The Broken Bell

by Frank Tuttle

  “Amen.”

  “Follow me,” said the Father. The big old doors swung open, though as far as I could see, they were touched by no one.

  Up and up and up we went.

  The Curtain of Grace could have benefited from the attention of a competent seamstress. To call it threadbare would be an injustice to threadbare furnishings everywhere. I could practically see through the thing.

  Had I not been standing so close I could smell the mustiness of it I imagine it would look quite different. The Chapel was lit only by candles. The ceiling sported a monstrous stained glass window, but like everything else in Rannit it was coated with so much black crematorium soot it cast more shadow than light.

  So I peeked through moth holes in the Curtain of Grace and tried to pick Japeth Stricken’s ugly face out of the crowd.

  I wasn’t having much luck. The guests were seated in darkness. I couldn’t tell man from woman.

  I cursed under my breath and stomped and fumed.

  “Easy,” said Carris. “He’s probably not even here.”

  “Or he could be out there with a crossbow and half a dozen ogres. I wouldn’t see that either.”

  The Father read. The Father prayed. A very large lady with an even larger voice sang a couple of songs at a pitch and a volume that rivaled the Regency’s steam-whistle.

  A lesser priest took the altar, greeted the guests and spoke at length on the sanctity of marriage and the grim fate of those who would seek to loosen the bonds of man and wife. Then the sizable lady sang again, more prayers were read, and I was nearly moved to call for a chair and a soothing pillow.

  The Sun arced lazily across the stained glass above. I could only make out the subject depicted when the Sun was directly behind that portion of the glass. Angels warred with devils, it seemed, while saints looked on, serene.

  I estimated the time remaining until noon and shifted my weight from leg to leg, just as I’d done during the War.

  “Here come the brides,” whispered Carris as the lady with the thunderstorm voice tuned up once again.

  I admit it. I looked. If the Angel of Love hadn’t wanted me to look, why had she put a moth hole right in front of my face?

  The Brides marched in, each clad in white. White veils. White gowns. Long white trains.

  I had to wait a bit, to catch sight of Darla. She was at the end of her line, as I had been.

  Say I’m biased. I am. But hers was the loveliest gown, the most delicate veil, the most luxurious train.

  Her bright white gown was worked with sliver threads, and they glittered, very subtle, in the candlelight. It was tight at her waist and trimmed with silver lace at her neck. Her veil hung just so, revealing only hints of her face behind it, just the smallest glimmer from her big brown eyes.

  The Brides turned, their backs to us. Darla was so close I could have reached out and touched her. I did smell her perfume and breathed it in good and deep.

  There was a ruckus among the guests. A door opened and closed. Voices were raised, and then hushed, and after a moment a grim-faced Father Wickens took the altar.

  “I apologize for the interruption of this sacred ceremony,” he said. “But I am told there is a disturbance in the sky. It seems the foes of the Regency draw near, and we are being urged to cancel the ceremony so that all may seek safety.”

  His fist stuck the altar.

  “Anyone who wishes to leave may do so. At once. But know this. I will finish what I have begun. I will see the Broken Bell rung, come war, come ruin, come the hell-damned Devil and ten legions of the Fallen with him.”

  A ragged chorus of cheers rose up. From my peephole, though, I saw frightened faces, hands raised to lips and people leaving their pews.

  “Five minutes,” said the Father. “Leave or stay. The choice is yours. But I will not halt this ceremony a moment longer than that.”

  Darla took a step backward. She poked at the curtain with her hand.

  “Darling,” she said, not whispering. “Is that you, back there?”

  “My name is Clemens. I’m just here for the cake.”

  “Can you see the man in the second row, right side, five from the right end?”

  I peered over her shoulder.

  “Not really. What about him?”

  “He just stood.” She leaned forward, staring into the candlit room.

  “Honey, he’s wearing Toadsticker.”

  I bent and lifted the curtain and darted out to stand beside her.

  The chapel was descending into pandemonium. People were trying to leave their pews and make for the doors but were all trying to move against each other. Shoving and shouting broke out, and the Father called for order, and a couple of Church guards waded into the fray, using the butts of their pikes to restore a heavenly calm.

  But Japeth Stricken wasn’t heading for the door.

  He was making a beeline right for the Curtain.

  Darla pulled a dagger from her garter and before I took a step she hurled it right for Stricken’s chest.

  It hit. Point first too. It would have been a fatal blow, had Stricken not been wearing chain beneath his fancy coat and vest.

  He followed the dagger back to Darla and saw me. Then he drew his sword—my sword Toadsticker, mind you—and charged.

  I leaped down from the small platform and charged right back, hauling the hand cannon out of its holster on the way. I forced myself to stop, a dozen paces from him. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to hold the thing steady with both hands, to squeeze the trigger firmly and with even, steady pressure.

  The sound of the thing brought the room to a sudden, eerie silence. Men froze in mid-struggle. The Church Guards exchanged wary glances and tried to decide which one would move on me first.

  Japeth Stricken died on the floor.

  I lowered the hand cannon. If anyone had accompanied Stricken, I couldn’t pick them out.

  “His name was Stricken,” I said in the sudden silence. “He was a murderer, and he came here to do murder. I’m sorry for spilling blood on your floor, Father Wickens. I didn’t see another way.”

  “These are dark times,” said the Father. He pointed toward the doors. “Those of you who would go, go now. This changes nothing.”

  I took Toadsticker from the dead man’s hand and holstered the hand cannon.

  Darla was at my side.

  “Nice gown, hon,” I said. “You here with anyone?”

  “Why did he have your sword?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t know who it belonged to. Someone dropped it at the Timbers when the fire broke out. He saw a fancy sword lying there, he grabbed it as he ran. Good thing he did, too.”

  Stricken had dyed his hair blond and shaved off his moustache and beard. I wouldn’t have recognized him, in a crowd.

  Darla looked up, shivered, and took my hand.

  “Look.”

  A solid bank of darkness was creeping across the sooty window, obliterating Angels and saints alike as it cast them into a dark as deep as midnight.

  “It’s them, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Damn you, Evis, I thought. You hadn’t even said goodbye.

  “Where should we go?”

  I watched people fight to get through the doors.

  Where should we go, indeed?

  The Father shouted. Guards pushed and shoved. Half the grooms took Brides in hand and fled as well, leaving flowers and veils and top hats trampled in a messy wake.

  When the ruckus was over, there were maybe thirty of us left, including Tamar, Carris, a half a dozen would-be wed couples, and a bevy of white-knuckled parents.

  The Father ordered the doors closed and locked. Darla looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “The doors just closed. You are aware of that?”

  “I am.”

  “We’re still on this side of them.”

  “We are.”

  “What’s going on? Was that not the only villain in the crowd? What are you up too?”

 
“You’ll see. Just play along. We’re not done here yet.”

  She bit her lip but nodded.

  The other grooms had stepped from behind the Curtain when the ruckus started. Each stood beside their brides with expressions that ranged from the terrified to the determined.

  Carris and Tamar were among the determined. Mr. Tibbles popped his head out of his lace-trimmed basket and gave me a murderous wedding day growl.

  “Well,” said the Father as the soles of Japeth Stricken’s shoes vanished beneath a tablecloth. “This has been a most unusual ceremony. Take that as an omen, if you wish. Life is made of the unexpected. Punctuated with the tragic. Sometimes fearful. Sometimes dangerous. But despite these things, you few who have remained—despite these things, you have chosen to remain together, and consecrate your vows. I tell you plain, young men, young women. Yours shall be blessed unions, for you have already demonstrated your commitment to them in the face of grave peril.”

  The darkness above blotted out half the window and moved with no hint of slowing.

  The Father squinted up toward it and gestured at it.

  “That is fear,” he said. The shadow crept. “That is what we all face, now and again. But look not above, dear ones. Look to each other. There, find love. And love, I tell you true, is always greater than fear.”

  Darla and I looked at each other.

  Even through her veil, I could see her eyes. I could see she was crying, though I didn’t know why.

  “Lift the veil,” said the Father. “Gaze into the eyes of she who will be your wife.”

  I lifted it. Tears ran down her cheeks. I smiled and brushed them away.

  “Do you mean it?” she managed to say.

  “Speak your vows, and know that the whole of Heaven hears them,” said the Father.

  “I will be your shield,” I said. My voice shook, so I repeated the words. “I will be your shield.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “I will be.” She stopped, looked at me. “Are you sure?”

  The darkness above swallowed the sky.

  “Never more sure about anything.”

  “I will be your lamp,” she said.

  “Present the rings,” said the Father.

  I fumbled that bit, first handing her a round of ammunition for the hand cannon, but finally came up with a box, and then a ring.

  Her hand shook as I placed it on her finger. Hell, my hand shook as I placed it on her finger.

  “Do you each vow, before Earth and Heaven, before Church and Host, that you will be Husband and Wife?”

  “I do,” we said as one.

  The Bell began to sound. It rang out a dozen times, good and loud and clear, though the noonday was dark as night.

  There was something else, sounding with the Bell.

  Something like thunder, and yet not thunder.

  Something I’d heard before.

  Flashes began to light the sky beyond the sooty glass, on the tenth peal of the bell. Flashes followed by not-quite thunder.

  I held Darla close, on the tenth peal.

  On the final peal we kissed.

  The sky flashed and thundered and flashed.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” said Father Wickens. “Blessings of the Hosts upon you, I suggest we retire to the catacombs with haste, amen.”

  Something came falling down on the glass, peppering it with small thuds and pings. I broke off our kiss and took my wife’s hand and we made for the dubious safety of the alcove behind the Curtain.

  Tamar and Carris followed, as did half a dozen other assorted souls.

  The ancient glass tinkled and popped. The sky beyond shook with thunder’s strange cousin.

  Darla cried in my arms, but smiled despite crying.

  “I didn’t think you’d do it,” she said. “Husband.”

  “Should have married you years ago. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”

  She hugged me, and I needed no answer more than that.

  The stained glass shattered from end to end and side to side. Angels and saints alike broke and tumbled and fell.

  The sky beyond it boiled. Strange lights played there.

  Something exploded, far above, and again, and again, and again.

  The Father prophesied we’d enjoy a marriage that lasted all our lives, Darla and I.

  That’s the thing about prophecy. Even when it’s entirely correct, it can still bite you in the ass.

  The broken remnants of the window struck the floor with the sound of the earth breaking, showering us all with glass. No one was injured, though Mr. Tibbles was enraged beyond reason by the noise of it all.

  Father Wickens shouted and bade the guards to open the doors. They did so, and the Father blessed us once again.

  “Go in peace,” he concluded. “Heaven help us.”

  Shattered saints and broken Angels crunched beneath our feet. Hand in hand, we left the Chamber. I didn’t follow Father Wickens toward the catacombs. I didn’t see the point.

  Darla smiled at me. Flashes lit the windows beside us. Strange grumblings rattled doors, and echoed down the long cold halls.

  “We might as well have a look outside, don’t you think?”

  “I do indeed, husband,” she said as we passed under the last threshold.

  “Then we shall, wife,” I replied. I opened the last door for her, as a gentleman should, and we stepped through it.

  The skies lit up, and we watched the glow together.

  Epilogue

  And that was how we spent our wedding day.

  Oh, there’s more, of course. We stole another horse, for instance. The new Mrs. Markhat clubbed a bridge clown unconscious with his own duck-headed walking stick. We got as far as the Brown before I realized the lights in the sky and the infant thunder weren’t cannon fire at all.

  We reached the Brown River Bridge just as the Regency hove into view, firing her fireworks from every deck.

  Evis still claims he intended the fireworks to be, and I’m quoting him here, a “…triumphant, regal celebration of Rannit’s victory over the forces of the North.”

  Instead, he panicked the entire city, incited my new wife to horse-thievery and violence toward hapless clowns, and nearly did as much property damage as the invaders themselves had in mind.

  But, as Evis is quick to point out, his fireworks display also sent people scurrying for shelter. And since the storm that followed practically on the Regency’s wheel was a sorcerer storm designed to kill, he might have a point about having saved thousands of lives.

  The storm was the worst ever seen, even among the oldsters who swear everything that happened before the War was bigger, badder and meaner than anything born since. Whirlwinds rolled off the river, winding down streets with aim and clear purpose. Hailstones the size of hogsheads bashed roofs and left wagons smashed to splinters. Lightning fell and fell and fell, leaving fires and ruin in its wake, even as the whirlwinds raged.

  The Sorcerer’s Storm, it’s being called. And so it was. Sent ahead to soften up Rannit’s defenses, and even though Evis left the barge fleet bottlenecked and impotent after blowing the pass, the storm had raced after the Regency, even as Evis pushed the churning vessel as hard as he dared.

  I’m told we’re recovering portions of the barge fleet at the rate of two barges a day. The Corpsemaster is using some of the captured cannon on the walls and is melting the rest down. I gather she found their design rather crude and has far better uses for the raw metal.

  The trio of wizards fell upon each other the moment they saw the blockage in the Brown. I’m told that clash reduced the size of their army considerably, and that those who survived took to the woods and fled north on foot.

  Word is that only a few dozen survived the hike.

  I don’t care to speculate on the fate of the rest, though I’m sure the Corpsemaster is pleased with her new soldiers.

  Mama Hog returned yesterday. Her shop made it through the Sorcerer’s Storm with not a plank ou
t of place. She was careful to spread the word among the neighbors that she had special protections against storms and the like, although she confided to me that she had no such thing and was amazed she still had a tin roof to sleep under.

  She hasn’t quite forgiven me for marrying Darla in her absence. I doubt she ever will, as my doing so robbed her forever of a told you so moment she will never see again.

  Buttercup and Gertriss are fine. Hell, even Three-leg Cat weathered the storm with no apparent injury. When I did pick my way through the rubble back to my office, he was sitting in the open doorway, glaring at me with his nearly perfected tomcat contempt.

  Buttercup ruined his moment by hop skipping to appear directly behind him before scooping him up in a big tight hug.

  Poor damned cat was so shocked he completely forgot to claw her eyes out.

  So we’re back together, my little family and I. Even Evis, that brandy-loving devil, popped around last night with a proper wedding gift.

  It’s a magical dingus that must have cost him a fortune, in the form of a head-sized glass globe that lights up if you shake it gently. Lights up, and shows a tiny Regency churning its way down a tiny Brown River, while fireworks and flashes light up a tiny sky.

  Darla loves it. She claims she can see Evis on the Regency’s deck, waving to us.

  I cannot. But I just smile and put my arm around her and we watch the thing together, while Buttercup plays with Three-leg Cat and Mama stomps and Gertriss makes up another excuse to go see Evis at Avalante.

  There’s magic in Evis’s glass ball, all right.

  And it’s not the only, or the most potent, magic in the room these days.

  About the Author

  Frank Tuttle is a seventy-foot long, snake-necked water creature who lurks beneath the icy waves of Scotland’s Loch Ness. When Frank isn’t dodging sonar equipped boats or teasing hopeful photographers, he writes fantasy, which he claims is “bloody hard to do with just these enormous flippers.” Frank would be thrilled from tail to gills if you would visit his website at www.franktuttle.com, and he loves getting email via franktuttle@franktuttle.com. He asks that if you send fish, please send halibut, as tuna gives him the vapors.