by Deck Davis
“This is going to seem strange, so just bear with me.”
Jakub dragged the suitcase so it was in front of him and Mossaraya, and he unzipped it.
A hand shot out, and then an arm. Jakub saw a robe, then he saw shoulders, and finally, Henwright’s head appeared.
Mossaraya made the sign of the Brightlight on his chest.
“Gods, what is this?”
“It’s an artificed case.”
“And this man?”
Henwright groaned. The blood around his nose had dried now. “The young one tried to kill me. Get the guards.”
Mossaraya moved away, but Jakub caught his cassock sleeve. “Wait. Just one second, okay?” Then he turned to Henwright. “Just one word, Henwright, and you’ll be wishing I’d left you for the guards.”
“I already wish that, novice. I have done nothing wrong…that anyone can prove.”
“Get out.”
Henwright clambered out. Jakub shoved him to the ground. He kneeled by the suitcase, reached in and felt his arms sink into it. He felt around, until he touched Witas’s hair. Carefully, he reached for his left arm, hooked his armpit and pulled him out.
Mossaraya gasped. Jakub felt his legs grow weak seeing Witas’s stump again. Mercifully, his Health Harvest spell had stopped the bleeding, but Witas was so pale it looked like he had lost a bathtub’s worth of it.
“What in Brightlight’s name happened?” said Mossaraya. “Witty, is he-”
“He’s not dead, but he doesn’t have long. I need your cleric. Where is he?”
Jakub heard footsteps come from the edge of the church, where the altar stood.
“She’s here,” said a voice.
CHAPTER 75
The cleric was young. She looked like she could have been Jakub’s age, with short, tied back hair that was so blonde it seemed to shine. Her ears stuck out a little, and he saw that her right ear was torn, almost as it something had bitten half of it away.
Rather than a robe or clerical gown, she wore the kind of tight leathers that you’d expect to see a rogue wear. On the leather breast plate, she had drawn the symbol of the church.
The only things that made her look anything like a normal cleric were her white trousers and shirt, and the psalm book strapped around her thigh.
She was young, she lived in Dispolis, and she knew magic. Jakub was surprised that he’d never seen her in the academy.
“This is Cleric Hosandra,” said Mossaraya.
“I need you to heal Witas,” said Jakub.
Hosandra stopped. She looked at Witas while absently tapping her psalm book with her fingertips. Like her right ear, two of her fingers her gnawed, too. After studying the injured cleric, she looked at Jakub.
“Well, Jakub,” she said. “It’s a surprise to see you here.”
“How do you know my name?”
“The question is, how could you have forgotten mine?” she said.
“We know each other?”
“We used to live together,” said Hosandra.
With those five words, Jakub’s memories hit him. A flash of them going through his mind so fast it was hard to catch hold of just one.
CHAPTER 76 – Studs
There was a fury riding so hard in Studs that he could barely see. By the time he reached the Royal Mile the guards’ blood had dried around his face, neck, his hands, all over his clothes. He knew that he’d cause a stir wandering around like this, but he didn’t care anymore.
Besides; the explosion had made everyone in Dispolis go crazy. The parade was junked, the guards didn’t know which way their arses were pointed, and now, the Royal Mile was a deserted stretch of cobbles, flesh, and blood stains.
He looked at the bodies now and it brought back images of Ella in the sewer, and he felt his chest burn like newly-stoked coals.
The fury made his eyes water. He blinked, then rubbed them. When he did, when his vision cleared, he saw a guard walking toward him.
Studs sucked in his anger then. He shoved it into a pocket of his mind, to a place he could stop it emerging. As an inquisitor, he’d had to master the craft of behaving without emotions.
It only worked for so long, though. That was the trick. Push an emotion back, and it would grow and grown and when you finally let it out, it would be a monster. That was why, these days, Studs rarely used his training in that way.
“Studs?” said the guard.
The guard was dressed in leathers and held an iron sword, but the blade was pristine, the hilt cleaner than a monk’s cock. This boy had never swung his sword in his life.
“Studs Godwin? That’s you, right?” said the guard.
Studs tried to place the lad, but he couldn’t. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, but the memory danced away whenever he got close to it.
“That’s me,” said Studs.
“You served in the inquisitors, didn’t you?”
“You better explain how you know me,” said Studs.
“My brother was in the inquisitors, too. Jeff Hendryk? Remember him? You used to stay at our house sometimes when you both got leave. I would have been around five then.”
“You’re little Steve, aren’t you?”
“Not so little anymore.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” said Studs.
Steve nodded.
“Listen, Steve,” said Studs, “I need to know if you or the rest of the guards have seen a cleric around here. They call him the Black Cleric, or Witas. You might have seen him at the headquarters from time to time.”
“Everyone knows the Black Cleric. He was here an hour ago; some guy in an overcoat took off with him in the alleyway over there,” said Steve, pointing, “but then we lost him. They chased the overcoat guy for a while, but it was like Witas had disappeared.”
“Where was the last time they were seen?”
“Headed in the direction of the Mussand quarter.”
“Got it. I’ll go ask around. Take care Steve.”
“Hold on a second,” said Steve. “Were you in the blast?”
“No, why?”
“You’re covered in blood, Studs. What happened?”
Studs couldn’t come up with a convincing lie. He couldn’t even summon the effort to try.
“I have things to do, Steve. Good luck with your life.”
Steve grabbed Stud’s arm.
Studs felt his anger bubble.
“Wait here,” said Steve. “We might have to take you into the guardship.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“Did you take a bath of blood or something this morning? You’re covered in the stuff.”
“And I don’t want any more of it.”
“What?” said Steve.
“Let me go.”
Studs saw Steve’s fist tense now; he saw the bicep of his sword-wielding arm flinch.
Stupid boy. I don’t want to do this, but you’re not taking me in.
Before the guard could use his sword or shout for the others, Studs plunged his dagger into his throat. He twisted it left, right, severing vocal cords, cutting through veins, skin, muscle.
And then he ran, darting left and into an alleyway and heading in the direction of the Mussand district.
CHAPTER 77
The memories that Hosandra brought back to Jakub were ones of his family; of when he and his mother and father had lived as part of a caravan of people who’d travel around the boundaries of the Queendom.
His parents and the other families were Imbibists, and their religion revolved around procuring fresh corpses, paying a necromancer to perform rites on them, and then eating their flesh in the hopes of gaining powers and strength from the dead.
They used to have an Imbibist Tome; a book they read songs and stories from, one written to try and make their religion seem real.
There was nothing real about it. It was cannibalism – that was the heart of it. They were deluded cannibals who only rarely gained anything from their practice
except addiction to flesh and the corruption of their souls that brought.
If it weren’t for Kortho and a bunch of academy soldiers, that addiction and corruption would have been Jakub’s destiny. Kortho had saved him and other kids from that from that.
But until now, he hadn’t met them.
Hosandra held her fingers up to him, showing off her wounds. “C’mon, Jakub, you must remember,” she said. “You were there when I did this. Yes? That day you, me, and Leero went into the forests?”
Memories clicked into place. Jakub pictured himself, another boy, and a blonde-haired girl slipping away from camp while their parents slept, and going into the forest to look for truffles, which they could sell the next time they were near a town.
He remembered what happened afterwards, when they’d stumbled into the hunting grounds of a pack of wolves.
And he remembered the months following that and how close he and Hosandra had been. How they’d talked about running away together.
They had been kids, and that was years ago. He was ashamed to realize that he’d barely thought of her in that time. When he joined the academy, and it was as if a big steel gate had closed on his old life, and he’d waked away from it completely.
“Hosandra? Gods. I don’t believe…I mean, I knew that some of you were sent to workhouses, but I thought-”
“You never thought you’d see me again, did you?”
“I never wanted to, if you want the truth. I never wanted to look at any of you again.”
“Denying the past is no way to heal. Our families, what they did…sometimes when you run from something, you only make it want to run faster to catch up with you.”
“You’re a cleric now?”
“You weren’t the only one to have the aptitude for mana, but not all of us got the same opportunities as you. I was cleaning underneath the workhouse machines for twelve hours a day when my gift started to show. Pappy Mossaraya visited the workhouse, saw that I had the aptitude to use mana, and found me a mentor.”
“Witas?” said Jakub.
“Him? A mentor?”
“Fair point. And on that note, I need your help.”
Jakub had a thousand questions, but he didn’t know if he even wanted the answers.
It was more important to save Witas. He was breathing thanks to Jakub’s Health Harvest, but he wouldn’t stay that way.
“I need you to heal my friend,” he said.
“Witas is no longer of the church-” began Mossaraya.
“Finish that sentence and you’ll be longer of this world. Hosandra, can you do it?”
“What in all hells happened to him?” she said.
“There was an explosion on the Royal Mile.”
“I heard it,” said Mossaraya. “It looks like the Queen’s uncle was right about the insurgents. It seems he’ll get his way – increased guardship, bordered cities, an increased military presence.”
“It was nothing like that,” said Jakub. “But if he wants to twist a tragedy to suit himself, let him. I’m more concerned about Witas.”
“When people come to me and I can see they are in a bad way,” said Hosandra, “I usually tell them that it will take a dozen sessions, at least. The divines have a choir of voices speaking to them from all over the land, and they can spare their attention only fleetingly. The only sure way to get them to listen is to keep calling. The older a cleric gets, the better she gets at making the divine listen. I’m only your age, Jakub.”
“You’re saying you can’t fix him?”
“I’m saying he looks stable now; no blood, a pulse that’s there, if a little slow. I can ask the divine to heal him now, but they will only spare a little of their power. Perhaps enough to restore consciousness on him.”
“Whatever you can do, please do it, Hosandra. And then I want to talk to you.”
“Hosandra doesn’t like to talk about her old life,” said Mossaraya. “Joining with the Brightlight is a new beginning. When the past knocks on our door, especially one as ugly as the past you both shared, we do not answer.”
Hosandra crossed her arms. “I told you, Mossaraya. I just work here. I heal your sick worshippers of their colds, their spots, their headaches. You do not ever answer for me. Got that?”
Mossaraya waved his hand dismissively and then crossed the church, walking past pews until he reached the end where the altar was standing.
“Thank you,” said Jakub. “Mind helping me carry him?”
“We need to take him to the cellar. It amplifies my voice, helps me get the Divines’ attention.”
As he and Hosandra carried Witas across the church and to the steps leading to the cellar, Jakub looked at Hosandra. The more he looked, the more his memories came back.
Memories of he and Hosandra, seven years old, sitting by their campfire and holding hands. They whispered about their parents, about running away.
He remembered their talks, their games, their promises that they’d always be best friends, but with the childish declarations that they’d get married when they were older.
Then a memory of Kortho and the academy soldiers storming the camp. Kortho coming for Jakub to take him away. He remembered looking around madly, trying to look past the fighting and carnage to see where Hosandra was.
Then the dead flesh his father forced him to eat started to work in him. Its effects were strong and they were sudden, and then next few months blurred by and then Jakub settled into academy life, and by that point his past was a shadow that he wanted to, and the instructors encouraged him to, forget.
Looking at her now, at her as a woman, all his old thoughts flooded back. He could even smell the incense that the camp used to burn constantly, he could smell old Tarnbuckle’s beer that he brewed.
Hosandra was an embodiment of everything he’d worked to forget. A beautiful reminder, but a reminder nonetheless.
“You want to talk, but you’re not sure you want to ask the questions, aren’t you?” said Hosandra.
“Clerics can read minds now?”
“I feel the same. So many times I think back to those days. Once I even crossed the city and went to the carriage station; I knew you were at the academy, and I thought they’d let me see you.”
“There were times I could have used a friend,” said Jakub.
“This stream flows both ways. We each wanted to leave it all behind. Watch your head now; the ceiling is low down here.”
It was a cellar by name, nothing like it by nature. It was so illuminated by torches and mana bulbs that Jakub felt dazzled. He smelled fruit, honey, spices, and the walls were painted in beautiful murals.
Witas had worked here once, down in this place. It couldn’t have been any different from where he’d spent his last few years; in the cellar of the guardship headquarters, looking at dead bodies.
As clerics, Witas and Hosandra had the same gifts, but this was a testament to how different your life could be depending on how you used them.
“What now?” he said.
“Now you leave me, and I’ll call on the divine. Don’t expect miracles though.”
“Isn’t that exactly what this is? Calling on the deities for a miracle?”
“The divine; not the deities. There’s a difference, though non-clerics barely ever hear about it. There’s no miracle, Jakub. If you stood in this room, you could call on them until your tongue swelled and they wouldn’t answer. It takes mana and practice. Clericism is just as much a learned skill as whatever you studied at the academy.”
“I’ll wait up top, then. Just, whatever you can do, I’d be grateful.”
“You’re close to this man?”
“Not close, but he’s a friend.”
Hosandra touched Jakub’s hand. “I’ll do my best.”
Jakub walked to the steps and went up them. He almost wanted to turn around and get another look at Hosandra, and not just because of how pretty she’d grown up to be.
He’d always known that the other kids were out there. Th
at after the academy raided the Imbibist camp, they’d liberated the kids from their parents, from that life, and then sent them across the Queendom.
He’d just never expected to meet one of them again. He’d never expected to want to; he’d always been happy to put all of that behind him.
But here was Hosandra, a cleric, hot as hell…
…and he was a drop out, sick with blight, aching all over, and just one slip of his Bracelet of Rest away from collapsing. To top it off, he’d chosen the most distasteful of mage disciplines – the art of raising the dead.
He needed to forget about her and think about what he was going to do next.
He started walking up the stairs and toward the church atrium.
When he was halfway, he heard a noise from above.
It was the sound of something crashing, maybe even of wood splitting.
He drew his sword and sprinted up the steps until he reached the door, and then he was in the church itself.
The church door was a mess of splinters on the church floor.
Standing amidst the wreckage was a man; short, full of muscle and completely drenched in blood.
CHAPTER 78
The man was in a rage. It wasn’t just the blood that gave Jakub this impression, although a drenching of the crimson stuff was a giveaway.
It was the spit that formed over his lips when he breathed, and it was his breaths themselves – shallow and making his chest shake.
He held a morning star in his left hand; a stick of wood with chains attached, and on the end of the chains were iron balls with barbed hooks on them.
In his right hand he held a knobkerrie. Jakub recognised this from a demonstration that quartermaster Tomkins had given their class once, where he’d shown off his collection of exotic weaponry. The knobkerrie was a club which was rounded and weighted at the end, designed for the sole purpose of bludgeoning through a skull.
The man gripped his morning star and knobkerrie like he was trying to bend the metal itself. If the weapons weren’t enough, there was so much fury in his eyes that Jakub felt like his robes were a fire risk when the man stared at him.
