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Previously on Hidden Fragments

Calen and Lorin arrive at the guarded city of Ömstead, where tension runs high under the rule of the Council of Twelve. With suspicion thick in the air, Lorin’s official message grants them entry, though Calen remains wary of both the city and his companion. Despite his reluctance, Calen is led to a tavern, prompted by a quiet but unmistakable sense that God is guiding his steps.

Meanwhile, Ronan leads Marisa, Isola, and Tobin through a treacherous marsh to avoid the Council’s soldiers. The swamp proves as perilous as it is disorienting, filled with hidden depths and deadly quicksand. When they hear cries for help, they discover that the very soldiers pursuing them are now trapped and facing death. Though helping them could risk everything, Ronan chooses mercy, remembering how Calen once spared his life.

Chapter 36

The Black Boar and the Sinking Men 

Calen had not set foot in a tavern for quite some time, yet the atmosphere struck him at once. The warm haze of sweat and smoke, mingled with the sharp sting of Ogre Ale greeted him eagerly, as though he were a prodigal returning home.

A misplaced feeling.

Places like the Black Boar held no allure for him anymore.

After his time among the Silent Scribes, perhaps in quiet rebellion against the rigid life imposed on him there, he had for a short while thrown himself into tavern life. It had brought him nothing but an empty heart, a thin purse and a head full of pain and regret. 

Yet here he was, breathing in the hollow, deceptive scent of what passed for freedom and joy.

A few unsavory men glanced up as he and Lorin pushed through the rickety door. One of them, a thickset fellow with long, stringy hair barked that the door should be shut at once.

The place was loud. 

In a shadowed corner a group of sailors bellowed a sea shanty, their voices slurred from too much Ogre Ale. They were bemoaning a lost love in some far away harbor. Near the bar, two rough brutes were locked in a heated argument, hurling foul words Calen had never heard before. These were the type of men one would rather not meet on a lonely road after dark.

What, in all truth, was he actually doing here?

Yet the Spirit had whispered that he should go with Lorin. So, he did. He would wait and see.

Lorin, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease. A contented expression rested on his face as his eyes swept the dim room in search of a place to sit.

At the back, not far from the singing sailors, a small table stood empty.

“Go on ahead,” Lorin said. “I’ll fetch us something to drink. My treat.”

With quiet reluctance, Calen made his way through the crowd and sat down at the round wooden table. A toppled mug lay on its side, a puddle of Ogre Ale spreading across the surface.

He needed to leave this place as soon as possible; that much was certain.

As he waited, his gaze drifted.

The sailors had reached the end of their song and seemed too spent to begin another. Beside them sat two heavily armed soldiers. One had drawn his sword and was showing it to a broad-shouldered, muscular man, who examined it closely, running his fingers along the blade before taking it from him.

What were they doing?

Calen studied the man as best he could in the dim light. There was something familiar about him. His eyes were calm, steady. The man nodded as though he understood every word the soldier spoke.

Ask for Emeth, the blacksmith…

A jolt ran through Calen.

Could it be? Was this Emeth… the very man the hermit had sent him to find?

But if he was indeed the blacksmith…, what was he doing here in a place like this?

Calen almost smiled at the thought. After all, he himself was sitting in the tavern as well. Emeth, as a blacksmith, earned his living forging weapons and a good place to strike a deal would be a tavern. Lost in thought he didn’t hear Lorin coming up with two foamy mugs of Ogre Ale.

“Still awake?”

Calen looked up and saw Lorin. 

“As I said,” Lorin went on as he sat, “this round is on me, but the next is yours.”

Calen almost protested. He had no intention of wasting his few coins on more ale, but he held his tongue.

Lorin raised his mug eagerly. Dutifully, Calen lifted his own and clinked it against his companion’s.

“To your health, friend,” Lorin said, taking a deep, greedy draught. He drained the mug in one go, belched loudly, and wiped the foam from his mouth.

“You’re no drinker, are you?” he said, noticing Calen hadn’t even touched his ale. “Suit yourself. I could go for another…”

He gave Calen a pointed look.

Calen sighed. Better not to draw attention over a few coins.

“Wait here,” Calen said. “I’ll get you another.”

Lorin nodded, satisfied. “To our friendship.”

“To our friendship,” Calen echoed, rising.

As he made his way toward the bar, he passed the table where the two soldiers sat with the muscular man, the one he now strongly suspected to be the blacksmith.

It seemed almost too great a coincidence.

Yet the Spirit had clearly led him into the Black Boar.

He paused briefly with his back to their table, straining to catch fragments of their conversation over the din.

“Ready tomorrow…”

“Too expensive. Must be cheaper…”

“Quality has its price…”

That was enough.

This was the blacksmith.

Just as he turned to move on, the tavern door burst open.

Three heavily armed soldiers strode in, led by their captain.

“Everyone stay where you are!” the captain shouted, a grim figure in full armor. Long gray hair spilled from beneath his helmet, and his dark eyes swept the room from under heavy brows.

The noise died instantly.

Even the sailors, who had just begun another song, fell silent mid-verse. The brutes at the bar ceased their argument and Calen slipped back to his seat.

“No ale?” Lorin muttered irritably.

“Wait,” Calen whispered. “Don’t you see the soldiers? Something’s wrong.”

Before Lorin could respond, the captain’s voice rang out again.

“We have reason to believe that Christians use this tavern as a meeting place to pass messages.”

“What?” the innkeeper immediately shouted from behind the bar. “That’s nonsense! You know me, Captain Malren, there’s no sympathy for that religious filth here. This tavern belongs to the Council of Twelve!”

Captain Malren.

So, this was the man Lorin had come to see.

Lorin had heard it too, and stiffened beside him.

Meanwhile, the innkeeper turned to his patrons. “Are there any Christians here?”

A few voices muttered denials. Most said nothing.

Malren raised a hand. “You are not under suspicion,” he said to the innkeeper. “We know your loyalty. But we have received reliable information that one of them entered this tavern moments ago, carrying an important message.”

Calen froze.

Surely… they could not mean him?

He glanced toward the blacksmith, who sat utterly still.

“Remain seated,” the captain ordered. “My men will question you all.”

Instantly the soldiers spread out, interrogating patrons one by one. Most answered easily enough. They had nothing to do with the God of the Scrolls.

Sweat broke across Calen’s skin.

What would he say?

He could not deny his God.

The soldiers drew closer.

As they approached the blacksmith, the soldier who had just been striking a deal with him, stopped the other. 

“Leave him,” he muttered, glancing at the blacksmith. “That’s the blacksmith. I know him. He’s all right.”

Calen’s heart took a jump.  

Now the soldiers approached his table and stopped before him and Lorin. Calen could feel their stares, intimidating and anxious. 

“And you two?” One of the soldiers said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ve not seen you before.”

“Correct,” Lorin answered smoothly. “We’ve just arrived. But we’ve got nothing to do with those Christians. Vermin, the lot of them. But I bring a message for Captain Malren, straight from Bramblebrook.”

“A message?” the soldier hissed.

Lorin produced the sealed letter.

The soldier’s eyes widened. 

At that very moment, a man on the far side of the tavern sprang to his feet and tried to bolt past Malren.

He didn’t get far.

The captain caught him, slamming into him and dragging him down by the hair. Another soldier joined in, forcing the man to the floor.

For a moment, excited murmurs arose. Everyone strained to see what was happening, stretching their necks for a better view.

“Quiet,” Captain Malren shouted. “We are not done here.” He turned to the innkeeper with an eager grin. “You see… even you don’t know everything that happens here. We have one of the culprits.”

The soldier who had just been speaking to Lorin cleared his throat. “We’ve got more, Captain,” he called triumphantly. He grabbed Lorin and dragged him forward.

“Easy!” Lorin protested. “I’m on your side! I carry a message!”

When they reached their captain, the soldiers halted and shoved Lorin forward. He nearly tripped over the other captive as the soldiers shoved him toward the captain, who growled and stepped back. Lorin still clutched the message tightly.

“What’s that?” Malren demanded as his eyes rested on the seal.

“A message from the Council of Twelve. I came from Bramblebrook,” Lorin stammered. Malren blinked, then snatched the envelope from Lorin’s trembling hands and sneered, “Drinking before delivering a message from the Council? Is that how you serve our beloved country?”

“I was thirsty,” Lorin muttered, feigning righteous innocence, though the tortured look on his face made it clear he wished he were somewhere else.

Amid the chaos, Calen saw movement.

The blacksmith had risen.

Slowly, quietly, he slipped toward a shadowed corner… toward a door.

No one noticed.

He disappeared.

Calen’s pulse quickened.

This was his chance.

As everyone watched Malren, Lorin and the other captive, Calen slipped quietly away, following the blacksmith’s path.

As he passed through the same door, he heard Lorin’s voice echoing through the tavern, laced with desperation: “I’m a true messenger. All hail to the Council of Twelve. My friend and I were just having a drink!”

“Which friend?” Malren thundered. “There’s no one at your table.”

Calen closed the little door behind him as he stood in a dark, musty storage room full of barrels. Where did the blacksmith go? 

Calen blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. About ten yards ahead, a strip of light filtered through. There was a door, and it led to the outside.

***

Ronan’s lips dried as he steered his horse toward the screams. They cut through the fog, raw and desperate. Isola tensed behind him, her fingers digging into his side. He felt it but did not turn.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “You’ll be fine.”

She need not worry. Or so he told himself. What was more, he had no choice. Not after having given his heart to the God of the Scrolls. The One called Jesus Christ was well acquainted with pain and suffering, so why should he be better off than the Master Himself?

The wind picked up, dragging mist across the swamp. Somewhere ahead, a man cried out again, closer now.

Marisa rode behind him with Tobin. Her presence steadied him. For a brief moment, the memory of last night flickered. Firelight. Her voice reading from the Scroll. Something warm and alive in her eyes. Her face had glowed as she explained the Scroll, and Ronan’s heart had stirred. He had not known, strength could look like that. He would never treat a woman like Marisa the way he had treated others.

He pushed the thoughts away.

Not now.

They slowed as the ground narrowed into a raised strip of earth, water on both sides. Bulrushes loomed ahead, swaying faintly.

Another scream tore through the mist.

 Ronan narrowed his eyes and slowed down even more. Perhaps it was safest to get off their horses, leaving Isola and Tobin behind, and walk the last stretch. 

“We leave the horses here. We go on foot.”

Marisa nodded, scanning the ground. “We don’t know what’s waiting.”

“Right,” Ronan said. “And we don’t have time to find out slowly.”

They dismounted.

“Tobin, you stay,” Marisa said firmly.

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Your mother needs you here. Be the man.”

That did it. Tobin straightened, pride flickering across his face. “I will,” he said. “Pax and I will guard her.”

Isola forced a small smile on her face, but she looked terrified. “Thank you, son.”

Ronan turned and Marisa followed.

Step by careful step.

“Help!” The cry came again, ragged and breaking. “I’m sinking!”

A second voice followed, darker and strained. “Save your breath, Dreaven. No one’s coming.”

Ronan froze.

That name.

His chest tightened.

And that voice.

No.

Carefully, he pushed through the bulrushes and looked.

Two soldiers.

Council of Twelve.

Quicksand had them.

One was already chest deep, clawing at the surface. The other was worse. Only his head and shoulders remained above the sucking mire.

And then he knew. His stomach turned.

These were his former comrades.

“Dreaven,” he breathed.

That could only mean that the other one was Vorren.

His limbs felt weak and for a split second, he did nothing.

It was as if his entire, wicked past stared back at him from the mud. That could have been him.

The urge came up to run off. To leave them there. 

It was their own fault. They were wicked. He knew them well… They were hunting innocent people down and he was no longer one of them.

Something steadied him. A soft voice.

Love your enemies.

It was enough to snap him out of his temptation to run off.

“Dreaven!” he shouted. “Stop moving or you’re dead!”

The soldier’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “Ronan?”

“Don’t speak. Don’t move.”

Vorren looked up too, hope flaring. “Ronan, help us!”

He thrashed.

And sank deeper.

“I said, stop!” Ronan barked and he dropped flat onto his stomach, the cold biting instantly through his clothes.

“Marisa, grab my legs.”

She did not hesitate.

He felt her grip tighten around his ankles.

“Don’t let go,” he cried.

“I won’t.”

Ronan edged forward, inch by inch. The mud shifted beneath him, water seeping into his clothes, icy and thick. His chest pressed into unstable ground.

If he went too far, he would join them.

Closer.

Closer.

Dreaven’s hand trembled, barely above the surface now.

“Take my hand,” Ronan said, reaching.

Their wrists locked.

“Listen to me,” Ronan said, low and urgent. “Do not fight me. Do not move.”

Dreaven nodded, terror etched into his face.

“Marisa, pull.”

The strain hit instantly. The mud resisted, clinging, dragging back.

Ronan gritted his teeth. “Again.”

Behind him, he heard Marisa pray out loud: “Lord, help us. You gave Samson strength… give it to us now!” He had no idea who or what she was talking about, but it seemed to help, as both he and Dreaven were pulled in.

Slowly.

Painfully.

At last, Dreaven slid free, collapsing onto firmer ground.

Ronan dragged himself back, breathing hard, muscles shaking.

But Vorren was farther out.

Too far.

It wouldn’t be long before he went under.

“Ronan,” he choked.

Ronan scanned wildly. There had to be something he could do… but what?

Think, Ronan. Think.

“Will this help?”

Ronan turned.

Tobin.

What did that kid do here? Had Marisa not specifically told him to stay back? But when he looked up his heart soared. Tobin held a coiled rope in his hands, and a boyish smile on his face. “W-where did that come from?” Ronan almost shouted it out. 

“Took it along,” Tobin muttered. “When we rushed out, I grabbed it and put it in Marisa’s bag.”

Ronan scrambled up, grabbed the end and hurled it out with all his strength.

Vorren caught it.

Barely.

“Hold on,” Ronan shouted as Marisa grabbed the rope beside him and they both began to pull, digging their heels into the earth.

The rope went tight.

“Do not let go,” Ronan shouted, but Vorren held on with his last strength, and they dragged him free.

He collapsed beside Dreaven, coughing, shaking, but alive.

Silence fell.

Only the wind was heard, the rustling of the reeds and the distant ripple of water.

Ronan sat back, chest heaving, covered in mud, soaked and exhausted. He looked at the ones they had just saved. Men he had once called brothers.

Now enemies.

Something tightened in his chest.

The question was no longer whether they would live.

But what would happen next?

____

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