A Swift Adjudication

A Swift Adjudication
By Brendan Higginbotham

The road ended where the forest opened to the vast steppe to the north. There at the forest's edge a raiding party divided their spoils. The village miles behind was burning, and their expedition had been so successful that the meager plunder of this raid did not inspire too much bickering.
One of the party was called Synneros. As he tied his sacks of booty to his saddle he looked over his steed's back to the low hills of the steppe. If maps were believed it stretched near a thousand miles. Far off lightning struck silently. A distant storm. Synneros knew not what omen to make of it, for he had not the gift of interpretation, and as was oft the case, his wit failed him.
Behind him the Merry Butcher spoke, "Come north, to Peatorsburh with us."
"No," Synneros replied, facing his chief. "I am for the east, they say the river there is full of barges, and I like the cover of the forest."
The older man smiled through his thick beard and spake thus, "You'll find some riches aboard those barges, but to take one alone?" He patted the rump of Synneros' horse.
Synneros scratched his sparsley whiskered chin, "I'm not one for thinking far into the future."
The Merry Butcher laughed and said, "Of that there was never any question." And he clapped Synneros on the shoulder then went to join his dozen men in determining the split of their plunder.
Synneros, young and full of doubts, attempted to ponder some hidden meaning in the Merry Butcher's words. None came to him and he cinched the chords of his sacks to the saddle.
"I would go with you, to the east, and the river". The voice came from the rope corral where the prisoners were hobbled. It came from a raven haired beauty, and Synneros knew her to be from the Temple in the village they had sacked. He looked to her. She stood amidst the small crowd of prisoners, her ankle roped to a stake. Her beauty unmarred but for a mark he could not decipher on her cheek. No birthmark that. Her eyes, he thought, were the color of the sea. But then he had not seen the sea.
Behind him an angry voice spoke, "Hush, bitch. I am your master now. Guard your tongue or I may eat it".
Synneros heard the voice, but his attention was locked on the tethered beauty. She spoke in a voice without pleading or command. As if it were of no consequence that she should ask to accompany one other than her rightful owner.
"She fears the markets of Peatorsburh," said Aborah, her captor. He laughed, not without relish, and said, "She knows not what she escapes by my selling her."
Synneros tore his eyes from the woman; he turned to look upon Aborah. In the months they had spent together, Synneros had failed to develop any affection for him. Aborah was fierce, respected, and next to the Merry Butcher as rich as any of their band. Yet Synneros, perhaps afflicted by his youth, despised the seasoned warrior. Aborah took more pleasure than plunder from the villages they sacked, and was known to favor the children for slaves, and after having his way with them, murdering them. And worse yet he was known to take perverse pleasure in slaughtering the shaggy mutts the people of this land used to tend their sheep.
They'd had words before, over the dogs and not the children, and now Synneros felt it was a fine time to settle. "I would take the wench. Without right."
Aborah stood from where he examined his loot. He was a fat man, bearded, and his hair hung to his shoulders, though it receded from his brow and so formed a gross halo of greasy tangles. He wore a good mail shirt but dressed in old fashioned knee length trousers, and on his feet he wore sandals, in the fashion of the priests of this strange region. He laughed and spake, "You jest, curr. I have seen your skill at arms often enough. No man would wager you might best me."
The men of the raiding party stared silently, the goods they were dividing forgotten as they watched Synneros step away from his horse. He had good plunder but had secured no good weapons. He wore a stone pick, with sharpened ends and a leather wrapped handle. He unhooked it from his belt. Aborah wore an ancient spatha. It hung in a scabbard from a baldric, and he drew it with a flourish that made its long blade sing. Synneros had long admired this sword, but now he gauged its length with fear. It was old, but the blade was unmarked, and the hilt seemed to be made of silver, though Aborah had wrapped the handle tightly in dyed black leather. A hollow in the pommel perhaps once held a jewel of some kind. It was an elegant thing to be wielded by such a brute.
Like most of Aborah's fights it ended quickly. Unlike most, he lost. He swung his sword to his opponent’s temple but Synneros had judged the length correctly and leaned back and out of its arc, the broad tip of the blade taking a flake of skin from his nose as it passed. Then with a great step forward he trapped Aborah's arm before he could backswing and sank the point of his pick deep into the fat man's skull. Aborah's spirit flew instantly, and he sank to the ground with one eye bulging from its socket under the pressure of the steel deep in his brain.
For a moment the only sound was a great breath heaving itself from Aborah's body with a groan. Then the Merry Butcher spoke, "That's settled then. You take the girl, and the two boys he took with her. We'll divide his other spoils among us."
Synneros was at the body and unbuckling the baldric and scabbard, “Keep the boys," he said "I want his sword, and his horse for the girl".
The Merry Butcher gave his consent, and then gestured to his men who set about Aborah's goods. Synneros tethered his pick to the right side of his belt and then buckled on the baldric so that the spatha hung at his left hip. In the corral the two boys, orphans and wards of the Temple it seemed, were pleading with the raven haired beauty not to leave them. She watched Synneros and did not heed them. He dipped under the rope wall of the corral and asked the girl, "How are you called?".
"Lyllith," she answered, "Thank you." Synneros nodded and knelt to free her bonds. She wore plain sandals and an unadorned white woolen robe. He purposefully fumbled with her ties and caressed the soft bare skin of her ankle with his finger, then looked up at her, smiling lewdly. She rolled her eyes at him. His smile vanished, but then returned.
When she was freed he said "Can you ride?"
"I can ride." Behind them the two boys were mewling like kittens, and the Butcher's men were growing irritable.
"Then go fetch this bastards horse," he turned to the Merry Butcher, "Fare thee well, old man. We are away from here".


In the smoldering ruin of the temple Tarsus DeSol offered up a sorrowful prayer. His squire, the young boy Thomas, wept openly at the sight of the dead priest, charred and blackened amidst the ashes of the alter.
"They've taken The Book, I'm told, and the witch that we were called here to adjudicate." Tarsus rested a hand gently on his kneeling squire's shoulder, drawing him from his thoughts of grief.
"Perhaps she will use her evil power to smite those who took her, and there will be a kind of justice for all this horror." Thomas said hopefully.
Tarsus shook his head as they walked back out into the ruined village proper. Seventy souls had dwelled here, and now most were dead in the mud of their own parcels and picked at by carrion. Some were taken as slaves, and some had likely not ceased their flight from what looked a hellish sacking. Some emerged from hiding to pick over what little remained of their neighbors and their goods. "Not likely," he told Thomas as they walked, "I've tried a hundred witches, but only ever met one true case of that accursed craft. Most often it’s an aspersion people cast against their enemies. And remember Thomas, that false witness is as great a sin as witchcraft."
They walked through the mud and past the corpses and past a woman weeping over the body of a child. At their horses Tarsus took his belt and scabbard from the saddle, for he had not worn it into the Temple. Even in ruin, it was a holy place. He was dressed in a plain tunic made from a priest's robe, and over this he belted his long rapier.
"What will we do?" asked Thomas as they mounted.
"Follow them, seek The Book. A holy text is a precious thing, and we will do the most good by retrieving it."
Thomas' brow furrowed in worry. "By the tracks there are a score of them. Shouldn't we ride back to Mascau and bring more men?"
"Look closer at the tracks, my boy. Most are from the prisoners and horses these brigands took. I suspect a force of ten or so." He steered his mare onto the road and they rode north in earth trampled by the raiders and their victims.
"Ten is still many. I have never fought outside a tourney. Will we set upon them in their sleep?"
"The Most Holy One will provide a plan, Thomas. Though His ways are mysterious to men, they are to be trusted. His love is unfailing."
Thomas felt uncertainty. He said "The people of that village might say different."
Tarsus put mild scold into his voice and spake "Mind your tongue, boy. And more importantly mind your heart. Trust is the soul of love, and Father of all men, Maker of all things, has infinite love for us. So must we trust in Him wholly, for such is an act of love."
"I do Marshal, I do love Him who is exalted above all. I speak bitterly from sorrow."
Tarsus smiled at Thomas and said "I know, my boy, and the Most Holy One knows your heart as well. As you come to know Him more, your sorrow will be comforted".
They followed the road and the tracks. The Marshal stopped at times to peer closely at the sign and showed Thomas what it revealed to him. A mile after the road entered a forest they found a villager, a woman. She lay stripped and pale. Bled to death from an unseen wound and left behind by her captors. They prayed for her, and rode on.
"Will we fight them, sir?" Thomas asked after a time.
Tarsus stroked his clean shaven chin and thought. "I would imagine so,” he said "But these sorts are generally a prideful lot, and the pride is a mask for their cowardice. Strong, some of them, and hearty. But untrained."
"Can training make the difference against numbers?"
"It can," Tarsus replied, "But we have more than training, for remember we do not fight by flesh and blood alone. Our steel is sharp, and quick, but is guided by the loving heart of the Father and the Maker. And while we ourselves are prone to misstep, His aims are unerring." Tarsus smiled up at the sky. He admired the wonders of his Father and Maker, and the truth of his words pleased him for he knew The Most Holy One listened.
At some length and with shifting, sore backsides they came to the roads end and the forest's edge. The sign of the raider's camp could have been seen by and deciphered by a blind lunatic. A bloated dead man lay stripped but for his sandals. The sticks and ropes that had been a fence of some sort were hanging loosely and no longer needed to be sturdy, for inside them the only two occupants were dead. Two boys, dressed in the attire of Temple wards. Heads crushed by what looked to be a heavy stone pried from the earth, now lying near them covered in blood and dirt.
Thomas's voice trembled with rage and grief and he said, "Marshal, I’d like to get a blade into these bastards. I'm sorry but I lust for blood. How can men be so evil?"
Tarsus did not scold his squire. Dismounting, he sighed wearily. The boys were not as old as Thomas, but nearly so. "Men are capable of much evil. But evil such as this, I suspect the work of a darker enemy, The Enemy that moves men's hearts to evil, when they do not seek the love of the Most Holy One."
"The work of the witch, perhaps?" Thomas came down from his horse and looked upon the sign with Tarsus who was casting curious glances to the northern steppe and to the eastern line of the forest.
"Possible. But my opinion stands on witches. Not common."
"And if she has The Book?"
Tarsus looked at Thomas; he held a hand to a cheek and thumbed away a tear the boy did not even know he had shed. "The power of the words are not in the paper and binding, my boy, but in our hearts." He gestured to the tracks around them then and said "Look here, two riders broke off to the east. The others go north”.
“And us?” Thomas asked, “How do we know which to follow, which has The Book?”
Tarsus smiled at his squire and said, “We pray.”

The camp Synneros and Lyllith made was along a stag trail a hundred yards south of the opening steppe, in the shallow of the forest. The fire was strong, though the wind was chill. Synneros sharpened and oiled his liberated spatha, sitting and leaning with his back against a trunk. In similar repose, Lyllith brushed her hair with an ivory handled brush borrowed from the spoils of Synneros’ hefty sacks. They had eaten two whole rabbits. Taken from the village, freshly cleaned, but sure to spoil soon so they gorged themselves as not to waste them. He had liked watching her eat, delicately picking at the meat and sucking at the bone. He liked watching her brush her hair as well. When she set the brush aside and set to rubbing ointment on her now bare feet he nicked his thumb on the edge of his sword and thought with much contentment of raping her.
“Where are you from, girl?” he asked her, unfamiliar as he was with these lands, she still struck him as a stranger to them.
“A long way off,” she said as she stretched herself out and lowered her recline against the tree, “A place of light and gardens and full of peaceful creatures and colorful fruit.”
Synneros suspected she mocked him, as it seemed to please her so well to do. “What finds you in these gray lands, then?”
“Exiled,” she said, “By my husband.”
Synneros smiled and, hoping for a lurid tale, asked “And why has he banished you. Some disobedience?”
“Yes” she said.
“And,” he licked his lip a little and shifted upon his arse in eagerness. “In what way did you disobey him?”
“In each way I could think of. He learned soon enough not to speak to me, for fear that whatever he spake, the opposite would happen.”
“Why so cruel? Did he beat you?” Synneros asked, he was confused but such a state was familiar to him.
“Nay, he loved me more than any man ever loved any woman”, her eyes locked his and she finished, “But I will not be commanded. Not even by love.”
Synneros nodded, feigning understanding. “You’ve come to the wrong place, girl. From what I can see the gods of these people speak of nothing but love. I killed a priest in that village and as he died he kissed the toe of my boot and spoke forgiveness.”
“I’m a woman, not a girl. Call me what you will, but I prefer to be called rightly.”
“Fine” Synneros waved a dismissive hand, “Bitch suits you best anyway.” But he would not call her that. And he would remember she didn’t like girl.
“God”. She said.
“What?” he asked, ever lacking the pace of conversation. Did she wish to be called God?
“You said ‘gods of this land’. But from what I see the people here worship only one. As a servant in their Temple I saw the strangeness you speak of.”
Synneros sank the spatha into its wooden, wool wrapped scabbard and set it aside. Fetching from the sack near him a skin of water he said “Yes, I forget. The one god. And even he has no name. A strange people.”
“It is said his name cannot be spoken by the tongues of men, or his faced looked upon by their eyes. He has many titles though. The Most Holy One. Father of all men and Maker of all things. They say he is the God above all gods.” Lyllith took the water he reached out to offer her.
“All men say this of their chosen god.” Synneros said. He took a stiletto from his boot and set to cleaning some dried blood from its edge and fine point.
Lyllith shrugged, “Perhaps”.
With his knife Synneros gestured at her marred cheek, “What mark is laid upon you? Slave?”
Lyllith touched her cheek without thinking, “Witch”. Synneros nearly dropped his stiletto and fumbled to recover it, he stared at her, startled. She laughed heartily at his fright and said, “Fear not, Synneros. I’m no witch. The two boys, Temple wards, they were jealous of the priest’s affection for me. They conspired to have me accused. The village, fearful sheep that they are, branded me before the Marshal came to decide the case against me.”
Synneros thought deeply, though it pained him. Then shrugged, “T’is of no matter, I have no fear of witches and demons and the like.”
Lyllith laughed deeply again, and the sound seemed to produce a fluttering in Synneros’ belly that he was unfamiliar with. “You looked like a doe caught sight of the hunter with a knocked arrow. Your eyes doubled in size at least.” she said, overcoming her laughter.
Synneros shrugged again and said, “Yes, well, I forgot I wasn’t afraid of them for a moment.” They grinned at each other like children for a time. Synneros thought much during the silence of the lithe body beneath her robe. But then his thoughts turned and he asked, “What of this Marshal? I hear much of them in these lands. An odd thing for church guardians to have such fearful reputations”.
“Tarsus DeSol is the name of the Marshal for this parish. He alone adjudicates the affairs of four Temples. Spread over seventy miles. I saw him fight in a tourney once. A master of the sword. And the reason I sought to accompany you.”
Synneros nodded, “To escape your verdict”.
“Nay,” Lyllith said, “From the Temple your band’s chieftan took a heavy tome. The sacred text of these people’s nameless god. DeSol will seek its return. And will return it or die in the attempt”.
“If he follows our trail he will see we have divided. The Merry Butcher has this book, but your Marshal can’t know which trail to follow. Your chances are no better with me. He may follow us”. Synneros laid out his bed roll. The red moon was showing in the night sky and his content weariness readied him for sleep.
“Perhaps. But the man you slew to take me was no chance for me at all. And they say Marshals have the gift of revelation from their god. That path was sure to end in terrible wrath.”
“As might this one,” Synneros said grinning again, “You have no knowledge of my intent”.
Lyllith rolled her eyes again. She brushed her hair behind her ear with exaggerated obviousness. “Why not open a skin of wine. And perhaps we should lie together, against the cold.”
Synneros laughed as he settled into his bed roll, “I think not, woman. Debauched and drunk, my first night with you would likely find my throat slit come sunup”.
“My beauty is no secret to me; few men neglect to receive the gift of my affections”. Lyllith said, even as she slid under her own blanket.
“Few men live long. Sleep well, woman.”


Morning came. The sun rose and the majesty of the Maker of all things warmed Tarsus, and woke him. And he knew the way. The Most Holy had spoken to him, filled his mind and heart with a sudden and indescribable peace. The comfort of His wisdom brought sure knowledge, and he let the tears come, for his joy could not be contained. “Thomas,” he shook the boy awake. “We go east. Rouse yourself. Our quarry is not so far. We will make morning prayer and be off.”
Thomas stretched and yawned and rose. He dressed, and belted on the long knife he wore, swords not allowed to be carried by squires until the Temple deemed them worthy. Usually around thirteen, and Thomas had one year more before he would be examined. “Why east, sir?” seeing the tears in his master’s eyes he reached out to take his arm. “Why do you weep?”
Tarsus smiled and kissed the boy’s head. “Tears of joy, lad. He has spoken to me, shown me the way.” He glanced to the north and said “I would have thought to chase the larger party, but He leads me east.”
“And to The Book?” Thomas asked
“I know not. Only the Maker of all things is ever sure of what lies ahead. But I know as surely as I know you stand before me that we are given to this path. The mysteries of his majesties are endless. Better to contemplate their joys, than try at understanding. For the peace through which He speaks to us…” Tarsus cleared away the last of his tears, and he buckled his belt and rapier about his waist, “That peace, dear boy, is beyond the understanding of man. Mere words do not nearly describe it. Nor can they describe the comfort of the knowledge imparted by intimacy shared with the Father of all men.”
Thomas listened to him speak and felt a peace as well, welling up within his breast. Was he being spoken to? He did not know, but what fear he had was vanished, and so too his anger. He readied the horses.
Tarsus drew his rapier. He eyed the blade for defects, and began his morning prayer. For a Marshal of the Temple this meant slowly practicing the five cuts, the five parries, and the footing for moving into and out of each. Thomas joined him. Watching and mimicking and Tarsus nodded to him with approval as he cut the air and acclimated his body to the motions of the proper technique. Even has he practiced he spoke to his Maker, asking that he might sheath his sword unbloodied this day, but offering up his arm to the will of the Most Holy, who alone knew how things must be.
When it was done, they mounted, and rode east, into the light of morning sun.

The morning came and still they slept. Idleness was Synneros’ preference even after waking. And holding his head up on an elbow he watched Lyllith sleep. They had talked late into the night intermittently. She spoke to him of many places far away of which he had never heard. And he spoke to her of his life in the west, a land of perpetual war, and his journey north to lands not yet ravaged by massive armies. A paradise of plunder, and oh what a prize he had in her. He fondled himself in the morning with thoughts of taking her. And though he knew he could take her, some strange feeling kept him from it, and yet did not fret him. What of it? He dressed himself as she slept, and started the fire again. He warmed some bread over it and melted some cheese for a dip. No wine. He thought he must love her, but to be drunk and unguarded? No, he did not have that much trust in her.
He donned his leather surcoat, studded with brass, and over that his new baldric and spatha in its scabbard. He walked to the edge of the wood and looked out across the steppe. He was seized by a restlessness after a time, and turned to go back to the camp but as he did Lyllith joined him. She was dressed, and about her shoulders carried the heavy bear skin blanket she had slept in. Her hair was mussed and sleep stained her eyes and in that morning light she was the greatest beauty Synneros had ever seen. They did not speak, and the silence was easy. And Synneros thought of how peaceful it was to not need search his small mind for words. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, and she rested her head against him. He thought about raping her again, and then thought about killing himself so that the contentment he felt would be the last feeling he knew.
Then, to the west, he saw riders following the edge of the forest. Two. Perhaps seven hundred yards off. He was about to tell Lyllith when she saw them also. She straightened and together they watched them approach.
At two hundred yards Lyllith said, “The Marshal. DeSol.”
“Ride with children, do they?” Synneros said as he determined that one rider was of lesser stature, and sat a pony less heavy than the fine mare the other rode.
“A squire, training to be a Marshal. If young enough he’ll be unarmed.”
Synneros took his stiletto from his boot and gave it to Lyllith. “A steel spell for you to cast upon him, witch,” he smiled at her pleased at his own humor, “In case he kills me.”
The riders reigned in ten yards from the man and woman. Tarsus DeSol asked “You were at Amospilla?”
“Never heard of it.” Synneros replied, though he betrayed himself as he stepped to his right, away from the wood and the woman and to clear ground, muddy, but good enough for fighting. His intent seeped from his every pore. His left hand angled the scabbard of his sword forward so it was at hand for a sudden draw.
“Nor ever had a gift for lies,” Tarsus said as he dismounted. He too held his slender rapier’s scabbard with his left. He said to the woman, “You are the witch?”
“I’m no witch. The people of Amospilla were a fearful lot, and marked me without trial.”
Tarsus sighed and nodded. “My apologies, lady. Impatience is a common vice for those who fail to heed His tender call. Men are weak and prone to betray their very souls to the fear of The Enemy.”
“Yes.” Lyllith said, she held the stiletto openly. Tarsus saw it. The boy saw it. They did not know her story but knew that witch or no, she would fight them. Her sea colored eyes shown some anger that was inexplicable to them, but they sensed its danger.
“Look here, priest, your book is with the rest of our band. They rode north. I’m sure you can buy it back from them. The Merry Butcher is a reasonable man if you don’t rile him.” Synneros watched the Marshal. The man seemed as calm as a statue and had taken a few steps forward with such swift grace they were hardly noticed, and yet he was closer. His rapier was long and slender and Synneros knew the brass in his coat might deflect a cut but the lethal point of that blade would slip through a space and into his heart like an arrow through a linen shirt.
“If The Book is not here, then perhaps it is you for whom I have come.” Tarsus said. The brigand before him was big enough, and that broad chest made a fine target. His sword was of an old design, not as long as Tarsus’ rapier and he felt sure this fellow was without much skill in its use.
Synneros did not understand the man. But he hardly needed to and the morning’s warm sun was wasting. He drew his spatha.
Thomas dismounted but with a gesture Tarsus stilled him, and then unsheathed his rapier which seemed to capture the light of the sun as he drew it. He stepped forward into form, brought the sword to guard and said “I sense you are without a chance for mercy. But I pray to the Most Holy to offer it to you, where I cannot.”
Synneros did not understand. But he watched the sword and was sure it was too long to dodge and then close upon, he would have to be too far away and could not close in time to stay a backswing. But likely this cur would not swing. He could tell from the way he stood that this hand was practiced and a quick accurate thrust would end him. Fear rose up with in him. And then he was angry at his fear and his anger became a tight focus, so that he could not even see the squire but saw each slight movement in the Marshals loose footed stance.
Tarsus felt the warmth of the sun on his cheek. And though he was calm, a deeper calm came over him in a wave. His Maker warmed his soul and with a rush of infinite peace he knew what this brigand would do. He would swing at his head in a rage, and he, Tarsus DeSol, would parry with a movement of the wrist and strike at the ruffian’s heart.
Synneros suddenly swung his sword at the Marshals head. His rage fueled the swing, but it could not be said it was telegraphed, his speed and aim were true. But Tarsus knew the peace of victory and made his parry. But the parry was strange, it did not deflect much weight and Tarsus realized with some measure of confusion that the bastard’s strike was a feint. But he was already committed to his riposte and drove his rapier forward out of the parry and knew with certainty he would strike. As his point touched leather Synneros was pivoting and the rapier skidded across his chest, taking flesh but not deeply.
With a quick backswing powered by his twisting hips Synneros slashed across the Marshal’s belly. As powerful a cut as he had ever swung. And Tarsus’ belly opened. Like a massive cunt birthing a kraken the walls of his flesh parted and his entrails burst from him. His body was hollow before he knew what had happened, and losing his sense of feeling he fell to his knees. His peace fled him then, the contentment spewed from him and to the ground below with the steaming heaps of his viscera.
Synneros put the tip of his blade under Tarsus’ chin and lifted it. He looked into his startled eyes and searched his own mind for some pithy thing to say but as was oft the case, his wit failed him. So he only smiled. Tarsus looked into his killer’s eyes as every sensation flew from him. He searched for some sign there, and it came to him. He saw in those eyes a great and terrible emptiness, and it ran through him as hotly as the blade and he knew incredible fear. And then he died.
As the surrounding world came back to the smiling Synneros, he looked about him and saw the steppe, and the wood and the horses. And the boy squire, who lay at Lyllith’s feet. A deep prick in his throat sprayed blood like a fountain into the grass and mud. She was wiping the stiletto blade on her blanket. And so it was that Synneros, brigand and marauder, suddenly knew a love of such depth that the girlish poets and pious pilgrims had not even dreams of.