Page 48 of The Lost Reliquary
I make my way out and examine the nearby structures. The remains of more outbuildings, for the most part, but there’s a larger structure too, what must be one of the old refineries given the wide, round chimney rising from it. I press myself into a shadowed juncture of walls and listen again. My sickles, in their bindings, press back with a heartening firmness. I unsheathe one, careful not to let the blade flash. There are no sounds of movement from within. Entering through the remains of a doorway, I find a floor half rotted away, but there’s a series of stone stairs that lead down. At their bottom is a low-ceilinged cellar, strewn with the rotten piles of what might be ancient crates and a few lonely spiderwebs. As in the city, a thin layer of soot coats everything here.
Except the floor.
I examine the slate: nearly spotless, as if it has been swept lately. Which doesn’t exactly make sense… unless someone wants to ensure that there isn’t anything incriminating like, oh, footprints left behind. It doesn’t take me long to find the faint scratches on the floor, right near the sunken base of the chimney. I feel along it until one of the stones gives way beneath my fingers. There’s a softthunk, followed by a door swinging open on a hidden hinge, revealing a winding staircase leading down.
Success.
The passage is narrow enough that I’m forced to sheathe my sickle again. What little light there is filters up from below, and I keep a keen ear out for movement. Getting caught on these stairs would make for a tricky fight, one I don’t need the challenge of. But I meet no one, and the stairs spill out into a wider tunnel that looks much older than the structure above. Part of the mines? Secret passages used by the followers of the Stone God? There’s no ornament to tell me any stories, only a long stretch of tunnel reinforced with wood beams, and the occasional oil lamp.
I reach a split in the passage. Without a clue to what either branch holds, I choose left and follow it until I reach a dead end with three wooden doors. Again, not a single marking to indicate what might be behind them, but there are small portals with a sliding cover set into each. I go to the middle one and, quietly as I can, slide it open. Inside, there’s nothing, only an empty stone room with a single, ominous iron ring set into the wall. Still curious, I try another.
This cell is not empty. A body is folded into a pitiable ball against the back wall, metal chain rising from it and fastened to the same iron ring I saw in the last cell. Immediately, I know what sort of person the Renderers might keep caged here. But the body is not Nolan’s; it’s too slight, and the sheen of skin darker complexioned than his.
“Prior Fedic?” I whisper. They stir. “Prior Fedic, wake up. I—”
A head snaps up suddenly, eyes wide and glassy, with a stare that hits me like a blow. Bruised, bloody… the person jumps up and lunges at the door with a snarl that no longer sounds human.
“Chooosssss—” The chain runs out and they snap back, seemingly having forgotten their binding. They lunge at me again and again with a low moaning sound that can’t quite form into the judgement they’re trying to make.
Chosen.
I snap the viewport shut, fearful of the noise. But the stone is thick and heavy here, and though I wait for a long minute, there are no sounds of anyone approaching to investigate. Only the faint sounds of the “hound” in their cell, scratching and scrabbling, but those, too, soon quiet.
I loosen, a sick feeling rising in my stomach. What did they do tothese people to make them like this? I look at the doors. And how many do they have? A quick check finds the third cell equally occupied. The dead man near Novena must have called the empty one home. A shudder runs through me, though not from the chill of the earth. Nolan and I thought ourselves safe in our assumed identities when we first set out. But now? Knowing my divinity can be outed so easily doesn’t exactly sit well. There’s only one consolation: a marked difference between the man in the woods—who still sounded mostly human—and my new friend in the cell. Whatever is done to them to be able to pick Chosen out, it appears to degrade them over time. Just like Emmaus, if slower, and less extreme. Is it linked to divine power somehow? From what I’ve seen of both the pure methods of divine infusion and the tainted sort, it seems likely.
I retrace my steps and take the right fork. This branch continues for longer, but soon I come to another turn and another hall, at the end of which sits a large metal door with a barred window. Faint sounds drift from it. I creep down the passage, move to the window, and peek in. Immediately, I spot Nolan, gagged and lashed with chains to a table in the center of the room. The table is tipped up so that he’s nearly upright, an ominous drain at its foot. At first, I think he’s dead, but then the foolish thought disperses—who would gag a corpse?—and I see a steady rise and fall of his chest. He even appears to be awake, eyes open and filled with thoughtful intensity. Clearly still trying to figure a way out of a doomed situation—leave it to Nolan to never give up. Considering his surroundings, I’m pretty sure I would have.
Two things there are a lot of in the chamber: knives and jars. Knives with serrated edges, knives with smooth blades. Tiny blades for precision work. Cleavers. Jars full of strange liquids and jars full of… pieces. My stomach turns. I also recognize items a chemist might use, tools more likely found in a butcher’s, and other things I cannot begin to place, only glean their grim use from context.
In the midst of all this horror is a tall woman, strong armed but fair featured, with her hair tied back and a heavy leather apron that’s splattered with telling stains. She stands at a worktable that runs along the wall opposite the door, humming as she fiddles with some bubbling concoction, checking an open book at her side. As I watch, sheadds a drop of something, then a healthy measure of something else. With each addition the humming swells. The cooks back at the Cloister kitchens used to do that—hum, sing, gossip among themselves as they worked. I suppose this Renderer is as much a cook as any of them.
I move to the other side of the window, making sure the woman is alone. I’ll need to move fast to surprise her, which means I have to hope she’s had no reason to lock the door. I unsheathe one of my sickles, keeping the other hand free. Open the door, throw a sickle, silence the cook. That’s the plan. Inside, the woman has moved on to a vat bubbling on a brazier. She takes a handful of what looks like wet entrails and tosses them in. The mixture bubbles and burps, giving off a noxious odor that reaches me, strong enough that I flinch away from the window.
It saves my life.
Something flies by, small but intent, hitting the door barely a hairsbreadth away. It bounces off and falls to the ground—a bolt with a sinister metal tip. I spin as another one flies, barely avoiding it as I draw my second sickle. At the far end of the hall, a man leans around the corner, with what looks like a small crossbow pointed my way. He frowns and curses, and immediately, four more figures appear. I recognize Baldy and the woman from the barn and—with more surprise—the cleric from the chapel.Unbelievable.I guess I should have learned my lesson after Avery. Weapons drawn, they encroach on me. I move to meet them.
“Shoot her!” My traitorous cleric friend sounds nearly in a panic as the man with the crossbow contraption raises it again. I lunge, colliding with him before he can get the shot off, pushing him into the wall even as the point of my sickle drags across the cleric’s midsection. A desperate move, but necessary. The man with the darts lets out a hollow gasp, wind knocked from his lungs as the cleric stumbles back, catching his spilling guts. No time to savor that little victory; I barely avoid the swing of Baldy’s sword. It hits the wall with a metallic ring, nearly decapitating his friend, who lets out another choking wheeze. Pushing away, I back into the hall with the door, sickles raised. Not a lot of time to think. At my feet lies the weapon used to launch the bolts; its owner dropped it. At least I know now how they managed to get Nolan.And if whatever poison is on those darts is enough to subdue one ofus, I need to avoid even a scratch. I raise my foot and bring it down on the crossbow; it crunches beneath my heel.
“Get those blades off her!” the woman orders. She’s got a nasty dagger in one hand, but it’s the other that’s more concerning. Empty, but reaching into her bag. I can guess what she’s going for.
“Okay.” I lob a sickle her way. She’s fast enough to try to avoid it, not fast enough to actually manage. A scream sounds as it catches her above her elbow. Everything below it drops, including the crossbow she was reaching for. She backs into the wall and slides down it, blood pouring as she drops the dagger, but Baldy is unfazed, spotting the opening. He and the other uninjured Renderer surge toward me, blades swinging. I turn away Baldy’s sword, twisting around him in time to avoid a wild swing by his friend. Even so, I know this is a bad situation. I’m down one sickle and these two know how to fight—I can see it in their movements—and the Renderer with the darts is near to catching his breath. I need room to maneuver. Time to think. Dodging another blow, I go for the door. I don’t even need to break the lock; it opens easily, letting loose the foul smells within as I plunge into the room. Immediately, a line of fire scorches down my biceps. I drop to a knee, roll away before another one of the Cook’s surprise swings ends the fight. The cut is deep, but I count my blessings once I see what did it: a massive cleaver that looks like it could behead a bull in one blow. The Cook wields it two-handed, serpent’s gaze trained on me as the other Renderers push into the room.
“Leesh?” Nolan. Sadly, there’s no time to savor the baffled surprise filling his eyes. “Lut ne oos.”
Let me loose.A good blow from my sickle would probably snap the chains, but I have no interest in adding one more to the number of people trying to kill me. “Shush and stay put. I’ll get to you in a bit.” I assess the group again. “Hopefully.”
Three people trying to kill me… no, four. Crossbow has recovered enough to join the others, sword drawn. I back further into the room, to where the horrid concoctions bubble. I regret not paying closer attention to the Cloister chemistry lessons, but it’s not like I have time to take inventory anyway. I grab the most sinister-looking vial and launchit at Crossbow. He tries to move, but the doorway has gotten crowded, and my aim is good. The vial shatters, splattering his face and torso with something that, given his screams, is exactly the sort of brew I hoped it was. He stumbles back into the passage. But the Cook comes at me, moving around Nolan’s table with a surprising speed. Baldy and the other remaining Renderer—a lanky man with a scar on one cheek—come around the other side in an attempt to squeeze me.
That’s their first mistake. They may work as a pack, but skilled or not, they clearly haven’t trained to fight as one. I duck a swing of the cleaver and slip between the two swords, Scar’s blow sinking into the wooden worktable and sticking there. I put him between me, Baldy, and the Cook, using him as a shield as he attempts to free his weapon. Second mistake: Baldy attempts to attack around his companion, instead of through him, a sacrifice that might have actually achieved an advantage. But his angle is awkward, and he moves within my reach. I slice him across the chest and he falls back, blood pouring. By then, my shield has gotten his sword unstuck, and Cook is inching forward, searching for any opening. They’re getting desperate, their eyes bright with it. And desperation leads to clumsiness.
They attack as a pair. I deflect one blow and dodge another, driving the point of my sickle into an unguarded chest. It finds Scar’s heart; he’s dead before he hits the ground.
But it’s the chance Cook was looking for. Her cleaver comes crashing down—I never saw her raise it—and I barely twist away, its edge so close that I feel the painful kiss of it. I touch my ear; a small chunk is missing from the curve. Annoyed, I lunge, getting inside her reach as she raises the cleaver again. I strike, opening up her throat.
“Ack.” The only word I ever hear from her. Drowning in her own blood, she falls, sprawling out across the workroom floor.
She’s done. Which leaves Baldy. I turn to him. Impressively, he’s still on his feet, an arm pressed to his wound and mad as hell.
