Ezril had been silent from the moment Urden had registered him at the city’s gate. He had signed their exit from the city and submitted adoption papers gotten from nowhere. The guards watched Ezril and Urden warily. There was no one in city who didn’t know he was Teneri’s child, or at least was supposed to be. But seeing as Teneri’s signature was also on the paper and Ezril was following willingly, no one opposed.

Even if these had not been the case, the result would’ve still been the same. It wasn’t uncommon for a priest to walk into a city alone and walk out with a child in tow.

True to aunt Teneri’s words the moment they were out of the gate, Urden embodied the concept of priests in the rumors. He became so quiet that if he was a deity, silence would have made an alter to him as the Tainted did to their false gods.

They walked for more than a mile, legs carrying them for over thirty minutes before Urden guided them into a forest. There, they came to a halt in front of a tree. Beside it a terrifying horse stood tied to it by its reins. It was saddled and a pair of twin short-swords dangled from one end of the saddle. There were also two full sacks attached to the saddles but the swords stood out more. Their scabbards were wide and short with a very slight curve.

Ezril had seen horses but had never had the honor—or more aptly put, terror—of seeing one belonging to a priest. Unlike horses bred for transportation, the kingdom had horses bred for war. War horses were said to be terrifying and rash, controlled yet confident in violence. Priest horses, however, were a different case.

Ezril had seen a war horse once upon a time when the hero, Aemond, had passed by on his trip north. All in the city had gathered to see him pass with his soldiers in parade. What Ezril had gleamed from the sight was that war horses were terrifying.

Standing before his first priest horse, he understood just how wrong he had been about the meaning of terror. Aemond’s war horse had been large and muscled but Urden’s was larger. It had way too many muscles and stood too domineering even as calm as it was and Ezril squirmed under its gaze. If he was to describe it in a single word, he knew what word it would be.

Unholy.

They mounted the beast—because that was what it was—and rode through the forest in a canter. Ezril sat uncomfortably, having never ridden a horse before, and Urden sat behind him. When they were well within the forest and away from any possible prying eyes, Urden slowed the horse’s pace and Ezril began his steady flow of questions leaving a significant period of silence before the next as he hoped to bring back the smiling man he’d seen laughing and conversing with Teneri. Urden answered none.

He asked of what the seminary was like. He asked of how far it was. Was the capital city where it stood large? Where there nice priests? What would he learn? Would they be allowed friends?

Urden was silent to all.

Eventually, Ezril asked one that caught the priest’s attention.

“… How do you know aunt Teneri?”

This time the question had come timidly. It was the way a child asked a question that worried him enough to take a risk.

“Through your father,” Urden answered, Ezril swaying on his place in front of him with each step the horse took.

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“You knew my father?” Ezril asked, surprised.

Whatever answer existed to the question was one Urden seemed unwilling to give. He kept his silence as the dead keep their secrets and they rode on.

……………………………….

Urden took a moment to inhale the forest air. It was rich with the smell of dirt and wood and life. It was the way Vayla intended it to be, not the way the cities made theirs.

He looked down at Ezril. His short black hair was matted to the top of his head. It was a sharp contrast to Urden’s long white which he kept from his face by knotting a few strands from the side at the back. He found his hands scratching at the stubbles that spanned his jaw, realizing he’d forgotten to shave. In a few weeks he’d be sporting full grown beards. It gave him an air of authority but he never could get himself to like them. After a moment, he stared at the black of the boy’s hair with mild envy. All in due time, he thought, knowing that it would not always be black. All in due time.

They rode, Dainty, his horse, a while longer in silence and Urden frowned when the scar across his nose began to itch. To everyone it was a scar, to his skin it was a blemish. But to him it served as a reminder that even among friends, one must always sleep with one eye open. After all, he’d gotten it among friends.

He’d laid amongst friends in the cold nights that Nornavoth to the northern peaks was known for. Exhausted from the day’s travels, he had subjected himself to the authority sleep carried with it. He had no knowledge of what had awoken him from his slumber that night but it had helped him escape a knife’s edge with only a scar. That scar now ran from the bridge of his nose to end just beneath his left eye. The other man, the wielder of the blade, he had gutted for good measures. Sometimes Urden wondered if people feared him more for the scar than the cassock. It was ludicrous because all priests had scars, and to find one without a scar was to find a ground without a speck of sand. Considered, most of them did their best to keep their scars from their faces.

Urden’s scar itched again. It was something it only did when trouble was brewing. So he slowed Dainty to a halt and took stock of his surroundings. Trees and the wind were his only audience. But the nin in the air disagreed. He had guests and he counted as high as eight.

“Do endeavor to learn something,” he instructed Ezril before dismounting.

The wind blew and the branches on the trees shook. With them, the leaves rustled. Urden basked once more in the vivid presence of the world around him. Vayla in all her beauty. He stopped himself from getting lost in it and pulled his twin sunders, weapons forged from tenstil ore in the heart of shadow fire, free of their scabbards. They offered a deadly hiss when they came free. It was a sound that always brought with them a wrong sense of peace.

His assailants stepped out from behind the trees a short moment after. They were professionals, it seemed. Urden liked professionals. Professionals always seemed to understand when there was no point to hiding other than the passage of time.

Only a single woman existed amongst the eight of them. Each one stood, bearing a tattoo of a snake on their neck in blue ink. It marked them as members of the infamous Venin guild. In the eyes of the public, they were a merchant guild with their hands in everything. Away from the public eyes they played monsters in the shadows. They were the evil that stood at the apex of everything deemed illegal. Since they kept crime organized to an extent, the kingdom felt their continued existence was a necessary evil. They were also known across the underworld for their skills; skills Urden once had the honor of experiencing before.

More than last time, he observed. But they underestimate me. Do they think the bounty on my head an exaggeration?

Urden twirled his sunders, letting their hilts roll over his hand before falling back into place. To his assailants, he said, “Shall we begin?”

……………………………………..................

It is said that to survive a brother of the seminary, five Hallowed men are required to stand before the sixth. It is also said that to survive a priest of Truth, six Hallowed men needed to stand beside the Tainted of the same number while a single one watched from a considerable distance, exempt from the battle. The last would be the survivor. These survivors are how the feared tales of priests are told; these and those who come to witness the horror.

However, when considering the potential of winning a fight against a priest with the help of numbers… Don’t.

For Urden Sorda, the Venin guild had sent eight.