The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 4

Twilight. The sun bids farewell 'til night once more gives way to day. The moon hides his face until his time has come, and the stars open their weary eyes to the world far below.

A time when lovers meet, creatures begin their nightly prowls, and young boys stare sadly into the shimmering depths of Lake Lavinia.

His reflection, though distorted by the constant ripples, gazed back with the same dejected expression. His eyes, empty and forlorn followed the gentle waft of the wind against the rippling waters. He thought of times long gone, full of laughter and merriment. Times that had faded into the mists of memory.

Curly red hair hung low across his forehead, a tunic fell against his hips and brown pants pulled tightly against his legs. He was a boy becoming a man. Rosy cheeks coupled with muscles just beginning to form beneath tanned, roughened skin displayed only a small part of the storm beginning to rage within him.

Remembering a time of simplicity, tears glowed in his dark brown eyes. It was moments that had passed so easily beneath his carefree spirit, he now wished to reach out and hold tightly to until they showered him with the blessings he had once known so well. He could see his sister's flying blonde hair, he could feel the excitement whip through his tingling senses, and he could taste the laughter burst through his body as his fingers alighted on her shoulder. A sob shook him, tearing through the silence of the night. Tears fell as if a dam had finally shattered beneath the weight of the water.

Twilight had finally darkened into night. Only the soft glow of the moon touched the earth with her tender smile. The boy had felt the agony leave his soul and now all it left behind was an emotionless hole.

What gave cause to such stirrings in his soul? Simply the hardships of becoming a man or something more? All I can tell you, honest reader, is 'when faith is gone, there remains nothing but hate'.

And, so hate took its place in the young man's heart, a bud, small, untested, but alive.

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"Please, let's not talk of these things. They are on every tongue it seems, and I am thoroughly sick." Sir Ryan spoke in a raised voice across the table.

"Of course not. I pray you would forgive me, brother. I spoke without reflecting upon my words," the priest said compassionately.

It was an apology Sir Ryan could neither turn down nor deny. Instead, he muttered a few words of acceptance under his breath and turned back to his food with a vengeance.

The two men sat huddled on the corner of a tavern, two bowls of warm, lumpy soup and two chunks of bread placed before them. Most of the men now gracing the place of business had long ago fallen into a state of drunkenness. The bartender smiled grimly as one man shot out his large hand and demanded, "Another one!" Sir Ryan wondered at the stupid faces that went by them, swaying to the music playing in their own heads.

"Hold yer tongue, Shedaro!" A voice traveled across the tavern. Sir Ryan turned to see a grimy man punch another rather unclean man in the arm. "There's a priest over there. You can't say those kinds of things around a priest." His greasy hair fell haphazardly over his face, but his eyes stayed strikingly alert. Teeth yellowed and rotten chewed down on a hard loaf of bread as the other man mumbled something in response.

"They might not be so concerned if they knew some of the things I've heard." Father Thomas shook his head. He raised his tankard to his mouth and took a hearty swig.

The old priest munched thoughtfully. There were many things in life he had to hide from his best friend, a thing both of them understood, but sometimes the secrets began to feel like a burden he was too weak to carry on his own. Sometimes he wondered if this was truly God's plan for him. A life of secrecy seemed to him so undermining of the reason he became a priest in the first place.

"There's something strange I heard today. There seems to have been a string of murders, all connected." Sir Ryan was stirring his stew thoughtfully with a large, wooden spoon.

This got Father Thomas's attention. "What do you mean murders," he asked tentatively.

"You know, killing that is in most lands against the law." The knight smiled sarcastically.

Refusing to let it go, the priest prodded, "and how do they know they are connected."

"The killer has a signature," Sir Ryan grunted, pushing his lanky body away from the table.

"A signature?"

"A sign, some sort of oddity peculiar to only him."

"What do you think was his motive?"

"Well, aren't you the busy body today?" He grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

Not to have his name sullied, Father Thomas spoke out. "I... simply wanted to be prepared to warn my flock just in case he feels the urge to visit one of them with his sword of death." He knew it was a lie even before it flew from his mouth.

"Ah, I see," Sir Ryan said, disbelief emanating from him. "Although, it's not the sword of death... it's more... the ax of death."

"You mean he..."

"Yes." It was only one word, but with it came bone-chilling certainty.

It was with a heavy heart, Father Thomas bade goodnight to his friend. All the lies and death had finally worn down his tender soul.

Only a few words to God were said before his light flickered out and the world said goodbye to another day.