Sinner: A Prequel to the Mongoliad

“It is not a pleasant task, carrying a head,” Andreas said, “but once you get over your initial revulsion, you consider the practical issues. They tend to…drip for some time. That is why I used a basket. With one, I would use a piece of cloth or a satchel-I would have burned such material afterward-but while I was transporting the head, I would not have wanted it dripping on me.” He pointed at the stalk. “Or the ground.”

“He was in a hurry?” Raphael suggested.

Andreas nodded absently, his gaze straying along the ground and toward the tree line. Had he been running? he wondered. Had he already planned to leave the head? Where had the others gone?

The answers to his questions would not be revealed by standing in the field, and so he strode off toward the verge of the forest, his gaze roving across the ground, watching for the sporadic signs that he was still following the back-trail of the culprit.

The standing stones were crumbling, moss-covered stones, and half of them had toppled onto their sides where the forest had even more aggressively covered them with vines and tiny shoots. But Andreas had seen enough of the pagan circles in the north to recognize the oblong shapes. As he and Raphael approached the edge of the ring, an animal growled at them from the center and he caught a flash of gray fur as he noisily drew his sword from its scabbard. Raphael drew his sword too, and the scavengers fled, leaving the bounty that lay in the center of the old pagan ceremony ring.

There were four bodies altogether, and as Raphael cautiously approached the jumble of slaughtered corpses, Andreas inspected the stones around the ring and the nearby forest. There was no threat from within the circle, but the presence of the dead-and the scavengers that were already stealing scraps-made his skin crawl. He wanted to be sure there was no looming threat that might pounce on them.

“Here is Otto,” Raphael said, and Andreas looked at the corpse that Raphael was indicating. The body was off to one side of the center area, clearly missing its head.

“And the others?” he asked.

Raphael shook his head. “I do not know them.”

“Have they been dead long?”

“No. I would surmise they died around the same time as Otto.”

Raphael nudged the bodies with his foot for another few moments and then turned his attention to Otto’s corpse. Satisfied there was no lurking danger, Andreas sheathed his sword and entered the ring. He knew it was a vestigial childhood fear-old superstitions that were never quite excised from the body-but he could not suppress a shiver as he crossed the boundary of the circle.

“The others were killed quickly with a sword,” Raphael said as he examined Otto’s corpse. “Otto was not as fortunate.”

Andreas took one look at the ravaged corpse of Gerda’s husband and turned away, the old superstitions crawling, like spiders, up his spine.

“Ita ut comedatis carnes filiorum vestrorum et filiarum vestrarum,” Raphael whispered, his voice filled with dread. And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons and daughters. “God’s vengeance upon the unfaithful.”

“Virgin help us,” Andreas said, staring back at Raphael. “All of them?” His mind quailed at the thought of the entire village being flesh-eaters.

Raphael’s face was pale and the muscles in his jaw flexed as he stood. “Let us hope not,” he said grimly.

SUPERBIA

The door squeaked, a thin noise that would have normally gone unnoticed at home as the door of their tiny hut squeaked and groaned constantly whenever the wind played with it. But she was not at home; she was not buried beneath the blankets with Otto, hiding from the weather and the world. She was lying on the cold stones of the inn’s hearth, and Otto…Otto was gone.

She was curled around her hands, and she wanted to curl even tighter, but her body was too stiff to bend any further. She started to roll onto her back, and as the first patch of raw skin pressed against her clothing, she remembered what had happened and caught herself, tensing her entire body to keep from putting her weight on her flayed back.

As she curled up again, she remembered the sound that had woken her-the creak of the door. She sat up, wincing at the pain, and stared toward the closed door.

“Who’s there?” she croaked. The ale she had drunk earlier had dried to a thin film in her mouth.

A figure sidled out of the deep shadows behind the door. The magistrate’s face was slick with a sheen of sweat and his eyes bulged, making him look like a swollen, glistening frog. “I’ve waited a long time,” he whispered. “And I saved you. I have come to take my reward.”

“You lied to him,” she whispered. “You lied to God.”

“Haven’t we all these many years?” he replied, crouching nearby, staring at her. His tongue moved behind his lips and he stroked his chin. “We send our tithe to the Archbishop in Mainz twice a year. We do not complain about how much we have to give, because it is a slight burden compared to the alternative. We have no Roman Catholic presence in our village. Just a few priests who come through on their way to larger cities. We are easily forgotten, Gerda. No one cares what we do as long as we keep it to ourselves.”

“Why?” she begged. “Why did you kill Otto?”

“Me? Kill your husband?” The magistrate shook his head. “I did no such thing.” He actually appeared hurt at her accusation, and for a moment her resolve wavered. Washe truly innocent? Had he given false testimony to the priest simply to ensure that her trial was swift and decisive? The inquisitor had remanded her to the magistrate’s custody for punishment. Maybe he was trying to help?

The magistrate stood and undid his belt. “Lie on your back,” he said, lightly slapping the leather against the palm of his hand.

As soon as he touched her, she fought back.

“Look!” Andreas pointed. “A crowd is gathering.” He sprinted toward the green, leaving Raphael behind. They had been walking swiftly back toward the inn, both men considering what they had seen, and they had failed to notice the mob gathering outside the inn until they had nearly reached their destination. While Andreas sprinted ahead, Raphael paused to catch his breath. The younger man was not wearing mail as he was, and while he was accustomed to the weight, running in armor always sapped one’s strength quickly.

Raphael caught his breath and hurried after Andreas. He loosened his sword in his scabbard, preparing for the worst.

The panorama that greeted him was much the same as it had been earlier in the day, though the villagers as a whole were more agitated. A number of torches had already been lit, both to ward off the coming night and to fire the pyre. Andreas had positioned himself between the inn and the pyre, sword drawn. Opposing him were a half dozen of the inquisitor’s men, armed with both short spears and swords, and behind them were the magistrate and the forlorn shape of the accused, Gerda.

There was no sign of the inquisitor.

Raphael paused at the edge of the crowd, adjusted his clothing for a moment or two while he calmed his breathing, and then, in his loudest and most commanding voice, he shouted, “Hold fast.”

His words cut through the noise of the crowd, and the attention of the mob swarmed toward him. He drew his sword and strode forward, his chest thrust out, his sword held tightly in his hand. He glared at the people at the nearest edge of the crowd, daring them to stand in his way, and they melted before him. Radiating an icy rage, he stalked through the crowd toward the pyre.

“What action is this?” he demanded as he reached the group clustered around the pyre. “Did the inquisitor not set her punishment for the morrow? Are you denying this woman an opportunity to repent and recant her