Page 68 of Crucible of Chaos

Sir Daven picked up his pistols from the bench. ‘That was a foolish thing to do. You think I won’t kick your fat arse over the side and make you retrieve them?’

‘It hardly matters,’ Estevar told him. To his surprise, his own sadness was genuine. ‘We’ve had our moment, you and I. The trial is at its end.’

‘Thetrial?’ the knight demanded. ‘You think you’ve been—?’

Despite the rocking of the boat, Estevar stood. It had always been his practice to rise when giving the verdict. ‘Sir Daven Colraig, for the crime of conspiracy, incitement to war and treason against the people of Tristia, the most lenient sentence I can offer you is life imprisonment.’

The knight laughed, though it was a bitter, unhappy thing as he gestured to the ocean all around them. ‘We appear to be a little short of prisons out here, Estevar.’

‘Indeed, and for that reason, and to prevent the deaths you would surely cause if I allowed you to take my life, it is my regretful duty to consign you to the deep.’

‘A pretty speech, Eminence. I’ll try to get the phrasing right when I report back to the margrave and explain why I had to kill you.’

Sir Daven raised his pistol for what Estevar knew would be the last time. He watched the other man’s finger on the trigger, saw the narrowing of his would-be killer’s eyes as he took aim– and saw another thing, too: the mind behind those eyes trying to solve the puzzle of how his helpless opponent could possibly imagine himself fast enough to take him down unarmed. ‘What are you, really, without that long leather coat you prize so highly, Estevar? A fat, ageing duellist too arrogant to know when he’s beaten?’

‘I was that, not long ago,’ he admitted. ‘I accepted the challenge of another fellow not unlike yourself. Younger than me, faster than me. In retrospect, he might even have been a superior fencer as well.’ Estevar carefully lifted the hem of his borrowed shirt to reveal the wound from that fight. ‘He left me this small gift as a reminder that without my coat I am, as you said, fat, ageing, and too arrogant to know when he’s beaten.’

‘Then listen to reason an—’

Estevar held up a finger. ‘But as this unruly ocean has taught me, without my coat I am rather more. . . buoyant.’

Using that last revelation to momentarily confuse his opponent, Estevar threw himself over the side. As he dived, he reached out with his left hand and caught hold of the nearest rowlock. The tiny vessel, already barely keeping steady amid the onslaught of the waves, instantly rocked to the right. He heard the explosion from Sir Daven’s first pistol, trusting that the knight wouldn’t be able to resist the instinct to shift his weight in a futile attempt to keep his balance. The lead ball went wide over Estevar’s shoulder.

There was no second shot, for Sir Daven had already lost his balance and was tumbling into the water. Had he not forced his captive to leave his leather greatcoat on the shore, the gambit would have been too risky, for Estevar would have been pulled under by its weight, as he had been during his previous crossing. The knight, however, was still wearing his chainmail underneath his surcoat. Against a hidden blade, or in the unlikely event that his enemy got hold of his pistol, that chainmail would probably have saved his life. Against the sea, it assured his death.

Estevar watched Sir Daven struggle against the water, grabbing for the side of the boat, but the tiny vessel had capsized, and the currents dragging him into the depths were too powerful. There was no valiant mule here to rescue the knight from his own stupidity, only Estevar to spare a last, pitying glance for the would-be chooser of gods who, as he sank ever deeper beneath the waves, raised his remaining pistol and hopefully pulled the trigger, though the faint spark that emerged couldn’t hope to ignite the sodden powder.

With a heavy heart, Estevar began the arduous swim back to the sacred isle of Isola Sombra. Long before he reached the shore, he could hear the screams coming from the abbey.

CHAPTER 38

THE TRIAL SUMMONS

Shivering with cold, gasping for breath and exhausted from his battle against the frigid currents, Estevar barely had time to slide his numb arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat and slip his rapier back into its sheath before a figure darted out from the darkness of the rocks. Night had fallen over the island and the ominous shadows cast upon the beach twisted and turned as if dancing to the tune of the screams echoing down the winding road from the abbey. A wild-haired woman came running at him, and Estevar had to stop himself drawing his blade; she looked like a mad ghost coming to drown him in the depths.

‘It’s madness, my Cantor!’ Caeda cried, grabbing hold of his arm and hauling him up the stairs towards the island gate.

‘The demons have returned?’ he asked.

She hadn’t been in the statuary when Strigan had been tortured by the hideous creatures, but she nodded. ‘Once your boat was too far away for me to help, I snuck back into the abbey.’ Her fingers squeezed his arm even through the leather of his coat. ‘They’re even worse than you described. Demons, devils–monstrosities born of hate. . . I could never have imagined such things, had I not seen them with my own eyes! What are we going to do?’

Estevar stumbled alongside her until they reached the massive wrought-iron gate with its tall arch and the huge bell suspended beneath. Unlike his previous visit, the gate was wide open, but he didn’t enter.

‘What’s wrong?’ Caeda asked. ‘Can’t you hear the monks crying out for help? We must. . . my Cantor?’ Her gaze was a mixture of confusion and disappointment, and reflected in her storm-grey eyes he saw his own fear that the horrors awaiting them had, at last, broken his spirit.

Leaning against one of the tree-trunk-thick iron posts supporting the gate, he opened the front of his coat and confirmed that his stitches had torn again. He fumbled in a pocket to retrieve a tiny blue-glass jar that was almost entirely empty, the last of the black salve having been used up after his failed sword duel. He scraped the inside with his little finger and rubbed what little of the malodorous ointment he could find on his wound. There wasn’t enough to seal it, but if he could stave off infection a little longer, that would have to do.

A few more hours, that’s all I ask, he said silently to whichever gods or saints were left in the world. Grunting in pain, he stared up at the sky in search of hope, finding only the uncaring stars and an ominous full moon.By dawn my trial will have come to an end, and should I fail, let the Margrave of Someil take whatever bitter joy he can from standing over my grave.

‘Estevar?’ Caeda asked again.

He reached up to pull the rope dangling from the bell. Even that small effort felt as if a crow were using its beak to pry the skin back from his wound.

Save your strength for what awaits you, he thought.

‘Here,’ he said, and handed the rope to Caeda. ‘I will explain the pattern to you, and then you must ring the bell precisely as I instruct.’

‘To what end?’ she asked. ‘The gate is already open, and in case you haven’t noticed the screaming, no one’s in any position to prevent us from entering the monastery.’

---