul’s home amongst the Santos Creadorians.”

  Their eyes met for a moment, but then she looked away. “I feel as if I too have found something precious, Zwergfuchs.”

  They stood silently until it became awkward. Pía stared at the floor. He searched his mind for words that might end the excruciating quiet, but found none. Still, he could not take his eyes off her. By The One God, she was beautiful. Pía met his gaze again and the color in her dark cheeks deepened.

  He suddenly felt foolish. His leering was making her uncomfortable. She no doubt had plenty of handsome, rich, highborn suitors. What would she ever want of him, an ugly, moneyless little runt from no House? Pía stirred his heart and body as no woman ever had, but he could not deny the truth. She was above him. He may have only just met her, but there was something about her that stirred his heart. He wanted her to care for him as a lover would, but if she only offered friendship, then he would settle for that. She had brought him to the light of The One God. She was a paragon, and he was a rogue for making her so uneasy with his lusty eyes.

  “Perdóname, Sister Pía. My manners …”

  “Why do you ask my pardon, señor?”

  “I have unsettled you with my staring. It is just that—well, you are very beautiful.”

  Pía drew back as if affronted. He was horrified. His clumsy words h
ad made things worse.

  “No, señor,” she said. “No, Zwergfuchs. You have done nothing to be pardoned.”

  His next words came hard. He could not look her in the eye and speak them, but they had to be said. “Still, I must apologize, Sister. I have been foolish. I mistook your interest in my undying soul for interest in, well, me.”

  Pía said, “It is true I serve The One God through His Mortal Voice, the Prophet, and it is my duty to bring people to the church, to bring souls to The One God—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “And again, I ask your forgiveness—”

  She silenced him with a finger over his lips. The sweet female smell of her made him dizzy. “I told you, Señor Zwergfuchs, you have done nothing to be forgiven. I have. And I have spent most of the day praying to The One God, asking His forgiveness for my sin. For I have been selfish, Zwergfuchs. It is my charge to bring souls to the church. The One God’s greatest jubilation comes when a new soul accepts His light. But I did not ask you here for The One God’s pleasure. I asked you here for mine.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Phantom & the Skullbender

  Jambiax the Phantom filled the doorway like the shade of a scarecrow bent against a pole. Only his large brown eyes were visible beneath the collision of shadows veiling his hooded face. A large white raven perched on his bony shoulder. The bird, Mbarika, was Jambiax’s Familiar and constant companion. The arrival of the old elemancer and his Familiar was a life-saving breath of air to Paladin, who had been suffocating under the weighty condemnation of his parents. Jambiax’s gaze moved from Paladin to Rebelde to Walküre, sparkling with gladness. His grin was wolfish. “Greetings, family. Habari?”

  Paladin and his parents gaped, too surprised at the old elemancer’s appearance to speak. Jambiax spent most of his time in the Nchi ya Kusini, specifically the city of Mji a Dhahabu in Kavunchi. His journey to Prosperidad would have been one of many weeks, yet he had sent no word of his coming. His arrival was unheralded and unexpected, though not unwelcome, certainly not for Paladin.