Prince of Lies - James Lowder [89]
"That's not the way the story goes," the sour-faced novitiate shouted toward the stage. "Cyric didn't need to steal the Tablets of Fate! You make our god out to be nothing more than a common thief!"
The old showman peered over the top of the stage, along with the woman who apprenticed with him. "B – But the church," Marvelius stammered. "The patriarch approved this last year. He said the story happened this way. Look, I'll be glad to change-"
It was far too late for apologies or retractions. Three inquisitors appeared, one to either side of the stage, one behind it. The gold-armored knights of Cyric shattered the rickety wooden box, shredding the brightly dyed curtains and awning. The crowd scattered then, screaming, and it was all Vrakk could do to keep them from trampling each other and the surrounding merchant stalls. Had the parents not hustled their children away at the first shouts of heresy, the scene would have been much more chaotic.
Otto Marvelius remained a flashman until the end, trying to hide the fear in his voice as he said, "There's been a misunderstanding of local custom. Nothing more than that. We'll rectify any damage done and tithe a substantial sum to the church to – to – to pay for proper shows. They can be put on in this very marketplace…"
The puppeteer was still trying to smooth things over when one of the inquisitors drove a fist through his chest.
Marvelius's apprentice took the attack not nearly so well. She screamed and curled up into a tight ball, no doubt hoping with all her heart she'd wake up at any moment and find this ghastliness a horrible dream. It wasn't to be; the remaining armored destroyers of heterodoxy pulled her messily into two gory halves.
Then, after stomping all three puppets into shards, the inquisitors disappeared.
Panic clouded Ivlisar's eyes as he clung to Vrakk. "Please, I'm going to leave the city."
"I don't care!" the orc shouted. He tried to pry the body snatcher from one arm, doing his best to slow the frenzied crowd with the other.
"Get me a pass."
Vrakk stopped struggling, standing still at the center of the rushing mob. People crashed into his steel-muscled frame, but they found him as rooted as a thousand-year-old oak. Twice, Ivlisar was dragged a few steps away by the throng. Both times the elf struggled back, his pleading eyes locked on the orc's gray-green face.
Then the mob was past, and the two stood face to face.
"I need a pass," Ivlisar repeated. "I've no legal trade, so the city won't grant me one. You have to do this for me. Fzoul might be able-"
"Never say his name out loud," Vrakk said.
"I'll say more than that." Nervously Ivlisar twisted his long fingers into the hem of his cloak.
"Don't," Vrakk warned simply.
"If you don't get me a pass-"
The body snatcher never finished the threat. Vrakk buried his sword deep in the elf's chest. Not the cleanest kill the orc had ever made, but certainly one of the quickest.
"What do you think you're doing?" the sour-faced priest shouted as he came upon Vrakk cleaning his sword on the elf's corpse.
"He curse church, so I kill him," the orc murmured. "Save gold knights trip back here."
"What did he say?"
A thousand glorious insults flew into Vrakk's mind, but the blood-slicked cobbles reined in his tongue before he could speak. Whatever slight he attributed to the dead man would be his heresy alone.
The orc pressed one nostril closed with a warty finger then blew the contents of the other noisily onto the ground. "Uh, me no remember."
"You're no better than an animal," the novitiate said, disgust written all over his features. He pointed to the shattered stage and snapped, "Get that mess cleaned up, then dispose of these corpses before the resurrection men cart them off."
"Not so many body snatchers around now, I hear," Vrakk mumbled facetiously.
He set about building a fire to destroy the stage, the ruined puppets, and eventually even the corpses, though the merchants wouldn't like the smell