Chapter 72

Nun of That

Racing through the cathedral city of Barrowmere with a stolen priestess of the Bright One over my shoulder is not how I pictured spending today. I suppose life, or in my case, death, takes you to unexpected places. My mother was always on at me to get out more. Well, mother dearest, here I am! Galloping through a city, admiring the sights, chased by a positive horde of admirers.

An arrow pings off the stone wall above my head.

I duck, clutching at my shrieking burden, and veer around a stall. A crate of squawking chickens topples as my feet pound a staccato up some stairs. The city wall is not far. I should be able to make it. The fact that my latest acquisition is still alive and kicking makes the process particularly challenging, but I hang on to her. The temptation to knock the Archon cold is growing, but if I accidentally kill her, or cause permanent damage, then the whole endeavour would be rendered pointless.

My captive’s feet drum into my shoulder. She is not strong enough for it to be an issue but it is awkward. I nearly drop her leaping across an alleyway. Behind me I can hear the paladins shouting, and a cascade of arrows ping off the stones. I’m surprised they are shooting at us. The likelihood of hitting the Archon seems rather high, but then, as I have observed before, the Bright One does not seem to value intelligence in his servants.

Scrabbling up a wall, then around a corner I pause, catching my bearings, before dropping down onto a street below. The good citizens of Barrowmere scatter, as I land hard, bending my knees to absorb the impact.

I keep running, not daring to stop. It is not as if I have kidnapped a lowly member of the order. Oh no. My knowledge of the Bright One’s church is limited but an Archon is surely higher ranking than a paladin? Regardless, she is a cleric, and by no means defenceless.

I am reminded of the fact when my cloak catches on fire. Searing hot embers burn into my shoulders and golden light bathes the surrounding shops and houses. Curses. I do not want to stop and fight the blasted woman in the middle of the city, but it seems I have no choice. I do not even attempt to put out the flames, I know what is coming. Throwing the burning hot woman away from me, I bend and tear a strip from the remains of my smoking skirt in one smooth motion.

“Procella ignifera!” the Archon yells, scrabbling to her feet.

An enormous monster of flame appears from her outstretched palms, roaring towards me. Its eyes shine blindingly bright. The fires flare, winged and furious, incinerating everything in its path.

“Glacies tempestas,” I whisper.

My hair streams past me as the tempest blows. A snarling ice storm is conjured from the very power of my bones. Snow and bone cracking cold swirls in eddies toward the flaming dragon. The spells meet with hissing violence.

Sparks and ice explode outwards, peppering the walls with debris. The magics clash and die, leaving the area around us scorched and water logged. I do not give the Archon a chance to utter another word, bounding across the distance to stuff the strip of cloth into her mouth.

“Proc-aggggggh!” she cries, but too late. Calmly, with one knee pinning her to the ground, I tear another strip, humming a low hymn. She recognises the tune, her eyes practically sparking with impotent anger. Golden, translucent wings flair briefly at her back, as I bind her hands and scoop her up once more.

Without the ability to talk she is ham-strung and back to using her weak human body. It is the work of moments to haul her bodily over the boundary wall. And just in time, I hear the clatter of tin-plated idiots.

I have done it. We are outside the city.

My feet land firmly in the muck below. Cackling, I flee with my prize through the fields and towards the protective embrace of a nearby forest. The noise behind me fades, but does not let up. Men and horses. The clerics will not let this stand. I have stolen one of their own. Dodging tree trunks I try to think.

I cannot take the Archon back to Downing, or to Dunbarra Keep. An impromptu holy war is a distraction I cannot afford. Of course, we were already at war but now I have kicked the hornet’s nest. Would the clerics attack my human settlements? I do not want to find out. Weaving through the trees, I accidentally whack the Archon’s head on a low branch. She makes a muffled noise of pain.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

Calling this grove a forest is too generous. I can already see the filtered sunlight through the trees, and a moment later I burst out onto fallow farmland. Running to the right, I follow the treeline, keeping low before I spot another orchard. The branches are bare but it will provide more cover than the fields. I run into it, darting between the trees that thrust up through the cold earth like dead men’s knuckles. Over a small stream we go, and through another orchard to exit the trees on the other side.

Straight into a wall of waiting clerics.

I drop the Archon like a sack of meal, and draw my axe with a snarl.

She mumbles something but my eyes are fixed on the clerics. Wavewalkers, I realise in surprise, and a more motley assortment of shell-clutching vagabonds I have never seen in my life. Some of them are clutching musical instruments. A few hold rough wooden staffs, but none of them look particularly war-like.

A dark-skinned man with a full beard, and smooth, bald head steps forward. His skin is flowing with tattoos. Shells clatter as he steps. He clasps his palms together and bows, looking up at me with a broad smile. My, my.

“Greetings,” he says. “I am Friar Julian, and the Wavewalker blesses this meeting-”

Before he can finish, the bushes part. Three acolytes of the Blind Queen ride into the clearing, two men and a woman, all three of them stoic and haughty. Each one is seated on a donkey led by pale-faced retainers. They stare around at us with blindfolded arrogance. The lead acolyte wears a heavy iron crown of thorns. It is digging so far into her scalp that I can see the blood dripping. Her sightless face tilts towards me.

“Foul creature!” she intones.

The Archon mumbles and bucks where she lies, thrashing in her makeshift bonds. I place a gentle foot on her stomach, to the alarm of the sweaty watching Wavewalkers.

“The Blind Queen condemns you!” contines the acolyte. “Vile one! Give up your bones and let justice be done, by our hand-”

“Agatha!” exclaims Friar Julian, just as my fingers tighten on my axe. “I have this under control!”

The acolyte and I both turn towards him, our mouths dropping open in amazement. I do not think that Agatha is used to being interrupted.

“My goddess cannot be denied,” she says, although she sounds a little unsure. The two other acolytes behind her look as stern as mountains. “Nothing is too great to be sacrificed in the pursuit of justice!”

“I am attempting to parley with the lich,” says the Friar from between gritted teeth. Oh is he, indeed. “I ask you not to interfere lest you disturb the waters of fate!”

“There can be no quarter,” says Agatha the Acolyte. “You would treat with the forces of evil? Has the temple of the Wavewalker sunk so low?”

“Do not sully his name!” says the Friar. “The Wavewalker sent me a vision! Here, now! This is the place where we swim in the eddies of destiny! Do not interfere lest the tides of darkness sweep humanity away into the eternal abyss.”

“This is an abomination,” shouts the acolyte. “The way to protect humanity is to kill this creature! The Whisperer’s creatures must be purged! Always! And without exception!”

A troop of paladins bursts out of the orchard, their horses huffing and snorting. They see me, they see the Archon lying at my feet and raise their swords, charging towards me.

“WAIT!” bellows the Wavewalker cleric.

A clap of thunder booms through the air above us. The scent of brine washes across the glade as Friar Julien’s eyes roll back in his head, luminous white and glowing. He rises into the air, his robes flapping. “LISTEN TO ME! HEED THE VOICE OF THE MIGHTY WAVEWALKER IF YOU WISH TO LIVE! HOLD YOUR ARMS!”

The paladins lower their swords, confusion writ plain in their faces.

The clerics sandaled feet land once more on the slushy ground. He strides towards me, eyes still glowing.

“WHAT DO YOU DESIRE?”

“Peace and quiet,” I say at once. The god-touched man stares at me, unblinking. Sigh. “Holy water. I need holy water to end the undead plague.”

The crowd of clerics mutter to each other. Friar Julian’s eyes return to normal and he smiles.

“A truce, then!” he cries. “A truce to protect humanity. Presumably not the Whisperer’s holy water?”

“Obviously not.”

“You?” says the acolyte. “You want to stop the undead scourge?”

“Is that so hard to understand?” I say. “It was not my doing. I have no grudge against the living.” Most of them, anyway.

There is shocked whispering at this pronouncement.

“It is true,” says Friar Julian. “We have reports of human settlements in Downing Forest.”

“Free the Archon,” shouts a paladin. “Free the Archon, and we will listen!”

Everyone looks down at the angry woman with the gag in her mouth. She mumbles incoherently, her eyes sparking sad little embers. I weigh the odds, and slice her bindings with a flick of my axe. She leaps up, spitting out the rag from her mouth.

“Careful,” I warn, before she can speak.

If the clerics kill me today, I will come back, but those I take with me will be dead forever. I am positive I can pull out a few of their spines before I succumb. They know it too, I can see it in their eyes. The paladins raise their swords, suggestively, looking towards the Archon. She shakes her head, and turns with rumpled dignity, towards the Friar.

“Your god spoke to you?” she asks. “He truly sees this as the way?”

“He does,” says Friar Julian, with much solemnity. “A chance to curb the suffering. A way to prevent the deaths of thousands-”

“An abomination,” spits the acolyte. A silver eye blossoms on her forehead, shimmering and complete. It looks at me, up and down, then blinks and fades back into smooth skin. “I see before me only evil. Corruption. A force that if left unchecked will consume the world. The Whisperer’s influence cannot be denied! Justice must be sought! The lich must pay for its crimes.”

“What crimes?” I demand.

“The blood of countless innocents stains your hands. You are hip deep in human misery! Shall I name your victims?”

“I am merely proposing a truce,” says the friar, hurriedly. “A temporary truce! I am not suggesting suffering a lich to live-”

“Ahem!”

“Suffering this lich-”

“Maud.”

“This Maud-”

The Friar gulps.

“Give me access to holy water,” I say. “Or those who can make it. And let me end this plague. And then we can all go back to trying to kill each other. Surely, that is acceptable?”

“You truly think you can end the plague?” asks the Archon. She holds up a wad of cotton to her still bleeding nose, her eyes hard as she looks at me. This one will not forget, but at least she has called off her pack of dogs. “How?”

“I only know that holy water is the key.”

“Presumably not the Whisperer’s holy water?” says the Friar.

“Correct.”

The acolyte’s lips twist. The Friar and the Archon exchange thoughtful glances.

“I can provide holy water for such a purpose,” admits the Archon.

“And I,” says the Friar.

Everyone turns to the acolytes. Their faces do not move, but one of the men lets out a strangled, choking laugh.

“The Blind Queen does not give lightly,” says the female acolyte. “Our god is not frivolous. She does not give hope, or light, or health. She is justice. She is enlightenment through suffering. She is to be feared. The blessing of the thorns is made only once in an acolyte’s life, in the ceremony of our making. The potion requires many ingredients, both sacred and mundane.”

The Acolyte reaches into the folds of her robes and brings out a padded, hessian bag. With great reverence she draws out a small vial. The liquid within is dense, and silver. It swirls lazily in the glass, like molten metal.

“I will tell you how it is made, and you can judge for yourselves like the children you are.” The acolyte reaches up with one hand and removes her blindfold, revealing two hollow cavities where normally eyes would be. One of the Wavewalker’s throws up into the bushes behind me, but everyone else is watching, riveted by the cleric’s tale.

“At the climax of our holiest rite,” she says, “we are required to pluck out our own eyes. We gift them to the goddess, mashing them into a paste that is added to the brew. We drink. If we are worthy the Blind Queen accepts us into her arms. If we are weak, we die.

“Once the ceremony is complete we, in turn, are gifted the remains of the potion we crafted.” She holds up the vial once more and gestures to her forehead, where the silver eye had faded. “It is a sacred tool in our pursuit of justice. With it we can perceive the truth. With it we can mete out justice. With it we can see where others cannot. It is not a toy. It is not a trifling matter. And it is not something any of us would willingly share.”

“Even to save thousands?” asks the Archon.

“Even then,” says the acolyte. She tucks her bottle away.

“I assume the Wavewalker’s blessing would be best, anyway” says Friar Julian into the frosty silence. “Since our order is about healing.”

“Healing and divination,” snorts the Archon. “I’m sure the Bright One’s water would be most effective.”

“I am happy to try both,” I say. What an interesting turn of events. “I will protect what is mine. Not everyone who lives beneath my rule worships the Whisperer. And not everyone who lives in my lands is dead. ”

“Yet,” says the acolyte. “They are not dead yet. This is merely a staying of the hand.” She looks at the Archon, surrounded by paladins, and the Friar surrounded by his sea of blue. “You will both regret this moment. Mark my words. But I will not fight you in your folly. I will pray that you receive wisdom.”

She clicks her tongue and the donkey turns. The Blind Queen’s acolytes ride back into the orchard.

“Bye!” shouts the Friar after her receding back.