A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  This, then, was where they were holding the keeper. Armed men in unadorned armor stood watch and walked circuits. He began counting heads.

  Six. Ten. Fourteen. More. And those were only the ones he could see.

  More inside, more on the far side.

  They were outnumbered two, possibly three, to one.

  His eyes narrowed on the sentries. Were these also Royal Guard, dressed as bandits? Had some of these men ridden against them the night of the attack, so long ago now? Would attacking these men mean war with the Kingdom?

  He realized he didn’t care. These men had the keeper. They were the enemy. End of discussion. Tension throbbed behind his eyes. The lightheadedness lingered, precursor to a monster migraine. He’d eaten nothing but half a loaf of stale bread in the past day and his blood ran weak. The surrounding forest seemed smudged to his slightly blurred vision but he could see the enemy clearly. They stood out, their movements unnaturally slow to his dry eyes.

  They would die. All of them. They would die.

  He shook his head.

  Those weren’t his thoughts. He didn’t think like that. Father Justin wouldn’t approve. He heard his mentor’s soft voice in his head, telling him such thoughts were beneath him. He wasn’t sure he agreed anymore.

  Sudden thirst raked his throat. His tongue cleaved to his dry palate. He hadn’t been aware he’d been sinking so far into himself until Finch’s whispered question brought him back.

  “Mercenaries?”

  “Maybe,” Christian answered. “Some of them, certainly. But the better armed ones… you see those two standing guard either side of the main doors? Those look like soldiers.”

  “Royal Guard.”

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken until the silence prompted him to look up. Both men were staring at him. Finch’s brows were raised in surprise, Christian’s pulled down, no doubt calculating the political repercussions.

  “That changes things,” Finch muttered.

  “It changes nothing,” he growled, holding Christian’s gaze. The masha’na regarded him calmly, saying naught. Finally, the man nodded.

  “Let’s get back.”

  They crawled cautiously down the slope, straightening when they were far enough away.

  “So?” Bear queried as they cleared the wet fronds.

  “Trouble,” the masha’na captain answered, crouching as the troupe gathered around. In a space cleared of pine needles, Christian drew a rough outline of the fallen monastery and its surrounds. Fixed guard positions were pointed out. A sweeping palm indicated observed patrol routes. Christian kept up a steady stream of words.

  He paid it all no mind. He could not bring himself to listen. He battled a strange fugue that had descended upon him. His mouth swam with saliva that tasted of rust, forcing him to swallow continually. He was unaware that he was weaving slightly on his feet. He registered the grumbling among the masha’na with half an ear.

  “We should wait until nightfall,” someone had just said.

  “No!” Eyes turned on him and, to his own surprise, he didn’t drop his gaze deferentially. He’d fight them, too, if they tried to stop him. He’d go alone. “We can’t wait,” he told them.

  Silence.

  “He’s right,” Leffley put in, leaning on a strung bow. “They’ll soon realize one of their sentries is missing.” The lanky man with the overlarge jaw glanced at Finch.

  “We hid him well but even if they don’t find him, they’ll know something is awry when he doesn’t check in. Then they’ll be on their guard – maybe even send out patrols. Either way, we lose the element of surprise.”

  There were nods.

  “And,” Ryhorn added, “you know they’ll be searching for us in the city. What’s to say they don’t send someone to warn this lot here? Or send a whole regiment of palace guards after us? We can’t watch the whole forest.”

  More nods.

  “No, the quicker the better.”

  “Alright,” Christian agreed, locking eyes with each of his men in turn, “we go now.”

  Those eyes turned, lastly, to Nin. She stood slightly outside the gathering, arms folded and features still obscured.

  “We owe you a lot already,” he told her, “and this isn’t your fight. If you want to sit it out, we’ll understand.”

  Pitiless eyes confronted the leonine masha’na, “You owe me exactly one thousand and one crowns. If you want to cancel the contract that’s fine but I’m still going to collect.”

  Christian directed a surprised grunt and glance at him. An explanation was beyond him but he managed a terse nod.

  “We’re glad to have you, then,” the captain managed in a somewhat strained voice.

  With that the man turned back to the battle plan before them. “Alright everyone, listen close. Here’s how it’s going to go…”

  He crawled along on his stomach, abused muscles stiff and tense. Half a dozen kicks had done little for his half-healed wound. Crawling downhill was not one of the easiest things he’d ever done. Bear was making more of a go at it than he. For all the man’s bulk he seemed to slither easily over the crackling pine needles. Two more masha’na flanked them, sliding quietly down the slope.

  Slipping, he dug his hands into the soft dirt to keep from sliding uncontrollably forward. The smell of the rich black loam intensified as his fingers cut the soil. He shook his head in silence, fighting to bring the slight trembling of his limbs under control. His blood was pumping loudly in his ears and he was too nervous to attempt a calming exercise.

  They reached the densely overgrown ridge-line on the edge of the monastery’s clearing. Crawling beneath the cover of the tall ferns, they stilled, listening intently. The patrolling guards continued on their rounds, oblivious. He risked a peek through the curling leaves.

  They were hidden at an angle from the main doors. When those opened – if Nin was successful – the masha’na would rush in. Christian had brought the truth of the situation home to all of them. The keeper had, in all likelihood, seen these men’s faces. If they knew their game was up, they might slit the priest’s throat rather than risk a rescue being successful. Bear’s group was to get inside and get the keeper out of danger as quick as possible. He’d attached himself to that group, daring anyone to object. The rest of the masha’na would endeavor to prevent reinforcements from entering the building, granting them the opportunity to fight their way out with the keeper in tow. They were then to get to the horses and get out of here while Christian’s group and the archers provided a rearguard.

  It wasn’t a perfect plan but it was the best they had. He might have prayed to Helia for strength – or luck – but his head was a tangled mess with space for only one thought at a time. Get in. Get the Keeper. Get out. He held to that.

  Get in. Get the Keeper. Get out.

  His heart was beating so hard. This had to work, it had to! He peered at the distant doors. Forty paces. Maybe fifty. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe.

  Come on, come on!

  She hated working in daylight. Night was a comforting presence, a reliable friend. Not many people could boast a reliable friend and, truth to tell, she could boast only the one. Saying she was uncomfortable killing in the bright outdoors was to say she was only halfway comfortable. And even when less than perfectly comfortable, she was still more than appallingly efficient.

  Her Shroud swirled about her, rendering the dilapidated hill-fort in swathes of pale greens and grays to her eyes. The magical cloak, coaxed from a centuries’ old graveyard oak, sweated in the morning sun. Like her, it preferred the night and resented this abuse. If she’d had a thimble less skill, the hateful sunlight would have scrubbed the Shroud off her shoulders in an eye-blink. As it was, she was forced to pad along very slowly.

  A sentry with indistinct features and a painfully pulsating life force neared – she and the Shroud also shared a distaste for living things. She held perfectly still, beads of perspiration blooming beneath her leathers as she ba
ttened down the Shroud’s edges. The sentry passed within garroting distance.

  She reached the nearest wall. Bolstered by the shade in the lee of the stone, the Shroud stretched its figurative legs. Extending a hand, she let the dark memories of the oak root her to the crumbling brickwork. And then she was crawling up the sheer wall. She slipped under the eave and swung up onto the roof. The Shroud took a renewed pounding from the direct sun, slackening its grip on the slick, black tiles. She padded ahead on cloven slippers.

  Making her way to the front of the building, she leaned out over the eave to confirm the two sentries were still posted on either side of the main doors. Gauging distances with a practiced eye, she pulled free loops of the reinforced silken cord wound around her forearm. She concentrated as she pinched the ensorcelled rope into ghost knots.

  Done, coiled rope ready in her gloved fist, she stepped to the edge of the roof and released the Shroud – she’d need her full weight for this. Her hand snapped down, the hungry rope coiling away from her like a whip.

  She stepped over the eave.

  Beneath the ferns, he caught his breath as the dark cloud came boiling over the roof. It settled above the main doors. This was a wholly different kind of nightmare.

  “Get ready,” he whispered.

  He heard the three masha’na, blind to what he saw, shift slightly. Feet dug into the mulch and hands closed on sword hilts. The sorcerous fog broke and Nin stood on the very edge of the roof, one arm raised to signal them. As he watched, that arm snapped down. What looked like a length of dark string struck downwards, coiling and twisting like a snake. It snared the guard on the right, who grabbed at the noose, eye whites visible even at this distance. The other had only started to turn when Nin dropped from the roof onto the man’s back. As she fell, the choking guard’s feet left the floor. The unfortunate man kicked wildly as the rope, looped around the protruding eave, drew taught. The assassin made two lightning twists with her arms and leapt away. The surprised guard’s knees hadn’t even had time to buckle beneath her weight before they, too, left the ground. Noosed to different ends of the same rope, the first guard fell three arm-lengths as the second was plucked upwards. Neither could touch a toe to the earth. They hung, twitching feebly. The assassin calmly treated the one, then the other, to a high kick that put an end to their struggles.

  “Helia’s mercy…!” one of the masha’na hissed quietly. He didn’t turn to see who’d said it. He was already on his feet, nerves jangling as he sprang from the cover of the ferns. Arrows zinged overhead and the nearest sentries dropped, one with a bolt through the neck, the other’s cry of alarm choking on pink froth. He hardly saw. He sprinted for the doors, only vaguely aware of others doing the same.

  Nin had cut the dead guards down. She was dragging the last body clear of the entrance, back arched with the effort, when Bear arrived. Stepping past her, the huge masha’na hammered an anvil-sized boot into the double doors. The lock was ancient but solid. The same could not be said for the doors. The splintering wood jumped away into the dark interior and he followed along with the masha’na. Shouts of alarm now also rose from outside as the Temple’s elite closed with the enemy.

  Get in. Get the Keeper. Get out.

  He barreled inside after Bear, sparing no thought for how his eyes instantly adjusted to the gloom. They were in what had once been a main hall, the only light sifting from tall, thin apertures high in the stone.

  At their intrusion, a dozen cursing men started up from crude seats and bedrolls. Most were armored. All were armed. They recovered speedily from their shock.

  He hardly noticed them. His eyes had found and latched on to a single figure. At the back of the large room, atop a knee-high platform, stood a chair. Blindfolded, robes torn and in disarray, Keeper Justin’s arms were lashed to it. One half of the priest’s face was a mottled bruise, all of it caked with blood. An insensate head hung, drooling blood from split lips.

  Drugged, he realized, to prevent streaming.

  He couldn’t help the scream that tore from him. It was half fear, half outrage, “Father!”

  And then the soldiers were on top of them.

  Once, long ago now in a faraway mountain pass, he’d struggled with a terrible bloodlust. He’d promised himself he’d never put himself in such a situation ever again.

  But these men had hurt Justin. Possibly some of them had been in that very mountain pass.

  His sword hummed in his hand, keening to be used.

  He wanted them gone. He wanted them GONE! He screamed again, his voice muted to his own ears. A sword flashed at him. Muscle memory took over. The blade whistled harmlessly overhead as he drove forward. His sword sawed a wide arc to bite into a shoulder. Blood gushed. He struck again and it fountained upwards as a nameless man keeled back into the sudden chaos.

  “Father!”

  His sword bit sparks off enemy steel, throwing his opponents’ faces into sharp relief for brief flashes. He didn’t see them, wasn’t interested in them. All they had to do was be gone. Howling, he chopped at an arm that came within reach, shearing it clean off. Arterial blood spurted as the severed limb tumbled away. Kicking out, he sent the maimed, shrieking man over backwards.

  He slid around stabbing thrusts, turning away wild slashes. He sent his sword chopping left and right, uncaring of whether his opponents were fatally struck or not. They were between him and the keeper. He waded into them, only distantly aware of the masha’na fighting nearby. Pressing forward, he stepped well inside a man’s guard and didn’t even register the terrified expression above the throat he staved in with his fist. Cartilage crumpled. With a rough shove, he propelled the gurgling man into the path of the next. His sword crunched through a skull, bursting an eye, to stick momentarily in a cheekbone. He twisted it savagely free.

  “Father!”

  His sword scythed a wide arc, laying open a man’s chest. Splintered ribs briefly gleamed pink as he reversed his cut, chopping into the man’s neck.

  And suddenly his path was clear. He paid no mind to the fighting still going on around him, his eyes only for the keeper. His sword dipped as his hands trembled, its point slowly sagging to the ground. Facing the brutalized keeper, he felt every drop of blood painting his skin or clothing as a hot accusation. The bloodlust drained from him in an instant, leaving him lightheaded and lost.

  “Father,” he sobbed in a small voice, stepping forward… and stopped as a hand settled on the keeper’s shoulder. He looked up into Luvid’s smiling eyes and gleeful grin. The bodyguard’s sword hissed a slow threat as it slid from its scabbard to dangle from one long fingered hand.

  Devoid of a tourney helm, the full force of that green-eyed gaze forced him a step backward. He shook his head violently, sending drops of blood flying from the ends of his hair. Squaring his shoulders, he raised his sword.

  Expressive lips crooked in a hungry smile.

  He jumped as a restraining hand settled on his shoulder. Christian was blood splattered and breathing hard but seemed hale. The blond commander’s eyes held on Luvid. Stumbling, he let the masha’na interpose himself between the two of them.

  “Let me have this one,” the leonine warrior commanded.

  Sneer stretching wide, Luvid stepped off the platform to stroll toward them, sword dangling recklessly.

  He let Christian tow him as they backed off, drawing Luvid away from the keeper.

  “Go help hold the door,” the masha’na instructed quietly.

  He turned to see they were alone, barring the dead. Sounds of furious fighting came from outside. He hesitated, glancing again at the platform.

  “I’ll handle this,” the masha’na captain promised, pushing him. He backed obediently to the wall but his feet refused to carry him outside and out of sight of the keeper.

  He watched Christian shift to a two handed grip on his weirin. For a single breath, the two swordsmen regarded one another. The masha’na was a line-drawing of cool calm. The bodyguard was a mad sketch of arrogance.<
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  They closed in an instant, Christian rushing in, Luvid’s sword licking out. Metal clanged sonorously, again and again, faster and faster, with no sign of slowing. He felt his eyes slowly widen as he watched the two masters exchange sword blows almost too fast to see. Sparks flew in an unbroken shower as the two pressed each other, circling swiftly, swords a steely blur hanging between them.

  Unable to follow the flying weapons, his eyes flitted to the combatants’ faces. Christian’s brow was pulled down in furious concentration, lips pressed into a tight line. He shifted his gaze to Luvid and felt a moment of fear. The easy smile was unabated, evincing not a smidgen of effort. The bodyguard sparred one-handed, matching strokes with the Temple warrior. Amid the showering embers, the bodyguard seemed on the cusp of bursting into laughter.

  Christian was showing signs of strain, lips pulled in a pained grimace. Their furious pace slowed.

  With a delighted chuckle, Luvid stepped forward, hammering at the masha’na with the blade’s flat. It wasn’t an attack so much as a slap in the face. Even so, the force behind it was frightening. The masha’na caught it, barely, but stumbled back. Luvid stepped back as well, smiling broadly at the gasping masha’na. The bodyguard wasn’t even breathing hard.

  That green regard found him where he cowered against the wall. Merry eyes treated him to a wink.

  He didn’t even see the attack. Christian only barely managed to block the blow that would have sheared his leonine head from its shoulders. Blow after resounding blow, the smiling bodyguard herded the masha’na before him. Christian tried to step left and right to avoid being driven back. Luvid toyed with the holy warrior, battering at the lighter weirin with powerful blows.