Nightlord: Sunset (40 page)

“She is being put to the question, Halar.”

“I know.  Why?”

Ander hesitated.  “In truth, I do not know
why
.  I have not communed in prayer with my superiors.  I know only that she stands accused of consorting with demons, blasphemy, and of allying herself with creatures of darkness.  Doubtless the inquisitors have been guided by their faith to bring her to this place and cleanse her soul.”

Right.  And someone, somehow, found out she was part of a
gata,
or that she was near a nightlord, or just wanted to have leverage on the local wizard before moving on Baret… It didn’t matter
why
.

I took several deep breaths.  “And in what manner will her soul be scrubbed clean?”

“The pain of her flesh will redeem her spirit,” he replied, looking ill.

I stared at him.  “You believe that, don’t you?”

“I… it does not matter.  It has been revealed to wiser men than I that this must be done to cleanse a burdened, sinning soul—”

“How do you know they’re wiser?” I asked.

He blinked at me.  “Beg pardon?”

“How do you know that the people who handed down this decree or policy or whatever it is—how do you know they’re wiser?”

“Why… why, because they are the leaders of the Church.”

“So the Church says this is how it’s supposed to happen?”

Ander lowered his eyes.  “Yes,” he said.  He sounded miserable.

“And you are a faithful, honest man, loyal to your Church?”

He looked at me, and there was a grim determination in his gaze.  It hurt him to know a woman was being tortured, but he had faith it was the right thing to do—and was willing to endure his own pain for the greater good.  I have to respect that.

“I am.”

I nodded.  “I know you are, Ander.  Now I have a hard question.”

“Ask it.”

“How do you know the Church leaders are listening to God?  What if God is telling you something that doesn’t match up with what
they
are telling you?”

Ander was silent for a long minute.  He looked like a man struggling with an idea he didn’t want to have.  I let him think for a little bit and finally pushed on.

“Look, I’m sorry to have to bring this up, but where is this inquisition taking place?”

“We have a chamber underground so that the worship might not be… disturbed.”

“By the screaming?”

He nodded.

“Suppose I wanted to talk to the inquisitor—that would be Lothen, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“How would I get there?”

“There is a portal behind the statue.  But they will not see you until this evening.  They will question her all day today.”

“Uh-huh.  I noticed that Shada went missing, at least to me, about the same time that Lothen arrived.  How did he even know she was here?  Come to that, how did he arrive so quickly?”

“As I said, the power of our faith guides our works.  He was on his way well before I brought the matter of the devourer to the attention of the Church.”

“Right.  You mentioned communing in prayer with your superiors?”

“I pray and they hear my words.  Yes.”

“Could they grant clemency?”

Ander stared at me.  “But what for, friend Halar?  If she is impure, surely she
must
be purified?”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”  I stood up and sighed, leaning on my staff.   He stood up with me, looking concerned.

“Halar, I do not wish you to be distraught.  It is only her flesh that suffers; her soul is burned clean by those agonies.”  He sounded
almost
sure.  Like he was sure in his head, but not his heart.  I know the tone, mainly because I’ve heard it in my own voice way too often.

“I don’t doubt that you believe that, Ander.  You may even be right.  But I don’t think she’s willing.”

He sounded pained.  “I know.  But what can I do?  I am bound by the strictures of the Church.”

“Well, I guess that means I’m going to have to do something I don’t want to.  And I want to make sure you know, in advance, I bitterly regret having to.  I hope, someday, you will forgive me, because I like you.”

“What—” he began, and I hit him in the groin with my staff.  His eyes bugged out and he made an odd little
peep
ing noise.  I hit him in the back of the head and laid him out on the floor, then tied him up with a couple of his own belts.  They weren’t the best restraints, but he wasn’t too feisty, either.  He could probably squirm his way out of the bonds in a few minutes, once he started moving again.  Hopefully it would be long enough.

Deep breaths.  Too late to back out now.  But now that I was about to go out and bluff for as long as I could… and then do whatever came to hand… I was nervous.

I was scared, but I couldn’t have done anything else.  I’ve lost too much in recent months to even consider losing Shada.  First, Terri.  Then Sasha.  My old life.  My job, my students, my career.  Change may be inevitable, but it could go a little slower.  I didn’t feel willing to let someone take Shada out of my life.  Besides… I like her.  I like her a
lot.

Still, I was scared.  The church didn’t have a lot of armed men.  Who attacks a church?  It was the Hand compound that was heavily armed.  This was just a large church.  What did I have to worry about?

Mundane stuff included the town watch, the guards Lothen brought with him—a man like that doesn’t go anywhere without personal bullies—and rioting mobs.  Then there was the whole works-of-faith thing; I don’t understand that, and it makes me nervous.

How long ago?—a couple of months?—I would never have even considered this.  Under other circumstances, I would be feeling out a new freshman class, learning their names, grading papers, maybe setting up new student user accounts on the network or starting them on the Big Five motion equations… I might even be helping out with the thermogoddamics class; someone always needs tutoring.

It seems so long ago.  I miss it.

I left the room and closed the door behind me.  I walked quickly to the main area and headed for the statue.  I got some odd looks from people at prayer and several lesser priests—I was still armed—but nobody really got unfriendly until I went up on the raised area and cut behind the statue.  Someone called to me, but I ignored him.

Behind the statue there was a space about ten feet wide.  Two doors greeted me; one was in the base of the statue, the other in the wall.  I tried the one in the wall; it led outside onto a large, open court.  There were people passing by on the surrounding streets.  I opened the one in the base of the statue; it revealed steps down.

About this point, the Protesting Priest rounded the statue at a hustle.

“Goodman, you may not go there; this is sacred—“

I cut him off with a hand around his throat.  I beat his head against the base of the statue until he quieted.  It was all rather muffled, so I hoped nobody would be too suspicious or investigative.  But I brought him with me down the steps just the same.

They went down some distance.  I was struck by the similarities between these steps and the ones in my dream… it was not a good feeling.  Would it have demons at the bottom, hiding from the sun?

At the bottom, the stairs ended in a door—a wooden one, with metal straps, not a big, black, iron portal.  I felt a little better.  I opened this a crack and peered through; beyond was a torture chamber, fully equipped, even if it looked like it hadn’t been used in a while.  Racks, tongs, pincers, braziers, pokers and coals, iron maiden, you name it.  It was a masochist’s wet dream.  Sadist’s, too.

From the scream that floated out, I gathered someone’s dreams were coming true.

I threw open the door, still carrying Father Protest.  I laid him down on the floor and cried, “Help!  This worthy priest has fallen down the steps!  Your aid!”

This got attention; Lothen—yes, he was there—put down the hot iron and hurried with the other two to tend to their fellow.  The two guards stayed by Shada; she was on the rack and stretched out, just like I’d seen in the ball.  I spotted an elderly magician in a chair; he remained seated and simply watched keenly.

Lothen checked his rush and stared at me.  “You!”

“Me,” I agreed.  I dropped my staff,
picked up
the nearer inquisitor, and threw him at Lothen; they both fetched up against one wall and went down in a swearing heap.  I kicked the other inquisitor—he was kneeling by Father Protest—in the face; I’m pretty sure I broke his jaw.  He didn’t do anything afterward but lie there, so I was happy.

Lothen and his buddy were disentangling themselves and swearing—piously—at their minor hurts; the guards immediately drew steel and rushed me.  If it had been nighttime, I might have tried lashing them with tendrils and taking my chances on whether or not they were protected.  Regardless, no priest was going to get any sort of a tendril-touch; I didn’t want to find out if tendrils could be burned off.  I may have as many as I can imagine, but I also imagine that would hurt.  That left me with more difficult options.

Pity for them it was a full-sized torture chamber.  I had time to grab a fistful of magic and lash it at their weapons; the mundane blades soaked up the power and began to glow hot.  They almost reached me anyway; it took a second for the swords to warm up.  Both guards shouted and dropped their weapons, nursing blistered hands just as they came up into sword-range.

Still lying on the floor, Lothen began to pray.

Even in the middle of all this, his prayer caught my attention.  You bet it did!  I’ve felt the blast of power from dead assassins; a full priest was something I considered a threat!  But his prayer was
very
strange to see.  When Tamara invoked her Goddess, power just came out of her.  I presume it has a limit based on her own capacity to channel, like a conduit or pipe tapping a huge reservoir.  But she did things—Jon’s pyre, for example—I couldn’t have done without a few cattle.  And certainly not that quickly!

Lothen was reciting the words to a prayer… but, working as I was with the stuff of magic, I could see the way magic moved around him.  I would have called it an incantation, myself.  He was using no divine powers, even though he invoked his god; he was working magic, like a magician.  The power was drawn to him, coalesced about him, and streamed toward the weapons.  It was like watching a garden hose extinguish a campfire.  His stream of energy disrupted and dissipated the spell I had placed on the weapons.

The blades cooled rapidly under the influence of his chanting.  The guards picked them up again.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t holding still.  When he started chanting, I moved toward him and the priest I’d thrown; Lothen stayed down while the other man got to his feet.  I shoved the standing priest against the stone wall and grabbed his face; I pounded his head against the stone, twice, and he fell heavily.  He probably survived that.

Lothen I simply poked a hole through, like sticking a piece of litter in the park.  He looked at me with an expression of surprise, then looked at the steel protruding from his upper chest.

“I thought… you a wizard,” he said, and blood came out of his mouth.

“I thought you to be heartless.  Glad I was wrong,” I replied.  He collapsed and I pulled Firebrand free.

By that time the guards had recovered their now-cooled weapons and were on me.  I kept moving, trying to keep them in each other’s way, while I went for the quick disables—legs and arms. 

Firebrand lived up to its name.  It flared up into brilliant light.  I had a moment’s warning, being able to feel it stirring; they did not.  We were all dazzled by the sudden glare, but I recovered first.  Guard One took a solid hit to the sword arm, all the way to the bone.  Guard Two got a nasty slash in his thigh.  Both wounds cauterized immediately; there are disadvantages to a flaming sword, but I was in no position to complain!

I knocked the sword out of Guard Two’s hand and kicked both the blades away from them.  I herded them at swordpoint to a handy torture device—don’t ask me what it was; all I know is it had manacles.  I locked them to it and held out my hand.

“Keys.”  One of them handed over a couple of keys on a ring without arguing.

Then I turned my attention to Shada.

They had used the rack and a lash, with the recent addition of hot irons.  I’d say it was all superficial damage—no broken bones, no penetrating wounds—but she looked like a particularly well-used masochist.  Lash marks on her front and back, her arms and legs.  Marks around her wrists and ankles from the rack.  Burns under her arms, along the inside of her thighs.  A few bruises about the face, presumably from blows.  One eye swollen shut.

“Halar?”  she asked, softly.

“Hmm?” I replied, sheathing a now-extinguished Firebrand.  I was glad Firebrand had gone out on its own; I could feel a sort of glee in it at killing.  I don’t want to find my sword is more determined to fight than I am to flee; that could turn out
very
badly.

“Escape,” she said.  “Flee.  They will be coming.”