Sanctuary (Dominion) (3 page)

I examined Arkael’s features, looking for a clue as to where he came from, thinking that may tell me something more about him. My gut told me he wasn’t from these isles. He didn’t look like a Briton, a Saxon, an Angle or even a Scot. His jet black hair and tan complexion weren't common here, and neither was his style of dress. I could see some Roman in his expression, though, and enough of their progeny still remained that I could believe he came from them, but my instincts said otherwise. His words, as short as they were, had the tinge of another language in them, one I didn't recognize. I would have asked him about all of this but at the time my mind was in such disarray that I couldn’t formulate any proper sentences. It was all I could do to keep from spouting gibberish and sounding like a drunken lout. So I just gaped at him and said nothing. Fortunately, he spoke instead.

“What is your name?” he asked. It took me a moment to remember that crucial piece of information.

“Daniel,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Daniel, sire.”

“Stay in the church, Daniel, and you will be protected.” His eyes never left the door. “This building is your sanctuary.”

I nodded. Vigorously.

“Thank you,” Aedre said, her soft voice shaking the stillness within the church. I turned to see her clothed again, although she hadn't managed to fasten all the laces on her dress yet. Caenwyld had been right about one thing. Her beauty was right out of a dream. Even though her long blond hair was wet and matted and her face red and puffy, she still looked as beautiful as she had when her parents brought her to the church this morning. She would have made a fine bride. I chased that thought away, though. Not because it was inappropriate, but because it was another reminder of the nightmare we'd just survived.

As if to reinforce that stark realization, Aedre walked with hesitating steps to the center of the church, toward the bodies lying on the ground. The anger in her eyes was gone, replaced by misery as she crouched down next to her mother, Liova, who’d been gutted several times. She lay still on the floor, clutching her midsection, her eyes and mouth still open in silent agony. Aedre caressed her face, ignoring the blood covering her mother’s body, and she cried again, but not the whimpering from before. This was deep, passionate anguish. An emotional outpouring that mirrored the brutality the two of us had just witnessed.

She leaned over and buried her face in her mother’s bosom, embracing her as best she could. I turned away in shared grief. Arkael's expression, however, revealed no emotion. He saw the same thing I did, but where I couldn't bear to watch, he stood still and aloof, as if death and loss and sorrow meant nothing to him. He seemed as alive as the walls around us, and as emotionally invested. I envied him for that. But I also couldn't help wonder what else he'd seen in his life that a scene like this had no effect on him.

The front door flew open, and I jumped in surprise as a cold wind tore through the church, flickering both the torches on the wall and the half-melted candles on the altar. Three burly raiders marched inside, dressed in heavy leather jerkins, dark colored breeches, and boots muddied from the climb up the beach. A fourth stood at the door, the brute who'd held me down, but he didn't dare enter the building. The first three kept their distance, cautiously assessing their new enemy as Arkael held his sword out in front of him. Aedre backed away, and I went to her, pulling her behind the altar. Behind our protector.

“Everything will be fine,” I whispered. “Pray to God, and He will save us.”

Aedre nodded, shut her eyes and mouthed a prayer.

"This is a holy place!" Arkael called out. “Those who bring death through that door will face God’s justice!”

The raider in the middle turned back to the brute.

"Him?" he asked and the brute nodded, keeping his gaze down so as not to look directly at Arkael. "No bloody way."

“I seen it!” the brute protested, then backed away, almost out of sight. “It was him!”

More raiders pushed through the door. Nearly a dozen now stood before us, and one came to the forefront with a scowl on his face. He was tall, with a thick body that could almost be called rotund if anyone had dared to utter that word around him. He wore leather like the others, but he also had a rusted chain vest draped over his shoulders that only hung down to his belt due to the curve of his belly. Unruly brown hair fell down his back, pulled together with a leather tie, and a thick beard covered half his face. He glanced at the bodies of the two dead raiders, and then stared at Arkael with rancorous brown eyes.

"You!” he roared. “You think you can kill my men, like they're mange-ridden dogs?"

"You are these men's leader?" Arkael asked.

"I am Ranulf, and these,” he pointed at the bodies, “belonged to me. I'll be expecting compensation. And if you can't pay, then I'll be taking your head."

"Your men were given a warning, which they chose not to heed. I will give you the same, but it will be the last time I speak it today. This church is protected by God, and I will see to it that no more innocent blood is spilled in here. Take your spoils and leave this place now, or you will face God’s justice."

I didn’t picture Ranulf as a man who was told what to do very often, and the outraged expression on his face seemed to prove me right. He stepped forward, kicking aside the body of Aedre’s young cousin, a boy named Egric who was only a year younger than her. Aedre gasped and looked away.

"Where is Caenwyld?" Ranulf demanded.

"Your false priest is dead by my hand," Arkael answered. "And if you and your men don't leave, you will all be joining his soul in Hell."

Ranulf's face contorted in rage and he pulled a large sword from his scabbard.

“You will learn your place!”

Arkael raised his own weapon in a defensive posture.

“You have been warned,” he said.

Ranulf ignored Arkael’s words and leapt forward. He swung his sword up over his head, intending simply to overpower Arkael's defense. It made no difference. With a speed that was anything but natural, Arkael sidestepped the attack at the very last moment, letting Ranulf's sword crash into the stone floor. With his left hand he punched the raider’s wrist, loosening his grip on his weapon, which fell and clattered to the ground, and with his right he held his own blade up to Ranulf's neck. Ranulf's momentum nearly carried him onto the point, but he caught himself just in time, and his wide eyes hammered home just how close he'd come to death. The other raiders in the church either drew their weapons then, or held those they’d already drawn higher. Though it seemed to me they did it more for their own protection than any desire to attack.

"I will not be sparing any more lives today, Ranulf. You and your men leave, now, or you'll have to figure out how to seek your repayment while burning for eternity in the pits of Hell." His words had no trace of malice, but they had the desired effect, nonetheless. Ranulf backed away slowly from the point of Arkael’s sword and Arkael, to his credit, let him. Once he stood about halfway between Arkael and his own men, his fear waned, replaced by a small modicum of reason. None of the other raiders in the room looked too eager to fight, and Ranulf sensed the unease amongst his men.

"Everyone out of the church," he said in a low growl. "We have what we came here for. Get what you can on the boats. Now."

The raiders filed out quickly, leaving only Ranulf standing at the door. He glanced at his sword lying on the ground near the altar, his face a mix of anger and bewilderment. Arkael slipped his foot under the blade of Ranulf's sword and flipped it across the room with a kick. Ranulf caught the hilt expertly. He gave everyone in the church one last glance, letting his gaze linger on Arkael.

“I’ll be looking for you,” he warned. “Watch your back.”

He stepped out, slamming the door behind him. It was then that I realized I was holding my breath and gripping Aedre’s arm tightly. I let go and composed myself, exhaling and then breathing in the foul air of the church, which I’d thankfully not noticed during the encounter. Aedre absently rubbed the red marks my grip left on her arm, her expression devoid of any emotion. She stared again at the bodies all about the floor before finally moving to the front bench where she sat, holding her face in her hands. Arkael stalked toward the front door and opened it, watching the raiders leave.

"Wait here," I told Aedre, and I followed Arkael to the door. Then I stopped and turned back to her. "Don't leave the church, no matter what." I felt horrible that she must sit amongst the bodies of her family just to save herself, but that was Arkael's message, and it had held true thus far. The church was our sanctuary.

I peered around Arkael, watching the raiders move back to the longboats beached on the coastline, their arms laden with various small treasures from the village. I could see four women in the boats already, under guard, but at this distance I couldn't tell who they were. I only knew what their wicked and undeserved fate was to be, and I wondered if the dead here in the church should consider themselves lucky. Ranulf barked at his men, his bellowing voice carrying throughout the middle of Rogwallow.

“Back to the boats, you dogs! Back to the boats!”

They were leaving. The village, whatever was left of it, was safe. I could finally relax, knowing that I would not die today. Although once I did the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind since Arkael arrived finally pushed its way to the front.

Had I witnessed a miracle?

Even the suggestion made my legs weak and my hands tingle, and it took more willpower than I would have thought to keep from falling to my knees. I knew about miracles. I’d read about more than I could count, and heard about twice that many from other priests, but to actually live through one was another matter entirely. Was I part of an actual, God-sent miracle, seen in my own lifetime? I could find no other answer while standing next to this man, this savior. Right now, it all seemed so wonderfully true. All my doubts disappeared; everything I’d questioned stood before me in knowing reproach. God himself carried me, and I wanted this moment to last forever.

But that was not to be.

Chapter 3

The church in Rogwallow faced south, which was unusual. It was a meager, rectangular stone building that sat at the north end of the village, the front door opening to both the distant southern shoreline and the cluster of buildings in between that made up the village center. Typically, the church would have faced west, with the altar at the east end of the structure, but for reasons that had long since decayed into legend, this church had been built by men who didn’t follow that particular custom. I don’t know why I thought of this now, except to be glad that because the church faced the wrong direction, I could see with my own eyes the retreating raiders as they fled to their boats.

"There may be survivors," Arkael said, not taking his eyes off Ranulf and his men. "Bring them here."

It took a moment for his words to yank me from my reverie. I understood their meaning. I even agreed with them. But then I realized that to find these others, I would have to abandon the protective confines of this building. I would have to go where Arkael wasn't, and that sent a jolt of terror through my body. Outside was danger and chaos, or perhaps the miserably certain death I thought I’d already escaped. Raiders were still leaving some of the buildings and I didn't want to surprise one on his way out and catch a knife in my belly.

"Of course,” I said, as enthusiastic as a rabbit venturing from its hole while wolves brayed nearby. “I'll bring them back here. Where they'll be safe." He nodded curtly, but other than that he paid me no more attention than he would a fly on his boot. Surprisingly, his lack of concern soothed my worry, and my sense of duty kicked in. I stepped out of the doorway, and onto the muddy dirt path that led from the church directly to the main hall about sixty paces away. I moved hesitantly at first, buffeted by the cold wind from the shore, and I imagined myself pushing against my fear as I did the wind. It was an apt analogy, although I still wished I wasn’t going by myself.

When I reached the village center I found a place of death. The center was an oval common area surrounded by a stable, a smith, a pen for the sheep, the potter's house, and the hall. The hall was the home of the village's chief, a man named Affa, who'd inherited his role from his father, who'd in turn inherited it from his grandfather, Rog, who'd named the village after himself, according to Affa. Affa's nephew, Efrim, was the young man who was to marry Aedre, but I had no doubt that Efrim, his uncle, and all of Affa's men were dead now, their bodies lying somewhere on the beach. Sadly, they were only the first to die this morning. Bran, the village smith, lay motionless on the ground just in front of his shop, a hammer in one hand while the other clutched the bloody gash in his chest. Three dogs growled and jockeyed for position next to the large stack of firewood outside Affa’s hall, licking the blood from the back and arm of another man I couldn’t recognize from where I stood. He lay face down on the ground next to the south wall, half-covered in hay and drenched in blood. I considered walking over to shoo them away, but then I heard a cry from a voice I recognized and my heart leapt.

Just past the stable, on the far side facing the shore, an old woman stood outside the door to her home, shouting at Ranulf’s men. One side of her head was bloody, from a cut on her temple, and she held a dull knife in her hand, shaking it threateningly at the men clambering onto the decks of their boats off to the south.