The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  “Sister!” She grabbed hold of the nun’s arm. “I saw something down that tunnel.”

  The nun’s smile was mysterious but untroubled. “We are not alone.”

  She hurried on. Hanna followed despite creeping shivers. Blackness closed in behind them. It was better not to look behind, in case something was sneaking up on her, but she looked anyway. She saw nothing but swallowing darkness.

  “Are we safe? Where do those tunnels lead?”

  “Into the depths of the earth. We stand atop a labyrinth, friend, whose heart lies beyond our knowledge. So much has been lost to us, who wander in darkness.” Was Hilaria speaking of the little community of nuns, or of humankind? It was hard to tell. “Do not fear. The creatures that abide in the earth have done no harm to us. I wish I could say the same of our human brethren.”

  They came to a ramp that opened onto a cavern broad enough that Hanna felt a change in the air. Their frail flame barely lit the darkness. She saw neither ceiling nor floor, only the suggestion of an open area wide enough to house monsters, or a manor house and its outbuildings.

  “Is this where you live?”

  “No. But we harbored an army here once. This way.”

  The light formed a halo around them as they crossed the wide cavern, coming to a corridor that struck into the rock. Their footfalls echoed in whispers. They rounded a corner and came to another blocked passageway. Hanna set her weight to push aside the great wheel stone, but it did not budge as easily as the other one. At last she got it moving, and with a grinding grumble it rolled into a recess cut in the rock.

  “Hold.” Hilaria squeezed through the gap. “Now let it block the path again.”

  “We won’t return this way?”

  “No. We’ll return by a different path.”

  They crossed a ditch dug into the rock that reminded Hanna of a channel where rainwater might run off, and as they toiled up a steep ramp Hanna realized that she could see the walls. Hilaria pinched out the flame. A chamber hewn from rock greeted her astonished gaze. Ventilation shafts cut through the rock let in light, revealing what had once been a kitchen with hearths, a single heavy table, and half a dozen large, open, but empty barrels.

  “Quickly.” Hilaria walked so swiftly through the chamber that Hanna scarcely had time to glance around.

  Light shone bright and welcoming as they moved into the rock-hewn chambers that had once housed the convent dedicated to St. Ekatarina. Being good nuns, the sisters had not abandoned the outer rooms precipitously. Except for a thick coating of dust, the dormitory, the chapel, the library, and the refectory remained in perfect order. Benches in the chapel, lecterns and stools in the library, table and benches in the eating hall, two looms, all were set in order; before fleeing, the nuns had taken the time to tidy up. Luminous frescoes adorned the walls, and the tale they told caught Hanna’s interest: strangely-garbed folk walked through archways of light woven in stone crowns.

  “This way!”

  Hanna shook herself before following Hilaria out into the hard sunlight on a terrace. A shout rang up from below, but the nun did not answer, instead shifting a heavy white canvas cover that concealed a rolled-up rope ladder. A shove sent it tumbling down the cliff face.

  “I pray you, go quickly. Do you see the dust?”

  Where the open ground folded away into hills, a gully cut up through the highlands. This was the path they had walked to reach here. No mountains, these, but rather hills so ancient that all that remained were their dry backs and rugged terrain. Little rain had fallen over the winter. Now the dry path betrayed their pursuers. Dust puffed and billowed, marking the advance of their enemy.

  “God help us,” she murmured. “They’re close.”

  “Go,” said Sister Hilaria. “Below you will find a steep staircase. At its base there is a second ladder. Cast it down. And once more descend another set of steps cut into the rock, to where there is a third ladder, the longest. They must climb to safety.”

  Hanna scraped her knuckles more than once in her haste. The ladder gave her less trouble than the steep steps, where she felt she was hanging in midair, ready to tumble off. Coming to a lower ledge, she uncovered another rope ladder and rolled it over the side, cursing when it tangled. Below, her companions had fallen silent. As she swung over the side to start climbing down, she saw their upturned faces. They clustered at the foot of the towering rock. No need to call out: they understood what was happening.

  Her elbows ached by the time she got down the next set of steps and ladders, where she found a broader ledge—wide enough to hold a brace of baskets shoved under an overhanging shelter. A broken winch had been abandoned in pieces. The rocks that pinned down the corner of the canvas covering the ladder had been knocked astray by the wind, and it was this white flap they had seen fluttering.

  Below, Gerwita wept.

  A horseman appeared at the gap where the gully gave out onto open ground. With a shout, the man turned and disappeared back the way he had come.

  Hanna grabbed the ladder and flung it over the side. It unrolled with a hiss, rattling down the stone face. Aurea grabbed the base and yanked it down.

  “Go!” shouted Hanna. “Bring my quiver and arrows up first!” Their lack of baggage helped them. Heriburg started up first, the heaviest pouch of books slung over her shoulders, with Jehan behind her with the quiver and arrows on his back.

  The rope struts on the ledge jerked and strained as the clerics climbed. Hanna heard Fortunatus’ voice rising. “Nay, Sister Rosvita! You must go now. Better we be taken than you be lost.”

  “Sister!” Hanna shouted down. “Don’t argue! Come quickly!”

  She marked the dust cloud, but at this angle it was lost behind the hills. She had no way of telling how close their pursuers were, and if that first horseman had been their lead rider or a scout ranging far out in front of the main force.

  Soon she heard Heriburg’s ragged breathing. As soon as the young cleric’s head and shoulders appeared, Hanna grabbed her under the armpits and helped her up onto the ledge. Heriburg crawled forward and rested on hands and knees before struggling to her feet and measuring the pitch of the staircase angling up the cliff. With a grimace, she started up.

  Jehan rolled onto the ledge and stood. “I fear Gerwita is not strong enough to get up so many ladders,” he said.

  Hanna grabbed one of the large baskets to test the strength of the rope and the security of the hook hammered into the stone, where the rope was anchored. “Ware below!” she shouted before heaving the basket over the side and together she and Jehan paid out line until it rested on the ground. Rosvita was halfway up the ladder, Jerome behind her to steady her. Below, Fortunatus helped Gerwita into the basket. Aurea cut loose the goat.

  With Jehan’s help, it was not as difficult as Hanna had feared to haul her up; the girl had grown frail during their escape and weighed no more than a child. By the time they had her hauled up on the ledge, Rosvita and Jerome, too, had collapsed panting on the narrow terrace, and Ruoda and Fortunatus were most of the way up the ladder with Aurea just beginning to climb. The servingwoman had rigged her belt to bind Hanna’s staff onto her back, but the staff impeded her progress. Every time she shifted her shoulders, it banged against the rock face.

  “Look!” Jerome pointed toward the gully.

  First one horseman, then five, spilled out of the ravine onto the open ground. As they fanned out, twenty more appeared. One rider bore a banner aloft which displayed a silver Circle of Unity sewn onto a field of gules. Beside him rode a man wearing a red cloak.

  “A presbyter,” gasped Jerome.

  Rosvita raised her head to look but it was obvious that small movement exhausted her. Her skin had drained of all color; her lips seemed almost blue.

  “Keep going,” said Hanna.

  Heriburg and Jehan had reached the second ledge. A moment later, a basket slithered down the cliff to land beside Hanna.

  “Sister Rosvita must go in the basket,” said Gerwita, her
voice no more than a whisper. “I’ll climb.”

  Rosvita did not protest as Hanna and Jerome helped her into the basket. Once the basket began to move, bumping up along the rock, Hanna strung her bow and knelt with an arrow held loosely between her fingers.

  “Are you good with that bow?” asked Jerome diffidently.

  “Not very good,” she admitted. “I don’t wish to kill anyone, only to encourage them to keep their distance long enough for us to get to the top.”

  “If you could climb the north face, so can they.”

  “Once they find it. Once they think to do so. We’ll have a little time.”

  “For what?”

  She smiled at him. Like the other clerics, he was young—not much younger than she was herself, in truth—rather sweet and a little unworldly, a lad who had grown up in the schola and spent his life writing and reading and praying. Not for him the tidal waves that afflicted the common folk, who had few defenses against famine, war, drought, and pestilence. No cleric was immune to these terrors, of course, but the church offered protection and stability that a common farmer or landsman could only pray for and rarely received.

  “For Sister Rosvita to save us.”

  The answer contented him; they all believed in Rosvita that much. He headed up the steps, following Gerwita. A head appeared to her right.

  “Brother Fortunatus!” Even she was astonished how pleased she was to see him. With his good nature and sharp humor unimpaired over the months of their harrowing journey, he had wormed his way into her affections. But she did not move to help him as he swung over the edge and turned around to assist Ruoda, who was wheezing audibly, face red, nose oozing yellow snot.

  “Go on,” he said to Ruoda. “Go up and help the others. I’ll follow.”

  Aurea was only halfway up the ladder.

  As the horsemen advanced across the open field, past the stumps of olive trees, a second score of riders emerged from the gully. No need to guess who commanded them. Even at this distance, unable to make out features or even, really, hair color, Hanna knew that the man in the red cloak was Hugh. She knew it as though he stood beside her, whispering in her ear.

  Hanna. You know it is best if you wait for us. Do not think you can escape. You have been led astray by the Enemy, but we are merciful—

  “Not to Liath,” she muttered, nocking an arrow.

  She sighted on the approaching horsemen, measuring their path, leading with the bow, waiting. Waiting. The staff thrust up abruptly into her view. As Fortunatus heaved Aurea up and over onto the ledge, the first rider got within arrow shot. Hanna loosed the arrow.

  It skittered along the ground just in front of the riders, causing them to rein back.

  “Pull up the ladder!” she cried as she readied a second arrow. She had only a dozen arrows left. Fortunatus and Aurea reeled up the ladder and cast it against the baskets while the riders huddled out of arrow shot, unwilling to expose themselves further.

  “Go! Go!” she cried. “I’ll cover you.”

  The rest of the party, led by the presbyter, closed with the five scouts. Fortunatus and Aurea scrambled up the staircase while Hanna waited. Now, at last, she could protect the innocent. She had stood aside for months while the Quman slaughtered her countryfolk and done nothing. She had never risked herself. She had never been able to act. But she could now, and she would.

  She was no longer afraid.

  Hugh and the others halted beside the scouts to confer. The longer it took them to decide what to do, the more time Rosvita and her companions had to escape. Hanna waited, bow drawn.

  Yet surely Hugh understood their predicament as well. He did not dither. When he broke away from the main party, she heard the cries of his companions, calling him back, but he raised a hand to silence them and rode forward alone.

  She loosed a second arrow, aiming for the ground at his mount’s feet. The horse shied, but Hugh reined it calmly back and kept coming. She saw him clearly. The sun’s light, as it sank toward the western hills, bathed him in its rich gold. The world might have been created in order to display him. He was beautiful.

  But so was Bulkezu.

  She readied a third arrow and drew the bowstring. “Leave us, I beg you, my lord,” she called down.

  He reined the horse up below, an easy shot, yet she could not make herself take it. She could not kill a man in cold blood. Would it have been easier if he were not so handsome?

  “I pray you, Eagle, do nothing hasty,” he called. “Where is Sister Rosvita? If I can speak with her, then surely we may come to an agreement.”

  From far above, Rosvita called down, her voice faint and raspy, but audible. “I know what you are, Father Hugh. I know what you have done. I fear we are enemies now. Forgive me, but there can be no negotiation.”

  He sighed as might a mother faced with a stubborn child who, having done wrong, will not admit his fault. “You cannot escape, Sister Rosvita. Better to surrender now, I think.” He shaded his eyes to survey the setting sun. There was perhaps an hour of daylight left. “If you refuse, I will be forced to besiege you and your party. I know it is possible to climb the north face.”

  “Why not let her go, my lord?” Hanna asked. “What harm? If you wanted her dead, you had plenty of time to see it done when she was a prisoner.”

  Hugh smiled softly. “I do not want her dead, Eagle.”

  Hanna shuddered. How simple it would be to shoot him full in the chest. I do not want him dead. Was it sorcery that stayed her hand and clouded her mind? Or only the memory of a naive girl’s infatuation? I was that girl once.

  Rosvita knew the truth about King Henry and the daimone that infested him; she had witnessed the death of Villam at Hugh’s hand. But Hugh had not killed her when he could easily have done so.

  He is deeper than I am.

  Yet Hanna knew that if she could not kill him, then she had to run with the others and pray that Sister Rosvita could outwit Hugh. Rosvita was the only person who could. Not even Liath could stand against Hugh; he had abused her too badly.

  Just as Bulkezu abused me.

  I am no different than Liath. I have to learn to stand firm despite what I have suffered—and I haven’t even suffered the worst.

  The other riders remained beyond arrow shot. She rose, unstrung her bow, and climbed the steep steps carved into the rock face. She resisted the urge to look down, although she heard the sound of horses moving, hooves rapping on the earth, men calling out each to the others. Any soldier who sought to impale her with an arrow would find her an easy target, clinging to the rock well within range of their bows.

  No one shot. She reached the next ledge to find Fortunatus waiting for her. Aurea and Ruoda struggled up the second ladder, on their way to the next ledge. The basket bobbed against the wall somewhat above and to the side of Aurea, and it scraped and jostled the rock as it was hauled upward. She could not see Rosvita from this angle but was happy enough to catch her breath, leaning her weight against the cliff, as she watched the basket rise away from her.

  “We’ll not be rid of them easily,” said Fortunatus with a grin. He was red in the face from the exertion of climbing but his usual wry humor lightened his expression. “Look.”

  The servants below had begun to set up a traveling camp.

  “Why does Lord Hugh not wish to kill Sister Rosvita?” Hanna asked. “Can she not convict him if she testifies against him?”

  “If any court would believe her.”

  “Then what does it matter to him if she lives or dies? Better to kill her and have done with the threat.”

  “So you would think,” he agreed, glancing up at the basket, now nearing the next ledge where anxious faces peered down, awaiting its safe arrival. “Were I in Hugh’s place, I would have disposed of her as soon as I could. Perhaps it was not Hugh’s choice that she remain among the living. Perhaps the skopos stayed his hand.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I am only a simple cleric. I cannot presume to gue
ss the thoughts of the Holy Mother or her favored presbyters. They are as far above me as … an eagle above the humble wren.”

  “I would take you more for a starling, Brother. They fly in a flock. Wrens are more solitary, are they not?”

  “We will be an evening’s tidbit for the eagle below if we do not fly, my friend.”

  She insisted he go first. By now they were high enough that any archer might have trouble finding his mark. None tried: Hugh’s servants finished setting up camp as afternoon faded. One of them caught the goat while a score of soldiers took torches and fanned out to set up sentry posts around the base of the huge rock.

  In the morning they would climb, as she had done. Then her party would be well and truly trapped, no better than Rosvita in her dungeon cell.

  By the time Hanna reached the uppermost ledge, Sister Hilaria had already conducted the first arrivals within the safety of the convent walls.

  “Well done,” Hilaria said as Hanna heaved herself over the lip and lay flat on stone, aching, out of breath, and greasy with sweat. Her heart hammered against the ground. A spasm stabbed through her right hand, and she lay there gritting her teeth as a wave of pain convulsed her hand and forearm.

  After a while she could bend her fingers. Hilaria remained standing beside her, and Hanna rolled over onto her back, heaved herself up to sit, and stared blearily out over the gulf of air. A hammer rang on metal as an unseen servant drove a stake into the soil. She recognized the steady rhythm, the way the pitch flattened when the hammer didn’t hit quite head on. The sun had melted to a glowing reddish-gold ball, streaming pink and orange along the hills. In the east, the hills darkened, color leached out as twilight fell.