“Abbot Herman is at odds with the Imperial Exemplar?” Ardwin inquired. They trodded a narrow alley, an arm’s length apart. Ardwin eyed the hilt of Ninathril, a black gem bound within the folds of his magical robe. Dressed in a workman’s trousers and vest, Murph cradled the bundle of blades in his arms. Ardwin fought the urge to take them back. If I show up armed to the teeth, they’ll kill the others.
“I don’t blame him,” Murph spoke over his shoulder. “The Exemplar is too timid. You can’t win a war if you’re unwilling to fight. You know that.”
“You intend to see Herman take his place, I presume?” Ardwin questioned.
“The entire Holy Order would like to see Herman replace Walter,” Murph assured. “It will happen in due time. I hope we can keep pressing the western front until Herman takes his place, but morale is wavering. The Duke wants to consolidate his winnings and make peace with the pagans. Peace!” Murphy stopped, shooting a hateful glance at Ardwin. “After all these years, the Duke wants to give up the cause.”
“He never fought for your cause,” Ardwin said.
Murph snorted as he laughed. “Our cause. We started the war–you and I. And won more victories as children than any man since.” He shook his head, then continued leading Ardwin through a series of alleys and side streets. They passed through a busy market, then joined a river of bodies on the main road, a straight shot to the city’s center. Hammers sang their busy songs: smiths shaping metal, carpenters knocking nails, and artificers setting bolts in large wooden war engines. “I know why you left,” Murph whispered as they floated along the traffic flow. “I get it.”
“Then why are you standing in my way?” Ardwin asked. And where are you keeping the Mysterium? Do you even have them? This ordeal is too straightforward. I can’t trust anything you say.
“I’m not a noble bastard or a rich man’s son,” Murph said. “This is the life I was given, and I have more than most–respect and authority. The life of a priest isn’t much different from any other profession, really. You do as your betters tell you to and get rewarded for your results.”
And Abbot Herman promised you the world, didn’t he? Ardwin chuckled. “We both know that’s not true. Poor Bulge is still shoveling shite in Alexandria.”
Murphrey laughed. “That idiot was only good at leveraging his muscles. That’s why he’s still working in the stables.”
“Fair point,” Ardwin retorted. They passed by a carver’s toy-lined windows. Puppets and marionettes danced lifelessly, their strings tied to hooks.
They crossed an intersection, then turned right down an alley filled with crates, barrels, and large wooden beams piled in head-high stacks. “Some of us rise to a higher calling.” Murphrey stepped into the light of a little oil lamp dangling above a door frame. “You’ll lead the way from here.” He nodded toward the door, and a stone building soaring six stories high. “Top floor.”
Let’s see how their ambush unfolds. Ardwin turned the rusty handle and pushed the door free of its frame. They entered a hall with doors leading left and right. Each room contained stacked crates and barrels. A warehouse? Ardwin presumed they would meet somewhere public, where he’d be dissuaded from using his repertoire. They found a stairwell halfway down the hall, where Gregory encouraged him to climb. They ascended to the top floor. Two half walls and a rickety door between them partitioned the expansive loft. Ardwin drew in musty air, then pushed the door open.
At the end of a rectangular room, four monks wielding staves and maces stood behind a woman kneeling, hands bound, her head covered by a burlap sack. Red curls bounced as she shook her head. Muffled screams filled the loft. Ardwin froze. Is it her? “Where are the others?”
“Shut the door,” Murphrey spoke as he entered the room, marching past Ardwin. He dumped the bundled blanket and its invaluable contents onto the floor. “Everything is accounted for!” he announced as the swords clanked and clattered together. “Both swords, the dagger, the cloak.” He moved to take his place beside their hostage and locked eyes with Ardwin. “I told you this would be easy.” He grabbed the burlap sack and yanked Rose’s head back. She yelped in pain. “Take your lover and go.”
“She’s not my lover,” Ardwin responded.
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought, brother.” Murphrey chuckled. The other priests remained motionless and silent.
Ardwin marched over to the bound woman, placed his arms under her pits, and hoisted her from the floor. He realized his mistake a little too late. The woman’s hands were not bound. A dagger nearly sunk into his side, but with a twist of his torso, Ardwin suffered a small slash instead. He pushed away from her. The priests, except Murph, charged him. The fake hostage removed the sack from her head to reveal an unfamiliar face. Ardwin circled to the right, lashing out at the closest man with a looping punch. He caught the man on the cheek, stunning him. A fat-faced monk whirled his mace overhead, then swung at Ardwin, who dodged to the left and delivered a retaliatory left hook to the man’s temple. The man face-planted on the floor–unconscious.
A third monk, skinny and tall, used his staff to extend his already extraordinary reach. He jabbed at Ardwin, who ducked out of the way but could not counter. A second jab took him in the shoulder as he tried to slip past it. At that same instant, his first assailant swept Ardwin’s feet with his bo staff. Ardwin found himself on the floor. He rolled away, spinning to his feet in time to watch the monks form a semicircle. They marched forward, backing him against a wall. The red-haired woman stood behind the men, holding a large fishing net.
Murphrey stood beside her, smiling. “Just give it up. We have you!”
Ardwin scanned his surroundings. Not a single window. No rope or even a broken piece of wood. He studied the fishing net. His enemy was ready to cast. Ardwin spotted his gray cloak lying on the floor, along with his weapons. He’d gotten close, but not close enough.
Ardwin charged the smallest of them, a man holding a mace in two hands. He pounced on the man, landing a falling elbow on the crown of his skull. The monk crumbled beneath his weight. Ardwin rolled over the man, tumbling toward his gear. As his hand grasped the cloak, a fishnet fell over him, trapping him within its web. The two remaining monks rushed him. They jabbed and hammered with staff and mace. Ardwin gritted his teeth and dug within the folds of his cloak, searching for Animiki’s Talon.
His hand found the pointy pommel, then closed around its handle. He wrestled to free the dagger from the wadded-up cloak. A terrible rip announced the coming of brilliant silver steel.
Ardwin sunk it into the first leg to kick him.
The monk released a sudden shriek, cut short by the thunderclap that followed. Currents of electricity paralyzed the assailant, whilst searing his innards and melting his eyes from their sockets.
Ardwin lashed out wildly, the fish net constricting his movements. The other monk leaped away. It was a fatal mistake. Ardwin threw off the fish net and assumed a defensive position. Realizing his mistake, the staff-wielding monk engaged Ardwin. As he moved forward, Murph moved toward the door, and the red-haired woman followed him. The first man he felled rose to his feet, rubbing his head. He picked up his mace and moved to meet Ardwin, who dodged a staff, watching from the corner of his eye as Murphrey slammed the door in the woman’s face.
Ardwin threw his dagger into the mace man’s chest. Lightning coursed through his body as he fell dead.
The staff-wielding monk charged Ardwin. A length of wood fell toward his head, so Ardwin stepped to the left and delivered a thrusting kick to the man’s lead leg, knocking him off balance. Ardwin closed the distance and disarmed the man, taking the staff. Ardwin swept the staff across the face of the man he stole it from. He scanned the room for enemies. None moved.
Murph! I have to catch him!
Ardwin freed his cloak from the tangles of the net. He raised the cloak before him. An ugly valley stretched down the left side. He strapped Ninathril to his left hip and the Retaliating Rapier onto his back. Animiki’s Talon waited next to his right hand. His fingers fidgeted with its pointed pommel. Ardwin threw the cloak over his shoulders and twirled around. He watched his body disappear behind translucent folds, except for a protruding sword hilt on his left hip. It still works–mostly. If I catch it on something, it'll rip further, but I can’t run around in a bloody shirt.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Ardwin gave chase, leaping down the stairs and dashing through the halls. He found the door and burst into the back alley. Looking left and right, boxes and lumber obstructed his view.
He went left, toward the dock, recalling the smell of fish on the net used to trap him. Halfway down the alley, a toppled crate proved that someone passed through in a hurry. At the road, he stopped. Traffic was light. He jogged at a fast but steady pace, every stride agitating the slice in his side, sending shocks through his battered bones and bruised flesh.
His heart pounded in his chest, racing to keep up with his feet. He stopped at an intersection with the central thoroughfare to let a horse-drawn carriage pass. Ardwin leaned against a streetlamp, cloak enveloping his body, covering his wound with his left hand. Traffic moved in opposing streams, pushing north or south. Ardwin spotted a mess of red hair disappear behind a press of pedestrians across the thoroughfare. He stepped off the curb and waded through the traffic, dancing through a current that desperately wanted to sweep him away. The passing blur of faces and the press of bodies grew disorienting.
Ardwin’s head swam. His side burned.
He pushed onward.
Breaking through the river of traffic, he found himself on a more narrow road. Though less busy than the thoroughfare, this road fell toward the docks. Fishermen and dockhands walked in gangs while wagons full of fish and timber rolled west to east. His vision blurred for a moment. Beneath the heavy cloak, drenched in sweat and smeared blood, his guts bubbled. Nausea nagged him. Was her blade poisoned?
A passing fisherman wearing a wide-brimmed hat gnawed on his pipe, glaring at Ardwin. He whispered to an old man with spindly hair, who glanced at Ardwin, then at the dirt. The old man scolded his junior: “It’s none of our damned business.” Ardwin stepped off into a side alley. He steadied himself against a wall of brick and mortar. A cramp wrung his stomach, forcing Ardwin to his knees. Running made it spread quicker.
His mouth salivated, preparing for an upheaval of the viscous chemical coursing through his bloodstream. Ardwin clenched his fists in frustration.
He blacked out soon after the vomiting began.
Cold stones greeted his waking senses. It was dark. His only light was a sliver spilling through the bottom of a door. Chains clasped his ankles, binding him to the back wall. Damn!
As Ardwin sat up, a dizzy spell forced him back to the floor. The door to his cell creaked open. A bald man in a long gray robe stepped into the chamber. He moved toward Ardwin, knelt before him, and lifted Ardwin’s chin with his forefinger. “You look horrible, my friend.” Murph dropped Ardwin’s head and then stood, looming over his defeated foe.
“Where are the others?” Ardwin’s voice faltered. His limbs trembled.
“Your friends are okay for now,” Murph assured. “They’re simply being interrogated.” He smiled.
“I would have given you the sword,” Ardwin lied.
Murph stalked the cell floor, circling him, robes dusting the grimy stones. “Your charade isn’t fooling me. Even now, you are calculating your odds, your every word, even your body language. We trained together, Ardwin. You’re not special. Calum filled your head with nonsense and made you his puppet. Gregory saw it, too. Calum’s biggest mistake was playing favorites. If he had spent more time with Gregory, our brother would be an Exemplar by now. Meanwhile, you squandered everything, even your one chance at freedom. All because you thought you were better than everyone else.”
He stopped on his third trip around to stare into Ardwin’s eyes. Murph stepped to the side. “Father?” he called, turning wild eyes toward the door. The cell opened once more. A short priest with a broad chin and crooked nose swept into the room wearing a billowing red robe. “I’ve made my peace,” Murph said.
“Do you feel better?” the red-robed priest asked Murph.
Murph shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. We do what we must, Father. Let us be done with this task.”
You must be Father Herman, the Abbot. Ardwin realized. “You wish to be rid of me so soon?” He questioned his old friend. “You acted happy to see me earlier. Why the change of heart? Having a hard time reconciling the past?” Ardwin knew he did.
Murph’s face twisted into a sneer. He forced himself to look away.
Father Herman stepped forward, both hands held high. “Brother Murphrey has told me a lot about you, Ardwin. Believe it or not, I, too, was a student of Father Calum. He was a great mentor.” The old priest studied Ardwin for a time, scanning him with beady brown eyes that reminded him of Calum. He knelt before Ardwin, stooping to his level. “You’ve strayed from the path, brother, but I don’t think you’re lost yet.”
“I’m not interested in religion,” Ardwin retorted.
Father Herman stood, a slanted smile hidden behind folds of old flesh. “The Elves say their gods broke their spirit and scattered them across the face of the earth. That’s why the elves stopped using their magic. Alexander’s failure to conquer the North caused him to turn south. He would conquer most of the known world. They learned from their mistakes. If you are wise, you will, too.” He moved toward the door, then motioned Murph to follow with a wave of his hand. Murph left first. Father Herman lingered in the doorway. “I find that one’s threshold for pain directly corresponds with one's sense of reason. How long will you hold out?” Herman stepped through the door and slammed it shut behind him.
So it will be torture? Ardwin wiped away the cold sweat from his brow. His belly ached for food, anything to devour but itself, and the poison.
He rummaged along the floor, searching for loose stones, a sliver of wood, a rat’s bone, or anything he could use to pick a lock. His mind turned to the last cell he’d found himself in and the satyr who saved him. I can’t ask Padair to come to a place like this. He looked around the dark room. Where am I? Beneath the monastery? Not if they wanted to hide me from the Imperial Exemplar. No, they wouldn’t take me to his home. Father Herman wants his seat and scepter.
His door opened. Murph walked in, accompanied by two other monks. Without a word, they gathered Ardwin from the floor, unlocked his shackles from their chain, and marched him out of the cell. “They won’t break me,” Ardwin promised Murph. Murphrey grunted, leading him down a narrow hall of tightly stacked bricks. Winding through the maze of cell-lined halls, Ardwin heard the moans of men bearing unknown torments, crying out to the cold stones that trapped them in their living hell. He'd never know what they had done to deserve such a fate, but soon, he’d be one of them.
Are the others being held in one of these cells?
“They’ve beat us since we were children,” Ardwin boasted with a faltering ego. “Do they think torture will work?” He laughed. “You turned into one of them. Weak.”
“I’m not the one being carried,” Murph grumbled beneath his breath.
“No!” Ardwin laughed like a madman. “You’re the one carrying me to a chamber where I’ll be tortured to the brink of death! You bastard!” He flung his iron shackles at the back of Murph’s head. The blow nearly took his friend at the nape of his scrawny neck, but an arm wrapped Ardwin’s throat and tugged him back, saving Murph from a nasty headache. His fists thumped between Murph’s shoulder blades.
A monk’s fist found the back of Ardwin’s head. After a short scuffle, they dragged Ardwin down the hall and descended a spiraling stair.
They stopped before an iron door. Murphy reached into his robe, withdrew an iron key, and slotted it below an iron ring of a handle. The mechanism sprang to life with a twist of the key and handle. The iron handle spun around and around. The iron door swung open, revealing a massive chamber hidden behind it. Murph stepped onto a stone platform, then motioned his brethren forward. From the top platform, Ardwin looked down into a room containing various tables and chairs with straps and locking mechanisms. At the back of the room, a quaint but clean office space with a desk and cushioned chair sat in stark contrast, separated from the grotesquely decorated chamber by shelves lined with leather tomes and rolled scrolls. With the iron door shut and sealed behind, the torture chamber grew deathly silent.
A pulley elevator waited at the end of the platform. Murphy pushed a lever, sending them into a slow descent. On the bottom floor, they left the elevator behind and passed through a museum of gore. A wooden chair sat upon a pool of dried blood. A stone coffin lay flat on the floor. Ardwin thought he heard moaning within the shell. Can I hold on? He felt a second round of nausea rising in his throat.
A white-haired, elvish woman wearing a red robe stepped away from her bookshelf. She moved to meet them. “Is this him?”
“He’s going to be a hard nut to crack,” Murph replied.
“They all are,” the elf said. “People hold on to their beliefs as dearly as they hold on to their very lives.”
“Which is why we need you to deliver. This job is important.” Murph grabbed Ardwin’s shackles and led him to the woman. “Don’t kill him. And don’t drive him insane, either. We need him whole.”
The elf looked Ardwin up and down with sapphire eyes. A silver circle crowned her head, bearing a milky white stone dangling between her eyes from a delicate chain. “He has an especially strong bearing, but I will deliver.” She passed her gaze over Murphrey. “You may go.”
“He may try to fight,” Murph said.
“The Hand of God will not lay a finger on me,” the elf promised. “Leave us.”
Murph looked at his companions and nodded toward the elevator. “Let’s go.” He smacked Ardwin’s back as he passed. “Hopefully, you come to your senses.” Ardwin made no reply.
“I’m going to bring him back to the light,” the elvish lady muttered as she walked across the room, rubbing her chin and studying Ardwin.
“Why are you doing this?” Ardwin asked, trying to delay. “I’ve known elves who serve the Order, but what turned you into their butcher?”
“The pain will come.” She nodded slowly. “I think it helps to understand why.” She met his eyes. Hers bore a gentle grace. “Hatred and hubris destroyed my people. We were warned, but we did not listen. And the Gods reaped their vengeance. But I never understood why they gave us the gift of magic only to be punished for it. It makes little sense.” She raised her hands and shrugged her shoulders. “The Holy Order preaches that our talents and our gifts are to serve God. Elves never served our gods. We only served ourselves. That point is important because, ultimately, it became apparent that our gods were merely forces of nature, like the wind and the rain. Awesome–mystical even–but not divine. I can’t imagine facing a God and living to tell the tale, but I stood against the Prime Materia during the Dagr’iarambar and now stand before you today.”
Ardwin stood, silent.
“The pain comes, and then it goes,” the elf spoke, walking toward him. The milky white stone dangling on her forehead gleamed in the light of a nearby sconce. “Lives ignite like a spark in the darkness, then go out.” The flame in the sconce died into a lick of blue, flickering on the oil-soaked tongue of a wick. Drawing nearer, the elf grew larger and larger while the surrounding room seemed to shrink away. “Don’t hold on to what you think you know. The great beyond is for God alone. In our world, pain is truth!”