The Last Whisper of the Gods Read Free

erode. Even one in your position will eventually feel the sting of life in an existence devoid of their care and guidance.”
    Sorial considered, wondering about a possible connection between the priest’s attitude and the warning Warburm had delivered earlier. Dangerous times?
    “I have no answers, my son. I am traveling the whole of the land, seeking solace - seeking evidence of some small group among us that still has favor with the gods. At every stop I have made, there's little to encourage. What grievous sin have we committed to cause the gods to look away?”
    The priest was on the verge of tears. There wasn’t much Sorial could offer in the way of comfort. He was experienced in caring for animals, not people. And in any theological discussion, he was out of his depth.
    “Is the innkeeper about at this time of the day?”
    “He’s in the common room. The fat man in the dirty clothes. You can’t miss him.”
    “It is considered a sin for one of my order to enter an establishment of vice such as this one. There was a time when I could never have imagined doing this. But we are beyond the normality of those golden years. In this new age of desperation, those such as I may have to do many things previously forbidden.”
    He left the mule with Sorial and went in search of Warburm.
    By mid-afternoon, the chilly rain had lessened, but it had done its damage, turning the hard-packed dirt roads and byways of Vantok into quagmires. From the stable doors, Sorial could see three stuck carriages. It was at this time the priest emerged from the inn, approaching the stable on unsteady legs. As he passed close by, the boy could smell the reek of strong spirits. That was unexpected; requirements of the priesthood included vows of chastity and sobriety. Yet considering the man’s earlier despair, perhaps Sorial should have expected it. Loss of faith was said to open the gateway to other sins.
    After the stableboy handed the reins to the priest, the man provided an unusual benediction on his way out: “Take care of yourself, my son. None other will.” Then he was gone, trudging through the mud on the way to his next destination, wherever that might be.
    With the approach of dusk, Sorial was relieved by The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s other regular stableboy. Just past his Maturity, Visnisk was three years older than Sorial, and he was here by choice, not because of indentureship. He lived in a small cottage with his parents and sisters and came to the inn when it was his turn to work: one hour past dusk until one hour before dawn, six days per week. He often boasted of how good his meager wages were - a claim repeated because he knew it irked Sorial. The two boys were on cordial terms but weren’t friends. Visnisk was a hard worker - when he felt like working - but he didn’t talk much. Upon his arrival, Sorial took the ladder up to the stall where he made his bed and, exhausted, fell immediately to sleep.
    He was awakened during the night by noises from one of the stalls. He crawled to the edge and, keeping to the shadows, peered over. The scene below was nothing new - it had been played out numerous times in the past. There was tall, gangly Visnisk, with his tousled red hair and bone-white skin, lying on his back on the damp straw-covered floor. His clothes were carelessly discarded. Some girl - Sorial had seen her a few times before - straddled his naked torso with her backside to the loft. Her long skirts hid their joining, but Sorial knew enough about what went on between men and women to paint an adequate mental picture. Visnisk’s face was twisted in an almost comical expression; his green eyes were screwed shut. He began grunting like a pig at a trough then, with an explosive exhalation of breath, pushed the girl off and reached for his breeches. A coin - Sorial couldn’t tell the denomination from his perch - changed hands. The girl adjusted her knickers under her skirts and vanished into the darkness outside. Sorial