A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  “This temple isn’t on top of a hill on top of a hill, is it?” How much pomp could one gaggle of merchant nobles need?

  “Funny you should ask,” the monk wheezed in good humor.

  He groaned, earning another laugh.

  “Come on,” the monk encouraged, setting off towards a side road. “I know a short cut.”

  They walked in silence for a ways, the loudest noise the rhythmic clunking of Neever’s walking staff on the cobbles. He stared at the foreign buildings they passed, not really missing home.

  He’d survived long after most of his peers had gone to salt the sand, getting by on gall, guile and wit but mostly on instinct. So when the itch between his shoulders started clamoring for his attention, he began casting cautious glances in every direction.

  “Say, Neever?”

  “Hm?”

  “You know that thing where you said you were testing me to see how I would do under pressure?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re done with those kinds of tests, right?”

  “Yes, of course.” The priest seemed to consider. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if these men aren’t with you, then I think we’re in trouble.”

  Neever whirled.

  “What m–”

  But the question answered itself, though he crooked a thumb over his shoulder just in case. “Those.”

  Two hooded figures were just emerging from an alley thirty paces behind them. Their cloaks billowed like vulture’s wings as they seemed to hop toward their prize. The two moved to opposite sides of the road as they neared, flanking Neever and him.

  Boot scuffs on the flagstones up ahead announced two more figures coming down the winding road, boxing them in. Purposeful strides said they weren’t out for an evening stroll.

  “Friends of yours?” he whispered hopefully. The monk’s head shook tightly, eyes fixed on the pair snaking down the hill.

  He shrugged one shoulder, sheathed knives straining like hounds at their leashes. “Then you should get out of that heavy backpack,” he suggested, feeling the old mix of fear and excitement stir to life in his belly.

  With a pained expression the monk shrugged out of the thick shoulder straps, lowering the bulky pack to the ground.

  Straightening, the man planted the walking stick, throwing arms wide in a peaceable gesture that made evident the temple robes.

  He groaned. He’d seen this pose once before, performed by the failed priest and leper, Amm. And though it may have worked on drunk farm boys, it was about to get the both of them throat-slit. He withdrew his arms inside his robes. They’d be cumbersome in a fight.

  “Brothers,” Neever entreated loudly when the figures had drawn closer.

  Not trusting to diplomacy, he put his back to the monks’s, watching the other pair step from the gloom. One was a woman, the deep corners of her mouth bracketing a twisted smirk. The other was enormous, head and shoulders taller than Neever, with fat jowls disappearing into a thick neck. A club the size of his leg swung easily from the giant’s grip.

  “This one’s a woman,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Brothers, sister,” the monk tried again as the four drew to a halt at half a dozen paces, “there is no need for this. Whatever we have, you are welcome to. Kindly let us pass and–”

  The woman’s eyes flashed the instant before she attacked, long-knives leaping for his chest and throat. His own knives blurred into his hands and he danced around her, leaving his surprised robes behind.

  He scored his shorter blade along her forearm as she barreled past. Hissing in fury and pain, she whirled in a low crouch, keeping her distance now her surprise attack had failed.

  He turned to keep her and the giant both in view, aware of the hiss of steel on leather from where Neever stood.

  I hope I wasn’t wrong about you being more dangerous than you look, monk.

  The club tore through the air with a tortured whumming. He skipped aside as the ugly, iron studded collar struck sparks from the flagstones. Tossing the club about like a twig, the giant swung again.

  He judged the blow carefully and, rather than jump back, leaned out of the way. Its passage plucked at the ends of his hip jacket and hair as he rolled back on his heels.

  He gave the bastard no chance to recover. He lunged into the gap, careful to keep the giant between him and the woman, and buried his knife to the hilt under the man’s arm. He cursed as he felt the short blade bite nothing but blubber. Yanking it out elicited only a pained grunt.

  The return swing threatened to splatter him across the three nearest buildings. He rolled beneath it, trying to move behind the man so he could get a stab at the fat neck. Under the giant’s arm, he caught a glimpse of Neever holding the other two at bay with that ridiculous walking staff. But he could spare the monk no aid.

  Having seen her chance, the woman rushed in again, knives angled to find his vitals. But the two hadn’t timed their attacks. He leapt from beneath the giant’s next swing, watching as the woman danced frantically to avoid it. With the both of them off balance, he darted in to dig his knife into the back of the giant’s knee. The leg crumpled immediately and he surrendered his knife to the constricting folds of flesh.

  The giant’s eyes were shut against the pain of a cobble-cracked kneecap. They sprang open again as a knife found his exposed neck, going high to stick behind the jaw.

  His knife scraping bone, he wrenched it free. The giant toppled like a felled tree.

  The woman screamed, the tenor of her curse easy to understand. The fat one had been her man. They’d been a bad pairing, with non-complimentary fighting styles. They would have done better to switch partners with their accomplices. Now one of them was dead and the other likely to follow.

  Spitting her fury, the woman charged him again. Within the first few exchanges, it was obvious who was the better fighter. Her knives were just knives to her. She’d probably never had to fight a duel against a proper knife hand. Real knife duels were ugly and messy. She screamed as he laid open her cheek, the third such cut in as many breaths. He danced around her, slashing down to nick her lead leg before she could twist out of the way. She came at him more warily then and they feinted around each other. She made the mistake of leaning too close and he flashed forward to rake his blade along her foremost hand’s knuckles. It was a negligible wound but it would slick her knife handle and threaten her grip.

  Catching her breath, she stumbled back.

  Behind him, the dull ring of metal on wood and the frenzied scuff of feet gave no clues as to how Neever was faring. His attention was all for his own opponent. He saw her cast a glance past his shoulder to the other battle. The will to fight fled her eyes. She whirled to follow suit.

  He was on her before she’d taken her second step. Survival was the game here, not only today but tomorrow. Things like not stabbing people in the back and not killing women were for people who were sure what tomorrow would bring.

  He wasn’t.

  Yanking her back by her hair, he planted his knife deep, finding her kidney. It would send her body into instant shock. She probably didn’t even feel the half a dozen other stabs he added in quick succession. Letting the corpse collapse, he wheeled to see whether Neever was dead yet.

  The knife in his left settled on guard, his right ready to throw…

  But the monk didn’t need any help, despite the two assailants’ concerted efforts. The monk’s oaken staff was a blur, slapping at the assaulting broadswords with metallic retorts. He stared in fascinated awe as the priest spun and ducked around the attacks. A little girl’s ribbon, caught in a gale, would move much the same. The staff whirred to bite the feet out from under the nearest assailant. The man was still falling when its other end descended to find his head, slamming the body into the ground.

  He’s dead.

  Live people didn’t bounce like that.

  Taking advantage of the demise of an accomplice, the other one lunged.

  A sandal
ed foot snaked from under priestly robes to hammer a jaw. The oaken staff caught the stumbling man going the other way, crunching into the neck. Head sitting at an unhealthy angle, the swordsman staggered off senseless feet and collapsed, raising dust.

  The sudden silence in the wake of the scuffle was very loud.

  Breathing hard, hands resting on the grounded staff, the monk turned to regard him wordlessly. Regret was plain in the man’s eyes. The silence stretched as they stared at each other.

  “A monk, huh?” he volunteered finally.

  “All my life,” Neever confirmed.

  He pointedly raked his gaze over the two dead men.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He kept a wary eye on that innocuous staff as he backed to where the dead woman lay. He scooped the knives from her dead hands. The weapons were long and curved and much too ostentatious. The polished hilts were worked into the shapes of eagles or falcons or some such bird. Ornithology was not a hobby of his. And the pommels were each capped by a large pearl. Stupid. No wonder she hadn’t been able to fight worth a damn. But the blades looked to be Heli steel. Quite a coup. He crouched to retrieve the sheaths as well.

  He was deep in thought as he rose to shove them through his sash, casting a speculative eye over the dead woman and her unfortunate compatriots. This didn’t feel like a mugging. Who’d believe that monks, especially ones as travel stained as Neever and himself, had anything of value? Hirelings of the dark mage, then? Maybe but… It felt different. It lacked the sinister intent he’d previously experienced. He snorted at the thought. As if any attempt to kill him could be anything but sinister.

  Although. Maybe he was being too egocentric about this. He hadn’t necessarily been the target, he might just have been in the way. He glanced at Neever. The man stood staring at the scattered bodies, expression hooded by regret.

  “I think,” he told the man, “it’s time you told me what I’ve gotten myself into.”

  Somewhere, not too far off, the hollow shrill of a whistle rose into the night air.

  “That is, perhaps, a conversation best left for another time,” the monk evaded. “Unless you’d care to explain these bodies to the watch?” The sound of whistles could now be heard clearly, distant as yet, but closing fast. He hesitated, torn between his need for answers and his very pressing need to stay out of prison.

  Neever stood patiently awaiting his answer as the whistles sped nearer.

  “Fine,” he snapped, gathering up his discarded robe as the monk gathered the heavy pack. “But when this is over, you and I are going to have a long talk.”

  “Helia willing,” the man equivocated, leading them at a jog into a nearby alley.

  “She’d better be…” he muttered under his breath, speeding after the man. Otherwise she’s going to come up one monk short.

  It was a tense, roundabout journey to the temple atop the hill. They were both winded long before they made their way around to the inconspicuous side door. A monk with a shaven crown cracked the door in response to their frantic knocks. Upon recognizing Neever, a smile informed the man’s serene expression and he pulled the door wide.

  “Bariel,” Neever nodded warmly, stepping forward to clap the monk on the shoulder. “How have you been?”

  The monk – Bariel? – gave an enthusiastic nod but did not speak.

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” Neever apologized. The top-shaven man shrugged one shoulder indifferently. “Oh, forgive me. Manners,” Neever continued. “This is Master Olu.”

  “Hi,” he told the silent monk, receiving another wordless smile and a slight bow in return.

  “Bariel,” Neever said, drawing the man’s attention again, “it’s urgent that I speak to Father Pesclior. Is he still up?” The mute monk’s lips pursed pensively, though they were readily beckoned inside and the door closed behind them. They followed him up a marble staircase, dimly lit by ornate lanterns hung from carved pillars.

  Glancing around, taking in the glint of gold leaf and the muted sparkle of precious stones in the gloom, he sighed. This would have been a place worth robbing. He was unsure if alley law applied this far from home. Still, you didn’t steal from someone who offered you sanctuary. His gaze shifted to the back of the silent specter who led them along the darkened corridor.

  “Does he ever speak?” he finally directed at Neever. Bariel did not seem to take offense at being excluded from the conversation.

  “He has taken a vow of silence,” Neever explained.

  He cast Bariel a quizzical glance. Feeling his gaze, the man peeked over one shoulder, eyes crinkling in a smile.

  “Real talkative bunch aren’t you?” he commented wryly, thinking of Neever’s reticent reserve. Neever said nothing. Up ahead, Bariel’s shoulders shook in silent mirth. “How long is the vow for?” he wondered out loud.

  “He hasn’t said,” Neever supplied cryptically as Bariel led them deeper into the temple. The doors here were carved and polished, looking expensive. “He’d have you believe he took it to advance his continuing quest for enlightenment,” Neever’s crooked smile said this was an old point of contention. “But really, he just didn’t want to compete with me at choir anymore.” Bariel wagged a warning finger above a humble shoulder, cautioning Neever. Or perhaps agreeing with him. It was impossible to tell.

  Wonder if he has all his balls and pinky toes…

  Nothing distinguished the heavy door they came to from any of the others along the passage. Bariel motioned with both hands for them to wait. Ducking through the door without knocking, the man disappeared into the dark room beyond.

  I suppose priests don’t lock. “Where is he going?”

  “To announce us, I imagine,” Neever said with a straight face.

  He cast the monk a disbelieving look. “How? The man can’t talk.”

  “Oh, he can,” the priest assured him, unperturbed, “he just chooses not to.”

  “You’d know all about that,” he muttered, moving to lean against the wall.

  Lantern light spilled into the corridor as the door opened. Bariel stuck a smiling head out, waving them in.

  The wood paneled office was well lit by the combined efforts of four mirrored lanterns. A collection of framed drawings, unpainted and unfinished, crusted the walls. A stuffed owl sat on the unoccupied desk, staring at them with the most intensely startled expression he’d ever seen. It was slightly unnerving, in fact. The whole place smelled strongly of bitter pipe smoke.

  A side door opened. He’d expected someone statuesque, like Am, or cherubic, like Plunket. He hadn’t expected a hard-bitten, sinewy old man with the yellowed beard. He’d especially not expected to see a nightgown, peeking from beneath hastily donned robes, or askew sleeping cap.

  “Oh, it’s you,” the newcomer grumped upon seeing Neever. The priest’s voice was gravelly, thick with sleep and phlegm. Slippered feet stomped over to the desk where the man threw himself down into the chair, which creaked. “It figures,” the priest growled at them. “First time in almost twenty years I fall asleep on the first try. Of course someone would come and shake me awake.” These words, and a dark look, were directed at the silent monk. The one who’d done the shaking. “Thank you, Brother Bariel, you may go.”

  The monk bowed wordlessly. Pausing in the act of backing through the door, Brother Bariel motioned meaningfully at his head.

  Pesclior growled around yellowed teeth and ripped the forgotten cap from his wispy head. Instead of being lobbed at the departed monk, the bobbled cap was tossed onto the tabletop with a sigh.

  Regarding the two of them speculatively, the old man disappeared beneath the desk. There was the sound of a drawer sliding open. A dark green bottle clinked and sloshed as it was deposited next to the crumpled sleeping cap. A single glass followed. Pesclior bobbed up above the desk again. The bottle echoed hollowly as its cork was pried out with yellow teeth and three fingers’ worth poured into the waiting glass. Drink in hand, the priest sat back with a grunt, scowling at the two
of them defensively.

  “For my heart,” Pesclior explained. “Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is, having a man who makes no noise suddenly grip your shoulder in the dead of night?” The priest shivered, downing a swallow. “Mother’s mercy, I near pissed myself.”

  He suppressed a laugh. This was a priest? And judging from the office, quite an important one to boot.

  “Father,” Neever greeted the sour faced man, “you look well. It has been a long time.”

  “Ha!” the man breathed, sitting straighter in the chair. “Not long enough. And don’t you pander to me, sonny.” The drink sloshed dangerously in Neever’s direction. “I look like a sheep’s wooly arsehole. And well do I know it!”

  He smiled inwardly, liking the man already.

  “Now,” Pesclior said, glare dimming to a glower as the old chair creaked back. “What’s all this about?” The man cast a curious glance at him. “I trust you haven’t dragged me from my bed for an urgent discussion on the price of grain?”

  Unoffended by the man’s abrasive manner, Neever drew forth a letter. Pesclior snatched it, reaching for a pair of wire framed spectacles. Balancing them precariously on the bridge of a porous nose, the priest tore at the wax seal.

  “Sit,” they were absently commanded as the priest peered through the half-moon lenses.

  He sat in one of two chairs facing the desk, turning it so he could watch Pesclior as well as Neever. Something crackled alarmingly as he lowered himself. Keeping a straight face, he reached beneath him and extracted a small bushel of some kind of weeds or flowers. They were long dead and withered. Neever gave him a commiserating glance. Finally, he noticed there were framed sketches on all the walls. They seemed to be hand drawn depictions of plants and herbs, taking pains to show roots, leaves and flowers. Pesclior was too engrossed in the letter to have noticed his transgression, so he let the bushel drop circumspectly to the floor. He shoved it beneath the desk with his foot.