by Anthony Ryan
“Then why are you here with them?” she pressed.
Jehrid bent to remove the brother’s scabbard from his back, a difficult task given the contortions of his body. “I came for the Breakers,” he grunted, turning the corpse over and working at the buckles. “They came for you.”
She made a small sound, half a laugh and half a groan. “To rescue me, no doubt.”
“Their mission is their own.” He tugged the scabbard free and buckled it on, around the waist rather than the back, sliding the blade in place. He straightened, staring at Meriva until she met his gaze, eyes shrouded and posture guarded, as if she might turn to flee at any second. “I will allow no harm to you,” he told her. “But I will have the truth. Why do they want you?”
She sighed, her stance becoming a little more relaxed, though her gaze told of a lingering mistrust. “To hear the message I carry… Or ensure my silence.”
“You carry a message? From who?”
She looked down, clearly fighting a deep reluctance. Jehrid stood and kept his eyes locked on her face. It was a favoured trick when dealing with reticent informants, stillness and silence always stirred the tongue better than outright threats. “From the gods to the godless,” she said eventually, raising her gaze once more. There was still fear there, but also an overriding defiance. “I have said all I will say. Now, I suggest we move on. Unless you intend to stand and gawp at me forever.”
He held up the only other weapon found on the brother’s body, a hunting knife of good steel. “Do you know how to use this?”
She hesitated and reached for the knife, clasping it tight. “No. But I will, if needs must.”
Twenty paces on the passage opened out into a cavern, the ceiling lost to the darkness but the walls speckled with pinpoints of light, each no brighter than a match but combining to provide a clear view of the spectacle before them. A torrent of water arced down from the black void to continually replenish a broad pool in the centre of the cavern. Jehrid saw there was a slow but definite current to the waters, his gaze tracking to the right where the cavern narrowed into another passage, water foaming as it was channelled deeper into the rock.
“There must be a fissure,” Jehrid mused, gazing up at the cascade. “Siphoning off the river waters before they reach the fall.”
He watched Meriva peer at the cavern wall, her fingers playing over one of the pinpoints of light, tracing dark tendrils across the surface. “Some kind of lichen,” she mused. “Fed by the water and giving off light as a reward.” She paused, then added something in Alpiran, voice pitched low in reverence, as if she were reciting a catechism, “May the goddess accept my thanks for her beneficence.”
Jehrid was about to take a closer look at the channel on the right, assuming it led out to sea, and therefore might offer some avenue of escape, but paused when Meriva clasped his arm. She pointed at something in the pool, something limp and man-sized, trailing a blue cloak as it drifted in the shallows.
Jehrid plunged into the water and waded towards the body, heaving it over to reveal a lean face and greying hair. Sollis’s eyes remained closed but his features twitched as Jehrid took a firmer grip on his shirt and began to haul him from the pool. Still alive, he thought with a certain grim resignation. Of course he is.
Meriva helped him drag the Brother Commander clear of the water and away from the damp rock fringing the pool. They rested him against a relatively dry patch of wall where Meriva pressed a hand to his forehead. “Chilled almost to the point of death,” she said. Her eyes went to Sollis’s right arm, his hand dangling from a twisted wrist. “And that’s certainly broken.”
Jehrid nodded agreement and reached for the brother’s forearm, squeezing hard. Sollis came awake with a shout, trying to raise his right arm as it sought the empty scabbard on his back. He tried vainly to rise, ice numb legs giving way and leaving him flailing against the rock.
“It’s all right,” Meriva said, casting a reproachful glare at Jehrid as she placed a calming hand on the brother’s shoulder. “We are friends.”
Don’t be too sure, Jehrid thought, watching the realisation dawn on Sollis’s face, the lean features tensing against the pain, and a sharp calculation returning to his eyes.
“My brothers?” he said, gaze switching from Meriva to Jehrid.
“We found no others alive,” Jehrid told him.
Sollis closed his eyes momentarily, face as immobile as the stone behind him. When he opened them again there was no grief, no sorrow, just firm decision. “I need a sling for this,” he said, patting his broken arm.
Meriva tore a strip from the brother’s cloak to fashion the sling and tied it in place, Sollis gritting his teeth against the pain as she pulled it taught. They helped him upright and moved to the channel at the far end of the cavern. Jehrid peered into the gloom beyond the foaming waters, seeing no ledge or other means of navigating such a treacherous passage.
“We could just jump in,” Meriva suggested. “Trust the gods to see us safely free of this place.”
Sollis gave a rasping grunt that might have been a laugh, drawing a scowl from Meriva. “They have preserved us this far,” she said.
“Blind chance has preserved us,” the brother replied, though his tone softened as he regarded the channel. “Though, in truth I see little option.”
“The current is too swift,” Jehrid stated. “And the course may well lead further underground before it reaches the sea. If we aren’t dashed to pieces we’d most likely drown. And if we were to make it out, we’d find ourselves flailing amid the Blades in the dead of night.”
He turned away from the channel, eyes roaming the cavern and finding a patch of dark a good way back from the pool where the glowing lichen didn’t cling to the walls. He moved towards it, far enough until the shadows swallowed him. He could see nothing ahead, just blank emptiness, his hands finding only air as he reached out to explore the void.
“If we had a torch,” he murmured. “A candle even. Just the barest flicker of light…”
And the black turned white. It was so sudden he found himself reeling, stifling a shout of pain and shielding eyes now streaming with tears. He blinked and cautiously looked again, finding the way ahead illuminated, a soft beam playing over the rock like a shaft of sunlight caught by a lens. The beam moved, revealing a tall, broad passage leading away from the cavern. Jehrid followed the course of the beam, tracking it back to Meriva, standing with her arm extended, and light streaming from her hand, held out flat like a spear-point.
The Dark, he thought, feeling his mouth hang open in an appalled gape. Free my hands and I’ll show you… Light born of the Dark... This is impossible.
His gaze shifted to Brother Sollis who seemed markedly less shocked than a servant of the Faith should be, standing back from Meriva with evident surprise but also a certain grave acceptance. Perhaps he knew what he would find after all.
Meriva walked towards Jehrid, arm still outstretched, the light beam bobbing as she moved. He saw a wary impatience on her face as she came to his side, avoiding his gaze and nodding at the way ahead. “I can’t do this forever.”
She kept a few steps ahead as they moved, a slim silhouette framed by the light she cast forth. It gave off no heat, no threat that he could see, and yet Jehrid found he had to force himself to remain close to her as Brother Sollis struggled on behind.
There can be no room for the Dark in a Faithful soul, he recited inwardly, recalling a sermon from a Second Order missionary his mother had once dragged him to. The Dark, as practiced by the Deniers who lurk in our midst, brought the Red Hand down upon us. Never forget this, and always be vigilant. Only evil can come of the Dark.
There is no evil in her, he knew, watching Meriva guide them on, her impossible light playing over the jagged vault of the passage. So then, he wondered, his gaze going to Sollis’s hunched form. What truth is there in the likes of him?
Meriva came to an abrupt halt, shoulders sagging a little and her light flickering as she
tried to hold it steady. “Something there,” she said in a strained whisper. Jehrid moved to her side, his eyes tracking the faltering beam to some kind of mound. A mound that glittered.
Meriva issued a pained sigh and lowered her hand, darkness descending as her light died, though the glittering mound ahead was still visible, lit by the faint orange glow of multiple torches.
“Give the brother your knife,” Jehrid told her, stepping forward and drawing the Order blade. “Stay behind us.”
He paused to meet her gaze, seeing a great fatigue there, and a trickle of blood falling from her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, then blinked and wiped the red tears away.
“Does it hurt?” he asked her.
She smiled faintly. “It… tires me.”
“Wasting time,” Sollis grunted, taking the knife from her and moving on.
They kept close to the passage wall, though Jehrid knew their presence would surely have been betrayed by Meriva’s light. The glow of the torches revealed another chamber as they drew closer, a crafted place like the one from which they had fallen, the floor worked to a smooth surface and the walls shaped into a circle. In the centre sat the mound, glittering metal clustered around a tall stone column. Moving closer they saw silver plate stacked amid bronze figures and tangled jewellery, here and there the tell-tale gleam of bluestone, all shot through by chains of silver and gold, shining like gossamer threads.
“Gold and jewels,” Meriva said, plucking a necklace from the mound and holding it up for inspection, three rubies set in a gold chain. “And still he wanted more.”
“He was ever a miser,” Jehrid replied. “And what miser doesn’t want more?”
However, it wasn’t the riches that most captured his Jehrid’s attention, it was the seven-sided stone column about which they were piled. It rose from the centre of the mound to a height of about twelve feet, etched all over with writing of some kind. Jehrid had learned his Realm letters at an early age, and could read Alpiran with sufficient effort, but these markings were unfamiliar, and the stone that held them clearly ancient. However, it did possess a form of decoration that made some kind of sense, a series of emblems carved into the top of the column on each of its seven sides. He began to circle the stone, finding each emblem to be different: a flame, a blazing sun, a book and a quill, an eye, an open hand… He paused at the sight of the sixth symbol, a figure holding a sword, deep holes where its eyes should be. A blind warrior. Just like the one that sits atop the gate to the House of the Sixth Order, or the medallion every brother carries around his neck.
“So the Faithful truly have builders in their ranks,” Jehrid said, turning to Sollis.
Sollis said nothing, his stance unchanged and face as impassive as ever, though Jehrid noted he had managed to remove the scabbard from the knife. “There are six orders to the Faith,” Jehrid went on, moving so he could view the final emblem, a snake and a goblet. “But seven sides to this stone.”
Sollis merely returned his gaze and said nothing.
“These words.” Jehrid jerked his head at the letters etched into the column. “What language is this? What do they mean?”
“It’s Old Volarian,” Meriva said. “The tongue spoken by the first Faithful to come to these lands.”
“Can you read it?” he asked her, keeping his gaze on Sollis.
“It’s been many a year since I had to.” She placed a foot on the pile, dislodging a cascade of treasure as she leaned closer to inspect the letters. “The calligraphy is unfamiliar and the dialect strange. Far more archaic than any form I’m familiar with. But, I think…” She paused, lost in thought as Sollis and Jehrid continued to exchange stares.
“It’s a narrative of some kind,” Meriva said eventually, metal jangling as she moved to read more of the inscriptions. “Though it doesn’t fit with any history I know, and much of the phrasing makes little sense.”
“Read aloud what you can,” Jehrid told her.
“‘Armies clash beneath a desert sun… Blood flows in rivers, spilt by lies... The One Who Waits will face the Hope Killer’s song…’”
“Stop!” Sollis commanded in a flat rasp, now turned so that his good arm was closest to Jehrid, shoulders lowered into a crouch, the knife now gripped tight.
“My lady,” Jehrid said, backing away, sword levelled at the brother. “Please get behind me.”
Meriva hesitated for a second, then rushed from the pile, scattering trinkets as she placed herself at Jehrid’s back.
“Something that will remain hidden,” Jehrid said. “At what cost, eh brother?”
Sollis gave no response, moving to maintain the distance between them as Jehrid fought down the unwelcome memory of his skirmish with the Lonak all those years ago. Sword against a knife, he told himself, trying to stir a confidence he knew to be misplaced. And him half-crippled. But the memory was compelling, and still he backed away.
“What do those words mean?” he demanded, playing for time. “What is this place?”
“It’s my home,” a new voice cut in, rich and vibrant as it echoed about the chamber. “And you were not invited.”
Cohran Bera stood perhaps twenty paces away, cudgel in one hand and long-bladed knife in the other. On either side of him stood two Breakers, perhaps the only survivors of his once fearsome band, both armed with crossbows. Jehrid whirled to face Cohran, nudging Meriva behind him, still painfully aware of Sollis’s proximity but knowing this to be the greater threat for the moment.
“Fifteen of your cousins died today,” Cohran told him. “You bring the Sixth Order to my door and destroy what took a lifetime to build. Have you no words of contrition, my son?”
“Fifteen wasn’t enough,” Jehrid replied, feeling a familiar, unwise sensation building in his breast. The dim figures at the end of the pier, the sound of a body falling into the harbour… “And don’t call me that.”
“Deny your blood all you want, my lord.” Cohran’s face contorted as he spoke the title, like an ardent Faithful voicing heresy. “But I look at you and see no difference from that vicious little shit I pulled from a hundred dockside fights. The King chose well in you, a man who delights in slaughter and calls it justice.”
“As opposed to a man who slaughters innocents to build a pile of riches he’ll never spend.”
“Riches.” Cohran’s voice softened a fraction as his gaze went to the mound of plundered treasure. “No. Power, boy. Power enough to buy a king’s boon. He promised me, you see. Back when the wars raged as he built the realm. ‘Soldiers need pay,’ he said. ‘Bring me gold, and there will be no more bounty-men. Bring me enough and one day, perhaps, I’ll make a lord of you.’ And, when he’d built his realm, paying his guardsmen with the riches plundered from this shore, what did he do? Have the Tower Lord spout empty promises at me for twenty years until he could send you.”
Liar! Jehrid found the accusation dying on his lips as long-held suspicions tumbled into place. Al Serahl’s lengthy and corrupt tenure in the Tower, tolerated far longer than anyone could have expected. The smugglers and wreckers able to buy immunity from the South Guard for years whilst in the north even the most petty corruption earned a swift execution. The King took a loan from the shore, Jehrid realised. And now considers it paid, in me.
“Doesn’t have to happen, boy,” Cohran went on, nodding at Sollis. “With this one gone, there are no other witnesses to gainsay whatever tale you choose to tell.” He turned, gesturing behind him where the torchlight played on a series of irregular steps cut into the stone, ascending to a ledge far above.
“It’s a steep and winding path,” Cohran said. “But but it’ll take you out of here. Keep the woman, if you like. I suspect she’ll have little to say about all this. You have secrets of your own do you not, my dear?”
Meriva moved to Jehrid’s side, face set in a mask of determined fury. “Yes,” she said. “I have secrets. But but this one I’ll share.”
Her arm shot out, straight and true, hand once again like a spea
r point. Jehrid closed his eyes as the light blazed forth, birthing an instant scream. When he looked again he saw the man on Cohran’s right on his knees, crossbow forgotten as he clutched at his eyes, shrill panic and pain issuing from his mouth in a continual torrent. The Breaker on the left gaped at his fallen cousin for the briefest second, then at Meriva, his crossbow swinging towards her in a fear-born reflex.
Brother Sollis moved in a blur, doubling over as the knife flew from his hand, swift as an arrow as it described a perfect arc ending in the Breaker’s skull, the blade sinking in up to the hilt. The Breaker remained upright for a heartbeat or two, mouth twisting around gibbered words and an odd, puzzled frown on his brow. Before collapsing, he managed to work the lock on his crossbow, the bolt missing Sollis by a clear foot before rebounding from the stone column and skittering off into the darkness.
Jehrid saw it all in the scant seconds it took him to close with Cohran. The Breaker chief was shaking his head in confusion, eyes moist and bleary, but some brawler’s instinct provided sufficient warning for him to duck the slash Jehrid aimed at his head. He growled and whirled towards Jehrid, club and knife whistling, a large man of middling years moving with all the grace and speed of a youthful dancer. Jehrid parried the knife, ducked the club and knew in an instant Cohran was doomed. He was a killer and a fighter, perhaps the most deadly ever seen on this shore, but he wasn’t a soldier. He had never faced a charging Lonak war band or hacked his way across a Meldenean deck. He fought for status or money, but never truly for survival. He had never seen battle, until now.
Jehrid anticipated his next attack with an ease that almost brought a laugh to his lips, the knife slashing at his sword arm whilst the club arced up for a strike at his chin. An attempt to stun and disarm, not to kill. Jehrid leapt and kicked before either blow could land, delivering the tip of his boot to the centre of Cohran’s face, nose and teeth breaking under the impact. Cohran back-pedalled, trying to gain space for a parry. Jehrid slashed the knife from his grip with a quick swipe of his looted sword and drove a second kick into Cohran’s guts, doubling him over. He tried a final, ineffectual blow with the club, Jehrid catching his wrist and twisting until he heard a crack, the club falling from useless fingers.
