I - Stranger
The sun descends toward the western horizon. Its deep orange and crimson rays scatter across the town of Drietand from the Blue Northern Alps. The rhythmic creaking of the wooden wheels and the crunch of their iron-rimmed edges on dirt and gravel produce a low rumble as the open carriage veers away from the basalt dragon road. The passengers voice their relief to end their week-long journey. A woman claims to know someone in town who has feathered beds and a hot meal prepared for them all, until their carriage passes through a grim open field. Acres of withered wheat and barley, along with a plantation of fruitless apple trees, are stained black and red by corpses hanging from posts where lamps and scarecrows once stood. A cawing murder of crows greets them with every turn of the wheel.
With his head resting on a hay-bale, the stench wakes him from his nap, though his eyes remain shut. He listens intently as anxiety grows among the passengers, some beginning to ask the elderly man behind the reins to disembark outside the town gates. He hears the muffled thud of the wheels and the sound of the rushing river. Another passenger vomits, cursing the bastard who decorated the bridge with hanged corpses, burned black beyond recognition. A few of the passengers begin praying. He twitches his nose, his eyes remain closed. He senses the bodies are fresh from the stake. The fearful passengers beg to step off before reaching the gates, expressing their fear of going inside and would rather trade elsewhere.
Underneath his cloaked hood, he opens his eyes slightly, trying not to draw attention to himself upon reaching the town gate where the wooden palisades stand high. The open carriage halts at the command of the town sentries wearing welded maille. The old man behind the reins is warned concerning monsters prowling outside the town, while another sentry tries to rouse him.
“Wat voor bedrijf heb je hier?” He examines the sentry. The armored soldier wears an open-visor helm. Inside, a black moustache runs across his chipped lips. Among the town sentries, he is the only one clad in full plate armor. Upon his surcoat lies the Oriflamme of Saint Lily on a red field. The sentry towers over everyone.
He shakes his head, avoiding the sentry’s eyes.
“Buitenlanders,” the sentry grunts, his jaw clenched, visible from his open-helm. “Bloody foreigners.” He repeats it in his own accent. “Why are your eyes red? You addled, boy?” The sentry wields a flamberge, a serpentine longsword. “What business do you have here?” He gestures toward his men.
“Looking for work.”
“Captain,” one of the town sentries comments on the weapon slung across his back, strapped via a leather belt on his chest, drawing the interrogating sentry’s attention back at him, his eyes narrowing.
The soldier clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Armed individuals must be registered before entering the town. Name?” the sentry asks briskly as two of his adjutants bring quill, ink, and paper.
The sound of a few coins rubbing together is his answer. His leather boots touch the ground.
“From?” the sentry asks, his teeth visibly grinding.
“Fore Norden.”
“A Vygnar, eh? From the northern lands?” The sentry sneers, his lips curling into a snarl. “You don’t have their accent. Here to raid, plunder, and rape our women? Where’s the rest of your raiding party?”
“I’m all alone,” he says, “may I go?”
“Your kind were here with their river boats and horned helms two purple moons ago,” the sentry snorts. “I sent them all scurrying like the gutter rats they are.” He spits at him. He does not move, knowing he has missed.
“Your kind fight like fish without water.” The sentry says. “Methinks you fight like a turtle curled into its shell when fresh steel is bared, eh?” He tightens his grip on his weapon, his nostrils flaring.
His eyes wander and settle on the dead dangling from fresh ropes, the nooses drawn tight around their necks. A lone robin chirping, perched atop charred faces, yet not swollen. One of the burned corpses hanging at the center of the gate is missing its hands. They hang them after burning them.
“No,” he says at last, “just looking for work.”
The visible veins in the knight’s forehead throbs.
“Ser, new arrivals,” one of the adjutants interrupts as a new troupe of caravans comes to a halt at the town gates. The sentry clenches his teeth and spits again in disdain, this time toward the ground, before taking his leave.
He passes through the gates, pricking his ears, eavesdropping on the sentries. From what he overhears, the townsfolk appear occupied. They are burning those believed to be demons or possessed by demons.
The sun has yet to set, but the town appears desolate. The stalls and forges are unmanned, allowing the town cats to feast on the meat and fish in the open. He enters from the eastern side of town, his brown cloak thrown over his shoulders, his hood still covering his head. He looks for an inn, a place where missives are often nailed, but he is drawn to the noise emerging from a gathering at the town center.
Curs and mongrels are the first to welcome him, barking as he strides slowly toward the crowd. Amidst the rabble, on an elevated wooden platform, is a wailing girl tied to a stake. She stands over straw-laden with logs. Next to her is a man of the cloth, his surcoat bearing the same sigil worn by the town sentry outside, the Oriflamme of Saint Lily.
“A son fornicates with his very own mother and the fruit of their incest lies before you. For a son grows contempt for his own father and beds whence he came is an affront to the Great Martyr. The Holy Writ condemns them to the fire, wherein they endure for eternity, to ascend to the highest of realms,” the man of the cloth urges the crowd.
From the outcry, he observes, the crowd exhibits disdain for the preacher and sympathizes with the girl at the stake. His nose twitches, smelling the sharp, salty and sour, metallic odor from the people. He notes the townfolk’s reluctance to intervene. He pushes through the crowd, only to come to a standstill before sword-armed, mailed sentries, far from the wooden platform and surrounded by the crowd.
He narrows his eyes, which in turn dilate, improving his vision and discovering that the wailing girl tied to her would-be pyre is stuttering. He notes her verbal impairment. He notices her distinct pale round face, her small chin, large ears, and flat nasal bridge. Beyond her small, slanted eyes is fear. Profound fear. The girl does not understand what is happening.
He widens his pupils even further and discerns that the girl’s eyes bear brush-like spots upon her irises. They are gray, brown, and white, spaced around the periphery of her irises. This is no demon, nor is she possessed by one. The affliction is strong in her.
The preacher is flanked by two crossbowmen armed with arbalests, wearing red gambesons layered with matching surcoats. He lights a torch and advances toward the stake. “The Holy Writ demands sacrifices so we offer them to the holiest of fires. By his grace, the great golden mane of Stadel, through the intercession of Saint Lily will hereby shine their favor upon this great town.” The man of cloth speaks with an accent similar to his.
A crying little girl squeezes through the crowd and runs toward the stake, only to be halted by two sword-armed, mailed sentries. A sniveling thin man draws the girl back into the crowd. “Father, no…my sister needs me!” the little girl cries out.
He blends back into the crowd and subtly raises his left arm, avoiding drawing attention to himself. His gloved hand weaves quick gestures, a simple hex, the Hand of Imperium. The glove glows faintly white. He whispers and the girl at the stake speaks.
“To…to…what am I accused of to deserve su..such a tragic end?” The wailing young girl at the stake grows calm and composed. Her speech is slurred but comprehensible, her nose dripping with snot.
Astonished, the clergyman takes a step back as embers from his torch tease the straw beneath the girl’s feet. “You have wept throughout your trial, yet you remain oblivious to your offenses. The golden light from the great mane of Stadel finally shines upon you. Simple you are no longer. Very well, hear now your offenses. You are an abomination, a spawn born of the unholy union of your brother and your mother, a filth that must be purged.”
“Am I to be assigned to...to the flames for transgres…sins not my own, but for what they com…mitted?” the girl snaps back. “Is this the manner in which the King’s justice is treated in…Drietand?”
“What is your king to my god?” the man of the cloth flares with fury. “Who are you to question your betters? We speak the tongues of the flaming ghosts, as it is written in the Holy Writ, Levicannu 18:7: I forbid thee to lay bare with thy own mother. Tarnish not thy father by bedding his wife. Should she bear a child of thine own blood, an accursed from the depths of Terr ensnares thou mind. An ordeal must be incur, thy spawn must touch the fire.”
He continues his spell.
“Te…tell me, Vicar. Are you aware of the legend of Devin and Goliathus, the one-eyed Novus?” The girl does not wait for an answer and continues to stall. “In your Holy Writ, Sam..sammu 17:1–54, it tells the story of a trial by ordeal of the gallant Devin, a sheep shearer who defeats the monstou…Goliathus , head of a legion, in single combat after being accused of stealing a sacred standard bearing the symbol of his slavers. Amidst the flames and ashes wrought by dragons, the great golden mane of Stadel illu…shines the righteous to overcome great evil. You are my Goliathus and akin to Devin, I demand a trial by combat.”
“You are delaying the inevitable. Today is the day you will be cleansed of your impurities,” the Vicar says as he moves farther from the pyre and licks his lips. “But I shall allow you to mend your fate. If you wish not to purify your soul and rather damn yourself to the vilest depths of Terr then you shall have your champion.”
The man of god then addresses the crowd. “Who will be the Devin of the condemned?”
