Table of Contents – (spoilers)
Choke left the Baron in the keep and went straight to the fort’s stables. There, he took a private moment with Nike once he had him out of his stall.
“I heard your warning last night, Nike,” Choke whispered in his ear as he and the horse nuzzled each other. “Yes, I did, boy! You knew that those men hiding in here were going to try and hurt me, didn’t you! And you warned me! And I heard and knew it was you. What a good boy you are.”
Choke ignored the amused looks the stable lads were exchanging at this interaction as he finished congratulating Nike and bridled and saddled him. Once mounted, Choke rode over to the east slope to let Peep and the others know where he would be. Then, he rode down into town to the church.
On his way into town, Choke realized that he had forgotten to retrieve his armor from the fort’s armorer, who surely would have finished with the simple repair of the crossbow bolt hole. He chastised himself for the lapse, but decided it was not worth going back to armor up. Where he was headed, it was doubtful that there would be another attack.
Outside the church, Peep’s followers were now hard at work in various tasks. Some of them scrubbed the stone steps. Others were in the church’s vegetable garden, watering and weeding. Still others were in the graveyard beside that, cutting grass and brushing down the gravestones. Choke noted that while the church had been in fine condition before, it was looking even better now. He then had a chuckle as he imagined what Brother Barrelmender would make of the troupe when they followed Peep to his church in Bristlehump.
Choke tethered Nike outside the stable and had a quick peek inside to see that it had been thoroughly mucked out since the last time he and the soon-to-be corporals, Dom and Lenny, had done it.
Inside the church, there were only a few parishioners at prayer. One of Father Morrenthall’s new men from Strana was standing on guard outside the door to the Father’s side of the church’s transept. He nodded politely to Choke as he approached.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Pekot. How may I help you?” the man asked.
“Good morning. I have been sent by Colonel Hart with a message for Father Morrenthall. Is he free?”
“Wait just a minute, Lieutenant, and I shall check.”
“Thank you,” Choke said as the man nodded to him again and went through the door, closing and bolting it behind him.
Choke decided not to idle there at that moment, so he drew his sword and knelt down in front of the altar with it to pray to Stron. On his knees, he gripped the blade in front of him so that its hilt was just in front of his face. This being a church of the Knights of the Holy Sword, the altar above him was a large wagon Wheel suspended vertically from the ceiling, with a greatsword affixed to its front. Choke prayed silently to Stron, asking Him to guide and bless him to do his duty. When he had finished, he saw that the soldier of the Holy Sword was back and patiently waiting for him to finish praying.
“Lieutenant Pekot: Father Morrenthall is in his office and has invited you to join him. You may go through to him at your leisure, sir.”
“Thank you, sir,” Choke said as he rose to his feet and sheathed his sword.
The man nodded deeply again. He opened the door for Choke and stepped aside to let him through. The soldier stayed out in the church and shut the door behind Choke. Profoundly relieved that he was not heading down into the dungeon below the church, Choke moved to Father Morrenthall’s office door and knocked politely.
“Come in!” Father Morrenthall called. “Ah. Lieutenant Pekot. Good to see you again so soon. Please, come in and have a seat.”
“Thank you, Father,” Choke said as he did so.
Father Morrenthall was seated at his desk with a great deal of writing in front of him. Numerous documents were drying on the desk around him, and he was working on yet another.
“So, I take it the Baron has returned to the fort. And how is his lordship?” Father Morrenthall asked as he carefully set his quill down in its holder and pushed his writing blotter away from him just a little.
“He seems well, Father.”
“And his disposition?”
“That seems fine, Father. He didn’t seem at all bothered about anything,” Choke said.
“Is that so?” Father Morrenthall said with a mild frown. “Well, that is good, I suppose. And he conversed with you?”
“Yes, Father. At length,” Choke answered.
“Good. So, you have a message from him for me, do you?”
“Yes, Father. Colonel Hart says that in the spirit of cooperation and friendship that you both have fostered, he would like Captain Edison, Lieutenant Hamon, and Sergeant-Major Orel released back to him by tomorrow at noon,” Choke said, meeting Father Morrenthall’s eye as best he could.
“Is that all? What of his sheriff?” Father Morrenthall asked.
“Well, Father, he directly asked me what your intentions were with his people, and I thought it best to be honest with him. So I told him that you intended to release his military people and burn the sheriff. Colonel Hart seemed agreeable to that. He did, however, ask me to ask a favor of you for him, in regards to the sheriff.”
“Did he now?” Father Morrenthall exclaimed, now looking rather amused. “Whatever could that be?”
“Father, he asked that you make it known to his Lady wife, the Baronesse, that when he learned of Sheriff Waters’ vile perversions, he asked you to prosecute him fully. He did stress that you should not feel obliged to do this for him, but that he would greatly appreciate it.”
Father Morrenthall chuckled at this.
“Not just for his wife’s sake, I am sure. Did he explain himself in this to you?”
“Yes, Father. To a point. He aims to please his wife and suggested that a young man such as myself would not be able to understand why a husband in his position would want to do so. However, I think I do understand. It seems to do with lustfulness,” Choke said, dropping his gaze in embarrassment as he did.
Father Morrenthall chuckled again.
“Well, Bartholomew, I think he wanted you to think that was his primary concern. But there is a great deal more to it than that. You see, if I were to go ahead and present the case against Sheriff Waters as though the Baron himself were the prime mover pushing it, then it is not just the Baroness who is the audience. No, for indeed, in doing so, this would be the face we put forward for all of polite society. Yes?
“And, of course, this is the story that the Baron must have put forward. For anything else would be a terrible stain upon his honor. To have his own sheriff doing such a thing? And to have, at the very least, turned a blind eye to it? No… he cannot have that. So, of course, we must allow him to be the righteous architect of Sheriff Waters’ fall. You may tell your Colonel that I will happily oblige him in his request.”
“Thank you, Father. But, if it is as you say, and I am sure that it is, then why did the Colonel go to such pains to make it seem to me that he was requesting this for more sordid reasons?”
“Well, Bartholomew, I think that is down to the sort of man the Baron is. And the sort of man he would like to cultivate you becoming. That sort being a soldier. Men such as him like to be perceived as what they refer to as a proper bastard. As a fighting nobleman, with his men the Baron will take pains to paint himself as being above the moralistic wailings of society’s sensitives. And if he does something to placate their sensibilities, then he must pass it off as though there are deeper, more roguish reasons for doing so. It is performative silliness.”
“Oh. I see,” Choke said, not entirely sure that he did.
“However, it is a good sign for you that he made the effort. Clearly, he likes you. And wants to shape how you perceive him. So, good for you in that, Bartholomew!” Father Morrenthall said cheerfully.
“Thank you, Father. He was actually quite clear about what he wants from me. He sees me as a potential liaison between himself and the Church. He told me he wants me to help him navigate the complications he foresees arising with Otilla.”
“Ah. Of course. Yes, that makes good sense for both of you. And he is only seeking to label that which you already are. Or, rather, the role that you have been occupying. Only good can come of it. Just remember that you are now a soldier first. So you must be a loyal officer to him. And he is a good officer, in his fashion. You both shall do well by each other, I am sure,” Father Morrenthall said.
Choke thought this over for a moment.
“Pardon me, Father, but may I seek some advice in regards to this?”
“Of course, my son.”
“You say the Baron is a good man. But… is he?” Choke asked.
“I did not say he was a good man. I said he is a good officer. In his fashion. But do expand upon your thought. Why do you question it?”
“Well, he has been engaging in corruption here. As I am sure you know by now, Father. Pilfering the King’s taxes. He says it is to support his regiment with proper auxiliaries, but—”
“Why would you doubt him in that?” Father Morrenthall interrupted. “He paints it as a virtue, I am sure. But I believe it. Warfare is the most expensive of vices, after all. And it flatters his ego to have the very best regiment that can be had from this place.”
“So it is true what he said? That the higher-ups in the military have forbidden funding for elite irregulars, such as the Baron’s archers?” Choke asked.
“I have no idea, child. I do not run in those circles. But I have no reason to doubt the Baron on that score. So what of it? He steals from his taxes to satisfy his ego. Lucky for you and his other men if that means he gets you the finest archers to fight with.”
“Okay, then. So he steals from the King as an act of insubordination against his superior officers. And under his watch, his men have been stealing even further. And lining their pockets from the misery of women. And he either doesn’t care about it, or doesn’t care to know about it. And then there’s his wife. She harbors some heretical thinking. Father, you should have heard some of the things she was saying to Otilla. She—”
“Okay, Bartholomew. I will stop you there. As you know, I am well aware of her proclivities. As well, I am sure you know that I know, better than you, what all the Baron has been up to. At least with his men. So what do you seek in bringing all that up to me? Do you seek to goad me with it? You overreach, child,” Father Morrenthall said, his tone sharp.
“I apologize, Father. I… I only seek clarification.”
“I understand. So I will give you some. If you had stuck to the course that Brother Willem laid out for you; if you had given your life over in service to one of our militant Stronian orders; then you could concern yourself of the sins of others. However, you did not choose that course. Did you? And now you are an officer in the Royal Bitina Army. And you speak to me of the sinfulness of your commander and his wife.”
Father Morrenthall paused here to cluck his tongue at Choke as though scolding a schoolboy.
“Disloyalty, is what that is. Unacceptable. And I understand that it is expressed only because you trust me. And you seem to think that your connection to me is something akin to that which you had with Brother Willem at your orphanage. But that is not how it is. Not anymore. We can be friends to each other. But you are a soldier, Lieutenant Pekot. And as such, you need to lock away this impulse to fret about the sins of your superiors. Worry about your conduct and that of your men. And maintaining that to your standards is the very best you can hope for in this life you have chosen. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. I am sorry for my insolence, Father.”
“Very well, then. I forgive you. Now, insofar as we are friends, I will offer you some perspective on this. Within the noble class, particularly in this Kingdom of Bitina, our faith does not run deep. They pay lip service to it, or at least to the most moderate of Altarian mewlings, but true Stronianism repulses them. Now, proper soldiers, such as Baron Hart, do respect Stron and his fighters. How could they not? But their women? The richest of the nobles who only play act at combat? No. They have no interest in what we cherish. And the King is their ideal leader in that. The richest man in all of Stroniandom, is King Rufus. And he prays in the finest cathedral in all the world. But, for all of that, he may as well be worshiping some multi-limbed, animal-headed demon of Alquinian fever dreams. That is who they are. So we must do what we can, where we can. And we protect this wretched elite, on behalf of their people. What we call the flock. And they revile us for it. But we do it because it must be done.
“Now, Bartholomew Pekot, you are an officer in their army. Normally, at best, you would have the chance to do some good in fighting the Alquinian polytheists at the front. And, perhaps, in protecting the small folk of the Kingdom from the perils nibbling at its edges. However, we both know that something worse is coming this way. Otilla’s blessing from the Holy Host gives portent to it. So be ready. And do your best,” Father Morrenthall said emphatically, stepping hard on the word, “your.”
“Yes, Father. I will. Thank you, Father.”
“Mind yourself. Mind your men. And hold the stone, iron, and fire of our Faith deep in your heart. Let that stoke you on to be an example to the wicked men of this world. And let that which you cannot control slip away. Do you understand, Bartholomew?”
“I think I do, Father. Thank you for your council.”
“Of course. You are always welcome to visit here. To unburden yourself to me. Do not forget it. Now, one more thing: have you read much Saint Boetheus?” Father Morrenthall asked.
“No, Father, I have not. His works were restricted in our orphanage library. But Brother Willem did quote of him, from time to time.”
“What do you know of Saint Boetheus?”
“He was the founder of the Brothers of the Holy Stone. At Goettingen, he built his monastery right around the very stone that Stron himself stood upon to address the flock that awaited his prophesized crossing of the Great Mother River. And Saint Boetheus did glorious deeds in battle against the polytheists in the First Crusade.”
“Indeed. And that is all you learned of him?” Father Morrenthall asked.
“I believe so, Father.”
“Well, it is a start. For scholars, Saint Boetheus is most significant because he translated into Gerant all the Alquinian philosophies that could be had. He transported all the written material he could to Goettingen, where he founded one of the finest libraries in Stroniandom. He did fight with great glory in the First Crusade. But became disillusioned by the excesses of the Second Crusade and withdrew to Goettingen to work on his philosophies. Have you heard any of this?”
“No, Father. I have not.”
“Not surprising. It is not the sort of thing that all of our flock should be hearing about one of our greatest saints. But it does not make him any less holy. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was this disillusionment that led to Saint Beotheus’ greatest works. He conceived of the Brothers of the Holy Stone as a fighting force, of course. But beyond that, they were to be educated in philosophy, both heretical and sound, as well as law, both secular and Stronian. The minds of the brothers were to be their most potent weapon.
“Further, Saint Beotheus cautioned all our religious orders to be mindful of overreaching our mandate. Yes, we must protect our flock from themselves as much as from external threats. In this duty, we may police them. But, we cannot govern them. For in governing them, we shall become as kings. And in that, we shall be corrupted.
“So we undertake our work and our duty without need for thanks or acclaim or riches. And we mind ourselves, so that we do not fall victim to the vices that power brings. Indeed, Saint Boetheus wrote that the only acceptable reason for a cloistered scholar to leave his study, is killing. And killing in defense of the flock and Faith is the only acceptable sort.
“Now, Lieutenant Pekot, you have left the fold of the religious orders. But that does not mean that you cannot do your best to live your life according to their principles. And I think you are intelligent enough to find a middle path in this life you have chosen. So, I have something for you.”
Father Morrenthall rose from his desk and moved to one of his small bookshelves. From it, he extracted a middle-sized, leather-bound volume. This he set down in front of Choke as he sat back down.
“The Epistles of Saint Boetheus to Arthmail of Pudd,” Father Morrenthall said, giving the book one last loving pat. “In it, you will find Saint Boetheus’ philosophies and political theories in their most complete articulation. I copied this by hand, some years ago, from another, older copy I am blessed to have.”
“Father?” Choke goggled between the book and the priest.
“It is yours, now. I would like you to have it. Read it well, and reflect on its message. It will take some time for you to digest it, and I do not expect you to grasp all of it until you are older. However, it is the sort of reading that has the potential to alter one’s world.”
“Thank you, Father! Thank you! I am unworthy of this blessing,” Choke said, picking up the book and hugging it to his chest.
“No. You are precisely worthy enough. It has been sitting here waiting for you. I simply hadn’t realized that until just now. It pleases me for you to have it.”
“Thank you, Father! I shall read and cherish it!”
“I have no doubt. Now, to more worldly matters. I assume that if the Baron has sent you here requesting the release of his soldiers, that he wants to pack you off to Bristlehump as soon as possible. That is correct, is it not?” Father Morrenthall asked, his normal, businesslike tone reinstated.
“Yes, Father. He wants us to leave tomorrow after the prisoner is executed.”
“That is good. Out there is where you need to be. Otilla is a creature of the wild, and idling in town is not good for her. So, to that end, you may take my answer to Baron Hart. I shall release his soldiers first thing tomorrow morning, so that they can watch their minion punished instead of them. I wonder if they’ll have any shame over it. No doubt not a shred. Be that as it may, they shall be fit and ready for duty. When I have assembled the writ of evidence against them, I shall deliver a copy of it to him as well. Not later than the day after tomorrow, I expect. He may do with it as he sees fit. And, finally, I am more than happy to tell society as a whole, as well as his good lady wife, from my very pulpit, that his righteous fury at the sheriff’s transgressions was my driving force in my investigation. I am sure that shall please him sufficiently.”
“Yes, Father. I am sure it will,” Choke said.
“Good. I think that about ends it for you, then. So, just one more favor to ask. Could you please deliver this letter to Brother Barrelmender for me? I would most appreciate it.”
Father Morrenthall opened a side drawer in his desk and extracted a thick letter sealed with ribbon and wax with his seal. He leaned forward to hand it to Choke.
“Of course, Father. It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Pekot.”
With the letter to Brother Barrelmender in hand, something that had been in the back of Choke’s mind finally came to the front.
“Father, could I bother you for counsel on one more thing? I have been thinking that I would like to write a letter to Brother Willem, in Pekot, to tell him of our situation in the army and our other news, generally. But I am not sure about how to get it to him. We surely cannot trust the teamsters, and going through army channels does not possible, either,” Choke said.
“Ah, yes. Of course. You are quite right. Both in your thought to write, and the concerns over delivery. And now that you mention it, I really ought to write him myself. He needs to be made aware of the portents. Stop by here on your way out of town tomorrow. You may give me your letter. I will send one of my men to Pekot with both of ours,” Father Morrenthall said.
“Are you sure, Father? Surely that is too much trouble. You have need of all your men, don’t you?”
“I do. And this correspondence is important enough to occupy one of them. Pekot is not so far, after all. Brother Willem should be made aware of everything, and I would like to learn whatever I can from him. He may have been receiving visions himself. And Pekot is on the Scythan frontier. There is no telling what other menaces may be rising.”
“Well, thank you, Father. I will bring you my letter tomorrow morning when we are leaving. Thank you so much,” Choke said, nodding deeply.
“Think nothing of it. I thank you for the reminder to attend to this. I likely would have forgotten it otherwise. And if I may make a suggestion: it may be useful to suggest to him that he send any future graduates your way. You are in a position to take them on, I am sure, since your superiors would be fools to deny it.”
“Thank you, Father. That is a very good suggestion. I will do that.”
“Good. Finally, I would just like to say thank you for all your good service to me during this visit of yours to Spitzer. It is most appreciated, I assure you. You are welcome here anytime. And if you ever have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, Father. For everything. The book, your help and counsel… everything,” Choke said, getting quite emotional.
“Of course, my son. Of course.”
Father Morrenthall rose and moved around his desk. As he did, he raised his hand in the gesture of a blessing, prompting Choke to drop to his knees before him to accept it.
“Stron, bless Lieutenant Bartholomew Pekot. May you guide him in these troubled times to come, and give him your strength to vanquish your enemies. Let him deliver their souls to you for judgement. Amen.”
“Amen,” Choke intoned, as Father Morrenthall traced the circle and X of the holy Wheel above him, before pressing his hand down upon his brow. There was no fire or heat to this blessing, but Choke felt the spirit of Stron enter him with it. It found a welcome home within him.
“Rise, Bartholomew, and go now. We are all busy, so this shall be farewell for now. But not a final one, I think. I shall see you again, I am sure. And remember, as to your companion: as strange a holy vessel for an agent of the Holy Host as Otilla may seem, she is exactly that. You must protect her and help her. Do your best so that she may carry that holy fire within her to where it needs to be. She will feel it quicken within her when it is time. You must not fail.”
“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”
“Good. Go, then, and make the wicked of this world tremble to behold you,” Father Morrenthall said, clapping Choke hard on the shoulder to give it a warm squeeze, before sending him on his way.
Muse Vassal 