Esztergom is a darkly mythic epic set in a kingdom where gods, the Vallas, retain their divinity through supplication, worship, fear, and sacrifice. Ten seasons ago, Sabineâa witch, the White Queenâchallenged their dominion. She failed. The world, though fractured, resumed its charade. But the ache never healed.
Time passed. Esztergom enduredâcorrupt, powerful, unfallen. The Tuden, favored by the gods, waged endless war against the god-cursed Anartes. The Vallas absorbed all: praise, fear, blood. But deep in the old Maramure forest, a pulse beat. Sabine, defeated but not destroyed, returns. Wiser. Stronger. And carrying a secretâa force that could end the Vallas and unmake the world theyâve fed on for millennia.
The gods also seek that force to ensure their own immortality.
But a simple act of fate disrupts both their plans. When Merek, a wounded soldier turned Ground Steward, visits the orphanage at Malmock to select boys to be the castleâs woodrunners, he unknowingly shatters the plans of Sabine and the divine.
What happens to a god when a god dies?
And what if removing the myth reveals something worse?
Esztergom is a darkly mythic epic set in a kingdom where gods, the Vallas, retain their divinity through supplication, worship, fear, and sacrifice. Ten seasons ago, Sabineâa witch, the White Queenâchallenged their dominion. She failed. The world, though fractured, resumed its charade. But the ache never healed.
Time passed. Esztergom enduredâcorrupt, powerful, unfallen. The Tuden, favored by the gods, waged endless war against the god-cursed Anartes. The Vallas absorbed all: praise, fear, blood. But deep in the old Maramure forest, a pulse beat. Sabine, defeated but not destroyed, returns. Wiser. Stronger. And carrying a secretâa force that could end the Vallas and unmake the world theyâve fed on for millennia.
The gods also seek that force to ensure their own immortality.
But a simple act of fate disrupts both their plans. When Merek, a wounded soldier turned Ground Steward, visits the orphanage at Malmock to select boys to be the castleâs woodrunners, he unknowingly shatters the plans of Sabine and the divine.
What happens to a god when a god dies?
And what if removing the myth reveals something worse?
Merek sat hunched over in the driverâs seat of the cart, the winds blowing eastward across the Adony plains, whipping the fur-lined cloak wrapped around him. Long, dark hair flowed out beneath a great fur hat, and icicles dangled from his thick beard and mustache. The act was futile. Merek was an enormous man, and even bent over, he could not hide his body from the biting winds. It reached through every crevice of his cloak and the gambeson he wore beneath. He was an old soldier, though, and he bore this discomfort in silence.
Two draft horses pulled the cart, one chestnut, the other black. Their long manes and tails whipped about, lifted by the blowing winds. They did their task with heads bent. Their thoughts focused on a warm barn filled with late summer hay. Merek was a good caretaker. The horses were healthy, well-fed, and could tolerate cold temperatures better than their master. They were close to a warm barn, if not their own. Could the horses have understood, Merek would have told them to give them hope.
He had been traveling for four moons, and by his measure, their destination, the orphanage of Malmok, was less than one or two cold leagues away. He had departed for the orphanage from the trade city of Adony. The day he left, the weather had been comfortable, as much as winter on the plains could be. The travel, not as much, old roads in an old cart. Every bump and jolt, over rock or through puddle, traveled upward through the cartâs frame and seemingly right into Merekâs ass, up his spine, finally resting in his neck. The old soldier endured this as well.
On the third day, the northwest winds, which the farmers called the Latya, came flowing over the Esztergom range, the peaks of which could be seen far off in the distance, rising above the northern edge of the great Coza forest. In the spring, the winds shifted and came from the south, bringing the warm desert air northward. The farmers called those the Lanya.
At first, the Latya was just a breeze, enough to slightly bounce the brown tips of the tall grass that covered the plains. Eventually, it gained strength, sending small gusts flowing over the endless fields. By the end of the third day, the gusts had increased tenfold and raced across the open plains like a herd of horses. They rolled over the hillocks and bent the tops of the tall grass that poked up from the deep snow, making it appear that the blades were all supplicants worshipping some unseen god. Snow would be lifted and whipped across the plains, creating huge drifts. These sometimes blocked the road, and Merek would spend an hour or two clearing a path for the cart.
The day droned on, the scenery repeated, and the cold and howling wind never ceased. Each night, he could see the light from one of the towers at Malmok getting closer. Its beam shining out over the plains like a lighthouse near the ocean. Distance was hard to determine in the vast open space, and Merek feared he would need to spend another night under the stars. He began to look for a hollow to bed the horses.
As the sun began to sink and the gloaming settled in, the old soldierâs instincts flared. Merek sat up, blinking against the storm, staring eastward across the plains. The wind howled, but something in it soundedâŚdifferent. A tone beneath the storm. A call. He listened harder, but the Latyaâs gusts were deafening, swallowing all else.
A dark shape loomed beyond the snowfall, shifting through the mist. A wolf? Noâtoo large. It stood alone, a hulking black figure against the swirling white.
Then came another howlâor maybe just the wind twisting through the drifts.
The storm surged, a sudden gust hammering into the cart, making the horses shift uneasily. Snow exploded into the air, blinding, impenetrable. Merek flinched, one hand gripping the seat for balance, the other steadying the reins. He cursed under his breath.
When the snow settled, the shape was gone.
Merek watched the spot for a long moment, breath misting in the cold. The hunger, the sleepless nights, the ache in his bonesâperhaps he was seeing things. He pulled his cloak tighter and hunched back down. There was no wolf. No howl. Just the wind.
He rode on, scanning the fields for a place to camp. Shortly, he came across a suitable hollow just off the road. It was deep enough to offer some protection from the wind but not steep enough to get himself stuck if it snowed that night. As he gazed at it, contemplating if he should abandon any more travel for the day, the road began to incline.
Merek let a relieved smile cross his face. They were close. He looked up from beneath the tangle of hair and the brim of his fur cap and squinted. Off in the distance, between drifting snow, he could just see the hillock that Malmok sat upon, a relative mountain in this sea of low hills and flat plains. He lightly snapped the reins, and the two horses, perhaps sensing his improved spirits, put more effort into their steps.
The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the world had turned a dark grey as it settled in for nightfall. In the near distance, the round towers at each end of Malmok stood out in stark contrast to the soft, rolling landscapeâhard, geometric shapes against a backdrop of curves and waves. The walls ran at angles from each side of the towers to meet at a central point. If one could fly like a hawk and pass overhead, Malmok would appear to have been built in the shape of a diamond. Merek hunched his body down, lowered his head, and settled in for the final part of the journey.
The orphanage was built on top of the only hillock for leagues on the great plain, and when the Latya sped down from the distant mountains and the tall grass bent to its will, the towers stood in their pride, an affront to the windâs demand for subjugation. Merek knew the history of these towers, former grist mills for the local farmers, built with the more expensive stone from quarries beyond Esztergom, the hidden message of wealth and power transparent for those who knew such things.
As he passed under the shadow of the nearer tower, Merek looked up at the weathered stone. He wondered if the local farmers had viewed these monuments with pride or fear in their time, when the mills had been the economic center for all grain bound for the markets where Adony now stood.
The cart arrived at the base of the hillock. The path steepened and wound around the orphanage. The horses now put more effort into their task. As the team and cart lumbered up the path, Merek noted a graveyard set off somewhat in the plains.
He turned his gaze away from the graves and to the orphanage walls. Made of the darker, almost black stone from the quarries in the Esztergom range, they were softer than the brownstone from afar. Though the walls were not as old as the towers, they were still old, hewn in the early days of the Esztergom Banate. Of lesser quality and built without the skill of the ancient stonemasons they were in dire need of point work. Many were pitted and, in some places, missing chunks, worn down by wind and rain, cold and heat.
The cart rumbled along until it reached the gate, which had a pair of elm doors hanging on iron hinges with round iron handles. On the right side of the doors, a bell, also made of iron, was attached to the wall. He stopped the horses just short of the gate, climbed off the cart, and walked up to the bell. He pulled the chain, rang it thrice, and stood back to wait.
After what he considered a reasonable amount of time had passed and no one answered, he rang the bell again, pulling harder on the chain. The bellâs peals had not finished when a sliding window in the middle of the door flew open, and a young man with a pimply face, red from the cold, looked through, saying, âHold on now, show some patience.â
The man was dressed in the black robes and cowl of a penury, a novice cleric in the Haoman religious order. His eyes widened when he saw the giant of a man standing in front of the gate but narrowed when he asked, âWhat are you selling?â
Merek looked surprised and said, âI am selling nothing.â
âWell, we donât want to buy nothing,â sneered the cleric, pleased with how clever he had just been, and he began to close the small window.
Merek stuck his bear paw-sized hand into the window, preventing it from completely shuttering, and said calmly, âI am the Ground Steward of Esztergom.â
The young man chortled a laugh and pulled the window back open, looking Merek up and down. âIâve met the Ground Steward. Heâs half your size and twice your age,â said the penury. âYouâre not him. Now be off before I set the dogs on you.â
âIâm the new Ground Steward, and you have no dogs. I have business with Curate Barda, and I am frozen through. Open this door,â said Merek, tired of the young manâs insolence.
âHow do you know we have no dogs?â asked the penury.
âTheyâd be barking, or they'd be useless, in which case, you would not have them,â answered the Ground Steward with a hint of anger.
âWhat happened to Ground Steward Reikke?â asked the penury.
âThat is none of your concern. Now open the gate or I shall have words with your Curate,â said Merek softly, but with evident malice.
âHow do I know youâre not some bandit, come to slit our throats? They're all about these days?â asked the young man.
âWho is at the gate?â shouted a voice from within.
The penury turned and replied, âA man claiming to be the Ground Steward.â
There was a moment of silence. Suddenly a staff of ash or beech crossed the penuryâs face, and a knobbed top handle landed hard on his shoulder, accompanied by an angry shout, âThat is the Ground Steward, you sarde, open the gate for him.â
The sound of grunting could be heard as the penury lifted the heavy wooden drawbar that kept the gate closed. He pulled the doors inwards, squinting as a gust of wind followed. Standing just outside the arc of the doors was a man, not as tall as Merek but tall, dressed in black robes and a white cowl, the standard dress of a Curate of the Order of the Haoman. He wore a purple sash, indicating he had been in the order for ten years or more.
His face was wrinkled from a lifetime spent in the wind and sun. Merek suspected that not all the wrinkles were from wind alone. Many a Haoman took to the drink more than they should. And by the looks of this one, he thought, other things were shriveling him up from the inside out.
The man's hair was receding, and though it was still dark as midnight, the sides were flecked with grey. The eyes were quick and cunning. He would see more than he let on, and they would not betray his thoughts. The curate leaned on the staff he had struck the penury with the wind flowing his robes around him. The lad stood next to his master, rubbing his shoulder and averting his eyes from the Ground Steward.
âGround Steward, welcome. I am Curate Barda,â said the man, speaking loudly over the wind. âLet us get you and the horses out of the cursed Latya.â
Merek noted that both men stole a glance at the seax hanging in a sheath off the front of his belt. The seax was a long, single-bladed knife that was the preferred secondary weapon of most soldiers and a tool and primary weapon for most others. He figured that neither man had ever held a blade or been in a physical fight in their lives.
The penury stepped forward and took the reins from the Ground Steward as the curate waved his arm to welcome him in. Merek pulled his pack from the cart and followed Barda, who had turned on his heel and was heading towards the southern tower. The curate turned and looked over his shoulder to ensure Merek followed him. The penury led the horses to the barn.
As they walked, he turned again and, shouting to be heard, asked, âWe were not told of the change in Ground Steward until recently. What happened to Master Reikke?â
Merek purposely stopped. The curate sensed it and stopped as well, turning, leaning on his staff in the howling wind. Merek met his gaze. He stood there silently for a moment. Barda could not read his body language. Merek said simply, âHe died.â
Barda tried to temper his reaction, but the involuntary swallow, the quick blink of the eyes, told Merek all he needed to know.
âLet us get out of this wind, shall we,â said Barda, spinning quickly and striding towards the door to his quarters.
Merek surveyed the orphanage as he walked through the courtyard. There were three low stone buildings set against the far wall. The wind quickly blew away the smoke rising from their chimneys across the courtyard. Opposite the buildings was a barn with a dovecote attached. Next to it was a combined workshop and a small oba, which meant roundhouse in the old tongue, a building used for religious ceremonies. The nomadic tribes of the eastern plains still used the round structure for everyday living. The Anartes, the god-cursed people to the north still lived in similar dwellings, though they were no longer nomadic. Some people of Esztergom still retained this tradition for their religious ceremonies, but, as with burials in the dirt, the tradition was changing. In the cities, great stone temples, shaped like obas, were now built for the worship of the Vallas.
As he walked, two young boys scurried out of the barn, heading towards the low buildings. They stopped when they saw Merek and only moved again when the penury yelled at them.
The Ground Steward and curate entered the tower, and the noise of the wind that had plagued Merek during his travels was mercifully muted.
âIt is fortunate you arrived when you did, Master Merek. This windstorm will get worse as the night goes on.â
âThe Latya are late this year,â commented Merek, âhow did you know it was me outside the gate?â
âI received your dove this morning,â answered Barda.
âThe bird was sent out fifteen moons ago. How could it have only arrived today?â asked the Ground Steward.
âThe Latya, as you said, were late. They say the goddess Mara brings the winter wind, Lada the spring. When they do, it is told, the goddesses will fly between Esztergom and the Hurta pass, and the noise they make, imperceptible to us, can be heard by the beast of the field and wood. Perhaps it confuses animals, enough for a dove or pigeon to lose its way,â offered the curate.
âPerhaps,â agreed Merek, âwas the seal broken?â
âNo, the canister was intact,â answered Barda.
They stood in a vestibule, the walls and ceiling cut from oak. Thick beams with runes and carvings reached upward in support. The ceiling was barely higher than Merekâs head. Against one wall sat an old bench with hooks for hanging cloaks and coats attached in the wall above. A spiral stairway encased in stone led upwards. âYou may leave your cloak and pack here if youâd like,â offered Barda.
Merek shook his head. âThank you, but I will hold on to them. The cloak makes an excellent blanket, and the pack contains material for the Ban.â
âYour belongings are safe here in Malmok,â said Barda, holding his hands up in a customary sign of peace.
âYou misunderstood my meaning,â lied Merek, satisfied that Barda had clearly understood his meaning, âI am entrusted with the material in the pack by oath, and so it must remain within my sight or care.â
âYes, yes, of course. As the Ground Steward of Esztergom, the Banâs Purse, you would naturally be traveling with important documents, receipts, purchase ordersâŚ, and even court orders,â said Barda with a nervous titter.
Merek did not miss that. The manâs resolve was slowly breaking. He knew he was in some trouble. The Ground Steward smiled inwardly and let the man stew a bit in his own broth.
âWhere can I rest? The journey from Adony was long and hard,â asked Merek.
âAh, yes, forgive me, the road can be such a curse,â said Barda, âthe guest room is up the stairs. Follow me.â
âIâll make my way,â replied Merek.
âVery well, it is not much. We do not often get overnight guests at Malmok. Linens have been laid out for you. I shall send someone when the evening meal is ready. We shall dine in my chambers,â said Barda.
Merek nodded and headed up the spiral stairs. They ended at a closed oak door with a round iron handle. He pushed on the door. It opened on creaking hinges. Beyond was a small stone room with a wooden floor. An old bed, not large enough for his length, was arranged with fresh sheets, pillows, and a heavy wool blanket. A wooden chest sat at the end of the bed.
A brazier had been placed in the room, and a small fire was lit. A pile of wood was stacked nearby. The fire provided little warmth, but mercifully, the wood was dry and did not give off much smoke.
Merek set his pack down on the bed, pulled the wooden chest next to the brazier, and sat on it, warming his hands and gathering his thoughts. He grimaced and rubbed his hip. The old wound ached after any long outing. His cloak would be welcome this evening as the room would be cold, though better than the alternative, sleeping on the hard earth in some hollow with the wind howling about him. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, and he gave in. Walking to the bed and lying down, he pulled the cloak over himself and closed his eyes.
He woke with a start. Everything was dark, and he had a momentary panic, unsure of where he was. A soft tapping focused his mind, and he remembered he was in the guest room at the orphanage of Malmok. The sound came again, accompanied by a muffled voice, âMaster Merek, the evening supper is prepared.â
Merek sat up in the bed, and both he and it let out a groan. âYes, yes, Iâll be down in a bit,â he said through a yawn.
He stretched, rose, and reached into his pack and pulled a padlock from it. Opening the chest, he stuffed the pack into it and placed the lock on it. He jiggled it a few times, satisfied that it was secure, reassured himself that the key on the chain around his neck was still there, and made his way down to the vestibule.
The penury who had been at the gate was waiting for him. He opened the inner door and said, âCurate Barda and Prioress Gusselan are waiting inside.â
The prioress was of the same age as Barda, skin as wrinkled though darker. One eye was blind. It sat grey and lifeless in its socket as if someone had dimmed the light behind it. The other was a grey-green and stared at him intently. She was dressed in robes of black cloth with white trim. She sat with her hands crossed in front of her, the hands of someone used to manual labor.
The table was set with roasted chicken, a pile of cooked potatoes, carrots, and green beans. A bowl of hot broth pluming steam into the air, and a carafe of red wine beckoned to be emptied.
Barda rose from his seat and raised his hands in a sign of welcome, touching his chest and opening his palms towards Merek, âWelcome, Ground Steward. May I introduce Prioress Gusselan.â
âThe pleasure is mine, sister,â said Merek with a slight nod.
He sat opposite the prioress and suddenly realized how famished he was. Four days of dried meat and fruit was all he could bear. His mouth watered from the succulent smells wafting up off the table. As was the custom, he brought his own cutlery, a spoon made from cow horn, which he pulled from a pocket, and he drew his seax from its sheath. As was also custom, he served himself first as a guest under their roof.
Bowls and a ladle had been placed on the table. He poured himself a portion of the broth and, with his seax, cut off one of the chicken thighs. He took the carafe and filled a goblet with the wine. Out of politeness and the fact that his bowl was filled, he left the vegetables for the others to have first. The curate and prioress helped themselves. There were no formalities, and the diners focused on their food with little conversation.
When Merek had finished his broth and chicken thigh and was pouring his third goblet of wine, the curate cleared his throat and said, âYour note said you were going to Adony first. What news from there?â
Merek looked up from the goblet he had raised to his lips, put it down, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and simply said, âPlague.â
Gusselan gasped and said softly, âIsten protect us.â
Merek looked at her and asked, âWhat makes you think Isten did not send it?â
She narrowed her one good eye and replied, âThe people of Adony are devout. Isten would not do such a thing to his followers.â
Merek gulped his wine and shrugged, âThe gods are indifferent to us.â
Gusselan, who was zealous in her devotion to the Vallas, folded her hands, leaned forward against the table, and said, âSurely the grippe comes every year. Even a few of the boys in the orphanage have the wet cough as we speak. It is not a plague sent by Isten or any other god but a naturally occurring event.â
Merek picked some chicken gristle from his teeth and said softly, âIt is not the grippe. Thereâs no cough. It starts in the abdomen. People who survive go through a week or two of the shits with a fever, maybe cramps, and then are fine. The ones who get it worse, start as the same, then the pain worsens, as if a creature is gnawing its way out from your insides, the fever drenches them, and they see visions. In the end, their piss turns black. Thereâs nothing one can do. They give the worst ones large amounts of dwale to ease their pain. They call it the blackwater.â
âAnd the worse ones?â asked the curate.
âWhat do you mean?â asked Merek.
âWhat happens to them?â asked Barda.
âThey die,â answered Merek bluntly.
âAt what numbers?â asked Barda.
âBy my guess, four in ten,â answered Merek.
âAnd of those who get sick, how many become the worst case?â asked Gusselan.
âNo, you misunderstood. Four in ten who get sick die, all the worst cases die, and quickly, the strongest last five, maybe six nights,â answered Merek.
âThose poor people, I will light some birch leaves and lambswool to beseech Mara to alleviate their suffering,â said Gusselan.
Merek hesitated. He was no priest. He had no love for the gods. As he remembered the dead, so many, no longer stacked, just left in piles, waiting to be placed into the flames, he said, âHave a thought for the pyre seers, so many have died, the funeral fires burn day and night, and the dead lie about in wait. Your brethren there must perform the passing ceremony for dozens at one time. A great kurgan has been dug, and the ashes are interred there. The blackwater takes old and young, rich and poor at will. The only privilege in Adony is life itself.â
The table was silent. Merek broke it, âI noticed a graveyard off the upward path, and I saw no pyre altar in the yard, no kurgan. Are you not Haoman?â
âWe are, but the old ways are changing. Your soul goes on for judgment, whether encased in the ground or released through fire.â
âThere are some who would disagree with that, the Beadle of Esztergom would be one.â
âYes, yes, the debate rages strongly on this point. Beadle Obus believes in the old ways, but this new thought comes from the temple at Bokord, by the sea. Many see it as the correct way to honor the dead now.â
Merek drank some more wine and mused on this, then he spoke philosophically, which was unlike him. Perhaps he needed to clear his head of the sights and sounds he had witnessed, perhaps it was the wine.
âA plague takes all the petty joys of our lives and dulls them, distant memories we wonder if we will ever have again. It takes the everyday, mundane routines of our lives and makes them dangerous, greeting a neighbor, a chance encounter in the market, one never knows who is sick. It is said to touch one with the illness is to get the illness yourself. Death hangs like a weight around the city and will not be lifted until the kurgan is closed and the roots of the new grass on top intertwine with those who lay beneath.
These are dark times in Adony, and they will get worse. Life has become cheap, crime is rampant, and many will die not just from the plague but of what the plague has done,â he said matter-of-factly.
He was an old soldier and had seen death in all its forms. It did not deter him, and he always felt speaking truth was best.
âWhat is to be done to protect the rest of the Banate from this evil?â asked Barda with concern.
âI have ordered the city placed in quarantine, no one enters or leaves,â answered Merek.
âSo many will die,â said Barda softly.
âYes,â said Merek, âI am not indifferent to their suffering, but doing nothing would condemn the entire Banate. It is as when a wound turns to rot. Sometimes to save the person, you cut a limb off. It is Adonyâs misfortune to be that limb.â
âDo you have the authority to do that?â asked the prioress.
âIt is murky, by law, only the Ban can quarantine a city, but since I speak for the Ban in matters of commerce, I am given wide leeway to make decisions in the Banâs name,â explained Merek.
âHow will it be enforced?â asked the curate.
âI sent doves from Adony to the ten nearby manors. They are each required to send at least two fournies and to let no one enter or leave on pain of death,â said Merek.
âAnd food?â asked Gusselan.
âWe will provide. Orders have been made for wheat and barley from as far as Erdine,â answered Merek.
âThese are dark times,â said Barda.
âIndeed, they are for all, which brings me to the reason for my visit,â said Merek, pouring himself another goblet of the wine, âReikke, my predecessor, is dead. Executed by order of the Ban. It would seem he amassed a personal fortune off of coin the Ban intended for other purchases. All the woodrunners save one were also executed as they assisted him. Iâve come to take four boys from here back to Esztergom to replace them.â
Barda and Gusselan exchanged glances. Barda looked as if he wanted to say something, his mouth opened but then quickly shut, and he turned away, gazing at the floor.
He had wondered. For twelve moons, he had waited, no doves, no messages. A part of him had hopedâhoped that Reikkeâs absence was some bureaucratic blunder, that the silence meant nothing, that perhapsâŚperhaps fortune had smiled upon him. But fortune never smiled on him, did it? Merek had come, and the way he said "Executed by order of the Ban" left no room for misinterpretation.
Gusselan recovered and said, âWe are here to help, Ground Steward.â
Barda nodded in agreement.
âI would expect nothing less,â said Merek, pouring himself another goblet of the wine, âfor you have been implicated as well.â
Barda swallowed and said with fear in his voice, âGround Steward, there was nothing we could do, Reikke forced us to be involved in his schemes.â
âStop your protest. He kept a ledger. Your role in all this is well known to all, including the Ban. I would also say, by the condition of this sty, that the money the Ban has been sending for upkeep and repair has found its way more often into a chest buried somewhere about these premises and not into local trade folk,â said Merek dryly.
âHow dare you,â said Gusselan.
âHow dare I what, Prioress, accuse you of that which is already proven, that you two are simple thieves hiding behind the facade of your religious order, that you steal the charity of the Ban, meant to benefit youth who have nothing. I am the Ground Steward of Esztergom. Know your place and watch your tongue, or I will have you dragged to the keep and have a visit with the Inquisitor,â spat Merek.
âForgive her, Ground Steward,â said Barda softly, âwe are at your mercy.â
âYou are lucky you are not, for there would be none. Reikke gave you up. His ledger confirmed your guilt. If it was left to me, your head would rest on a pike on the castle walls next to his,â said Merek with controlled anger.
âBut I would take your meaning to be that we will not be executed,â said Barda with some hope.
âI thought there would be a benefit to your deaths. A public execution is always good for dissuading others from stealing from the Ban. The Ban felt executing you would displease the gods, so you live, under my domain.
You will now send me monthly reports, expenses, who did the work, when, items purchased, a full accounting. It would go a long way to making your lives easier if the missing fundsâŚappeared,â said Merek as he rose from the table. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and added, âI need four boys of eleven to thirteen seasons. It is hard work. Any younger and they would not be able to do it. Any older and I am here in a season or two replacing them as they go off to apprentice or become squires.â
Barda and Gusselan rose with him, âWe are thankful for the Banâs mercy,â said the curate, âbut the coin, we do not have it.â
âWhere did it go?â asked Merek with a bemused look, as he expected a great fable to be told.
âFor protection from bandits, theyâve threatened us, said they would burn the orphanage down, sell the boys on the southern border into slavery, or worse,â pleaded Barda.
âBandits?â said Merek with sarcasm.
âIt is true, Ground Steward. They send a man each moon cycle to collect,â said Gusselan excitedly. The Curate speaks truth.â
âWhat man?â asked Merek, âFrom where?â
âI do not know,â said Barda reluctantly, trying to warn Gusselan with his eyes.
She wrung her hands, looking past Merek, towards the vestibule, and then she looked intently at him with her one good eye, âHe goes by the name of Ferenc.â
Bardaâs face went white.
Merek nodded and said, âThank you for the meal.â He turned and walked out without another word. When he entered the vestibule, the penury was waiting, seated on the bench. Merek looked at the novice and nodded, then carried his weary and slightly drunk body up the stairs. The penury entered the curateâs chambers and began to clear the table. Barda looked at him and asked, âWell, Mirko?â
âHe placed his pack in the chest,â said the penury.
âAnd?â
âHe locked it. He brought his own lock,â said the boy apologetically.
Barda sighed in disgust and turned to Gusselan, âAnd what were you thinking, âThey send a man each moon cycle.â
âWe told the truth,â said Gusselan.
âWe told a half lie,â corrected Barda, âand a man like that,â he nodded up at the ceiling, âa half lie is as good as a full one and enough excuse to take our heads.â
âWe had to make him believe us,â retorted Gusselan.
âNo, we did not,â said Barda in exasperation, âWe needed to plant a seed. Bandits were enough. They roam the Adony plains or maybe live deep in the Coza, or perhaps they are Sur on a raid. But now, a man comes and collects every month. Now, there is something to look into, isnât there?â
âBut thereâs a story that he can believe now,â said Gusselan with less confidence.
Barda let out a long sigh, âWe were in Reikkeâs ledger. Merek knows our guilt. Do you think he will believe we simply turned over every piece of coin to some bandits?â
âBut he has a name, someone to search for, to keep him preoccupied,â said the penury.
Barda glared at him, âEavesdrop on me again, lad, and I will stuff you in a grave next to those orphan rats at the bottom of the hill. Yes, he has a name, one that will not even last a cursory search. Even if there is someone named Ferenc in Adony or Esztergom, it would be obvious he is not one to run with bandits and thieves. And Merek will keep digging, for he has a man to find now.â
They stood silently for a bit, then Gusselan asked, âWhat are we to do then?â
âWe could run!â said the penury.
âAnd how far would we get, an old man, a one-eyed old woman, and the village jester? Could you fight off a man-at-arms? Could we survive out on the plains in winter? No, we stay, we behave. Iâll tell Merek you meant Falusci. Reikke always spoke of him as a rake and cutthroat. It will be more plausible,â said Barda.
âLeave now. Heâll have us up and about in the morn so he can pluck four sots from this place,â scowled Barda.
In the guest chamber, Merek looked at the chest. The lock had been moved, as he suspected. There really was nothing of value in the pack. It was just a test to see how desperate the curate was. He would store this information in his back pocket for further use. Placing the seax near the head of the bed for easy access, he pulled his cloak over himself and drifted off into sleep, dreaming of being a warrior again, in burnished armor and with comrades who were different but alike to him. They were chasing something in the darkness, something he loved and something he was concerned about.
The dream changed. He was in Akurâs kitchen, eating at his customary table and drinking his hidden ales. Outside, a storm raged, and people lamented, but the food and drink were too good to rise up and see what the commotion was about. Then he went into the dreamless sleep of a tired warrior.
In a world where gods coexist with humans, they draw their power from worship and sacrifice, inspired by either love or fear. The gods are portrayed as far more powerful than humans, but still beholden to their own hierarchy and the magical rules of other supernatural creatures, like Biro, who judges all souls that are struck down and enter his realm, or the enigmatic Black Wolf who seems to observe everyone from the shadows. Driven by their own need to maintain their power and divinity (and often feed their ego), the gods interfere with human affairs when it suits them. Their boons or punishments can bless or curse a human tribe or nation for generations, if not millennia. Sleeping with a god can infuse a human with power, creating powerful witches. The most powerful of them all is Sabine, the thrice-infused White Queen, who rose against the gods to free people from having to suffer their whims. Defeated and left for dead, she is back to bide her time and gather her allies to try to destroy the gods again - but this time she has a secret plan.
In the aftermath of the war between the gods and the White Queen, human and godly affairs continue as before: crime and political intrigue are ripe in the rich and powerful Esztergom, where the Ban rules, confident that no one would dare attack her fortress. The gods-cursed Anartes are paying the price for siding against the gods, forced to avoid sunlight and seek the cold and the dark. The gods-blessed Tuden are granted long lives, strength, wisdom and glory. The power to challenge the status quo seems to lie in a simple boy, unaware of his powers and unusual heritage. His very existence is a threat to the gods, and he becomes the center of attention of whoever learns of his existence.
The fantasy world in Esztergom is inspired by diverse influences, notably Central and Southeastern European history, which already sets it apart within the fantasy genre. Using real-life place names, historical concepts and titles fictitiously grounds the story enough to show it's a medieval fantasy, but they come with unique twists that make the story unique, such as having a female Ban. It is particularly interesting to see gods inspired by the Slavic pantheon come alive, ranging from better-known ones like Perun and Veles to more obscure ones like Lada and Dodola. The gods seem just like humans in their petty squabbles, jealousy, and readiness to take offence if a mortal looks at them the wrong way, or the offering isn't made to their satisfaction. Showing that neither the gods nor the most powerful humans are all-powerful, but instead have to make choices that will grant them or lose them power moves the tale to a more authentic, existentialist realm.
Some really interesting characters include the demon Tannin, summoned from the Netherworld to aid Sabine's cause due to the secret bond he shares with her; Merek, the Ground Steward of Esztergom with his sense of justice and kindness under the gruff exterior; Jotus and Laria, the Huntsman and his wife, who are othered and feared while being some of the nicest characters ever, and Theodora, the Ban's Logothete, whose scenes where she puts everyone in their place while cursing their ears off are hilarious.
The storytelling is immersive, taking the time to introduce each group and their culture and customs, as well as their place on the chessboard. As the various players try to protect their interests and outsmart each other, there are action scenes, fighting, flashbacks that tell a character's backstory, magic, character development, as well as a lot of funny banter. It's all skillfully woven into a riveting tapestry of human nature that seems to bring a long-forgotten world of old gods and ancient, half-understood powers back to life.