priest steadied him. ‘You look pale, Assessor. Are you well?’
Bakune nodded, curtly, gestured the priest on. ‘I have to know,’ he gasped through his teeth. ‘Please.’
Obviously against his better judgement the priest relented. He released Bakune. ‘If you must. Stay behind me.’
Together they walked the halls and rooms of the Cloister. The priest’s path seemed to be taking him unerringly towards the inner chapel of Our Blessed Lady. Early on they came to more bodies. ‘These are all priests and acolytes of the Lady!’ Bakune exclaimed, shocked.
The corpses lay like twisted dolls amid dropped boxes and chests, bundled clothes and even silver icons all tumbled together. ‘Looks like they were packing,’ the priest observed drily. Bakune winced, seeing blood pooled and caked around mouths, nostrils, glazed eyes, and even ears. He swallowed, tasting iron in his own throat.
As they neared the inner chapel, the corpses lay even more thickly. Heaped, even. Picking his way between them Bakune imagined he was seeing most of the hierarchy of the entire abbey. ‘Who could have done this?’ he whispered, awed. Again the priest did not answer.
They came to the chapel doors, which stood slightly open. The priest pulled one leaf aside, revealing a scene of devastation. Heavy stone pews lay scattered like toys. Dark stains marked swaths across the gleaming polished granite floor. Mangled bodies lay pushed up against walls as if flattened by the blows of a giant. The stink of blood and voided body fluids drove Bakune to cover his nose and mouth with a sleeve. After a few moments, the priest entered. His sandals slapped noisily on the tacky smeared stone floor. Bakune followed even though he did not wish to — he feared being separated from the priest even more.
Ahead, sitting on the white marble altar stone beneath a broad shimmering starburst tapestry of gold and silver thread, waited a tiny figure. A child. A young girl with long black hair wearing a plain orphan’s smock.
She smiled, brightening, and slid off the altar. ‘Ipshank!’ she piped, delighted. ‘You’ve come!’
The priest gave a slight bow. ‘M’lady.’
Bakune stared at the man. Ipshank? Where had he heard that name before? Of course! Renegade! One of the highest of the Lady’s hierarchy to throw off her worship. That was during the first invasion. The animal tattooing… turned to one of the foreign gods then. Now I begin to understand.
Ipshank inclined his head to indicate the tossed bodies crumpled amid the broken stonework. ‘Still as impatient as ever, I see.’
The child stamped her foot and the entire edifice shuddered around them. Dust came sifting from the hidden ceiling and enormous blocks of stone grated and shifted. Candelabra hung on long chains from the darkness above swung overhead, moaning. ‘They would flee! Flee!’ Bakune clamped his hands to his ears in agony. He fell to his knees. Warmth made him pull his hands away — blood smeared his palms. A pink mist swam before his vision.
‘And this one?’ the child’s voice asked.
‘He had to see with his own eyes what no one could convince him of.’
‘Well, he has seen enough.’ A blow like the slap of a battering ram batted Bakune aside. He struck a fallen stone pew, heard bones crack. The agony blackened his vision for a time. But he fought to retain his consciousness: he had to see! Had to witness!
‘You have reconsidered my offer?’ the child was saying.
‘You know the answer to that,’ came the man’s coarse gravelly voice.
‘A pity. Now you are bereft. You betray me, and then that god you clove to… the one your grunting ancestors squirmed before… the beast
… you rejected him as well! Such an honour he offered you! Destriant! Arch-priest! And now he is cast down. Who could possibly be next for you? Truly, I am curious. Who will you run to next?’
‘None. I’ve made up my own.’
A very un-girlish laugh echoed through the chapel. ‘Your own? You cannot do that!’
‘I have done so. And I have sent it out into the world to make its own way.’
‘Enough foolishness, Ipshank. I renew my offer. Be my Destriant. The power you will wield will be unlimited. Join me! I have found my High Mage. And my Mortal Sword — or should I say Spear? He awaits my enemies on the Stormwall. Together we will sweep these invaders from our shores.’
‘I am sorry, m’lady, but it is too late for that. They are here now. Banith is defenceless. You must withdraw.’
‘Withdraw? Leave? This is mine!’
The building shook beneath another blow. The floor bounced, shifting the strewn wreckage, and glass shattered all along the walls. A candelabrum fell to explode in shards. Something wet struck Bakune and he turned his head, blinking and squinting. It was an arm. The arm led to the robed body of the Abbot Starvann Arl. The priest had been right: he would not see Bakune. For no legs emerged from beneath those wet stained robes, and upon his bearded face, frozen surprise. Stunned astonishment. You thought you could control her, didn’t you? And perhaps, over time, you came to think you were in charge. You came to think that she truly was just a child. You poor deluded fool.
‘No? You will not go? Very well.’ Sandals slapped the wet sticky floor. Gentle arms lifted Bakune. ‘Stay then, if you must. Those inhuman Moranth are coming. I leave you to them. Best of luck… I hear they have no blood within their armour.’
‘No! How dare you! I order you to stop!’
Bakune watched the chapel swing around him as he was carried to the doors. ‘Goodbye. I can’t imagine what they’ll do to you.’
‘Come back!’ the child shrieked. ‘I demand that you return! Do not leave me!’
Past the doors, they were halfway down the hall when a great scream tore the air around them. The almost inhuman noise was like a spike penetrating Bakune’s skull and he yelled his agony, bashing the heels of his hands to his forehead as if he could force the needle points from behind his eyes. The priest, Ipshank, paused, shaking his head to clear it, then set Bakune down. ‘Wait here.’
Bakune could not even speak to answer. He lay propped up against the wall, panting in agony.
Shortly, Ipshank returned; he carried the young girl slack in his arms.
‘Is she… dead?’ Bakune mumbled, and he spat out a mouthful of blood.
Ipshank shook a negative. ‘No. Unconscious. She will awaken remembering nothing.’ He extended an arm and pulled Bakune upright. The Assessor clutched hold of the man’s shoulder to take one limping step. ‘So… who is she?’
‘Just a vessel. A body used and cast aside. An avatar, some might say.’
‘Then… what of the Lady?’
They were approaching the entrance hall and the priest was peering ahead, frowning in puzzlement. ‘She is elsewhere, as I said.’
Bakune squinted as well: the outer doors were closed and barred. With Hyuke and Puller was Manask. But Bakune frowned, for it looked as if both ex-Watchmen were struggling to stab the giant with a spear. Then the scene reversed itself in Bakune’s rattled mind and it became clear that both men were struggling to yank out a spear stuck in the huge man’s chest. Hyuke had one foot up against Manask’s stomach and was heaving while Puller was jerking the haft up and down. Manask himself had his back to a wall, both fists on the haft, his face crimson with effort.
‘Ah ha!’ he called, noticing them. ‘The holy man comes descending from the mount! What wisdom for us mere mortals?’
‘Find anything, Manask?’
The giant’s eyes flicked left and right. ‘Why… no. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. No sacks of pretty gems set aside in secret hordes. No jewel-encrusted gold icons. Odd that, a cloister without icons! No stone chest of gold coins so large I could not move it hidden in the foundations. A shame that. In short, I come away empty-handed.’ And he let go the spear.
‘And this?’ Ipshank flicked the end of the spear haft.
‘A mere token of affection from the thousands of devout surrounding us.’
Ipshank’s brows rose. ‘Ah. I see.’
Hyuke peered at the girl. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A survivor,’ Bakune quickly said. ‘Everyone else is dead.’
Ipshank eyed him for a moment, saying nothing. He looked to Hyuke. ‘Find me somewhere she can
