Bastards' Road
A Game of Thrones short story by J. Dean
2016
This story takes place shortly after the arrival of the High Sparrow to King's Landing
Barak Rivers had no problem with riding in silence, even if it meant doing so all the way to the Kingsroad.
Apparently, Ulric Redwyne found the silence to be just as agreeable. The grizzled man with taut, beard-speckled skin stretched over his face kept his gaze ahead, either focusing upon the untrodden grass below or upon the rhythmic movement of his two horses as they pulled the cart. Only on rare occasion did he settle his gaze anywhere else; never did he turn his eyes toward the lad beside him.
Barak decided then and there to look around. To the south lay the multiple humps of stone and dirt, lying in wait like a sleeping dragon. More of the same could be seen in the northeast, all set beneath a silvery sky. Not far behind them stood the familiar structure of Castle Sarsfield, a place that father and Uncle Royce had mentioned not a few times, but—like so many other of the wondrous exploits retold by the two brothers—a place he had never entered. Not even this time. That the landscape held an emerald hue was deceiving, for even as the picture was that of summer, the wind from the north that pressed against his cloak and clothing hinted at the coming of a cooler, perhaps colder, season.
"Unpleasant, this wind," he remarked, pulling the borders of his cloak over his shoulders. Ulric only grunted in reply.
More grass passed beneath hooves and wheels.
"Could be a winter coming," Barak continued, nodding. "House Stark says something to that effect, and I can believe it. Look there, at those birds. They're heading south. That's a—"
"Winter is coming."
Barak looked at the cart driver in surprise. It had been the first thing the sullen fellow had said ever since the two had embarked upon their trek. "Is it?" he asked.
"I don't know. But the actual words of House Stark are 'Winter is coming.' "
"Ah," Barak murmured, then added with a smile, "Wise advice that Stark family has."
The chiseled, elderly face looked at him with a contemptuous scowl. "House Stark is no more, boy ," he said darkly .
"Yes... yes of course," Barak replied meekly, looking away. "I recall my father and uncle speaking of Ned Stark's execution. A terrible shame, seeing such a noble family brought to nothing, their castle now controlled by others."
Ulric called to the horses, snapping the reins. Barak saw the reason why: the slope of ground before them would tilt the cart, making for an unpleasant incline. Prudent move on Ulric's part. But he decided to forego speaking his compliment; Ulric seemed to be in no mood to hear it. "So how far until the Kingsroad?" he asked.
"Depends," Ulric answered, not looking his way.
"On what? Weather? Route?"
"Circumstances."
That clarified everything. "What sort of circumstances? And why is it that we're charting a course through less traveled terrain in order to—?"
"Hold!" Ulric commanded in a voice far deeper and stronger than his smaller frame suggested. The pair of horses obliged him, ceasing from their trot to a complete standstill.
The balding head of the elder man turned toward his companion. A bitter look fell upon his face. "Did you or did you not come to me with a request to be taken to Castle Black on the Wall?"
Barak blinked, surprised at the ferocity of the driver. "I... I did," he replied.
"Did I not inform you that I could take you as far as the Kingsroad?"
"You did inform me of that, yes."
"And did you not pay me the amount I demanded for taking you on as a passenger? Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"And did I not tell you that we would be traveling upon a road less taken for a portion of the journey?"
"You did, but there is no suggestion of a road in this—"
"Shut up, boy! Your father and his brother did not talk nearly so much as you!"
Father and Uncle Royce are dead.
Barak kept that hollow thought locked behind his tongue.
"Have I in any way broken our arrangement? Am I failing you in some manner? If so, how?"
A flush of warmth filled Barak's throat and cheeks. "Well, I... I don't see any particular way in which you have violated our arrangement."
"And I will not do so, boy. I am a capable man with many travels to many places in Westeros," he said with a sneer. "I do not give you counsel, bad or good, concerning your decision to join the Night's Watch. I expect you to do the same concerning my experience in travels, and I also expect not to be questioned again about my methods. Do I make myself clear on that point, boy?"
Barak cringed at the verbal stab inflicted with the derogatory tone of the last word. Though only fourteen, he did not like being addressed as "boy," and under different circumstances he might have reached for his short sword in the back of the cart and challenged the elder with sharpened steel. But even though Ulric possessed nothing suggesting a past of knighthood, Barak suspected that the old blacksmith and driver could prove to be a dangerous opponent in open sword-based combat. Perhaps even more so than himself. "Quite clear," he finally stammered.
"Very good," Ulric murmured. "Then on with our tra—"
A shout from the north cut off his declaration.
He walked—no, lurched through the grass. The only thing preventing him from stumbling and falling over his septon robe was the straight staff, knobbed at its top, that stood as tall as his hips. The free hand continued to flail in wild abandon as he approached. "Please! Please wait!"
Barak looked at Ulric. That the curmudgeon stared at the newcomer with a curious look instead of ordering his equines to proceed either spoke to the man's curiosity or his charity. Barak doubted it was the latter.
"Oh thank the Divine! Thank you for waiting!"
The stranger reached the side of the cart and looked up at Barak and Ulric with eyes of blue steel. A trimmed, ruddy beard filled his cheeks and smothered his lips, save for the grin of full teeth separating the hairs. "Your kindness is quite appreciated!" He cried, releasing a roped bundle from behind his back. "I saw you heading east and I—"
"Money?" Ulric asked, holding his hand out.
Barak gave the driver a mild scowl.
The septon paused, staring at the hand. An expression of puzzlement flashed across his face before he responded. "Ah, yes, a moment," he nodded. Leaning the staff against the card, he plunged his hand into the folds of his robe. "What is your price?"
"I took three silver pieces from this bastard here beside me. That should suffice for you as well," Ulrich answered.
"He's a septon, Ulric," Barak began. "He can't hope to have that sort of money."
"My costs do not change because of a man's gods, boy," Ulric replied, glancing back at him. "And you best mind your tongue about my business, or you'll find yourself making your way to Castle Black on foot."
"God," the septon replied. "And here's your coin, my friend."
"I'm not your friend," Ulric growled. The silver circles were swallowed up by the closing hand, "and I'm hardly a god."
"No-no, I mean your reference to gods," the septon continued, tossing his bundle in the back. "The Faith of the Seven is commonly misunderstood in this regard. We worship the Seven-Faced God, not seven gods, as is propagated by far too many who are ignorant of proper doctrine."
"Save your sermon, Septon. I've no interest in gods, devils, heavens, or hells. Where is your destination?"
"Hmm? Ah! As far east as you can take me," he replied, reaching over the side of the cart to retrieve his staff. "I would say King's Landing, but I doubt I'll be given a warm reception by the High Sparrow. Nevertheless, the farther the better. What is your final destination, ah... what shall I call you, sir?"
"Gulltown," Ulric answered. "And my name is irrelevant to you."
"Excellent!" the septon responded. Barak snickered at the holy man's apparent disregard for Ulric's stony reception. "I'm sure to find a ship willing to take me to Essos from there."
"Very well," the older fellow replied. "From here on, our conversations do not go beyond necessity such as food, drink, or relieving yourself. Do we have an accord on this matter, Septon?"
"Luthion," the holy man replied, giving Barak a glance. "Septon Luthion is the name. And you won't take offense if I strike up conversation with your companion here, will you?"
"Say what you wish to him. But leave me out of your talk, unless I say otherwise."
With that, Ulric snapped the reins. The horses complied with reluctant acceleration. Barak glanced at the newcomer, studying him. The face held a brightness, as if a grand and wonderful secret lay behind it, like the sun splitting a mask of clouds with brilliant rays. "And your name, friend?" Luthion asked him.
"Barak. Barak Rivers."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, young Maester Rivers," Luthion said with a laugh. "What business have you and your father in Gulltown?"
Barak caught Ulric's annoyed sigh. "Ulric's not my father," Barak replied. "He's... an acquaintance. We live in Kayce, but are of no relation to each other."
"Ah yes, Kayce! Can't say I've been there, but I've heard good about it." Luthion looked at the driver, then at Barak again. "Well then, young Barak, if you are not going to Gulltown with me and... Ulric, was it? If not, where is your destination."
"Castle Black."
"The Night's Watch," Luthion remarked in a solemn breath. "To join them?"
Barak nodded.
"An admirable ambition to stand watch on The Wall in perpetual winter, friend. I must visit you one day in the future and hear your stories of combat against Wildlings and White Walkers."
Ulric let out a snort. "The White Walkers are a fable," he replied. "A story told to children at bedtime in order to preserve good behavior. Everybody knows that."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Luthion answered. He looked at Barak again. "And what did your mother or father say when you announced your intention to them."
"My father is dead," Barak replied flatly . "I do not know who my mother is."
The shine upon the septon's face darkened. "My consolations and the consolations of the Mother upon you, my son," he murmured. "Was this recent?"
Barak held his tongue for a moment. He didn't know this septon, though his demeanor was pleasant enough. The idea of speaking of his father's death to a stranger had an odd sort of wrongness to it.
Still...a part of him wanted to tell it to somebody. To anybody. As if speaking about it would make it go away.
"Yes," he answered. "One day shy of a fortnight ago. Killed in a fight. He and my Uncle Royce had gone to an inn to drink. In the course of events they had entered into an argument with men seated at another table."
Barak paused, licking his lips. Emotion began to stir within him; he stopped it cold. He had cried enough. There would be no more crying.
"I don't even know what it was about," he continued. "Nobody could tell me. But it was he and my Uncle against nine in the other group."
"They never stood a chance," Luthion said, shaking his head.
"They killed five of them," Barak countered. "They fought well."
"Yes, they did. But it would have been better had they come home alive."
Barak threw a pained look at the septon. He wanted to argue, to yell and scream that Luthion was sticking his nose in another's business. But he said nothing. The Septon was right: Barak wanted his father back. That meant far more to him than any pride about victory. He wished father was here now, with Uncle Royce. He wished that he was back home in Kayce, doing something mundane with them, something routine. He didn't want to be out like this, riding with two men whom he hardly knew. He had always wanted to go to Castle Black, yes, but not like this. Not this early in his life. It had been forced upon him, hoisted upon his shoulders like a burden with the weight of a millstone.
He missed father.
A few moments of silence passed before Luthion spoke again. "Amazing times we live in, wouldn't you agree, my friend?" he said to Barak.
"And what makes you say that?" the younger man inquired.
"Change has happened in the world. Much change. You've heard the rumors, I trust, of the things happening in Essos? How the young queen of the Targaryen line has conquered cities and hearts with her wisdom and her dragons?"
"Bah!" Ulric snorted.
Luthion glanced back at him with a mischievous smirk before returning his attention to Barak. "And the turmoil taking place in our own King's Landing, with young Tommen ascending to the Iron Throne, and his marriage to Margaery Tyrell. A pity about his elder brother Joffrey."
"The child got what he deserved," Ulric growled.
Luthion paused again. The contagious joy on his face had infected Barak with his own small smile. "I thought you had no interest in my words, good Ulric."
"I'll speak when I feel like speaking, Septon. If you have objections to this you can voice them while you walk."
"Oh, no objection at all, my friend! Many voices in conversation make for a lively time! Speak as freely as you wish!"
Ulric's hardened visage remained fixed on the roadless way before them.
"Joffrey was unfit for the throne," Barak conceded, "but to see him murdered like that is no less horrific. And that his own uncle did so..."
"I don't believe it was Tyrion who was responsible. A few of my brothers and sisters who minister in the city sent word to us about what had happened, along with their own thoughts and opinions, of course. The little man lacks in his morality, to be sure, but murder is not one of his sins."
"You seem to be well-informed of the intrigues surrounding the crown, Septon Luthion."
The young cleric shrugged. "I do believe in turning one ear toward the crown while keeping the other inclined to the faith. To divorce the two realms is to send men into the darkness of godlessness."
A bitter growl came from between Ulric's hair-encased lips. Septon Luthion did not look at the driver, but the raising of an eyebrow and a twitch of the lip told Barak that the holy man noted the breathed dissent.
A memory hit Barak. His eyes opened. "Luthion," he murmured. "Septon Luthion! You're the one they were discussing at the inn the other night!" He turned toward Ulric, slapping him on the shoulder. "Recall those speaking behind us at the pub before we left? He's the one they spoke of, causing trouble in Oldtown and Goldengrove!"
The septon's lips formed a thin, mirthless smile. "Aye, the same Luthion, I must confess," he replied, nodding. "And while I do not know the details concerning what you heard, I have been a bit of a thorn in the side of other brothers and sisters in the Faith."
"Well, the participants in the conversation appeared to be split concerning their feelings for you. Some of them accused you of sedition and subversion, saying that you are doing the work of the devils, while the others countered that you act as an instrument of the Crone in dispensing wisdom to hardened hearts."
"May my supporters be true in their speech!" Luthion exclaimed, raising his hands. "Indeed, there are days were I feel more of the former than the latter upon my soul! But I assure you, my son, I have no intention of subverting the Holy Faith. No, my intention is to restore it to its proper place."
"Restore it?" Barak inquired. "You speak of the corruption of its septons and septas as whispered among the people?" He noted Luthion's momentary expression of confusion. "Forgive me," he continued. "I meant no offense to you."
"I would have," Ulric put in.
"Yes, and I would have as well," Luthion added, frowning. Ulric gave the religious man a curious glance, but just as quickly returned his attention to the land before him.
"I'm afraid at least some of the rumors concerning our spiritual leaders are not without substance," Luthion continued. "Indeed, I've heard many a rumor even while in the septries concerning the lewdness of the High Septon in King's Landing, how he himself indulges in debauchery and fornication while looking the other way instead of addressing it among the Lannisters and other high officials. A mockery of true religion, to be sure."
"Then you must applaud the arrival of the High Sparrow and his Faith Militant!"
Luthion spat through his scowl. "Hardly," he replied. "Whereas the High Septon was overtly permissive about sin, the High Sparrow and his followers are far too quick to judge it."
"But is that not the way of the Faith? Is it not right for judgment to be pronounced with swift resolve upon the wicked?"
"No, my son," Luthion replied, shaking his head, "at least not in the manner of the Sparrows. In fact, it is this very matter that came to be my chief contention with the septry at Oldtown."
"The Faith Militant?"
"I will explain, but first—" Luthion leaned back and reached for his satchel. A hand disappeared into a side pocket and removed something wrapped within a grey napkin. "I find that conversation goes much better when food is present," he said, unwrapping the napkin to reveal half a loaf of bread. Barak could tell by the scent that not many hours had passed since its removal from the oven, and his mouth began to water.
Luthion raised the loaf up and grinned. "Shall we dine?" he asked.
Rare was the occasion that Barak refused food. Even during those rare days in which he had the fortune to dine like a king, he found it difficult to turn down an extra serving of anything. Once, he and his father had been invited to a feast put on by a neighbor in Kayce, and he had the fortune of consuming some of the best boar ever prepared in his life. So delicious and succulent was the juicy, salted meat that he sneaked several portions when heads were turned in other directions, often caught up in conversations with Barak's father about the battles he had fought during Robert's Rebellion and the women he had bedded in his youth.
And Barak had been the child of one of those women.
He never knew his mother—few bastards did, and father refused to speak of her—but his father loved him as fervently as any father would love his own legitimate child. He gave him several lessons in use of the sword, which Barak in turn would practice for the better part of an hour each night before sleep. He learned to fight, to read, to write, to farm, all from his father. And he knew how to eat like his father as well, and did so whenever he could.
Father would have been proud of him.
"So you did not want to divide the Faith?"
Barak's question came after several mouthfuls of bread. The chewy, savory goodness of the morsel prevented him from doing much talking, and as the Septon had asked The Smith to bless this gift of creation, it tasted as divine to Barak's palate as any bread ever had. Even Ulric, who received his portion without a word, bit into his chunk with more than a merely mechanical method of mastication.
"Certainly not!" Luthion replied. "I simply wanted answers to my questions, and was not receiving them. I had spent many an hour while in our small Goldengrove septry studying The Seven-Pointed Star and many commentaries penned by septons and septas far wiser than myself. And the more I read from the earliest adherents of our faith, the less similarity I saw between their words and ours."
"Such as?"
"The pitting of the deities against one another. If you listen to our septons when they deliver their homilies, you'll notice that they often spend an inordinate amount of time upon the doctrines of the Father, the Warrior, and the Stranger. Am I correct?"
Barak thought for a moment. His father was not always consistent with taking him to Kayce's house of worship on a consistent basis, and Barak could not deny that distractions in the house of worship abounded for him during the occasional times when they did make it. Still, from the fragments of homilies he could recall, there were harsh words about justice, about judgment. About the need for strength and courage to face the evils of each day. About the specter of Death, ever on the roam to devour citizens in unexpected ways. About the need for morality and the constant striving to be free from the sin without and within. "Yes, I would say so," he finally answered.
"And yet when was the last time you heard a sermon delivered that dealt with the wonderful, rich grace of the Seven-Faced God as seen through The Mother? When did you last sit under the beautiful teaching of undeserved merit as found in passages of The Seven-Pointed Star, reminding us that it is not only the will of the Father that we be just, but that it is through the Maiden who hears the prayers of we who are believers and counts them innocent on her behalf rather than through our own efforts at self-justification?"
Barak shook his head. "I dare say I've never heard such doctrine," he replied.
"And yet it is there in the sacred texts!" Luthion exclaimed. A wild passion filled his eyes, and for a moment Barak feared the holy man might actually jump off the cart in a fit of ecstasy. "For a man like me, a man who grew up a bastard without a mother's love or compassion, knowing nothing but the iron fist of a stern father—for me, that truth released me in a way that no other teaching, no other ceremony ever did! How terrified I was that Death would one day knock at my door and I would find myself lacking before the Seven-Faced God, doomed to the Seven Hells for eternity! I worked and prayed and studied like no other septon, up hours before the sun and my brethren performing penance, awake hours after others had gone to sleep confessing my transgressions! So vexed was I that even the most devout septons and septas became angry with me!"
Luthion stopped. His raging face melted into the pleasant demeanor Barak had first seen. "And then our head Septon punished me in the best way possible. He sent me into our archives at Oldtown, to spend the better part of a week in study, to prepare for my acceptance as a full septon who could teach and preach. And there I found it."
"You found delirium, holy man," Ulric snapped.
"Then delirious I am, sir," Luthion replied. "But if delirious means forgiven, may I ever be as mad as a diseased direwolf."
Ulric gave the younger man a sharp glare for a moment, then looked to his horses.
"What did you find?" Barak asked, leaning forward.
"Forgiveness. Mercy. Grace. It had been there before me the whole time, but I was far too blind to see it. But the Seven-Faced God was pleased to wipe the foolishness away from my eyes, and as I read a commentary from the ancient Septon Sull, I realized that I had been striving for that which had already been obtained for me."
Luthion shifted, closing the distance between himself and Barak. "You see, we have it all wrong," he explained. His hands danced in cadence with his words as he spoke. "Far too many in the Sept teach salvation as a thing to be earned, a thing to be bought with our righteousness and our penance. But that is a price we can never pay, dear Barak. Neither you nor I nor our driver friend Ulric here have the ability to blot out our own sins before the Seven-Faced God. The Father looks upon us and sees nothing but condemned criminals worthy of death and expulsion from His presence. But the Mother—" his face broke into an infectious smile, "—she and the Maiden have appeased the wrath of the Father. They have paid the price we could not pay, and have brought it before the Father as an offering on our behalf."
Barak sat there for a moment, saying nothing. The words had registered; he understood them, but they seemed like distant things, abstract information irrelevant to his own life.
"Don't you see?" Luthion continued. "We don't have to be good enough to earn the pardon of the Father! It was done on our behalf, for our salvation! All we must do is receive it in faith!"
"Yes..." Barak murmured. "I think so. But... what then of our goodness? Is there no place for our righteousness? Does that not matter anymore?"
"Oh of course!" Luthion laughed as he threw his hands up. "My brethren in the septry asked the same question of me, and I'll tell you what I told them: yes, our works matter. Our goodness is still expected of us. But it's expected in a manner of gratitude for our salvation, not as a way to apprehend it. Think of it this way, Barak: does a boy obey his mother and father to become their child, or because he already is their child?"
"I see," Barak remarked, nodding. He really was beginning to see what was meant. And he liked it. Such a religion sounded far better than the relentless, terrible hammer of judgment and demands that came from his few times of hearing a septon speak. It brought something than dread upon him, something other than fatigue and despair.
Relief.
Yes! That was it. Relief. This news brought a relief, an easing of the heart and the mind. He had to admit he knew less than he should have about the Faith, but if Septon Luthion was any indication of what the Faith actually was, he felt very receptive to it.
"Your brethren must have been pleased to hear this," he commented.
The smile fell away from Luthion's face again. "Yes, well... unfortunately most of them did not. Upon returning to Goldengrove I began to speak to them about what I had learned, what I had rediscovered from the ancient tomes and careful readings of our holy text. My news was greeted with shock and disgust, particularly among my superiors. They reacted with horror and accused me of transforming the Faith of the Seven into a 'garden of iniquity, with fruit ripe for the picking,' as one of them remarked. They said the doctrine I championed would embolden men to lie with whores and rob others blind, all without remorse."
"Surely that was not the aim of your studies!" Barak exclaimed.
"Of course not! In order to understand forgiveness, one must understand the ugliness and depth of transgression, how horrid it is in the sight of our Seven-Faced God. Indeed, the very asking of forgiveness when done with a contrite heart presupposes an understanding of how vile and abhorrent our sins are, and how unworthy we are. And as I said before to you, when we understand this, we also see how sweetly we desire to do that which is righteous, not to earn our good standing before the Divine, but because of our good standing."
Barak clutched his chest. A warmth filled him, a strange, soothing warmth, as if all was right with the world. It did not matter to him at that moment that instability flooded the halls of King's Landing. It did not matter to him that a woman many leagues away desired to rule as queen with beasts that may or may not exist, or that monsters and madmen from the north were rumored to threaten the southern lands of Westeros. All of that faded to the background. For now, he knew something else: a peace he did not know was possible. He smiled at Luthion. This man, whom he knew for less than the space of an hour, he now loved like a brother. He spoke of good news, liberating news that emboldened him, and in turn had strengthened young Barak's own heart. He could face a legion of soldiers or wildlings and do so without flinching. Death no longer held sway over his fears.
"Alas," Luthion continued, shaking his head, "what I believed would be a captivating speech became a heated argument. Some demanded debates to be held in the Oldtown septry, and I acquiesced. It sent me to my cloister, writing and studying so intensely and meticulously that I gave pause only to eat, sleep, and relieve myself—and my sleep amounted to little more than two hours each night. At that point I had but only two others who gave ear to my words. One of them only did so because he was a rebellious rascal to begin with, and the contention it caused within our septry gave him great pleasure."
Barak glanced at Ulric. The driver gave no sign of taking interest in Luthion's tale. If he was listening, he disguised his interest—or disdain—quite well.
Luthion looked at his hands, studying them for a moment as he spoke. "Then the debates began. At first, it seemed as if the entire world stood against me. Each question delivered, each rebuttal and exposition from my opponents buffeted me like a dog poorly treated by a hateful master. But those debates made me stronger, more thorough and more sure in what I knew and believed. After the fourth debate, I noted two things: first, that several of my septry brothers and sisters began to consider the things I spoke and wrote. We were still a minority , mind you, but we were also more than three now, and that gave me courage."
"And the second thing?"
"That people from Oldtown itself began to attend the debates. Apparently we had begun to create quite a stir among the common folk. When this happened, I renewed my efforts to be clear and concise in my doctrine, and became determined to do so in such a way as to make even the most uneducated peasant understand the truth I proclaimed. Of course, this became an object of scorn in the eyes of the more erudite of septons and septas, but it earned great favor among the general populace willing to hear me. And those opportunities to speak to a broad audience provided me with what I desired most."
"And what was that?" Barak asked.
"Why, to reach the people with the word of grace!" Luthion replied. "That was the entire point of my efforts: not to stir up dissent within our septry—though that did happen—but to tell the people the truth that had somehow become lost beneath a pile of burdens and legalities heaped upon shoulders by years of misguided zeal."
A small insect buzzed about Luthion's face. He paused to shoo it away before continuing. "I did pass my examination however, in the eyes of a few. They bestowed upon me the title of Septon, albeit some did so begrudgingly. I suppose they believed that granting me this title would close my mouth about the matter, and that I would go about my business as a good, loyal septon should, causing no more stir within the septry or among the people".
"Obviously it did nothing to silence you," remarked Ulric. "Your mouth runs as freely as an open wound."
"It did not need to after that, good Ulric," Luthion answered. Barak bit his lip. He wanted to laugh at the septon's apparent disregard for Ulric's contempt, but was unsure whether or not his ignoring of the driver's spite was intended to goad him into an argument or if he truly did not care about Ulric's thoughts on the matter. Either way, a snicker might have brought a closed fist from Ulric. Barak did not want that.
"By then, I had declared publicly that I would be leaving Oldtown with my message. The septry as a whole was glad; they had tired of the debates as much as I had by then. Those who opposed me warned me that they would send ravens to the farthest reaches of Westeros, warning the brothers and sisters to shun me and my 'radical doctrine.' A few even made statements implying that my life might be at stake." He paused, shuddering at the thought. "But by then I had compiled my teachings and had systematically organized them. I had written down copies for myself—here among my belongings—and had left behind another copy for those loyal to my cause to begin copying and distributing throughout the other septries of Westeros. So no matter what happens to me, this message will still get out."
He grinned at Barak. "Praise be to the God of Seven that the truth, once released, is not easily captured and imprisoned!"
"Rubbish!"
Luthion and Barak both stopped at the sound of the driver's utterance. "I'm sorry, what was that?" Luthion said to Ulric.
Barak was too afraid to speak.
"I said rubbish, holy man," the driver grumbled. "Dung. Filth. Fit to be thrown out into the street like any other accumulated refuse!"
Luthion faced Ulric. "Your hatred is not something I'm unaccustomed to, friend," he said. "I've had far worse said about me."
"And yet you still preach your lies to the people!"
"What lie have I disseminated, friend?"
Ulric cried a sharp command, giving the reins a violent tug. The horses came to a stop after a few more steps. The grizzled, haggard driver whirled around, facing Luthion with a visage so furious that Barak feared his next move would be to drive a closed fist through the septon's face. Instead, a crooked, dirty finger was thrust toward Luthion, jabbing at his nose, missing him by little more than the length of the fingernail.
"I am not your friend, bastard boy!" he bellowed. "I am your driver, and nothing more! The only reason I don't toss you off my cart is because you have paid me with good coin—and gods know where you received that money!"
Luthion's smile fell away. "My apologies. If you no longer wish to be called friend—"
"I no longer wish to hear about your religion at all! Not a bit of it! Your Seven-Faced God is a lie and your brothers and sisters in the septries are wealthy propagators of that lie! You bind people in fear and hate so you can control them, either through the giving of coin to the septries, or through the influence of kings and queens, lords and ladies, maesters and knights!"
Ulric stopped, clenching his teeth. Stubble-coated cheeks expanded and contracted with each angry huff. His eyes shut, as if he were preparing to sleep. "I once had a wife and daughter, septon," he began in a low voice. "We were a small but content family, living a good life. And while I was not the most devout of adherents to the Seven-Faced God, I did believe. My wife and daughter even more so. We prayed regularly at eventide, sang various hymns and vespers. When the doors were open for public worship, they were there, and oftentimes I accompanied them, even at the cost of delaying work which would have increased our wealth."
Ulric looked away from the other two, staring at an unblinking ceiling of clouds. "She told me it was far more important that I communed with the divine than any other thing in this life," he whispered, "even when it came to our livelihood."
Barak looked at Luthion and winced. Even before the words had formed and leaped from the septon's tongue, Barak knew what would be asked—and what would be the response. "And what of your family, Ulric? Where are they now?"
"They are gone!"
The reply was roared from Ulric's mouth. He resumed his predatory snarl as he looked at Luthion. The accusing finger rose again, aiming for the holy man's chest. "They contracted greyscale while attending a marketplace in Oldtown. It spread rapidly across their bodies, faster than I could have ever imagined. We went to our septon, begged him, pleaded with him to pray to the gods for healing. I spent many a sleepless night beside the bed of my ill child, making her floor wet with tears as I petitioned mercy from the Mother, pardon from the Father, wisdom from the Crone. Whatever request could be made, I made it, asking for them to be spared."
Ulric stopped. His head tilted down, eyelids trying in vain to restrain tears. A sob escaped his mouth. "Oh my dear sir," Luthion began, his voice soft and tender. "I grieve with you for your losses, sir. I sincerely do."
He shook his head. "I don't even know what became of them," he continued. "One morning I awoke, and they were gone. They had taken one of our horses and departed. My wife had left me a letter, saying only that she wished to spare me the horror of watching them... watching them change." He sobbed twice more. "I looked for them, sought them for two days. I nearly ran Thunderfoot there on the left to death. But I never found them."
Barak held his peace. Ulric's tale was not unknown to him. Indeed, it had been the talk of Kayce for some time, and it was traced as the reason for this once soft-hearted, jolly man's transformation into the hostile recluse that now took him to the Kingsroad.
The somber driver shifted his gaze to the sky. "My life has been a comedy of tragedies," he murmured. "I was the son of a whore, the product of a union with a man whose appearance was so horrid that she struggled to hide her repulsion from him. As a lad I was reminded of this each day, as she spit the words through lips drowned in wine and followed them with a strike from an oak cudgel. She practically forced me upon a cruel farmer and his wife as slave labor in exchange for food, which she kept mostly for herself and gave me barely enough scraps to live." He paused and snorted a mirthless laugh. "I fail to understand why she allowed me to live in the first place, so plain was her resentment toward me."
Barak glanced at Luthion. The holy man's pained expression did not change, save for a slow blink of the eyes. Indeed, Barak himself could not believe the openness of Ulric; though fueled by anger, it was a personal disclosure nevertheless. He did not know Ulric that well, and his father and uncle, though more familiar with him, spoke little of his life, even less after his wife and daughter deserted him. And now, he heard a confession unlike any other, a baring of the soul fit for hearing in the loving ear of a septon, save that there was no contrition in Ulric's words.
"And even after that, the affliction continued. I left my home as soon as the opportunity presented itself. I hid. I stole food. Stole drink, and clothing. When confronted, I entered into many brawls with other boys and even men, and I wished to the gods that each blow I landed to their bodies could have been landed upon the body of the man who begat me. I had learned to work with metal crafting only because the man who taught me offered me a sword in exchange for assisting him. Had I not met my wife during my time as his apprentice, I would have become a sellsword and avoided this terrible rending of my family that I had experienced."
"Now, Ulric," Septon Luthion began, reaching out his hand. "Surely you don't mean—"
The grizzled driver struck the cleric's arm away with a violent swing of his fist. Barak flinched from the reaction, raising his own hands to serve as feeble shields. Ulric's sour temperament did not always seem to care that his fury spilled beyond his intended target.
"Where was your Seven-Faced God, Septon Luthion?" Ulric sneered. "Where was this deliverance from a mother who looked upon me and was reminded of the hideous man that had been my father? Where was my portion of the bountiful harvests when my stomach ate me from the inside out and I was forced to take bread and meat that belonged to others? Who listened to my prayers for deliverance as I stood and watched that damn disease ravage the ones I loved? What evil did they commit to deserve such a fate? Well, Septon? Answer me!"
Ulric stared at him for another moment. Luthion held his impassive expression. Barak studied the two men, half-ready to duck in case the elder driver unleashed his anger in the form of another released fist.
"The Seven-Faced God was there, my friend. The Seven-Faced God was there through all of it with you. And even now, as I hear your pained words, so does our Divine Creator and Sustainer. The Father, dear Ulric, is the Father we never had. Think it a coincidence that we three who were born of immoral means are now together like this? We are bastards of the flesh, yes. Yet we are not without the Father or the Mother. We are taken in, adopted by the gracious and merciful Deity who longs to receive us into the divine family, Ulric."
Movement atop a hill caught Barak's eye. Though fastening his ear to Luthion's mouth, his eyes wandered, settling upon a trio of figures atop a nearby hill, all on horseback.
"And not to receive us as a cold, vindictive judge! No, Ulric! Again I say to you, our coming together was not happenstance! It is for you that this wonderful truth was revealed to me, so that it may be preached in your ears and received in faith."
Barak flicked his eyes at Ulric, noting that the old man said nothing, but held a grim expression toward Septon Luthion as the holy man spoke. He looked back at the three silhouetted riders.
"No man is fatherless who has faith in our God, Ulric."
No, not three of them. Five. "Ulric?"
"Are you saying your Seven-Faced God did all of this simply to get my attention?" Ulric growled. "Speaking of the love and grace and mercy you claim to preach, all the while torturing souls like mine with such a miserable existence that I longed for death at times? You call that love?"
"I call that patience, Ulric. How many times have you and I and all of humanity committed transgressions against the Seven-Faced God? How often have we sinned in rebellion to what is plainly written in the holy texts?"
The quintet of horse-bound figures held their place on the hill. One of them seemed to be fiddling with something.
"Ulric! Luthion!"
"And tell me, Luthion! What sin did you or I or the lad here commit that we should be labeled bastards? What evil were we guilty of before entering the womb which caused ridiculing whispers and looks of disdain to be cast in our direction?"
"We are all victims and perpetrators of transgressions, Ulric. Sadly, we receive evil which our own hands had no workings in. It is a part of the curse upon our world."
"Ulric! Ulric! Who are those m—?"
"Shut your mouth, lad!" Ulric snapped, then returned his fury upon Luthion. A hand raised in a tight fist came to the driver's chest. "I've had enough of your talk, Septon. No more excuses for this paltry lie you call a faith. You speak no more, not to me or to Barak, unless spoken to again, and it will have nothing to do with religion. If you cannot abide by this, I will strike you with the intent to kill you, and should you live you will be on foot for the remainder of your trek. Do we have—?"
He fell forward before the sentence could be finished.
Barak cried out in surprise.
Luthion flinched from the unexpected, violent lurch.
A scream of rage and pain filled the air. It fell from Ulric's mouth, now hidden below his hair as his body was bent over. From the back of his left shoulder protruded the shaft of an arrow. A red stain spread out from the spot where wood and wool met upon his body.
Barak looked up at the five riders. No longer did they sit atop the hill. Now they were riding with fury, closing the distance between themselves and Ulric's cart as their horses galloped, as swift as the wind upon a treeless land.
Ulric threw his body back up, pointing toward the back of the cart. "My sword," he gasped. Barak complied, reaching for his own shorter blade as well as he scrambled over the bulk of belongings and wares. Behind him came soothing words of Luthion directed at the wounded driver.
In a moment, Barak had both swords in hand. He turned to see Luthion reaching for the reins of the horses.
"Don't do it!" came a shout.
Barak looked toward the source of the command. It appeared to come from the foremost rider, a fellow with a weedy mass of blond hair and beard. His worn and stained armor did not carry the uniform elegance of a formal knight; it appeared to be piecemeal, snatched like a vulture's meat, stolen from multiple carcasses. The same held true for his four companions—one of them possessing short, black hair and a hairless face as young as Barak's, almost feminine in form; that one held a bow. The others wore swords upon their persons.
They positioned their horses in front of the cart. "Stay your hands, Septon," the one with mangled hair warned. Barak guessed him to be the band's leader. "Cooperate, and this will be quick for all of us."
Luthion set down the reins. Barak noted that the holy man's expression had become one of resolve. He saw no anger or rage, but neither did he discern any fear. He had to admire that.
The feminine rider drew an arrow from a packed quiver on the horse's saddle as the spokesman continued. "Now this is what shall happen, Septon: you shall step down from the cart. After that, the lad shall do the same. Then the two of you shall assist your wounded friend down. After that, you three shall step away from the cart."
"And what do you intend to do?" Barak asked. The words were far too colored with fear for his liking.
"Why, rob you, boy!" exclaimed a fellow possessing a halo of black hair and an equally thick beard. "Isn't that obvious?"
"The lad does seem a bit dim in his attic, Darius," the mangled hair fellow remarked with mock gravity. The other riders laughed, save for the archer, who trained an arrow upon him.
Ulric turned around, his face grimacing with pain or anger, or maybe both. An angry burst of spit exploded from his lips.
"Brave gesture, old man," said the archer in a voice that revealed more woman than man.
"Put down that... bow , and... you'll see how brave."
"I think we'll decline that offer. Now, if you please..." said the leader, tapping his finger in the air toward the earth. "You first, Septon."
With a nimble motion, Luthion complied. His hand reached up and snatched his walking stick. The leader gave him a suspicious look for a moment, but relented. "Now you, my boy."
"I'm not 'your' boy ," Barak snapped in defiance. He jumped from the cart, swords still in his hands.
"Ah-ah, lad," the one named Darius said, wagging a finger. "Drop the blades. No need to be holding those while we're in your company, now is there."
Barak's fists only tightened upon the weapons. A fire burned within his stomach, and he wanted it to spread through his arms and spur him on to strike down these monsters. He had learned much from many an hour spent in training with his father and uncle, and had wondered at times how well he could wield a sword in actual combat, as the tales told of the Night's Watch and their warring against the Wildlings of the North—among other, more terrifying things—reminded him that he would not be sparring in a controlled match, but would be striking iron against iron in contests where there were no rules, where the victor was not determined by superior form or elegance, but whether or not he walked away from the fight, and his opponent was carried off.
"He means it, boy," the archer said. Her mouth tightened into a thin grin as she trained the arrow upon him.
"I would heed Sareh if I were you. She's been anxious to shoot something all day, and I doubt she's content with merely wounding your friend," the mangled-hair man warned.
Barak looked at Luthion. The priest shook his head, then nodded toward the ground. With a look of disgust, Barak tossed the blades into the grass before him.
"Smart lad. Now, the both of you help your driver down."
"I'll die on my cart," Ulric growled.
"If that's what you wish, we can arrange that. Sareh—"
"No!" Luthion cried, stepping forward. His hands raised up, as if offering worship to the five devils. "We'll help him down!"
A slight pout formed on the mouth of the archer. Barak's eyes narrowed upon her before something hard tapped his shoulder. "Come on," Luthion said, setting his walking stick aside. "Assist me, Barak."
The duo approached the side of the cart. "I'll not let... these brutes simply... take my wares," Ulric said between pained breaths.
"Come, my friend," Luthion said softly, lifting a hand. "This cart of yours is not worth the loss of your life."
"My life is in this cart!"
"As is mine, Ulric! As is Barak's! But there will be other times for regaining what we have lost. Even if you were not injured, we are outnumbered by two, and the lady archer there gives them a distinct advantage. Your stand here would accomplish nothing."
Ulric alternated looks of rage between the septon's pleading face and the haughty expressions of the five newcomers. "Please, Ulric," Barak murmured, raising his own hand. "Please don't die over this."
"We need you alive," Luthion added.
With a final look at the cleric, the grizzled cart driver blew out an exasperated sigh and started down. "I'm not needed by anyone," he grumbled, taking their hands.
"All men are needed," Luthion countered. "Including you, more than you think."
As they lowered his body, the lead rider pointed toward the two comrades on his right, Barak's left. "Aldon, you and Marco check the cart," he said. "You three, step back. If you don't, I'll have my pretty lass there let loose her arrows."
The other two riders, one hairless, the other with a long, brown mane secured in a ponytail, sprang from their mounts. Barak looked at their faces and wondered whether or not their apparent ugliness was due to one too many drunken fistfights.
"Getting difficult to hold this arrow, Geordin," Serah announced with mock alarm.
"Oh my! In that case, I suggest you give my associates a wide berth!" Geordin announced with a laugh. His gnarled, yellow beard split open at the mouth, revealing crooked mountain ranges of teeth.
Aldon and Marco scrambled up the sides. With reckless abandon, they tore through the sacks. Things began to fly off the cart: a pan. A small kettle. A dark stein with something etched on the side that appeared to be very ornate and complex.
"Trinkets!" the ponytailed one called.
"Yes, but I like that stein," Darius remarked. "I lay claim to that, Marco."
"What else?" Sareh asked.
The bald and beardless Aldon thrust his hand up, holding a mace. "I declare for that!" Sareh announced.
"Too late! I found it, I keep it!"
"The Seven Hells you will!"
"Bicker over it later," Geordin barked. "Is there more?"
"Yes, much. Mostly things made of metal. Iron. Bronze..." he paused, then opened the lid of a small crate. "Looks like some food and drink as well. Wine flasks, from the look of it."
"I found scrolls!" Marco announced, holding up a handful of rolled parchment.
"Please handle those with care," Luthion said.
"Your scriptures, holy man?" Geordin inquired.
"Commentaries upon them. Important work that needs to be shared with the world." The scrolls rained from the sky and fell near Luthion's feet, half-submerged in grass.
"How kind of my men!" Geordin exclaimed with a laugh. "Often they keep parchment like that for taking a—er, pardon me, Septon. For relieving themselves!"
"Any more weaponry?" Sareh asked.
"Looks like some unfinished pieces. There's quite a bit more below."
Geordin looked at Barak and the others. "Are you three merchants?"
"I'm the merchant," Ulric replied through grit teeth.
"Ah, I see. Are these items crafted by your own hand? No matter, I suppose. They'll find uses in ours." He looked toward Luthion. "And you, Septon, are you his personal mentor in the Faith?"
Luthion glanced at Ulric. "It appears to be that way," he replied. Ulric did not respond.
Geordin gave them a disinterested smile before turning to Barak. "And you," he said, "who are you? You're not the septon's son... unless those rumors I've heard about their 'ministering' to widows are true."
The others in the band let out laughs, all except for Sareh, who did little more than raise a corner of her mouth while maintaining her aim. Barak felt a torrent of heat flood his face.
"So I assume you belong to the merchant, yes? Son?"
Barak shook his head. "Neighbor," he mumbled.
Darius cupped a hand to his ear. "Huh? What's that, boy? Speak louder."
Behind Barak came the continued sound of clinking and shuffling, coupled by muttered remarks about the quality of things found. He repeated himself with more volume. "I see," Geordin remarked, nodding. "You work for him?"
"I'm on my way to Castle Black," Barak announced.
A couple of surprised "Oohs" fell from the lips of Aldon and Marco. "You hear that, Geordin?" Darius asked. "The boy here wants to be a Crow!"
"He doesn't look strong enough to pick up a man's sword, let alone swing it," Sareh said.
Rage bubbled within the cauldron of Barak's belly. "I can swing mine," he replied, taking a step forward. "And I can swing it well enough to cleave you in half."
Something thumped against his shoulder. Barak looked down to see the knobbed upper portion of Luthion's staff pressed against him. He glanced at the septon. "Hold yourself, my son," he murmured, shaking his head.
"Pity," Sareh said, "I was hoping he'd be fool enough to come at me."
"Alright, you two!" Geordin called. "What are your thoughts?"
Barak looked back at the cart. The unkempt men answered with smiles and fists with raised thumbs. "Not exactly a cart of gold, but there's profit to be made here," said Aldon. "And things for our own use as well," added Marco.
"Very good," Geordin remarked. "Always rewarding when we plunder things of value. Doesn't happen all the time, you know ."
"How sad for you," Ulric said. The scowl held fast on his face.
"Yes, yes it is. Most unfortunate on those days. But not today. In fact, it will be a good day for us. But for you, I'm afraid it will not be so good."
"Hear now, friend. You've injured my traveling companion here," Luthion replied, motioning toward Ulric. "Your sin of thievery is bad enough. Would you also leave us without a horse and force us to travel on foot?"
"Oh no, Septon," Geordin replied. "I won't force you to travel at all. And our sins include far more than thievery."
A tight knot formed in Barak's stomach. He looked at Ulric and Luthion, and saw the somber resolve on their faces. They knew as well as he what Geordin meant, even before his next words came:
"In fact, we specialize in murder."
It was as if an invisible hand had clutched Barak's throat. He tried to swallow, but muscles constricted with dread kept the saliva in his mouth. He was going to die.
And not die in glorious battle. Not die in defense of Westeros, holding off a horde of invaders from the north alongside his brothers of the Night's Watch. No, he was going to die out in the middle of uninhabited land, at the hand of murderous thieves. He was going to be slain without a proper chance to defend himself, slaughtered like fowl or cattle for a vulture's feast. He and Ulric and Luthion would be left here to rot, forgotten by Kayce. Forgotten by Oldtown. Forgotten by Westeros.
Forgotten by the Seven-Faced God.
We truly are fatherless...
He didn't want to believe that, but there was no sign of hope, no chance of escape. The thieves had the advantage in numbers, in horses, in armament, and in health; Sareh's first, well-placed arrow had seen to the last one. And now, she could increase that advantage tenfold with another one implanted into any one of them. Barak knew little about Ulric's actual ability to wield a sword—Uncle Royce once said that he seemed to have decent command of his blade, but surely the arrow now buried in his shoulder impeded him. And Luthion... did septons even know how to properly hold swords, let alone use them?
Desperation welled up within Barak. Tears began to fill his eyelids.
No... I won't cry. Not for them...
He blinked against the salty liquid, quickly rubbing a sleeve against his eyes to clear his vision. The last time he had cried was for father and Uncle Royce on the day of their burial. He would not blubber like a helpless child before these monsters. They didn't deserve it.
He would die well.
It didn't matter whether or not he could fight. He would face death bravely, face being ushered into the next world—whatever that may be—without cowardice, without cries for mercy. That he was doing so now instead of up at The Wall changed nothing: a brave death was a brave death. Father would be proud. Uncle Royce would be proud.
Mother would be proud.
And perhaps they were at this very moment. He took in a deep breath, clenching his fists.
He would die well.
"You would slay us here?" Luthion asked in disbelief. "Is it not enough that you have plundered us and intend to leave us in this place?"
Geordin shook his head. A wistful smile filled his face. "You may not believe in revenge, Septon, but these other two may have different ideas," he began. "And I have lived long enough to know that enemies left alive become enemies who do not leave you alive. I cannot risk the misfortune of seeing one or both of these other two survive and perhaps encounter them again."
Barak looked at the holy man. The disbelief upon his face filled Barak with pity. It was one thing to read about the evil of man in the Holy Texts, quite another to experience it in such a gross and heinous manner. The Septon would be killed by the those who of all men would be the most needy to listen to his religious proclamations. But Barak suspected that Geordin and his robber companions had no desire to hear of forgiveness. It reminded him of something his father had once said during a sparring session: offer mercy whenever possible, but be prepared to have your offer rejected.
There would be no offer here.
Barak turned toward Ulric. The old fellow wore a grim, determined expression. He, too, seemed prepared to meet his fate, ready to accept a death that led to either utter blackness or to a judgment from a deity he hated. He appeared resigned to facing it bravely, with all the strength he could muster.
Like Barak intended to do.
"Wait!" Luthion cried, taking a step forward. Sareh shifted her arrow toward him, but Geordin held her in check with a wave of his hand. "Would you not permit me to say prayers for myself and my companions before you murder us?"
"What? Planning on talking to the sky for deliverance?" teased Marco. The others laughed.
Luthion glanced over his shoulder. "I wish to be sure that our sins are forgiven before our final rest is taken."
"What if we don't believe in your gods?" Darius challenged.
"God. Not 'gods'."
Geordin rolled his eyes. "Semantics, Septon. Your Creator is still a figment of imaginative minds from long ago."
"If you truly believe that, then my request should be of no consequence to you," Luthion replied.
An impatient sigh registered from Aldon. "We're wasting daylight, Geordin. Let's finish them off and be on our way!"
Luthion shook his head and dropped to one knee. "I'm going to do this anyway, friend," he began. His hand slid down his walking stick until it stopped at the middle of the shaft. "I intend to pray to the Seven-Faced God and make my final act that of asking for mercy, regardless of whatever course of action you intend to take. If you choose to take our lives before I complete my prayers, that will be yet another sin which you must answer for in the final Day of Judgment. But I will do the proper thing, as is my duty."
"Shall I loose my arrow , Geordin?" Sareh asked.
The leader huffed an impatient sigh. "Let him begin his prayers," he replied. "If his words are nothing more than idle prattle, loose your arrow into his skull."
Luthion gave Barak a wary glance, then bowed his head to pray.
And the Seven-Faced God answered.
Had Barak blinked, he would have missed it.
Luthion sprang from his kneeling position. The walking stick flew from his hand, end over end, striking Sareh's horse in the jaw. With a frightened cry, the horse reared back, throwing its rider, bow and all, from her saddle. As she fell, Luthion sprinted to the fallen swords, reaching for them.
"Here!" he cried, tossing Barak's blade up. In a smooth second motion, he whirled around and sent Ulric's sword toward its owner. The injured driver, though startled, nevertheless reached for his weapon, catching it by the pommel. Without another pause, the septon sprinted toward the downed horse and rider, snatching his knobbed stick along the way.
The other horses, though not rearing back, pranced about in surprise. "Kill them!" Geordin exclaimed, raising his own blade. He advanced toward the grounded pair, while Darius turned his steed in Luthion's direction.
"Back to the cart!" Ulric shouted.
Barak complied, turning to face the vehicle. Aldon and Marco stood there, their faces fixed in surprise. Barak sympathized; he too did not expect to see such aggression from the holy man. But the surprise was short-lived. The two reached for their swords and started toward the edge of the cart.
Ulric did not wait. His first swing, awkward but still powerful, caught Marco's knee. Though the blade struck armor, the blow served to unsteady the long-haired man. A second strike in the same area took the leg out, and Marco fell to the earth with a crash. Ulric pounced upon him, his sword arcing down in furious attack.
Barak looked away from the grizzled driver, facing Aldon. The crazed, bald man brought his sword overhead and down in an attempt to split Barak's head. Barak responded with a sidestep to the left as his blade's flat side answered with its own arc, following the course of the descending strike. The countermove succeeded in momentarily pinning the robber's blade against the side of the cart, embedding the sharp edge into the wooden frame. Before Aldon could react, Barak jumped up. One hand released his own sword and gripped the embedded sword's pommel. He pulled the handle back towards himself as he fell, and the sword dislodged from the cart, falling to the ground.
Behind him came the sound of another horse's pained bray. Whirling around, Barak saw four horses running away. Two of the them had been the steeds of Marco and Aldon. The third had been Sareh's. The fourth carried off Darius, his body convulsing with violence as the horse below galloped away with all its might. Protruding from the animal's hind quarters was the thin black shaft of an arrow.
And remaining behind was Luthion, standing over Sareh's prostrate body, holding her bow. He had inserted another arrow, and had it trained upon Geordin. The head of the robbers held his ground, halfway between the cleric and the cart.
"No more," Luthion announced.
Barak gulped air, tightening his fists to fight the tremors that quaked his body. His heart bashed madly against his chest like a desperate prisoner seeking escape. He looked beside him to see Ulric, victorious over Marco, now angling his blade toward Aldon, who was still atop the cart. Eyes as hard as iron glared at the cowering thief.
"Get off my cart," he growled.
Aldon did so. Barak joined in with his weapon, placing the thief between him and Ulric.
"This is finished, thief," Luthion announced. "Depart from here, or I'll plant an arrow into your horse the way I did with your friend's."
Geordin stared at the septon, then at Ulric, then at Barak. Barak couldn't help but smile; how embarrassed this man must have been. He and his band, bested by a septon, a wounded man, and a boy! What a great many laughs and jeers he would receive if others were to hear of his failure!
Perhaps Barak would have to spread news of this encounter himself.
"Take your man with you before I decide to slay him," Ulric snapped at Geordin while jabbing the blade at Aldon. The frightened fellow backed away, his hands high in surrender.
Geordin returned his attention to Luthion. "You had best pray to your gods that you not encounter me again, Septon," he snarled.
"God," Luthion corrected him. "And I will pray for your heart to be changed, friend, so that if we do encounter each other again, it will be in a different spirit."
With a snort, Geordin kicked his horse and began to trot off. Aldon looked at the departing horse in wide-eyed shock, then at Barak and Ulric with wide, desperate eyes as Luthion approached them, bow in hand.
"Your companion left you alone. Not a good choice of friends, I'm afraid," Luthion observed.
"Best that you start walking, boy," Ulric said. "I'm in no mood for compassion."
"But... but it's a full day's ride by horse to our lodging!" Aldon replied.
"I fail to see how your troubles concern me."
"Especially since you and your friends had intended to leave us for dead," Barak added.
Aldon shook his hairless head. "It wasn't my idea that you be killed."
"I don't recall hearing you speak up to say as much to your leader," Ulric remarked. Luthion climbed up the side of the cart.
"Well, Geordin can be a headstrong man, you see. Stubborn."
"And you believe that we're not?" Barak asked. "Ulric here is wounded. Can you blame him or any of us for being upset at the moment?"
The lone thief looked at Sareh. "What about her?" he asked. "Is she dead?"
"No," Luthion announced from the cart, retrieving something wrapped in a napkin. "Unconscious, but not dead."
"That one there is not so fortunate," Ulric said, pointing toward Marco's still body. A bloody halo surrounding the deceased robber's head saturated the ground.
"Yes, well, I try to avoid killing if at all possible," Luthion said. "Better to convert your enemies than to kill them. Here—" He tossed the napkin-wrapped objected toward the thief. Hands reached for it, missed. It fell down and open, revealing the end of a bread loaf.
"Take it," Luthion said, coming down from the cart. "Use it for yourself and for the young woman when she comes to. If your lodging is as far as you say, it's best that you have nourishment."
Aldon pointed toward his blade, still lying in the grass. "What about my sword?" he asked.
Ulric laughed. "Is that a serious question?" he asked. "You and your friends just tried to end our lives, and now you want your sword back!? Are you daft?"
"You would leave me without protection in this place?"
"And still you believe we have sympathy for you!"
"Ulric," Barak began, "I have a solution to this problem."
The older man gave Barak a sideways look.
Barak pointed toward a sloping hill. "We're going in that direction. Let us take Aldon's sword with us. Upon our reaching the top of that hill, we will drop the sword from the cart. After—and only after—we have descended the other side of the hill, you may come and retrieve it. Is that fair?"
"A wise judgment," Luthion remarked. "What say you, Ulric?"
The old man frowned. "I would rather that these two be left for dead without any help," he grumbled, looking at Luthion, "but since your actions saved our lives, I suppose you'll be expecting me to heed your advice as recompense."
"I expect no such thing, Ulric. True good works are those that are done with no expectation of repayment or conditions."
"I see." Ulric pressed his lips together, then glared at the thief once more. "If you approach your sword at all before we are out of sight, I will order the Septon to plant an arrow into your heart. Is that clear?"
The thief narrowed his eyes. "He would not do such a thing—"
"Oh, I don't know," Luthion mused. "Ulric's stipulation is fair. If you break it, I might be obliged to comply with his proposed consequences."
"But you're a septon!"
"And a septon watches over his flock both spiritually and physically. And if Ulric here considers you a threat to his physical well being..."
A defeated expression filled Aldon's face Nearby, Sareh's mouth released a miserable moan. "Very well," he said, bowing his head. "I shall do as you say."
"Good!" Luthion exclaimed. "Now go tend to the woman, then bury your friend. And consider the mercy shown to you this day, my son. Not all people receive second chances such as this."
Aldon started toward Sareh. Barak watched him go, smiling. Satisfaction filled his body and soul. He had done good. Real good.
"Now," Luthion announced, looking at Ulric's shoulder. "Let's see about tending to that wound..."
They rode on for the better part of two days, and that without incident. Luthion had succeeded in dressing Ulric's wound, and while the older man had to refrain from the use of his left arm as much as possible, he seemed to be healing well. Save for a mild fever and restricted mobility, he did not appear to be suffering any seriously ill effects; Luthion's skill with the medicinal herbs he carried in his satchel and his use of Ulric's own oil and wine upon the wound saw to that.
Their stops had been brief, long enough for both them and the horses to rest and eat. Sleeping took place upon the cart in shifts, as nobody had a desire to be caught unaware again. Ulric, due in part to his wound, had no trouble resting during the day while Barak and Luthion took turns driving the cart. During the night, Ulric and Luthion agreed to take watch while Barak slept. And sleep he did, dreaming of the victory against the robbers that the three men had achieved.
A man... I am a man now ...
He remembered waking from that thought, refreshed and proud of his bravery. But he held his tongue from saying so to the other two: Ulric would have simply laughed him off, while Luthion might have given him a bit of a lecture about the perils of pride. Maybe. In all likelihood, they would have probably laughed at him together.
And speaking of laughter... Ulric had changed.
Not entirely. His grim demeanor still dominated his face, and many of his words still rang with a hollow tone of sadness. But no longer did he lash either Barak or Luthion when he spoke, and on a couple of occasions the conversations between the other two had even brought about a glimpse of a smile. Perhaps the old fellow had been touched by something the septon had said, or perhaps Luthion's selfless and tireless tending to his wound altered Ulric's attitude. Then again, Luthion's surprising display of heroism had to have brought about admiration from Ulric as it did Barak; Ulric's change might have come about as a result of that.
Still, Luthion did not preach at him, although he did venture to remark about religious things from time to time. And while such remarks did not necessarily receive hearty approval from Ulric, neither did they evoke anger. Whether or not Ulric had undergone a religious conversion, Barak did not know, but at the very least the grey-bearded man seemed to have given up the urge to wage war against the divine. A glimmer of hope for him, Barak thought. A grieving father who lost his family needed all the hope he could find.
Just like Barak did.
His own father and uncle were gone, changing him from a bastard into an outright orphan. Hope for him was nothing more than a sun that never rose upon the bleak land of midnight that was Barak's soul. His bid to join the Night's Watch was driven more from desperation than anything else. Desperation that the sun would one day rise again.
No man is fatherless who has faith in God...
Barak hoped that Septon Luthion's words were true.
"Well," Barak announced, "this is where we part ways."
The three stood outside an inn at Lord Harroway's Town, where they had spent the night; a welcome relief from slumber in the open for Barak. Ulric had been generous enough to pay for hot, fresh food and lodgings, although Luthion had initially attempted to protest by offering his own currency. During the course of the evening, the three inquired of the other lodgers whether or not any of them were traveling north along the Kingsroad, searching for a way in which Barak could make his way to Castle Black. They found one fellow, a sellsword named Rolin who was returning from business in Dorne—a business he did not explain—to see a brother employed as a servant at Last Hearth. With the offer of four silver coins from Luthion's purse, Rolin agreed to take Barak along.
A golden sun peered over the horizon, casting warmth across the cloudless sky above and the land below. To Barak, the morning light cast auras of joy and life across the faces of Ulric and Luthion. Especially Ulric, who despite the discomfort and handicap caused by Sareh's arrow looked refreshed, satisfied.
Almost happy.
Perhaps it was not yet time for Winter.
"It's been a wonderful pleasure to travel with you, Barak Rivers," Luthion began, offering his hand. "I shall pray for you while you serve Westeros on the Wall."
Barak set his sword and bundle down, took Luthion's hand greedily and shook it, while his own free hand clapped the septon's arm. "Thank you," he replied. "May your message spread far and wide. Your words have not fallen on deaf ears. And thank you again for your help in besting those robbers."
"I simply did my duty to prevent them from sinning! I'm sure they will appreciate that!" Luthion replied, grinning.
Barak laughed. Even Ulric managed a faint chuckle at the holy man's words. Just past Luthion's right shoulder, Rolin emerged from the inn, his belongings clamped against his shoulder by a strong right arm. He looked in Barak's direction, waving his free hand and motioning him to approach with a flick of the head.
"It appears as though my new traveling companion is preparing to leave," Barak announced. He looked at Ulric and reached out. "Thank you for taking me, Ulric."
The grizzled man looked down upon Barak. The eyes that had found humor in the septon's remark now held a sullen, sad gaze. He took Barak's hand, squeezing it in a grip that was strong but not painful. The other hand rested upon the young lad's shoulder.
"I know your father and his brother did not know me well," he began, "but I knew them well. Their reputations were those of generous and kind souls. They were good men, Barak. Better than I."
A pang of emotion struck Barak in the chest. "Ulric," he answered weakly, "you're a good man."
"No I'm not, Barak. I'm a miserable, old monster who has fostered far too much hate in his heart. Your father, he was a good man. Be the man he was. Be like him and your Uncle Royce. Fight well. Live well."
"Sage advice," Luthion remarked.
Ulric gave the holy man a mild sneer. "You could do better?" he challenged, though his voice carried no real malice.
"Come now , Ulric, give ear to Septon Luthion," Barak said, reaching for his belongings. "Surely he has given you some good word to remember!"
"I have no choice but to give him ear all the way to Gulltown," the old man grumbled.
Luthion shrugged. "If you wish, I can remain here and search for another who will take me."
"Forget it. I've already used the coin you paid me for our lodgings. You might call some curse down upon me from your Seven-Faced God and cause me to behave like a dog or some other beast."
"Ah, of course," Luthion replied with mock gravity, still smiling. His smile changed into an expression of surprise. "Oh! Before you go, two things—"
He reached into his satchel and removed a small scroll, handing it to Barak. "For you," he said. "A copy of one of my writings. Something to encourage you in the faith, my son."
Barak held the rolled parchment up, studying it. "Isn't this something you need for your travels?" he asked.
"As I told you before, the core doctrines I have put forth are being copied even now as we speak by faithful supporters of mine. I have what I need in here, and in my head."
The lad nodded. "Thank you again," he said.
"And the other thing is the matter of a blessing upon you before you go. I came across it while reading an archive of Septon Grigori, one which has unfortunately fallen into disuse. If you would permit me the honor, I would like to bestow it upon you here and now."
"Of course!"
Luthion smiled again. "Very good," he said.
Barak brought a knee down upon the mix of sand and grass before him. His head dropped to his chest as Septon Luthion spoke:
"May your enemies tremble and your allies take heart at the sight of your blade,
"May your sword be an instrument of justice and not of iniquity ,
"May the Warrior, through you, bring salvation to the poor and weak,
"And may the Seven-Faced God grant you grace, in life or death, victory or defeat.
"So may it be."
"So may it be," Luthion whispered, standing up.
The older men nodded, said a final goodbye, and started for their cart.
Hoisting his bundle upon his shoulder, Barak began to walk toward Rolin's horse. The sellsword was almost ready to go. A smile filled his face, lightening his steps. It did not matter that he was labeled a bastard; that meant nothing. He was a man. A man with faith. A man with courage.
A man with a future.