The Freetown Bridge

Chapter One: Summer 1103 ac Departure-2

He lingered for a moment looking at the beds of the new recruits, many of them so young that they were not able to grow a beard, a few had called out for their mothers in the night. Why they had come to this squalid life he did not know. They learned quickly that it was not the heroic endeavour it first seemed. Perhaps they stayed out of shame, unable to return home for fear of mockery or rejection. It was a churn of mixed emotion he felt this morning.

His last day with the Aberddu City Militia should have been cause for celebration. He would walk free and sleep soundly, except that he would never forget what he had seen, never stop dreaming and he had chosen to walk freely into another battle.

He washed and shaved himself as regulation demanded and returned to the barracks where he put on his civilian clothes for the first time in five years. It felt strange to see his green uniform tunic lying on his bed, his neatly pressed trousers still folded in his trunk.

In the mess, he looked around at the sleepy faces of the other men eating sloppy tepid porridge as though tomorrow there would be no food. He couldn't bring himself to eat it anymore; he just pushed it around with a spoon before giving it to an eager lad on the next table who guzzled it greedily.

When the warning bell rang for parade, he had to stop himself from running to the yard. Instead, he returned to the now deserted barracks, picked up his pack and looked around at the cold whitewashed walls for one last time. He would not miss them he told himself. Then he went into the bath house and gazed around at the metal buckets and the pottery drains. He would never see these again, he mused but he just couldn't make himself think 'thank Gods'. He scolded himself for this sentimental gesture and turned to walk towards the heavy gates of the compound.

As he approached the parade yard, he could see the whole of battalion lined up. It was strange to see Fleetfoot standing where yesterday he himself had stood, at the head of his patrol. McLaren, his bunk mate, a good four inches shorter than the men either side, was as usual not at full attention. The drill sergeant, Weller, had never noticed, because McLaren was a dwarf and the sergeant had assumed that it was the best McLaren could do. Jacob smiled. Stupid old fool.

Sergeant Weller was barking orders at the parade, his pasty cheeks flapping as he bellowed, spit flying into the faces of the front ranks. Jacob tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he moved across the compound. He was nearly at the gate when there was a horn blast and a bellowed order.

In a single united motion, the militia men stood to attention, the sound of their boots hitting the ground echoed around the parade square. As one, they turned to face him and saluted.

“Good bye, Corporal Cooper and good luck,” bellowed Captain Daventry, saluting smartly.

“Go get 'um, Jacob,” cried a small voice from the back rank, and Drill Sergeant Weller delivered a swift thwack to the back of McLaren's legs with his stick. Unsure of the civilian response to such a greeting Jacob just waved weakly. Then, overcome by the inadequacy of his response, snapped to attention and saluted them all.

There was general cheering from the ranks and Jacob smiled. He turned smartly on the spot, the gates swung slowly open and he stepped out on to the street without a backward glance.

The wench giggled as Tollie winked at her and tipped his hat. She made her way through the swarming alehouse towards him, curving magnificently, a large stone ale jug in one hand and a steaming plate in the other. She turned her stunning head, eyes twinkling and smiled warmly at the drunks and revellers. Grasping hands reached out towards her as she passed crowded tables. Filthy fingers curled around her waist and tried to pull her onto shabby laps. Without losing balance, spilling a drop or breaking stride, she delivered a swift kick with a sturdy but pointed boot and continued forward toward Tollie.

Bobbing gently, she placed the steaming plate of stew in front of him, and the jug of ale to one side. Then, reaching into the voluminous folds of her skirt, drew out a spoon, polished it sardonically on her apron and handed it to him with a tiny bob of a curtsey.

“ 'Ope you enjoy your dinner sir,” she said brightly, flashing another warm smile at him, and giving him an indulgent wink. “Will there be anythin' else?” Tollie looked her up and down and smirked.

“You've been busy, Sylas,” he whispered, unrolling a piece of parchment on the table. “You almost had me fooled then.” Suddenly, the wench's grin faded, and somehow her jaw became harder, squarer, more masculine and Sylas looked down at the paper. It was a reward notice for a highwayman wanted alive or dead, bounty 40 gold pieces, and he had to admit it wasn't a bad likeness. All the same, a man doesn't like seeing his own wanted notices. He looked up at Tollie with cold eyes.

“Come to collect the reward have you then, Tollie?” he hissed with an edge of hostility in his tone.

“I'm hurt,” said Tollie, half-mockingly. “That you think I'd ever give you up.” Sylas' eyes narrowed. “For anything less than a hundred.” Tollie grinned with crocodile teeth.

“What have you come for then, you bastard?” Sylas spat indignantly, “If you don't want my life?”

Tollie smirked at the look of indignation; it was hard to take Sylas seriously with a bow in his hair.

“Believe me,” he said, smiling enigmatically, “I've come for something far more important than your life.”

Sylas gave him an inquisitive look for a moment and then returned to his annoyance. This was one of Tollie's little games, and he wasn't going to be sucked in by them anymore. He refused to be.

“What are you talking about Tollie,” he snapped, “I'm working and you might have just completely blown my cover.”

“Will you relax,” said Tollie, in a hushed voice, suddenly aware of the busyness of their surroundings. “Sit down for a minute will you and I'll explain.”

With a look of scornful amusement, he offered Sylas a perch on his knee. Curling his lips unpleasantly and scowling, Sylas pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, tucking his skirt out of the way.

Tollie reached inside his jerkin and retracted his hand clutching something tightly in his palm. Slowly, as though he was trying not to disturb whatever it was, he lowered his hand to the table and then opened his fingers. When at last he took his hand away, there was a shard on the table about the size of his thumb. It appeared to be glass, clear as fresh water. Except that it twinkled too much to be glass and in the centre of the stone was a tiny blood red droplet. Sylas stared at the stone, eyes wide.

“It's time,” said Tollie, his face suddenly serious.

“Meet me out back in ten minutes,” whispered Sylas and stood up.

Tollie made straight for the door, and walked into the alley behind the tavern. He stood with his back to the path, facing a wall as though he was relieving himself.

Sylas swept around the room, collecting up empty glasses and tankards and smiling charmingly at all the customers. Then he put the empties on the bar, helped himself to a handful of silver from the cash box, took his cloak from the peg behind the door and left, leaving the publican gazing after him in astonishment.

Rangien smiled. The bird hopped across the tree branch and nibbled at the juicy black berry it had found. “Blessed be the Morning, and Blessed be Life,” Rangien said, louder than he had intended. Overcome with joy for a second, he had forgotten where he was. A sharp whip c***k broke his thoughts and the startled little sparrow into frantic flight.

“Keep moving priest,” bellowed a derisive, sonorous voice. With a weary sigh, Rangien picked up his step and followed the others towards the work yard.

A diminutive man with little physically to recommend him, Rangien had few advantages over the others here. He had survived the work detail by faith alone. Hours and hours of hard labour had made his once wiry frame more muscular but no less slight. The work detail had been arduous. For weeks they had carved stone blocks to precise specifications and then they had pulled the carts that had transported them to the construction site. Then, for a week or so there had been nothing. Now, this morning they had been ordered back into the work yard.

Rangien didn't mind, he was bored. The idleness of imprisonment didn't suit a priest well used to an active ministry. Any task would be welcome and the morning was glorious. Capture may not have been a blessing, and he had seen atrocities to last him a long life time in these past weeks, but did that mean there were to be no blessings at all?

Arriving in the work yard, he fell in to rank lazily his face upturned to the pale sun. Looking from face to face, he could see few others were delighting in the warmth. Under his breath he offered a swift devotion, his heart thankful for his faith and sorrowful that these other men did not have what he did. He had prayed very hard since his capture, trying to understand the Goddess' plan in bringing him here. Her hand had guided his every step and those he trod on Frisian soil were no different. It had taken him several days and nights of almost constant intercession to comprehend.

Those enslaved in this camp had an even greater need of spiritual guidance than those still in his home village in the Elven Hills. All life belongs to the Lady, even that which has been stolen by the evil Inquisition. In this place of hate and indignity, he could bring comfort to them. It was the duty that the Lady had chosen for him, to save these souls from despair. He would not fail her. He was lost in this reverie when the sergeant had started to bark his orders. He did not hear the first words and was therefore taken by surprise as the sharp leather of the Corporal's whip stung his shins leaving shards of iron in the lash marks to fester and burn.

Opening his eyes, he saw that all the other prisoners had turned a quarter turn left and now formed five neat files. At the head of the chain, five guards were clamping iron shackles around the ankles of the men at the head of each column.

Saran felt uneasy, sitting in the finely carved chair on the dais in the sanctuary. Usually the High Priestess sat in this chair and even then only on days of Holy importance or celebration. However, the tradition of blessing journeyers was one that Mother Angelina refused to overlook in such a case as this.

Barefoot, Saran had walked up the centre aisle of the sanctuary, watched in silence by all the other sisters. Once at the dais, she had been presented with a simple leather belt from which hung a small pouch with a few copper coins and an empty scabbard. She had also received a canvas pack containing a loaf of bread, a flask of pear cider, a pewter chalice and a book of devotion. These were the standard items given to any sister of the order who left the Temple to go on a long or significant journey. If they required a knife or suchlike to fit the scabbard they were charged with collection of that after they had left the shrine. Even on occasions like this, weapons were not permitted in the sanctuary.

After the presentation, Saran was required to sit in the chair on the dais as one by one, the sisters came forward to offer prayers and kiss her feet in blessing. It was bizarre to watch them step forward, clutching beads and cups in their hands, muttering devotions under their breath, brows furrowed in earnest. It made her uneasy too, to see the fear in their eyes that for some bordered on almost hysterical panic. Saran knew that some of these women had not left the Temple since they had been accepted into the order, and they always found partings such as this to be traumatic.

She also knew that today was no ordinary departure for them. There was an uncertainty as to when and if she would return. After the tragic event of the Summer of Fire less than 12 months in the memory, it was not difficult to understand the consternation of these gentle women. It was beyond their comprehension that she had chosen to seek out more adventure.

Even so, she was still shocked when she looked down into the kindly, weathered face of Sister Vonda, mother of novices, and saw that the old woman actually had tears in her eyes.

Gazing out of the sanctuary windows, she could see the red gold sun light slowly fading over the city and she sighed. There was no turning back, a calling such as this could not be denied. The Goddess would go with her and if she died, it would be in the Goddess' sight, and at the Goddess' choosing. She would live on in hope and happiness, in the next life.

At last, the blessing was over and the sisters went about their business, leaving Saran in solitude for one last hour's devotion.

It was with great apprehension that Saran left the sanctuary in the last few minutes of day light, knowing that she must collect her travelling pack and be at the fore-gate well before the chime of the evening nine-hour, when the Temple gates would be barred against the outside world until the following noontide.