THE APOSTATE SAINT

Art was pulled back to consciousness abruptly by the overpowering aroma of something repulsive. Opening his eyes, he was immediately met by the source of the smell. Face to face with a corpse lying on its side next to him, Art tried and failed to rise. He quickly realized he was at the bottom of a pile of corpses, some fresh, some far along in the process of decay. A newly appreciated claustrophobia overtook Art as he pressed violently against body parts, trying to unbury himself. He pushed against one corpse that looked the least decomposed but found it rigid and immovable. It wasn’t until he pressed his hand firmly against a cold, worm-infested body that he managed to make some progress.

He scraped and squirmed his way out of the pile and reached open air. A few desperate, adrenaline-fueled pushes later, he freed his entire body from the grip of the dead. The body of an old woman tumbled to the ground in response to his desperation, her hair whipping around as she found a sad resting place in the dirt. Despite everything, he felt some relief wash over him as he realized his legs could still move. He had initially feared they might be paralyzed again. That dread was second only to the terror of the pestilence that had enveloped him.

What. The. Hell is going on here?

Art took deep breaths, but the air was still filled with the stench of decay. He covered his mouth with his shirt and clambered off the table he had found himself on. As he hit the ground, he recognized where he had been taken. He stood at the entrance of Necropolis Nullius, the mass cemetery for people of no status in the City. The rich were buried on their own grounds, but the poor were cremated here, their ashes cast into big holes in the ground, often unceremoniously. Solumians accepted their fate because there were no places inside the City where they might hope to be buried. The Daoine Farraige, however, had other rituals for their dead. The fact that he had ended up here meant whoever put him here had no care or knowledge of his Farraige heritage.

Perhaps whoever did this knew he was Farraige and put him here out of spite. Either way, Art wasn’t dead, so somebody had made a big mistake. The biggest unanswered question was what exactly had transpired the night before to put him here, lumped in with the dead. He had no recollection.

Art jumped off the wagon and moved away from the stench as fast as his wonderfully agile legs would carry him. His whole body ached. His head pounded. Bits and pieces of the night before began to come back to him, but they were mere glimpses he could barely understand. As he got further away, the adrenaline gave way to what felt like a really bad hangover. Dizziness overwhelmed Art, and he stumbled, catching himself too late to avoid tumbling over. As he hit the ground and tried to prop himself up, he vomited the contents of his stomach.

A curious black bile accompanied the gunk, blood, and debris from his stomach. It was as if he had swallowed tar. Along with that, Art felt immense pressure inside his head, as if something was trying to push his eyeballs out from the inside.

He vaguely remembered being escorted by guards to a magistrate’s office, but the details were blurry. Art knew he had been thrown into a holding cell but didn’t understand what crime he was being charged with. No one would dignify him with a direct response. He had drifted off to sleep thinking about Sabia’s thighs but didn’t understand what had brought him into the guard’s ire. He vaguely remembered a nightmare that felt oddly realistic.

There were creatures everywhere, strange things unlike anything Art had ever seen. He reckoned they were demons, or at least what his mind perceived as demons. Everything was a blur now. The harder he tried to remember, the more his head hurt. All his muscles were taxed more heavily than ever before. He was exhausted and needed sleep, but he knew he had to get away from this foul graveyard. So, he mustered his strength and pushed himself to return to the City, to the only place he felt he could hide: Fridok’s apartment.

If Art was proficient at anything, it was navigating the City’s alleyways. Even in his exhausted state, he reached Fridok’s apartment building with relative ease. It wasn’t until he got there that he realized there was no safe place left to hide.

Two guards stood at the door, barring entry to all. Recognizing a third guard coming out of the building, Art realized their presence was likely related to his incarceration the night before.

In a flash, his legs throbbed, remembering the torment he had endured. The man had used a contraption to squeeze and scrape Art’s legs, taunting him with breaking or dismembering his newly mended limbs. The fact that this man and his guards were now at Fridok’s building led Art to believe they were after Fridok. Perhaps Art was merely a means to that end. Whatever their plan, Art knew it was best not to be discovered by them. They probably thought Art was dead, and he knew it was better to keep it that way.

Art didn’t need a place to go. He had lived most of his life as a vagrant. But now, given a second chance, he didn’t want to go back to begging for scraps. He had tasted a proper life and those delights had changed him. No, there would be no settling for that again if he could help it. However, he had to keep his head down for now. First, he needed new clothes and a bath. He couldn’t do much with a rot-soaked, death-scented tunic.

An idea came to Art, one that might land him in hot water, though not in the way he needed. If someone was targeting Fridok, they might also target the other champions of the Son. If there was a conspiracy, others needed to know. It was time for Art to visit the house with the big hole in it.

Art slipped through the City, reaching the Cabalarii mansion by midday. He and Fridok had undergone the Son’s ritual to create his sword there. The experience had left Art feeling sapped of energy. Waking up that morning, he felt similar but even worse given his surroundings. Hopefully, the patron of the house would be more welcoming this time.

As he approached the mansion, Art considered his strategy. He thought about pretending to bear a message from Fridok but decided against it. The lady of the house would see through such a wild claim. It was rather ridiculous to think of such a thing.

Two guards stood at the front of the house, armed with spears. Art decided to present himself as he was, telling the truth as much as he could remember and laying himself at their mercy.

“Please!” Art cried, throwing himself at their feet. “Sanctuary!”

The guards reacted as expected, pinning him down with their spears. When he looked up, his most convincing waterworks on display, he saw one guard nibbling at his bait. To set the hook, Art feigned a fainting spell, lying still at their feet. He even knew how to draw the blood away from his cheeks to sell the act. When he heard one guard tell the other to report Art’s arrival to their master, he knew he had been successful.

The remaining guard poked Art’s shoulder, which hurt, but Art pushed through the pain to keep his act up. He wanted to shout in reaction but knew maintaining the charade was paramount. Just as he nearly gave in, the other guard returned and the spear was withdrawn.

“Orders are to bring him inside. Quickly.”

Jackpot.

Art was carried by one of the guards, slumped over the man’s shoulder. The shoulder bones driving into his gut were unpleasant, reminding Art that his stomach was on shaky ground. He held his contents until he was led through the lavish home. All he had to do was stay “unconscious” until he was in a more comfortable spot. Then he would ask for a bath, new clothes, and request a longer stay while figuring out the magistrate’s plans. The only problem was that he was plopped down on a large wooden table, not a comfortable bed.

They couldn’t even put me on a couch? They’ve got dozens!

Art lay motionless, waiting long enough to believably “wake up” and work the guards over with the next part of his scheme. With any luck, he would endear himself to the masters and convince them it was in their best interest for him to stay.

When enough time passed, Art opened his eyes in horror to see Alaric’s mother’s pale, lifeless face about a foot away. Her body, like his, was placed on the table on full display. Art jolted up, panicked, and slid off the table, crashing to the marble ground.

“Tell me,” Alaric’s father said, “why God took my wife, but you get to live? What justice is there in this?”

Art saw the anger in Valoricus’ reddened eyes. He realized her death might be connected to his experience the night before.

He didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew he might not be safer in this mansion than on the streets.

“Tell me!”

Art looked sheepishly into Valoricus’ broken eyes. For the first time in a long time, Art had nothing to say.