by Jon Kiln
Jace had taken them through an old laundry service tunnel leading to a nearby stream. The laundry tunnel had been made obsolete when a nearby school had offered to do all the washing for the monastery as a token of their respect. The tunnel had been sealed surprisingly tight, made evidence by the lack of spider webs and other signs of pests, but they were still grimy with dust by the time they’d reached the basement room where the laundry had once been done. Now it was used as a storage room for the accouterments associated with seasonal rituals and festivals. There could hardly be a less likely room for someone to stumble into at this time of night, but Draken still felt uneasy. He’d been a fighter, and had nerves of steel in the arena, but he’d never be a thief or a sneak. He found he didn’t much care for it.
“Should we both go, or should one of us stay here to guard the exit?” Draken asked, whispering so quietly it was a wonder Jace could make out his words at all.
“I can’t believe it,” Jace chuckled. “You’re actually afraid.”
Draken didn’t say anything, but he felt his cheeks flush. It was insane, he knew, to be afraid in such a place. He’d faced death many times before, but for whatever reason his pulse was high, his feet unsteady.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Jace asked. “They’re monks. And believe me, these fellows take their vows very seriously. They wouldn’t hurt us for the world.”
But Draken wouldn’t allow his unease to be dismissed so flippantly. “What about retribution from the church?” he asked, thinking of the sometimes extreme punishments affixed for crimes which could be considered sacrilegious.
“Yes,” Jace agreed, and even though it was too dark to make him out, Draken could imagine the thoughtful way in which the monk must be nodding his head. “Well, we better not get caught. And no, I don’t think one of us should remain behind.”
Draken thought about it. “But that doesn’t make sense.”
“If I leave you behind, you’ll have no way of knowing if I get caught, and we’ll be separated. I get the distinct feeling we are meant to travel together at this time. I believe it is the will of the gods, and I would hope you feel the same after all that’s happened. So, it becomes a matter of faith. In such cases, what seems practical or correct isn’t always so because we are dealing with forces beyond the pragmatic.”
Draken wanted to argue, but he also wanted to believe, and in the end they went together.
Jace led the way through more halls than Draken would have thought possible could be in the building after looking at it from the outside. Around each new corner Draken’s heart seemed to begin thumping anew. His fear seemed more reasonable the deeper they tread. After all, why shouldn’t he be afraid? His question about the punishments the church might levy on them had gone unanswered because Jace knew how serious they might be. Not only that, but if he were locked up somewhere, he’d be nothing but a fenced-in lamb for Pul and the bear-masks to come pick up at their convenience. They’d have no qualms with killing a few jail guards to get to Draken if they wanted him. And none of this touched the gambling debts that would be brought to reckoning if he were in custody.
The building was cold, and Draken thought of the complex furnace and stone vent system at the monastery in Merreline. What a waste Pul’s attack had made of the building—a proud, ancient place that could have stood for another two hundred years.
Maybe Jace was right, Draken thought bitterly, his brother’s face in mind, maybe weapons are the perfect answer to this problem.
Finally they made it to the kitchens and Draken saw the crossbow hanging on the far wall, illuminated by a small night-candle Draken guessed was always lit after-hours. The crossbow looked huge, and Draken wondered how Jace ever hoped to fire it, or even lift it steadily in front of him.
“Quiet,” Jace hissed suddenly. “Don’t make a sound.”
Draken hadn’t heard anything, but he didn’t have ears for this kind of thing the way it seemed Jace did. In the arena there were no furtive noises. Only clangs and grunts and the roar of the crowd.
Soon enough two monks entered. By their walks Draken guessed they were both quite old. Neither could be seen clearly in the dim glow of the single candle. They were talking, and even though they were whispering, Draken made out each rasped word clearly.
The larger of the two was saying, “Bad business, all this.”
“Aye,” the other said, in an accent Draken associated with the coastal cities of western Drammata. “The Canon tells us of such times.”
“Nonsense!” said the first. “The heathens from Eda are trouble, I know that, but this doesn’t have anything to do with the Ascent of Demons.”
“If ye say.”
Then they were in the serving area, presumably to scrounge up a midnight snack. A swinging door separated that room from the main eating area, and their conversation became too muffled for Draken to make out anything else.
“Now!” Jace told Draken, and Draken’s mind couldn’t process it. Thankfully, his feet did, and he and Jace were halfway across the room before Draken realized what they were doing.
Why now? Draken thought. Why would this idiot think now was the time? Those monks will be back out any second.
But it wasn’t the time for such arguments. The choice made, the only thing left to do was follow through. Jace lifted the crossbow with ease, and Draken realized it was made of a fine, light wood, one with some real spring. Even though it was large, providing a great deal of thrust to the fired bolt, it was light enough for a child to wield. If it fired well, and Draken guessed it did, it was the finest examples of such a weapon Draken had ever seen.
It worth a fortune.
And they were stealing it.
From a monastery.
Jace didn’t seem disturbed by this. In fact, having the weapon in his hands seemed to have energized him. In the flickering light Draken caught a glimpse of Jace’s face as he turned to run back the way they’d come. It was a wonder Jace wasn’t whopping and hollering, he looked more gleeful than a boy given his first practice weapon.
And that’s exactly what he is, Draken had time to think before adrenaline took over, pushing all thoughts aside, as he followed Jace’s path to back to the labyrinth of hallways that had brought them here.
Jace had gone crazy. That was the only explanation Draken could think of. He had dropped all but the most superficial guise of stealth. Now they were running back through the halls, a sped-up version of the path they’d taken coming in.
Draken kept up, knowing he could overtake Jace easily if only he knew which way to go. He wanted to yell at the man to stop, to think about what he was doing, but there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t add to the already unacceptable amount of noise they were making.
Their discovery took longer than Draken would have guessed, but before they reached the stairway leading to the basement, a monk came out of his room, a curious if not downright alarmed look on his face. The man was old, but not as ancient as the men from the kitchen had been.
Draken didn’t know how this monk could make out anybody’s face in the low light of the hall, but he said, “Jace?! What are you—”
He didn’t have time to finish. Jace shoved the head of the crossbow into the monk’s chest, knocking him clear off his feet to make way for their passage. The man let out a muffled yelp, unable to get a full breath of air after having the wind knocked out of him.
“Sorry,” Draken said without thinking, not slowing his pace anymore than he absolutely had to to avoid trampling the monk.
Jace actually said, “He’s fine,” and Draken had time to process the absurdity of this just as a number of other doors began to open. But then they were in the basement. “They’re slow,” Jace said, his voice far too calm for the circumstances. “Just keep running and we’ll be okay.”
The last two empty hallways in the basement passed without Draken even registering their existence. He was so focused on getting out that he felt as if time were jumping ahead in le
aps. They were already to the access tunnel.
Jace ran with an easy gait, turning his head slightly to speak to Draken. “They have no way to seal this tunnel off remotely. Since only monks knew about it, they felt it would be a waste of resources to fill it in with dirt.” He still sounded as calm as an early summer morning. Draken noticed the man hardly sounded winded, despite his breakneck pace.
And then they were outside in the cold night air of late fall.
“Just keep running,” Jace said, his tone betraying the amusement he felt. Draken let the seething anger this roused in him fuel his pumping legs, and they disappeared into the dark knowing the monks behind them had no chance of catching them.
Chapter 28
“Everything worked out fine,” Jace said as they prepared themselves for a night of undoubtedly fitful half-sleep in the woods. “I’m not sure why you’re so angry.”
“You put us in danger for no reason!”
“That’s not true,” Jace said, sounding petulant. “We would have been in much more danger had I not followed the prompting of Dramm-Teskata.” He sighed. “Haven’t you ever felt that prompting? Hasn’t Rada ever told you what to do in a moment of need? Perhaps in your struggles in the arena?”
Draken didn’t want to respond to this, because he wanted to stay angry. But he couldn’t deny what Jace was suggesting. He had felt that tugging. Maybe not as specific as what Jace was suggesting, but he’d felt something in the extremities of battle. He’d believed that was Rada in his youth, he’d believed, to his enduring shame, that it had been E’ghat later on, and now he claimed to believe it had always been Rada, even when he himself had strayed. So why couldn’t he accept that Jace had also received communication from a god?
“It just seemed so…” Draken said, searching for the word that would give a face to the frustration he felt. “So unnecessary. The way it all happened. We could have planned it better. We could have gotten the crossbow without anyone seeing you, for instance. Now they know you’re near and that there’s someone with you. They’ll be looking.”
Jace nodded the way he did when he knew he was right. “Yes,” he said. “They will. But we don’t know that’s a bad thing. Dramm-Teskata has a way of twisting events in favor of the faithful. And,” Jace laughed, “and unnecessary? Nothing that builds faith is unnecessary.”
“What about that disaster built faith?”
Jace shrugged, but Draken didn’t think for a moment that Jace didn’t have an answer to the question.
***
In the morning Draken felt even worse about what they’d done. And it wasn’t just the guilt, but the mounting worry that they’d be executed or jailed for the crime. He wanted to bring this up with Jace, hoping the other monk would know just what to say to ease his mind, but his thoughts were momentarily stilted when he saw Jace plunge a hand deep in the pockets of his makeshift pants. When it emerged there were four hardrolls in it.
Draken’s stomach made a noise he hoped was only audible to himself. “Where did you get these?”
Jace smiled. “I don’t want to ruin the mystique. Let’s say they were a gift from the gods, because that’s exactly what they are.” From his other pocket he produced a fair quantity of jerky. “The stream is over here.” He began walking, and Draken followed, defeated.
After eating, Draken again intended to say something, but just as he was forming his thoughts a huge report exploded somewhere in the direction of the monastery. They’d run a good distance away from it the night before, so Draken was shocked not only by the fact that there was an explosion, but by how loud it was even at this distance. He jumped to his feet, saying, “What was—” but the words were stolen from his mouth by the sight of black smoke pluming into the late-morning sky.
“The fire devices?” Jace was asking, but Draken’s feet carried him toward the explosion, away from his questioning friend. If he had stayed to answer that question, he’d have told Jace he didn’t think fire-bombs had made the explosion. They caused a lot of damage, but they didn’t boom like that.
Draken didn’t know of anything that did.
Having not slept well the night before, he felt his legs were made of clumsy wooden blocks instead of lithe human flesh. Jace must be behind him, but he didn’t have a chance to keep up with Draken, who was still more fit than most monks even after being out of the arena for so long.
Time passed the way it did sometimes in dreams, too fluid and changeable to be called fast or slow, but not in a way that could be called normal. He didn’t know how long they’d run the night before until they felt they were safe from detection, and now he didn’t know how long it took him to get back to the monastery. Both times he’d been too distracted.
As he got closer and the building came into view, he saw that at least some of the damage had been caused by fire-bombs. Walls were downed and burning the way they had in Merreline, but much faster. This wooden structure couldn’t hope to match the resilience the stone castle had shown. But that couldn’t have been the only difference between this damage and the one in Merreline. Draken couldn’t see the top of the building well, but from what he could tell it had fallen in. There was no longer anything that could be considered a roof.
To think, he’d been inside that building less than twenty hours before. He’d seen with his own eyes a number of the monks there, even overheard a conversation. Certainly, everyone he’d seen was dead or soon would be. He saw no sign of life from within.
Bear-masks. A dozen of them, maybe more. Pul had to be among them, but Draken couldn’t make him out of the identical masks. They stood as if they were sentinels of the flame, silent and still. He ignored them, rushing toward the monastery to see if there was anyone he could save.
One of them, one of the three on horseback, rode out to intercept him, and Draken knew who it had to be. The bear-mask had a long-sword in his hand, the same one Mirah had wielded as she died, Draken guessed. The length of the blade coupled with the speed of the horse brought Pul quickly in position to take Draken’s shoulders from his head at the slightest provocation.
Except Draken didn’t think Pul would do that. Not to him.
“Brother Draken,” Pul said, coming close enough to be heard, but not close enough that Draken could effectively lunge at him with his sword.
“You murderer,” Draken lashed out, wishing for a word that could more fully wound his brother, even while knowing from his own experience that there was no worse thing to be called.
“This was supposed to be your job,” Pul told him, tipping his head toward the inferno. Even from this distance the heat was intense. Soldier-police had to be coming soon. It was strange that they weren’t on the scene already.
“What?”
“Well, not this, specifically. But this kind of work. Tearing down the influence of the four-five gods to make way for our own.”
“E’ghat is not my god,” Draken said. “I no longer believe he even exists.”
“And yet, he retains you. You remain useful to him. He still gives you strength.”
“My strength comes from Rada!” Draken howled. He knew there was no reason to argue with his brother, whose conversion had been absolute from the very beginning. But he felt himself drawn to the verbal field of battle with renewed anger. “Let me go,” he said. “Let me save who I can,” he pointed unnecessarily to the fire. “I promise I will talk with you if you do.”
Pul studied him. Seconds which felt like tides passed. Finally he said, “Swear to me on the head of Rada.”
“I do,” Draken told him.
Pul nodded, and Draken’s legs sprung into action. Draken was vaguely aware that Jace had finally made it out of the woods and was approaching his position, but he had to turn all of his attention to the task at hand. If he didn’t, if he thought at all about the fact that Jace might now be in Pul’s hands, he might get distracted and make a deadly mistake.
As he got closer to the blaze, he wondered if that wouldn’t be best after all. If
he died now, serving his fellow man, wouldn’t that work out for everyone? He could go to Dramm-Teskata’s, or maybe Rada’s, side, and be done with all of this.
But no.
He’d learned a long time ago that serving the gods meant giving them your life as long as they asked, not your death whenever it pleased you.
He felt the skin on his face grow wet with sweat and brittle from the heat at the same time. This fire was hotter than the other had been, further evidence that there had been another weapon used in the attack.
Draken could see nothing to grab, no opening in the fire he could squeeze through. A tremendous creaking came and went. He circled around to the back, resisting the urge to run from the building, run from Pul, leaving his promise broken and Jace dead. The back of the building was even worse. Draken could hardly see what difference there was between the monastery and a bonfire of slash piles.
The creaking came again, louder. Draken’s instincts screamed for him to turn back. Danger! Danger! But still he searched. In his heart, he knew he still wanted the fire to kill him, but he didn’t want to be a suicide, so he fought the reflex to get away and tried to find any excuse to get closer, any reason that might be justified.
But there was nothing. He couldn’t even make out the figures of the corpses. This blaze was simply too furious to ford. The creaking returned, long and ominous, and this time Draken ran away from it, taking a circuitous route to the road leading to its entrance, where Jace and Pul awaited him.
Before he made it to them, the building gave up the ghost in a great shuttering collapse. Sparks like fireworks drove into the bright blue sky, momentarily luminescent enough to stand out in contrast before the light of day again superseded them.
There was now no reason to go quickly, so he walked, he hoped with dignity, back to the place where Pul had broken off from his gang. As he’d guessed, Jace was nearby, looking tense. Pul had no doubt told the monk he’d kill him if he tried to move anywhere. Draken wondered why Jace’s unbreakable trust in the gods didn’t give him the strength to walk away without another word, accepting the blade through his neck the way he’d accepted the death of every monk in the Merreline monastery.
