The Firefarer

Part Four / Chapter Three: Strange Blood

Vito first visited Animum as a child raised on a diet of meagre rations, prayers and hard graft. Back then it had seemed a city of wonders, a place in which the enlightened gathered to meditate, to contemplate, to exchange ideas. A place of truth: a beacon of learning and knowledge burning in defiance of the Pagi and their dark, unholy ways. He had made the pilgrimage several times since then, journeying with his brother monks on mules or in wagons, eager to exchange the confines of the cloisters for Animum's wide, whitewashed streets.

So why was it that this seemed such a different city to the one he remembered as a child? Why was it that as dusk fell and shadows lengthened, he skulked along those same whitewashed streets with something akin to fear pulsing through his veins? Why was it that, on hearing a dog's bark or a priest's laughter, he seemed to inwardly shrink, to quake, even to mutter to himself like a man half-insane?

Perhaps it was all Andre's fault. Perhaps he had spent so long in the company of a Paga that she had passed on some of her faithlessness: that it had hooked onto his mind as a bur might catch on his robes. But as he stumbled aimlessly through the gathering darkness, all he could think of was how alone he felt. First his brothers slain, now Andre gone. She would have known what to do: how to find a free bed for the night, how to forage for leftovers even if, the Mystery forbid, they were stolen. He recalled then her battered jacket of kingfisher blue, her long plaits swinging down her back, the steady confidence of her stride. How could she have deserted him?

Footsteps clipped on the cobbles behind him. He picked up his pace: wary, nervous, yet unsure as to the source of his fears. He had offended no one, knew neither friends nor enemies in the City of Shrines. And although his robe was now torn, singed and dusty, his sandalled feet calloused and black with the filth of the roads, he still bore some resemblance to the young novice he had been a few days before. Who might possibly pose a threat? And in Animum, of all places?

Even so, he moved faster now, convinced that the footsteps were speeding up behind him. He was suddenly aware of how empty the road was, of the drumming of blood within his ears. A side street beckoned up ahead ˗ he could slip down it perhaps, follow it, find some deserted chapel or garden and wait there till morning. Then he would return to Dario and accept his offer of work. The man might be a Paga in Prefect's robes, but there was no other soul he could turn to.

Vito passed into the side street. The footsteps followed ˗ insistent ˗ hobnails ringing on stone. Dread churned in the pit of his stomach. He lost all logic: panicked and ran. His pursuers gave chase ˗ he heard them bolt and then laugh as he smacked head first into the wall of a church.

A dead end, his way blocked and blood now leaking from his nose, he turned around. The three fresco artists from the cathedral stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the street. Vito's mouth grew dry, a bitter taste formed at the back of his throat. He tried to speak but what came out was a faint, incoherent croak. The artists laughed again: sallow-cheeked young men with leering, drunken eyes and lank, sweat-soaked hair. Two of them brandished mason's hammers, the third drew a dagger from his belt.

"I don't suppose they teach monks to fight, do they?" The tallest of the trio stepped forward, swinging the hammer in a wicked, violent arc. "Well, even if they did, wouldn't be much use to ya now, would it?"

"What are you doing?" His voice was a hoarse, strained whisper. "I've done nothing wrong. And this is holy territory."

"Well it certainly will be when it's soaking up monk's blood. And it ain't got nothing to do with what you've done. It's what you've seen. That's what matters."

"I haven't seen anything." Perhaps he could play for time. "I haven't spoken to anyone, don't know anyone."

"You've spoken to one. That's enough."