Warden (A Blackthorn Chronicles Story)

Warden

PART ONE

The dead never leave you. If you killed them, you see their faces in the fire. If you lost them, you see their faces in the crowds of people you don't know. But either way, the dead never leave you, because every life you take is another blemish upon your soul.

It was hot, damned hot. Riverfield and its residents had lived in the heat of the day for all their lives; but it didn't make it any easier. As small town lay quiet, as if subdued, most people began finishing work or were home already.

In the town's centre, a fountain produced water rather half heartedly; in the heat still, Isaac the town priest stood observing that dragon, it was the end of the day and having finished his evening walk, he'd come to see it again.

In his youth some thirty years ago, he'd played games around a similar statue, trained by the sword around it's edges. But now he stood in priest's robes, still and silent, contemplating.

"An unkind day, brother Isaac." A voice came from behind him and Isaac turned to find the town's Marshal.

"Kind and unkind are subjective, Marshal Tulus."

The man he spoke to was huge, fat and jolly. He was the symbol of the Blackthorn power and protection in this settlement, but at fifty years old he'd achieved little and he knew it. To compensate he drank and threw expensive parties; all of which Isaac was meant to abhor.

"True true, my friend. But right now we need rain to help the crops. That would be kind weather." Tulus answered.

The men stood in silence for a little while, Isaac knew he would have to begin setting up the chapel house to cater for the nights service. He pulled himself out of thought, made an excuse politely and left. The town was mostly quiet anyway, people were working or else had no reason to be in the sun for too long.

He walked with the care of someone who had no need to rush, and made his way to the southern part of the town, Riverfield was North of Silverkeep, the Thornland's capital, and by some ancient law all chapel houses had to be closest to their capital.

It was a large single storey building, standing higher than any of the other buildings as it was built on the only hill for miles around. Isaac climbed the slope and then the few steps to his wooden-walled, thatched roof home.

As by tradition one chair stood high at the far end of the rectangular building, and pews for the entire town all pointed towards it. Isaac was the only priest in Riverfield, so when the church was not having a service he was often alone.

Silent.

That was the sound of the Gods. Isaac had heard them all speak, the ones they knew and the ones they did not. Inside this building, inside his head, the makers of the world would sit and drink, chat and argue. In this building he could be one with a higher power.

But he was not alone.

A young lady sat head bowed at the closest pew, which counted for the back of the chapel house. Although he could see she was slender, it was her head of striking red hair that caught him off guard. His own, graying blond was almost inadequate in comparison.

"Can I help you, my lady?" Isaac asked, breaking the silence.

She stood suddenly and turned to face him; as she did he realised she could only have been fifteen or sixteen years old, barely a blemish of age on her freckled face.

"I am sorry I did not realise you would be here." She answered quickly. The girl kept her head bowed as if he was her father and she had committed some grave trespass.