And He Approached

[Istvan]

Istvan had always felt that solitary confinement was something far more cruel than a simple execution or corporal punishment. He imagined it was a similar experience to what it would be like to die an unconsecrated death; the spirit trapped inside a slowly decaying body, alone but for its sins. An eternal unquiet sleep.

Of course, this was all purely hypothetical thought, for what sins could the most loyal priest of the All-Mother have to languish in?

And yet, as he lay on the plank that constituted the only furniture in his dark cell, the otter's mind was inexorably drawn back to a time that was almost a week ago and felt like a hundred years, when a group of beasts stumbled up a moonlit mountain and a wide-eyed young cat asked him in a quiet, horrified voice, "How do you stand it?"

"There's so many..."

At the time he had reacted with wonder at the blessed vision of this wildcat, and that at least had not changed. But her words, he had ignored her words...

Forgiveness was a choice. Last night had demonstrated that fact miraculously. An unnatural death without forgiveness bound the beast's spirit to the earth, apparently regardless of whether their blood had been spilled.

So many...

Once, he had looked back on the evening spent crawling among the landslide with a bloody knife in his paw as the purest expression of his duty to the Mother. But now, in light of the testimony of the apothecary's haunts, he realized that his work that day had done nothing to remedy the sacred balance of life and death; the answer was not the material substance of blood, but the life essence of the Mother contained within. A gift, freely given, which could only be returned by choice.

Nyika had so virulently decried the crimes of the apothecary, but really, was he any better?

Yes. He was. He would atone for his sins.

Istvan sat up, faced the center of his cell, and spoke.

?I know you are there, and I would like to tell you that I know I have wronged you. All that I desired was that the sacred balance of life and death be restored, but I sought forgiveness without repentance and destroyed your chances of both. So, I ask? no, beg of you that you grant me that blessing which I denied you. I repent of my sins, and I offer myself for reparation for both you and I.?

There was no reply, but he hadn't expected one. The Mistress of Spirits' gift was her own. Istvan looked down at his arm. He had no knife. But after all, a knife was but a tool. And tools were ultimately unnecessary.

The otter raised his paw to his face, closing his mouth around a soft area. Sharp teeth, designed by the Mother to slice flesh, pricked his skin. He tightened his jaw and pulled back. A patch of fur and skin remained in his mouth, which filled with the salty, copper taste of blood. Spitting, Istvan held the dripping appendage over the floor and waited while the precious crimson drained onto the stone.

He had no way of knowing if his plea had been heeded, nor if his sacrifice had been efficacious, but nevertheless he felt the peace of the Mother wash over him, uplifting his mind and soul. Let the heretics do to him what they wished. He had nothing left to fear now.

The otter tore a strip from his tunic, wrapped it around his paw, and waited.

***

It wasn?t long before he heard a stomping of boots and clanging of armor outside his cell, and presently the door swung open. A large, mail-adorned mustelid form was briefly silhouetted in the doorway before a paw reached out and grabbed the collar of Istvan?s coat. He was marched out into the corridor, where two more similarly armored beasts- a vixen and a rat- were waiting. This trio, by way of several pointed gestures involving knives, directed him off to the left, down a spiraling flight of stairs, and to a wooden door banded with iron.

The first beast, a ferret, pulled out a keyring and began searching through it, though his efforts were hampered by his frequent glances back towards Istvan. The tattooed otter saw genuine fear in the guard?s eyes, and the fact that the mark of the All-Mother inspired such horror here made his heart boil with rage.

Eventually the door was opened, and they emerged into the more habitable part of the building. It was, admittedly, quite impressive. Despite the meager resources and hostile environment of the city, Tikora (or her architects and decorators) had managed to create a space that was comfortable, and even opulent. The stone walls were elaborately carved, expensive-looking ornaments and woodwork were much in evidence, couches adorned with pillows were liberally placed throughout, and the whole scene was well lit by an abundance of candelabras and chandeliers.

Istvan's fists clenched involuntarily. It was one of the most disgusting sights he had ever seen. How could one who claimed the mantle of High Priestess live amidst such decadence? Was there any scrap of true faith in this Tikora?

After another flight of stairs, the group arrived at a door, this one less intimidating than the last. The first guard knocked, and a feminine voice from inside replied, "Enter."

The room was even more elaborately decorated than the halls outside, if such a thing were possible. Most of the space was taken up by a desk and a wide couch, on which was sprawled a weasel dressed in long, flowing robes.

The dignity the robes gave her was more than offset by the rest of her appearance; if one had asked a woodlander child what they thought a "vermin" looked like, their answer would have been something like Tikora. Judging by the scars which crisscrossed her visible fur, the weasel?s life had not been a boring one, she obviously had a penchant for bone jewelry, and the familiar red lines on her face were only one tattoo of many. When she opened her mouth to speak, she revealed a set of teeth filed far sharper than the Mother had intended them to be.

?You?re the one who killed an entire tavern? I thought you?d have at least resisted the guards; you?re certainly big enough. Or are you just spineless, and you killed all those beasts by some trickery.? She grinned. ?It makes no difference. Cowards and heroes die the same. So tell me, who sent you??

Istvan stood straight up, looked the false priestess in the eyes, and declared, ?I was sent by the goddess whose name you so horribly defile, the glorious Mother of All. Your sins are a blight upon the perfection of her creation, and reparation must be paid. But despite the extreme heinousness of your crimes, I offer forgiveness if only you will repent.?

Tikora stared at him for a moment, mouth hanging open. The otter dared to hope that he had impressed her, until she broke into uncontrollable laughter.

?That?s hilarious! I don?t think I?ve ever heard anything so funny. You mean to tell me that you really believe in all that All-Mother tripe??

?I only speak the truth. I am Istvan, most loyal priest of the Mother, her earthly tool.?

?Ahaha? of course you are. Amazing.? She wiped her eyes. ?I didn?t think there was anybeast out there who actually took it seriously. The vixen who I heard about it from had been asking beasts to give all their possessions to her so that they could ?live a holy life free of material concerns.? But I saw potential in what she preached, especially after she told me about the teachings on blood and sacrifice. And now, after years of work? here I am. High Priestess of the biggest vermin city in Mossflower, with hundreds of beasts who will do my bidding utterly without question. Tell me, otter, have you ever managed to achieve anything so great in your own ministry??

?No,? replied Istvan. ?By the true conversion of one soul, I achieved something far greater.?

Accompanied by the sound of silk moving, Tikora slowly stood up in front of Istvan. She was at least a head shorter than the otter, and much stouter, and the juxtaposition would have been amusing in any other circumstance. As it was, he could only look down at the beast who held his life and death in her paws. The weasel examined him critically, then drew back her fist and punched him in the stomach.

Istvan leaned over, gasping, and then received a right hook to the jaw. This time the otter hit the floor, and when he tried to rise Tikora placed her footpaw on his head.

?Kneel.?

?Spitting... on you would be a... disgrace to my saliva; I will not kneel before... one such as you,? he replied as he tried to get his breath back.

?Fine.? She raised her footpaw. ?Then lie.? She stomped down onto his head, forcing his chin to the ground and clouding his vision with flashing spots.

?Haha, that?s much better. Soon all your woodlander friends will know that position. Or they?ll be dead. Makes no difference to me. Now, answer my questions, otter. Don?t bother lying to me about how you got here. I already know most of the story from those useless moles. Never should have trusted woodlanders to do a vermin?s job. But a survivor of a landslide doesn?t stroll into the nearest town and kill a tavern full of beasts. Who sent you and why did you come here??

Why had he come? He had no reason to be; he had no knowledge of the blasphemy of the city before arriving, and could be fulfilling his duty to the Mother in Yew now but for his decision to head down the road to Carrigul. The only answer could be Risk, Gashrock, Goragula, Vanessa, Noonahootin, Poko, Zevka, and Nyika. The beasts with whom he had shared the past week of horrors, and for whom he had sacrificed so much.

"Well? Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to force the answer out of your companions? I know about them too, of course."

"I will not be a traitor. I have faith enough in them that they will give you the same answer."

"Heh, that's one bet you'd lose."

She drew back her footpaw and kicked him in the face. Istvan saw stars, blood filled his mouth and streamed out his nose, and one of his teeth felt loose. He spat, and the saliva was red.

"This is fantastic. If only all woodlanders were this docile. You're the perfect slave."

"I am no beast's slave. My duty is to the Mother and her alone."

Tikora cocked her head and laughed. "You're somebeast's slave, all right. You may not know it, and maybe neither do they, but you're bound to them more than any I've ever seen." She kicked the otter in the ribs, and he rolled onto his side.

"I... must ask," he groaned. "Why... this blasphemy? Why this city? What do you hope... to achieve?"

She sat back on the couch before replying, "You're a Guard, otter. You know well enough the state of my kind. We are a perpetually squabbling, dirty, poor, downtrodden bunch of idiots dreaming of long-dead warlords. Why? Why have we allowed you to dominate us? We're naturally stronger, better fighters, cleverer, and in the proper order of things you would be nothing more than our food. The only thing keeping us back is our inability to be organized. And with your Mother keeping them in line, I can bring about the revival of the vermin race, ruled by me..." she patted her stomach, "and my heir."

Istvan felt the world crashing behind his eyes. "You... you're... with child?"

"Ha! Why else do you think I would have let that muscle-brained fool Zander into my bed? He will give my offspring strength. The last midwife told me the child would be due soon. Of course, she also told me that I should be taking it easy, which is why I killed her. I will be bedridden for nobeast."

"No..." the otter gripped the leg of the desk and attempted to lift himself up. "How dare you... wear those marks on your face... they are of a far greater mother..."

Tikora motioned to one of the guards, who slammed the butt of his spear into Istvan's back. When he went down this time, he decided to stay there.

"Well, otter, it's been interesting, but I'm entertaining guests this evening and I can't very well have you bleeding all over the place. You three, take him back to his cell. We'll be executing him as a heretic tomorrow."

With a swish of cloth, the weasel rose and began walking out of the room, but she paused and turned around when she reached the door.

?Oh, one last thing,? she said. ?You two, get him up.?

The guards complied, grabbing the otter under the arms and lifting him onto his footpaws. Tikora reached into her robes and withdrew an elaborate, jeweled dagger.

?You insulted the High Priestess, otter, and I can?t allow that. What would happen to my reputation if it got out that any woodlander with some tattoos can get away with saying such things to my face? I?d be a laughingstock.?

?If you haven?t experienced? that,? replied the otter, ?you do not know what it means to be a disciple of the Mother.

?Heh. So, it is the will of the Mother, as you would say, that you pay in blood. Now hold still; it?ll hurt less if you squirm.?

The knife fell, and the left side of Istvan?s vision disappeared. He could feel nothing from that half of his face except burning, unrelenting pain.

?Ahaha, much better. See you tomorrow, otter.?

Fighting through the agony, Istvan lifted his head to watch her leave, his remaining eye blazing with the fire of hatred.

And yet, he felt afraid. Nyika would probably come after him, maybe even the others, and Tikora knew about them. He was helpless to warn them, helpless to save them from the same fate that awaited him. The same fate, he remembered, that he had granted to innumerable beasts on that cold night in a valley but a week ago and had once contemplated for his companions.

The more things changed, the more difficult they became.

As the guards dragged Istvan back to his cell, he lowered his head, through the mist of pain watched the blood roll off his face and drip down onto the floor, and prayed.