A shrill howl pierced the silence of the night. Grey Foot stirred, his ears forming points on either side of his head, his lips curling back to reveal gleaming white teeth. The old wolf took a few steps toward the distant sound of the other, his soft paws leaving tracks in the snow.

“No,” Rhen commanded in a familiar tone. The wolf halted immediately, then returned to his place by the fire. It was a moonless night, and Rhen did not intend to spend half of it looking for a half-blind old fool of a wolf. Besides, it was dangerous out there.

Rhen had not traveled the Snowy Pass in some time, but its dangers were well known. If all went well, this would be his last time--perhaps even his last journey. His hand wandered to the pouch at his belt. He knew it was best not to ask questions in his line of work, but he could not help but wonder why the Northmen cherished greensand as much as they did. Oh, he had heard the myths and children’s stories, but no intelligent person actually believed those.

“Bloody priests and their relics.” Grey Foot tilted his head, eyeing him curiously. “What will we do when this is done, old wolf?” The wolf rested his head on his paws, but his eyes remained open, fixed on Rhen. Rhen sighed. Conversations with Grey Foot were often one-sided.

He should never have asked a priest for help. Sarea had been more than eager to offer his assistance, but he had not disclosed the cost until the matter was settled. True, Rhen would have died of poisoning otherwise, but after serving the Priests of the North for eleven years, he thought that poison might be tasty in comparison.

It would finally end, though, if he could only get this blasted sand to Davosa. Sarea had sworn to release him of his vows if he would but find the precious greensand. Rhen had no clue why anyone considered it “precious.” In fact, he was not certain anyone did, save the priests. The bloody stuff was rare, though. He’d had to steal it from a temple in Tarikor; a deed he misliked. Regardless, he had it.

Rhen considered himself a religious man, if not so much as the priests. Nobody in his right mind wanted to be that religious. Thus, by his estimation, all priests were a bit suspect. Sarea had saved his life, though, and Rhen meant to keep his vows. The Priests of the North did give him food and coin for his journeys and had also been so benevolent as to provide him a bony, one-eyed, wolf that could hardly walk. Admittedly, Grey Foot had not been that way eleven years ago, but Rhen did not have the energy to supress his sardonic side.

It would be three, perhaps four more days before he reached the Davosan border. Cold there, too, he surmised, if not as snowy. Rhen Stromgold was full to the gullet of priests, sand, and snow. He was not certain what he would do with himself when he was released by the priests. He had known nothing but traveling and transporting relics and other goods for the last decade. He had no wife or children--at least, none that he could remember. In another moon, he would reach his fortieth year—young enough yet to find a wife, settle down, and raise a family. Perhaps the priests would even pad his purse for his years of service. He smiled ruefully. He had as much chance of that as he had of winning the Tournament of Blades this year.

Rhen wielded a sword well for a mercenary, but a trained knight of the Region would cut him to shreds. Still, he had a better chance of emerging unscathed from an melee with thirty Region Knights than he would of getting one extra copper from the Holy and Benevolent Priests of the North. He tossed another log into the flames.

The fire hissed at bits of snow on the wood and crackled contentedly as they dissipated. Grey Foot’s eyes had drifted shut, and his breath was slow and steady. Rhen envied him--he himself seldom slept well when traversing the Snowy Pass. He scratched at the thick black beard he had grown for the winter. Not only did it keep his face warm, it hid his impressive collection of scars. Like the ones from that bear last spring.

That bear had given him four nice, long gashes across his left cheek--gashes that Rhen bore almost fondly because, while the bear had been busy making ribbons of half his face, Rhen had found time to plunge his sword into the beast’s heart.

There were others--plenty of them—from thieves he had barely escaped, from a mountain cat that had nearly killed Grey Foot, from a group of rocks that had collaborated in tripping him and striking him in the face at turns . . . and the list went on.

An hour passed, perhaps two. Rhen reached for another log for the waning flames. He threw it in and gazed over the top of the fire, lazily monitoring the dense smoke that rose from the damp wood. Slowly, the smoke began to thin as the log dried out. Rhen watched the process with interest and was oddly disappointed when the smoke died down. He let his eyes drift back to the fire . . . then immediately jerked them back.

The glowing set of eyes that had been there a moment before was gone.

A tight knot of fear gripped Rhen’s throat. He scanned the dark woods wildly but saw nothing save the dark outline of nearby trees. Frozen, he listened carefully, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing. The only sound was Grey Foot’s steady breathing and the crackling of the fire.

“Must have been my imagination,” Rhen whispered coarsely to himself, his eyes still intent on the surrounding forest. After several moments, he looked back to the fire, and his breath caught. The eyes had appeared again, just before he had averted his gaze from the darkness. This time, however, when he shot his gaze around, he caught sight of a slithering shadow that quickly disappeared behind a tree.

Rhen’s instinctively reached for his sword. His eyes remained fixed on the tree that hid the dark figure. Just as he grasped the sword hilt, he heard a noise behind him. He whipped around, rising to his feet and bringing his sword out in front of him. Another set of gleaming red eyes glared at him. A mountain cat? Could it possibly be the same one that . . .?

A yelp and a snarl pulled his eyes around to the other side of the fire. Grey Foot was entangled with a slender, but sharp-clawed mountain cat. Rhen yelled out, taking a stride toward the fighting pair, but one step was all he managed. He turned just before the other cat reached him. Raising his sword, he caught the growling creature in mid leap. A piercing screech met his ears as the weight of the beast carried him to the ground.

Though the fall had skewered the cat, it refused to die. Razor-like claws tore into Rhen’s face and chest, leaving deep gashes. He tried to push the thing away, but the cat flailed about, scratching and clawing, and soon Rhen was too weak to do anything but try to shield his face. When he did, his arms were clawed to ribbons and the hilt of his sword dug into his stomach.

Mercifully, the cat’s strength ebbed. Its claws slowed, and finally stopped. Rhen’s head spun. He knew he had lost a lot of blood and was still losing it. The mountain cat was still atop him, but he had no energy to shove the thing aside. He struggled to remain conscious, and it suddenly dawned on him that the night was quiet, save for the popping of the fire. Grey Foot! Rhen’s wounds throbbed and ached, but somehow he found the strength to roll the big cat to one side and rise unsteadily to his feet.

The cuts on his face, arms, and chest burned fiercely, but he ignored them. He pulled his sword from the dead cat’s belly and turned slowly. On the other side of the fire he could make out a tangled heap of fur and blood. Rhen could barely walk, but he mustered the strength to stumble to where Grey Foot and the other mountain cat lay. Neither animal so much as twitched. A knot forced its way into Rhen’s throat. The wolf had been his only companion for the last eleven years. He hardly dared count the nights he would have frozen to death without Grey Foot’s warm body or the times they had both driven off marauding animals, wolves, and thieves.

The cat lay still on top of Grey Foot, and Rhen could clearly see blood oozing from wounds on cat and wolf alike. Rhen poked the cat with his sword, and a low growl formed deep in its throat. He drove the point of his sword into the cat’s back. Snarling, the cat twisted around, wrenching Rhen’s sword from his hands. Claws bared, it swiped at his face, missing only by inches. Half of the cat’s throat hung open where Grey Foot’s teeth had been. As if suddenly realizing this, the cat staggered, falling limply to the ground. Rhen nearly fell himself, but he managed to retrieve his sword and plunge it through the cat’s chest.

“Get up now, you bastard,” Rhen spat. He stooped beside Grey Foot, examining him. The wolf did not move. Torso and jowls were torn and bloodied, and his one remaining eye had been clawed nearly out of its socket. Rhen placed his fingers over the large vein in the wolf’s neck, checking for any sign of life.

At first he felt nothing, and then there was the faintest hint of a pulse. The wolf was alive, but quickly dying. Rhen could do nothing . . . or could he? His eyes drifted to the pouch still at his belt.

Greensand.

He had heard rumors about it. If used by one of the Holy Priests, it supposedly had the ability to heal. Rhen was no priest, much less holy, but he had no choice. He knew that he would die of his wounds before reaching Davosa. Still, he hesitated. To attempt to use a priestly relic without being a priest was blasphemy. It would bring the user death and suffering. At least, that was what the priests taught.

Well, we’re going to die anyway, and we’re certainly suffering, Rhen thought, then opened the pouch. He pinched out a few grains of the greensand between his finger and thumb and dropped the it down Grey Foot’s throat.

I guess you’re supposed to eat it, he thought. Or maybe I should have rubbed it in the wounds instead. Or maybe . . .

Grey Foot’s eyes blinked, and he began to pant softly. Rhen was so startled he nearly dropped the pouch. He had not truly believed the sand would work. The wolf’s breathing was louder now, and his tongue began to move between his teeth. If a few grains worked that well.

He dropped a few more grains in the wolf’s mouth, and then swallowed some himself. The taste was acrid and it did not go away after he swallowed. He immediately began to feel stronger, although thirsty. He heard Grey Foot whimper and supposed the wolf had recovered enough to truly feel his wounds. Rhen was tempted to give him more of the sand, as well as himself. He remembered, though, that the stuff was rare. From what he could tell, he and Grey Foot would heal well enough without using more sand. Already his bleeding had stopped and his wounds had begun to itch.

He tossed more wood on the fire in the feeble hopes it would keep other cats at bay. Game was scarce in the Pass, and the mountain cats waxed bolder as their hunger grew. Rhen collapsed beside the fire, suddenly weary. The heat of the battle had left him, and no doubt the sand had some effect as well. Grey Foot was breathing the deep, steady breaths of sleep.

Something worried Rhen, and not just the possibility of more cats. He had used greensand. According to the priests, he should be dead by now, or at least suffering for his desecration of the priestly function. Only, he wasn’t dead, and the only suffering he felt was from his wounds. To Rhen, this meant one of two things. Either he was a priest--he chuckled at the thought--or the priests were greedy liars. The Holy and Benevolent Priests of the North charged steep sums for their miraculous healings and cures, and nearly everyone paid without so much as a grumble. If anyone could use the so called “holy relics . . .”

Rhen had doubted the piety of the priests before, but he had wisely--or so he thought--kept his doubt to himself. Now he had proof that some, if not all, of the priests were playing the common people false. Rhen’s anger grew when he remembered that most of the priests lived in fine houses or even mansions or castles. They lived lives of luxury and all their time had to be devoted to the service of The Holy One and their “flock”: priests did not work. Few questioned this, and those who did were scorned. Apparently, because the priests healed their sick and cured their diseased, the holy men could do no wrong. But if commoners knew that anyone could use the relics . . .

Rhen trusted only one person: Sarea--the priest that had saved his life eleven years ago. He would keep his vows to Sarea, as he had for all these years. Rhen Stromgold always kept his vows. Now it was time to see how many of the priests kept theirs.

The Holy Road was crowded that morning. Men and women milled about performing one task or another. Here a colorfully clad woman hurried along with a basket of fruit, there a blacksmith walked slowly while examining a newly purchased hammer. Rhen walked purposefully, barely glancing at the people around him. Three days ago he had crossed the Davosan border and, finally, he reached the Holy Road in Brien, the Davosan capitol.

There were no kings in Davosa--the priests ruled the people. No one priest had ultimate power. A counsel of the most holy of the priests served as the ruling body—a ruling body that met where the Holy Road came to an end in an enormous white castle.

Though Rhen had seen the House of God many times, he could not suppress an awe that built as he approached it.. The edifice shone magnificently against the morning sun, and the grassy hills adjacent to it glistened with dew. Rhen was nervous, but he felt better than he had in years. One way or another, after today, he was done with the Holy bloody Priests of the North.

He had left Grey Foot with an innkeeper he knew, so other than the throng that passed him on either side, he was alone. Both man and wolf had fully recovered from their wounds after only two days. Neither had suffered or died.

As he approached the castle, the crowd began to thin, and by the time he had reached the gate, he was nearly alone on the Holy Road. A toothless, white-haired man was just emerging from the castle, and, unfortunately, as he passed Rhen, he smiled, and waved a hand. Rhen returned the gesture, trying not to look at the man’s mouth.

The gate remained open during the day, but there were two guards at each side of the entrance. Most of the guards knew Rhen, but these two were new. Both were young enough to be his sons, but they gripped their swords with familiarity and ease.

“What business have you?” The one on the right spoke, his face a picture of piety and duty. His cheeks were gaunt, but he peered through his visor at Rhen. The other guard’s mouth tightened, as if he had wanted to ask the question. He was shorter than his companion and not in quite as good shape. In fact, he was chubby, Rhen noted, mentally shaking his head.

“My name is Rhen Stromgold. I serve the Holy and Benevolent Priests of the North, may the Holy One favor them,” he said formally.

“Have you weapons?” The guard on the left asked, and hastily, for fear that his partner would rob him of yet more glory and honor. Rhen suppressed an urge to roll his eyes.

“No weapons.” He spread his arms, a humble servant presenting himself to be searched should they doubt his word.

“May the Great One enlighten you,” both guards said in unison. The left one’s mouth tightened again, and the right one’s face turned a dark red. Rhen passed between them before one or both decided to out-holify the other.

At the large wooden doors that served as the front entrance to the castle were two more guards. These two didn’t seem quite as zealous as the ones at the gate, but both wore stony expressions of duty. After a few words, one of the guards led him to Sarea’s chambers. It was not as if Rhen did not know the way, but the guards at the doors, though older, had known him no better than those at the gate.

They passed other guards along the way, and there were perfunctory nods, but no one spoke. Even the few guards Rhen recognized him gave only him the slightest gestures of recognition. This was neither surprising nor upsetting. It was the Holy Month, after all, and only speech relating to the work of the Holy One was permitted. After negotiating several corridors and a vast spiral staircase, they were in the waiting room just outside Sarea’s chambers.

“Wait here, in the name of His Holiness.” Rhen was not sure if that referred to the Great One or to Sarea himself, but he nodded. A moment passed, and the guard returned. Standing to one side of the door, he motioned Rhen through. The door clicked shut behind him as he entered the chambers of his only human friend.

A lush rug met his feet, and an aroma of light perfumes filled his nostrils. Brilliant paintings of some of the holy men of history hung at various places on walls that seemed made of ivory. A large table laden with gilded candles and silver statuettes of saints and prophets glistened near the center of the room. There were parchments spread out on the table, some newer, but many old and ragged of edge. These were the original documents of the faith and only the priests could read or handle them.

Sarea sat at the end of the table, garbed in a gleaming white robe with buttons of gold running down the chest. He was old when Rhen had met him eleven years ago. His hair was now completely white, and distinct wrinkles in his face gave him a gnarled, wise aura. He did not rise when Rhen entered.

“Ghalor favor you, my son.” Only priests were allowed to speak the name of the Holy One. “Come. Sit.” He motioned for Rhen to take the seat opposite him. Rhen sat down carefully in the designated chair. Bolarian wood, no doubt. Only the best for the most holy servants of God, it seemed.

“Ghalor has given you pleasant journeys, I trust.” It did not sound a question but Rhen inclined his head in affirmation. “Well, how are you, my son? Go on, Ghalor gives you leave to speak.”

“I am well, your grace.” He hesitated, but then decided to continue on as planned. “I have greensand.”

Sarea’s eyes widened slightly and took on a gleaming quality, but the next instant he had schooled his features.

“This is good, Rhen Stromgold. This is very good.” The priest looked expectant then.

“Your grace, I am troubled.”

“What ails your mind, my son?” The patient look and sympathetic tone that emanated from the older man were quite familiar. Rhen took a deep breath and plowed forward.

“Grey Foot and I were attacked by mountain cats in the Snowy Pass. We nearly died. Both of us. The only thing that saved us was greensand.” The last word he said softly, fearing the response. Sarea’s face went pale, but once again, the next moment he looked as though nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

“You did not mention that a priest had traveled with you,” the priest said calmly.

“There was no priest, your grace.” This time Sarea’s face didn’t change at all. In fact, if Rhen was not mistaken, the man nodded slightly, as if to himself. Though there hardly seemed need, Rhen finished. “As our last hope, I used some of the greensand on both of us.”

Sarea Voralhen folded his hands beneath his chin and said, rather blandly,“That is, you realize, blasphemy.”

Rhen nodded weakly. When Sarea said nothing more, Rhen continued.

“How is it that I, one who is not a priest, was able to invoke the sand? How is it that I did not suffer or die according to the doctrines when I attempted to use a holy relic?”

Sarea rose nonchalantly to his feet and began pacing slowly around the large room with his hands clasped serenely behind his back.

“I knew you would ask this question eventually. I have expected it for years. You were always the perceptive sort.” He turned and faced Rhen, his hands spread imploringly. “Sometimes, my son, Ghalor works in ways mortals do not understand. He has surely shown mercy on you. It must be, then, that he wants you to live, to serve him. He has seen your faithfulness, and he knows you have always kept your vows. It seems to me, my son, that Ghalor has invited you to the priesthood.”

Rhen could not stop his jaw from dropping, but he quickly returned it to its normal position.

“I…I don’t know…I’m afraid I will not be able to accept your…er… Ghalor’s … arg …The Holy One’s offer.”

Sarea’s mouth tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm, if a bit icy.

“I see. Well, it is not for everyone.” There was a long awkward silence, and then the old priest spoke casually. “You said you used some of the greensand. Where is the remainder?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rhen reached in a coat pocket and retrieved the small pouch.

“Ah, you have it.” There was a gleam in Sarea’s eyes, and he actually licked his lips. “As you have kept your vows, I will forget the matter of the blasphemy. If you will just…” He cut off as Rhen slid the pouch across the table to where Sarea stood on the other side. He caught the pouch and immediately stored it beneath his cloak.

“I have kept my vow,” Rhen said, rising to his feet.

“And I release you from my service. You are free. May Ghalor favor you the rest of your day.”

Day? Doesn’t he mean . . .. Rhen’s thoughts were interrupted by the gonging of a large bell. Sarea had sounded an alarm of some sort. He glanced at the old priest, who wore an amused grin, and then turned to run--or tried to. Before he could react, he was being stabbed by the broadsword of one of the guards. As he fell, he noticed faintly that he did not recognize the man. He saw blood gushing from his stomach, where the sword had been pulled free. For some reason, he tried to get up, but he was met with another thrust of the sword, and he felt his chest pierced and run through. There was agonizing pain, and then blackness.

A cool breeze stirred the tall grass near the Davosan border. Occasional patches of dandelions swayed lazily against the wind, much to the annoyance of the bees that tried to land on them. Rhen Stromgold strolled casually down a path of well worn grass, Grey Foot loping beside him. He was nearly three days from the House of God. Sarea’s guard had stabbed him to death—or so he thought—and left him in the refuse pile behind the castle. When, later in the day, another guard had come to toss more refuse into the burning pit, Rhen was not there. He had forded the unguarded moat at the rear of the castle and walked a good league or two to avoid the guards, who were stationed mainly at the front and sides.

Though he had taken a chance, Rhen was still mildly surprised to be alive. Rhen was no fool though. As a precaution, he had swallowed nearly half of the pouch of greensand in the hopes that it would heal future injuries. It had worked far better than he had expected. In fact, he felt better than ever, and his body showed no sign of having been run through.

When the guard stabbed him, the wounds immediately began to heal. In fact, if the sword would not have been pulled out of him quickly enough, his body might have somehow healed around it. The blood stayed, though, giving the appearance of mortal wounds. He had to take the chance so that he could be absolutely certain. Now he was convinced that the entire priesthood should be exposed. He would spend the remainder of his life doing his best to see it happen.

His hand drifted to an old pouch in his pocket. He had poured the remainder of the greensand into his own pouch and filled the finer pouch with ordinary sand. If Sarea were to look very carefully, though, he would find one grain of greensand in the bottom of the pouch. Rhen Stromgold always kept his vows.

Sword and sorcery has always been one of my favorite reads. This story was a lot of fun for me. I liked the ending and Rhen’s clever way of serving both his master and himself. How about you? Comments to the BBS, please.