by Nick Martell
A flintlock pistol went off nearby, and those closest ducked in fear. Others swore at the gunman, scrambling for his gun before it could be reloaded.
I took advantage of the confusion to head straight for the church door. It was old and massive, a reminder of the days when doors like that were necessary to keep out invaders and not simply a choice of style. Dull spikes covered it without rhyme or reason.
There was no point knocking for admittance. It would be locked and barred until their next service, whether devotees requested entry or not, and they definitely wouldn’t let me in. Everyone in Hollow had an opinion about the Kingman family, and the Church of the Wanderer was no different. They might not claim we were heretics, as the Church of the Eternal Flame did, but they distrusted us and that was mainly my fault.
I hadn’t held my tongue often when I was younger.
It didn’t matter now. Seeing no other option to get in, I joined the group who were already trying to climb the walls, heading for the broken window to gain entrance to the church. I climbed up the door, pushing and kicking at anyone in my way, and scraping my ankles and calves. My hands started finding comfortable grooves in the aged spikes on the door and I could pull myself up, my feet finding firm footholds. It was an effort, but the lethal spikes were tightly enough packed to make it possible. At the top of the door, I pulled myself up over the lip and then into the frame where the stained glass had been.
I took a deep breath once I could stand again and looked down at the people below me. Some had followed me up. Not wanting to draw more attention from those below, I slunk through the shattered glass pane, careful not to cut myself on any of the rainbow icicles that remained.
I hadn’t been inside the Church of the Wanderer since I was a child, and I was surprised to see it hadn’t changed. Dozens of wooden pews ran down the length of the church with a central aisle leading to a podium and the massive, faceless statue the church was famous for. Almost everyone had their own theory on what it represented or what it was meant to symbolize, but I had never cared and never listened.
Below me, white-clad monks with head scarves were running in all directions. Many of them were busy barricading the main entrance with wood and stone and fortifying the other external doors. Others clustered around the faceless statue, deep in prayer, or examined the damage done by the piece of Celona. It had come to rest behind the statue near the lockless door, in a deep impact crater that had shattered or cracked everything around it.
Slowly and quietly I crept around the edge of the church, looking for a place to descend. Climbing the door had been very straightforward; inside, the stone was smoother and lacking deviations I could use for handholds. It forced me to hug a pillar and slide less than gracefully down it. When I was on the floor, I hid in the shadows behind the pews, hoping the monks were too distracted to spot me. With the looters ahead of me drawing their attention, and those that had followed me in now appearing at the broken window, they were busy holding intruders at bay in one end of the church with their staffs and the backs of their hands. Once I reached the podium unseen, I went to my belly and crawled past the monks in prayer toward the piece of Celona.
Moments later I had it in my hand, my body resting against the base of the statue. It was unnaturally smooth, small enough to fit in my palm, and glowed eerily, as if it were filled with dying fireflies. I had never seen one in person before and was rather underwhelmed for something so sought-after.
“Michael Kingman,” a voice said behind me.
I turned and saw an old man with salt-and-pepper hair standing over me. Age had given him a slow pace and a slight hunch, and he kept his fingers woven together in front of him. The Reclaimer.
Shit.
“Yes?” I said.
“I am surprised to discover you so devout as to be here to pray after moon-fall. Especially after the comments you made.”
“Don’t you think it’s rather petty to remember the criticism of a child?”
“Yours were hard to forget,” the old man said. “You nailed a different letter onto our door every single day for a year. If you want to reminisce, I saved the best ones.”
“Yes, well, sadly, I don’t have the time. Places to be, new friends to make, letters to write, you know how it—”
The old man stood in my way, holding out his hand.
“I’m not giving it to you willingly.”
“I’m aware,” he said, and then nudged his head to the side. Three monks had appeared with crossbows aimed at me. They must’ve been watching me from the moment I entered the church. Why they’d waited until now to shoot me was a mystery.
“Isn’t killing against your oaths?”
“God understands self-defense.”
Because of course they did.
“I’m not handing it over,” I said. “You’ll have to shoot me. I need this. My future depends on it.”
“If you truly needed it, it would have landed in front of you. God sent it here so we could hear his message. Please, Michael. Do not make this end in bloodshed.”
I paused and glanced around the church again. I wouldn’t get far if I ran, let alone fought. I’d never escape with the piece of Celona with all these eyes on me. It would require some subtlety. I made a show of dropping my shoulders in defeat.
“Fine,” I said, and held out the piece of Celona. “I’ll go. But could you at least help me get out of here? I’d rather not leave the way I came in.”
The old Reclaimer put the piece of the moon into the pockets of his robes. “Follow me, I’ll show you to an exit where you won’t have to deal with anyone.”
The old man brought me toward the door that led to the cellar as the other monks watched with suspicion. As we entered the damp tunnel, he took a lantern from the wall and we walked together in the gloom. I tripped on my first step in the cellar and fell against the old Reclaimer. He caught me and then patiently helped me back to my feet despite the stream of curses that flew out of my mouth.
“Apologies, Michael. I should have warned you it’s slippery down here.”
“I should have been more careful,” I grumbled. “I don’t suppose now that we’re alone you’ll consider giving me the piece of Celona back?”
“No, I won’t. Whether you agree with our teachings or not, everything has a path. While you may think it’s the end of yours without the piece of Celona, I can assure you it’s not. The Wanderer will guide you back onto your path in due time. Even if you do not realize.”
I tried not to groan. I would rather have fought my way out of the church than get this lecture. It was one of the many reasons I stayed clear of the overly pious. Domet was the closest I had come to in years.
“In exchange for our forbearance in light of your attempted theft, I would ask something of you.”
“I’m not attending a service here—not after what you all did to my father.”
The old man sighed as if he were about to deflate. “No, I would not ask that of you.”
We were at the exit, a trapdoor to the surface.
“Then what do you want?”
“For you to let your hatred of this church die with me,” he said. “I was the Reclaimer who allowed your father to be executed upon our steps, and it was a mistake. I’ve regretted it for the past ten years. We had always been neutral in politics, but… but I was driven by ambition unbefitting someone of my rank. It was my mistake, Michael. Not that of the church.”
“So?”
The Reclaimer looked me in the eye. “So please let this church begin anew with your family once my journey is over. Your brother and sister—”
“Lyon and Gwen are not me. And I am not them. Don’t think otherwise.”
“Then maybe one day I can earn your forgiveness.”
“Try asking God, because you won’t get it from me.”
I left through the trapdoor without another word, the bite from the cold air prickling my skin.
I’d emerged far from the church at the end of the Gr
eat Stone Square, the exit obscured by bushes and trees. The crowd of looters had grown since I had entered, the fire from their torches and the glints of their blades as abundant as the stars in the sky above. Many were howling for the church to open their doors and surrender the piece of Celona. I could see monks guarding the shattered window, others beginning to patch the gaping hole with wood and nails.
It was such a shame that all the looters were wasting their time. I pulled out the piece of Celona I had pickpocketed from the Reclaimer when I had fallen against him. It was a little heavier and bigger than anything I was used to stealing from Low Nobles, but I had done it nonetheless.
Maybe I should have cared what was going to happen to the church more, now that I had what everyone was after, but I didn’t. The Church of the Wanderer would survive, as it always had, with or without my intervention. It could burn to the ground for all I cared.
With the piece of Celona tucked safely back in my jacket, I started back to Ryder Keep. Maybe I could stop somewhere along the way and see if it spoke to me. For the moment, though, as far as walks went, this one wasn’t the worst I had ever had the pleasure of taking. My path wound along the riverbanks of the Isle and across the western bridge, a steady mist rising from the water and trees lining the path.
As I crossed the bridge I saw clouds pass in front of the only visible moon tonight and slowly obscure the starlight, and suddenly everything became colder and darker. The mist seemed to slowly creep toward me as if it were reaching for my ankles, and the lantern light flickered and went out, plunging the bridge into an endless night. And ahead of me, emerging out of the mist, I saw two figures in the middle of the bridge, blocking my path.
They wore little more than rags, which made me appreciate the clothes on my back—until I noticed the hefty pieces of wood they were wielding. Behind them was a more elegantly dressed figure laden with gold chains and a fur-lined cloak. My breath was white and wispy as it escaped my lips.
“You’re going to make my life worse, aren’t you?” I asked, still some distance from them.
“Give us the stone!” the one on the left demanded, in a voice as rough as the water flowing down the river.
“Excuse me?”
“Moon stone! We saw you leave! It’s in your pocket!” the right-hand one, a woman, shrieked.
My cold hands found solace in my pockets, one hand holding the piece of Celona tightly. The river ran beneath me, the flow of the water a steady sound I could focus on. “I think you’re mistaken.”
The woman made a clicking noise and turned to the elegant man behind her like a child would their mother.
With a sigh he said, “Why don’t we check your pockets to make sure?”
“I don’t think so, but thank you for asking first.”
“I apologize if you thought you had a choice. Either let us, or my associates will smash your skull in and then check.”
There were enough people out to get me in this city that someone could have sent them after me, but it seemed more likely these were simple bandits who’d seen a chance to grab a piece of Celona.
“As tempting an offer as that is, I think I’ll just go back the way I came, and you can forget you saw me,” I said, taking a few steps backwards.
There was a clanking on the cobbles behind me, and two more visitors in rags blocked the other side of the bridge. They were armed with weapons, rusted steel instead of wood.
So much for running away.
The elegant man said, “Have you decided which option you want to take yet?”
“I think so. Oh, before this begins,” I continued, “just so I’m aware, none of you are working for a Mercenary, the Corrupt Prince, or a man named Trey, right?”
They turned their heads slightly to steal a glance at each other, confused by my words.
“Take it from him,” the elegant man said, his face expressionless.
All four rushed me at once. I dodged the first swing from a rusted sword but took the second and third hit from the wooden weapons in my stomach and back. I was pummeled, despite my best efforts not to be, as I moved toward the edge of the bridge. Not wanting to die like this, I did the only thing I could.
I vaulted the barrier and dove into the river.
Water surrounded me. I flailed in any direction, attempting to find the surface again. Instead my feet found the bottom, my boots sinking into the mud. Bubbles escaped my lips and I pushed off the bottom hard, swimming frantically. My head broke through the surface and I inhaled, lungs burning.
My head bobbed in the water, struggling to stay afloat. The current began to quicken, running faster downstream as I flowed with it. Water crashed over my head, forcing me down, then brought me up and slammed me right back down in a torturous formula. My lungs might as well have been filled with barbed wire, with every breath bringing as much pain as it did relief.
The waves continued to batter me until my head fell beneath the surface and didn’t break again. My body sank to the bottom as if it were made of lead. At the bottom of the river Jamal, Gwen, Kai, Domet, Naomi, Dark, Lyon, Kayleigh, Chloe, the Corrupt Prince, Trey, Angelo, Sirash, and the girl in red were all waiting for me. They stood around me in a circle, almost as if they were preparing to hear my last words. Their eyes had all been replaced with black voids. But even so, their mere presence was more than enough to comfort me.
As the last bubbles left my lips, I no longer shivered. Instead I felt warm, so warm, warmer than I had ever been before. My body felt light, as if it were being carried on the backs of clouds. The pain in my body vanished along with any worries or fears.
I had never felt so at ease as I did in that moment, accepting my fate.
There was a crash as a black mist of nothingness broke the ranks of everyone I knew. Jamal and Sirash dispersed in a haze as the black nothingness cut through them, and it surrounded me, tugging at my chest and arms. The pain returned soon after, slapping me out of the world that had formed around me in that time. I screamed and screamed with no voice except for the gurgles of water filling my mouth and nose. I screamed for my warm world. I screamed for the solace I had found. And I screamed knowing I would never find it again.
My throat was raw and I was colder than before. The night’s air was making me shiver in place of the river water. I coughed harshly, rolling over to my side before throwing up water back into the river. The stones on the road felt like hot knives in my back.
A girl with wet hair was kneeling beside me, panting. Her electric-blue eyes were staring at my own. “Michael! Michael! Wake up!”
It took me a moment to recognize her, but I only knew one girl with eyes like that: Naomi Dexter of Scales. Coughing, I reached into my pocket and fumbled for the piece of Celona, hoping it was still there. I pulled it out a moment later, and it shone in the pale moonlight.
“Michael, what happened to you?”
I could only groan.
THE BOY AND THE WOLF
After pulling me out of the river, getting me back on my feet, and wrapping me in a smoke-stained cloak, Naomi led me through the streets of Hollow, headed toward someplace she claimed would be able to take care of me. In all semblance and reason, I shouldn’t have been alive. I had coughed up so much water in the minutes after, I’d been unable to stand, let alone walk in a straight line. My eyes were glazed over and I was cold, so cold. It pervaded my entire body, from the tips of my fingers to the core of my heart, leaving me in a veil of uncertainty and doubt, my imagination mixing with the truth to form some hybrid creation. It made me wonder if this was how my mother lived every day.
I remember walking down the streets of Hollow, my right arm slung over Naomi as she berated me with questions. They blended together in my ears, merging into the soft sounds of her sweet, crisp voice. It reminded me of a long-forgotten lullaby I had heard as a child that made my chest feel light, allowing me to drift away to somewhere I was always warm.
Lost within my memories of that lullaby, my mind wavered. I staggered int
o a building’s wall and collapsed against it, fighting the urge to vomit. While I fought to keep my stomach’s contents in place, Naomi was screaming at someone as the wind picked up around us.
As quickly as that began, things changed. One moment we were in the streets of Hollow and the next we were in a small room. I was lying on a stiff bed, devoid of most of my clothes except for my underwear, blankets up to my chin. Naomi was sitting in a chair next to me, dabbing my forehead with a wet cloth. The moment after the cloth touched me, it would become drier than sand, grating my forehead, peeling away layers of skin.
Suddenly there were two people standing over me with lanterns and tongs. One lifted the arm I wasn’t using as the other examined it. “Type three–class infection here, sir,” the holder said.
The other man traced the muscles in my arm with ink as if marking me for a butcher. “Shame, really,” the other said. “No hope of recovery?”
He shook his head and dropped my arm. It hit the ground with a heavy thud. “Negative. Burn and mark it.”
“Gladly.” They grabbed the blankets at the foot of the bed and brought them over my head. It was a wave of infinite darkness that crashed over my face, drowning me. I screamed and screamed, but my voice was caught in my throat. The darkness veiled me, forcing me to accept its will. The cold returned, stronger than ever, and I lay there helpless, once again submitting to whatever my fate would be.
No.
That wasn’t how it had been.
I opened my eyes, warmer than before, and pushed the upper half of my body up, forcing the darkness to retreat. The room around me shattered like broken glass. Cement and nails and stone crumbled away until eventually it was only me and the bed I was on in the middle of a wooded area. Climbing out of the bed was harder than I thought it would be, my knees barely as strong as wet paper. The trees around me were thick and sprawling, roots entangling everything around the trunks while the leafy tops were completely out of view. Even if it was daytime, I wouldn’t know. Shadows inhabited this place as if they were born into it and had never needed to fear the sun.