He wasn’t nervous about who might answer the door. He was nervous about having been sent on this mission at all. He wasn’t accustomed to taking instructions from the Church.
It’s not that they didn’t have the authority – he had checked. The bylaws clearly included a stipuation that the Watch was to comply with all reasonable instructions given by the Church. No – it was more that the Church had never previously exercised that authority. It was unusual, and anything unusual made Penton nervous.
He had been extremely nervous for all the last week since the dragon attack.
He raised his fist to knock again when the door opened to reveal a short, middle-aged woman.
“Yes?” she asked.
His men shuffled their feet and gripped their halberds tighter.
Penton cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to accompany us, madam,” he said.
“Oh,” she replied. “What for?”
“Um,” said Penton. He didn’t expect that question. “There’s a priest… wants to see you...” he finished lamely.
The priest had warned him that this woman could be extremely dangerous. She didn’t look it. She looked like a perfectly normal woman – dark hair pulled into a braid, a little overweight, wearing simple but well-made clothes.
“Oh, really?” she exclaimed brightly. “Okay then.”
She turned to look over her shoulder. “Dab, dear, I’m just going out for a little while. You’ll be all right by yourself?” She turned back. “He’ll be fine,” she said as she left the house.
Penton took a quick look inside before she closed the door. The house was empty.
Penton cleared his throat again and looked at the woman, who looked back up at him expectantly. She was carring a small bag that appeared to contain sewing supplies.
He led on.
The little procession attracted no small amount of interest as they made their way through the city. People turned their heads to watch – Penton leading, the odd little woman following, and four Watchmen bringing up the rear, two abreast.
As members of the Watch, they were not stopped at the gate to the great stone Bridge for which the city was partly named. The Bridge was wide enough for twenty mean to cross abreast, closed off at either end by a gatehouse. The gates usually stood open, but were guarded by Watchmen tasked with protecting the tax collectors from assault.
There were few merchants crossing the Bridge in these days following the attack. There had been rumours from travellers arriving at the city that there had been attacks by wolves, bears, bandits or worse in the countryside, but no-one in Bridgeport knew whether to take them seriously or not. Regardless, few people were travelling.
Penton was very conscious of the River District citizens as he led his little procession west along the main street of the sprawling district, though the woman he was escorting seemed oblivious. In fact, she seemed to be humming tunelessly.
The descending sun was in their eyes as they approached the cathedral. It was a large wooden building, spared from the dragon fires – some say by a miracle. Penton figured it was luck. After all, many other buildings also remained unburned, including one that was widely known to secretly be a brothel.
It was unusual for an armed group of Watchmen to enter the cathedral, so Penton instructed his soldiers to remain outside. The woman happily accompanied him into the nave.
There were three lower-ranked priests in attendance. When they noticed Penton’s entrance, one of them hurried away, presumably to fetch their superior. The other two stared and whispered to each other. Penton and the woman waited.
After a few minutes the head priest arrived. Faarul was dressed in formal white vestments and had a stern look on his face.
“Follow me,” he said, curtly. Penton gestured for the woman to precede him.
The priest led them down a set of stone stairs. He unlocked an ancient-looking wooden door with a key that hung on a chain around his neck, which in turn led to another descending staircase. Penton had no idea that there were crypts so deep beneath the cathedral.
These stairs descended quite a long way – about three storeys perhaps – before ending in an archway. The room beyond was lit by flaming torches. It was circular and lined with stone. Opposite the entrance was a large fireplace with a blazing fire, with faggots and pokers nearby.
In the middle of the room was a hard wooden chair, and a rope.
“Tie her up,” said the priest. Penton blinked.
“Sorry?” he said.
“I said tie her up,” the priest replied, moving to the fireplace. “Now.”
“I… don’t… think...”
“You’re not here to think, fool!” the priest raged. “You’re here to do the Master’s work! Do not disobey!”
Reluctantly Penton led the woman to the chair. She looked confused, but she did not resist.
“What’s happening?” she asked. Penton did not respond as he looked the rope around her wrists and tied them to the back of the chair. He made sure that she was secure, but that the rope was not too tight. He didn’t know what was happening, but he also didn’t want to hurt her. The priest had his back turned and was stoking the fire, which filled the room with its heat.
Having finished the job, Penton stepped back. He had an ominous feeling about was was about to occur.
“Let’s begin,” said the priest, turning and approaching the woman from behind. “My name is Faaral,” he said, “and you will answer my questions truthfully and immediately, or your soul will suffer in the Master’s hands. Do you understand?”
The woman looked frightened, but she nodded.
“Very well,” continued Faaral. “What is your name?”
“It’s Myree, sir,” she replied, her voice cracking.
“Are you known by any other names?”
“I… what? No, no other names. I don’t…”
“Where do you live?” Faaral interrupted.
“In… in the Merchant’s Quarter. I have a house next to the tailor’s.”
Faaral began circling the chair, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Do you recall being at the King’s Gloves yesterday?”
“Yes. Yes, I was there.”
“Please tell me about the sign.” Faaral stopped in front of her, glaring.
“The sign? Oh, sir, that wasn’t me. That was my boy Dab.”
“Dab?” asked Faaral.
“Yes sir. You see, my Dab died, but there’s a new Dab, only he’s very shy. He saved that young man from falling, and he brought the sign down to me. That was Dab, sir.”
“Are you aware that other people reported that the sign flew over to you by itself – without being carried by anyone?”
“Well, sir, like I said, he’s very shy. He hides from people most times.”
“He hides,” repeated Faaral.
“Yes, sir. But he’s a good boy. Really, a good boy.”
Faaral resumed pacing. Penton had retreated to the archway and watched the interrogation continue. Faaral seemed not to notice where he was.
“You said that this was a ‘new’ Dab. Can you explain that please?”
“Well, sir, like I said Dab – my Dab – died a couple of weeks back, but then this new Dab turned up. He’s really a nice…”
“He just turned up, unannounced?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anything else unusual happen on that day?”
The woman furrowed her brow. “Unusual? No, sir,” she said. “Unless you count the dreams, but…”
“Dreams?” That seemed to get Faaral’s attention. “What dreams?” He stopped pacing and once again stood over her.
“Well, all I really remember is the colour, but…”
Faaral pinched the bridge of his nose and started to walk slowly back to the fireplace. With horror, Penton noticed that the priest had left a poker resting on the grate, its end in the hottest part of the fire.
“I’m going to ask you a question now, Myree,” he said slowly. “And I want to stress how vitally important it is that you answer me with complete truth and honesty. If you do not, your suffering at the hands of the Master will be unbearable. Do you understand?”
Myree swallowed. “Yes sir,” she said quietly.
“What do you know of Vili?” asked Faaral.
“Of what, sir?” She tried to look at him over her shoulder.
“You heard me,” said the priest, very quietly.
“Nothing, sir. I don’t know what you’re referring to. I’ve never heard that word before.”
As Faaral raised the now red-hot poker from the fire, Penton finally felt that he had to intervene. He stepped forward, putting himself in between the priest and the woman. “Now look, I’m sure there’s no…”
Faaral pointed the sizzling poker right at his face. “You do as I say!” he screamed, “or you also are damned!”
Penton staggered back as Faaral turned his attention back to the woman, who suddenly cried out.
“Dab!” she yelled. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to… wait, who are your friends?”
Faaral’s eyes widened as he realised that she was looking at the archway, not at him. He raised the poker, but suddenly staggered back as though struck, and the poker fell from his hand.
Penton looked about, confused, as one of the burning torches detached itself from the wall and flew towards him. He was too shocked to dodge, and the buning brand impacted with his face.
“Kill her!” screamed Faaral, struggling against unseen enemies. “Kill her now!”
Penton reached for his sword, but the flaming torch struck again and pressed itself against his face. He fell back, screaming, trying to push it away as his flesh sizzled and burned.
He was dimly aware of the woman, now somehow untied, being pulled by one arm from the room, as though being led by someone, though there was no-one leading her.
Everything suddenly went very quiet. Only the crackle of the fireplace broke the silence, and Penton’s agonised moan. He clutched at his face in pain.
“Do not worry, my son,” he heard Faaral say quietly. “The Master will relieve your pain.”
Faaral raised his hand and a soft yellow glow formed around his palm. Blessed relief spread across Penton’s face and he found his voice again.
“What… happened? What was that?” he croaked.
“I warned you that she was dangerous,” replied Faaral. “That was one of the Upraised – those who brought the Cataclysm hundreds of years ago.” He withdrew his hand and the glow faded. “The Master has healed your face, but I’m afraid He has left you with a scar. Bear it proudly in His service.”
“I will, Father,” Penton replied. His face felt stiff and immobile, but there was no pain. “Father…” he began. Faaral cocked an eyebrow. “Upraised? I thought…”
“I know, my son. But they are real. And they are dangerous. We have to hunt every last one of them down. We must eliminate them all if we are to prevent the events of the past from happening again – if we are to prevent a new Cataclysm. The Master has commanded it. Are you willing to help?”
Penton put a hand to his face, felt the rough surface.
“I am,” he said.
