Monument

by Ian Graham

  Heresh lay on the ground. Three Under-Wardens were kicking her. Blood covered her face and drenched her tunic.

  Ballas hurled his sword at the first Under-Warden. Spinning as it flew through the air, the blade sank into his lower back. The two remaining Under-Wardens turned. Ballas threw himself at the first one, knocking him off his feet. Falling, he cracked his skull on the alley wall. The second, a large man, hurled a punch into Ballas’s face. Ballas staggered. The man unsheathed a dagger, and struck at his foe. Blocking the blow, Ballas grabbed the man’s tunic and they fell grappling to the ground. Kneeling upon his chest, Ballas punched the man twice in the face—then faltered.

  He felt as if someone had thumped him in the stomach. A thudding pain filled his guts.

  Ballas groaned.

  Then he punched the Under-Warden over and over, in the face and throat and body, until he felt the man’s ribcage contract and heard the whistling rasp of his final breath.

  Ballas got to his feet. Shakily.

  He looked along the alley. No Wardens or Under-Wardens remained standing. Some had fled. Most had died.

  ‘My daughter!’ said Crask, dismounting.

  He ran to Heresh. The young woman was covered in blood. As Crask approached, she pushed herself upright.

  ‘Oh, sweet grief—I am so sorry!’ said Crask, gripping her shoulders.

  ‘It is blood, and nothing more,’ said Heresh. She touched her nose, which had been broken. And her lips, which had been split open. ‘I am a little dazed. But that is all.’

  ‘We must retrieve the horses,’ said Crask, ‘and ride far away from here.’ He looked at Ballas.

  The big man felt strange. He felt weak. It wasn’t a pleasant weakness, like that of drunkenness. A darkness hovered behind it. Numbly, Ballas dipped a finger in the blood pouring from the sword wound high on his chest.

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Crask. ‘We will find you a physician! Such an injury, for a man like you—why, it is nothing! A gnat bite!’

  Without speaking, Ballas reached lower. His fingertips touched something smooth. A knife hilt, sticking out from his stomach.

  Ballas’s legs buckled.

  Crask ran over.

  ‘Do not die!’ he said. ‘Do you hear me? My daughter and I … we need you. Be strong, do you hear? We will find you a physician. We will …’

  Crask’s voice trailed off. Ballas understood why. In the distance there was shouting. More Wardens were coming. The men who’d escaped from the alley had summoned help.

  ‘Get up,’ breathed Crask, seizing Ballas’s tunic front. ‘Damn everything, but get up!’ He tugged vainly at Ballas’s tunic.

  Ballas felt his senses grow dull. Every noise grew muffled, every image drifted in a blur across his eyes. Seizing Crask’s wrists, he broke the eel-catcher’s grip.

  ‘Bring me a sword,’ he said, his voice scarcely audible.

  Turning, Crask sprinted to a fallen Warden. Bracing a foot against the dead man’s shoulder blades, he wrenched out the sword stuck in his lower back.

  Returning, he handed it to Ballas. The big man seized it. Yet there was something wrong with his sense of touch: he couldn’t feel the hilt. He held it tightly, yet the leather-wrapped grip yielded no sensations.

  Cursing, Ballas tried to stand. As he rose, his legs buckled— his muscles had little strength. He sagged against the wall. Then he slid to the ground.

  Cartwheels rattled close by. Then a voice rang out, harsh-edged and clear.

  ‘Get on,’ it said.

  Laboriously, Ballas turned his head. On the open ground stood a cart. On its driving bench sat an old man, bald-headed, hunched like a vulture.

  ‘Get on,’ he repeated, ‘or you will be killed. And that would displease Elsefar.’

  ‘Elsefar?’ mumbled Ballas.

  ‘Let us think later,’ said Crask, placing an arm under Ballas’s shoulder, ‘and act now.’ He glanced along the alley. ‘Come on. Try to stand. Make an effort.’

  With Crask’s help, Ballas got to his feet. Leaning heavily on the eel-catcher, he staggered towards the cart.

  As they approached, Crask said, ‘He is hurt.’

  ‘We will deal with such things later,’ said the cart’s driver calmly.

  Ballas heaved himself up on to the cart-back and sprawled limply on the boards. Dimly, he felt a lurch as Crask climbed up alongside him. Then the cart tilted again, and Ballas caught Heresh’s scent.

  The cart’s driver said something—but Ballas couldn’t tell what: he was growing deaf.

  A rustling darkness swept over him. He smelled damp leather—a tarpaulin, he realised.

  He fell into swirling blackness.

  Chapter 14

  … As they journeyed, the Pilgrims began

  To mistrust the pale stranger,

  Whose name was Asvirius, espying within him

  A dark fire …

  … Of the sick, he healed none.

  Nor granted voice to the mute,

  Strength to the frail …

  Something drew Ballas out of the black well of unconsciousness. Grunting, he opened his eyes. He found himself lying on blankets, in a cold, black-bricked room. The walls were bare. A few niches held candles, flickering fitfully. One contained a skull. A jagged patch of darkness marked its pate; the bone had been smashed through. Empty eye sockets gazed blackly at Ballas.

  The martyred Cadaris Brante,’ came a voice.

  From a doorway stepped the man Ballas had seen on the cart. In the poor light, the bald, hunched figure seemed more gaunt than he had before. Age creases seamed his face. His eyes glittered as he touched the skull with a fingertip.

  ‘Cadaris the Sufferer, Cadaris the Forest Walker. Soon he will be beatified. Sainthood awaits him. As soon as the Masters give the word, this relic—and, trust me, it is truly Cadaris’s skull: it is not some false, soon-to-be-disproven antiquity, such as a sandal strap belonging to the Four, or a shard of Scarrendestin diamond—this relic will be taken to the Esklarion Sacros and blessed, then granted a permanent place in Soriterath’s cathedral. I do not covet Cadaris’s skull. But, I confess, I shall be sad to be without it. I sense that it contains a little of Cadaris’s spirit. It provides good company. Do you know the tale of Cadaris? He was a brave and holy man. He dwelled, as a hermit, in Wildthorn Forest. He lived upon the fruits of the earth. He ate berries, roots, nuts. And he dwelled placidly among animals that are more often enemies to man: wolves, boars, serpents.

  ‘One day, a group of bandits came into the forest. During the evening, they decided to amuse themselves by digging out a badger and presenting it to their dog—a small, fierce creature, well acquainted with badger-baiting. Naturally, it fell upon the animal.

  ‘From a different part of the forest, Cadaris heard the badgers yelps of pain. And the bandits’ laughter.

  ‘Following the sounds, he found the bandits. Without hesitation, he swept up the badger, releasing it into the undergrowth. The bandits were furious. They avenged themselves upon Cadaris. They beat him, and mutilated him. They burned out his eyes, they broke his arms and legs.

  Then they sliced open his stomach. They tipped an ants’ nest into the wound, then closed it up again. The ants ate away at him from the inside. His agonies were indescribable.

  ‘Of course, Cadaris perished. And did so to save an animal. An unusual exchange, do you not think: a human’s life for a beast’s? But the Four preached that all lives are equal. If an animal’s life is to be taken, it must be done with respect and solemnity. A hunter must pray for his quarry at the moment of slaughter. No animal must be slain just for pleasure.

  ‘These are considered the most trivial of the Four’s principles. Yet Cadaris obeyed them most earnestly. His piety was rare—and unconditional. I admire him, more than any other martyr. His presence comforts me.’

  Turning, he opened his raincape. Underneath it he wore dark blue robes. Around his neck, a Scarrendestin pendant glinted.

  Ballas started to rise.

>   ‘Be still,’ said the man, placing a hand on his shoulder, ‘or your stitches will tear.’

  ‘You are a priest,’ growled Ballas.

  ‘How else do you think I got you safely through the Wardens? How else do you think I prevented them from searching my cart? Yes, I am a priest—and one of no small standing.’ He gestured around the room. ‘This is the crypt antechamber, beneath Granthaven Cathedral. And I am Father Rendeage.’ He draped his cape on a low table. From a cloth bag, he extracted jars of ointment and a bandage roll. ‘You have no cause to trust me. You are subject to a Decree of Annihilation, and I am of the Pilgrim Church. I ought to crave your death and wish you a thousand sufferings.’ He paused, looking directly at Ballas. ‘But it is not so.’

  ‘Why not?’ groaned Ballas, sitting upright.

  ‘Because I am a holy man.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m a sinner, a fugitive …’

  ‘I am a holy man,’ snapped Rendeage, emphasising the word. ‘A holy man before I am a priest, before I am a Servant of the Church. I obey the Four’s will—not the Blessed Masters’. Where one concurs with the other, that is fine—and it makes life less troublesome. But where there is disparity … I bow my head to the divine, not to the earthly.’ He gestured upwards, not to the ceiling but beyond it: to the cathedral overhead. ‘The Four said, “Lock not the doors of your church, for no man is a trespasser in the house of the Four. The man virtuous and the man ill-tainted shall lodge side by side, without judgement, and from all hazards be protected. Only the Four, within the Eltheryn Forest, shall measure a man’s goodness and his wickedness”.’ He drew a breath. ‘You are safe here. But I do not know for how long. It is but a matter of time before the churches are searched. The Masters are reluctant: for such an action suggests that there is disunity within the Church. But it will happen, sooner or later.’

  Ballas gazed at Rendeage’s robes, and his pendant. ‘You brought me here—you healed me, yes?’ He touched the bandages, wrapped around his waist where the dagger had struck.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’ll happen, if you’re found out?’

  ‘I shall be tried,’ said Rendeage. ‘Then I shall be executed.’

  Ballas grunted. ‘You are taking a chance, holy man.’

  ‘I am risking my life,’ agreed Rendeage. ‘But in return, I shall save my soul.’ He sighed. ‘Now, do you hunger? And thirst?’

  Ballas nodded. The priest left the chamber, returning a short time later with a wine flagon and a piece of beef. Ballas bit into the beef. Then he uncorked the wine flagon. Taking a swallow, he found the taste familiar—yet he couldn’t quite recall from where.

  ‘I must leave you,’ said Father Rendeage. ‘But we will speak later. There are things you and I must discuss.’ He hesitated, staring closely at Ballas. ‘You are a free man. I cannot force you to remain here. But I can tell you that there is no safer place in Granthaven. Step outside, and you will become Wardens’ prey. Stay, and—for now—you will be protected. Your friends have acted wisely. They have not set foot outside the cathedral. They are in the next chamber, if you wish to speak with them.’

  With a nod, Rendeage left the room. Ballas chewed on the beef and drank from the wine flagon. His stomach hurt: he could feel the tug of the stitches every time he moved. He glanced at the martyr’s skull, pale within the niche. Then, getting up, he went through the doorway.

  In the next chamber, he found skulls—dozens of them, resting on shelves fashioned within the brickwork. The effect was momentarily disturbing. Every shadowed eye socket seemed trained upon him. He felt as if he had stepped into a large crowd—as if these assembled bone relics were a living audience, attentive and expectant.

  A couple of tallow lamps were burning.

  Lugen Crask and his daughter were seated upon a rug.

  Crask appeared unharmed. But bruises darkened Heresh’s face. An eye was swollen half-shut. Her lips were split. The crippled quill-master, Jonas Elsefar, sat upon a chair in the corner. His crutches were propped against the wall. He looked at Ballas closely, his expression unreadable.

  Lugen Crask got to his feet. ‘Father Rendeage insisted on you sleeping in the other chamber. He thought it unhealthy for a man to regain his health in a place such as this … that is, in an ossuary. Certainly, it would be a shocking thing to wake up to, don’t you think? Akin to waking into a nightmare … to waking into some pit of hell.’ He smiled, nervously. ‘I told him you weren’t of a queasy temperament. I said a few bones would not perturb you. But he insisted. Instead, this has become our lodgings. A touch macabre, perhaps. Too much like something from a grisly fairy tale … Yet we are secure here.’

  Ballas drank from the flagon.

  ‘The priest says you are fortunate to be alive,’ continued Crask, into the silence. The blade pierced your gut, true—but every major innard remained unscathed. He says your recovery will be total. There will be no hint of injury, except for the scar. But what man frets over such a thing? In a woman’s eyes, scars are marks of virtue, are they not?’

  Ignoring Crask, Ballas walked over to the quill-master, Elsefar.

  ‘We struck a bargain,’ he said, gazing down at the cripple. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Your employers are dead.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ nodded Elsefar, looking up. ‘I admit that

  I am impressed. I saw Caggerick Blunt, upon the floor of his office. A deeply pleasing sight. It moved me.’

  Ballas couldn’t tell if Elsefar was speaking sarcastically.

  Lugen Crask said, ‘And did it please you to see those boys burn—the ones in the lodging hall?’

  ‘We have spoken of this before,’ said Elsefar impatiently. ‘You have slept for two days, Ballas. And for those two days this fellow has been a one-man plague of sanctimony. Yes, I set light to the lodging hall. Yes, many perished. But Crask cannot understand that those whom I hurt deserved to suffer. Those “boys” mocked me. Every day, year after year, they took amusement in ridiculing something beyond my control. I cannot walk. I cannot run. No woman will even glance at me— except in revulsion. And they found it amusing. If you could hear the jibes, and feel them strike home … each as sharp, as piercing as the dagger that entered Ballas’s stomach—’

  ‘You burned them alive!’ snapped Crask.

  ‘And their mockery burned me!’ Elsefar’s voice rose, angrily. ‘Have you no inkling of my suffering? To be cursed in this fashion?’ He struck his useless legs. To arrive into this world, unable to jump and run … unable to walk the hills. To swim in rivers. My birth was cursed, through no fault of my own. Yet I suffer for it.’ He sat in agitated silence. Then he calmed himself. Drawing a breath, he said, ‘Our circumstances have changed.’

  He met Ballas’s gaze.

  ‘I cannot honour our old agreement. Not unless it is reshaped into a form that suits me better. That suits us all better.’

  ‘I warned you,’ said Ballas, ‘that if you broke your promise, I’d kill you.’

  ‘Kill me,’ said Elsefar, ‘and you murder your sole chance of escape.’ His gaze flickered from person to person. ‘Accept my new conditions, and we live. Refuse, and we perish.’ He shifted slightly. ‘I do not ask much. Merely that, after we escape, you transport me to Bluewater Wilds, fifty miles from here. It will involve a small detour, on your way to the mountain-guide. But not by far.’

  ‘Why do you want to go to Bluewater?’

  ‘I have … I had a home there. I lived at the Wilds during the years I copied forbidden texts. It is in the middle of nowhere. No paths lead to it, there are no villages close by—it is safe. I used to live off the land. I will do so again. And I will also be alone. A pleasing thing, I think. I am a solitary creature. Humankind sickens me more and more each day. A hermit’s existence will bring me the greatest happiness. I will live like Cadaris, though I shan’t sacrifice myself for anything.’ He coughed. ‘I ask only that we escape together, and you take me to the Wilds.’

  ‘He is in no position to make bargains.�
� Crask moved alongside Ballas. ‘He wants to live as much as we do.’

  ‘Untrue,’ retorted Elsefar. ‘Look at me. Do you suppose my life is joyful? And that my future, even if I reach the Wilds, will be a wellspring of delight?’

  ‘You’ll be taken to the Wilds,’ said Ballas. ‘Now, how do we get out of Granthaven?’

  Elsefar pointed down. ‘The sewers.’

  ‘There aren’t any.’ Ballas frowned. ‘On the streets, there arce no gutters—’

  ‘They are no longer used,’ replied the quill-master. ‘They were built three centuries ago and depended on the River Blackrush to sluice through them, carrying the filth away to a water-drop on the moors. But the Blackrush dried up. Now it is no more than a stream, just a trickle flowing near the city’s edge. The sewers were closed, the gutters paved over. This was a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred years back. Nowadays, most people have no knowledge of the tunnels under the city. I suspect that even the Pilgrim Church has forgotten.’

  ‘But you know of them,’ muttered Ballas.

  ‘Once, years ago, I was asked to make a copy of the map, to be stored in the Archive Hall on Bracken Street. The sewer network is as complex as any labyrinth. If you wish to find your way out, you will need the map. Of course, retrieving it from the Hall might prove troublesome.’ He smiled. ‘But you, Ballas, have performed tasks far more difficult.’

  Feeling tired, his knife wound throbbing, Ballas returned to the other chamber. Settling down on the blankets, he glanced at Cadaris’s skull. Would it matter to Cadaris if he was made a saint? Or if, left unbeatified, he—his skull, that was—lodged for eternity in a niche, beneath a cathedral?

  Footsteps sounded.

  ‘May we talk?’ asked Lugen Crask, appearing on the threshold.

  ‘The priest, Rendeage—what sort of man is he?’ asked Ballas, ignoring the eel-catcher’s question.

  ‘A devout one,’ replied Crask.

  ‘Untrue.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Ballas lifted the wine flagon. ‘Holy wine.’

  ‘Are you certain?’