We saw the smoke before we came within sight of the village. I thought at first we just saw the vapors of chimneys, the signs of a community warming itself in the depths of winter.
The truth became clearer the closer we got. Billensbrooke burned.
“Bandits?” Emma asked. She’d been quiet for a long time, watching the black coils drifting lazily over the hills. “Or…”
She didn’t need to say it. If not a band of thieves, there weren’t many other options. Isolated conflicts periodically broke out between feudal lords, or even the armies of High Houses, and had since there’d been any humans in Urn. The Accord had been formed to put a stop to that sort of thing, with mixed success at best. Other than that…
We were far from any Recusant holdouts. Even still, I loosened the ropes binding my axe’s cover. “Keep close,” I told my apprentice. “We’ll see what we can, then decide.”
We crested the last of the forested hills embracing the lowlands, and got our first good look at the wreckage below. Billensbrooke had been a peaceful, idyllic community, one I’d seen in passing on a few occasions. Isolated from any major tradeways or realm roads, it didn’t have any conveniences like an inn or well-stocked shops. Mostly farms, orchards, home grown wines.
It had been a quiet place, a good place. Now…
Now I only saw ruin. No building, from the tallest house to the humblest cottage, had been spared the flame. They’d burned the orchards too, and the vineyards. Some of the flames had spread to the scattered woods nearby, leaving vast stretches of smoking waste.
“Rotting Moons,” Emma swore. “What happened here, a war?”
I shook my head. “Don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
I turned to face her and lifted a finger. “Stay here.”
She started to protest, but I cut her off with a hard look.
“Stay. I’ve no idea what I’m going to find down there, and whoever did this might still be around.”
“All the more reason for me to come with!” Emma insisted. She pressed a hand to her chest, stepping forward to give what she said next more weight. “I am no damsel, Alken. You agreed to teach me how to fight, how to be a knight. Will you force me to act like a craven now, when danger is at hand?” Her amber eyes flashed. “I can handle myself.”
We glared at one another for a time, two immovable objects at odds, neither willing to give ground. I wanted to command her to stay. I knew she would, if I put my foot down — she took the squire thing very seriously, and had sworn an oath to obey me. I could call on that oath now, and she’d stay out of danger.
However, I knew she was right. Besides, if there were still bandits or worse down in those fields, her Art would be invaluable. Though my magic had more versatility, Emma’s power was especially adept at dealing with groups of enemies, effectively leveling the playing field when outnumbered.
For that, and because I had a measure of respect for her resolve, I nodded. “Fine. Stick close, obey my orders.”
She nodded, lips pressed into a firm line. Despite her conviction, she did feel some fear. She’d only been in a real battle once, and it had been a disaster.
I’d just have to hope there wasn’t another Scorchknight down in those fields. The scene looked uncomfortably familiar already.
We descended down into the village. The extent of the damage became more clear the closer we got — this community had been ruined. Even if there were survivors, they would have to start from scratch. I saw a few agrichimera wandering wild through the fields, free of their pens and shepherds, but no people. Much of the settlement consisted of satellite farmsteads spread across the cultivated lands beyond the village proper, and each had been put to the torch. Lean beasts with many curling horns and bright, unblinking eyes watched us from the fields. None approached, or startled — all going still like statues, half-obscured by curling bands of smoke from the scattered wreckage.
Whatever had happened here, it had happened recently. Too recently for all the animals to go Woed. Even still, I tightened my grip on my axe, feeling my heart quicken.
Then, before we’d reached the settlement proper, Emma paused. “What is that?” She asked.
I followed her gaze, and sighed. “That is our culprit.”
Above the collapsed buildings rose a pale, shimmering thing. It seemed fashioned of nearly white-gold light, nearly invisible in the bright winter sun. Squinting, I could make out its shape — it seemed a long line, like a pole, stretching a hundred feet or more into the air. At the top, the pole split into a complex arrangement of sharp points.
Emma’s next words came out strained, almost horrified. “That’s an auremark, isn’t it?”
I felt the lines of my face harden as I began to understand what must have happened here. “It is,” I said, letting out a breath that misted in the frozen air. The Holy Auremark, the symbol of the Heir of Heaven and Her priesthood, came in many varieties. It usually always formed the same shape — a number of lines, usually three, rising up into a single arrow-point to pierce a rising arc.
It had many different variations, with many different subtle meanings and uses. The Church had many factions and sects, most of them holdovers from the collective of institutions it had formed from. The number of lines could change, or their exact positioning in the arrangement, or even just the extent of their curve. I inspected the shining beam in the sky above Billensbrooke, making certain I’d guessed correctly before I said anything more.
The auremark in the sky above the burned village had six core lines, including the central one, the “pillar,” and the arc. The zenith of each split into barb-like points. The arrow formed by their convergence jutted out of the arc less dramatically than was typical, the “wing-tips” on the sides spreading further and curving up at the ends, almost resembling a trident.
I knew the symbol, though I hadn’t seen it since…
My mind flashed with a gruesome memory. A red-robed bishop in a storm-sieged city, crawling over the floor to reach an aged hand toward his fallen circlet. My axe coming down. A choir boy staring at the scene in horror. Flight. More death.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Before he’d been the Bishop of Vinhithe, Leonis Chancer had instigated and led a brutal witch hunt in the subcontinent’s western regions. He’d prosecuted untrained adepts, hedge mages, mediums, even more insular sects of his own faith. With the war on at the time, he’d gotten away with it despite not being officially sanctioned by the priesthood at large. I’d always wondered how he’d managed to gain so much support, and risen so high in the theocracy afterward.
“Alken?” Emma drew my attention. I’d been quiet a while, lost in thought.
I nodded to the rune of light hanging in the sky. “That’s the mark of the Inquisition.”
Emma frowned deeply, her eyes going distant as she absorbed that. “The… but there hasn’t been an Inquisition for more than a century. The Church disavowed them.”
“After Lyda’s Plague, yes.” I folded one arm under my cloak, letting the other rest on the head of my axe as I propped it in the snow. “Seems like they might be back.”
Officially restored, or some violent new sect taking matters into its own hands? I’d heard rumors of the Faith — riled up commonfolk and zealous lords as often as any actual clergy — getting more draconian in recent years. Having an outbreak of demonic corruption, apostate warlords, and dark magickers will do that. Even then, I didn't know much about the old Inquisition. Their story got wrapped up in the sea of intrigue and bloodshed that dominated the land when they'd been most active. A black stain on the Church's reputation, true, but one inky smudge on a tarnished canvas hardly stood out.
Just going by the actions of Leonis Chancer, I didn't much like the idea of an entire organization of his ilk. I had believed killing him might put a stop to that potential future. Otherwise, what was the point?
“This is far too close to the Fane,” I muttered, trying to move my mind away from brooding.
“Are Oraeka and the others in danger?” Emma asked, worried. She’d gotten close to the misfit inhabitants of the hidden sanctuary since her arrival. They’d been kind to her, in their way, welcoming her after House Hunting had left her in the wind.
“I doubt it,” I said. “You could lose an army in that forest. Even still…” I blew out a frosting breath. “I need more information.” Nodding toward the village, I pressed forward.
“Iron Hells,” Emma breathed as we passed into the main street. “They even burned the church.”
They had. The stone building, once the tallest structure in Billensbrooke, now lay a soot-blackened ruin. Its proud bell tower had collapsed, smearing the street with rubble. The beam of aura left behind by the inquisitors rose over the wrecked chapel, where its central tower would have once stood.
I saw no sign of any people. Not even corpses left on display — just empty ruin, silence, and snow. Whatever had happened, it had been recent. The snow hadn’t yet buried everything in white. As I approached the chapel, I startled a hearthound. It bounded off into the fields, its twin tails brightly red amid all the white. Cairnhawks fluttered about, clacking their serrated beaks in croaking agitation, though only a few. No doubt they felt more than a little disappointed at the lack of a usual feast to go with a blasted settlement.
Emma watched the big scarlet birds with an uncomfortable expression. Noticing this I said, “there aren’t enough of them to be brave enough to attack us.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that, it’s…” she sighed. “They were my house’s symbol.”
I fell silent at that. My apprentice and I were both haunted, in our own ways.
We passed by the well as we approached the destroyed church. I caught a foul smell from it.
“Why would—” Emma began, placing an arm over her nose.
“They didn’t want anyone resettling,” I said, keeping my eyes forward. “I’ll bet they salted the fields, too.”
She had no more questions after that.
We reached the church. I climbed the rubble until I reached the incorporeal auremark, waving Emma back. I studied it, running my eyes over the transparent light that made up the banner. It wasn’t anything terribly unusual — many armies use Art to craft their war banners, raising ghostly signs in the air to lift the spirit of friends and quell the courage of enemies. It’s a status symbol, to have an adept skilled enough to craft such a thing.
You can also hide more dangerous kinds of magic in them, placing them on castle ramparts or the like to give an attacker a nasty surprise. For that reason in particular, I was very cautious as I inspected the phantasm. I reached out a hand, keeping my fingers a hair’s breadth from actually touching the thing. I could feel Emma’s eyes on me, but she’d learned a while back not to interrupt when I did anything arcane — as a sorceress herself, she knew the dangers of breaking my concentration.
After a while I let go of the breath I’d been holding. “It’s safe,” I said over my shoulder. “Come take a look.”
Emma had an odd look on her face, her eyes unfocused. She shook herself out of whatever reverie she’d been in at the sound of my voice and climbed the rubble, stopping when she stood at my side.
I stepped back and nodded to the pillar. “Tell me what you sense.”
No point in wasting a practical lesson. Emma frowned and stepped closer, cautiously reaching out a hand just as I had. She kept that pose a while, her eyes going distant. A while longer, and a dull red glow crept into the amber of her eyes as she began to draw on her own magic, just as the gold in mine had no doubt brightened when I’d done the same.
“It feels…” Emma shivered. “Sharp. Like something covered in little barbs. It… they feel very angry.”
“Good,” I said, nodding in approval. “You’re getting a sense for the adept who put this up. Aura is the emanation of the soul — this banner is a piece of the adept’s own essence, fashioned into a shape they gestated in themselves before conjuring it. You can choose the form, but something of your innermost being is always in your Art. Hard to hide your true self when you do magic on this level.”
Besides Nath’s infrequent tutelage, Emma had never received a full education on sorcery, either in its practical or metaphysical aspects. I was no priest or wizard, but I did my best to pass on what I knew.
Emma’s expression darkened. “Like my spikes.”
“Those have as much of your ancestors in them as you,” I told her. “Blood Art gets all sorts of things mixed in — don’t go thinking it defines you.”
She took in a steadying breath, casting me a grateful look.
“What else can you tell me?” I asked.
My squire’s brow furrowed. “Whoever they are, they’re damn skilled. This thing is a lot more complex than it looks at first glance.”
“I bet it’ll last a long time,” I noted, staring up at the auremark high above us. “That’s hard to do, putting up something this solid for more than a few moments.“
“Fucking hypocrites,” Emma snarled, with surprising heat. “They burn people out of their homes for practicing magic, but they have their own sorcerers.”
“We don’t know why they were here,” I said, though I had a guess. “Far as I know, the old Inquisition cared more about ideology than auratic practice.” I closed my eyes, frowning in thought, then shook my head. “Let’s look around some more.”
For two hours we searched, but found nothing but scavengers. The empty silence unsettled me, more than I felt willing to let on in front of my disciple. What had happened here? Had the Church taken everyone with them? Were the attackers even connected to the Church? Had the inhabitants simply gone elsewhere, with the land itself spoiled?
Too many unanswered questions, and the destruction only gave me a sense of foreboding in return for them.
“Something terrible happened here,” Emma said suddenly, after we’d checked the last empty farmstead. Her eyes were fixed on the far distance, unfocused, her lips pressed together.
I knew she was right. I felt it.
“We could ask the Dead?” Emma suggested.
I grunted. I’d taught her how to commune with the spirits of the Underworld, but I avoided doing it unless in desperate need. I still remembered the last time I’d tried. Too many of the Dead didn’t like me much, probably because I’d put plenty of them in their grave in the first place.
“For now,” I sighed, “let’s return to the Fane. I want to warn the others, maybe have Oraeka check on some of the other settlements in the region.”
Emma nodded, accepting this. She didn’t look any more eager than I did to remain in that too-quiet place. “And then?”
“Then…” I rested my axe on my shoulder, turning to face the north. “Then, I’m going to talk to someone I know will have answers.”
Trick was, I also knew I’d have to pay for those answers.