The Gordi Isles
THE MAN CLIMBED the rock face slowly, taking his time to find hand and foot holds in the pitted granite. Half way up, he paused a moment and rested. It was a long climb. The muscles in his shoulders, upper arms and thighs were on fire. Yet he had to master it; had to gather the strength and endurance to reach the top of this cliff.
Saul of Anthor closed his eyes, breathing in the sharp sea air, so cold that it hurt his lungs. The biting wind roared in his ears, tugging at the cloak and the heavy coil of rope on his back. It probed through his hunting leathers, chilling the skin beneath. Even so, he could feel the sun warming the back of his skull.
The sun would be setting soon—he needed to move.
Saul opened his eyes, inhaled deeply and resumed his climb. The cry of sea birds and the hiss of surf breaking against the pebbly shore below accompanied him on his slow journey up the rock-face. Yet his concentration was absolute. One misstep and it was a long way to fall.
A tangle of tree roots and sharp-edged stones encrusted in bird muck greeted Saul at the top. Scaling the edge of the cliff was the hardest part of the climb—but he was ready for it. He gritted his teeth with the final effort and swung over, digging his fingers and the toes of his supple hunting boots into the rock for purchase.
Lying flat on his belly, his heart beating so hard that he could feel his pulse in his stomach pressing against the sun-warmed rock, Saul took in a few rapid breaths and silently thanked the Shadows that the first part of his task was done. Then he raised his head and surveyed his surroundings.
He lay on the western exposed side of the small rocky island. The side few would think to approach the monastery from. The eastern approach was easier but closely watched—a pebbly slope studded with hawthorn, briar rose and rosehips—whereas the west was sheer, weather-blasted rock.
The monastery, a granite fortress that sat low against the sky, perched at the top of a rocky knoll, around two furlongs east of him. The Brothers of Gordi, a reclusive religious sect that worshipped the old gods—the Lord of the Sky and his kin—had lived upon this barren, windswept rock for centuries. This island was the largest of the Gordi Isles; a stony archipelago at the entrance to the Gulf of Veldoras. Saul was not sure how folk managed to survive in such a hostile environment, although he had seen a few spindly-looking goats and sheep when he brought his boat into shore, and signs of what looked like vegetable plots on the more sheltered eastern side of the island.
Climbing to his feet, Saul shrugged the coil of rope off his shoulder and deftly secured it to a rock on the cliff edge, choosing one that was deeply embedded in the earth. Then, he dropped the rest of the rope over the edge, so that it hung down the rock-face—ready for his return.
He moved swiftly now, up the hillside toward the grim bulk of the monastery. The ground was dry, the surface loose and pebbly, and so it was hard going. The wind gusted strongly up here, blowing stinging dust into his eyes and chapping the exposed skin of his face. The bitter months had arrived, and soon it would be Winter Blood. Around him, the sky had turned from mottled blue to indigo, the sun a bright orb sinking toward the west and turning The Cruel Sea molten.
Saul was breathing hard by the time he reached the western edge of the fortress. A covered walkway ran around the perimeter of the monastery, sturdy pillars holding up a gently sloping tiled roof. There was no sign of anyone here; no guards, and no monks taking an evening stroll. The Brothers of Gordi were known as a peaceful order. They kept away from the rest of Serran and the troubles of its four kingdoms, and had no need to protect themselves from outsiders.
That was what they wanted others to think.
Saul reached down and withdrew a fighting knife from the sheath upon his right thigh. With his left hand, he drew another blade from his waist. He skirted the western and southern sides of the monastery, his step growing ever more cautious as he reached the eastern edge. The entrance—one of two—lay just around the corner.
He heard voices then, snatches of excited conversation, coming from the direction he moved in. Saul slowed his pace and pressed his back up against the granite wall, carefully sliding up to the corner of the building.
He peered round it, his gaze travelling to where a group of brown-robed figures clustered further down the walkway. Some of them were shouting and gesturing down the hillside, while others attempted to restore calm. They were not excited, he realized, but panicked.
Saul sheathed his knives. Two strides took him across the walkway. He then dropped over the edge and slithered his way down a pebbly slope so that he could get a clear view down the hillside. He needed to know what was amiss. He was sure they did not know he was here; he had been careful to approach unseen.
One look down the hill, past the carefully tended terraces of turnips, kale and cabbages, and Saul’s breathing stilled.
A galleon had dropped anchor just offshore. It was a massive, three-masted, square-rigged vessel; three-tiers of gleaming Farras mahogany. The ship bobbed gently on a rising tide, its bulk dwarfing the three boats that rowed out from it.
Saul’s father had such a galleon. It was a king’s vessel, or the ship of a powerful over-lord at the very least. However, a king or over-lord would fly a flag from one of the masts, and this ship had no such marking.
Saul’s belly tightened. No pirates sailed ships like this—and, to the best of his knowledge, there was only one group of individuals that actively sought the same object as Saul.
The Shade Brotherhood.
Outrage tightened Saul’s throat as realization dawned upon him.
Caleb betrayed us.
King Reoul of Anthor had given the mercenary a purse of gold talents for this information, but Caleb had been greedy. He must have sold his secret to The Brotherhood before the king had Caleb’s throat cut. Clearly, Saul’s father had known the mercenary could not be trusted.
Saul was glad Caleb was dead. Yet this was of little solace to him as he watched the three boats reach the shore. A host of dark-clad figures clambered out before climbing the hillside.
On the walkway above, the monks ceased their chattering. A group of five of them—older men with pale worried faces, their greying hair tied back into long braids down their backs—made their way down to meet the newcomers. Their goat-skin boots crunched on gravel as they hurried down the path.
Saul turned and scuttled back the way he had come. This was the only chance he would have—he needed to get inside the monastery before The Shade Brotherhood did.
On the eastern side of the fortress, he drew his knives once more and edged around the corner to the narrow service entrance.
Caleb had not lied about that, at least.
The mercenary had drawn him a detailed map of the monastery, and how to reach the secret chamber in its belly. Before leaving Mirrar Rock, Saul had committed that map to memory and then burnt it. No one could know about this place, or the object that had lain hidden here for the past five hundred years.
Only now, someone else did.
It felt eerily still and silent inside the monastery, away from the cold, whistling wind. Saul padded along a narrow passageway, lit by a single cresset, past storerooms. The smell of dirt, of drying onions and garlic tickled his nostrils and nearly made him sneeze. Rubbing his nose with the back of his arm, Saul resisted the urge and hurried on.
The passage led him to a much wider corridor, this one well-lit with flickering cressets filled with tallow. The odor of animal fat filled the cool, damp air. He turned left here, his hunting boots whispering over flagstones that had been polished smooth from centuries of use.
He moved quickly now, nearly running in his haste to reach his destination. This corridor brought him to a spiral stairwell that led down into the earth. Without hesitation, Saul sheathed one of his knives and entered the stairwell, taking a flaming torch from the wall as he did so.
According to Caleb, the tunnels below the fortress were dark. He would need a torch to light his way.
The steps were steep and Saul had to slow his pace to avoid slipping. Not for the first time, he marveled how a low-life like Caleb had stumbled upon such a treasure.
The story, as Caleb told it, was that he had tired of a life of killing for hire and decided to join the Brothers of Gordi in quiet contemplation of the old gods. Unfortunately, just days after arriving here he had realized that a man cannot shed his old life like a snake shedding its skin. He may have worn a habit, braided his hair, and spent hours on his knees in the Sky Chamber—a room in the heart of the monastery with a circular hole in the ceiling so that the brothers could worship the heavens—but that did not change his past. It did not take him long to realize his mistake. Even so, he persevered for a time, befriending some of the monks. One of them, a young man with a trusting disposition and a loose tongue, told him of the secret this Order had spent long centuries protecting.
Eventually, Caleb had taken his turn at watch. Shortly after, he had escaped the island and returned to his home, the Kingdom of Anthor, with a story to sell to the highest bidder.
Caleb had described these narrow dank tunnels under the monastery—how you had to take the second left turn time and time again till you reached a further set of steps, these ones slippery with moss. Below was a chamber guarded by two Brothers at all times. The guard changed every four hours in an unending ritual.
Caleb had warned him that he must not be fooled by the Brothers’ meek appearance. They took their roles as protectors seriously, and all trained in physical combat and carried poisoned blades. They would not give up their secret easily.
Sweating, despite the chill, damp air, and bending his head to prevent his skull from slamming against the rough, low stone ceiling above him, Saul reached the final stairwell and stopped.
He could not fail. This was his one chance to show his father that his youngest son was worthy. The scars of the past had never healed; he could still hear his parents’ voices from all those years ago: the scorn in his father’s voice, the disappointment in his mother’s.
Saul is not his brother’s equal.
He is cunning but not clever.
He is weak.
It is well that Elias is the elder, for he will make a better king.
Saul had run then. Six years old and eavesdropping upon a conversation he should never had heard—it had altered the course of his life.
For years he had set out to prove his father right. While his brother had studied and spent time learning from his elders and betters, and training with the King’s Guard, Saul had run wild in the slums of Mirrar Rock. He had learned how to use knives, how to thieve and move through crowds unseen, and how to play at dice and win.
For years, Reoul of Anthor had thought his youngest son worthless—until the day he had a need for those skills. And here Saul was—about to risk his life for a father who had always seen him lacking.
Breathing slowly and deeply, he slid his torch into a bracket on the wall and considered his plan. He would have to be silent and swift. There would be no room for mistakes.
He unsheathed his second knife. The hilt sat snug and heavy in his palm, the perfect fit.
Saul smiled.
A heartbeat later, he flew down the stairs and leaped out into the chamber below.
Caleb had described the room in detail, and Saul had committed it to memory. One glance told him that the mercenary had again spoken true. He had been a greedy fool, but it appeared he had been an honest one.
The chamber was circular and walled in rings of grey stone. A large oil-filled cresset dominated the center of the space, casting a warm glow across the room. A stone plinth sat at the far end, and two men dressed in brown habits and holding quarter-staffs stood before it.
Saul did not hesitate. Both monks reached for the knives at their belts, but he was faster. His blades whistled across the space—and hit flesh with a thud. Unlike most knife-throwers he was equally strong with his right and left hands. One of the monks crumpled to the ground, clawing at the blade embedded in the base of his neck. The second monk staggered backwards with a cry, clutching at the hilt protruding from his right shoulder.
Saul strode forward, drawing another dagger as he went. The monk he had caught in the shoulder grappled for his own knife. He was about to lunge at Saul with it when a blade sliced across his throat.
Dropping the twitching body at his feet, Saul whirled to the other monk. His breath rushed out of him in relief to find the man lying dead on his back, his face a grimace of pain and fear.
Breathing hard, Saul stepped up to the plinth, his gaze resting upon the object he had come to retrieve.
A small iron box sat upon the smooth surface. Reaching out, he picked it up and carefully opened the lid.
Disappointment rushed through him.
Is this it?
A drab grey stone, slightly misshapen with a hole in its heart sat in the box. It had a silver chain threaded through it, as if someone had once worn it as necklace.
It looked like a hag stone, one of those charms folk hung over their doorways to ward off the darkness. It certainly did not look like the missing half of a key that could unlock chaos.
Saul snapped the iron box shut and thrust it deep into a pocket inside his cloak. He did not have time to dwell on the plainness of the object now.
He had to get out of this monastery alive.
Saul retrieved his knives from the bodies, hastily cleaned them off on his cloak, and then sheathed all but one. He sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time, grabbed the torch he had discarded earlier and began the journey back.
Take the second right—again and again—till you reach the stairs.
It was easy to get lost down here. Tunnels went off in all directions, everything was curved and the lack of straight lines made it even harder to keep oriented. Saul was concentrating so hard at not missing the correct turns that he did not hear the sound of approaching men until it was almost too late.
The rasp of heavy breathing. The thud of heavy booted feet. The creak of leather.
Saul swallowed a curse, skidded to a halt and dove into the nearest tunnel, flattening his back against the mildew-encrusted wall as a group of a dozen figures stormed past.
Heart pounding, Saul stayed where he was until the last of them had passed, the men’s footsteps receding in the distance, before he emerged. He let out the breath he’d been holding; Saul couldn’t let himself be caught off guard like that again.
His body was slick with sweat by the time he emerged from the stairwell into the upper level of the monastery. He retraced his steps through the building, the cries and shouts of monks reaching him, even through the thick stone. They were still trying to defend their treasure from The Brotherhood—and would lay down their lives to protect it.
Saul took the service passage and stepped outside to find daylight nearly spent. The last vestiges of a gentle sunset streaked the heavens, and the waters of the Gulf of Veldoras sat dark against the dusk sky. Cold, briny air caressed Saul’s skin and he took in large, relieved breaths.
A swift shadow in the gathering dark, Saul skirted the southern edge of the monastery. He was just crossing the walkway and about to drop off the western edge when movement to his right startled him. Three men dressed in fighting leathers, dark cloaks flapping behind them, sprinted down the western walkway toward him.
Saul leaped off the edge and launched himself down the hill, slipping and sliding in his haste to outrun them. Shouts followed him, echoing across the barren hilltop, followed by the crunch of boots on stones.
Once Saul reached the bottom of the hill, he took off at a flat run. He was fast, faster than them. And he was desperate. His escape route was just yards away.
Suddenly it dawned on him.
His only means of escape was by scaling the rope. But the three men pursuing him could merely cut it, or use it to haul him back up into their clutches.
Saul skidded to a halt, heart pounding. He drew his blades and turned to face The Brotherhood.
It was time to stop running. He was going to have to fight his way out of this.