Chapter 14 - To the Monastery

  They hurried out of the village, taking a path that ran along the base of the cliff. Glancing over his shoulder and craning his neck, Arlo made out the young woman named Mullen clinging high to the sheer rocky face. He could hear a faint, high-pitched tapping as she chipped away at the rock.

  “How do climbers deal with shriekers overnight?” he wondered aloud.

  “Shriekers don’t fly that high. We think they’re limited in some way. We never see them above the treetops, either—though it’s hard to tell in the dark.”

  “Well, that’s lucky,” Arlo muttered with a shudder. The idea of being slashed to ribbons while hanging precariously a hundred feet up . . .

  The sky rapidly darkened as they headed away from the village and through a stand of trees. Then the dirt path meandered from the cliff, down a slope, and into dense woods. They passed over a fast-flowing stream by way of a humped bridge constructed of stone.

  Secretly, Arlo had a nagging feeling they’d never make it back to Emery’s house before nightfall. Judging by her silence, she thought so too.

  “Can we stay the night at the monastery, if we have to?” he asked rather breathlessly as they scampered down another slope.

  “Only if we pay the watchman,” she muttered.

  “There’s a watchman? At a monastery?”

  “He’s from Midway. They know there’s treasure behind a small door, so they post a guard. If anyone attempts to steal the treasure, they’ll confiscate it.”

  Arlo almost stopped dead. “Seriously? Well, this changes things. I thought we’d be in and out of there in no time. So we have to deal with a watchman?”

  “We could bribe him.”

  That cheered him up. “Perfect. Yes, we’ll give him a cut of any treasure we find. That sounds like the kind of thing a game would suggest. In fact . . . Oracle?”

  The screen lit up, but no text appeared. It seemed to be waiting.

  Mindful of the gnarly roots on his trail, Arlo thought for a second before asking his question. “Can we bribe the watchman at the monastery so he turns a blind eye when we take the treasure?”

  After a moment, text appeared:

  Your skill with knives will be handy in a skirmish.

  Arlo’s stomach turned over. “Wait, what? You want me to stick the man with a blade?”

  Oracle offered nothing more.

  “Is the treasure enough money to buy our way into Midway? Can we bribe the watchman with it?”

  Then he realized a serious flaw in his plan. Why would the watchman agree to be bribed with a cut of the treasure? He could simply confiscate the treasure, claim some for himself, arrest Arlo and Emery, and deliver them both to Midway. He’d be rich and a hero.

  Anyhow, Oracle refused to elaborate. Arlo tried a different approach. “Assuming I’m not torn apart by shriekers tonight, is there something else I can or should be doing instead of hunting down some treasure?”

  Your skill with knives will be handy in a skirmish.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” he growled. “Screen off.”

  “Nothing useful?” Emery asked when he sank into an irritable silence.

  “Not really.”

  The monastery loomed ahead on the crest of a hill, out in the open where the grass grew tall. Its crumbling walls almost blended into the dull, evening sky. The place was old, forlorn, and empty—the ruins of a once majestic structure that could have been home to a hundred monks.

  “Oh,” Arlo said softly. “I assumed it would be in use.”

  “Nobody’s lived here in a long time,” Emery said as they plowed through the long grass and up the slope. A cool breeze whipped at her hair. “Except for the Midway watchman. There’s a shift change every morning.”

  It quickly became apparent that very little of the building remained intact. Arlo’s vision of staying the night under the safety of the monastery roof evaporated. “Where does the watchman sleep?”

  Before Emery could answer, the watchman himself slunk into view, emerging from the giant archway of the main gate, beyond which lay deepening shadows. He was probably in his thirties, with short, light-brown hair and a neat goatee. “Stop right there,” he called.

  He wore the same blue coveralls as the other Midway men, with a weapon holstered at his side. His apparel and short-cropped hair spoke volumes; this guy was from a modern or even futuristic era, in stark contrast to the medieval village folk. Why the gamemakers allowed them to mix was beyond Arlo’s understanding, because it seemed to undermine the authenticity of the setting. Then again, Julian had called the game Split Realms for a reason . . .

  “What do you want?” the watchman called.

  Arlo and Emery stood still, waist deep in long grass. Above, the sky darkened to a weird, muted blue. Soon it would be purple, and black—and then the monstrous shriekers would arrive.

  “We need shelter for the night,” Arlo called. “We lost track of time, and we’re not gonna make it home. Is there somewhere safe where we can sleep?”

  The watchman stared at them with a frown. “No room here. As you must surely know, the monastery is a ruin. There’s only one room with four walls and a roof, and that’s the vestibule right behind me. And I’m not sharing.” He tilted his head to the side. “But how could you not know that already?”

  He doesn’t know I’m a Player.

  Arlo considered his options. Ordinarily, walking away would be the safe bet. Here, this close to nightfall, retreating could be fatal. So . . . what, then? Throw knives at him. The fingers of his right hand twitched anxiously. Hitting the target this afternoon had come easy after a short practice—perhaps too easily—but a round slab of wood was not the same as a living, breathing man.

  He steeled himself and began to march, heading up the slope to the waiting watchman. “We’re staying the night. You have a choice—either shoot us dead, or let us pass.”

  The watchman moved fast, unholstering his weapon and bringing it up. It was a revolver. “Not smart. Don’t come any closer.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Arlo slowed. He’d shortened the distance, at least. Rather than completely stop, he held up his hands in a placating gesture and kept moving. “If you shoot me, I’m dead. But if I turn around and walk away, the shriekers will kill me. So I’m out of options.” Less than fifteen feet lay between them by now. “I have a key. A golden key.”

  He kept shuffling as that news sunk in. The watchman lowered his revolver perhaps an inch, and a frown crossed his face. “The golden key? You found it?”

  “Yes, and if you let us stay the night, we’ll open the door together and share the treasure. How about it?”

  He finally stopped, almost within reach of the man’s outstretched weapon. It wasn’t cocked. Wasn’t it supposed to be cocked before firing? That meant it was safe-ish at the moment—right?

  The gentle swish of grass behind him suggested Emery had stayed close.

  “You’re a Player,” the watchman said at last. He peered over Arlo’s shoulder and grinned. “Ah, it makes sense now.”

  “What does?” Arlo growled.

  The watchman slowly reached for an object tucked into his belt. “Tell you what, newbie. I’ll trade you for the key. Whatever treasure’s back there, it belongs to Layton. But this can truly be yours.”

  Keeping his revolver trained with one hand, he hefted a silver-colored object with his other—what looked like a slender but deadly hammer.

  Arlo stared at it, genuinely confused. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “It’s a pick hammer. You can climb the wall and buy entry to Midway.”

  The watchman tossed the pick hammer onto the grass. It obviously had some weight and certainly looked sharp enough to chip into solid rock. The metal glinted in the sunlight.

  “Climb the cliff?” Arlo said. He shuddered. “I’ll pass, thanks. I’d rather get a share of the treasure.”

  But the watchman eagerly gestured at the tool. “Take it. It cuts into rock like butter.” His expression hardened. “Now give me the key.”

  A golden key for a measly hammer? Not a chance.

  Arlo cleared his throat and put on a respectful tone. “I’ll pass. I believe the key is worth far more than—”

  “What’s to stop me from killing you right now and taking it?” the watchman interrupted, all attempts at reason evaporating in an instant.

  Arlo didn’t care for the gleam in the man’s eye. “Oh—you think I have it on me? Seriously—let us stay, and tomorrow I’ll go dig up the key from the woods back there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  The watchman considered long and hard. He looked Arlo up and down, cast his gaze to Emery and studied her with narrowed eyes, lowered his weapon a little more . . . and then grinned. “You know what? I don’t think so.”

  He lifted the revolver once more, and this time cocked it. A split second after the cylinder rotated, a deafening bang filled the air. Arlo jumped and gasped, certain he’d been shot and would feel the pain any second now. He glanced down, patting his body, looking for a gaping hole and a spread of blood. He saw nothing yet. What—?

  Then, hearing a soft cry and a thump, he swung around to find Emery lying on her side, clutching her abdomen, blood seeping between her fingers. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face contorted in pain.

  “EMERY!” Arlo yelled, dropping to his knees. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he ended up poised over her, shaking with horror. “No no no no NO!”

  “Here’s how I see it,” the watchman said in a calm voice. “You know where the key is, so she’s useless to me. The next time I shoot, it’ll be to end her life. So, newbie—go dig up that golden key for me. You have five minutes starting . . . now.”

  Arlo hunched over Emery, breathing hard. She grimaced at the pain, but she was able to peer up at him through the sweat and tears. Though she said nothing, he could almost hear what she had to be thinking: This is your fault, Arlo. I warned you, didn’t I? Now look at what’s happened. I’m going to die because of you.

  He clenched his fists.

  The watchman spoke again, his voice carrying a sing-song lilt. “Time’s a-wasting, boy.”

  What happened next shocked them both. Arlo leapt up and swung around. He was barely aware of it happening, but his fingers brushed over the sheath strapped to his thigh, and a knife ended up clasped between fingers and thumb—but only for a split second, because his hand whipped up, and the silver projectile shot through the air.

  In the blink of an eye, the blade embedded itself deep into the watchman’s right eye, causing him to jerk. For a moment, his free hand reached up to grab at the handle, but his fingers twitched and flailed, and then the man tipped backward, falling in a graceful arc, his body stiff until he slammed down into the grass.

  He didn’t move after that.

  Arlo stood trembling, not a hundred percent certain he’d been responsible for what had just happened. Then he let out a gasping breath and swung back to Emery.

  She seemed to have frozen for a moment, equally shocked. Then she whispered, “Mage pomelos.” She shakily lifted her non-bloody hand and pointed. “In . . . in the woods . . .”

  Mage pomelos! Of course!

  He took a few steps, then paused, glancing up at the sky. On impulse, he dropped and scooped her into his arms. He may not have the strength of blue marulas now, but adrenaline coursed through his veins, and she felt light as a feather.

  He ran the rest of the way up the slope to the monastery’s giant archway. Plunging into the shadows there, he spotted a doorway, slightly ajar, with a soft orange glow from within. He booted the door open and deposited Emery onto one of two bunks.

  She winced and cried out, and he kissed her forehead. “Be right back. Hang in there.”

  With that, he ran from the room, slammed the door behind him, and bolted down the hill to the woods.

  The sky! The sky!

  It was already purple by now, and an inky blackness seeped in from all around, bringing with it the promise of a shrieking nightmare. Could he hear them already? Were those distant echoes?

  Fighting to keep a level head, Arlo retraced their footpath. If Emery had seen mage pomelos somewhere on their way to the monastery, then he had only to keep his eyes open for them. But gloom had descended on the forest, and visibility grew worse by the minute. He scoured the bushes on both sides, trying not to miss a single spot. She’d seen mage pomelos. She’d pointed them out. She knew they were close, knew he could find them in time.

  “Come on, come on,” he growled, turning to walk backward for a moment, then spinning around again. “Where the hell are you?

  A terrible shriek cut through the darkness. This was no vague, distant echo. That creature was right here in these woods. Arlo stopped, his gaze flitting about. There! The distinctive orange flicker of flames dancing around the shrieker’s skull.

  And, to his amazement, a mage pomelo plant stood in front of him. The shrieker had unwittingly drawn his gaze to the exact right spot. He let out a cry of relief and pounced on it, yanking fruit after fruit from its leafy branches and piling them into his uplifted shirt.

  When another shriek sounded—shockingly close now—he glanced up to see the flames weaving slowly between the trees in the darkness.

  What he’d gathered had to be enough for now. He set off with his bounty, focusing all of his attention on the path ahead of him, trying to pierce the darkness and hoping he wouldn’t trip.

  Rushing from the trees and starting up the grassy hill, he tried to ignore the flickers of firelight in his periphery. He counted three or four of them, shriekers floating in from the sides to intercept him. They let out their hideous war cries, and Arlo hunched his shoulders and barreled onward, straight toward the giant archway.

  The shriekers honed in. One screeched so loud and close that he almost collapsed into a terrified ball. He imagined those vicious claws slicing into his back.

  Another shrieked, and he knew they were seconds away. He could feel their icy coldness, sense their hatred, perhaps even hear the crackling of their flames.

  Then he was inside the gateway. He wished he’d left the damn door open for himself. In his haste to find the latch, he dropped a few mage pomelos—but then he burst into the room, dumped his load, and slammed the door shut just as something thudded against it.

  Shriekers raged outside. With raw and ragged lungs, Arlo collapsed and took a moment to get his breath, to control his trembling body.

  Then he crawled across the floor, collecting up the precious fruits he’d scattered everywhere. He had nine left, a couple of them a little squashed. Damn it—he’d probably lost half a dozen outside the door. Maybe he could grab them in a while, if the shriekers left them alone.

  “Emery,” he croaked, hurrying to the bunk.

  She lay still but conscious, her gaze locking with his as he approached. “You need to get the bullet out before you heal me,” she whispered.

  Arlo looked in horror at the bloody wound in her side.

  Looks like your skill with knives will be handy in more ways than one.