“Prior Aulis is over there.” He jerked his head toward the main doors of the keep, before turning back to the horses and the stable.
The large yard was the place in which Felstaad’s knights would have assembled in olden times, but it made a very poor showing in the current one. Sorcha had read the file before it had been lost with their first ship; Ulrich Priory had only a compliment of a dozen Deacons and twice that of lay Brothers. This place could have housed a hundred times more.
Abruptly, she remembered something. “You live here?”
Nynnia nodded mutely.
“Then, is it usually like this?” Sorcha gestured to the quiet stone expanse that looked as deserted as a grave.
The girl shook her head, foolish brown eyes wide like those of a spooked deer.
Sorcha gritted her teeth and then took a deep breath. “So where does your father practice his craft, then?”
“In there.” Nynnia pointed timidly toward the main keep.
The Deacon realized there was not going to be much sense coming from that particular quarter.
“You know”—Raed still hadn’t let go of his cutlass—“this has the feeling of a trap.”
“Here?” Merrick’s brown eyes were still scanning the area, and his voice had a note of real concern. He didn’t want to believe that such a thing was possible in a house of the Order, but some deeper instinct was kicking in.
Bunched up together, they climbed the short flight of stairs and opened the doors. Immediately, the smell of charcoal and smoke forced Sorcha back a step. Glancing to her left, she got a little shake of the head from Merrick, and she went in.
Sorcha found herself wishing very hard that there might be some rules that still remained sacrosanct. A week of strangeness—geists crossing water, geists laying traps and geists summoning sea monsters—was still nothing to this. The inside of the keep’s great hall had been laid out to mimic the form of an Abbey, as all Priories were, yet it was burnt to a cinder. The white stone was charred and, when she cautiously laid a finger to it, she realized that it had actually melted on the surface. Remains of wooden pews were scattered about, some disintegrated into ash, while others lay discarded at the edges of the room as if flung there by fleeing Deacons. Debris crackled under their boots as they cautiously moved up what had once been the central aisle, but Sorcha did not bend to examine it.
Nynnia let out a muffled sob, her hand up to her mouth. Merrick put an arm around her, but his other hand still held his Strop ready. Reaching the pulpit where the Prior would have given her daily lesson, Sorcha turned to examine the scene. The front of the hall was relatively undamaged. The hanging above the pulpit was not even singed.
“Whatever happened”—she swallowed hard to regain a measure of her professionalism—“it happened right in the center of the room.” Glancing down, she realized that the Prior’s notes were still on the lectern. “And it happened suddenly.”
Raed, the pirate and the Pretender, obviously thought he knew more than a Deacon. “But the Brother outside, why did he let us in? If they are under attack . . .”
“We were under attack.” A steely voice to the right made them all jump. A neat little woman in the blue cloak of an Active, pinned closed by the grand flourish of a Prior’s insignia, stood watching them with bright green eyes. “But it was not the total devastation you see here.”
“Prior Aulis.” Sorcha gave the appropriate bow to a superior, and felt a little warmth return to her bones. She’d imagined all of the Deacons dead, so the relief made her actually smile.
“Enough of that.” The woman turned and gestured them to follow. “I have no time to spare. We need your help immediately.”
That much was obvious; yet the sight of a living Prior was still a good sign.
As he brushed past her, Raed raised one eyebrow. “This deal about you protecting me . . . I think I got the raw end of the bargain.”
Sorcha resisted the urge to slap him and followed after, moving deeper into the Priory to see what further horrors awaited.
NINE
The Thunder of Destruction
Merrick held tight to Nynnia’s hand, or maybe she was holding tight to his—whichever the case, he was glad of it. He had not pulled his Center back, from the moment they had entered this place. Ahead, Sorcha was a smoldering scarlet ember, the Bond running back to him twisting like living lava, while Raed flickered like hot silver flame. Prior Aulis was also scarlet, but flecked through with blue fire: the mark of a Sensitive.
This confused Merrick. While he knew that Sensitives were usually in high positions in the Order, he had never thought to find one so high in both Active and Sensitive in such a remote outpost. Deacons like the Abbot, with such high ratings in both, warranted positions in larger Priories or Abbeys. To find Aulis tucked away here was rather strange.
These concerns were shoved to one side when she led them into what had to be the infirmary. Merrick immediately yanked his Center back; too much human pain could overload his senses. This, then, was where the remaining Deacons were.
The room reeked of so much sweat, urine and fear that it was like a blow between his eyes. If he had been viewing this with his Center, it would have been unbearable. All four of them stood in the middle of the chaos, while the Prior watched their reactions. Doing a quick head count, Merrick reckoned that pretty much every Deacon and lay Brother was in the infirmary, apart from three or four. After the destruction out in the Hall, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what had happened to them.
Several lay Brothers, also bearing wounds, were trying to hold down a young man wearing the blue of an Active, yet he seemed to have no physical injury. His eyes were bulging from their sockets, and with a start Merrick realized that the Brothers had gagged the struggling man. Froth was starting to leak from the corner of his mouth and stain the leather bit.
“Father!” Nynnia let go of the Deacon’s hand and dashed over to a bulky older man sewing up a gash on a lay Brother’s head. Merrick was relieved that she had not traveled so far only to face grief at the end of her journey. He watched as the old man tenderly pressed his daughter to him and kissed the top of her head. She smiled at him so broadly that it was like the sun had dawned in the small infirmary. “Father, this is Deacon Merrick Chambers—he is responsible for me being able to get back to you—and this is my father, Kyrix Macthcoll.”
The stout man’s hands were covered in blood, so he did not offer a hand for Merrick to shake, but his smile was a smaller reflection of his daughter’s. “Then I thank you, Deacon Chambers—I need my girl home.” He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Now more than ever.”
Nynnia was rolling up the sleeves on her dress. “Who can still be saved, Father?”
“There are several Brothers in the other room who could use your talents.” He patted her on the shoulder and then gave a slight bow to Merrick. “Excuse our rudeness—but as you can see we are both needed here.”
The Deacon, who was feeling particularly useless, tucked his hands under his cloak. “Please don’t stand on ceremony on my account.”
The girl’s eyes darted to Merrick, soft brown and—he wasn’t imagining it—warm. She turned away with a swirl of her dress.
He hated to leave her, but it was obvious that Prior Aulis needed him, for there was one thing he had noticed: all of the Deacons here were Actives. Not one Sensitive remained; had any been alive, they would have been here watching over their brethren.
Sorcha was voicing the very question that buzzed in his head. “What the hell happened here?” She moderated her tone slightly since they were in a heaving infirmary, but still, the edge of panic was audible.
The short gray haircut that Priors often favored made the older woman look somewhat masculine, Merrick noted as he took in the deep wrinkles on her forehead. This woman’s life had been hard to begin with, and it looked like it hadn’t been any easier in the last few days. “What do you think happened?” she snapped, her tone belying her grandmotherly looks. “We were attac
ked by the unliving!”
It was the one thing no one wanted to hear. Even with all the evidence out in the main hall, it was not a pleasant thing to have confirmed. An attack on a sacred building of the Order had not happened since the dark ages. Not in Arkaym, not in Delmaire. Powerful runes were carved into Priory and Abbey foundations and walls—kept active by constant reworking by the Deacons. Their protection was immutable, more so than water. A huge chasm opened up in front of Merrick as he realized the training he had so recently completed was not proving as useful as he’d imagined.
“Why is no deal I make ever simple?” Raed muttered grimly.
Prior Aulis’ attention turned swiftly on him. “Who is . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Raed Rossin!”
The Pretender threw his hands up in the air. “Is there no such thing as anonymity anymore?”
“We were also attacked.” Merrick stepped forward in front of their rescuer. “Captain Rossin saved our lives when a possessed sea monster attacked and destroyed our ship. We made a deal with him, or we wouldn’t have been able to get here at all.”
He expected surprise from the Prior, but perhaps her experiences of the last few weeks had softened her attitude to the impossible. “I see,” she said, without any sign of emotion in her tone.
The chaos of the infirmary swirled around them while all three of the Deacons silently contemplated what to do next. Merrick wondered what the point of those years of study had been, if none of the rules held true any longer.
It was Raed who broke the stalemate. “Is there somewhere else we can discuss this?” He jerked his head toward the Deacons around them.
Prior Aulis nodded mutely and led them through the stone corridors deeper into the keep, away from the smells of charred flesh and blood. Her second-story chambers were small and modest, looking out over the windblown courtyard. Without needing to be asked, Merrick opened his Center to see if there was any threat around them.
Through that double vision, he let his perception stretch out as wide as it would go. The three people in the room with him, the mad scramble in the infirmary, the damaged silhouette of the lay Brother with the horses out in the stable, even the chickens in the yard, all became immediately obvious to him—but no taint of the unliving. He was becoming less and less sure of his own abilities, but his search did confirm that one disturbing fact he had already guessed.
“You really don’t have any Sensitives left within the Priory.”
Aulis folded her hands, the tension apparent in the set of her shoulders. “They were the very first target of this attack.”
“Start from the beginning.” Sorcha stood next to Merrick at the window, almost as if she was lending him some sort of support.
“At first, there were only small attacks,” the Prior said, rubbing one hand wearily over her mouth before continuing. “Shades seen in the graveyard, farm animals shocked out of milking.”
“All low-grade incidents.” Merrick nodded, feeling like he should at least be taking notes, but Sorcha kept her arms folded and he couldn’t write properly while using his Center. He knew which was more important at this moment.
“They increased, more and more, until we were drowning in them; that was when we sent word to the Mother Abbey for help.” She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Read some of the reports if you like.”
Sorcha made no move toward them, instead dipping into her pocket and removing a cigar. She was polite enough not to light it, but seemed to gain some calmness merely from rolling it in her fingertips. “I think what happened after you sent that weirstone message is more important.”
The Prior’s lips tightened, and her frown deepened.
“The townspeople lost faith in you.” Raed took a seat and shot Sorcha a sharp look. “After all, they must have been disappointed when their protectors weren’t up to the task.”
Aulis half rose out of her chair, her face glowing red under her cap of gray hair. “They did more than lose faith—they turned on us! Why do you think we have the gates barred? That isn’t against anything unliving!”
Merrick narrowed his Center on the Prior, feeling her rage flare up to strangely high levels. Aulis cleared her throat, regaining her composure slightly before taking her seat once more. Many of the Order were a little arrogant; the sad fact was that it often came with power.
The cigar in Sorcha’s fingertips stilled as she too concentrated on the riled Prior. “And what happened after that?” she asked softly. Along the Bond, Merrick felt her own Center reach out to him. It was a strangely comforting, and yet frightening, gesture. She trusted him enough to give it to him, but felt in enough danger that she thought it might be needed. The situation felt as desperate to her as it did to him.
“Morning Matins.” Aulis’ hands were clenched tight on each other, her eyes unable to meet anyone else’s. “It came for us at morning Matins.”
“In what form?” Sorcha’s voice was flat and expressionless, but Merrick felt her tension in the Bond, and observed the way her fingers unconsciously arched toward where her Gauntlets lay at her side.
“None I know of.”
Merrick felt his mouth go dry. The geist by the roadside, the one summoned from the bodies of the Tinkers; that too had been a new form. He licked his lips. “Could the Sensitives identify it—”
“They had no time,” Aulis replied shortly. “They were the first to burn. You saw what was left of them in the center of the Hall.”
“Sensitives being attacked, unliving forms we’ve never seen before . . .” Sorcha took a long, slow breath.
“And don’t forget, ones that can travel over water,” Raed offered, his jaw tightening under his narrow beard. “I take it, Prior, that you have a plan to survive all this?”
Her eyes flitted to Merrick and Sorcha seated in the stone window. The glance was almost embarrassed.
“Oh, now I know you are joking!” Raed kicked the chair away and jerked to his feet. “Those two? I had to pull them out of the sea myself.”
Merrick clamped his arm down hard on his partner’s shoulder, fearing she would beat ten kinds of revenge into the Pretender. But, strangely, she attempted no such thing. Her body was tense, but she was not even looking at Raed.
Out in the courtyard, the crippled lay Brother was running toward the sound of a bell once more at the gate. Through his Center Merrick could sense nothing unliving, but something very human and very angry.
All three members of the Order leapt to their feet, sensing a conflagration of rage from beyond the walls. Together they bolted for the door, Raed shouting after them, “What? What is it?”
Neither of the women was going to enlighten him, so Merrick barked what they’d all sensed. “The locals are at the gate, and they are very unhappy.”
As he raced down the stairs, Merrick heard Sorcha ask the Prior how many of her lay Brothers and Actives were ready to defend the Priory. Another first for the Order, he thought miserably.
“We have five Actives uninjured, and maybe seven lay Brothers, all in the infirmary.”
“No time for that.” Sorcha ran ahead of them and he noticed that her Gauntlets were already in her hand. Merrick had to remind himself that she was an experienced Deacon, with years of dealing with people in a crowd situation, thanks to her time seconded to the Imperial Guard—at least, that was what he hoped.
He and Raed followed the Prior and Sorcha. The terrified lay Brother was racing back to them, his hair flying loose about his shoulders, and his eyes were wide circles in a pale face. “Prior, Prior!” A thin trail of spit ran down his cheek. The poor man was probably used to a very quiet life in this remote corner of the world; the shock looked like it might kill him. “I shut the gate as you told me to . . . I did . . . but they want to talk to you. They’re shouting so loud!”
Indeed they were, jumbled words and threats that made for an animalistic roar. The lay Brother had managed to get the huge oak gates and the thick iron bar down, so most likely the
portcullis was still secure.
“Quickly.” The Prior gathered her habit around her knees and scrambled most inelegantly up the walls to the parapets. Night was drawing on and, as they reached the top of the walls, the raw air wrapped itself tight around them. Snow could not be far off, but the cold had done nothing to cool the anger of the crowd below.
It seemed every citizen of the town had climbed the hill. Many were carrying lit torches and shouting up to the Prior. The crowd’s words were mostly blended together into a primitive growl, but he heard many of them screaming for Aulis to come down to them. She stood there staring, her lips pursed in real anger, and looked ill moved to do so.
“I’ve never seen a person pulled apart by a crowd.” Raed put one foot on the parapet and tilted his head down. “Exactly how many of them have died thanks to your inability to protect what you are supposed to?”
Merrick could understand that the Pretender had no love for those who worked for the Emperor, but he found himself defending the old Prior. “We’ve all been surprised by the events of the last week or so. It’s unprecedented—the Prior Aulis can’t be held responsible for that.”
“Watch out!” Sorcha slammed into Merrick just as he was getting into full diplomatic flow. Together they smashed into the stone of the parapet and tumbled away, just as fire burst right where he’d been standing.
He dimly heard Raed’s shocked oath, while Sorcha helped him to his feet. A portion of the parapet was now a puddle of flame, almost like a geist attack of some sort . . . yet he had sensed nothing.
Raed was shielding Prior Aulis. “Felstaad fire.” She darted closer to the Deacons. “The local alcohol is deadly stuff. It makes for excellent missiles.”
They heard the clatter of other incendiaries smashing and burning against the wall. Obviously the first had been the best aimed. Cautiously, Merrick dared a glance over the edge. The locals did look very well armed, and in the flickering light of the torches they could be seen lighting rag wicks on small pottery jars. Most of these they hurled at the gate, but they also sent a fair number flying in toward where they’d last seen the Prior.
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