by D. P. Prior
“If I beat him,” Gaston rose unsteadily to his feet, “we can talk about this afterwards.” He held out a hand and helped Ioana to stand. “And if not,” he continued, sounding much calmer than he felt, “I guess there’ll be nothing more to worry about.”
SHAMAN’S VISION
The sky was black, like sleep. Black, with no shiny crystals spread out across it for Krylyrd to learn secrets from. The jungle below was steaming, drenched with the heaviest rains of the wet. Mawg skulls on spikes set around the settlement glared angrily out at the trees, daring any intruder to cross the line of curses.
Krylyrd clawed signs in the air as he danced with wild abandon, twisting and leaping. His body was the swirling water of the reef, his breath the wind that howled and whirled, smashing down the huts as if they were made of nothing but cobwebs. He spun in ever tighter circles until he came to an abrupt standstill, every muscle taut to the point of bursting. Drool trickled from his jaws and sweat beaded his leathery torso. He bared his teeth and let out a long bloodcurdling screech in answer to the cry he’d heard from the Dreaming.
The bulk of the hive sat in silence on the tiers of sunbaked mud seats cut into a steeply banked semi-circle. They were listening for the watchers to respond; waiting in hushed awe for the master to appear.
Lightning flashed behind Krylyrd’s eyes and he screamed, throwing himself to the ground, writhing like a dying snake, before he flopped to his back and lay still.
A silvery speck flickered above him and then flared into a ball of blue flame that cast its icy glow on the seated crowd. Within the sphere, Krylyrd could see a shadowy hand, the fingers closed about something, but slowly prizing open to reveal a scene of ships at sea, white sails with a red symbol—like a man made of sticks, horns on his head. Krylyrd hissed and thrashed. He knew that symbol; he’d seen it before on the clothes of the slayer at Oakendale, the man who’d slaughtered his brothers and driven them back to the Isles. Beneath the decks of the flagship amber light shone like the sun. A hushed growling spread though the onlookers.
The sphere floated down until it touched Krylyrd’s head, sank within his skull. He began to shake, blood burning in his veins, and then sat up. His mind filled with the chattering of the winged demons about the master’s throne, row upon row of them, eyes tied to magic mirrors. He glimpsed the master, dressed in a gray tunic, pale face above, shiny knobs poking from beneath black hair and sparking with tongues of fire.
“Master,” Krylyrd barked, his tongue curling awkwardly around the word. “We heard the call of the watchers. We await your bidding.”
The master’s face was a mask of clay; even his eyes remained fixed and unfocused, as if they were made of glass. They blazed with blue light when he spoke.
“I’ve shown you what my kryeh have detected, shaman. You are still my hands and feet?”
Krylyrd nodded enthusiastically, the crowd roaring their agreement.
“Then raise the hive. Ready the ships. It’s time for the reavers to swarm.”
THE DUEL
Gaston awoke before sunrise, threw his cloak over the clothes he’d slept in, buckled on his sword and wandered outside to sit by the templum porch. He leaned back and listened to the birds chirping excitedly as the first ribbons of pink and purple appeared on the horizon. Calm wrapped around him like a blanket following a restful sleep—the first he’d had in a very long while. Maybe he wasn’t quite so alone as he’d believed. Maybe he could trust Ioana to guide him, see him through this bleak patch. Even the specter of his dad was feeling more like a comfort in the dawn light, and less like the horrors he’d seen beneath the mound.
Cadman’s offer had sorely tempted him, but at the same time it had inflamed his conscience, almost given it the perspective of an outsider. And what he had seen with that conscience troubled him. It had been reckless to attack the soldiers outside Sarum, but what he’d done to Rhiannon felt a whole lot worse. She’d been his friend; she’d trusted him, and he’d betrayed that trust in the worst possible way. He was almost glad Shader was going to make him pay for it. Almost, but not quite, for nothing Shader did to him could make things right.
Gaston felt a wave of nausea, an uncomfortable tightening of his stomach. What if he lost the duel? What if he was killed before he could atone for what he’d done? Before he could complete his penance? The calm returned as swiftly as it had left. Ioana would know what to do; she was sure to speak with Shader, make him see sense. They were all Nousians. Shader would understand the need for redemption and stay his hand. Gaston crossed his legs and shook his head, laughing at himself for being such a clacker. There’d be no duel today. The more he thought about it, the more the whole thing sounded ridiculous.
He stared out at the reddening sky, not wanting to miss a moment. The problem with good moods was that they had a habit of slipping away like dreams on waking the second you took your mind off them. It felt like someone had swept a mountain of mold-blackened leaves away from the center of his skull, but they’d forgotten to take them outside. They were still there at the edges, putrefying, seeping back towards the center. Just like the dark cloud that had settled over his spirits since meeting Cadman. Gaston had been utterly convinced of the path he was following—his dad’s path, but the way Shader lived it; the path of Nous. Now, after hearing Cadman’s accusations against the Templum, after witnessing the grotesque awakening of the Lost, he felt he’d abandoned Ain. Worse, a nagging voice kept telling him that Ain didn’t exist. He no longer knew whether to hate or embrace the Templum. Denounce its lies or beg forgiveness for his unbelief.
An elderly priest limped from the residences, covered his mouth with a hand as he coughed, and made his way to sit beside Gaston. The man was old before his time, the thinning hair of his head prematurely white, a thick beard framing his chin. The eyes were damp and rheumy, and a deep scar ran across his forehead, the skin around it yellowish and hard.
“G’day, Frater,” the priest said, his voice thin and reedy.
“Morning, Pater … uhm… I’m Gaston. Gaston Rayn.”
The old man flapped his hands. “There’s no need to give me your name, son. Don’t suppose I shall remember it in a minute or two. Can’t even recall my own. It’ll come to me—most likely when one of the others calls me for breakfast. Is that a sword you’re carrying, Frater?”
Gaston nodded, already feeling the shame creeping back.
“Not a new novice, then?” He leaned closer to examine the embroidery on Gaston’s cloak. “You wear the holy Monas on a white cloak. Now let me see… An Order of fighting monks…”
“The Elect?”
“Yes, that’s it. Surely they’ve not reached Sahul?”
“I’m with the White Order founded by the former Elect, Deacon Shader.”
“I know the name.” The priest looked rather pleased with himself. “In fact, I believe he is staying with us at the moment. So you’re one of Shader’s boys.”
“Not any more.”
“Does it cause you much confusion, serving both the Monas and the sword?”
Ordinarily Gaston would have snapped at such a question, but today he felt different, less certain. “There’s an ancient argument,” he began, watching the old man’s face intently, “allowing combat that is judged to be just.”
The priest’s eyes glinted with either humor or mischief. Gaston continued, uncomfortably aware that he was quoting Shader. “As Nousians, we are commanded not to kill, but those who have rejected Ain for their own ends are the enemies of life.”
“They are evil?” the priest asked, eyes widening.
Gaston’s cheeks were burning. He licked his lips and tried to inject some confidence into his voice. Problem was, he sounded like a bullshitting pillock, even to himself. “In such cases, the act of killing is not so much homicide as malicide,” he concluded, hoping he’d got the words the right way around.
The old man scratched his beard and frowned. “But you no longer believe this?”
“Used to,
Pater, with all my heart. Acted as though it were true, as well. I’ve killed, and unjustly at that. Didn’t think so at the time, but I know it now.”
The old man’s face softened and his eyes lost their glint. “Murder?”
“Nothing else you could call it. Told myself I killed those who opposed Ain’s will, but now I haven’t a clue what that is. Don’t think I really knew then. It was my own will that was defied, my own vanity and anger that led to violence. Pater, is there any way back?”
“The path of redemption begins with the acknowledgement of guilt. If you are contrite, Ain’s forgiveness is limitless.”
“Pater Limus!” a shrill voice called from the residences. “Breakfast!”
Limus put a finger in his ear and gave it a good rub. “Coming! Will you join us, Frater…?”
“Gaston. Yes, Pater, thank you.”
The pair made their way along the central corridor of the residential block, past the chapel in which Gaston had spoken with Ioana, and down a narrow passageway that opened onto the refectory.
Spoons clattered, knives scraped, chairs creaked, and priests mumbled and whispered, talking more with their hands than their mouths. Everyone looked up as they entered, touched their foreheads, and then returned their eyes to the table. Butter was spread and passed along, honey drizzled into bowls, the pages of Libers rustled as they were turned with sticky fingers. A frater with a weatherworn face, and a habit so muddy it might as well have been brown, roughly guided Limus to a chair as the others tucked into porridge and thick rounds of toast. Soror Agna glanced at Gaston as she carried a large tea pot over to the table and began pouring for everyone—even those who held up their hands to say no. Ioana gestured for him to sit beside her, but no sooner had his bum hit the chair than Rhiannon entered the refectory with Shader at her side. He still wore his mail beneath the white surcoat, like he always did. Probably slept in it. His overcoat hung open, and he clutched his hat to his chest. He flipped it deliberately onto his head the instant his cold blue eyes met Gaston’s.
Gaston felt his lips quivering with shame or fear. He focused his gaze on Rhiannon, fighting an overwhelming urge to make public his confession and beg her forgiveness. He was halfway out of his seat when Shader drew his shortsword, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the table. Gaston was too stunned to react, and then it was too late as the tip of Shader’s gladius was pressed against his throat.
“Deacon Shader!” Ioana surged to her feet. “This man is a guest in our house.”
Beside her the dwarf, Maldark, stood and snatched up his hammer.
Shader tensed but didn’t release his grip. “This man is a rapist and a killer. In the name of Ain I’m going to cut his throat right here!”
Rhiannon looked pale with shock and did nothing but stare at Gaston, open-mouthed.
Gaston had finally attuned to the situation and realized the danger he was in. “P-P-Please—”
“Shut it!” Shader said, heaving Gaston the rest of the way over the table and dumping him on the floor.
Gaston whimpered as Shader tugged his head back by the hair and pressed the blade firmer into his throat, forcing him towards the doorway.
There was the grating of a chair being pushed back and then Limus limped to intercept them.
“Get out of my way, Pater,” Shader said, his voice full of ice and menace. “There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt.”
“You plan to murder the boy?”
“Execute. But the result’s the same. Now get out of the way.”
“I’m not good at remembering names,” Limus went on as if he hadn’t heard Shader. “You must be Ain’s right hand, or perhaps even the Angel of Death. What is it we were just saying, Gaston?” Everyone glanced at Limus in astonishment. “Is your death to be by way of homicide or malicide?”
Shader’s eyes narrowed as he pushed past the old priest. The chill blue had been swamped by a roiling gray that seemed utterly inhuman. Cold fear washed through Gaston’s limbs and it was all he could do to stop from puking, or pissing himself, or worse.
There was a gasp from behind and Shader turned, taking Gaston with him. Maldark brought his huge hammer crashing down on the table, sending crockery flying and splashing white robes with tea. Soror Agna touched her fingers to her lips and then began to dab at the front of Ioana’s robe with a handkerchief.
“Enough!” Maldark roared.
Shader paused long enough for Gaston to squirm free.
“I-I-It’s true,” Gaston directed the words at Ioana. “All true. This is what…” He flicked a look at Rhiannon, but she was trembling, staring at nothing. “…what I deserve.”
Ioana’s fingers were clenching and unclenching above the table. Her eyes never left Shader’s, but her face was contorted as if she were struggling for the right thing to say. When she did speak, her gaze faltered. “This is not the way of Nous.”
Shader raised the gladius and squinted at the keen edge of the blade. “Exactly what the monks of Pardes said when the mawgs came.” He extended his arm and took aim at Ioana with the point of the sword. “Evil must be opposed, Mater. It’s no good being Ain’s hands and feet if you just stand by and do nothing.”
Gaston found himself agreeing, but didn’t like where this was leading. Perhaps there was another way. He tried to will Rhiannon to meet his gaze, but she continued to shake, eyes wide and unblinking.
Shader looked him up and down for a moment, sneering, before turning on his heel. “Outside!”
He led the way to the gravel surface in front of the templum. The sun had just risen to a cacophony of birdsong and the maniacal cackling of a kookaburra. Elias Wolf’s cart was parked to the left of the Domus Tyalae, but Hector was under the lean-to at the edge of the templum grounds, head dipping into a feed sack. Gaston could just make out Elias’s feet protruding from the end of the cart. Clearly the bard wasn’t happy sleeping in the templum buildings. Either that, or he knew Gaston was staying and wanted to keep as far away from him as possible.
Rhiannon trailed Shader like a lost child and tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t do this, Deacon. It’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?” he thundered, and then immediately turned his head away.
Rhiannon teetered back against the door, jaw slack, the blood draining from her face. But in an instant she pushed herself off the frame and grabbed Shader by the arm, the color flooding back until her cheeks looked ready to explode. “I don’t know,” she snarled. “But how the shog do you think butchering Gaston’s gonna help? I can fight … fight my own…” She sagged like a burst wineskin, ran her fingers through her hair.
Gaston slunk between them, averting his eyes, and moved towards the Domus Tyalae where he began to go through a series of thrusts and mock parries with his longsword. The priests and Maldark fanned out behind Rhiannon and Shader to stand in front of the porch.
“What is it you want me to do?” Shader asked more gently. Gaston strained so that he wouldn’t miss a word. At least the focus had shifted from him, and that gave his courage room to trickle back.
“When you drove the mawgs from Oakendale,” Rhiannon said, touching Shader’s cheek and searching his eyes, “I thought you were so bloody holy. You fought with sadness, with regret. You took up the sword again just to protect others. It wasn’t about pride or revenge. When did you become such a violent jerk? What happened to that man?”
“He never existed,” Gaston said, ceasing his practice and turning to face Shader. If Shader was determined to go through with this, then Gaston saw no point holding back. He’d do what he was best at—belittle his opponent, anger him; who knows, maybe even the great Deacon Shader would prove fallible in some small way. He’d already shown he could lose control. All it took was one lapse. “Having second thoughts, Master Shader?” Gaston swished his blade through the air and walked through some basic stances. “Perhaps I should have practiced somewhere else.”
Shader eyed him momentarily and then tu
rned back to Rhiannon.
Gaston knew he wouldn’t back down now—pride wouldn’t let him. He brutally suppressed a wave of worry that rose from his stomach. Too late for that, he thought. Hope of any reprieve had vanished the moment he started goading Shader, though to be honest, there hadn’t been much beforehand.
Rhiannon nodded at Shader and leaned close to whisper something in his ear. As she moved back to stand with the priests and Maldark, Shader sheathed the gladius and drew his longsword.
“Only the one sword today?” Gaston would have preferred him to have used two like he normally did. Shader was making concessions, and that made Gaston feel a pang of doubt.
“No point messing up two blades on scum like you, boy.”
“Perhaps you’d like some time to warm up.” Gaston was starting to despair of riling Shader, but he lost nothing in trying. “Loosen up those old joints?”
“I’m ready if you are.” Shader twirled his sword, tongue wetting his lips.
***
Elias’s eyelids flickered open at the sound of voices. He pulled the dew-damp blankets aside and sat up in the cart, rubbing his eyes. Seeing Gaston he quickly ducked down again. Shader moved into view, sublimely poised, walking on the balls of his feet. They were both armed and not taking their eyes off each other. Chances of this being a passionate tango seemed a bit slim, so Elias guessed it must’ve started. His money was on Shader, but that was more from bias than any objective appraisal of their skills. He’d like nothing more than to see Gaston bleeding from a thousand cuts and force-fed his own stunted little prick. Not that Elias knew what Gaston’s cock looked like, but you could always tell when someone was compensating. He rummaged around for his notebook and then settled back to watch the duel over the edge of the cart.
Gaston’s attack was sudden and terrifying. Without warning, he leapt in with perfect balance, slashing and thrusting with dazzling speed. Elias’s breath caught in his throat. Looked like he’d backed the wrong horse. He was certain it would all be over in a second.