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Chapter 4
Cerce fought to open her eyes. There was pain there, but she couldn't remember why. She raised a hand to rub away the sleep. Her mind felt muddled, like she'd awoken in the middle of a dream. She tried to remember. She felt that it might have been something scary, or something cold, but it was gone now.
Sunlight was streaming through the window, warm, and Cerce wondered why she hadn't been awoken for breakfast. Sitting up, she looked down at herself. The tiny wooden bed in the corner of the big room, so much smaller than the other big bed across the room.
Yawning, she stood from her little bed and stretched out. Her nightshirt was so long it almost touched the floor around her feet. The wooden floorboards of the bedroom had a reassuring feel to them, the curves and uneven surfaces so familiar, so distinct. She knew every tiny knot in the old wood. She trod it carefully, touching each board with her toes as she stepped across the floor and headed towards the small staircase in the corner.
She was forgetting something. Cerce stopped. Back again, the dream seemed to come close. She had the horrible feeling that she'd forgotten something important, a friend left behind. Of course! She quickly hurried back to her bed and searched in the sheets for him.
Cerce retrieved the little cloth doll and hugged him close. The stitched on face smiled back at her. With him dangling from a hand, Cerce proceeded down to the kitchen.
It was warm down there, smells and light filled Cerce's senses. The big old ceramic oven dominated the room, always lit and filling the house with reassuring warmth. There was food cooking, the smell of freshly baked bread.
Standing, so tall, with her gleaming white hair bright in the morning sun, was a woman. Cerce could see her deft hands chopping at vegetables on the wooden countertop. Cerce skipped forward to hug her legs, and the woman turned, bright loving eyes looking down. Cerce cried out in joy.
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"Mommy...." Cerce whispered.
Her voice was cracking and faint, and she proceeded to cough dust and blood out. Her chest pounded with pain and she blinked her eyes open. There was no way to tell if they were open or closed. Or maybe if she was blind. She knew she'd said something but couldn't remember what it was.
She breathed in and coughed again. The air was stale, cold like the grave, chilling her lungs. Her lips were chapped and cracking, coated in dust.
Cerce fought to remember where she was. Her head swam with thoughts. A scream, a face just like her own. A mix of relief and fear. Revulsion and recognition.
She'd fallen, she was certain of that much. Her left leg pulsed with pain, and she ran a hand down it to search for injury. It hurt, and there was a deep ache in the meat of her thigh, but she couldn't feel breaks or blood, so considered herself lucky.
Fighting to her feet, Cerce reached out, hands waving in the darkness for purchase. It was so silent she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Vertigo twisted her senses as she took a hesitant step forward, shifting her feet over the stone beneath them. She felt like she'd dropped far into the Earth, but had no concept of how far she'd gone, or how much further there may still be to fall.
The mountain. She'd fallen down into the mountain below the monastery. She brushed at her body, still feeling the places where hands had snatched at her, tore at clothing, ripped out hair.
She knew she'd forgotten something important. She held her breath and listened.
Absolutely nothing, no sound found her ears, and Cerce sighed. Wherever Adam was, it wasn't close.
She dropped to a crouch, and swept her hands around the floor. There wasn't much chance, but she had to try. The stone was smooth and cold and old, and she felt her way around the curves and lines and shapes of them. Feeling the shape of them gave her a sudden strangely nostalgic wave, like she'd done it before. She whispered, urging her hands to come across the familiar shaft of her halberd, but there was nothing.
Instead, she stood and decided to move forward. She searched for a breeze, for a sense of direction, but there was nothing. Just the ground beneath her and a feeling of emptiness. She knew she must be below the earth, deep in the cold mountain, but the strange semi-lucidity that was insistently pulling at Cerce's senses kept telling her the opposite. She tried to focus, slow her breathing, slow her pulse. Cerce knew her body was resistant to poisons, whatever affliction blighted the air she would acclimate fast. She just had to get through it.
Every moment she allowed her mind to wander from focus, it slipped into strange places. The feeling that she was not confined continually washed over her, as if the darkness around her extended off into an impossibly huge space.
The feeling of size and empty space was suddenly terrifying, and Cerce fought to calm her breathing. The blackness was so complete that her eyes began to fool her, and she imagined staring eyes the size of mountains glinting at her, perceiving the edges and vague shapes of things moving in the darkness bigger than the world.
The sensation sent her tumbling forward, the hugeness of it impossible to grasp. Her hands found the ground and she fought to protect her limbs. Claws scratched on the cold stone, and the feeling of material came to her fingertips.
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Cerce rubbed the soft material of her mothers skirts in her little fingers. She felt the reassuring tussle of her choppy hair as her mother reached down.
Looking up into those deep blue eyes, Cerce had the strangest feeling. Like she hadn't been here in so long. It made her eyes fill with tears immediately. Her mother's voice came then, like chiming bells. The very sound of it knocked the breath from the little girl.
She cried then, and was lifted up into her mother's arms. The welling, awful feeling of childhood impotency filled her, unable to articulate or explain. She hadn't the knowledge she needed, she didn't know the right words to use to make anyone understand what she was feeling.
Her mother just held her, and bounced her in those arms, and cooed small reassurances in her ear.
Soon, Cerce was placed down on the ground again. The wood of the kitchen floor warm beneath her bare feet. The house was so small, but to Cerce it loomed large. The wooden table, just a touch too high to see on top of without standing on her tiptoes, the old shelves filled with jars and books.
The many containers on the shelves always fascinated Cerce, the multitude of coloured glass jars, ceramic pots sealed with wax or muslin. When cooking, her mother would reach for them, taking them clinking from the shelves and pulling a herb, unguent, or a glitter of spice from one. Cerce used to watch, like watching a wizard work, as her mother created magic. The musical sound of the jars clinking together would echo through the house, and as Cerce reached up to touch one of the little glass jars, they were so cold.
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The feeling of cold glass was under Cerce's fingertips, and she gripped onto it, searching for anything in the darkness. A row of bottles, maybe. How long had she been on her knees? She wasn't sure all of a sudden.
One object tipped over and rolled aside, the empty glass ringing as it moved across the stone floor. She shook her head, her blurry thoughts making it hard to focus on any of her senses. She sniffed at one of the bottles, momentarily confused that they were empty. Having no idea what she'd expected to be in one, she placed it back down and warily rising, continued her way forward.
Cerce turned, glancing over her shoulder. She wracked her brain again, knowing someone was just with her, a reassuring presence whose absence left her feeling so suddenly alone. She shook her head, and let out a cough, just to hear something. The noise echoed, coming back to Cerce and breaking the spell of emptiness the place held around her. It was a room, and she could find her way out.
Treading carefully, her hands outstretched, Cerce moved on. If nothing else, the cold down here would kill fastest. Sapping strength and chilling the bone. Cerce could feel her joints stiffening from the cold, intermingling with the ache of bruises from the fall until she couldn't tell which ended where. Her lungs hurt from breathing the frigid air, and Cerce let out a growl, half of frustration, half to convince herself that her terror wasn't real.
Just when the hopelessness of the dark threatened to overwhelm her again, Cerce's boots scuffed against rough ground. Just for a moment, but something was there. She dropped to a crouch and slid her hands across the stones, and her fingers found it. Jagged grooves, harsh on the fingertips and occasionally sharp. A far cry from the smooth edges of the ancient stone, Cerce realized what she was feeling.
Crawling on all fours, Cerce followed the scratches as they continued, trailing a way through the black labyrinth following in whatever great object had been dragged there. The stones were hard on her knees, and the exertion of movement coupled with the excitement of making progress was making Cerce breathe faster. At the back of her throat there was a taste, a faint aroma that Cerce couldn't put her finger on. Somewhere between lavender and rot, and as she scratched along on the cold stone, it grew stronger. It was so hard to tell, she wanted it so desperately, but Cerce swore a breeze was bringing the smell to her. She continued crawling.
It seemed an age there in the dark, the stones continuing on endlessly, following the scratches, the occasional brush of a wall, the sense of shape in the dark.
Cerce cursed loudly as her head bumped into something hard. Her claws found firm, worked edges. The heavy weight of the object having dragged scratches across the floor halfway through this place. As she slowly stood, her fingertips found meticulously fine carvings, delicate shapes. It was when Cerce found the breasts that she realized she was touching a life sized statue of a human figure. Reaching out, Cerce could tell the figure stood a few feet higher than her, both arms broken at the shoulder. She was about to move on before she gave a cry of satisfaction, finding the sconce at the statue's back. Her hands found purchase and she pulled the heavy wooden torch from it.
The cloth wrapped around its end was hard and chilled, but seemed dry. Cerce fumbled at her belt for the pouch containing her tinderbox, the same little kit she'd had since she was a kid hammering away at things in her father's forge. She dropped to a crouch, shielding her work against the statue's side, claws working with practiced precision to get the kit producing sparks. It gave her a warm feeling, somewhere deep inside, to be reminded of her father.
Varten had given Cerce the kit in the forge one evening. She could remember the sweat on his bald head reflecting the glow of the forge as he guided her slender hands in his great calloused mitts. A whiff of smoke caught Cerce's nostrils, and she stared down at it, the new light painful to her eyes as deep in the folds of the rag, flames began to burn.
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Cerce felt her mothers hand on her shoulder, a reassuring squeeze as she looked into the fire of the little hearth. The house was small, and the ceilings low, so it warmed fast. Soon the fire was blazing, logs crackling away, and Cerce sat cross legged before it, watching the wood curve and twist. The warm orange glow filled the room, bathing it in deep shadow. Cerce looked back over her shoulder and watched her shadow fill the wall behind her and giggled.
It was safe there, toasty in the room. Cerce looked back to where her mother stood, tending a boiling pot. Slowly, she circled her spoon in the concoction, before raising it to her mouth and testing the broth. Seeing Cerce peering up at her, she gave a wink and a secret little smile. Then, there was a knock on the door, a familiar, rhythmic knock. The same one he always used. Cerce sprung to her feet and scampered to the door to meet him.
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Cerce found she was staring into the flame atop the torch, the heat on her face soothing the freezing chill that had chapped her lips and left her nose numb. She blinked, staring into the flame. Something had roused her attention, a noise. The darkness around her was deeper now in light of the blaze atop the torch, and Cerce raised the torch in front of her, and almost jerked back in shock as a face was immediately revealed.
The stone features of the statue peered back at Cerce, a tall and beautiful figure. She was draped in a gown, the same soft white stone as her flesh, every curve and wrinkle of the material so delicate it almost moved. Cerce felt compelled to reach out to touch it, and found that sure enough, the statue and her garments were unmoving, unchanging stone. The flicker of her torch on the features gave a movement to the statue that was oddly unnerving, but somehow still comforting, not to feel so alone in this place.
As she looked up at the face, its sad smile sightlessly staring forward, Cerce became aware she wasn't looking at a rendition of a human figure. The ears were pointed, but not with the elegant curved helix of Elven anatomy. The lips were wide, coming out across the cheeks in a smooth bow. Cerce shook her head, finding it difficult to believe what she was seeing.
She reached up to touch the face, to run fingertips down the cheekbones and across the lips. Imperceptible lines of familiar anatomy were here reflected with as much care and craft as had been devoted to the fine filigree of the gown she wore. In all her years, Cerce had never seen a statue of a Nadyr.
It was a strange feeling, to look up at the face, and an overwhelming feeling of melancholy washed over Cerce as she did. Peering up at a face like her own gave her a sudden feeling of loss that sat in her chest, formless and directionless. Cerce found herself angry that the statue had been dragged down here, and was taken with the sudden urge to find a way to rescue it, to bring it back out into the sun.
There was a noise, an echoing knock somewhere far above, that brought Cerce from her thoughts and back into the room. Raising the torch high, she realized the room had an open ceiling, a huge circular gap. Echoes of noise travelled down it from above, metal on metal, the distinctive murmur of voices. Chanting. A shrill voice cut through the darkness above the others, and Cerce found herself brushing her hair out the way as it blew into her face to listen. She realized that the ghost of a breeze blowing around her was coming from below, not with the voices from above.
Following the stare of the statue, Cerce found herself gazing down into the depths of a great void in the floor. Her feet only a step from the edge, she was taken with a sudden swagger of vertigo, and stepped back to steady herself against the statue. Leaning, she found the breeze was coming up from the pit, a chill wind that was bringing with it the scent that seemed to permeate the whole floor.
Extending her torch out before her, Cerce was met with a blackness so complete it gave a rise of horror in her gut, and the edges of her vision fooled her into imagining something rising from the black void below. The flames of her torch were bright, and the hole in the ceiling was well illuminated, the perfectly smooth sides leaving no hope for a handhold or a way to ascend. Below though, it seemed the light was hesitant to reveal what lay below Cerce's feet, and she took a step back, taken with the sudden dread impression that her light was slowly retreating from the darkness. It was impossible to tell how far through into the mountain the fistular pit cut, but Cerce would have believed in that moment that it went on forever.
Far up from above in the loftier halls of the monastery, there was a cry. A yell of protest, of pain. Cerce grit her teeth. With the torch held blazing before her into the blackened hall, she strode forward, steady at first, her boots thudding against the stones. Seeking any way up through the bowels of the monastery, Cerce began to run.
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Cerce's bare feet padded across the dirt ground of the thoroughfare and she giggled as she ran. The boy from the butcher shop was just ahead, his quick little feet darting. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, lips spread in a grin, and he gave a yelp somewhere between surprise and hilarity when he saw how fast Cerce was gaining on him. His laughter made him almost trip, and Cerce snatched at the back of his grubby brown shirt. She jabbed her little fingers into his side, eliciting a squeak of surprise. Cerce darted on by him, leaving him to sit in the street laughing. He pointed frantically in the direction ahead, and Cerce darted onwards. The butcher's boy couldn't play anymore, he was dead now after all.
Thundering through the street, off the dirt road that threads through the town and onto the wooden planks that border past the stores and shops, she ran. Darting under the sign for the smithy, the next child was small enough to pass, her filthy blonde mop of hair brushing the hanging metalworking tools. Cerce came after, almost stumbling and falling as she did so. She thrust a hand out to steady herself against the wall of the little smithy. So cold, the wall was, somehow.
Quickly regaining the trail, Cerce darted again after her quarry. Furious laughter and a scatter of tiny feet alerted her where to go, and the chase began again.
One by one she caught them as she ran, the imagined blade darting into bellies, throats. They fell, laughing to the ground as the green skinned girl continued onwards, chasing her friends down. Some days Cerce was the one running, the one hiding, hands clamped over her mouth desperately trying not to giggle, but not today. Today she was the huntress, and she was always the best at it. The sun rose into view at the end of the street, momentarily filling the world with light as Cerce ran.
The boy whose father kept the livery was the fastest. Older than the other children, his legs were long and he ran beside horses most of his days. Cerce saw him dart around a corner, trying to escape, but she was quicker. Running to cut him off, she threw herself around the stony exterior of the old inn, the one that smelled weird. Stumbling and almost skinning her knees on the uneven stones of the building, Cerce crossed the door and out into the alley beyond, straight into the path of her quarry.
He tumbled into her, his heavy form bowling Cerce over, but she was fast, grappling at him until they crashed to the ground together. He struggled to escape, twisting at her little hands as she snatched for purchase. As he turned, his neck twisted before her face, the curve of his pale flesh stretched out before her. Somewhere, deep inside her head, there was a throb. A deep seated imperative, an instinct. The muscles at the back of her jaw twitched involuntarily, and Cerce let the boy go.
As he ran through the dust, making his way to the winning mark, Cerce rubbed her jaw. It ached. Her hands ached too, her knuckles. She looked down at them.
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Cerce's knuckles were covered in blood. She felt splatters of it on her face, on her eyelashes. Her hands were raw and painful. At her feet, the monk gave a splutter through broken teeth. She looked down at him. His dark eyes stared up at her, and he shakily raised a hard to ward off further attack.
His other hand still gripped the improvised weapon, and Cerce stared at it in confusion for a moment. The monk dropped it, the heavy censer clanging to the stone to echo throughout the thin hallway. There was a pain in Cerce's jaw, a tensed muscle, one she hadn't used in a long time. It took her a moment to find the will to relax it.
Behind her, steps leading down to the lower levels were spotted with blood, and the body of another monk was barely visible in the gloom, limbs splayed down the stairs, body still.
Stepping over the quivering form of the monk as he burbled out pleas, Cerce continued down the hallway. Somewhere she'd lost her torch, she couldn't remember where, but the hall was dotted with lit wall sconces now.
The figures in the dark came for her again. Monks wielding staves, simple wooden staffs, one bare handed and screaming. The first Cerce tripped hard with a shove to his chest, her boot neatly stepping behind his own bare foot and bringing him down hard, his head cracking against the stone. The second raised his weapon in both hands, brandishing the stave as though it were a spear to run the advancing Nadyr through. Cerce made a faux leap, darting forward, and when he flinched backward, shot her claws forward to snatch him up by the collar. Hurling the monk into his oncoming comrade, Cerce brought her boot swinging hard into the sides of the men as they fumbled on the ground for footing. A second time, and the pair were sent tumbling, crying out in pain.
The last monk that Cerce passed simply slunk to his knees, crying out in words meaningless to Cerce's ears. His palms raised up to her as if in supplication. She stared into his eyes as she strode past him, and immediately he fell prostrate, tears beginning to fall.
She moved without thinking, her feet pounding the stone, her arms rising to block the clumsy assaults of the monks that swarmed upon her. She lashed out with elbows, breaking noses, shattering teeth. Her knees met groins, guts. Her arms turned the swings of metal sconces, chunks of stone, bare clawing hands. Some monks came yelling at her, their voices sometimes seeming close, sometimes seeming like they echoed from afar. Some came in silence, in fear, like ghosts in the darkness that shied from her light. Cerce's eyes would focus, her strides finding stability and her senses drawing her ever onward, then the next moment she would seem to float, lost in reverie, the labyrinthine halls twisting nonsensically.
Cerce had absolutely no idea how long she had been navigating the cold halls of the monastery. Time seemed to make no impact here. Grasping desperately to hold tight to her thoughts whenever they came clearly, Cerce breathed deep of the chill air. It smelled of stone and ice, incense and unguents. Occasionally a smell would waft past her nostrils. A strange scent, indeterminate and effervescent, that threatened to pull her after it, seeking an origin. She would find herself thinking of a bakery, a fish shop, remembering woodwork, fragments of faces that she could not place but that seemed so real. They teased her, alighting on the edge of memory and on the tip of the tongue, then gone again in a moment.
Stumbling out of a stairwell and onto a flat plateau, Cerce shook herself clear of the enshrouding scent. It was becoming easier to pull herself out of the strange sensation, quicker to gather her wits. She could feel her senses becoming sharper, her thoughts ordering quicker. Her pace increased, boots thundering down the hall as she headed in the only direction she could, towards the sound.
Chapter 5
It had been only a muttered rumble at first, somewhere beyond the walls, but soon Cerce had come to recognize the sharply sang words of prayer. The strangely accented voice of Leece coming from somewhere in the darkness, raised above the clamour of the monks as they searched for her, moved through the tunnels, and above cries that Cerce was only now recognizing as those of children. The closer she came, she more she could identify the shrill voices. They carried through the darkness, reaching her and pulling her forward. A robed figure almost ran into her as Cerce turned the next corner and, flipping him fully with her own weight onto his back, Cerce stepped over him into a suddenly open space. The oppressive walls seemed to give way, and she found herself looking out onto a wide black empty space.
There were glowing red spots in the dim light now, monks carrying lit bundles. Cerce couldn't make out what they were, but they swayed back and forth among a small throng of robed figures, white smoke pouring from them, acrid stench filling the room. Here and there she saw smaller figures, some held by the shoulders, some gripped fully in the arms of the monks. The sounds of children's tears burbled under the chanting.
In the center of the room opened the great yawning pit, travelling down, down into the darkness below, and Cerce realized she come fully up the spiral to the source of the sermon. Across the pit, among the figures that swayed rapturous in his hold, stood Leece. At his feet, knelt bound before the pit, Adam murmured senselessly into a ragged gag. In the Nadyr monks arms, cradled across his body like some strange infant, was Cerce's halberd. His features were hard to make out in the dim light, but it was clear there was no strain in his face, no gritted teeth, no hunched shoulders. Leece was holding the halberd as if it truly were no more than the steel it appeared to be.
Seeing the polearm in the hands of Leece, wielded as light in his hands as any city guardsman resting on his laurels, flooded Cerce with a rush of confused jealousy. His hands slid down the shaft, fingers coiling around Cerce's weapon delicately. The thing may be a curse, but it was her constant companion, it was her burden and hers alone. To see another holding it like only she should have been able to gave her an awful sinking feeling of abandonment. Cerce was reminded suddenly and intensely of one miserable day, years back, carrying an armful of ingots, sporting an aching cheek from where she'd been slapped for talking back. She'd passed by the bakery and saw her friends, her best friends, laughing in there, without her.
Cerce's jaw tightened, her throat suddenly hot with the choke of tears and her lips peeled back. She wouldn't be abandoned again.
She barely felt the impact of the monks throat on her fist, or the next as she slammed him into the ground, skull hitting the stone with a slap, as she strode towards Leece. He may have been able to lift the halberd, to hold it and handle it like any other weapon, but he wasn't trained with the use of it. Cerce recognized his clear unfamiliarity with the weapon immediately in the way he gripped it in unbalanced hands.
Leece's face was lit with madness and excitement when he looked upon Cerce, his voice rising to a crescendo. Cerce couldn't hear his words, they were senseless to her ears. She stared at him a moment longer, halberd raised, swaying in front of the great yawning pit in the center of the room. The convocation crowded closer, bright spots in the dark
Cerce leapt, clearing the hole in the floor with ease. As the pit yawned beneath her, a single moment of numbing chill like nothing she'd ever felt touched Cerce's flesh, and then was gone. She slammed into Adam, knocking him back from the lip. As she rose to her feet, Leece was in her face immediately, the halberd shaft thrust against her chest.
Leece's words were in her ear as she struggled against him, the words sickly and promising, but senseless, in no tongue Cerce had ever heard. She thrust out a leg and followed it with a hip, knocking the monk back a step, and yelled for Adam's attention. This close, she could see the thief's eyes were watery red, rolling and focusing on nothing, he let out a moan of senseless despair.
Cerce heard the heavy clang of the halberd hitting the stone at her feet and Leece leapt at her. With surprising strength Leece struggled against her, fingers finding grasp on her clothes, tugging at her hair. Pulled close, his endless hissing in her face, Cerce held him hard and tensed. Other hands gripped at her, grasping her legs, pulling down, falling about her like dead weight to the cold stone.
Heat brushed Cerce in the face then, a flare of fiery glow, and she was caught full on in the face by one of the burning bundles emissions. The thick white smoke stuck in her nostrils, sweet in the back of her throat. She fought to stay present, to stay conscious of where she was, but she felt her mind wandering away.
The chase. The pounding of feet on warm dirt streets. Laughing.
Cerce gave a roar of denial, her hands scratching the cold stone.
She leapt, grabbing her target. They rolled in the dirt. Laughing.
Cerce's ankles locked behind Leece's waist, and she dragged him down. In his arms, close, the monk struggled, Cerce could smell his flesh, the sweat of perspiration. The back of his neck twisting before her.
The throb came to her then, the awful familiar tension, the muscular twitch at the back of her jaw. Leece's eyes closed, and he leant into her arms, almost in submission. Cerce's jaw made a cracking sound that she felt rather than heard.
It was automatic, instinctual, happening so fast Cerce didn't realize what had happened.
Cerce became aware of a quieting in the monks, a swelling susurrus that spread away from her as the robed bodies cleared back. Her nostrils were full of the burning scent, and her mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. Cerce spat, and with it came the mangled chunk of Leece's vertebrae that had crunched between her teeth. She let his corpse slip to the floor.
Cerce stood, a circle forming around her by the monks. At her side, one of the burning bundles flared, and Cerce reached for it. The bundle was crunchy to the touch, hard like bark, and Cerce tossed it down into the pit. The glow faded into the darkness without a sound.
In silence, one by one the other monks who bore the burning burdens began following, throwing their smoking bundles into the great pit.
Cerce was on her knees, untying Adam's gag when she realized the first of the monks had tossed themselves into the pit too. She heard only the slip and momentary flap of robes, no scream, and the figure was gone.
She clutched Adam to her, his coughing face spluttering for breath, as she watched more of the monks fall. Cerce's heart leapt in horror, until she realized the monks were not dragging their captives with them. The children were standing alone, some in tears, some staring in silence as the monks dropped into the pit. One by one they went.
Soon only one remained. The last of the figures stood over Cerce, her face wet with fresh tears. She stooped, muttering words of thanks over and over, and touched her fingertips into the puddle of blood that leaked from the shattered neck of Brother Leece. She anointed her brow with crimson, and smiled. With another rushed prayer of thanks, she too was gone into the pit, and Cerce was left with nothing but Adam's heaving breaths and the quiet fussing of the children.
She leaned forward, thinking to catch a glimpse of something, deep down in the pit. For all that had entered, there was nothing. It extended only down into blackness, forever.
-
Adam was aware of the cool mountain air on his face, and licked his cold lips. He couldn't remember how he'd got there, outside again. His thoughts were a muddle of confusion, of sudden terror and darkness. He jerked forward, and found himself supported by his friend. Cerce held him up, an arm around his shoulder as he shuffled through the opening in the massive monastery door. The light was blinding.
"What... what did I do?" he said, his tongue feeling heavy, words coming out slurred. Cerce shushed him. There was a smile on her lips, and Adam noticed soon after, a great deal of blood. There was movement around him, and he looked down to see the top of the heads of children. Cerce was shooing them out the door, and they went, two by two, hands clutching small garments around them, shivering against the cold outside. They stared as they left the darkness of the monastery, looking up into the white skies above. Adam put one foot in front of the other, his head lolling against Cerce's shoulder.
Sniffling, shuffling, and one child skipping, the little procession travelled through the courtyard, and into the forest beyond.
Epilogue
Adam watched Cerce as she slung her heavy cloak over her head and folded the hood into place around her hair. She was standing in the street, her gaze unfocused, lost in thought as she fussed with the clasp.
Adam exhaled a breath that seemed to be bringing with it less of a cloud, and looked out down the mountain path that would eventually take them home. Both of them were warm from the meal they'd been served in the tavern, from the brandy one of the children's mothers had brought, from the aromatic rolled cigarettes another's father had handed them. On her back was a satchel of supplies, rolled packages of pastries, breads. A few coins clinked in Adam's pockets, gifts from the people, a tiny amount to add to the paltry sum Willam had produced from the town coffers. They had been offered beds to stay in as long as they liked, but Adam had pressed them to move on after a single exhausted night. The town needed to heal, and besides that, sleep had come rough to the both of them, and they had swiftly agreed that putting some distance between themselves and the monastery would be the best cure for it.
There were spots of water on the ground, icicles growing long and translucent, dripping down from the awnings of buildings and the trees. Looking up to the pale skies, Adam thought that if you were generous, you could even say the sun might shine sometime soon.
There was a great sigh of contentment from behind him, and Adam turned around to see Willam Black beaming at him as he walked to stand with Adam on the little wooden porch.
"Not what you expect, is she?" Willam said, shaking his head. He folded his hands across his chest and continued looking out at Cerce. Adam watched the man from the corner of his eye.
"What were you expecting?" Adam asked. Willam gave a noncommittal huff.
"Oh, I don't know. Not quite so friendly, maybe. Not quite so... pleasant? Agreeable? You know. You imagine something fearsome, when you hear talk of Nadyr."
"And when do you hear talk of them eh? Not many people even ever seen one," Adam said. Willam's smile faltered, before he gave a chuff of a laugh and looked away.
"It's rare, actually, to meet one. Could consider yourself lucky, even. If I were you I'd considered myself damn lucky," Adam continued. He turned as he talked, his hand resting on the curved basket of his rapier.
"Quite..." Willam said, quietly. Adam nodded his head towards Cerce who was nodding and accepting a bundle of something in the street from a sobbing mother.
"To be able to just call upon her, the Nadyr hero, from all the way up here, ask for her by name even, you must have had your heart set. Didn't even send out any other missives I'll bet, no other help needed. You knew just who you wanted." Adam smiled, a glint in his eye. Willam stared back at him.
Slowly, the big man shook his head once. In spite of the chill, there was a bead of sweat on his forehead that wobbled slowly down his brow.
"I did what I had to do, Serra. There was no...The children," he began, his voice breaking. Adam turned fully to him.
"I know. We do what we gotta do," Adam said. He slung he satchel up higher on his back, and then reached to place a hand on Willam's shoulder. A light grip at first.
"Look at her, you look at her and think about how lucky you are, yeah?" Adam whispered, his grip on the fat of Willam's shoulder tightening, "And you think how bloody lucky you are that I don't spit you like a pig for serving her up like that."
Willam gave a single nod, his jowls wobbling, red rimming the white of his blinking eyes, "I didn't have any other choice."
Adam nodded, his hand lifted from the man's shoulder.
"We all do what we got to do, Black. Cerce would say there's nothing else for it."
The man stared after him as Adam left the porch to walk towards Cerce. As she Nadyr turned, she gave the thief a smile. It was a half smile, framed in a bruise and draped in fatigue and something else that Willam Black couldn't pinpoint. He continued to watch as the Stormbringer and the thief left, boots crunching on the wet street, people of his town calling after them, shouting their names.
Willam watched them, and then he spat into the street before him, and turned away.
-
As always, it was a long road home. Adam felt the warmth on his face, blissfully returning as they descended the mountain. Every step away from the monastery seemed to be easing the lingering chill that gripped his guts.
He glanced back over his shoulder to look for Cerce, who trod a dozen steps behind. Her tread quieter than usual, the heavy head of her halberd swinging in her grip.
"What's got you so quiet, Slither?" Adam asked.
Cerce looked up, her azure eyes taking in the grey light and reflecting clouds.
"There was a statue...way down, back in the monastery..." She opened her mouth to say something more, then seemed to reconsider, chewing on her lip.
Adam turned back, in time to avoid dunking his already soaked boots in another puddle, and soon enough heard the heavy footsteps of the Stormbringer striding up to keep pace.
"Where do you come from?" she asked. She was looking ahead, down the mountain, and Adam did the same.
"Me? All over the place really. I say the Foul Mouth but, I was around before that. No idea where we were when I was born. I remember this hallway. Little and dark and stone, with a step, and window at the end, cat sleeping on the edge right by it. Don't know where it was now, no one left to ask."
Cerce was silent, staring ahead. Adam could see the hesitation on her face out the corner of his eye.
"You did what you had to do, mate."
"I know..."
"Nothing else for it," they said, almost in unison. Cerce gave a bark of laughter, and gave a slap at Adam's coat. After a moment she cleared her throat and spoke.
"I don't know where I'm from... honestly. I can say Belerion, earliest thing I remember, but it's not where I'm from. Varten sure as shit was my old man, taught me everything I know, but he was human. Who am I?" Cerce shrugged, her free hand reaching out, trying to make a gesture, something to help her articulate what she was trying to say.
"I don't know where I came from. I never got told. I never pushed it. I don't know anyone else like me. I get confused about the simplest things. The only other one like me I've seen, ever...I-"
"No one cares where you're from, Cerce. Not a single bloody soul," Adam said, "And nothing some creepy bastard in a cold church on a mountain could have told you is going to make a difference about that. But what people do think, is 'Fuck me, there goes Cerce Stormbringer. She's amazing. I heard she single handedly ended the battle of Belerion field with the lightening that blasts from her halberd. And that she felled the last Earthkin that rose from the ground in Baldhun Vale. Astride a raging Kelpie. Naked.'"
Cerce gave a snort and smiled.
"I've heard that one too! I've never even been to Baldhun!"
"What I'm saying is I don't care where you're from either, Cerce. I know who you are now."
Cerce gave a shy smile, her fangs showing.
"Thankyou."
They strode together through the forest, light dappling the floor through the trees above.
"Helps the bards to have some mysterious gaps to fill at least. No-one needs to know everything. Bloody Carnaby was born on a pig farm."
Cerce laughed, reaching into the bundle in her pack and taking a bite of soft grey cheese wrapped in nettles. Adam watched as a bird landed on a nearby tree, flicking moisture from its wings.
High above, in the town of Ancreed, the people told tales.
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