He walked, through wind and sweeping rain. He passed the occasional cluster of huts or what passed for villages among the people of the steppes. Those who inhabited them were almost exclusively of the feminine variety, from babes to old crones. The few males he encountered in his journey were children who hadn't yet reached their twelfth summer. Nicholas knew something of the language of the peoples of The Hold, but mostly he needed to rely on using his hands and educated guesses confirmed by his faith. The stanitsas of The Hold were being called together, though why this was being done none of the women who remained could say. It was not in the nature of the menfolk here to speak of the business of politics and war to their women. Nicholas offered what comfort he could, accepted any charity the women would deign to give him, and politely ignore their warnings that he should go back north. The Great Road was still something resembling safe for foreigners, as bolder merchants who'd waited too long to leave finally returned to Sturmwatch or places beyond. It was not safe here for foreigners any more. How much less so for a foreigner who spoke blasphemies in the name of some foreign god? If a war was coming, or an upheaval of some kind, it would be men like the good father who would be slaughtered amid the fires and frenzied dancing of the gathered Horde.

  The roads and their travellers brought no comfort. Nicholas met a small caravan of foreign merchants who had ventured deeper into The Hold before the calling of the stanitsas. The wagons contained the merchants' goods, as well as their shivering children and wailing women. They were afraid, desperate to be away, but the damned road was turning into a quagmire with the sudden coming of the storm. The thick mud sucked at the heavy wheels of their vehicles, and caused the horses to whinny and cry out as only animals could when they were aware of a terrible danger not so far behind. Nicholas blessed them all, gave them what news he could, and ushered them on their way. The wife of one of the merchants gave him some bread and salted beef. Nicholas kissed her hand in gratitude, and noted the treacherous emerald on the silver band around her finger.

  “Hide that,” he whispered, “until you get out of The Hold. You have no escort, and things might soon fall apart.”

  The woman, plump and soft under her heavy cloak, was startled by the urgent, insistent tone of his voice. “Of course,” she said, but made no move to do so.

  Nicholas sighed and did not press the issue. It was up to God what happened next to them. They set off, Nicholas heading deeper into the hostile country as the merchants and their animals laboured to escape.

  On the tenth day of his walk, Nicholas paused at about noon. The rain had stopped yesterday, and his clothes were well on their way to drying. The sun had, at last, forced itself through the clouds. He saw the glint of something out among the grass of the steppe, and it was that flash of sunlight which bade the tall, thin man, pause. He abandoned the road to investigate, noting the snow-crowned mountains erupting from the grasslands off in the distance. He could just make out what might have been thin columns of smoke out there.

  The distant sounds of a horse with an overly heavy rider reached Nicholas as he found the source of the glint on the grassland. A fist sized rock lay on the ground before Nicholas. Beside it lay a discarded, broken cavalry lance. The clomping of hooves on wet soil drew closer from behind. The horse snorted. Nicholas stared down at the tools God had laid before him, and understood what he might need to do. But he waited. He could not kill a man unless there was cause.

  The horse drew closer, and Nicholas could make out the voice of the rider. It was slurred somewhat, sluggish. He half turned to face the approaching rider, after placing his foot beside the stone, and the broken lance.

  A rider of The Hold that approached him, a thickly set, swarthy gentleman with a drooping moustache. He wore no helm, and his head was shaven save for the thick, traditional forelock. It was decorated and bound tightly, as some of the women of Sturmwatch tied their hair when they were young. His left hand held the reins of his horse loosely, while his right sat across his lap, tapping the hilt of the curved sword preferred by the men of his race.

  “Hello,” offered Father Nicholas.

  The man snorted, and so did his horse. He gently nudged the beast, so that it clomped to within a few feet of the ragged, filthy man. Nicholas recognised the look on the man’s face, as the horseman appraised him with contempt. The rider was clearly trying to determine whether to merely rob him, enslave him, or murder him. Nicholas assessed the man, too. He noted the heavy breathing, the reluctance to place too much weight on the left leg at the stirrup of the saddle, the slight glaze of the eyes. The rider shifted, and the sunlight glinted off something on one of his fingers abruptly.

  Treacherous emerald…

  Nicholas crouched suddenly, then rose. The movement caught the rider off guard, and he called out something as he sat up straight on his horse, his alarm mixed with a look of mild discomfort as he placed more weight on his left side. He'd filled his hand with the rock as he straightened, and now he let it fly.

  The horseman’s adjustment in his saddle aligned his face perfectly with the projectile’s trajectory. Were he still the man he'd been, Nicholas might have felt some satisfaction as blood spurted from the rider's broken nose and lips.

  The man cried out and spooked his horse. The animal screeched, rose up on its hind legs, and would have thrown the rider if his left foot had not got caught up in the stirrup. He still fell heavily to the ground, and the horse tried to dash. The horseman, however, was an anchor as he dragged and bounced and thrashed along the ground in the horse's wake.

  Nicholas had picked up the broken lance by then, and was calmly following after. The clothes were a bit much, but he could tuck them in with that obscenely decorated sword belt. He noticed among the rider's gear a small shovel slung across the back of the saddle, as was common among the men of The Hold. They often dug holes to put their filth in. If Nicholas was still of the vengeful mind he had been in his youth, he would have of course found the whole scene very fitting.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  After the deed was done, Nicholas examined the tools provided to him by his Divine Lord. The body that modelled the clothes and armour was well past its prime, and there was a great deal of room about the hips and waist, which the tightening of the belts could only do so much to hide. The traditional helmet of The Hold was hanging from the pacified horse’s saddle, with its odd spike at the top and its helpful metal scaling along the flanks that concealed all but the front of the wearer’s face. The boots were the finest Nicholas had ever worn, while the horse itself was a fine beast which had surrendered to his cooing with barely any trouble. Nicholas had always found the company of animals far easier than that of his fellow men.

  He buried the body carefully, and said what prayers he could between shovels full of wet earth. The man’s purse was heavy with coins and he had enough dried food for a week or more. The treacherous ring was now in Nicholas’ pocket. Aside from the sword, this fellow carried a pair of daggers, a composite bow with sixty arrows in two quivers, a spiked round metal shield, and a trio of cavalry lances. Hardly the sort of regalia one might need for a peaceful gathering…

  Nicholas mounted the horse and set out for the columns of smoke between the flat topped mountains.

  *

  The columns of smoke between the mountains had gradually evolved as Nicholas drew near. The hints of hills became black and jagged buildings of stacked earth and the trunks of trees dragged from God knew where. A deep ditch had been dug into the earth and filled with layers of spikes that were half hidden in the rain water that still sloshed about, disturbed by drinking horses.

  The gathering of the men of The Hold was here, and had already spilled out of the original boundaries cut into the earth. The place on the steppe had become a massive, thriving, living entity of sweat, shit, songs and laughter. Thousands of riders had gathered here, and as he rode the ever expanding circumference of the camp, Nicholas noted yet more columns of riders coming from the south and the east, through the gaps between the mountains that flanked this place like four colossal towers, or maybe walls. They made Nicholas uneasy. Their shapes were too similar, and the distances between each seemed far too symmetrical to be anything natural. He had grown up on stories of the power of the Elves. Something about this place seemed familiar to the withered man as he circled about it. Barely remembered stories from his ancient childhood returned in scattered snippets. There had been a place like this in some of the stories, a place of devilry, where the Elves had come to perform rituals they dared not do so in their own lands before the Last Day came.

  There were hundreds of carts, from every corner of The Hold, and more coming in every few hours. The task of finding Greig was formidable, but Nicholas had learned patience in the service of his Lord. He would ride through the camp until he found him. The length of time it might take was not up to him, anyway. The camp was set up in a rough circle, its centre defined by the partially flooded, spike lined moats. Carts were forbidden within. Beyond them and the horses and men rose the few buildings in this region, the tallest of which reminded Nicholas of the churches of Sturmwatch. It had several wooden towers, but did not look to be a fort of any kind. One of them stood higher than the others and was capped by a crenelated top. It looked very unlike any other building one might expect in The Hold, and even from this distance, Nicholas was able to make note of the high concentration of large, important looking tents massed about that building. If it was not God's will for him to find Greig, then Nicholas knew that building would be his next source of information.

  Hours passed, as Nicholas carried out his investigation. He was careful who he spoke to, only asking those who did not look bright enough to notice his baggy clothes, or pick up the accent he was trying his best to hide. Greig was here, posing as a merchant, he knew. Nicholas further knew the man's cart would be decorated with fox pelts, something that appeared to be a rare form of decoration out here. The men of The Hold seemed to prefer to decorate their helmets with falcon feather plumes, as opposed to themselves with furs. The fact that the merchants he'd met first on reaching The Hold had sold all of their stock to Greig suggested the king's man had an exceptionally large cart. When taking all these factors together, Nicholas surmised he would, in fact, find Greig. It seemed his divine master had arranged things in his favour. Nicholas just had to have patience.

  There were many massive carts in the gathering horde here. Some were owned by merchants, eager to sell wares or nights with women. Others were privately owned by the Ataman of the column of riders who were pouring in constantly. These were the Lords of this land, great riders and warriors elected by their people. Their carts contained proof of their wealth and skill as ravagers: armour, silks and perfumes, barrels of strong liquor and usually a tent of massive size. There was something of a park for other such large, heavy carts. Nicholas counted more than fifty, and saw half a dozen more being brought up from the south with a heavy escort. They were separated into their own quarter of the camp, where no strangers were permitted to go. Their contents were hidden under heavy, thick tarps.

  Dusk had arrived, and with it hunger, when Nicholas spied something amid the campfires and riders who'd arrived for the moot. It was a huge cart, of native design, so laden with goods it seemed to be sinking into the earth. Even more interesting, its flanks were covered in red fox furs. Approaching cautiously, he found a dozen men sitting about the fire, laughing and telling stories as they smoked big pipes and passed about a heavy jug.

  “Whose cart is that?” Nicholas asked, hoping his diction was correct, and that he had made himself sound heavier than he was.

  A particularly fat and hairy member of the group, dressed in a knee length robe with silvered buttons stood up at once. He was perhaps as old as Nicholas was, though their dimensions could not have been more different. With his thick, drooping moustache and swarthy complexion, he could very easily have been mistaken for a native of these parts.

  “It’s mine,” he said, eyeing the strange rider warily. He looked very much like the man the merchant had described to Nicholas, which was enough for him. “What do you want, friend?”

  “I wish a word with you,” said Nicholas. “May we speak in private, brother?”

  The man nodded, slowly. Nicholas dismounted and tied his weary horse to the side of the cart, where the man’s own team stood resting. They walked out of earshot of the men at the fire, their backs to it.

  “What can I do for you, friend? Do you wish to see my wares?”

  “I come from Sturmwatch,” said Nicholas, dropping the accent. “I have been sent here to help you, Greig. Your friends from the caravan send their blessings.”

  The look on the merchant’s face told Nicholas enough. This was indeed the man he sought.

  “Who the hell are you?” Greig asked. He looked like he wanted to throttle Nicholas, which the priest hoped he would not. He suspected the task before him would be tricky enough without first having to kill his only available source of information. “Who sent you?”

  “My name is Nicholas,” he replied calmly. He pulled out his star stone from where it was hidden under his baggy armour, and held it up to the flickering light just long enough to allow Greig to recognise it. “I am here to lend assistance to you, Greig.”

  His eyes boggled. “What is a witch hunter doing here?” the fat man asked, growing visibly pale in the poor light.

  “As I said: I am here to assist you, Greig. You are in need of an ally to help you in your work. That ally is me. God has sent me here.”

  “God sent you?” the spy managed to reply, his thick eyebrows narrowing. “Are you some kind of madman?”

  “Of course not,” Nicholas snapped. “God would never waste His time consorting with the mad. Now, tell me Greig, why is there such a gathering of the stanitsa? What have they come here for?”

  “That should be obvious, even to the blind,” Greig whispered urgently. “They’re gathering here to make war on us, brother.”