Torin was running.

Prelude

Part I

Torin was running. The sleet cut down and through him. He stopped, briefly, to regain his bearings. But standing still only allowed the blizzard to build another coat of snow over is eyes and nose. He shook the flakes off like a wet dog and prayed the storm had not sent him in the wrong direction.

Torin’s horse had escaped less than an hour ago, but finding her would be difficult. Winter is the perfect season to follow a heavy animal like Epona, her hooves leaving deep marks in the packed snow. Unfortunately, this blizzard had blown away the tracks, or simply filled them in again. Torin was becoming desperate. He was about to call off his search and return home when he caught sight of a small church. He thought he could make out a stable to the side. Even if Epona was not there, he could at least take shelter for a few moments as the blizzard passed.

Suddenly, the winds picked up speed and Torin was blinded once more. Barely able to see five feet in front of him, he held his arm over his face to block the stinging flakes and frozen hail. Exhausted and grateful to be out of the storm, he wiped off the sleeves of his wool coat before knocking on the side door of the rectory. There was no answer. Torin experienced a moment of panic as he realized that there might be nobody inside. Unable to overcome his sense of decorum, he knocked softly a few more times, but there was still no reply. He tried the handle, and remarkably, the heavy wooden frame budged. He pushed a little harder and soon the entire door swung upon, revealing an empty room.

Candles lined the shelves and windowsill, and a smoldering hunk of birch wood still glowed in the fireplace. Forgoing his manners, Torin quickly shut the door and shuffled over to the warmth of the smoking embers. While enjoying the sensation of his fingers and toes returning, he began to look around the office he had stumbled into. It probably belonged to the local priest. A man Torin had never met, because his family was Jewish, but he had seen several times. Short and fat, his face reminded Torin of their neighbor’s prize hog, his cheeks bulging at the side like he had two hunks of bread stuck between them. Not unlikely, considering how much the clergy ate. Some appeared to lead rather humble lives, but far too many looked as though they ate enough to feed the entire village, Torin thought with disgust.

Despite his obvious gluttony, Torin heard he was a kind and sensitive man, someone who would not send a freezing boy back out into a storm, he hoped. Now that feeling had returned to his extremities, it was time to look for priest Piggy-face. It would be better if he wasn’t found, like a thief, hiding in the office. He would appear much more trustworthy if he were the one to inform the priest of his presence and not the other way around.

The door to the nave was already open, so he simply removed his coat, shook off the melting snow as best he could and went looking for the priest, or anyone else who might be taking refuge in the church. But once again, to Torin’s surprise, there was no one here. The aisles were empty, so Torin went up to front and looked behind the pulpit, no one. He sat down on the step up to the platform, thinking of where else he could look. Suddenly, Torin heard a deafening thud. He peered around the pulpit and saw the double doors at the back of the nave burst open. It was the priest, but he was stumbling forward at great haste, pressing his right hand against his portly belly and clutching each successive seat in the aisles as he made his way up the narrow nave, towards Torin. Torin was about to stand to go to him, when a man in a dark brown cloak and hood appeared below the arches. A large quiver of arrows were slung across his back and Torin could see the innumerable feathers sticking up behind his head. Before he could process what was going on, the hooded figure drew back his bow and fired a dart through the priest’s neck. He whirled around as it pieced his windpipe, spraying crimson blood across the wooden seats and floor. As if reaching for the man, the priest held out a trembling arm and clutched the air as he fell. Satisfied that the priest was dead or on a certain path, the archer turned on his heel and walked back out into the storm.

Part II

Torin was in shock. Crouched behind the lectern, he prayed the man in black had not seen him. And despite the fact that he had left, Torin still found himself unable to move a muscle. Finally willing his body from its tense and anxious state, he stood up and took a few cautious steeps into the central isle where the priest now lay. His name was Father Gregory, Torin recalled. Ironic and sad that he had only remembered it after the man had been murdered in front of his eyes. His pudgy body was lying on his back, his head turned towards the side. Blood that had already begun to pool around the bases of several pews and Torin was hesitant to approach much further than the first row. He could see the dart, protruding from either end of Father Gregory’s fat neck and decided that he could do without the trauma of looking into the lifeless eyes of a man who had just died a frightening and gruesome death.

Suddenly, Torin was acutely aware of the danger he was in. No doubt people would wonder why a Jew was standing in the middle of a church with a dead priest on the floor. He would be lucky to escape prison and ever luckier to escape a lengthy interrogation and questioning from the local magistrate. Torin needed to leave. But it seemed that fortune would not smile upon him during such a dark and tempestuous winter day, for right as the thought of flight passed through his mind, Torin heard the door to Father Gregory’s office open. Unsure that he could make it out the front before the person entered the chapel, Torin dove behind the lectern once again, and prayed that nothing as horrific would occur this time.