“No one is ever holy without suffering.”
― Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
“Open the gates!” Brecht shouted, and the guards in the gatehouse relayed the order. The banner of Volstedt snapped in the freshening breeze, and somewhere far above, a falcon danced with the wind black before the winter sun.
The militia surrounding him were visibly nervous, and several muttered quietly between themselves.
Desertion, mutiny, and execution were words that fell often.
Isolde grimaced and rapped one of the more vocal troublemakers on the back of the head. “Don’t talk nonsense! We freed Volstedt, nothing else to it. Keep your gob shut.”
Rolf looked at her with disdain. “Always so violent.”
“You haven’t seen violent if you think that’s all I will do if...you keep talking!” She growled the last in a louder voice at two militia men standing a bit to the side, who promptly shut up.
The gates were raised with the slow rattling of chains. Soon the first of the soldiers in the colors of Margrinar entered the town on foot followed by mounted troops and several army mages. Mixed into those were mages in academy robes denoting third years and teachers.
Behind those came a group of mounted warriors in chain and plate mail washed white and silver with the symbol of the candle of Ielenia. Some other clerical troops followed behind those but in significantly lesser numbers. Cornac, Jaros, Melloris and Gesserach. The lord of war, mysteries, civilization, and oaths, respectively.
Mounted on a humungous warhorse, an older warrior rode up to the group around Brecht. Raising his visor, a lined face with a salt and pepper mustache and well-groomed beard became visible.
“Greetings. I assume you might be the people in charge of this town? The name’s Garibald of Saltmarsh. High commander of the royal garrison at Kronenburg and acting general for this here detachment of troops.” He called to them in a gravelly voice, raising an eyebrow at the ragtag appearance of the group. No two militiamen had the same weapons and armor, and even though most had at least an armband in the colors of Margrinar, green, and gold, it was more of an afterthought.
“My name is Brecht. And this here, are my lieutenants, Isolde and Rolf. We are mighty glad to see you. We had sent the Nordmarks packing day before, but the situation was still very much uncertain.”
“You repelled a siege?” The commander now raised both eyes in disbelief.
“Yes, we did. We had the help of a group of academy mages…” Seeing the mounted warrior scrutinizing their party, he changed his intended words, “...well, they aren’t here, and they don’t answer to me, mind. But they should be at the inn.”
“Fascinating. So. Gather your men for debriefing. I will inform my officers, and one of you should lead the troops to the garrison. I think it would be best to get them out of the cold as soon as possible. Had some frostbite on the way here. Never seen such a winter.” He shook his head.
A woman in white and gold robes and a white veil walked up to them. The hair was blonde interspersed with grey, but the forehead was still unlined, and the eyes held a strange intensity that was easily overlooked for the shapely form and gentle posture. The candle of Ielenia was embroidered on her left breast, and she held a staff crowned with a white flame dancing just above the gold-plated tip without consuming any visible fuel.
“Commander.” The voice was melodic and with a hint of an echo lending it an ethereal quality.
“Priestess.” There was a hint of wariness in the polite address.
“I will command the white guard to scour the surrounding fields of the plague of undead. This here is even worse than what we saw on the way. The land is truly stained with darkness. The light of Ielenia shall burn it free.”
“It would probably be best if we coordinated with the locals before we burn something?” The old commander sighed. “And perhaps even your holy warriors want to have some hot food and a roof over your head come evening?”
“Ielenia provides, while the poison seeps deeper and deeper into the earth, the air, and even the people we cannot rest more than absolutely needed.”
“If you insist. Can’t fault you for ridding this land from the undead.” The commander shrugged. “Go ahead. I will tell my aide to prepare lodgings for you and your men. The gate guard will be informed, and if you, later on, need it, simply ask.”
“Blessings upon you. I will take my leave.”
Brecht sucked some air through his teeth and looked at Isolde, who made a surreptitious gesture behind her back, urging caution.
“Something on your mind?” The commander asked.
“No. Nothing. I think we should get on with the debriefing. Perhaps you might like a first-hand account?” Brecht raised an eyebrow where the priestess would not see.
“Ah. That might be for the best. Lead on then.”
The priestess gave the trio of rebels an inscrutable gaze before raising one hand in blessing and turning to leave.
Isolde pressed one hand against her chest as her heart beat an erratic rhythm. She never was one for religious authority, and if she read the priestess right, she and her compatriots were only given reprieve but not absolution.
The old warrior dismounted with a practiced jump, the armor clanging as he hit the ground. Discreet runes flashed as some of the force was magically redirected.
There might be legitimate reasons, like falling from the horse, but Isolde was pretty sure that the flashiness of the move was one big reason that enchantment was made.
“So. We have some privacy. What was it you wanted to tell me?” Garibald did not waste any more time.
“We did indeed manage to repel the Nordmark forces and their Ulsolm allies, necromancers, undead, foul scum. But those academy mages were more than essential. If they had not intervened, we would not be standing here today.”
“Good. Those academy whelps are usually only good for some scent spells and for the new year's fireworks. Finally, they are showing some promise where it counts!” The commander looked gratified.
“But...” Brecht began with a deep breath.
“Shit. Those undead standing around being target practice. Damn it.” The old man swore.
“Ahem. Yes. It is, as you might have thought. One of those academy mages is a necromancer on par with the greatest in the stories. She raised and controlled all the dead in the town and surrounding countryside and used those to rout the remaining forces of Nordmark.”
“You cannot be serious.” The commander looked as if he had the world's worst headache. “You know, I was a bit worried that the combined clerical troops would be a nuisance, divided line of command and all that. But I would not have thought that the problems would begin BEFORE I even get to see the enemy! This alleged second coming of the damn Heartstealer- Is she still sane? A good law-abiding, or at least all the laws sans necromancy, citizen of Margrinar?” He poked Brecht with one gauntleted finger somewhat painfully in the chest area. “...you will assign berths for my troops, and then you will bring me this necromancer genius, posthaste!” As he was growing a bit louder, he realized that he might be heard from back by the gate and quieted down again.
“Yes.” Brecht finished the breath he had been holding since the diatribe began.
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Iseret and Mireille had just reached the square as the words of the large officer conversing with Brecht and his lieutenants indistinctly reached their ears.
“Did they just shout necromancer genius?” Mireille poked her ear with her index finger.
Iseret shushed her and looked around.
Dozens of soldiers were entering the town and were then directed by some of Brecht's subordinates toward the garrison building. A priest of Cornac, the god of battles, prayed over the copious bloodstains that marred the ground.
“Cornac. Weren’t those the people who wanted to ship Vanessa south?” Mireille did not seem to be deterred by Iseret’s gestures.
“Mh.” The snake-woman absentmindedly replied, gazing at the roofs of the surrounding buildings. With a nod, she turned and focused on Mireille. “Yes. The priesthood of Cornac betrayed her trust and captured her for further interrogation. Normally they would be very welcome against the undead, but now, they are a problem.”
As they talked, a young man, boy really, in the robes of a novice of Ielenia, walked up to the priest, bowed, and then said something to which the priest merely nodded, gesturing for the boy to leave.
“And there is an even bigger problem. Ielenia. They hate my people. We are not ‘pure’ enough. Quite the irony as we are called impure by them and our own priesthood.”
“Why?” Mireille asked curiously.
“That explanation would be a bit much for just now, but in Sur Kesh, the more you resemble the snake, the purer you are. Here it is the opposite.” She grinned without mirth.
“I thought you all looked like, well, you?”
“Not nearly. The blessing, as it is called, manifests differently in everyone. Some only gain a bit of scales, an eye, some claws. The more pure you are, the closer you are to the perfect form of the snake.”
“But then you are...a big snake?”
“Yes. And then you are mostly worshipped and cared for. But then your line is at an end, for the snake can no longer merge with another less blessed individual. So reaching this point is actually not that preferable all in all.”
“That’s strange.”
“You tell me.” Iseret sighed. “And all of it is- as far as I know- the interpretation of the priesthood. She, who is many and still one, never taught this. It’s always been one high priest or another. The great goddess is full of boundless curiosity, and there is also the wish for more power, more influence. More souls.” She pressed her hands together in a strange contorted gesture that nevertheless seemed practiced. “May she bless me with wisdom.”
“Is she an elder god?”
“No. She was born with the river and the land. It is said that she swallowed the word of creation with the meaning ‘snake’ and was then endowed with godhood.”
“Can you eat a word?”
“That’s the tale, at least.”
“Brecht wants to talk to you.” A burly woman in thick winter clothes, all wool, and leather in natural colors, strode up to them and interrupted them.
“Where is he?”
“At the garrison. You know where that is?”
“We will manage.”
Soldiers and the usual baggage train were still entering the city, and Mireille and Iseret walked alongside the stream of people and goods.
“How many are there?” Mireille idly asked as they pressed into a doorway to allow a larger wagon to pass. The wheels ground through the snow with a crunching noise, and the two oxen snorted testily, annoyed by the cold.
“I think about a hundred soldiers with maybe half that in support personnel. Not counting the temple troops. Did not get a good look at those.”
“That does not seem too much?”
“You aren’t wrong, but from what I hear, the kingdom faces a lot of crises, and the temple troops with the mages might even the odds by quite a bit, especially against dark magic and the undead.”
“Like...us you mean?”
“Possibly. I would try to avoid a confrontation.”
A big soldier looked a the two, and his face darkened as he saw Iseret’s features. With a snort, he spat in the snow in front of them before turning to go, not without giving them a last disdainful glare.
“What’s his problem?!” Mireille took a step forward, lightning sparking around her feet and hands before her companion pulled her back.
“Nothing I’m not used to. Kronenburg is mostly fine being a bit more cosmopolitan, but even there, it’s best not to show too much scales in certain neighborhoods.” She shrugged disinterestedly.
“At least you are much more interesting, don’t look like the ass of one of those oxen and smell a lot better.”
“Thanks...I guess?” Iseret raised an eyebrow, especially when she heard the last ‘compliment’.
Soon they reached the garrison and saw the troops unloading the supplies before bringing them into the barracks building.
“Excuse me!” Mireille tapped one of the civilian workers, a cart driver by the looks of it, on the shoulder.
“What’s up, missy? Them magefolk are over there if you are looking for ‘em.” He pointed at an inn that had been vacant as far as Mireille knew.
“No. We are looking for Brecht. He sent someone to get us.”
“Mighty good job they did if they did not even tell you where to go.” The middle-aged man in a wool-lined leather coat grinned. “He’s the elder here or sumethin’?”
“Yes, you could say he is.”
“Go down to the large building over there. The officers have all gathered inside, and there was a group of important-looking townsfolk. Should be one of them, I reckon.”
“Thanks!”
“Take care.” The worker grunted as he heaved another sack of flour onto a pile, already waiting for someone to carry them inside.
Before they could enter the inn, a soldier leaning against the wall with a bored expression raised a gloved hand. “Halt! What do you think you are doing?”
“I heard Brecht is in here, and he sent someone to get us. Here we are.” Mireille looked a bit irritated by now.
“Who the fuck is that? Don’t know any Brechts around here. If you don’t have any business here, get lost.”
“We just told you.” Mireille was getting angry again.
“Could you ask if Brecht is inside? If he is, it’s most likely because your commander asked him to bring us. We did fight for this town, after all.” Iseret gave a polite smile.
“The one place I thought I’d never see snakes, the frozen north, and what do I get.” The soldier grumbled but pushed himself away from the wall before walking up to the door and rapping against it. “Hey. It’s me. Open up.”
A small window opened, and another young soldier with a scraggly beard looked outside. “What is it?”
“Is someone called Brecht inside?”
The younger man looked outside and, seeing the two women waiting outside, asked, “Are you asking for those two? What are they called?”
“How the hells should I know.”
The soldier inside the inn seemed to swallow a retort and asked Iseret, “Are you perchance Alyssa?”
“No, my name is Iseret Sekesh, and this here is Mireille Annirstochter, a student at the Academy of the Arts in Kronenburg.”
“Ah, good that you made it. Wait a second while I open the door. Brechts inside talking to the commander who asked to have you sent to him as soon as you arrive.”
With a thunk, the bar was lifted, and the door opened.
“Finally,” Mireille grumbled. With a last superior look at the soldier still standing watch outside, she entered the common room together with Iseret.
Inside was more or less controlled chaos as some officers ate, and some attendants organized the luggage.
“Follow me.” The young soldier tapped another on the shoulder. “Can you man the door for a moment, have to bring those two to the commander.”
“Alright,” A woman in her early thirties shoveled the last of an unappetizing gruel into her mouth before walking up to the door waving them on.
Down a corridor and up a flight of stairs, they soon found themselves before a sturdy door that opened after a brief exchange, and then they were ushered into a large combination of study and bedroom, possibly once the demesne of the former innkeeper.
A large well-muscled man in his late middle age with salt and pepper hair as well as an impressively bristling mustache eyed them before raising a hand in greeting.
Brecht and Isolde were also present, as well as two mages.
Escaldis Aldrnari, the fire mage, and some younger wizardess in the attire of a teacher at the academy. The woman had close-cropped hair of a brownish color, freckles, and a young-looking appearance belying her status. The robe she wore did seem a bit on the looser side. Several wands were tucked into sheaths bound to her belt.
Escaldis preempted any further greetings when he jumped up as soon as the door closed, nearly overturning the chair. “What has she done? Where is Alyssa?”
“She saved this sorry town.” Mireille retorted angrily.
“We need to have her here as soon as possible.” Escaldis frowned and stroked a bronze amulet with several inset rubies, clearly a nervous tick.
“Why?” Mireille asked heatedly before Iseret had a chance to reply.
“Do you really have to ask? If the priestess of Ielenia gets to her before we do, she might well be executed on the spot!”
The commander, who had at first tried to get a word in edgewise, now gave a long-suffering sigh. “Those are no unreasonable assumptions. She is not known for her soft-heartedness when it comes to cleansing a – in her eyes- taint.”
“And?” The fire mage asked again.
“If we bring her here. Will you protect her? And what are your plans for dealing with what she has done?” Iseret’s calm voice quieted them all down.
“I will, of course, arrest her. But she is a student of the academy and has to be tried by us, not some religious fanatics.” Escaldis answered.
The commander raised one hand and then turned it into brushing his mustache without further comment.
“Ah. I see.”
“Will you be so kind as to get her?” The wizard asked in an overly controlled tone. The politeness only a thin veneer by now.
“I think we should hurry to get her then.” Iseret grabbed Mireille’s shoulder.
“Why arrest her? She died...nearly died for this miserable piece of frozen stone. She should be thanked, not arrested!”
Iseret pushed her outside before taking a quick bow. “We will be back soon.”
Garibald, the commander, cleared his throat. “…Gregor…” He looked at the young soldier still standing outside, who seemed gratified to be remembered. “Please escort the young ladies to their destination, wherever that is, and take care to bring them and their friends back here as soon as possible.”
“Understood. Sir.”
“Good.”