The Death-Marked Pilgrim

Book two of The Rainmaker Writings, the post-apocalyptic novel series from Ryan Law

★★★★★ | Goodreads

Chapter One

Read the first chapter of The Death-Marked Pilgrim in its entirety.

Cirdan murmured in his sleep again, words soft and quiet, pitched just beyond the reach of Halvar’s hearing. Though the sounds slurred together, indistinct, he gleaned their meaning nonetheless: the tall, broad-shouldered hunter was weathering another barrage of nightmares. Halvar’s heart wept with every muttered syllable.The scene before him had grown familiar, the same subtle tragedy playing out, night over endless night. Brenna was the first to rise, waking silently and departing without a word, setting out to hunt in the cold mists of pre-dawn. Halvar would stoke the fire regardless of the weather outside, tiptoeing from log pile to fireplace as required, adding a fresh log to the blaze and stacking together any spare kindling in a pile beside the hearth. He would draw water from the cabin’s rain butt and set it to boil in the battered metal pot they used for all of their cooking, cleaning and water preparation. With luck, the boiled water would have cooled by the time Cirdan awoke, and Halvar could press a mug into the man’s grasping hands.Some days, Cirdan would awake lucid, calm, even refreshed. He would lever himself to a seated position, stretching as he did, with his back propped up against the spruce panelling of the cabin’s rear wall. He would crack a joke, greet his friend, or simply sit in quiet beatitude and sip the freshly boiled water. On other days, he would be shaken from sleep by the wracked, fitful shudders of a body burning with fever, clutching the furs tightly around him, cold, desperately cold, but drenched in sweat nonetheless. He would be confused and frightened, incapable of voicing the terrors that had haunted his dreams for fear of conjuring them into reality. Some days, these conjurations happened without encouragement as fevered hallucinations slipped the shackles of sleep. Cirdan would rave and moan and weep until Halvar and Brenna, now returned from her hunt, could force a mouthful of cold willow bark tea into the man’s mouth and speak soft, firm words of reassurance.Those reassurances were growing harder and harder to make as the days of fever and fear became more common. Cirdan was, it seemed, desperately ill.“He sleeps still. Good. He seemed more restful during the night.”The cabin door had creaked open a moment ago as Brenna slipped back into their single-roomed hideaway. She carried with her a large plastic bucket, ancient and weather-worn, stained green from years of immersion in silted riverbeds. The weight of the bucket pulled her to one side, and as she lowered it to the floor, the sound of sloshing water came from within.“I feel like a fretful parent, grateful that he’s slept through the night without shouting or weeping.” Halvar drew closer to Brenna and lowered his voice further still. “He’s still talking in his sleep. I don’t think he’s healing. We should try to look at his shoulder again to see if the clotting has improved. If he’ll let us.”“He’ll have to. He’d insist the same for either of us.”Halvar stooped to pick up the bucket, and as he did, the fish contained within began to rail against captivity, thrashing the water around and drumming its tail into the bucket’s resonant plastic. Halvar hoisted the bucket to waist height and wrapped his arms around it, attempting to smother the noise as he moved towards the door, but it was too late. With a gasp, Cirdan sat bolt upright and launched into a coughing fit. Brenna moved to the hearth and poured a cupful of the now-cooled water, leaning across the pile of furs to hand it to Cirdan.It took a long moment for Cirdan to process the gesture and reach for the cup, coughing and spluttering all the while. Finally, he wrapped both hands around the vessel and chugged it down, water spilling from his mouth as he did. A shaking hand offered the cup back to Brenna, and when he spoke, his voice was ragged and cracked.“More. More, please.” He lifted an arm to his mouth and wiped the water from his beard. He coughed again, a great rattling wheeze, and for a moment seemed to struggle even to draw breath, panting as he spoke. “The heat... this place swelters. The door, please, Halvar. Let some air in here.”“You were cold last night, so we heaped more furs upon you and stoked the fire this morning. Are you feeling any better?”“Hard to tell. I can feel only heat. Like waking in the heart of a smithy.”Brenna put a second cup of water in the man’s hands before crouching beside him and placing a palm upon his forehead. “The heat comes from within. You’re still fevered.”“Aye, as though the cascade of sweat pouring from me wasn’t enough to confirm the matter.” He drained the second cup and let it fall into the pile of furs heaped upon his lap. “I can’t stand this a moment longer. Help me up, both of you, and let me go outside. I need a piss and a wash, in that order.” Cirdan laboured out from beneath the bedding, and without waiting for Brenna or Halvar to help, wobbled upright onto unsteady legs. The man glowed with fever, his complexion ruddy and glistening, the long side of his hair plastered against his forehead and cheek. He wore only loose trousers, dark with sweat, and a criss-cross of sodden bandages spanning his torso, cut from a spare tunic they’d salvaged from the ruins of Shelter. The other bandages, changed and washed daily, hung from a sapling outside, drying in the river’s breeze.He staggered for the open door and leant his weight against the doorframe, looking out to the sheltered clearing beyond. “The air smells so fresh.” He gestured his head back into the cabin. “This place reeks of sweat and bile and bad dreams. I’m amazed you can stomach being in the same room.” He coughed again. “It seems I have the rank stench of death about me.”“Not at all,” Halvar replied. “Just fever, just as you recover. The heat burns away the illness, sweats it out.”Halvar put an arm around Cirdan’s shoulder, a gesture that felt altogether wrong, like a son comforting his father, the apprentice teaching the master. Cirdan transferred his weight to Halvar, and together they hobbled out into the clearing.As intended, they had seen no living soul since their arrival at the abandoned hunting lodge a dozen days earlier. Indeed, Halvar suspected that there were only three people alive that knew its location, and all three were safely ensconced in the protective palisade offered by the willows and pines, spruce and beech that stood like sentinels around the clearing’s perimeter.It was a short walk from the cabin to the river, where the small cove—and the huge motorised barge, stolen from the Priests—was hidden by the thick, heavy fronds of two ancient willows. It was here that Cirdan directed Halvar, stopping every twenty paces to catch his breath. Behind them, the sounds of food preparation rang out, the clattering of pans and the thud of knife upon chopping block, painting a picture in Halvar’s mind of Brenna scaling and preparing the fish, setting it to fry in the pan with a pinch of lard, perhaps even dipping into their store of potato cakes, thin flatbreads made from boiled potato bound with fat.At the river’s edge, Cirdan half-collapsed into a seated position, dangled his feet in the water and threw his head back. His eyes were closed as he spoke. “It feels worse. It feels worse than the damned day it happened. It wakes me, every half a bell or sooner, without fail. It oozes and bleeds and burns, burns more than I could imagine.”“Let me take a look.”“Aye, I suppose you’ll have to. And help me wash, for that matter, like an invalid. In constant pain and robbed of my dignity to boot.”Halvar began to unwrap the dressing, gently peeling the fabric away from the skin, blood and sweat sticking the cloth to the man’s torso. “I wasn’t aware you had any dignity to begin with.”That earned a smirk from Cirdan, just visible as he stared out over the burbling waters. “These dreams,” the bearded hunter said, his voice almost as distant as his gaze, “they trouble me still. Dreams of Shelter.”“I have nightmares too. The Priests. Searching the rubble. And that damned pyre.”“That’s the thing, lad—they’re not nightmares. They’re dreams of warmth and safety. Of hot soups and cold spirit. Roasted meats and salted greens, and a table full of friends to share in them. A tapestry of love and warmth. And through it all, the constant thread that binds the tableau together—that sense of security that came from setting foot over the threshold of that place. That sense of belonging, when I’d never belonged before. I hadn’t realised how soft I’d become. How much I needed it.” He lowered his head and stared into the water.At that moment, Halvar saw Cirdan in a way he never had before. The man’s single-minded drive for retribution had kept them alive in the days following Shelter’s destruction, but he now realised that Cirdan nurtured his resentment, kindled his rage from a smouldering ember into a roaring blaze, not for some brutish desire to instil suffering or right some brutal, unfair wrong—simply to keep the fire within himself alight, in any form.“The time before Shelter was dark, in every possible sense of the word. There was more good within those stone walls than I realised.”Halvar had stood unmoving, half-unwrapped bandage in hand, as Cirdan spoke. He now unravelled the last of material, save for the section stuck firmly to the bloody wound in the man’s shoulder. He leant closer and began to free the fabric, slowly but firmly. Cirdan grunted in pain as he did, digging the hand of his uninjured arm into the grass by his side.Pain from the injury had nearly immobilised Cirdan’s upper body, limiting the movement of his arm and neck. “I have my suspicions, lad, but tell me—how does it look?”The wound festered. After the first cleaning, all three of the hunters had been surprised by how small the injury seemed to be, a circular hole, barely the size of an acorn, plugged with a welt of congealed blood. Far too small, it seemed, for the impact that had knocked Cirdan from his feet. And now, the mark defied expectation yet again.“It hasn’t healed yet,” Halvar said.“From the little I can see, the skin around it is red. Fevered, it feels like.”Cirdan was correct—half his torso glowed red, hot to the touch. The ugly, inflamed colour of the man’s skin was reason enough for alarm, but Halvar’s gaze lingered on the wound itself. A spiders’ web of dark crimson lines radiated outward from the wound, in places almost jet black. It was the colour of rot.“I dislike the look in your eyes.”“We’ll make a poultice.”“I sense the time for a poultice has passed. How bad is it? Truly?”Halvar spoke the words but heard them as though from another person’s mouth. “The worst I’ve seen.”“Well,” Cirdan replied. He seemed to weigh his words a moment before knocking a clod of mud into the water with his good arm. The impact sent ripples splashing through the water, churning the silt beneath. “Let it never be said I dealt in half-measures.”---Cirdan sat the empty plate down onto the floor before him. He’d laboured over the meal, a modest portion of flaky, oily fishy and thin potato scones, for nearly twice as long as Brenna and Halvar had taken with their meals. He now glowed with sweat, a glossy sheen coating pallid skin. He seemed close to vomiting but hadn’t whispered a word of struggle or dissent—he’d simply soldiered through the meal in stoic, determined silence until the clang of the metal plate on the wooden floor rang like a chime of relief through the cabin.Halvar sat crossed-legged on the floor opposite Cirdan, cushioned from the worn timbers of the cabin’s floor by his bedroll. It had seen better days—many of the seams had split, seen repair by Halvar’s amateur hand and dwindling stock of thread, and had begun to fray for a second time. The Priest’s book, an inscrutable treatise on the arcane topic of chemistry, sat open upon his lap. He thumbed delicately through the pages.“You’re sure there’s nothing that might help in that book of yours? Nothing amidst its stock of recipes?” Brenna asked.“As sure as I can be. As Kiara said—they aren’t recipes in the sense of the word we’re familiar with. Nothing in there like a healing cure, at least as far as I can tell.” He turned the page again. A sprawling web of six-sided shapes covered one half of the paper. It meant nothing to him, and his rudimentary understanding of the accompanying text did little to help decipher its meaning. “I wish my reading were better. I can usually make out most of the words and fill in the gaps through context. But this is like nothing I’ve seen before. I understand barely one word in every ten.”“Even if there were some kind of miraculous potion or ointment or poultice within the pages of that cursed tome, I wouldn’t want it within a dozen spans of me,” Cirdan said. “We’ve evidence enough that the Priests are not healers.”“You’d reject it? Even if the alternative meant death?” Brenna asked quietly.“We’ve seen what comes of toying with the unnatural. I’d rather live by nature’s hand, or else die by it.”For once, Halvar thought, Cirdan sounded unsure of himself.Halvar turned the page again, scanning the book for the dozenth time since they’d arrived at the hunting lodge. On this page, he found hand-written notes, neatly injected into the page’s margin, and an extra sheaf of paper wedged into the spine. Despite the spidery script, these were more legible and seemed to function as a translation of the book’s contents. A bolded phrase—Halvar sounded it out, cal-ci-um car-bon-ate, without gleaning any meaning from the words he formed—had been circled by hand, and an arrow drawn across to the sheaf of paper. These notes used clearer language and seemed to form a simple set of instructions:Lime. Shells, ideally oyster (snail, egg also possible) → 4:1 acid, dissolve. Neutralise, filter. Work into soil. Optimal ratio to be determined.Halvar slammed the book in frustration. He’d never before encountered so many legible words that seemed to offer so little in the way of meaning.“I need to clear my head.” He stood and stepped between Brenna and Cirdan to retrieve his surcoat from its peg on the cabin wall before setting out into the woods.

The evening had drawn in around them, and the rain was lashing down. The setting sun left the barest smudge of colour in the sky above the clearing, a dilute crimson already losing its battle with the muted palette of night. Instead of heading to the river bank, Halvar circled around the cabin and strode into the forest.This was ancient woodland by any measure, a canvas of twisted, gnarled boughs jutting from an ocean of soft, pillowed moss. He saw none of the slender saplings and young, smothering growth that clung to the hillsides and valleys like mould—there was balance and stability and peace in this place, a measured ecosystem that had found equilibrium many seasons past.He wondered idly whether the whole world would one day look like this, when the plant and animal life of these new forests had suffered through the long years of civil war required to achieve a stalemate. He turned to take in the tiny cabin behind him, just visible through the trees, and realised how fragile their imposition upon this ancient place really was.His mind raced, drowning in questions that had no answer. Cirdan was his greatest fear: he knew, deep in his gut, that he was dying. They could not heal him here, in this place. But where else could they go? His ability to solve the problem was hampered by the incessant monologue that ran alongside his worry, like a network of treacherous, interlacing currents hidden deep beneath the clear, fast-flowing waters of his mind. Each time he tried to focus on the challenge at hand, he found his thoughts clouded by emotion, by fear and anger, and... loneliness. Stray from the centre of the river for the shortest moment, and you’d find yourself snatched by the current and dragged away forever. Lost.Shelter was gone; they were three lonely hunters set adrift. The Green Priests would kill them on sight, and every settlement within a week’s travel was likely to play host to its own cohort of Priests and acolytes. The Priests had infiltrated everywhere, a parasitic creature that had wormed its way into civilisation’s beating heart with their gifts and promises. How long before they turned upon their hosts, destroyed them as they had Shelter?No, this was all too much for Halvar to take. A lifetime of simple worries, his horizon never extending further than the next hunt, the next meal, the next chance flirtation. He wanted to laugh at the naivety of all that had come before in his life.He bludgeoned the tree trunk with his fist. The shock jarred his body as pain shot through the nerves of his hand. He hit it again, thudding into the wood, and again, and again, picking up momentum with every thundering blow, until the pain had blurred together into a single overwhelming tide, blotting out every worry and thought and fear.He jumped when a hand touched his back. He turned.Brenna stood before him, a shadow in the twilight. Her damp hair hung loosely around her shoulders, framing the pale skin of her face. The deep shadows of the forest accentuated her scar and unseated something inside of him. Love began to wash over him, pure, unspeakable, love for Brenna and Cirdan, and for Kiara and Carr, for his guildmates, for his friends and family. The tap had been turned, the bottle unstoppered.Halvar lifted his arm to wipe the tears from his face, streaking blood across his cheek and chin as he did. “I can’t—” he began, but Brenna stopped him with a raised hand.“Don’t. Not even for a moment. Don’t let it in. It will destroy you, and then it will destroy us.”He lowered his head and choked back tears. Brenna’s bluntness and lack of empathy cut him, bathing him in shame at his outburst. She seemed to notice the change.“We can’t afford it,” she continued. “We can’t let the grief in, not one of us. Despair will kill him, as sure as any rot.”Halvar glanced up at her and saw her own emotions warring in her expression. That resolve, that fierce, unrelenting determination—but also sadness, her grief, raw and bloodied. She was right. She was right.“Where can we take him?” Halvar managed at last.“We have to travel to one of the settlements. He needs more than we can offer. He needs a healer, a true healer. It’s a risk, a huge one... but we’ve no other path left to us.”“There’s only one place open to us, somewhere big enough and close enough to give us a chance. Cairn.”An owl called from the canopy above, loud enough to punch through the rainfall and shatter the stillness of the night. A clarion call heralding the decision. Cairn. Halvar called to mind every thought and memory he had of the place. There were precious few—bar one. Cairn was a coastal town, and Halvar knew every stretch of river between here and the ocean. That was enough.“I’ve been, as a child,” Brenna said. “I remember the smell of salt and seaweed, thick and cloying. And the sheen of cold, pitted rocks, all jumbled together at the water’s edge. But nothing else.”“That’s more than I have. But I can get us there.”---They talked late into the evening, sheltered from the elements beneath the bough of the tree with the blood-stained bark. If there was a direct route between the hunting lodge and the shores of Cairn, Halvar didn’t know it, but he knew how to reach the coast. They would follow the river’s course as it grew wider and wider, turned from freshwater to salt, and eventually opened out into estuary. And there, nestled amidst tumbledown rocks and weathered cliffs, they would find Cairn, overlooking the ocean and the emptiness beyond.He hoped.They had little time to spare, so they decided to travel by barge. It was huge and cumbersome, and they would move loudly, attracting attention wherever attention could be found, but they had to take the chance. The barge could outrun a canoe on open water, and Cirdan could rest in the hold while they travelled.It was darkest night by the time they returned to the cabin. Halvar felt relieved—their weeks of waiting had culminated at last in a clear, decisive course of action. They nudged the door open, carefully, quietly, with hearts already lifted. They hung their surcoats above the fire, found their separate bedrolls, and began to undress for bed. Halvar crept to the fireplace and filled a mug with boiled water. Stooping to place the drink next to the hunter’s bed, he found Cirdan unconscious.

The story continues...

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The Green Priest

Book one of The Rainmaker Writings, the post-apocalyptic novel series from Ryan Law

★★★★★ | Goodreads

Chapter One

Read the first chapter of The Green Priest in its entirety.

Halvar sheltered under the branches of an old willow tree, hidden from sight by a thick curtain of fronds that trailed the river’s surface. His canoe rose and fell with the current, drifting in the slow, lazy arc allowed by its mooring. Every few minutes it would pull tight against the rope, straining towards the centre of the river until overcome by inertia, it would drift back towards the bank.The sound of rain accompanied every movement. Raindrops on the river. Raindrops through the willow fronds. Raindrops on the tarpaulin that stretched over the canoe. Amidst these hundred sounds of rainfall, Halvar sat and watched. He watched ducks and geese land on the rippling water, saw them sit and preen before labouring back into the air. He saw huge cranes descend to the river bank, soon losing their skeletal outlines in a jumble of felled trees and exposed roots. He watched small streams trickle through the steep woodland that coated the edge of the valley, the torrent seeming to grow faster and stronger, minute by minute. Sometimes they’d tear away a small part of the hillside, sending dirt and moss and rotten branches tumbling into the river below. He watched the rain fall and fall and fall, without once breaking its steady cadence.But most of all he sat and watched the small stretch of river that flowed past his willow tree.He would sit like this for hours, cross-legged and frozen in the small canoe, wandering thoughts relegated to the backwaters of his awareness as he monitored the river for the slightest sign of his quarry. Aches and pains would come and go, rising and falling, in and out of consciousness. On bad days, these distractions would break free from their mooring, his mind chasing after every noise and sight and thought. Sometimes, he’d imagine throwing himself over the edge of the canoe, could almost feel the cold water soaking through his clothes, his hair. Other days, he’d yearn to break the monotony of the rain’s steady cadence, and would imagine bellowing words and phrases and songs at the top of his lungs, his voice ricocheting around the river. On the worst days, the ache in his joints and muscles would swell beyond all proportion, filling his mind with a searing pain that made him want to scream curses and cry in frustration.But today was a good day. His senses felt heightened. He listened to a chorus of birdsong, sweet melodies and dancing trills weaving their way in and out of the drumbeat of the rain. The raindrops that found their way through the shelter of the willow were warm and light. Greatest and rarest of all, faint sunbeams peeked out from behind the valley’s thick, rolling clouds, tracing pale, shimmering rainbows across the water. And now, after waiting the best part of a day, a huge, bloated grass carp had swum into sight.Halvar moved slowly, turning his body and angling his spear towards the water. He waited for it to draw closer, swimming deeper into the thick weeds that choked the river’s edge. By all measure, the fish was huge, its thick, muscular body lined with silver scales that seemed to dance and shimmer even through the green of the water.As it swam closer and closer, foraging through the river grass that gave it its name, Halvar slowly levered back his arm, pulling into striking position. The fish turned side-on to the canoe, and as Halvar’s muscles tensed, ready to spear the great fish, a thunderous sound rolled through the valley, an explosion that seemed to shake the world around him with its vast, growling timbre.Halvar lunged forward, shot his spear into the water and found only a cloud of silt where the carp had been. The rumbling sound faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a vast emptiness in its wake. The birdsong had vanished, and even the sounds of rainfall seemed somehow deadened.Halvar’s first instinct was to hurl his spear across the river, to shout and curse at the hours of patient waiting that had evaporated in a heartbeat, to punch and kick the metal canoe until his hands and feet were bloodied and burning with pain. But as he thought upon the source of the noise, his anger faded, the heat of his blood turning cold, quenched like a campfire in the rain. He latched the spear carefully into place, held by two makeshift clasps pinned along the inside length of the canoe, and instead of shouting and screaming, stood up, and settled for a long, slow piss into the river.It was almost dusk by the time Halvar’s canoe emerged from the cover of the willow tree, the thick grey clouds that covered the valley already darkening to black. The journey to the hunting grounds had been slow and laborious, an upstream slog made harder by unseasonably strong currents, but mercifully, the return route to the campsite was all downstream.He soon settled into an easy rhythm, and distracted by the rote task of paddling, the frustrations of the day’s hunt were quickly forgotten. Though his day of spearfishing had been a bust, the traps and nets they’d laid the day previous were almost guaranteed to catch dozens of smaller fish, freshwater crabs, even snails and clams. Though Halvar wasn’t able to return with a trophy to roast over the campfire, no-one would go hungry tonight.As the sky darkened from blue to black, his mind swam with thoughts of rich crab soup, seasoned with garlic leaf and salt, roasted hare, care of the group’s adept overland hunters, all served with boiled potatoes and fresh mushrooms. Cirdan had smuggled away several bottles filled with spirit, and after a few swigs and a few jibes from his fellow hunters, the sting would be taken away from his failure.As he floated down the river, he started to sing, low and quiet at first, but growing louder with each oar stroke.Halfway through the journey back to the campsite, Halvar’s reverie was broken by another loud, concussive boom, rumbling through the valley. In the early twilight, away from the familiarity and shelter of the willow tree, Halvar felt a twinge of fear. He paddled faster, keen to close the distance to the campsite.As he started to round a shallow bend, drifting across the river’s breadth as he did, he looked back to the stretch of open water behind. The light was failing quickly, and in the centre of the darkening river, perhaps fifty lengths distant, he saw a light, vivid and green.Halvar stopped paddling and let the current carry his canoe forward as he watched. The light was moving towards him, faster than the river’s current could account for, and as it grew larger and larger before him, the vague corona became a violent, swirling mass of light. It was travelling too fast for Halvar to outrun, even with the current behind him, so he made a quick decision to head for the edge of the river, away from the water and whatever—whoever—was coming down the river towards him.The far side of the river flowed faster, and as he drew closer to the river’s edge, he found himself fighting against strong eddies and whirling currents, hidden under the surface. Stray timbers stuck out of the water, jutting out of decayed buildings in the depths below, threatening to snag the canoe, even puncture clean through the delicate wooden hull. Panic swept over him as he wrestled with the paddle, heaving and turning the boat against the current, making for the shortest route to the riverbank.The floating light closed in by the minute, and even through the inky murk of twilight and the spray of the river’s tributaries, he could make out a silhouette, a shadow of something, of someone, buried within the flames.Halvar was sweating and breathing deeply, using every ounce of strength to pull himself through the water and find shelter amongst the trees at the water’s edge. With a burst of strength, he lunged for an overhanging branch and pulled himself, hand over hand, into the recess between two fallen trees. A huge rotting bough blocked one half of the river, so he sat in silence and waited for the light to come into view.Seconds turned into minutes, and still he waited, not daring to move, barely willing to breathe. He could feel sweat trickling through his hair and into his eyes, warm through the cold of the rain, could hear the sound of his heart racing, each beat seeming to reverberate through the breathless quiet of night.Suddenly, around the edge of the fallen tree, he saw a pale green glow appear, reflected in the water’s surface. Steadily the aura of light grew larger and larger, until past the tree’s tangled branches came a huge ball of glowing light, almost blinding in its brightness.To Halvar’s eyes it was pure, unadulterated fire, burning fiercely even through the rain, the very sight of it seeming to fill Halvar’s entire being.Big, broad flames swirled around a raft, crackling and spitting vibrant plumes of colour into the night. As it drew closer, he could see in the centre of the raft, cloaked by the inferno, a figure. It seemed to be kneeling; thick tree branches were propped up against it, glowing with fire, while bright embers smoldered beneath, undeterred by either wind or rain. The raft passed by close enough to see the figure’s bowed head, its waxen face charred and empty in the green light.Realisation dawned upon Halvar as an unconscious gasp escaped his lips: it was a funeral pyre. Then, as if to confirm his thoughts, the valley rumbled with a third thunderous noise, and the sky was illuminated by an explosion of light. Tendrils of lurid green spread through the sky, riding the shock wave of the explosion, illuminating an endless bank of clouds from the inside out. The valley bloomed with the rich colour, lighting up the cool, wet night; and then in an instant, it was gone. The colour vanished, the light withdrew, and the valley fell dark again.Halvar sat motionless for a few minutes, watching the pyre as it was carried downriver, its bright flames illuminating the water as it passed by. As it reached the sharp curve of the river’s nearest meander, he expected to see the pyre buffeted against stones and timbers, but instead of washing up against the river’s edge, or snagging on the trees, the pyre followed the river’s curve. Halvar watched as it slowly, carefully navigated the treacherous current by the guidance of some unseen hand, until the green glow of the pyre finally pulled out of sight.Neither the warmth of the campfire nor the warmth of a few fingers of spirit were able to take the chill from Halvar’s soul.Six of the hunters sat gathered at the campsite, sheltered under a tent of plastic sheets suspended from a circle of trees and lashed together to keep off the worst of the rain. They sat on logs and stumps, watching the campfire’s smoke plume upwards, channelled by the angled tarps towards a gap in the sheets, offset from the fire, where it vanished into the pitch black of the night sky above. Two small bottles went back and forth, the hunters sipping and sharing without a word passing between them.Halvar supposed the crackle of the fire was a comfort to the others, but it reminded him too much of the pyre. He was grateful when Cirdan broke the silence.“I don’t see what we’ve to fear. The priests have to deal with their dead, just as we do. They’re a little more…theatrical, granted, but what else would you expect from a people that spend their days telling tall tales and dressing up in those green robes of theirs?”“You shouldn’t call them tall tales,” said Brenna, as she wrung out the braids of her long brown hair. “There’s truth in their stories. We’ve all seen what they can do.”“I haven’t seen shit,” said Cirdan. “All I’ve seen, all any of us have seen, is a funeral rite. We give our dead back to the earth, the coastal settlements give them back to the sea, and the green priests float them downriver to scare the life out of us. I’d wager that the priests themselves are sitting around a campfire, just like ours, drinking and laughing at the fearful hunters that cower and run at the sight of a funeral pyre.”There was a rumble of agreement from the group.“Sitting around a green campfire...” began Brenna.“If you were to catch fire child, you’d burn green, and that’s not magic—that’s just your cowardice catching aflame.”Carr leaned across to Cirdan and plucked the bottle of spirit from his hands. “Cirdan has finished drinking for the evening.”There was no resistance from Cirdan. He simply shook his head, sighed, and conjured another bottle of spirit from the inner pocket of his surcoat. “Sorry, Brenna. I mean no harm. All I meant to say is that we shouldn’t fear the priests. There are real terrors in this world, more deserving of our fear than any earthly woman or man. Drowning. Disease.” Cirdan gestured to Carr. “To tell the truth, every time I look at Carr I feel a shiver run through my body at the horrors old age can inflict upon us all.”“Cirdan has finished drinking for every evening,” replied Carr.“There’s hunger too,” continued Cirdan, “which we’ll all know too keenly if Halvar returns empty-handed from yet another hunt.” Cirdan’s stony expression lightened into a smirk.At this, the gathered hunters laughed, and with the laughter came a palpable sense of relief that seemed to flow through the group. Everyone seemed to loosen, their faces brightened.All but Halvar, who turned a bottle of spirit over in his hands and stared into the flames of the campfire. “The person on the raft, they were kneeling. Like they’d climbed aboard and set themselves aflame. How many people do you know that have died kneeling?”“Aye lad,” said Cirdan, “not many. Not many at all. But there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on this now. The darkness conjures up all manner of fears, leaving it only fit for sleeping and screwing. And since you’re all too ugly for the latter, I suggest it’s time for the former.”“Wisdom at last,” Carr said. “You’ll take first watch tonight Halvar. Wake Cirdan from his snoring when the fire has burnt down.”Cirdan lead by example, and the remaining hunters soon retired to their hammocks, leaving Halvar alone with his thoughts, the crackle of the campfire and the steady patter of the rain. Cirdan had left a bottle of spirit out, either from forgetfulness or kindness, and Halvar sat sipping it as his companions quickly drifted off to sleep, the sounds of snoring soon joining in with the rain’s ambiance.After a while, he set to pacing the perimeter of the campsite. The forest, usually alive with a thousand sounds of movement and melody, was unusually still. He walked to the shadowy periphery of the camp, patrolling along the diffuse border where firelight fought darkness, and followed it down to the water’s edge to check the moorings of their canoes.The image of the pyre still burned bright in his mind. He knew the others had seen similar sights, had heard for themselves the low, concussive explosions that had rung around the valley. The idea that the elaborate ritual was a simple funeral rite held no truth to Halvar—he had seen the pyre for himself, could even now conjure up the image of the figure’s few tufts of hair dancing as they burned, caught in the fire’s twisting updrafts. There had been no peace in that ritual.So what else could it be?Over the years, the hunters had seen dozens of the priest’s small camps scattered along the length of the river and high up in the hills, each rumoured to be a single spoke radiating out from a central encampment, somewhere far to the north. It followed that the pyres were a deterrent, a warning sign to prevent roving hunters like Halvar from venturing too close.Possible. But the more Halvar thought upon it, the stronger a single truth grew in his mind, coalescing around the image that refused to leave his memory. The pyre, with it’s huge, broad flames, and the explosion of light and colour that bloomed alongside, was a challenge. It radiated power and authority, an alien presence designed to haunt the hunters wherever they went. No matter how far they travelled, overland or by river, the green priests were always there, lurking on the periphery of everything.As Halvar stared out at the dark expanse of the river, he felt strangely reassured by his conclusion. Intimidation, plain and simple. There were few motives more human than that.

As he paced along the river’s edge, accompanied by the sounds of rain and lapping water, aching muscles and sore joints earned from the day’s hunting seemed suddenly to reappear in his awareness. With the fire already burning low, he went to wake Cirdan for his turn of the watch, deep, guttural snores guiding him to the hunter’s hammock. By the time he found his bed, exhaustion had washed over him. Halvar was asleep the moment his head hit the hammock.Halvar woke to the sounds of the campsite being disassembled. From where he lay he could see clear through the camp, past the hammocks and makeshift benches that circled the dead campfire, and down to Brenna, at the water’s edge, fishing out the dozen primitive cool boxes that contained their haul from the last few days of fishing, trapping and hunting.Despite Halvar’s mixed success, the other hunters had ensured that the boxes were packed full. Still, Brenna hauled them out of the cold water with ease, one in each hand as she carried them over to the waiting canoes.Most of the campsite had already been torn down and stowed away into each boat’s shallow hold, leaving only a handful of tarps hanging from the surrounding trees, including Halvar’s own. The morning’s rainfall was relatively light, and Brenna was yet to dress in the thick, hooded surcoat they all wore for travel on the river. Her hair had grown long. It was a rich chestnut brown, shaped with irregular kinks. Damp ringlets stuck to the sides of her face, framing high cheekbones and a pale complexion. Still watching from his hammock, Halvar was suddenly surprised by the firm hands that clamped onto his shoulders. Looking up, he saw Cirdan leaning over him.“It’s barely first light and I’ve already seen all the fawning I can handle for the day. Get up you layabout, your hammock won’t pack itself.”With a squeeze of his shoulder, Cirdan strode away, leaving Halvar to climb out of bed to attend to his section of the camp. He busied himself with packing, stuffing his hammock and bedroll into their waterproof pouch, sparing only the occasional glance towards Brenna.It wasn’t long until the hunters were back on the water, six canoes drifting in loose formation downriver, and back towards Shelter. The melancholy of the night had been forgotten. The rain remained light, and overhead, the hunters caught brief flickers of sunlight through the clouds, god rays briefly piercing the thick cloud banks that formed the ceiling of their world.With the good weather, they were half a day out from home; but with full bellies and a strong current behind them, Halvar reckoned they’d make better time than usual. Feeling relaxed, he let his canoe drift lazily across the river, slowing just enough to draw level with Cirdan at the back of the formation.“If you want to impress Brenna lad, you’ll need to stop pissing about on these hunting trips. She doesn’t care much for fools. Why do you think she dislikes me so much?”“I don’t piss about!”“Ah, don’t worry,” Cirdan offered in response, “she can’t hear us this far back. Besides, she could be sat right beside us and she wouldn’t pay us no mind, not when she’s so intent on impressing Carr. How many more trips you reckon the old dogfish has in him?”“More than you, at the rate you’re going. There are only so many nights you can get blind drunk and keep being invited out on these trips.”Cirdan laughed without enthusiasm. “I’ve a head for drinking, is all. Takes more than a few paltry sips of spirit to help me relax. We can’t all be lightweights like you.”Halvar watched the overgrown riverbank drift steadily past, scanning the thick trees and scrub without taking much of anything in.“Brenna would be a good leader. She can hunt better than most, and she’s smart,” he mused. Glancing over, he saw Cirdan rolling his eyes.“I just mean that…who else would do it? You’re drunk half the time, Colborn isn’t fit enough to lead the longer expeditions, Gunnar is almost as old as Carr, and I seem to have forgotten how to cast a spear.”“Ah, don’t be so harsh on yourself. You came face to face with a pyre, you were off your game, anyone would be.”“That happened after,” Halvar muttered to himself. “Still, you’ve changed your tone. What happened to ‘there are real terrors in this world’?”“I mean what I said. But I’d still just as likely shit myself if a flaming corpse came barrelling down the river towards me.”Up ahead, Halvar could see that Carr and Brenna had come to a stop before the next river bend. Gunnar and Colborn were pulling in to the riverbank beside them. Aware that he was lagging, Halvar paddled harder to close the distance, leaving Cirdan to his lazy approach.The river narrowed considerably through the bend, and as they drew closer, they could see that the entire span of the river was blocked by a jumble of torn-up trees, dirt, lumber and brickwork.They threaded their way through half a dozen mammoth timbers, jutting out of the water, before Halvar ran aground, his canoe catching on a submerged stone pile and scraping horribly to a stop. Brenna and Gunnar had already beached their canoes, while Colborn cleared space on the narrow bank to pull Carr’s boat from the river. Carr himself stood astride his canoe, staring up into the treeline.Following his gaze, Halvar saw a broad clearing in the canopy. They knew this stretch of the river well, and where once an ancient building had stood, intertwined with branches and vines, there was now only a cleft in the treeline and a broad swathe of destruction that led down the cliffside and into the river.Halvar called out to Carr. “That looked pretty secure the last time we passed by.”“Nothing the Elders left behind is secure. Let’s just count ourselves lucky we weren’t beneath it when it fell.”By the time all six canoes were successfully landed, Brenna had used her hatchet to cut a path through the forest at the river’s edge. The collapsed building had completely blocked a narrow stretch of the river, but thankfully, the obstruction extended no further than a few dozen lengths downstream. Two at a time, they took it in turns to drag each of the laden canoes through the clearing, before launching them back onto the river. Poised to push out onto the water, Carr turned to speak to Halvar.“On second thoughts, we’d best get the guild out here to clear this up. I don’t suppose we’ll be back here for a long while, but still. This mess will only worsen over time. It seems foolish to relinquish a clear stretch of river so easily.”At Carr’s behest, Halvar pulled out the expedition ledger from the bundle of bags in his canoe, and using the ink stick he kept safely stowed in the deepest pocket of his surcoat, scratched out a simple map onto the fine birch bark pages—a writhing mass of rivers and streams, winding their way through the countryside and, pausing to consider his bearings, a thick black cross to denote where the house had fallen.Tucking the book securely into his pack, he pushed Carr’s canoe out towards the centre of the river, before sliding his own boat out into the shallows and deftly hopping aboard.

The story continues...

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The Gates of Morbach

By Ryan Law

Chains and ropes creaked on the other side of the great gate. Beyond, Grade could hear the sounds of life and livestock, mingling with the rain. He could hear the squawk of poultry, and the sound of children laughing and splashing through puddles.They were watched from two small towers, on either side of the gate, by a handful of guardsmen. Grade supposed they were guardsmen, but beneath their broad hoods and weather-worn surcoats, they could just as easily be guardswomen."Do you ever get used to it?" the boy asked.Grade raised his gaze to meet that of the nearest guard. The man's hands were wrapped tight around a spear, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm. The guardsman held his gaze for a moment, before shifting his weight to spit over the edge of the watchtower. An excuse to avert to his eyes."No, I don't suppose you do. But you learn to embrace it. Those stares are the only real protection we have."Loud curses and grunts sounded from the tower to their left, and with a shudder, the gate began to draw apart."Faster," the boy called out. "You've made us wait long enough."The gap slowly widened, revealing the main concourse through Morbach, a crude footpath of wooden boards and churned mud, pockmarked by deep puddles. A stout man, with a shaved head and a jet black beard, stood waiting for them. The boy went to take a step forward, but Grade blocked his path with his staff."We wait," he said.After a moment the man walked out to meet them. He stopped far short of Grade and the boy, meeting the eyes of each in turn."That gate sounds like a real struggle to manoeuvre," Grade offered. "We could assist with that, perhaps.""It's no real bother." The man paused as if waiting for Grade to explain his arrival. With no conversation forthcoming, the man continued. "We weren't expecting you so soon. It's barely a score of days since you was last here—meaning no disrespect, of course. Only, things are passing fine here, and we'd assumed you'd have other settlements to visit, place more in need—""Barley," Grade replied. He turned and gestured to the sledge that sat some way behind them. It was piled high with the crop, secured in place by plastic sheeting and attended to by two sledgerunners, a girl and a boy. They lingered on the periphery of the path, sheltering from the pelting rain beneath the broad leaves of an elm. "A shipment for you.""Oh," the man replied, clearly disarmed by the news. "That's mighty kind of you, mighty kind indeed. Only, we're near full to stock already, and still owe you for the last shipment—""Indeed?" Grade interrupted. "By our calculations, you should have exhausted at least half your stock, more if you'd kept to the plans we made upon our last visit. Production was to be increased, correct?""Oh, aye, of course, of course. My instructions were clear, clear as day. We must have fallen behind somehow. I'll have to check with the distillers, see what went awry, calculate production..." Benero trailed off.The boy at Grade's side, silent through the exchange, now chimed in. "Show us to these distillers." His tone was imperious, chiding even. The blow to Benero's ego was immediate, and his response predictable. Cowed by Grade, he attempted to assert his dominance over the boy. Pathetic."You snivelling little pup," Benero bellowed, advancing upon the boy. "I'll tan your hide for that." He drew to within reach of the boy. Despite the man's intimidating size, the boy didn't move a muscle. If anything, the expression on his face grew more impatient, more arrogant. Grade was well impressed. Benero squared up to the boy, but the lack of response had quenched his anger. He hesitated a moment before pointing past the boy, to the sledge at the crest of the hill. "Make yourself useful and help those two bring the crop in."Grade placed his free hand upon Benero's shoulder. The man's eyes grew wide."The boy is a member of the Order, and to be afforded the same respect you would afford me. So I must ask: am I to pull that sledge through the rank filth of your homestead? Would you have me labour in the mud like a common sow?"His eyes wide, Benero withdrew hurriedly, near panicked by Grade's words. "No, no, of course not. No disrespect intended to you. " He addressed the boy directly then. "To either of you. Please, come through, and I'll find the distillers. I'll find them now." He whistled, signalling for the sledgerunners to haul the barley into the compound. As Grade and the boy advanced through the gatehouse, the guards took up positions to either side, ready to haul upon the thick chains that drew the wooden palisade to a close.Pathetic indeed. The boy had handled himself well though. Barring any slips during the rest of their visit, he'd see him commended him upon their return.They stood aside to allow the passage of the sledge of barley, destined for the storehouse on the far side of the settlement. The contraption went sliding past, heralded by the familiar sound of Morbach's gates thudding to a close behind them, and he was once again here, this backwards little pigsty nestled in the flooded lowlands and tangled forests of the Southern reaches. Days away from home, on yet another assignment, and all because of the impudence and obstinacy of the stubborn bastards that lived here. An image of home then, flashing unbidden into his mind—the great lake, the winding mountain path, the shrines dotted along its length. Rainswept, of course, but possessing its own kind of sparse beauty. He could breathe upon that mountainside. Here, hemmed in upon every side, he could not.He recognised the bitter taste of his thoughts, but instead of dismantling those emotions, he chose to inhabit them fully. He did, after all, have a role to play here. Frustration and resentment suited his purpose well.The boy kept pace perfectly as they walked through the settlement, Benero intentionally pulling far ahead to avoid further conversation. It was no matter—both knew the route to the distillery well enough. The sounds of life they had heard from the other side of the settlement's walls were conspicuous through their absence, as though the denizens of Morbach had withdrawn into their squat little hovels, left their livestock unattended and their chores unfinished, all to avoid the holy gaze of the Priests.It was well. It seemed the settlement at large still held the Order in some regard. He might not need to bring the full weight of his judgement to bear on this troublesome little place."How am I doing?" the boy asked. Grade looked to the balconies and gardens that bordered the wooden causeway through the town. There was nobody within earshot."I'm impressed," he replied, "at your ability to throw away such fine work with an outburst as truly brainless as that." The boy's shoulders slumped at Grade's response, but he kept otherwise composed. He was improving, it seemed. "We're close. Do you know your business?""Yes," the boy responded, an expression of resolve stealing over his features. His hand went to his breast pocket fleetingly."Very well. Prove it."The two rounded a corner just behind Benero, leaving behind the ramshackle huts and cabins that lined the main concourse and joining a dirt track, only partially boarded. Here, fewer trees had been felled, and a tangle of thickets and leaves sheltered them from the worst of the rain. The only reprieve afforded by these foul forests, Grade thought.The justification for leaving behind the populated part of Morbach soon became apparent, as Benero waited for them at the entrance to the distillery, with two brow-beaten distillers at his side. On cue, the boy slipped free from Grade and disappeared into the trees surrounding the cabin. Benero watched the boy depart, but wisely, said nothing in response."These are the two you'll want to be questioning, about production." Benero slapped the nearest figure on the back, harder than was necessary, so that she was forced to take a step forward. She was remarkably short, barely taller than the boy, but her stature belied the age apparent from her face. Twenty-five, thirty perhaps. Her hair was the colour of straw, and indeed, likely a similar consistency. She spoke, and her words came out stilted, and, to Grade's ear, rehearsed. It seemed Benero had made the most of the brief moments he'd had before Grade and the boy had arrived at the distillery."Master Priest, we're sorry for the delay in the production schedule. A miscommunication—" she hesitated "—our fault entirely, not Benero's. I thought we were to increase production from the next delivery."The man beside her joined in. "And I thought the same. That we was to focus on improving the strength of the spirit with this batch, as that's something you also asked of us.""Aye, 'make it stronger than before,' that was something you said to us, and we listened to that, listened well we did.""Only we might've listened too well, and focused too much on the first part of your orders—""The strength.""—and not enough on the second.""The quantity.""I see," Grade responded. He was, in his mind, doling out lengths of rope for these two witless fools to hang themselves by. He waited for them to continue, revelling in the awkwardness of the encounter."And we can assure you," the man continued, his dirty blond beard marking him as likely kin to the woman at his side, "that no further delays in production are anticipated. We'll increase production from tomorrow—""From today," Benero interrupted."Aye, from today. With the new shipment."Grade took a step forward, passing between the two distillers and into the distillery. He used the term begrudgingly—it was a pale imitation of the Priests' distillery, a beautiful arrangement of steel and glass, beakers and bottles and burners, each more elaborate and mysterious than the last, the finest relics of the Elders. The copper still ensconced here, in this rundown cabin of ill-fitting wooden planks, was barely functional in comparison, a hand-me-down suited only for dismantling and salvage. Still, he could see the beauty of the Order's decision to deliver it to Morbach. To addle the minds of these simpletons."Satisfactory—" he said. The two distillers became visibly relieved at his words, though Benero seemed hesitant to let his guard down. "—bar one issue." Grade raised a cloaked hand then, pointing to the path where he'd stood moments before.The boy had returned. In his hands, he held a bundle of freshly picked barley. He held them a moment before letting the stalks drop to the floor, returning to Grade's side beside the blurred patina of the copper still. Seen only by Grade, the boy slipped a small hand into the mouth of the boiler.Grade watched the expressions on the three figures before him as realisation dawned upon them. Something approaching terror lit upon the faces of the distillers, while Benero seemed to steel himself. One to watch, Grade thought to himself. Perhaps one to bring into the fold. That, or remove entirely.The woman was the first to respond, her tongue all but tripping over the words that poured from her mouth. "It grows so easily! It wasn't intentional, I swear it, they were just discarded husks, seeds that had developed mildew. We threw them out, onto the refuse pile behind the cabin, and they grew!"The second distiller joined in the protestation. "We figured we was doing you a favour. If it grows so easily, why would you need to lug those sledges all this way? It can't be easy, making the journey by barge, bringing it all the way out here. We wanted to save you the effort. So we tried growing it, just a little patch. And it really does take so well, it grows like nothing we've known.”Grade turned to Benero, expecting similar excuses. Instead, he surprised Grade. His response was curt and ruthless."I knew nothing of their actions. I accept your judgement upon them."Cowardice, self-preservation and unrelenting arrogance. A worrying combination in a man such as Benero. At the least, the planned sequence of events was unfolding as intended. "You presume my order requires help. You presume too much. Are we not kind to you? Are we not generous?" Grade asked. "It gives me pause for thought. Indeed, it gives the Order pause—that you should feel the need to betray our trust in such a manner, when we have done nothing but aid your people." He paused a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Tell me then—are you truly so keen to fend for yourselves? Are our gifts so unwanted that we should rescind our charity? Dismantle the water pumps that keep your houses from flooding? Destroy the fertilisers that keep your crops growing and your stomach’s fed? Reclaim the tools that allow you to harvest the bountied afforded by this woodland, and keep your hearths warm? That is to say nothing of the gifts we had yet to share with you—"The two distillers clamoured to respond before Grade held a hand to silence them. Benero's willingness to turn his back upon the pair, likely brother and sister, had planted a seed of pity in his heart. He decided not to toy with them any further."Enough."The boy spoke then. "It is not for us to pass judgement. They have only the Spirit to appease."Grade placed a gentle hand upon the green hood that covered the boy's head. "Well spoken. We Priests are merely servants of the Green God. Redemption is not ours to offer." He stood, thoughtful. "A most fitting recompense comes to me. You must appease the spirit. That is to say, you will run this still, and the alcohol it creates shall determine the manner of your judgement."Grade had confused the distillers. He elaborated. "That is to say: fire the still. Fire it now. We will wait for you in the main hall. You shall taste the fruits of these ill-gotten crops and the manner of your restitution will become apparent." He saw understanding in their eyes. "Now."The boy led Grade from the cabin and down the path. As they walked away, eyes focused firmly ahead, Grade could hear the sound of the generator starting, the ignition firing on the still. It frustrated him still, to see these relics of the ancients, battered and beaten though they were, bestowed upon an entirely undeserving people. There was goodness within them, he knew, but with every visit he made, every tale of treachery and mistrust and selfishness that prompted the Order to send him back, that goodness seemed buried deeper and deeper. The smell of mash filled the air then, pungent and floral, and a flicker of curiosity appeared within Grade. Like the rest of his Order, he had never tasted spirit. The finished product smelled foul, yet to see the people of Morbach under its influence—the growing numbers of ruddy cheeks and red noses, the strange, stumbling gait, the loss of inhibition and decorum—one would think there was little else worth living for.A sound beside him then as Benero fell into step with the two Priests, and that sense of pity for the two blond-haired scapegoats reappeared. His judgement felt tinged with unfairness, that the two distillers would be punished while Benero escaped blame. But then, judgement is never deemed fair by those receiving it.They soon arrived at the main hall, sending the few servants and guards that staffed the building scuttling away at the first sight of the Priests. Grade strode into the cavernous building and took a seat upon the central dais, with the boy taking a spot at his right-hand side. Benero drew a chair at the table across from them.Grade sat in silence, awaiting the inevitable, counting down the moments in his mind and reciting a simple prayer as he did. Benero called over one of the servants and sent him to fetch a drink, seemingly immune from the events that were unfolding because of his decision to defy the Priests. He stared contentedly into middle-distance as he waited for a flagon of beer to appear, avoiding the Priest's gaze.

The information Grade had received from his informant had mirrored the distillers’ tale, an accident of happenstance, discarded barley taking seed, no real malicious intent. But watching Benero now, he felt a growing sense of suspicion. The man was, it seemed, quietly in charge of this place. Had he instigated the illicit crop growing? And if so—what other betrayals of the Order had gone as yet undetected?At the least, there was impudence within him, a deep-seated arrogance that made Grade want to stand up and bludgeon him with his chair. Every detail of the man aggravated him, from the thickness of his sinewy forearms to the stubble that crept above his beard. Benero was the man in charge of Morbach, it was plain to see—but he sheltered himself so readily behind the people he should be protecting.No, not any kind of man to welcome into the fold.He should have protected the distillers, not sacrificed them. He should be standing in the distillery now, instead of sheltering here, too coy for confrontation. He should be about to die—not those two witless fools.A flicker of guilt then, and a decision made. "Quickly," Grade said to the boy. "Fetch the distillers. Go now."To his credit, the boy didn't hesitate. He simply pushed his chair from the table and sprinted towards the entrance of the hall. Benero started, alarmed at the sudden change, but made no other movement. His silence grated upon Grade.Long, drawn-out moments passed until the boy reappeared at the doorway, the two wide-eyed distillers at his heels. Relieved, Grade raised from his chair and bellowed into the hall. "Benero—stand with your kin." The man did as he was bid, levering himself upright, slowly, before joining the delegation at the entrance. Grade stepped down from the dais and approached. He stopped, an arms-length away, and stared into Benero's dark eyes. Stared and waited.A thunderous noise then. A shock wave that battered the building. Billowing plumes of dust shaken loose, and behind the three residents of Morbach and the young postulant, silhouetting them, a gusting jet of lurid green fire, spitting into the sky. Everyone bar Grade and the boy spun to find the source of the cataclysm, and it soon became apparent. Even through the trees, it was obvious that the distillery was ablaze.Grade turned to the two distillers and spoke. "The Spirit is appeased." At the sound of his voice, Benero turned to face Grade, shock writ across his heavy features. Grade drew close. "But we're yet to see what he makes of you."Grade and the boy strode forward without a further word. As they approached the entrance of the hall the sound of rain grew louder and louder, and they saw a lone guardsman, standing at the entrance, seemingly frozen in place. His eyes bulged wide as Grade and the boy approached and seemed to grow wider still as they walked past him, into the sodden evening.An unconscious flicker of the boy's hand then, towards his breast pocket and the small clay-wrapped munitions it contained. He looked around to make sure there was nobody within earshot. "I didn't even use half of it." A smile crept over his face.Good, Grade thought to himself. We'll make a Priest of you yet.