by Mel Odom
“Maybe if someone goes down there,” Rhambal suggested.
“A man going down there ain’t gonna be with the ship if it leaves,” Palat said. “We might need to stick with this old scow if we’re going to make it out of here.”
“Be better off trying our luck in the streets,” Rhambal said. “Even if we made it out into the harbor without being closed in, they’d run us down. We don’t have a seasoned crew working the sails and ropes.”
Call out the sword’s name, Mat ordered.
“Mat,” Darrick whispered, hurting inside as if he’d just witnessed his friend’s death. He wasn’t imagining Mat’s voice. It was real. It was real, and it was inside his head.
Call out the sword’s name, ye great lumberin’ lummox, Mat ordered.
“What are you doing here?” Darrick asked.
Same as ye, Mat replied, only I’m a damn sight better’n ye at it. Now, call on the sword’s power before ye get swept off them rocks an’ back into the arms of them guards. We got a ways to go tonight.
“How do I call on the sword?” Darrick asked.
Yell out its name.
“What is the sword’s name?” In all the confusion, Darrick suddenly couldn’t remember.
Stormfury, Mat replied.
“Are you alive?” Darrick said.
We ain’t got time to go into that now. We’re hard up against it now, an’ there’s still Kabraxis to contend with.
The freighter scraped rock again, shifting more violently than ever. For a moment, Darrick thought the vessel had torn free.
“Stormfury,” Darrick said, holding the hilt in both hands and not knowing what to expect. The unaccustomed tingle flared through his hands again.
In an eyeblink, a cold blue light ran the length of the sword blade. As lacking as it was in heat, though, the light was bright but colored so that it didn’t hurt the eyes.
The magical light given off by the blade cut through the darkness swaddling the riverbank with ease. Blue highlights reflected on the river water pouring into the broken section of the eight-foot sewer system that ran under the church. The ship’s collision with the riverbank had sheared away the parapet and the mud, revealing the sewer tunnel and cracking it open.
“There it is,” Taramis said.
Darrick whispered, “Mat.”
There was no answer, only the whistling sound of the normal breeze moving through the rigging.
The whale-oil freighter bucked again, sliding four or five feet backward and almost coming free of the rocks.
“We’re losing the ship,” Taramis said. “Move! Now!” He stepped over the railing and threw himself at the riverbank, leading the way.
Go! Mat whispered in Darrick’s mind, sounding farther away than ever.
Trapped, wanting to know more about how Mat was able to talk to him, thinking perhaps his friend was actually alive somewhere, Darrick climbed the railing and stepped over as the freighter shifted once more, turning slightly as the river current caught it. Another good shove like that by the current, and Darrick knew the ship would twist free. Stepping off the ship, he threw himself forward.
Darrick landed in the mud, sinking his boots up past the ankles, losing his footing and sliding out of control, ending up facedown in the cold muck. The river current washed over him, drenching him and chilling him to the bone. In contrast, the wound in his side burned as if he’d been jabbed with a red-hot poker.
The other warriors leapt after him, landing in the mud for the most part, but the last few landed in the river and were nearly washed away in the current before the others helped them. For a moment as they gathered themselves, Blue Zephyr acted as a defensive wall. Quarrels thunked into the ship’s side from the guard ship that closed on them.
In the space of the next drawn breath, the burning ship twisted once more and was gone, following the river current. The ship full of guards managed to avoid the bigger ship, but the wash left by its passing and their efforts to get out of the way caught them and nearly capsized them. Then the freighter was by them, plunging downriver toward the ships lying at anchor, promising all manner of destruction before morning saw Bramwell again.
“Damnation,” Palat swore. “We’re like to burn this unfortunate town down around its ears while we’re trying to save it tonight.”
“If it happens,” Taramis said, “the people here would be better served if it were humans doing the rebuilding instead of demons.”
Slipping and sliding, Darrick followed the sage into the sewer tunnel. He only noted then that his sword had dimmed, leaving Taramis’s torch and the lanterns and torches carried by the other warriors.
The sewer was halfway submerged from the problems Taramis had found out about during his foray through Bramwell’s taverns. The collision with the freighter had broken through the wall as Taramis had planned, but the extent of the damage was greater than what Darrick would have believed possible. Water poured through cracks in the mortared brick wall wide enough to fit the fingers of a man’s hand, sluicing in to join the waist-high deluge that rapidly deepened. Moss and slime grew on the sewer walls, and muck clung to the stone floor beneath the rancid-smelling water.
Taramis halted in the middle of the wide sewer, glancing to the left and the right.
“Which way?” Palat asked, raking an arm over his face to clear the water and mud. Smears streaked his features.
“To the left,” Taramis said, and turned in that direction.
To the right, Mat said in Darrick’s ear. If ye go to the left, ye will be caught.
Taramis waded through the rising water.
Tell them!
Hesitant, not truly trusting that Mat was speaking to him, knowing that he could have gone insane and never noticed it until now, Darrick said, “You’re going the wrong way.”
Taramis halted in water that was now chest deep. He peered at Darrick. “How do you know?” the sage asked.
Darrick didn’t answer.
Tell him, Mat said. Tell him about me.
Shouts outside the sewer system echoed inside the tunnel, carried flat and hard across the water. Torchlight neared the break, and Darrick knew it wouldn’t be long before the guards attacked them.
“Because Mat is telling me which way to go,” Darrick said.
“Mat who?” Taramis demanded suspiciously. “Your friend who was killed at Tauruk’s Port?”
“Aye,” Darrick replied, knowing he wouldn’t have believed his story if he’d been the one it was being told to. He could scarcely believe it now.
“How?” Taramis asked.
“I don’t know,” Darrick admitted. “But it was him who got me to activate the sword’s power and show us the way into this sewer.”
The warriors gathered around Taramis, all of them wet and bedraggled, all of their faces filled with doubt and dark suspicion.
“What do you think?” Palat asked Taramis, taking a half-step in front of the sage to separate him further from Darrick.
Aware of the big warrior’s cautionary measure, Darrick remained silent and understood. He would have thought he was mad as well if he hadn’t been the one hearing Mat’s voice.
Taramis held his torch higher. The flames licked at the stones overhead, charring the moss and lichens that grew there. “Every time a demon is loosed into the world of men,” he quoted, “the balance must be kept. A way will be made, and only human choice can rid the world of the demon again.” He smiled, but there was no mirth in the expression. “Are you certain of this, Darrick?”
“Aye.”
Rhambal pointed his lantern at the wall. “We’ve got no choice about moving. Those damned guards are going to be on top of us in no time. And most of them are honest men, men just getting paid for enforcing the peace. I don’t want to hang around and fight them if I can help it.”
Taramis nodded. “To the right, then.” He led the way, pushing his torch before him.
The sewer channel gradually headed up. Darrick felt the incline more because th
e inrushing water flooded around him and made him more buoyant, which made walking up the hill harder than it should have been. Gradually, though, the water level dropped, and Taramis’s torchlight reflected in hundreds of eyes before them.
“Rats,” Rhambal said, then swore.
The rats occupied the sides of the sewer, shifting and slithering against one another, islands and clots of rat flesh. Their hairless tails flipped and wriggled as they moved constantly.
The rising water lapped over the sides of the sewer tunnel, lifting small groups of tightly clustered rats free of their temporary retreat. Riding the crest of the water as it ebbed and flowed, the rats fixated on the warriors in the tunnel.
And in the next moment, they attacked.
Buyard Cholik rode the stone snake’s head back to the wall as guards circulated through the crowd. The confluence of whispered voices created a din in the cathedral that made it impossible to talk.
Someone attacked the church.
The thought pounded through Cholik’s mind. He didn’t know who could dare such a thing. During the last month, the relationship with Lord Darkulan had become even better. Ties and agreements were beginning to be made to erect a church in Westmarch. The Zakarum Church was fighting politically to disallow the Church of the Prophet of the Light entrance to the capitol city, but Cholik knew it was only a matter of time before even that resistance went away. Through Lord Darkulan and his own observers, many of whom Cholik had entertained in the church during the last month with Lord Darkulan’s help, the king had learned how much wealth the hopeful pilgrims brought to Bramwell.
But even beyond the basic wealth that the church could bring to Westmarch, there was no doubt about the miracles. Or about the man who made them happen. With more people coming to the church, Cholik had begun doing more services. He now conducted six from dawn until after dusk. A normal man, Cholik knew, a simply human man, would have dropped in his tracks from the demands, but he had reveled in them, meeting them and surpassing them. Kabraxis had given Cholik his strength, shoring him up and keeping him going.
More miracles had been worked, all of them received by those fortunate enough to be chosen to journey along the Way of Dreams. During the past months, the size and number of the miracles had increased along with the number of services. Health had been restored. Crooked limbs had been straightened. Wealth had been given. Love had been granted. Husbands and sons who had gone missing in battles had emerged from the gaping, flaming jaws of the stone snake, called from wherever they had been to the path of the Black Road. Those survivors had no memories of where they had been until the moment they stepped from the snake’s mouth into the cathedral.
And three times, youth had been restored to aging parishioners.
That had all of the coastal cities along the Gulf of Westmarch talking as the story was carried by ship from port to port. Caravans picked up the stories in the port cities and carried them to the east, to Lut Gholein and possibly across the Twin Seas to Kurast and beyond.
Giving the youth back to the three men was the most difficult, Cholik knew, and required great sacrifice. Kabraxis made the sacrifice, but the demon didn’t pay the price himself. Instead, Kabraxis took children from the city during the nights and sacrificed them on the Black Road, robbing them of their years so he could reward the parishioners he’d chosen with extended years. All three of those parishioners were men who could help the Church of the Prophet of the Light grow and earn the favor of the king. One of them, in fact, had been one of the king’s own observers, a man—Lord Darkulan insisted—who was like a father to the king.
It was a time of miracles. Everyone in Bramwell spoke of the Church of the Prophet of the Light that way. Health, wealth, love, and a return to youth—there was nothing more a man could hope for in life.
But someone had dared attack the church.
Deep anger resonated inside Cholik as he gazed out over the filled cathedral. One of the lesser priests Cholik had groomed stepped forward into the lighted area below.
“Brothers and sisters,” the priest said, “beloved of Dien-Ap-Sten, join me now in prayer to our magnificent prophet. Wayfinder Sayes goes to speak on your behalf to our prophet and ask that only a few more miracles be granted before we take leave of this service.”
His words, amplified by the specially constructed stage, rolled over the church audience and quieted the whispering that had resulted from the news about the attack on the church.
Threaten to take away their chances at a miracle for themselves, Cholik mused, and you get the attention of every person in the room.
The priest guided the assembly in prayers to Dien-Ap-Sten, singing of the prophet’s greatness, goodness, and generousness.
Once the snake’s head was again locked into place on the wall and had become immobile, the flames died away, and that section of the cathedral darkened. Many worshippers screamed out Dien-Ap-Sten’s name then, begging that the prophet return and grant more miracles.
Cholik stepped from the platform on the snake’s back onto the third-floor balcony. A guard hidden in the shadows pulled the heavy drapes back and opened the door for him. Two crossbowmen stood behind the drapes at all times, relieved every hour during the times of service.
Stepping through the door into the hallway beyond, Cholik found a dozen members of his personal guard waiting for him. No one used this hallway except him, and it led to the secret passageways that had been honeycombed throughout the church. They held lanterns to light the darkened hallway.
“What is going on?” Cholik demanded, stopping among them.
“The church has been attacked, Wayfinder,” Captain Rhellik reported. He was a hard-faced man, used to commanding mercenaries and waging small, hard-won wars or tracking bandits.
“I knew that,” Cholik spat. “Who has dared attack my church?”
Rhellik shook his head. “I’ve not yet learned, Wayfinder. From what I’ve been told, a ship smashed into the courtyard south of the church that overhung the river.”
“An accident?”
“No, Wayfinder. The attack on the parapet was deliberate.”
“Why attack the courtyard there? What could they possibly hope to gain?”
“I don’t know, Wayfinder.”
Cholik believed the mercenary captain. When Rhellik had been brought to the church almost a year ago, he’d been dying a paraplegic, paralyzed from the neck down by a horse stepping on him during a battle with bandits while traveling from Lut Gholein. His men had bound him to a litter and brought him almost two hundred miles for healing.
At first, Cholik had seen no value in the mercenary captain, but Kabraxis had insisted that they watch him. For weeks, Rhellik had stayed at every service, fed by his men and bathed in the river, and he had sung praises to Dien-Ap-Sten as best as he was able with his failing voice. Then, one day, the snake’s head had lifted him from the crowd and gulped him down. A few minutes after that, the mercenary captain had walked back from the Way of Dreams, hale and hearty, and he had pledged his service forever to the prophet Dien-Ap-Sten and his Wayfinder.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Cholik said, starting down the hallway.
“No, Wayfinder,” Rhellik agreed. He raised the lantern he carried in one hand to light their way. He carried his vicious curved sword in the other hand.
“None of these people has been identified?”
“No.”
“How large is the force that attacked the church?” Cholik demanded.
“No more than a couple dozen warriors,” Rhellik said. “The city guards tried to turn them.”
“The boat had to sail upriver to crash into that parapet.” Cholik turned and followed the passageway to his right, going up the short flight of steps. He knew every hallway in the church. His robes swished as he hurried. “It couldn’t have been going fast. Why didn’t the city guards stop it?”
“The ship was driven by magic, Wayfinder. They had no chance to stop it.”
“And we don�
��t know who these people are?”
“I regret to say, Wayfinder, that we don’t. As soon as that changes, I’ll let you know.”
Only a little farther on, Cholik reached the hidden door that opened into one of the main hallways on the fourth floor. He released the lock and stepped out into the hallway.
No one was in the hallway. No visitors were allowed up from the first and second floors where seating was made available in the cathedral. And none of the staff who lived there was in those rooms because they were all attending the service. The south fourth-floor wing was reserved for acolytes who had been with the church for six months or longer. It was surprising how quickly those small rooms had filled.
Cholik turned to the left and walked toward the balcony that overlooked the parapet courtyard at the river’s edge below.
“Wayfinder,” Rhellik said uncomfortably.
“What?” Cholik snapped.
“Perhaps it would be better if you allowed us to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“By taking you to one of the lower rooms where we can better defend you.”
“You want to hide me away?” Cholik asked in exasperation. “At a time when my church is attacked, you expect me to hide away like some coward?”
“I’m sorry, Wayfinder, but it would be the safest course of action.”
The mercenary’s words weighed heavily on Cholik’s thoughts. He had sought out Kabraxis with his mind, but the demon was nowhere to be found. The situation irritated and frightened him. As big as the church was, there was nowhere for him to go if he’d been targeted by assassins.
“No,” Cholik said. “I am guarded by Dien-Ap-Sten’s love for me. That will be my buckler and my shield.”
“Yes, Wayfinder. I apologize for doubting.”
“Doubters do not stay in the grace of the Prophet of the Light for long, captain. I would have you remember that.”
“Of course, Wayfinder.”
Cholik strode up the final flight of steps to the balcony. The night wind whipped over him. There was no sign of the mystical winds of which Rhellik had spoken. But Cholik’s eyes settled on the burning ship loose on the river current.
