An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  “A warrior-poet?” Kefier felt something latch in his throat and he started coughing.

  Vahn glanced at him worriedly. He didn’t say anything, but he got up and shook Aru’s shoulder. Aru’s eyes snapped open. “You need to get this man some water,” Vahn said firmly. “Is your idea of justice letting a man die of heat and thirst?”

  “Fuck off, Jin. You’ve wasted enough of my time,” Aru snarled.

  Vahn responded with a tight-lipped smile. “Anger…” he began.

  “I could tell you a thing or two about anger,” Gaven broke in, appearing by the door. His words were slightly slurred and the smell of wine was thick on his breath. He pointed at Kefier. “The first time I saw that piece of shit I had to stop myself from ripping his head clean from his body. Die of thirst? That’s too good for him. Here.” He ripped the canteen from his belt and threw it on the ground. “What are you waiting for?” he screamed. “You want it from a silver goblet, is that it?”

  It was Vahn who grabbed the canteen first. He uncorked it and handed it to Kefier. “You need to learn mercy, my brother,” Vahn murmured. “There is a Jin saying that mercy is for the weak, but that is only half of it. Kibouri teaches that true strength—”

  Gaven laughed. “Kibouri? By Agartes’ dick, I’ve had enough of your blasted country, thank you very much. The way you butcher ale should never be allowed to leave your borders. Did you tell him what this man has done, Aru?”

  “He killed a man called Thiar, yes,” Vahn replied.

  “Aru left out the part where he ran off as soon as he was done, leaving behind his friends to clean up the mess. Baeddan, you know, takes treachery very seriously.” There was a finality in his tone that made Kefier look up. Gaven turned to him and the smile on his face turned chilly. “You didn’t think, did you? You didn’t think and the rest of them paid for it.”

  Kefier opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Rok, he thought, remembering how his friend had blocked the stairs with a heavy arm. ,” he’d said. He remembered waving back, remembering thinking that Rok had a way with words, that he could explain what had happened, that Thiar had betrayed them all and Kefier had only given him what was due. Except of course he hadn’t told Rok about that. Why did he think that night’s bloodshed ended with him?

  “You piece of shit,” Gaven said loudly. “Go on. Take him back. I’m done with him here.” He spat and walked away.

  Kefier dropped to his knees and almost welcomed the blow that followed.

  Interlude

  “Your thoughts are very far away,” the dark-skinned man says. “Did you not hear a word I said?”

  Ing Vahn glances up from his plate of boiled potatoes and squints. “Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I am worried about my friend. He is being held at the mercenary faction’s camp some distance from here.”

  The man strokes his grizzled beard. “That is unfortunate. I have heard some very unpleasant things about that organization. They have monopolized the industry in these parts and the nature of Kago being what it is...you have my condolences.”

  Vahn nods. “Thank you for that. I—I did meet someone. One of their clients, I believe. He allowed me to explain my dilemma and assured me he will try his best to make sure my friend is safe. He claims to know Baydan, the leader of the group. Badden? I’m sorry, I don’t have a very good ear for these Kag names.”

  “Indeed,” the man says. He looks dubious, but Ing Vahn refrains from commenting. The man takes a sip of that strong, Red Lion wine he had specifically asked for and pushes a piece of parchment across the table. “Well, here is what you have asked for. Directions to the list of transactions of the nature you’ve described between Jin-Sayeng and Gaspar over the last fifty years. You have not, of course, told me what you need this for.”

  “That is not necessary,” Vahn replies. He places a bag of coins beside his plate. “I hope you find this compensation sufficient.”

  The man digs through the bag and nods. “You are heading for Gaspar, then? You’re not taking the infamous Yn Garr tunnel through Cael, are you? It is the shortest route, but I am told it is an arduous journey.”

  Vahn grins. “I may be foolhardy, but I’m not mad. No—I’ll be travelling through Jin-Sayeng. The long way. I have not been home in many years.” He takes the parchment and tucks it into his belt. “I thank you for your time.”

  “And you for yours, Ing Vahn. I hope all goes well for your friend.”

  “As do I.”

  The dancers performing at the Blue Dog tavern that night are beautiful, if not very talented. Harron Silvaeres—Master Blue-dog to his patrons—know exactly where his customers’ tastes lay, and that they couldn’t care less about the droning music in the background and the manner with which the dancers fumbled about on stage. One man, inebriated even before the night had begun, shouted earlier that he was happy as long as it had breasts and legs; he was greeted by loud cheers and, a little later, a live chicken, carefully thrown at his table.

  Gaven of Ni’in, who would have normally been the first to throw lascivious comments and who appreciated women in all shapes and forms, finds the dancers exhaustingly dull today. Not that he isn’t trying. But the brightly coloured skirts and the tones of flesh underneath are doing nothing for him tonight. They might as well be raccoons dancing in the moonlight.

  He turns to the tankard in front of him and downs what remains of his beer in one go. Then, his voice slightly slurred, he calls for more.

  One of his companions taps him on the shoulder. “You’re more upset about this than I thought you would be, Gaven. Taking Kefier in—that must’ve been tough. You were friends, weren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I said, you were friends, weren’t—”

  “I know what you said,” Gaven says through gritted teeth. “I was trying to give you a chance to back away. How, by Agartes’ balls, could you ever think I was friends with that piece of shit? Honestly.” He took another swig.

  The men around him give a nervous laugh.

  “We thought, since you hung around him all the time…”

  “You all know what parasites do, don’t you? They stick to you, and then they draw blood, and sometimes you try to burn them and it turns out they’ve burrowed deeper elsewhere. That’s what Kefier was—a fucking parasite. Oji picked him up from Lon Basden like some whore’s disease and we haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

  “You make him sound more terrible than we’ve heard he is.”

  “Don’t I?” Gaven looks around the room, daring them to question him further. “He’s ruined Oji’s life, and I’m telling you, if he didn’t fucking kill Oji himself, then I’m a poxy whore.” He swallows another mouthful. The beer tastes sour to him now, and he isn’t sure if he can force it down his throat one more time. He rises, a little more ungainly than he imagined he would.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Gotta piss,” he mumbles, stumbling out of the tavern.

  As he relieves himself near the dark alley right outside the Blue Dog, his eyes wandered upwards. The moon has never looked so pale before. He wipes his mouth, buttons his pants, and allows himself the liberty of collapsing on the ground.

  Ridiculous, he mutters to himself. He is being ridiculous. He is an officer now, with responsibilities and an image to maintain. Has he ever seen Algat or Baeddan drink themselves to oblivion in a cheap tavern around cheap women and low-ranking men? Of course not. He berates himself even more as he begins to vomit in the bushes, his stomach contracting around itself.

  Screw Agartas’s beard; he wants to die.

  No, no, he doesn’t, but he feels like it. He spits the vile taste from his mouth and stumbles out into the street. He has decided that tavern air, thick with the smell of smoke and wine and perfume, is something he can no longer face. He needs a bed. An inn somewhere. Comfrey’s? No, no, he wouldn’t dare, he couldn’t. They loved Oji over there. Love Kefier, a thing he could never understand.

  That damn kid. T
hey should have left him to die in his own filth in Lon Basden. Gaven would have, too, if not for Oji and his bleeding heart. Damn the both of them to the depths of hell.

  For the first time since he heard of Oji’s death, he feels a choking sensation within him. Not tears, nothing close to that; the life they all chose was always linked to death and Gaven is no stranger to the pain of a lost companion. But a lost friend? Ah, but he doesn’t have the words, not a whore’s son like him. He knows, at least, that he should have never allowed himself to grow as close as he did to the damned Jin and the rest of those ragtag men—he should have remembered those lessons from the streets in Ni’in. Too late for regrets, now. Too late for everything. Tears run, tongues wag. The dead remain dead.

  He feels the sword at his side, flexing his fingers around the scabbard, and then gives one last look at the closed doors of the tavern before limping down the street, towards the only home he has ever known.

  Much later, he finds himself at the doorway leading to Baeddan’s quarters. The Head of the Faction doesn’t particularly like visitors, but Gaven cares little for such courtesies. He needs to tell him—wants to tell him—exactly how he should be dealing with Kefier. As he stands there, he hears the sound of boots and looks up.

  Perhaps it is the slight, twitching pain, caused by a night’s worth of drinking, that makes him impervious to the sight. Perhaps it is curiosity. No matter the reason, he finds himself gazing up at the man that had just left Baeddan’s room.

  “You seem ill, Officer Gaven,” the man says. His voice is as gentle as a summer’s breeze. Faint amusement stirs in his brown eyes. His clothes are plain but of expensive make, black and brown and hidden underneath a cloak in Dageian fashion. He is not very tall, but his presence fills the hallway, causing Gaven to shrink back a step.

  “Had a rough night, Ylir, sir,” Gaven manages to blurt out. It is difficult not to reply to this man whether you like him or not. Gaven isn’t sure why. He doesn’t even remember when he first met him. Ylir seems to have come out of nowhere, son or apprentice of a Boarshind patron who goes by the name of Yn Garr, and Gaven was told, from the very beginning, to stay away from him if he could. Keep his head down if he couldn’t.

  He didn’t know why, at first; he does remember making a joke or two about it to the men. “Maybe he needs help pleasuring his wife,” followed by raucous laughter.

  His cheeks burn at the thought now. There is something about Ylir that is strange. Gossip is that he is more than Yn Garr’s apprentice; that he is an enchanter, able to change face or form or alter your thoughts if you let him. Gaven didn’t believe in such things until that first time he spoke to the man. It was like his brain was on fire. He was distinctly aware of his own clumsiness, how Ylir moved with a grace that filled him with shame. It was not a thing he told the other mercenaries, but…

  “Ah. I’d be careful, if I were you,” Ylir says. His lips twitch. “You wouldn’t want to fall in the lake.”

  Gaven runs his hand through his hair and gives a nervous laugh. “Of course, of course sir.” He pauses.

  “Did you need something from Baeddan?”

  “I…I don’t know.” He swallows. It is happening again. He blinks, staring back at this man. What is he doing? What does he want from me?

  “Baeddan said you’ve captured the traitor.”

  Gaven furrows his brows. What did Ylir care about that? The incident was faction business, not something a client ought to be involved in. He sees Ylir reach into his pockets.

  “Here. Baeddan will be too busy.” He flicks his finger. Gaven catches it in mid-air. It is a key.

  When he looks back up, Ylir is gone.

  Through the bedroom curtains, Dai sees his mother talking to the Kag mirror. Whispering, as if she is afraid the neighbours will hear. This has always confused him. The neighbours talk about them already, anyway, so what is one more thing? He glances back at his sleeping grandfather before tip-toeing out into the hall. It is only a little past noon and he is still supposed to be napping. If his mother sees him now, she will be livid.

  He presses his ear against the nearest wall. Against the thin, bamboo covering, he hears his mother sigh. He knows that sigh, because it is her way of stopping herself from crying. He always heard it, for instance, before she hit him, or on the days grandfather went missing.

  “Are you sure of this?” Mother asks.

  “I’m not,” comes the unmistakable sound of Sister Sume’s voice. Dai feels his heart beat; he misses her so much, and the last time she had used the mirror his mother had not allowed him to come close. He wonders if she had received his last letter. He had promised her when she left that he would send one every week, even if she didn’t always reply for being so busy.

  “Then why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know, sister. I thought that man—he was trying to tell me something. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “You and your fantasies, Sume.”

  “But he hasn’t written, has he? After all this time. He should have. If he’s all right, he should have.”

  He hears a low moan coming from the bedroom and ignores it. His mother places the mirror on the table and begins furiously snapping cabbage leaves with her fingers. “I’m of the belief he has finally settled down with an enormous-breasted Kag woman. Don’t patronize me, Sume. I know he’s your brother, but he is not the sort of saint you think he is.”

  There is an abrupt silence. Dai does not know what to think, or what to do. “Dai,” he hears, and then realizes, too late, that it is grandfather’s voice. He rushes back to the bedroom and sees his grandfather sitting up, one hand clutching his heart. His eyes are wide open. “Dai,” he says again, gasping for air. The stench of urine is fast becoming strong in the room.

  Dai’s world begins to spin in front of him. He takes a step back and screams for his mother.

  Chapter Eight

  The first thing Kefier noticed was the onion. Not the soreness of his ankles or the crusted debris on his face, but the onion lying conveniently in front of him, jolted loose from a pile in the corner. He blinked, pressed his tongue against his teeth, and reached for it. It felt solid in his hands, real.

  He didn't want to believe it. With surprising care, he started to peel the onion, pieces of the crisp skin gathering on his belly. As his fingernail bit into flesh, he smelled the pungent odour and gazed upwards at the open sky. Cold, clean air rushed into his lungs.

  The sky was above him.

  Wind was whipping his hair and he could hear the unmistakeable rhythm of a trotting horse. He was on a cart, nestled between sacks of vegetables and grain. He didn’t know whether he was supposed to be there or not. The ropes around his wrists were gone. What he did know was that the smell of the onion was making his stomach skip. He pressed it against his nose and began to eat. Tall trees hovered around him as the cart drove past, dark green and russet. Colours he thought he’d never see again.

  He ate another onion before he started to feel sick. For a long time he sat with an arm on one knee, gazing at the moving countryside. It was not familiar to him, but that didn't really bother him. His thoughts were elsewhere, on a quiet shore somewhere long forgotten. Remnants of a fire, still burning, not far away. A fish head on a stick beside him. Stars in the sky, also burning. The heavy breathing of a dog on his lap.

  Was that shore still there, untouched, his entire childhood strewn across its sands like paint on canvas? He realized he had not thought of that place for so long now. Was the cave still there, and that castle they built with rocks and branches? That ledge over the best fishing spot there ever was? That grave they made for their father’s old hunting dog Kabu, after he died of a flea infestation? Enosh had polished and carved the dog’s name on a rock, and they had to steal the tools from old Harrana…

  The memory of Enosh pushing him into the bushes to avoid the prying eyes of their aunt faded. He remembered thinking of him in the dungeons at the mercenaries’ keep, and then, predictably,
of the dungeons themselves. And what he had been doing there. And what he was doing now, being carted off to God knows where by a man in a straw hat whistling that utterly ridiculous song about Dageian babies that got Oji kicked out of taverns one too many times.

  He started to look around the inside of the cart. An angled shadow caught his attention. He dragged it out from underneath the pile of onions. It was Oji’s sword. His sword, now. He pressed the handle with his hands and tied the scabbard around his belt.

  He looked at the driver again. “Where are we going?”

  “Next town,” the driver said. He didn’t seem to care that Kefier asked.

  “Where is that, exactly?”

  “Vildar.”

  He waited patiently for a little more than that, but it was obvious that the driver was finished with him. They rode on in silence, the wind whipping his face. The shadows between the trees were very dark, he noticed. He started thinking about the famous Kag Forest, which stretched through most of the lands of Cael and Kiel. Yohak of the Wood was said to live there, a fallen god among men, roaming the endless weaving of the shadows…

  He paused. Vildar? He looked back at the driver and repeated this thought aloud.

  “’Bout half a day’s ride more,” the driver mumbled, chewing on something he clearly wasn’t about to share.

  “Vildar is a town in Cael.”

  The driver grunted an affirmation.

  “Then that’s…” He pointed at the woods.

  The driver turned around for the first time. “Bite that finger, kid. You’re going to bring them out of the shadows and after us.”

  He mumbled an apology and bit his finger. “Then I’m right.”