A Tale of Infidels Read online

  A Tale of Infidels

  Erik A. Otto

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  Book 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About Book 2

  Also by Erik A. Otto

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Rev 2 - May 9, 2019

  © 2019 Sagis Press

  Cover design by Karolis Zukas.

  All Rights Reserved

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgements

  There are many that read an earlier rendition of the Tale of Infidels series and gave me feedback and encouragement. Those include Mikk, Djo, Herb, Karl, Sarah and Art. I owe a debt of gratitude to my editor Bruce for his detailed critique and line editing, and my cover designer Karolis Zukas for sticking with me through several iterations. Jan, your keen eye was incredibly helpful, and Aaron, your feedback insightful. I also received design feedback from Galin, Phil, Jaki, Kate, Charlie, Art, Chris, Herb and Sarah.

  Thanks to all of you.

  I should mention that the Tale of Infidels trilogy was built in fits and starts over eight years, before and after my corporate gig at J&J, before and after a four year startup, and between other books being rendered in parallel. As a result of this well-seamed preparation, which was under the background noise of many other life changes, my brittle memory has surely failed to adequately recognize everyone. If I missed you please accept my humble apologies, delivered with the deepest of blind bows.

  Map

  Prologue

  Ron finally decided to pull his overgrown mop of hair into a ponytail, weary from having it constantly bounce in front of his tired eyes. It gave him only a brief reprieve as the band fell out when his horse jumped down a steep cleft of stone. He tied it up again just the same.

  The day’s ride had been long for Ron and his three companions. Most of the journey had been up treacherous slopes, but in the twilight they’d found a flat ridge skirting along the mountain that Captain Foxhill wanted to take advantage of before nightfall. When they finally did stop, it was well after dusk. It was then, as the four of them wrestled to blindly position tent stakes in the ground, that they spotted the speck of light in the distance.

  The speck was stationary for a while, and they wondered if they might have finally closed the distance to the town of Spoons. But then the light moved, and they realized it came not from along the folds of the mountain, nor down the steep cliffs adjacent to them, but nearby, only tens of yards away in fact. Ron thought it could have been a firefly, but the movements were too precise, too rhythmic. It had to be something else.

  It had to be someone else.

  They dismounted their horses and closed in quietly. The ridge path was broader here, with tough spindly shrubs cropping up along the sides. They hid behind one of these bushes as they tried to garner a better view.

  Ahead there was a copse of trees that had found purchase on a distended outcrop of the mountain. In front of this was a man sitting cross-legged.

  He was an odd-looking figure. His hair was tied back, almost like a priest. Yet his face wasn’t clean-shaven like the Thelonian priests Ron knew. Instead, he had a scraggly beard. His cheeks were red and pocked, as if someone had submerged his head in a pot of boiling water. And it didn’t look like he was dressed in clothes, more wrapped in a bundle of stained rags that bloated his torso. In front of him were two books, one in which he was writing, another from which he read. The beacon they’d seen in the distance was an oval wyg lamp he’d affixed to his chest over the assembly of rags. Occasionally it bounced as he shifted his weight to read or write.

  The only sign of life they’d seen in two days had been a half-starved mountain goat, yet here was a man who had tread far into savage lands, up onto the mountain trail. Was there some cabin nearby, or was this finally a sign that they were indeed on the right path to Spoons?

  “It could be a Fringe scout,” Deanne whispered, his gray eyes wide and alert.

  Captain Foxhill pulled at his mustache and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s likely. The Fringe tend to travel in twos.”

  After some time spent watching pensively, Foxhill whispered, “We can approach him from the front without worry of him fleeing. He has nowhere to go with the cliff face just through those trees. But weapons at the ready. I don’t like the look of him.”

  When they walked out with swords drawn, the man seemed surprised but didn’t run. Nor did he brace for combat. Instead, his head tilted to the side, as if curious.

  Foxhill spoke with authority. “State your name and business, sir. I am Captain Foxhill of the Thelonian Army.”

  The man paused before responding, weighing his words and the armed men in front of him with equal measure. “My name isn’t important. My business is I travel to Spoons. What’s yours?”

  Foxhill looked over at Deanne, who smiled like a proud child. Besides Deanne, no one they’d come across was aware that Spoons even existed.

  Foxhill’s countenance retained its skeptical air. “We go to Spoons as well, sir. Are we on the right path?”

  The man ignored the question. “What business do Thelonian soldiers have with the Fringe in Spoons?”

  Foxhill hesitated, wrestling with what words to choose. After a month under his command, Ron knew him well. He would often take care to conceal their true intent from strangers. In this case, however, he needed the man to give them directions, so he had little room to be coy. After some time spent in contemplation, Foxhill answered, “We have heard of a refuge…we seek to ally with the Fringe.”

  The man’s eyebrows raised. “Ally with the Fringe? Isn’t that against their doctrine?”

  Foxhill didn’t answer. Of course it was, but to acknowledge it would only admit their desperation, and with it the desperation of the entire Thelonian army.

  The man seemed to grasp this, and he let his question lapse. “I see, so Marsaya is still in shambles, and Thelos…?” He trailed off.

  Foxhill eyed him carefully. “Where have you been, man? Thelos burns. The enemy has taken it. And so war rages in Belidor, Pomeria, and Jawhar as well. Naturally we seek whatever defense we can muster. We hear of…some establishment here. Up in Spoons.” Foxhill glanced at Deanne uneasily.

  The man nodded. “Ah, I’m sorry for that. For Thelos, I mean. But you’re right to go to Spoons, I think.” He ended with a knowing nod.

  Foxhill showed his impatience. “And the way to Spoons, is it further up this ridge then?” He pointed to the continuing path that wove around the trees.

  The man gestured to the same trail and shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t keep going this way. Th
e path ends, and you’ll have to backtrack. Go back a day’s march, where the slope is shallower, cut down the mountain where you can, and take the nearest easterly road. The path to Spoons is easy to find once you’re off the mountain. Just look for warnings of savages, and you’ll be on the right track.”

  Foxhill nodded earnestly, but as soon as he’d absorbed the information, his brow knitted in confusion. “So why are you up here on the mountain trail if you go to Spoons? Did you just come back from this dead end?”

  “No, I only use this as a place to rest.”

  The man’s words didn’t alleviate Foxhill’s confusion. “Why rest here, so far from the path below?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  Foxhill tried another tack, his brow furrowing further. “So you have been to Spoons before? By some other route?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know this path ends?”

  “I know.” The man shrugged.

  Foxhill’s jaw clenched. His suspicion of the man was plain to see, and now that he’d acquired the information he needed, his civility was waning. He pronounced sternly, “Sir, I need to know what you’re doing here, by yourself, in the mountains. No one travels alone anymore. The enemy is everywhere, and infidels to boot.”

  Deanne nodded ardently, as if Foxhill’s words were some sacred truth.

  Again the man’s gaze weighed them. His eyes went to each of them in turn. To Ron’s discomfort, the man’s scan lingered on him longer than the others.

  Foxhill said, “Sir? My question is reasonable. You would be wise to answer it.” Foxhill spoke with increasing volume, and his words stole the man’s eyes back from Ron.

  The man responded casually. “Is it a crime to travel alone? Even if it was, I’m not in Thelonia, and neither are you, I should say, so it shouldn’t concern you. I’m a simple messenger. I am delivering a book to Spoons. That’s all.”

  Foxhill eyed the open tomes in front of him. “So you say, and yet you refuse to properly identify yourself. You could be an enemy scout, ready to report our maneuvers as soon as we part ways. Or you could be an infidel for all we know. Again, it’s in your best interest to identify yourself!” Foxhill rested his hand carefully on the pommel of his sword to lend strength to his words.

  When again the man didn’t answer, Foxhill looked to Leftenant Mackie, but Mackie only shrugged, his eyes unrevealing. Foxhill sighed, and his expression became resigned. “Take him,” he said.

  Ron stepped forward first, advancing on the man menacingly. Mackie and Deanne also took cautious steps in the man’s direction.

  The man didn’t resist. He simply shook his head and put his hands up. Ron was first to reach him, so he grabbed his wrists and began binding them with twine. He noticed that a few of the man’s fingertips were missing, covered in dirty bandages. Ron wiped his hands off on his pants for fear he might be diseased.

  Meanwhile, Deanne searched through the man’s satchel. There was what looked to be a Fringe crest torn from a robe sleeve. In addition there were rations, a water flask, and a silverstone knife.

  Foxhill picked up the book the man had been reading and began thumbing through it. The volume was weathered, bound with twine and covered with a textured white cardstock, similar to the Book of Canons copies Ron had seen in the temple near Father’s estate. Foxhill gave it only a cursory glance. He scanned the other contents of the man’s satchel laid out in front of him. “So the crest, you’re Fringe, then. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  Foxhill gritted his teeth. “Then what are you? This writing, this book.” He turned it over to see the cover. “This Tale of Infidels, it looks like it could be a temple narrative, or maybe an annex to the Book of Canons. You’re a priest, then? A Sandalier or an Apostle?”

  “You’re right. That’s precisely what the book is intended to be, eventually. But I’m no priest. Do you know many priests that would carry a silverstone dagger with them?”

  Foxhill eyed the man suspiciously and picked up the Fringe crest again. He touched it only with the tips of two fingers and looked at it from several angles. He shook his head and dropped it to the ground. “You leave me no choice. Ron, tie him to the tree. Let’s reconvene over there.” He pointed back to where they had been hiding behind the bushes.

  Ron did as he was told, and the others walked away.

  While Ron tied the man, he received another probing look. It was as if the man was trying to see underneath Ron’s skin, and it made his chest flutter like a nest of locusts. He finished the job swiftly so he could get away.

  When Ron rejoined the others, Foxhill corralled them to discuss the situation.

  “The man vexes me,” Foxhill began. “He carries silverstone like a heathen Fringe, and he even has a Fringe crest in his satchel, yet he also carries this book that contains some kind of scripture. I think it more likely he’s a priest, maybe on some missionary work, even though he doesn’t talk like one, and I must admit he’s right…I’ve never seen a priest carry silverstone. But these are perilous times—anything’s possible.”

  Foxhill was looking to Mackie for some sign that he agreed, but as usual, he was quiet.

  It was Deanne who was always the one eager to provide answers. He said, “You know, it could be him. It’s possible. He matches the descriptions.”

  Foxhill rolled his eyes. “Who, Deanne? Who could it be?”

  “Not quite a Fringe, but not quite a priest either. That’s how I’ve heard him described, sometimes as one, sometimes as the other. Doesn’t he bear a likeness to some of the posters you’ve seen? It could be him, you know. It could be—”

  Foxhill cut him off. “The Truthseeker? Come now, I’ve never heard so many tall tales as I have about this Truthseeker. Maybe, maybe the man they call the Truthseeker existed at one time. I admit there has to be someone who started all this fear-mongering about infidels. But he no longer lives, I’m sure. These fanciful stories make for good campfire talk with a round of mead, but when the mead wears off, so does any plausibility. And Deanne, I must say it doesn’t help your case that you also speak of the other so-called infidel—this Imbecile—in the same breath as this Truthseeker.”

  “I heard many accounts of this in Belidor,” Deanne protested. “Many travelers—”

  “I’m sure you did, Deanne, but you say yourself you’ve never seen any of these infidels, rather only heard of them third, fourth, or fifth hand. I’m sure by now the tales are even taller than they were when you were in Belidor. I’m sure by now this Imbecile has not only slain our mightiest soldiers but even Matteo himself.”

  Deanne was about to respond, but Foxhill waved away his words and pointed at the book he held. “In fact, it makes me think that perhaps this man is a storyteller, or maybe a minstrel of some kind. That I could believe. If he has heard half the stories you’ve heard, he has plenty of material for this Tale of Infidels; that’s for sure,” Foxhill finished with a sour tone.

  Deanne looked down, knowing not to push the matter further. Despite being right about the existence of Spoons, he still had ground to make up with the captain. For much of the journey, Foxhill’s esteem of Deanne had fallen as he persisted in telling outlandish tales about conspiracies, fantastical creatures, and a seemingly endless number of colorful infidels roaming the land. As a deserter of the Belidoran army, Deanne didn’t have much credibility to begin with, but he was the only living soul the army had found coming east from Belidor in months. This made him their only source of intelligence, however mad it sounded.

  With Deanne chastened, Foxhill looked to Mackie. “Mackie, you knew the man they called the Imbecile, didn’t you? What do you think of these stories? Tell Deanne to stop this folly. Tell him to stop hounding me once and for all.”

  Mackie answered evenly, “They are not all true.”

  “Like I said.” Foxhill nodded to Deanne in confirmation.

  Then Mackie added, “but most are.”

  Mackie’s words surp
rised Foxhill. He rubbed his head and face in agitation. Instead of talking over Deanne, he switched to pleading with Mackie, seeking some kind of affirmation for his viewpoint. “Fine, so there’s an Imbecile, but that doesn’t mean there’s a Truthseeker. His is by far the tallest of the tales.”

  Mackie looked as if he was about to disagree. Instead he thought better of it. “I suppose.”

  Foxhill regained his composure and poked his finger at Mackie. “So tell me, what would you do? Would you let this man go, whoever he is? I doubt he is this Truthseeker, but I still don’t trust him. Look at him. He’s either crazed or an enemy scout or both. I would rather kill him here—now. We can’t risk it.”

  Mackie answered the way he usually did, with little affect. “I would take him with us to Spoons and let the Fringe deal with him. Given that he has a Fringe crest, they may be expecting him. Since they certainly aren’t expecting us, that could be a useful way for us to gain entry.”

  Foxhill reddened. Ron wondered if Mackie would be reprimanded for embarrassing the captain, but people didn’t live long in Matteo’s lands if they let pride rule over reason. After some consideration, Foxhill flashed a begrudging smirk and agreed with Mackie. “Fine. We’ll do that. You and Ron will watch him. I don’t want him near me.”

  With that, Foxhill handed the man’s book to Mackie and walked back toward the horses, leaving the three to deal with him. Deanne fidgeted, then ran after Foxhill like a lapdog.