The travelling prophet and pulpiteer Jukner stood on a short dais before his multi-colored tent and preached. "Before me rose a dark angel," he spoke impressively, "tall as a mountain and terrible to behold. Under his feet were ashes and above his head he bore a great, flaming sword."
Glimmer lamps lit the warm summer's evening, casting a web of shadows from spectators and passersby. Many other such holy men lined the cobblestone street, each adding to the babble with their own sermons. In Ravenmont, City of Bells, itinerant blackcoats, prophets, and pulpiteers could only hold their services along the Way of Gods where the great temples stood.
"And he said unto me, "Prophet, do you not see the smoke?" And lo, smoke from the sword rose to the heavens until the sky was dark and full of storm." Jukner slowly lowered his arms to the pulpit. "This is how I know the smoke of storms and woe will precede the cleansing fire that ends the world. Around the land there are wars, rogues, and all manner of evil, as the dragons of Elder Day." he said, waving expansively. "Do you not see the smoke, my flock? These signs cannot be ignored, and through me the Gods give warning."
The city bells rang out Hawker's Curb and Jukner bowed to his small gathering. "Our time is at an end. Blessings to you all," he intoned. "Please give what you can. Largess to the servant honors the master."
Of the few who had stopped to listen, only three remained as the holy man presented the bowl. A richly dressed bald man graciously waved the other two before him to the pulpit, and the youth in rags did the same for the third, a bent, elderly man in dark business attire. Murmuring thanks, he shuffled before the holy man.
"Prophet Jukner, let me not bandy words," he said in wavering voice. "Other Gods have forsaken me and now I am ill unto death. Will your gods welcome me and give me back my health?"
"I have no doubt, sir. In these End Times any who seek comfort in my Gods will be welcome," said Jukner with a kind smile. He touched his robe. "Allow me to give you a list of what we may need for ceremonies."
"No need, prophet," the elder said quickly. "I must attend an important meeting now." He dropped a handful of gold decas in the bowl. "Will this be enough?"
The holy man easily controlled his surprise at the ease of the man's surrender and eyed the coins as if tallying them against a list. The elder saw this and added more, nodding hopefully.
"Oh, no, my son, that is more than we will need for this, I'm sure. You should. . ."
The elder waved aside Jukner's slowly spoken objection. "I shall return when I can, no more than two hours. Can you be ready then?"
"The Gods are always ready, my son," the man intoned. "As their servant, I promise my best effort."
Happy, the elder shuffled to a waiting rickshaw. The boy stepped up next and dropped two grimy copper pennits into the bowl. Jukner hid his disgust at the pennits and inspected the boy more closely. He liked his boys taller, not so skinny, but this one seemed strong enough. He smiled at the boy.
"Prophet, sir, I was wondering," said the boy. "Did the angel say more?"
"Yes, my son, but by city rules I am not allowed to speak publicly beyond this hour." He gauged the youngster's disappointment then leaned down and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "They cannot stop a seeker. What is your name, boy?"
"Fenner, sir, like the marsh rats."
The man took a deca from the bowl and gave it to the boy. "Go and cleanse yourself, then return here and I can tell you more before the Gods."
"Thank you, sir!" The boy's face was lit with hope as he ran toward Old Town and the bathhouses there. Jukner judged he must not have been on the street long; this might turn out more fun than he'd hoped.
Then the last man stepped up and shook the bowl, looking at the coins with interest.
"Juk, if you've been doing this well, I should charge you more." He wiped sweat from his creased and lumpy scalp. "Warm, isn't it?
"Evening, Goodman Brecke. Warm enough to cut my take," Jukner said as he counted the donations. "I will admit tonight wasn't bad, but time to be moving on and let the Twenty Gods have peace from me. Have your boys pick up the stand tomorrow."
"Speaking of boys," said Brecke with a smirk, "that little street rat's a bit young, even for you, eh?" He chuckled.
"What do I owe you?" Jukner didn't acknowledge the dig; no need to risk giving the weasel more than he already might know. He would need to leave town before Brecke tried to take advantage of what he knew. The two men haggled briefly over the fee for tent, dais, and other dressings, but Juckner made sure the rents-man got the best of it. That might keep him quiet until Juckner was well clear of Ravenmont.
As soon as Brecke left, the holy man set to packing his mule and gray mare. He'd learned long ago to travel light and move on without regrets. Staying in one place too long could expose his hunger for boys and stealing from believers. He wouldn't return to the City of Bells again. Too bad he wouldn't get a chance with the youth, but there would be others along the road.
From behind a darkened tent across the Way, three men surreptitiously watched Jukner's preparations.
"Just as you wanted, Trinsk," whispered Brecke, "ripe for the picking, eh?"
"Good work as usual, Goodman Brecke," said the old man, looking considerably healthier. "You will receive your payment in the usual fashion. And, of course, you remember the cost of any betrayal of this business?"
The very thought made Brecke tremble; he nodded quickly and hurried away. Councilman Trinsk turned to the third man and motioned him into action before rushing off himself.
As Jukner finished his preparations a grey-bearded servant came running.
"Sir, are you the Prophet Jukner?" he panted.
"Yes, but you'll need to come back later, sorry."
"My master sent me. He was stricken and now lays near death. He said you'd remember him and your promise?"
"Ah. Sorry to hear that." Jukner balanced the opportunity to fleece the old fellow a little more against possible risks, like Brecke making problems. Self-preservation was overcoming greed until the boy came back.
Unable to resist both temptations, Jukner agreed to attend the old man if young Fenner could come along to lead the horse and mule. The servant eagerly agreed and led them through the dark boroughs to an impressive estate overlooking Belltower Bridge.
Jukner felt both excited and nervous. This was a huge opportunity, but men this rich often had small armies protecting them. He started to regret the decision to come here but backing out now might do more harm than good. The servant turned away from the well-lit front of the manor to a darkened side wing entrance.
"I apologize for this secrecy," said the servant as he worked a key in the lock. "My master has many enemies who would take advantage of his illness, should they know."
"Of course," said Jukner. Though he couldn't grasp why, his apprehension rose. The door opened, revealing impenetrable darkness beyond. "Are we not expected?"
"Just a precaution, sir. After we close the door, I have a lamp just inside and I will take you directly to my master."
"No, the dark isn't my fear," said Jukner. "I see no grooms or guards. Is that usual? I fear something already might be wrong." He found it wasn't hard to sound a bit fearful. He made a decision. "Just in case, I shall return upon the morning." He turned to his horse. The boy stepped close and put a hand on Jukner's wrist. Soft and warm, Fenner's touch shot a bolt of lust into Jukner's groin.
"Please, sir. If we did this, I could prove myself to you, prove myself worthy of being your apprentice. Then you might let me travel with you?" His wide, pleading eyes nearly erased Jukner's fear.
"And from the mouths of babes shall come wisdom unbidden." Confidence returned, Jukner moved to the open door. "Come, then, Fen."
They followed the servant through the short, darkened entryway and into a softly glim-lit interior hall. The servant replaced the lamp and guided them through the manor. The boy oohed and aahed at every expensively furnished room and hall. Jukner carefully catalogued items worthy of stealing later.
Finally they reached the top of a plushly carpeted stair ending at a heavy, polished wooden door.
"Here is his sick room." The servant looked quite woeful. "He is sensitive, so we keep it dim and quiet. I will fetch glims. Anything else you need, sir?"
"Brandy or other strong spirits and clean water." Inspiration surfaced; a quick escape with loot might be the best course of action, and here was an opportunity. "I may well need other clerical items from my mule. The boy and I will fetch my satchel and meet you back here."
"No need, sir. The sick room is fully stocked with whatever such you may need. Let yourself in; my master wanted to speak with you right away. Just mind your footing until your eyes become accustomed, please." With a bow, the servant set off. Young Fenner scampered down the stairs and stood ready to open the door for Jukner.
With an internal shrug at the missed chance, Jukner tugged his robe into better lines and descended to the door. The boy's admiring gaze and the blind trust of this old rich fellow helped Jukner back in control. He knew the right moment would present itself. At the holy man's nod, Fenner opened the door and Jukner swept in. The was indeed dim, and Jukner stopped within the rectangle of illumination from the door.
The door slammed behind him, followed by the clack of bolts being shot home. Only with rigid self-control did Jukner keep from jumping at the sound. He could now easily see it wasn't a sickroom, but some kind of work place. Then light filled the room and Jukner knew real fear.
He was in a Wizard's Sanctum and right across the room behind a metal grate stood the purportedly deathly sick old man. Jukner recognized his peril, but also that panic would not help him get out of this. He raised his chin to simulate outrage and spoke in his most pious tones.
"What is this about, sir? Why do you risk the wrath of my Gods? Why. . ." Wizard Trinsk snapped his fingers; Jukner choked and was unable speak.
"Quiet, you fraudulent pederast. No god would have you until now, I suspect. Face the altar." At a gesture pain lanced Jukner's hands and feet, rising up his limbs like spreading flame. "Or else."
Screaming silently, Jukner turned to the carved slab of stone and the pain was gone. Above the altar he saw a bas-relief of a dragon breathing fire. Fear returned uncontrolled; dragons were the worst of the outcast Gods.
"Step forward, hands on the altar," said Trinsk and Jukner leaped to obey. The wizard began a cant, the voiced musical code of magic, then finished with "Breshkareth, I beg you attend." Thick, red smoke immediately poured from the carving to the altar.
"This is your choice?" said a deep, hollow voice. Jukner shivered and shed tears, but could not make a sound.
"Yes, my master," intoned Trinsk, "he is."
The smoke lunged for Jukner, tangible and strong. He felt it slither under his clothing, probing everywhere. A tendril pushed between his lips and ruthlessly pried open his jaw; another shoved between his clenched buttocks.
For just a moment it paused, as if savoring Jukner's terror, then invaded his body and mind. It poured into his body without mercy, but he hardly noticed the pain as Breshkareth attacked his mind. Jukner watched in his mind's eye as the dragon cruelly excised and consumed everything that made Jukner human and aware.
After a time the smoke was gone and Jukner's body stopped quivering. Trinsk entered the room to place a blanket around the shoulders, but was waved away. What once was Jukner stood straight, blood dripping as it turned to face Trinsk and raised it's arms.
"Before me rose a dark angel," Breshkareth said in a voice not human, "tall as a mountain and terrible to behold. Under his feet were ashes and above his head he bore a great, flaming sword."
The End
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