by CF WELBURN
“Shut it,” barked the thin one. “You been living with the savages?”
“Did you not hear me? I was their captive. I went for revenge.”
“Revenge?” the tall one repeated with an arched brow. “Looks to me like you’ve made a few friends. Where’d you get the tattoo? The axe?”
“Answer!” shouted the fat one from behind him.
“Look, I swear on the Trinity, I’m Edalian. The northmen killed my sister. I crossed the Weaver and—”
“It’s been two years since the attack on Gilden,” the thin one sneered. “You expect us to believe you’ve been killing Skalgs all this time?”
“Laying with ’em, more like,” the fat one interjected. “Get that stink on him.”
Oben felt his face flush.
“You’ve become one of ’em, ain’t you,” the tall one spat. “A filthy savage!”
“I did what it took to survive. I did what nobody else around here dared.”
“Two years without visiting a temple or shrine?” the thin one said, shaking his head and tutting. “Living in godless lands. Yeah, I’d say savage is about right. Like to see you explain this to the priest.”
“Look,” Oben said. He was exhausted, didn't think he could last much longer without just lying down on the dirt and going to sleep. “If you’ll just let me get washed up and change my clothes, I’m sure I’ll be able to explain myself better. My wife is in Blanbury. My brother is a guard here, like yourselves.”
“Your brother?” the fat one laughed. “This’ll be good. Your brother got a name?”
“Kyrion. Kyrion Granger.”
“Ha!” the fat one laughed. “Well, if you’re gonna lie, make it a big one.”
The tall guard did not seem to find it as amusing.
“It’s Captain Granger, you knave.”
“Captain? I hadn’t heard.”
“He’s away at Corwen, not back for two days. But you knew that already, didn’t you? Tryin’ to buy yourself some time. What exactly is your game?”
“Leave it, Lar.” the thin one said. “This is beyond our wages. Let’s just hand him over.”
‘Lar’, did not look pleased, but he slowly nodded.
“Aye, we’ll let the priest decide. Come with us.”
“And my axe?”
“Not yours anymore.”
Oben weighed up the three guards. He could take them, probably even without his axe, but that would only make things worse.
“Well, take good care of it, please,” Oben said, letting them cuff his wrists. “I’ll want it back when your captain finds out what happened here.”
“If you live that long,” the fat one said. “My guess is it’ll be the gallows for you in the morning.”
Oben lowered his head and they marched him towards the west gate. He knew what the priests of the Persuasion were capable of, how swiftly they condemned miscreants. He recalled the Black Swan and feared he might have walked right into the fate he had sought to avoid.
23
GHOSTS AT THE GALLOWS
The cell wasn’t as cold as the one he had grown used to in Lanoc, but it had decidedly more rats and excrement. He frequently heard screaming as the Persuasion went to work on other unfortunate souls. He’d heard tales of these places. They were worse in Corwen and infinitely worse on Penn, but Blanbury was no stranger to harsh penalties for heretics. He’d seen evidence of it on the gibbets, witnessed public hangings and passed the Grim Cages twice now, where he wished Ortho still swung.
Like all boys, he'd had a morbid fascination for such gruesome displays. He’d once accepted a dare from Kyrion to poke an old skeleton with a stick, that they had later chased a screaming Mara across the fields with. Oben had no love for the Persuasion but they did serve the Trinity, who had always looked favourably on his family’s farm, even in seasons of drought and flood.
But the priests, like the Jade Knights, had a way of making one feel guilty with a glance. Every new moon, a priest had visited Gilden’s shrine to consult with the knight and leave contented or not at the weight of the collection, usually the latter. The visiting priests varied, but was always an older, guilt-inducing, raspy-voiced man, droning ominous sermons.
Whilst he waited in his cell, Oben went over his story, checking it, tweaking it. It sounded like a lie, even to himself. But what had he to fear? His intentions had always been good. The longer he listened to the cries of torment echoing down the hallway, the more uncertain he became. He had lost faith at Sundered Peak; he had looked to another goddess in times of distress. Would the priest somehow know this? Would they smell his unfaithfulness? Had they already been informed of his transgressions through divine channels? In any case, the tattooed feather was as damning as seeing all of his wrongs in writing.
His intentions had been honourable, but oh, he had sinned. He had killed, he had lied, he had cheated, he had turned from his gods and berated them, he had lain with another who was not his wife. Would these misdeeds be written on his face as clearly as the feather? On his soul?
* * *
When they came to his cell at some glum hour in the night, it was neither on his face nor his soul that his sins were most clearly marked.
“Strip him,” a stick-thin, bald priest instructed a thuggish youth perhaps half Oben’s age. “Lie him on the slab.” The apprentice’s drooping mouth suggested little transpired behind his lopsided face.
Oben was soon naked, with nowhere to hide. He realised how lean he had become from days of eating only what he could forage. Yet, he was still strong and muscled. His missing toe drew a curious grunt from the priest, who examined him in an otherwise deafening silence.
“Is this necessary?” Oben asked. He did not want to annoy them, but surely, he must protest his innocence.
“Shhh,” the priest hissed. He told the young man, “Turn him.”
The boy ungraciously flipped him over, and he imagined their gasps before he even heard them. Oben could not see their faces, but he knew the reaction did not bode well. He heard them muttering behind him, and twisted around to look at them. The priest and his assistant had actually stepped back.
“You’re demon-touched, boy,” the priest said, his voice barely a whisper.
“It’s a burn,” Oben, protested. “I was struck by lightning in a storm.”
“Silence. Do not speak.”
“It’s just a scar.”
“What about that?” the priest said, tapping his temple. “That is no scar.”
“I was held prisoner.” Oben said tersely, only barely managing to avoid using a profanity.
“I feel the absence of the Trinity here,” the priest grumbled, ignoring him. “Come, Omnic.”
The hulking youth grunted, and without another word, they hurried from his cell and retreated down the passageway.
“Wait!” Oben cried, leaping from the flagstone and grasping the bars. “Come back! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
But only the diminishing patter of their feet answered him.
* * *
At dawn a guard in green livery came and put a sack over his head, bound his hands with ropes, and led him from the cell. They had the generosity to give him a loincloth, but apart from that he was naked. He was to be shamed.
He could hear the crowds already gathered. He walked in a daze, across uneven cobbles, listening to the heckles, feeling the spit and even a rock that glanced off his shoulder. He stared down at his bare, limping feet. Nine toes, several still black from the trip to Skarvor. Something inside him wondered if dying would really be that bad. He had done what he had set out to achieve. And he was tired of fighting fate. He had seen his death on the gallows and had desperately tried to change it. It had been useless. Just as it had for Grinchell.
Nevertheless, the memory of the Kazra chief’s face rekindled his defiance. Grinchell had shown up to the bear pit even when he had seen his death. He had not given up until the end. Why should he do any different? He had been someone in Skaligar. He was t
he Conduit!
And there it was. Perhaps he was the heretic and savage they said he was.
* * *
They slowed and directly beneath the hood he saw the first wooden step leading up to the platform. He paused, felt the guard’s hand push on his shoulder, and began to climb. Suddenly, the hood was ripped aside, and a sea of scowling faces swam before him. Oben blinked in the bright sunlight. He knew this place. He had seen it before, but from a spectator’s point of view. The square was big and lined with tall white buildings on all four sides. People hung out of windows to watch, whilst hundreds more had gathered in the square. They booed when they saw his face. Many made gestures and muttered prayers as if to ward off some great evil. Two bodies already swung next to him. He had been saved to last.
A rope was lowered over his head and the hangman cinched it tight.
He glanced once towards the gate, hoping that maybe his brother had arrived a day early. Or even that Gulmorgon’s forces would smash down the city walls and slaughter the crowds.
The priest was listing his sins, but Oben could barely hear him over the shouting and cursing of the crowd. His words were like small pebbles turning on the bed of a noisy river.
He focussed instead on a small face in the crowd. It reminded him of himself. A younger, more innocent version. A memory perhaps, come to gloat. He sought for a younger Kyrion too, and his father Brintok smoking his pipe. But they were not there. Ghosts from another time that had drifted on. He smiled, blinked, but the face was still there. He shook himself but the blond-haired boy still stared up at him.
“Bayron.” Oben mouthed, scarcely believing it.
It had only been two years, but his son had grown. Their eyes locked, and Bayron’s widened. He turned and tugged the sleeve of a hooded woman behind him. She stooped, straightened, and lowered her cowl. Delia’s face paled.
She screamed, “Oben!” but her voice was lost in the noise. She began pushing through the crowd towards the guards at the foot of the gallows, elbowing and ramming people out of her way. The priest finished his monotonous accusations and his voice faded away. He nodded at the hangman and a hush fell over the crowd.
“Stop!” Delia cried.
The crowd turned to see who'd broken the silence.
“Be still!” the priest ordered, craning his neck.
“He is the captain’s brother!” she shouted.
The crowd muttered in confusion. People whipped their heads around.
“It matters not,” the priest snapped. “The Persuasion outranks the Guard.”
“I know, but his brother, Captain Granger, will return on the morrow. Be merciful. Grant him one more day. I know this man. He was my husband.”
Was. The word choked Oben more than the rope. “He was ever faithful,” Delia continued. “Ever devout. We gave great portions of our harvest each year to the temple. He left to avenge our dead. To fight against the darkness in the Trinity’s name!”
“He has been marked with a sign of the Plague. This is no hanging. It is a purging.”
“I cannot speak as to what has befallen him. I cannot vouch for who he is now. But I know who he was. I trust in the wisdom of the Persuasion. I trust in the goodness of the Trinity.”
Her voice faded away and the crowd stirred, some muttering agreement, others demanding execution.
The priest’s face was red, and he wrung his bony hands in his voluptuous black sleeves. At last, he looked towards the executioner. “Take him down. Guards, see the heretic back to his cell.”
The crowd grew restless and the priest clapped for silence.
“We will wait one more day. If the captain returns, we will hear him. If the captain is delayed, then we will read it as a sign and delay no further. I urge you all to reflect this day on what this man has become. Look in your hearts and see the truth. A darkness has entered Edale, and it must be expiated. Reach into your pockets and visit the shrines before returning to your chores. We are being judged and must doubly show our faith this day.”
24
OLD FLAMES AND NEW
Oben could not shake the image of his son’s mortified expression from his mind. Nor the way Delia had regarded him as if he were a stranger. A fucking stranger! He was her husband! He had done everything for them! For all those ungrateful swine out there!
Each time he heard footsteps his chest tightened. But it was always a gaoler, throwing a crust of bread at him, and once a bowl of greasy broth with a chicken’s head floating in it. He didn’t care. He slurped it down, then nibbled what he could from around the beak.
After that, all he could do was pace and stretch. If fighting his way out became his only option, he would be ready.
The sliver of sunlight that reached him from a small window along the passageway made its way up the wall, turned orange and faded. The day was gone. At length he fell into an uneasy slumber filled with blinding white blizzards, swirling black feathers, and splashing hot blood.
* * *
The rattle of the key woke him, and he squinted up at a wavering torch. Even in silhouette he recognised his brother’s broad-shoulders. His square, smooth jaw and cropped military hair.
Kyrion Granger, Captain of the Blanbury guard, most favoured son, and bitter sibling rival set his torch in the wall and scowled.
“I had hoped it was a joke.”
Oben stood and faced his brother. It had been nine years, since Kyrion had returned to bury their father. In different circumstances, they had looked similar. They were not identical twins, but not far off either. They were of a height, but Kyrion had always been thicker-set. He was impeccably dressed and groomed.
“You look old.” Kyrion said, looking him up and down, eyes lingering on Oben’s mutilated foot.
“What, no embrace?” Oben asked, spreading his arms.
Kyrion spat into the corner of the cell.
“You should not have come back. You could have done the dignified thing and died.”
Even for someone who had had their toe severed, that hurt. Still, Kyrion did not know what had happened to him. Did not know what he had survived.
“So, you didn’t miss me?”
“Don’t be an ass. You think my men are not talking? Sniggering in their cups, that their captain’s brother is… whatever the fuck you are!”
“I went north, I fought our enemies. Isn’t that something to be proud of?”
“I think you’re full of shit. You look like shit, too. Look at that tattoo, for fuck’s sake. What were you even thinking coming back here! You’re as much a Skalg as any I’ve seen.”
Oben frowned.
“Come on, Kyr. I know we’ve had our differences, but this is bigger than that! I’ve been held captive, but I made it back! I have information that might save a lot of people!”
Kyrion stroked his smooth chin. “Even if that were true, it’s too late. My hands are tied. The Persuasion has decided.”
“Please! You have to try! I know things—”
“Twelve years, I’ve been here, Obe. Crawling my way up to the top. Twelve fucking years. Then you show up and make me look like a bloody idiot!”
Oben bit back a retort. Kyrion had always been a selfish bastard, but now was not the time…
“I had to do something to avenge Mara! You get that, right? You might hate me, but Mara loved us both. I didn’t intend to be away so long. Things went wrong. Very wrong. But I’m back now. Here to help make a difference!”
Kyrion shrugged.
“As I said, really wish there was something I could do.”
“Get me an audience with Gladbrook.”
Kyrion blinked as though he had misheard, then laughed.
“Ha. You’re fucking mad.”
“What difference if they hang me here or in Corwen. You might help save a lot of lives.”
“Not going to happen. Sorry, old pal.”
Oben closed his eyes and took a breath. Arguing would make matters worse, but his patience was all but gone.
&nbs
p; “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I’m pretty fucking far from enjoying this.” Kyrion said, his jaw twitching. “Oh, and you might as well hear it now, Delia and I are married. We waited a year, and then decided it was best for the boy.”
Oben’s cheeks burned.
“You… son of a bitch.”
“Hate me if you want. It’ll not change the fact that I was there for them when you left. I’ve put a roof over their heads, put Bayron into school.”
Oben opened his mouth, but Kyrion raised a hand and continued, speaking louder.
“You were always weak. Always wasteful. You never committed to anything. You were a farmer, but you spent your time dreaming, fishing, riding. You were a son, but you constantly disappointed our father. You were a brother, but you left Mara to burn for the sake of some fucking horses! You were a husband and a father that abandoned your family when they needed you most. And what’s more, you have abandoned the Trinity. Look at you. Heathen! Not even the clothes on your back. You limp like a beggar; you smell like a tramp, you're inked like a savage. And you’re a fucking liar.”
Oben looked down, his gaze fixed on his missing toe. He felt tears standing in his eyes, but raised his chin to stare defiantly at his brother.
“You’re right, Kyr. I’m as much of a piece of shit as you. Except for the lying part, so listen very carefully: If I die tomorrow, then you will, too. Everyone here will.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“The Skalgs are coming. They will tear this place apart.”
“The Skalgs are always coming,” Kyrion snarled. “Just like the sea. It laps and retreats. It cannot wash away the land.”
“They stand united under one leader. They see their victory as already written.”