Faithful Servants

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Three: The Penitent Man

There was the usual moment of darkness and cold, the terrible feeling of being drawn through space like a fish on a line, and then the light was back and the amulet deposited them safely.

Right in the middle of an angry mob.

Salim looked quickly to Connell, but the eidolon was already holding his own pendant. Before Salim could say anything, the eidolon’s disguise as an axiomite melted into something less suspicious. The pointed ears were still there, but shorter. Gone was the inhumanly perfect skin, replaced by a moonscape of old pockmarks. The cowl of the robe he wore—now old and tattered, stained as much by the road as any dye—came up to cover the glowing forehead rune.

It was a good job. The peasant closest to the new arrivals blinked, peered at the two of them as if he trying to remember something, then visibly gave up and returned his attention to the shouting man at the front.

They were in the central green of a modest town, a ring of shops and public houses encircling a muddy patch of grass long since chewed into submission by the hooves and jaws of livestock. Beyond, Salim recognized the dark and craggy peaks of the Hungry Mountains rising ominously on all sides. Even now, at midday, the fog that shrouded their dark forests was thick, and moved in strange ways just beyond the valley’s last farmsteads.

The mob was barely worthy of the name—perhaps forty men and women in varying states of disrepair—yet Salim had seen such groups before. The deciding factor for mobs wasn’t in their muscles, or their makeshift weapons, but in their eyes. These folk were afraid. And where there was enough fear, something could break, and turn even the most timid housewife into a killer.

The man trying to catalyze that change stood at the focal point of the loose semicircle, perched precariously on an overturned wheelbarrow. He was middle-aged and almost completely bald, with only a few wisps of white hair scrambling to cling to and cover his shining pate. From beneath voluminous black robes similar to Salim’s own poked stick-thin arms, gesticulating wildly. At his throat hung a large silver spiral on a chain—the holy symbol of Pharasma.

"Too long have we suffered the monster to remain in our midst!" the priest cried. "Far too long! You, Silva," he pointed at one of the women near the front, "was not your husband’s grave torn up, just weeks after his passing? And you, Tam"—this time a fat man in a flour-stained apron—"your uncle’s grave as well. No wolf digs so deep, or so thoroughly."

He returned to addressing the whole crowd.

"Suffering is our lot! Yet that doesn’t mean the Goddess desires us to lie down and let monsters roam the night, taking our loved ones. As your priest, I should be leading you—yet I am old, and my hands shake with the palsy." He raised the offending appendages high. "Thus I must pass the burden to my son, Sir Percinov. It is he who will lead you to glory."

The crowd shifted slightly, and Salim glimpsed the figure that stood at the old priest’s knee. The plates of its armor were all in black and silver, the chest embossed with Pharasma’s spiral, and a businesslike bucket of a helm obscured the face. At the figure’s waist rested a long sword in a matching scabbard. All in all, a suitably imposing sight. Yet something about the way the warrior stood gave Salim pause.

"When?" a voice from the crowd cried.

"At dawn," the priest said. "Mirosoy and his creatures are things of darkness. We will bring them the cleansing light."

"That’s my master," Connell hissed, and Salim tapped his arm to quiet him.

The crowd shouted its ragged approval, and then the church bells began chiming. In twos and threes, the people shuffled off to be about their errands, or perhaps just to rest up before the lynching.

The priest had stepped down from his wheelbarrow and was talking with the knight. Salim approached.

"Excuse me, Father. May I have a word?"

The priest turned. Above his beak of a nose, hard little rat eyes crawled up and down Salim’s length, taking in the black robes and sun-darkened skin, the short beard and strangely melted-looking sword hilt. His eyes lit upon the amulet, which Salim had left hanging prominently against his chest, and the hard mouth softened almost imperceptibly.

"A fellow clergyman?"

"Something like that." Salim drew the spiral of Pharasma in the air between them.

"Yet not from around here." Salim’s southern skin, so much darker than the sickly pale Ustalavs, kept the words from being a question.

"No," Salim agreed. "My companion and I have traveled far to offer our assistance. It seems others in the church have learned of your situation."

"Hum," the priest said, a sound that wasn’t altogether pleased. "Very well, then. My name is Father Adibold, and this is Sir Percinov. My rectory is just over here—please, allow me to welcome you properly." Without bothering to wait for a reply, the man turned and began stalking toward a little house attached to the church, the armored warrior just behind him. Salim and Connell followed.

"A child in armor is still a child."

The house might better have been called a cell. Though the walls were still painted white, they’d clearly been neglected for some time. The outlines of less-faded regions suggested that, at one point, there had been more furniture in here—a bureau, a couch—yet now the room contained only a stove, a cupboard, the roughest of wooden tables, and two chairs. Salim accepted the priest’s invitation and sat in the nearer chair, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He’d interrogated men in more comfortable chairs than this.

Father Adibold took the opposite chair. Connell remained standing next to the door, while the armored figure took up a respectful position behind the priest’s left shoulder. For the first time, the metal mountain spoke.

"Da, may I—?"

"Yes, fine!" The priest waved a hand. With an audible sigh of relief, the warrior removed his gauntlets, then reached up and pulled off his helmet.

It was a boy, brown-haired and skinny. His bobbing larynx didn’t even come close to touching the steel gorget meant to protect his throat. Salim bet that if he struck the breastplate, the teenager would rattle around inside the armor like the clapper in a bell.

The old man spoke first. "You’re not a priest," he said bluntly. "The sword tells me that much. So what are you?"

"A hunter," Salim said. "A problem-solver for the church, specializing in the sort of thing you now face. Or have I heard wrong? It’s undead creations that your people fear, is it not?"

The priest grunted. "Indeed." Reluctantly, he got to his feet and went to the cupboard. He returned with two cups of water and a cob of bread, which he set between them. "Please," he said, gesturing. "Eat."

Salim tore off a chunk of bread and bit into it. It was hard, and old, but blessedly weevil-free.

"I’d apologize for not offering better fare," the old man continued, not sounding the least bit apologetic, "but we of the Kavapestan branch don’t believe in southern niceties."

Aha. Suddenly both the ostentatiously poor hospitality and the deliberately uncomfortable furniture made more sense. Salim’s eyes twitched toward the man’s sleeves, which had fallen back when he proffered the food. The priest caught the look and deliberately pulled the cloth back down, but not before Salim caught the telltale lines of dozens of thin white scars on his forearms.

"So you follow the Penitence, then."

The old priest thrust his jaw out pugnaciously. "The Lady of Graves judges us not only on what we do, but what we endure. Those who suffer in this life are rewarded in the next. We Ustalavs have known this for generations."

"Very admirable," Salim said.

The priest searched for any sign that he was being mocked, and upon finding none, slowly nodded. "Yes, well. It’s rare to find a southerner who understands the value of forsaking worldly pleasures."

"Believe me," Salim said, "I’ve forsaken plenty. But I didn’t come here to discuss theology. Tell me of Mirosoy."

"Bah!" the priest said, and spat on his own floor. "A magician and minor noble who lives in a manse at the far end of the valley. He’s been there for years."

"It’s disgusting," the armored boy put in helpfully. "Using magic to avoid honest sweat and labor."

"Shut up, Percy," the priest said, yet he nodded at the sentiment. "It’s true, we have no love of wizards and witches here. Yet it’s still not a crime, and his business helps keep the village alive through hard times. Of late, however, the lord has turned to darker arts. Graves have been disturbed, even within the grounds of the church."

Now it was Salim’s turn to grunt. Grave robbing from a church of Pharasma was bold, if not outright suicidal. "And his creatures. You’ve seen them?"

"Not personally. But the villagers who cart out his provisions or used to work in his house speak of moans, and shambling forms, and the stench of death."

Salim nodded. "And you’d send a mob of villagers to handle things?"

The priest bristled. "Not alone! I would offer what magics I have, and my son would lead them!"

"Ah yes, your son." Salim turned to the would-be warrior. "Show me your hands, boy."

Confused, Percinov did as he was told, holding them palms out. Salim nodded.

"That’s a fine suit of armor, boy. It’ll serve you well one day. But not yet."

"Now wait just a minute—!" the priest began.

Salim silenced him with a raised finger. "Calluses."

"Pardon?"

"You may know penance, Father, but I know war. And the calluses on this boy’s hands are from chopping wood, not a sword hilt. The pattern’s all wrong." He glanced back at Percinov. "You can put your hands down now, boy."

Percinov did. His father glowered. "The boy will be fine," the old priest growled. "Any wounds he suffers, I’ll heal. And his pain will buy credit with the Goddess."

As it happened, Salim knew precisely how little credit such suffering earned. Yet he set that sentiment aside and decided to test out a suspicion that had been building.

"And what would the boy’s mother think if he were killed?" he asked.

"Don’t you talk about his mother!" Tiny drops of spit flew from the priest’s lips to land halfway across the table. "Serafina is with the Lady now, assisting in the judgment of souls. We should all be so fortunate."

"But, Da—" Percinov began.

"Shut up, Percy!"

The priest put his head in hands. For a moment, no one said anything. At last, the priest looked up, his lined face appearing older than ever.

"What do you propose?" he asked.

Coming Next Week: Confrontations with a summoner gone bad in the final chapter of "Faithful Servants."

James L. Sutter is the Fiction Editor for Paizo Publishing, author of the novel Death's Heretic (also starring Salim), and co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game campaign setting. His short stories have appeared in such publications as Escape Pod, Starship Sofa, Apex Magazine, and the #1 Amazon bestseller Machine of Death, and his anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published stories of SF luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, James has written numerous Pathfinder supplements, including City of Strangers and Distant Worlds. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Carmen Cianelli