Magistrate of the Dark Land

Part Twelve

by G. Lawrence

Owen faces a grisly fate

This is a fantasy novel providing high adventure and romance. Though there are no dragons or wizards, there are unexplainable mysteries in the Arkland. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Lured into a trap by Stolmeister, Owen is being taken deep into the forbidden mountains. And a note of warning, this chapter includes chilling scenes better suited to a horror novel. Sensitive readers are cautioned.

* * * * * *

Chapter Thirteen

THE MARTYR STONE

I woke up blindfolded. My clothes were damp. Creaking wood and a persistent bouncing indicated a wagon moving quickly. I smelled the scent of wring weed. I had been drugged, but for how long was impossible to say. When I tried to move, my limbs refused to respond. I often had trouble getting out of bed in the morning, but this was different. I was bound hand and foot.

"Waking up back there?" I heard Stolmeister say.

I grunted and twisted against the ropes. The wagon came to a stop.

"Hold on, Owen. Don't hurt yourself," Old Stolly cautioned.

A moment later the blindfold was pulled off. He untied the ropes on my ankles, letting me sit up. It was a small two-wheel cart with a canvas top, lightly loaded to make better speed. I looked out the back to see a long mountain trail thick with trees. It was a cool, crisp morning fresh from a recent rain.

"You must be hungry. Nothing but a bit of soup these last few days," he said quite correctly. I was famished, my throat dry. The canvas appeared tight enough to keep out most of the rain but not all. My pants and boots were gone, replaced by a foul-smelling blanket. Stolmeister squeezed down before me in the narrow wagon box and offered a slice of wheat bread with a piece of yellow cheese. I took a bite, watching him carefully. He smiled and kept feeding me until the bread was gone, occasionally pausing to let me have water.

"I know you've got lots of questions. I might even answer a few of them, just to pass the time. But for now, we have appointments to keep," Stolmeister said, very pleased with himself.

He climbed back into the seat next to a burly villain and cracked his bullwhip, getting the horses moving again. I got a glimpse of two riders up ahead but no one following. The wagon carried a tent, several baskets of food and a water cask. No books. None of the trinkets found at Rohan's Crossing.

The day did not pass quickly. My muscles were in knots as my head spun from the jerky movement of the wagon. I had no place to relieve myself except the blanket, explaining why it smelled so foul. A request to stop for a few minutes was ignored. Finally, as the sun was setting, we came to a crude log cabin deep in the mountainous forest.

"I'm sure you'd like to stretch your legs and clean up. Give me your word not to run off and I'll untie you," Stolmeister offered.

I nodded agreement. Running was beyond my power. The promise wouldn't stop me from walking off at my fastest pace, but I had no idea where we were.

"You're quiet today, Owen. I hadn't thought you the brooding type," Stolmeister said, cutting me free.

I slid off the tailgate, looking around. All I saw was Stolmeister and three of the men from Cowers Crossing. There was a bubbling creek some ten yards from the cabin. The trail behind us was a poorly beaten path through a deep canyon thick with pine trees.

"Here," Stolmeister said, tossing me a cleaning cloth. I limped down to the creek and washed myself before throwing the fouled blanket into the stream. The tail of the shirt was dirty enough to require scrubbing, causing me to stand naked in the cold knee-deep water. Walking back up toward the cabin was difficult. They had started a fire. Stolmeister handed me a fresh pair of pants, but no shoes.

"This is Germon, my wagon master, and Peter Winn, my scout. And you might remember Darien, my bodyguard. He's the one who laid you out so nicely," Stolmeister introduced. The first minion was the burly driver who had managed to go the entire day without uttering a word. The second was a thin toad-faced skulker wearing a horned helmet that was much too large. The third minion, a professional mercenary, was standing guard at the top of the trail armed with a lance. They were dressed for the cold weather in thick furs and supple leather, much of it tailor made.

"Greetings, gentlemen. Perhaps one day we'll meet under more auspicious circumstances," I said.

Stolmeister smiled sardonically, well aware what circumstances I'd prefer. Germon and Peter remained quiet, looking at me with apprehension. Perhaps they weren't complete fools.

"Is this the Arkland?" I asked.

"Yes, far along the trail now. We should reach the temple in two more days. Hungry?" Stolmeister said.

"Very," I admitted, going to sit on a log near the campfire.

Germon was the camp cook, turning a plump chicken on a spit over the flames. The aroma was wonderful. Peter went to take care of the horses, unhooking the harnesses and leading them into a corral behind the cabin. Stolmeister noticed me looking at Darien, who remained at his post.

"Darien is a former sergeant in Lord Kirkon's service, until he got a better offer," Stolmeister said, proud of his acquisition.

"If your man gets tired, I'll take the nightwatch," I generously offered.

"Save your humor, you're going to need it," he grimly answered.

It was a good meal. Half a bottle of red wine made me dizzy. Germon began preparing the cabin for our stay. How long we would linger in the woods wasn't clear. I had the impression they were waiting for somebody.

"Did you find your scroll?" I asked.

"Alas, no," Stolmeister confessed.

"Kidnapping me won't get it for you," I warned.

"Not saying the scroll wouldn't have made a nice trophy, but I have a copy in my saddlebag," he said offhandedly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I said.

"It was never about the scroll, Owen. I was after you," he explained, taking me by surprise. "I must admit, aligning yourself with those annoying women made the game harder. That's why we made the last round of kidnappings. None of those women were needed, you know. But your Farina take such things personally, so I suspected it would keep them distracted. And it made my most important client happy, which is always a good thing."

"Duke Rykar?" I asked.

"Yes, yes. Now you're catching on. These northerners cared nothing about the slave trade until their own daughters started to disappear. Now the people demand law and order."

"And to have law and order, they need a king."

"A philosophy I believe you subscribe to," he smirked.

"Is that what you've been doing? Carving a path for an ambitious noble?"

"No, I've been collecting women, just like I said when we first met in Kannae. But Rykar's gold comes in handy. Employees must be paid, supplies bought, officials bribed. But it's almost over now. Six years ago, I was a pathetic cripple, worse than you are now. By the next full moon, I'll be a whole man again."

"In your fondest dreams," I sneered.

"I think you know better, but time will tell."

We heard noise from the trail, and I saw the guard come to attention. He waved at Stolmeister, who jumped up. It was just after sunset, the light not yet gone. A horse came over the hill being ridden hard, and I recognized the rider. It was Marl of Evansham, the villain who had led me into Old Stolly's trap.

"Ah, good news, I hope," Stolmeister said, rubbing his grubby claw hands together.

Marl reined in and dismounted, frowning as if something was amiss. Stolmeister held his breath. Then Marl suddenly burst into a grin and clapped Stolmeister on the shoulder. While Germon took care of the horse, they took seats at the fire. Darien came down from the hill to eat a chicken leg.

"Your gold is well spent, master," Marl said, accepting a hearty goblet of wine.

"How went our little charade?" Stolmeister asked.

"Everything just as you planned," Marl bragged.

"And the Magistrate?" Stolmeister inquired.

"A hero, sir. Without doubt they write him a new song," Marl responded.

They laughed, banged cups, and toasted their jest. They were having a good time. I dearly wished to spoil it for them but there was nothing I could do.

"We should not be rude," Stolmeister said, giving me his attention. "You should know that those dregs I hired for a few coppers each attacked your camp to get the twenty gold crowns hidden in the wagon."

"Rowena of Roxbury's ransom money," Marl explained.

"There was no gold in that wagon," I said.

"That's the best part of the joke, sir," Stolmeister said. "A gang of worthless saloon scum charged the camp seeking a phantom treasure, providing a diversion to capture you. Tell me, Marl, did you find your assignment difficult?"

"Not at all, sir. I kept to the woods as you instructed, then spoke to our man when there were none to overhear," Marl recounted. "They are calling it the Battle of Cowers Hill. Sir Philip of Roxbury and the heroic Farina fought four to one odds, leaving half the outlaws dead on the field. Sadly, the brave Magistrate of Arbor, who had just fearlessly freed dozens of kidnapped women, was killed in the fighting. Bruner of the Black Axe saw his body floating in the river pierced by grievous wounds."

"For twenty silver flats?" Stolmeister asked.

"Bruner's price went up to thirty, but a good investment. He convinced all that the Magistrate was slain," Marl assured him.

"And the rest? Is it as we expected?"

"Sir Philip has his daughter back. They ride for Lydia. The Black Axe leader is again with that young snip, Rachel. Kaska was killed, but I saw the rest of the mercenaries riding east toward Alcester. Bruner says they will probably return to Quarterstone when the rains stop. He also said the red-haired Farina was badly wounded in the fighting. They'll send her by boat to Crowley if she lives long enough. The black-haired Farina died. From what they say, she took five of our amateur freebooters down with her, uttering oaths of fiery vengeance to the end."

"Too bad, we could have made money with that one," Stolmeister said.

I was on Stolmeister like a bolt of summer lightning, punching him hard enough to break his nose. Blood spurted over both of us. Before I could hit him again, Marl and Darien pounced on me. I had not the strength to fight them off, and within moments, they had me safely bound. Stolmeister discovered me a few minutes later sitting outside the cabin door. I had tears in my eyes with no way to wipe them. He had a wet rag pressed over his face.

"I'll take blame for that, Owen. My words were careless," he said with apparent sincerity.

"I should have loosed Rotanna on you when I had the chance," I answered.

"You did not play the game well," he agreed.

"I pray to God the game isn't over. I would have one more round."

"There is much game left, but I'm afraid your portion is done."

"What are your intentions?"

"You will be delivered to the temple, and I will receive my reward," he said, raising the slightly clawed hand to point at the eye-patch.

"And what do they want with me? Am I to become a virgin sacrifice?"

"I tire of explanations, Magistrate. My nose hurts, my good eye swells, and you have not been pleasant company. Enjoy a cold night and expect hard travel tomorrow," he said, going into the cabin.

The moment he was gone, I struggled against the ropes hoping to escape, but to no avail. My body was too weak, the bindings too tight. They didn't even bother to guard me.

* * * * * *

Now that I wasn't drugged, Stolmeister no longer needed the wagon. At dawn, I was put on a horse with my hands tied behind my back. It had been a cold night, and my limbs were stiff. Normally I would have been piteously lamenting my fate, but it was hard to feel sorry for myself. Jalana and Kaska were dead, led into an ambush because of me. That I would probably die too was of little comfort. I yearned for revenge but could not imagine a way to obtain it.

We moved quickly on a narrow mountain trail. It is said that the Arkland is a steep range surrounding mysterious hidden valleys. I saw ancient trees. Occasional deer and elk watched us from small pastures. From time to time, I thought there might be a parallel road far down the slope, but I couldn't be sure. The few villages I saw were from a distance, for we traveled high up on the wooded hillsides. Two days after our stay at the cabin, we rounded a bend where the mountain gave way.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Stolmeister said.

Below us was a lush valley dominated by a meandering river feeding a blue lake. The basin was easily twenty miles long and perhaps eight miles wide. Small farms bordered the foothills. Sheep grazed on spring grass in the meadows. The farmers lived in tidy thatched hovels, though we were too far up the ridge to see details. There was a village near the lake but no large buildings.

"Have we discovered the Lost Tribe?" I sarcastically asked.

"It may as well be. The peasants have been living in this valley for generations without ever seeing the outside world. There are only two roads through the mountains, both guarded by watch towers. Even the few traders who come through are closely inspected, forbidden to speak of that which the people need not know. I was once one of those tradesmen. There's only one penalty for breaking the law, cruel and unjust though it may be."

"I take it you do not approve?" I asked. He raised his clawed hand and pointed at the missing eye.

"These days I mind my own business," he answered.

We camped for the night ten yards back from the cliff so no one down below would see our cooking fire. Stolmeister was in high spirits, the painful break in his nose beginning to heal. As dawn broke, Germon made a hearty breakfast of pork hash and eggs. Presumably my last meal. The morning was cold but clear, a few clouds covering the sun without threat of rain.

Staying to the mountain trail, we rode along the rim for a dozen miles until seeing a great waterfall at the upper end of the valley. The trees began to thin out, replaced by glistening black granite cliffs. Small ponds and foaming rapids grew closer as our path slowly descended. Below the waterfall was a deep pool with a white sandy beach. A temple appeared off to the north side. Or rather, carvings in the rock face that resembled a temple façade, the style reminiscent of the Babylonian monuments I'd seen in old books. The Arkland's infamous cave dwellings, a place of dark and wretched practices. My heart began to race. How had I come to be here? In wishing my body restored, had I betrayed God?

We dismounted on a wide sandstone terrace before the entrance, Darien pulling me off the horse. The carvings rose thirty feet high and were filled with intricately cut columns of skulls, skeletons and ghouls. Two iron hinged doors were made of heavy oak. I saw no windows or balconies, though there must have been air shafts hidden among the cluttered artwork. A narrow dirt road worked down into the valley. Apparently the priests acquired provisions from their enslaved population.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Stolmeister said to his minions. He reached into his saddlebag and took out four leather pouches. They clinked with the sound of gold coin.

"Thank you, master," Marl said.

"I will meet you in Kannae on the second moon," Stolmeister advised. "There will soon be war among the barons. Does anyone object to bartering in weapons and medicines?"

"No, sir. Sounds very profitable," Darien said with a smile.

"We'll be at the Copper Kettle, sir," Peter said, juggling the gold with satisfaction. It would buy him plenty of good food, drink and women in the months to come. They mounted and rode back up the trail taking my horse with them. Stolmeister went to knock on the door.

"Say goodbye to the daylight, Owen."

"We are all mortal. When we say goodnight to one world, we say good morning to another," I answered.

"I wouldn't go quoting much scripture here. They may cut your tongue out," he warned, knocking a second time. There didn't appear to be any secret codes. The door on the right side finally crept open.

"You return with our gift?" a voice said from the darkness.

"I do, Master Tarsus," Stolmeister said in his most humble voice.

"Then enter, and welcome," Tarsus invited.

The heavy door creaked open further. Stolmeister pushed me through, for I thought too late to flee. The interior was lit with ornate oil lamps. The inlaid tile floor was swept clean, revealing vulgar pagan images. The one called Tarsus was draped in long dark gray robes and a hood. I sensed we were being watched from the murky corners. Once the door closed, twelve men emerged into the dim light. They, too, were dressed in hooded robes, the color a drab brown.

"Are you the one they call the Magistrate?" Tarsus asked. He didn't look like an old man, but he sounded like one, the voice wavering. I was tempted to lie, for it would be my word against Old Stolly's, but I lacked the nerve.

"I am Owen Vander," I replied, trying to square my shoulders.

"Your body is feeble," Tarsus said.

"Maybe you can do something about that?" I asked.

"Be careful what you wish for," Tarsus patiently cautioned.

"You don't want to know what I'm wishing for now," I dangerously answered.

"Pace yourself, Mister Vander. You will have plenty of opportunities to test your courage," Tarsus concluded.

He had a disciple cut my hands free. I rubbed the wrists where the cords had bitten into the flesh, then turned and punched Stolmeister in the nose again. The man went down despite my lack of strength, the previous injury enough to make the blow painful. I made no effort to continue the fight, stepping back with hands at my side. Two of the subservient monks led me off. I caught a quick glimpse of Tarsus speaking to Stolmeister as he lay crumpled on the floor.

Three corridors intersected at the entry chamber. I was taken to the right, passing a barracks and storehouse before reaching a locked door off the main corridor. The room we entered was too large for a cell and too small for a prison. A chandelier had ten candles for light, but the waning afternoon was visible through a leaf covered hole high in the ceiling. A bed and wash basin sat against the far side. I guessed we were in the guest quarters, though chains attached to the stone wall indicated varying degrees of hospitality.

"Take off your clothes," a monk said.

My initial reaction was to say no, but what good would it do? I thought that by acquiescing, maybe my chances of survival would improve. Though probably not. I'd had many prisoners come before the bar thinking that cooperation would save them, only to find that justice is not so easily beguiled. I took off my clothes, now torn and soiled from the trail, and set them in a pile on the floor.

"You may wash," the monk said.

They gathered up my ruined outfit and left the chamber, locking the door. I found water in the porcelain basin and scrubbed off the grime. The room was not cold, a gentle warmth circulating from somewhere up above. I sat on the bed, a feather mattress resting on a wood and rope frame. There was a nightstand with several pamphlets on a lower shelf. One was an old work by Hogarth, The Nature of Man. Another was a new dissertation by Reverend Millbury, Church and State. The last was an anthology called Saxton's Fairy Tales. With no energy for scholarship, I laid down on the bed, pulled up the woolen blanket, and promptly fell fast asleep.

It was impossible to say how long I slept. When I woke, eight of the ten candles had been lit. I was both hungry and thirsty, pleased to find food set on the floor inside the door. Braised lamb shanks and thin red wine. The day went by, and then another. The candles were replaced when I was asleep. I caught up on my reading.

Toward the end of the third day, six monks in shaggy brown robes entered to surround my bed.

"I am Zebe, first disciple of Tarsus. You must come with us," their leader said.

Under their hoods, I saw that each of the monks were thirty to forty years old, average in height, and fairly unremarkable. In a different life, any could be a farmer, clerk or teacher.

"I think not," was my answer, for I had no intention of parading around their temple wearing nothing but an old blanket.

"Our master bids you come," the monk explained.

"I bid you find my clothes, then we can talk about it," I said.

"You are weak and may not oppose us," a second monk said.

"You are wrong," I contradicted.

"In what manner is my brother wrong? Your ills are obvious for all to see," Zebe asked in confusion.

"Though I be weak, I can oppose you. That I will prove unsuccessful is irrelevant. Opposing evil is an obligation apart from matters of strength," I lectured, paraphrasing the scriptures. It might cost me my tongue, though I doubted it.

"We are not evil," Zebe protested.

One of the monks disappeared into the corridor. The others merely stood there. A few minutes later the monk returned with a thick white cotton robe, complete with hood. I got up and threw the blanket aside, pretending I wasn't afraid.

"No shoes?" I asked.

"Come with us now. We will find sandals," Zebe promised.

I followed them into the murky corridor. It looked like a series of caves had been connected with roughly cut tunnels, though the floors had been sanded flat. Occasional lamps lit the way. We reached a junction where several tunnels came together. All looked the same. We made a right turn, walked another fifty feet, and reached a huge cave. An underground banquet hall.

Dozens of torches lit the chamber. Coal burners heated the corners. A hearth on the far side contained a ferocious fire. Twelve long oak tables ringed the floor area, each with a distinctive banner hanging behind it. There were enough chairs and benches to seat a hundred and fifty people, though the hall only held twenty-four. Twelve were dressed in gray robes, twelve in brown. Only those in gray were seated. I was brought before the head table.

"I am Zeal, First Among Equals," the man in the largest chair said, rising to his feet. "To my right is Tarsus, Warden of the Rolls. To my left is Canan, Master of the Scrolls. Brothers, this is Owen Vander, the Magistrate."

One by one, the gray-robed brotherhood stood to give names and sit down again. I heard Jonah, Isaiah, Magnus, and other vaguely memorable references. Some seemed borrowed from the holy books. They thought highly of themselves.

"If this portion of the Arkland lies in Ravenshire, you will be indicted for kidnapping and murder," I said.

"Our temple lies beyond your jurisdiction, Magistrate, though your dedication does your honor," Canan said.

A brown robed servant brought me a stool. I gratefully sat for my legs tired easily. The fire was warm enough that I could feel it from thirty feet away. Someone brought me a goblet of white wine.

"You believe us villains, but this is far from the truth," Zeal said, speaking directly to my thoughts.

"It's not unusual for criminals to rationalize their crimes," I said, sipping the wine. It was a foreign import, crisp and spicy.

"We serve a larger good. One even you would approve of," Tarsus said.

"I may not be so opened minded," I replied.

"We would have your understanding, but it is not necessary," Canan said, frowning under his hood.

"Enlighten me," I requested.

"Fourteen hundred years ago, when the Savior sacrificed himself to give us everlasting life, mankind entered a holy covenant to serve God here in this world. This covenant has not been kept. Our forefathers had not the will, or the knowledge, to bring about God's plan," Zeal explained.

"You embellish scripture. God's plan for us is not of this earth," I said.

"This is where you are mistaken, Magistrate," Tarsus disagreed. "God's plan is of this earth, but only when we have a church strong enough to enforce His Will. This has always been impossible, for mortal man no sooner comes into his own than old age and disease bring death. And with death, the process of acquiring wisdom must begin anew."

"The Followers built the first church, but they died within a few short years. Most of them martyred. With them, the secret of God's plan was nearly lost. Only through study of the Sacred Teachings was the knowledge recovered," Canan said.

"Almost recovered," Zeal quickly corrected.

"We will know soon, brother," Canan responded with obvious anticipation.

"You have seen Stolmeister. You know this man who was once a cripple now walks with the vigor of youth. As reward, the last of his infirmities are being cured," Tarsus said. "How old do you think I am?"

"Fifty. Perhaps, fifty-five," I said, good at guessing age.

"I am eighty-five years old. Zeal is nearly a hundred. We have not been sick since we were your age," Tarsus bragged.

"You think yourselves immortal?" I scornfully asked.

"No, even we will die someday, but now that the sacred knowledge is revealed, that will not be for several centuries. Not since Methuselah will man have seen the years we will see," Tarsus said.

"And so you see the rock upon which we build God's church," Canan said. "Now we are the Followers. Each of us has twelve disciples. Before long, their disciples will have twelve disciples, and so forth. Our wisdom will guide numberless generations."

"We'll amass great wealth in the natural course of our extended years. This wealth will bring us great power," Jonah said.

"And with this power will come the New Kingdom. In time, all the world will be brought under God's Law," Zeal concluded.

"Certainly, this is something you approve of, Magistrate?" Tarsus asked. "There will be no war. Crime will not be permitted. Each person in society will know their place, confident in the Savior's promise of everlasting salvation."

"And what price is being paid to bring about your kingdom? What amount of innocent blood is shed to fulfill your ambitions?" I harshly inquired.

"Sacrifices have been made to serve the greater good," Tarsus admitted.

"You don't seem to be the ones making the sacrifices," I observed, noting the fine silverware and imported tapestries.

"We serve our Lord. All is given over to His Light," Tarsus angrily answered, pounding the table.

Clearly they were fanatics, and totally mad. I would have expected such absurd fantasies from a bad theatre during Holy Week. Yet these fantasies had cost many their lives. It was difficult to know how to proceed.

"We expect you to be skeptical. Perhaps after we have restored your body to what it once was, you will believe," Tarsus said, finally dangling the bait.

"What will I need to give in exchange for this miracle?" I asked, firmly resolved to reject anything that would endanger my soul.

"You will not need to give anything. What we want, we can take, but we prefer your cooperation," Zeal said.

"We ask a small price, and in exchange, offer you a gift of immense value," Canan pressed, his eyes shining with divine inspiration.

"Do not give us an answer now. Think on what we have said," Tarsus insisted.

"And if I say no?" I asked.

"We could explain now, Magistrate, but life should have some mysteries, don't you think?" Zeal said, waving his hand to Zebe.

The audience was over, the stool pulled away as quickly as I could stand. Without ceremony or courtesy, I was led back into the gloomy tunnels, turning left and right until all sense of direction was lost. For a brief moment, the sky opened up as we passed through a small cove. Water ran down the walls into a cool pond surrounded by gardens. Flowers sprung up from the damp ground. At the top of the cliffs, I saw tall pine trees blowing in a steady wind under a midday sun. Stolmeister had proven wrong about not seeing sunlight again. Then we were back in the tunnels until reaching a gigantic cavern.

"This is our most holy shrine. The Cave of Rituals," Zebe said in reverence.

My heart froze in dread, for I had the distinct sensation of having been there before. To my left, perched on a wide rock ledge, I saw a shining golden altar surrounded by tall ceremonial candles. Large brass oil burners provided light. Jewels, ancient scrolls and silver plate lay at the base of the altar. Below the ledge, near the center of the cavern, a coffin shaped kettle rested on four stubby legs with a simmering blue fire flickering underneath. From there the floor gradually sloped down toward a shallow rock basin. At the edge of the basin, the floor disappeared into a deep chasm so black I could not see the bottom. The walls were decorated with hundreds of white skulls. Bats clung upside-down in the dark recessed corners.

As I was pushed forward toward the copper kettle, I looked down into the rock basin on my right, horrified at the sight. It was filled with human bones. To be exact, it was filled with the bones of young women. There was evidence of human sacrifices. Perhaps a score of human sacrifices, a toll so monstrous that I could barely grasp the implications. The relics lay in a circle around an old gray boulder. The basin held puddles of fresh blood.

"What sick practices have you hyenas been up to?" I grunted.

"No more than the stone requires," Zebe said.

Again, was I pushed toward the kettle. At one end, a wooden tower had been erected rising eight feet above the ground. The platform supported a thick pole three yards long that extended over the kettle to another tower on the other side. There were iron rings on the pole, making me wonder if it was used to hang things over the cauldron. I sensed the warmth of the vessel and wondered if it was used for dyeing fabric. Twelve of the brown robed monks surrounded me.

"Remove the robe," Zebe ordered.

"Not likely," I answered, having no intention of exhibiting myself.

Suddenly four of them jumped me. I was wrestled to the floor and stripped. Two more monks came forward and I was lifted up. To my horror, I realized they planned to put me in the kettle! I kicked and screamed, all to no avail. I was laid down on my back in a pool of steamy red liquid, my ankles tied to a handle at the bottom, my arms pulled up and bound at the head. The flow splashed over the top of my chest and nestled about my ears. Only my face remained dry. A monk used a brush to scrub the fluid thoroughly into every crevice. The sticky goop was warm but not burning, perhaps the temperature of a mild hot spring.

Once secured, the monks disappeared from view. From time to time, I heard movement around me, but for the most part, the cavern grew quiet. I struggled against the bindings. The day passed, and then another. All I could see was the cable strung over the caldron, a high gray roof, and the occasional bat fluttering about.

Most of the time I slept, though several times each day, a disciple came to give me porridge, weak wine, and as much water as I could drink, for the heat had a dehydrating effect. None spoke to me, but I did hear occasional chanting from the altar. The monotony was finally broken when I heard an annoyingly familiar voice.

"Hello, Owen. Enjoying your bath?" Stolmeister said, appearing above me without warning. The black patch was gone, and though the pupil was mildly cloudy, I guessed the eye would soon be healed. His fingers gripped the rim of the kettle. They were no longer clawed.

"How's the nose?" I asked.

"Much better," he said with a laugh. "Comfortable?"

"No, I'm not."

"I've been in the cooker a few times. Can't say that I liked it, either, but preferable to being a cripple. At least your beloved virgins didn't die in vain," he said. For some reason, I knew he wasn't lying about the source of the blood. "I'll be leaving before the ceremony. Sorry you can't come."

"Care to tell me what this is all about? What do these lunatics want?"

"You won't like the answer. Maybe it's just best to say your prayers. I hear you're good at that."

"Indulge me," I requested, twisting against the restraints.

"It's a long story."

"I'm not busy at the moment."

"Let it be as you wish. Have you ever heard of the Martyr Stone?" he asked.

"No. Is it that flat rock among all the skeletons?"

"Yes, good guess, Owen. The Martyr Stone was taken from Golithia sometime in antiquity. Legend says it was used to support the stake upon which the Savior was crucified. In the process, the stone was bathed in his life's blood."

"There's no way to know that," I said. "Churches everywhere are filled with such venerations. Most are fakes."

"Not this one. The way I've heard it, a hundred years ago a priest named Damon suspected the stone had magical properties. He used it to make cures with warm blood but couldn't find a way to fulfill the relic's potential. He gathered a group of disciples, one of whom was Zeal, who continued Damon's work after the old man finally died. Sixty years ago, persecution in the Holy Lands forced the Followers to flee. They sought a remote place, settling here in this valley. The small tricks the stone could perform soon made Zeal a local god. The Arkland already had a mysterious reputation, so it wasn't hard for him to exploit the peasants.

"Zeal was convinced that greater power could be achieved. He sent his disciples to the far corners of the world, and finally Canan found a long-lost parchment in a goat herder's cave. It led to a book that Tarsus stole from the Tomb of the Prophet. Ten years ago, Zeal thought they were ready. The Followers said the spells, performed the incantations, and gathered the blood of innocents, all to bring the stone to life."

"Life? A rock?"

"Owen, it's not just a rock. It's a source of everlasting life. Well, not everlasting, but enough to suit most anyone. The disciples put the stone in a pool of blood, say the ancient words, and the blood restores their bodies. But there's always been a problem. As it stands, the ritual only provides short term benefits. To fulfill its promise, the stone needs an enduring life force."

"Is that what you learned from those occult books you've been stealing? That gibberish espoused by Warmer and Dietz?"

"Yes, their books were helpful, but it still took six years for the disciples to figure out the problem. Jonah finally deciphered a parchment calling for the heart of a noble to sustain the Martyr Stone. They bribed King Tarten's physician to poison the old man, for a king's heart seemed perfect for their needs, but the heart was too old. Too damaged. So, with my help, they killed the Crown Prince and stole his heart. Alas, that didn't work either."

"You slew Prince Edwin? Cast our kingdom into anarchy all for this mad scheme?" I questioned, appalled by their machinations.

"Well, not me personally. But I made certain introductions," Stolmeister confessed.

I thought on the misery these plots had caused. The murders. The slave trade. The plague that had taken my wife and children. The turmoil. As I grasped the enormity of their crimes, I grew enraged, and bitter, and heartsick. They had condemned their souls to eternal hell, and fervently wished I could be the one to send them there.

"Have you guessed the end of the story yet?" he asked. "Jonah had an incorrect translation of the ritual. That's why Edwin's heart proved useless. It wasn't the heart of a noble they needed, but a noble heart. One from a man of unwavering convictions, compassion, and faith. They need your heart, Owen. And once your body is strong again, they're going to take it from you."

The villain smiled, thinking it a good joke. I did not appreciate the humor.

"You can't believe any of this. My God, you're an educated man, not some gullible backwoods cornhusker."

"Just between you and me, no. I think this whole New Kingdom nonsense will end in grief. But these priests are on to something with this stone and their crazy rituals. Something that made me whole again. I'm not greedy enough to ask for more."

"How much time do I have?"

"Hard to say. I gave them the copy of the scroll George Manners stole from the library. The whole damn group is trying to figure it out. They're a smart bunch but ancient languages can get tricky. They're waiting for the full moon."

"Are you accepting bribes?" I asked.

"What are you offering, gold or a quick hanging?"

"Not gold," I said.

Stolmeister laughed. He had played the game well.

"Don't know if we'll have a chance to talk again, so goodbye, Owen. Thanks for the eye."

He disappeared from view leaving me in a helpless rage, but as the hours passed, the anger gradually subsided into dark dread. I understood now why the cavern left me in such terror. It was the place of my worst nightmares. Grinning death hovered over me. I wanted to fight off the fear, to somehow find courage at the end, but despair was swallowing me. Martha and my children. Jalana. Kaska. The lost daughters. And now I had become a tool in this obscenity. An overconfident dupe. Lord how I wished Rotanna had killed me that day at Trodden Castle.

Tarsus and Zebe came the next morning. I was freed from the kettle, though my hands were left tied. Such was good for them. I had nothing to lose now, and nothing but satisfaction to gain from doing them injury.

To my surprise, I was able to straighten up once I found my balance. My legs felt strong.

"I see now why all call you fearless, Magistrate," Zebe said, mistaking my sullen mood for courage.

"We do not wish to be cruel. Name what you would have, and if possible, it is given," Tarsus offered. "A fine meal? A young woman? A young man? We would have you content and rested for the ceremony."

"A fine meal, a young woman, and your head on a pole would content me nicely," I said in full truth.

"Two of the three," Tarsus said, clapping his hands. Several monks came running to do him service. Others began cleaning the kettle.

"The sacred vessel will now be purified for the final incantation," Tarsus explained. "When next you come to the Cave of Rituals, your heart will be sacrificed to the Martyr Stone, giving the holy relic unending life. As it will give unending life to His disciples."

"I envy you, Owen Vander. By sunrise you will reside with God," Zebe explained.

The deluded ass truly did envy me, though I doubt he wanted to exchange places.

"What will you do, brothers of insanity, when you discover my heart is no nobler than any other?" I asked.

"We know you are not without faults. What mortal is?" Tarsus said.

I may as well have discussed my character flaws with the Martyr Stone for all the good it would do, so the conversation ended. I preferred solid food over a pointless debate.

Still bathed in blood, I was prodded back into the tunnels. Apparently the sacred life force wasn't so precious that they didn't mind tracking it on their floor. This time I was led upward through winding corridors until we reached an outdoor garden. It was another cove, larger than the one I'd seen before, filled with lush trees and a pond. An oasis surrounded on all sides by steep fifty-foot cliffs. Zebe untied my hands and I plunged into the water, pleased to get clean.

I noticed that my scars were gone. My arms flexed with new strength. My legs were like bands of iron. Despite weeks of inactivity and months as a cripple, I moved with the power of youth. I could hardly believe it. True, I had witnessed Stolmeister's miraculous restoration, but it's one thing to see a miracle, quite another to experience one. Zebe's minions brought me a purple robe made of finely woven cottons and silk.

"We have all afternoon, Magistrate. Take your leisure," Zebe said as if he were my servant and not my murderer. I sat on a wool blanket near the water's edge under a leafy tree. Roast duck was brought with steamed greens and winter strawberries. I ate like one possessed. From time to time, I glanced up at the open sky. The sun had already passed over but its presence could be felt.

"A selection for you," one of the brown robed minions announced, leading several lovely young women into the garden. Their short white dresses were stained, possibly from kitchen work. They looked frightened.

"These three to the right may give great satisfaction. They are among many here who serve our needs, for all of our prizes are not reserved for holy ceremonies. The two on the left are still virgins, but worthy of your attention," Zebe said.

By all that's holy, it was the lost daughters of Falmouth Crossing standing before me. I instantly recognized Katie, Sam Lolling's daughter, now nineteen. With her was Sir John's daughter, Ravenna, taller at twenty and growing graceful. I looked at Zebe, wondering if he realized the significance of these two particular women. He smiled. Their presentation was no coincidence.

"What have you in mind for them?" I asked.

"They will be part of your journey, Magistrate, as they have been this last year. They are much blessed," he answered.

"Is there no way to save them from this blessing?" I humbly asked.

"Alas, we have just enough untouched women to fulfill the ritual. The slave trade isn't what it was a few months ago," Zebe said with an evil wink.

"Perhaps I may pick someone to take this special journey with me?" I inquired, standing to study each of the women. I realized they had been brought to tease me, not give themselves for my pleasure.

"We greet you, Magistrate," Ravenna said, her voice trembling.

"Please let us serve you," Katie said, glancing back at Zebe.

"It's good to finally meet you, ladies. Know that I never gave up trying to find you. Your families love you. Your fathers miss you terribly. I pray that one day you will return home, be married, have litters of children, and live to old age telling stories of your youthful adventures. If that day comes, remember me. Remember that God chooses a destiny for us all."

"Thank you, Magistrate," Katie said, hugging me with tears in her eyes.

"Zebe, first disciple of Tarsus, I have chosen someone to share my journey," I announced.

"My apologies for the temptation, sir, but your wish is impossible," Zebe replied, motioning for the women to be taken away.

"Nothing is impossible for those with faith," I disagreed.

I reached to take Katie's hand but Zebe stepped in front of me. Exactly as I wanted. I grabbed him by the collar, punched him hard in the stomach, and dragged him into the pond. He started to fight back, flailing his arms. I hit him in the face with three quick blows and pushed him underwater, holding him down as he fought for his life.

The servants were taken by surprise, initially standing back and watching. Only when they realized Zebe wasn't able to break my grip did they charge forward. I pulled Zebe into waist deep water, my hands locked around his throat. A disciple jumped on my back. Another tried to pry me off his master. Zebe's struggles grew weaker. A minion thought to find a tree branch and club me over the head. I shook off the first blow, but my knees softened with the second. A third left me floundering, two disciples drawing me to the embankment half-senseless.

I was soaked and spitting water. Tarsus had been summoned, wading into the pond as the disciples dragged Zebe on shore. One tried to breathe air into him, but after a few minutes, they gave up.

"Zebe is dead," Tarsus said, standing over me.

"By God's Grace, you will be next," I prayed.

"We thought you a scholarly man. One who could appreciate our sacred calling. We were wrong, you're nothing but a vicious animal," Tarsus cursed in controlled rage.

"I find such an accusation strange coming from you," I responded.

I would have pounced on Tarsus next, but his disciples pinned me face down in the grass and tied my hands behind my back. They pulled me to my feet.

"Take these women away, and Magistrate to his room," Tarsus ordered.

"Be brave. Never forget," I said to Ravenna and Katie as I was dragged off.

They took me back to the stone chamber and left me bound on the bed in my wet robe, though I managed to wiggle under the blanket for warmth. Through the bushes covering the hole in the ceiling, I saw the light of day fading.

"It is the full moon tonight," Canan said an hour later, entering the room and sitting on a stool. "At midnight we will perform the ancient rituals. As we speak, the Martyr Stone is being placed in the sacred vessel. Soon the final sacrifices will begin."

I glanced up again at the approaching twilight. It was a cruel sort of clock, allowing me to count off my final hours.

"Tarsus is furious with you. If it was his choice, your last night in this world would be spent on the rack in unimaginable pain," he related.

"Am I to be spared this trial?" I inquired, trying to sound disinterested.

"Your body is needed pure for the ritual," he explained.

"Is it through such practices that you seek God? Can you truly be so deluded?" I asked, making one last effort to break free. Strangling the Master of the Scrolls would have made a satisfactory ending to my day.

"This chamber is kept quiet for your prayers. Compose your soul," Canan counseled, leaving the room and slowly closing the old wooden door. And indeed the room was quiet, nothing but my fretful breathing breaking the silence as I watched the daylight disappear.

In the early evening there were clouds, but they gradually faded as the full moon emerged. It would only be visible for a few minutes as it passed overhead, a last chance to whisper a prayer to one of God's messengers. After that, I would be forced to lay in darkness until they came for me, lamenting the endless mistakes that had brought me to such a shameful end.

But something strange happened. Suddenly the moon disappeared, blocked by a shadow. There was movement, a rustling of leaves and broken branches. Then the shadow fell from the ceiling, landing in the center of the room with a soft thump.

"Are you ready to leave this evil place?" a gravelly voice asked.

It was Rotanna.

"What magic is this? Are you resurrected?" I asked, managing to sit up on my cot.

Rotanna found a candle to light, cut the bindings off my ankles, and then rolled me over to free my hands. She gave me the dagger and drew her sword.

"Brothers of the Black Axe are not so easily purchased," Rotanna said. "False information was given to the One-Eye's spy that I might follow his trail. Are you strong enough to climb?"

Rotanna was dressed in red leather, a black war feather in her headband. Feeling about in the dim light, I found a rope hanging from the hole in the roof. Lord forgive me, for I dearly wanted to climb that rope and escape into the dark night. I had done all that should be expected of a man. But it wasn't enough.

"Have we friends up there?" I asked.

"Soon. Jalana brings Sir Philip and the Black Axe, but they may not be here 'til dawn. We have sanctuary on the mountain. Do you need help?"

"You have no idea, First Sword, how much help I need. No idea at all," I replied.

I slowly reached to take the sword from her, gave her the dagger, and kissed her on the forehead.

"What outlandish custom is this?" she asked.

"It's my way of saying thank you, and goodbye. When our friends arrive, send them against this place with all their power. Let no one escape. Let none of the kidnappers live. If I had time, paper and ink, I would issue a writ. Carry my decree to Lord Hastings that your testimony may have force of law," I calmly instructed.

"Why will you not do these things yourself?"

"Because the insane priests who rule these caves are about to slay their captives. I'll seek to delay them as long as I can," I explained, turning toward the door.

"Hold, male. Have you forgotten my oath so soon?" Rotanna said, snatching the sword back.

"There are a hundred and fifty disciples of hell in their cave of rituals. Those odds are too great even for you."

"If they are too great for me, certainly they are too great for a weakling girl-child," she protested.

"I am weakling no longer, and what I lack in sword skill will be compensated for with righteous anger," I answered. To prove my point, I took hold of her arm. When she tried to pull away, she could not budge, my grip like steel.

"You speak to me of magic?" Rotanna said, astounded.

"The curse of your sword is lifted from my body," I answered, opening the robe to show the scars were gone. "I am whole again. You are no longer needed to be my arms and legs, and thus all debt between us is settled. Return to your forest in honor, First Sword, for it is well earned. And if it is permitted, perhaps you can mention my name at the summer bonfire."

Again, I turned to the door, for time was precious. Rotanna stopped me.

"Are we again to have blood insult? No sooner do you return my honor than you think to keep all the glory for yourself? Vile are the ways of males," she said, spitting on the floor.

"I won't turn down your help, but it's necessary to know what the price of glory will be," I warned.

"You saved the women of Arbor on the burning bridge. You helped my sisters save the villagers at Varna. Fuschia and Mapps joined you to free the slaves of Kannae. What has been left for Rotanna but a few poor adventures? Who will sing my name at the summer bonfire?"

Clearly Rotanna was determined, by her culture and nature, to enter the fray. At least her help would cut the odds in half.

"The priests are adding the blood of innocents to their sacred vessel, this to feed a stone they believe consecrated by God. We must take the coven by surprise. Lay into them with fire and sword. Give no mercy and expect none."

"Now at last you speak as a warrior," Rotanna approved, filled with a casual courage that I could only envy.

"No, merely a man with a cause worth fighting for," I disagreed, kicking the bed apart. From the debris, I pulled out a sturdy pole to use as a staff.

I had been in the dank corridors enough times to guess my way to the ritual cave. All was quiet, the Followers and their disciples gathered for their long-sought moment of triumph. Not until the final branch tunnel did we find one of the brown robed monks. I crushed his skull with the staff and took his robe.

"What foulness is this?" Rotanna asked as we slipped through the door, watching the proceedings from the shadows, witnessing a scene of unspeakable horror.

The cavern was lit with hundreds of candles and oil lamps. Treasure lay piled before the altar. Gold, incense, jewels, and stacks of ancient scrolls. The twelve leaders in their gray robes stood around the altar uttering chants, oblivious to their minions. The monks busied themselves in small groups, some given a ghastly task.

I was too late to save the lost daughters. On a slaughterhouse assembly line, six women were hanging upside-down from large metal rings, bound at the ankles. All had been stripped, hands tied behind their backs. One by one, the helpless sacrifices were being pulled across the pole until they dangled over the sacred vessel where a monk slit their throats, the blood draining into the copper kettle below. Once the victim's body was drained, it was detached from the ring and rolled down the steep rock slope into the bone-filled basin with the relics of innocents past. Six women had already been processed in this manner, Ravenna and Katie among them, their bodies lying in tragic heaps. Those once precious eyes stared in terror-filled death, for each had been forced to watch the execution of the woman before her. The Martyr Stone was gone, no doubt placed in the vessel awaiting my contribution.

"Not one of these males must live," Rotanna swore in cold rage.

"Never have we agreed more, First Sword," I said.

One group of monks was praying over their most recent kill. Another group was using a rope to tow the seventh woman along the pole to hang over the tank. The woman was screaming, begging for her life. The sounds echoed off the walls only to fall on deaf ears.

"Have we a strategy?" I whispered, hefting my staff.

"All is in the hands of the Dread Goddess now. Stay on the attack for as long as possible," Rotanna advised.

"There is one last thing you must know. They want my heart for their ritual. If I fall, put your sword through my chest. Don't let them have the final victory," I requested.

"It will be as you say," Rotanna affirmed.

The next victim was over the vessel, twisting and squirming on the ring. A monk tried to grab her shoulders without falling into the kettle.

"Give me a moment to reach the altar, then lay into them. Farewell, First Sword, may the Dread Goddess guide your journey home," I whispered.

"May your god save you a seat at his fire, Owen," she responded.

We shared a brief moment of eye contact, a final acknowledgement of respect despite our differences. Then I pulled the hood up to cover my face and entered the cavern. None gave me special attention for I was just one among many. I went toward the vessel before veering up the ramp to the altar. I was within a few yards of the Followers when a disciple finally sought to question my presence.

"Ho, brother. What is your duty?" the man asked in a foreign accent.

"To serve God," I said, bringing my staff down on his head.

Several turned to see what the commotion was. I rushed up the last few steps and tipped over one of the large burners, spreading the flaming oil along the ledge. Two of the Followers caught fire, shouting in painful surprise. I kicked another burner over, this one spilling on the pile of scrolls set before the altar.

"No! No! No!" Canan screamed.

The Master of the Scrolls bent down to save his unholy parchments. I kicked him face-first into the flames and swung the staff, catching Tarsus across the side of the head.

By now I had been noticed. A hundred monks began scrambling toward the ledge where my staff was felling anyone within reach. The brotherhood carried a few daggers, but none had brought their swords. I moved steadily forward knocking over lamps and candles, setting fire to anything that would burn. Dozens of monks were forced to retreat as the blaze spread, the growing flames casting ghastly shadows on the gray cavern walls.

"Treachery! Treachery!" a panicked voice yelled.

I looked down toward the kettle to see Rotanna had fallen on the enemy's flank, cutting a bloody swath through their unsuspecting ranks to reach the tied-up women. Her sword flashed in short, precise strikes. She spoke no threats, saving her breath for battle, and climbed the platform where the women had been strung up. The monks scattered before her blade.

I found the one called Jonah lying at my feet and drove the staff down through his skull. Magnus sat nearby, stunned by a whack on the head. I threw a bowl of coal oil on his robe and set it on fire with a burning parchment. He screamed in startled agony. I nudged him off the ledge into a group of disciples. The burning oil began dripping off the ledge, running in thin streams down the slope toward the chasm.

Our initial onslaught was more successful than anyone could wish for. Three of the Followers lay dead, at least four more were hurt. Two dozen monks lay moaning on the cavern floor. But it was not enough. The disciples were rallying, gathering beyond reach of the fires and looking for weapons. It would not take long to reach their armory and return. Tarsus had crawled off. Rotanna pulled the seventh victim back to the wooden platform and helped her down. Below the platform, a cage of steel bars had been built to contain the sacrifices. Rotanna herded the women inside, turning to block the door as a swarm of enemies besieged them.

The first rush of the armed monks took Rotanna too lightly, and paid for their presumption, but it didn't take a warrior to know that the First Sword must eventually yield to greater numbers. As the Followers fled the altar, now well engulfed in flames, I looked about for even greater mischief, seeking to give Rotanna some relief.

I spied the copper vessel resting on its supports below me, now filled with enough blood to surround the Martyr Stone. The gray rock was shaped like a flattened cube, the weight about two-hundred pounds. I looked down the slope, beyond the basin of bones, to the cliff overhanging the bottomless abyss. The scrolls were burning, the ancient knowledge lost. If I could send the accursed rock off the cliff, it might be lost, too. Hopefully forever.

Jumping from the ledge, I ran around to the lower side of the sacred vessel, using the staff to bend away a leg support. Red coals beneath the vessel gave off heat but not enough to hold me back. The great kettle began to tip.

Someone grabbed me from behind. I turned to punch him in the face, knocking him down. Another came forward. I jabbed the pole in his gut and kicked him in the head as he doubled over. More disciples were coming. I wedged the pole under the weakened strut and twisted with all my strength. The strut cracked and gave way.

"Owen, watch out!" Rotanna warned.

There was little I could have done in any case. As the support abruptly collapsed, the vessel toppled over, forcing me to jump back as a wave of warm blood washed over me. The impact drove me down the slope, slipping and sliding into the rock basin where I splashed to a halt among the bones and fresh bodies. The lip of the basin stopped me from going into the chasm, and for a moment, I thought myself safe. I was wrong.

The venerated stone soon fell free of the vessel and followed me down the slope, picking up speed as it slid across the slick surface. I saw it coming but there was no time to crawl away. The rock splashed into the blood-filled basin and slammed into me. Both I and the stone were hurled up and out of the pool, plunging over the cliff.

The Martyr Stone disappeared into the darkness, the fall so great that I never heard it land. I desperately hung on to the edge, my legs probing for a foothold that wasn't there. I tried to pull myself up, but it proved impossible. All about me was slippery with blood. My heart raced as I began to panic. It was just like in my nightmares. The black chasm. Murder, misery, and despair all about. The fear of falling and falling and falling. The only thing missing was the grinning face of death. And then suddenly, there it was!

I nearly screamed in terror as the horrible apparition appeared above me, but thank God, my frightened fingers refused to let go of the ledge. I knew myself doomed and frantically sought to whisper a final prayer, but couldn't think of one. Then a gloved hand reached toward me.

It wasn't the face of death that hovered above me. It was Rotanna, grabbing my arm. She took hold and pulled with all her might. I got my elbows over the rim. Breathing hard, I dragged my body forward and rolled back down into the basin of bones now filled with several inches of blood.

"Try to be more careful," Rotanna said, running back to the platform where the surviving captives were gathered.

My staff was gone. I drew the dagger and started to follow. The end could not be far off, for the disciples were massing along the walls for a counterattack. The cavern was ablaze in a hundred places, casting jagged shadows. The high ceiling was letting some of the black smoke escape, but not all. The basin was slippery, forcing me to crawl.

And then suddenly I stopped. There was a movement around me where there should be no movement. Crimson ripples shimmered across the shallow pond. A white swirling fog slowly surrounded me in a murky shroud. I experienced an eerie, ghostly sensation. A momentary distortion. I dropped to my knees unable to move, unable to breathe, an unearthly humming blurring my senses like nothing I had ever experienced.

Then I saw them. Pink bodies struggling to get up. The soul within me froze in terrified awe as Katie rose from the dead, once again among the living. Even the slash through her throat had disappeared. Then I saw Ravenna stand, staggering to find her balance. Another woman stood, and then three more. All six of the recent sacrifices lived again, reborn in the Savior's blood. Could there ever be a more profound confirmation of our Lord's Grace? Was there a reason I had been allowed to witness it? There could be no way of knowing. Had there been time, I would have groveled in holy reverence, but the battle continued.

I helped the women to the rim of the basin and told them to stay. They seemed confused. Disorientated. None recognized their surroundings. Rotanna stood before the cage where the other six women were huddled, the poles protecting her flanks. I had no idea how to deliver them from this evil place. A sword flashed among the monks. Someone had retrieved a weapon. Then a rock was launched at Rotanna. She ducked, but a second rock hit her in the forehead, knocking her backward. Daggers were raised as the monks charged.

I scrambled up the blood-slick slope, seized a club from a surprised monk, and bashed his head in with such force that I felt the skull shatter. Someone tried to grab me but I shook him off and pushed forward, lying about me in all directions. One took a blow to the face, another suffered a blow much lower, but just as painful. Two more fell before my angry charge, and many others received unexpected injuries. The Followers had done a fine job of restoring my youthful vigor, but even I began to tire.

At last I reached Rotanna's side. She was down with a dozen wounds, many of them deadly. I doubted she had long to live. She looked up and handed me her sword, her eyes weary. I turned and swung with such force that a disciple's head separated from his shoulders. A second swing clove a brown robed monk from collar to breastbone, forcing me to yank the blade free. The others started to back off. I picked Rotanna up and retreated under the platform hoping to catch a brief respite. The frightened women stayed low to the ground. They dared not move for there was no place to go.

"Thank you," Rotanna said, struggling for breath.

"Thank me? For this?" I said, my hands covered in her blood.

"You have allowed me glorious battle. Such battle as warriors can only dream of."

"What glory is there if no one knows of your deeds?" I asked, seeing a score of enemies closing in with daggers and clubs.

"Even if the Dread Goddess alone knew, it would be enough. Such is often the fate of warriors. But that will not be my fate. Someday you will return to my forest. You will sit at the summer bonfire and tell my sisters of Rotanna's last battle. In their stories, I will live forever. Is this not true?"

"Yes, it's true."

"You will go to the forest of the Red Leather? You promise?"

"I take my oath," I swore.

She spoke no more. We sat together on the floor of that cold, damp cave, and in the whisper of an eagle's wings, Rotanna's spirit left this world for a better place.

Letting her body rest back on the floor, I prepared for the final onslaught. There was no time to be afraid. My adrenaline was running hard, my attention fully set on defending my hopeless position to the very last, and even the prayer I might have said was lost in the chaos of the moment.

There were forty or fifty monks close by but only a few with swords. Their faces were hidden under the hoods, weapons gripped with a thirst for revenge. They surged forward, slowly at first, like a winter river breaking free of the ice. Only a few cried out, most willing to meet my sword in anxious silence. I stood up to meet them.

"Come on, you sons of bitches. Justice awaits you in hell," I muttered in righteous determination.

Suddenly the shrill call of a bugle cut the desperate air. All about me stopped to look toward the biggest tunnel. I heard heavy boots, a summons to arms, and the clash of steel as a company of soldiers burst into the cavern. In the first rank I saw Kaska, the young mercenary swinging his broadsword in a raging fury. Next to him was Thory and Sir Philip.

The disciples with swords were too few to stem the tide flowing toward them. After a brief but violent skirmish, most of the monks gave way, running for any source of escape they could find. I collapsed next to the platform, my legs exhausted. The six women Rotanna had rescued gathered close, and the six who died yet lived again worked their way up the slope to join us. They did not seem to understand what had happened to them, which was for the best. They would not hear an explanation from me.

The group of soldiers soon controlled the cavern's main floor. There were about fifteen of them, a much smaller number than I expected, for in the tunnel they sounded like a hundred. A second group entered, this one led by Rowena of Roxbury and three of the Black Axe. Behind them, hands tied and pulled by a leash, was the villainous Marl of Evansham. His face was purple with bruises, no doubt from a successful effort to gain his cooperation.

Finally, to my greatest relief, I saw Jalana emerge among the tall soldiers and mercenaries. Tears filled my eyes as I saw her in good health, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Her eyes eagerly scanned the cavern for enemies.

"Magistrate, thank God you live," Kaska said, kneeling at my side. I had not noticed him approach, but the women had, starting to get up from the cage.

"God has taken better care of me than I deserve. He was not so generous with Rotanna," I whispered.

"She will be avenged," Kaska swore.

* * * * * *

To be concluded in part thirteen, A Judgement Made