The Church of Red Knives

Almost drowning in the clutches of river monsters hadn’t been in the itinerary. Danielle’s bites were turning yellow and swelling. As often as possible Lupita Smith, her girlfriend, drained the hideous lumps on her neck and leg.

            Carl’s injuries were worse. Despite coming out of the water without a scratch, reviving him had involved breaking his ribs for chest compressions. The freezing cold combined with his broken ribs had the boy weeping as he slept.

            A huge fire maintained by Sir Fabian Castel and the perfumer Badru Quacey kept the injured two hot on one side at a time while the winter winds whipped away their heat from the other.

            As well as a royal perfumer, Badru was a loup garou, similar to a werewolf. He brought the party a fresh deer from the strip of forest between Border River and the Sliabh Mountains.

            “Did someone promise me a kiss,” Carl asked. “If it was one of the men then no thank you. If it was Danielle or Lupita, then it’s long overdue and I’m waiting.”

            “You’re awake.” Miss Smith planted a tender kiss on the boy’s cheek and fetched some of the venison soup bubbling in the pot over the fire.

            “Only one kiss? I feel that for whatever just happened I deserve at least a handful.”

            “It didn’t just happen Carl. We’ve been camped here for two days now waiting for you to be strong enough to go back to Leonor.”

            “Back? I’m not going back. We have an adventure to go on. Let me-” He tried to sit up, gasped and fell back down. “No. Second thoughts, I’d rather be dead. Finish me off and be on your way. My gods.” He wheezed.

            “I had to break your ribs to perform a resuscitation.”

            “Then one kiss isn’t nearly enough.” The boy lay back, eyes wide, staring into the grey sky. “I blame the tea.”

            “What?”

            “The tea,” said the chatterbox. “The stuff the old man in the death room was drinking. Who does that? Leaves in water and you drink it?”

            “That’s basically what soup is Carl.” Danielle said, touching one of her tender yellow bites. She turned to warm the other half of her body, leaving the cooked side to freeze.

            “You’d think but I’ve never had dried leaf soup, have you? It’s an omen for sure. Do you think they have tea in Sliabh?” He raised his head and winced, looking at her.

            “Probably. The mortician said it came from the south.”

            “Then I think it’s safe to say we shouldn’t go. They’ll have that stuff there in pots everywhere and they’ll be drinking it, plotting how to drown us all.”

            “I don’t think that’s how it works Carl,” Fabian said, adding more wood to the fire.

            “The Church of Red Knives is a bunch of assassins,” said Lupita, shrugging.

            “See!”

            “Not helping my love,” Danielle said, prodding one of her lumps until her fingers came away covered in a yellow, oily liquid. Her neck burnt in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.

            “They sit in their church drinking tea and thinking up ways to drown me. We need to go back to Leonor. People there only try to punch and stab me. Much better.” Carl’s voice had more enthusiasm than life to it. As ever he was animated but there was a wheeze as he spoke, and the wincing looked like a constant twitch.

            “People in Crann want you dead because you’re an imperial. Sliabh hasn’t been invaded by the empire yet. They have no reason to hate you. They’ve never even met you.”

            “Give them a few minutes and they’ll want me dead like everyone else.” Danielle found it hard to refute the boy’s words, he had a talent for provocation.

Two days later Danielle’s wounds were scabbing over nicely. Despite his wounds, Carl was forcing himself to stand. The mountains lay ahead of them, and the quintet made a start. Whereas it was usually Danielle who volunteered to do the heavy lifting, Badru in his wolf form was lifting everything but the clothes they wore and making it look easy.

            “Do loup garous have superhuman strength?” Carl asked, as he walked in a way he felt minimised the movement of his ribs.

            “Not particularly, well above average perhaps. That said I would appreciate regular rests as we walk.” The wolfman sat down and exhaled a huge plume of white into the icy air.

Even walking up the lowest point between two peaks of the range took Danielle higher than she had ever been before. Carl suffered the most from dizziness as altitude sickness set in. Lupita was constantly reminding them all to drink as much as possible. The further up into the mountains they went, the slower they had to go. There were no trees eventually.

            Wolves howled in the night. Mountain goats clattered up and down sheer faces with unbelievable speed.

            Night began to fall upon them as they walked down towards the hills of western Sliabh. Setting the tent was impossible for everyone but Badru, whose yellow eyes in the darkness made Danielle want to reach for her sword.

            Agony reassured her upon waking that she hadn’t died in the night. Aches competed for her attention. Her bites still burned and itched. Her spine throbbed after an injury she couldn’t even remember. Her wrists ached from sword training with Fabian and her back hurt from the whipping she’d received for saving Carl. Not dead though. Joy.

            Carl had his eyes shut tight as he groaned. His fingers hovered over his ribs as he lay on his back.

            “We’ll find you help in Sliabh.”

            “I’m fine.” The boy began humming. “Just doing my morning vocal exercises.”

            “Liar.”

            “You owe me kisses.” He looked at her with blue eyes surrounded by red veins.

            “I thought you wanted kisses from Lupita?”

            “One of you. Either of you. Both?”

            “Keep dreaming.”

            “I do. Stop fighting my radiant charisma.”

            “You’re not charismatic Carl.”

            “I ooze charisma Danielle.”

            “We don’t want to know about your oozes boy.” Lupita took his hand. With a protracted groan he rose to his feet.

            “Give in to my charms, ladies. You can’t resist them forever.”

            “We can try.” Lupita rolled her eyes, helping the others pack up the camp.

Down the mountain as the sun rose the snow was melting. All of them slipped and fell at least a dozen times on their way down animal tracks that zigzagged through conifers.

            Smoke rose from hamlets here and there. The quintet avoided them until the tracks between became roads. Badru switched back to his human form, ginger hair standing out there as much as Carl’s yellow hair and blue eyes.

            Travelers on the road, usually farmers with livestock or grain, mostly ignored them. A few glowered at the armed foreigners in their land.

            “Which way to Caraig City?” Danielle asked a hunched man dragging a donkey and a cart of hay. He licked what seemed to be his last tooth then nodded northwards and spat. “Thank you.” She nodded to him. He only grunted and continued walking south.

Spilling out beyond its own walls, Carraig was at least twice the size of Leonor city. It spread across the low hills up into the mountains. Towers of churches rose here and there among vast slums.

            Street urchins dressed in sackcloth rags chased each other through the muddy streets. Danielle wrinkled her nose at the endless filth over which wooden walkways had been constructed in a ramshackle manner.

            A boy picking his bleeding nose swore at them as they passed. She only pitied him. Even though he sat above them on a thatched roof she could see bruises all over his face and arms. Carl had come home in similar states after accepting fights with other boys his age in Leonor.

            “Do you know the way to the Church of Red Blades?” Danielle asked a young man drinking beer on a street corner.

            Looking them up and down with one brown and one milky eye, he nodded. “Everyone does. Why?”

            “We are here to seek the healers; our friend is injured.” Lupita waved a hand at Carl.

            “Friends with imperials, are you? I could take you. One silver piece.” He rubbed the bags beneath his eyes with blackened fingers.

            “Fair enough.” Lupita looked to Fabian, who had the money.

            Never taking his eyes off the young man, the knight reached into his shirt and felt for a coin in his purse. Silvers were hexagons with round holes in Crann’s currency, he found one and tossed it to the lad, who caught it deftly.

            The Carraiger, as they are known, looked with fascination at the silver coin. He turned it over in his hand, then bit it. Seemingly surprised that it was genuine he looked at them all again. “Crann?”

            “Yes. Take us to the Church of Red Knives.”

            “Fine.” He scratched the stubble under his nose and turned around. “If you need to know where anything else is in Carraig, I can show you. I know this place top to bottom.” His tone had switched from suspicious to welcoming in a heartbeat.

            “Perhaps. We’ll need a place to sleep tonight when we’ve been to the church. What is your name?” Fabian asked in a haughty voice that drew looks from the workers and the vagrants alike.

            “I’m Rory O’Neil, yourselves?”

            “Fabian Castel.” The handsome knight nodded his head.

            “Danielle Longbow.” The daughter of a knight and a fishwife nodded.

            “Lupita Smith.” Her glossy black hair bounced as she bowed her head.

            “Carl Northman.” The boy touched his hand to his chest then held out the palm to Rory as if handing him an imaginary heart.

            “Badru Quacey.” The loup garou sniffed.

            “Two soldiers, one smith. What kind of names are Northman and Quacey?”

            “I’m from the north, if I didn’t name myself people did it for me.” Carl’s cheeks turned red at the thought of it. The flush spread up to the tips of his ears.

            “Quacey is an old family name where I’m from,” said the ginger man with a long nose.

            “Which is?” Rory led them down beneath hovels that had been built up over the road in a way that was ready to topple at any moment. The smell of human excretions intensified.

            “The forest past the Horned God’s Peak.” It was Badru’s turn to look embarrassed, as if he had spilled a secret that was not his to share.

            “Never heard of it.” Rory’s voice was casually dismissive. “Nearly there now.”

The sound of the city was a mix of casual chatter laced with shamelessly loud arguments. Screams punctuated the calm here and there, mostly from the direction they were heading in.

            “The Church of Red Blades will fix you up right as long as you pay tribute. They got the best surgeons and healers around. Maybe apart from the king’s but who knows.”

            “What does the king think about having a church of assassins in his city?” Danielle asked before she could stop herself.

            Rory turned and gave her a wide grin. “I only hope the king’s smart enough to know this isn’t his city. It’s his kingdom mind you. Sliabh is his but Carraig belongs to the Church of Red Knives. He lets them be and they let him live. Having world famous assassins in your capital doesn’t hurt for keeping invaders away either I think.”

            “Everyone knows what they are? What they do?” Carl asked, wincing as he talked.

            “Yeah. They preach on behalf of the God of Dire Necessity. When there’s someone needs to die, they’re the god you pray to. Pray loud enough and keep the church in coin, your prayers will be answered.”

            “Do you pray to the God of Dire Necessity?” Danielle asked.

            “Course, don’t want to end up on his shit list, do I?” Rory smiled his cheeky smile as if it was a casual thing. Sliabh was weird. “Basically, you have the three different types of acolytes. Red acolytes are the assassins, they’re orphans trained by the church from the age of three. Don’t look at them funny.” He turned back to check everyone on his tour were paying heed. “Then you’ve got the grey acolytes. They’re the soldiers. Trained from age of five to seven.” He sighed. “I missed the cut. Then there’s the brown acolytes. They preach, perform surgery, handle business. If you’ve got a confession to make, you make it to them. If you need help, you ask them. Some of them go straight into the brown robes and some of them retired from the other two.”

            The sky returned overhead as they moved up hill. The stink of bodily fluids subsided. Groups of apple trees in rings surrounded a towering ruin covered in scaffolding.

            “Is that the Church of Red Knives?”

            “That’s the place,” said the local, with no small portion of reverence. “Be good. I’ve been seen with you now. You mess up and the red acolytes will come for me as well.”

            Burly men in grey robes frowned from platforms over crowds pushing to be near the church. Among the scabby masses were brown robed acolytes who had kind faces and frail bodies.

            Grey acolytes looked particularly interested in the armed quintet of foreigners wading through the crowds of locals. Fingers twitched on crossbows that were ready to fire and awaiting a bolt. Danielle swallowed. There was no doubt that someone who had trained since the age of five would be a good shot. She couldn’t have run in the heaving crowd if she’d tried.

            Memories of fighting on the wall top in Leonor flooded her mind. She was treading on the dead and the dying and elbow to elbow with friend and foe. Her heart galloped as her vision blurred. She fought the urge to draw her sword and stab everything in sight. Screaming soldiers filled her ears. Imperial soldiers and warriors of Crann sounded similar when they were dying in agony.

            Lupita squeezed her hand.

            Danielle let out a deep breath and realised she was sweating.

            “It’s alright Dan. I’m here.”

            “You seem to have come a long way,” said a wizened voice. “Have you come to pay homage or to seek the aid of the God of Dire Necessity.”

            “Both,” said Fabian in a booming voice.

            “Excellent. Head on in then. Up the steps and explain yourselves to an acolyte in brown robes. You will find what you need, though, not necessarily what you want.”

            “Thank you.” Fabian’s voice was both commanding and honeyed.

            “I’ll wait for you here,” said Rory. “When you come out, I’ll find you lodging for the night.”

            The interior of the church was clean but decrepit. Like everything else in the district, it seemed on the verge of collapse. The Church of Red Knives was a world-renowned organisation. It did not spend money on trivial things like renovating its base of operations it seemed. A ruse Danielle guessed. Appear weak when you are powerful, strong when you are weak. She knew that was a common saying in military circles.

            A tapestry of the three acolytes was faded and fraying on the wall. A brown robed man held a holy book and preached to the masses in the bright light of the sun. A grey robed woman held a spear and shield at sunset. A red robed shadow held a knife dripping with blood on the faded dark blue of a starry night.

            A handful of brown robed men and women guided flea bitten locals to either a doctor or the kitchen depending on their needs. One gangly figure approached them with open hands and a warm smile.

            “How may I be of service to yourselves,” he took them all in with a brown eyed glance, “gentlemen and my lady?”

            “Someone came here with a confession recently. We wish to ask about it.” Fabian all but whispered to the man.

            Wincing slightly, the brown acolyte nodded and turned and began walking in the opposite direction. “I cannot say that your prayer will be answered but it is never a sin to ask. Follow me. Only the Archbishop may divine whether the God of Dire Necessity wills it so.”

            They followed the man down a hallway to the left when those in need of food or healing had turned right. Ignoring five woodworm bitten oak doors the brown acolyte knocked on the sixth at the end of the hall.

            The brown acolyte gestured them into the room and closed the door behind them. Though a large room it was cramped. Shelves piled high with books and potions. On the wall to the left was a world map more expansive than anything in Crann.

            In a chair that might once have been a throne, sat Patrick Murphy. He had a plaque written in imperial standard on the desk to say so. He was a wiry man with grey stubble to match the peppered hair on his head. Liver spots on his hands and under the hair said that he was one of the oldest people Danielle had ever met.

            Rubbing ink-stained fingers against his chin, Patrick waited for them to talk with an amused smile on his face. One sleeve of his brown robe was red, the other grey.

            “Two of your red acolytes tried to kill our queen and one of our ladies.”

            “Ah.” His eyes glittered with a fearsome wit. “Then we should talk.”