The Pleasure of Memory (20 page)

The dark figure began to shake. Then it convulsed violently. It twisted away from the monk as it dropped sidelong into the grass. The yellow charge followed its misplaced hands as it collapsed. The mysterious yellow light raced chaotically across the grass, leaving a fiery trail in its wake before landing on the log house. Beam rolled clear just as the logs above him exploded into flames.

He scrambled hastily out into the yard. His shirt and britches were smoking and he could smell the singed hair of his beard. The beast was still shrieking behind him, though less enthusiastically now. The yellow lightning was gone, leaving only the smoking corpses and the impending dusk fractured by the light of the burning house in its wake.

As he watched the creature convulsing in the grass, its scream faded to silence, and then the beast fell still.

The thing lay half on its side, propped up by the sword hilt sticking out of its back, its arms bent up stiffly at the elbows, its fingers reduced to stubs of glowing, molten steel. A few stubborn yellow sparks danced and popped across the smoking armor before finally dissipating into the earth beneath it.

He watched as the monk walked over to the dead beast. The man moved as quickly and deliberately as if he were doing nothing more dangerous than crossing the room for another bowl of stew. His apparent lack of fear for a creature that’d nearly sent him to a better life surprised Beam. Then again, if the man’s appearance was any indication, he probably lacked the faculties to understand what’d just happened.

The monk squatted before the mangled armor. The creature’s tarry face was pocked and cratered, and any human resemblance it once possessed was now gone forever.

Beam scaled his way to his feet. It took more effort than pleased him. His ribs were fully awake now and screaming for his attention. Bracing his side, he limped toward the monk. “Damn me, what in the name of Calina was that?” he asked the man.

Just as the question tripped from his lips, the dead creature’s misplaced yellow eyes flared and the armor heaved. Beam jumped back, but the armor immediately collapsed into the grass and went still. Steam hissed from the armor’s neck and melted fingertips, and the yellow eyes faded to gray. Then the head abruptly collapsed in on itself and a great rush of tarry liquid retched up from the neck of the armor. Beam watched the oily fluid slowly stream into the grass.

The monk poked the smoking suit with his toe. “It’s dead,” he said

“You think so?” Beam said, forcing a laugh, “I mean, what with it not having a head and all?”

“No, I mean…you killed it.”

“So it seems.”

Beam looked up at the monk, who stood a few inches taller than he did. The man was leaning into his queer staff, the end of which terminated in a hand holding a kind of blue jewel. The monk was staring at him too intently. His face was soot streaked, his long brown hair a wild tangle, his robes scorched and ripped. He looked fully insane in the light of the burning house, leaving Beam to wonder if he’d slayed the right man.

It was enough to convince him that he’d overstayed his welcome. It was absolutely time to bid his farewell to this madness. He pushed the empty suit over with his foot. Strings of tar stretched from the neck hole to the black puddle in the grass. The once golden cloak was now little more than smoking tatters. The suit was all one piece, like the cast of a statue. There were no joints or chinks that one would expect to see in normal armor. It provided an unwanted familiarity.

“Just like the cave,” he whispered to himself.

“What did you say?” the monk asked.

Before Beam could respond, a burning log exploded on the house. Sparks and flaming resins swirled up toward the darkening heavens on an agitated current. The flames were already devouring the thatch roof. There was no saving the house now. Beam turned back in time to see the monk pulling the sword from the empty armor.

“Whoa!” he yelled at the man, “What the hell do you think you’re doing there?”

The monk held the sword up, turning the weapon back and forth as he examined the hilt. The red glow was already fading from the eye in the pommel. “Where did you get this?” he asked as he studied it.

“Thanks, Brother,” Beam said, relieving the monk of the weapon, “I’ll take that now.” He was surprised to see there was no tar on the blade. He quickly slid the weapon through his belt.

“Where did you get that?” the monk asked again. The intensity in his gaze was growing more demanding.

The last thing Beam wanted was to incite a crazy monk, especially after the kind of day he’d just had. Instead, he opted to ignore the question. He turned away and walked back to his crossbow, which he quickly spanned and reloaded.

“I asked where you got that sword,” the monk said again.

Great, Beam thought, in the midst of all this insanity, the monk wanted to chat about his weapons, maybe exchange a few dueling tips.

He lifted the crossbow and turned to face the monk. “Look, Brother,” he said, “If I were you, I’d forget the sword and prepare for company.”

“What are you talking about?”

Beam looked over toward the edge of the mountainside. The path from the house dropped out of view just this side of an odd red chair. The savages had to be nearly up the mountainside by now, and he knew the first wave would be just a few of their best runners. He couldn’t flee without first surveying the situation and remedying the immediate threat.

He jogged over to the mountain’s edge, stopping beside the stone chair. The sight greeting him there was exactly as bad as he’d expected. Looking up at him from twenty feet down the steep hillside were six extremely winded warriors. They stood in a surprisingly orderly line down the path below, and they seemed every bit as startled as he was.

He wasted no time with greetings. At such short range, the bolt easily pierced the foremost Vaemyn’s mail. The impact threw the warrior back into his compatriots who collectively tumbled away in an avalanche of pale flesh.

“Fair turnabout, you bastards!” Beam yelled at the pile.

He turned to flee and plowed straight into the monk. He managed to stay on his feet, though the monk fell hard to the dirt.

“Brother,” Beam said to the fallen man, “I believe this party’s over! You best make for the trees while you still can.”

Wasting no time to help him up, Beam ran for his gear. He stopped to retrieve a bolt from one of the charred corpses, but the shaft was too hot. He cursed and shook the burn from his hand. He was about to make another pass when a chorus of screams ripped through the impending dusk.

He turned back toward the path and saw the monk standing beside the chair with his staff leveled down the mountainside. Beam could see the dancing line of blue lightning sizzling over the side of the hill. The man was a grim silhouette against the glowing blue smoke.

When the last scream died, the blue light went out, but the monk didn’t move. He just stood there, his backside bathed in the orange flames of the fire, his form shimmering demonically against the growing shadows. Then he threw his head to the darkening sky and released a mournful wail. It was a scene from a nightmare, sinister and grim, and utterly devoid of hope.

Then the man turned toward Beam. He looked fully mad in the light of the burning house.

Having been raised in a priory, Beam knew that when a monk goes bad, it can get very ugly. Men like these had years of pent-up good behavior to vent. He figured this would be about as good a time as any to leave.

XI

SANCTUARY

EAM WAITED IN THE TREE UNTIL THE MONK PASSED BENEATH HIM.

He pushed off from the branch and landed in a crouch with his loaded crossbow leveled at the man's back. His ribs kicked him a shock of pain that nearly stole his breath away, but he forced himself to recover and aimed his crossbow at the man.

The monk stumbled to a stop, and then slowly turned round with his staff leveled menacingly.

“Lower your stick, Brother,” Beam said seriously. His pain had him sweating like a pig. He hoped the man wouldn’t notice through the dusk.

“Lower yours first.”

Beam studied him as he considered his options. He wondered how he’d fare if the monk fired first.

“You don’t need that,” the monk said, nodding at Beam’s crossbow, “I’m not your enemy.”

“Damn good thing. I’ve seen what happens to your enemies.”

The man seemed to consider the remark.

“I'm surprised to see you here,” Beam said, “I’d have thought the savages would've freed you from your skin by now.” He threw a quick glance back at the path.

The monk only watched him. In the failing, dusky light, he almost looked sane.

“The savages back at the hill?” Beam pressed, “Dead?”

The man nodded.

“All of them? You killed them? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Despite the soot and blood streaked face, despite the bloodshot eyes and hysterical hair, Beam believed him. “Seems we have a common enemy,” he said for lack of anything better.

“The Vaemyn aren’t my enemy.”

“Really? I imagine the corpses littering your lawn might argue differently.”

“They’re not my enemy! Not...not all of them.”

“Those weren’t renegades back there,” Beam said on a half laugh, “They were warriors, Brother, decked full out in Vaemysh military standards. That means their bad behavior has the blessing of the state.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Nothing complicated about it,” Beam said, “When a savage attacks, you can be confident he’s speaking for everyone in his tribe. Believe me, I know.”

“Did the Vaemyn do that?”

At first, Beam didn’t understand. Then he remembered his face. “What, my eye?” he said, grinning, “Nah. Got that from a bad day of swimming.”

The monk frowned at that. “But they
were
chasing you.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’ve no reason to fear me. If I wanted you dead, you would be. Your arrows wouldn’t prevent it.”

“Bolts.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re bolts. Not arrows, bolts.”

The monk seemed momentarily confused by that. “Blood of the gods, what possible difference could it make?” he said with obvious irritation, “We need to help each other.”

“Nah, I don’t play well on teams,” Beam said, “Besides, I think you’re full of shit.”

The man bristled. “What did you say to me?”

Beam watched the man adjust his grip on the staff. His knuckles were too white by a mile. He resolved that if the monk made any sign he was about to use that weapon, he’d unleash a bolt first. He didn’t want to kill the man unnecessarily, but he’d seen what that stick could do. He couldn’t take the chance of being one heartbeat too late.

He nodded his head back toward the house. “What about the savages back there? I saw what they were doing.”

“I told you,” the monk said, “They’re dead. I boiled them.”

“Not the savages back on the path. I meant the ones trying to take your head.”

The monk didn’t respond to that. He glanced off into the forest in the direction of the house. Then he looked back at Beam. After a moment, he lifted his staff and stood it beside him.

Beam didn’t lower his crossbow. “Well?” he asked, “Why were they trying to kill you?”

“It’s a question I’d like answered myself.”

Beam considered him. The man seemed calmer now, almost sensible. His defenses told him the man wasn’t truly a threat. Given the enthusiasm with which his ribs were kicking at his chest, he decided to lower his weapon. Still, he kept both hands on it.

“My name’s Chance Gnoman,” the monk said, “That was my house back there.”

Beam threw another quick glance back the way they’d come. Even from a mile away, the dark sky above the forest harbored an angry orange glow in reflection of the burning house. He turned back to the monk.

The monk was leaning into his staff. Even factoring in his disheveled appearance, the man looked exhausted. “We have a better chance at survival if we work together,” he said to Beam.

“Brother, you may not be my enemy, but you’re not my friend, either. I don’t know a thing about you, except that the whole of the savage nation seems intent on seeing your ass sincerely dead.”

“We have to help each other,” the monk pressed, “We’re stronger conjoined. I can help you. I know every inch of this forest.”

Gerd’s sorry face bolted into Beam’s mind. He steadied himself against a rush of regret. “No, Brother,” he said firmly, “I just don’t like taking on partners. My luck’s always best when I’m the only one I have to worry about. No offense intended.”

He didn’t wait for a response, but instead moved around the monk and broke into a trot.

A dozen yards later, he heard the monk tromping behind him. He stopped and turned on him with his crossbow up and leveled. “Goddamn you, Brother, are you deaf or stupid? I told you I don’t want a bloody partner!”