Heretic Part Three, Chapter 4

Heretic

Part Three

Chapter 4

Kierna’s steps kicked up little puffs of ash with each step. The smell and taste of smoke was thick in the air. The village had been raised along the side of a bend in the river, atop a rise that commanded view of the local plains, miles away from the closest island with their dangerous packs of Threshers. Even so, they’d been wary. The charred remains of wooden post wall ringed the village, now collapsed into smoke-stained piles of wood.

The attackers hadn’t rushed the job. Seeing how thoroughly the village had been destroyed, each house transformed into a pile of ash and tinder, they’d likely lingered for hours, tending the flames and making certain that nothing remained. The air was still warm from the smoldering wreckage. Kierna’s eyes watered as floating grit was blown into them from the wind.

However long the ravagers had stayed, they hadn’t bothered to bury the dead. More than a hundred bodies were scattered around the village, most of them clumped up together in large groups where they’d obviously tried to pack together for protection. That hadn’t saved them. The bodies hadn’t begun to seriously rot yet, being freshly slain, and so for the moment the smoke in the air blocked out any scent of decay.

Kierna stood at the center, atop the highest point where the larger houses had surrounded a circular stone shrine. Here the bodies were mostly of women and children. The men had fought at the wall and its gates, holding the enemies back. They’d stepped over a line of corpses at the entrance to the village. Here and there a few men with broken spears and shields lay among the women and children, where they’d fallen back when the walls broke.

The sight weighed on Kierna, pushing her down into the darkness of apathy. It didn’t matter what she did. She defended the weak and innocent, saved people from being killed, hunted down killers and brought them to justice. Yet no matter how often she sought to change the world, things like this kept on happening, every day, all over the world. Put two people within reach of each other, and eventually one of them would be moved to violence. An army was bearing down on the grasslands, and still they fought amongst themselves.

Isaand hadn’t done this, she was certain. She’d heard the tales of his destruction of the villages in the Clearlake, where he’d unleashed his Sendra beast, so she knew he was capable of it. But Isaand traveled with only the woman and young girl; he had no armies at his disposal. And she knew well enough to detect mundane butchery where she saw it.

The signs of warfare were evident. The ground was trampled with the boots of the warriors who’d fought, perhaps a hundred of them. That would be a large band for these grassland villages, where the populations were kept small by a lack of interaction with other villages and the esoteric demands of their ruler gods. Most likely they came from a village of five or six hundred, with only a small percentage of the population trained in the art of war.

Not everything was so clear, though. Though fire had been spread uniformly through the small village, she saw no sign of built bonfires. It was unlikely the attackers could have approached the village, fought through the guards at the gate, and broken across the wall all while carrying lit torches in large enough numbers to get the blaze going. And in several places, most clustered around the gates themselves, she’d seen oddly shaped craters left in the ground, smoking and smelling of sulfur. Bodies clustered around these craters were badly burnt. And the battle seemed overly one-sided. She’d counted at least sixty dead warriors so far, and she hadn’t been to the northern end yet, where signs of more battle were visible. The defensive advantage of the hill and wall should have made it an extremely costly victory, the kind no sane commander would attempt unless they had no other choice. But all signs pointed to a relatively easy victory.

Following a thread of thought, Kierna approached the stone shrine. It had been carved intricately, the remnants of faces visible across its surface, the ground around it paved to elevate it from the dirt. But there wasn’t much left to see. The stones were blackened and cracked, a huge hole in the ceiling. Looking around, she could see where stones from the breach had flown and scattered all across the hilltop, some as far as fifty feet away. That wasn’t done with conventional weaponry, she thought. They had a Lector with them.

As though summoned by her thoughts, Ganiza stepped out of the ruined remains of the shrine, Aeshena wrapped around her as usual. She looked somber, eyes clouded.

“Was Isaand here?” Kierna asked. So far, Ganiza had been able to accurately follow the heretic’s trail… at least, that was what she claimed. Ganiza insisted that she was capable of speaking with the myriad tiny spirits that lived everywhere, and that they had all been affected by Isaand’s passing like a storm blowing through, making it an event they could remember despite their limited mentality. But Ganiza, conveniently, was the only one who could manage this thing, meaning that Kierna was forced to simply take her word for it. She was not at all certain she trusted her that much, not yet.

“I cannot tell,” Ganiza said, shaking her head. Her eyes swept across the killing field with a grimace, and she looked a bit gray, as though she were struggling not to be sick. “Too much chaos, too much turmoil. The spirits are swarming, confused and frightened and angry. The villagers who lived here would have appeared as a thick mass of Dea to the spirits, a warm and inviting light to live by. Now they are all gone, and the spirits are left without that anchor. If Isaand passed through quietly, having nothing to do with this destruction, they would have taken no notice of him. Could he have done this?”

“Possibly. He’s done something like it before, but the damage was much smaller, and I haven’t heard any reliable accounts of mass deaths. Either way, most of these people were killed in battle. No, he’s not responsible, not alone at least,” Kierna explained. Ganiza nodded along, looking lost. That, oddly, made Kierna feel a little better. Ganiza had seemed so certain, so in control, that she was hard to approach. Seeing her out of her element, as unnerved as anyone who hadn’t witnessed such atrocities before, made her human. Kierna was the one in control here.

“I do believe a Lector was involved though,” Kierna continued, pointing to the broken roof. Ganiza eyes widened as she took in the sight.

“I’ll see if I can learn anything else,” the shaman said, moving away swiftly, pulling her snake tighter around her like a shawl. Kierna blinked as she watched her leave, surprised at Ganiza’s lack of composure. The warnings she’d received from the surrounding region of Ganiza’s land had painted her as a dangerous devil-woman, one who’d slaughtered dozens if not hundreds of people who’d provoked her wrath. A deadly, merciless force of nature. It would appear that, however dangerous she might actually be, Ganiza was not used to stepping directly into the muck and blood of direct violence.

“Captain,” Garreth said, drawing Kierna’s attention. He’d climbed the hill from the west, a cloth wrapped around the lower half of his face to help with the smoke. Behind him, Kierna saw Farrus at the bottom of the hill, on his knees inspecting something closer.

“What is is, Garreth?”

“We’ve followed the path to the west a ways. From the tracks, it looks like that’s where the main attack force came from, though they sent attackers to the north and south as well. It looks like they went back that way as well, dozens, maybe as many as a hundred. They’ve trampled the grass in a wide swath, so we could easily follow it. If that is what you command.”

“This looks fresh. Perhaps a day has passed. They could have taken prisoners,” Kierna said.

“What for?” Garreth grimaced. “They killed everyone else, even the children.”

“Hammarra and Kenth are looking for survivors…”

“There are none.” Hammarra appeared out of the smoke, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face like Garreth. “There’s not many hiding places left, but we’ve checked everything that hasn’t collapsed completely. The sooner we leave this pyre behind us the better, whereever we ride.”

Kierna looked from one to the other, noting the tiredness in their eyes, the slouch of a warrior with no foe to strike, no one to protect.

“Take a rest, then. We’ll leave in an hour,” Kierna said. Garreth and Hammarra nodded and saluted. As usual, it seemed that so long as Kierna spoke like she knew what she was doing, her followers believed in her. She turned away and climbed back towards the damaged shrine, the only building around that still mostly stood, wondering where she was supposed to go now.

Her goal was singular, to capture the heretic Isaand Laeson. But with no idea of what had happened here, she had no idea which direction to go. He could have been captured and carried back west to wherever the attackers had come from. He could have continued on to the north, passing by before the attack ever happened. He could have seen the threat and looped back south or southwest. There were a number of small boats at the bottom of the hill on the banks of the river, their bottoms smashed by the attackers to make them useless, but he might have been able to use one before the attack and cross the river to the east.

Kierna had followed Isaand’s path with relative ease, as he tended to stand out wherever he went and people were always willing to talk about him, whether out of fear or interest. Once Ganiza had joined them her esoteric methods of tracking had sped them up considerably. Both Ganiza’s powers and the local rumors seemed to agree that he was close. The slyzeers slowed them down somewhat, but they still covered more ground than one would on foot, and the heretic was reportedly stopping regularly to heal people as he traveled, dozens of them so far. She could feel that she was close, a powerful conviction that spurred her onward.

The village of dead awoke a familiar feeling as well. With every corpse she stepped carefully over, every pile of burnt wood she passed, a coldness seemed to well up in her, starting from her extremities and slowly growing inward until it began to tighten around her heart. Armor for her soul, protecting her from the pain and disgust that came from walking amongst the horrors of war. And with that coldness came a sharp clarity, something like the rush of combat that urged her to fight or flight. A clarity that told her that evil had been done here, tipping the scale, and that she was the one who could tilt it back.

The shrine smelled strongly in its confines, but it was dark and quiet and secluded, and that was what she needed. Kneeling, Kierna sat on the floor on her knees and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She spent several minutes in meditation, emptying her mind, concentrating on her breathing, until she reached that wonderful state of silence, freedom from the constant questions and confusions of daily life. A single beautiful sound rang out in her head, a chime that held back all the darkness of her environs.

Jehx, she prayed. Lord Jehx, Justice. Please hear me. Please help.

She prayed for nearly an hour, but received no answer.

Soft footsteps announced Ganiza’s entrance. Kierna sighed and stood. Her legs had gone numb, and they began to ache after a few seconds. She turned to find the other woman regarding her solemnly.

“Learn anything?” Kierna asked.

“No, I’m afraid not. The spirits are too upset. I can’t get anything coherent out of them,” Ganiza answered.

“You said the spirits see the souls of the people who lived here as their home. Would they be able to focus on those?” A flicker of surprise crossed Ganiza’s face.

“I hadn’t thought of that… but no, I don’t think so. Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, but as scattered as they are… besides, you don’t think there are survivors do you?”

“Yes,” Kierna said, surprised at how convinced she sounded. “This attack didn’t happen for no reason. This town has existed for a long time. It had strong walls, a good location, a lenient god who allowed them to thrive. Evil though it may have been, something provoked the killers. The heretic’s passing is the natural explanation. Perhaps they took him, and murdered the village for harboring him. If only there was a way to know for sure…”

“Perhaps there is.”

“What do you mean?” Kierna asked. Ganiza stood straight-backed, idly running her fingers down the back of Aeshena.

“You want to find them, don’t you? These hypothetical survivors. It burns in you, stronger even than your desire to capture Isaand, the need to save them. To punish the killers.”

“Not punishment. Justice.”

“Then use that desire. Focus it, wield it, and find them. There is a connection between you and them, created by the strength of your feelings. I couldn’t do it. When I look around here, all I feel is sickness and fear, the desire to escape. But you could do it.”

“You’re talking about a miracle?” Kierna asked.

“Of course.”

“I told you, it’s not possible. Jehx grants me his miracles. I cannot simply pull a new one out of thin air.”

“Have you tried?”

Kierna hesitated. She thought back to her training, when she’d first learned how to perform Jehx’s miracles, how easily they had come to her, how perfect they felt, as though they had been designed just for her, like a suit of armor built to her exact measurements. Kenly’s miracles, and those of the other sword-priests who’d been so blessed, had all been different. His instructions had been vague, drawing out miracles meant for certain circumstances. The miracles had started less focused, more open-ended. A field of protection had become a shield, a strike of light became a blade of pure power. The more she had used them, the more exact her powers became, until they felt like distinct tools. If Ganiza was correct, where had they truly come from? Had she created each miracle on her own?

“I’m not a god, Ganiza. I’m just a woman with a sword, failing at my given task.” The words poured out of her in a rush, the coldness inside of her turning on her, a stark mirror reflecting all of her inadequacies in undeniable light. “I’ve accomplished nothing here. My presence spreads grief and turmoil wherever I go. Even if I find the heretic, will it stop the crusade? My god would seek to stop it, I believe that much. But the others won’t listen. Not enough of them. Call me paladin, but I may as well be just another grasslands village girl for all the power I have to stop what’s coming.”

“Can your god help you then?” Ganiza asked, undeterred.

“No. This isn’t his place. He’d be breaking the Pact to manifest his power here. I’ve prayed, hoping he could send me some message, some hint that would at least point me in the right direction, but there’s nothing. I’m on my own.”

“What can it hurt to try then? Are you frightened of the possibility? The thought of all you’ve been taught, all you believe, might only be one small piece of the truth? You are a fish in a small pool, with a stream leading the way to a lake; all you have to do is swim it.”

“I…” The coldness in Kierna faltered, and a wave of anxiety hit her, blowing her words away.

“No, that isn’t it. You’re not so dogmatic as that,” Ganiza said, eyes thoughtful. “You barely manage to conceal your disgust for the other gods of your holy city. The warmongers, the power-hungry, those who support this crusade for no reason other than to benefit themselves. And you listened, truly considered what I had to say. You aren’t afraid of the truth.”

She shook her head, a hint of pity touching her expression.

“You’re afraid of the power. You’ve spent your whole adult life forging yourself into a loyal tool for your god, working for his purpose. You’re a good leader, your men respect you, but you’re clearly not comfortable with the responsibility. If you were to accept your divinity, to truly embrace your potential, then you wouldn’t have anyone else to look to for guidance.”

“It would all fall on me,” Kierna said, quietly. “I’d be… all alone.”

“Only as alone as you are now. Your men care for you. Your god believes in you, enough that he broke the shackles on your soul, to free your Dea to shape reality as you willed it. I have walked this path, and would be there to help guide you.”

Ganiza’s footsteps rang out in the silence of the shrine as she stepped closer, right up to Kierna’s chest to look her in the eye. Kierna leaned back, uncomfortable with the invasion of her space. Everyone in her life was careful to keep a respectful distance. She was rarely touched. Even Baako’s lecherous advances came from a wary distance, never expecting any chance at success. Ganiza put her hand on Kierna’s shoulder, tilting her head back to look up into her eyes. The twin-heads of Aeshena turned and regarded Kierna with inscrutable eyes, tongues flicking out.

“Don’t think so hard, Kierna. Ask yourself a simple question. You know no help is coming. If you, with the power inside you, could find who was responsible for this, and help those who still need it, would you? That’s the only choice you’re making.”

Kierna sighed. Memories flashed through her mind, another village so long ago, the corpses of her brother and sister left behind on a burning pyre as she marched sobbing out into the grass. No one had helped her then, not until years later hundreds of miles away, when it was already too late for most of her family.

“What would I do?” she asked.

“Open your Eye.”

She did so, slitting it so that a hint of the divine filtered in all around her, filling her senses. Then, acting on instinct, she widened it, throwing her eye open to invite in the spiritual world in all its glory. A million sensations pressed in on her, rocking her on her feet, and her body seemed to burn away like a candle flame snuffed out. She couldn’t feel the ground, and felt as though she were sinking, falling, drowning in a substance that was part air, part water, part earth, part smoke. A scream started in the back of her throat but she held it back, gritting the teeth she could no longer feel.

Kierna

Ganiza stood before her. Her body was gone, but where it had stood was a swirling maelstrom of orange light and smoke, shot through with flickering bursts of golden light. Three dark eyes burned in a triangular pattern atop the pillar of light, eyes that somehow conveyed the same calm and certainty the shaman showed in her material form. Dozens of little spirits, amorphous forms of gelatinous light, crawled among her, clinging. A silver thread of light looped around and around Ganiza a thousand times, stretching away into infinity, each end coiling back in on itself, reaching two identical faces each with three glowing eyes of emerald.

I hear you, Kierna thought, shocked.

You should

This is your world

Show me what to do.

Look upon yourself

A Godseye was no ordinary organ, constrained by physicality. Focusing inward, she looked down and down, into herself from all angles. It was like diving through a thick layer of clouds, until they peeled away and she saw it: a spark of bright white light, slowly churning like a ball of smoke. It was small, but it crackled with immense power. She felt that if she touched it, it would explode in a burst of lightning that would echo across the world.

This is me, she thought.

Yes

It’s not any different than any of the others. It’s just a human soul. Tiny and insignificant.

No

The cage has been opened

You have space to stretch out

Push

How?

The same way you breath the same way you move your muscles

Will it

Kierna breathed in, though she could no longer feel her body. The soul did not change. She focused on it, chanting under her breath the words she used to call on Jehx’s miracles, but the soul did not change. She imagined it growing, stretching wider, burning brighter like a bonfire fed more fuel. The soul did not change.

A flash of anger ran through her, a silent shout of frustration.

The soul flickered, silver lightning flashing from one side to the other.

Emotion is the language of the gods

You’ve worked so hard to enslave yourself

To keep yourself calm in all situations

Let it flow, but USE it

Kierna opened up, letting down the armor she used to bottle in all of her doubts and fears, a wave of mixed feelings choking out of her like the beginnings of a sob.

The soul exploded with brilliance, lightning flickering through it, stretching out in every direction, eclipsing the tiny, insignificant vessel of her body. She screamed inside her mind, overwhelmed with the sense of power, the electric force that rushed through her veins. Her vision changed. The Godsrealm coalesced before her, losing none of its immense detail, thousands of dimensions of interwoven reality, but whereever she focused, she could understand it clearly. She wasn’t an invader here, anymore. She felt like she belonged.

Laughing, she rose up over the village, looking down on the six shining souls of her men sitting in a circle before the shrine, Ganiza’s towering soul looming above them all. Countless spirits swarmed throughout the village, a pattern a million times more complex than a brightly woven tapestry, but she could discern each individual one, look closely and see them for what they were, staring down into their nature. Predator. Prey. Force. A few Authority, not yet grown to their true nature.

She turned her Eye west, though she could still focus and see, hear, feel, smell, touch, taste, every piece of the hill around her. The sensations were overwhelming, and she felt a deep sickness, a growing pain, as though she’d been running for miles and could go no further.

You can’t keep this up for long

You want to find them

Look for them

Kierna’s presence swept to the west, flying across the plain, cresting through waves of power and sweeping spirits up in her wake. As she swept over them, she could feel their Dea touching, mixing in tiny sparks that left alien emotions echoing inside her, each spirit speaking their thoughts without words to her as she passed. The west grew dark. An enormous face appeared on the horizon, glaring down at her with eyes of purple lightning, but it did nothing to stop her. Ahead in the distance, white lights appeared like distant campfires. She swept towards them, and their light illuminated the space all around, burning through the brightly colored shapes and images as though pushing away darkness.

Souls. Hundreds of them, some dim, some bright, some quivering with sharp edges, others rounded and soft. And there, in the middle, surrounded and isolated from all the others, was a familiar sight: eight souls, with silvery chains wrapped tight around their flames.

I see them, Kierna said.

Kierna emerged from the shrine light-headed, stomach roiling, hand on the wall to keep from tipping over. Sweat covered every inch of her body. Her throat was dry, gasping for breath, in need of water. Ganiza followed at a discreet distance. Hammarra, Kenth, Farrus, Garreth, and Baako were gathered around in a circle. They looked up in shock as she stepped forward, and Kenth and Farrus leapt to their feet to help her.

“Captain!” Farrus shouted. “Are you well?” His eyes flickered over to Ganiza, mistrust aimed like the dagger he pulled from his belt. “Did she do something to you?”

“No,” Kierna said, laughing. They stared in surprise as the unaccustomed sound boiled out of her. “No, she didn’t do anything. I’m well. I’ve been…” She hesitated, uncertain what to tell them. Were they ready to know that the woman they followed was no longer the loyal servant of their god they thought her to be?

I’m sorry, Lord Jehx, she prayed. I believe in you. I won’t abandon you. But if you can’t help me here, I have to take things into my own hands.

“We’re riding west. There are prisoners there, taken from this village, people healed by the heretic Isaand,” Kierna told them. A smile broke out across her face, despite her exhaustion. “We’re going to rescue them.”

 

Part Three: Chapter Five

Heretic Part Three, Chapter 3

Heretic

Part Three

Chapter 3

The air smelled faintly of smoke, mixed with the wet, thick odor rising up from the slow muddy river to Kierna’s right. She rode along it’s banks, the ever-present plains of grass stretching away to the left. With the river bolstering them on one side, Garreth was riding rear-guard behind and Farrus ahead. The left side was slowly rising hills, so Kierna had opted not to post an outrider as they would be in danger of sudden attack from the far off top of the hills unless they rode atop them, in which case they would be too far away for the rest of the group to assist them. Ganiza claimed they had no need for watchers anyway. High overhead, circling like a massive vulture, was the third of her creatures, Eitia. From below, it looked like an eel slivering in invisible water, a long but thin serpent-like creature with numerous bladders across its back, filled with some gas that kept it afloat. Kierna was skeptical that it could fly for so long with such a method, but as it was an avatar of one of Ganiza’s gods it was likely to be relying on supernatural endowment.

Her panther-like creature Malerax was ranging somewhere off in the grass, often miles away. He would return when they reached camp, another line of forewarning in case of attack. Ganiza’s twin-headed snake Aeshana was still curled around her shoulders, next to Kierna where she rode on another slyzeer lizard like the one Baako had. After Ganiza had ridden double with one of her men for the first two days, they’d purchased the lizard at a village outside of her lands. Actually, the people had insisted on giving it as a gift to the shaman, showing a deferential mix of fear and respect. Kierna had left them a gift of silver to make up for it, though the looks she got were far more hostile.

Kierna didn’t know what to think about traveling, not only with a self-proclaimed Lector who considered herself a partner to her gods, but with three physical avatars of those gods themselves. So far, they hadn’t shown anything beyond ordinary animal intelligence, deferring to Ganiza like well-trained pets, though she always couched her commands in the terms of requests. It made Kierna uncomfortable. Was Ganiza a heretic? True heretics were rare, and the term fairly fluid, but she thought she knew Ethka’s Council of Grand Clerics would determine the matter. Serving an Unbound was the ultimate heresy, but Ganiza was nearly as blasphemous, with her three gods she did not seem to see as her rulers. Calm, always relaxed, amiable, Ganiza made an ideal traveling companion. Still, there was an undeniable tension about her, a wall of belief between her and Jehx’s priests that made true friendship impossible. Baako, motivated by his usual self-preserving nature, kept the farthest from her. He was riding up ahead with Farrus now, the two of them no doubt swapping frequent complaints about Hratha’s rustic nature.

Kierna’s gaze kept wandering back to Ganiza, who rode along with a serene expression, her lips turned up in the hint of a smile. Under the bright sun, away from her alien home, Ganiza looked shockingly ordinary. A bit diminutive, narrow-hipped and small-chested, Ganiza had an androgynous look. Her deep brown skin, eyes, and hair were common all across the grasslands. With her mouth framed by laugh-lines and her deep eyes shadowed by her brow, she had an aged look to her. But while her body lacked the tight muscles of a practiced soldier, she had a fitness to her that told of many leagues walked daily, living a rugged lifestyle alone in her land, and she was clearly still young, whatever she claimed about her age. Feeling Kierna’s eyes on her, Ganiza turned and smiled at her, tilting her head in a slightly questioning fashion. Kierna turned away as though she’d merely been glancing past her into the hills.

An in-drawn breath of surprise distracted Kierna, coming from behind. “What are those?” Kenth asked, his voice tinged with wonder. Curious, Kierna turned and followed his gaze.

In one of the many large islands that dotted the river they followed, several creatures had crept out of the brush onto the shore, watching them from across the span of water. They were nearly as tall as a man, sleek two-legged lizards with bodies covered in brightly colored feathers. They had no beaks, but long narrow snouts filled with sharp teeth. Thick, long tails stuck out well behind them, balancing them into a long position, and they crouched low, tilting their upper bodies forward like spears about the thrust. The two short, chicken-like arms that hung in front of their bodies seemed vestigial. But their legs were clearly powerful, their feet tipped with sharp talons. One toe in particular was three times larger than the others, featuring a long scythe-like claw as big as a dagger. They watched the passing horses with cold, predatory eyes shining with intelligence. Kierna didn’t like the look of it, and reached for her bow, preparing to string it in case they decided to approach.

“They have many names across the grasslands, but we mostly call them Threshers or Reapers,” Hammarra answered. “People call lions the queens of the grass, but Threshers are more like armies. Deadly, smart, they work in large packs. I’ve heard stories of them attacking groups of armed men and winning.” Kierna saw Hammarra already had her bow strung, watching the bird-lizards with an arrow knocked. “We might want to move away from the shore, Captain.”

“There’s no need to worry.” Ganiza’s confidence cut through the tension. “So long as I am here, they will not attack.”

“You’re certain about that? Even if they pose no threat to you, how could they know not to try?” Kierna asked.

“Beasts lack mankind’s rebellious nature. They know well enough not to try and hunt a god. With just a shift of attitude, you too could dissuade them with your presence, Paladin.” Among the others, Ganiza rarely called Kierna by her name. She was not quite certain whether the honorific she gave her was a sign of respect or a subtle condemnation of her position.

Hammarra bristled at her words, glaring. “Claiming divinity doesn’t make you a god, and animals aren’t smart enough to recognize a Lector just by looking at them. Pretend to power all you want, shaman, but don’t mistake us for some backwater clods who will bow and scrape in fear of your mysterious nature.”

Ganiza only went on smiling, the words washing over her like water around a stone.

“Best keep our bows strung anyway,” Kierna said. “Hammarra, ride back and stick with Garreth, in case those things decide to jump the river and go after a lone target. Kenth, inform Farrus of the threat as well, just in case Baako doesn’t know about them.”

Hammarra took a steadying breath, composing herself, then saluted and turned her horse to ride away. She recognized the dismissal, undoubtedly, but Hammarra was wise enough to know when to follow a commander’s attempts to smooth relations. Kenth rode forward, nodding to Ganiza as he passed, then turning his curiosity back to the Threshers across the river. After what the shaman had said, the beasts looked less threatening and more apprehensive, as though they were keeping an eye on a superior predatory encroaching on their land.

Kierna’s gaze wandered back to Ganiza and found the woman meeting her eyes. Kierna stubbornly kept staring. She was not some blushing girl sneaking glances at the object of her interest and hiding away.

“You’re not what I would have expected in a paladin, Kierna,” Ganiza said. Now that the others were gone, she spoke more softly, casually.

“I don’t see how I’m especially unique.”

“You’re a thinker. I can an almost see the words turning over and over in your mind, picking away at the tangle of the questions you can’t put down. You don’t have to, you know. I am happy to answer any questions you might have.”

Kierna didn’t deny her assertions. The things Ganiza had said that first night at the camp, her strange relationship with her gods, and the obscure references she made to her powers, all of these things were rarely far from Kierna’s mind.

“The night I met you, I said that we are not gods. You implied that you disagreed with that statement. And now, you seem to do the same. Claiming divinity is undeniable heresy, but it doesn’t seem to concern you that you might offend me,” Kierna said.

“The truth shouldn’t be offense to anyone. You are a woman of faith, are you not?”

“Yes. I believe in my god. He has proven himself worthy, time and again.”

“Faith should not be so weak that it folds at the slightest contradiction. A person who hides from dissenting opinion out of fear that they might be proven wrong is coward. Their ‘faith’ is like armor made of straw, that will blow away with the first rough wind that buffets it. I don’t think you are so weak, Kierna.”

“So, you do believe you are a god?” Kierna asked. Ganiza didn’t answer immediately, idly petting one of Aeshena’s heads as her smile faded, replaced with a pensive look.

“God is just a word, Kierna. Language is a human thing, an imperfect system for transferring thought that can never truly express what we mean. One woman might call that water blue, while another insists it is more brown, but it is not that either is lying. They know what they see. It is the words that let them down, because there are infinite shades of color between the common words we use to describe them. You are called soldier, priest, paladin, Lector, woman, Ethkan, grasslander, saint, protector, killer. Which of these epithets is true?”

“All of them, more or less.”

“So then, what is a god? Your Jehx is a god, certainly, and so is the Unbound demon of the man you hunt. You worship one and abhor the other. Three gods travel with us, worshiped by no one, closer to that horse you ride than to the lord you serve. What of the little ones you saw on my hill? Tiny flashes of feelings and soul, with little thought between them. You respect them, I am sure, as you would any god. But in your mind, deep inside where no one can hear, I would be shocked if you kept them on the same level as the gods of your grand city. Would one of the little creatures to stand at your feet and squeak up at you, would you bow to it in reverence? The thought is ridiculous, is it not?”

“They are like children. One day they will be gods, and have worshipers of their own, or else exist in the wild like your gods. But they are divine, even so. Same as the ones who made this world, made us in their images. They still deserve respect.”

“I do not mean to imply that they don’t. If I serve anyone, it is them, after all. I keep their nursery safe and comfortable, so that they might grow to outsize us all. I only mean to make you question the definitions you so readily deal in on a daily basis. You see my point?” Ganiza gestured back to her.

“Yes. You would say the word god is meaningless, because everyone has different ideas of what they are. That some gods are more powerful, some gods more basic than others. I do not see how that makes you and me gods, just because we wield some of their power. Should Jehx decide he no longer has faith in my service, he would cut me off from his miracles, and I would be just a woman again. A god cannot lose their godhood, surely.”

“Surely? What, then, was the Pact? The gods of this world are tiny, compared to what they were before. The difference is as large as the gulf between them and us. Always, there is room for change. Tell me, what are we? Humans, I mean. What makes us different from those Threshers over there, or the horse beneath you, or the beetles under all this grass?”

“Physically? Nothing.” Kierna shrugged. “We’re flesh and blood, material like the rest of the Fifth World. The difference is the soul. Animals don’t have souls. And that’s not a matter for debate. I have a Godseye. I’ve seen it. People are different.”

“Of course. But now we are back to the matter of definitions. We don’t agree on what constitutes a god, but what of the soul? I won’t deny its existence, I can see it as well as you. What is it, though?” Ganiza asked.

Kierna didn’t answer. Ganiza wasn’t being coy. She wasn’t arrogant or argumentative, trying to browbeat Kierna into adopting her views. She seemed truly thoughtful, interested both in Kierna’s views and explaining her own. Kierna didn’t want to cheapen the discussion by throwing out the first dogmatic answer that came to her head. What was a soul? It was what they were, wasn’t it? The brain, the vehicle for thought, could be damaged, crippled, turning a person into a husk. But the soul was untouchable. No matter what happened to the body, the soul would eventually return to the Churn, to be purified, the pain and sadness of life cut away to leave the soul fresh and innocent, to be reborn. That thought was comforting. No matter what happened to her, no matter what mistakes she might make, in the end the same outcome came for all people. The gods might be harsh, even cruel in the case of some, but those who had designed the system cared. They had made it so that even an evil person would be remade anew when they died. Everyone got another chance, and another, on and on until their world ended, some distant day.

But what was it, precisely? That was like asking what blood was. Kierna knew what it did, what purpose it served, how to keep it from leaking from a wound, what to eat to encourage it to thicken faster, to heal, what it meant when the blood became poisoned by injury, how to keep it clean so that it eventually purified itself. But what was it? How could anyone really know except those who had created it? And that was something that was ever-present, physical, able to be touched and tested. The soul couldn’t be touched by anyone. Except, apparently, by Isaand Laeson.

“I don’t know,” Kierna said. Ganiza’s eyes widened, surprised.

“You impress me again, Kierna. Most woman prefer not to admit ignorance. It is a sign of wisdom to acknowledge that one knows nothing.”

“It would seem wisdom is about as useful, then, as a sword with no blade.” Kierna said.

“Oh, I’m sure you would be able to find some use out of such a thing. Resourcefulness is the essence of humanity, it seems to me. Let’s return to the subject of words, briefly. Tell me, Kierna, do you know the word Dea?” The word took her by surprise. She’d heard it on occasion, but only from the scholarly sort of priests and clerics of the most solemn and intellectual pursuits in Ethka. It wasn’t the sort of term one would expect to hear from a grasslander shaman.

“It’s one of the First Words,” Kierna said. “From the language gods gave us, the first time they created humans. It’s another term for the soul, the term gods use, though like you said, they wouldn’t actually speak amongst themselves. I’m not certain how it differs from the common word.”

“It differs because it describes not the soul itself, but its purpose. We are different from the common beasts because we were made as reflections of our creators. That’s not a figure of speech, Kierna. Inside of each human, from the old to the newborn, is a tiny sliver of divinity, a piece of god. Dea.”

“And when we die?”

“The Dea returns to the pool of souls, that which new humans are drawn from, a pool of power set aside by the gods when they decided to make us. The Dea. It is the very substance the gods themselves are made of, outside of our material plane. Just as humans are more than flesh and blood, gods exist without it entirely. They are Dea. And so are we. So you see, the difference between us is not a matter of fundamental substance. It’s only a matter of degree.”

Kierna hesitated. Nothing the woman said clashed irreconcilably with the teachings of the Sword Monastery. Nor did they contradict the Tenets, the collection of basic truths recognized universally by all clerics of Ethka’s Heavenly Council. As she said, the difference was mostly in the definitions. But the implications…

Men, women, children, all of us are gods? The soldiers under her command, the refugees she’d protected, the people of Ethka, the villagers who would be slaughtered in droves when Ethka’s crusade made its way to the grasslands? Was even Isaand Laeson a god as well? How, then, could he be a heretic? How could anything be heresy? If people were divine, then what mandated their absolute obedience to their makers? A child might be expected to obey their parents, but when they became an adult, they were free to make their own choices. Would humanity ever be free to do the same?

The implications loomed over her like a mountain about to fall. Kierna’s chest tightened, and she realized she was holding her breath. She let it out, breathing heavily, mind roiling even worse than before. Ganiza hadn’t given her any answers, she’d only provoked more questions. Are there ever any answers? Does anyone really know what to do, what is True?

“Captain!”

Kierna’s eyes shot forward, to where Farrus was trotting over on his horse. She drew an arrow and knocked it to her bowstring at once. Past Farrus, Baako and Kenth rode side by side, unharmed, so there was no threat that she could see. She tried to relax, but her muscles felt tight and hard, and she found herself almost longing for an attack, for the simplicity of battle.

“What is it?” she asked, surprised at how composed and calm her voice sounded.

“We’ve found the source of that smoky smell,” Farrus said, a grim look replacing his usual smirk. “Saw it from the top of that rise. Burned village, about two miles north, right alongside the river. I didn’t see any sign of movement.”

Kierna shot Ganiza a glance. The woman was serious, eyes distant.

“Isaand’s trail continues north, I am certain of it,” Ganiza said. “Szet hides him from the sight of gods on high, but the local spirits could not help but notice his passing. It may have been his doing, this destruction. I can learn more if we get closer.”

“We’d investigate anyway,” Kierna said, trying to shrug off her anxiety. “We have to see if there are survivors in need of help. Farrus, take Kenth and scout ahead. Talk to Baako first, see if he knows anything of value about this particular village. Tell him to wait on the ridge, the rest of us will join him. We’ll enter the village together, ready for danger. This could be it. If Isaand is found, do not antagonize him. Let me speak to him, first.”

“At once, Blessed.” Farrus saluted with his fist, then turned and galloped back towards the burned village.

 

Part Three: Chapter Four

Heretic Part Three, Chapter 2

Heretic

Part Three

Chapter 2

The sun shone down on a familiar sight, a wide field of golden grass waving in the wind, the horizon broken by the occasional rise topped with spreading trees with bristly leaves that grew more horizontally than vertically. Off a half mile to the south, a herd of some horned creatures passed across the fields in a loping, hopping motion. The only sound was the rushing of the wind over the plains and the flapping of the massive carrion birds circling overhead. The steady swaying of Kierna’s horse lulled her into a drowsy state, closing her eyes and letting Radiance follow along the path forged by Baako’s plodding slyzeer lizard.

“Ah, and here we have quite a sight to see, Blessed!” Baako’s peppy voice stirred her back to attention. “I am willing to bet you have never seen anything like this in that big pretty city of yours, ah?” Baako’s accent was extremely thick, his speech always exaggerated and inviting attention, reminding Kierna of the grasslander caricatures common in Ethka theater. Considering that he spoke half-a-dozen languages and had traveled over nearly every inch of the lands between north and south, Kierna suspected it was an affectation.

She opened her eyes to see that they had climbed to the top of a small rise, giving them a view of the tall hill looming up ahead. The lower portion of the hill was covered in the same ubiquitous golden grass, but a third of the way up it gave way to something Kierna had indeed never seen before: the hill was covered not in any plant, but in some kind of thick pale substance, spongy and almost fleshy in appearance. It was shorter than grass, perhaps six inches high, but at regular intervals large clumps of it grew up like shrubs, spreading out scarlet fronds with strange radial symmetry. Here and there spots of other colors rarely seen in the wild could be spotted: orange streaks of some slow-moving liquid that ran in long lines spiraled around the hill to pool at the bottom. Pink tendrils hung in clumps on the ground or stood up straight like fingers grasping towards the sky. And at the top of the hill, a massive tree-like fungus reached a hundred feet into the air, spreading wide crimson fronds like awnings that left the summit of the hill in its shade.

“So, that’s worth a bit of a ride to see, ah?” Baako kept saying, leaning so far over off the saddle of his gigantic lizard that she thought he was about to fall off, reaching out with his long bony arm to tap her on the shoulder.

“It’s a sight. But we’re not here to explore. You’re really certain the Heretic came this way?” Kierna asked. Her eyes crawled over the hill, looking for any sign of movement, but the landscape was so strange her brain couldn’t seem to parse it. She kept thinking she saw shadows like a tall man climbing, only to focus and only see one of those large fungi swaying in the wind.

“I am not seeing any tracks, no, but he is coming this way or he is a fool. Maybe a dead fool by now, in which case you have much cause to celebrate!” Baako gave her a wide toothy grin. “To the west is the Tiger’s land; his people are vicious, angry, they murder outsiders and carve their bones for tools and such. I think I still have a femur knife from the last time I passed through, I will find it for you. East is swamp. No one lives in swamp, the goddess Reluga, she does not tolerate it. Anyone who tries to get through is sucked down into the muck and slowly drowned over years. And south, of course, ha, you know what is south.”

Indeed she did. Three days ago, Kierna had passed through the village of a warrior tribe south of here. She’d discovered several more people there who’d been healed by Isaand, but when she’d inquired about him she’d been told he was ran out of town by a group of warriors and pursued north. Yesterday, she’d caught up with the men, fierce soldiers who wore iron bracers and greaves, a rarity in these parts, and wielded spears and heavy clubs blessed by their god of war. She’d wanted to talk with them, but they’d seen only foreign soldiers and attacked immediately.

Kierna had been forced to kill a dozen of them before the last three surrendered. She well remembered the look of impotent fury on the bloodied face of the warrior sitting in the dirt before her, the glaives of her men leveled at him as she asked her questions. His face had been painted, a jackal’s face worn atop his skin.

“We found you coming south, not north. Did you find the stranger? Is he dead?” she’d asked, her heart tight in her chest. She could not bring herself to wish death on this man. Though he’d been viewed with universal suspicion and concern, no one she’d spoken with could deny that he had been kind and charitable, healing any who asked for it and begging nothing in return. According to every villager she’d spoken with, he’d never even spoken the name of his god, so he clearly wasn’t proselytizing. Jehx suspected that Szet’s plan for him was dangerous, but that did not necessarily mean that this man Isaand was privy to its workings. Could it be that he was really what he appeared to be, a peaceful man using his power for the good of others?

And yet, if he was dead, if she could find his body and bring it back to Master Kenly, the Jehx himself might intervene on behalf of The Coterie. It was hard to imagine the great army of Ethka simply turning around and going home, but it was all she had to hope for. And so she found herself hanging onto the warrior’s words with trepidation, uncertain of whether she wanted confirmation or denial.

“If we’d found him, he’d be dead,” the Jackal said. “We tracked him to the lands of the shaman. We turned back there.”

“Surely a brave bunch like you don’t fear this shaman?” Farrus asked. The Jackal snarled at him.

“We fear nothing. A shaman commands respect. The Otherlands are her domain. To force our way onto them is an act of war. Not that you foreign gurhashaa would understand.”

“Gushashaa is very colorful insult,” Baako cut in for Kierna’s benefit. “Roughly translated, it means something like ‘pigs who shit on everything.’”

“I don’t care what his insults mean,” Kierna said, annoyed. “Tell me please, and we will let you and your men leave here unharmed. This shaman, would they be a threat to the stranger? If he made it into these lands, do you think he still lives?”

The Jackal spat out a mouthful of blood and answered her with a shrug. “The shaman’s ways are her own. You’ll have to ask her. You’ll find out if she suffers intruders to live first-hand.”

It sounded to her as though the Heretic had a dangerous path to take no matter which way he went, which of course meant the same for her and her men. So far they’d been lucky, their armor keeping them from any serious injuries, though everyone had bruises and scrapes from the battle with Amauro’s wolves and the warriors from the south. If everyone was so concerned about this shaman she must be a Lector. Kierna hoped her own powers would be enough to protect her men from her if need be.

“What is it?” Kierna asked, shaking herself out of her thoughts. The alien landscape on the hill ahead was eerily beautiful, and threatening at the same time.

“A memorial. The gods of this land, they are small, not very powerful, with no people, no clerics, only this supposed shaman,” Baako explained. “The stories go, the gods of this place are very young, very homesick for the place they remember. One of the old worlds, before the Pact. So this place, it was put here by some god, a little piece of another world. You will not find another like it anywhere in the wide world. I should no, I’ve seen it all.”

“No man can see the whole world, Baako.”

“Well yes, but saying ‘I have been to sixty-percent of the world,’ this does not get the women to spread for you, so I exaggerate, just a little,” he said, leering at her again. She did not respond, though she noticed Kenth glaring at the man from the other side of her horse.

Kierna turned, as she did every few minutes, to check on her outriders. Farrus ranged off to the left, about five-hundred yards away, the openness of the plain allowing them to keep in sight at the great distance. Hammarra mirrored him on her right, riding atop a small ridge, bow strung and readied. Behind, Garreth rode after them at a slower pace, keeping an eye on their trail, urging his horse into a gallop every few minutes to ensure he did not get left behind. Though there had been no further sign of Amauro since the attack in Urkhanna’s village, Kierna did not believe they had escaped her attention. More attacks would come, and she hoped to see it coming this time.

The landscape grew stranger the closer she got to it. From a distance the hill looked smooth, white, as though it was covered in dirty snow. Up close, she could see the rough striations in the ground, spotted with ridges and cracks, chasms inches long through which she could see the bare soil underneath. The ground rose and fell irregularly, like waves on a frozen ocean. And that ground moved. She thought her mind was playing tricks on her, but when she focused on one spot and held her gaze, she saw the substance clearly shiver. The shudders moved through the ground in patterns, sometimes ruffling their way in a huge line from one side of a ridge to the other, sometimes only shaking a small circle a yard or so across. When these shudders happened the waving frond-like structures, things she didn’t feel comfortable calling plants, shook roughly, their fronds waving back and forth like pennants in a breeze. The pink tendrils lying on the ground would bounce with the vibrations that passed through, each time extending a bit further in the same direction.

Radiance shied when they reached the edge of the growth. Baako’s lizard clomped casually onward, lifting each foot horizontally even with its body before stepping back down again, a strangely dance-like method of locomotion. Kierna swung out of the saddle and tapped the toe of her boot against it. A second later, one of those shudders radiated out from the spot she’d stepped, reaching only a few inches before it stopped. Looking closer, she saw shudders radiating out from every step of Baako’s slyzeer. He turned halfway around in his long saddle, grinning at her trepidation.

“A paladin is of course not frightened, I am sure. No doubt you are caught up in the spirit of scholarship!”

“The paladin is cautious,” Kierna said. “We don’t know what sort of threats this place contains. Hold here. I’m calling everyone back together.” She nodded to Kenth, and he raised the signal horn to his lips and blew two short blasts, with a pause between them. Farrus, Hammarra, and Garreth prodded their horses into a trot to catch up. While they waited, Kenth swung down as well, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

Carefully, he pulled off the glove of gauntlet of his uninjured hand and reached out to touch the substance. Kierna felt a pang of worry, but Baako was paid to warn them of dangers. He would have intervened if the substance was toxic. Kenth pressed his palm against it and it began to vibrate, the surface wrinkling like skin after a long bath.

“It’s warm,” Kenth said. “Not just from the sun. It really feels alive.” He pushed down harder, then pulled away, leaving a faint impression of his hand in the pale white ground. “Thank you, captain.”

“For what?” she asked, surprised. “You’re injured because of me. We’re pursued by a vengeful goddess, and we may be about to confront a wild Lector on whose ground we trespass. If it weren’t for me, you’d be riding safely in the midst of a whole army.”

“I wouldn’t get to see much of the land that way,” Kenth said. He took out his dagger as they spoke, carefully cutting into the ground until he had a palm-sized disc he could tear up and inspect closer. “Just tents and campfires, and grass turned to mud under marching heels. This is better.”

“And our quest?” She’d told her men what they were about, of course, but none of them had questioned her about her decision to range ahead of the crusade. “Do you think it’s truly worth it?”

Kenth was silent for a long time, turning his piece of whatever around, feeling both sides, scraping at it with the knife to see if anything came out. Kierna was used to his slow considerations. Kenth never answered casually.

“It’s odd. We’re supposed to be priests of justice. Righting wrongs, protecting the mistreated. Hunting a man who has done no more than heal others… I will admit it feels wrong.” Standing up, Kenth met her eyes, a rare event. “But I believe in you, Captain. If you think this man is a danger to the world, then our quest is worth pursuing.”

“I told you it was Jehx himself that said so.”

“Aye. I like Jehx’s ways. I love the monastery, and the people he attracts. But still, I don’t know him. Not like I know you. So it’s you I trust, Captain.”

Kierna turned away, her gut twisting at his words. He listens to me, over the god he’s sworn to? What have I done to earn such loyalty? Again, the doubts assailed her, striking from within, a buzzing hive of concern within her mind that never fully quieted. What if she was wrong? What if she led them all to their deaths for nothing? What if she captured Isaand, but the crusade went on undeterred, a slowly crawling genocide across her homeland? These questions were only distractions, a volley of arrows to soften the foe before an all-out charge. The true question was never far from her thoughts.

What if Jehx himself was wrong?

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

With all of her men returned to her, Kierna climbed the hill, leading Radiance up cautiously by foot, allowing the horse time to get used to the alien terrain. With the six of them moving as a single group, the vibrations on the ground became wilder, flowing out for a hundred yards or so before fading out. Walking on the stuff was soft and springy, their steps sinking several inches into it. The horses, weighing far more than the men, sunk deeper, and occasionally stumbled, shaking their manes and whinnying in distress. Where the ground rose or fell the horse would pause and scratch at it with her hoof until Kierna urged her on with a whisper and a brush of her neck.

Aside from Kenth stopping to cut more samples every few minutes, they made it to the top of the hill without incident. It was dark under the shadow of the giant mushroom-tree growing from the summit. The trunk was about twenty feet wide, and its canopy spread out ten times farther, throwing them into a deep shadow. It was surprisingly warm as well, as though the fungus was breathing out a continuous flow of warm breath.

The sun was beginning to set in the west, the golden grass of the plains turned brown in the fading light. To the north, more grassland stretched into the distance, with a dense forest just visible on the horizon. Kierna would have liked to push on, but she thought it was unwise to try to travel this land in dark. If the stories of this shaman were true, it was best to be prepared for her arrival. Though the strangeness of it put her on edge, this hill was the most defensive position she’d seen all day.

“Baako, have you truly been here before? You can boast to impress women as much as you want on your own time, but I’m not paying you for lies,” Kierna said. Baako affected a look of shocked offense.

“Blessed, how low do you think I am? My word is as good as your silver, and your silver has been proven to be very good indeed. I look forward very much to obtaining more of it, ah? Three times, I have crossed this land, with many in tow, and every time I made it out without so much as a hair harmed on my head.” He rubbed his bald scalp with a thoughtful expression. “Of course, that was back when I had hair.”

“You were unharmed. What of your companions?”

“Ah, you strike at the heart of the matter, ever the warrior. I confess, once I was forced to flee, leaving my employers behind. The shaman, you see… she is a fair person, much like yourself. My employers did not have her leave to travel these lands, but the shaman is not so cruel as to punish a guide for doing his job. She allowed me to escape.”

“You know, when half of your stories end with you running away from your employees, fleeing for your life, it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in your expertise,” Garreth said.

“The purpose of a guide is to make it home alive. Everything else is just good showmanship,” Baako said, flashing a grin.

“How long would it take us to get through the shaman’s lands, if we moved swiftly?” Kierna asked.

“Swiftly? My lizard, she is not one for moving swiftly I’m afraid. But at our usual pace, perhaps we could make it in four or five hours in daylight. At night though, we would have to go slower. I would not recommend it.”

“Light isn’t the issue,” Kierna said. If need be, she could provide more than enough light for them to see their way. Of course, doing so would reveal their location to anyone on a high-point within miles. “But I think it best if we camp here for tonight. Is this substance safe for us to sleep on?”

“Ah, yes, it is not the ground we should be worried about,” Baako said, already whipping his pack off of the back of his slyzeer.

“You don’t seem worried at all. Are you not concerned this shaman might find us?”

“Oh, she will, Blessed. I told you before, she knows everything that happens in her lands. We were never going to make it through without attracting her.”

“And you think she’ll let us pass?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I do know that you are very dangerous people with very sharp swords, and I do know that she has already shown her capacity for mercy towards the souls of innocent guides, so…”

“So you really don’t care if she attacks us or not?” Kierna asked.

“Oh, I care, Blessed. I’d much rather we all make it out of here together. Then you can keep paying me your good silver.” Baako chuckled to himself as he spread a blanket on the ground, right at the edge of the fungus’ trunk.

Farrus looked annoyed and Garreth angry, but Kierna wasn’t surprised. Baako had played the role of the amoral rogue since she’d first met him. And defending her men from danger was her purpose. She would keep this shaman at bay, if she came.

“We’ll post a double watch tonight,” she announced. “Kenth, it’s your turn for first watch. I’ll join you.” Lately, Kierna hadn’t had an easy time falling asleep.

Not wanting to draw attention, they went without a fire. Hammarra passed out dried fruit and meat, and Farrus surprised them with a bottle of some strong local alcohol he’d traded for at the last village. It tasted gritty and greasy, but the warmth it spread through Kierna’s chest was a welcome distraction from the night. As the others sat around quietly talking and eating, she turned back to the giant fungal tree spread out above them. Taking a soft breath, Kierna slightly opened her Godseye.

The tree was full of life, hundreds of little spirits scrambling about on its branches and across the great fronds it spread overhead. Their forms were amorphous and shifting, a dizzying array of myriad colors and shapes, never lasting. Kierna had only seen so many in one place before: the Temple of the Unborn in Ethka. Kierna had always found it strange, the sight of the very gods who ruled every aspect of their lives as mere infants, no more sapient than the scrambling carrion creatures that burrowed in the allies of every city. Where did new gods come from, anyway? Humans and beasts gave birth to more of their kind, but did gods follow the same methods? Were there gods who were lovers, married? Were there bastard gods, unwanted and unloved? And for men, all clerics agreed on where their souls came from. When a person died, their soul returned to the Churn, to be washed clean of their mortal trauma and reborn fresh. And yet more people were born every day, the world’s population ever increasing. If the souls were recycled into new ones, where did all these new people come from?

You never used to question so much, Kierna thought. When Kenly proved himself to you, showed that you could have a place to live where you would not be exploited, you were happy to accept what they said. Gods created men, men lived to worship them. As a follower of Jehx, Kierna’s purpose was to administer justice. This was all she needed to know. It was all she should have needed. Questions brought nothing but sleepless nights.

Is this how you started down your path, Isaand? she wondered. In her mind’s eye, Isaand was an imposing man, a sharp featured figure of white and black shadows, eyes hard with fanatical certainty. He must have had a god before he decided to follow Szet. There must have been some time when he was happy in simple ignorance.

Kierna slept fitfully, her dreams invaded by images of her soldier’s souls, clamped tight by chains that she knew belonged to Lord Jehx.

When she awoke, she felt the comforting warmth of a campfire, the air filled with the sound of its peaceful crackling. There’s not supposed to be a fire.

She jolted upright, eyes open. All around her, her soldiers slept, with no one on watch. Baako snored, head propped up against the belly of his huge lizard. Garreth and Farrus, who should have been on watch, were lying uncovered on the spongy ground, weapons at their sides. For a terrifying instant Kierna’s mind filled in pools of blood beneath them both, but no. They were breathing easily, fast asleep and unharmed.

The fire was built just before the trunk of the great fungus, turning everything beyond it into darkness. Kierna focused, and just outside the pool of light she saw a dark figure standing beneath the fungus tree. She grabbed the sword lying at her side and drew it out in a smooth motion as she got to her feet, putting the fire directly between her and the figure.

“Show yourself, shaman,” she challenged.

“Show respect, and you need not fear me, Paladin.” The voice was soft, feminine. Shadows shifted as she stepped forward into the light. The shaman was a short, composed woman wearing a scarlet robe-like garment that left her arms and legs bare. In the high contrast of the firelight her skin looked jet black, her eyes and teeth as white as bone. Her features were delicate, rounded, more child-like than curvaceous. Her scalp’s roundness was accentuated by hair trimmed to little more than stubble. Her arms and legs were covered in tattooed markings, complex symbols and imagery fading together into single sleeve-like images.

A thick snake was wrapped around her upper body, its head peering over her shoulder with eyes reflecting light, its forked tongue extended to taste the air. From her opposite hip, the tail rose, and with a start Kierna realized that it was actually a second head. She looked closer, but there was only one snake, pale-white underneath, black and gray on top, with a mouth at either end.

Another figure padded slowly up next to the woman, sinuous, cat-like. It was hairless, its body slick and scaly, almost like a fish, with a silvery shine that grew the closer it got to the flames. It walked on four paws, and its tail curled up and over like a scorpion’s, tipped with a barbed hook. Four long tentacles, thin and muscled, protruded from the back of its neck, jet black and oily. The top of its head was black as well, the coloration continuing along its back to contrast with the silvery color of the rest of its body. Its limbs were striped with black as well, and its eyes were dark and featureless. It was much larger than a wolf, but smaller than a lion or a tiger.

“What have you done to my friends?” Kierna asked.

“They are unharmed. I wished to approach without provoking you to violence. So few pass through my lands without weapons bared, filled with fear. Even now though, I smell no fear in you. Are you fearless, Paladin?”

“No. There is much I fear.”

“But you don’t let it rule you. Sit, and we’ll speak. When I have determined you are no danger to me, I will awaken your companions.”

“You’d have me disarm myself, trusting in you?” Kierna asked, tightening her grip on her weapon.

“Yes.”

She stood silently, meeting the smaller woman’s eyes. Kierna had been asleep when she approached, and she’d made no move to harm her when she drew her sword. Even now, surrounded by her monsters, she did not seem threatening. Intimidating, dangerous, yes, but not directly. Kierna could feel the power pouring off of her, and with her Godseye slit she could see the air roiling around her, twisted by her aura. The woman simply stood and waited, poised and inscrutable.

“Okay,” Kierna said. Taking a deep breath, she sheathed her sword and placed it on the ground, then knelt and crossed her legs to sit before the fire. A flicker of surprise crossed the shaman’s face, then her wide lips broke into a smile.

“You’re more trusting than I’d expect, Paladin.”

“I don’t trust you,” Kierna said. “But I am the intruder on your land, and the only way to avoid a fight when both sides feel threatened is to be the first one to back down.”

“Wise. I think I will reward your politeness.” The woman waved at the panther-like creature with the tentacles. It took a few steps back, turned a few times in a circle, then laid down and curled up on the ground. The shaman herself stepped up to the fire and sat opposite Kierna. The snake around her neck settled down and tightened itself around her, laying both heads across her breasts in a slumbering posture. Kierna breathed easier.

“Will you wake up my companions now?” Kierna asked.

“If you insist. I’d prefer to have a moment to speak with you first. What is your name?”

“Kierna Sarana, paladin of Jehx, god of justice.”

“My name is Ganiza,” the woman said. A single name. So she no longer had any tribe she called her own. “And as you have admitted, you are on my land. I think a few questions are to be expected, no?”

“How, exactly, is this land considered yours?” Kierna asked. “Gods own land, not women.”

“And do we not acknowledge clerics in their right to rule, the right that has been passed down to them by the gods they serve?”

“You’d have me consider you a cleric?”

“A cleric rules in the name of their god. I have no human subjects, this is true. The Creators desired that this land be preserved as a memento, and as a nursery for the little ones. The gods not yet True, the ones who haven’t discovered what they are yet. But while I may not rule over anyone, I have been appointed by those I speak for. Granted, it took me forty years to convince them that I was the right one for the job, but convince them I did.”

Kierna raised an eyebrow at that. Ganiza didn’t look like she was much older than thirty.

“You speak of multiple gods. It is common practice in the north for multiple gods to share territory, dividing the citizens of a city or principality among them as worshipers. But here in the south, every land I have come across has been ruled by a single god. And they rarely seem to be on good terms with their neighbors.”

“There are exceptions to every rule, Kierna. The gods you have the most experience with are the Rulers, the ones who have chosen the mantle of Authority. These are the gods humans will usually come to know, because they are the gods who have chosen to focus their attention on humanity. But there are many more who have found their purpose elsewhere. There are gods of nature, gods of strife, gods of thought and emotion. There are even gods far above, beyond our stars. This land is home to many small gods, still growing, which I am sure you can see around you if you open your eye. Someone has to watch over them. The three gods who claim this territory have no interest in humans, but when has that stopped humans from encroaching on their land? Someone has to deal with trespassers. The simplest method would be to slaughter anyone who dares to intrude, but none of my gods are cruel. They prefer my methods.”

“You serve three gods?”

“It is not servitude, not truly. Aeshena, Malerax, and Eitia gain no sustenance from Authority. They consider me more of a… partner. I act as intermediary, protecting their lands so they do not have to, and I help them to accomplish their own tasks.”

“But you are a Lector, are you not?” Kierna asked, remembering the stories she’d heard. “That means the gods have granted you miracles, given you power.”

“Is that how you gained your powers?”

“Of course,” Kierna said, surprised. “How else would I be able to use them?”

“The same way you swing that sword of yours. Because you will it. The power is yours. Your god has only granted you the permission to use it.”

“That is not so. We are not gods, only their tools.”

Ganiza shrugged. “Put any two men or women together, and they will find something to disagree on. Let us move on to my questions. You are crossing my lands. Why? I believe I know, but I would hear it from you.”

“A heretic, a servant of the Unbound, passed through here more than a week ago. I am hunting him. It is imperative that I find him quickly, and so I must follow.”

“And why do you seek this man?”

“Because he defies the gods, our own creators, and worships a devilish betrayer. My god fears he has some nefarious plans for the region. I will take him back to Ethka and-”

“No, no, no.” Ganiza cut in quietly, shaking her head with a smile. “Why do you pursue him, Kierna Sarana.”

“I serve Jehx. Isaand operates outside the rule of gods, his very existence is unjust.”

“I didn’t ask for a justification, Kierna.”

“I answered-”

“Your reason, the true reason, please. Or you can turn around and go around my lands.”

Kierna’s hands clenched into fists, itching to take up the sword beside her. She sighed instead. “I want to stop a war.”

“That’s better. Fortunately for you, I wish the same.” Ganiza smiled, petting the snake tangled around her. “Your heretic passed through here, just as you guessed. Unfortunately, I am only one woman, and these lands vast. I was away, meeting with a group at the western border, a woman who’d been cursed and wanted my aid. By the time I returned, he was outside of my reach. But the more I have thought about it, the more his presence concerns me, almost as much as the approach of your grand crusade.”

“I have no wish to wage war on this land, my own homeland,” Kierna said. “Please, let us continue on. If I can capture Isaand Laeson, I may be able to stop them from coming.”

“I have little faith in gods or men, to believe such a thing, and yet… a small chance is better than none. I will escort you through my lands, Kierna Sarana, and you may continue your quest.” Ganiza smiled a predatory grin. “And, if you wish it, you will have my assistance. I am most interested in this heretic.”

 

Part Three: Chapter Three

Heretic Part Three Chapter One

Heretic

Part Three

Chapter 1

“All white he was, like a corpse. Skin and hair, even his eyes was mostly white, but you could see a little color in them.”

“What color?”

“Hard to say, Blessed. Like I says, it were almost white. Maybe a hint of blue, like the sky behind thin clouds. Milky, almost. There were still some black in the hair, too, little bits here and there.” The elderly woman, nut brown skin wrinkled and tattooed with old ink, hunched back away as she spoke, as if afraid she would be struck at any moment. She kept her gaze down, but occasionally glanced up to reveal a glimmer of hot hatred and fear.

“Not an albino, then,” Kierna said.

“Blessed?” the old woman cringed in confusion.

“An albino’s eyes are pinkish. This sounds more like a miracle… or a plague.” A vague memory stirred in Kierna’s mind, some ancient thread of a story she’d heard as a child on her mother’s knee around the fire. Apostates or heretics of some kind, cursed by the gods with white skin that was always cold. She thought there was some terrible ending for those afflicted, though she couldn’t remember the details. But then, wasn’t there always some terrible ending?

“I wouldn’t know, Blessed.”

“It doesn’t matter. Please, continue. Any details you can remember, anything at all, would be greatly appreciated.”

The old woman continued her halting, anxious description of the man who’d spent several days in this small bush village, north of the great Hondarra grasslands region where Kierna had originally tracked down the Heretic Isaand Laeson. She was the fifth person Kierna had interviewed so far looking to shift the blame. Kierna had left her glaive and bow with her horse, stabled in the village square, and had kept her arms crossed, her hand far from the hilt of her sword. But despite her assurances that she was not here to harm anyone the villagers continued to look on her with terror. The local god was a small one, who slept for months only to occasionally awaken and demand sacrifice. This village shared a single cleric with the half-dozen other settlements in the area, the cleric traveling in a continuous circuit through them every few weeks to spread the word of their god. The arrival of a Paladin out of Ethka, representative of the most powerful divine empire, was treated like a bared sword no matter how gentle Kierna tried to treat these people.

The woman’s description matched the others of the villages they’d passed through in the previous week, since Kierna had picked up Isaand’s trail once more. Curiously, all the stories agreed that he was no longer alone. A woman and a young girl accompanied him, and though she had originally guessed them to be a mother and child, that was seeming less and less likely, their dress and hair indicating that they were from different tribes entirely. Had Isaand taken a wife, or concubine? The girl was more perplexing. What use would a heretic, threatened and hunted wherever he went, have for a child?

The more she heard about them, the more Kierna considered whether Isaand was seeding the beginnings of a cult to his Unbound god. Her fists clenched at the thought of an ignorant child being brought up in such an unholy way, forced into worship of a monster before she had the knowledge to know it was wrong.

Is that so different from how these villagers are raised, born into ownership of whatever god rules their land? Is it any different from how it is done in Ethka, where parentage decides one’s faith? A familiar voice niggled at the back of her mind, the voice of doubt. It put Kierna on edge, but she did not shrink away from it. Jehx taught that true justice could only be found through honest consideration and contemplation.

“Did this man threaten, or intimidate you at any point? Did he try to turn you away from your god, or perhaps warn you of some coming danger?” Kierna asked. Isaand had a goal of some kind. He had to be trying to influence these people in some way, whether subtle or overt.

“No, Blessed. He just asked for a place to stay for a bit. No one wanted to help. Strangers is rare, no one’s much sure what to think of em. So they camped out in the bush, down by the river. But he said that if anyone had any hurts, he’d help them…”

“And people came?”

“Not me, Blessed, no. I’ve got aching old bones, but I’m used to em and I doubt he could do anything about it anyway. But some did. Adesa had that broken foot from the hunting accident last week, he went and got it healed. And Magetta was getting a bad cough, she was scared it might be Red Lung, so I went with her to see the strangers. He didn’t ask anything of them, though a few gave them some food. They were trying to fish the river with spears, which is right foolish.”

The woman told Kierna little of value. Most interactions with Isaand seemed little different from a brief trading done with any traveler, except that Isaand provided miracles and took no payment. One detail did stick out though.

“He seemed angry when Magetta told him about how Urkhanna forbids us to trade with outsiders for medicine,” the old woman said, referring to the village’s god. “Got a right mean look in his eye, and he muttered something about… I can’t say-”

“Please. I’m not here to judge you or your people, and I am certain your god would not mind exposing any slander spoken against him,” Kierna said.

“Another god who doesn’t care. It’s the same everywhere we go,” the old woman quoted. “That’s what he said, to his woman. She smiled, like she’d proved something.”

So far, everyone Kierna had spoken with had painted Isaand as polite, calm, reasonable, friendly in a distant kind of manner. But more than one had noted that there seemed to be an anger burning inside of him, quiet but intense.

“Excuse me, oh Blessed lady of the sword!” Farrus’ flippant tone proceeded him through the hide-flap of the hut. He strode in in his scruffy plate and mail, long dirty-blonde hair hanging in a thick clump around his eyes. Kierna always wondered how he managed to fight with it getting in the way. He’d left his spear outside at her order, but his side-sword hung at his left hip, with a brace of daggers on his right. The thigh-high leather boots he preferred were covered in mud and brush stains from his trek through the bush.

Kierna acknowledged him with a nod. He delighted in poking at her authority with grandiose titles and shows of reverence, and she’d learned that chiding him for it only led to over-exaggerated displays of penitence.

“We’ve gathered everyone the Heretic used his miracles on, so far as we can tell. Garreth’s watching over them, in front of the shrine. At least I think it’s a shrine.” He paused, touching his chin and adapting the air of a philosopher pondering some great question “Come to think of it perhaps it’s an outhouse I’m thinking of. This far south, it can be somewhat hard to tell the difference.”

Farrus delivered his criticism in Ethkana, and the old woman showed no hint of understanding, but it annoyed Kierna regardless. Farrus had grown up in the city, where poverty meant squatting in ancient stone alleyways with daily visits to charity houses for a warm, if unappetizing, meal. He was most unimpressed with the poor conditions of the villages they’d visited in Hrana. It is not their fault they have so little, she thought. It is for their gods to provide for them, and it seems few bother to make the effort.

“Take me,” Kierna told him, waving a dismissal to the old woman.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Farrus said with a lecherous grin. Kierna followed, suppressing a smile.

They stepped out into the sunlight that filtered through the thick leaves overhead. Nearby, Kenth stood watching over their horses. He acknowledged her with a respectful nod of head, coppery red curls over dark green eyes. At any gathering in the north, there would be a gaggle of curious children gathering around him, perhaps a few young men inquiring about the life of a soldier, heads full of dreams of escaping their sleepy towns to serve their god with spear and shield. Here though, suspicion kept all the villagers hidden in their homes. The only visitors Kenth had were a handful of small feathered lizards that walked upright like chickens, pecking around his boots in search of food. He eyed them curiously.

Well the locals couldn’t be blamed for their concern. When Kierna had left Ethka, she’d ridden ahead of the massive army marching south in what was already being called the Grassland Crusade. For the first few days Kierna’s band had crossed paths many times with the army’s scouts and outriders. But though men may march, armies crawled, and Kierna had pushed their horses hard, trusting in Jehx’s miracles to keep them going, and they were now far enough ahead that it would be at least a month before the army caught up to them.

It would come, though. Master Kenly and the rest of the sword-priests marched with it. Before she’d left, Kenly had told her that he would do his best to sway the other officers and convince General Omdra to alter his plan, to avoid the scorched-earth campaign of slaughter that so many yearned for. Kierna had seen the pessimism in his eyes though. The crusade had too much momentum. It could not be stopped, but perhaps its violence could be contained. Unless…

It was for that reason that Master Kenly had agreed with her decision to hunt Isaand on her own. He’d offered her the use of as many priests as would be willing to ride with her, but she’d decided that a small team would be faster, and so she’d brought only the survivors from their previous foray into the south, experienced travelers who knew what to expect from the region. The last words Kenly had spoken to her echoed again and again inside her head. Bring justice to the Heretic Laeson, and perhaps all of this can be avoided.

The shrine Farrus spoke of was at the far end of the village, deeply shadowed in thick foliage. The path to it was criss-crossed with thorny vines and poisonous leaves stuck out from the trees to either side like grasping hands. At first she wondered if the villagers avoided it, but a myriad of foot-prints were visible in the mud of the path itself. The huts of the village all had a dense thicket of greenery growing around their sides and rears as well, so she chalked it up to some commandment of Urkhanna not to clear more brush than was necessary. As a result, the village was swelteringly hot and humid, crawling with centipedes and ants. Kierna knew that the majority of the people’s timidness and discomfort was a result of her presence here, but somehow looking around at the shoddy huts, rotting vegetable gardens, and piles of refuse shoveled just off the paths leading through the village, she couldn’t imagine the people here showing much happiness.

The shrine was a small, low open structure built of the same wood as the huts, rough branches and logs tied together with bundles of vines, the roof patched with dried grass and leaves. The foliage was so heavy in the area that it was almost hidden, the rough wooden carving kept within nearly invisible through the thick brush, leaving Kierna unsure of what it was meant to represent.

Past the shrine, the brush pushed close, thick, visibility shortened to a few feet, a green wall of plant-life beyond it. The smell of decay and sweat wafted out from it always. The plants constantly shuffled and shook as animals rushed through them, and Kierna felt a chill down her spine, imagining some beast lurking just beyond the bushes, watching them. They’d never know if it was there until it attacked.

Garreth stood off to the side, the heavy two-handed sword he carried strapped to his back, his thick arms bare except for a pair of steel gauntlets. A tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped dark hair and heavily-lidded eyes, Garreth projected the image of a strong, unbreakable pillar of solemnity, waiting for orders. Past him, gathered around the effigy of their god, were a gathering of three men, an old woman, and a naked boy of perhaps four years. The adults all looked wild-eyed, as though they thought they were being presented for execution. Kierna gave Garreth a questioning look.

“This is all of them, or so they say.” Garreth’s voice was a deep rumbling basso, like boulders grinding together. “Could be some they’re hiding from us, but I can’t figure why they’d show us these ones and hide more.”

“The Heretic was only here a few days. Even if there are more, it won’t be many,” Kierna responded in Ethkana, then switched languages as she spoke to the gathered villagers.

“You have nothing to fear from us, I swear on the name of my god. I am Kierna Sarana, Fourteenth Sword of the holy order of Tyre Ettha. We are priests of the god Jehx, Lord of Justice, a god of the Heavenly Coterie of the Holy City Ethka. We come here seeking only information. We mean neither you, nor your gods, any ill-will.”

One of the men, a stout-backed man in his forties with the look of a hunter about him, squinted in confusion. “Priests? What is this word?”

“It means that we are representatives of our god, like clerics, but we do not hold authority over anyone. Jehx’s followers are free to choose and act as they wish, so long as they do so justly,” Kierna explained. The men and women exchanged glances, looking as though she’d just told them that water would make good building material. Kierna suppressed a sigh. It was much the same across this land, people viewing any methods that differed from their own with suspicion.

“Why are you here, then? Why gather those of us who were healed, if not to punish us for relying on a Heretic’s powers?” the man said. His eyes were hard, and she could see his hands clenched into fists as though ready to fight, futile though such a struggle might be.

“It is not my place to condemn or condone your choice. I only wish to investigate the effects of the heretic’s miracles. Allow me a moment to look, and we’ll be gone.” The man nodded hesitantly. Kierna took a deep breath and opened her Godseye.

The world opened up, a thousand new sensations flooding into her at once. She felt a sharp jolt of energy and shock, as though she’d taken a sniff of smelling salts after a blow to the head. The greens and browns of the jungle were joined by a multitude of bright and clear colors she had no name for, colors she could never remember after closing her Eye. A thick musk of some beast filled the air, a sharp acrid scent that felt otherworldly, the marking of the god Urkhanna on the nearby shrine. The air filled with new sensations as powerful as the heat of the jungle, something between a vibration and a distant sound. Carefully, she narrowed her focus, shrinking the Godseye to a quarter its full circumference.

Before her, the villagers stood, their dull bodies of flesh and blood almost fading into the background, the way a chair or box becomes dismissed as a mere part of the scenery. Instead, the bright glowing orbs of their souls were clearly visible, spreading out from their middle of their guts like a ball of energy halfway between lightning and mist. The souls sent out streamers like little tendrils, tiny bits flowing off to connect to things that they’d left a powerful impression on. The hunter and a younger woman who stood close to them had their souls intertwined, multiple tendrils reaching in and grasping like a man and wife holding hands. The little boy’s soul was barely visible, a mere spark that was growing wildly, tendrils reaching out in every direction, like a plant spreading out roots to sink them into whatever soil would support them. All of the souls were one of the brilliant colors that went unseen in the material world.

Wrapped around the souls, tied in a tight knot, was a mass of glowing gray chains.

Farrus looked curiously at Kierna’s sharp in-drawn breath. As the only Lector in their party, only Kierna had a Godseye to open, so she explained for Farrus and Garreth’s sake.

“There are chains of some kind, hooked into their souls. It’s a miracle, certainly. I can’t… see anything different about it, anything that would identify it as Unbound power. But it must be. I’ve never seen a miracle before that could affect the soul itself.”

“What does it do?” Garreth asked.

“I’m not sure.” Kierna stepped closer, kneeling down beside the boy. The hunter grew more tense, his stance defensive. Kierna gave him what she hoped was a comforting smile, then looked closer at the boy’s chained soul. “It doesn’t seem to be doing anything right. It’s just there, coiled around itself. The souls look healthy, no different than yours or Farrus’, so I don’t think it’s hurting them in any way.”

“That’s the first time anyone’s ever said I had a good soul,” Farrus said, smiling.

“This boy,” Kierna said, addressing the hunter, who seemed to be speaking for the others. “What was his injury? Why was he healed?”

“His hand. He was bitten by a tree-snake. Poisonous. Not lethal, usually, but in one so young, we worried. The day the stranger came, his arm was swollen up twice as big as the other one, red and filled with pus.”

“Can I see?” Kierna asked, taking the boy’s arm. He looked at her with a slack expression, and she lifted his arm to look over the healing that had been done. Her eye was drawn to a scabbed pair of bites where two long fangs had pierced his wrist. But the injury looked weeks old, and his arm was unswollen and just as dark as the other, with no hint of inflammation.

“It’s not fully healed,” Kierna said. “But it seems to be beyond the need for healing. How much was this injury healed, after the stranger helped him? Has it changed since then?”

Grumbling, the hunter explained: the wound looked just the same now as it did after the Heretic had healed him. She had learned already from the other villagers that that had been twenty-three days ago.

“It should have healed by now. If the healing done by Isaand healed it this much, the bite should be unrecognizable now.” Standing, Kierna turned to the old woman. “Ma’am, you were healed because of your cough, correct?” The woman looked shocked that she knew that, but she nodded.

“I was coughing up blood, and my throat felt raw. I could feel something in me, every time I breathed, like something dragging inside,” she said.

“And after he healed you?”

“My throat was a little sore, and I still coughed sometimes, but there was no more blood, and it never got worse. It’s still a bit sore.”

Kierna spoke with the others, confirming her suspicions. All of their injuries were the same today as they’d been when Isaand had healed them. None had gotten any worse, but neither had they healed. They were now manageable, but they were still there. Thanking them for the information, Kierna turned back to confer with her men.

“I believe the chains are representative of a continuous miracle, something like what lord Jehx has placed on our horses. Instead of channeling strength and stamina to them, though, this seems to be keeping their wounds in stasis. If I’m right, I think these people’s wounds, small though they are, will never truly heal.”

“Why?” Garreth asked. “What good does that do for Szet? Is he just being cruel? Perhaps he considers it a payment for his aid? But as Unbound, he should have enough power to heal them outright, shouldn’t he? Or maybe…” Garreth trailed off, muttering to himself. The man was a slow, but dogged, thinker. He took thrice as long as most men to make a decision, but Kierna listened to him, knowing that when he finally made up his mind it was after long deliberation.

“Who cares?” Farrus said. “Szet is Unbound. His very being is unjust, a crime left uncorrected. He may be doing some small good, or he may be plotting something nefarious with all this. It doesn’t matter. What matters is stopping his Heretic. He’s something that shouldn’t exist, and we’re the ones to put him down.”

“That is our goal, but learning more about our quarry is never a waste,” Kierna said. “If we can discern what Laeson’s goal is, perhaps we can determine his destination, cut him off from it before he can get there. Following him around like this will take weeks to find him, even with our horses to speed things along. Besides, I want to know what will happen to these people after this is all over.” And Jehx himself wants to know what Szet is planning, she thought.

“Fine then. But we aren’t going to learn much from just watching them. Unless we spend days here watching to see if there is any change,” Farrus said.

“No, we don’t have time for that. We’ll press on, but when we find the next group of people, perhaps I’ll see something different. Little by little, perhaps we can-” Kierna paused, feeling something strange, a sort of quivering in the air. Her mind supplied the image of a taut string pulled released, vibrating as something stepped past it. Her Godseye was still open a crack, and she felt something approaching.

“Swords!” she cried, startling them into action, but both acted with instant discipline. The villager’s screamed as Kierna pulled her sword free, bright light weaving into being around her, the holy armor her god provided to keep her safe whenever she was threatened. She flared it out with force of will, sending a wave of soothing calm out with it, making the villagers pause in their fright. She stepped away from Garreth, giving him room to draw his massive sword. At her side, Farrus drew a pair of daggers instead, better for use in the close confines of the jungle path. He shifted, and she felt the steel of his back-plate tap against hers as they stood back to back, ready to protect each other.

Shouts rang out from the village proper, and she heard the high, ululating cry of Hamaarra shouting the detection of foes. Kierna turned in that direction and opened her Godseye wider, almost fully open. The jungle fell away around her, the mundanity fading behind the influx of information of the spiritual plane. The sensation was dizzying, but she held on and focused on the village. Souls stood out as bright lights in a sea of opalescent energy, and among them were several crackling shapes of golden-red lightning. Weapons barred, striking at the souls.

“There’s something here, two of them in the village, three behind the shrine.” Kierna turned towards the shrine, sword out before her in both hands. She could guess their strategy: strike first at the village, force Kenth and Hammarra to call for help, then strike at Kierna’s back when she ran to help them. Garreth followed her lead, spinning towards the shrine, off to the side where he could slash at anything that charged her directly.

The creatures launched out of the brush in one strike, two of them leaping straight for Kierna, the third flanking towards Garreth. Kierna got an impression of a long and lean body, low to the ground, with orange eyes burning like embers. Garreth swung down in a chopping motion, cleaving deep into the first on the path, then he was struck from the side by the one flanking as the third leapt at Kierna.

“Farrus, help Garreth!” Kierna commanded, then stabbed forward with her sword.

A wolf dodged the point of her sword, biting down on her arm bound in steel armor. Its body was made of woven grass, a deep green that blended easily with the forest, striped with bits of gold and dark brown. The eye sockets were holes that revealed a familiar orange light. The creature’s strength was remarkable, pulling and tearing at Kierna’s arm and throwing her off balance. She spun with the force of it, slamming into a tree, and the wolf danced away, sprinting a few feet and then turning swiftly about to strike again from an unexpected angle. Kierna whipped her sword up vertically in front of her face, and shouted a prayer.

“SHIELD!”

A glowing shield of pure white light appeared in front of her, tower-shaped and as tall as her elbow. The wolf launched into it and there was a great sound like shattering glass. An explosion of force bounced the wolf away, sending tatters of grass through the air, flattening the foliage nearby. Kierna stuck her left hand forward and the light-shield bound itself to her as if strapped to her arm. Turning, she jogged over to the gathering of villagers, taking up a defensive position. A short distance away, Garreth was on the ground, trying to get up as the second wolf nipped at him, but Farrus was standing over him with his daggers, warding it off. The first wolf, the one Garreth had cleaved in two, lay on the path in front of her, dead.

Her foe regarded her with angry eyes, then spun and dashed back towards the village. Kierna turned back towards the villagers and shouted for them to stay close to her.

The second wolf whipped around as she stepped up behind it, swinging her sword through the air and cutting vines in its path. The wolf ducked low and her sword bounced off a tree-branch, sending an ache up her arm. As the wolf dashed in low, she lifted her shield and slammed it down like a guillotine. The shield hit the wolf in its hindquarters, shoving it down, but it was close enough to bite. Its jaws opened impossibly wide and clamped down hard on her upper thigh. She could feel its teeth biting through the steel plate, only the silver glow of Jehx’s shield holding it back from her skin.

“Kierna!” Farrus’ voice rang out, and she looked to see a dagger spinning through the air from his arm towards her. Dropping her unwieldy sword, Kierna caught the dagger out of the air, shifting it to a hammer grip, and stabbed it down into the neck of the beast biting her. It struck deep, and she felt the fangs pull away as it retreated. Looking down, her armor was bent, with several holes pierced through it, but she only felt the dull pain of blunt trauma. Silently, Kierna sent a prayer of gratitude to Jehx.

Garreth was back on his feet, his greatsword held sideways. Farrus had moved opposite, creating a triangle with the wolf between the three of them. It will go for Farrus, she thought, as he was the least threat with only a dagger. The wolf backed up, growling and snarling, the tear in the grass of its neck revealing fur deep beneath, then it sprinted at Farrus.

“STRIKE!” Kierna cried, and stabbed her sword forward at the point half-way between the wolf and Farrus. A bright silver beam appeared around the blade of her sword, then extended outward like a lance. The beam caught the wolf in mid-jump, piercing through its entire body. It fell in a crumpled heap, the grass unraveling and spinning away in the air. An ordinary wolf corpse was left behind bleeding out, the orange light in its eyes slowly fading.

“Escort these villagers to the village,” Kierna ordered her men. “I’ll help the others.” Sword at her side, she dashed down the path towards the village.

The village was in pandemonium. Several men and women lay on the ground, bleeding from bites and tears. Hammarrra and Kenth were on horse back, riding back and forth with glaives slicing at the wolves that dashed around them. One was dead already, a short-sword left impaled in its forehead, but two remained. Hammarra looked well enough, but Kenth’s left arm was soaked scarlet from shoulder to wrist, the armor of his upper arm torn away entirely.

Come, Kierna commanded silently, and across the village her horse, Radiance, turned and obeyed, galloping towards her. Her glaive was strapped to its side, the blade behind it, and she pulled it free as the horse passed, her light-shield vanishing and her sword sheathed. With a two-handed grip, she spun the glaive overhead to give it momentum then charged forward. Hammarra saw her and turned her horse, suddenly striking at the wolf behind her, which leaped back to avoid it. Its leap brought it right into Kierna’s swing, the blade crashing down in the middle of its back. Across the village, Kenth finished the last wolf.

Breathing hard, Kierna cast about with her Godseye, looking for more danger. She could see nothing. But a flicker of the god who’d sent the wolves remained in the nearest corpse, puppeteering its body to turn and snarl at her one last time. She recognized Amauro, the wolf goddess who’d attacked the village of Tzamat, keeping her from capturing Isaand the Heretic.

“Everyone okay?” Kierna called. Hammarra and Kenth acknowledged, and soon Farrus and Garreth stepped into view leading the other villagers. Further examination showed the spindly form of Baako, their hired guide, peering out of hiding behind one of the hut’s flaps. A few villagers weren’t so lucky. Three of them were dead already. Killed to provoke us, she knew. Coward.

Kierna looked to Kenth. The wound was deep, but it appeared that his skin had been cut by the jagged piece of his armor being ripped off, rather than the wolf’s fangs themselves. That left a long straight line that bled a great deal, but didn’t expose the bone. It wouldn’t be too debilitating, but he would have to avoid using his glaive or bow.

“This wasn’t much of an attack,” Hammarra said, helping Kierna lower Kenth to the ground so they could bind his wound. “It was meant to surprise us, wound a few. Maybe get lucky and pick off one of us.”

Amauro had only expended a minute amount of energy in this attack. These creatures had only been ordinary wolves imbued with her power and sent to strike. Avatars, controlled by the goddess from afar. More would likely come.

“To weaken us. So that the next attack might succeed,” Kierna agreed. Amauro wasn’t through with her yet. More attacks would come. “We’d best press on quickly then. We’ll leave at dawn.”

 

Part Three: Chapter Two

Heretic Part Two Chapter 11

Heretic

Part Two

Chapter 11

Kierna stopped on her way to the commander’s tent to see the new troop be sanctified. They had already received their arms and armor, having spent the last three weeks drilling on the packed-earth parade ground beyond lake Thelta across from the city. They came wearing their proud uniforms of quilted white-and-gold cloth, with iron greaves for their feet, lobstered gauntlets for their hands, and mirror-polished half-helms topped with a foot long plume of indigo cloth. Each of them carried an eight-foot long spear at their side and a good steel dagger at their belt. Most of them were boys, sixteen or seventeen years old, city-bred youths who’d grown up on epic tales of glorious crusades against the cruel tyrant gods of the hinterlands to east or west or north. They came smiling and straight-backed, tired but proud of the exhausting training that had beaten them into some semblance of soldiery. One in ten of them was a girl, most of them older, and most of them had expressions that were more apprehensive than excited. Or perhaps that was only Kierna’s demeanor, projected onto the girls she saw before her.

Jayna the Winged Spear had set precedent two-hundred years ago, when she’d formed her famous company of Battle Maidens, a two-thousand strong unit made up of women who had marched in the Six Season Crusade. Since then, women were accepted in the united armies of Ethka, though few chose to exercise that right. Most city women dreamed of marriage and a comfy home full of children. Kierna wondered if she had ever had such dreams herself. Perhaps, back in her grasslands village before its destruction, before she became an apostate. On the few occasions she thought of that time, the memories were blurry and ill-fitting, like something that had happened to someone else.

The soldiers marched three-at-a-time up to the junior clerics assigned to the task, each standing before an altar where a white-furred oxen was butchered. As each man stepped up before them, they would exchange a few ceremonial words, the questions that should have been profound and thought-provoking delivered with a mechanical monotony, any gravity they might have held lost after the hundreds of repetitions with which they were delivered. The oaths of the soldiers were rushed and faltering, words swiftly memorized days or only hours before. Then the clerics would reach down into the slit throat of the oxen before them, dip their fingers into the blood, then raise it and dab each soldier across the forehead, along with a blessing of their chosen god or goddess. Thus did the soldiers become dealta suantu, the little saints.

Kierna remembered her own sanctification. She’d spent a sleepless night on her knees in the chapel of the Sword Monastery, mentally reciting each of the fourteen Conundrums written centuries ago by Sword-Priest Malachard, ruminating on each of them until she’d come up with her own answer for the ethical questions they posed. Some had taken mere minutes to answer, others more than an hour. She still remembered the Conundrum that had taken her three hours to complete, the parable of the Blasphemer, a city man who sacrificed his wife, daughter, and son to three separate gods he did not worship in order to forge a peace between them, ending a war that could have killed thousands.

Afterwards, she had climbed alone the Shattered Stair, a mountain pass so steep that it was more of a ladder than a stair, leaving spots of blood from her torn palms on the cliff in her wake. Third Sword Kenly had awaited him in the Cave of Blind Justice with a barred blade, and they had fought one last time, ending when Kierna managed to draw a blood from a shallow cut on his temple. She had knelt, his blood wet with her own blood passing from shoulder to shoulder, and then he had transformed, his eyes seeming to deepen as the God of Justice took hold of him. Jehx himself had declared Kierna his chosen paladin, Fourteenth Sword of the Tyre Ettha, the Just Servants.

“Three weeks of drills and lectures does not make a soldier,” Hamaara said from her place at Kierna’s side. The old woman had come to the war-camp in a simple dress of woven grass, traditional garb from the tribe she’d been born into hundreds of miles to the south. The choice of clothing was in blatant contrast to the ornate armor of the paladins and the rough uniforms of the soldiers all around them, but Hamaara was too old to care what they thought of her. If questioned, she was like to respond by asking what enemy they expected to ambush them here within sight of the holy city itself.

“War will make them soldiers,” Kierna said. “Or it will break them. Preparation would help shore them up, fill them with resolve, but the clerics are too impatient to take the time. I wonder if they know what they’re getting themselves into.”

“The Warana tribes have poor resources. Their warriors will be fighting with iron and stone and wood, with little in the way of armor. They will be disorganized and squabbling amongst themselves, divided by their feuds, with no central leadership. It will be more a slaughter than a campaign,” Hamaara said, sadly.

“Exactly. These men think they’re marching off to bravely fight against blasphemous enemies. I wonder how brave they’ll feel sacking villages and putting unarmed women to the sword. There is more than one way to be broken by war. They will leave hordes of starving refugees in their wake, and otherwise decent men will return with stained souls and bloody hands.” Kierna hesitated, but she’d been taught to speak her mind. “This crusade is a mistake.”

Hamaara was not shocked by her disapproval. “Will you tell them?”

“Master Kenly will,” Kierna said. The Third Sword was already at the commander’s tent, having stayed the night conferring with other paladins and clerics, drawing up the plans for marching and supply lines, objectives and foreseen difficulties.

“I suspect he will, but two voices are louder than one, and it will take a loud voice indeed to sway the likes of Everrek and Hyress. The high clerics see only the glory and profit, and the commander… well, he’s a decent man, a good man to follow, but he lives for war.” Hamaara spoke with the certainty of a woman who had marched in time and time again in armies just like this one. Kierna had met her at the Sword Monastery, but she knew Hamaara had spent decades as a soldier before being recruited by Mareth Kenly.

“I’ll add my voice to his. If it doesn’t sway them, perhaps some of the others will listen. We’d best go. The meeting starts at noon.”

The war camp was a second city, thrown up on the opposite bank of the long lake that separated Ethka from the foothills of the Throne Mountains. Long rows of canvas tents stretched off beyond sight, with wide avenues between them, the soft valley grass turned to mud by the thousands of feet trodding through them. Huge barracks tents where a hundred men slept stood beside open-sided mess tents with cook-fires at the centers. Messenger girls with tall boots and short trousers ran by with scrolls clenched in their fists, paladins in polished plate or beautiful silk robes strode through the crowd, parting the press with the force of their presence, and carts pulled by fierce birds six feet tall rumbled along filled with provisions to be delivered to one unit or another. The ring of iron and steel filled the air from the blacksmiths tents nearby.

Godsworn soldiers from a hundred different deities all crowded together to make the Heavenly Host. The largest company was Everekk’s own Mercy Men, four-thousand strong and armed with scythe-like glaives behind a double-line of tower shields, with longbows firing from the rear. Their goddess Mei-altha advocated mercy, so each soldier who joined the host was required to swear a solemn oath that they would only fight if abstaining would cause more harm than otherwise. Each of them carried a long thin dirk at their sides, a mercy blade meant to execute any foe suffering from their wounds.

Aside from them were lancers mounted on slyzeer, giant eel-like lizards, archers firing from elephant-mounted towers, fierce god Tyrathek’s crossbowmen, mute swordsmen bound to the goddess of Penitence Reilla, wild Quarez’s beast-masters, Boramin’s heavily armored sentinels, Kyoso’s supply wagons escorted by slingers and spear-throwers. And many, many more. Most gods or goddesses commanded only a few hundred men, perhaps a thousand, but there were over a hundred of them, and they added up to an enormous host more than one-hundred-thousand strong. Jehx’s levies were small by comparison, consisting of Third Sword Kenly, Kierna of the Fourteenth, and three-dozen sword-monks from all walks of life. Kierna had heard more than one soldier jest that for an order with such a martial name the sword-monks were a remarkably peaceful people.

The command tent was a massive pavilion of pure white silk, topped with golden pennants wafting in the breeze. It was large enough that several city houses could have fit comfortably inside of it. The space around it was cleared for a hundred feet in every direction, with ten-foot high towers set up at each corner. A pair of crossbowmen kept watch from the top of them. The pavilion’s entrance was guarded by four soldiers in heavy plate armor armed with long-axes. Kierna sized them up as she approached. Each of them was close to seven feet tall, and when she blinked her Godseye she saw the unmistakable glow of active miracles around them. They carried no shields, but their armor looked to be several inches thick, which would make it far too heavy to be carried by ordinary men. They stood as still as statues, but one of them turned his head and eyed her as she closed, a pair of pale blue eyes visible within the shadow of his round steel helm. The helm was shaped in the shape of a bird of prey, with a beak enclosing the soldiers face, though a mask of steel within it protected the rest of the face. Tall silvery wings rose off their backs, adding several feet to their height, and swept to the sides.

“Blessed Kierna, welcome to the command tent,” one of the winged soldiers said, his voice echoing within his mask. “Does this woman accompany you?”

“Yes, Hamaara is a trusted adviser, and a friend,” Kierna answered.

“Then be welcome. Be advised; this tent is blessed by a miracle of the Watchful Eryss, the Protector. Any weapon drawn within will explode, taking your hand with it. Be careful you do not forget.”

“I’ll try not to lose my temper then,” Kierna said with a smile. The soldier did not respond, and she had no inkling of how he took her jest, but they did shuffle aside a bit to let her and Hamaara through. She noticed how easily they moved in their heavy plate. I would not like to fight one of them.

The pavilion was large, but at least three hundred men and women filled it. Numerous large tables were set out, most with maps placed on them larger than the hut in which Kierna had been born. Two-thirds of the people wore armor or martial garb; the rest were in cleric attire. Kierna spotted clerics Everret and Gramasta speaking with a large group near the entrance, and made her way wide around them. She was looking for Master Kenly when a man stepped up to her and offered her a chalice of wine.

“No thank you,” she said, then realized the man she had taken for a servant was a fellow paladin, one she’d met on a handful of occasions.

Banfus was not an especially martial looking man. Rather than armor, he wore a collection of thick robes dyed in deep colors of plum and sangria, which strained at his ample belly. He was shorter than her by half-a-foot, with a round shaven head and a deepset eyes lost in the shadow of his brow. A long pair of matched curved blades hung from the same side of his hip. His countenance was pleasant enough though, always smiling and nodding along with enthusiasm. He was nodding and smiling now, as he pressed the wine on her.

“Please, blessed, you really must try it. The wine came all the way from Mauwe, with me, and I will swear you have never tasted such a perfect vintage. Come now, are you afraid to drink? We’re not like to be attacked just outside the city gates? Loosen yourself up, all this standing around is grinding away at you, don’t think I can’t see it.”

She had to admit the wine was magnificent, so dark a red it was almost purple, a rich, deep-bodied flavor that lingered long on the tongue. Hamaara accepted some as well, with less prompting.

“I’d not have expected to see a paladin all the way from Mauwe her,” Kierna said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” Banfus said. “Kyoso the Nurturer does so despise to see such horrid hardships as will occur after the crusade, with all Warana in ruins and so many refugees on the move. She will want me and mine there to give them a helping hand up, to aid in the restoration.”

“But first you’ll assist in the battles that will cause all this destruction?”

“Why, blessed, I think you sound a bit disapproving! Yes, the war will be a horror, as wars always are. But I will be there to ensure things do not get out of hand, and afterward, things will be better. You and your friend Hamaara are both from the south, are you not? Surely you know how things stand there.”

“Tyrant gods spend their subjects’ lives on a whim, blood-feuds and genocidal wars are commonplace, and human sacrifice is widespread,” Kierna conceded. “I do not know that this will change for the better once it is all razed to the ground. The gods will still be there, only now the people will be apostates with no homes or fields to tend.”

“The council has decreed that this is a true Crusade. As such, all apostates within the war-zone will be free to chose new gods from those who have conquered them. The only apostates will be those too stubborn or wicked to change their ways. As for the fighting, I will not be taking part, per say. I have come from Mauwe with a great caravan of foodstuffs and supplies. Me and mine will have the baggage train to protect. The only fighting I’ll do is fending off bandits and saboteurs. I leave the warfare to those with the stomach for it. Like our friend Sawndor here.”

Kierna looked at his gesture to see a brawny man stepping towards them, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword like a lifeline. He was not partaking of any food or drink. Kierna had met Sawndor before, a hulking, powerful man with surprising quickness and a silent tenacity on the battlefield. The light skin of his arms and neck was crisscrossed with old brown scars. He kept his hair in a short buzz with a prominent widow’s peak, above dark eyes that looked black in the tent’s light. He was wearing a jet-black surcoat over steel plate enameled white, with a pattern of black and white squares set out in precise patterns. He nodded to Kierna respectfully, his eyes as sharp and focused as a hawk in flight.

“Blessings, Kierna. I’m glad you’re here. There are too many false-faced politicians here for my liking. This is meant to be a war-council, not a society ball.” Sawndor was blunt-spoken and slightly too loud, but he said what he meant.

“Banfus was just telling me how Warana will be all for the better once this war is over,” Kierna said. “Is that your stance as well?”

“For the better? No. It will be a scorched wasteland, and half of its people will be dead,” Sawndor replied. Then he shrugged. “And so it will remain, for a time. But new towns will be raised by our soldiers, and the peace of the allied gods will spread. The survivors’ children will grow up and struggle to survive, and perhaps their children too, but the next generation will be born into peace and prosperity. The gods don’t see things as simply as we do. A man’s life is short, but the death we bring to Warana will eventually lead to improvement. Just look at Ethka. Seven hundred years ago it was nothing but a war-lord’s fortress, a heretic who preyed on the people for hundreds of miles around and forced them to name him a god. A limb that is rotting must be cut off. It is not a pleasant experience, but the body survives. What we do is the same.”

“Holy Boramin has ordered you to take part in this crusade, then?” Kierna asked.

“It will bring order to a land of chaos. Boramin’s will is clear.”

Suddenly the wine tasted like blood and ashes to Kierna. She could not argue with either of them. Warana was no land of peace, but a place where men and women were slaughtered daily and children were raised as slaves or put down as a nuisance. Ethka had its problems, but it was a paradise by comparison. Nor could she say that the crusade would fail. Similar campaigns had been carried out a dozen times in Ethka’s history, and while many of them had failed, the now prosperous regions of Italus, Tarro-toh, and Mauwe had been created as a result of succesful crusades. And yet-

“Tens of thousands will die, and many more in the aftermath. Ours and theirs. How long do you suppose it will be until that stain is washed out. How long until it is worth it? A hundred years, a thousand?”

“Those who die will be taken up into the Churn and spun out as new souls,” Banfus said. “Death is unpleasant, to be sure, but remember it is only temporary.”

“Farmers everywhere go hungry through the winter, but then comes spring, and all is well again. This is no different,” Sawndor said.

Kierna was saved from making a response to that by a general call to attention. The crowds were gathering around the board that had been set up on one side of the tent, with a great map nailed upon it. Half a dozen men, including high clerics Everrek and Gramasta, were gathered before it, ready to speak. The crowd began to draw in, arranged in a crescent about the board. Kierna spotted Lector Kenly across the room, instantly recognizable by his snowy white braid of hair. But the crowd was too thick to make it too him, so she remained where she was with paladins Banfus and Sawndor, Hamaara at her side.

A man stood out from the clerics and generals at his side. He did not loom like Sawndor, and was dressed simply in a well-cut soldier’s coat of deep green wool, belted in black leather with a long curved sword tilted so its end did not drag on the floor. Yet every eye was drawn to him immediately. He took two precise steps forward, as perfect as on the parade ground, then snapped to attention and slammed his right fist against his chest as his left was held at the small of his back. All soldiers in the room responded with a salute in kind, though Kierna’s was hesitant.

Hyress Omdra, the Divine General of the Heavenly Host, was a man in his late years still blessed with an unlined face and a strong, straight back. He had a thin aquiline face with a pointed chin and a long slender neck, with swept-back ears and hair. The hair was feathery, a mix of dappled black and brown, with thin sharp brows. His eyes were small but piercing, brown flecked with gold. Neither paladin nor cleric, general known to some as Death’s Angel had followed an odd path in Ethka, rising through the ranks as a common soldier, purely by the merits of his abilities. He was sworn to the Goddess of Ends, Maltaya, though it was rumored that he was not particularly devout. But he’d risen to prominence in campaign after campaign, always fighting on the side of Ethka or her allies, and there was no one left to deny his skills. The soldiers claimed he was wise and fair, ruthless to his foes, considerate to his men as far as the situation allowed him to be, and never showed any hesitation or uncertainty once he’d made a decision. Even his failures were colored with excellence. At the battle of Loradeth Pass, six years past, after his vanguard was ambushed while he was riding with the rear guard, he’d managed to halt an all-out route and retreat in order, preventing a slaughter and holding the bottom of the pass until reinforcements arrived.

“Welcome, sons and daughters of Ethka, and our allies from afar. May the gods and goddesses of the Heavenly Coterie look down on us and grant us wisdom as we do their will.” Hyress’ voice was soft, but as loud as it needed to be to reach everyone listening. Without ado, he turned to the map behind him, where a number of routes had already been drawn from Ethka, striking south. Though the routes were varied, they all ended at the same location: a city nestled in a crescent harbor at the southern end of the continent, labeled Yrkhaz. The greatest city of the south, a great city of trade, derided by the high clerics as a cesspool of heresy and cruelty, ruled by a tripartite of tyrannical gods who demanded all manner of debauchery and butchery in their name.

“I have spoken with the generals, and listened closely to the advice of our holy clerics. Some few of the Coterie have passed down their own commandments that we as their servants must obey, and their orders have been incorporated into my plans. As you can see here, I have a number varying options. This will allow us to alter the plan accordingly, based on the resistance we encounter and any other pertinent issues.”

Hyress swiftly ran through his plans, specifying the dozens of gods of Warana its hinterlands, along with their warriors and what sort of armies they could expect to encounter. Kierna found herself watching Kenly, who stood quietly with a hand on his chin, his eyes watching the map intently. She had expected him to say something, hoped that he would speak out against this campaign, but he seemed to have no intention of doing so.

“I plan to strike first and foremost for Kelylla, seen here,” Hyress was saying, pointing out a river city north of Warana. “Kelylla is a major trade city, and its clerics have always garnered close relations with the city of Ethka. Still, there is certain to be those within the city who will resist us, but I plan to make it our army’s base of operations for the rest of the crusade. The clerics have received troubling reports of a widespread organization of heretics calling themselves the Cousinhood of Free Souls. These “cousins” are said to have root in Kelylla. We will take the city, appoint our own clerics, and tear up the roots of these heretics-”

“Why?”

Kierna’s voice cut through the quiet chatter of the war-meeting, shocking everyone but Hyress into silence. Her stomach roiled at the attention, but she forced herself to look Hyress in the eye and hold her composure.

The commander did appear concerned. “Kelylla sits on verdant land, and the river gives it access to much trade, as well as ample fish. We should be able to keep the army well-supplied there. From the city, I mean to split the army into several smaller bands, to strike swiftly, preventing the warbands across the region from combining their forces-”

“I do not doubt your tactics, Divine General,” Kierna said. “It is the aims of this crusade I feel I must question. When I left Ethka less than six months ago, there was no word of war, yet I returned to find the city in arms. Clearly, the decision has been made, but I wonder at how many here were included in the discussion. The Heavenly Host is an alliance of free men and women. Those who stand to march and kill and die have the right to make the decision.”

“Hranis is in chaos, its gods and rulers cruel and destructive,” Hyress answered. If he was upset at how she balked him, he showed no sign. “Would you prefer they be left to continue as they are?”

“No. It is as you say. I’ve seen the destruction firsthand, the slaughters and blood-feuds. But it seems to me that there are more varied options than doing nothing or wiping it all out. The army should march. Take Kelylla, make it a staunch ally, a protected haven for those who would serve kinder gods. Kelylla’s fall will put fear into the hearts of every villain of the grasslands. Envoys can be sent out from there, declarations made. These gods have nothing that can match the might of the Heavenly Host. Surely they will agree to our terms-”

“Our terms?” High cleric Everett sneered at her from his spot next to the Divine General. “These gods spit on the pact they have signed. They foment cruelty and terror, leading their people from grace with their own example. Terms were already sent forth, by the Holy Coterie itself, hundreds of years ago on the founding of Ethka. Humans might forget, but to these gods that was only yesterday. Why bother speaking with them now? What could come from treating with these tyrants?”

“Justice,” Kierna said, then stepped forward, feeling as though she were lunging with sword in hand. “And perhaps, mercy.”

Everett purpled at that, and voices began to roar back and forth. Once Kierna had opened the gates, she heard other voices speaking up, advocating diplomacy. Not all of the high clerics were in agreement, it seemed, and she saw numerous paladins resisting as well. But Kenly-

Kenly remained silent, watching. When she caught his eye, he turned towards her and gave her a sad smile… and a slight shake of his head.

“These matters have been decided,” Hyress Omdra said, his voice calming the crowd. “Sixty-three of the high clerics have put their seal to the plan, along with all their followers. Those who have abstained have every right to withdraw their soldiers from the Host. But the crusade has been declared, as you all know. Any who withdraws will lose their place in the Host. You have that right, to be sure. Whether you agree to support us or not, let us return to the plan-”

Kierna knew the rest would go unsaid. Abandoning the mission during the crusade was political suicide, and at crusade’s end, when the spoils were doled out, the clerics would remember. Few clerics could resist the opportunity to accrue power and favor in the eyes of the divines… but she would not have thought Mareth Kenly to be so inclined.

 Part Two: Chapter 12

Heretic Chapter 7

Heretic

Chapter 7

Kierna reigned in her horse and wiped gods-blood off the blade of her sword. The substance seemed to sizzle, radiating power as hot coals give off heat. It burned with a light of a color she could not define, bright as a freshly forged sword taken from the fire. Her godseye was open only a slit; she’d learned long ago that opening it wide was a recipe for nausea and over-stimulation.

Ordinary red blood came off as well. Kierna remembered hewing through short spears, chopping across shields, and stabbing and slashing through arms and faces and guts. The faces of the men she’d killed swam in her mind, expressions of fury or pain or terror contorting them. They joined the many others she’d killed over the years, the ones she saw whenever she tried to sleep.

Sheathing her cleaned sword, Kierna took stock of those around her. Hamaara and Kenth were ahorse atop the nearest rise, bows ready with arrows nocked, ready to fire at the first sign of pursuers. Vahn’s riderless horse stood nearby, cropping at the grass. She could see Garreth a quarter-mile behind them, riding with his lance at the ready, watching their backs. Farrus was over the hill, screening their advance and scouting the best path.

A dozen tired villagers stood or sat in a huddle nearby, many of them injured and bleeding, all of them dejected and wide-eyed with grief. Half of them were children. One gray-haired woman carried an infant on her hip, and a small boy held the hand of an even smaller girl who looked to be his sister, but most of them seemed unrelated. Some had a few belongings slung up in a roll, and two men carried spears and long knives. A teenaged girl was driving a goat beside her. But most of them had nothing but the clothes on their backs.

“Rest while you can,” Kierna told them, her practiced captain’s voice cutting through the chatter like a boom of thunder. “We move on in five minutes. Stay together, keep between us, and be ready to run when we tell you. If any of us ride off, continue on the path and we will rejoin you shortly.” Weary, she climbed off her horse and unstopped her canteen. Her throat ached as the cool water softened it. After, she overturned it and let a trickle of it pour down her head. The water seeped down her neck and into the cloth padding beneath her armor, which felt like it had doubled in weight since before the battle.

“That blood isn’t yours, I hope?” Kierna turned to see Hamaara approaching, off her horse. The older woman’s leathery skin was dirty with dried blood and sweat, and a bandage wrapped around her upper arm was red. She was breathing hard, her proud stature betrayed by the way she hunched forward and took small, careful steps, avoiding pushing herself too hard. Kierna felt a pang of guilt. The woman had been riding with her since long before Kierna had become a paladin. She’d shown her how to shoot from horseback, how best to move in the weight of full armor, how to take one glance at a battlefield and notice all the little details that meant life and death, and how to seize the opportunities that would let her survive them. But she was old now, past fifty, and had no place in a pitched battle.

“No… I…” Kierna looked at herself, noticing for the first time the way her beautiful silver armor was covered in gore, its shining embellishments turned dirty and brown in the cloudy light. “I took no wounds. This is from Amauro’s soldiers. The fools.” She’d not wanted to kill them, but she could not stand by and watch as they slaughtered an entire tribe.

“And from Hauthern,” Hamaara said sadly. Hauthern had been one of her lancers, a good, solid man, veteran of a hundred missions. He’d taught her how to set a lance, and staved off boredom on long rides through the country singing the joyous basso songs of his homeland, and cooked her hearty stews that tasted of home. He’d come between her and the great wolf of the grass, after Kierna had charged her. Her glaive had torn the goddess’ side open in a great gash as long as a carriage, but Amauro had bowled her over, throwing her from her horse, and she’d lost her glaive in the fall and been forced to draw her sword. She’d looked up in time to see the wolf’s burning orange eyes before her, and then Hauthern had been there, and Amauro had lunged, and blood had gushed down like a waterfall. But somehow she’d gotten out from under him, and lived.

“Preserve his soul,” Kierna prayed, as Hamaara echoed. Willing to speak no more, she turned away and began to inspect her horse, checking for any injuries. The creature was a magnificent specimen, his coat a glossy chocolate brown, twenty-two hands tall, with intelligent eyes that watched her as she rubbed him down. Beneath her gloves, she could feel the crackling energy of the temple’s miracle, granting the steed strength and vigor. He would be good to keep riding for hours more, and seemed unhurt.

Jurran hadn’t been so lucky. She’d called the young lancer away just as he’d been about to attack the heretic, and his eyes had flashed with an angry reproach. All the way across the Warana grass he’d glowered and stewed, still angry about his demotion back in the city. She’d taken to sparring with him every few nights during camp, and he’d swung his sword with brutal force, as though he could smash all his problems away if he just hit hard enough. She’d been talking with him, slowly and cautiously, as one might a spooked horse. His responses had been dark and sardonic, but she had thought she was on the verge of getting through to him. The last few nights he had seemed more relaxed, almost at ease. He’d died in the village, thrown from his horse by a swipe of Amauro’s great paw. She’d seen him lying in a muddy puddle, struggling to get to his feet, and she’d rode hard for him, desperate to make it in time, but the warriors had gathered around him and stabbed down with spear after spear, impaling him a dozen times. The face of one of his killers flashed in her mind, a scared-looking boy barely old enough to fight, and the way her sword had sheared through his ear and eye as she’d rode by.

Vahn had died as well, though she’d never seen it. She’d called her men together, once it was clear the battle was lost and they must retreat. They’d herded the few survivors they could gather out of the village, and she’d looked back one more time to see his body lying in a pool of blood, surrounded by the four men he’d killed. His face had been smashed in by a sling-stone, his beautiful smile cracked and ruined. The man had been a hopeless flirt, never ceasing in his joking self-deprecation and his dramatic compliments towards her. There were times when she’d looked at him across the fire, lying splayed out with his long limbs and tousled curls, and contemplated what it would be like to break her vows with him, some night beyond the sight of the camp. Well, he wouldn’t be around to tempt her anymore. That realization felt like a stone lodged in her chest.

The thunder of hooves shook her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Farrus riding back over the hill. He made straight for her, taking the time to put his fist to his chest in salute, his long blonde braid sticky with sweat.

“Path ahead is clear, Blessed, just more hills and grass. But it’s a long way to the border, five or six miles, I’d guess. We’ll need to push them hard if we want to stay ahead of the wolf,” he said.

Kierna did not know if Amauro would follow. She’d hurt her, wielding her blessed blade and the miracles of Jehx to cut deep into the body of the wolf she’d chosen as her avatar, and the goddess had backed off rather than commit to battle. But it would not take them long to finish their destruction of the village, and Amauro had nearly a hundred warriors left by her reckoning, and might send them to hound them even if she chose not to come herself. She hoped Tzamet would slow her down, if for no other reason than spite. The god’s influence here was ended; he would soon be reduced to a mere spirit of the land, a vassal or parasite living in another god’s fiefdom.

“We shall. Jehx will grant us strength,” Kierna said. “Ride back to Garreth, tell him to wait here for an hour to watch for any signs of pursuit. If they come, he is to harry them with bow and arrow, but to avoid battle, and to retreat if they get close. If he sees Amauro, he is to flee at once.

You will continue to scout ahead until we reach the border. When we get within a mile of it, leave off and cross on your own, seek out the nearest village and find out what sort of reception we are likely to get. These grass tribes are many, and often they hate each other, embroiled in some old grudge or another. It wouldn’t do to deliver these folk to safety only to have them murdered.”

“Yes, Blessed. What if I should spot the heretic? He was running this way, last I saw him.”

“Avoid him. He’s a Lector, and you’re one man. Who knows what sort of powers the Unbound have given him? We take him together, or not at all.” Kierna could not abide the thought of losing more of them. When next they found the heretic, she would deal with him herself, safe in the knowledge that Jehx guarded her.

“And after we reach this village? Try to pick up the heretic’s trail once more?” Hamaara asked. Her gaze was questioning. She had always been able to read Kierna well.

“No. We’ll let them rest a bit, then escort these villagers to Aathdel. We can pick up fresh levies there and task a company to send them on to the Stairs. Like it or not, they’re apostates now. They’ll need somewhere to go. We’ll send Garreth with them. If he’s lucky, he’ll make it home in time to see his son born.” She envied him that miracle, but pitied him the task of speaking with Jurrun and Vahn and Hauthern’s families. “Mount up. It’s time we moved.”

They rode for hours across the flowing grass, the summer’s heat cooled by Tzamet’s rains. The apostates marched sullenly, eyes downcast, speaking no words. Most never bothered to look ahead of them. What did they have to look for? Their god was lost to them, and their homes, and there was nowhere in the world that would call them kin. Kierna remembered another train of refugees, marching along stony foothills, decades ago. She’d been barefoot, her shift torn and muddy, only able to walk on her own for an hour or so until her little legs had given out and her father had had to carry her on his shoulders. She could barely remember the name of the goddess and town they’d left behind.

They’d made it to Ethka in the company of one of her brothers, an aunt, and three cousins, but a year in the city had scattered them across its streets. The brother had died in a drunken brawl, a cousin executed for theft from a goddess’ temple. The others had become strangers. Her father worked, but Kierna had come down with a cough that he feared would kill her, and so he’d borrowed money for a doctor. He’d died in a debtor’s prison, months and months before she could save enough to see him free.

Kierna had wound up in the very same prison, shortly after her fourteenth birthday. She’d stolen a sack of grain, nothing she hadn’t done a hundred times before, only she’d been caught, and the cost of the theft had been quadrupled and placed on her as debt. She had no money, and no one to pay for her, nor could she work from her windowless cell, and so she had thought her life over. She would sit there and rot for years until she wasted away, with only the vain hope that her cousin or aunt would remember her and care enough to pay.

On the third day, she’d been released. Shocked and not understanding, she’d been too afraid to ask questions, scared that there had been some mistake and that she would be jailed again if she did not leave at once. But on her way out of the prison she passed ten men outside in monk’s black robes, submitting themselves to arrest. She’d stared, wondering at how serenely they accepted their chains.

“They’re here to replace you,” a voice had said, soft and certain. She’d jumped, and turned to see an ordinary looking man with his white hair bound in a long tail, and green eyes that watched her like a merchant taking stock of new merchandise. He was dressed in soldier’s clothes, all dyed white and black, with a long straight sword tied at his waist.

“Replace me?” she’d asked, then nervously glanced around, but the guardsmen were paying her no heed.

“Your debt has been paid, by the Lector of the Sword Temple. Charity balances the scales when justice is weighted too harshly, yet crime must still be punished. The city has settled your punishment at thirty days internment. Each of these men will be jailed three days, to settle the matter.”

“And you’re here for me,” she said, catching on. She balanced on the balls of her feet, checking the nearest alley out of the corner of her eye. If she ran, she thought she could escape. The swordsman was older and likely slower, the sword would make him awkward. Yet she was in poor health after her stay in prison, and she did not know this part of the city well enough to lose him in its alleys and backstreets. If he caught her in some dead-end, she did not like the thought of facing him with that sword in hand. He leaned against the stone wall, as relaxed as a cat, but he seemed graceful, perhaps one of the swordmaster-monks she’d heard about at the temple of Jehx.

“The girl understands,” the swordsman said, smiling at some secret joke. “Your payment has been settled, your debt passed to me. You will work at the Sword Temple, perhaps for a year, longer if need be, and then you will be free.”

“What sort of work?”

“The ordinary kind. Cleaning and tending the gardens and minding the animals, that sort of thing. You’re a skinny thing, but tall, and those arms look to have some muscle on them. I should think we can find a place for you. Our temple does not practice prostitution, if that concerns you.”

“And if I say no?” Kierna asked, ready to run.

“You may go… and next time you find yourself rotting in a cell, no one will extend the hand of friendship. There is place in Justice for mercy, I think, but no tolerance for stubbornness. Do you love your crimes so well, that you bristle at the thought of a proper living?”

“No. I’ll come,” Kierna said. She could always run away if they made her do something she didn’t want, and no doubt the temple would have plenty of riches. She might be able to escape with a fortune, and finally leave this city behind her.

“How gracious. Let’s be off then.” The swordsman started away, moving with long smooth strides, and she trotted along to follow.

At the gates to the prison, a small gathering of men and women waited. They were resplendent in finery, soft silks and furs and bedecked in jewels and gold. She froze, recognizing several glyphs embroidered along their clothes, the names of gods and goddesses in the language of the First World. She dropped to her knees at once. These were the clerics, the men and women who spoke with the voices of their gods, rulers of the city of a thousand faiths. Each one of them could have her killed with a word.

At the swordsman’s approach, each one of them kneeled and bowed their heads. Her mouth hung open.

“Holiness,” one of the clerics muttered. “We were told you were visiting the city today, and hoped for a meeting-”

“I’m afraid I’ve no time,” the swordsman said, blowing off the ruler with not so much as an apology. “I have a new acolyte I need to introduce to the temple.”

The clerics studied her, and she felt herself quake under their gazes. “This… child? Is she someone of importance?”

“All our children are important to us, Keitha. You fellows ought to try to remember that. Come, Kierna.” The swordsman clapped the cleric on the shoulder, as though they were equals, and continued on down the street without a backwards glance. The clerics glared at Kierna as she ran to follow him.

“Who are you?” she asked, after working up the courage for several blocks.

“My name would take one of your lifetimes to speak, child, but those who serve me call me by the old word for the fairness and reward which I aspire them to follow,” he said casually.

“Jehx,” Kierna said, breathless.

“The man who’s body I am borrowing today is Mareth Kenly, the Lector and Third Sword of Tyre Ettha. After today, he will be your master. I expect you to show him respect, and I know he will do the same of you. Serve ably, keep your eyes open and your mind thoughtful, and perhaps you will learn enough to make a proper living, hm? There are paths to faithfulness open even to apostates, much as our children loath to admit it.”

“I will. Serve, I mean.” All thoughts of stealing from the temple fell from Kierna’s mind. This was a god before her, and he knew her name. She had no choice but to serve.

And serve she had, first in fear, then in habit, then in peace. Her debt had been paid in less than a year, and she had left, tentatively regaining her freedom, but three years later she had returned, seeking the sense of belonging she had left behind. That had been long ago, but still she served.

Escorting the refugees through the grass, Kierna reflected on the task of Justice her god had given her. Her mission had shown her all the ugly evils of the world, had forced her to maim and kill and see her friends slaughtered before her. Yet she had also raised up helpless and battered children, helped men reclaim their stolen lives, avenged the murdered fallen, saved those condemned to die for no good reason. These villagers here were only a dozen backwoods nobodies, uncared for by any but their own tyrant god who treated them as tools. But she could change that, give them a new home, a choice, like the one she had been given so long ago. The stone in her heart started to grow lighter, and fade away, as her faith replaced it. The clouds dispersed, and warm sunlight shone down on her once more.

She wondered if the heretic Isaand Laeson felt that same sun, and whether his god was watching over him as well.

End of Part One

 

Part Two: Chapter One