A Dance of Blades
an excerpt

Father Donato walked up the simple stone steps that led to the front door of the low house, and rapped gently. Sudden movement could be heard within, and a few moments later the sound of a heavy latch, and the door opened.
It was all I could do to keep myself from crying aloud. It was him! It was the very man who had stabbed Renzino, and clubbed me to the ground. His beard had grown a little, but the crooked nose, the small scar over his left brow, and that same sneer of contempt – they were all there, plain as day. I ducked my head, staring at the cobblestones, praying fervently he had not seen me as clearly as I had seen him.
“Greetings, my son,” came the rich tones of Father Donato. “I, and members of the local community are here to greet you, as we do all the newer arrivals in this quarter...”
“Go away.” The man’s voice was rough, and hard, like gravel dropped onto stone. “Whatever you got, we don’t want.”
“We only wish to offer you the gifts of friendship and the comfort of the church, my son--”
“I said go away!” Beneath the hem of my cowl, I saw Father Donato’s feet stumble backwards down the steps, and heard a gasp from the gathered crowd. Had the man pushed Father Donato? Before I could even finish forming the question, Guiducci had bounded past Father Donato.
“What the good Father means to ask,” he growled, and there was an edge to his voice suddenly, that I think would give a brave man pause, “is are you the ones who done for the nob and his men? ‘Cause the boys in the dungeons never did a bad turn in their whole lives. They wouldn’t attack an unarmed man, and they wouldn’t do murder neither. So find myself asking, who would?”
Father Donato was saying something, trying to assure everyone that we were just here to talk, but the man on the stairs was not listening. “We haven’t done nothing. We’re not in the Keep now, you can’t give us no orders, Sergente or not. I--” He paused here, as the men with Guiducci began to move forward, forming a solid block behind their sergente.
“We are innocent,” the man suddenly declared. His tone was different somehow, as if he were reciting his words rather than simply talking. “We have done nothing wrong.” Even stranger, it was like I could feel the words, a pressure almost, waves breaking against my head. I had never felt anything like this before.
“You should leave us alone,” the man declared, “and forget we are here.” The pressure built, each syllable crashing against me; I could feel whatever this was trying to force a breach. The thought immediately brought to mind the stern walls of Abbey Isle, standing immobile as the storm waves brought their fury against them, and broke harmlessly. The image was soothing, and it seemed this bizarre pressure against my head was somehow lessened.
Around me, I noticed the attitude of the men – in fact, everyone around me – had relaxed. Some of the men began to step backwards, as if they were no longer interested in what was happening, despite the harsh words of mere moments ago.
“I apologize, my son,” said Father Donato. His voice was so calm and strange, I looked up at him in shock, heedless of my hood and what it might reveal. “We shall leave you alone, and forget you are here.” He spoke almost tone-for-tone the same way the ruffian on the step did.
“Father,” I hissed at him, “what are you saying? He is the one! He is most definitely the one!”
Father Donato looked at me, and to my amazement, his eyes were unfocused, like one inebriated, although he stood steady. “They are innocent,” he said. “They have done nothing wrong.”
I was shocked beyond words, and stared at the man on the steps, who was looking down at us all with a look of triumph. Guiducci was backing down the stairs slowly – I think he was even smiling. Then the man caught sight of me.
His brow furrowed for a moment, as if something about me confused him. Then I saw the spark of recollection in his eye. “You! The monk!” His eyes bored into mine, and for a moment, I was strangely reminded of Brother Anselm, when as the Master of Novices, he would pin an offending novice – often myself – with his gimlet eyes until his victim confessed his sins.
The memory stirred the fires within me – how dare this man look at me so, when I was the one in the right, and he the wrongdoer? I matched him stare for stare, and declaimed, “No! We will not leave you alone! You are the murder of della Cava and his bodyguard! You are the ones who should be in the dungeons awaiting the hangman! Those men are innocent, and you know it!” I wasn’t thinking about keeping a low profile, or worrying about whether he would recognise me, or what he would do to a witness to his crime; I was just incensed.
The pressure against my head returned again, fierce and constant. I felt again like that naughty novice, trying with all his might not to admit tho having stolen apples from the orchard. But no! I was Brother Anselm, and I was the one who would have the confession of the guilty. I remembered how the image of the Abbey walls had soothed the strange force against me, and again the memory of the inviolate fortifications impervious against the surging tempest soothed me.
I stepped forward against the tide of will that seemed to flow from this man, forcing myself against it. He retreated before me, a look of complete surprise on his features. For a moment, I had the strangest feeling – that I was not in a battle of wills with this man, but somehow with something inside him. I heard confused murmuring around me; ahead of me I could hear the sounds of chairs scraping, and I saw movement in the doorway behind the murder in front of me.
I stepped forward again, my foot on the lowest step. We were both silent now, this man and I. I kept my gaze steady, daring him to deny me, daring him to lie again and profess his innocence. He backed away, dropped his eyes, but somehow I knew that something was holding my gaze, was still striving against me. The pressure, the strange invisible current that pushed against me even stronger – I wondered that everyone else was not swept aside. But I carried the walls of the Abbey Isle with me, and I would not be swept away. I stepped forward again, climbing up another step – and something snapped. I can put it no better than that. There was a sensation of something giving way, letting go. There was no pressure against my mind any more – I don’t think I physically stumbled forwards, but it almost felt like I did.
I heard screaming, and I realised it was the man in front of me. He staggered backwards, into the room, where I could now see five other men, dressed similarly, crowding in the small hallway beyond the door. The man in front clawed at his back, never letting up his terrified screeching. The men behind him looked on in horror, and then...
It is difficult to describe what happened next. It was not well-lit in that small house, it was crowded with the soldiers, and my view was mostly blocked by the man in front of me. But for a moment, I saw something black whipping through the air in between the men, as if it came from behind the man in the doorway. The men were all screaming now, horrifying agonised sounds that sounded like nothing I had ever heard. If men were being led to slaughter like the spring lambs, and if you put all their screams together, perhaps it would sound like that. Perhaps.