Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

Outnumbered, we wouldn’t stand a chance if forced to fight. And in such bloody times, it wouldn’t take the Inquisition long to discover easier ways to get rid of us than shipping us back to Fletland. To survive we had to stand together, and the Guild had always provided our leadership.

Such thoughts led me back to Kurgar; I hoped he knew what he was doing. Only days ago, Lord Liberigo had thought he controlled the city, but now he was kidnapped and perhaps even dead.

I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer, “Please Schoperde, let us get through this.”

As always, she didn’t answer.

Our ride to the charred ruins of the warehouse took a long and winding path. The streets on the way lay almost abandoned, until we reached the southern district where they spread thick with crowds. Many were taking part in open-air services dedicated to the new saints. Oleander hung from doors, wreathed windows, and sat in braziers where it smouldered to free smoke in wisps of grey. The area, home to much of Ossard’s Heletian poor, seemed to be a stronghold for the new saints.

The streets about us seemed peaceful enough, if full, but the people we passed in our unflagged coach held the energy of those who’d found new faith. None of them subscribed to Inquisitor Anton’s pious empire, they looked to have another answer in mind.

Taking in the sight, I could only doubt the Church’s chances of controlling the city. Without the port, south, east, and Newbank, they held only a fraction of what they needed. Eventually, one way or another, the city would again be united, but I doubted it would be under the black, navy, and gold of the Inquisition.

I hid my face as best I could in the carriage, keeping back to the shadows. I hoped we’d be able to look for Pedro and Maria, and then get out without commotion. Watching the crowd, so many with the sparkle of newly devoted eyes, I began to wonder at our chances. “Sef, look at this place, at these people, have you ever seen such a thing?”

He turned from the window, his gaze cold and hard. “Yes,” he hissed, his neck corded and his fists bunched. “I’ve seen it before. It haunts the battle-scarred plains of Fletland where packs of those who follow the gods of thieves, murderers, and whores roam that wasted land.” He took a deep breath and shivered, battling memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Sef, are you alright?”

He nodded, but it was a lie. “They’ve been given something, something divine, and they’ll find euphoria in it, but before long its buzz will fade, leaving them hungering again for its high. The longer they have to wait for it, the more desperate they’ll become. Eventually, they won’t be able to stand that deep hunger, so they’ll do anything to sate it. Once dependent on it, the blessings, the dark power that bestows them will start to make demands. In time, it will not only enslave them, but drive them mad.” He shook his head, something that freed tears. “Yes Juvela, I’ve seen it before.”

I felt for him. I’d grown up on his tales, some of them terrible indeed, but I’d never stopped to consider that he’d lived through them. Leaning forward, I put a hand over one of his fists. “I’m sorry to stir such memories, but I need to know what I must. Please, tell me?”

With an awkward move, he raised a fist to wipe clumsily at his eyes. “They’ve been seduced by the cults. Having seen this, I’m convinced that all this is nothing but a front for the Horned God. As they always do, they’ll be working to conduct a soul harvest, for they’re after only one thing; power.”

I turned back to look at the crowds. Some offered prayers at makeshift shrines, while others paraded in packs waving oleander and banners.

I asked, “Is it that definite a path? Is it that certain an end?”

He nodded. “It always is. Look, Juvela, I’ve many enemies here, just as you do. We’ll work together, and we’ll stand together, because it’s the only way we’ll get through this.”

I swallowed nervously. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen it before, but never on this scale. I’ve seen hamlets and villages fall to the coming madness, and even once a whole town. The city can’t avoid it. No one ever has.” He paused, turning back to the chanting crowds. “By the time you can see the sickness it’s already too late. And it is a sickness, like a plague, but not of the mind or body, but of the spirit.”

I trusted Sef, I’d always trusted him. To see him grow so tense and upset sobered me. What could I hope to do about what grew outside? I still remained a user of magic who’d never cast a spell.

It seemed hopeless.

We reached the ruins of the warehouse to find a large crowd listening to a Heletite missionary. The robed man spoke from a small stage, talking of corruption and politics in a church rotten with greed. He spoke of the righteous power of true-faith, and how that bypassed fat benefices and their hypocritical entourages. He urged the crowd to never doubt the new saints, naming three; Santana, Malsano, and Rabisto.

Rabisto!

What was wrong with these people? Rabisto was well known amongst the Flets as a god of bandits, a forbidden Heletian god. The crowd seemed oblivious.

As if in answer to my thoughts, the Heletite emphasised that this new saint was not of crime or trouble, but a jolly-maker and the keeper of comfort. He explained that the politics of the Church had seen the truth hidden by vested interests directing the Calbaro’s scholars.

The Heletite called, “Embrace Rabisto and he will embrace you! He offers comfort to those who need it, and who could need it more than the parents of stolen children!”

A woman cried out in answer, “I’m in need of comfort!” With greying hair and a tired frame, she stumbled forward as though life had thrown her too many challenges.

The crowd parted.

“My child’s been taken by the kidnappers, and only a season after the sea left me widowed! Look at me and my years, I’m dry and barren, and nothing any man would wed. Without my husband and son I’m destitute, but still I’m in need of comfort.”

The Heletite urged her forward.

She stepped up onto the makeshift stage.

He asked, “And why have you come here seeking comfort, my lady?”

“Because there’s none to be found elsewhere. I’ve looked across the city, and even begged at the foot of the Cathedral, yet the only attention the Church has given me is to push me off their steps.”

The Heletite said, “Are you coming forward to ask for the help of Saint Rabisto?”

“I’ve asked everywhere else, so I see no harm in it…” her voice broke with grief, “if it’s not to be granted, I’ll only go to The Graves and cast my bones into the sea.”

The Heletite pulled an amulet from his pocket, it crafted as a small arrow hanging on a slender leather thong. “Kneel and put this around your neck, kiss it, and pray for his intervention in your sad and sorry life. If you open your heart to him, he will hear you.”

She took the amulet, knelt, and hung it about her neck. She then lifted the golden arrow to her lips and kissed it with the resignation of one all but spent.

The crowd fell silent.

The hag let the amulet drop to rest against her worn tunic, it sitting in the valley between her sagging breasts. Her head bent forward, her eyes closed, and then she clasped her hands together in prayer. She mumbled through something of her own making, the words unclear, but the intent deep.

Silence took the moment, only disturbed when the Heletite called, “Aid this poor woman, aid her good people, aid her please!”

And many in the crowd also bowed their heads.

It was working…

I could sense the energy building, the rise in power as Rabisto stirred. She’d kissed his amulet and he’d chosen to kiss her in return.