Heretic

Chapter 4

“If you accept my offer,” Szet said, his voice soft and supple, seeming to come from directly behind Isaand’s ears, “you will not live a long and healthy life. You will be marked, and hated, and every faithful hand will be raised against you wherever you may go. You will not grow old. You will bear no children, build no home, and if your name is remembered in history it will be as a maligned vagrant, a warning to prop up the mindless faith the Bound require.”

Szet’s presence had filled the cave, shadows dancing on the walls in absence of light, a long and sinuous form seen only as an impression. Isaand had averted his eyes from the source of those shadows.

“When your life ends, you will not die with dignity. You will be slandered, violated, torn asunder. Most like, those you protect will follow you to the grave. Does that thought not give you pause? Would you still take the power I offer?”

Isaand raised his eyes at last to his God, and his image burned into his eyes and within his mind, at once impossible to forget but never to be described. “I would. I do.”

And Isaand heard the smile in Szet’s voice as he responded, a chuckle like a soft breeze filling the dark tunnel. “You are a man in a million, Isaand Aislin Laeson. I shall be glad to take your soul.”

The memory gave Isaand strength, reminded him that he had chosen this, accepted it long ago.

Isaand took a deep breath, looked over the gathered foes, and gave thought to how he would try to stave off his death as long as possible. He could try to pacify them, as he had done Amauro’s warriors. It would never work. The larger the crowd, the stronger the individual was incited to violence, swept along by the current of hate and bloodlust. Against so many, his power was a gentle admonishment when he needed a deafening cry. Besides, Tzamet was within each one of them, watching through the cloth eyes across their faces. Isaand did not know how much power the god had over them, but his presence would surely be enough to counteract the subtle force of Isaand’s miracle.

With Vehx’s power spent, he had few other cards to play. Isaand could cut off sensation with a touch, rendering limbs useless and numb, a power designed for blocking pain during treatment. But he would be slaughtered by the lot of them before he touched more than two or three. He could sunder weapons wielded in anger, but even if he left them unarmed they could still beat him to death with ease. He had only one more power that would be relevant here. He could feel Szet’s power within his chest like a ball of warm fire, suffusing his body, and he called upon it and felt his god’s miracle on his lips, ready to be loosed. But first…

“Vehx,” Isaand muttered through gritted teeth. “Guide Ylla when they attack. I will distract as many as I can. Get her free of their circle, and help her flee.”

“You think that will make any difference?” Vehx asked, amused. “She’ll not get far before Tzamet has them hunt her down. And you know full well I’ll not be around to help her.”

Isaand did know. Vehx was sendra to Isaand alone, bound soul-to-soul, and the instant he died the chained god would again have his freedom. He would be under no obligation to help anyone at that point. “Do what you can, as I command,” Isaand said. He could think on it no more.

Tzamet’s disciples had drawn closer, closing within ten feet, moving slowly, perhaps hoping his will would break and he would throw down his weapon and beg for mercy. Tzamet would be disappointed there, Isaand vowed. Facing certain death, a hundred tales ran through his mind in a jumble, imparted to him in oral tradition by the master-bard of his tribe. In the stories, the valiant hero, faced with impossible odds, always had some final statement to make, some clever insult or inspiring proclamation or a scathing condemnation that would haunt the guilty minds of his murderers all their waking days. Try as he might, Isaand couldn’t remember a single one of them in that moment.

“Come on then you spineless bastards!” he shouted, and reached for his power. He felt it flow up his arm like a jolt of lightning, and he clapped his hand, vibrating with energy, to his breast and felt it flow back into him. His numbness dropped away all at once, along with his exhaustion, and a manic smile stretched across his face, laughter escaping from his throat. When he took three strides across the grass in the span of an instant, it was with swift and effortless ease, as simple as moving a pen across paper.

His quarterstaff caught his first foe across the side of the face, swung with enhanced speed so that it whistled through the air with a sound like a loosed arrow. He felt a hearty crunch as the staff collided and the woman collapsed to the ground, her body vanishing in the tall grass. Pain shot up Isaand’s arm from the force of the blow, but he laughed and spun, swinging the staff in a backhand that swept the legs out from under a portly man wearing a butcher’s apron spotted with blood.

Isaand felt a flash of recognition as though someone had shouted a warning in his ear. He turned in time to see a woman stab towards him with a long scythe, angling it to hook around his neck. He pulled back and let it pass him, jabbing out and poking her in the chest with his staff so that she teetered back in the process. Another flash of warning sounded in his mind, and he turned in time to see a heavy mallet swinging towards his thigh. He sidestepped it and brushed the haft with his fingers as it passed, whispering a prayer, and the mallet exploded in a shower of splinters and screws. Mere seconds had passed.

All around him, the dozens of men and women charged forward in one silent mass.

Weapons swept in at him and he blocked, parried, or dodged, avoiding two or three of them simultaneously. He lost track of what he could see or hear, reacting only to the precognitive warning given by his miracle. He struck out when he could, cracking fingers and skulls, stabbing at throats and guts, grabbing with his free hand and sending his attackers stumbling to the ground. Had his opponents some skill, he knew he would not have had such an easy time of it. But they were only common villagers, spurred on to lynch the heretic by their god, and they attacked clumsily and with no subtlety.

Sometime after he blocked a thrown knife, sending it spinning away into another attacker, Isaand caught a glimpse of Ylla disappear into the grass, and saw the foliage rustling as she crawled away, led by Vehx. He smiled at that. The girl seemed smart for her age. Perhaps she would have a chance, if only he could keep them distracted. He lost any chance for thought as three of them attacked him at once. He slapped aside one rusty hook with his free hand, warding off the next foe with a lunge and a stab, and then-

Pain swept away his joy in an instant, a hot stinging pain in his thigh. A long pair of shears were protruding from them. He swung his staff and knocked the wielder away, a spurt of blood following as she pulled the shears free. Warnings flashed in his mind, and he dodged two large rocks thrown from as many directions, grunting as a third caught him in his upper back. The woman with the scythe was back, swinging in a wide crescent. He dodged it easily, leaping back, but his retreat carried him into the arms of a large man with a limp. Arms wrapped around him, grasping, and he squirmed and shouted wordlessly.

In front of him, he saw only the dark green eyes of Tzamet stretched across the faces of his killers. Something struck him hard in the side of his head and he heard ringing. Blood dripped down his cheek. One of the men before him stabbed out with a corkscrew, straight at his heart. He managed to shift sideways and take it on the arm instead, biting deep into his muscle. Behind, another villager was coming forward, carrying a hunting spear as if he knew how to use it. Isaand watched the thrust, Tzamet’s eye somehow looking smug as the spearpoint came closer. Isaand roared and spun with all his strength, surprising the man holding him. He managed to turn around completely and felt a hard thump in his back and a sharp prick. The man’s arms went slack, and his body slipped away.

Isaand swung about him with his staff, making some space, but the villagers showed no sign of self-preservation, no fatigue or fear. They just kept on, attacking two or three at a time, as many as could reach into his range at once. Isaand could feel an electric itch as his earlier wounds began to knit back together, and his eyes grew wide. He could feel the quickening power slipping away, his energy going to his regeneration instead. He tried to dodge a stick and moved too slow, taking a glancing blow. Another rock caught him in the temple with no flash of warning. His miracle was failing.

Before him, Tzamet’s puppet yanked his bloody spear out of the back of the large man, and angled it towards him again. The others crowded in on him, not attacking but giving him no place to move, making a hedge of sharp objects and grasping hands. Isaand saw the spear coming, and realized he didn’t have the strength and speed to parry it. He tried to raise his staff, but his arm spasmed. He was so tired.

“Szet,” he whispered, “Thank you.” The spear stabbed forward.

And a light shone like the sun had fallen out of the sky. The villager jerked in response, his spear missing, and then jerked again as an arrow sunk into his cheek hard into to send him flying to the side. Isaand was looking through squinted eyes, confused, almost blinded, and men and women were shouting even as the villagers remained eerily silent, their cloth eyes turning away to look at some new threat.

More arrows flew, felling those who tried to strike Isaand. A woodcutting axe came out of nowhere, and Isaand felt a hard shock as its blade bounced off his head. Baffled, he put a hand to his head and felt only a small cut where should have been a gaping wound. Looking closer, he saw a thin silvery light was clinging to his body, extending a few inches beyond it. The light was transparent, but when he looked closely he could see the vague outline of armor about him. Another weapon struck at him and he deflected it with his arm, feeling no pain as the miraculous armor absorbed the blow.

“Cease I say! We will harm no one if you halt and allow us to speak!” a tenor voice rang out. The light faded away, leaving impressions on Isaand’s vision, but the villagers lowered their weapons and turned as one back towards the village.

Seven men were clustered at the edge of the ridge, each of them sitting astride strange tall beasts with short hair and fleshy wide noses. Horses, Isaand realized, and two of them are women. Three of the horsemen were leveling long lances with crescent shaped blades sticking off the ends. The others had bows nocked and readied, double curved bows more than six feet long. Each of them was dressed in shining steel armor chased in silver and gold and ivory, and the sun flashed off their armor so it seemed they were garbed in light. He could see little of their skin, until the one at the front, who’s thick armor plate still suggested the shape of a woman, lowered her bow and removed her helm. Silver eyes stood out against deep brown skin, her black hair pulled back in braids to gather at the back of her neck. Her armor was the most ornate, covered over by a thick cloth robe of brightly dyed orange. A longsword with a silver hilt hung at her side. Even without his Godseye, Isaand could see the crackle of godly energy that clung to her like lightning to a storm cloud. Paladin.

“Holy Tzamet, I am Kierna Sarana, Fourteenth Sword of the holy order of Tyre Ettha. I mean you no ill-will, but that man has been tried and sentenced by the Conclave, and I dispatched to return him to Ethka to see justice done.” Most people trembled when speaking to a god, but Kierna kept her eyes forward, her tone respectful but certain. Isaand began to take small, furtive steps backwards as Tzamet answered, speaking through all the remaining villagers.

“I HAVE TRIED AND SENTENCED HIM MYSELF, APOSTATE. YOUR GODS HAVE NO FIRST RIGHTS TO SENTENCING HERETICS. YOU STAND ON MY LAND. MY WORD IS LAW. MY WILL IS JUSTICE.”

“Justice is no matter of one’s whims and desires. Not even for a god,” Kierna answered. “I am sorry, but you are out-ruled. Ninety-two gods and goddesses have put their will to this matter. The Heretic Isaand Laeson has important knowledge that must be learned. He returns with me, unharmed.”

Isaand felt chilled to learn that nearly a hundred gods counted him as their enemy. All he had done was travel and heal the sick and injured. He had hoped he would avoid the attention of anyone important, but that appeared to have been a vain hope.

“SNIVELING CRETIN. HE IS MINE. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT.” Tzamet’s tone was petulant, and his villagers were no longer threatening Isaand. Isaand had managed to back a few steps further away, and there was no one behind him any longer. But he froze when the paladin turned her gaze on him.

“Lector Isaand, please stand down. As I said, we will do you no harm. You will ride with us back to Ethka, to answer some questions. There is much the gods wish to learn from one of the Unbound’s servants.”

“You truly expect me to come along meekly and submit myself to your chains and thumbscrews?” Isaand asked. “I have done no crimes. I do not recognize your conclave’s authority to sentence me to anything.”

“Can you resist us, as injured as you are?” Kierna asked, calmly. Isaand felt how sluggish he was. The quickening was gone entirely, and though his pain was gone, he felt a bone-deep lethargy that he knew would last until he’d had time to sleep and eat a hearty meal.

“I am a Lector, as you said. I am always capable of resistance,” Isaand bluffed.

Paladin Kierna sighed, and gestured to her men. “Take him.”

The three lance-wielding horsemen put their heels to their beasts and the creatures wheeled and trotted forward, surprisingly graceful and quick despite their gangly bulk. Isaand turned and started to run, but he knew it was hopeless. The ground seemed to jump beneath him and he stumbled and fell. He pushed himself up, and slipped as it rumbled again. I’m not imagining that, he realized. The ground truly was beginning to shake. The horses slowed their pace, shying sideways. He heard Kierna gasp, and Tzamet spoke from his puppets all at once.

“NO. THIS IS MY LAND. YOU HAVE NO PLACE HERE.”

Isaand stumbled to his feet, and looked back to see plumes of smoke rising from the village. Fires were roaring, spreading across the grass rooftops, and hundreds of men were running through the streets, dressed like those warriors who’d been escorting Ylla. The sounds of bloodshed and battle rang out, and the paladin and her men had turned away to look back at the village.

A piercing howl rang out, the earth shaking along with it, and in the midst of the village Isaand saw a massive wolf made of golden grass, her warriors forming up at her feet. Amauro had come to make war.