Slow Turns The World (25 page)

Torrin was silent for a moment as their eyes locked in absolute understanding.

“Lord, I will do this thing.  Not eagerly, for I know that you have not told me all, and that there is some foul purpose in this mission.  But I will ask you this.  When I am gone, send Valhad away from the city.  You have already seen that he is incautious with his words.  I fear he is in danger here.”

“I can agree to that, Vasagi.  He will go to Graselle's family, to a village between here and the sea, where he can work upon the land.  Now all is agreed and your ship is waiting at the haven.”

Chapter 7

Bear to far-off lands this message which shall bring joy and freedom to men’s hearts.

The book of Tarcen. Ch. 1 V. 8

Torrin disliked Deacon Gretal even before they exchanged their first words.  He had boarded a ship at the Havens, and now, once again sea stretched in all directions.  There was liberation in the expansive realms of blue, of sea and sky, a salty freshness in the air; vigour in the gusting breeze.   He walked the deck for a while, free from the weight of mail and, at His Lordship’s order, no longer bearing the emblem of Etoradom on his breast.  

There were priests travelling onboard, making the crossing to Hirege.  They were mainly hard-faced soldiers, but there were other clerics of higher rank, and, in command, a sour, thin-lipped man they called Deacon.    The Deacon prowled the decks, a copy of the Text always clutched tightly to him, eyes filled with disapproval, seeing sin and imperfection manifest in all things.  Torrin was resting in his cabin when an abrupt knock sounded at the door.  It was one of the younger priests, sent by the Deacon to summon Torrin.

“Deacon Gretal will speak with you now.  You are to come with me.”

“If your Deacon wants to see me, I am here,” said Torrin and closed the door firmly in the priest’s face.

Torrin ignored the next knocking, which seemed to bristle with indignation.  The door opened angrily and Deacon Gretal, red faced, clutching the Text as always, strode in.

“How dare you?” he demanded angrily, before Torrin rose to face him.

“What right do you have to summon me?” asked Torrin.

Deacon Gretal did not expect to be challenged or questioned, and was, for a moment, lost for words.

“Lord Vagis instructed that you travel with my mission,” he blurted out, and then continued:

“You are a servant of the church, engaged in its work.   You will obey me while we journey together.”

“Listen to me, priest,” Torrin said the words quietly but stepped forward so that his face was uncomfortably close to Gretal’s.  “I don’t like you, or any of your kind.  I may be pledged to do the will of Lord Vagis, but you have no power over me.  Now get out of my cabin.”

“This will be reported,” hissed the Deacon, and he blustered away.

Alone again, Torrin unrolled the many maps His Lordship had provided and contemplated the long journey ahead through strange lands with strange names.  There were pages from other books too, describing the tribes and peoples he might encounter.  Some were placid and farmed the land, moving from village to village as the world turned, always with the sun riding high, making the land bountiful.  Others were fearsome warrior tribes, mounted predators that swept around the world in a slow wave of plunder and burning.  The sword, crossbow and knife might protect him, but if not there was the other commodity His Lordship had given; a purse of coins for those who knew the ways of money and tiny precious stones for those who might not.   Would they facilitate his journey, Torrin wondered, or simply get him robbed and murdered at the first landfall?

He spent some time sewing most of the coins and gems into hidden pouches in his cloak and jerkin, until the purse held only a modest coinage.  He walked the deck again and gazed into the south.  Somewhere, unimaginably distant, his wife and child walked without him.  It would be so easy to abandon his mission, to journey to them, and live far from the vengeful whims of his master.  But an oath was made, a solemn pledge on the lives of those that were most precious to him, and there was Valhad too.  Would His Lordship take revenge if Torrin broke his pledge?  He was a ruthless man, but Torrin did not think him cruel.  No, His Lordship was not the greatest danger for Valhad.  He remembered the scream he had heard in the Cloisters, a sound that haunted him still, and shuddered.  

 They came to Hirege and berthed at a quay under the cliff high walls of the fortress.  The symbol of the Etoradom fluttered from flagpoles on the highest towers, while the town beneath made a token gesture of its own emblem on limp banners.  This was the hinterland of empire, where tribes and kingdoms paid homage to the brooding presence in their midst, where overlord priests slyly guided the will of rightful rulers.    Torrin watched from the deck as the ship was moored, leather pack slung from his shoulder, impatient to feel the flagstones of the quay beneath his feet.  Deacon Gretal came beside him and seemed to be chewing something with a bitter taste.  Finally he managed to force the words out.

“I feel that we may have misunderstood each other at our first meeting,” he said, speaking as if the words had barbs.  “Lord Vagis informed me that our paths would run together for some time.  That you were to be assisted in your journey.”

‘
Lord Vagis
,’ thought Torrin, ‘
wants to make sure that I go east not south
.’

“He instructed me to share provisions with you,” Gretal continued, “and to help you in any other way which you request.  It would, of course, be useful to know where you are bound…”

‘
You’d love to know, wouldn’t you, what my mission is?  It maddens you that you that you have not been told, a priest of your high rank, and me, a mere heathen.’
 

“Perhaps, Deacon,” said Torrin, “you should tell me of your mission first?”

The Deacon’s face twitched in a way that caused Torrin some pleasure.

“I can tell you that we have cargo in the hold,” said Gretal, “and that it is our intention to trade this with certain tribes.”

Torrin chose that moment to jump nimbly from the balustrade onto the quay.  He looked across at Gretal and then turned to walk away.

“We are expected in the castle,” said the Deacon, “you will accompany us.”

“No,” said Torrin. “I will stay here in the town.  You will come to me when the preparations for travel are made.”

Torrin went ashore and walked the narrow streets.    It was a busy, industrious place whose heart beat to the constant rhythm of the shipwright’s saw and hammer.  A patrol of soldiers passed by, some local militia, whose commanding officer was accompanied by a soldier-priest of Etoradom.  There were taunts as they passed by and the priest looked threateningly around before continuing his patrol.  There was a temple too, built in the style of Etoradom, for those who had converted to the faith.  

There were many obscene slogans daubed upon it and the symbol of Etoradom was defiled; the nation’s own flag painted across it boldly.   He found an inn close by and bought food, wine and lodging with a single small coin.   He talked a while with the landlord who told him the ways of these people and of their many small communities girdling the northern seas.  He was told how the slow turning of the world took their towns and villages from night to day to night, of the tradition of the newly married moving westwards, filling the empty homes of sunrise.  

Then the empire had come, two full turns of the world ago, and taken their lands into 'protection'.   Since then, slowly, slowly, but never ceasing, the grip had tightened and their own churches had been torn down to be replaced with new temples.   The castles had been built to overshadow all and house the new overlords; the 'advisors' to whom their own kings were summoned for 'guidance'.   There was resistance; some fought back and ships of the empire had been set alight in the harbour.  Then more ships came bringing the Brothers of Redemption and the populace was cleansed of such defiance.  The young men might taunt the soldiers on patrol, or scribble slogans on the walls but overt acts of rebellion were a memory.   A distant bell tolled from the fortress and, as in Etoradom, the sleeping time began.  Torrin shuttered out the sunlight in his tiny room, thought again of his exchange with the priest, and allowed himself a little smile as he drifted into the most restful sleep he had known since leaving the Vasagi.  

When the waking time came he went to the quay and found the ship being unloaded.  Many boxes were piled upon carts under the watchful eye of Deacon Gretal, while a company of soldiers stood guard around.  Torrin watched awhile, knowing the priest was bound to come to him eventually.  When the loading was complete Gretal approached and spat out a few words as if they had a foul taste.

“We leave at the next time of waking.  There is a steed for you in the castle.”

“I will find my own,” said Torrin, “and follow on soon enough.  You will not move fast bearing such a load.”

“You are to travel with us.  These are orders from your master.”

Torrin looked at the priest, at the reddening of his cheeks, the little vein that pulsed furiously on his forehead.

“I will see you on the road, priest.”

Torrin spent two more cycles in the town, and chose a good mount from stables recommended to him by the landlord.  He packed his saddlebags with all the provisions that space allowed and ambled slowly up the winding road into the surrounding hills.  He took a last look at the expanse of rippling blue that was the sea, and then kicked his horse on, into the east.   There were a few farming communities scattered along the way and, as each was passed, the road became more indistinct.    Recent hoof prints and cartwheel ruts testified that the priests were making slow progress and that reunion with Deacon Gretal would not be long delayed.  There were pastures of lush grass by the roadside, where he dismounted and rested, dozing in a fragrant bed while his tethered horse ate greedily.   

He awoke well rested and resumed his journey but did not travel long before encountering the convoy of carts and riders on the way ahead.  They were making slow progress over the rough terrain, the tethered beasts labouring and straining to pull the heavy loads.  Deacon Gretal sat upon the lead vehicle, impassive while the driver whipped the struggling animals in a bid to urge them up a short gradient.  Torrin drew alongside, eyes met coldly, but no words of greeting were exchanged.

“Perhaps, Deacon,” said Torrin, “if you took your weight from the cart the animals would manage.  It is not right to treat the beasts so cruelly.”

Gretal snorted contemptuously.

“And God said to Karos I give to you the beasts of the land to feed and clothe and serve you in many ways but they shall not know of heaven for that gift is not bestowed to them.”

“So then,” said Torrin, “it is better to whip these animals to death than for a deacon to muddy his feet.”

He kicked his mount on, and rode ahead of the convoy.

He came to a high place and saw the world stretching away across plain and forest towards distant mountains.  He dismounted and laid his maps before him in a mosaic line across the ground.  The mountains that he saw, which seemed so distant, bordered the edge of the first map but another ten sheets lay edge to edge.  Twelve moons to make the journey, His Lordship had not been over-generous with this allocation of time.   He could hear the sound of the carts, of cracking whips, of harsh voices shouting and drawing nearer.  His urge was to gallop away and leave the priests to their own purposes, but they were well provisioned, and he had a curiosity as to their intentions.   For a time at least he would journey with them.

A moon passed.  The convoy was crossing a wide plain under a torrent of driving rain.  Torrin had ridden ahead, scouting the land, finding the best route.  He came to hillock top and saw before him, a sight that made his heart beat faster, that reached in and twisted the pit of his stomach.   Scattered across the expanse of grassland was a great herd of huge grazing beasts.  He could see the shaggy coats, the spiral horns and could smell their musky scent upon the air.  They were barak, less thick of coat and shorter of horn, but barak all the same.  Then he saw the distant, darting figures.  There were men with spears and arrows running between the beasts, scattering them in a thunder of hooves.  Eagerly, and with a sense of homecoming, he rode to meet them.  

They were much like the Vasagi, welcoming of strangers, sharing all that they had.  The rains cleared for a while and he enjoyed their hospitality at the campfire.  Many tales were told of the hunt, their journey, their ways and customs. They were peaceful, he was told, but were often harassed by a tribe called the Zeris.  There were sometimes skirmishes, but spears and arrows usually saw the raiders off.  When Torrin returned to the convoy he told the priests nothing of his encounter.   He led them far from the tribe in a wide skirting arc across the plain.  The hunters were good people, better to let them live their lives without contamination.

The mountains drew closer and Deacon Gretal studied his maps with care.  He brought the convoy to a halt and drew the priests around in council.  Torrin watched and listened as Gretal gave his briefing.

“We are close to our destination,” he told them.  “Upon the mountain yonder are mines which have lain fallow since this land came from darkness.  Those amongst you skilled in excavations will inspect the workings and make preparations for new work.  First though, before this is done, we will seek the tribe called Zeris.  They will be urged to enter our service, and to be blessed within the Holy Church.  They will be armed.  They will provide workers for the task ahead.”

Torrin thought of the hunters who fought off the Zeris with spears and bows; how could they protect themselves from warriors heavy in mail, wielding steel blades and crossbows?  Were they destined to be the slaves condemned to labour in darkness?  His journey was pressing, but he felt compelled to stay a while longer with the priests and see how this scheme of the empire unfolded.