The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith

by Douglas Van Dyke

  Kemora pulled to a stop at a point where the roof of a building came relatively close to the level of the aqueduct. A good drop loomed below, but it left an escape option open. Montanya never slowed as she approached the domid. Once again the rogue’s sword flashed in the open. Calling upon her martial disciplines, Montanya took advantage of her small opponent by launching into a flying kick. Kemora tried to duck the assault. The kick missed, allowing Kemora to sweep the sword behind her. After Montanya landed, on the far side of the halfling, she followed it with a balanced roll. The chiaso effortlessly hopped to a fighting stance as Kemora came in low. The domid fought in a crouch, trying to sever the human’s feet. Montanya moved her legs fast as Kemora’s sword scratched the limestone slabs covering the aqueduct. The human warrior saw her opportunity, pivoting one of her legs in a circle away from the sword slash. Her foot came back to connect with Kemora’s chin.

  The domid staggered and fell backwards. She narrowly avoided losing her balance on the birdwalk. Montanya moved to take advantage of the situation. The halfling’s face was turned away from her, and the sword was held on the far side of her small body. Montanya thought she had stunned Kemora; instead, the short rogue lulled her into coming close.

  When the human reached to take control of Kemora’s hands and sword, the halfling reacted. Montanya succeeded in clamping a hand around the rogue’s left wrist, but the right arm tried to run her through with the sword. Montanya contorted once again, moving her body to the side while trying to maintain her balance. The initial stab barely missed her. Unfortunately, Montanya put herself in a precarious position. One of her hands still held Kemora’s unarmed hand, keeping the halfling up close, but her other hand was in no position to block the sword.

  Kemora’s sword had extended beyond Montanya’s side, but the rogue immediately remedied that. The domid looked up at Montanya in victory as she retracted the sword in a way that sliced just under the leather chest piece. Montanya’s rage disappeared in a scream of pain as she felt the blade cutting into her skin. She didn’t have time to look down at the cut, yet she saw the stain of her own blood on the edge of the sword.

  Montanya’s delayed reaction twisted her further away from the sword without relinquishing her hold on the rogue. Kemora saw a danger coming, as the human teetered beyond the edge of the walkway while still holding a crushing grip to the small wrist. Montanya’s desperation, mixed with persevering anger, clouded her reasoning. Instead of trying to save herself from going over the edge, the chiaso swept her left foot upwards. Kemora was caught by surprise as a disorienting kick came from out of nowhere with jarring force to her jaw.

  Both women fell from the heights of the aqueduct.

  Moments later, bodies smacked against the roof of a stable. The fall could have been far worse, yet it was sufficient to knock the wind out of their lungs. Montanya rolled a bit in one direction, while Kemora thrashed her limbs as she slid towards one edge. The halfling clutched against an eave as she glimpsed how close she had come to falling all the way to the street. Montanya gasped in air despite the pain in her side.

  Kemora got her feet under her as she glanced back up to the human. Although the taller woman had not risen, Montanya’s face assumed her customary scowl. The pursuer appeared more angry than hurt. The halfling decided not to push the matter. Retrieving her nearby sword, the rogue entered the building through a second story hay loft that was within reach.

  Montanya forced in a breath, gritting her teeth against the pain. Her side had a bloody but shallow cut. It drew her gaze with an almost morbid fascination. She felt relief that she wasn’t witnessing her intestines spilling out.

  Her eyes were drawn for only a short time before anger drove her onward. Montanya growled as she got to her feet and approached the same entry the rogue used. Leather soles slapped across the roof slates as she descended to the hay loft. She felt a moment of helpless vulnerability as she swung through the opening. To her relief, Kemora was not there to slice at her upon entry. Montanya worked to steady her breathing as her eyes tried to adjust to the gloomy interior. The chiaso knelt amidst a scattering of hay strands on the wooden loft. She heard a soft noise.

  Montanya picked up a pitchfork and moved to the edge of the loft to look upon the stable’s ground floor. Running through the aisle below was her aggravating quarry. Kemora heard the noise above her just as the pitchfork launched like a spear. With a yelp of surprise the domid dodged off-balance to the side. Kemora fell into an empty horse stall as the pitchfork teetered upright from where it had embedded into the soft floor.

  Montanya tried to find her focus amidst the pain. The human jumped off of the loft, catching a beam over the stall with her hands to guide her move. The beam provided enough leverage to send her reverse-somersaulting through the air at the rogue. As impressive a kick as it was, Montanya’s old master would have still chided the way that her anger took away from her deepest concentration.

  Kemora found her feet just in time for her small body to meet the impact of the flying kick.

  It knocked the halfling backwards. Her small body rolled under the lowest plank and into the next stall, putting her in a bad position under a confused horse. Kemora started sputtering curses in her domid language. Halflings hated the prospect of being under the legs of a large horse. The rogue got to her feet amidst stomping hooves. The thief tried to envision an escape route when Montanya came up with a new attack. The martial artist wielded the pitchfork. Not only did Kemora have to avoid the stomping hooves, she had to dodge the pitchfork stabbing at her from between planks.

  Blood dampened Montanya’s tan tunic, yet that failed to slow the viciousness of the woman’s attacks. Her loosened hair whipped around her head as she screamed in rage; the torn pink fabric of her mother’s dress barely hanging on. The sight of the strange magical mask at the halfling’s belt only fueled her rage. Montanya’s every thought focused on killing the thief and retrieving the stolen item to repay a lifetime of loss. The pitchfork splintered wood inches from horse legs in pursuit of that tiny halfling heart.

  Kemora had to make her escape if she wanted to avoid trampling or impalement. She dodged to one end, intentionally drawing Montanya into stabbing that direction. When the pitchfork narrowly missed Kemora, the halfling dove for a board that had been cracked by an earlier thrust. The rogue twisted through the space offered by the weakened board, bending back a splinter as she did. The halfling still yelped as she felt one tine of the fork scratch her hind end.

  The new stall was empty. Kemora enjoyed that small bit of luck in her favor. She heard the human moving about, and correctly assumed the chiaso would run up the row of stalls with the pitchfork in continued pursuit. The simple theft became a deadly threat to the small mugger. It was time for Kemora to use resources she hadn’t expected to need.

  With little time to spare, the domid drew forth two items. One was a vial of fluid which she hastily uncorked. She poured a thick, mucosal liquid on the blade groove of the stiletto held in her nimble right hand.

  The stall door burst open from the force of a kick. Montanya nearly filled the entryway as she let the pitchfork lead the way. Kemora dropped the bottle as she rolled to the side of the attack. The pitchfork missed, moving Montanya’s hands close to the head of the small rogue. Kemora hopped up and bit Montanya’s hand. The domid let go after just a short nip. Montanya dropped the pitchfork and retracted her arm. While the chiaso tried to keep track of the rogue, Kemora closed the gap between them quickly. Montanya felt the rogue pushing past her long legs and reached downward.

  Montanya screamed as she felt the stabbing pain in the back of her knee, causing it to buckle.

  If Kemora’s attack had been perfect, the stiletto would have pierced the major artery or vein flowing just behind the knee. Her attack barely missed them, but the fluid coating the blade still had an entry into Montanya’s system. Kemora shouldered past as the larger woman fell forward.

  Montanya caught her fall, staring at the empty glas
s vial rolling on the floor of the stall. She picked it up with one hand, determined to have something to throw at the rogue. She heard the small footsteps running away from her. Her leg, inflamed with pain, nearly buckled after she got back to her feet. Montanya searched for the halfling, only to see the drab colors of the thief exiting the stable. Limping forward, Montanya ran as fast as her strength could manage. Her breath coming in gasps, the injuries and pain to her body could not be blocked out by her disciplines. Montanya stumbled clumsily out the door.

  This street was relatively busy with people in this late hour. Her greenish-blue eyes swept the street for signs of the rogue, but she saw no short figures. If she had been more alert, she might have noticed a human-sized figure looking much like the halfling. A seemingly human woman with her brown hair frazzled about a loosened bun, dressed in drab brown and gray colors, discreetly wiped some blood and fluid off a stiletto before replacing it in a sheath. Wearing the stolen magical mask, blending in with the humans on the street, Kemora walked away in disguise.

  Meanwhile, Montanya drew stares as she stumbled out of the stable. People gasped upon seeing the blood staining the side of her tunic. They wondered if she wasn’t slightly drunk, the way she swayed uncertainly. Her long legs moved unsteadily and with great effort. Her loose pantaloons blossomed wet with blood behind one knee.

  A wave of dizziness rolled over the young woman. The people in her sight became blurred. When Montanya’s vision sharpened a bit once more, she realized she was kneeling on the ground. Something felt wrong with her body: a sickness spreading inside her. People on the street just stood and stared. Montanya felt ill and hot as her insides tumbled. A wave of nausea spewed forth. Montanya shook as her quivering stomach emptied out onto the street.

  When the first wave ended, Montanya saw the reflection of light off the forgotten item in her hand. The glass vial rolled loose from her fingers. Poison!

  Mortality replaced anger. Paralyzing fear took hold of her mind. She barely whimpered a few words out, beseeching those near. “Help me, please. I’ve been poisoned.”

  In the torchlit darkness of the street, her vision blurred by dulled senses, the people on the street appeared as shadowy caricatures. None offered hope or a comforting face. If anything, several backed away.

  “Help me. Anyone…”

  Montanya sagged into the darkness, away from the blurry light and the afterimages of people looking upon her in revulsion. She collapsed in the dirt.

  CHAPTER 10 “Sanctuary for Those in Need”

  Two pairs of hands glided over the exposed wounds of the unresponsive human female, working around a modest covering of blankets. The patient’s long strands of matted reddish hair lay in disarray. The helpful hands, one pair young yet calloused while the other pair showed the wrinkles of age, took turns as prayer chants were uttered. In this small room in the back of one of the city’s Sanctuaries for Those in Need, (otherwise known by some as ‘copper pens’), two tired priests struggled with ridding this nameless victim of a vicious poison.

  A concerned citizen thankfully carried Montanya to the closest form of help he could think to find. With the chiaso hanging so tenuously to the edge of life, her best hope depended on the clerics of the nearby sanctuary. Clerics working at those refuges, devout in their self-imposed servitude and duty to the people and their service to the god Ganden, did not normally receive visitors clinging so precariously to the precipice of death’s embrace. The priests worked feverishly to save the woman’s life, without knowing Montanya’s name or the conflict with the halfling rogue. The sweat upon the healers’ clothes proved how taxing the struggle had been, as well as other signs: numerous bloody towels, dirty water in the wash basins, a scattering of supplies and bandages strewn across table and floor, emptied and discarded containers of healing poultices.

  “She is a fighter. Her soul was almost lost, but she has been pulled back from the brink.” The older healer, Mother Evine, whispered to the young disciple of Ganden assisting her. “Ganden’s miracles have extracted the poisonous taint from her body. Her breathing is strong and untroubled. We can finish sealing her injuries, then her stamina should return swiftly.”

  Mother Evine examined the pale flesh of their patient, noting not only the two most serious injuries but also the scars of numerous old wounds. It wasn’t an exaggeration calling this one a fighter; Montanya’s violent history was etched into her soft skin. The older healer focused on how her assistant fared with the smaller of the two open wounds. It was only a narrow stiletto puncture, though it had been filled with poison.

  The hands of her student circled around the stiletto wound amidst prayers of healing. As the wound healed from the inside out, Mother Evine had time to consider the progress of this young disciple of Ganden.

  Sondra Oskires, a human maiden, knew twenty-three years of age. The young woman’s beauty dimmed under a blanket of low self-esteem and quiet introspectiveness. Sondra had curves that could turn the eyes of any young man, except they lay hidden beneath the layers of clerical vestments. Her soft, blue eyes rarely looked up enough to meet the eyes of those conversing with her. She trimmed her wheat-blonde hair to keep it out of her way as she worked. Clerics of Ganden trained for warfare as well as healing, but one would never suspect the hidden muscles under her clothes could wear armor and cause damaging blows with a mace. On this day her shoulders served only to carry the rust-colored leather satchel containing healing supplies and various holy implements. Sondra used oils from that bag to massage warmth into Montanya’s leg, whispering words of prayer between perfectly clean and straight teeth. Those teeth rarely appeared, because Sondra seldom smiled. Words rarely passed in plentiful numbers from between her natural, dark red lips. Words of prayer streamed from her in abundance now, as healing power flowed from her spirit to mend the body of the youth. Sondra’s shyness caused her to shrink around others, yet she ranked among the most gifted healers Mother Evine ever trained. Sondra Oskires would be a great tool of her god within the world, able to spread her miraculous healing and words of wisdom to many, if she broke past the self-imposed shell isolating her from others.

  Mother Evine watched the bloody stiletto wound close. It soon became smooth, unbroken skin. The older cleric turned towards her own hands, finishing the prayers which similarly healed the abdomen wound, leaving no visible trace. “That is good work, Sister Sondra.” She studied the expression on Sondra’s face as the younger cleric stepped back from her task. Sondra’s face reflected something judgmental in the way she looked at their patient. “I would ask, though, how do you see this woman? What is your opinion of her?”

  The young disciple wiped the sweat from her brow. Blood soiled her hands as well as her sleeves, so she settled for finding a somewhat clean towel to dab at her face. Sondra looked over the mostly exposed body on the table before them. Mother Evine in turn studied Sondra’s reaction, trying to look past the silent, unemotional barrier her young student often had in place.

  “Rough life,” Sondra replied. The slightest motion of her chin pointed at the old scars present on Montanya.

  Mother Evine nodded, “Aye, she’s seen many bad days I fear. I’m more interested in how you feel about her. I asked your opinion of her just now, but you judged her from the moment she came in.”

  Sondra Oskires ducked her face away from the stare of her mentor, not unexpectedly. Whenever her elder tried to dig into Sondra’s emotions, the young woman avoided eye contact and would distract herself with some menial chore. Mother Evine watched as Sondra hurriedly piled Montanya’s soiled and bloody clothes into a basket. Sondra paused as she examined a locket on a chain, before turning around and setting it on the table next to Montanya’s foot.

  Mother Evine firmly but gently grabbed Sondra’s shoulders, turning her face to face. “You aren’t avoiding me this time. I mean to have a little talk with you.”

  The older cleric called over two other acolytes. She asked them to provide new clothes to the injured woman, as well a
s finish cleaning up the room. The two younger sisters went about their task as Evine led Sondra into a small prayer room.

  Mother Evine lit a candle. In its soft light she regarded the downcast face of her apprentice. “Did you try on her shoes?”

  Sondra’s face revealed her confusion at the question. “Those dirty leather slippers? Why would I put them on my feet?”

  Mother Evine cracked a smile, “Because how can you truly know a person unless you have walked in their shoes?”

  The young woman rolled her eyes at being caught in the old saying. The older cleric continued, “What did you think her background was like?”

  Sondra considered it for a short while. “I am not certain. Her locket had an inscription on it…possibly a name of nobility. Maybe she was someone of importance once, or it was a gift.”

  Mother Evine stayed silent, urging Sondra to continue. “Her clothes, odd style as they looked, were not poorly made. Yet, she seems to have lived on the street for some time. I’d wager that everything she owned was in that rolled up blanket. I wonder if she ran away from home, or if her home was taken from her.”

  “I thought it odd that whoever caused those wounds on her used poison as well,” Mother Evine commented, “Someone must have been awfully desperate. It’s rare to see an assailant use poison, especially on a wanderer with nay riches upon her.”

  The older cleric shook her head, “But, that is not the point. The point is that you judged her the moment she was carried in the door. Your work at healing, skillful as it is, lacked a certain care to it. You loathed something about her, and it showed in your actions.”

  Sondra winced from the sting of the words. Mother Evine knew Sondra could be sensitive, and any small criticism wounded the young woman. Despite that, the older cleric had to instruct and raise Sondra properly by helping the woman find her own spiritual path.