The God-Touched Man Page 15

  He removed his stick from where he’d tucked it through his belt and carefully extended it toward the necklace, tip first. He felt nothing strange or painful as he edged it closer, moving as slowly as he dared, until it finally touched the necklace.

  Nothing happened.

  He worked the necklace toward himself until it reached the edge of the column’s face and barely extended past it. It slipped, threatened to slide off entirely, and he whipped the stick beneath it so a loop of the necklace slid over the tip. Gingerly, holding the cane perfectly horizontal so the necklace wouldn’t slide down it toward his hand, he worked the tip under the chain until it was securely looped over the slim length of wood, then lifted the necklace entirely off the column.

  Nothing happened.

  Piercy shifted his grip on the stick so he was holding it by the shaft instead of the hawk-head and reached toward the necklace with his free hand. If it was the column the magic was on, and not the necklace—

  When he was within an inch of the links, his hand went numb and the vibration started, more loudly this time, as if his head were full of bees. He snatched his hand away, but the vibration grew louder. Cursing aloud this time, he swung the stick over and let the necklace slide back onto the column. The noise and the humming stopped.

  Piercy sighed and put his stick back through his belt. Then he walked over to the nearest window and put his face against the thick, cold glass. It was remarkably fine for this era, undistorted and free of occlusions as only the wealthiest could afford. It made sense that reverence for the God would extend to housing his treasures in the nicest possible surroundings. And this was an amazing view. The mountains were near enough to dominate the sky, and snow had already fallen on their summits. This probably wasn’t even the coldest this monastery got all year.

  Piercy let his mind go blank for a moment—possibly it could figure out a solution without his help—and admired the bleak beauty of the moorlands. It was easy to forget how beautiful they were when it was raining and you had no shelter and you were eating dried meat that had probably been preserved when this monastery was newly built.

  Shadows moved across the moorland, the shadows of clouds drifting in front of the moon. The wind must be blowing from the east, because the clouds were moving toward the monastery, dragging their shadows with them. Piercy’s eye roved northward, then came back to rest on those shadows that streamed over the moors and clustered around the base of the monastery. He looked at the sky. It was a cloudless night. Those weren’t shadows. They were men on horseback. The Incursion had begun.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Piercy turned on his heel and in a few long strides was back at the column. He gripped it with both hands and stared at the necklace, willing it to move. He could remove it from the room, yes, and if he were very careful he could probably get it out of the monastery, but it was unlikely that would cancel the forbiddance, and Hodestis’s magic could do nothing against divine power. The necklace would be useless to them if no one could touch it.

  He reached out to pick it up, then pulled his hand back before it could begin to tingle. Without knowing what the spell did, it was pure insanity to simply take it. Ayane would no doubt have made that her first action. How fortunate she was busy being the prophet. He rushed back to the window. The Welkennish had come close enough to begin encircling the monastery, though the front door was on the other side of the room—he ran there and couldn’t see any riders. They weren’t inside yet. But he needed to figure something out, and quickly.

  He turned around—and a dark-robed figure flashed into view not five feet from where he stood. Piercy pressed himself against the wall and went motionless. The ascetic didn’t seem to notice him, but ran forward, toward the nearest column, and began fumbling with something concealed by his full sleeves. There was a flash of pale light, almost gray, then the ascetic picked up the thing on the column and put it into his sleeve, juggling it in his haste. He moved to the next column, stumbled and fell, then pulled himself up incautiously and yelped as the humming began. It cut off abruptly, and this time Piercy could see a flash of silvery metal in the ascetic’s hand. Piercy took a couple of silent steps sideways, then more noisily stumbled forward, getting the ascetic’s attention.

  “Thank the God you’re here,” he panted. “The prime told me to join you, but she gave me no means to take these precious artifacts from their proper places.”

  The ascetic’s hood fell back, revealing that he was actually a woman, and now she pushed it all the way off her forehead. She was young, surely no older than twenty, and her eyes were wide with astonishment. “Who are you?”

  “I am the Princess—the prophet’s bodyguard and companion,” Piercy said. “You’re retrieving the sacred things against the attack we are currently undergoing, yes?”

  “Yes, but you are not—no one not of Cath’s order belongs in here!”

  “That is precisely what I told the prime, but she insisted I assist you. Please, let me hold the treasures while you remove the forbiddance. Based on what I saw, we have very little time.”

  “But—”

  “My dear, the God has not struck me down for defiling his holy place, and I have traveled a long way with his prophet. I do not pretend to be a holy man, but I daresay Cath makes do with imperfect vessels, don’t you think?”

  The ascetic looked incredibly torn for a few more seconds, then said, “All right. Don’t touch them until I say.”

  “May I ask what happens if one touches them while the forbiddance is active?”

  “No one knows. No one’s ever come back to say.”

  Piercy pondered this while waiting for her to use her strange device, a cube that flashed light when she pressed its sides in a certain pattern. He probably should memorize the pattern, just in case something happened to the ascetic, but he was so keyed up by the approach of the Welkennish and the sense that he was so very close to their goal that all he could do was watch for the flash of light, then snatch up the next object.

  He hooked the crown around his left forearm, not quite daring to wear it, piled cloth and key and a handful of other objects into the crook of his arm, then they were at the necklace and the light was flashing again. He snatched the necklace up, pretended to add it to the pile, and dropped it down the loose neck of his shirt to nestle against his stomach. It felt cold and hot at the same time, a disconcerting sensation, and he had to make himself focus on the remaining treasures to keep from simply bolting with what he had. He still needed to get their little group out of the monastery and away from the invaders.

  “If you sheathe that, I can put it through my belt,” he said when they came to the sword. The ascetic handed it to him with the sword belt wrapped around the sheath, and he nearly dropped it, expecting it to be much heavier. Yet it didn’t feel like a toy; it was perfectly balanced as far as he could tell, and the grip was solid in his hand, as if it had been made for him, down to the wear in the leather wrapping. He slid it into his belt next to the walking stick and hoped the two wouldn’t develop an animosity toward each other.

  He snatched up the last item, a carved wooden box that rattled, and said, “Let us divide this lot between us, as I fear I might drop one of these.” The ascetic nodded and began taking things off Piercy’s pile and stowing them away in her sleeves, like a stage performer preparing a series of tricks. Then she went to the niche without waiting for him and vanished. Piercy gave her a few seconds to move out of the way—the Gods alone knew what might happen if he tried to occupy the same space she did—then stepped onto the disk.

  The door out of the crèche chamber was just closing as he arrived. Piercy let out a sigh of relief and pushed through the door. He could leave these things on the floor in here, and possibly someone else would find them—

  —or he could take them with him. Surely all these objects had been destroyed with the monastery; why couldn’t they be retrieved the way Hodestis intended with the necklace? How much good might they do in the hands o
f the divines at Cath’s temple in Belicath?

  He juggled his armload around again and ran out of the storage room into the hall, then paused for a moment, calculating how far he’d come and which direction would bring him most quickly back to Hodestis’s room. He turned right, took three running steps, then had to dodge out of the way of several ascetics who were pelting down the hall, screaming. They took a sharp turn into the gardening storage room, and moments later the sounds of screaming cut off. Piercy set off again at a run. So one of those niches was an emergency exit. That, or they foolishly thought they could take shelter in the spire or one of the Gardens. He prayed it was a route to freedom.

  Roars of fury and screams of terror bounced off the black walls, echoing louder until the sounds came from everywhere at once. The torches flickered violently, some of them going out as Piercy passed, dodging ascetics who ran past him in both directions. One or two of them looked as if they wanted to know what he was doing with their treasures, but he shouted, “For the prime!” and kept running, outpacing their objections.

  He could hear the Welkennish, or what he assumed to be the Welkennish, shouting words in their own language he couldn’t understand, but hadn’t seen any of the invaders, just terrified ascetics. He had to stop abruptly to keep from running into a door flung open in his face, and a Welkennish warrior burst through, sword held at the ready and dripping with blood. He grinned at Piercy, revealing a mouth full of teeth sharpened to points. “Delanes,” he grunted, then swung at Piercy’s head.

  Piercy dropped everything, cursing, and reached for his stick. Instead, his hand fell on the sword’s hilt, and he whipped it out of its sheath and brought it up to parry the first blow. It was so light he nearly overbalanced himself, and he braced, expecting the wide, notched blade to snap his in half, but to his surprise the sword blocked the blow with barely a quiver at the force with which the Welkennish struck.

  The Welkennish looked as surprised as Piercy was, but Piercy immediately pressed the attack, forcing the man back against the door he’d opened. It had been a while since Piercy had had to fight for his life, and daily practice bouts were no substitute for the real thing, but as he struck and parried and struck again, it felt as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  He bared his teeth at the warrior in a fierce grin, saw him falter, knocked his blade out of the way and struck at his chest. The beautiful sword slid between the warrior’s ribs to pierce his heart, and Piercy withdrew the blade and took a step back to avoid his enemy’s falling body. He was still breathing lightly, and there was no tension in his arms or legs. This is most certainly an enchanted sword, and I hope Cath does not strike me down for using it, he thought, then sheathed the blade and ran on.

  He had a moment’s worry that he wouldn’t be able to find Ayane in this chaos, then remembered she would of course go back to Hodestis’s room so he could find her. He just had time to think She makes an excellent partner before he ran into the main fighting and had no time to spare for anything but battle.

  Was it his imagination, or was the sword eager to take the fight to the enemy? He was certain it wasn’t actually intelligent, just very well made and touched by the God’s power. As if there was anything “just” about that. He slammed into a Welkennish warrior and skewered him when he fell, slashed another man across the throat, and step by step pressed farther toward where he trusted Ayane and Hodestis waited.

  Finding himself in a pocket of calm, with the Welkennish occupied fighting the ascetics—many of whom were surprisingly capable in a fight—he ran the short distance down the hall and had the door to Hodestis’s room open and shut behind him before anyone noticed.

  Ayane knelt at Hodestis’s side, shaking him by the shoulders. She was dressed in the oddest clothing, a hooded cowl like the ascetics, her own boots, and a form-fitting black gown made of some fabric that shimmered where the light struck it. Even in his haste, he took a moment to appreciate her beauty. No time. Focus.

  “He won’t wake up,” Ayane said.

  “He isn’t dead, is he?”

  “No, just deeply asleep. The medicine they gave him was too effective. We’ll have to carry him.”

  “That will be extremely dangerous. There is still fighting around the doors, which I have just realized are still shut. How did the Welkennish get inside?”

  “Magic. They shattered the outer walls and just kept going until they reached the sanctum. The prime is dead. We can talk about the rest later. I think you’ll have to carry him.”

  Piercy sheathed the sword without cleaning it and heaved Hodestis to his feet, then over his shoulder. “Pass me the bags. You’ll need to have both hands free for fighting.”

  “Should we try to reach the horses?”

  “I think it will depend on where they are stabled. If the stable yard is too near where the breach occurred—”

  “Agreed. Are you ready? Then let us go.”

  They emerged into carnage. Welkennish and ascetics battled hotly in front of their door, bodies lay slumped across the passage. As Piercy and Ayane fought their way through the melee, an ascetic tripped over the body of one of his fallen comrades and screamed as a Welkennish blade found its mark.

  Hodestis was a limp, heavy bundle, and Piercy struggled to keep him balanced on one shoulder and their few bags on the other as Ayane cleared them a path. He’d seen her fight before, but this terrified him, how she faced down men armed with swords and clubs holding only her long knife. But Ayane never let them get close. She used their bulk and her greater agility to dodge blows and plant her knife where it would do the most damage, a throat, an eye, a belly.

  Piercy followed her closely, shoving the bodies of her victims out of the way. They reached the short corridor leading to the front door, and Piercy said, “If it is too heavy, I should—”

  “It’s locked,” Ayane said. “It’s not barred. But it’s locked.”

  “Hold him,” Piercy said, and thrust Hodestis at her. He grabbed the lock picks from where they were mercifully still stuffed into his waistband and fumbled around until he found the lock to the small door. It was almost too dark to see anything, so he closed his eyes and pictured the inner workings of this mechanism, felt the little tumblers shift as he worked at them. This was entirely the wrong kind of pick for this ancient lock, it had to be at least two hundred years old, which made it four hundred and fifty years older than anything he was accustomed to opening. And now he was making excuses for his poor performance.

  “They’re coming back this way,” Ayane said.

  “That is salutary information that will in no way make this process go faster,” Piercy said, and at that moment the last tumbler clicked. Piercy put the lock picks away and lifted Hodestis over his shoulder. “Go,” he said, and Ayane pushed the door open and held it for Piercy and his unconscious burden.

  They shut the door behind them and made their way around the monastery in the direction the ascetics had taken the wagon. The stink of burning wood and flesh rose in great clouds into the sky, but the sounds of battle and screaming were distant. Piercy was tiring in a way he hadn’t when he’d been fighting; his back and arms ached from carrying Hodestis and the bags. “Can you see the stables?”

  “I see fire. That’s not good,” Ayane said, and they came around one corner of the pentagon to see a long, low building ahead of them with its thatched roof on fire. The high, terrified screams of horses drowned out the more distant sound of fighting.

  “We can’t let them die,” Ayane said, bolting ahead with her blade still drawn, and Piercy cursed, laid the still-unconscious Hodestis on the ground next to the bags, and ran after her.

  The stable doors were latched shut, not bolted, and a couple of dead ascetics lay nearby. There were no Welkennish visible, but Piercy kept watch while Ayane threw open the doors and dashed inside, heedless of the fire burning just above her head.

  Soon a black horse pounded out past Piercy, screaming in terror or relief, then a couple of donkeys,
then Ayane reappeared, dragging their two horses with her and trying to keep them from bolting. She had slit her dress along both sides and it moved with the night breeze and the heat of the fire. “Take this,” she shouted over the noise of the fire, and handed him the bay’s reins. He wrenched his gaze away from her long, bare legs and hauled the horse back to earth.

  “Tell me you did not take time to bridle these animals,” he said, trying to stay out of the way of the frightened animal’s attempts to bolt.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I don’t know why they were still bridled, except I think someone was preparing to go for a midnight ride on our horses. We have to get out of here, Piercy.”

  “Agreed,” he said, and led the bay back the way they’d come, soothing it until it was nearly calm. It nearly bolted again when he laid Hodestis across its withers, and it took him far too long to calm the animal enough that he could mount in turn, trying not to convey his own agitation that at any minute the Welkennish would come spilling out the front door and attack them.

  With his hand firmly gripping Hodestis’s coat, he guided the bay westward, trying not to feel as if he were deserting all those people. What had happened to the young ascetic carrying the rest of those treasures? How many of the ascetics would survive this night?

  “There is a part of me that would dearly love to take Cath by the collar, or whatever it is Gods have in the vicinity of their necks, and ask him some very pointed questions about why he would allow his servants to be massacred like that,” he said grimly.