Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (28 page)

And there were many, many steps.

Owein crawled to his hands and knees at the bottom. The waiters caught up with him and kicked him back down. Lying there, they kicked him several more times before dragging him across the straw-covered flagstones.

Dazed, Owein could barely make out his surroundings. This was obviously the dungeon the councilor had mentioned. It looked as though it had been untouched for centuries – except the wall sconces had been re-fit with gaslight.

He was being dragged down a narrow stone corridor with a low ceiling, and every so often they passed a tiny iron door. He heard shuffling behind a couple of them.

“Say,” Owein spoke up. “You guys have any idea which one of these Ranaloc is hiding in?”

That earned him another beating.

At length the corridor opened into a small, round room where the waiters dropped Owein like a sack of potatoes. He could see in the dim light that this room served as a nexus connecting several corridors like the one they had come from. In its center, the floor fell open into a gaping pit, like an uncovered well.

“This,” said one of the waiters, “is what we call Garnosh.”

Owein couldn’t help but gulp at the name.

“It’s a pit, half an
itth
deep. It’s been used since the Dark Age for getting rid of bodies, dead …or alive.” One of the waiters chuckled. “When we send you down it,” he went on, “you’ll get to meet all the old enemies of the Empire… and some more recent enemies of the Tricorns. The only question is…” he examined the blade from the kitchen, still in his hand. “Should we send you down dead… or alive?”

Another waiter, unable to contain himself, laughed out loud. Two sets of hands seized Owein and hefted him to his feet, holding back his arms. The one with knife positioned himself between him and Garnosh.

“What do
you
think we should do?” he asked their victim.

“Hmm…” Owein answered. “Could we put it to a vote?”

The waiter smiled at him. Then he chuckled. The chuckle turned into a laugh. Then he fell grimly silent, and leveled the edge of the knife alongside Owein’s face, from cheekbone to chin.

“I’ve got an idea,” the waiter said. “How about a little of both?”

The waiters all began laughing now.

A ringing explosion from the corridor behind caught them all off guard. A bullet whizzed over Owein’s head. It missed everyone, and nailed the stone wall beyond. They were temporarily deafened from the blast.

But Owein didn’t miss a beat, and in one motion he wrenched his arms free and lunged his body forward, head-butting the waiter with the knife in the gut. He carried his momentum into a roll, and somersaulted over the Tricorn, whose rear end was now dangling into Garnosh. His arms and legs stretched out over the rim, desperate to hold on.

Another waiter tore around the hole to catch Owein, while the other helped his accomplice from the pit. One-on-one, Owein demonstrated his superiority fighting ability in just a few blows. The waiter had no focus, still discombobulated from the gunshot, and Owein easily blocked his heedless strikes until the man left himself open for a jab to the face. He fell backward, unconscious.

Another gunshot from the corridor sent another bullet into the wall of the circular room.

The two remaining waiters didn’t hesitate, and one leapt over Garnosh to engage Owein. The other circled around with the knife, hoping to flank him. But Owein saw it coming, and kept the first man following him as he backpedaled around the pit, keeping both of them in front of him.

The waiter threw a punch, but Owein caught his arm mid-strike and twirled him around into a wrist hold. The other with the knife tried a few jabs at him anyway, threatening the life of his comrade. Owein was running out of options, so he snapped the man’s wrist, put his foot to his back, and kicked him mightily into his friend with the knife. They both collapsed into the wall, and Owein sprang upon them, hoping to wrestle the knife away.

The one with the knife, it turned out, was also an excellent wrestler and knew how to use his weight. He rolled over Owein’s arm, pinning him, and elbowed him several times in the ribs. The one with the shattered wrist snatched Owein’s leg with his good hand and started dragging him toward Garnosh. He kicked furiously, but couldn’t get loose. Owein felt his body sliding dangerously toward the center of the room.

Keeping one hand on the knife, Owein now had to use his other to hold onto the floor as the pit crept under his backside. The wrestler took full advantage. He elbowed Owein hard in the stomach, reclaimed his knife hand, and socked him once across the face for good measure.

Now it was Owein’s rear end dangling precariously into Garnosh, with one leg held high in the air, while the knife-bearer prepared to skewer him. A third shot rang out, and this one hit home, blowing a fist-sized hole through the lung of the man with the broken wrist. He sputtered and collapsed – dead before his body hit the ground.

The distraction and freed leg were exactly what Owein needed, and he folded his body over to bring his leg down on top of the knife man’s head. He rolled over backward, away from the pit, and leapt to his feet just as the waiter was coming at him again with a look of unbridled fury in his eyes. His stance was low, with his arms bent toward Owein. The knife gleamed in his hand.

“Sorry if I was a bit late,” said a female voice from the corridor. A beautiful girl with bright gold hair appeared there in the gaslight, loading a fresh cartridge into her gun. She snapped the heavy barrel close with fledgling confidence.

Both men stared at her, equally flabbergasted.

“Shazahd…” Owein breathed, and the waiter lunged at him, screaming.

Owein reached out for the knife hand reflexively, caught it, and redirected it past his body. The attacker was dauntless, and rammed Owein into the wall with his shoulder. He brought the knife back for a wide, belly-opening slash, but at the last second a bullet tore through his spinal column, exploded his heart, and crashed through his sternum, stopping only as it pummeled Owein squarely in the chest.

The flattened round fell to the floor, the size of a saucer. The waiter’s body had slowed it enough for it to merely bounce off Owein. The force was still tremendous, however, and after a gasp Owein fell forward onto the waiter.

The dead man collapsed backwards into Garnosh, which folded his body over and sucked it down with a little
whoosh
.

The elaborate, spiky architecture of antique Gresadian buildings made them easier for Jerahd to scale than most trees he’d encountered. Perched like a gargoyle atop the church he had just recently been inside, he waited, watching the street below.

Bishop Mindar Selonin exited through a door in the rear of the sacristy. He was dressed again in his purple cassock, and Jerahd could clearly discern the bright gold pendant hanging from his neck.

Selonin walked down an alleyway between the church and the diocesan palace, entering into the latter through a barbed gate. The estate was oversized and ancient, cordoned off from the rest of the Evogo Bulen by a high wall. From this height Jerahd could see its ample courtyard and many-storied buildings, most of which were topped with sharp spires and religious ornamentation.

Shadows of the hedgerows and statues in the courtyard were long and thin as Bishop Selonin strode past them, heading for the grandest and most opulent structure within the palace walls – his personal residence.

Servants paused in their duties to bow to him as he went, but he didn’t acknowledge them.

Inside, he skulked past countless pieces of priceless art, some dating from as early as the Second Age, and various other artifacts from Gresadia’s ancient history. There was a suit of armor from the days of the Republic, a portrait of Laian II, a marble bust of Ravalin himself, an old tapestry depicting the Exodus of the Fourth Tribe of Elves, and countless others. Bishop Selonin was indifferent to all of them. He might as well have been walking down any common hallway.

When he arrived in the dining hall, the table was already set and servants lined the walls awaiting the commencement of the meal. Eight priests, dressed uniformly in black, stood from their seats to greet him.

“Your Grace,” they said, bowing.

Bishop Selonin walked right by them and took his seat at the head of the table. He sat, and the others followed. They bowed their heads and folded their hands, waiting for the bishop to lead them in prayer.

“Most holy Father in Aelmuligo,” he began. “We thank You for this bounty which we are about to enjoy, as humble servants of Your Will. Only through Your divine beneficence and majesty do we prosper on this world, and we are eternally indebted to You for this. May we never forget Your great and noble kindness.
Threithum corumuligo
.”

“
Thos shenwemu
.”

Immediately following, servants poured wine into crystal goblets and carried in trays of food from the kitchen. The clinking of silver utensils prickled the air.

“Attendance was down again,” huffed Bishop Selonin as he tucked a napkin into his collar.

“Yes. At the Church of Almarad as well,” said one of the priests.

“Less than a dozen at Her Holiness today.”

Selonin snorted.

“What can we expect, I suppose,” he said, lifting a goblet to his lips. “Most of them probably don’t even realize the Church is still operating in this country.”  He took a healthy swig. “Collections any good?”

“We did all right,” said one of them as a servant laid a dish before him. “But I had to pass the plate around three times.”

Bishop Selonin made a strange grunting noise that the others could only assume was supposed to be a laugh.

“We’ll be lucky to break even this week,” said someone else.

“Yes, well….” Selonin prodded the food in front of him with his fork. “Keep on the missionary work. Make up another riot story if you have to. Or something.” He shoveled a heap of food into his mouth and chewed it impatiently.

“Any word from the Archdiocese, Your Grace?”

“High Father wishes us to continue as before. We are to maintain a low profile. Make no mention of the Empress’ new ‘Church of Gresadia.’ Do not address it in any way. We are to continue funding the missions in Saria. This war will take care of the rest. Is your food cold?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“I don’t think so,” said another.

Selonin chewed on, but was clearly disgruntled.

“Your Grace,” spoke a priest. “What is our official stance on… on the prophecy of the End of Days?”

Selonin froze mid-mastication.

“Stance?”

“Yes,” the priest continued, but with increasing discomfort. “Some of my parishioners have… well, they’ve had concerns. Some are haunted by strange dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Dreams. Nightmares. Regarding the prophecy. They are sure this war portents –”

“This war portents nothing,” Selonin barked, “except the coming ascendance of this Church.”

“Well, actually,” said another, “while we’re on the subject… I too have been thinking on this matter, and it would –”

“You’ve been
thinking?
” Bishop Selonin interrupted. “It is not your duty to
think
. You may leave the
thinking
to your superiors.” He took another drink. “This talk of prophecy is nothing short of hogwash.” The priests ate in silence, staring intently at their food.

“This war is not the end,” the bishop went on, “it is the beginning. It is the final misstep of the monarchy – the last nail in its coffin. After the armada is tidily defeated by the elves, the Empress will be broke and her precious Empire will lie in shambles. As long as we can solidify our presence in Saria, then the mountains of iron there will be as good as ours. Once we control that, Gresadia will have no choice but to fall back into our lap when she wants to rebuild her fleet. Then we may, once and for all, dispense with the monarchy entirely. Then, gentlemen… we will have raised the Church back to its rightful place – at the head of this world.”

In the pause that followed, Selonin wedged another hunk of meat into his mouth. After a couple chews, he spit it right back onto his plate.

“
Nieva!
” he howled. “This is
cold!
Send it back, immediately!”

A servant was there in a flash to take the plate. Bishop Selonin reached for the wine decanter and found that it was nearly empty. He turned to the departing servant, extending the decanter toward him, and yelled, “And bring more wine!”

“Right away, Your Grace,” said the servant, glancing back over his shoulder.

Selonin’s jaw dropped.

“You…” he said in a whisper. Then shouted, “
You!
”

But the servant didn’t respond. He sped for the kitchen door.

“Come back here, I say! Come back here at once!”

The servant disappeared into the kitchen as Selonin scrambled to his feet.

“Go after him!” He ordered. “Bring that man back here this instant!” A few other servants fled in pursuit.