Christopher Russell

The Plague Sorceror

Brind and Aurélie dodged round corner after corner. Glaive, at their heels, lost his footing at one sharp turn and crashed into the flimsy house wall opposite, provoking an angry shout and the sudden crying of a baby somewhere within, but the fugitives ran on. Gabion dodged in and out between them, barking excitedly. He enjoyed being chased as much as he enjoyed chasing. He couldn't be expected to understand what being caught on this occasion would mean.
  Aurélie was trying desperately to remember the way back to the bridge, but even she, born and brought up in a town, was becoming confused by the patternless labyrinth of streets. She pushed at a gate that looked as if it might lead into a yard where they could hide, but it was bolted, just as it had been when she'd tried the same gate minutes earlier. She ran straight through a stall stacked with pots and pans and pewter mugs, sending them clattering and spinning to the ground. Seconds later the pursuing mob trod them flat. Then it tore through a draper's shop, rampaging among the hangings and rolls of cloth, in case the Devil's brood had gone to ground, while the shopkeeper's wife stood, tearfully begging them to stop. Aurélie could hear the wild destruction close behind them and dreaded the moment when she could run no further.
  It was Brind who recognized the church. They had seen its spire from the hill before they had come down to the town, and when they'd crossed the bridge it was close by, just two tunnel-like streets from the river's edge. Two tunnels. Brind could smell the river. The main mob was close behind and he could hear others shouting on either side, trying to cut off the fugitives' escape. But if he and Aurélie could get to the bridge first, they would be free. No matter how many men and sticks and dogs the holy man and the miller sent after them into the forest, Brind would find a safe place for Aurélie. The forest was his territory.
  A square of grey daylight appeared before the dog boy and he sprinted towards it, then somersaulted and sprawled heavily in the mud. Before he could comprehend that he'd been tripped, Aurélie and the hounds were in a heap on top of him.
  Lifford, crouching hidden at the final corner, had brought them down, his quarterstaff held low across the alleyway like a tripwire. He straightened up now and stood back, laughing, as the mob spilled out of its burrow and swallowed up the Devil's brood.
  Even Glaive's ferocious power couldn't save them. The mob had brought hurdles and surrounded the mighty mastiff and the black hellhound with these wicker shields, forcing the dogs back and back into the alleyway, and trapping them there, tight against a wall, while Brind and Aurélie were held on the ground by a dozen rough and willing hands.
  Then more hurdles were brought and the two prisoners were hoisted on to them, tied down and carried shoulder-high, back through the streets to the market square. The mob danced and shouted alongside, occasional brave souls darting forward to pinch or poke the now helpless agents of the Devil. Brind jerked his head from side to side, instinctively trying to avoid these petty cruelties, but Aurélie stared steadfastly up at the eaves of the passing houses, and dreamed of revenge.
  Lifford led the procession, strutting like a fighting cock. And when he reached Brother Rohan's wagon, he clambered nimbly aboard without being invited, standing as an equal beside the friar, as the market square filled again with excited townsfolk, and Brind and Aurélie were borne forward in triumph.
  'Shall we burn them now?' asked Lifford eagerly.
  Brother Rohan raised his hand slightly, a calm, checking, authoritative gesture. He didn't intend to allow this bumptious little peasant to force the pace. There were credit and gratitude, not to mention awe, to be bestowed first. And Brother Rohan was the rightful recipient.
  The hurdle bearers had arrived in front of the wagon now. Brother Rohan gave them a nod and beckoned briefly, and Brind felt himself lurch and sway, and saw the sky spin as his hurdle was manhandled up on to the wagon. Aurélie's followed, and a great howl erupted as the two hurdles were propped and held upright, so that the prisoners tied to them were displayed to the seething crowd. Brind could hear another howl. Distant, helpless. Glaive in distress.
  Brother Rohan spread his hands, palms down, as if smoothing a crumpled cloth, and the crowd became quiet.
  'Brothers and sisters in God.' The friar paused, then indicated Brind and Aurélie.  
  'The Devil is thwarted. You are delivered from the jaws of death!'
  The crowd roared again and surged forward, surrounding the wagon, arms outstretched to the holy man who so swiftly, so miraculously, had identified the enemy in their midst.
  But as the general cry of relief subsided, a single voice, clear and strong, filled the air.
  'How do we know?'
  The question hung there, not aggressive, but demanding an answer, as heads turned, and Brother Rohan scanned the crowd. A weather-beaten man with thin hair and a blue tunic was moving towards him.
  'How do we know?' he repeated, then continued respectfully. 'Forgive me, Brother. You and your able assistant have served us well, but before we do what must be done, should there not be proof?'
  'They killed the lady of the manor at Dowe,' cried Lifford hotly. 'And many others there. What more proof d'you want?'
  The miller's question was echoed by many in the crowd, but the man in the blue tunic hoisted himself easily on to the wagon. He fixed his grey eyes briefly on Brind and Aurélie, and gave them an almost imperceptible shake of the head before turning and addressing those below rather than Lifford.
  'Should we not put them to the test? If they are creatures of the Devil, it will become clear. If they are not, then we will know the town is not yet safe.'
  He looked past Lifford at Brother Rohan.
  'Put them to the test.'

Plague Sorcerer © Christopher Russell, 2006.  Published by Puffin Books.