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CHAPTER ONE

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Joy to the world, The Saviour reigns!

-First verse of the anthem of New Foundation

-Arrangement by Marjorie Price, A.P.R. 16

From the vantage of the lucky few who stood in the sacred line at the crest of Cathedral Hill, the constantly-shifting succession of weary citizens behind and below them seemed like it might extend infinitely into the slowly darkening city of Prosperity. The singular column of desperate bodies spiraled downward

through the entrails of the capital’s streets as though it were a thing alive – an undulating serpent, jealous and eager to

strike at those who had breached the summit.

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In the lower echelons of the city, exhausted men, women and children stared enviously upward, impatiently nudging the folk in front of them while carefully keeping their own feet on the golden path of Salvation Way. As the commoners gazed wearily

toward the seat of The Saviour himself, the clash of fatigue and desire that hung on their faces

was palpable to those who stood triumphantly above.

Because the line never moved.

Ever.

Or at least it must have seemed so to those who had been standing and sitting and sleeping on the low streets for well over a

week. The nearby smells were rancid, with sweat and grime several layers thick despite the

occasional spring shower. Tortured bodies yearned for a warm bed or a cool, thick ale. Yet somehow the populace

withstood their wait despite their slowly fading hopes and constitutions because to their great communal relief, they all knew that this was the last day that they would have to endure the line. The sun was finally setting on The Feast of Simon’s Favor.

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Ten days ago, the pushing and shoving had been commonplace.

Blood still stained the streets of the city from both sanctioned and clandestine fights to secure one’s place in the holy line of supplicants. But today, few had the energy left for such activities. Lack of food and sleep and privacy had drained even the most hearty of souls.

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Only those few who had maintained their stamina throughout the ten days’ trial had

found their several ways to the front of the line in the center of the capital near the glimmering gates of The High Cathedral of Simon the Thrice Anointed. Only those opportunists who were willing to dare anything and risk everything. Paragons of strength. Courage. Treachery.

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Marv Haystacker considered himself a master of these and more.

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I got two hundred pounds, fifteen inches an’ ten years on this guy. Poor little squirrel, he ain’t even got a chance.

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Marv glanced idly at the reddish-brown substance beneath his fingernails. He rubbed his thick beard thoughtfully, then showed the backs of his hands to the

gasping man on the other side of the grass circle.

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“Y’know, I ain’t jest bein’ metaphorlogical when I says I got blood on m’ hands,” said Marv gruffly. “It don’t have t’ go like this, mate.”

The gasping man’s response was a sudden lunge towards Marv’s left leg. Marv didn’t even try to step out of the way; he simply extended his huge arm and grasped the man by the top of his balding head. A loud cheer erupted from around Marv, and he paused for a moment to flash

a toothy grin at the nearby spectators before driving the gasping man’s face into the dirt.

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“Y’hear th’ crowd?” Marv asked as he put one knee on his adversary’s back to keep him from rising. “They know yer done fer. Yer just embarassin’ yerself now,” he tsked.  As if to emphasize the point, Marv pushed hard on the back of his opponent’s head, grinding the man’s face into the grass.

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After a long moment, Marv released him and strutted over to the painted edge of the makeshift arena, basking in the adulation of those who could see his arena from their places in the holy line.

“So whaddya think?” he called to them. “Is this guy gonna give up?”

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“No!” shouted the crowd in unison, an element of laughter in their collective voices.

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Marv turned to find that the gasping man was rising to his feet slowly, his red face now streaked with brown and green. He was breathing even more heavily now, and the crowd cheered more and more loudly.

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“They right?” Marv asked, nodding towards the onlookers. “Ain’t no shame in keepin’ all yer limbs intact.”

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The gasping man looked past Marv for a moment, staring longingly at the front doors of the High Cathedral. He then looked back at Marv and his face hardened. Wiping the blood from his lips, he shook his head ‘no.’

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“It’s yer funeral,” said Marv with a sigh.

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With a speed that belied his seven-foot frame, Marv suddenly went on the offensive for the first time during the duel. The crowd hooted and screamed as the big man charged towards his battered mess of an opponent. A meaty paw snared the balding man by the front of his halfrobe, tossing him into the air. Marv then grabbed his adversary by the ankle and began to swing him around as though he weighed no more than a scarecrow.

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Time to make an example. If th’other folks in line see what happens t’ him, mebbe I won’t hafta fight no more before sundown.

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After whirling him around in a circle twice, Marv let his opponent go and the man flew out of the confines of the grass circle and into the street, skidding across the stones and crashing up against a wooden kiosk of salted meats and cheeses. The man lay there unmoving for only a moment before three white-robed clerics rushed to attend to him and the spectators erupted in cheers.

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“Chosen!” cried the nearby Ruby Blade, lifting Marv’s hand victoriously. “The Saviour has smiled on yet another sinner.”

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“Naturally,” said Marv, letting out a long howl to celebrate his victory.

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It was then he realized that the spectators weren’t just cheering for him. Half of the crowd was actually faced away from him, towards the next closest sparring circle. But before Marv could get a glimpse of the duel that was taking place over there, the Ruby Blade tugged on his arm.

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“Back in line, citizen. The Saviour awaits.”

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Marv obeyed happily, resuming his place in the queue at the very top of Cathedral Hill. Stepping onto the golden stones of Salvation Way, he was pleased to find that he was now only third in line after dispatching his most recent opponent.

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I’m gonna make it.

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Nearby, a small madrigal of singers and musicians struck up the folksy favorite “Salvation Way, Salvation Day.” Marv boisterously raised his voice as the chorus came around, a deep booming baritone that nearly overwhelmed the sounds of the small band. Most of the nearby spectators were far too distracted by the other duel to join in, but Marv didn’t much care. He was having the time of his life.

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He could still clearly remember the previous Feast of Favor, ten years before. The line had not been nearly so long. Or perhaps, in his youth’s memory, it merely didn’t seem so long. He had endured the dehumanizing queue for all ten days a decade ago along with his father and mother, and they had barely reached the second gate of the city. He recalled with a child’s eyes the larger men pushing by them, knocking keepsakes out of the hands of peasants, pulling anyone who complained aside. Even more vividly, he could remember the bandits beating his father for a place in line -- then picking a fight with the next man and then the next. This taught him a valuable lesson:  the strong may relentlessly move forward, but it is always the rich and the ruthless who get in to see Simon the Saviour.

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Marv was now within fifteen feet of the cathedral gates, as close to Simon himself as he had ever been in his whole life. He was happy, and rightfully so.

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“Piss boy! Over here,” Marv bellowed. An eight-year-old urchin with blonde hair and blue eyes rushed over to him with a half-full metal pail. The boy pulled the towel off of his shoulder and put it across his arms before he positioned himself in front of Marv, held the bucket at arms’ length and scrunched his eyes tight. As Marv lifted his jerkin and began to relieve himself, a final great cheer sounded from behind him. He twisted around to see a Ruby Blade escorting the victor back to the line.

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Astonishingly, it was a girl.

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She was a comely young lass, tall to about his shoulders with red hair and eyes the color of a forbidding forest. She was provocatively dressed in the remains of a low-cut green dress, though he also noticed a bit of blintered leather peeking through the scattered rips in her garment along with boots, kneepads and elbow pads made of the same material. Marv could only imagine the sinful services she had performed to reach this point of Salvation Way.

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As the young woman took her place in line directly behind him, Marv realized that she was eyeing his private parts with a bit of a smirk. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was missing the pail and hitting the blonde boy in the leg. Marv shrugged, readjusted his aim, and grinned back at the girl over his shoulder.

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When finished, he carelessly shook his member - sprinkling the boy yet again - and then pulled a silver coin out of a pocket. He held it up in front of the boy so that it glinted in the setting sunlight. The boy’s eyes danced. “Y’ gotta pay more attention than that, boy,” growled Marv. “Keep yer eyes open . . . it’ll keep y’ from gettin’ soaked.”

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“As you say, sir,” said the boy meekly, drying his leg with the towel, eyes never leaving the coin.

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“Ye gotta move with the piss, see?  ‘S’what we pay y’ fer.”  With this, Marv flipped the coin into the bucket. The boy quickly reached in and grabbed the coin, drying it off on his already sodden sleeve. He put the coin into a leather pouch and then a shout from farther down the line moved him on.

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Marv turned his attention back to the pretty young lass behind him. She was barely out of breath from her own duel, though sweat did roll down her neck in a most enticing way.

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How in Simon’s name had this little thing beaten a man?

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“Enjoy th’ show?”  Marv grinned, gesturing towards his crotch without any hint of embarrassment.

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The girl shrugged as though she had seen better, then turned her attention impatiently towards the back of the line as though she was waiting for someone or something.

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By damn, she’s a fine creature. Smells better than anything I’ve even been near in days.

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“Well, y’don’t git this far in th’ line by just bein’ an eyeful o’ pretty there, missy,” he said, cracking his neck to the left and right. “I’d wager it’s more’n just my man-meat y’ been sizin’ up, now ain’t it?”

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The girl turned back towards him, but as she parted her lips to answer, trumpets blared, causing the crowd around them to roar. The front gates of the High Cathedral opened and a well-built young man emerged from the giant red doors, triumphantly waving at the crowd as two Ruby Blades escorted him back into the city proper. The throng cheered as the next person in line – a red-haired man in a woven brown tunic with a smashed nose and a barely noticeable limp – strode forward on the crimson carpet. He seemed like an elderly monk to Marv’s eyes.

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Good thing that monk had the coin ta keep me from beatin’ him down. Old man must be pushing thirty … probably paid off half th’ line to get this far…

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The monk limped to the redwooden doors, and behind him paced two more of Simon’s holy guard. The man disappeared into the darkness of the cathedral and the giant scarlet doors swung shut with a loud thud.

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Two more Blades closed the gilded front gates and took up flanking positions around the next citizen in line, the person in front of Marv: a shirtless black-haired youth with nary a scar on him who stepped from the golden path onto the Cathedral’s red carpet as the crowd once again went about its business. Marv then turned back to the redhead.

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“Only one more t’go, then it’s me,” he beamed. No response from her. She was once again staring intently towards the back of the line with her arms crossed.

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“Y’know,” he leered over her shoulder,  “if’n you’re real nice ta me, I might even try ta hurry up once I’m inside.”  His hand slipped towards the taut curve at the back of her dress, but as soon as he got within a few inches, she snapped out of her reverie. Suddenly, Marv’s seven-foot frame was wracked with pain as the young woman grabbed him by the thumb and twisted.

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Marv let out a small cry, garnering the attention of the two Ruby Blades stationed at the front gates. The redhead quickly let go of Marv’s thumb and scowled.

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“Don’t try that again,” she snarled.

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“Haw, I knew y’ was a fighter,” said Marv.

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“Only when I’m forced to be,” she said. Now that he looked more closely at her, he could see a few bruises on her arms and legs and a small cut on her cheek. She really had been fighting.

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Marv shook his head. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be fightin’ at all, Missy.”

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“The name’s not ‘Missy’,” she said. “It’s Miracle.”

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“Pretty name, that. I’m Marv. Short for Marvelous.”

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He held his hand out, but her attention this time had drifted towards the sun – its decent behind the Blackened Mountains had begun.

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Marv laughed heartily. “Ya cain’t slow the sun down jest by staring at it, girl,” he said.

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“If only,” she said.

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Squaring his shoulders, he raised himself up to his full height, casting a shadow over the small girl.

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“Well then here’n’s some rock hard truth fer ya, Miracle,” he rumbled. “Th’ only sure-fire way for you t’get in there an’ see th’ Saviour before th’ sun sets is t’grapple with me.”

“An’ win, naturally.”