by A Van Wyck
Attackers, he corrected.
–were forced back into the alley from which they spilled, fouling each other’s steps. He darted in, sword singing.
A dagger clattered to the ground amid the gentler thrap of severed fingers rebounding from wood. His assailant reeled shrilly, robbed of will and digits.
Lunging into the gap, his sword sought the throat of the second man, who was promptly bowled over by his careening companion.
His sword scored jaw instead of jugular. The falling tangle of limbs exposed the far end of the alley, where a third figure stepped into view, raising a short bow with arrow nocked.
A heartfelt curse can be a soldier’s prayer.
The driving shaft nearly bit the sword from his grip. His desperate, one handed parry yielded – ludicrously – a curled wooden shaving.
Can’t believe that worked, he thought vaguely.
The curved orin was not meant for throwing but it sailed obediently from his other hand. To bounce ineffectually from the archer’s shoulder. The man jumped like a speared salmon anyway, fumbling a second shaft to the dirt. In the panicked moment it took the would-be assassin to realize he had not been impaled, the masha’na had closed the distance to the fallen men. The one with the maimed hand was beyond noticing, trapped in a whimpering world of pain.
His sword licked across the man’s neck. The dead man still lay atop the legs of the other, who gave up all attempts to scrabble free and flailed with a dagger at the approaching masha’na. Temple forged steel sheared through a whole forearm and the front of a skull in a single, well timed pass.
Realizing there was no time to nock another arrow, the archer dropped the bow and grabbed desperately for a shortsword. Temple steel punched through the man’s sternum before the bow had had time to bounce.
In the space of half a dozen breaths, three dead men lay cooling in the alley. He straightened, senses alive for any further threat...
…and noticed the feathered dart sticking from his upper arm.
“Aww, f–”
The world tilted around him. He threw out a steadying hand but the intended wall disappeared from under it. He found himself on his side in the dust. Trying – inanely, his failing consciousness said – to remember the last time he’d had a good steak.
Replacing her blowpipe up her sleeve, Annochria stepped from the shadows to stand above the dead masha’na. From there, her dainty feet carried her heavy body around the pools of blood. Here now lay proof of her ignored cautions. A handful of Renali soldiers were nowhere near enough to bring down a Heli holy warrior. But where the element of surprise had failed (quite predictably) misdirection had succeeded.
She stooped to pluck her poisoned dart from the masha’na’s arm. Pity was alien to her but, even were she capable of it, she’d feel none for these fools. They’d held the masha’na’s attention, albeit unwittingly, long enough for her to do her work. Their loss was miniscule compared to that of a Temple warrior. Both losses were dwarfed by the value of the information that was the goal of this evening’s endeavor.
She turned her flat gaze in the direction Keeper Wisenpraal had gone.
It had taken meticulous planning to arrange this ambush. An empath was difficult prey to stalk at the best of times and this Justin was rumored to be even more sensitive than most. She’d taken the maximum known range of an empath’s ability and doubled it, then doubled it again, taking no chances. Arrogance had defeated her suggestions concerning the masha’na bodyguard. But the Renali’s bred-in-the-bone fear of all things magical had insured compliance on the matter of the keeper. She’d instructed them concerning safe distances of pursuit and other precautions.
The aftertaste of the violence just done here was fading into the hungry night.
For a brief moment, she felt the play of eyes over her skin. She spun, her pick-blade dropping from her sleeve to her palm. But she did not fan its cruel, sickle-beak open. The night was empty around her, the alleys silent but for the distant barking of a hound. Slowly the feeling of being watched subsided. But she was not fooled.
Her rendezvous would have to wait. Wary eyes darting beneath heavy lids, she made her way from the alley.
Daintily.
He nodded a distracted greeting to the gate guards as he passed. The pressure of many more minds crept up on his mental barriers as he neared the city proper. He had his satchel over his shoulder, containing his focusing crystal and what medicines and elixirs he’d thought to bring. He marched purposely through the darkening streets, his thoughts turning again to the dilemma of Marco. It seemed, no matter what precautions he took, he was unable to protect the boy from danger. If he were a man to believe in fate, he would have suspected some dark skein of destiny plucking the boy towards disaster. He could not even offer peace of mind, though he’d debated sharing at least some of his suspicions with Marco. The boy’s forthrightness – laid alongside the mystery of the Renali sword – had demanded it days ago.
But the boy was so young! He should not have to shoulder such burdens just yet. Added to which, he was not trained for diplomacy. For all his intellect, the boy led with his heart and bore it for all to see. There was no guarantee Marco could keep a straight face in a game of subterfuge.
Knowledge was dangerous. He knew that better than most.
But even the boy’s guilelessness could work to their advantage.
It had been a simple thing to – quite literally – tie a magical string to the sword Marco had brought him. In his naiveté, the boy had gone prancing around the palace with it. Giving no thought to the eyes that saw and the ears that heard. He’d foreseen someone might come looking for the sword after that.
So, whilst tying the boy’s bandage, he’d winkled out a thread to tie to the sword’s pommel. All it had required was a trickle of power. And a complicated knot. The two halves, the sword’s scrap of bandage and the knot even now resting in a fold of his robes, called to each other like iron filings. Taken from the same cloth, the mechanics of the spell were not much different from the lock-and-keys made by the chapter wardsmiths. The structure of the knot simply replaced the arcane etching. Cyrus’s yarn-charm had given him the idea.
Lacking the ordered structure and consistency of metal to hold it, the spell’s power should have drained quickly. He had no idea why it had not. The spell that should have lasted a few bells had lasted days. The next magical confluence was only now arriving (according to Cyrus’s schedule).
And then, last night, he’d finally felt the thread he’d tied tug at him. He’d traced the sword’s path after it had been removed from Marco’s room.
He’d discovered new strands in this complicated web. Thrown into this more unforgiving light, they revealed a more malign design. It was fraught with unforeseen enemies and – possibly – unexpected allies. He would have to adopt a more pro-active approach. And he would have to find some way of insulating young Marco from the possible fallout of failure. Whatever else happened, he would keep the boy safe.
This time.
The encroaching darkness forced him to slow his pace as he continued down the mostly deserted streets. The old man who’d approached him in the palace had been bent double with the weight of worry for an ailing wife. Without the both of them toiling for their meager coins, they’d been forced from their home and into these slums. The remainder of their savings had gone to healers who’d promised a swift recovery that never came.
The old man had given succinct directions to the quarter named Rat Alley. It was wedged between industrial warehouses on one side and enormous, tiered graveyards on the other. He found the dwelling easily, taking care as he knocked on the door not to break it in half. The cracks in the badly fitted boards showed clearly the figure he heard shuffling towards the door.
“You came,” the old man rasped, surprise muted behind a wall of weariness.
He nodded. The old man shuffled inside, motioning for him to follow. He paused to confirm his masha’na escort had halted somewhere out in th
e darkness before ducking inside after the old man.
The furnishings were scant. A lone cot was pressed up against the back wall. A disreputable table stood in the corner. Between them they took up most of the space inside the shack. It was crowded, with three people squeezed inside. The crude lamp atop the table filled the close air with the smell of burning fish oil. By its dubious light, he made out the figure lying on the cot:
Lank grey hair spilled from threadbare blankets amid the sound of labored breathing. There was only the single bed and he realized the old man must sleep on the bare earthen floor, probably huddled in no more than the thin coat the he stood in.
Moving to the bedside, he unslung his satchel and knelt. With gentle hands he combed the sweat matted hair from the old woman’s face. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes unfocused. Leathery skin puckered around her lips and caved in around toothless gums. Her jaw hung slack, her breathing a holed bellows.
Even without a magical examination he could tell the woman had ring cough. His moment of pity was marred by anger, towards those other healers who’d told the old man any different. Only three in four young, healthy people survived ring cough and, even then, some never truly regained their full strength. For an old woman such as this… The old man had spent their last coin bribing healers into selling any diagnosis other than the obvious one.
“It’s the wasting wet,” he said, using the local name for ring cough. Behind him, he felt the old man’s despondency plummet (not far) towards the waiting grief. He regretted causing more pain.
“Thank you for coming anyway,” the man rasped tonelessly.
“Let’s not give up hope yet,” he chided, reaching into his satchel for his focusing crystal. This would be delicate work. He pushed the massed blankets to one side. The prostrate woman’s clothes hung on her skeletal frame. Eyes closed, he intoned a brief prayer and touched the crystal to his brow.
This was most unwise. Even if he could heal the old woman, she couldn’t have more than a handful of years left, if that. And the effort would weaken him terribly. But he couldn’t, in good conscience, allow the old man to surrender to despair. Not if there were even a chance he could prevent it.
He stilled, concentrating, blocking out all but the old woman before him. With incremental slowness, he lowered his face to the old woman’s. He matched their breathing, drawing in the breath that wheezed from her, exhaling when her tired lungs struggled to drag it back. He could taste the rotting sickness on her breath. It stuck cloyingly to the back of his tongue. He let his body take up the rhythm of their breathing. When they were perfectly in sync, his heart matching the stuttering pace of her own, he exhaled a breath of power. He rode the air down her raw throat and into her blighted lungs. It mixed with her thin blood to travel the pathways to her infected organs.
She was in a very sorry state.
He broadened his focus until he became aware of the thousands upon thousands of miniscule processes her body. It was failing, slowly devouring itself. No fully conscious mind could hold this much information all at once, it could only be grasped intuitively and even then, never fully. He reached back to include his own corporeal self, experiencing a moment of vertigo as his single mind instinctively shied from having two separate bodies.
He began breathing his own life force into her, slowly at first so as not to strain her already exhausted flesh. It was much like breathing on an ember – provided you couldn’t inhale between gusts. Carefully, he coaxed her flagging cells into motion, awakening her degenerating organs to their respective roles. He poured his vitality into her, sacrificing his own health to arm her immune system. Through his mind’s eye, he watched as the toxins in her body were slowly broken down. He concentrated most on her lungs, burning out the infection and strengthening the tissues. Time ceased to have any meaning.
Finally he was done and back in his own body.
With some effort, he brought his breathing back under control. Sweat dripped from his face as the fading light of the focusing crystal surrendered to the dubious glow of the fish lamp. The old woman was conscious, unmuddled eyes staring at him. He watched the confused lines of her brow slowly give way to wonderment as she took stock of her body. Her breathing had eased, her chest had cast off its pain. He smiled down at the wrinkled face that was already less sallow.
He stumbled trying to stand. The old man steadied him with rough hands. The same disbelief and wonder were sketched on the shared glance between wife and husband. A fresh blossoming of abiding love saturated the room, salving his senses if not his body.
When the old man finally turned to him, he saw the frown that plucked at that lined brow. He knew what the man was seeing: hollowed cheeks, sallow pallor, haggard eyes. Realization dawned. The steadying hand clamped tighter about his arm. The tears suddenly swimming in the old eyes were at odds with an irrepressible smile. The old man nodded thanks, all the more profound for being wordless.
“Priest.” The voice was rough with disuse and remembered pain. He turned to the cot. The old woman had raised herself on one elbow, her other hand, gnarled and withered with years of hard work, extended invitingly towards him. Careful of his balance, he stepped towards her, lowering his face for her to cup his cheek in one callused hand. The depth of her gratitude washed over him. “Thank you,” she said simply.
He smiled, “Don’t– ” he began, meaning to tell her not to exert herself for a time yet.
His escort’s sudden death rocked him back on his heels. The cautionary words died on his lips. He quested outward with his extra sense, horror washing through him at what he felt coming his way. In a flash, he understood.
The perfect trap.
He straightened quickly, casting a glance over these poor, innocent people who’d been used as bait. For him. It was too late for the masha’na but hopefully he could still save these two. The ones coming for him wouldn’t leave witnesses. Whirling, he walked past the old man, who stared at him in mild shock. He pinched out the lamp’s flame, burning his fingers and plunging them into darkness.
“Don’t make any noise,” he commanded them in an urgent whisper. “And whatever you hear,” he said, locking eyes with the old man in the gloom, “stay inside.” He didn’t wait to see whether they took his warning to heart, lifting the simple rope latch on the door to step outside. He halted in the middle of the road, senses thrown outward.
He heard them before he saw them: footsteps on the gravel road, three pairs. From behind echoed more footsteps and he glanced over his shoulder to see three more cutting off any escape. They needn’t have bothered. He was an old man who didn’t know this city. After the working he’d just done, he’d be in a heap after two steps. He raised his arms out to his sides, to show he was unarmed, and felt them pause in response. They’d been told he wouldn’t be able to stream against them. Even so, they were cautious. This had been well orchestrated. And they were right – he was used up.
Their confidence creeped back as he continued to do nothing.
“Come forward, gentlemen,” he invited. “I won’t resist.”
He sensed their anger at having their hesitation discovered. It spurred them to quicken their pace. He thought he recognized some of the scowling faces. One held ropes at the ready. Another held a halfway drawn bow with arrow nocked. He wondered how many of them it had taken to overcome his masha’na.
“No,” the foremost one promised, voice hard and face belligerent, “you won’t.”
“What does your mistress want with me?” he queried. The ropes meant he probably wouldn’t die here but he couldn’t be sure of that. He scattered what little power he had left about himself. It was a weak working and leaked just a little peace and calm into the surrounds.
“Not so dangerous after all,” the spokesman gleefully ignored him.
He opened his mouth to give assurances, sensing too late the underlying intention – many men were calm and at peace whilst doing violence. The blow caught him on the side of the jaw. He didn’t feel th
e ground hitting him.
* * *
“Explain it to me again,” he huffed in frustration.
They were in a little used chamber, somewhere in the bowels of the gargantuan temple that dominated the skyline of Tellar. He’d been stuck in the same two rooms for the better part of a week and he was going a little stir crazy, he knew. Added to which, since his fateful meeting with Father – or Cyrus – Neever had been his constant companion and watcher. And he was growing tired of the man’s face.
“I don’t know how else to explain it,” the soft spoken monk shrugged.
“How about in a way that actually makes sense?”
“It is what it is,” the monk maintained.
“You’re telling me,” he challenged, looking again at the complex schematic, “that you know this Seven Deep-place is inside the Lily Tower. You know it continues for at least seven levels. And you know where the main entrance is… But it’s impossible to enter by any way other than the front door?!”
“There is no other way in–”
“You knock down a wall!” He yelled in exasperation, ready to tear one down right now, with his bare hands. “Cut a hole in the floor! Drill through the ceiling! Something…”
“Where? There are no shared walls, no shared floors nor ceilings.”
“How–” he was breathing hard “–is that even possible?!”
For all Neever’s perseverance, the monk’s patience was also wearing thin.
“It is possible,” Cyrus announced himself (neither of them had heard him enter), “because the Lily Tower is a construct of the old world.”
Neever jumped to sandaled feet, shamefaced, to relieve the old man of a heavy satchel. They’d been talking very loudly – and they were supposed to be hiding.