Inquisitor (4 page)

Clerks working for the Royal Chancery must be crazy like a loon as they decided to assign an entire detachment of imperial cuirassiers to sort it out. A usual patrol would have been more than enough for that. So they did the other way around – they sent a detachment of soldiers reinforced with two combat mages let alone puritans accompanying them – a dirty word was about to escape lips to comment their presence. Five priests in one place – any sane person will go crazy in a day!

They passed three wayside taverns on their way but didn’t have a chance to have a proper rest that imperial soldiers deserved! No way to peek under the skirts of maids who were thrilled with cuirassiers’ interest, no way to drink foamy rustic beer to your heart’s content, no way to sleep tight on fluffy shaken up rustic featherbeds! Moreover, they had to pay out of their own soldier pockets for everything – and, you know, they were never full of money! What’s this world coming to?!

Thanks to the bloody white-cloaked who were looking around severely and annoying everybody with their advice and sermons on modesty and sin of gluttony. And you couldn’t send them away with a flea in their ear! They were members of the clergy after all. As for the order to provide the priests with total assistance, Whisker preferred not thinking about it. Remembering a particularly curvy girl from the latest tavern, Whisker spat in a fit of rage and angrily peered at the priests who were riding apart from others. Thanks God, soon they would reach the village they were looking for; it was within a stone throw so far. Just three leagues along the lane and they would come out to a rivulet. Forest Metochion was situated just across from it.

The least trouble for sergeant Whisker was the mages riding at the head of the column. During the way they hadn’t uttered a dozen of words and, importantly, they hadn’t interfered into the cuirassiers’ interests. No doubt they tried to be aloof from the soldiers, made scornful faces and avoided dealing with simple warriors, but the sergeant could put up with it.

Only once an incident happened when stupid Luther drank too much beer, clutched a young she-mage in the corner of the tavern and got handsy. Nevertheless the sergeant didn’t have to interfere – he just watched Luther running like hell to the backyard. The sergeant could swear that Luther’s pants were steaming at that moment. The rest of that evening Luther was sitting in the water trough – as soon as he raised his bottom from the water, his pants started smoldering again. So the incident was over at that point by demonstrative but not very violent punishment. Whisker apologized to the fiery she-mage – she listened to him dryly keeping a scornful grimace on her beautiful face. The sergeant promised to punish the retard and the incident was over.

The fiery she-mage… a well-groomed bitch considering herself blue-blooded.

Although… Whisker thought it would be nice to spend a couple of hours with such a pretty maid at the tavern hayloft. She was so curvy – built for comfort. But it could happen only in his dreams – such a peach was definitely not for soldiers, tavern girls was their maximum level. The second mage – a man with a well-groomed grey beard – was always reading, even while riding a horse. He was turning over pages calmly and making some notes by a white feather from time to time. The sergeant was sure that the grey-beard mage had never dipped his white feather into the ink-pot but the feather kept on making notes that only the mage could understand. It was magic. And it was better to keep away from it. As well as from the mages. Only in that case you could be safe and sound. Although the scribe-mage was trying to keep aloof, he didn’t make anyone angry as he paid attention to nothing but his books with worn-out pages. He wasn’t looking even at the graceful young enchantress riding nearby. And the attentive soldier’s eyes couldn’t miss the fact that such disregard of her beauty and youth irritated and even drove the fiery enchantress angry. But she tried to conceal her feelings as she was obviously afraid of the mage – her companion – there was a peculiar aura of nobleness and power of the ancient aristocratic clan around him.

In the last village, that they passed without halting they met a talkative peasant. He explained how to get to their destination in detail but refused flatly to be their guide and to accompany them, even a copper coin as a reward for his help couldn’t tempt him. Neither could five coins. He must be living in clover since he refused money so easily. But actually when the peasant started murmuring something about a ‘dark priest’ dwelling in Forest Metochion and raising the undead from their graves, the sergeant realized that he was talking to the insane. What an absurd collocation – Dark Priest! How did he manage to use two contradictory words together? What was the elder thinking about? A dozen of scourges was not enough to punish him for such gossips. But three dozens of scourges would be up to the handle to prevent him from bothering other people with his silly fairy-tales. As soon as he recovered from the punishment, he would become cleverer and would learn to keep his bad mouth shut!

In contrast to the indignant sergeant one of the priests treated the peasant’s fairy-tales rather seriously and asked him about all the details absolutely ignoring the fact that the entire detachment was waiting for him under the scorching sun. The sergeant was about to roar at the frail puritan. He wanted to remind him who the principal was but facing the cold glance of ultra blue eyes he got embarrassed, kind of fizzled out and didn’t dare to open his mouth. When the priest came to the horse, took a red belt out of the cantel bag and wrapped it carelessly round his waist, the sergeant started sweating with fear and thanking Father the Merciful for making him keep his mouth shut that time. The priest belonged to one of the most enclosed religious orders that was famous for their rancor and rare ability to make quick decisions.

According to all estimations it would take one more hour to get to the village they were looking for. Expecting a substantial meal, Whisker turned to Fesces riding next to him, patted his shoulder and commanded:

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Take Luther and have a ride to the village. Just look around and don’t forget to warn the village elder about important guests. Ask them to lay the tables.    

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Yes, sir! – Fesces responded with delight – the sergeant understood such a reaction, he would like to wind down too – We’ll be back in a minute!

But Fesces, the cuirassier, didn’t manage to dig spurs into his horse – an utmost cold and rough voice made the soldier change his mind at once:     

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Sergeant! Don’t make a single step into the village!

Sergeant Whisker didn’t have to turn his head around to see who dared to dispute his order. He knew it for sure – the voice belonged to the blue-eyed priest dressed in a white cassock crossed out by the red belt.

Fesces looked at the sergeant with a question in his eyes. Whisker got red and clenching his teeth croaked reluctantly:

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You heard Father’s demand, didn’t you? Don’t enter the village. Look around from distance and gallop back.

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Yes, sir! – the cuirassier reported in a mirthless voice. Definitely they could forget about a mug of fresh cool beer.

Fesces galloped towards the head of the detachment and shouted out the sergeant’s order to Luther. In a minute both emissaries went out of sight and only a cloud of road dust raised by their horses’ hooves reminded about them.

Moving his jaw muscles furiously Whisker looked at the back of the priest calmly riding away and hardly resisted losing his temper. How did the bloody puritan dare to give a command to the combat sergeant of the imperial army? And take it for granted? With his hand trembling because of rage the sergeant found the flask full of wine hanging at his belt and put it to his lips for a long time. He didn’t care a bit about the priests shaking their heads with disapproval! The sooner they got to that bloody Forest Metochion, the better! The sergeant was dreaming to find the one who was spreading the ridiculous gossips and give the bastard a hundred of scourges with his own hand!

Whisker was choking with rage, but he wasn’t crazy enough to argue with the representative of the Order of the Heresy Eradicators. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.

But the rage overwhelming him needed to go out, so the sergeant stood up in the stirrups and roared at his subordinates:

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Close the rank! You’re dragging like a herd of pregnant cows! Straighten up the rank! Check the weapon and the armor. Put on the helmets, take the shields off the saddles! Be alert!

The cuirassiers feeling drowsy under the scorching sun and tired because of monotonous ride obeyed the order reluctantly. Soon the iron clank sounded through the detachment. In one minute the loose rank straightened up and looked like a real detachment of the Imperial Regular Army. The sergeant smiled with satisfaction despite of the rage dimming his eyes. The cuirassiers… Appareled in heavy armor, powerful crossbows hanging behind their backs, broad two-edged swords at the belts, combat axes fixed at the saddles. Never surrender and never retreat! And it made sense. There was a steel glove squeezing fingers tightly to form a spiked fist depicted on their heraldic flag. It stood for cuirassiers, the king’s enduring steel fist that could knock out bloody snots of those who dared not to bend to his will. The reliable support of the royal throne. After calming down, Whisker sipped some more wine pacifically and dug his heels into the horse’s sides to dash towards the head of the detachment. He didn’t care about those white-cloaked at all.

The detachment headed by the sergeant passed half a league without any incidents. Whisker was visualizing himself sitting at the rich table and hugging a peasant belle easy to get seduced by mannish cuddles. That was the best possible way to forget about the snoopy priests and arrogant mages. A big smile spread on Whisker’s face when he saw a small cloud of dust growing step by step. It was the scout coming back. Whisker was sure that knacky Fesces – despite the stupid order of the blue-eyed dodger in a white cloak – managed to drop in the village and explained to the elder of Forest Metochion what to do to please the welcome guests. As sure as death all the peasants shook off their drowsiness and were drawing all the tables to the village square as fast as possible, all the women were taking out pickled cabbage, cucumbers, smoked ham, cheese and other delicacies from their cellars. As well as fresh beer poured into clay jugs from casks… heh!

The cloud of dust came so closely that Whisker could see a dark spot – a rider galloping like hell. Only one rider. The sergeant winced in puzzlement and hardly resisted scratching the back of his head.

Where’s the second emissary?

Maybe Fesces, the old fox, decided to stay in the village. He could do it…

If it was really so – he would skin him alive! Imagining Fesces drinking beer, squeezing chicks and laughing at the soldiers swallowing road dust, the sergeant doubled his fists with a crack and swore to force Fesces to scrub barrack shithouses all his life.

Meanwhile, the lonely rider shortened the distance of the last feet and suddenly stopped his horse in front of the sergeant.

Peering at Fesces – it was he who came back alone – the sergeant got struck dumb. His eyes were sparkling frantically on the face covered with the rind of clotted blood mixed with mud, there were deep furrows and holes on his armor, the left pauldron and the shield were lost forever, the blooded fingers were squeezing the naked sword covered with black ooze up to the handle. The horse that was starting nervously didn’t look much better. The broken-winded horse was neighing weakly, its sides were rising, it was suffering from the agony caused by numerous lacerate wounds and shaking its head from one side to another. Plenty of flocks of red-blooded foam were dropping from its mouth. Father the Merciful! They must have just galloped through a hostile range of pikemen!

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Sergeant. It’s a catastrophe – the blooded soldier exhaled and limply slid from the horse, the careful fellow-soldiers caught him at once.

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Where is Luther? What happened? – the sergeant was spitting out the words, he got concentrated at once, dismounted and leaped toward Fesces. So then he was standing next to him. The sergeant’s apathy disappeared as if a gale-force wind blew it off.

Somebody attacked a cuirassier! And where?! Whoever it was they must be punished!

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One league away from here, sergeant – Fesces who had been laid down on the grass muttered indistinctly keeping his eyes closed – On the wheat field.

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How many people are there? Who are they? – Whisker demanded furiously shaking the soldier’s shoulders but he didn’t get the reply. Fesces spent the rest of his energy on riding back and he was falling into drowsiness slowly so far. There was no chance to receive any answer from him soon except for low groans escaping his lips.

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You, both! – without looking at anybody, Whisker pointed out at the cuirassiers standing closer to him – Take off Fesces’s armor, examine his wounds. Jenkees, bring bandages as fast as you can, then take care of Fesces’s horse. If it’s too bad, release its suffering. Hey, what are you staring at? – the sergeant shouted at other soldiers madly. – Dismiss! Break out the crossbows! And watch the perimeter. Obey the order!

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Sergeant, let me see. I can cure wounds – the priest came closer and discourteously pushed Whisker aside. Then bended over the injured who was already lying without his armor. The priest found a really bad bleeding rough-edged wound on the left side of the unconscious soldier. The dense leather pants were ripped apart making the legs with stripes of wounds seen.