The Black Chapel
© 2014 by Walter Reimer

Art by  whitearabmare


Part 24.


The raccoon had been forced to throw her cloak away, and she wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing – losing her favorite traveling cloak, or the laughter of the soldiers around her.

Fortunately the dung hadn’t soaked completely through the wool, or she would have had to walk back to the wagon naked from the waist up.

The raiding party that had attacked the column amounted to only the twenty furs that Jorj had brought with him; of them, half were dead, while the Shugan forces had lost only three. The others were bound, gagged and drugged into a stupor by the herbalist.

A debate raged in the lower ranks - whether to send the prisoners back to the capital, or sell them back to the Duke in exchange for compensation for their own losses. A minority opinion suggested an ancient custom of sending the Duke only enough pieces of each prisoner to construct one soldier.

The three dead Shugan soldiers were buried a short distance from the road, with a rock cairn raised over their bodies. Trasta and the column’s chaplain presided over the appropriate rites, reminding Luli that these were soldiers dedicated to Him and beseeching Him to ask His brother Dator to find them worthy places in the Underworld’s hall of warriors.

Lord Jorj, bound and drugged, lay on a corner of the carpet in Trasta’s tent, waiting to be interrogated. A bloodstained bandage on his head showed where the doe had hit him.

Trasta looked up from her dinner to see Halvrika looking at the buck. “Are you all right?”

“Hm? Yes, yes, I’m fine. But he is a worry.” The raccoon tore a piece of bread off a loaf and waved it at the trussed-up buck before putting the morsel in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “During the fight I tried to stop him from hitting you. In the Writ, I – I was unable to touch him.”

“Explain.”

“It shouldn’t be possible for anything to be resistant to the Writ,” the sow insisted, laying aside her wine cup after taking a drink. “And I don’t sense any aptitude in him.”

“Well, we need to wake him up and question him, I suppose,” and Trasta gestured to Chelli to fetch the herbalist.

The middle-aged feline studied the rise and fall of the buck’s chest before peeling back one of his eyelids and looking closely. He then clamped a leather-gloved paw over Lord Jorj’s mouth and brought a small phial to the cervine’s nose. After several moments the bound form squirmed, kicked at the limits of his bonds, and his eyes slowly opened.

The herbalist stood and bowed to Trasta. “He will answer questions, Your Highness. I will be outside to put him under again when you’re finished.” He straightened the tabard that symbolized his calling.

“Thank you, Master Helef.” He nodded to Halvrika and left the tent.

Trasta moved her chair to face him. “What is your name?”

“Jorj, son of Malem, House Kander,” he said in a soft voice, as if he were talking in his sleep.

“Why did you try to kill me?”

A pause. “I had orders.”

“Did Duke Evoli order you to kill me?”

“No.”

The Princess and the Adept exchanged glances. “Who ordered you to kill me?”

“ . . . “

“Answer me, Jorj son of Malem of House Kander: Who ordered you to kill me?”

The buck’s mouth opened and closed, and he began to squirm. “I . . . I . . . “ he started to writhe in his bonds as he muttered unintelligibly.

“Trasta.”

The doe glanced at the sow. “Let me have a go at him.”

Trasta looked back at the buck, and nodded.

Halvrika rubbed her paws together as she moved to sit on the rug facing Jorj. “Jorj, son of Malem, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he slurred.

The raccoon’s eyes glowed silver as she sank her perceptions into the Writ. The buck appeared as all living things did, but she knew that there was something odd about him.

She studied him closely, carefully scrutinizing each of the glowing fibers.

There.

There was one that seemed . . . out of place.

Yes, that one there; it appeared to be twisted around the buck. She studied it, and the more she looked at it, the more she realized that she recognized this.

It was a spell.

Worse, it was a Binding, the same type of malignant work that Master Marok had purged her of.

It reeked of Amb Tokarv.

Her focus shifted, just a bit, so that she not only Saw, but saw. It was necessary to gauge Jorj’s reactions. The procedure was a terrible strain on her, being in two worlds as she now was, but she judged it was worth the risk.

Her voice soft, Halvrika asked, “Jorj, can you hear me?” even as she reached out and grasped the spell.

The buck shuddered, writhing in his bonds, straining against the thongs so hard that the leather creaked. Had he been restrained with metal shackles, his struggles would have caused them to cut into his flesh. “Y-yes,” he stammered.

She took a deep breath. “Who ordered you to kill the Princess Trasta?” she asked, and at the same time she yanked hard on the tendril.

His struggles became more pronounced, his teeth grinding hard as he convulsed, banging his head on the carpeted ground. Part of one antler broke and skittered away.

The spell was refusing to break, and she redoubled her efforts. “Who gave you the order?” she pressed.

“Um, Halvrika?” Trasta ventured.

The sow shook her head. “I almost have it loose . . . “

She pulled harder. Marok hadn’t been joking when he said that the spell had been hard to break.

Jorj was practically foaming at the mouth, growling incoherently. Joints and cloth creaked as his muscles tensed spasmodically.

“’Rika . . . “

“Almost there,” she said through gritted teeth.

In the Writ, the thread she grasped . . . parted.

As the remnants evaporated, Halvrika felt a sense of accomplishment.

“HALVRIKA!”

She shifted her focus to waking reality as with an inarticulate howl of rage Jorj gave one mighty heave and his bonds snapped. Blood running from his eyes, he launched himself at the raccoon, who started to backpedal and fell backward.

He was on her in an instant, with his paws around her throat.

She grabbed his wrists, but he was too strong for her and outweighed her by a significant margin. His madness, too, lent him strength.

Blood-flecked foam dribbled on her face as he strangled her.

Her own blood starting to roar in her ears, she was vaguely aware of Trasta behind the buck, trying to pull him off of her. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a rictus grin and his eyes were wide, starting from their sockets.

There was a bright flash behind him as Trasta drew her sword.

There was a solid, squelching thud, and a spray of blood erupted like a halo around the buck’s head as his grip on the sow’s throat went slack. Halvrika twisted away, coughing and retching as she fought to get air into her lungs.

Trasta was at her side as guards poured into the tent. “Lay still,” the doe urged as the raccoon fought to get up on all fours. “Get your breath back.”

A strangled sound drew everyone’s attention back to the buck, and paws tensed on weapons.

Jorj had a mortal wound to his skull, but he still twitched and clenched his paws, blood and saliva drooling from his mouth as he whispered.

“Krrrr . . . mmphhrk . . . the . . . the Master . . . “

“What? Who’s the Master?” Trasta demanded.

“Hrggh . . . the Black Chapel . . . “ and with a final rattling sigh Jorj son of Malem went limp.

One of the guards touched his throat. “Dead, Your Highness.”