The Gates of Morbach

Chains and ropes creaked on the other side of the great gate. Beyond, Grade could hear the sounds of life and livestock, mingling with the rain. He could hear the squawk of poultry, and the sound of children laughing and splashing through puddles.

They were watched from two small towers, on either side of the gate, by a handful of guardsmen. Grade supposed they were guardsmen, but beneath their broad hoods and weather-worn surcoats, they could just as easily be guardswomen.

"Do you ever get used to it?" the boy asked.

Grade raised his gaze to meet that of the nearest guard. The man's hands were wrapped tight around a spear, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm. The guardsman held his gaze for a moment, before shifting his weight to spit over the edge of the watchtower. An excuse to avert to his eyes.

"No, I don't suppose you do. But you learn to embrace it. Those stares are the only real protection we have."

Loud curses and grunts sounded from the tower to their left, and with a shudder, the gate began to draw apart.

"Faster," the boy called out. "You've made us wait long enough."

The gap slowly widened, revealing the main concourse through Morbach, a crude footpath of wooden boards and churned mud, pockmarked by deep puddles. A stout man, with a shaved head and a jet black beard, stood waiting for them. The boy went to take a step forward, but Grade blocked his path with his staff.

"We wait," he said.

After a moment the man walked out to meet them. He stopped far short of Grade and the boy, meeting the eyes of each in turn."

That gate sounds like a real struggle to manoeuvre," Grade offered. "We could assist with that, perhaps."

"It's no real bother." The man paused as if waiting for Grade to explain his arrival. With no conversation forthcoming, the man continued. "We weren't expecting you so soon. It's barely a score of days since you was last here—meaning no disrespect, of course. Only, things are passing fine here, and we'd assumed you'd have other settlements to visit, place more in need—"

"Barley," Grade replied. He turned and gestured to the sledge that sat some way behind them. It was piled high with the crop, secured in place by plastic sheeting and attended to by two sledgerunners, a girl and a boy. They lingered on the periphery of the path, sheltering from the pelting rain beneath the broad leaves of an elm. "A shipment for you."

"Oh," the man replied, clearly disarmed by the news. "That's mighty kind of you, mighty kind indeed. Only, we're near full to stock already, and still owe you for the last shipment—"

"Indeed?" Grade interrupted. "By our calculations, you should have exhausted at least half your stock, more if you'd kept to the plans we made upon our last visit. Production was to be increased, correct?"

"Oh, aye, of course, of course. My instructions were clear, clear as day. We must have fallen behind somehow. I'll have to check with the distillers, see what went awry, calculate production..." Benero trailed off.

The boy at Grade's side, silent through the exchange, now chimed in. "Show us to these distillers." His tone was imperious, chiding even. The blow to Benero's ego was immediate, and his response predictable. Cowed by Grade, he attempted to assert his dominance over the boy. Pathetic.

"You snivelling little pup," Benero bellowed, advancing upon the boy. "I'll tan your hide for that." He drew to within reach of the boy. Despite the man's intimidating size, the boy didn't move a muscle. If anything, the expression on his face grew more impatient, more arrogant. Grade was well impressed. Benero squared up to the boy, but the lack of response had quenched his anger. He hesitated a moment before pointing past the boy, to the sledge at the crest of the hill. "Make yourself useful and help those two bring the crop in."

Grade placed his free hand upon Benero's shoulder. The man's eyes grew wide.

"The boy is a member of the Order, and to be afforded the same respect you would afford me. So I must ask: am I to pull that sledge through the rank filth of your homestead? Would you have me labour in the mud like a common sow?"

His eyes wide, Benero withdrew hurriedly, near panicked by Grade's words. "No, no, of course not. No disrespect intended to you. " He addressed the boy directly then. "To either of you. Please, come through, and I'll find the distillers. I'll find them now." He whistled, signalling for the sledgerunners to haul the barley into the compound. As Grade and the boy advanced through the gatehouse, the guards took up positions to either side, ready to haul upon the thick chains that drew the wooden palisade to a close.

Pathetic indeed. The boy had handled himself well though. Barring any slips during the rest of their visit, he'd see him commended him upon their return.

They stood aside to allow the passage of the sledge of barley, destined for the storehouse on the far side of the settlement. The contraption went sliding past, heralded by the familiar sound of Morbach's gates thudding to a close behind them, and he was once again here, this backwards little pigsty nestled in the flooded lowlands and tangled forests of the Southern reaches. Days away from home, on yet another assignment, and all because of the impudence and obstinacy of the stubborn bastards that lived here. An image of home then, flashing unbidden into his mind—the great lake, the winding mountain path, the shrines dotted along its length. Rainswept, of course, but possessing its own kind of sparse beauty. He could breathe upon that mountainside. Here, hemmed in upon every side, he could not.

He recognised the bitter taste of his thoughts, but instead of dismantling those emotions, he chose to inhabit them fully. He did, after all, have a role to play here. Frustration and resentment suited his purpose well.

The boy kept pace perfectly as they walked through the settlement, Benero intentionally pulling far ahead to avoid further conversation. It was no matter—both knew the route to the distillery well enough. The sounds of life they had heard from the other side of the settlement's walls were conspicuous through their absence, as though the denizens of Morbach had withdrawn into their squat little hovels, left their livestock unattended and their chores unfinished, all to avoid the holy gaze of the Priests.

It was well. It seemed the settlement at large still held the Order in some regard. He might not need to bring the full weight of his judgement to bear on this troublesome little place.

"How am I doing?" the boy asked. Grade looked to the balconies and gardens that bordered the wooden causeway through the town. There was nobody within earshot."I'm impressed," he replied, "at your ability to throw away such fine work with an outburst as truly brainless as that." The boy's shoulders slumped at Grade's response, but he kept otherwise composed. He was improving, it seemed. "We're close. Do you know your business?"

"Yes," the boy responded, an expression of resolve stealing over his features. His hand went to his breast pocket fleetingly.

"Very well. Prove it."

The two rounded a corner just behind Benero, leaving behind the ramshackle huts and cabins that lined the main concourse and joining a dirt track, only partially boarded. Here, fewer trees had been felled, and a tangle of thickets and leaves sheltered them from the worst of the rain. The only reprieve afforded by these foul forests, Grade thought.

The justification for leaving behind the populated part of Morbach soon became apparent, as Benero waited for them at the entrance to the distillery, with two brow-beaten distillers at his side. On cue, the boy slipped free from Grade and disappeared into the trees surrounding the cabin. Benero watched the boy depart, but wisely, said nothing in response.

"These are the two you'll want to be questioning, about production." Benero slapped the nearest figure on the back, harder than was necessary, so that she was forced to take a step forward. She was remarkably short, barely taller than the boy, but her stature belied the age apparent from her face. Twenty-five, thirty perhaps. Her hair was the colour of straw, and indeed, likely a similar consistency. She spoke, and her words came out stilted, and, to Grade's ear, rehearsed. It seemed Benero had made the most of the brief moments he'd had before Grade and the boy had arrived at the distillery.

"Master Priest, we're sorry for the delay in the production schedule. A miscommunication—" she hesitated "—our fault entirely, not Benero's. I thought we were to increase production from the next delivery."

The man beside her joined in. "And I thought the same. That we was to focus on improving the strength of the spirit with this batch, as that's something you also asked of us."

"Aye, 'make it stronger than before,' that was something you said to us, and we listened to that, listened well we did."

"Only we might've listened too well, and focused too much on the first part of your orders—"

"The strength."

"—and not enough on the second."

"The quantity."

"I see," Grade responded. He was, in his mind, doling out lengths of rope for these two witless fools to hang themselves by. He waited for them to continue, revelling in the awkwardness of the encounter.

"And we can assure you," the man continued, his dirty blond beard marking him as likely kin to the woman at his side, "that no further delays in production are anticipated. We'll increase production from tomorrow—"

"From today," Benero interrupted.

"Aye, from today. With the new shipment."

Grade took a step forward, passing between the two distillers and into the distillery. He used the term begrudgingly—it was a pale imitation of the Priests' distillery, a beautiful arrangement of steel and glass, beakers and bottles and burners, each more elaborate and mysterious than the last, the finest relics of the Elders. The copper still ensconced here, in this rundown cabin of ill-fitting wooden planks, was barely functional in comparison, a hand-me-down suited only for dismantling and salvage. Still, he could see the beauty of the Order's decision to deliver it to Morbach. To addle the minds of these simpletons.

"Satisfactory—" he said. The two distillers became visibly relieved at his words, though Benero seemed hesitant to let his guard down. "—bar one issue." Grade raised a cloaked hand then, pointing to the path where he'd stood moments before.

The boy had returned. In his hands, he held a bundle of freshly picked barley. He held them a moment before letting the stalks drop to the floor, returning to Grade's side beside the blurred patina of the copper still. Seen only by Grade, the boy slipped a small hand into the mouth of the boiler.

Grade watched the expressions on the three figures before him as realisation dawned upon them. Something approaching terror lit upon the faces of the distillers, while Benero seemed to steel himself. One to watch, Grade thought to himself. Perhaps one to bring into the fold. That, or remove entirely.

The woman was the first to respond, her tongue all but tripping over the words that poured from her mouth. "It grows so easily! It wasn't intentional, I swear it, they were just discarded husks, seeds that had developed mildew. We threw them out, onto the refuse pile behind the cabin, and they grew!"

The second distiller joined in the protestation. "We figured we was doing you a favour. If it grows so easily, why would you need to lug those sledges all this way? It can't be easy, making the journey by barge, bringing it all the way out here. We wanted to save you the effort. So we tried growing it, just a little patch. And it really does take so well, it grows like nothing we've known.”

Grade turned to Benero, expecting similar excuses. Instead, he surprised Grade. His response was curt and ruthless.

"I knew nothing of their actions. I accept your judgement upon them."

Cowardice, self-preservation and unrelenting arrogance. A worrying combination in a man such as Benero. At the least, the planned sequence of events was unfolding as intended. "You presume my order requires help. You presume too much. Are we not kind to you? Are we not generous?" Grade asked. "It gives me pause for thought. Indeed, it gives the Order pause—that you should feel the need to betray our trust in such a manner, when we have done nothing but aid your people." He paused a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Tell me then—are you truly so keen to fend for yourselves? Are our gifts so unwanted that we should rescind our charity? Dismantle the water pumps that keep your houses from flooding? Destroy the fertilisers that keep your crops growing and your stomach’s fed? Reclaim the tools that allow you to harvest the bountied afforded by this woodland, and keep your hearths warm? That is to say nothing of the gifts we had yet to share with you—"

The two distillers clamoured to respond before Grade held a hand to silence them. Benero's willingness to turn his back upon the pair, likely brother and sister, had planted a seed of pity in his heart. He decided not to toy with them any further.

"Enough."

The boy spoke then. "It is not for us to pass judgement. They have only the Spirit to appease."

Grade placed a gentle hand upon the green hood that covered the boy's head. "Well spoken. We Priests are merely servants of the Green God. Redemption is not ours to offer." He stood, thoughtful. "A most fitting recompense comes to me. You must appease the spirit. That is to say, you will run this still, and the alcohol it creates shall determine the manner of your judgement."

Grade had confused the distillers. He elaborated. "That is to say: fire the still. Fire it now. We will wait for you in the main hall. You shall taste the fruits of these ill-gotten crops and the manner of your restitution will become apparent." He saw understanding in their eyes. "Now."

The boy led Grade from the cabin and down the path. As they walked away, eyes focused firmly ahead, Grade could hear the sound of the generator starting, the ignition firing on the still. It frustrated him still, to see these relics of the ancients, battered and beaten though they were, bestowed upon an entirely undeserving people. There was goodness within them, he knew, but with every visit he made, every tale of treachery and mistrust and selfishness that prompted the Order to send him back, that goodness seemed buried deeper and deeper. The smell of mash filled the air then, pungent and floral, and a flicker of curiosity appeared within Grade. Like the rest of his Order, he had never tasted spirit. The finished product smelled foul, yet to see the people of Morbach under its influence—the growing numbers of ruddy cheeks and red noses, the strange, stumbling gait, the loss of inhibition and decorum—one would think there was little else worth living for.

A sound beside him then as Benero fell into step with the two Priests, and that sense of pity for the two blond-haired scapegoats reappeared. His judgement felt tinged with unfairness, that the two distillers would be punished while Benero escaped blame. But then, judgement is never deemed fair by those receiving it.

They soon arrived at the main hall, sending the few servants and guards that staffed the building scuttling away at the first sight of the Priests. Grade strode into the cavernous building and took a seat upon the central dais, with the boy taking a spot at his right-hand side. Benero drew a chair at the table across from them.

Grade sat in silence, awaiting the inevitable, counting down the moments in his mind and reciting a simple prayer as he did. Benero called over one of the servants and sent him to fetch a drink, seemingly immune from the events that were unfolding because of his decision to defy the Priests. He stared contentedly into middle-distance as he waited for a flagon of beer to appear, avoiding the Priest's gaze.

The information Grade had received from his informant had mirrored the distillers’ tale, an accident of happenstance, discarded barley taking seed, no real malicious intent. But watching Benero now, he felt a growing sense of suspicion. The man was, it seemed, quietly in charge of this place. Had he instigated the illicit crop growing? And if so—what other betrayals of the Order had gone as yet undetected?

At the least, there was impudence within him, a deep-seated arrogance that made Grade want to stand up and bludgeon him with his chair. Every detail of the man aggravated him, from the thickness of his sinewy forearms to the stubble that crept above his beard. Benero was the man in charge of Morbach, it was plain to see—but he sheltered himself so readily behind the people he should be protecting.

No, not any kind of man to welcome into the fold.

He should have protected the distillers, not sacrificed them. He should be standing in the distillery now, instead of sheltering here, too coy for confrontation. He should be about to die—not those two witless fools.

A flicker of guilt then, and a decision made. "Quickly," Grade said to the boy. "Fetch the distillers. Go now."

To his credit, the boy didn't hesitate. He simply pushed his chair from the table and sprinted towards the entrance of the hall. Benero started, alarmed at the sudden change, but made no other movement. His silence grated upon Grade.

Long, drawn-out moments passed until the boy reappeared at the doorway, the two wide-eyed distillers at his heels. Relieved, Grade raised from his chair and bellowed into the hall. "Benero—stand with your kin." The man did as he was bid, levering himself upright, slowly, before joining the delegation at the entrance. Grade stepped down from the dais and approached. He stopped, an arms-length away, and stared into Benero's dark eyes. Stared and waited.

A thunderous noise then. A shock wave that battered the building. Billowing plumes of dust shaken loose, and behind the three residents of Morbach and the young postulant, silhouetting them, a gusting jet of lurid green fire, spitting into the sky. Everyone bar Grade and the boy spun to find the source of the cataclysm, and it soon became apparent. Even through the trees, it was obvious that the distillery was ablaze.

Grade turned to the two distillers and spoke. "The Spirit is appeased." At the sound of his voice, Benero turned to face Grade, shock writ across his heavy features. Grade drew close. "But we're yet to see what he makes of you."

Grade and the boy strode forward without a further word. As they approached the entrance of the hall the sound of rain grew louder and louder, and they saw a lone guardsman, standing at the entrance, seemingly frozen in place. His eyes bulged wide as Grade and the boy approached and seemed to grow wider still as they walked past him, into the sodden evening.

An unconscious flicker of the boy's hand then, towards his breast pocket and the small clay-wrapped munitions it contained. He looked around to make sure there was nobody within earshot. "I didn't even use half of it." A smile crept over his face.

Good, Grade thought to himself. We'll make a Priest of you yet.