The Archbishop's Amulet (The Windhaven Chronicles Book 2)

by Watson Davis

  “Not like we asked to be here.” I limped to the front of the cart, back to my position between the handles.

  “You possess an awfully smart mouth for a slave,” he said, reaching out with a clenched fist, touching my chest, stopping me. “I know you.”

  I glared up at him, my fingers wrapping around the amulet, hoping to at least punch him in his face before he killed me.

  He snarled, looking past me, at Cole, at Aissal. His inspection stopped at Aissal. “You a healer or something?”

  Aissal nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Going to need all the healers we can dig up back at the camp.” He sheathed his sword and grabbed me by my shoulders, setting me aside like I was a fallen tree branch blocking his path. He strode forward and clamped the fingers of his left hand on the cart, pulling out his sword in his right, keeping his sword hand free to swing. Dragging the cart behind him like it weighed nothing, he jogged forward, screaming, “Agholor. Gather the boys and clear me a path back to camp.”

  “You giving up already?” a voice cried out from the battle. “I’m just getting started.”

  I stood, struck dumb by exhaustion and pain and fear, watching the cart move away from me, my mouth open, until Aissal’s head popped up, her eyes wide, waving her arms, screaming at me, “Caldane!”

  I started running, trying to catch up.

  # # #

  Fi Cheen staggered away from the altar room, pushing his way through the other monks, knocking them out of his way, leaving them to the demons and devils chasing them, stumbling away from the rip in the fabric of reality through which the devils and demons poured through, the altar room itself having imploded from the force of the reintegration, tumbling the stone walls, caving in the dome, making some room between himself and the rift, a safe distance. He pressed his hands against his ears, shaking his head trying to clear the ringing, the roaring, his palms coming back sticky with blood.

  The junior master from earlier in the day—what is her name?—lay sobbing on the ground, covering her head with her arms, a large devil on her back, cackling and drooling, its black bat-like wings beating down, creating a stink of brimstone, tearing at her silken tunic, its claws ripping both cloth and the pale skin beneath.

  His hands tensing, Fi Cheen mumbled a spell, drawing magical energy from the realms, from the onyx ring on his finger. The devil turned toward him, malice and hate in his eyes. Fi Cheen flung his hand in the creature’s direction. The devil leapt into the air, spreading his wings, launching himself toward Fi Cheen, but one of the magically-reinforced iron bars exploded from the rubble of the altar, responding to Fi Cheen’s command, the beam striking the devil full in the chest, finding his foul heart, killing him.

  Fi Cheen grabbed the junior master by her arm, pulling her to her feet. She looked around, her movements jerky, eyes darting to every location around her searching for her tormentor. He said, “I have slain him. Let us escape.”

  “Yes.” She moved closer to him, shivering.

  His right hand still wrapped around her upper arm, Fi Cheen dragged her with him, chanting the words of a spell, moving his left hand to direct the summoned forces, arraying those forces around them as an invisible shield, down the stone pathway leading through the Garden of Lions, to the northern bailey. Chattering demons hurled themselves at the two of them, striking with their tridents, their morning-stars, their fangs and claws, all bouncing off his shield, the force of their attacks only causing the occasional misstep.

  Fi Cheen stopped and peered down into the junior master’s large doe-like eyes. “Tell me you are well-versed in at least one of the spells of distant force projection.”

  She blinked, her breathing fast and hard, more than a bit distracting with her breasts flouncing around. “What?”

  “You must regain control of yourself,” he said, stumbling forward into her from the force of a devil’s attack to the rear of his shield, one he didn’t see coming and did not steady himself to absorb. “I am not aware of your skill set. Can you project magical force? Telekinesis?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and bowed, grazing his chest with her forehead. She smelled clean, as though freshly bathed. “Of course, Overseer Fi Cheen.”

  Placing his hand beneath her chin, Fi Cheen raised her face. He turned her head toward an iron bar on the door to the lower kitchen. “Do you see that bar?”

  “Yes.” Her head pressed down against his hand.

  He forced her to face him, pulling her face up toward his, staring deep into her eyes. “Do you have the skill to pick up the bar, infuse it with magic,” he twisted, pointing her face behind him at a devil with a flaming sword shrieking and hacking away at the shield, each strike an explosion of pain at the base of Fi Cheen’s skull, “and drive it through this fellow’s heart? Please.”

  “Yes.” She steadied herself, her eyes focusing on some distant point through Fi Cheen’s chest, taking the mountain stance, a suitable pose for strength, pulling energy to her, to her core.

  His hands spreading apart, channeling more force out, Fi Cheen pushed his shield out, drawing more energy from his ring, expanding the shield, not only pushing the devil back, but accommodating the girl’s lack of skill, giving her more room to cast.

  She chanted, stomping the ground, flailing her hands, concentrating on making every move perfect, but not on her surroundings. Fi Cheen leaned back, her palm passing a finger’s breadth from his nose, that close to a dangerous misfire. The bar on the door clattered, pitched back and forth, and flew off, striking the devil in the heart, his face relaxing into surprise. He lurched back, wings flapping, until he fell, his body melting into a black goo, staining the walkway, sinking into the stone, into the dirt.

  “Well done.” Fi Cheen bowed to her, at a level appropriate to respect.

  She curtsied, smiling. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, I shall keep us shielded, and you will use that technique to kill any who dare threaten us.” Fi Cheen walked away from the Dragon’s Gate, across the bailey, toward the pins where the wights were housed, planning to surround himself with a force capable of defending him, planning to use the wights as a vanguard leading him away from the danger.

  The junior master followed along just behind him, just at his elbow, skipping to keep pace. “Where are we going, master? To the wights’ pens?”

  “Yes.” Fi Cheen nodded and kept walking.

  “A genius move, sir,” she said, moving her arms, sending the bar racing through the sky, missing a cackling, three-headed demon who dodged out of the way, weaving it back around to find the heart of a devil like a mantis swooping down at them.

  A genius move? Fi Cheen furrowed his brow but continued walking, considering her choice of words.

  “With the wights at our command,” she said, raising her fist, “we will have an army at our disposal. We can use them to go in and save the monks trapped in the yards, killing devils everywhere. You will be a hero.”

  A genius move, indeed. Fi Cheen nodded, wishing he had thought of it, glad he’d kept his mouth shut. “Exactly.”

  They entered the pens, the wights milling about, ignoring the devils and demons in their midst, hacking at their bodies.

  “I am transitioning the shield spell to you,” Fi Cheen said.

  Her face grim, obviously concerned with the honor and the peril of failure, she nodded, positioning her hands to accept the spell. Fi Cheen directed the forces into a pulsing root, pushing them to her, using techniques masters had used to transition active spells to their pupils for centuries. The spell flicked to her hands, the sudden drain of energy striking her, wobbling her knees, but she recovered, beads of sweat on her forehead, her hands trembling with the effort.

  “Good.” Free from that task, Fi Cheen reached out, taking control of the wights through their collars, accessing macro-magics built into the design and function of those spells, removing restrictions, allowing the wights the rudiments of self-preservation.

  The wights turned on the devils and
demons, beating at them with their fists, with magical implements from a workroom to which Fi Cheen directed them, aligning themselves into squares, marching like a well-drilled army under his command. Nestled in their groaning, noxious bosom, protected by them, Fi Cheen directed the wights from the pens, to the monastery, to the chaos, the fires, the fighting.

  Fi Cheen and the junior master arrived at the remains of the altar, the walls reduced to crumbled pieces, dead and dying monks littering the debris. His mind and thoughts controlling the minimal vestiges of cognition left in the undead brutes, he split his attention among the various wights, a throbbing ache growing in his forehead, pushing the wights to form a line to collect water to douse the flames, another group to pull the dead from the rubble, struggling against their inclinations to use these bodies as sustenance, lifting the rubble and depositing it on the side, separating the wood and the stone, arranging it all carefully.

  The junior master’s hand clasped Fi Cheen’s leg, her fingers pressing into his muscle. “Master? Are those survivors?”

  Regaining his control after the surprise of being grabbed and being grabbed in that place, pulling back the wights who’d begun to feast on the dead in his moment of distraction, Fi Cheen focused his attention to the wights the junior master had indicated, checking her find. She had found living monks.

  She had found Diyune. And, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one’s viewpoint, he still lived.

  # # #

  I sprawled against a stump, bandages wrapped around my torso, my arms, my legs, my body mending thanks to Aissal’s skillful spellcraft. I watched the imperial guards making their rounds through half-closed eyes, feigning sleep, staying alert for my opportunity, my hands sore from pulling ropes to raise the soldier’s tents, from carrying cords of wood for the campfires. Cole and Rucker lay to my right, spread out on the ground, blankets over them. Aissal, spent from a night cleaning and dressing the wounds of monks and soldiers and slaves, had collapsed to my left, her warm feet pressed against my calf.

  The midday sun shone down harsh and hot against the cool breezes, the sky wide and blue and almost frightening in its immensity. Plumes of black smoke rose above the monastery into that spacious sky, the winds pulling at the plumes, spreading them out, blue bolts of magical lightning striking down from within the normally invisible shield, striking the devils and demons seeking to escape into the world, turning most into ash.

  I waited, watching the guards walking the perimeter of the camp, on the watch against stray devils and demons sneaking in, searching for a pattern, an opening, a chance.

  An orc dropped a pot to the dirt and knelt by a makeshift fire pit, rubbing sticks together to start his fire, his brutish face splotched with bruises, his left forearm and calf neatly wrapped up in bandages, obviously Aissal’s wrapping job. From the pack on his back, he pulled out some roots, some vegetables, and a couple of rabbits, their meat far past anything I’d consider edible; he set all this out on a soiled piece of cloth. With his right hand pressing down on his knee and a groan, he forced himself to his feet, holding his back, grimacing.

  My opportunity.

  I surged to my feet and limped over to the orc, bowing, trying to appear small, weak, not difficult after so many months on a slave’s rations, smiling without showing any teeth. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Huh?” His lips pulled back from his tusks, menacing, threatening violence, his muscles tightening, shoulders broadening.

  I raised my right hand to show my lack of a weapon, my left arm dangling like it was injured. “I just wanted to say thank you for saving us last night.”

  “I didn’t save you last night, turdlet.”

  “No, not directly, but you fought against those devils the monks’ silly spells unleashed on all of us.” I gestured past him, at the general array of lean-tos, and hastily constructed tents behind him with a bunch of monks. “And I’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for you and your buddies doing that. A couple of your brethren saved my life, killing devils that were inches from taking it. So. Thank you. If you think of anything I can do to help, please, let me know.”

  His beady eyes blinked, the skin between his bushy eyebrows furrowing with deep concentration, his right hand rising up to his face, his index finger catching his lower lip, letting it go, multiple times.

  “Your leg looks a bit painful,” I said. “Are you sure you should be up and walking around?”

  “It’s not so bad. I’ve had much worse than this scratch.” He shook his head in the negative, but his eyes widened, eyebrows rose, his head tilted to the side. “But, you know, I don’t want to walk all the way down to the stream and back for some water.” He picked up his pot, holding it out toward me. “You go.”

  “What?” I hesitated before reaching my hand out, unsure, letting him put the handle of the pot in my hand. “Down to the stream?”

  “Yeah.” He gestured down toward his filthy scraps. “I could use some water to cook my food up in.”

  “I’d be happy to do that for you.” I turned my shoulders, inspecting the woods beyond the edge of the camp, seeing my freedom and the soldiers standing guard before them. “But I don’t think they’re going to let me, a humble slave, out of the camp.”

  “Yeah, well.” He puffed out his chest. “Tell them Gonnar Highsmith of the Ghostwalkers sent you. Have them look this way, I’ll clear you.”

  “As you wish.” I bowed. “It will be my pleasure.”

  He chuckled, dropping back down to sit on the ground, stretching out his injured leg, sighing with contentment. “I could get used to this slave-having thing.” He gestured toward the forest. “Go, fetch my water, slave.” He tilted his head back and roared with laughter.

  I backed up a few steps, bowing a few times, and turned.

  To find Aissal, Rucker, and Cole standing before me, hands on their hips, frowning, their toes tapping.

  I said, “Hello.”

  “Where in all the hells do you think you’re running off to, you stinking Onei?” Cole asked.

  “You were going to leave us again, weren’t you?” Rucker asked, his voice a harsh, angry whisper.

  “Well. I mean. I was,” I said.

  “Go get my water before I die of starvation,” the orc bellowed behind us.

  I bowed toward him once more. In a low voice, I said to the three of them, “Come along, then.”

  I strode toward the guard nearest to us on the way to the stream, marching, head high, straight up to the guard, not checking to see if the others followed. I approached the orc, and he noticed me, turning toward me, pursing his lips, raising his club to rest on his shoulder. He glared into my eyes, tilting his head back, squinting, studying me and those standing behind me. He said, “Where do you think you all are off to, slaves?”

  I bowed and lifted the pot. “Gonnar Highsmith ordered us to fetch him some water from the stream. His leg’s hurting him a mite.”

  “Hurting him a mite? It damned well better have been chopped off.”

  I pointed over to Gonnar. “He told me there wouldn’t be a problem.”

  The guard peered over at Gonnar, leaning forward, scratching at his back with the handle of his axe, eyes squinting. He glanced up, and noticing us staring in his direction, raised his hand, nodding his head, waving at the guard. “Let him go.”

  “See?” I said, hoping the guard didn’t hear the difference between “him” versus “them”. “He needs us to get him some water.”

  The guard glared at me, at Aissal and the others. “It takes the whole ragged lot of you to go get that fat idiot some damned water?”

  “Well, it’s a big pot,” I said. “Being a bunch of humans, we’re not very strong, so it could take all of us just to lift it once it’s full of water.”

  The guard rubbed his chin, considering my words. “You speak a truth, I’ll give you that. Most of your kind are a bunch of weak priggos.”

  “And even more, we’re all slaves without a single weapon between us,” I
said, holding up my finger, indicating a good point to consider. “Hopefully, with several of us there, we won’t be attacked by any ferocious wild animals that might be out there.”

  The orc rolled his eyes. “Ain’t a single doggone creature out in these woods to be scared of.”

  “For an orc, no. You are big and strong and able to beat anything to death that you might run across.” I gestured to Aissal, Cole, and Rucker. “But we’re human children and without a weapon and without magic, we’re easy prey. We can’t possibly be as brave as a big, strong orc can. Please understand this point.”

  He nodded. “I can’t disagree with nary a word that’s passed your lips, human. I find myself convinced.” He gestured with his thumb toward the forest behind him. “Go ahead on, then, and go do Gonnar’s bidding.”

  I bowed. “Thank you.”

  A Local Priest

  “We can bypass the town that way,” I said, pointing to the northwest with the pot I still carried, scratching at my neck where the collar rubbed against my skin, shaking my legs to loosen them up after the run from the camp and to shake off the water from the stream we’d used to try to cover our tracks. “We can loop around and run parallel to the road heading north through the pass.”

  “But.” Hands on his knees, Cole’s whole body heaved with each breath. His arm flapped out, gesturing toward the town below us, but quickly returned his hand to his knee. “Village.”

  The sun faded into evening, a shadow from the hills falling across the town, the windows shimmering from the fires and candles within the scattering of buildings, dark plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys whisked away by the wind blowing at an angle to the monastery behind us. The sunlight fell hard and vibrant on the clearing where we stood resting, catching our breaths, the greens seeming greener, the blues bluer, in the fading light.

  Rucker rolled on the ground by Cole’s feet, grunting as he breathed, his hands holding his side. “I’m going to throw up.”

  “Me, too.” Aissal collapsed to her knees. Her eyes closed, her head tilted back, her white hair plastered to her blue skin with sweat. I tried not to think about her chest heaving, averting my eyes from her.