The ragged column of dispossessed villagers scattered as Malik trotted his skeletal steed across the road. They were exhausted, frightened and without hope. Yesterday they had watched horrified as Malik, High Lord Patriarch of the Temple of Mortus, pronounced sentence upon them and, with a gesture, called forth a storm of fire to consume their village. The women and children had wept openly, the men hung their heads in shame. Malik's soldiers and the few lesser priests had turned away, unable to meet the eyes of the villagers as they were forced to watch their village elders tied to stakes in front of the church, howling in agony as the flames devoured their flesh.
Now they drew back as the black-armoured horse and rider reined-in in front of the group of young knights approaching from the west. A few minutes earlier one of Malik's Undead Ravens had swooped down to his master's wrist and spoken in the horrid ancient tongue. Even through the shadowed eye slits of the priest's great helm, the nearer people had seen anger flash and shuddered. Now they cowered away lest that terrible anger be directed at them.
Soldiers from Malik's guard of honour moved to intercept the approaching knights but Malik angrily waved them back.
"Let them come, they have ridden hard to speak with me." His voice was cool and calm, rational and reasonable. The riders drew in a few yards away. Three knights and a dozen lightly-armoured riders. All wore the emblems of Mithras, the great golden lion, rampant on red. The knights bore this symbol on their pennants and shields, the others wore tabards. The leader tore off his helm revealing a young, handsome face with long golden hair and the first beard of youth. His stallion's flanks were heaving and glistened with sweat, he was clearly panting with the effort of galloping in full plate mail. He was clearly angry.
"Malik, you fiend, you have gone too far this time. We have ridden from the village of Blossomfield. I cut down the burned corpses of five men left hanging on poles with your colours. No man deserves to be treated thus. The crows that follow you about were feasting on them. I intend to make this known to the King. He is a follower of Mithras and will not permit such crimes in his realm."
"The King himself not only permits but supports my actions. In all matters relating to the crimes of Necromancy, the priests of Mortus have absolute authority." The priest raised his own visor. His face was the face of a scholar. His skin white from too much time spent in the shadows. His hair straight and dark, his beard short cut, neatly framing pale lips. Only his eyes hinted at danger. The young knight looked indignant.
"Necromancy!" he scoffed openly, "Two of those men were known to me. They were no more Necromancers than I am, or the King himself. You have gone beyond your powers here priest and I mean to bring you to justice." His hand slid to the hilt of his sword. Behind Malik a score of temple soldiers raised crossbows. Tension hung in the air. Malik himself only smiled.
"You are right of course, Sir Knight. The men I burned and raised on poles were not Necromancers. They were, as you know, the elders of Blossomfield, Aldermen of Lord Jarov. However, their village harboured a Necromancer, a powerful one, one who raised a small army of Walking Dead from the nearby site of ancient battles. A week ago, more than fifty zombies and skeletons attacked the town of Thorncross, killing a dozen townsfolk, nine soldiers and one of my priests and stealing the Altar Relics from the town church. The day before yesterday I tracked down the Necromancer and his foul servants in the Forest of Belldor, a few miles north of Blossomfield. In the ensuing battle I lost eleven warriors, a score more were wounded. We took the enemy alive and before he died he told me how the village elders of Blossomfield had paid tribute to him, supplying him with food and drink. He had been in the forest for two months, building up his forces. When my Inquisitor-Priest visited them three weeks before, they kept silent. For some reason they feared the Necromancer more than they feared the Temple of Mortus. The village is no more, the Elders are dead and the villagers are now the property of Mortus. They will serve the Temple for the rest of their lives and the Temple will protect them. The King will support my actions in this matter, Lord Jarov will support me and so even will your own High Priest."
All the fight seemed to go out of the knight as he glanced from Malik to his companions, to the shameful faces of the villagers.
"My apologies, Lord Malik. I.. I wronged you." He mumbled. His hand came away from his sword. "If there is some way I can ...." His voice trailed off as he spoke. He seemed to come to some sort of decision.
In a strong voice he said, "I will gladly perform some service or accept a Penance ?"
"You will accept a Penance, will you ?" Malik's eyes narrowed. One of Malik's younger priests, well back from the action drew in a sudden breath. The young soldier next to him shot a questioning glance. In whispered tones the priest explained.
"Any priest may call for a Penance, it is a binding magical effect between the priest and the penitent, deriving its strength from both. It must be freely accepted by the penitent but can consist of any task or service. If the Penance is not carried out a penalty is magically exacted." The soldier nodded impatiently.
"This is common knowledge" he said. "Why look so shocked, Lord Malik may give him some dangerous task but the fellow deserves it."
The priest shook his head. "If I gave you a Penance and you failed to complete it, you might suffer some minor curse of ill luck. If one of my teachers at the Temple in Tor Meliath gave you a Penance you might grow sick or weak. But Malik is the High Priest, he speaks with the voice of God. Fail his Penance and you would die." The soldier looked shaken. "Then let us hope he offers a Penance that is not too hard. The knight is impudent but is no doubt a brave and honourable man."
Meanwhile Malik and the knight continued their own conversation. Perhaps warned by the strange look in the priest's eyes, rather than agree to Malik's query, he asked "What Penance would you have me do, my Lord ?"
Malik frowned thoughtfully. "You will travel to the town of Thorncross and enter the market square tomorrow at noon. You will spend an hour telling all you see why you are there and what has befallen the people of Blossomfield. Then seek the priest of Thorncross Church before nightfall and confess your sins to him. When he hears your confession your Penance will be complete. Will you accept this Penance ?"
"I will, my Lord".
"Then I suggest you ride now for Thorncross. You may wish to include some mention of my kindness and generosity in the matter of your Penance." A faint smile came to Malik's lips but did not reach his eyes.
The knights turned their mounts and trotted back the way they came.
Further back on the road the young priest closed his eyes tight and mumbled a prayer beneath his breath and gestured after the retreating figures. His friend turned questioningly again. "What now ? It seems Malik is growing softer in his old age, that Penance is not so hard. It is only half a days ride to Thorncross."
"You do not understand. The priest who died in battle two days ago was Torjan of Thorncross. A corpse cannot hear a confession. That poor brave fool is already dead."