Chapter 3: Heresy

The sun was descending and the sky was painted with a beautiful pallet of purples and reds, while the heat of the day retreated under the chill of coming night. Still, Briath’s horse was covered in a sheen of sweat from galloping for half the day. Briath knew he would have to stop soon, for the horse would not be able to make such a demanding journey without a rest. Neither would Scarin.

The gray furred wolf ran alongside the horse, going back to his lady who waited in Vaxile. The canine had admirably kept pace with the horse the entire day, and Briath found his silent companionship comforting; he didn’t complain like most humans would.

He finally stopped in a small forest clearing by a stream and dismounted, gently patting his horse’s flank as it slowly walked over to the stream to drink. Scarin started to sniff about the night’s campsite before joining the horse.

Briath leaned against a tree, not needing any bedding in the peace of the forest. He closed his eyes and felt the wind against his face as it made its way through the trees. The hoot of an awakening owl sounded through the woods.

“Tomorrow my companions, we will be Vaxile,” Briath said, though he got no response from either of them.

Scarin disappeared into the trees to find himself food whilst the horse simply started to quietly chew on the grass that grew all around. Briath started to slowly fall into sleep, to be ready for the rest of the journey on the morrow.

A gentle tapping on his leg started to bring him out of sleep. Briath looked down and saw an almost human looking creature, except that its ears were pointed and it barely came up past Briath’s ankles. When the elf noticed that it had gotten the druid’s attention it stood back and crossed its arms across its bare chest.

“It has been many moons since I have seen one of your kind,” Briath told the creature.

“It has been many moons since I have seen a druid walking freely through this land. What dark times approach that one such as yourself would risk his life to cross a land controlled by the followers of light?” the elf replied.

“Something is rising once more in the Dark Wood. I am travelling to Vaxile to inform the Lady Nimue,” Briath said.

The elf was silent for a moment as it contemplated what it had just been told. The short creature looked to the east, where Vaxile awaited, then back to the west where Avilonis brooded. Finally he looked back at the druid.

“The Lady Nimue is the last hope for this land. Only she has the strength to withstand what lurks in the Dark Wood, but the Light ones will try to stop her, try and kill her. If they succeed then not only will this kingdom fall, but the world will begin to crumble beneath a wave that the converts refuse to believe in. Protect her,” the Elf said, then it scampered away into the woods before Briath could answer.

The druid looked about his clearing; peaceful and tempting. He let out a long sigh and stood, brushing dirt from his robes. He walked over to his horse and ran his hand along its neck.

“Sorry boy, we should get moving now,” Briath whispered.

As he mounted Scarin moved on ahead to scout a path for the remainder of their journey.

The great hall of Caer Daedilis has once been the throne room of Volnoria, and though the old thrones of the ruling king and his queen had been removed the large hall still held an air of elegance. Orange tapestries depicting the sun of the kingdom hung with pride along the walls, in between each one iron braziers flared while sunlight poured in through the windows near the ceiling.

Dervel’s mine stood at rigid attention along a thin carpet that ran the length of the hall leading to the elevated dais and ornate chair where the aging king had seated himself, his own personal guard standing on either side.

King Leother looked over the hall while the people of the castle stream in the fill the space, all eager to hear what their king had to say, what proclamation would bring him here. The hall buzzed with whispers, but Dervel ignored it all, standing beside general Gerard near the base of the dais.

Finally people stopped coming in, and the whispers died down. Everyone’s attention focused on the king, except the guards who all stood at perfect attention, halberds by their sides.

Leother stood and overlooked the crowd. He was aging, and getting frail in his passing years, but his eyes still held a ferocity as he gazed over his subjects.

“The council has convened, and my word is thus,” he began.

There was a tense silence in the room as everyone waited on his next words.

“The Kingdom of Volnoria is a holy one, dedicated to the Light. However, there is still a rot in our land, and one that must be cut out so that we shall be smiled upon and allowed victory over the Vaxon barbarians that threaten us. From this moment forward, the pursuit of any heathen religion is banned. Any pagan who does not convert immediately is to be executed. All men of the true faith have the duty to ensure that this is enforced,” Leother said, and sat back down on his chair.

Shouting burst out amongst the crowd, as Pagans came forward to convert as followers of the Light shouted out for the blood of heathens. Dervel closed his eyes hoping that this would not end as badly as he thought.

When he opened them again he saw some of his own soldiers coming forth and proclaiming there conversion, but as he looked down the ranks he saw that some men whom he knew were Pagans didn’t move.

“Damn,” he muttered.

A Light soldier turned to a Pagan beside him, and shouted something at him. The Pagan merely shook his head, and as a result his comrade pulled out his short sword and shoved it under the rim of the man’s helmet.

Blood ran down the blade and spurted across the floor as the weapon was pulled free. The man fell to the floor his blood soaking into the carpet. This was the breaking point, people in the crowd suddenly turned on one another as stubborn Pagans fought to defend themselves against people who had once been friends.

“Order. Men, restore order,” Dervel commanded, but his own soldiers ignored him as they turned to the bloodbath, their weapons removing limbs and splattering blood across the great hall.

One Pagan soldier crashed a halberd down across the helmet of a brother and let it go. He unsheathed his sword and made a break down the carpet, towards the dais. Dervel unsheathed his sword while Pagan soldiers tried to shelter civilians, but were either beaten down by the mass or butchered by other soldiers.

The lone soldier was charging up to the dais, sword gripped tightly, ignored somehow in the chaos. Dervel stepped in front of him and plunged his sword under the armpit of the charging man. As he fell his helmet fell from his head and Dervel saw that it was one of his sergeants, Boris.

The captain knelt by the proud and dying man.

“Why?” was all Dervel could ask.

“I could ask you the same question,” Boris said through clenched teeth as he bled over the stones he had sworn to defend.

Dervel stood when the light had left the man’s eyes, and he turned his head to look at his king. Leother had no emotion on his face, but Dervel could see the horror in his eyes.

While Scarin waited in the forest, Briath rode through the gates of Vaxile, looking up at the barriers between the town and the outside world. They were not very strong, though Nimue had her men strengthening them with large oaken logs and strips of iron.

Isca was waiting near a fountain in the centre of town. He smiled broadly as he saw the wizard approach.

“Come down off there old man, we’ll get your horse squared away. You however, I believe is a lost cause,” the lieutenant said with a laugh.

“I see your touching personality hasn’t lost any charm since leaving Avilonis,” Briath said as he slowly climbed down off the horse that had carried him all this way. Some of Nimue’s soldiers came up, patting the beast’s neck while guiding him away.

“Not at all. Can I assume that the business that brought you here involves Nimue?” Isca said, his tone turning slightly serious.

“It does. Where may I find her?”

“Follow me,” was all Isca said, and he started to make his way through the town.

Briath followed, walking down the streets, feeling the eyes of the towns people follow him. They didn’t trust him, perhaps even hated him. They all knew what he was, a druid amidst a town of those who followed the Path of the Light. He drew his brown robe tighter around himself and followed Isca. He had no power in this place.

Finally they came to a stone barracks, and from within Briath could hear the calls of drinking soldiers. He could recognize some voices even from out here, and knew instinctively that here were friends.

Isca took him past the barracks however, to a small stone house. Isca walked up and opened the door, revealing a small antechamber with a basic wooden table in the centre of the room. There was a door that led further back, and a staircase that led up. One man was seated at the table, a quill in his hand as he wrote on a sheet of parchment. One of Nimue’s lieutenants, Janice his name was. When Briath and Isca entered the man looked up, and smiled.

“Briath, its been awhile,” he said happily.

“It has been a few moons indeed friend. Now may I enquire as to where Lady Nimue is?” Briath said.

“Nimue’s quarters are upstairs,” Isca said, pointing towards the staircase.

“Thank you Isca,” Briath said and began to walk slowly up the stairs until he came to a small landing and a wooden door.

He rapped gently on the door with a closed fist until a familiar voice called from within: “come in.”

Briath pushed the door open and walked into a large room with a plush rug in the centre. A bed covered in rich blankets was pushed against the back wall, a desk with a flickering lamp was against the opposite wall beneath a window. Nimue was standing near another open window, the soft wind blowing in. She was wearing a black tunic with sleeves that ended just above her elbows, and the warrior’s kilt of Avilonis.

Warrior kilts were part of Volnoria’s history, but it had been mostly forgotten save by the people of Avilonis. While most others were made of eye catching colours such as blues, greens, reds, yellows and oranges, Avilonis’ was quite dark. Black threads crossing between patches of dark gray and small lines of white. It suited the dark task of the fortress well.

“My lady Nimue, I bring tidings from home,” Briath said after closing the door behind him.

“Briath. To pull you from the village I must assume that the tidings are not well,” Nimue said turning to face the druid.

“Alas, they are not. Alianya is worried of something stirring within the Dark Woods. She needs you to return home,” Briath said.

Nimue frowned and looked back out the window. Briath followed her gaze to see the sun shining bright, partially obscured by wisps of cloud drifting lazily across the sky. After a moment Nimue moved to her armour stand beside her bed. She ran her fingertips over the metal plates, fitted specifically for her frame.

Piece by piece she dressed herself in the fine armour, partially blackened by the smithies who crafted it for her. First a tunic of mail that settled over her cloth tunic. Next a cuirass fitted over her torso, clasping together along her sides. Shoulder pauldrons came next, fixed to the cuirass with leather clasps, the ridged steel coming down nearly to her elbows, the mail barely showing past the rounded points. There was a spot of exposed flesh between the mail tunic and the gauntlets that Nimue slid on. The gauntlets were steel worked and melded into a leather glove, the palms were left as just glove to give her a better grip with weapons.

Nimue pulled the underkilt off the stand. A piece of armour no longer used by most in the Volnorian military. It was designed to fit underneath a warrior’s kilt to offer protection to their upper legs. It was made of mail with strips of plate to reinforce it. The mail leggings, tied into leather to make them stand went up to Nimue’s thighs, where she strapped on metal plates that hung over her knees. The final piece was her boots, designed in a similar fashion to her gauntlets, they were leather boots protected by steel plates save for her soles for better traction.

Nimue tied her belt around her waist, the sword of her family resting in its scabbard, hanging from the belt by two tough leather straps. It was not the most protective armour in Volnoria, but it was traditional and upgraded from ages past.

“We ride now then,” Nimue said, grabbing her cape from a hook near the door as she made her way down the stairs. Briath was surprised at her speed, but a warning from Alianya carried weight, and so the druid followed the lady of Avilonis down into the antechamber.

Both Isca and Janice looked up in surprise as Nimue appeared, fully armoured.

“Isca I must return to Avilonis for a few days. You are in charge of the troops. Janice I want you to start taking scouting parties further west. Discover as much as you can about the activities of the Vaxons. Give me your reports when I return,” Nimue said.

“Yes m’lady,” both men said, their heels snapping together.

“Briath, do you need a horse?” Nimue asked the druid as he came down the stairs.

“A fresh one yes,” he responded.

“We’ll get you one,” Nimue said as headed out the door, ready to ride home.