Tricks of the Blade, page 3
"Just the opposite. His Fluffy Grace the Duke can't have us uppity peasants walkin' all over 'im, can he? Otherwise the queen-pretender might catch word, get similar notions. Anyway, the war ain't our business anymore. Avoiding it is."
The pair spent another empty-bellied night huddled around the green fire of an alchemical heat pack, kept low and pathetic so as not to draw unwelcome notice. And with good reason—stealing from the duke's winter stores was a hanging offense to be sure, but deserting his army in wartime would earn a long, lingering crucifixion for draftees like Allard and Banwick. They'd run off into the hills without plan or direction, forced to steal what they couldn't find to survive.
Still better odds than facing the queen's mercenary marines, Banwick thought before drifting into a tooth-chattering sleep. Though not by much.
The next day Allard shivered and breathed icy fog once more while keeping an eye out for game, hoping he didn't himself fall prey to anything, human or otherwise.
"Allard!"
He tensed and put a hand to his rusted antique short sword. Banwick's voice carried an urgency he'd not heard before. What's wrong? Have they found us? Allard's mind raced with terrible possibilities. The man came loping down the slope as though a devil were indeed after him. But...is he smiling? That made Allard more nervous rather than less. "What is it?"
"Come on," Banwick said, and said again later while he dragged Allard up the incline. "Come on, we're almost there!"
"Almost where?"
"There." Banwick stood beaming, his arm swept forward as though presenting him to the emperor.
"What...?" Allard approached the jutting rock formation uncertainly. A trickle, a splash. Flowing water, in this frozen waste? He crept closer, brushed aside a branch. And... steam? "A spring," he concluded. "You found a hot spring!"
"Yes!" Banwick danced and hopped from one foot to the other like a lunatic, ecstatic.
"Incredible! Didn't think there were any around here. We might starve to death but at least we won't freeze."
"More than that. We can have baths, my young friend! Remember those? And gods know you could use one. I figure one of us can stand watch against any unfriendlies whilst the other takes his turn, then we switch."
Allard gazed on the steaming pool with giddy anticipation. It did look inviting. "All right, don't gotta tell me twice—"
"Whoa," said Banwick, clamping a hand down on the youth's shoulder before he could get any closer. "Finder's rights—I get to go first!"
"Well, I'm lost." Bestre plodded through the woods looking for his squad. They'd gotten separated in the dark but he dared not call out for aid. Not in this place, hells no. He lifted a wineskin to his lips but tasted only the last sour dregs. Lost, cold, and dry, too!
They'd been sent to check out reports of outlaws, or maybe partisans of the queen prowling the area. But there were other, older accounts about the mountain, and those far more terrifying—savages performing human sacrifices, invisible monsters, demons, things even more sinister that men could not conceive of for fear of going mad.
Bestre shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "Stupid," he said out loud with more certainty than he felt. "Just drunken stories, that's all." They must be. He looked up at the two full moons shining bright down through the boughs and tried to remember his wholly inadequate navigation training. "Let's see, downhill is that way, and the moons are to my left so...wait. That way is down too...aw crap."
He picked his way through a tangle of branches dragged down by the snow, and some birds overhead made his heart jump as they flew off. Ahead he heard something—water gurgling over rocks. Maybe I can follow it back down. He crept toward it, faster now that he had a direction to fix on. He stepped out of a thick patch of underbrush to face the rising solid ground. Then he looked up, and his blood went cold as hoarfrost. No...
A demon stood towering over him. It shimmered silver at the edges and all blackest dark in the middle. It had the vague shape of a man, but rippled with muscles and was enveloped in ethereal vapors that twisted and writhed all around like a skin made of serpent ghosts. In one claw it held a sword the likes of which Bestre had never seen. And it was looking straight at him.
It snorted a stream of smoke, and Bestre managed to force his trembling, piss-soaked legs to turn and flee back into the trees. He screamed in terror, and he kept screaming when he heard that the demon was chasing after him! He tripped, scrambled to his feet, ran some more, not daring to look back. He came to a sharp drop of more than ten feet and without thinking, threw himself over the edge. Just get away, get away, get away, havetogetaway, go-go-go...
After some nameless span of time, Allard realized he was no longer covered in a layer of hot water but of ice, and only then did the cold hit him. "Argh, that was dumb!" He gave up the chase after stubbing his toe on a rock, then hobbled back to the spring's warmth before hypothermia took him. He tossed his sword onto a pile of clothes and slithered into the pool. "Oh, that's better." Who had that fellow been? It was dark but by moonslight it looked like it might've been one of the duke's soldiers.
From the other direction came the crunching of snow, then wheezy breaths. "Whawazzat? I heard screams."
"Thanks, Banwick," Allard muttered, "great job guarding the place."
"Sorry, can't be everywhere at once. Should I go after—"
"Nah, don't bother. He's gone."
"Still, if we been spotted it means we'll have to move on. Too bad, could've been comfortable here for a little while, anyway."
"Least I got my bath," shrugged Allard.
"Yeah, all good things come to an end, I guess. Meet you back there then?"
"Yup." Allard luxuriated a few more minutes before crawling out again, steam roiling off him. He dried and dressed quickly then headed back to camp.
In the morning near the base of the mountain Bestre's squad mates found him injured and babbling incoherently, and when they calmed him enough to hear his story figured it best to get away from the place as fast as possible. The commotion of their retreat caused Banwick and Allard no small amount of alarm, and more than a little debate about whether to scurry towards or away from it. Unwilling to be left alone while Banwick indulged his curiosity, Allard crept after his comrade in desertion, muttering curses while crouching amid the dead underbrush.
They needn't have bothered with stealth. When Allard emerged from cover, his calves sore from the descent, Banwick presented yet another spectacle to behold. "Would you look at that!" The soldiers were gone but had left behind all manner of treasure: camp cloaks, heat packs, weapons, and—
"Oh, great gods!" Allard fell on the ration biscuits piled carelessly by a fire pit and choked one down without bothering to chew.
"Take 'er easy now," Banwick said, handing the lad a flagon of sour wine. "Food might be a fair shock to the system by now."
"What," asked Allard between swigs and coughing fits, "d'you think made 'em run off like that?"
"Hmm..." Rubbing his chin, Banwick glanced back up the slope where the sun had risen just over the ridge. Winded by his sudden gluttony, Allard huffed billows of breath that caught beams of morning light to paint a fiery halo about him.
Something clicked in Banwick's mind, and he broke into a toothy grin. "You know, I think this mountain just might be the perfect place to hide out after all."
Justice Enough
The assassin cast an occasional indifferent glance down at the bustling streets as she flitted across rooftops. Even at night the clamor of the city below clashed sharply with the calm, chimneyed expanse she traversed as a shadow, dark even against clouds of coal dust. With apparent ease she climbed, leapt, and dropped distances that should've ended a normal person, or at least broken a lot of bones. Yet the unwilling killer kept her course towards the Cathedral of the White God, the dreams having burned the target's image hard in her mind.
A starry disc atop the Cathedral's highest spire perfectly eclipsed First Moon from her vantage point, eliciting a pause. An omen, maybe, she thought. Good or bad? I'll know soon enough.
By the time she reached the Cathedral the moon was higher in the sky, and a glint of silver bounced off a metallic collar encircling her neck. It shimmered even brighter for a moment when she leapt from a dizzying height. Instead of plummeting to the ground as any natural thing should, she glided down to alight atop the upper gables without disturbing a single tile. Another wondrous gift from the Red God, she thought with bitterness. Would that He took 'em all back. The assassin had been His tool for so long she'd even forgotten her own name. But not those of my targets. Oh no, never those...
In the candle gloom of the Cathedral's rectory, a mouse scurried in alarm at a loud click followed by the outward swing of a bookcase. The wall opened to present Archabbot Trastavere adjusting the folds of his scarlet cassock to hide a stain. "Go on, get." He tossed a handful of coins at the young, ragged peasant girl who followed. Despite the pleasures of his "private ministering" sessions, he always found himself in a foul mood afterward. The girl lifted a strap of her gown over a skinny shoulder before kneeling to retrieve every last copper. "Damn the Red God, I said go! And remember, not a word." He needn't have warned her of course; her family's massive debt to the Cathedral was reminder enough. Of course, one could never be too careful.
As the girl fled the office, Trastavere poured himself a cup of brandy and called for his aide. "Reynal. Reynal!"
After a wholly unsatisfactory interval, a young fellow wearing a plain brown version of Trastavere's vestments appeared in the doorway. "Yes, Eminence?"
"What was today's haul?"
The cleric produced a slip of paper Trastavere knew he would have ready even before being summoned. "Eighty-seven ducats, Emin—"
"That's all? Those ungrateful worms, after all the Cathedral's done for this city. Very well, reduce the bread ration to the poor by two-thirds. See if beggars clogging their streets moves my congregation to greater charity. What about that business with Baron Curlew? Will he sell?"
Reynal swallowed a lump in his throat. "Erm, well..."
"Spit it out!"
"The baron seems...disinclined to let go of the land."
Nearly choking on his brandy, Trastavere flung the goblet across the rectory. It didn't break, but rolled away into the darkness of the open passageway behind the bookcase. "Bastard! Fine, I'm done playing games; I absolutely require that land. Get rid of him."
"Get rid...you mean, you want me to kill a noble—"
"No, we can't risk anyone finding a body. Not even the pigs can be trusted in this sewer of a city. But he must disappear. The Silent can take care of him—give the order."
"The Silent," Reynal whispered, shivering. "Eminence, is that really necessary?"
"Now, don't start with me! I see the same look in the mirror every morning, I don't need it from you. Haven't I advanced you well beyond what you deserve?"
Reynal shifted nervously in the doorway, the light from the hallway making him an awkward shadow puppet. "Yes, of course you have. It's just..."
"Then a little loyalty's no great expectation! That's all for tonight, now leave me." He made a sarcastic benediction in the air as Reynal slunk from the rectory, swallowing hard like the lad had eaten a bad snail.
There's one. Hold still, now...
The assassin had studied the Order of Vigilants carefully before her mission. Each night the soldier-priests patrolled the Cathedral, on the lookout for those who might threaten the church. But as Trastavere had long ago dealt with any fool enough to try, they usually spent the dark hours bored and decidedly not vigilant. So when one of them moved in her direction near the balcony, perhaps glimpsing some tiny movement out of the corner of his eye, his investigation began with a yawn and ended with a shrug. Still, hold still... All was dark and silent, the balcony doors secure. "Hmm," the Vigilant grunted before returning to his regular course.
When the hall appeared empty again there was a ripple in the air and the assassin blinked into visibility, clad in tight-fitting charcoal-gray cloth. She tore the mask from her face to let out a breath. That was close, she thought, cursing her clumsiness. Another step and the Vigilant would've walked right into her. She sometimes wondered whether she made such mistakes because she wanted to be caught. It'd make an end to things, at least.
Following the map committed to memory, she crept along the walls where luxurious tapestries offered a little extra cover. Left, left, now right, down the stairs...almost there. She turned a corner, then froze.
Another Vigilant. She drew back just enough to study his movements as he prowled the section of corridor outside the rectory and adjoining bedchamber—the Archabbot's bedchamber. Back and forth he walked, scanning side to side with one hand on the butt of a powder pistol and the other on a sword. She ducked into the shadows, listening to the clomp of his boots. Patience...wait for it. When she was sure she had his rhythm she darted forward, reached out and laid a hand on the back of his neck. Her collar flashed, and the Vigilant fell backward. She dragged his unconscious bulk behind a reliquary cabinet without any measure of grace. Having expended a good bit of effort for that particular trick she knelt to rest a moment, hoping the Vigilant's snoring didn't draw attention.
With the way now clear she stood before the door to the bedchamber and took a deep breath. Tensing for what came next, she drew a slender knife and nudged through.
Trastavere wasn't there.
The great crimson bed and its silken sheets and canopy lay undisturbed in the flickering lamplight. A complication. She almost welcomed it. The door to the left opened into the rectory. Surely he's not working at this hour. She peered through, wondering if she had the energy for another knockout touch...empty as well. Where could the pig be? She went over the map in her head again, trying to recall what other rooms she could search without being discovered.
Her gaze drifted to the great wall of books, and she noticed a slight misalignment with the rest of the room, a dark vertical crack that swallowed the low light on one side. Of course! She pulled the wall open to reveal a passageway, took up her knife again and pressed on.
"So much for 'that's all for tonight,'" Reynal muttered, cradling the sacred moonstone while he walked as though he might break it. As though the Cathedral's most prized relic had not survived forty-seven generations of handling. In his late night drunkenness Trastavere often sent Reynal to retrieve the treasure—a teardrop of the White God Himself, it was said. Whether or not he believed the story, the Archabbot would spend whole nights caressing the bauble, adoring the power it represented. His power. That's what he loves, not the White God. He's a disgrace, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Reynal allowed himself these thoughts only in the smallest hours of the night, as if Trastavere could read his mind—a notion he did not completely discount.
He turned a corner to find the Vigilant away from his post. "Curse them, I told 'em a thousand times to piss before going on watch!" With an annoyed scowl he crossed the corridor and went back into the rectory. Empty. Of course. Trastavere spent more and more time in his accursed little room, and not just to tup young girls. As the man's power grew so did his fear of losing it, and the paranoia ate at him. Reynal took a lamp from the desk and descended the stairway. He wrinkled his nose at the stink and set the lamp in a wall alcove. "I have it here Eminence, just as—"
The scene that greeted Reynal was a mixture of the familiar and the alien: Trastavere was sprawled on a stained mattress with a brandy bottle spilled nearby, while standing over him was a dark, lithe shape brandishing a slender skinning knife. Acting on instinct, he threw himself at the intruder.
"Hwoof!" They both went down, rolling across the edge of the mattress to the floor, grappling all the way. The would-be assassin tried to lay a hand on his neck, and he clawed at her wrist to try to pin her. To Reynal's amazement, she seemed to flicker in and out of reality, her form transparent then disappearing and appearing again, yet always solid to the touch. He escaped one grasping fist only to receive a punch in the jaw from another, and he tasted the bitter acid of blood in his mouth. She drove her knee into his chest and he staggered backward to the floor, landing breathless near something hard. The moonstone. She came down on top of him and Reynal lashed out with the relic in his clenched fist, and as she fell against him it brushed the strange shimmering collar the assassin wore.
As if struck by some electric shock she fell instantly limp, without a shred of fight in her. It slowed her enough for Reynal to shuffle out from underneath, but when the stone was away from the collar the woman tried to rise and attack once more. Without understanding the effect, Reynal nevertheless held the stone near her throat and she fell helpless again, as though the collar had gained a weight to match the powers it channeled.
"W-what...have you...done to me?" She growled with frustration, but that was all she could do. Every drop of strength it seemed was drained from her, drained out through that metal band and into the moonstone somehow. Reynal ripped his opponent's mask away to reveal a dark-haired woman that could've been twenty years of age or forty, so much care was worn into her face, along with more than one violent scar. A professional.
"Guard...guard..." It came out hoarse and weak, his lungs still stunned by the blow he'd taken. Heart pounding, Reynal looked around the room for the knife lost in the struggle. There—under the bed, just out of reach. The woman saw it too but could not even lift her hand to grasp at it. Trastavere lay above them, still senseless despite the violence, his labored breaths announcing that he yet lived. "Who are you? Answer me!"
She appeared to struggle, but it was like holding a newborn babe still, needing no effort at all. "Let...me go!" The woman began to weep. "You don't understand. He has to die! I owe...owe Him..."
Reynal looked from the woman to the moonstone, the collar. Realizing, he felt his balls go cold. He spat out a gobbet of blood. "Him. That's why the holy stone subdues you—you're a servant of the Red God, the Prince of Evil Himself!"
