Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 26

There he goes. Mad.

Symon glanced back in the direction of Arcporte Castle. The salt breeze invaded his visor, its cold telling of the night to come. As the wind whistled through the slits and crevices of his steel, he watched the torches on the rampart light, one by one. All while the topmost windows of the West Tower darkened with the onset of dusk.

Thwack!

He glanced down at his vambrace. The crimson spots looked far less grotesque at sunset. Then again, so did the severed heads, though darkness would have treated them kinder.

As two guards dragged the headless corpse aside, another two struggled with a Lost Soul. Far more squeamish than the first handful, he kicked and wriggled under the firm grips of his captors.

"Mercy! I beg His Majesty, please! Mercy! Mercy!"

A sense of embarrassment blended with pity washed over Symon. A horrible way to die, really. Symon looked past the condemned man to the two guards who had removed the headless corpse. As though tossing a sack of grain, they heaved the body into the pit before wiping their hands on their leather-scaled breeches.

Symon couldn't hear the thump of the corpse over wails of the next convict. Yet he knew the body had fallen. He was sure of it. It foreshadowed the next one to come, along with the dozen or so others they still had to finish off before nightfall. Then the oil would be poured, the kindling stacked, as it had gone on for the past several days.

He shook his head at the thought, nearly ignoring the axehead as it rose. The bloody executioner didn't even bother to wipe the blade. Then again, how could he? He hadn't the time.

As if awakening from a trance, Symon suddenly found himself on one of the terraced steps which ringed Mar-by-the-Sea Cathedral. How much time had passed? An hour? Mayhaps. The thin stench of ash remained in the air; despite Symon's efforts to stay downwind, the breezes had shifted, as if the air itself wanted to avoid the mass of death their kin had created.

Armor and mail stirred as Ely came up beside him. "You think we're far enough away?"

Symon turned his head. "Whatever do you mean?"

"From, you know."

"I just said I don't."

"Bloody hell, you too?! I swear, am I the only one left with any sense? Me?"

"Ely, say your piece." Or as Father would say, "Hold your peace."

"The, what did Dawkin call it?"

"'Contraband.' And I can hear you." Dawkin glared at them with narrow eyes. "Good thing only the Voiceless are around. Your voice carries, Ely, when you're this nervous."

"Hey, I, I just –"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, we are far enough way." Dawkin held out his right hand. The silent knight nearest him passed him a lit torch, which Dawkin lowered to the ground before him.

The barrels. The pitch-black substance. One of the monks had finally uttered the name. Seaflame. That brother, tied and bound, had chewed through his gag and screamed it as they had doused him and the remaining prisoners in . . .

"Don't –" Symon started.

The wet grass before Dawkin's feet consumed the torchlight faster than any kindling imaginable. Like a crazed serpent, a twisting blazing line raced from their terrace down the rest of the earthen steps. Upon reaching level ground, the curved band of fire straightened as it headed towards the Our Lady of Arc Monastery.