The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 17 - Father Kogan Greets the Mob

In the second century, the Phyros-rider Sir Anatos wearied of his blood rage and sought freedom from its grip.... Though unable to wean himself from the Blood of the god in his Phyros, he succeeded in some measure with a discipline of fasting, physical austerity, and near constant meditation and training. Living by the Rule of Anatos, an immortal could control the rage, but it was a difficult life.... When others joined him, they formed The Peaceable Order of The Blue - commonly known as the Blue Order - whose number is twelve.

- From Divine Blood, Cracked Vessels, by Tulos of Bury

Chapter Seventeen

Father Kogan hunched above the glowing remains of his campfire, one burly arm about the plump waist of the widow Larkin. For the first time since they left their homes, a full month before, the night camps of caravans along the road were silent. No blazing bonfires, no bawdy songs with rousing chorus, no ballads recited by squires and grooms. News of Sir Bannus's return had spread like a plague wind up the road.

The priest's camp was especially tense. There had never been a greater foe to the free peasants of Arkendia and their priests than the immortal Sir Bannus. They set their camp far from the road, well behind the other camps, which had cursed them bitterly and pulled stakes to move farther up river, afraid to be near them. A wide berth surrounded them. A killing field, Kogan thought, grimly. He instructed his folk to keep the fires small and close. Boys stood watch in the darkness beyond, and along the road. Those in camp kept their backs to the fires, baggage at hand, ready to flee to the forest. Already there'd been strange things moving on the road that night. Herds of horses. A Phyros, sure, judging by the action of the oxen when it passed.

None in the camp slept.

"Finally got acrosst the river," the widow muttered, "and you throw it all away. What're you gonna do if Bannus come for you?"

"What we always done. Run and hide." The priest sighed. "Trouble always follows Will."

"Oh, fie on Will! And fie on all his troubles, you great ox!"

She stabbed the coals with a stick, sending swarms of sparks in the air. "Never thought of the others around you. Had to pay some fool debt from your fool years as a brother."

The priest grew abruptly gruff. "You know I done right. I done right and I stand by it."

She turned to him, defiant, but said nothing, only searched his face as if for a courage she lacked.

His tone gentled. "Be brave, sweet. It ain't always safest to do what's right, but we do it."

"Even if this gets us killed? What's so right about it then?"

"Well, then it ain't about us at all. It's about Will."

The widow struggled to fight back tears. "It's always the plain folk what pay for them in wars and in peace, too. Why can't he pay his own way, and leave us be?"

"Will's troubles are our troubles. If he falls, we fall."

"I just wish it were different, Kogan. We've come so far, and now we stand to lose it."

A low cheer drifted through the trees from the south road. Kogan frowned, and eased the widow to the ground. He'd heard such noise too many times to mistake it for carousing. He stood to his full height above the fire, the smothercoat unfolding stiffly before and behind. Another cheer, this time closer. A shimmer of torches appeared through the trees where the road emerged from the south slope of the valley. Fifty, maybe one hundred hands, he estimated.

"It's a mob, sweet."

She stood, eyes hard, hands balled in fists. "Oh, Kogan. What'll we do?"

He glanced around their caravan - two score tents, two hundreds of men, women, and children - and saw that there was no need to warn a soul; every one of them was alert at their fires. With one hand he threw fresh wood on the fire.

"No, you fool!" the widow hissed, kicking the wood out again. "You call attention to us. We have light enough if it comes to that."

Kogan cursed and hefted the ancient Phyros-ax.

"Father Kogan! Father Kogan!" A small voice rang from the darkness, followed by a young boy with nose bloodied and eyes as wide and white as hen's eggs. "Father, they're coming. Twenty swords and spitfires and rope. They want to burn you! They say you burnt the stables. You have to run." He sobbed. "They hung Rich and Bailer."

"Hung?" The priest roared. "Where's the Justice o' the Peace? The Constable - damn them!"

"There ain't none this side the river."

The widow scrambled to the priest's side. "Run and save yerself, Kogan. Head 'em away from camp, and find us later when it cools off."

"By the laws, I won't. Stay here, and I'll meet 'em myself, I will." He strode toward the road, seething. The widow clung to his arm, dragging her feet ineffectually in the dust.

"Think what you're doing, you big ox! What'll you do? Pound 'em all like nails, one two three? If you do, every boy in the camp'll join with you, and they'll have a real reason to hang 'em. Listen to me. You run and lead the mob away - that's the only way to save the rest of us. Run. And tell them boys to stay low and give the mob no reasons. Say you will."

The priest hesitated, grinding his teeth and panting like a chained bull.

The widow laid a soft hand on the fist clutching the ax. Her voice became tender. "Save your fire for a better time, Kogan." She lifted her chin, but it quivered a little in spite of her. "I'll see you again right soon. Sure I will. Listen to me now. I got more in my head than you got in yours, and you knows it. It's the only way."

Tears welled in his eyes. "They won't let us be," he growled. "And what o' the caravan? I can't leave it now. Who'll lead?"

"I will," she said, indignantly. "And why not? I have the sense for it, and haven't I been a help so far? Then you come find us up the road when the trouble's past."

The priest's face shone suddenly in relief and admiration. "You have my store o' coin?" The widow nodded. "So be it. But don't you wait for me. I'll find you." He kissed her on the forehead, and grinned. "You're one fine woman, Widow Larkin."

"And you're a great ox of a Father," she said, beaming in spite of herself. "One who best stay quick if he knows what's best for him."

"Untie Geraldine," Kogan said to the boy with the bloodied nose. "Lead her to the forest where I can find her, and be quick. Go on!"

The boy untied the huge white cow, whose udders were heavy with milk, and whipped her toward the wood.

"All of you stay here," Kogan said to his worried flock. "Widow Larkin is your leader now till I come back."

"Father, they come apace!" someone cried. "The torches!"

A murmuring gang of shadows and firelight filled the road, a long bowshot away. Father Kogan trotted into the darkness to meet them.

When the mob saw him, it roared, and surged forward.

The priest held his giant ax aloft, like a god, and roared back. "You goat-headed fools! I ain't done nothing wrong! Go choke yourselfs!"

Spitfires popped. A pair of white-hot charges sizzled past in wavering arcs to skip harmlessly on the road beyond. Another splattered on the smothercoat and burned there ineffectually.

The mob rushed, and Kogan fled barefoot toward the forest.

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