Crisis of Faith

by Michael J. Martinez

Chapter Four: Trial by Fire

Sandwiched between a boulder and the side of a mountain, with a burning skeleton trying to grasp at him from above, Jeddah found himself thinking of his wife and son—the two people who meant the most to him in this world—and silently said his good-byes.

The burning skeleton was trying to clamber over the boulder but seemed to find no purchase in its mindless pursuit of Jed. It flailed at him, flaming arms outstretched, the intense heat singeing hair and blistering flesh on his sword arm. He parried with his rapier as best he could, managing to lop off a few finger bones, but at some point the burning skeleton—and the other undead skeletons with it—would figure out how to reach him.

I don't want to die, Jed thought. I want to go home.

Then he remembered something his father had told him long ago: "Home is something you earn when the battle's won. That's Cayden's way."

And in that moment, Jed's mind snapped into focus. He looked around and found a large rock within reach. He grasped it and hurled it up at the burning skeleton, connecting with its jaw. The jawbone fell down into the crevasse with Jed, nearly singeing his arm.

The burning skeleton disappeared for a moment, leaving Jed just enough time to get his bearings. Go home. Earn the right to go home. And so he began mentally ticking through his options, much as he would check off a recipe for one of his brews back at Cayden's Rest.

The burning skeleton reappeared above him, its jaw gone, and surmounted the boulder in front of him with renewed vigor. It reached the top and crouched, ready to leap—just when Jed remembered his prayers from the last evening.

"Cayden, give me the strength to defeat the enemies of good!" he shouted, gripping his tankard tightly. He felt a surge of divine energy run through him, felt his muscles tighten and grow.

Jed braced his feet against the boulder—and pushed.

With a mighty rumble, the boulder before him started to move. Jed redoubled his efforts, just as the burning skeleton prepared to leap.

The boulder gave way and began rolling.

The burning skeleton staggered atop the rock, trying to regain its balance, but then tumbled backward—right into the path of the boulder. It rolled onto the creature with a crunch and a shower of sparks and flame, then kept going down the mountain. More crunching sounds followed—branches and trees and the bones of the undead.

Jed sat up, freed from his trap, and looked down the mountain as the stone, easily six feet high, gained momentum. It crashed into other rocks, dislodging them and creating a small but noisy avalanche down the side of the mountain, leaving rubble and tree branches and broken bone in its wake.

He laughed. A quiet laugh, fueled by relief at being alive.

Jed struggled to his feet, but found his right ankle nearly useless. He thought to spare a moment to heal the wound, but the sound of clicking bones distracted him.

Three skeletons—thank Cayden, they were not aflame—moved toward him, arms outstretched and flailing.

"Not this time," he muttered, grasping his tankard once more and raising his voice. "In the name of Cayden Cailean, he who gives me strength and succor, I banish you!"

The skeletons stopped dead in their tracks for an impossibly long moment—then turned and fled back down the trail.

"Sweet barleybrew, it worked," he muttered, his smile returning. "Thanks, Cayden."

The undead of the Nogortha Necropolis come in many forms.

After a quick prayer over his ankle to heal it, Jed began climbing down the mountain, half-sliding down the trail left in the boulder's wake. It was a good five hundred feet to the valley floor, where the torchlight still guttered among the barrows. He was prepared this time to face any undead he came upon, but the only evidence of them he found were the crushed bones on his path.

Reaching the valley, he walked as quietly as he could among the mounds until he came with about a hundred yards of the torchlight. Crouching behind a massive barrow, Jed peeked around one side to see a half-dozen zombies standing all too still in the light. The red-robed figure was there as well, and was talking to someone—though Jed could not see whom.

Jed quietly moved closer, hoping to see who else was there and perhaps catch a bit of the conversation. Hiding behind a small barrow, he edged around the corner—and his eyes grew wide.

Silvestrae was still captive, and had been tied up with her hands behind her back. She sat on the ground with a zombie standing guard over her. And so, too, had Corogan been captured—how, Jed could not say—and was heavily bound in chains, lying on his side.

The figure in red laughed, but Jed couldn't make out any more words. It was clear the figure was in command of the zombies, simply because no others seemed to be there, and it had what appeared to be a wand in its hand.

After a moment, the figure removed its hood—and Jed saw horns upon its otherwise human head. It was a hellspawn. With the Cheliax border not far away, the prospect filled Jed with dread... and anger.

Settling his mind, Jed tried to piece together a strategy. He could glimpse chainmail beneath the folds of the fiendling's robes, and a spear leaned against a tomb nearby. That likely made the hellspawn a cleric of some foul deity or another—which would explain the undead as well.

Peering from behind the mound, Jed saw a pair of bodies on the ground near the very edge of the torchlight. Both were slashed and stabbed with great force, and Jed assumed they were Corogan's work—which was good, because there appeared to be no other living opponents aside from the hellspawn.

Once again, Jed mentally ran through the few options he had at his disposal. The one that made the most sense seemed to have the highest chance of failure—but also the greatest boon if it succeeded. Typical Cayden, Jed thought. Only the crazy options for me.

He tried to think of better plan, but nothing came to him. Pulling his pants up with a sigh and readying both rapier and tankard, Jed stepped out from his cover—and ran straight toward the hellspawn.

The fiendling's head whipped about, revealing a hate-filled countenance—and the crest of a noble house of Cheliax around his neck. Jed willed his legs to pump faster, but the hellspawn simply raised his wand and spoke a single word.

Jed felt magical energy surround his body—a dark magic, fueled by infernal power—and willed himself to keep moving. He felt his pace slow a moment, but then the magic washed over him and faded.

Jed raised his tankard and focused his own power. "Cayden! Hold him!" he shouted.

The hellspawn froze.

Jed ran into the center of the barrows just as the zombies began shambling toward him. One of the creatures was close enough to get in a good swipe, but its filthy claws skittered over Jed's chain shirt. Reflexively, Jed lashed out with his rapier, slashing the undead across its neck. It staggered back and fell.

Turning to the others, Jed brandished the symbol of his god once more. "In the name of Cayden, I banish you!"

They stopped. And fled.

Jed turned and dashed over to the fiendling, plucking the wand from his still-frozen hand and relieving him of the dagger at his belt. He used the weapon to cut Silvestrae loose, even as she eyed him wordlessly with something between incredulity and amazement.

"Get Corogan," she said once her bonds were cut. "I'll keep an eye on our friend here." The half-elf got to her feet and found her bow and other gear nearby, and then stationed herself a short distance from the hellspawn, arrow nocked and aimed straight for his eye.

Jed managed to free Corogan from his chains—they were both heavy and numerous, but there was no lock. "That was kind of dangerous, what you did there," Corogan said with a grin. "You are a Caydenite, aren't you."

"I am, it seems," Jed replied. "Apparently you have to do something really stupid to get him to help you. How did they capture you?"

Corogan nodded at the hellspawn. "The wand. I'm surprised it didn't affect you."

Jed helped the half-orc to his feet. "Cayden favors the foolish, I guess. Now let's see about that devilborn."

The hellspawn was, in the end, the bastard son of a minor house of Cheliax and an overly ambitious sort. Under Silvestrae's surprisingly menacing interrogation, the fiendling confessed he had sought to carve out a holding of his own in the necropolis and force the government of Cheliax to recognize the claim.

"Not that the Chels would do that," Corogan explained to Jed once they were back on the road to Augustana. Behind them walked their captive, his mouth bound by cloth to keep him from speaking. "Cheliax would love nothing more than to take Andoran for its own," he went on. "But the Chels know we'd put up one hell of a fight for every square inch. This bastard would've found himself hung out to dry no matter what."

"And eventually he'd run out of bodies to animate," Silvestrae said, her mood improved significantly. "What I still don't get is what happened to Rafe down in Augustana."

Corogan shrugged. "If this one has something to do with it, we'll get it out of him," he said, turning to give the hellspawn a wicked grin. "And if not... then we'll have more work to do."

∗∗∗

Some nights later, Cayden's Rest was rollicking once more—and its brew-priest was once again among the revelers, this time telling the stories of his own adventures and, in good priestly fashion, weaving in a lesson as well.

"I admit, I was shaken," Jed said to a large table of drinkers, all staring at him with rapt attention. "I'm no adventurer. Just look at me!" he added, turning to show off his profile, complete with belly. After the laughter subsided, he went on: "But you have to have faith. Cayden put me there for a reason, to show me what it means to put yourself in peril for what you believe in. But if you do that—if you fight for what's good and right with all your being—well, I think he'll be there for you, as he was for me. And he'll bring you back here to drink his ale and tell your tale."

Tankards were raised at this, and Cayden's name duly praised. Jed turned and saw Maeve smiling at him from the door to the kitchen, holding Gant close to her as they listened. She was, of course, quite relieved at his safe return, though less pleased when young Gant had immediately asked to begin practice with the rapier.

"So, Jeddah Cailean!" a woman asked above the din. Jed turned and saw Silvestrae standing among the throng, her own tankard raised and a smile on her face. "Will you be coming with us again if we need you?"

Jed turned back to Maeve, whose eyebrows were arched in that way only displeased wives can manage, even though her smile remained. All Jed could do was shrug at her.

"If Cayden wills it, then I can't argue," he replied. "It's as simple as that."

Michael J. Martinez is the author of the Daedalus trilogy of Napoleonic space opera novels, the most recent of which, The Venusian Gambit, came out in May. He also has short stories in the forthcoming anthologies Cthulhu Fhtagn! and Unidentified Funny Objects 4. Visit him online at michaeljmartinez.net.

Illustration by Marek Madej.

Crisis of Faith

by Michael J. Martinez

Chapter Three: Fighting Spirit

Jed stood, his holy tankard outstretched in one hand, his rapier in another, as the zombies approached in their ponderous, shambling gait. For all appearances he might have been one of the great Caydenite adventurer-priests of old, ready to banish evil with holy power and charming wit.

Except the holy power wasn't coming. And Jed was just about ready to soil himself.

"What the hell, Cayden!" Jed cried out. "Help me!"

Corogan had been waiting for Jed's turning to take effect—and had run out of patience. The Eagle Knight charged forward, battleaxe and short sword in hand, and began slicing his way through the zombie horde, leaving Jed standing alone—with a circle of zombies closing in upon him.

A gout of flame distracted Jed momentarily; the blaze enveloped three zombies about ten yards away. That would be Silvestrae unleashing her magic.

Jed continued to shout prayers, pleas, and invective toward Cayden, but to no avail. Left with no alternative, the brew-cleric began swinging his rapier. The weapon had belonged to his father, one of Cayden's more adventurous priests, and its magic guided Jed's hand true, despite his distinct lack of training. Jed cut through undead flesh at a feverish pace, praying and shouting and generally hoping that he would survive.

Then a battleaxe sank into the head of the zombie in front of Jed, and he saw Corogan remove the weapon with a grunt. Turning, Jed found no undead left to confront.

"Thank Cayden," he breathed. Jed moved to sheathe his rapier, but with trembling hands it took him four tries.

"Cayden had nothing to do with it, priest," Silvestrae said, striding toward them. She was covered in the black ichor that ran through the zombies' dead veins, but appeared to be unharmed. She stared hard at Jed with anger that seemed ready to boil over at any moment. "You were supposed to turn these things so we wouldn't have to hack our way through! They're zombies! This isn't supposed to be hard for you!"

Jed does his best to exemplify the adventuresome spirit of Cayden Cailean.

Jed stood, still trembling, and looked down at his muddy boots. "I don't know what happened," he said quietly. His left arm was throbbing and he didn't know why. He was sore and scared and pined for his brewery as if he were a child lamenting a broken toy. "I'm so sorry."

Corogan looked at the half-elf with a measured stare. "You know full well turning isn't a sure thing," the Eagle Knight said. "Even Rafe couldn't always make it work. Give Jed some time. He'll get there. In the meantime, Jed, maybe you have a cure left in you?"

Jed looked up to see a dark red stain spreading across Corogan's tabard. "Yes! I can do that! Sit down before you fall down!" he said, taking Corogan's arm and helping him over to a large rock beside the trail. Jed helped the half-orc out of his armor, then placed his bare hand on the wound. "Cayden," Jed prayed, "you better listen to me. This brave man is hurt, and you have the power to heal him. Don't leave me hanging again."

He felt the power of his god's grace flow through his hands and into the half-orc. The wound began to close and, a moment later, it was as though it had never been there to begin with.

Corogan smiled in surprise and delight. "Hey, that's not bad," he said, placing a hand on Jed's shoulder. "That's not bad at all. Thanks, Jed." The half-orc stood and began to put his leather armor back on. "Let's get the horses and get off this damn road. We need to go cross-country if we're going to avoid any more of these hordes."

Jed rose with a smile, grateful he had been useful in some small measure. He then said a short prayer over the painful gouge in his left forearm, which had been made by a zombie's claws. This too disappeared.

Jed looked over to where he had stood in the battle and estimated he had dispatched three of the zombies. Not bad for my first time, he thought. But when Silvestrae's unrelenting glare drilled into him, he remembered there had been twenty zombies. He sighed. The half-elf had made her contempt for him clear. He doubted the half-elf would even ask him for healing if she were injured in battle.

A short time later, the companions led their mounts off the path, away from the tiny village they had spotted and into the forest at the edge of the mountain meadow. There, Corogan carefully chose a spot to make camp, one well hidden from the glen, on high, defensible ground. No fires were set; the three simply sat, ate hard biscuits, and drank water in silence. Nobody asked Jed to take a watch, so he walked a few steps away from camp and, sheltered by a large rock and tree, knelt to make his evening prayers.

Prayers to Cayden Cailean were hardly ritualistic and almost never repetitive. But they were rarely as angry and confused as Jed's that night.

∗∗∗

The morning light made things little better. Jed woke up with pains in his back so sharp they stole his breath, and his limbs creaked like old doors. At breakfast, Silvestrae looked ragged, and if Jed wasn't mistaken, almost forlorn. Jed's first instinct was to help, somehow, but one half-lidded glare from the half-elf made him reconsider instantly.

"Is she all right, then?" Jed asked Corogan when Silvestrae was out of earshot. "She seems a bit off today."

The half-orc managed the hint of a smile. "She will be. Was a rough night for her." And that was all the Eagle Knight would say on the matter.

So Jed helped load the donkey and the three set off while the sun was still struggling over the tallest of the Arthfells' peaks. The air was cooler here, which made walking more bearable, but even so, Jed couldn't help but wonder what had happened to his body. He carried sacks of grain and hops around his brew-temple each day, manhandled barrels of ale constantly, and was on his feet every night for several long hours. Sure, he had a few pounds around the middle, but it wasn't that bad.

Was it?

He looked at his companions—both lean and muscled and not even breaking a sweat, though they wore armor and carried weapons and packs far heavier than his—and concluded that he was not only out of shape, but was getting old on top of it all.

And that the path of the adventurer was not his to take. Maybe, Jed mused, that would be Cayden's lesson in all this. Or maybe Cayden was just enjoying a jest at his priest's expense. Jed wouldn't put it past him, deity or not.

Perhaps the joke had gotten stale, for it seemed Cayden was in no mood to test his follower further that day—the mountain trail was clear, if steep in places, and the mounds of the Nogortha Necropolis were visible as dusk settled over the mountains. Most importantly, Jed and his companions were not harried by any more undead, and were able to get within a half-mile of the necropolis proper before they settled down to reconnoiter.

"There aren't that many trails up into the mountains," Corogan reasoned. "So whoever's controlling the undead can group them at the top and try to bottleneck folks. Not a bad plan—except they didn't figure on us, did they?"

Corogan gave Silvestrae's arm a playful whack, but the half-elf's focus was on the necropolis ahead. "I see movement there, mostly undead, but a few living beings there as well. Humanoid. Can't tell who, though. I think we need a closer look."

With that, Silvestrae whispered words and gestured briefly, then winked out of sight once more. Jed could see the brush and grass sway unnaturally as she passed them, but that was the only trace, and soon there was no sign of her at all.

"That's her job," Corogan said, answering Jed's unasked question. "I get us to the enemy, she goes on ahead to scout when we get there, then... well, then we'll figure out a plan."

Jed nodded sadly. "It was different with Rafe, wasn't it?"

Corogan shrugged. "Rafe was a priest, sure, but he could throw down with the best of 'em. He took joy in it, the battle for justice, as he saw it. So yeah, it's different now. But we still have to get the job done. And you'll step up and do fine."

With his doubts firmly in place, Jed turned back to the necropolis, where he saw torches now illuminating the mounds. Jed counted two people who seemed to be very much alive—their movements were fluid and quick, not at all like zombies. In fact, there were no zombies in sight—but there were skeletons.

Lots and lots of skeletons. More than a dozen visible to Jed—and he figured it would be safe to assume there were at least twice as many more in the shadows.

"About that plan... what is it, exactly?"

Corogan scanned the terrain with an expert eye. "Working on it. First, I think, we need to get Sil back here so we can—oh, hell. Hell and be damned!"

Jed started at the Corogan's sudden change of mood, then followed his gaze to the mounds below. There, he saw Silvestrae—now fully visible—being shoved into the middle of a small clearing among the stones. Skeletons surrounded her, two of them in flames. The half-elf was cradling her sword arm as she faced a tall humanoid in a long, flowing red robe.

"Not good, not good at all," Jed muttered. "New plan. We need a new plan."

Corogan frowned deeply and jabbed his short sword into the dirt in frustration. "Fine. I need you to be a distraction."

"I'm a natural," Jed said, the words coming out before he could think properly. "You want me to lead as many of the skeletons away as possible."

"Exactly. I'll go down and get Sil. If we're lucky, you'll draw enough of them away for me to take care of the rest, and maybe see what Red Robes there has to say," Corogan said. "You up for this?"

Jed shrugged and got to his feet. "No choice, is there? I better be. I'll head uphill once I get their attention. When you're done, come find me." And with that he jogged off, seeming far more certain about things than he felt.

And yet it felt good to have a purpose. He was a priest of Cayden; this seemed much more like his bailiwick. Silvestrae got caught while doing her job—now Jed would do his to help get her back. It wasn't enough to put an actual spring in his step, but Jed found it easier to ignore the nagging aches and pains as he clambered down toward the necropolis.

Unexpectedly, he reached the first of the mounds without being intercepted by any guards whatsoever—and he had taken great pains to make plenty of noise.

Drawing his blade for both light and protection, Jed picked his way forward through the gloomy barrows, heading for the biggest source of torchlight he could see. It would do no good, of course, for him to venture too close—he needed to flee successfully in order to be pursued. Being captured wouldn't help.

So while still a good hundred yards off, Jed stopped and drew his tankard in his other hand, then shouted at the top of his lungs.

"What's a Caydenite got to do to get a drink around here?"

The shout did two things: One, it served as the proper focus for his prayer, as Jed figured he needed all the help he could get. Two, and more importantly, it created a hue and cry from the torchlit area. Moments later, the sound of clattering bones could be heard in the distance—and one set of bones, Jed could see, was aflame.

Jed turned and ran as fast as he could. "Burning skeletons," he huffed to himself. "I didn't know they could do that."

Running without concern for noise, Jed reached the edge of the necropolis and began climbing the trail once more, heading up and away from where he left Corogan, toward the rockier mountainside. The trail was small and steep, and there were massive rocks on either side. It was tough climbing—and he felt himself growing too tired, too quickly.

Chancing a look back, Jed saw the burning skeleton far more clearly now—it was barely thirty yards off, and there were several shambling skeletons behind it. They were slow, yes, but they were unable to get tired. There was a joke in there, Jed thought, but he hadn't the clarity or the heart to make it.

The climb got harder still. The trail was all but gone, and he was several hundred yards above the clearing now, which was dimly visible below. The moon had begun to shine, but the flames of the skeleton were brighter still. Jed could see the fiery rictus now, and despite his best efforts, the undead were closing fast. His breath was short and his legs were at the edge of failing him.

And then a small rock gave way underfoot, and Jed tumbled off the remnants of the path, falling into a small gap between the mountain face and a large boulder.

He struggled to gain purchase once more—but a surge of pain from his right foot told him there would be no climbing quite yet. He was wedged in.

And a flaming skull peered over the top of the boulder, eyeing him with empty sockets and burning hate.

Coming Next Week: Trial by fire in Chapter Four of Michael J. Martinez's "Crisis of Faith."

Michael J. Martinez is the author of the Daedalus trilogy of Napoleonic space opera novels, the most recent of which, The Venusian Gambit, came out in May. He also has short stories in the forthcoming anthologies Cthulhu Fhtagn! and Unidentified Funny Objects 4. Visit him online at michaeljmartinez.net.

Illustration by Marek Madej.

Crisis of Faith

by Michael J. Martinez

Chapter Two: Depending on a Drunken God

The forests and low hills surrounding them were as bucolic as anything the bards described at Cayden's Rest, but Jed's spirits remained low as he followed his new companions over the quickly diminishing trail.

It was his fifth day on the old dirt road. His back ached and his haunches were sore from the jostling. The chain shirt didn't fit right—or, rather, his father was a bit thinner in his prime than Jed was today. He was hungry, and while he was rationing his ale supply, there were but two small barrels left.

And of course, he had undertaken this momentous quest in the only manner of conveyance he had available—the brew-temple's mule cart. His thinking was that the others' horses wouldn't be burdened by the camping gear, including the tents Jed had purchased at the last minute on his way out of Augustana.

Silvestrae and Corogan didn't use the tents. They simply slept on the ground. Corogan was nice about it, saying he preferred the open air. As for Silvestrae, her disdain was silent but palpable. After the first night, Jed left the tents in the cart and slept outside with the others—which was one of the primary reasons, though by no means the only one, why his back was killing him.

The ale he brought, on the other hand, was more welcome, and it was going fast. Corogan seemed to limit himself to a tankard each evening, but Silvestrae seemed to put away the rest of the massive half-orc's share in addition to her own. And yet she held her drink well. Jed had put one of his more experimental brews in the cart along with a few others, and the half-elf immediately noted the lemon verbena hiding behind the hops. She was his kind of customer... at least when it came to ale.

The trail took them northward toward the Arthfell Mountains, long the home of Andoran's more rustic denizens. Those who dwelled in the cities thought of these hillfolk as little better than barbarians, and the few Jed had met at Cayden's Rest certainly fit the bill. Yet they were thoroughly Andoren—fiercely independent and desirous of little more than the right to keep farming their land and hunting the herds in those inhospitable mountains.

So when a representative of the hillfolk traveled all the way to Almas with terrible tales of the dead rising in the Nogortha Necropolis and sweeping through their lands with flame and doom, the Golden Legion had immediately assigned Corogan to investigate.

In Jed's view, at least, Corogan was one of those rare Eagle Knights whose sense of righteousness and justice did not impair his practicality. That was evident from his close friendship with Silvestrae, whose modest magical ability seemed only to augment her skills at stealth and deception. They bickered occasionally—actually, she bickered at the half-orc, who accepted her barbs with grace and humor—but theirs seemed to be a bond of experience and respect.

And loss. They spoke little of Rafe, the cleric who died in Cayden's Rest, and Jed was too circumspect—and perhaps a touch too intimidated—to ask. Jed knew his presence was keeping them from true haste. He could only hope he would be of some use before the end.

"Keep up, Caydenite!" Silvestrae called from up ahead on the trail, riding among the shadows of the afternoon sun.

Grimacing, Jed cupped his hands to his mouth to shout after her. "The road's getting worse! I won't be able to get through soon!"

It was as if Silvestrae's disdain and Corogan's weary patience were tangible magic beams, smacking Jed in the face.

Corogan deftly guided his horse back around toward Jed. "All right. Let's get you on that mule, along with as much of your gear as we can. Except for those tents."

Jed slid off the cart and started unhitching the mule, while Corogan began lifting everything out. The half-orc was strong, as strong as any Jed had seen, but was possessed of such quiet strength and decency that even Jed, who prided himself on his treatment of others, wondered if he had been giving half-orcs in general enough consideration.

Silvestrae, meanwhile, was content to stay on her horse and look utterly impatient with the whole thing—except when the two barrels of ale were unloaded. She was willing enough to sling one onto her horse's back, even when she had to finally climb down from her mount and wrestle it out of the wagon herself.

Corogan does what it takes for Andoran.

And that's when a twig snapped off toward the trees. Corogan looked up... then looked down again, shaking his head in quiet disgust. "Damn it all..."

Jed's heart raced as he suddenly found himself and his companions surrounded by at least a dozen haggard, filthy humans with bows and arrows at the ready.

"Whoa! Hey, now!" Jed yelled, raising his hands. "We're just traveling the road here! This is still Andoran, is it not?" The sound of Silvestrae's hand slapping her forehead somehow didn't distract Jed from looking at the men and women surrounding them. "Come now, who's in charge here?"

A rather large, muscular woman dropped her aim for a moment. "I am, and you'd best explain yourselves before we fill you with arrows."

Jed stepped forward, despite Corogan grasping at his shoulder. "Of course, my dear lady. I am Jeddah Cailean, priest of Cayden. These are my companions, the lady Silvestrae and Corogan, Eagle Knight of Andoran. Surely you see his sigil?"

The woman snorted and a few of the others chuckled. "Sigils are cheap," she said. "And we ain't had no food to eat in a week, since we been drove off our land. So you best step away from that wagon before we send you to meet your drunk god."

Jed looked to Silvestrae and Corogan, and both looked ready to unsheathe their blades and have at it. The odds weren't as bad as they seemed, for the ambushers seemed to be mostly unarmored and ill-equipped, and a few were indeed looking quite thin and wan. Thieves, certainly—but why? They had to know their chances were slim against three strong adventurers... well, two, at least.

"Cayden, lend me that silver tongue of yours," Jed whispered in prayer. "And be quick about it before blood is spilled."

He then looked up at the woman with a divinely enhanced smile. "How about this instead: Tell your people to lower their bows, and we'll partake of some of Cayden's ale together. And you can tell me what's driven you and yours to such desperate measures, eh?"

The woman looked wide-eyed at Jed for a long moment, even as Silvestrae began to unsheathe her sword. Then the woman smiled. "All right, then. Ale in hand is better than blood on the ground. Stand down!"

With but a little confusion and murmuring, the bandits lowered their bows and stowed their arrows, and Jed turned to Silvestrae and Corogan with a smile. "Better to lose a barrel of ale and gain some knowledge of the area, eh?"

Corogan responded with a smirk and a clap of Jed's shoulder, while Silvestrae merely frowned as she shoved her blade back in its scabbard. "A waste of good ale on these grubs," she muttered.

∗∗∗

The "grubs" in question were indeed local hillfolk, driven from their homes some months past by the sudden surge of undead in their lands. They had left their village with only the clothes on their backs, and what little could be thrown into packs and baskets. Many were left huddling around fires at night, exposed to the elements or trying to find rest in makeshift shelters. Food was scarce, as the tilled fields were far away and the mindless undead had no compunction about killing game and leaving the carcasses to rot, such was their hatred of all life.

"And so we came down to the road to try our hand at briganding," said the woman, whose name was Toska. With some soap and clean clothes, Toska might have simply been seen as fiercely maternal. But here along the road, wearing dirty rags and full of anger, she almost rivaled Corogan in savage mien. "Fact is, though, nobody travels this road much except farmers and tinkers—no real food nor gold. So we try to catch a few fish, maybe some squirrels and rats. And we starve while them skeletons and zombies sit on our lands."

They were seated around a fire, the sun having gone down an hour ago. The first barrel of ale was gone, and the second newly tapped, much to Silvestrae's great annoyance. But the ale—along with Jed's simple spell of charming—had the desired effect. The mood had lightened considerably, and most importantly to Jed, nobody got hurt.

Jed had thought to ask one of the hillfolk to serve as guide, but when he asked Corogan about it during a pause in the drinking, the half-orc merely snorted. "Not necessary. I can follow the land to the necropolis. We bring along one of these people, we'll be slowed down. Can't protect 'em, either. Best to leave them be."

And so Jed went back to the revelry. He took the time to talk with each of the men and women—and a few older children mixed among them—to ensure they were as healthy and hale as could be expected. He used his divine gifts to create a bit of water and food they might share—sadly, not enough to fill all their stomachs, but it was better than nothing.

One after another, the hillfolk drifted off to sleep. There were but two left standing—actually, sitting slouched on a log and singing off-key in slurred voices—when Corogan nudged Jed awake. "We're leaving," he said.

Jed looked to see Silvestrae already on her horse—and Jed's mule already packed and waiting for him. "Now? In the middle of the night?"

Corogan nodded, and Jed could see him work up the patience to explain. "You did well to make friends with them. We have a little more information now, and no one was killed. But we can't have them following us. Or changing their minds about wanting our stuff. Let's go."

Jed staggered to his feet, wincing at the pain in his back and haunches once more, and staggered toward his mule, clumsily mounting it and following the others quietly away from the camp. By daybreak, they had reached the point where the trail began rising toward the stark, gray peaks of the Arthfell Mountains.

As daylight strengthened, the road grew less traveled. By lunch—a meal that Jed missed more than he cared to admit at this point—the trail became more ambitious. By the time the sun disappeared behind the tallest mountain peak, all three companions had to walk their mounts to avoid tumbling off the foot-wide dirt path and into a ravine.

Yet Corogan insisted on going forward, convinced that a clearing was just around a bend. It took three such bends and a half hour of steep climbing in the growing dark, but he was correct. The trail emerged into a small mountain meadow. Buildings rose in the distance, dimly lit by the dwindling rays of sun escaping around the peaks.

"We can shelter there," Jed said. "Perhaps they even have a bed and some ale."

Silvestrae tsked loudly. "There are no lights there, priest. It's probably been abandoned by the hillfolk. And if it is, that means there's undead about."

Jed turned to Corogan, hoping he might have a different take, but the half-orc's weapons were already drawn—a battle-ax in one hand, a short sword in the other. "To the right," he hissed. "Movement."

Silvestrae began whispering words of power and a moment later disappeared from view. Jed drew his rapier, forgetting its power for a moment and starting at the magical blade's light.

A soft moan came from up ahead. Jed turned—and saw several figures shuffling down the path toward them.

"Zombies," Corogan said quietly. "About twenty or so."

Jed could only see six—and that terrified him even more. He turned to Corogan, only to see the half-orc eyeing him expectantly. Right. This is why I'm here.

Stepping forward, Jed took the tankard hanging from his belt and held it aloft in his left hand, a voice in the back of his head critiquing the move. It was the first time he had ever faced undead, let alone tried to focus his god's power to turn them.

He cleared his throat and spoke out into the darkening sky. "In the name of Cayden Cailean, I command you to be gone!"

Nothing.

No power flowed through him as it did when he cast his spells. There was no flash of light, no clap of thunder. There was nothing except a growing chorus of moans, the shuffling of feet through dirt and grass, and the growing stench of rotting flesh.

"Damn it, Cayden," Jed shouted, his voice breaking. "You put me here for this! Get rid of these things!"

The zombies kept coming.

Coming Next Week: Flesh and fire in Chapter Three of Michael J. Martinez's "Crisis of Faith."

Michael J. Martinez is the author of the Daedalus trilogy of Napoleonic space opera novels, the most recent of which, The Venusian Gambit, came out in May. He also has short stories in the forthcoming anthologies Cthulhu Fhtagn! and Unidentified Funny Objects 4. Visit him online at michaeljmartinez.net.

Illustration by Marek Madej.

Crisis of Faith

by Michael J. Martinez

Chapter One: Trouble Brewing

"In Cayden's name, I bless this brew. May it give strength to the weak and solace to the weary."

Jeddah Cailean tore a piece of bread off the loaf under his arm and tossed it into the vat of cooled barley tea before him. He then picked up a small barrel containing the last dregs of a previous batch of finished ale, swirled some water in it, and dumped it in as well.

"Father, why do we mix the dregs with the new?" asked Gantren, Jed's twelve-year-old son. "Isn't that ale stale?"

Jed eyed his son up and down with a smile. He'd been learning the trade for only a short while now, and always had a question in him. That's good—Cayden teaches his people to question everything, after all. Jed could see his lanky, blond-haired son would be a very good questioner, and hopefully his successor one day.

"These dregs contain drops of the ale before it, and the ale before that one, and so on. Why, this could have a bit of the very same brew that Cayden himself drank the night he ascended to godhood!" Jed said. "It's that connection... that's Cayden's blessing. Without the dregs, it would take forever to ferment, if at all. The ale needs to know where it came from."

"And the bread? Is that part of the blessing, too?"

"No, Gant, that's just me trying to get it to ferment faster, because I've got a temple to run and thirsty patrons who want to celebrate the god's bounty," Jed said. "Now, head on downstairs and help your mother. We're opening in a bit."

Gantren nodded and, taking care not to disturb anything, left the room. Cayden's Rest, a temple of Cayden Cailean in Augustana, was a sprawling affair full of comings and goings. But this room, where the vats of barley tea were transformed into ale, had to be kept in a very specific state, free of outside influences. It was the heart of any Caydenite brew-temple, and it had just the right mix of protection from the elements, fresh air, and musty cobwebs needed to create the best ales.

Yes, the cobwebs were important. Jed's adoptive father—an orphan himself and the temple's former priest—had told of a time when one of his predecessors had cleaned the Chamber of Cayden's Blessings after several decades. The ales made thereafter went from exemplary to pedestrian, and thus the chamber was never cleaned again.

A wizard friend once speculated to Jed that the resulting mold and dust in the room could lend flavor to the brews. Personally, Jed simply assumed Cayden was a slob, bless his name.

With a final, silent prayer, Jed left the chamber and walked through the rest of the brewhouse. It was a large warehouse, lined with barrels both empty and full, along with the fireplaces and vats used to make the barley tea. Sacks of grain and hops were stored on lofts in the high-ceilinged room so as to better discourage vermin.

Jed paused by the casks nearest the door, scanning the shorthand markings chalked on the wood. He quickly counted backward, away from the door, and made a few scribblings in the small notebook he kept in his pocket. They were running low on the dark ale, and they might have to go a few days without the amber next month. The last of the past year's wheat beer would probably be gone within a week.

Some days, it seemed winter wouldn't arrive fast enough. And that reminded him to send Gant down to the market for cinnamon and cloves from the spice vendors. People seemed to like that in cold weather, for whatever reason. Another note, and then the notebook and pencil returned to his pocket.

Jed pushed open the doors leading from the brewhouse to the kitchen, where a couple of workers were busy chopping vegetables. They waved eagerly at the priest, and Jed said a very quick blessing over them. The workers were destitute, and like most of Augustana's poor, they knew that there was always a chance for work at Cayden's Rest. Aside from Jed and his family, the workers were almost all beggars and orphans. Jed paid a fair wage and offered a place to sleep in the brewhouse lofts. More than a few former workers at the Rest had gone on to better things, which made Jed proud.

Finally, in the main temple area—which the uninformed might mistake for a large tavern—Jed found his wife setting up tables with Gantren. Before he could speak, Maeve Cailean launched into business. "Deggin stopped by with your hops while you were in the chamber, love," she said, pointing to a large burlap sack in the corner. "Good crop. Smells like lemon and pine."

Jed rushed over and, bending over the bag, inhaled. "Oh, that's nice. Deggin's hops are the best this side of Almas." He lifted the bag over his shoulder, sagging slightly under the weight. "Might add some to the next batch. Maybe at the ten-minute mark? Or five?"

Jed tromped to the back of the temple, muttering to himself and leaving Maeve smiling and shaking her head after him.

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Cayden's Rest was a joyful cacophony that night. Sailors fresh from plying the Inner Sea came to celebrate dry land once more, and several of them were funded by a small group of bankers from the Forester's Endowments—someone's ship had, quite literally, come in. Then there were the locals and regulars, along with the rural folk who had brought their harvest to market, and the small, huddled groups of armed and armored strangers—adventurers, no doubt, and perhaps a Pathfinder or two.

While Maeve managed the kitchen, ales, and servers, Jed wandered among the revelers and drinkers. He toasted their successes, bestowed Cayden's blessings on those who wished it, and occasionally mediated a dispute so that it would not come to blows. Brawling wasn't forbidden in the temple-tavern, of course—Cayden himself loved a good bout—but it was ultimately bad for business.

Then there were the harder cases. Jed convinced one regular that, yes, he really ought to make amends to his wife for the past night's drunkenness, and another that her shop's lack of profit was ill-served by the woman finding the bottom of her fourth tankard that night. Occasionally, Jed would point to the Placard of Wisdom hanging on the wall by the hearth, hoping the simple messages there might help those in need.

All in all, it was a fine night. Until the screaming started.

One of the serving women was the first to let loose with a shrill cry of terror. Jed quickly turned and reached for the dagger at his belt—enough of a precaution, he felt—and saw an armored man staggering in the center of the room, his hands clutching at his throat. Then a gout of blood burst forth from between his fingers, spraying the patrons all around him.

Silvestrae only trusts those who prove themselves.

Then the man collapsed.

Jed rushed over, shouting for everyone to clear out of his way. He knew Maeve would immediately stop serving, call the watch, and summon the strongest workers from the brew-temple, leaving Jed to attempt to heal the wounded man. Jed slid to his knees next to the prone man and started praying.

"Cayden, hear me. Harm has come to one under your roof. Send your power through me and bind his wound before it's too late," Jed whispered, closing his eyes and laying his hands over the man's bloodied body. Cayden Cailean was not one for rote prayer.

Unfortunately, Jed was indeed too late, or Cayden was. Either way, the man's hands slid from his throat as he breathed his last.

The stranger had been slit ear to ear. A deft cut, and one that apparently went unseen by anyone else around the poor sod; otherwise, there'd be a massive brawl going on right now.

"Lock the doors and summon the guard!" Jed bellowed. He turned a woman crouching next to him and the dead man, and chanced the question regardless: "What did you see?"

"Nothing," said the woman, a half-elf with a distressed look on her face. "A flash. A bit of shadow. And then Rafe gasped and got up and started bleeding. He's dead?"

"Afraid so." Jed placed a hand on her shoulder in solace. "I'm so sorry. You knew him?"

She nodded as a tear fell down her cheek. "We'd been companions a while. Our priest. Lots of jobs. This... this is no way to go."

A large man in light chainmail knelt down next to them. "Nothing. No track, no trace. Not even so much as a blood spatter."

Jed looked up and saw a half-orc wearing the regalia of an Eagle Knight of Andoran. "You sure? There's a lot of blood here."

The half-orc frowned. "My friend is dead, priest."

"I meant no offense," Jed said quickly. "Just surprised. Maybe they used a spell to cloak themselves."

Jed rose and walked over to Maeve, who stood looking worried behind the bar. "The watch is on the way. The boys aren't letting anyone out." She took his hand. "This isn't just a brawl, is it, love?"

"No, this is far worse," Jed said. "This was murder."

∗∗∗

An hour later, the watch had come in and cleared the tavern, questioning the thirty or so people therein. Nobody had seen anything, of course. It was a thorough job, and the watch commander seemed doubtful about finding the murderer.

"They're questers," the commander said, nodding toward the half-orc and half-elf, who sat in the middle of the now-empty room staring silently into half-full tankards. "Likely went afoul of someone who carried a grudge."

Jed nodded. "I've fifty gold to use for reward money," he offered. "Will that help?"

The commander smiled sadly. "This was a professional job. Doubt any reward will help."

Once the commander and his men left, Jed went over to the two adventurers and took a seat, placing fresh ale before them. "I'm so very sorry," he said quietly. "No one has ever defiled the temple like this."

The woman took the ale and quaffed half of it in one go. "Yeah, well, they just did. And Rafe just paid the price. You need better protection, tavern-keeper."

The half-orc reached over and whacked her on the arm gently—mostly gently. "Show respect, Silvestrae. This is a priest of Cayden Cailean, and his temple has suffered as well in this."

She shoved the knight's hand aside. "Yeah, well, we suffered more, Corogan. We'd been together, the three of us, for, what... four years? And now we have to head back to Almas with our tails between our legs."

"We are not heading back," Corogan said. "We must continue with our mission."

"Without a priest," she said dully. "That's going to go really well. This is the Nogortha Necropolis we're talking about. We need someone who can turn undead."

A sinking feeling stirred in Jed's gut, and he reluctantly looked over toward the Placard of Wisdom on the wall, as if it were eyeing him back.

Then he went and opened his mouth, knowing he'd come to regret it.

∗∗∗

"What do you mean you're going with them?" Maeve said late that night, once all the revelers were dispersed and she and Jed had retired to their room above the main temple. "When's the last time you even left Augustana?"

Jed stood, hands on his hips. "I went to the fair two years ago!"

Maeve's eyes flared wide as she sat up in bed. "That is not exactly a quest with an Eagle Knight and some half-elf tart. I know, Jed. I did that sort of thing once, before I met you and settled down. I like being settled down. I thought you did, too. When have you not been settled down?"

"It's not about liking, or even wanting," Jed said, his defensive stance sloughing off into a slouch. "This... this is what Cayden is all about. Yeah, he's about ale and revelry and helping the unfortunate. But he's also about adventure and being spontaneous. We're talking about someone who became a god on a drunken whim—and he demands that kind of spirit from all his followers."

With a sigh, Maeve slumped back down under the covers. "Look, I love you, Jed, but your religion's tenets are written on a placard. A placard that hangs in a tavern we call a temple. I can't..." Maeve's voice caught, and she angrily wiped away a tear. "I don't want to lose you. And let's face it, you're in no shape for weeks on the road and fighting undead."

Jed sat on the bed next to her and smiled. "Thankfully, I can just turn them, right? I'm a cleric of Cayden Cailean, one of the greatest forces of good in the world. I can do this."

"But you don't have to," she replied. "You really don't."

"No, I don't. And that's exactly why I have to."

∗∗∗

Jed stood over the trunk that had been stored in the attic for years, the key in his hand. Long had he feared that opening the chest would release pure chaos into his world. And yet...

He set the candle down on the floor and worked the key into the lock. The chest opened with a stubborn groan, and a musty smell filled Jed's nostrils. He pulled out an old, heavy cloak—the vermin hadn't gotten to it, it seemed—and a battered but still-whole backpack. Three vials of clear liquid followed, and Jed couldn't remember if they were holy water or potions.

Then there was the chain shirt, which seemed to catch every bit of the guttering candlelight. And the rapier, of course. Jed grasped the hilt and pulled it partially out of the scabbard. The blade gave off a soft blue-white light of its own.

These were his father's things, garnered from years of questing and exploring and generally being a ne'er-do-well on behalf of a drunken god. Jed's father ultimately had settled down and taken over the Rest, but Jed loved his father's tales by the fire.

The gleaming shirt had been a gift from the dwarves of the Five Stone Mountains in honor of his father's valor in battle against orcs. The rapier—one that heightened its wielder's accuracy considerably—was from a cache kept by a tribe of hill-dwelling giants somewhere... else. Jed couldn't remember.

He sheathed the blade and dropped it into the chest. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered. "Dammit, Cayden. Is this a test? Some sort of trial? A bloody joke?"

The darkness around him didn't yield an answer. He didn't expect one from Cayden anyway.

Coming Next Week: Menace in the foothills in Chapter Two of Michael J. Martinez's "Crisis of Faith."

Michael J. Martinez is the author of the Daedalus trilogy of Napoleonic space opera novels, the most recent of which, The Venusian Gambit, came out in May. He also has short stories in the forthcoming anthologies Cthulhu Fhtagn! and Unidentified Funny Objects 4. Visit him online at michaeljmartinez.net.

Illustration by Marek Madej.