For Jozan, it was a challenge to stay within a few lengths of the big stallion. Even though the mule's motion was uncomfortable, Jozan's hand brushed against his mace for confidence and he smiled. He might be the poorest possible cleric when it came to reading holy writ, but he knew he had the blessing of Pelor when it came time for holy battle. Both righteous avengers rode with a sense that they were making a difference, that injustice would be redressed.
It wasn't long before the squeals of dry axles and the rattle of old, poorly maintained wagons could be heard, even above the hoofbeats of the crusaders' mounts. The holy fighters rounded a bend in the road, fully expecting to see a chain of human misery and wagons dedicated to some gruesome occult powers. Instead, they saw a string of three wagons adorned with gaudy paint jobs and the unmistakable signage of a circus troupe.
When the passengers observed the speed with which priest and paladin were closing upon them, the lead driver halted his wagon and the other two followed suit.
"We are Chakyik," said the driver, raising his hand in a gesture of friendship. "We come in peace."
"Slavers?" asked Alhandra bluntly.
"Do we look like slavers?" asked the driver with the familiar accent ridiculed by every bard looking for a cheap laugh or a free drink in a busy tavern. "We are performers, entertainers to the Unvanquishable Tiger Lord himself."
Jozan was suspicious. "You're a long way from the Tiger Lord," he observed. "Why would you be here?"
A woman's voice, as old as an ancient tomb and crackling as though it were as dry, responded from behind the holy warriors. "Absence makes the applause grow louder," came the voice, a feminine version of the same much derided accent, "and the Tiger Lord was showing more claws than applause of late."
Both Jozan and Alhandra turned to face a woman in the road who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Jozan noticed the open door to the second wagon, but before they could say anything, the woman continued, "Your destiny is not with us." Her slate-gray eyes looked deeply into a rounded ball that seemed made of a rose quartz. "You seek the Black Carnival and those who half-see."
Jozan shrugged and turned toward the paladin. "Why do I get the feeling that everyone knows about this but us?" he asked with minor disgust.
"You need not find the carnival to stop the source," the old woman continued, unfazed by Jozan's sarcastic comment. "To seek the Black Carnival, root out the black hearts of men."
"Does everyone speak in riddles in your country?" asked Jozan, glancing at the paladin.
"Only the smart ones," answered Alhandra. She flashed the smile at Jozan that always caused him self-doubt and brought fresh color to his cheeks. Then, she addressed the old woman. "We thank you for the oracle, wise one."
But the old woman hadn't finished. "Pergue is the key," proclaimed the woman. "That is all I know," she concluded. "I can tell you no more." She fell silent and backed toward the wagon in the middle of the caravan.
"Do you trust her?" whispered Jozan.
"I don't know. What does she gain by lying to us?" responded the paladin sotto voce. "She doesn't even know us. Just a moment." The paladin faced the retreating woman and lifted her eyes toward the heavens. She spread her hands with palms upward and meditated, just as she had done when she first met Jozan. In a moment, she turned to the cleric. "By Heironeous's strength, I sense no evil auras here."
"Then," whispered Jozan, "I see no reason not to trust her. Pelor…and Heironeous, of course, work in strange ways." When the paladin nodded in agreement, the cleric spoke up. "Well, if Pergue is the key, I'm more than ready to open this lock."
His words stopped the old soothsayer in her slow retreat. She turned back to face Jozan and walked back toward him as though she were compelled by something inside her. She looked up from the orb and her gray eyes shone with the radiance of Pelor himself.
"One warning more. He who opens this lock must face the darkness in his own heart, as well." Before she resumed her trek back toward her wagon, she added, "If we have served you well, remember us in the future."
"Then, we'll meet again?" queried the cleric.
"Your god knows," responded the old woman, "but our own future is as murky to us as yours is clear. The one you seek is the source."
The cleric thanked the soothsayer and the paladin dropped a gold piece in the old woman's hand. Then the two warriors sidestepped their horses toward the road. Once out of sight and sound of the caravan, Jozan laughed robustly with a feeling of considerable relief.
"I should have studied harder on those ancient texts and languages. Everywhere I turn, I have to interpret prophecy."
The paladin nodded, but said nothing. She kept running the prophecy over and over in her mind. Jozan interrupted her speculation by speaking aloud.
"I suppose you realize," he chuckled, "this encounter leaves my supernatural theory in play."
"It does at that," admitted Alhandra with a trace of a smirk at the corner of her mouth, "at least until we get to Pergue."
8
Augustin Calmet was not pleased. His one-eyed shadow mastiff growled menacingly from the mine entrance behind him, a vocal, lethal symbol of the displeasure felt by the apostate cleric himself. Today's measure of gold orc retrieved was far below the quota, and the more important construction of the main shaft was suffering after last night's unfortunate cave-in. To make Calmet even unhappier, his expected delivery of new slaves was late. He visualized Archprelate Laud's reaction to both arrow points of bad news and his resentment of Laud boiled like a cauldron in the pit of his stomach. The shadow mastiff howled as if to punctuate Calmet's feelings, sending a chill wind of fear along the chain of one-eyed slaves in front of the mine.
"That's right, Balor," spoke the one-eyed cleric softly and affectionately to the shadow mastiff, "such a failure deserves to be mourned. I don't know what artifices his potency is planning with all this gold, but I know he'll punish all of us if this tunnel isn't finished before the solstice." The apostate's tone of voice with the monster was in surprising contrast to the scowl on his face.
The angry priest wandered down the chain of slaves and examined every cut and bruise to be found upon them, never showing the least compassion but reaching down to scratch the ears of his demonic dog with devoted regularity. As the vile cleric ambled along the line for his inspection, the slaves themselves watched with eyes wide in terror and dissipated the foul scent of fear, desperately trying to avoid the impulse of fleeing for their lives or falling on their knees in supplication. All of them had been at the mine long enough to know that either action would be in vain. They also knew that someone would pay for the cleric's displeasure. That was certain.
Calmet focused on a thin slave with a bleeding calf. Dirt, grime, and dried blood intermingled on the man's leg and drew Calmet's attention as surely as the wound was drawing flies. The cleric who formerly brought goodness and healing stepped closer to the slave. Then, in vile contradiction of his early training, he stomped his booted foot onto the center of the cut. Weakened, the slave stumbled and fell to one knee. Swiftly, Calmet's flail bashed the back of the misfortunate's head and knocked him forward onto his face, pulling the next slave downward with him.
Calmet's backhand smashed the second slave and his second forehand liberated some of the brain matter from the fallen one. With frightening speed, the cleric's scowl changed to a smile.
He looked up and shouted with near insane devotion, "Honored are the weak. Early shall they find Gruumsh." He opened his arms in that universal gesture common to clerics when they call for conversion and asked, "Who shall be honored next?"