For every sin, a sword

For every sword, a curse

For every curse, a death

Reymond joined the Crusades to free the Holy Land from the Saracens and win glory for himself. Instead, with six others, he found himself bound under a sorcerer’s curse: the Seven Sins personified. Doomed to eternal life and with the weight of the deaths he has caused dragging his soul into the torments of hell, Reymond must find his former brothers-in-arms and defeat them. Riding across a thousand years of history, the road from Wrath to Redemption will be deadly… 

Reymond fidgeted, fingers playing with the small burlap sack his father had asked him to fetch. He’d spotted the armed men and a small but growing crowd as he crossed the spring market and had gone to investigate. Amid the muck and the colourful tents selling a variety of wooden and metal objects as well as fruit and vegetables, swine and fowl, the assembly stood out. In the distance cows, being sold for slaughter, lowed. A short, thin priest shouted, mid-sermon. The armed men were arrayed behind him, the rest of the people going about their business in the marketplace. Reymond watched the crowd, who placidly watched this sermon. A bitter wind reached icy fingers in exposed places despite the warmth of the sun, but yet the priest held the crowd’s attention.

The priest recounted his meeting with the pope: God’s representative on this Earth. How could that fail to move his audience? The priest’s musical voice sometimes wheedled, sometimes denounced, using some words Reymond wasn’t sure the meaning of. He strode back and forth, his feet slapping upon the baked clay. The honest aroma of the rural congregation overpowered the smell of spring. The priest’s voice boomed louder as he reached the climax of his sermon.

“And the pope said to us, ‘The Holy Land has been invaded by a race alien to God, and they have attacked Christians with sword, rapine and flame! They have destroyed our altars! They have circumcised our men, pouring blood into the baptismal fonts!’ He spoke of the vile mistreatment of women, which I cannot repeat here for it is a great evil. And what did he ask? He asked that all good men stand true infidelity with the church and take up arms against the heathen Saracen. Charles here,” he gestured, and one of the priest’s armed escort, a large man with coarse black hair and an olive complexion, dressed expensively – a lord – stood forward, “is leading the men from this parish, and from the surrounding parishes. If you are a good Christian he could use your sword.”

Reymond gave the man an evaluating glance. He had brought his company into the market as though there was an enemy to be rooted out, yet his men stood meekly enough. The priest carried on sermonising, but Reymond barely heard his words. He was afire with the idea. To take up arms on behalf of the Lord, to aid Christians in the Holy Land itself… he burned with the desire to join up. He wondered if his father, an older version of himself, would have felt the same pull. His father! He’d be wondering where Reymond was and he’d be angry at being kept waiting.

Reymond ran back to where his father and his tenant landsmen were selling last year’s wool.

“Father?”

“No.” His father didn’t even turn to look at him.

“No?” How had his father even known what he was going to ask?

“You are not of age, and I need all hands.” His father turned, his face drawn and strict. “Have you forgotten that harvest approaches?”

“But Father…”

“No, Reymond. Now fetch the wool out of the cart. We only have the two days of this market to shift it, look lively now.”

Reymond felt himself blushing. He turned away, walking with his back ramrod straight. How could his father stand by when such injustices were happening, such evil? When was his father going to realise that he was an adult? That he had plans too? He’d show them. He burned with a new purpose. As soon as he could, he’d sneak away and join up.

Reymond stood irresolute outside the large tent, soft sounds of sleeping men inside. It had all seemed so clear when he had sneaked away from his father’s tent. Perhaps he ought to come back in the morning when the soldiers were awake? Yes, that would probably be for the best. Having made the decision, he turned to leave.

A heavy sword came down beside his throat, and something pointy and sharp pricked him, just over a kidney. A coarse voice rumbled next to his ear. “What do we have here?” There was a hot exhalation smelling of alcohol and Reymond froze. He gulped: now it had come to it he didn’t know what to say, or do; sweat prickled the back of his neck and his hands curled into fists as his face burned.

A more refined voice, the owner of the sword, presumably, came from a few steps away. “Turn around, slowly, so I can see your hands.”