Warlock of Ashmedai: The Perils of the Road

  Two weeks after Oak, Geezer and Ur-Namma escaped from the City of God

  “Whore!”

  “Heretic!”

  “Burn the bitch!”

  A rotten turnip burst apart against Sadia’s cheek, and the gathered crowd of onlookers cheered wildly. She tried to hide her face as the men dragged her past ramshackle hovels, towards the stage in the center of the village. Towards the gallows and the hangman’s rope.

  Her dirty, matted hair provided a poor curtain against the world, but with her hands tied behind her back, it was all she had. She was not much of a spellsinger yet, and trussed like this, even the simplest hex was beyond her.

  Sadia had thought herself tough, but now the fear was deep in her bones. It was a funny thing. She had imagined cursing her captors to the last breath as she lay in her cage. She had imagined it over and over again. What she would say to these bastards who had killed her mom.

  Oh, mother. Sadia’s mother had been a bony woman, all elbows and knees, but today she would’ve given anything for one of her mother’s awkward hugs.

  Now here she was, about to be fitted with a rope and words had left her.

  Strong, calloused hands carried her struggling body up the steps. The shoddily built stage wobbled, tortured boards groaning under the weight of too many feet. Sadia’s legs pushed at the wood, straining to delay the inevitable even for a moment. A fist sank into her stomach as a reward for her troubles.

  “Quit struggling, witch,” said the hook-nosed man, holding on to her right arm. “It won’t do you any good.”

  All the breath was pushed out of Sadia’s lungs, and she vomited her lousy breakfast of lean porridge over her own toes. It tasted no better coming up than it did going down.

  From the corner of her eye, Sadia spied a flash of white fabric shining in the morning sun. The middle-aged priestess of the Seraphim stood resplendent in front of the gathered villagers, shining like a beacon of light when compared to the shoddily dressed peasantry.

  The place was an utter shithole.

  It all felt so wrong. These brutish hicks would execute her in a moment, and the day was as beautiful as any day Sadia had ever seen. It should have been raining. Lightning should have pummeled the earth and the skies should have roared out in rage and fear. Just like her emotions roared in the corridors of her mind, locked inside by a mouth that had forgotten how to form words.

  Oh, mother.

  The priestess lifted her hands, and the crowd fell silent. Zerina. The self-righteous bastard's name was Zerina. The priestesses' blonde hair shone like a halo around her head and even though Sadia could not see it, she knew the bitch had a self-assured smile on her face.

  “Good people! Believers and followers of the Choir of the Seraphim!” Zerina shouted, with a clear voice that boomed across the village square, and commanded her flock to heel. “We have gathered here today to pass judgement onto Sadia Al-Sharekh.”

  Zerina turned halfway towards the stage and pointed an accusatory finger at Sadia. The priestess had a cute button nose, and plump, rosy cheeks. Her blue eyes sparkled with the joy of life. It was an injustice that someone so rotten could be so beautiful.

  “The foreigner is many things. A vagrant. A thief. A heretic.”

  The priestess let the moment hang, and the crowd waited for more with bated breath. It was clear that Zerina was not finished. She was milking the moment for all it was worth to rile up the villagers.

  “But that is not all. Oh no. This harlot is a diabolist!” Zerina shouted, voice dripping with satisfaction.

  Sadia had expected the accusation, but it still rankled. I have never even done any diabolism!

  The crowd gasped as one, mouths open in shock and horror. In the front row, a young woman fainted into the arms of a fat and balding man Sadia hoped was the woman’s father. The other alternative was too disgusting to contemplate.

  The priestess produced a large, black tome from the confines of her robes, and held it aloof for all to see. Sadia had thought her heart could not sink any lower, but it did. That was her grandmother's journal. God damn you, Zerina. If Sadia hadn’t already been shaking from fear, seeing the priestess pawing at the heirloom would have made her shake from rage.

  The day offered Sadia no choices. Fear it was. Righteous rage was much harder to hold on to when death breathed down your neck.

  “This dastardly grimoire, found in the camp of the accused, contains instructions for all manner of devilry and witchcraft,” Zerina said. “But that is not all. Hidden in these pages, dripping with the blood of the innocent, is a list of demons and a guide regarding their summoning!”

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  The melodrama continued. Nothing written in the pages was hidden, but Sadia had to admit framing it that way made all of it sound more sinister. The blood of the innocent was a nice touch. What is next? Sacrificing virgins under the full moon?

  “In the name of the Burning Holies, I find the accused guilty of demon worship and the practice of diabolism!” Zerina shouted, face turned towards the Heavens, every word and action suffused with religious fervor. “The sentence is death, by hanging!”

  The gathered villagers and farmers roared their approval, and the commotion of people calling for her death washed over Sadia like a wave. Strong hands pulled her forward again, towards the hangman. She forgot to struggle. The hook-nosed man dragged her on top of a hatch on the stage, under the gallows. The hatch squeaked.

  The hangman stepped in front of Sadia. He was older, with streaks of grey in his black hair, and he had kind brown eyes. The hangman shushed her, like she was a scared horse, while he put the noose around her neck. It felt heavy. Heavier than any length of coarse, scratchy rope had any right to be. It weighed Sadia down and turned her legs to jelly.

  “I’m terribly sorry about this,” the hangman said, and pulled the noose tight.

  Someone giggled hysterically, and Sadia realized that someone was her. What did it matter that the hangman was sorry? He would still pull the lever when Zerina commanded it. The world blurred. Sadia gasped for breath, eyes streaming with tears. The harsh grip of the noose felt suffocating. She had only seen fifteen summers. It was all so unfair. So damnably unfair.

  The blood-thirsty shouting of the crowd changed. Surprised voices intruded into the cacophony, breaking the harmony of hate. Through her curtain of tears, Sadia could see a giant of a man pushing people aside like they were toddlers. Grown men had flabbergasted looks on their faces as the bearded and scarred fellow bodily lifted them out of his way.

  “What…what is the meaning of this interruption?” Zerina asked, just as the man burst out of the crowd and made his way to her. “I demand an explanation!”

  The man looked around like he had all the time in the world. His disheveled hair and overgrown beard were so blonde they were almost white, and his nose had clearly been broken a few too many times. The clothes on his back were a mismatched collection of fabric that had seen better days, but Sadia doubted anyone had ever had the guts to criticize his fashion sense.

  The giant carried several blades on his body, but the humongous falchion on his hip drew Sadia’s eye the most. It looked menacing. He carried himself like he knew how to use it.

  Sadia envied his confidence. She envied his freedom even more.

  “You said it yourself, priestess,” the unknown man said, and spat on the ground. His voice was deep and soft like velvet, utterly at odds with his savage appearance. “This is an interruption.”

  The square had fallen silent. There was an edge to the silence, an unmistakable tinge of concern that all men felt when the unexpected reared its ugly head. It could be seen in the way the gathered folk kept glancing at each other. Something about the man was not right. Not right at all.

  Zerina looked like she was not sure she had heard correctly. “An interruption?”

  “Yes. You clearly understand the concept,” the giant said. “My name is Oak, and I came here to persuade you to release the girl.”

  From the sun-cracked earth of Sadia’s despair, hope bloomed like a weed after the spring rains. She couldn’t believe her ears, and she wasn’t the only one. Zerina’s beautiful blue eyes looked like they were bulging out of her skull.

  Please, God. Please let me be lucky this one time.

  “Don’t you think you should not stick your nose into other people’s affairs?” Zerina growled. “The opinions of strangers are of no interest to us.”

  “I figured you might say something like that,” Oak said, shifting his feet slightly. “You know, it’s dangerous when a man like me starts to think.”

  “It is?” The priestess asked. There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. The direction the conversation had taken clearly confused her.

  “Oh yes. I get into strange places inside my own head. Find things better left buried. Lately, it's been one unpleasant truth after another,” Oak said, face twisting into a lopsided sneer. It was an ugly expression, made all the uglier by the scars crossing his face.

  In any other situation, Sadia might have found it frightening, but in this context, she quite liked it. If the man saved her from execution, he could sneer all he bloody wanted.

  “See, some men do not love violence for its own sake. They love what it defends. I am not like those men,” Oak said, taking a step closer to the priestess. Then he punched Zerina in the face.

  The priestess fell to the ground with a thud, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, blood spurting from her broken nose. It covered her lower face, and spurts of it rained on the front of her formerly pristine white robe, now stained with mud.

  Sadia could not help the guffaw that escaped from her lips. It was the first happy sound she had made all day. Not so cute any longer, priestess, she thought, vicious glee coursing through her.

  The crowd shouted in dismay and flinched back from the sudden violence. Men fingered their knives, but no one stepped forth from the crowd. These men were farmers, not warriors, and no one wanted to be the first person to face the gigantic man's ire.

  Oak spat on the ground. “Now, you lot have two options. Either you release the diabolist, all nice and easy like. Or, I will draw this sword and get to work on you. What say you?”

  Terrified silence answered the giant’s declaration.

  The hangman with grey in his hair and kind eyes shrugged, and slipped the noose off of Sadia’s neck. “Change of plans girly. You are free to go.” He hopped down from the stage and vanished into the crowd.

  If nothing else, the man had good survival instincts. Sadia cracked her neck, luxuriating in her newfound freedom. Gosh, the looks on their faces. If enjoying the disappointment of these hicks is a sin, call me a sinner. She could have admired their forlorn expressions for hours, but the call of the road sent her foot tapping.

  Leaving the dust of this shithole behind sounded like a plan.

  “Well, that’s settled then. Get down here, little diabolist,” Oak said and bent down to snatch her grandmother’s journal from the mud. “We have places to be.”

  As Sadia stared at her saviour, a niggling, terrible feeling swelled in her stomach.

  Oh no. I don’t know any bloody diabolism!

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