Stormcallers: Chapter 28
But amidst the chaos and slaughter, what should happen? Kerrom opened his eyes. In the darkness he stood, as he felt the earth around him shake. High above him, noise, glorious noise, rained down like diamonds from above.
Now Kerrom knew the sounds of battle, and while he did not know of the Winged Saqurs nor of Teschemar’s rage, he knew no soldier would join him in the darkness. He knew he was safe from their swords and rifles.
But Kerrom did not wait. His first thoughts were of Rukiya, and how he needed to protect her.
First, he stretched, like this. There was barely enough room to move, let alone stretch, but his muscles ached to move, to push, to mold, to press themselves against the slick stone.
He had climbed trees before, as all Madrainian’s had, but their twisted trunks and rough skins were easy to climb. The straight slick walls of the pit were not so easy, but he had been strengthened through water and bread. He reached out his long limbs and pushed against the slick walls, sliding up the pit, inch by inch.
On he climbed, slipping back several times, but he did not give up. High above him, the wooden lid had broken off, revealing the red sky. The sounds grew louder until the stones themselves quivered and Kerrom slid back to the ground with a crash, scraping and bruising himself on the walls. Light burst in his skull, and he clutched at his head.
For a moment, the red was all he could see. He thought, for a moment, that the walls of the pit had vanished, to be replaced with absent void. When he looked up, the light had not vanished. Only the gap existed, a hole in space through which light and warmth was promised. Love and hate, care and pain, there were people up there!
Replacing his feet and hands on the wall, Kerrom tried again. Another shake and another slip, but this time Kerrom locked his arms and stopped his fall. He forced himself to look away from the opening above him, focusing instead on the pain in his limbs.
The light grew brighter behind his closed eyelids. The sounds grew louder. Piece by piece, the world above became his world again.
At long last, his hand gripped the edge. His heart filled with light, and with a surge of desperation, he pulled himself through the hole. With a quivering gulp, fresh air flowed into Kerrom’s lungs. Pulling with all of his might, Kerrom hoisted his weak body over the edge. He collapsed to the earth, breathing ragged, muscles aching, and free.
How he wanted to express his joy! How he wanted to laugh or cry as he rubbed his face in the fresh dirt. How he wished he could smile at his good fortune, and set free the aching in his heart!
But the grip of his people was still tight in his chest, and so his eye was drawn not to the skies, but torn earth and bloody stone. The screaming of war raged around him, as cruel as any storm. The flashes of steel and clatter of stone echoed through the air, as metallic blood filled his nostrils. Cries of pain and roars of anger vibrated in his bones. Dead bodies lay scattered. Hate. There was Hate everywhere.
Kerrom would not be found wanting. Though his arms ached and his head spun, he crawled forward on his hands and knees. When he found a festna dropped by a slain warrior, he lifted it in his trembling hands. In the distance he could see his enemy, his hated foe, the monsters who dared attack his land, his heritage, his island nation of a noble and proud people.
But what should he see when he looked up, but a band of soldiers lit from the flames behind him. Their armor was black. Their faces covered in pointed metal face-plates. About their head, a single cloth ring with leather flaps. In the firelight, their armor shone like rainbows at the edges, every movement cutting through the air and glittering like razor-sharp dew. Their swords and shields were like scythes cutting through wheat.
On the back of one, two tall hooked wings rose like flags. Feathers fluttered in the winds of battle, the metal frames shifting with the warrior’s every movement.
Through blurry eyes, he saw a fortress guard bring his hooked spear about his head and down on the shoulder of a black knight. The hook struck with a resounding ring, echoing over the roar of the flames and bloodshed, and bounced off.
Off balance, the guard released a single hand from the spear to hold up in front of his face as the black soldier swung an ebony blade through the air, carving through the guard’s iron breastplate like soft bread. The guard screamed once, and then fell to the ground, the spear clattering to the ground from limp hands. The man slain, the band of black soldiers advanced.
At this horrible sight, Kerrom knew what a true warrior of Madrain would do. He could see it all around him. He was to be brave, strong, and honorable. He was supposed to charge into battle, waving his festna above his head, and throw himself at his foe without regard for life or limb. He would surely die, but that was what the Knights of Rayan did. They did not run. They were not cowards. They were men.
He was not supposed to notice how none of the corpses that surrounded him wore black armor, nor note how the strange steel had turned aside the spear blade. He was not supposed to consider the ache in his bones, nor how the ease of his death might invigorate his foe. He was not supposed to think of the King, and the crime that had sent him to the pit.
But Kerrom was no longer merely a man, and now that he was free from the pit, he saw things in a new light, with the eyes of one who had been given back what had been lost. He knew now there were more important things in life than death.
Gripping the scavenged festna fast in his hand, he lifted the heavy blade onto his shoulders, and ran from the burning flames.
How far these fires would reach, curling into the clouds above. All the way across the cloud-sea would this smoke stretch. And oh how I wish I could say these were the last flames in the story.
But I must tell you, dearest beloved, of the fires that burned when Bishop Sindre returned to Jarhaan.
He arrived at dusk, along with half a Wing of the Herathian army, soldiers gifted him from a Yanar serving the Commander of Pikes. He did not knock at the chapel’s doors, he did not need to. Ysalla’s heart beat fast when he saw him standing with sharp eyes and firm frown in front of Friar Henrik’s downcast expression.
The Friar barely whispered his apology: “Forgive us for our humble chapel, Bishop Sindre. We had not heard of your coming, and had no time to prepare.”
“Indeed,” Bishop Sindre tapped his long staff on the stone floor, his voice echoing in the small chapel. “It is as I wished it. A great many things have reached my ears, Friar, and I thought it more important to arrive in a timely manner, than delay any longer.”
“My Bishop, I do not understand,” Friar Henrik was troubled. “The business of the Fellowship proceeds apace. The town of Jarhaan is a place of peace and prosperity in Wendsha. What news brings you to our door?”
It was here the Bishop Sindre drove his staff into the floor, with a crack that sounded like thunder. “A great many things, Friar Henrik. A great many things indeed. I have heard troubling tales of food rotting in the warehouses. Vandalism and violence against the loyal and innocent citizenry. Animals fall ill. These are the hallmarks of evil curses, and it is our duty as the Church to protect the village from such magics.”
Ysalla too had heard of vandalism and theft, though she heard not of curses and hexes, but of young boys wearing the Red Saqur, taking what they wished from those who had little enough to begin with.
The Friar was no fool. There was no greater crime for a soldier than betraying the Empire, and no greater crime for a civilian than falsely accusing such. It would serve no one for him to speak out, and so he closed his mouth.
But Blessed Ysalla, she knew in her heart that the truth could not be hid, and so she spoke: “It is the soldiers of Herathia who vandalize and steal from the citizens of Jarhaan. They laugh as they walk down the street, and shove old men and women out of their path. They spit on those who do not smile, and beat those who do not bow.”
How frightened was the Friar to hear Ysalla speak, and how angry was the Bishop that a woman should speak in his presence! In a fury, Bishop Sindre turned on Ysalla, his eyes burning bright. “You dare to accuse the soldiers of Herathia of crimes? When they have taken solemn oaths to protect the Empire and its citizens?”
Ysalla too, was no fool, and so she bowed her head. “I know I am but a foolish girl, Bishop Sindre, but I have seen the soldiers of Herathia. There are none stronger. How could they be beset by a curse, when there are none more capable of resisting? How could they be acting except in accordance with their hearts?”
Now the Bishop was trapped, and his fury fast abated. Ysalla had wrapped him in his pride, and he could not speak of a curse without speaking against Herathia.
But poor Ysalla had never dealt with a true Bishop, and so she did not expect his reply: “Poor child, you have been coddled for too long by your foolish Friar. The dark magics of the Beldamned are cruel and biting, capable of driving even the most loyal and strong-willed into acts of monstrous depravity. Even the strongest among us can fall to sin, if they are not kept vigilant by the efforts of their priest.” And here he turned to the Friar. “Have you not been vigilant?”
Friar Henrik bowed his head. “Indeed I have, Honored Bishop. I preach every day from the pulpit there, the importance of the four Holy Virtues, the Seven Graces, and warn against the three Great Vices.”
“You must do more than warn, Friar Henrik, you must condemn,” the Bishop’s voice was like steel. “I say there are Beldams in the village, and we shall not suffer them to live!”
“But Bishop,” the Friar pleaded with clasped hands, like this, “I know the name of every person in the village. I promise you, there are no Beldams here.”
Now Bishop Sindre was a cruel and evil man, and though he used the word Beldam, he was not speaking of the poor souls consumed by the storms that his backwards religion feared and denegrated. He was speaking of the people who did not follow the Fellowship, instead practicing their own faiths.
He had spoken too with the Imperial Proxy himself, and so it was with a cruel twist of his mouth that he spoke thus: “Friar Henrik, you used to live in a small farmhouse on the other side of town. Now you live here, yet you still til the soil and work the field of your old farm. Why is this, when you are given food and clothing through the taxes of your fellow citizens?”
“Sacrifice is one of the seven Graces,” Friar Henrik answered. “I til the soil so that the land might give food for those in need. Can I turn away from labor when my flock toils in the fields themselves?”
But the Bishop was not persuaded. “It is not good that you are seen to do so; the people must see the Fellowship as above earthly concerns such as food and labor. Too, if they see you gathering food, they may think you are not grateful for their sacrifice.”
This was, indeed, how the people of Orghasa thought, but Frair Henrik knew the language of the Wendshan heart, and knew that the people of Wendsha respected those who did not scorn labor, no matter their fortunes.
But it was not for this alone that the Bishop spoke thus. When he saw the Friar nod his head in submission, he turned about and strode to the doors of the chapel. With a wave of his hand, he bid the Friar and Ysalla follow.
They left the chapel, and walked across town towards the old farmhouse and barn where Friar Henrik had once lived. Ysalla was calm, while the Friar shivered in the cold most terribly.
Cruel Bishop Sindre spoke as they walked. “Who are the Basugis, Friar Henrik? You say you know every citizen of Jarhaan, you must know of the Basugis.”
“I do,” Friar Henrik said, his voice catching in his throat. “Their family has lived here for centuries. They are the Seers of an old religion, who speak to the village ancestors and other spirits of the land.”
To hear this, the Bishop sneered. “Spirits-of-the-land? I have never heard a more sinful phrase. If you know them, then you too must know that they have vanished? Their house lies empty, their fields fallow.”
“Perhaps they moved on to a village more welcoming,” Friar Henrik whispered.
“You know as well as I, Friar, that the Fellowship welcomes all, save those who are unwilling to submit themselves to the higher purpose of the church. Devotion is an act of Grace, and if one cannot devote themselves to the Empire, how can we expect them to devote themselves to the Fellowship?”
But Ysalla knew that there was no welcome for the Basugis. The Friar had sent secret word with merchants and willing messengers, and they heard the same story again and again. The Basugis were not welcome in Herathia, nor were any of the other family that hid in their barn.
At last they stopped saw at the edge of the road, the old farmhouse crouching in the darkness. Here, cruel Bishop Sindre pulled from his robes a small piece of paper. “Let me tell you a story, Friar. A young boy of Jarhaan wants to join the Herathian army. He is not old enough, of course, but the Steward of the Roads sees potential in all ages. This young boy, he sees the young nun sneaking in and out of her house late at night, when any good woman would be asleep. He sees the Friar walking back and forth from his old barn, a barn which had laid empty for months since the new church was built.”
The Friar gaped at this. “The Church has spies among the people? Spying on each other?”
“Vigilance against sin is no vice, Friar,” the Bishop waved a hand. “Besides, it is not the church which utilizes spies, but the Steward of the Roads. He finds great value in a people willing to report crimes hidden from his soldier’s view. And when the word was passed to me, what was I to do? Ignore the presence of heathens in my domain? A Friar working against his own church?”
Poor Friar Henrik, he spoke with a passion that startled Ysalla. “No, I never worked against the Fellowship!”
Cruel Bishop Sindre spun about, his staff raised high. With a crack, he sent the Friar tumbling to the ground, a trickle of blood leaking from his brow. Ysalla fell to his side, grabbing her Friar’s head and tenderly inspecting the wound. It was small, but bled freely, flowing like water down his cheek. Friar Henrik winced and groaned as the Bishop stood over them both.
With a sigh, he turned to the soldiers that surrounded them. “There is no need for this farmhouse, nor this barn. Burn them to the ground.”
On hearing this, Ysalla stood. She could not allow the death of innocent lives. “No, do not burn the barn. The Basugis, along with six other families, they are hiding there, safe from the villager’s wrath.”
Poor innocent Ysalla, she truly thought in spite of the Bishop’s cruelty, that his humanity was still true. She thought he would stop the soldiers from advancing, torches held high. Instead, what he said was this: “I know.”
As Ysalla watched, flames leapt over the barn, covering it like a blanket. Friar Henrik screamed into the night, struggling against the two guards who easily pinned his arms and forced him to watch. Ysalla watched without being forced. She couldn’t do anything else.
Her heart leapt when the barn door burst open, and Father Basugi staggered out with a young girl in his arms. The girl’s father followed soon after, only making it a few steps before collapsing into the grass. Then another body burst from the barn, but she could not see who it was.
Not another soul left the burning building.
Finally, when the embers glowed orange in the darkness, the Bishop spoke, his throat dry: “There is no innocence in heresy. If they chose to burn, as they chose their heresy, their blood is not on our hands.”
Ysalla could not tear her gaze away from the smoldering barn, not to strike at the Bishop, nor to comfort the Friar. Had Mother Basugi been trapped by the flames? Had the others decided not to flee into the guards’ waiting arms? Did they believe burning to death was cleaner and safer than what awaited them in the arms of the Fellowship? We can never know for sure.
The guards, once tall and proud in their polished uniforms, now stood uneasily, looking at each other for some clue, some hint on how to feel. Were they murderers? Had they made a mistake? Or did the heretical family get exactly what they deserved? None of them knew for sure, and they were desperately searching each other’s faces, begging for someone to tell them who they were.
The Bishop provided no answers. Instead he turned to Friar Henrik and drew himself up tall, his eyes firm. “Friar Henrik, I am disappointed in you. I will not command you to profess your diligence for you have obviously forgotten the importance of its most holy virtue. Yet, I know you are a good man, Friar Henrik. You see the good in everyone and everything. Sadly, the truth is that sometimes evil is too great to be brushed under the rug. It must be cut out. Burned away and cauterized, lest the spores spread further. These heathens serve only to divide. When a Herathian hears these chants, or sees these shrines, they can only think ‘who are these people who are not like me.’ This is a threat to the unity and holy purpose of the Fellowship. Their very existence is an attack us, and the fellowship we seek to build. This is a sin that requires punishment; The harvest of all sin.”
Friar Henrik did not answer as the Bishop turned to Ysalla. “You girl must know that speaking out of turn is unacceptable for a woman of the Fellowship, but you spoke the truth and guided our soldiers hands towards the heretic. This is not uncommendable, and may indeed show a margin of hope for you yet, Friar, if your teachings did not poison the girl entirely. Now, girl, you must learn the true Fellowship of the Light to be ordained as a Nun in our holy order. I will leave this town tomorrow, and you will come with me to the Cathedral of Everlight outside the Free City of Imbari. There, I will give you a proper education in the Fellowship of the Light.” Now he paused, giving her the opportunity to thank him for his grace.
Poor Ysalla, she did not want to thank him. She did not want to be taught by him, as Friar Henrik and she had been vinyariru, and taught each other much. She knew the Fellowship itself was greater than either of them. She knew the professions. She knew the creed, the book, and the faith. She believed them with all her heart.
But the Bishop’s words had been clear. If she showed Devotion to her Bishop, the Friar might be spared. Devotion was one of the seven acts of grace: Blessed are those who see the worthiness of those other than themselves. Honor thy oaths of fealty, devote yourself to one who is greater, whether a king or a church or a people, and watch as your devotions are rewarded tenfold.
She would not run, she would not step back from the Bishop’s commands. She had sworn to Friar Henrik to follow the path of the Fellowship, wherever it led. She would not disrespect him, nor his faith. So, instead of speaking, lest she do so out of turn, she curtsied once more.
When she looked up again, Friar Henrik’s tears stained the earth.