A Child of Forever, Chapter 5

5
A Trap

Rassan’s eyes rolled in their sockets as his eyelids slid open. He was surprised at the fact that he was not dead. But gods; that boot against his head had hurt. The stone of the floor hadn’t helped, either. His skull still pounded as he licked the dry blood from his lips. The blood had run down his face from the wound on the back of his head, which had thankfully clotted.

It must be morning by now. He wasn’t quite sure, and had no way to gauge how long he’d been out. The room he found himself in was the room he had been so violently put to sleep in. It had no windows, for it was underground, in a fashion. Four stone pillars on each side of the hall supported eight guttering torches. The wall behind him was solid; indeed, this room had only one exit, which he faced.

He decided that he must get to his feet before he thought of anything else. Palms flat on the floor, he forcefully pushed himself up to standing. Bolts of pain shot through his skull, and he nearly collapsed, to a knee first; then a wave of dizziness overtook him and he found himself flat again, his face landing in a pool of nearly-dried blood. My own, he thought. How much did I lose? He did not know the answer. Okay, try this again. Maybe a little more slowly this time. Inch by inch, he raised his body until he could get a knee to the ground. He stopped there for a moment, stabilizing himself. When his vision returned to its usual sharpness, he pressed on. After some time, he found himself standing straight, and more, precariously walking around the chamber.

He took his time, pacing this room, regaining some strength. He didn’t know what waited for him on the other side of the ghostwood door. All he knew was what had been said between him and his lord, and he couldn’t see how any of that boded well for him. He stayed awhile, walking around the room until consciousness fully returned to him, and then, taking spit from his mouth and using his robe as a rag, he stood over the pool of congealing blood on the floor, taking the crusted remains off of his face. Finally, he was clean, or as clean as he could be.

What waited? The question came to him again. He realized that there was no way possible that he could know. Steeling himself for whatever came, he began to walk towards the exit. Step by step, the torchlight fading little by little, he found that he became more and more calm each time his boot struck the stone floor.

He was at the door, and stopped for one second to absorb its detail, before stepping through to the world outside, not knowing what that would bring.

Well, here we are. His eyes adjusted to torches that were always kept fresh, his lungs taking in air that wasn’t stale, and more importantly, not stained with his own blood. He took the ten steps up into this chapel, still unsure.

He didn’t know which god the chapel was constructed to worship. Probably some forgotten old thing, he thought. No one ever comes to this cursed place. He further justified this belief with his observation that there was no altar, no carvings or paintings of any god figures. And the place was in damnable awful condition, as well. But, maybe that’s not right. He had always been one to argue in his head against his own point of view, and that the devil’s advocate side of his brain spoke up at this time didn’t surprise him at all. This church is quite a way into the mountains, after all, and with no real paths leading to it. It’s also many spans away from the nearest city. That was right. It was part of the reason they used this place. Hells, it was the main reason; it was so far from civilization that they knew no one would disturb them. That’s true. It could have just simply fallen out of use due to the distance and difficulty of finding it. His mind’s confrontational side remained silent following this concession.

He contemplated his argument as he surveyed the place. Several holes, large ones, cut through the ceilings, showing sometimes-broken slits that were the beams that it had been laid on. Large chunks of stone had fallen from walls and pillars, a few such boulders resting where they had crashed into the pews. A kneeler, one of the thin padded rests attached to the back of the pews for worshippers to rest their knees on and pray, stuck its ends into the air on either side of one of these stones. The rest of the pews, where they still stood, were covered in dust, the wood decayed to the point that one observing would wonder how it was that they still stood.

Rassan noted the two men who stood on the short, wide set of steps that led up to the pulpit, which had collapsed and was now standing at an awkward angle, half the height it had been when it was new. He headed down the center aisle, half expecting them to come toward him, but they stood silent and unmoving. He continued further away from the pulpit, and had to squeeze through a spot littered with debris. The base of the church’s steeple had given away years ago; the steeple itself had come straight down, landing in the center aisle between the pews near the door, crushing the supporting ends and leaving shards of shattered wood laying about the base of the spire. He stepped gingerly, making his way around the wreckage; as he cleared it, he reached out to steady himself, his hand landing on the only pew between himself and the door. He put a little too much weight on that hand, and the pew’s end broke beneath his palm, nearly sending him to the floor for the third time since he had awoke. He caught himself on his knee again, and this time, no dizzy spell forced him the rest of the way down. He took a moment to recoup his senses, remembering the first time he had tried to stand in the room below him, and then slowly brought his feet back beneath him.

He was at the doors now, both made of oak in contrast to the ghostwood that led to the attached downstairs room. As still and silent as the two men who stood on either side of the pulpit behind him, two more stood watch at these doors, one standing on either side. As he reached for the iron handle, a thought flashed through his mind a split second after his eyes had observed the inconsistency. Their hands are on their swords. His fingers never touched the handle they reached for. Instead, the guard on that left door reached out, clasping his wrist tightly. Rassan’s hand had been stopped some few inches from his body’s leave of this place.

“Sorry, Ras. His lord’s orders. You are free to move about the chapel and the…” The guard searched for the word for a moment. “…The transient room below. However, we cannot allow you to leave the church.”

Rassan’s hope almost fled him at that moment. Kept here? Then, I have no choice. He nodded at the guard. “I see,” were the only words he offered the man as he turned away and took half a step back into the chapel. The guard had let loose of his grip, his hand falling to his side and releasing the hilt of his weapon as the man on the opposite side of the door did the same.

Your mistake, Rassan thought. Both of you. He turned suddenly, grabbing the collar of the tunic of the man that had spoken the orders that stopped him from leaving, wrapping his fingers tightly around the seam. He pulled the guard off of his feet, slinging him around into the man standing at the opposite door. As the first guard’s body slammed into him, the silent guard was knocked unconscious, and Rassan heard the cracking noise that signaled stone splitting under the force of a breaking neck. The man slumped to the ground, breathing his last, not even conscious during the last moments of his life. Rassan noticed the man he had hold of was not as severely injured; indeed, he was reaching for his sword. No time to think, he thought. He pulled the guard off of his feet, turning with him and rushing forward, smashing him into the face of the steeple. He heard several cracks as the boards gave, and felt the weight of this guard as his body sprang slightly back against them. Rassan saw frantic terror in the guard’s eyes, and realized his face was inches from the man’s own; he could even smell the blood from the guard’s punctured lung on the sentry’s breath. It was a salty, metallic smell, and Rassan thought he would be sick. His arms shook, and his grip released a bit before his sheer will forced it to tighten against the weakness. Desperate worry filled his mind. He could barely lift the man; how much longer could he keep this up?

Not long at all, came the reply from his argumentative side, and Rassan had to admit that was true. He reached into his robe, removing his right hand from the guard’s collar, so as to pull the short knife that he kept hidden there from its’ sheath. His hand gripped the familiar leather, but as it did so, the other man found the hilt of his own sword, pulling it free as Rassan drew the knife. As he yanked the sword clear of the sheath, the blade’s point slashed across Rassan’s gut, tearing deep into his flesh. He screamed in pain, hoping that the sword hadn’t opened any vital organs.

He took the dagger he held and plunged it into the guard’s ribs, and then again. The man flinched twice, letting out a grunt at the first stab. When Rassan thrusted the second time, however, it was almost a scream, and he coughed blood from his mouth, which ran down his chin and onto his throat.

It is done now, Rassan thought to himself, only half-reveling in this victory. It was to be otherwise. The guard swung again, the blow cutting into his robed arm and nearly taking it off, tearing deep into the bone. Rassan raised his dagger, planning to cut his throat and end this fight. The guard, however, still had use of both his arms, and one came up to deflect his striking hand. It was a moment that they struggled before Rassan brought a knee up, crushing the man’s groin; any resistance temporarily faltered. Rassan’s hand came forward quickly as the guard’s strength suddenly gave under the pain, and the dagger plunged into the man’s left eye. Rassan let his weight fall upon it until he was sure that it had pierced the brain. The guard’s mouth opened, gurgling forth one last burst of blood, and then he fell to the floor.

Rassan dropped to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to recall the name of the man that sat dying before him, but his exhausted mind came up empty.

“I-I’m sorry…I wish it had been some other standing in your place. You always...gave me respect. And you called me ‘Ras’. No one’s done that since I was a child.” He saw some kind of pity in the man’s eyes. Curse it, what was his name?

The guard sputtered, his words lost in another spout of blood that landed on Rassan’s robe. He reached out, cradling the bloody face in his shaking hands. The man’s breath came now in short, ragged gasps.

“I’m sorry, Talan,” Rassan found himself repeating again, finally recalling the name.

Talan had been with them for but a few weeks; however, Rassan had quickly grown to like him. He couldn’t believe he had just ended this boy’s life. Compared to himself, Talan was a child; he had just seen his twenty-fourth year some few months back. Talan’s eyes had no recognition in them; terror was the only emotion Rassan could recognize there. He pulled the guard to him, kissing his forehead. He had to see him through this, had to calm his fears in these final moments. He held Talan until his breathing had stopped, and though it was only seconds, it felt like forever.

As he closed the guard’s eyelids and laid him on the floor, Rassan noticed the two men who had been flanking the pulpit moving cautiously toward him. Anticipation grew thick; they were exercising caution, waiting to see what he would do. He had killed two armed men in moments, and it appeared that he had done so without much effort. There was fear in their faces, though they masked it as well as was possible with bravery.

Rassan stood upright. He regarded the two men for a moment before speaking.

“There is no quarrel here, unless you choose to bring it. I did not want to kill these men, and do not wish to do any harm to either of you. I only wish to leave. Any disputes I have with our lord, I wish to settle with him and him alone. It is your choice.”

The sentries paused at that, looking to each other. Strategically, they must have realized that battling even an unarmed man around the steeple that lay in the aisle between them wasn’t the safest bet. They glanced at him quickly before their eyes met again, and must have decided it wasn’t worth the risk. They turned and walked away.

“Thank you.” Rassan took a moment to wish Talan’s soul a peaceful journey before he turned away from his rather unfortunate handiwork. He’d never killed anyone before, and here he was, a murderer and traitor to his own kind, to the people he had happily served for such a long time. He stepped over the body of the other guard; he didn’t know this one’s name at all; indeed, he had never seen him before tonight. He pulled the door open, and stepped through into the cold mountain air.