Chapter 48: Sickness
Edric took sight of the walls around him. It was a simple church. What few pews were there in the hall looked to be left to rot under the soot-filled, foggy air that hung in a dreamy haze. Dust sat thickly over the wooden pillars, stuffed in between the stone columns of the church that were riddled with time-marked holes, all suffering from a measly built foundation carried out in a hurry.
It was always the case with these pit towns, as the Church scarcely saw any worth in investing in golden armaments and richly painted murals for a place where men had no other choice but to turn into the Blessed Father to forget their pitiful existence.
Odd that the less you give a man, the more you find he becomes invested in the fairy tales. Guess you have to believe all this suffering must be worth something.
Their armored feet thumped a grim tune across the pews as Father Harmon led their little group inside the church, flanked by the company agent whose name was something something Richards. He wore a leathery coat over his well-tended shirt, trousers smoothed to perfection and lacked even a single stain to suggest he was manning a miner’s town. Then again, these company folk had a reputation to keep.
We’re not entirely different, are we? I’m just serving under a different company, one that deals in faith as a business.
“It started a month prior,” Father Harmon said in his quiet voice, still quivering after having seen a group of Templars knocking on the door of his church. He tried to make amendments, pleading mostly, to rid himself of the heavy shame that he’d not been there to welcome them when Edric’s team had just arrived at Brackley. Thus far, Edric thought he had done a manageable job.
“A dozen dead by the mines,” the Richards guy said, one hand over his robust mustache whose tips curled vainly. He sneaked a glance or two from Edric now and then and seemed to be in a state of helplessness as to how he should behave in the presence of the God’s Templars. “Another dozen down in the basement. We have a third dozen who can still work, but if it spreads, we will have to stop the operation. Hundreds will be left jobless, Honored Templar, with debts they have yet to pay.”
“Quite the circle you have in these pit towns, Richards,” Edric said with stately observation, settling on a piercing gaze deep into the man’s little, beady brown eyes. “You pay them scrips that’s only good in your company’s shop, then take a cut from the pay for the shacks you’ve built for the operation. For whatever reason, I find it hard to believe that your main worry is these honest men’s fast-approaching misery. You looked to be more bothered by your company’s diminishing profits.”
“Nonsense!” Richards made for a sweep of his hand as though he was accused of men slaughtering, then flinched when Dain’s huge bulk, clad in perfectly golden plates, took a little step as an early notice. “My apologies,” he tried to get his way by giving them a bow of his head, then turned meekly like a little lad. “But I’m afraid this doesn’t change the immediate trouble we’re facing in Brackley.”
“That was your company’s name, wasn't it?” Edric said, to which the Richards guy nodded weakly. “And how many men are you employing in this little town?”
“About one thousand in total, Honored Templar.”
“Nine hundred sixty-five, Esteemed Vanguard,” Father Harmon corrected him with a sideways look. He was the shape in flesh and bones of the word Priest, of devotion and belief, shown clearly by his shining pate whose edges were no doubt shaved regularly every morning. His cassock carried the Golden Sword on its back with perfect smoothness, and a golden chain dangled from between his tightly clasped fingers, leading to a little sword that was the holy sign of the Blessed Father.