People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Chained up hard,” Asti said. “I can hear it, but it doesn’t get the reins at all.”

  Veranix found that reassuring, oddly enough. He pointed out the hut he was feeling the rope in. “This one right here.”

  Asti had his knife out, and Veranix held his own, mimicking Asti’s grip. If he had to learn how to knife fight, he might as well follow a master.

  They opened the doors and went straight in, Asti taking the lead. He tore through three of them before Veranix was even through the doorway, but when he leaped at his next target, he was met with a heavy shield in his face.

  Dayne stood there, armed with his sword and shield. Asti went red-faced, attempting several fatal blows on Dayne, but Dayne held him at bay with his shield. Asti couldn’t get around it. Dayne smashed Asti again with the shield, knocking him to the ground.

  Veranix saw that all of his gear was on the other side of the room, with Dayne between him and it. He had to get through to it.

  Dayne raised up his sword, bringing down a blow that would have cleaved Asti in two. Veranix threw his knife, which only clanged on the shield, but it proved distraction enough to slow Dayne’s attack, enough so Asti could scramble away.

  “Traitors!” Dayne snarled. “The Brotherhood shall have blood and the glory will be yours.”

  Veranix scanned the room for anything he could use. Supply storage, mostly crates. But there was a broomstick leaning against one wall.

  “Glory?” Veranix asked. “Bet you can’t even touch me.”

  Dayne charged at him as Veranix dove for the broomstick. He wasn’t sure what his full plan was here, beyond hopefully getting past Dayne and getting to his gear. He was already so spent, if he didn’t get a hold of the cloak or the rope, and their numina-drawing abilities, he’d pass out in a minute.

  He grabbed the broomstick and leaped up on a crate, planning to jump and flip over the big guy, scoring a knock across the skull along the way. Maybe that would shake Dayne back to his senses. If that was at all possible.

  Instead, Veranix found himself flipping right into the shield. Dayne held it up high, and slammed it into Veranix, knocking him to the ground.

  Every saint and sinner, that hurt. When he had fought Dayne before, the Tarian had been holding back, fighting defensively. Now he was hitting full strength.

  Now he was going for the kill.

  “Dayne, come on,” Veranix said, scrambling out of the way of the sword. “What happened to not killing? What happened to finding another way?”

  “The way is the Brotherhood,” Dayne said. He brought down his sword so hard it cut through the stone floor where Veranix had been standing.

  Asti jumped on top of Dayne, screaming wildly, blood gushing from his nose. He was ready to drive his knife into Dayne’s chest, but Dayne dropped his sword and grabbed Asti’s arm. In a fluid motion, he pulled the small man off of him and slammed him into the ground.

  Asti groaned and didn’t get up.

  Dayne picked up his sword and prepared to run Asti through.

  Veranix dove in, charging himself with as much numina as he could pull, pouring it into his arm and the stick. Swinging like he was going for a Triple Jack, he connected the broomstick with Dayne’s chin.

  The blow echoed through the hut, and knocked Dayne away from Asti. But only a few steps. He shook it off and rubbed at his chin, looking to Veranix with pure murder in his eyes.

  He whipped the shield at Veranix, knocking him off his feet. Dayne brought down the sword on him, and Veranix held up the broomstick, channeling the last bit of magic into it that he could muster, forming a weak shield of numina around himself. With heaving, desperate breaths, Veranix forced all the strength he had into holding that up. It was the only thing he had between him and death.

  Dayne rained blow after blow onto the stick, until it snapped and the numina shattered.

  Veranix could barely even breathe, uselessly holding up his hands as the killing blow came down.

  It didn’t land.

  Someone had jumped in, straddling over Veranix with a shield held high, placing herself between him and harm.

  PENULTIMATE INTERLUDE

  BROTHER MERGOLLIET HAD NO IDEA what was wrong with Reverend Halster, but his behavior had grown more and more erratic over the past few months. At first it was little matters, like the time Halster had insisted on bringing that violent man inside the church, giving him sanctuary and a place to sleep off his madness. Then it was insisting that the Brothers of Saint Bridget seal up sections of the old catacombs. Mergolliet had asked Reverend Halster why it was necessary, and the old man only said, “God commands it so.”

  That was his answer for so many things.

  Mergolliet would not have minded were it not for the fact that Halster had grown so negligent in his daily tasks. Mergolliet had found himself acting as the Reverend of Saint Bridget’s Church in all things but title. He had been respectful of the Reverend Halster and his place and position—Halster was a man of advanced years—but he felt he would need to write to the bishop soon.

  Especially since Halster had brought in Sister Myriem to join them, which made no sense whatsoever. There were no cloistresses at Saint Bridget’s, no order of sisters for her to congregate with.

  And in two days, she had been nothing but difficult.

  First, she was supposed to arrive at the noon bells the day before yesterday. She did not come until well after sunset. She was assigned her own quarters, since it was plain she should not sleep in the bunks with the brothers, but yet she ended up sleeping in the narthex under the statue of Saint Bridget that night. She ignored everything Brother Mergolliet said to her, going off on her own throughout the day, occasionally praying with Reverend Halster when he was supposed to be leading services or ministering over the brothers.

  Now, before even the sun was up, she was in her chambers, screaming and pounding the walls.

  Mergolliet told the other brothers to try to go back to sleep, and he went to check on matters. He found Reverend Halster kneeling calmly in front of Sister Myriem’s door.

  “Sir,” Mergolliet said as he approached. “This is madness, you know that?”

  “I do,” Reverend Halster said. “But should we not tend to the mad, Brother Mergolliet?”

  “But why are we—”

  “Because God commands it so,” Halster said. He sighed, looking at the closed door. “Why do we pray to the saints, Brother?”

  “For them to intercede to God on our behalf,” Mergolliet said. He didn’t understand why Halster would ask such a basic question.

  “And why not to God directly?”

  “For we lack the worth to question God.” Halster gestured for him to continue. If he wanted Mergolliet to recite basic theology, then Mergolliet would comply. “God sees all, is all. They are aware of the grand design in ways that we, mere mortals of weak flesh, could never comprehend.”

  “So I ask you, can God comprehend us?”

  That was a heavier question than Mergolliet was ready for at this hour.

  “God is infinite, God everything,” Mergolliet said. “They are—”

  “Consider that God, in their infinite greatness, cannot understand what being a mortal of weak flesh even means. What our petty limits are.”

  “Which is why we ask the saints to intercede. They are touched by the divine, they—”

  “Touched by the divine, hmmm,” Reverend Halster said. “Imagine what a toll that would put on our weak flesh.” He tapped his finger on Mergolliet’s head. “To have just a sliver of the infinite slice into your very finite mind.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Consider, Brother, the grand design God might have. All of yesterday, today, and tomorrow in a tapestry. Imagine trying to live all those days at once.” He touched the door tenderly. “Madness would be the least of it.”
/>
  The screaming and pounding stopped, and in a moment, the door opened. The young sister looked out, her face full of suspicion. “Where am I? This is not my cell at Saint Limarre’s.”

  “That is true,” Reverend Halster said. “You are no longer posted at Saint Limarre’s. Do you remember?”

  She scowled. “No. But that’s good. Most of them hated me. This is Saint . . . Alexis’s?”

  “Saint Bridget’s,” Mergolliet said. “You arrived the day before yesterday.”

  “Do you know what day it is?” Halster asked.

  She scowled again. “No, I . . . the last few weeks have been such a haze. My dreams, they . . . I never know if I’m . . .” She looked around the hallway, confused.

  “It’s Oscan the twenty-seventh,” Halster said. “In the year 1215. Tomorrow is Terrentin.”

  Mergolliet had no idea why Halster had included the year. Surely the girl was not that addled.

  “Oscan the—” she started, and then suddenly she began crying. “I’m not ready for it to be today.”

  “What?” Mergolliet asked. “What about today?”

  She touched Halster’s face. “I’m sorry. Why am I sorry? Why am I crying? What is it I’m so—”

  Halster took the girl into an embrace. “Shh, I know.”

  Her sobs quieted as she buried her face in his robe.

  Halster looked to Mergolliet. “Wake the brothers and prepare a simple breakfast.”

  “It’s still a bit early.”

  “Even still. Then be prepared for a service. The people of this neighborhood will need our ministrations today.”

  “What is today?” Mergolliet asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either. None of us do.” He sighed as he caressed Sister Myriem’s head. “But we do as we must, for God commands it so.”

  “As you say, Reverend,” Mergolliet said. “And you?”

  “I will pray with Sister Myriem,” he said. She pulled away and looked up at him, a gentle smile on her face. Saints above, she truly was just a child, to be so tormented. “While we still have a little time.”

  Mergolliet nodded and went to wake the brothers. But before he was gone, he heard Myriem say one more thing.

  “So very little.”

  Chapter 18

  DAYNE WAS REALLY TRYING TO kill this guy.

  Jerinne had been scouting the camp, finding her way around, trying to figure out what was going on in this place, find Maresh and Lin. She realized the tunnels extended off in every direction, but the folks down here—both the zealots and the grotesques—were most concerned about a set of tunnels leading west.

  She knew she should bide her time until help came, unless something happened that required immediate action. Being unable to find her friends in the camp, and knowing that going down the western tunnels would likely result in getting caught, she decided to lay low.

  At one point, she saw the giant. Saints, he was exactly how the kid described him. Thick, shiny skin. So tall he dwarfed Dayne. He walked across the camp, specifically going to various grotesques and touching their heads. When he passed by Jerinne, she heard him say one word to a grotesque.

  “Soon.”

  More and more of the residents were going down the western tunnels. The camp had almost emptied. Something was happening, and she might not be able to wait any longer. She made her way cautiously toward those tunnels, passing one large hut where she heard a fight.

  Not just a fight, but a powerful crack that echoed through the camp. It would have brought several people running if the place wasn’t already empty.

  Jerinne went into the hut, to see Dayne wailing powerful blows on a young man with a broomstick. Another man was in a lump on the ground. Dayne was slamming his sword down over and over; it was amazing the broomstick had held up under that punishment. And Dayne’s face.

  Rage. Bloodlust. Murder.

  She didn’t even think Dayne was capable of that.

  The broomstick shattered on Dayne’s blow, and he raised up his sword once more for the kill.

  For the kill.

  Something was very wrong.

  She dashed in, shield raised to take that blow for the young man. The sword slammed into her shield, a hit so hard it made her bones rattle. But she took it.

  “Dayne,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Serving the Brotherhood,” Dayne said. He whipped his sword around at her, which she quickly parried. He switched up to a flurry of feints and attacks, driving Jerinne back.

  “Serving who?” she asked. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I finally see clearly,” he said. His attacks were relentless. Jerinne wasn’t able to do anything but draw him away from the two people he had been about to kill. She had no idea who they were, if they were legitimately bad people or not, but she knew that Dayne—whatever had happened to him—would not forgive himself if he had killed them.

  “Clearly about what?” she asked, watching Dayne’s feet, watching his wrist, following his technique. In the months of training and sparring together, she had never seen him fight like this. On the offensive, using all his strength. It put him off his usual rhythms.

  Whatever was going on in his head, his body didn’t know how to fight like this.

  “The divine truth of the Nine,” Dayne said. “They are the way, and the Brotherhood shall be empowered as they rise.”

  “That’s some blazing bunk,” Jerinne said. “You were trying to kill? For the Brotherhood?”

  “I serve as I am needed,” he said. He overextended his attack. Jerinne parried and then locked her sword into his hilt, followed by a slam of her shield into his wrist. He let go of the blade, and she was able to send it flying across the room, disarming him of that.

  She was rewarded by his shield smashing into the side of her head, sending her reeling.

  “No,” she said, forcing the words through her haze. “That’s not how you serve, Dayne.”

  He smashed his shield on her again, but she was able to get her own up to take the blow. Even still, the sheer power he had, stronger than she had suspected.

  “I serve the Brotherhood!” he shouted as he pummeled again and again with the shield. She kept hers up, blocking every blow, even if each one forced her back to the wall.

  “You don’t serve death,” she said. “You—”

  Another blow. She still had her sword. In his fury, he wasn’t even defending himself. She could stop him. She could end it.

  But that wasn’t who she was. She was a Tarian.

  And no matter what had been done to him, so was Dayne.

  He would have to remember.

  She would make him remember.

  He hit her shield with his once more, and when she blocked it, his massive fist came at her chest. She had never been hit as hard in her life. It was like a team of horses. The blow knocked her off her feet, landing near the two men, who were crawling weakly toward each other.

  “Now you all die,” Dayne said.

  Jerinne hopped back on her feet. Five-mile runs with Amaya, morning training with Vien, sparring every day, all that had shown her what she could endure. She would put that to the test, no matter what.

  Dayne hurled his shield at her, which she deflected with her own. Then he charged at her, fists raised, shouting a primal scream.

  She shouted right back at him.

  “With shield on arm and sword in hand!”

  Punches rained on her shield.

  “I will not yield but hold and stand!”

  Blow after blow, relentless.

  “As I draw breath, I’ll allow no harm!”

  The punches slowed.

  “And hold—” Dayne muttered.

  She dropped down and swept his leg, knocking him off balance. He landed on his back, and Jerinne spra
ng on top of him. She planted one foot on his arm, pressed her whole body with her shield on his chest, pinning him down.

  “And hold?” she asked.

  “And hold . . .” It was as if the words were hurting him to say, but he struggled to get them out.

  “Say it!” she shouted.

  In almost a terrified whisper, he said, “And hold back death, with shield on arm.”

  He started saying the entire oath, repeating it again and again, faster and faster, as tears formed at his eyes. His whole body relaxed as the fight left it. Jerinne cautiously took herself off of him, while he quietly repeated the oath.

  “Is . . . is he all right?”

  Jerinne whipped her attention behind her, sword up. The two men both quickly raised their hands up, even though they were nearly holding each other upright. The younger one looked like he could barely stand.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “The Thorn and Asti Rynax,” Dayne whispered.

  “I take it you’re a friend of his,” the older man said.

  “Dayne,” Jerinne asked. “Are you . . . you?”

  “I don’t understand . . . how I . . .” Dayne started to cry again.

  “I definitely think he’s all right,” the young one said.

  Jerinne got up completely. “Do you know what happened?”

  “The High Dragon of the Brotherhood,” the older one said. “He’s got this way of, I don’t know, reaching into your head and twisting your soul.”

  “It didn’t take on us,” the younger said. “Apparently it doesn’t work on mages.”

  “Or people whose soul is already twisted enough.”

  “I’m such a fool,” Dayne said. “It all . . . it all seemed so clear.”

  “Wait,” Jerinne said. Dayne’s introductions suddenly made sense. “The Thorn? Did Kaiana send you here?”

  “Kai?” the young one—clearly the Thorn—asked. “You know her?”

  “Well, I helped her get away, and she went to get help. I thought she was going to get you.”

  “No, I was already here with him,” the Thorn said, pointing to Asti. “We got separated, I met Dayne, who I thought was the giant, then we tried to stop that mage Senek with his machine, got taken to the High Dragon, and then he turned Dayne into . . . well, you saw.”