by Malcom North
in Issue 155, December 2024
“The moon never lies,” the shrouded man whispered to himself.
He studied his mark and made a small gesture with his left hand toward the night sky, acknowledging his lunar guide before putting on a black glove. The moon’s cold light reflected on the white marble columns of a temple, an ancient sanctuary that stood lonely among the forest’s tall trees. The man scratched the stubble of his beard as he surveilled the sacred grounds, staring into the night. As a thief, he was trained to work by moonlight.
“Who would worship out here?”
The thought came and went as noted the temple’s layout. At its portico were two guards, either sleeping or drunk. The thief could not tell. In either case, he saw enough to begin prowling the overgrowth flanking the isolated sanctuary. He surveyed a cluster of trees near the structure’s sidewall, adjusted a black bandana that covered most of his shaved head, and wrapped a rope around his shoulder in preparation. Moving carefully, the thief climbed one of the larger trees and shimmied across a branch until he was near enough to the side of the temple.
The monumental temple was rectangular, built of granite masonry with marble features. It had a vaulted roof supported by columns, with two flanking roofs that were separated on each side by clerestory windows. The thief leaped from the tree to the structure with ease, and then counted each window as he cautiously moved across roof tiles. Upon reaching the third window, he crouched low and viewed the activities inside the temple’s hypostyle hall. The thief watched as the shadowy form of an elderly priestess walked down the central aisle toward an offering table at the end of the hall. Behind the table was a tall stone-figure of a man with a bull’s head, many horns, and an odd hat. The offering table was illuminated by several rows of votive candles. In its middle stood a stele made of black basalt. The thief could hear the priestess chanting. He did not understand her words, but he noticed a growing intensity in her voice as she drew closer to the table. At the table, the priestess removed something from around her neck and draped it over the basalt stele. The candlelight and contrasting black stone revealed the object to be a silver necklace with a medallion. His eyes focused on the silver piece, his prize, as the elder priestess turned and began a different chant, almost hymn-like. The thief moved away from the window momentarily as he waited. The chanting continued as the thief monitored the situation by ear.
“Everything is going exactly as the old woman said,” he thought to himself.
Gradually, the chanting faded. The priestess’s voice grew distant as she left the offering table and proceeded through the hall towards the temple’s portico. The thief watched a solitary acolyte who was now standing in front of the table, attending to the candles. Unlike the priestess, the young acolyte’s chants were soft and intermittent as she began dousing each flame, one-by-one. Her movements were slowed by ceremony, halting at each candle to speak the proper prayer. The thief recognized this as his que. He quickly made his move as he used the rope to grapple down from the last of the clerestory windows. The thief silently dropped from the rope onto the back of a giant griffin statue that stood guard at the end of the hall. He landed between its upright wings, which gave him cover as he waited his turn. There he studied the acolyte’s movements, timing them in his mind.
One …two …three. Her back was turned as she recited a prayer. The thief moved forward and stealthily ducked behind a massive pillar.
One …two …three. He sprang forth to smother her face in a potion-laced cloth held in his gloved hand. As the acolyte lost consciousness, the thief gently laid her slumbering form on the temple floor.
With the temple functionary safely dispatched, the thief grabbed the medallion necklace from the stele. He examined it briefly, finding it dull and unimpressive. The medallion’s value was measured by a standard that was of no interest to him. His job was to seize the relic, not to contemplate its numinous qualities. Still he looked up at the bull headed god with curiosity, just for a moment, but long enough to notice its unsettling glare. The thief hastily wrapped his prize in a leopard-skin pouch, placing it in a pocket on his leather vest. He reminded himself that he was a professional, he reminded himself of his training and preparation. Turning away from the deity’s stern visage, the thief retraced his steps to make his escape. He moved by rote. Each step was a controlled, disciplined action.
Outside the temple, the thief moved with the swiftness of a cat. He quickly made his way into the forest’s thickness. Eventually he reached a hidden clearing where his horse awaited him. They rode by moonlight, traversing the night, pausing only for a moment at the last ridge of the valley. The thief detected a distant noise, the temple’s trumpets sounding an alarm. “The sacred relic was stolen!” He had covered enough distance by horseback at this point that his escape was assured. He guided his steed through a mountain pass that led them out of the valley and towards his destination.
I. VAENTHUS
By morning the thief had reached the city of Vaenthus, his destination. The first watch had just finished and the gates were now open. He entered the walled city blending in with the bustle of a merchant quarter beginning the day’s business. The thief dismounted and gathered garments from a satchel to cover his identity. A Vunethite trader’s cap replaced his bandana; a cape hung from his shoulders, as was the local custom. Wearing his disguise, the thief led his horse through the city’s gates, mixing with a crowd of travelers stuck behind a slow moving caravan of donkey-driven carts. The carts, laden with large pithoi filled with wine and olive oil, provided cover from the captain of the watch guarding the inner gate. Inside the city walls, he reached the agreed upon place and hitched his steed to a trough. His contact was there, armed with a short dagger and a hard stare. The contact, a young man wearing an expensive robe, led the thief across the way and into a palatial building where they ascended a staircase until they reached a grand hall.
The thief was seated at a table facing an old woman who sat upon a throne-like chair. The silver-haired matriarch greeted the thief by name and he handed her the leopard-skin pouch. Servants brought food to the table and the thief, who was unfamiliar with local customs, began to eat without any acknowledgement from his host. The matriarch did not mind. She studied the medallion for a moment until she was content. At her nod, the young man produced a heavily-laden bag from his expensive robe and placed it before the thief as he devoured his breakfast. He stopped eating long enough to open the bag, nearly gagging in disbelief at the contents. Coins, three-score in number –as they had agreed– yet all were platinum coins from dwarven mints. Not local gold currency. Much more valuable. He looked back at her, studying her pale blue-eyes.
“You’ve done well, thief,” said the matriarch. “But remember that I said the job would be perilous. We want to compensate you richly because of the danger you’ve taken upon yourself.”
“Not dangerous,” The thief interjected. “Pretty easy actually, the only challenge was finding the temple ‘cuss of its remoteness and whatnot.”
“Dangerous!” She replied forcefully. “Dangerous because you are now under a curse.”
He scoffed and returned to his meal, shoving more food into his mouth in a show of disregard.
“You have stolen from the Temple of Binsûme, one of the high gods of this city.”
He continued eating, ignoring her words.
“Hear me thief! Look at your left hand.”
The thief, his mouth full, gave an irritated groan and removed the glove from his left hand. His aloof demeanor changed sharply as he stared at a dark, necrotic patch on the skin of his hand.
“What is this, woman!” He yelled in shock as he spit out his food.
“The sign of your curse. It will spread quickly the longer you stay in Vaenthus. And then you will die. But if you flee, when you’ve departed the kingdom’s borders, the curse will recede once you’re beyond His power. A simple healing potion should even clear it up when you’ve reached safe haven.”
“Flee? But …but, how long? Forever?”
“Not forever. Seven months, maybe seven years? It’s difficult to say. I wouldn’t return for another year if I were you. To be safe. But you must flee now. Our business is done, take the horse we lent you. My son will provide you with provisions for your flight. Ride until you reach a land that does not bear the mark of Binsûme, ride to the Towers of Anserra in the south, or westwards toward the Kingdom of Yvonnium. The choice is yours, but you must go. Flee now!”
The thief rose at once. On the wall behind the old matriarch he noticed a wood carving of a bull’s head with many horns. Its face seemed to glare at him. He made for the door without further word, there was no farewell.
The old woman watched him leave knowing she’d see him again because they’re all the same.
II. THE TEMPLE OF BINSÛME
On the eve of the new moon, three horseback riders left Vaenthuus and traveled northward toward the mountains. The old woman with silver hair rode first, followed by her son, with her servant riding last. All three wore the white garments of pilgrimage. They first made their way along a corduroy road that extended from the city’s gate and then after an hour they turned eastward towards the morning sun where they joined a dirt path that ascended the mountains. Traversing a ridge, the riders entered a mountain pass that led them into a heavily wooded valley. Along the way they met other Vunethite pilgrims who traveled by foot. Each greeted the other with appropriate blessings as the riders passed those who walked.
The three riders negotiated the forest path until they reached the temple, its precinct booming with activity. The façade of the temple was decorated with silk banners, blue and white, that hung between the four marble columns of the portico. Outside the temple, in the clearing in front of the columned portico, the activities were divided into two areas. On the one side, there was a large stone altar upon which offerings were burnt. The air was filled with the smokey smell of cooked meat and the din of the festive crowd. A cadre of sacrificial specialists kept watch over the altar. All of them men who were bald and beardless. They wore ceremonial knives in their sashes and processed the animal offerings with forks and tongs. Some served hungry pilgrims and acolytes, giving them victuals gleaned from the remnants of the sacrificial meat. A choir of priestesses sang hymns nearby. On the other side were small tents and temporary wooden booths where sojourners could purchase offerings and provisions. Amidst the tents, worshipers locked arms as they danced and sang and drank wine. A small pen of sheep nearby made its own noise.
The three horseback riders stopped at the tent nearest the temple. The old matriarch’s servant was the first to alight her horse. Two acolytes met her and together they began to unload the meager baggage from the other horses. The matriarch and her son dismounted and other temple attendants gathered the animals and led them away. The two approached the temple’s portico, an open-air porch covered by an overhanging roof supported by the four pillars. The area was cordoned by a series of ribbons and garland. The portico’s stepped-entrance was guarded by a young priestess who wore the brightly decorated robes of a minor official. The young priestess gestured to the two and they entered the portico and knelt before a tall statue that stood atop a wooden cart. The granite statue was in the form of a bull-headed man. Three pairs of horns curled around a conical headpiece. The old woman and her son prostrated themselves before the god. Both placed their palms on their mouths and then touched the feet of the statue. The young priestess cried aloud the name of the god with raised hands:
“Binsûme! Binsûme!”
The required reverence completed, matriarch and son followed the priestess as she pushed open the temple’s massive, wooden doors. The three entered the building, passing from the portico into the great hall. The temple’s interior, solemn and empty, contrasted with the lively scene outside. The priestess led the two to a staircase within a side chamber where they reached an upper room. Inside the room the matriarch sat down at a wooden table opposite an elderly priestess. The priestess’s robes and her throne-like chair marked her as the temple’s highest official. Each woman greeted the other in the liturgical language of the temple, and the high priestess dismissed the younger two from their presence.
Once they were alone, the old lady reached inside her white robe and held out the leopard-skin pouch. The high priestess took it and removed the medallion necklace from inside. She examined the sacred relic, set it on the table, made a ceremonial gesture, and spoke:
“May you be blessed by the six horns of Binsûme.”
“And may His blessings endure, six times sixty,” was the response.
The recitation concluded their short ceremony. The high priestess got up and retrieved a wine bottle and two glasses from a cabinet next to the table. The two drank together and the matriarch began to speak.
“I must confess, as my years grow in number, so too my questions. Why do we do this?”
“Do we not serve Binsûme?”
“Yes, but how much longer must this continue?”
“My sister, do you not understand?” The high priestess rose from her chair. “It’s all part of the temple’s mystery.”
“What I don’t understand is how we’re serving Binsûme.”
“Is this not His house?”
“But why this?” The matriarch held up the empty leopard-skin pouch to accentuate her point.
“Why?” Retorted the high priestess sternly as she placed the necklace medallion around her neck. “Because without our rituals the temple would fail.”
III. VAENTHUS
Back in Vaenthus, ten days later, the old woman with silver hair was still contemplating the high priestess’s words. She bided her time, sitting alone in the backroom of a public house while she stirred a mug of mulled-wine with a reed stylus. On the table was a scroll that she ignored; next to it, the leopard skin pouch.
Finally the door opened and her son entered from the crowded tap room. Accompanying him was a man with ruddy hair; young, though older than her son. The matriarch studied him carefully. He wore a cape awkwardly over his shoulders in an attempt to blend with the local scene. The garment covered his frame, short and athletic. The scars on his boyish face belied a hard-worn life. A small tattoo on his left forearm confirmed he was the right one. She sighed, rolled up the scroll, and spoke without proper greetings:
“I’m told you have useful skills and have come to Vaenthus looking for work.”
“Yes, I’m looking for work. As for the other part …it depends on what you consider useful.”
“It’s perilous work, you will incur danger, but I assure you that you will be paid richly.”
“I can take care of myself. What matters is the pay. That is, if it’s the right work.”
“In the mountains to the north is a temple. At midnight, the evening of the full moon –which is in three nights– the high priestess will remove one of her vestments in a ceremony dedicating a stele inside the temple. This vestment is a medallion necklace made of silver. I want you to steal it.”
The thief smiled and said, “The moon never lies.”
©December 2024, Malcom North
Malcom North has not previously published fiction so this is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
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