Al Zull’s words were stern and piercing. Birus felt the hairs upon his neck rise at their sound and meaning. It was an oddity for him, being as he was... a sceptic of the transempirical. And though he himself possessed the uncanny ability to see through the eyes of his hawk – Birus treated it as a mere queerness. A lost talent from a benighted past age, when man and beast had lived together in strange ties upon a realm of plenty.
“Only the warrior’s heart possesses true voice,” al Zull continued. “Only warriors may pray to him. For all others who bow their heads to fate’s whim – instead of crying out against it – pray mute words; and Allahr is deaf to their silence. Those who cry out against fate, cry out with fiery tongues and take up arms. His true servants fight for a just and honorable life to live, as well as an honorable end to it, before accepting an unworthy existence. And thus, they are granted eternal life in the world beyond.”
Birus eyed the man warily for a long thoughtful moment and said, “Your god presides over a great many... like all the other gods of the world’s different faiths; but words are dust in the wind.”
“And deeds without words are perilous also,” al Zull replied sharpish. “Now tell me, lord... Are you here in need of mercenaries for feud, conquest, or civil war? Is there yet another emperor on the throne, possessed by the foul powers of blood gods?” The sellsword chuckled, a knowing purr within his voice.
For a moment, Birus was unsure what answer to give. He narrowed his gaze, contemplating the sellsword’s sly remark. Different emotions churned within his heart; the usefulness of prescience within a mortal’s mind. The possibility of its existence, or the simple and frustrating truth of coincidence. Chance had a habit of being unkind to those whose fate it governed.
Whatever doubts I may harbor, this man deserves an answer. “Yes,” the hawk replied in a low voice. “Yes and no.”
Narak al Zull curled his lips into a keen smile. “Such an answer deserves contemplation in the presence of wine and food. If we are to swear ourselves to your cause, my lord, please do us the honor of revealing your name and proper titles. I’m afraid an outlander such as myself doesn’t know much about the nobles of the Old World, nor their intrigues.”
At that, the hawk nodded and unveiled himself. “I am Birus of house Mandon, third of my name, lord of Rivermark, and warden of the Streamlands. And I am in need of skilled warriors to join in my ranks and purpose.”
The truth made the leader of the sellswords bow in reply. And they agreed to talk more on the matter beneath tavern roofs. The faithful warriors of a heathen god, Birus mused. A strange martial aid for a high lord of the empire; but necessary. During the civil war, neither his father nor his vassals had employed the use of hired hands; but the southern lords had acquired such foreign aid – and that had only served to strengthen the Inquisition’s wrath against Zygar Ferus.
The exile has his sellswords, and I’ll have mine.
The leader of the Mounted Arrows stayed at Traveler’s Respite. It was the nearest tavern to the harbor; frequented by sailors, merchants, and occasionally sellswords, who would come to spend their hard-earned moneys in the lavish parts of the Empire’s capital. The place was very big and housed over sixty beds. Narak al Zull and fifty of his men had booked the tavern for five days, and three of those days had already passed. Since the inn’s stables were full beyond room, Birus left Shandru and the guards outside to look after the horses, while he and sir Raymon went inside to further discuss the terms of employment with the leader of the sellswords.
Narak al Zull explained the nature of their lives. “I come from broken lands, from a broken people. I wouldn’t live as a slave, nor as a minion to cruel overlords. And thus, chose the life I live now. A hard existence it is, but a worthy one nonetheless. I took over this company when it was nothing more than a lawless warband of reckless thugs. Through much sweat and blood, I turned it into what it is. A host of kindred souls chained together by fate and creed. We only fight in those battles worthy of our tenets. I’m the best marksmen you’ll ever encounter, lord Birus. I can hit a bird on its wing when on horseback. That’s no idle boast.”
The serving wench brought their cups, then al Zull raised a hand to one of his men, one called Ajax. He and others were playing devil’s bones – a game of chance and cunning. The man searched his big pouch and pulled out a serpent with its mouth reddened. “It has no fangs,” sir Raymon noticed, and the sellsword Ajax returned him a wide smile. Birus glowered at Rorck, and the good knight bit his tongue.
“Be at ease, good sirs. There’s plenty to go around.” Narak al Zull took hold of the snake’s head, twisted, then severed it with his knife. Rich red flowed from the serpent’s bloody stump; and al Zull wasted none of it. The three cups before them were filled at the size of his choosing. “Snake’s blood is good for one’s neck and stomach.”
Sir Raymon had a go at it. He only drank a little, then tasted. “I wouldn’t say it’s good, but it’s not bad either.” He grimaced afterwards...
Al Zull poured it down his neck in an instant, and Birus did the same. It was like having a mouthful of iron. The habit of drinking snake’s blood was not that strange. There were other things, much more repugnant, that outlanders from far and wide practiced. For instance, there were the tribes of the Veil jungle that ate the flesh and drank the blood of humans. Compared to the customs of such cannibals, Narak al Zull and his men – while peculiar – they were quite normal.
“You mentioned lawful battles; can you give me an example of such a thing?” Birus inquired, while Raymon Rorck struggled to finish his cup.
“But of course, lord. The last contract my men and I honored was in service to the so-called slave king of Zuabar.”
“Slave king?” Birus frowned. “Do you mean the black king’s revolution?”
“Oh, he has been given many names. Black king is a nice one, though, his enemies call him fouler things. He is a shrewd soul of skin barely lighter than pitch. He has a mind for war and strategy; and his people follow him with utter devotion and fear.”
“But is he a man of honor? Or is he crude and only haunted by thoughts of vengeance, like any rebellious slave is bound to be? What are his ambitions, now that he is king?”
“I know not, my lord. My men and I served to the best of our ability. We fought under his banner – the black hand and broken chains against a field of blood; simple colours for a simple goal. Our arrows and blades were quick and mighty upon the field of war. We held true to our creed and Allahr gave us strength. All I know is that he’s fighting for a noble cause; certainly much nobler than that of his enemies. As for his honor and ambitions… you’d have to ask him yourself.”
With words of such confession, Birus was satisfied. It was time to agree on terms. “Let’s talk coin, outlander. How much for the loyalty of your brave host?”
“We’ll talk coin after I’m instructed in the good lord’s goals. I cannot offer my service until I know what I’m up against.”
Birus took a moment to consider. There was no forging a contract in the absence of trust; the weight of truth upon necessity was a burden he had to share. I am asking them to pledge their arms to my cause. And like any prudent leader, al Zull desires to know of my purpose; the reason behind his oath of moment. And so, the lord of Rivermark enlightened Narak al Zull of the intrigues in the utmost low voice – revealing the exile’s ambition to return upon the Sun Throne with the aid of foreign arms and imperial turncloaks.
The leader of the Mounted Arrows judged his reasons as just, saying, “You wish to root out treachery and defend the emperor’s peace against those who would threaten it. We would be just a measure of your precaution. That is an honorable goal in my eyes. Know, my lord, that I have two prices; one for the keep of our arms and horses in the eventuality of war. And a second larger fee... for bloodshed and death.”
The hawk and the outlander agreed without hesitation and without any grumble. Birus asked the innkeep for a piece of parchment, quill, and i
nk. He wrote down two thousand sovereigns and seven thousand silvers. He added, “…to be paid in silver and copper.” Birus signed his name and pressed in red wax his lordly seal; the warden of the Streamlands and lord of Rivermark. An agreement of honor had been made.
“There,” said Birus, offering him the note. “Don’t mention my intentions to anyone. There are many eyes and ears lurking in the shadows of the Empire’s capital, of singing birds and whispering spiders. Have I your oath of fealty, Narak al Zull?”
“You have it, lord. Allahr lend you strength.”
They clasped forearms, and that was that. The deal was agreed upon.
And now I turn to other matters of a more sweet nature. Birus and his men left Traveler’s Respite and headed for another kind of establishment. One where beautiful women danced to the rhythm of music and candlelight in loose attires, surrounded by scented air and hungry eyes.
Chapter XI: The Witness And Proctor
It was supposed to be an ordinary trip to Bernn’s markets, in order to acquire different things for the High Temple; such as cloth, incense, sugar, honey, and to speak with the guild of chandlers. They had to let them know to come and get the fats saved from the temple’s kitchens. And for the well-to-do high councillors, they were to buy more special things like spices, oils, and fine garments.
But Drakanes felt a queerness in her gut, a stinging knot along the pit of her stomach. Whether it was prescience or something else; she couldn’t be sure. All she could do was shrug and bear with it, till the Sister Superior was done with their business. This can’t end any sooner. But Drakanes was wrong. As they were about to purchase the fine cloth on their list – from the crowds of the busy town streets, a priest emerged with a determined look about him and his clerics.
“Sister Superior, I am the priest of Bernn, Jacob Harlam. And I am in need of a fifth for the body of proctors I’m forming; pending a certain trial which came up a few days ago. I have all the three brothers, but only one sister; and I am in need of one more.” The man pointed to Drakanes and took her by the arm. “This one will do, I think.”
The Sister Superior scowled at both of them, and replied in a sour tone. “A poor choice, brother Harlam; that girl is no good. She has yet to learn the pieties of temple life. I suggest you choose one of the other sisters.”
The priest shook his head with obvious annoyance. “Good woman, I have no time to delay. And the grand burgher grows impatient with these tedious proceedings. Rest assured that I will keep her in check, and see to her safe return.” With irreverence and haste he pulled her by the arm. “Come now, we have to reach the courthouse.”
This priest Harlam was nervous, as were his clerics. She could see it in the way they carried themselves. Why he had picked her out of all the other sisters she was with, Drakanes did not know. Mayhaps it had been on account of her modest stance – hooded, head bowed, arms wrapped inside her long sleeves, while the others had been more lively and bareheaded. But that was the way she always behaved when gone from the High Temple and about the busy streets. Drakanes couldn’t stand the judging stares of her sisters upon her skin, let alone the many stares of strangers.
Before they entered the courthouse, priest Harlam told her of her duty. “Now listen to me, good sister. You are going to serve as witness and proctor. That means you’ll oversee the trial, and at its end, form a judgement. You will speak last, and you will repeat what the others before you have deemed as sentence. Is that clear?”
Drakanes managed a wordless nod, her features remaining concealed by the hood. This man wants me to be part of a mummer’s ploy, it seems. And his face, words, and tone lack honesty, and several other virtues I could name. I wonder about the accusations and the one who stands accused. She was about to know soon enough.
The dreary air inside the courthouse, along with the black wood and grey stone, matched her restive thoughts. The four proctors already present, the three men and the one woman, were seated upon small chairs. The features of the three brothers seemed indolent to her mind. Those of the sister not so much; but rather curious and stoic. Drakanes took a seat, wordless in her action, and the trial began. Priest Jacob Harlam took up voice; he manifested himself with great haste.
Too much haste, she thought.
“Jon Gallard, you stand accused of murder. How do you plead?”
The accused was an old man who ought to have looked more in health, if the shackles and chains he wore about his neck, hands, and feet weren’t so heavy and tight. To her fiendish eyes, his aspect seemed warm enough. His hair was aged grey, but his beard was darker. And the man’s look was odd... It’s as if he was waiting for something, she thought to herself. But for what? A chance to tell the truth? Or a chance to lie?
“I plead innocence... well, no.” The accused spoke in a rough, but slow voice; and he spoke words uncommon of those of your average plebeian. “The demon that possessed me still used my hands, but the will was not mine own. The demon killed that girl through my flesh. I had no power to resist the foul being.”
“So you have told the rabble, pleading possession. When did you first discover that a demon was poisoning your thoughts? Surely this gruesome realization didn’t happen over night.”
Jon Gallard gave a shrug. “They say a demon enters our world whenever the flesh of men is weak with impure thoughts, excess of all sorts, and idleness. I’m no wasteful man. I work a full day’s work as a craftsman on my workbench. And as far as excess goes, I have no stomach for it, nor the coin. My thoughts, though, aye… they be weak… like any man’s. I have known the sentiments of lust, greed, anger, and dishonesty. But I never raised my hand against any woman, let alone this girl. I am guilty of no crime, especially this one – on account of which I stand falsely accused before you this day.”
“Jon Gallard, it is not because of hearsay that you are here at this trial. Several witnesses spoke to the grand burgher, Ieremia Wholeheart, of the awful crime you committed. A crime perpetrated under the blanket of night. The only reason you are with us now and alive is because of your confession and invocation of the act of demonic possession – which you swore by the names of the Three.”
“Aye, I’m aware of that. And this...” Gallard gestured with his shackled hands. “This being an inquisitorial form of judgement, or am I wrong?”
“Indeed, you are not mistaken. You appear to be less ignorant than most common folk. Would you care to tell us how it is you came to have such a knowledgeable tongue? Labor is a craftsman’s trait, not wit.”
Jon Gallard shook his head. “I couldn’t disagree more. Yet, I will be honest, for I swore by the Three, though… I cannot imagine how this question helps me prove my innocence, nor how this question helps you prove my guilt – ”
“This trial does not have need of your doubts, sir,” priest Harlam cut him off. “You are the one standing accused, and you are required to answer our questions. Else, we’ll be forced to think that you’ve something to hide.”
“But of course. Every man has something to hide… a bad thought, a wickedness, urges of the flesh, words of anger – foul and rotten. But I have nothing to hide regarding this dreadful murder; the one I did not commit. So I will answer your question. My boy taught me to read. He was the apprentice of an educator at a nobleman’s household. Before smallpox took my boy from me, he shared that knowledge with his old man. I know how to read words, sir. And ever since then I sought out books to study and understand. The last one I read was called The Histories of the Temple, written by Patriarch Aquinas Sixtus of Prospero. That is my source of wit.”
“That book is a thousand pages. Surely a man who labors dutifully, honestly, all day does not have time for reading.” Priest Harlam said the word with an uncanny smile.
“For reading thousands or hundreds of pages – no, of course not. But time for reading a few pages every now and then in the light of the sun or in the light of candle... for that there’s plenty a time. Rest assured, good priest, it took me years to read that boo
k; and will take years more for me to understand it all.”
“That’s precisely why the Temple does not encourage the smallfolk to read for themselves. A man needs guidance, and so do even the wisest of scholars. But we are straying from the matter at hand. As the laic law states…” Priest Harlam unfolded a scroll, and began to read from it. “No bailiff shall, upon his own unsupported complaint, put anyone to his law without credible witnesses brought for this purpose.” He closed the scroll. “Credible witnesses were heard by the grand burgher. And now, we – the clergy – must decide if you are truly possessed or not. Religious law deals with the preternatural, not laic authorities. That’s why we’re here.”
“As I’ve told you… my will was not mine own. Alas, I am aware of the Temple’s method of determining the authenticity of an act of demonic possession. I can’t say I’m looking forward to be locked inside a dark room filled with holy relics – the sight of which I’ll be deprived of, on account of the lack of light. And be fed only crumbs of bread and holy water. Nor do I think that my frail body can withstand such a purification.”
“You will submit to Temple proceedings and those rituals of exorcising demon spirits. If not, you shall submit to laic law. The latter will find you guilty of murder. And you’ll have your head smashed by a morning star.” Harlam gave him a snide smile.
“That’s not real justice, now is it?” Jon Gallard replied with a particular calm indignation in his voice. “To choose between death by starvation and death by a crude metal-spiked swing.” In front of Harlam’s threat, he remained defiant. “Eh, such cruel laws interested only in punishment, not in truth, mercy, or justice – ”
“If every murder would be pardoned,” the priest cut him off, “then people would be doing it more often – unafraid of the consequences – until society would plunge itself back to the age of barbarism. Punishment does not serve the one being punished, but the public good; so that others may become terrified and weaned away from such evil acts. It’s obvious to me and the proctors that you’re quite sane. So why did you swear crookedly on the gods that a demon possessed you to do the murder?”
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 14