Prodigal Sons Page 3

  “Another heart attack, it seems. Strange, two in the space of a morning. Still, it is not for us to question the will of the gods.”

  “I need some air and something edible,” I said. “And I really should keep up my journal,” I added, as loudly as I could. The locals seemed more interested in the newly deceased. Typical peasants—when faced with a choice between culture and something gruesome, blood and mayhem always wins.

  We witnessed two more heart attacks that afternoon, and as evening drew in I began to be concerned about the diet of these locals. The local crab jelly was my chief suspect. As the light faded the town streets began to spring into a sort of rustic, painfully amateur peasant fair. One performer breathed fire, only to set alight to his moustache, and a juggler attempted to juggle three live pike but only succeeded in being bitten. Finally we did find an act worth my attention, a trio of fine singers who were giving a rousing rendition of an old favorite.

  “...and the black pudding burst!” The harmony ended. A small crowd politely clapped.

  “That’s a very fine song, my men,” I said, and reached for a coin to tip them. The trio grinned, but their smiles faded as my hands emerged from my pockets empty. I turned to Phargas. “Come, come, a coin for these fine musicians.”

  “That’s not how it ends.” Phargas frowned and crossed his arms.

  “Not how what ends?” I said.

  “The song. It’s called ‘The Yeti and the Black Pudding’ and it doesn’t end for four more verses, so I’m not tipping them.”

  “So you’re an expert on songs now?” I asked, incredulously.

  “I know what I know, and the song doesn’t end that way at all,” he insisted.

  “It ends the way we say it does, mate.” One of the singers was rolling up his sleeves. His fellows, clearly offended, nodded agreement and began moving forward, then suddenly two of them gulped, grabbed their throats, and fell to the ground.

  “You people really must lay off the crab jelly,” I said, watching the third man look nervously at us. “That’s the fifth and sixth heart attacks I’ve seen today!”

  Phargas leaped onto one corpse and grabbed something from its throat. As he held it up, it seemed to melt away into nothing.

  “Darts that vanish! Poison! I knew something wasn’t right.”

  “Poison?” I asked, as some sort of insect whistled past me.

  “These aren’t heart attacks, you idiot!” Phargas stood up quickly, his voice breaking in a girlish squeal as he grabbed my arm and yanked me toward a side street. “They’ve been killed!”

  “Killed? But why would someone kill singers?”

  “By accident!” He was almost yelling now. “They weren’t trying to kill them—they’re trying to kill us!”

  All at once the air was alive with whistling invisible darts. The last musician dropped. A dog nearby fell dead. Within seconds, we were running full pelt down the muddy back streets of the town, diving to avoid the missiles being aimed at us.

  “Who are those people, and why are they trying to kill you?” I shouted, trying to get my breath as we ran.

  “My guess would be that we upset someone back at the Swaddled Otter more than we thought.” Phargas’ faced turned bright red as he ran. “Milikin probably can’t afford it, but Daggermark assassins are terribly proud of their work, and likely don’t appreciate having their name sullied by amateurs.”

  I remained dubious. “I couldn’t see any injuries on those peasants.”

  “They’re using whisper darts—blowgun darts made of fey hair and broken promises. They become water after they hit. If combined with poison, they deliver death without apparent cause. We’re in big trouble.”

  Then he quit talking and focused all his efforts on running, leading us deeper into the foul-smelling alleys of this miserable town. These paths were more like tunnels—dwellings opened up to our sides, blind turns leading to locked doors and uncovered sewer drains. I caught my companion staring at one of the latter.

  “No.” I said. “Categorically no. I seem to spend my whole time with you lying in some sort of liquid. That liquid you can keep.”

  "Piety is its own reward. As is violence, apparently."

  Suddenly, he wasn’t paying attention to me; he was staring over my shoulder at two dark shapes moving deliberately toward us. I stared at the sewer and realized that, even if we dived in, the assassins would catch us. I considered pushing Phargas at them and running, but realized that even that plan was futile. We both staggered backward. I began to pray loudly, the alleyway getting narrower as we backed away from our assailants. My life flashed before me rather too quickly, the flash becoming brighter, brighter, as if I were being dragged into a glorious light.

  So this was death.

  I was in a garden, bathed in late evening sun. Phargas was at my side.

  “Phargas—loyal Phargas! You made it, too—we’re in heaven!”

  He slapped me, and not gently.

  “You idiot, this isn’t Heaven. We’re in the nunnery. The gardener must have left the back gate open for some reason. Quick, this way.” I wiped my tearing eyes and saw that we’d backed through a stout door, which Phargas had bolted. I followed my subordinate, berating myself for thinking that any such oafish peasant would get in to heaven with me.

  The gardens provided excellent cover. We made our way through them and toward an open doorway in the nunnery itself, a fortress of towers, crenellations, and, oddly, several ballistae.

  “We’ll lie low for a while, perhaps in a cellar,” said Phargas, leading me through the open door. Beyond was a small odd-smelling chamber with hooks and lockers. Six peculiar garments hung from one wall, knitted black things that seemed to be cloak, robe, and hood all in one, with a great black veil.

  We both turned as we heard voices approaching. Not just from a door in the room, but also from someone outside. Phargas looked at me, then at the strange clothes.

  “No!” I said, in the loudest whisper I could muster. “No, no, categorically no.”

  “What could be easier?” His grin broadened as he grabbed one of the garments and began putting it on.

  “No.”

  “Look, how hard can it be? Praying all day, knitting tapestries and cooking. We’ll lie low for a week or so, by which time the assassins will have got bored, and we’ll sneak out one night in the dark and escape.”

  “No.”

  “It’s that or death.”

  Well, when he put it like that...

  “Help me get my wimple on,” I said.

  We’d barely clambered into the strange clothes when the door opened and a huge nun, wearing a similarly body-covering dress, entered.

  “I thought I heard voices. Didn’t you hear me when I called you in minutes ago? You will be punished for this. What are your names?”

  “Francis,” Phargas answered in a squeaky voice. “And this is Olive.”

  “Hello,” I said, in the highest voice I could muster.

  “Silence!” she said, and slapped me. A nun had slapped me.

  “Come along. The other new recruits have already shed their old ways and donned the Modesty Habit. I’m Mother Grain, Mistress of Improvised Combat Using Common Kitchen Utensils. Follow me, ladies. You are leaving your old life behind now; your future belongs to Iomedae from now until your glorious deaths.”

  “Iomedae!” we replied in unison.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The nunnery was vast, a rambling structure of rooms and corridors and small gardens, all of which were damaged in some way. Every wall had a gouge or a hole, every door a repair, every garden a broken seat or pot. We walked for what seemed like an hour before we came to a larger chamber where several other nuns in Modesty Habits stood. By their look they were also new recruits. The Mother halted us outside the door.

  “Before we enter the Chapter House, it is up to me to pass punishment for your act of sloth and disobedience.” Mother Grain’s voice became sharper, almost excited. “For to enter such a place
unpunished would be an insult to the Lady of Valor. O Iomedae, let your just and awful wrath fall upon these two wretches, and let their flesh know the terrible sting of thy justice!” From somewhere in her bodice she produced a huge sap, which she struck us both with, rattling our teeth.

  “Punishment is delivered, and you are cleansed—for now. Enter and be blessed.”

  Like scalded schoolboys—or rather, schoolgirls—we moved to the back of the room, whimpering.

  The Chapter House was the most complete armory I’d ever laid eyes on. Every inch was given over to weapons, from halberds to nunchaku, scythes to starknives. I could not even begin to count, let alone name, the vast array of weaponry displayed herein. Even the clock was designed for use in combat, its fingers clearly blades, its pendulum a morning star. It was also the only timepiece I’d ever seen whose tick sounded angry.

  “This is a house of peace,” said a huge woman in a vast Modesty Habit. “For only through the death of our enemies can we truly know peace, and here we may choose the weapons with which to smite them. Iomedae! O Lady, we know that these novices have impure souls, but soon shall be cleansed in your image. We shall purge them of impure thoughts, for do not The Acts tell us that flesh is weak? Speak not the tongue of evil, they sayeth! Covet not the flesh, and let all men who covet my sisters be punished in slow, agonizing, and dreadful torment. Iomedae!” She began wandering among us with what looked like a long spiked cane. “Sister, I cleanse thee,” she yelled, swishing the cane at one novice, who screamed as she was struck. “And thee!” Another flick, another wound. Other nuns were beginning to take up her chant now, striking out with fists and feet. “I cleanse thee of lust! I cleanse thee of wickedness!” Shrieks came from points all over the hall, and even those nuns doing the striking all seemed to bear injuries of one sort or another.

  “Save us from men!” the head nun called.

  “Save us!” came the reply.

  “Keep our swords sharp!”

  “Sharp!”

  “And our armor buffed and bright!”

  “Buffed and bright!”

  “May our enemies be butchered mercilessly!”

  “Mercilessly!”

  “Eleven Miracles you have given us lady, but only in combat are we worthy to serve thee!”

  “Combat!”

  The penance went on.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  After an hour of this punishment we were all battered and bruised, thoroughly saved from imaginary men and enemies.

  “Now sisters, to the dorter for a deserved night’s rest. Sleep well, and be not troubled by dreams of wickedness, for you are safe at last.”

  Safe? I thought.

  The other nuns began bodily carrying us out of the Chapter House and up several sets of steep stairs. Eventually we were tossed onto the floor of a chamber with a dozen straw mattresses and a trough of water. I made my way to the trough, where I though I recognized a certain silhouette. I dared a whisper.

  “Is that you Pharg—er Francis?”

  “I think so. But it’s been a while since I was beaten up by nuns.”

  “I thought you said we would spend our days knitting.”

  “Yes, of course. My mistake. I didn’t realize they were warrior nuns.”

  “Warrior nuns. Warrior. Nun. Those two words should not go together. I thought nuns were all praying and deathbed salvation.”

  “You don’t think all nuns are the same, do you? Why, I’ve personally ministered to the beatific axe-nuns of Sarenrae, the terrible barbarian-nuns of Varisia, and the infamous assassin-nuns of Greengold, the so-called ‘Ladies with Long Memories and Fingernails to Match.’”

  “Assassin nuns? You’re making it up!”

  Francis-that-was-Phargas went over to a bed and stretched out on it. I decided that rest and recuperation would be a good idea, especially if tomorrow threatened to be anything like today. The bed was firm, but surprisingly roomy. Thoroughly exhausted, I stretched out and pillowed my head on my arms.

  Clang!

  I opened one eye. The place was pitch black. Phargas snored in the bed next to me.

  “Matins!” Suddenly I was thrown across the room and heard something break. I hoped it was furniture.

  “I am Mother Maud the Divine Act of Wrestling and Bare-Knuckle Boxing,” shouted a voice in the dark. “It’s time to rise.”

  Below, I heard the convent’s clock strike two.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Some time later we found ourselves assembled in the Chapter House. We’d been through tedious hours of Matins Laud, purging our sin and saying what horrible things we’d do to men who entered the nunnery to carry out the impure deeds of Belial. It was still dark, but I felt as though I’d already done a day’s work. A huge nun held court at the front of the hall.

  “I am Merciful Sister Perfect the Iron Fist—slayer of Zarg the Cavern King. Welcome, initiates. From now on you will be called Featherweights.”

  My eyes began to slide closed.

  “Pay attention, Featherweight Olive!” A horseshoe struck me, drawing blood. The Merciful Sister didn’t even draw breath as she continued.

  “This is Sister Jessica the Glorious Act of Head-Butting an Opponent Unexpectedly. She’ll be initiating you in the Miracle of Combat.” From somewhere within her habit, Sister Jessica produced a huge toasting fork and ran at one of the novices screaming. Shortly thereafter, the novice was carried off to the infirmary.

  Our assault at the hands of Sister Jessica was followed by Prime, where we read out acts of astonishing violence delivered with righteous justice by the nuns over the past centuries to naughty people and monsters. As dawn broke we enjoyed the delights of Terce, where we were divided up and began our instruction in making, sharpening, and modifying weaponry. Then came Sext, where we sat in silence, reading acts of miraculous violence perpetrated by followers of Iomedae in her mercy. At last, just when I thought I would die of hunger, a gong sounded and the nuns began to file out for food in the frater, a bare room with a single vast table. The nuns formed an orderly queue, each taking a deep bowl. I wondered just how full I could get it. My mind began to race with thoughts of wine and bread, honey and cakes. These nuns worship combat, and combat thrives on good dinners.

  An almost impossibly tall nun ladled a huge mass of greenery into my bowl. I stared at it in horror.

  “This is dinner?” I asked, almost forgetting my squeaky voice. “A bowl of raw sprouts?”

  “Enjoy,” said the nun, and motioned me along with a significant shake of her ladle.

  As I was munching on my sprouts (no easy thing when your garment covers your whole body) I noticed a strange figure tucking into a mountain of food and wine. It was small, about the size of a gnome, and dressed in the most garish of noble outfits. I watched the figure as it munched through a vast amount of fare, and my stomach rumbled as it consumed chicken legs and sweetmeats with abandon. After dinner it gave a particularly huge burp and as it did so, it turned to reveal the face of a kobold.

  “Everything to your satisfaction, Holy Carbuncle?” said one of the nuns who sat near it.

  “Yessss, ssscrumptiousss.” It said, and staggered off.

  I could barely contain my jealousy. “Who’s that?” I asked the initiate opposite me.

  “Holy Carbuncle the Reformation. He’s a miracle.”

  “What’s miraculous about him?”

  “He’s the embodiment of purity and goodness.”

  “Why?”

  “He saved the Merciful Sister from assassins and he’s lived here ever since. The Merciful Sister says his flesh may be weak, hence his appetites, but his soul is of pure goodness, so he’s allowed to live here.”

  A gong sounded.

  “Oh dear,” the nun said, “Pre-vespers.” And then she shuffled off, crying.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Pre-vespers began with Mother Grain, Mistress of Improvised Combat Using Common Kitchen Utensils standing in the Kitchen. “To assist our sisters who are schooled in paladi
nhood,” she said, “we must be ready to help the noble knights whenever we find ourselves, and where would a woman be if not in her kitchen? Alas! The raiders of Asmodeus are at the door, the brave knights lie wounded at your feet, and only you can protect them. But what chance do you have? There are no weapons in this kitchen.”

  “What about knives, Holy Mother?” called one sweaty featherweight.

  “Foolish girl! All the knives have been taken by the servants of Mammon. Go find an unoccupied sister and request penance for your foolishness.”

  The girl sobbed and departed.

  “No, we have no knives, nor scissors, skewers, tureens, heavy saucepans, or toasting forks. These objects have already been taken by the servants of darkness. A true sister, however, does not need such things.” She opened a drawer and withdrew an object. “This wooden spoon, for example, can easily put down an owlbear. Observe.”

  The day wore on.

  “Using such sacred techniques, we can transform this ordinary cheese-grater into a weapon of righteous justice...”

  And on.

  “The last thing a servant of the dark expects is what a doughty sister can do with a corkscrew...”

  After we’d learnt how to kill practically every evil thing with the most mundane of objects, and even certain condiments, we were called to Vespers to do some more praying about violence. After Vespers there was yet more praying, this time on one leg over the feeding pit of the nunnery kennels. At last the day’s lessons ended, and we were called again to our meal.

  As I stood in the frater, queuing for food at the end of a grueling day in which I’d been flogged, poked, beaten and otherwise scarred (possibly permanently), I could feel my temper grow brittle. I reached the head of the queue, only to watch as my plate was filled with water.

  “What’s this?” I asked in a dangerous monotone.

  “Only the righteous deserve dinner,” she gloated, and motioned for me to move along.

  It was enough. I flung the bowl at her. She ducked with infuriating ease and, as calm as you like, produced a large bell from under the counter.