His dinner was more burnt than the norm that day. Wretched fire, it was as if the thing was intentionally vexing him. First it refused to awaken, sputtering and covering itself with the blanket of ash several times in succession before he managed to drag it from the bed of charcoal he had brought with him from the previous generation. Then in obstinate revenge the imp would without warning grow, singeing the paltry scraps he was generously referring to as meat. It was almost enough to make one wonder if the Devil himself was personally puppeteering this flame just to sow suffering.
Dangerous thoughts. Though seemingly nothing more than frustrated hyperbole, he had seen things... Witnessed enough to know they might have some small spark of truth. A chaplain he had known long ago spoke of fire often. This cleric would have arguments at length and in detail with a sergeant of the men'at'arms he diced and ate with. The sergeant was convinced that fire was a gift from the Almighty to mankind, while the chaplain was adamant it was a curse inflicted upon man by Satan's own malevolence. The slight which started the sparring varied as the weeks passed, but the contents were soon strikingly familiar.
The sergeant would list methodically the many benefits of fire, from a candle in the night to the sun itself. He spoke of how fire kept them warm through the winter, let them see in the depths of darkness, and allowed them to forge both tools and trinkets. They cooked their food with fire, elevating them above mere animals eating raw. Fire, while dangerous, was beautiful and important.
He claimed it was natural that anything originally from heaven would hurt a mortal if they touched it. From the same root, fire spread because God's presence was everywhere. That the only times fire injured someone or destroyed something was by the fool mistake or moral flaw of a man, and not inherently the providence of the flame.
To him, fire was the allegory to life. All that lived depended on fire, for it was the substance of the sun. Crops for people or food for the prey grew only in the grace of the sun. The reason wood burnt and stone did not was because a tree had once been a living thing, while a stone was never connected to fire by way of life.
He believed all folk had a fire inside them, within their soul. The fervor one felt when engaged in righteous acts or the burning passion one felt in the arms of a lover were a welling of this internal blaze. Fire, he insisted, was a gift from God. A symbol of hope and a ward which protected them from all the evils and dangers of the world.
The chaplain disagreed. Strenuously. Fire was a cruel torment inflicted upon them. It was a hungry, violent thing that could never be tamed or satiated. Fire was a mindless, heartless monster that would destroy and consume anything unfortunate to come in contact with it. Oh, he admitted that without fire we would freeze to death, or be stalked by beasts in the night. However, those things only happened to us because humans were inherently sinful.
Do people freeze to death in Heaven? Does Heaven have wolves and thieves that skulk in the darkness? We had not nor needed fire back when the world was yet still a paradise. If fire were the quintessence of Heaven it would not exist in Hell. But Hell had fire. Hell had a lot of fire.
To say the first flames came from Heaven was as illogical as saying that bucket of water which lay there came from a well that had never been dug. It was inherently nonsensical in nature. No, fire was a curse from Satan. People cooked their food, or read books late into the night by light of a lantern. But both were unnatural.
Humans were meant to sleep at night, nothing else, and they only truly needed to cook food that was fleeced from a corpse. Raw meat made them ill from subconscious guilt and vomit as a punishment for slaying one of God's creations. They might only consume flesh after it had been washed and licked by evil.
Violence and gluttony were inherent to meat. Consider the goodly peasant, and his dinner of bread with vegetable soup. Then consider the baron, fat and selfish and tearing into a greasy haunch. Sins committed by their hands compounded by use of a tool sold by the Devil's workshop.
Fire destroyed homes, and even churches too! It scarred people forever. It burnt trees but not rocks because that was its druthers. To kill wantonly and then desecrate the remains. It cared nothing about the rocks.
Also, the sun was not literally made of fire. Only ignorant pagans believed such nonsense. Sunlight was white and golden, pure and clear and illuminating everything under God. The light from a fire was ruddy and flickering, and only appeared in caves and dungeons and grim forests. Firelight was naught but crude and jeering mockery of the sun's glory, which shown from Heaven.
The chaplain's voice would reliably be chorused at once verse or another, interrupted by the sergeant as he shook his head saying “No, no no nonono!”
He'd make counters to the chaplain's claims, saying for example that Mankind not having fire back in the days of Eden was yet further evidence it was a gift from their Father. Once our ancestors started to suffer, once the darkness and hunger and wolves came, God looked down upon them. In his infinite mercy and compassion he gave them a boon to deal with those new ills. And the sun was indeed made out of fire! That's why men became burnt if they stayed out in the sun bare too long. It's a different color than candles and torches because it's holy fire.
“No no no, you thickheaded dullard,” the chaplain would say, “men get burnt because being in the sun is being in distant exposure to Heaven. Our mortal flesh is not worthy, that's why the skin reddens and blisters. It's a spiritual thing, not because our skin is literally being roasted like bread! Even if that childish blasphemy was correct the sun is above the peak as the mountaintop is above the sea. A loaf will not brown when sitting on the ground half a league distant from the oven no matter how fierce that oven roars!”
“Then why would your skin burn too? If what you say was true then holy men, and nuns, and innocent babes would be immune to the reddening and blisters, but they flagrantly aren't.”
“What are you talking about, I don't have any red skin from the sun? My skin is healthy and whole and I bask out under God's glory as much or more than any other man here. Your point is invalid!”
“Not right this moment perhaps, but I've seen your fat nose get red and peel before, and plenty of holy men and women burn. I once saw a monk Saracen soldiers had tied up naked and dangling in the sun. He died from the heat and his body was a reddened mess no different as what would happen to the blackest of sinners.”
“Then obviously they weren't truly pure of spirit. Men are not infallible. Also if he was naked how do you know he was a Brother?”
“Saracens and the Blacks never burn because their skin is already dark. Explain that then, if sunburn is such a holy thing! Even the people in the land of the Papacy are duskier than the Normans, as are the men of Constantinople. Surely none can be holier than the Pope?”
“Pagans and heathens! What kind of fool wouldn't know the answer to that question? Their skin is darker when they are born because both their parents, and their parents, and theirs, were all Godless or worse. If, Heaven forbid, you get a child with a heathen mother and a good Christian father, their skin will be fairer. The peasantry of the Papal States yet still slowly recover from the deep paganry of the Romans. And the Greeks are traitors to the faith! They are even worse than the Saracens!”
“But if the sun is shining from Heaven like your zealous, fanatical claims, then why does it shine far more often and brightly on the scrublands of the Iberian Moors, the coasts of Africa, or the desert that spawned the wretched Arabs? Answer me that you goatish sheep of a priest! Why would Heaven's light shine more on the lands of heathens?”
“Because, you heretical dullard...”
The conversation would continue thus for hours. They did not always speak about the sun, or perhaps only in passing mention. But they would lead and follow like legs of a traveler. Back and forth endlessly about flames, fire, and all things regarding to that which burns and that which does the burning. They would argue about candles of wax or fat, about reflections of light on water, about the morality of smelting. They would argue about God and the Devil and fire until the lights of the camp, blazes tiny or vast, were all out and they went to bed simmering like coals.
Whether fire was good or evil seemed a moot point though, as the one before him could not overcome the coughing plague afflicting it and perished. Fucking rain. He let loose a low sigh. It was acceptable as it was. Half blackened while half raw, either way he figured they would be spiritually secure enough for now.
Sounds of movement through the brush! To the right! He wrapped his hand around his dagger and reached for his spear slowly. Not making a sound, breathing slow through his nose so he might better hear. He figured scarce travelers would be on that road in such drizzle, and even fewer would be able to spot his tiny camp through the mist. That merely meant anyone which knew of him or approached was more dangerous than some bumbling old farmer. Yet... he was expecting someone.
He heard the snuffle of a horse, as blurred shapes materialized from the soggy fog. A figure, on foot, leading a horse with saddlebags. He loosened the dagger from the sheath and tightened on the spear. Depending on what the interloper did he'd unhand one and use the other. Couldn't use the bow, it wasn't strung. If they made the slightest aggression, he'd be ready. He remained nominally seated, but positioned both feet for a swift rise. He'd go for the legs, then lunge to the far right. That would put the horse between them as he gained his feet, with a jab at their legs, striking under the horse's body.
Wait for it. He was ready. He could handle this. He could fight. His prize was beside his leg, if he needed to run he'd grab it then dash to the East. Noticed a deer trail earlier. Use that. The intruders were getting closer. He was ready. The figure was short, and the silhouette lacked distinct legs. A woman's dress likely, but perhaps a monk or Saracan's robe. No, the color was wrong, which he discerned a moment before he detected the blonde hair hanging in limp strands out of the hood's opening. Of course. He was expecting someone.
It could be a trick. The Magi could do such things. Or a specter. Or an elf. They could peer inside his mind. Make illusions. Don't let thy guard droop. Feign obliviousness, it would make them underestimate him. Steel thy heart. Let no magic or fey deceit get a foothold. Shield thy soul. He was ready. They stepped closer. He was ready. A few strides now to the circle of dirty rocks around what used to be his tiny fire. He was ready. Wait for it...
“Matthias? Are you alright? Why don't you look at me?”
It could have been a trick. It could have been a spell, or a spirit. But it likely was not. It likely was nothing. It was exactly what he was expecting. He had been waiting there for her. This had been planned days past. Still, he held onto the spear. It might be needed.
“Fjörlief.”
“You... You don't sound pleased to see me... I rushed here because I didn't want you to be alone in the rain.”
“Mmmm.”
She sighed, then started to sit. She paused right as her rump touched the log, grimacing as her hands struck out to catch herself at the last moment. She flexed her stomach and pushed herself to her feet, then went and tugged an unused sack from the horse's sidebag. As she did so he shook rain droplets off one of his crude meat skewers, jabbed into the dirt after he stopped trying to cook. He handed it to her after she flattened the sack, folded it, draped it over the log, and sat down upon it.
Baffling. She was obviously soaked to the skin from the rain, as was the log and sack both. What difference could it possibly make if she sat on the sack or directly on the log? That rough sewn linen would do nothing to cushion her seat. Nor would it deter vermin or warm her.
He sat there examining her rump and the sack and the log, as she twisted the stick in review of the oddly shaped charred lump it pierced. After pondering for a few moments he supposed she was perhaps worried the wet moss decorating that long dead fallen trunk would leave a verdant stain on her dress if she sat fully upon it. Women remembered things like that.
“What is this?”
“Rabbit.”
'Twas not rabbit.
In truth it was mole. He happened upon the little burrower by roll of randomness shortly after he sat to rest. About to dislodge some half entombed stones to henge a place for the fire he knew not yet was doomed, he noticed a quivering of dirt to his left. Watching with mild curiosity he saw the claws then paws of a mole sprout from the earth, shortly followed by its black nose. He allowed it to sniff a few final whiffs of fresh air, then leaned over and clubbed it hard with a fist-sized rock.
He imagined it had surfaced with intent to consume the various worms squirming on the sodden ground, not realizing a grim titan took repose at its table. To his further bemusement, a fellow tunnel dweller popped up in a new entrance to the sidh a hands width from the first. He supposed it came out to ask the first if the course had been yet set. Thus it came to pass the lady of the feast did not long outlive the lord. Barely had they been tugged out of their seats and the bloody instrument of foul play not yet cast aside when a third did come upon the scene. Mayhaps it had heard all the thumping and wondering what by the heavens the big commotion was had come to call.
He nearly let that one be company to his conspiracy, for some vague sentimental reason stemmed from how tragically comical the whole thing must have looked. But he didn't. He was expecting someone, and so the line of Mole was ended.
Thusly he was faced with the task of skinning, which seemed a simple matter at first but the more he contemplated it the more complicated it became. He recalled hearing that moleskin was useful, or at least desirous. But for the life of him could not have said exactly why. Was it the softness of the fur? They did seem to be possessed of a smooth pelt, but perhaps it was the skin that was supple not the fur. Or was it something to so with books? Unsure of what they would be used for he did not wish to ruin them. Their fore-paws were so large, their necks not easily distinguished from the body. Was it possible to remove the pelt as a single piece? Did it matter?
He at length decided it would be too much effort to find a stranger willing to buy the pelts. Instead he would craft a pair of gloves from them by his own hands and gift them to Fjörlief. She never directly spoke of such wants but it was commonly known she coveted all fine and elegant things. He knew the length of her fingers, having once in a moment of contemplation placed his own hand over a bloody print she had left upon a crenelation. These three would not suffice but surely it could not be that unreasonably difficult to acquire more.
Regardless it was a trivial act of butchery beside that which he had finished not long before.
Some weeks ago it was discovered the most prominent grain buyer for the Covenant's numerous large fields was unfaithful in his dealings. The foreman of the team which loaded the wagons at the gate was paying the head of the farms in Byzantine tetarterons rather than German pfennigs. The quartermaster of the Covenant was an efficient and reliable man, but having come from peasant origins was not versed in foreign currency. For years he had simply counted the various coins presented to him by the foreman, compared that to his satisfaction with his count of grain sacks sold, and placed them in the proper box within the keep. The Covenant's record-keeper likewise was an intelligent and diligent man, but having not been present when the arrangement with the mill was struck assumed all along that those coins were the correct and proper agreed upon payment.
The ruse was only discovered when a scullery woman, who had recently sought refuge in the Covenant from some lord which had been abusing her, wondered aloud where those unusual coins had come from. One of Magi Sophia's mercenaries, who sulked by her overeager to win the favor of a new face, answered having disliked being paid in such coins years ago. From there it was brought to the attention of first the quartermaster and record-keeper then the Magi.
As typical with the tender mercies of the Magi the foreman, cart drivers, and porters were immediately attacked while they were returning through the forest. Unable to resist or escape they were forced to unload the grain then had their minds wracked by Magi Sophia. After which the lot were given to Magi Mordicant or Magi Jakobs, as the interrogation had reduced them all to drooling simpletons. The owner of the mill was dragged before the Magi and, as he was found to never have known of his bondsman's ploy, graciously permitted to keep his life and sanity in exchange for a reduced rate for flour hence forth. The Covenant even politely returned all of his draft animals and wagons, sans workers of course.
The only remaining riddle was how the foreman had known this deceit would both succeed and be undetected at length. Servants of the Covenant would never betray the Magi. Yet intimate knowledge of the personages involved would have been required. The quartermaster suspected some outsider involved in a different element of the Covenants supply or dealings, but was yet unsure who.
The journeyman who had brokered the agreement had fled the gristmill outright even as corpses wordlessly seized then dragged away his screaming master. He was said to have relatives in a different province and would likely continue on as soon as possible. Once aware of this Magi Mordicant's flock had little trouble locating him. Fjörlief was dispatched to determine the guilt and knowledge of his family while Matthias was tasked to present him to the Magi.
Her delicate appearance and soft spoken voice led most to underestimate the sharpness of Fjörlief's mind. She hated what she was ordered to do but like the rest unable to deny the will of the Magi. Matthias had parted ways with her once they approached the town, but he could imagine how subtly she infiltrated the family's trust and shifted through their secrets. Any of them who remotely aided the journeyman or even knew of his actions would not survive her report.
He, on the other side of this triptych, bore a chain with less links. He had circled the town and sat motionless in the trees some ways off the side of the road, one of the decaying rooks on a nearby branch. All day and evening he watched in unseen silence the populace come and go. After dark, the raven had given a wheezing half-caw at the approach of a solitary figure on horseback and disappeared into the starless sky.
Stepping from the forest to the path a short ways in front of a trotting horse, the metal of his weapons and armour glinted in the light from the torch held by the rider. The man pulled sharp on the reigns, and squinted skittishly towards the revenant before him. He did not attempt to bluff or bargain. After a few moments of stillness he turned his horse and bolted whence he came.
Barely had the horse picked up speed when out of the dark swooped the raven to attack his face. Blinded and frightened the man fell thrashing from his now screaming horse. He had just gasped his way to his hands and knees when the spear lanced through his rib cage.
He did not need to be alive to answer Magi Mordicant's questions. He only needed the tools with which to form words. Dragging him off the road was pointless, the blood trail would be too difficult to hide completely at night and the horse would likely inspire a search. It mattered little. This place was distant enough that the Covenant did not feel unduly concerned about the sentiments of local magistrates, church officials, or nearby guilds.
The dagger was intended for piercing, not sawing. But it sufficed. He held the head by a fistful of hair with straightened arm. The face was an ugly thing to behold, raked in claw marks with grit smeared across his ruined eyes and slashed cheeks. The tongue was intact however, and lips cut but functional. He waited until blood ceased to drip from it, then shook it vigorously and waited once more. Placing it in a grainbag, he walked towards the meeting place.
A dawn and a day later, she arrived.
“Did you speak with the journeyman?”
“No.”
“Is he our prisoner?”
“No.”
“What happened? Where is he?”
“He fled.”
“Are we going to chase him?”
“No.”
“What does that mean? Are we to return to the Covenant?”
“Mmmm.”
The gory kernel waited now hidden slightly by the uncomfortable stone he had made his throne. He kept the sack tightly tied, and rain had cleaned most of the color from the bottom. The strong musk of wet dirt and plants masked any odors while constant drizzle had kept large amounts of tiny scavengers at bay. But it was a journey of several days to the gate of the Covenant, and she would never ride ahead without him.
She would know, and would look everywhere but his burden. The flies would hopefully be modest.
She choked down the remaining bites of her meager meal. She likely had bought food enough for them both and her horse as well in the town's market before leaving. She did not have to eat such dog fare. Matthias knew she would though. She never complained. She would eat, and should it cause her to vomit she would wipe her mouth and continue to dine as if nothing had happened were any other person watching her.
She would passively insist he eat the lion's share of whatever she had bought by wordlessly handing it to him as they traveled. He had little choice in the matter, either he ate what she gave him or he tossed it in the ditch. She would feign a sudden loss of hearing should he claim he was not hungry or attempt to return any uneaten morsel.
Dry perhaps from chewing on a slab of dusty black, she uncapped her canteen and took a long drought. He watched the ripple of her throat as she slowly swallowed again and again. Amazing she felt parched at all, considering how much her skin much have absorbed that morning. Perhaps she was trying to wash the taste from her mouth in a way that did not require her to spit. Regardless he heavily questioned the wisdom of how much she, of all people, was drinking at once.
Fjörlief struggled with retaining her water. By no stretch of slander could any proclaim her a coward. She faced the dark and all that dwelt within as cyclically as the sun circled the earth. With an abject refusal to comport herself in the presence of others any way not that of a high-born lady, she suffered in silence pain and horror with equal measure. Her soul was attacked and her body threatened more often than any woman from the most vulnerable of border hamlets yet never did she speak a syllable in protest or beg for pity. Her slim frame scaffolded a heart of silver ore and he suspected privately that a wasp did reside behind the petals of her lips.
No stoic statue was this woman though, for violence did frighten her past the brink of anxious instinct. More than once had he observed those tell-tale spots upon her dress or that subtle rivulet crying down her leg. Such would never have been detected had not such encounters left her sprawled and scrambling back to safety as her darting eyes beheld him slay or savage their assailants. When offering his hand to help her rise after a confrontation of arms it was never his face her gaze lingered on, but rather the blood on his weapons and the corpses of the fallen that bewitched her.
Should some graze of her legs or shadow stain cause her to think her secret was exposed she would avert her eyes in shame and shift in clear discomfort until some pressing distraction led him to turn away. Immediately she would rush to whatever privacy could be acquired and by the faint sounds he presumed she vigorously scrubbed and cleansed herself until composed. Flushed in the face and likely furious at her own body the quick but subdued breathing recalled to him an angry mother scolding her children when prevented at that moment by decorum or guests from beating them.
Nor was bloodshed the only occurrence of her perpetual struggle. She spent unnecessary amounts of time alone when circumstance joined their paths for more than a day on those sparing occasions the Magi lashed them like oxen to a single task. Sleeping as far from him as was still safe was her wont and she would become snappish and short of temper if forced to remain by his side at length. Likewise she seemed little able to hold a drink in her internal flask and would request a pause at scattered hours rather than dawn or dusk. He knew a woman took more time and effort to heed nature yet when she would inform him of her need and wander out of sight her return was more delayed than he expected. Loathe to spy upon her he could only conclude her urination was strenuous or slower than normal.
Miserable the woman must be for even her dreams frightened her as do those of a child. Often he would detect in his stressed witching-hour vigils her to rustle and whimper. Her hands at times reaching low to adjust the folded cloth he assumed she kept there to mitigate her leaking. Neither spoke of this matter, for it was plain she was unhappy and desired none to know of her actions or affliction.
Still, as Fjörlief leaned into the reach for the remaining chuck of rabbit the snake of a scar which slithered from her sleeve did cause him to wonder if perhaps he might suggest to her the ministrations of a surgeon. Her bowels may have been injured, perhaps assistance in controlling or releasing her water could ease her relentless agitation. Her days and nights were already filled with an unkindness of onyx messengers from a hundred places of chaos and death there was no need to salt that with the basics of life.
“Matthias?”
So cautious was her searching look, so quietly questioning her tone. Had the fires since that pact with the Magi scorched this young dryad so deeply she felt nervous even towards him? For all her beauty was she as ravaged as the stick which spit her sorry supper? Like a winter sycamore, her pale dendroidic arm posed with crooked fingers near that charred lump.
She hesitated. A doe whose path crossed by fell serendipity the route of a roaming wolf. Frozen in uncertainty, mind riddling what transgression she had unwittingly committed. He knew not what words would comfort her. He desired deeply to ease her disquietude towards him but could not bring himself to sell her hollow promises. She was not safe. He would guard her when he was near as well as he could manage, but they served a liege whose domain would ever be beset by beasts and blasphemy.
She would never be safe again.
In silence did his gaze shift to and survey the ruins of his failed flame. At length, she withdrew her slim fingers, leaving the impaled little condemned to languish in the chill drizzle. They sat, neither making any attempt to escape the increasingly heavy rain. For this day to be dry was as forlorn a probability as to be warmed. Water dripped from their faces as each drowned in their thoughts.
When the sky began to darken more so than the clouds had painted it she removed the saddle from her horse and both hunkered down for whatever sleep might be stolen from the night. She sat on the far side of the steed from him, only her woad hood in sight beyond its back. She did not use the sack to shield her dress. He did not question her destination when she fitfully woke in the deep hours and walked away.