Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

He got up and off his knees, and went back to his stool.

I said, “Perhaps you’re right, perhaps my magic is aligned to faith.” I went on, thinking aloud, “I suppose with the suppression of our people’s religions such a calling might somehow be delayed.”

“Our beliefs are here, but weak. The dogma is half-forgotten. Look at Schoperde; there are still a few priests in the wilds of Fletland, but there’s none left here in Ossard. Her last priest here was forced out twenty years ago.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Seig told me. He said Ossard’s Flets don’t talk about her.”

“Why?”

“Because someone gave her truth to the Inquisition during their last campaign; it’s what caused the Burnings.”

I was horrified. “Sweet Schoperde! What happened?”

“She fled. She got out of the city and headed into the Northcountry, from where she planned to cross to Fletland. It was Iris I think, Iris Grendabanden, or something like that.”

“I’ve never heard of her, or of what you say, but I can understand people not talking about it if a Flet willingly gave up her name. Such an act would have shamed all of Newbank.”

He nodded. “From my understanding, a faith like Schoperde has dogma that’s not overly deep. It’s more a matter of accepting your connection to her, and then submitting to it.”

“Yes, that’s right. Of course, in Fletland they also have traditions of celebrations and observances tied to the seasons and the like, but that’s not something we can do.”

“No, not while the Church watches.”

We sat in silence for a moment before I asked, “And if it’s not that, if I’m not a newly discovered servant of the gods,” I snorted in laughter, “or an avatar?”

“Juvela, we’ve been talking about you.”

“We?”

“The Guild, and those who’ve sensed your emerging power. You’re no trickster, and what I’ve said here is not unlike what’s been spoken elsewhere.”

My jaw dropped. “Sef!”

“Truly.”

“This is nonsense! I’m a wife and a mother, not an avatar!”

“Listen to me, and listen with an open mind. You’re not just gifted, or able to draw upon great power, you’re also something different.”

I shook my head.

He went on, “I, like most priests, can only draw upon thin streams of magic, anything greater would burn me out. As soon as I draw it into me, I have to manipulate it, and then cast it out. But you can handle it. You let it flood in so much more than anyone I’ve ever seen, and then you can even hold it!”

“Sef, this is too much!”

He shook his head. “Listen to me, look at how quickly you learned to defend yourself just now!”

I held up my hands. “Please, let’s leave it!”

He took a deep breath and nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s been said, if it’s that important.”

“There are many faiths in Fletland, more than you can know. Some speak in terms of prophecy, and such things often become tales to be told in taverns, or by the glow of camp fires.”

“Like what you told me when I was young?”

“I suppose, but what I’m telling you now is what some people actually believe.”

“I understand.”

“Most of them speak of the same sort of thing: They tell of one of our own who’ll rise to lead us to sanctuary, a time and place free of catastrophe.”

“What! And people think that’s me?”

He shook his head. “No, this saviour is suppose to be a warrior, but he’s put onto his path by a priest from amongst us; a spirit-guide. This priest helps him awaken to his truth, which is what will trigger his rise. In the end, that saviour becomes our leader, and also the king of our foes.”

I sat back, astounded that anyone would link such a thing to me. “You don’t believe this, do you?”

“No, prophecy is the talk of fools. The world just doesn’t work that way.” He sighed. “Juvela, look at our people; we’re dying. Our time in Ossard seems over, and our place in Fletland has never been secure. In another one hundred years, with or without the genocide, our people will be finished. Something as simple as a few bad harvests or a plague will end it.”

I’d never heard such talk, but knew it held some truth.

He went on, “Banditry, disease, and the lingering hatred of the genocide; it’s all taking its toll. The bitterness is killing us.”

It was a glum thought. Ossard, even as a Heletian city-state, stood as Unae’s largest Flet community. Its loss would be a terrible blow. If Ossard went, so would an important branch of our people – the branch that gave the rest hope.

I said, “There aren’t tears enough for our history, let alone any prophesied calamities to come.”

He grinned. “Don’t worry about it, they’re just stories.” He laughed. “Besides, have you met anyone who’d make a good king?”

I smiled as I shook my head. It was ludicrous, all of it.

Sef asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Good. Now, if you’re up to it, we should go to the Guild.”

“To check on things?”

“Kurgar has sent out a declaration to the Inquisitor and the followers of the new saints; it confirms Newbank as a self-governing district.”

I laughed.

He smiled. “Yes, I think we can guess the Inquisitor’s response, but who knows of the new saints?”

“But no one knows where their leaders are, or who they are?”

He nodded. “That’s the thing. If an answer comes, I was hoping we might learn something from it.”

“You’re right.”

Sef began looking about, suddenly distracted. He got up and walked towards the kitchen’s high window.

“What is it?”

“Can’t you smell it?

I stood and joined him. “Fresh smoke.”

The window rose above us, small and barred. It was made more for ventilation than views, yet through it we could see a sky turning grey and dark.

Sef fetched a stool and stood on it. “The port burns!” He couldn’t see the port itself, just thick plumes rising from its direction. They marked fires that looked to be worse than those of yesterday. “Someone’s torching buildings.”

I said, “Come, we’ll hear more at the Guild.”

Sef insisted on us using the coach for the short trip to the Guild, he wouldn’t say it plainly, but I think he was worried about me mixing in crowds. It made for slow going on the packed streets, but I wasn’t going to argue, not as I came to terms with my newest burden; being cursed by the god of murder.

As we reached the Cassaro, we could see what remained of the opposite shore after last night’s fires. It spread as a blackened ruin with less than half its buildings still standing. The charred wasteland still smouldered.

Many of Newbank’s residents had headed to the river to watch the port fires, and to use the last of the morning to share news. Some openly wore the symbols of their true faiths and there were even cabalists amongst them. Strangely, as the port burned in the distance, a sense of liberation reigned over Newbank.

I looked about at my home district’s cramped buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder, and leaning out and above narrow streets with each new floor. Given the chance, fire would devour the place faster than a drunken sailor could jump a tavern wench.

Nearby, the river’s waters flowed thick with ash. I looked past it to St Marco’s Square, a mid-sized market on the opposite shore; as always my eyes were drawn to the tall belltower of the church that lent the area its name. Suddenly, the stone spire burst into flames, consumed by a blinding blue fireball. The deep growl and whump of the explosion caused screams and panic, all of it followed by the rumble of masonry as the bulk of the tower fell into the square.