by N. D. Wilson
The crowd murmured approval.
“So I thought as well,” Rupert said. “But since I left Ashtown behind me, I have discovered otherwise. Radu Bey and Gilgamesh saw that they would benefit from his appointment. But Bellamy was not their puppet. It was Phoenix who ordered the treaties voided and the old bonds severed. Phoenix wants to freeze the O of B in fear while he builds. He wants Radu and the others to tear us down, and then he will tame the beasts with new collars. He will bind the wild ones to himself. And he can do it. Two months ago, I saw transmortals challenge Phoenix and fall before him, paralyzed by darts with poison spelled from the Dragon’s Tooth, from the Reaper’s Blade. They fear him already, and if he is given the time to prepare, he may even break them. If not, he falls, but only after we are already buried in the rubble of this place.”
“We need the old weapons!” Father Patrick shouted. “Rouse the Brothers Below and see what Phoenix’s darts, or even the tooth itself, can do to their stone flesh.” He stepped to the altar and swept up one of the black-bladed swords. “These will sing with the Reaper’s kiss as well, Avengel! Why is Radu Bey’s head still on his shoulders?”
The monks cheered. Fists rose.
Rupert let his chin hit his chest. He stood still, silent, waiting for the storm to pass.
“The treaties bound this Order, too,” Father Patrick said. “She once had tools of pain and madness to make even the Draculs weep. And she put them away! Forbade her own strengths! But the old curses on the dark tools are lifted now, Avengel. Mortals can once again wield them without fear. It is a day long awaited by the brothers of Monasterboice, by the Cryptkeepers, abandoned for centuries to labor long without the great arms sealed in Ashtown.”
Rupert’s head still hung.
Father Patrick paced behind Rupert with his glowing snake on his arm. The room quieted slowly. Finally, Rupert spoke, but to the floor, without looking up.
“Seventy-two,” he said. “In 1859, the Brothers Below were roused by a fool of a Hungarian monk studying in this very cloister. Seventy-two people were killed in less than half an hour. The monk was the first struck down.”
“I’ve read the account,” Father Patrick said. “The number was inflated, to discourage the use of the Brothers.”
The Abbot sputtered and suddenly found his voice. “I assure you, Patrick, our records are meticulous and serve only the truth.”
“One hundred and forty-four,” Rupert said. He finally looked up. “The Brothers’ previous spree. In 1617, they obliterated a nearby Indian encampment. But what would a wise man expect from Brother Justice and Brother Wrath? We are all impure. We all need mercy, and the Brothers are heartless, soulless stone.”
“They have been used wisely,” Patrick said. “It can be done.”
“Possibly,” Rupert said. “But like all of Ashtown’s dangerous residents, there is good reason why they were Buried in our deepest cells. Any man who seeks to free them seeks guilt—for his own death and the deaths of many others.” He turned, gave Father Patrick a slow assessing look, glanced at the sweating Abbot, and then once again faced the crowd. This time he spread his feet and gripped his arms behind his back.
“Here is my proposal,” Rupert said. “I will arm you. The old Sages wove many curses around many tools to prevent us from using them. Those curses may now be gone, but true evil cannot be lifted from a tool in the same way. I will choose which weapons will remain untouched. There will be no complaints about my choices. And even those weapons that I consider righteous are not to be used against a transmortal who begs mercy and willingly surrenders.”
Grumbles rose from the crowd. Father Patrick laughed. The Abbot wiped his forehead.
“Without a trial,” Rupert continued. “Unlike the Brothers Below, we have some wisdom to discern when mercy is the stronger weapon than wrath. We will remain an Order of laws, or we have already been destroyed.” Rupert looked around.
“That’s it, then?” Father Patrick asked. “You’ll play at picksies in the deep vaults and then hand the weapons over? I know a promise with strings on when I hear it. Drop the other shoe.”
“There are two stipulations and one difficulty,” Rupert said. “I will hand the weapons over only if all seven Cryptkeepers renew their alliance to the O of B. The Brothers of the Voyager must resubmit their governance to the Brendan. Centuries ago, your founders left because of treaties that are no more. Your current ranks would be honored on reentry, and thus, six of your seven would immediately hold our rank of Sage. One would be Keeper. The last I tallied, five votes are all that is needed to remove Bellamy Cook as Brendan. Do that, and Ashtown, these assembled brothers, and the Cryptkeepers will be armed, a corrupt Brendan ousted, the O of B preserved, and the rule of law observed.”
Father Patrick scowled. “And I suppose we are to name you in Bellamy’s place, then?”
Rupert shook his head. “I am Avengel. Alan Livingstone would make a better Brendan than I. Or perhaps Robert Boone.” Rupert smiled. “He would govern to your liking.”
The old Irish monk was fidgeting with the snake on his arm. “It is a lot to ask of us. But you’ve named the stipulations. What is the difficulty?”
“The weapons you seek are not all here,” Rupert said. “Some were destroyed when the treaties were formed. Others were sealed behind the Brothers Below or used in the Burials, and must not be disturbed. As for the rest, over the centuries, many power-thirsty thieves have wormed through the vaults of Ashtown. Weapons have been taken, destroyed, or lost when curses fell on those who tried to use them.”
Father Patrick laughed. “This seems a great deal more than a mere difficulty. You’ll arm us, but there are no arms?”
“There is a map,” Rupert said. “Left to me by an outlaw spy who lived and labored under Phoenix’s nose. Many of the old weapons were collected and hidden. I will tend to their gathering.”
“You and the young Smiths, you mean,” Father Patrick said. “The map was William Skelton’s making? The man called Billy Bones?”
Rupert didn’t answer. Cyrus pressed his face all the way against the cool stone rail, watching the crowd of monks shift uncomfortably. Finally, Father Patrick nodded. Five of the monks, including Niffy, stepped out of the crowd and moved toward Father Patrick. Six of the Cryptkeepers.
Cyrus couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t work, could it? Just like that, the Irishmen would rejoin the O of B as Sages and Bellamy could be removed? Rupert was smiling, but not because he had been joking. He was happy. Cyrus’s mind began to race. Hope surged up inside him, and it felt strange, like being suddenly well fed after weeks of hunger. He hadn’t realized just how hopeless he had become. But with Bellamy gone, everything would change. The Order would stop hunting his family. They could stop running and move back to Ashtown. They could train again. Rupert could unite the O of B to stand against Phoenix and the transmortals both.
“We have stipulations of our own,” Father Patrick said. “About your transmortal ‘allies,’ so-called, and they cannot be negotiated.”
A large cold hand suddenly slid over Cyrus’s mouth. Another clamped tight around his throat, closing off his windpipe. Cyrus jerked and writhed onto his back. The arms were as solid as timber, long and bare to the shoulders. The skin was tinged green and traced with bone tattoos. One of Phoenix’s men—one of the Reborn. Cyrus punched. He kicked and slapped and clawed cold skin, gasping in silence, watching small gills flutter on the sides of his attacker’s throat. The world was suddenly slow, and Cyrus noticed everything. The man’s wide eyes were lunar gray and scribbled with zigzagging black veins instead of pupils. And he wasn’t even looking at Cyrus. He was looking down at the chapel floor, his steel grip barely even an exertion for him. More shapes flowed up the narrow stairs behind the tattooed man and slid around the ringed balcony like shadows.
Cyrus could hear Father Patrick speaking, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting breath into his lungs and blood to his brain. The world was growing blurry. The fi
ngers on Cyrus’s left hand couldn’t quite close on the man’s throat, but they could almost reach the fluttering gills. Almost. Cyrus writhed, trying to get his right hand to the knife handle that was digging into his back. He … couldn’t … quite. He couldn’t even bite the hand over his mouth. He couldn’t uncrush his throat.
Pain. Panic. But pain was a message he could choose to ignore. Panic was the wrong reaction. He had been trained to suppress both.
Cyrus’s feet scrambled, scraping on stone, bracing him against the wall. And then he grabbed the cold arms and jerked his throat and face up even harder against the hands. The world went purple with pain. His eyes felt like they were going to explode. He only needed … an inch.
Cyrus pulled himself harder into the pain. The purple went black and his body was suddenly warm. He threw his left arm up and clawed blindly for the man’s neck. His fingers found the gills. He hooked them down inside, and he tore.
The man barely grunted. He grabbed Cyrus’s left wrist, and his fingers closed around Patricia. Cyrus saw a silver flash and felt the snake strike from his arm. He gulped one breath down his crushed throat, and his right hand found his knife. Still blind, Cyrus stabbed and felt the blade bite deep.
The man’s sharp bark of pain and anger rattled through the room. Fists hit Cyrus’s face, but the blows were weak. Cyrus stabbed again, and the man slumped onto the stone floor beside him.
“Rupe!” Cyrus tried to shout, but his voice was a sandpaper whisper. He rolled onto his knees, coughing, and grabbed at the stone rail. As his vision cleared, he saw the monks below looking up and around at the dark balcony with wide eyes. Father Patrick was uncoiling his golden snake. Rupert held his knife in one hand and one of the black-bladed swords in the other. He looked up, and when he saw Cyrus, relief filled his eyes.
A single black sphere bounced down into the chapel, trailing smoke. The monks all turned. Rupert yelled, leaping away toward the altar.
Boom.
The blast stayed low. White fire, waist high, swept across the bright tiles, toppling monks, torching robes, and then breaking around pillars and washing up the outer walls. The balcony quivered. Smoke rose up, and rubble rained down. Moving like cats, the black shapes of Phoenix’s Reborn leapt the rails and dropped among the writhing fiery monks.
Cyrus pulled his knife free and managed to stand. His windpipe felt as small as a straw. Patricia was bigger than normal and trying to coil back around his arm. He grabbed her tail.
“Stay big,” he rasped, and he stepped onto the rail and jumped, swinging Patricia as he fell, aiming for a black shape in the smoke below.
Cyrus punched his feet into the back of a gilled man just before he finished off a burning monk. Then he slammed down onto the hot tiles. The last of his breath was knocked out of him, and his head snapped back against the floor.
He held on to Patricia’s tail, and he could feel her striking, writhing across him. But the smoke was burning his eyes. So he shut them.
Bells were ringing. Big bells. Alarm bells. Cyrus opened his eyes and found that he was staring up through thin smoke at a red painted dragon on a ceiling. Patricia was long and visible, coiled up Cyrus’s right arm and glowing silver in the smoke. Her green eyes were sharp and furious. Her tongue was lashing at the air, blood stained the underside of her jaw, and her body was taut. She was ready for more. Cyrus coughed, sat up, and coughed some more. Something was very wrong with his throat. And his head. And his eyes and nose were streaming.
A gilled man, one of the Reborn, lay dead beside him, slumped over the smoking body of a monk. Cyrus shifted onto his knees. More dead monks. Lots of dead monks. All of them smoking. He saw Father Patrick in a pool of blood. His snake was gone. He saw the Abbot, sprawled on his back without his legs. Cyrus gagged, but his throat was too tight to throw up.
There were gilled men, too, but not many. Four? Five? And one more on the balcony. No Rupert. No Niffy.
Bells. Ringing. They would be in the spires above the Galleria. They were telling Ashtown that something was wrong, telling everyone to hurry, to hide, to be ready, telling men with guns to race to find the site of an attack … here.
Cyrus spun in a quick circle. He had to leave. Now. Where was Rupert?
“If this goes badly,” Rupert had said, “you know the way out.”
Cyrus hurried to the big main door. It was ajar but only by inches. Cyrus pulled it open and peered out into the long hall with the alcoves. It was empty, but there was blood all over the floor. He could see the narrow entrance to the balcony stairs.
Ignoring his head and gasping for air like a drowning man, Cyrus forced himself to jog.
“Don’t linger,” he could hear Rupert saying. “Get to the plane.”
Cyrus tried to straighten his course. He was drifting toward the walls as he ran. He almost slipped on blood when he reached the first stairs. There was a monk’s body at the top. And another beyond his.
The hall bent, and Cyrus practically tripped over three of the gilled Reborn. They were all dead and their wounds were deep, clean hacks. Cyrus looked away and focused on his route. From here, he had to get below the barns. He knew the way. He could count his steps back.
Fear rattled inside him. He wasn’t going to be able to count back anything. Not now.
“I can,” Cyrus said aloud, but his voice was only a groan. He would get it right. He would. He had to.
Cyrus crashed through a door and into the paths beneath the barn floor. His head was clearing, and his breath was coming a little more easily. Above him, milk was dripping down through a wooden grate. Cyrus could see a monk’s limp hand and the bucket he had dropped. Turning back the way Rupert had brought him, Cyrus staggered into darkness, trying to piece together the string of directions. Dodging pillars through the broad dark room that smelled of hay, he began to chant the directions aloud. Patricia was still glowing on his arm, but she was shrinking quickly now. Soon she would eat her tail and disappear.
Cyrus reached a door and banged it open, knowing what lay on the other side.
“Twenty-nine stairs down, tread four missing, bridge, fourteen, forty-nine, slight left, ten stairs down, right turn, thirty-three, full left.”
Cyrus trundled down the stairs, hopping the missing tread. At the bottom, he jogged toward the dim shape of the bridge.
Patricia disappeared and darkness swallowed them both. Cyrus didn’t care. He had run in; he could run out. He counted down his steps and left the bridge behind him, entering a tunnel. Dragging his fingertips on the wall, he counted down his steps again and then veered blindly left into an unseen tunnel mouth. Turning sideways, he counted ten blind steps down and then turned right. He pushed himself faster but tried to match the strides he’d used coming in, counting down from thirty-three. He was getting there. He would reach the river tunnel. What had Rupert said? Fifty seconds out through the tunnel into the lake? From there, a quarter-mile swim to the harbor. If Lilly didn’t drop by, Cyrus would steal a boat and head for the plane.
Cyrus slowed, put his arms out, and felt for his full left turn.
Tiny bells jingled in the darkness behind him, and Cyrus froze, holding his breath. Metal legs squealed.
“Cyrus Smith, lad o’ legend,” a familiar voice said. “Go no further. Their nets are ready and waiting for a fresh catch of you.”
A match struck in the darkness and Cyrus turned, staring at the grinning firelit face of a big black-bearded man. A small golden bell hung from each ear. Big Ben Sterling eased himself forward on his two thin metal legs, both of them bending and bouncing beneath his bulk.
“Look at you,” Sterling said, still smiling. “Lad no more. You’ve grown to a right towering man.”
“Stay back,” Cyrus rasped. “I will kill you.”
Sterling puffed out his match. In the darkness, Cyrus slid away.
“Is that any way to talk to old Ben?”
Cyrus didn’t answer.
“I understand you might have a grudge or two gnawing on
your insides, and I don’t blame you, boy. But I’m just a simple cook who found himself in a difficulty. Don’t forget, old Ben may have done some wrong, but he did save your life.”
Cyrus snorted. He unwound Patricia from his wrist and popped his thumb in her mouth. He held up his glowing silver fist. Sterling’s eyes widened in admiration.
“You saved my life?” Cyrus spat the words and then coughed, trying to widen his throat. “I was tied to a chair in your cellar. You poisoned this whole place for Phoenix. People died! You killed them!”
Ben’s face grew sorrowful. “I regret that. I do. But I also set out the antidote to that poison and gave you a wink, now didn’t I? I don’t regret that, and I don’t regret leaving your little Quick Water behind to help your sister find you.” He shook his head. “I hoped no one would die, Cyrus Smith. I did indeed. But if I hadn’t ruined that lovely sauce with poison, Phoenix would have killed people I loved. I tried to have it safe every which way and I failed. I did. I’m sorrowful about it, and here I stand to show it.”
Sterling stepped forward, and this time Cyrus didn’t back away. The silver light glinted on the man’s eyes, his teeth, and the little bells in his ears. His black beard shifted light like oil.
“Cyrus Smith,” Sterling said, “I’m showing my sorrow by clattering through these dank spider tunnels to find you. Those bloody green Reborn found your plane after you air-delivered Flint. They’ve had watchers lurking around Ashtown for weeks, but a whole platoon since Rupe managed to thieve your mother from under Bellamy’s nose. The green beasties might answer to Bellamy, but it’s just as likely to be the other way round. They’re all filth regardless.” Sterling’s lip curled, and he sniffed disgust. His ear bells jingled. “I’d hoped Greeves would be with you, but as he’s not, he’s either dead already or playing fox to those green gilled man-hounds. If you want out of Ashtown, you’ll follow the old cook with no legs.”
Cyrus licked his lips. The cook’s smile widened.
