When a sheep strays from the flock and finds itself alone in a field with a wolf, its only choice is to flee into the forest. In the field, it feels too exposed to his fangs. The sheep doesn't understand that its white fleece stands out starkly against the dark trees. It doesn't understand that the bark and branches will snag its curly wool, and that its legs aren't made to leap over deadfall as easily as it would a ditch in the field. In the end, it will become trapped, exhausted and humiliated by the pursuit of a predator who navigates this forest far better than it does. And then, its death will not be swift.
"There's nowhere to run." A furious voice rang out from outside the church. It was thick with the breathlessness that comes only from men who have been hunting their prey for a full day. "Come out, you mangy dog. Come out, Aizok, son of Arold, husband of Katarina. Come out, hero of your people."
Aizok was beside himself with terror. Unarmored, clad only in his shirt and linen trousers, he fled up the staircase. It creaked beneath him, threatening to plunge his feet into splinters and rot, but those threats failed to reach the man who clung to his life as blindly as a cornered beast. The pouch at his belt pounded against his thigh.
The animal instinct howled at Aizok that the higher he climbed, the safer he would be, and he trusted that instinct. It was a mistake.
The timbered womb of the narrow tower released him for the amusement of the icy winds, and the man staggered, blindsided by the sun's brightness. His eyes were dazzled only for a moment. Aizok shook his head, and his thoughts immediately cleared. He stood alone, unarmored, unarmed, battered, upon the church belfry, while a small warband waited below. They had no need to dismount, to storm the building and drag him out by force—there was nowhere for Aizok to run, regardless. If he went out the door or squeezed through a small window, they'd seize him at once. If he hid, they'd wait a while, then come in, find him, and haul him out. If he jumped, he'd break his legs or his back, but his neck—he'd have to try pretty hard to break that. And they needed him alive.
Alive.
Laughter drifted up from below, harsh and cold—the warband was exchanging remarks among themselves, waiting to see what Aizok would choose for himself. Everyone understood that today the hero of Riverstead would die like cattle, with no right to choose his own fate.
The thought sank into his stomach, pulling it down toward his guts like a heavy weight. His temples went cold. The man quietly slipped back into the darkness of the stairwell, pressing his fingers into the walls as if trying to find a hidden passage. The wood threatened to leave splinters in his palms and concealed not even a crawl space.
Aizok clutched a fistful of his own hair in a trembling hand, his eyes darting frantically.
"Well, well, lads," a voice boomed mockingly from outside. "And here I thought Father Fox would leap through fire and water for his pups. Turns out he just singed the tip of his tail and dove under the bench, so he wouldn't end up as someone's new collar."
A strike hit the door from below. As a warning.
Aizok squeezed his eyes shut and let out a quiet whimper. His legs gave way, and he felt the step beneath him. He sat down, weaving the fingers of both hands into his hair.
"Let Ey protect me," he prayed, elbows propped on his knees, staring somewhere through the boards, "and I'll spare no gold or silver, I'll dig the earth with my bare hands, if only the Mother-Creator will have mercy on her son, who brought her rich offerings and spared neither strength nor voice, only..." But he fell silent at once when he heard a more insistent strike against something—the church wall, by the sound of it.
They were right. He, who had promised his people protection—if not by deed, then by word—who had promised to stand with them shoulder to shoulder, who had vowed to go through fire and water, who had promised...
Fire.
Sniffing the air, the man grabbed his pouch as if it held his salvation. But inside there was only a flint, a piece of stale flatbread, some coins, and a crumpled letter. His heart first beat like a bird in his chest, then dropped. The heavy eel of fear in his belly twisted tighter, almost to the point of pain. Aches shot through his muscles. Aizok placed the letter on a higher step and began striking his flint against the steel. At first, only sparks flew; the parchment refused to catch. He struck and struck, and it seemed to him that any moment now, right this instant, the warband would tire of waiting and throw open the door, the warriors would fly up the stairs, driven by fury, and seize him, mad with fear, and hand him over to their justice.
But the parchment caught, crackling with flame. Without looking, he tossed the flint aside and grabbed for the nearest uneven board. There was a crack, and a wooden splinter remained in his hands. He thrust it at once into the spreading fire. Dust, cobwebs, cottonwood fluff that had drifted in through the open top—the flames swept it all up. Aizok placed the burning piece of wood on the step below him and closed his eyes. The draft from above funneled the smoke toward him, filling his lungs, spreading the fire downward along the stairs.
Outside, an uproar first broke out, then came the sound of curses and hoofbeats striking the ground. When the church door burst open, the fire had already sealed off the narrow passage.
Aizok couldn't hear the warriors cursing and shouting at each other. He thought only of one thing—not falling into their hands alive. Before the chase, perhaps, he had hoped to die a hero, or at least as an honest man. But first he coughed from the smoke, and then he screamed from the unbearable pain as the fire spread to his clothes. He called out to Ey, pounded his blistering fists against the walls and the stairs, kicked his feet, sobbed and howled with an inhuman voice, having locked himself inside the fire.
His death came quickly enough. Maybe from the fire. Maybe from a stopped heart. He didn't even live to see the church begin to collapse. The last thing he saw was the red blaze engulfing him on all sides. The last thing he felt—was pain.
The sun had barely given way to the moon, and the moon to the sun again, when the warband returned to the ashes. They picked through the still-warm embers. They searched for his remains. Secretly, they hoped that Aizok had somehow survived. Despite everything, no one could believe that Father Fox might truly have ended his life this way. Ingloriously, dishonorably, pitifully.
Just like that sheep.