Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2016
Go to Part I
As Nusha padded out of the chapel on sandal clad feet several under priests and priestesses in their green cassocks began to file past him into the chapel for morning prayers. When he exited into the hallway he found himself standing in front of the prior and abbess. They were adjusting each other's burgundy cassocks. Nusha made a quick bow and slid past them to hurry on down the hallway. The prior gave him a reproving look, no doubt feeling that he should be headed into the chapel, not out of it. But the senior priest said nothing, so the layman hurried on.
In short order he was in the monastery's outer courtyard. He saw his wagon and mule standing ready and quickly moved to it. Climbing onto the seat, he took the reins in one hand and made a soothing sound to his mule, Takitas. Slapping the leads across the mule's back sent him rolling out into the street. It was nearly empty, only a couple of beggars were in sight. They were no doubt waiting for the monastery's soup kitchen to open.
As one would expect, Saint Hestar's, providing both a free clinic and soup kitchen, was not in wealthy neighborhood. But the shortest route from Saint Hester's in the slums of Iron Tower, to Saint Shoku's which lay miles outside the city, was through the very heart of the royal quarter. So it was not long before his wagon was rattling down the fine stone street that made up one side of the city's Imperial Square.
He turned to look back over his shoulder at the facade of the Basilica. Despite the aesthetically pleasing soaring columns and graceful arches he shivered in loathing. He'd been inside once. Jewel encrusted art and vaulted ceilings did not come close to compensating for the vile and callous nature of the priestly order that called the temple home.
When he turned to face ahead, before him was the hulking structure that sat opposite it across the square. Sheer stone walls and the great tower of rusting black iron that gave the city its name held no beauty. Instead these structure spoke of arrogance and the naked lust for power that drove the nobility. Most of them were marked by horns, tails and other deformities caused by the blood of devils that ran in their veins.
In the middle of the wide expanse of geometrically perfect stones that made up the square, were obvious signs of the nature of those that ruled this place. There were stocks, gibbets and racks all arranged on low platforms so that the cruelties of the aristocrats could be displayed to the masses. Around the instruments of torture were rows of iron spikes. Here and there a rotting corpse was still impaled on one. On others stacks of up to a dozen human skulls had been spitted like some macabre version of shish kabob.
It was hard not to urge his mule to a faster pace. But to do so might draw unwanted attention from the many soldiers standing watch around the palace. So he carried on slowly, just like any other peasant about his lowly business. Even at such a slow speed, it did not take long to reach the city walls. There Nusha found himself sitting in a queue of wagons and carts waiting to file out of the gate.
Now that the most dangerous moment was upon him, the young layman was wishing the trip from the monastery had taken longer. Steeling himself with prayer, he sought to look a bit bored and impatient. That was how he would normally feel as he waited to exit the gate. He had done many times as he ferried cargoes between the two monasteries. But this was the first time he'd ever tried to slip something past the guards. The problem was, he would have no idea how well he was succeeding at concealing his nervousness, until it was too late to matter.
Finally, he pulled his wagon forward. Four ghilman slave soldiers in their plain mustard yellow uniforms barred his way with their long pikes. Nearby, looking bored, an Imperial guardsman who must be their overseer was leaning against the city wall and sipping from a cup. From the side a fifth slave soldier stepped forward, his red scarf marking him as senior to the pikemen blocking the way.
He looked up at Nusha and said, “You look familiar. What are you hauling today monk?”
Nusha shrugged, “I come this way often sir. I'm from Saint Shoku's.”
The soldier rubbed his chin, “Then why are you leaving the city at dawn, not arriving from there at midmorning?”
“I was busy last night sir.” Nusha twisted and waved his hand at the bed of his wagon. “I am bringing a load of horse manure to the monastery. Collected from the streets. It's good fertilizer for the fields. And free for the taking. Sir.”
Nusha was laying it on a bit thick perhaps. But he'd found the slave soldiers liked to be addressed respectfully by the free. They might be the highest class of slaves, but they were still slaves and never forgot it.
“You have a wagon full of shit?”
“Yes sir.”
The NCO snorted and waved to one of the other soldiers. The indicated fellow was tall thick and very young looking. He lay aside his pike and came toward the wagon. Nusha could see that his jaw was undershot and that his dark skin had a green tint to it. No doubt he had a bit of orc blood in him, many of the ghilman did. Using a wheel spoke as a step the soldier pulled himself up and looked down into the cargo area of the wagon. He made a sound of disgust and dropped back to the street. When he spoke, his oversized lower canine teeth gave his speech a sort of rubbery accent. “Nuttin in der but shit, sur.”
The red scarfed soldier nodded and waved his underling back into place. Then he looked over at the guardsman leaning against the wall. That worthy took a slow sip from his cup, obviously making everyone wait. Then, once he felt that his authority had been affirmed, the bored looking officer tossed his head toward the gate.
“Right. Move along then. But remind me not to buy any of your crop come market day, the gods only know how foul food raised from the shit that litters this city's streets would taste.”
Nusha gave the soldier a sickly smile and flicked the reins. Takitas' hoof beats were nearly drowned out the sound of the slave legionnaires laughing at their leader's quip.
Go to Part III
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