Trial of Stone

by Andy Peloquin

  Silence.

  Evren’s lungs burned, his heart raced, and his fingers clutched the hilts of his daggers in a vise-grip. Everything around him had gone dead still, the only sound the snorting of the horses and his own gasping.

  Then came a pained grunt from ahead. He looked up to see Brother Modestus on one knee, left hand gripping the hilt of a dagger protruding from his side. With a rumbling growl, the priest tore the blade free and hurled it away. Wincing, he cleaned his sword on the fallen bandits’ clothing then sheathed it.

  The priest turned toward them. “Either of you hurt?”

  Evren shook his head, his eyes fixed on the wound in Modestus’ side. “That looks bad.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Modestus gave a dismissive wave with his right hand. “No major organs or blood vessels hit.” He strode back to the wagon with a determined step, his face once again that expressionless mask. Yet, when he tried to pull himself up onto the driver’s seat, he growled at the pain of his wound.

  “Ride in the back,” Evren told him. “You need to rest and heal.”

  Brother Modestus looked ready to protest, but the pain seemed to make him reconsider. “Just a short rest,” he rumbled. “Then I’ll spell you at the reins.”

  Evren shook his head. “We can handle the driving.” He turned to Hailen. “Spread some blankets in the back, right there.”

  Hailen scrambled over the seat into the back of the wagon. It took Modestus two tries to pull himself into the back and onto the makeshift bed, but he refused Evren’s offer of help with a growl.

  “I’ll be fine,” he rumbled again. “A bit of rest, and I’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

  * * *

  Brother Modestus’ wound didn’t heal. Instead, it worsened.

  Evren changed the bandages frequently, ripping up two of his own tunics for dressings, but still infection set in. Much of their limited water supply went into bathing the wound to no avail. Evren had no salves or unguents to use, no knowledge of the plants in this part of Einan to find something for a remedy. By the end of the first day after their encounter with the bandits, Brother Modestus had slipped into a feverish state. The priest moaned, muttered, and mumbled incoherently.

  Brother Modestus lived for three more days, in and out of consciousness, sweat dripping down his pale face and soaking his clothes. On the morning of the fourth day, their sixth out of Voramis, Evren awoke from a fitful night of rest to find Brother Modestus awake and staring at him.

  “Listen,” rasped the grizzled priest. “There’s something…you must know!”

  Evren scrambled over to the wagon and Modestus’ side.

  “You must…continue the mission.” The priest fixed fever-bright eyes on him. “Must retrieve…the Blade of Hallar. The prophecy…cannot come to pass.”

  Evren’s brow furrowed. “Prophecy?”

  What’s he talking about? The priest appeared lucid, but he’d been in and out of fever dreams for the last day. Is he even coherent?

  “The Prophecy…of the Final Destruction!” Modestus struggled in vain to sit upright, but slumped back to his blankets, too weak to lift himself. “Reverentus…didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” Evren shook his head. “He said nothing of any prophecy, and definitely none that involved the Blade of Hallar or any Final Destruction.”

  “Find the sword!” Modestus cried in a hoarse voice. “Stop the prophecy…and save the world.”

  He slumped back, his eyes falling closed.

  “Hey!” Evren grabbed the priest’s collar and shook him. “Hey, wake up.”

  Modestus’ eyes fluttered open for a moment, but closed once more.

  “How am I supposed to do anything if I don’t know about this prophecy?” Evren shouted, trying to wake up the priest. “Tell me what I need to know!”

  But Brother Modestus was beyond hearing. The Long Keeper, god of death, had gathered the priest into his arms.

  * * *

  Evren buried the priest a short distance from the road. The soil was rocky and bone-dry, and Evren had only Modestus’ sword to use as a shovel. The sun had risen high into the sky by the time he rolled the priest’s heavy body—stripped of its armor and weapons—into the shallow grave and covered it up.

  Hailen helped as best he could, somber and silent the entire time. His eyes were wide and rimmed with tears.

  Evren knew the boy had seen more death in his short lifetime than most people. Though the Hunter, Kiara, and Evren had tried their best to shield him from more, there was no way to escape reality now.

  He glanced over at Hailen. “We should say something for him.” What to say, he didn’t know.

  Hailen knelt beside the mound of dirt and closed his eyes. “May the Beggar God smile on you,” he said in a quiet voice, “and guide you on your journey to the Long Keeper’s arms, where you will know peace and joy forever more.”

  Evren bowed his head and repeated the words in his mind. He knew the truth—there was no Beggar God, no Long Keeper, just a handful of ancient Serenii that primitive humans worshipped as gods—but the fallen priest deserved better than a silent burial. The words were for Modestus’ sake, not his.

  But, as he finished, he felt a new burden weighing on his shoulders. He and Hailen were alone in the middle of nowhere, too far from Voramis and too low on food and water to turn back now. Their only hope lay in going forward to Shalandra. Thankfully, he needed no map to find his way—as long as he kept traveling south on the road, they would reach their destination.

  And what happens when I reach the City of the Dead? The Cambionari have no idea we’re coming, and we have no way to prove who we are.

  He’d have to do it on his own. He’d steal the Blade of Hallar and keep Hailen safe. He’d learn about this Prophecy of the Final Destruction and find out what, if anything, could be done to avert it.

  Somehow.

  He had no choice. If a dying man’s words were to be believed, the fate of the world now rested on his shoulders.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Issa refused to cry out as Hykos landed blow after blow on her arms, legs, sides, shoulders, and back. Hykos struck with the flat of his blade, yet even through the protective layer of her armor, Issa could feel her muscles pounded like steel beneath Killian’s hammer. Pain radiated through every fiber of her being, turning her body sluggish, slowing her attempts to dodge, evade, or block the blows. Her gauntleted hands had long ago gone numb.

  And all Invictus Tannard shouted was “Harder! Faster!” He looked on with the dispassion of a butcher studying a block of meat, watching Hykos carve her to pieces.

  Hykos’ expression revealed nothing, but remorse filled his eyes. He dared not hold back his blows, Issa knew, dared not disobey his commander’s orders. The Archateros struck and struck again until Issa fell to her knees, her hands, and finally her face.

  “Enough!” The single word, barked like the cracking of a whip, echoed faint through Issa’s all-consuming agony. It took her a moment to register the cessation of blows.

  A shadow hovered above Issa. “On your feet, Prototopoi.”

  Issa wanted nothing more than to lose herself to unconsciousness, to drown in the torrent of suffering that washed over her. Yet she could not, would not, give Tannard the satisfaction of victory. She forced herself onto one pain-numbed arm, then the other, until she pushed herself up to one knee.

  Even the slightest movements proved agonizing, but she forced herself to lift her head, straighten her back, and finally stagger upright to her feet. She stood, swaying, her jaw clenched so tightly she feared she’d snap her teeth or shatter bone.

  Tannard came to stand in front of her, his hard, bearded face inches from hers. “Pitiful,” he snarled. “And you dare to call yourself a Keeper’s Blade?”

  Issa gave no reply. She knew his type—she’d encountered many such among the Indomitables that patrolled Shalandra’s lowest tiers—he simply expected her to stand there and take the abuse. She could take as much as he d
ished out. He could knock her down but she would always get back up.

  Tannard spat to one side. “To your chambers.”

  Hykos stepped forward, but Tannard whirled on him. “She goes alone! A Keeper’s Blade must learn to fight through the pain, to welcome it, to use it to become stronger. If she cannot stomach one simple beating, she does not deserve her place in our ranks.”

  Issa clenched her fists; the movement brought a fresh wave of pain. Her palms felt swollen, and she guessed at least one finger had been broken or dislocated. But, even with everything that screamed at her to collapse, to crumble, she took a step.

  A small step, barely lifting her foot off the ground. Another shuffling, scraping step.

  Her eyes met Etai’s. The Mahjuri girl stared at her with pity.

  Another step, then a second and third.

  Kellas watched her go. His perpetual arrogant sneer had given way to stunned surprise, perhaps even a hint of grudging respect.

  More steps. Slow, painful, her body dragging, her muscles protesting. Yet forward, always forward.

  The stone archway into the western wing of the Citadel of Stone seemed an impossible distance away. Sweat streamed down Issa’s face as she moved, soaked through her tunic, turned her palms slick. Her armor and sheathed flammard threatened to drag her down.

  Yet still she moved. One torment-riddled, stiff step at a time. Through the archway, into the shadows of the Citadel, and toward the nearest staircase.

  Climbing the stairs to the second floor proved agony. She rested every second step, her muscles crying out for rest. Issa fought on, one golden stone stair after another. She refused to give Tannard the satisfaction of seeing her fall.

  She nearly wept in relief at the sight of her doorway. Her fingers, numb from the repeated pounding of Hykos’ blade, struggled to grip the door knob. Finally, she grabbed it in a clumsy two-handed grip and twisted. She staggered as the door swung inward. Every part of her wanted to collapse as she staggered into her room, but a huge frame in the entrance cast the room in shadow. When she managed to turn, she found Invictus Tannard behind her.

  “You are strong, talented even, but strength and skill are useless without discipline.” Tannard’s stony expression somehow grew even harder. “And by the Keeper, discipline’s what I’m going to teach you.”

  “Yes, Invictus!” Issa managed through clenched teeth.

  Invictus Tannard remained silent for a long moment, eyes locked on her. “You are forbidden to rest. Do not sit or lie in bed until the sun sets.”

  Issa wanted to cry, to shout at him, to reach for her sword and hack him down. She did nothing.

  “Here, if you want food, you must find it, take it, but without being seen,” Tannard told her. “A Blade must be clever and stealthy, even in unfamiliar surroundings. If you cannot steal your meal in the Citadel of Stone, you will not eat, Prototopoi.”

  “Yes, Invictus.” The words, edged with anger, burst from within Issa’s chest.

  Invictus Tannard stepped forward to loom over her. “The Keeper has no need of fat, lazy soldiers that cannot fight on empty stomachs. A true Blade can do battle even as they die of starvation.” He whirled on his heel and strode toward the door. “We will see if you have what it takes to be a true Blade.” With those words, he left her alone with her pain.

  Issa waited until she was certain that he’d gone before letting out an explosive breath, half-sob and half-shout. Why in the Keeper’s name is he doing this? She’d never seen the Invictus in her life, could think of no reason for his enmity. It didn’t matter. He’d singled her out for punishment, determined to break her spirit. Killian hadn’t prepared her for this.

  But her grandparents had. Savta and Saba had lived a hard life, yet never once complained. Issa had learned the meaning of work, endurance, and longsuffering from them. Life as an Earaqi could not break her grandparents; life as a Keeper’s Blade would not break her.

  She had endured her first lesson. Now came the second. She’d endure that, too.

  Theft was common enough in Shalandra that merchants on the Artisan’s Tier hired guards to watch their stalls. Thieves and pickpockets unlucky enough to get caught suffered the removal of their right hand on their first offense, right leg on their second, and head on their third. Issa had rarely tried stealing—she was too big to slip easily among the crowds like Killian’s Mumblers—but this wasn’t Commerce Square. She’d have to figure out how to defeat this challenge based on the specifics of her surroundings.

  First, she needed to get out of her armor. She’d move more easily without the weight of her heavy plate mail dragging on her.

  It took her the better part of half an hour to remove the black-steel armor. Every movement brought a fresh stab of pain, reminded her of another blow that had slipped past her guard. The buckles on her back and sides proved most difficult. Finally, she simply pulled the armor over her head—sending more agony radiating through her body—and threw it onto the bed.

  She slipped off the padding until she stood clad only in the thin tunic she’d found in a neat pile on her bed the previous night. Next she removed her boots and stockings and stood in bare feet. The stone floor was cool beneath her toes. The sensation came as a welcome relief from the heat that coursed through her battered body.

  She waited a few minutes before putting her boots on again. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move toward the door. If she stopped and let her body cool down, the aches and pains would intensify a thousandfold. She had to keep going until she succeeded at her mission or collapsed from exhaustion.

  The few Blades she passed eyed her with a curious mixture of pity, amusement, and curiosity. Their conversations stopped at her approach, then resumed in whispers once they passed her. She had little doubt word of her humiliation on the training ground had spread through the Citadel of Stone like mice through a granary.

  To her pain and exhaustion-blurred eyes, the bare stone hallways all looked the same. Yet she knew that she had to head north, then east and down a flight of stairs to reach the kitchens on the ground floor.

  Hope surged within her as the smell of baking flatbread drifted up to the second floor. She hadn’t eaten since the previous morning—hunger gnawed at her stomach as she stumbled toward the kitchens.

  But the direct route wouldn’t be the way to get what she needed.

  Tannard’s words echoed in her mind. “You want food, find it, take it, but let no one see you. A Blade must be clever and stealthy, even in unfamiliar surroundings. If you cannot steal your meal in the Citadel of Stone, you will not eat, Prototopoi.”

  She couldn’t enter the common room; Tannard would likely be waiting or have watchers set up to spot her. Her only hope lay in stealing food from the kitchens.

  The question is how many watchers will be between here and there? Too many, that much she knew without a doubt. Tannard had proven that his lessons had real teeth—he’d ensure his orders were enforced, no matter what.

  But one thing she’d learned from her grandmother was that all kitchens had a back way in. Once, when she’d accompanied her Savta to the Dhukari mansion where she served, Aleema had explained the building’s layout. The kitchens always stood placed on the first floor, well away from the areas the Dhukari frequented. The upper-caste never wanted to see how their food was made; they simply expected it to be served on time.

  But the kitchens also were placed close to a rear entrance. This allowed merchants to deliver food to the rear or side access gates without cluttering up the grand front entrance. And it provided an easy way to dispose of the waste generated by the cooks.

  The Citadel of Stone had to have a rear or side entrance that led into the kitchens, just like every other grand building on the Keeper’s Tier. Instead of heading through the common room, she could use the alternate route to slip in the back—in the way the garbage went out. It was a desperate plan, as desperate as she felt at that moment. Pain, fatigue, and hunger warred within her; if she could at least
solve one, she’d be able to stubborn out the others until sunset.

  She half-stumbled down the staircase toward the first floor, but instead of heading east along the stone corridors, she looked for a passage that headed north, outside the rear of the Citadel. Her heart leapt as she caught a glimmer of daylight down a narrow passage.

  To her relief, the passage led outside. The stink of refuse and rotting veggies told her she’d made the right choice.

  Thank you, Savta!

  Raw animal carcasses, sodden flatbread, and putrid vegetable and fruit rinds squelched beneath her boots, but she was beyond caring. She moved in a low crouch, biting her lip to avoid crying out, and crept toward the rear door of the kitchens.

  The door stood open, and Issa’s heart sank as she heard quiet voices coming from within the kitchens.

  “No way she’s smart enough to go through the refuse heap,” said a man’s voice.

  “You didn’t see her at the Crucible or out in the training yard, did you?” asked the second, a woman.

  “Barrett certainly painted a picture of her.” The man snorted. “Made her sound like Hallar reincarnated, the way he went on.”

  Despite the torment in her ribs and spine, Issa couldn’t help grinning. They’re talking about me.

  “Is it just me, or is it bloody insane the way Invictus Tannard is handling her training himself?” the woman asked.

  “Definitely not just you, Talla,” the man replied. “When the second-in-command to Callista herself steps in, you know a prototopoi’s either the child of the Pharus himself, the greatest warrior in Shalandra, or the unluckiest piece of shite in the world.”

  “The way he had Hykos whale on her today, that was cruel, even by his standards,” the woman, Talla, said.