by A Van Wyck
“Alright, so where is your way across?”
She pointed.
He walked to the edge and looked down. The far side of the gorge had crumbled somewhere in the distant past. A whole shelf of rock, perhaps ten score paces across and half as deep again, had sunk down into the bedrock. The river must have been undercutting its foundations for millennia. The whole thing had canted, tilting closer to the side they stood upon. Until its very tip had come to rest against this side of the canyon wall, forming a kind of skewed bridge.
A hundred paces below them.
“Are you joking?” he sputtered.
Leffley stepped up beside him, looking down. “You could climb that,” the man mused. “But probably not armored. And I wouldn’t want to try it without a rope and we got none.”
“You climb it,” he retorted. “I don’t have a death wish. If I’d been meant for this, I’d have been born a mountain–”
Neither man had noticed the assassin melt toward the back, away from the edge. Neither had they noticed the fierce concentration in her eyes nor how she’d dropped into a sprinter’s crouch.
She slammed into them from behind, one arm wrapping tight around each of their necks. Together, they catapulted off the narrow spine and into thin air. For a moment, they were flying. Then gravity sucked them downwards.
He screamed, drowning out Leffley’s scream.
“–goooaaaataaaaaaaaghh!”
He clutched at the arm around his neck, fingers digging in as they plummeted. He watched the spar below rush up at him, unable to close his eyes. His mouth wrenched wide around his terror, his eyes even wider as the spar closed with them, from fifty paces away to thirty. Twenty. Coming faster now. Ten!
His stomach jerked towards his ass as they snapped out of the freefall, bobbing upwards. And then down again. The spar rushed at him again, briefly, slower now. He screamed a little scream again. And again when they bobbed once more. Whatever was holding them up gave way. His legs, scared stiff, folded beneath him as he struck the ground, falling no more than five or six paces.
He scrambled to his feet, chest heaving in a panic as he looked up at the cliff’s edge. It loomed a hundred paces above them. Thin strands of white were only now melting away. They were difficult to make out through the hanging clouds of vapor. The assassin had landed on her feet. He pointed a shaking finger at her.
“Don’t,” he yelled, “you ever do that again!”
Leffley was spread-eagled on his back, canyon walls bracketing blue sky far above him. At this, the man piped up, breathless and bemused, “I concur.”
“Oh, come now,” she chided them, like she were addressing stubborn children, “it wasn’t that bad. You’re still alive aren’t you?”
He sputtered at her as she rubbed some feeling back into the arm he’d grabbed. She winced at what must be an exact bruise-print of his fingers. Good!
“I’m quite pleased,” she continued. “I wasn’t sure it would hold all three of us.”
“–!”
Though there was no chance she could hear the sound he made just then, she looked at him anyway, “I did what I could with the time I had. Now let’s go. I’m getting soaked.”
Leffley extended a hand for some help getting up but she ignored him, picking her way up the incline instead. Leffley turned wide eyes on him, “You look terrible.”
“Shut up!”
“Come on!”
They climbed after the assassin. He tried not to stare at her backside too much as they made their way up the slope. He tripped a lot.
They made their way along the top, skirting the cliff’s edge until they came to the ruined bridge. He had a look at the ground. Their quarry had come this way, alright. He nodded at his companions. A distant shout caught his attention and he turned to stare across the gorge. He could make out Bear and Ryhorn and Parish on the other side. Ryhorn had bloody hands cupped to a skewed mouth.
“Did they go that way?!”
The sound was distorted by distance and turbulence but distinguishable. He cupped his hands to his mouth as well, “Yeah!”
A moment while the sound traveled across the chasm.
“Is there another way across?!”
He shook his head emphatically. Ryhorn and Bear put their heads together on the other side. Finally, Ryhorn’s cupped hands rose again, “We’ll head downstream and look for a way across! Find the keeper and meet us!”
He waved that he understood.
“Luck!”
This last shout from across the expanse arrived moments after Ryhorn and the others had turned to disappear back into the forest.
He turned back to Leffley and the assassin, “Here we go.”
He led the way into the thick trees, following the trail. Their enemy had gone downriver. Not up the mountain. Probably they were also looking for an alternate crossing. He stopped suddenly as he came across something he wasn’t expecting, “What in the name of the Primes?”
“What?” Leffley peered over his shoulder, “Is that a wolf track?”
He shook his head. No wolf he’d ever seen left a track like this. In fact, nothing he’d ever heard of left a track like this. It was all wrong. What he thought were the hind legs were strangely padded, the back end much longer than it should be. Almost like a foot. And the front print didn’t match it at all. They were huge. Hands?
“Nothing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.
“Let’s get the keeper and get out of here,” Leffley suggested fervently. He had to agree. He unslung his bow, checking the string for damp. Leffley did the same, nocking an arrow. They padded silently through the trees. Far ahead, daylight painted the last row of thick pine boughs.
“Hear that?” Leffley asked.
He stilled, listening. “That’s the keeper!” he yelled, breaking into a run, Leffley on his heels.
They sprinted out of the trees, the sun bright on their faces. He cast a glance over a scene of horror. The forest hemmed a small space, open on one side to the drop. And it was littered with bodies. One of them, overlarge and headless, was smoking gently in the sunlight and the smell coming off it was putrid. He heard another shout and wheeled to his left.
There was the keeper. Bloody and beaten, arms held out to the sides, words lost amid the rushing of the river. And facing him, almost within reach, snarling and snapping, ready to spring, crouched…
“Mother preserve us…”
Now he knew what had made those tracks. The keeper was moments from being mauled to death. That the man had managed to keep the thing at bay with naught but words and spells was a miracle.
Priests. Go figure.
He raised his bow, aware of Leffley stepping up beside him to do the same. He pulled back the string in one, smooth motion, the fletching brushing his cheek. He breathed in deeply once, exhaled halfway and held it, taking careful aim. He relaxed his bow fingers.
“No! Wait!” But the assassin’s shout was too late.
He and Leffley loosed at the same moment, the arrows winging their way towards their target. It was a good shot. He didn’t need to track it to know it would find its mark.
He turned to her in surprise, “What?”
But she didn’t answer. Above the rim of her mask, her eyes were wide and she held to the tree beside her with straining fingers. She turned horrorstruck eyes on him.
“What?” he asked again.
“Just hold on, Marco! You can do this!”
His voice was hoarse from his pleading and cajoling. What little streaming he’d recovered in the aftermath of the drug was spent. He was weaving on his feet. But he couldn’t give up. Marco was in there somewhere, fighting to get out. He wouldn’t abandon the boy now.
Before him the creature thrashed, one moment reaching for him with deadly talons, the next rocking to invisible blows and tugs.
“Come on, Marco! Just a little bit more! You can–”
Blood slapped across his face. An arrow stuck from the creature’s hide and it stagge
red.
“No!”
He saw the fire in its eyes dim for the last time.
“Noooo!”
The second arrow took it in the throat, punching out the back of its nape. Arterial blood fountained as the broadhead shaft bit through flesh. The creature’s long arms fell limply to its sides. It swung golden eyes to meet his. The animal fury drained, winked out. It blinked once. And then it keeled over backward. And was gone.
“No…”
He rushed over to the edge of the cliff, skidding to his knees on the lip. He was just in time to see the boneless body plunge into the thick white mist far below.
“Marcooooooo!”
He was at his end. His arms were pulp and he was quietly sobbing into the rank fur of the beast as it fought him. But he wouldn’t let go. It was slowly tearing his arms off. Not long now.
He hadn’t wanted this. This price was too high. Too high. He sobbed, screaming wordless denial.
From the edge of the monster’s vision, he saw a flash of movement. Finch. Leffley. With bows drawn. He threw himself on the beast in a last, desperate effort to keep it still. He saw the arrows come winging towards them. Saw that they would strike true.
He looked at Justin one last time.
I’ve saved you. Finally.
I’ve saved you.
He thought he might have smiled then. He looked back at the speeding arrows, promising salvation. One struck the monster in the chest, jerking it back and boring through a lung. The other slammed into the throat. He felt the pain as if it were his own. He welcomed it. It meant Justin would live.
They toppled backwards, off the cliff, floating down on a bed of wonderfully cool air. It was almost peaceful.
He let go of the beast.
Thank–
Everything went white.
* * *
Colors. Patterns. Faint, disturbing sounds.
Shrieking!
He came awake with a jerk. He’d been having a nightmare about falling. He woke to pain and thought that maybe it hadn’t been a dream at all. Every bit of him hurt. He groaned, struggling to open his eyes.
“You’re awake.”
He tried to turn his head. “Neever?”
“We were afraid you weren’t going to make it,” the monk’s tortured smile gave truth to the pronouncement.
He looked around. They were in the same infirmary room he’d departed from... how long ago? They probably all looked alike.
“We’re not in prison,” he commented, surprised at how weak his voice was. “And I hurt too much to be dead. I made it back, then?”
“You did.”
“Now that,” he said, letting his head slump back on the pillow, “is a surprise.” He lay still for a moment, trying to remember. “Did we get it?”
“You got it. You did very well. Sitter Cyrus is in the next room, examining it right now.”
“Cyrus?”
“Indeed. You’re lucky. He’s the Temple’s foremost healer. Roughly speaking that means he’s the best on the continent. Anything less and I don’t think you would be here right now. He said the poison in your system was unlike anything he’d ever seen. A disease of the spirit as much as of the flesh – I won’t pretend to understand. The point is, he almost killed you burning it out of your flesh. You’ll be weak for a while yet.”
“Poison…”
Fragments of images sleeted before his mind’s eye, prodding awake disturbing memories.
“The dead mage,” he breathed.
“You’ve said something like that before,” Neever noted. “You’re going to have to tell me what happened up there. You looked like you’d been mauled by a lion.”
“Lions aren’t as handsy,” he opined without much humor, feeling the pull of stitches on his back and hip. He grimaced in pain.
“Sorry about the needlework,” Neever stood to collect a squat earthen cup from a low table. “Father didn’t have the spare energy to properly close your wounds after dealing with the poison. You’re going to scar heavily.” The monk moved over to the bedside. “This smells like feet,” the man warned, proffering the cup, “but it will take your pain and let you sleep.”
“But–”
“No buts! Right now, your only concern is to regain your health. No argument!”
He’d never seen the monk so forceful before. He tried to glare at the man but didn’t have the will to sustain it. Besides, he could feel a hot, jagged mess of pain, stumbling to catch up with him. He’d rather be unconscious by the time it arrived.
“Help me sit up, then,” he complained.
He was disgusted at how weak he was. It hurt to breathe. True to the monk’s word, the concoction smelled of feet. He downed it in a gulp, just in case it tasted as bad as it smelled. It had chunks in it. The priest smiled as disgust roiled across his face.
“Sleep now,” the man instructed kindly.
“Sure. Go bother someone else.”
The priest bowed deeply and made for the door.
“Neever.”
The monk turned back at the door.
“Yes?”
“Next time you speak to your goddess. Tell her ‘thanks’. From me.”
“You could tell her yourself,” the monk offered.
“Not my style,” he muttered around a thick tongue, letting his head sink into the pillow.
Smiling, Neever shut the door behind him.
“I think he’s going to be alright,” he said to Cyrus, busying himself with the kettle and cups. “He’s already making bad jokes. He’ll be up and about in no time.”
The old man didn’t answer.
He glanced over to where the healer sat behind the only table in the room. The scroll young Jiminy had provided was spread reverently atop it.
He started.
Beads of sweat glistened on the old man’s lip and bald pate. The normally jaundiced skin was deathly pale.
“Father?” he said in concern. The old priest didn’t seem to hear him. “Sitter Cyrus?” he tried, a little louder.
The old man came out of his engrossed reading with a violent start, blinking furiously.
“Neever,” the elderly priest croaked, voice sounding worse than even Jiminy’s had. “Good you’re here. Do and old man a favor? Run to my quarters and fetch my medicine, would you? I’m not getting any younger and I’m having a bit of a bad spell. My spares are in the pouch in my desk drawer.”
“Of course, father,” he bowed, careful to hide his swell of pity for the ancient healer. It was a cruel irony that the best healer the Temple had seen in generations would be brought low by disease. He let himself out the door, walking quickly. He would add a kind word for the forthright old man at evening prayers.
Cyrus sat, staring at the closed door, his old heart pounding hard with the strain of remaining composed for Neever. Allowing the brave façade to slip, he raised uncontrollably shaking hands to his face. The heels of his palms dug into his eyes, trying to blot out the words that burned there.
It couldn’t be true. It mustn’t be true! He was reading it wrong, that was all. Some simple mistake. Something lost in translation. There was no way – no way! – this was accurate. It was a joke. A sick joke!
He mutely shook his head. It couldn’t be true. Someone would have known! Someone would have told! Knowledge like this didn’t just get swept under the rug! It was impossible!
Not, the scholar in him noted, entirely impossible.
The scope of such an endeavor stole his breath.
If this were true… no, he couldn’t even think it.
If this were true, the scholar in him insisted remorselessly, it would change… everything.
Alone now, he sat hunched around his breaking heart, prayerless, as silent sobs wracked his old chest.
* * *
Sister Annochria, devout of the Holy Temple, secret spy-mistress and personal assassin of Archon Emmion Hallet, trod the muddy woods of the Renali mountains. She was on her way to rendezvous with the underling
s of her master’s Renali counterpart. Already her mind had turned towards the methods she’d employ to break Justin Wisenpraal.
She might have hired, or even bought, a horse for the trip but she felt most secure when beneath all notice. And a woman ahorse was just too conspicuous to her mind. Added to which, horses were noisy creatures. Not counting their clopping, wheezing and whinnying, there was the creak of tack and jingle of harness. Even when the metal was wrapped and the hooves socked in wool, a horse could not move silently…
As evinced by the mounts of her watchers, hidden in the trees. If she herself had been burdened with a noisome mount, she might not have noticed them following.
She knew she’d let at least one get away from her in the city. But it didn’t feel like just one out there. It was, all things considered, quite thoughtful of them to deliver themselves to her in this fashion.
It was a two pronged attack, when it came. An arrow whipped at her from the trees and a figure, with daggers drawn, burst from cover to rush at her. It was well-timed and the arrow flew true. But it passed harmlessly in her wake as she shot forward with a speed belied by her girth. The fellow with the daggers was classically trained and took her unexpected charge in stride. He even made a decent show of blocking her simultaneous strikes – although they did not land at all where he’d predicted.
Her pick-blade sank into the man’s throat and she used it to jerk the body around to shield her. Her blowpipe, already raised, pointed past the corpse’s ear and into the trees. The archer was fitting another arrow to the string when her dart found him. To his credit, the man ignored it, finishing his draw and sighting along the shaft. They spent a few tense moments while he tried to find a clear line of fire on her. He was still searching when the poison hit his heart. The arrow whirred drunkenly into the trees and the archer collapsed.
She let the corpse she held do the same.