Page 31 of Swordheart #1

The priest arrived at the hostel the next morning.

“It’s you!” said Halla, sounding surprised and delighted.

Zale, the priest they had first met at the temple, sketched a bow. “It is, indeed.”

The priest was dressed for travel this morning, their hair pulled back, and had exchanged the white robes of the Rat for more sensible dark brown. There was still a line of white embroidered rats on the sleeve, rather more charming than religious, but Sarkis wasn’t going to mention it.

“I didn’t know you’d be the one the Temple sent,” said Halla.

They smiled. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be. But I requested it. I fear that I am quite fascinated by your case, and given the chance…” The priest spread their hands.

“And you have the legal skills to assist Mistress Halla?” said Sarkis.

“I have some small experience in that direction.”

“How small?”

Zale tilted their head modestly. “Five years as a clerk before I was called to the Rat’s service.

Since then, I have frequently assisted in legal cases on behalf of the Temple.

My rank is that of advocate divine. I will not lie, inheritance is not my particular field of study, but I have as much knowledge as anyone serving at this Temple and more than many.

” They paused, then added, almost apologetically, “And—forgive me—while every case is important to those involved, I fear the most skilled of my contemporaries, the solicitors sacrosanct, are reserved for cases with far higher stakes.”

“That’s fine,” said Halla. “I’d much rather not be high stakes.”

Zale nodded. “The Temple has provided me a wagon. It will be a slower return to Rutger’s Howe, but a more comfortable one. You will have ample time to acquaint me with the details of your claim along the way.”

The wagon in question was a tall, narrow affair, on oversized wheels, drawn by a single laconic ox. It was brightly painted with an image of the Rat, haloed by the sun, holding up His paw in benediction.

Sarkis grunted when he saw it. “Subtle.”

“The Temple prefers that anyone we encounter know exactly who we are. Priests are often granted passage where clerks and warriors are not.”

He grunted again. Decadent southern gods … but in this case, practical. Even in the Weeping Lands, one did not trouble priests.

One of the striped creatures he had seen earlier sat on the wagon seat. Zale nodded to the gnole. “This is Brindle. He will handle the ox and care for it, since I fear I have little skill with such.”

Brindle nodded back to them. He had badger-like stripes running down his face, but the dark fur between the stripes was mottled with brown. Hence the name, Sarkis assumed.

“Hello, Brindle,” said Halla. She introduced herself and Sarkis. “Do you work for the Rat?”

Brindle shook his head. “Priests work for gods. A gnole works for priests.”

Zale smiled. “Gnole theology is admirably straightforward. They have one god. They do not seem interested in adding more.”

“This strikes me as enormously sensible,” said Sarkis. He bowed to Brindle. Brindle nodded back.

They climbed onto the wagon. Brindle took up a long ox goad, tapped the beast’s flank, and clucked his tongue. The ox began ambling down the street, so slowly that Sarkis groaned.

I could walk to Rutger’s Howe and back in the time this beast will take …

Well, it’s not as if I have any pressing engagements anywhere. My only job is to act as a bodyguard to a woman and now to this priest of a …

“Why a rat?” asked Sarkis.

“Hmm?” said Zale. Their braid pulled the top layer of hair back away from their face, and the long, dark gray strands looked pewter-colored in the sunlight.

“Your god. Why a rat?”

Zale shrugged. “Why not a rat? Rats are smart and they travel with humans, but they are neither our servants nor our prey. They eat the food that we eat, they live within our homes. Who better to understand us?”

Sarkis raised an eyebrow at that.

Zale chuckled. “That is a priest’s answer, at any rate. Would you like a scholar’s answer as well?”

“I would!” said Halla, to the surprise of no one.

Zale nodded. “So far as we can tell, the Temple of the Rat originated some eight hundred years ago, in the west. A plague was decimating the cities of the old empire there. They knew that rats carried the plague, and a cult sprang up, attempting to appease the rat spirit. From there, the faith evolved and reformed.” They grinned slyly.

“Of course, our understanding of treatment for the plague certainly did not hurt.”

“A moment,” said Sarkis. “You know the origin of your faith? You can point to it like this? And yet still you worship this rat as your god?”

The priest laughed. “Why does knowing the origin of a thing make it less holy? Do you know your grandparents?”

Sarkis gave them a narrow-eyed look. “I did, yes.”

“And did you love your parents less for knowing where they came from?”

“I did not worship my parents.”

“Some parents practically expect that, though,” muttered Halla.

Sarkis started to say something, then frowned. “There are places I have been,” he admitted grudgingly, “where one’s ancestors are worshipped. One of my men came from such a place, and she swore by her grandfather’s shade.”

“There you have it.” Zale waved their hand.

“We know that the Rat exists. We know He is kindly inclined toward humankind. If we forget His name, He will creep back into the walls of the world, but He will not cease to exist. A day will come when humans remember His name again. So it is, and so it has been, and so it will be.”

Halla bowed her head as if receiving a benediction.

“Decadent southern gods,” muttered Sarkis, and Zale laughed aloud.

They were barely an hour out of the city gates when they passed a tiny, nameless town on the ox-road and saw where a burning had taken place.

Zale’s thin lips curled back when they saw the smoke rising from the square. The pyre was ringed by men in indigo cloaks. The fire was out now.

“Motherhood,” the priest muttered. “The gods be merciful.”

“All the gods?” asked Sarkis. “Not just the Rat?”

“The Rat’s mercy is a given. It’s the other gods we need to worry about.” They craned their neck. “Ah. Possessions only. Books. Not a person, thank the Rat.”

“They burn books, too?” asked Sarkis.

“Oh yes. Herbals, bestiaries… sometimes merely books in foreign tongues. In case they might be spellbooks.” They shook their head, looking pained. “The loss of knowledge alone… Those people are a menace.”

“And here comes one now,” said Halla. She wondered if she’d be able to put them off with a saga of cauliflower a second time.

An indigo-cloaked man approached them on horseback. He had a crossbow slung over his back and a sword at his side.

“I can take him,” said Sarkis softly, “but the others will be on us right away.”

Brindle gave him a look. “You think an ox can outrun horses, sword-man?”

“I’m not sure this ox could outrun a dead horse.”

“Don’t insult an ox. An ox is good at what an ox does. Like to see you pull a wagon any better.”

“Stand down,” said Zale, watching the horseman approach. “I’ll handle it.”

The Motherhood warrior halted alongside the wagon, eyes flicking over the paint job. “A Rat priest, eh?”

Zale inclined their head.

“Where are you traveling?”

“On the Rat’s business,” said Zale. Their voice was pleasant enough, but there was a hard note under it.

“And where does the Rat’s business take you?”

“Wherever the Rat sees the need,” said Zale.

Halla rather admired the priest’s flat refusal to answer the question.

She’d be burying the man in information, herself, with every relative she had in every town along the way, including some made up on the spot.

Still, Zale had a certain authority and could get away with defiance.

The warrior’s eyes narrowed. He looked over the wagon and passengers again, gaze lingering on Sarkis.

“It might be wise to inform someone where you are going,” said the warrior. “In case of accidents.”

Well, that wasn’t even subtle.

“I assure you, the Temple of the Rat is aware of both our whereabouts and when we are expected to return.”

“The Motherhood would appreciate being extended the same courtesy.”

“I’m sure they would.”

Brindle had not slowed the ox. They were beginning to pass out of the square by this point. Halla held her breath to see if the warrior would continue pacing them.

He drew his horse up. “Be careful, priest,” he said. “The roads are dangerous for those not under the Mother’s protection.”

“I will inform my superiors of your concern.”

And that was it. The ox plodded onward. The warrior turned his horse back.

Sarkis opened his mouth to say something and Zale shook their head warningly. “Later.”

It was beginning to turn to early evening when the plume of smoke faded in the sky. Zale pulled their robes tightly around their thin shoulders. “Damnable Motherhood,” they muttered.

“We tangled with them briefly on the road,” said Halla. “But they were a lot more persistent with you.”

“There is a rivalry between the Motherhood and most other faiths,” said Zale. “A largely one-sided one. The rest of us manage to get along tolerably well, why can’t they?” They grumbled something under their breath.

The sun set early in autumn. Sarkis saw the distance they had travelled… or more accurately, failed to travel… and stifled a sigh. The ox moved at half the speed of a human walking, if that.

Still, it’s not as if you have anywhere to be. That clammy-handed fellow does not seem like the type to destroy a house he lives in. And if time were of the essence, the Rat Temple would likely have provided us with a swifter transport than the great god’s slowest ox.

The wagon had two beds that folded down from the sides. Zale took one that night, and then looked helplessly at Halla and Sarkis.

“I shall guard outside,” said Sarkis firmly. Halla’s presence while asleep was already costing him rest. Lying on the floor less than a foot away from her would be entirely too much.

Zale frowned. “There are extra blankets, but are you sure? It is cold out.”

“It is no hardship. I have slept on stone with snow blowing in—”

“Don’t get him started,” said Halla. “Just make him take extra blankets.” She paused. “Err—wait, does Brindle need a bed?”

“Brindle stays with the ox,” said Zale. “I’ve traveled with him two or three times before, and he won’t leave his charge for anything less than a blizzard.”

Sarkis paused, one hand on the door. “Is he trustworthy?”

“Who, Brindle?” Zale looked surprised. “I have never had cause to doubt him. The Temple employs a small group of gnoles who appear to be related, either by blood or family ties. They have a complicated caste system, and I don’t believe humans understand it as well as we think we do, but Brindle is a job-gnole, though a low-level one.

The high-level job-gnoles are traders and negotiators.

One of them negotiates the contracts for the entire group.

I suppose if one of the higher job-gnoles planned to hand us over to bandits or some other group for ransom, Brindle would likely go along with it, but they’ve never done anything like that, and we have employed them for years now.

Since not long after the gnoles arrived, in fact. ”

Sarkis nodded, and stepped outside.

It was a cold, clear night. He burrowed into the blankets, feeling the sharp bite of the air in his lungs. The temperature had dropped in just the few days since he and Halla had been sleeping outdoors.

The moon was cut down to a half smile on the horizon.

Sarkis could hear the ox breathing, and Brindle talking softly to it in what must have been his own language.

From inside the wagon came the sounds of two people moving around in an enclosed space, which was mostly occasional thumps and apologies.

He felt a brief qualm about leaving Halla alone with the priest, but squelched it. Should Zale prove untrustworthy, Sarkis was less than three feet away. If Halla so much as yelped, he would be through the door and ready to skewer the Rat priest first and ask questions later.

But she did not yelp. The stars moved in the cold sky, and Sarkis slept as if he were home in the Weeping Lands and woke with frost on his beard.