Darkblade Avenger, page 124
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
Dayle's eyebrows rose. "Ye didn't have to get me anythin'."
"I know." Fern smiled. "But I owe you far more than that after what you did for me."
Dayle blushed. "T'wasn't nothin'."
"Consider this nothing, then." Her grin grew. "Nothing you say's going to make me take it back, so best you accept it."
Dayle returned her grin. "Might be ye’re right. Been a while since I had clean—" A fit of coughing seized him, doubling him over.
"That sounds bad." Fern frowned. His skin had grown pale and clammy. "You ought to come to The Sanctuary, have the Ministrants look you over."
"I'm fine," he wheezed. "Just th’ winter cold seepin' into the lungs, is all."
Fern brandished her crutch like a sword. "Don't make me drag you to the temple, old man."
Dayle gave a weak half-laugh, half-cough. "Fine!" He held up his hands. "I'll be by later in th' afternoon."
"You'd better." Fern's mouth crinkled in mock severity. "Else I'll send Ministrant Battle-Axe after you."
Dayle groaned. Ministrant Etta had cared for her during her days recovering in The Sanctuary. Her grim demeanor, sharp features, and curt tone had earned her the name "Battle-Axe"—only when she was out of the room, of course.
Dayle doubled over, coughing again. Fern stepped forward to help but he waved her away. "Just needs my rest, is all." He hefted the satchel. "These blankets n' things'll help."
She contemplated hauling him physically, but he was far too stubborn to accept forced help. "Get to The Sanctuary before nightfall."
Dayle wagged his head. "Ye’ve my word."
"Good. Now I've got to get off to my chores before the Battle-Axe comes hunting me. But you ask for me when you get to the temple, got it?"
Dayle nodded. "Until later, Fern." He shuffled back into his shelter and closed the flap behind him.
Fern grimaced. He's not doing well. The stoop of his shoulders had increased, his limp more pronounced. The sheen of sweat on his forehead had spoken of a condition more serious than he wanted her to believe. She'd be back later to check on him, make sure he came to the temple. She needed him to be well—she'd lost too much already.
She hobbled across Divinity Square, leaning on the padded crutch for support. As always, her eyes strayed to the Warrior Priests standing silent as the statues that guarded the Temple of Derelana. Her mood darkened. The tattoos swirling around their eyes and down their cheeks reminded her she'd never be one of them.
There was no justice in that. She would not let that stand.
Spring…
"So how did her other arm get injured?" Fern frowned at Udela, who sat huddled on the cot, her left arm clutched to her chest.
Lourda's eyes shifted away. "She…fell from a tree."
"I see." Fern bit back a retort. She'd seen far too many injuries of this nature to believe Lourda's story. The mottled bruise just visible above the high collar of the woman's robe made it even less plausible. Fern's own mother had suffered similar injuries at the hands of her father.
"I-It's nothing." Lourda's voice took on a desperate edge, her eyes pleading. "Can't you just set it like the other one?"
Fern hesitated. She could invent some excuse to insist Udela spend the night at The Sanctuary, but that could only make things worse for the mother and daughter when they returned home.
"Let me see what I can do." Shoulders stiff, anger burning in her chest, she hobbled from the room to fetch bandages.
* * *
Fern vented her frustration on the rocky soil beneath the walls surrounding the Temple of Derelana. The ache in her left hand paled in comparison to the fires of rage storming within her. The Mistress had smiled on her encounter with the thugs three months earlier—the darkness, their surprise, and the old man's intervention had enabled her to subdue them.
She couldn't count on the Mistress' luck again. All she could do was focus on her mission and pray for vengeance on the man who dared harm a child. Problem was, Derelana wouldn't intervene. Exalted Militant Fedon's sermons had made it plain: the Goddess entrusted vengeance to the hands of her servants. Fern, a broken, disgraced, former Novice, would never have the strength to serve.
That wouldn't stop her. She had three months to complete the final third of her tunnel. Progress had slowed with the winter chill; her thirst for revenge had waned with the icy winds and deep snow drifts. She'd hardly touched the tunnel in weeks. Between the hardening ground and the increase of ailments common with winter in Voramis, she'd been too exhausted to leave The Sanctuary.
But spring had brought warmth to Voramis, and Udela's return to the temple had renewed Fern's determination to finish the job. She couldn't ensure Udela's father was punished for his actions, but she could settle her score with Emetana.
Tucked in her tunnel, hidden from view by mounds of debris and dirt, she was out of the biting midnight wind. With the wet season around the corner, Fern knew she needed to get as much work as done before the rain turned the walls of her tunnel to mud. She'd have to re-dig her way through, a task that could take weeks. But as long as she kept chipping away at the rocky ground, she'd be ready when Emetana returned.
Gritting her teeth against the ache in her crippled leg, she buried the trowel in the dirt and continued digging.
Summer…
Fern moved through her duties by rote. Her concentration wavered; tying bandages, emptying chamber pots, and applying salves held little interest.
The day had come. Tonight, the Warrior Priests of Derelana would return from their travels around Einan. Emetana would be within her grasp.
Everything was ready. She'd wrapped the tip of her crutch with cloth to mute its clicking on the tiled floor of the Temple of Derelana. Her dagger hung in a sheath secured to the handle. A set of dark clothing, purchased with her meager earnings from The Sanctuary, lay on her bed, ready for her to slip into when night fell.
Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned the torments she'd visit upon Emetana. The Warrior Priest deserved far worse than a quick, quiet death.
Yet she needed to kill Emetana with one strike. Emetana had been the stronger and more skilled of the two during their years as Novices. Fern's only hope lay in catching Emetana while she slept. If the Warrior Priest had time to react, Fern's mission of vengeance would end with her bleeding out on the temple floor.
"You got somewhere to be?"
Fern winced at Ministrant Etta's curt tone. "No, Ministrant."
"Seems like it, the way you keep looking out those doors like King Gavian himself is coming to sweep you off your feet." Etta's sharp features had once been beautiful, but age had made the severe angles more pronounced. "Back to work, girl."
Fern clenched her fist and nodded. "Yes, Ministrant."
Try as she might, Fern couldn't keep her gaze from the broad windows set high in The Sanctuary's main chamber. Time seemed to drag at an interminable pace. The red-gold sun refused to drop below the horizon. Impatience set Fern's stomach churning. Sunset meant the doors of The Sanctuary would close, and she would be free of her duties to the Bright Lady until tomorrow.
Whether she'd have another tomorrow or not didn't matter. She hadn't bothered planning an escape. She had no problem dying, provided Emetana went to the Long Keeper with her. When they stood in judgement before the God of Death, Fern would have justice for what Emetana had done.
The light in the temple slowly dimmed, the shadows growing longer. Fern kept an eye on Ministrant Etta. At any moment, she would give the signal to—
"Close the doors, Ministrant Aletia."
Elation surged in Fern's chest. Fingers trembling, she tied the final knot in the bandage, stood, and tucked the crutch under her arm. She gripped the wood, worn smooth by her hands, and drew comfort from its solidity.
"Wait!" Ministrant Aletia's voice echoed from the doorway. "Help me with this one. He's not breathing."
Fern limped away from the main room before the Battle-Axe saw her and ordered her to assist. She had to get to her rooms and begin her preparations. Someone else could help the latest unfortunate soul seeking the Bright Lady's healing.
Fern served the Lady of Vengeance this night.
* * *
Fern stood over the mouth of the tunnel. She'd spent the last year digging her way beneath the wall, but now that she had come to the moment of no return she hesitated. Not out of fear. Fear had fled the day she stared death in the face. The rage burning in her chest hadn't dimmed with the passage of time. She reveled in the anticipation of what was to come.
Taking a deep breath, she knelt stiff-legged and lowered herself into the hole face-first. She squirmed through the familiar contours of the tunnel, relishing the cool earth surrounding her. No pain remained in her weakened right arm and hamstrung left leg. Her right leg had grown strong from supporting her weight. The power in her left arm would suffice to drive the dagger through Emetana's throat.
Cool air drifted toward Fern and wafted over her scarred face. Her heart leapt as the tunnel sloped upward, excitement setting her pulse racing.
Emerging from the earth felt like a rebirth. Fern the healer remained on the other side of the wall. Fern the avenger pulled herself to her feet and ducked into the shadows of thick hedges.
She'd spent years in the Temple of Derelana and knew every nook and cranny. More than once, she'd come to hide behind the hedges when frustration at the challenging Warrior Priest training overwhelmed her. No tears graced her cheeks now. Only a cold rage heaved in her chest.
Tucking the crutch under her arm, she peered into the darkness of the temple gardens. Empty, as she'd suspected. The Novices spent the evening hours in prayers and instruction from the more academically-minded Warrior Priests. This late, just an hour before midnight, they would be asleep, exhausted from the day's rigors.
Perfect.
She slipped from behind the hedge and limped toward the training yard where she'd spent hours locked in combat with instructors and fellow Novices. The memories of her losses to Emetana hardened her resolve. She would wipe the smug, gloating grin from the Warrior Priest's face with a dagger thrust.
A burden settled on her shoulders as she hobbled through the temple grounds. The training yard gave way to the outdoor gallery where they'd gathered for their annual service to honor the returning Warrior Priests of Derelana. Through the gallery she limped, cloth-padded crutch silent, the only sound her labored breathing and the rush of her pulse.
Next came the barracks. Fern had strode these corridors a thousand times, basking in the comforting glow of the candles set in spikes along the wall, breathing the familiar scent of dusty stone.
Her eyes locked on the simple door at the far end of the corridor. A tremor gripped her right hand as she approached the room that had once belonged to her and Emetana. The room where Emetana had found her groaning and bleeding, Athest lying silent and broken beside her.
She lifted the latch and nudged the door. It swung open on silent hinges. Darkness filled the room within. The sound of quiet breathing reached Fern's ears.
Emetana. The tremor in Fern's hand stilled. Every scrap of hesitation fled, replaced by cold, hard resolve. She stood mere paces from the woman who had condemned her to the life of a cripple. Her hands closed around the grip of her dagger as she hobbled toward the figure lying in bed.
For a year and a day, she'd waited for this moment. The time for vengeance had come.
One step forward, two, three. The distance between Fern and her retribution closed. She raised the dagger.
Derelana, guide my aim. A quick thrust of the blade and Emetana would die, choking on her own blood.
Fern's crutch slipped on the tiled floor, flying out from beneath her. She fell hard. The iron leg brace clattered loud in the darkness. Fern struggled to rise.
A sleepy voice spoke from the bed. "Wha—?"
Fern half-lunged, half-hurled herself at the prone figure. She lashed out at the woman's throat a heartbeat before she realized the voice didn't belong to Emetana. Only her reflexes, honed by years in the Warrior Priests' training yard, spared the woman's life. The dagger buried in the blanket a finger's breadth from the Novice's head.
Fern heard a sharp intake of breath and something slammed into her ribs. She groaned at the blow and again as the Novice's elbow struck her cheek. The woman went still as Fern pressed the edge of the dagger against her throat.
"W-Who are you?" the Novice asked, her voice quavering.
"Who are you?" Fern snarled. "And where is Emetana?"
"E-Eme-who?"
Fern leaned on the blade. "The woman who lives in this room."
"I don't know!" Desperation edged the woman's words. Not a woman, Fern realized, a girl barely into adolescence.
Her mind raced. Could she have come to the wrong room? She mentally retraced her steps. No, this was the room where she and Emetana had lived, where Emetana would be quartered upon her return from her travels.
"What happened to the person who lived here before?"
"I-I don't know!" A sob burst from the Novice's throat. "Please, don't kill me!"
Fern ground her teeth. Had she ever been this terrified and cowardly? She doubted it.
"Wait," the Novice said, "y-you said Emetana?"
"Yes," Fern hissed. "She was among the returning Warrior Priests."
"There was a Warrior Priest named Emetana, but…"
"What do you mean, was?"
* * *
Fern stared, stunned, at the tiny plaque on the Pillar of Requital, the four-sided marble column in the temple's main courtyard where the servants of Derelana commemorated those fallen in service to their Goddess. The name Emetana had been etched into the copper plate.
"How?" She shook the Novice, fingers clamped on her frail arm. "How did it happen?"
"Illness, they said!" Fearful tears slipped down the girl's cheeks. "Caught the Spotted Flux her first week out of Voramis."
Her first week. The words rang in Fern's mind. Emetana had died while she lay in The Sanctuary, recovering from her burns. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. A harsh chuckle burst from Fern's chest. The Novice stared horrified, but Fern couldn't stop the manic laughter that gripped her at the futility of her actions. She had spent a year plotting vengeance against a dead woman.
The Novice ripped her arm from Fern's grasp and raced away, crying out an alarm. Fern didn't try to stop her. The girl was innocent; Fern had come to deliver the Lady's vengeance, not to lash out in murderous rage.
Her eyes wandered back to Emetana's pitiful plaque and her deranged mirth bubbled up again. She sheathed her dagger, tucked the crutch under her arm, and spat a gob of phlegm on the copper plate.
May you rot in the deepest, darkest, foulest of the hells, Emetana. You may have escaped vengeance, but you will not avoid the Long Keeper's judgement. The God of Death would not be kind to the vile, deceitful woman.
Shouts from the barracks pierced the buzzing in Fern's ears. With a final sneer for Emetana, she hobbled toward the gardens and her tunnel.
* * *
A numbing chill turned Fern's limbs to lead as she hobbled through The Sanctuary. Her aches and pains faded beneath the wave of emptiness washing over her.
For hours, she'd sat in the mud beside her tunnel, unable to move, her mind as dull as her leaden limbs. She couldn't believe Emetana was dead.
The first rays of dawn had finally snapped her from her stupor. She shuffled across Divinity Square with a heavy gait, uncaring if the Heresiarchs spotted her. She'd done what she intended to.
No, that was a lie. She'd accomplished nothing. Emetana had escaped her vengeance. Fern would never have justice for what was done to her. All her efforts over the last year had been in vain.
She mumbled greetings to the passing Ministrants, vaguely aware of the strange looks they gave her dirt-stained clothing, hands, and face.
"Fern!" Ministrant Etta's sharp tone pierced the fog filling Fern's head. "The doors are opening and you are needed in The Sanctuary's main chamber."
"Yes, Ministrant," Fern mumbled, her thick tongue slurring her words.
"Are you drunk?" the priestess snapped, eyes narrowing.
"No, Ministrant." Fern gave a weak shake of her head.
"Best be about your duties, then." Ministrant Etta waved her away. "There's a corpse in the cot beside the door that needs dressing before the undertakers arrive."
Fern complied, too drained to protest. Leaning on her crutch, she limped across the room toward the cadaver.
Horror pierced Fern’s gut like a knife. She knew the silent, unmoving figure in the bed. Blood stained Dayle's thin lips and sparse beard. The pallor of death accented the gauntness of his cheeks, emphasizing the odd patches of white peering through the suntanned skin of his face and hands.
Fern's knees sagged and she slumped to the floor beside the bed. She couldn't tear her gaze from the corpse.
"Y'know this one?"
Fern's mind, rendered sluggish by sorrow, failed to produce coherent words.
"Shame." Ministrant Opal shook her head. "That cough of his turned nasty. Drowned in his own fluid, he did."
Fern could only stare uncomprehending at the priestess.
"A bad way to go." With a sigh, Opal kissed her fingertips and pressed them against Dayle's bloodless forehead. "May the Bright Lady smile on you and bear you to the Long Keeper's arms in peace."
Suddenly, Fern felt so very tired. Fatigue, emotional and physical, held her bound. Her eyes never left the figure lying next to her.
She took Dayle's thin, white-spotted hand. Cold to the touch, stiffening in death, it hung limp in her hand. Yet she would not let it go. She couldn't let him go.
For a year, rage and a desire for retribution had consumed her. She'd thought of nothing but vengeance on Emetana. Months spent working herself to exhaustion digging the tunnel into the Temple of Derelana. All wasted on a woman who had died almost a year ago.
Her anger hadn't faded; if anything, the sight of Emetana's name on the Pillar of Requital only added to it. The Warrior Priest would never taste the Lady's vengeance.
