Chapter 49: Part One - Chapter Forty-Nine - Hott

Hott

9th Day of Autumn

775 Karloman’s Peace

He shook the little coin chest, only a quarter full, and sighed. At the start of the year, the box had overflowed with coins, but now, as Hott looked down at its contents, he knew there was barely enough to see him through the winter.

His melancholic thoughts were disturbed by the sounds of some commotion beyond the walls of his shop—another brawl, he suspected. With the trouble in the countryside effecting food supplies, it was no surprise. Hungry men were violent men.

He closed the wooden lid of the chest, locked it with its small key, and tucked it behind his shop's counter on a low shelf. As he rose, his knees creaked, his back ached, and he wondered if his years of hard work would be for nothing after all. It had taken over a decade for him to establish himself as a top-rate merchant, rising from a lowly market stall in the backstreets to the grandeur of his shop situated along the City of Werth’s promenade.

He took solace in the memory that the riots of 767 had almost dashed his dreams once before, but he had overcome them. Nay, he had turned that tragedy to his advantage as one of the few who had come out of the situation with more than he had before. If he survived those dark days, surely, he could survive this rebellion.

He turned to examine his storefront and nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted a stranger lingering in the far corner. “By the gods!” Hott exclaimed, placing one hand over his racing heart. “Good sir, I do apologise; I did not hear you come in.”

“No apologies necessary,” the robed and hooded figure replied in a dry, dispassionate tone. Something about the man’s voice made Hott uncomfortable, and he approached the stranger with trepidation, one slow step after the other, as he tried to make him out in the dim light of the shop. Normally, at this time of day, the shop’s front shutters would be open, and the storefront bathed in light, but with the troubles in the city these days, Hott had taken to keeping the shutters closed and boarded up. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all.

As Hott approached, he recognised the man’s attire. He was wearing a Hofamat, the most formal of the priestly robes. How strange, Hott thought to himself. “My apologies again, Teacher,” Hott said. “I could not make out your robes from way back there. I was unaware the city was expecting a new abbot; has something befallen good Abbot Rhiu?”

“The abbot is fine,” the man answered, his voice soft but still emotionless. “As far as I am aware,” he added after a moment's pause.

As Hott came to stand beside the man, he caught a subtle glimpse of the face beneath the hood. The priest was bearded, the salt-and-pepper bush almost flowing an entire foot down his chest. His hair was ragged and long, and his skin—what little wasn’t covered by the man’s mane—was cracked by the sun’s kiss. This priest looked more like a wild animal than a scholar. “Well, that is good to hear,” Hott replied to the savage, “Rhiu is a good customer. Or at least he was before all this started.”

The priest did not respond. In fact, the priest didn’t even acknowledge him, it was as if Hott wasn’t even there at all. Hott sucked his teeth and curled his toes in frustration. The priest was rude, barely paying him any heed despite being in his shop, and Hott began to wonder whether the man was truly a priest at all. Now that he was closer, he detected a musk—a distinctive mix of sweat and road dust—and he noted the fraying edges and dirt patches that marred the priest’s robes. Maybe some beggar had broken into the temple, stolen the robes, and was now here to rob his shop.

Hott shook his head. It was a foolish notion. Why would a beggar even bother? What use did beggars have with pottery? You can’t eat clay or porcelain. Hott had not seen this priest before. Clearly, the man had just reached the city and was tired from his travels. That was why he was discourteous, Hott concluded, and he decided he was, in fact, lucky that the man had chosen to stop in his shop on his way into the city. New customers were scarce these days, and he shouldn’t do himself out of a sale by insulting the man and questioning his legitimacy. Instead, Hott followed the priest’s gaze and looked at the vase he was so profoundly inspecting.

Hott licked his lips. “Do you like this piece?” he asked.

“It doesn’t belong,” the priest replied matter-of-factly. Something about the superiority in the priest's tone, the way he almost talked down to Hott, made Hott bristle. He inhaled deeply and clenched his fists before responding.

“How do you mean?” The priest cocked his head slightly toward Hott for the first time. Looks like I’ve finally aroused some interest in the priest, Hott thought.

“The rest of your wares,” the priest began, extending a hand to indicate the many other potteries displayed along the shop’s wall, “are of such fine quality. This piece is a pariah among them—so plain, so simple, so elegant.”

“Indeed,” Hott agreed, looking at the vase. It was old, made by a former, less exclusive artisan than most of his stock, one of the lesser suppliers he used to rely on before his fortunes improved. “It’s from a humbler time,” Hott explained, “from before I had the store. Most of my customers aren’t interested in its kind today, so it’s sat on that shelf for as long as I’ve been here. I don’t know why I keep it out. I suppose it’s become a mascot of sorts. It has a sentimental value to me, you might say.

Hott looked at the vase, and a small part of him missed the old days and the little dusty stall he started out on. That vase was all that remained to remind him of those days. Still, sentiment was no reason to pass up an opportunity for profit. “Of course, all that factors into the price, you understand?” The priest’s head cocked a little more toward Hott, and Hott could smell the opportunity for a sale. “Are you interested, Teacher?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” the priest replied. Playing hard to get, then, Hott thought.

“So, Teacher, if Abbot Rhiu is fine, what brings you to the city?” Hott wasn’t genuinely interested, but it was clear the priest intended to haggle. Over the years, he had learned that getting a customer talking was the easiest way to make a sale.

“I am here to tend to the souls of its inhabitants,” the priest replied.

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“A good thing, too,” Hott said with a smile, “the people need it, lest they fall for that rubbish the rebels are spouting. ‘The truth will set you free’ and all that trite. I’m glad you’re here, Teacher; the people need to learn not to be taken by such populist drivel.”

“Drivel, you say?” the priest replied. “Is that what the people of Werth think of the Truth of Heaven?”

“Yes,” Hott answered. “The smart ones, anyway. ‘The Truth of Heaven,’” Hott chuckled as he repeated one of the rebel mottos, “Can you believe the arrogance? Those vermin, thinking they’ve revealed some grand conspiracy simply because they spent a few days in the woods and up the mountains. It’s pure madness. Oh, and the trouble they’ve caused—harassing the towns and villages, attacking traders on the roads; I even hear a castle town or two has fallen to them. It’s been bad for business. No one buys home décor during times of strife, after all. I’ll be glad when the empire’s armies arrive to cast them out. I hear the Grand Commandant set off from the capital with forty thousand men at his back.” Hott paused when he realised, he was meant to get the priest talking, not the other way around. “It’s good you’re here, Teacher, to set the people straight and back on Karloman’s path. At least this will all soon be over; that’s what I say—just you wait and see, the empire’s armies will restore order, just as they did in 767.”

“You think forty thousand is enough?” the priest asked.

“More than,” Hott replied confidently. “The rebels are many, I know—tens of thousands, maybe even a hundred thousand, I hear—but they are bandits with no training, no equipment, and they’re trapped in the Hastfala forest. With nowhere to shelter and against the might of imperial steel, they’ll fall or flee.”

“They have the Angel,” the priest argued.

Hott scoffed. He’d heard the wild tales of the Red Angel in every tavern, inn, and teahouse he’d visited over the last decade. A load of nonsense, he thought, made up by rabble-rousers to make their cause seem grander than it is—just a desperate attempt to undermine their betters and steal the hard-earned wealth they’re too lazy and too stupid to earn for themselves.

“I must say,” Hott addressed the priest, “I’m disappointed to hear a priest like yourself, Teacher, give credence to such fanciful notions as the rebels’ supposed angel.”

“It’s hard to deny once you’ve set your eyes upon it,” the priest stated, his voice low and words seemingly drawn out. Hott noticed the priest’s hand shift as he began to stroke the spine of a great tome that rested in a sling hanging at his hip. What little Hott could see of the book glittered as if coated in gleaming gold. A chill ran up Hott’s spine, and his skin tightened against the flesh beneath his face. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmingly tired, as if the weight of his efforts had finally become too much to bear.

“I beg your pardon?” Hott asked, somewhat involuntarily. “You’ve seen the Angel?”

“I have,” the priest answered, “and so will you.”

Hott looked up from the book and saw that the priest had turned to face him, his face now fully revealed. The darkness in his eyes fixed Hott in place. His heart thundered in his chest, the pounding echoing in his ears. His eyes widened as he realised his instincts had been right all along.

“You’re no priest,” Hott declared. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me?” Ekkehard Reubke asked, and Hott’s eyes widened as he finally recognised the man before him.

“You,” Hott stuttered. “You can’t be here. Get out of my shop, now!” he demanded as he backed away. Ekkehard chuckled as he followed, seeming to grow taller and more imposing with each step. “I said get out!” Hott bellowed, but he knew it was pointless. Desperately, he thought of escape, but his path to the front door was blocked. The back door then, he thought and turned to run—only to find his way barred by another hooded man.

“Going somewhere?” Emich asked.

Hott’s throat seized, and his mind whirled as he realised he was trapped. He turned back to the approaching Ekkehard and threatened, “I’ll shout, I’ll scream. This is the promenade—someone will hear, someone will send for the guards.”

“There are no guards left to send for,” Emich sniggered. Hott’s eyes darted back and forth between Emich behind him and Ekkehard before him. He backed himself up against the wall shelf of his store, and he felt his legs tremble.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quaking with anxiety.

“The city has fallen,” Ekkehard stated calmly. “It is ours now.”

“Yours?” Hott questioned, and then it dawned on him. “You’re with the rebels, aren’t you?”

“I am the rebels,” Ekkehard declared.

“But how? Thousands defend the city—the walls wouldn’t fall so easily.”

“The people took the city for us,” Emich explained, “they threw open the gates, and we walked right in, tens of thousands of our followers. We took the city without a fight.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Hott asked, his voice trembling. “What are you going to do with me?”

“For the people of Werth,” Ekkehard clarified, “salvation. They shall be illuminated. They will learn the truth of heaven—that there is no heaven, no gods, no nothing, just this.” Ekkehard opened his arms as if to encompass the entire universe. “We have but one life, one birth, one death, and that is all. This knowledge, this truth, will free them from the slavery of faith and set them on a path of betterment. I will set the people of Werth free.”

Hott swallowed hard. “And me?” he asked, “will I be free too?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ekkehard replied.

Hott’s bottom lip trembled as he struggled to form his next words. “What have I done to you?”

Ekkehard’s expression darkened, his brow furrowing and his eyes narrowing with intent. “You know what you did, Hott,” Ekkehard stated. “It took me time to figure it out. I always wondered how Hanib learned my family was in the city. We were known, yes, but not so well that Hanib would have found out so quickly. Then I remembered your sudden good fortune on the day my wife was murdered. Your debts, suddenly paid. It was you, wasn’t it, Hott? You found out who I was, and you sold us to Hanib.”

“I…I…” Hott stammered, but no words came to his defence. It was true, and nothing he could say would convince Ekkehard otherwise. He bolted, managing to push past Emich and take just a few steps deeper into the house before another man emerged from the shadows, grabbing him—and then another and another. How had so many entered without him noticing, he wondered helplessly as they dragged him toward the front door and onto the street.

“So, for you, a different type of freedom,” Ekkehard continued as he followed. “For you, the truth will be revealed in another way. I’m going to show you the truth in the darkness. You will learn the hard way.”

Pulled from the safety of his shop, Hott laid eyes upon the horrific scenes taking place along Werth’s market promenade. Tens of thousands of Ekkehard’s followers—peasants of every kind—laboured to erect a monument to their savagery. Lining the road that ran through the promenade were thousands of wooden stakes, and all who resisted the new order were being slowly impaled upon them, alive. The sounds of death throes and agonised pleading droned throughout the city as if death itself had claimed it. The shock of the sight elicited a harrowing scream from Hott, but he was silenced when, at last, he saw it.

It was a monstrous thing. Devoid of humanity. Soulless and evil. Its form a mockery of man, but otherwise unrecognisable. The Red Angel, made of shadowy smoke and crimson purpose, came for him. It gripped him tightly in two great hands, lifted him from the ground, and held him aloft like a babe. He stared at its eyeless face as it carried him toward a wooden stake raised just for him.

In his final moments, Hott tried to pray but found his mind unable to form the words, as if the gods themselves had become deaf to him. He felt the pressure build, just at the point where his back met his pelvis, as his body resisted the end of the wooden stake. The Angel forced him down, and his meat parted—searing pain shooting through him as he was impaled. The Angel only pushed him down far enough to hold him fast but not enough to kill him.

His death was slow and agonising. Tens of thousands of Ekkehard’s followers passed him slowly on their journey toward the city’s central administrative sector. He pleaded with them as they went, but it was in vain. Eventually, when enough of his blood had trickled down the wood post and pooled upon the roadside, he went cold, and at last, the mercy of darkness came to take him.

Nothing was waiting for him on the other side.