An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

The warlord’s summons came not long after. The soldiers appeared, separating him from the rest of the group, and took his sword away. He was too exhausted to argue.

  The Warlord Yeshin was a tall, sparse-haired man with a wrinkled brow and a thin moustache. He was wearing soldier’s garb over a tunic that was bright red where it showed. “Foreigners,” he said, looking at Kefier like he was a worm that had crawled out of the soil. “Yet I am told you speak excellent Jinan.”

  “Well enough.”

  “With an Akkian accent. How odd.” Yeshin gestured towards the table, inviting him to sit.

  Kefier gave a grim smile. “My friend once told me of a warlord who would serve his enemies tea before he cut off their heads. That’s not you, right?”

  “I may be openly defiant of the Ikessars’ more ridiculous laws, but I am not an idiot. Severed heads are in poor taste and no longer fashionable. Sit.” He tipped his head forward and poured clear liquid from an earthen jug. “And wine, not tea. Tea at this time of the day is deplorable.”

  Kefier accepted the drink. The liquor was sour, and fire ran through his belly with one sip. He returned the cup to the table.

  “A foreigner daring to slip through my lands,” Yeshin said, glancing out the window. It sounded like he was speaking to himself, rather than Kefier. “Truly, Oren-yaro has fallen with the rest of them. Back in my grandfather’s day, they respected us. Our laws were upheld just as well as if they had been from the Ikessars.”

  “I am sorry if my family’s travels have upset you.”

  Yeshin glanced at him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I dislike the idea of foreigners traipsing through my fields, but you are just one man. I don’t have a problem with you personally. Unless you were planning on staying here?”

  “We were on our way to Shirrokaru.”

  “To dally with the Ikessars, no doubt.” He flicked dirt off his sleeve. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I blame them. I have always blamed them—it is a family trait, this blaming of the Ikessars—but in this case the wound has gone deeper than it used to. My wife ran off with an Ikessar follower. Not even a royal. A peasant.” The warlord snorted, pouring wine for himself. “If I’ll be decorating my gates with any heads, it’ll be theirs.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Women. Pretty to look at, but you can never tell if they’re a she-wolf or a mangy bitch. I’m told your wife is Jinsein. Why are you travelling so late in her condition?”

  He told him. The warlord laughed, taking another drink, wine dribbling from his whiskers. “A woman, dictating your actions. It reeks of Ikessar doing. Old Jin-Sayeng was not like this. Do you know that our country is over a thousand years old? Our people came from the east across the sea and settled here to grow rice and tame dragons. A thousand years of tradition, of laws set in stone. They made us who we are. Look at this.”

  He swirled the wine in his hand. “The way the wine is brewed—it used to be that only select artisans could sell ishone wine. The recipe—the right mixture of herbs and honey—was kept in secret. And then the Kags come…”

  “With all due respect,” Kefier broke in. “We just want to go to Shirrokaru.”

  “Why?” the warlord asked, suddenly annoyed. “Do we not have healers here, too? Oren-yaro is an old city. Older than Shirrokaru.”

  “We’re looking for a specific man, a healer. Sang Narani’s son, who goes by the name of Sagar.”

  “Sagar? That is not a Jinsein name. Rok Sagar. Southern Zarojo, if I’m not mistaken.” Yeshin pursed his lips. “Foreigners. So many foreigners. It’s Reshiro’s fault. The king—the past king—the one who opened the borders. He allowed himself to be influenced by merchants who fancied they knew better than all the provinces combined. Come to think of it, one of those merchants was named Sagar. But never you mind that…”

  He swallowed. “The son is even worse. He disappeared years ago. We were told he was still in Shirrokaru, that he never left, but every warlord knew they’d lost him. And then he turns up a few months ago, claiming that Gaspar is waging war on us. Gaspar! As if they would ever become distracted from their petty feuds with Dageis to bother with us. As if we have anything left to bother with, after what the Empire of Ziri-nar-Orxiaro did.”

  “Like I said…”

  “I know. My wife just left me. My sons are fighting over their inheritance and my liege lord is a fool. Have a heart and allow an old man his nonsense. Drink.” He pointed.

  Kefier sighed and drained the cup.

  “As it happens, I’ve heard of this Narani of yours. If I’m not mistaken, she has made quite a name for herself over the years. Are you sure you trust her?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve received reports. I will not speak of them when the light is waning so.” He nodded at the window. “I must detain her, but I thought it would only be polite to tell you. You and your family can go. In fact, if you leave now, you’ll be in Shirrokaru by dawn.”

  “You want us to leave her behind?”

  “Yes,” Yeshin said. His eyes flashed. “Leave her. And, since she’s taken an interest in you, run as fast as you can.”

  Interlude

  The mansion is bigger than it looks from the outside. Arn slips on the polished floors when he enters, and he clasps the man’s arm with an uneasy look on his face. There are chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, twinkling like starlight. He does not look straight at them, afraid of the glimmer.

  A woman appears, startling Arn from his stupor. She gives him a soft smile, a knowing smile, the kind readily given by women who know he has never known his mother. To his chagrin, he responds in kind. She takes his hand and detaches him from the man.

  “You must be hungry,” she says. Her ears are long as grass leaves and they shake as she speaks. “There is hot food in the kitchen.”

  She opens a door and leads him down the hall into a small room that smells of smoke and something that makes Arn drool. He sees that the wrinkles on her face are touched with blue, as if it was the colour of the blood that moved underneath.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Do you mean to ask for my name, or what I am?”

  When he doesn’t respond, she smiles once again and taps his jaw. He closes his mouth. She pushes him into a chair and places a plate in front of him. “Eat. It is the master’s wishes.”

  He looks at the food. It is some sort of meat spiced with black pepper and paprika, covered in gravy with potatoes on the side. He turns back to her. “You’re not human,” he says.

  She laughs. “What a rude thing to say. We will have to work on that, I think.” There are blue veins across her neck. She smoothens out his hair, like a girl petting a kitten. His neck tingles. “Are the Laidari not people, too? Or the Saldu?”

  “I would know if you were Laidari and you’re certainly not like the Saldu,” he says. “You’re a ka-eng. That’s not a tribe, that’s a thing.”

  “Perceptive,” she says, her breath tickling his ear. “Rude, but perceptive. Eat your meal, little eaglet. Maybe then I’ll tell you a bit more about myself. Either way, it’s not manly to pry.”

  She gives him a tweak on the cheek before stepping out of the kitchen.

  Later, he finds himself ushered into a small room. It is bare, except for a bed and a desk. There are folded clothes on the mattress. He picks up the shirt and rubs his fingers into the fabric before looking down at his own, tattered one. He gives a contemptuous sniff. He puts on the new shirt; it is warm and clean, smelling of crushed pine-needles. His new trousers are the same. And the mattress, when he falls against it, is soft, softer than the mother’s breast that he never knew.

  He falls asleep without knowing it, and sleeps on through the day and through the night. When he opens his eyes, the shadows are awake and moving.

  “Jarche,” a voice says.

  He gives out a startled cry.

  The ka-eng appears. She does not materialize out of thin air, but he has not seen her there b
efore and it gives the impression that she has always been there. She gives him a puzzled look and waves one hand. “What am I, a dead rat? No, that’s my name. Jarche. I forgot to tell you. Arn is yours, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Not Laidari. A Kag name, is Arn.”

  He does not know that. He opens his mouth to ask her about it but she takes his arm. She takes him out to roam the long hallways, chatting about nothing. She talks about the artefacts and paintings lining the walls, and tries not to show her panic when she closes a door to one of the rooms. Arn catches the glimpse of a viol on the bed. They eat lunch together—soft bread with meat and cheese inside—before exiting the mansion by the back and spending the rest of the afternoon exploring the gardens. The tour erases any traces of unease within Arn. He takes in the beauty of his surroundings, the richness and the eloquence of it all, like a child taking its first breath. He feels almost at home.

  There are few moments as right as the ones with a blade in his hand, or so Prefect As’ondaro likes to think, standing in the practice yard. Two blades are even better. He grins. “Sure you got Giomis to put up the blocking spells on these? I like you pretty; you’d scare everyone off, otherwise.”

  “Stop boasting. You’re fat and sloppy, and the whole cohort knows it.” The woman stands a head shorter than him, but she is all muscle and sinew, and the blade in her hand looks even sharper than either of his. For a moment, he wonders if she had her sword spell-blocked as well. It is lacking the characteristic yellowish glow he expects from such a treatment. She has always claimed to want to kill him; perhaps she finally means to.

  He smiles and makes an experimental cut across her chest. She is gone before he realizes it, but he knows her strategy as well as he knows the back of his hand, and blocks her attack before she can reach him.

  “You’re such a cocky bastard, Prefect,” she says, her voice both honey and fire. “Too bad you’re not much else.”

  There is a spark in her eyes that warns him, too late, of his impending defeat. Nevertheless, he tries to step to his side to avoid the blow. She trips him.

  He falls on his back. Around him, his soldiers cheer. “That’s cheating,” he snaps.

  “Just payback,” she responds. “You cheat all the time.”

  “You wound me,” he says. “Figuratively and literally. I’m bleeding! And look at you men! None of you are going to help your prefect up?”

  “We’d love to, but...she’s not done with you yet,” someone murmurs. They laugh.

  He pushes himself up. “Some soldiers. Next war, I’m personally requesting we be left behind for latrine duty from sunrise till sunset.”

  “A message for you, sir,” a boy calls out, walking towards him.

  He sheathes his swords and takes the offered scroll. It contains orders from their tribune, sealed and signed. The men become serious, seeing his face as he reads the letter. “We’re being asked to accompany the ambassador’s retinue,” he says, “to serve as his bodyguard.”

  Rollus, always the first to complain, makes a face. “We’re soldiers, not nannies.”

  Mahe knocks her sword hilt against the man’s head (and now, seeing her do this, he is certain she didn’t have the blade blocked). “We don’t question orders,” she barks.

  “But…”

  She regards him like a wolf about to swallow her prey. Rollus wilts under her gaze and drops down, pretending to tie his boots. She will get him for that later, As’ondaro is sure. He does not always ask how she disciplines the men. He is sure to get nightmares if he did.

  “Mobilize everyone. We leave in two days.” He presses his thumb against the seal on the scroll. It gives off a faint, red glow, acknowledging his mark.

  He returns it to the boy. “I was hoping we had time to go home so soon after our last mission, but such is life.”

  “It’s Rollus’ fault,” Igaz says. “Unlucky birthmark on his ass.”

  He smiles at them. “Best we go and get it over with.”

  His men salute and leave. Officer Amiren lingers. “One of these days, you will kill me, you know,” he tells her.

  “One of these days,” she agrees. “Where are we headed off to this time?”

  “Gaspar.”

  “The lords are serious, then. After all these years, they finally want peace, and they’ll brave Gasparian sun and sand to get it.”

  “I don’t know about that, but just like you said—we don’t question orders. Or get involved in politics. I just want someone to tell me where to stick my sword into.”

  “Well, don’t let the men mishear that, or you’ll never hear the end of it.” She touches his cheek with her now-sheathed sword for a moment before letting him watch her walk away.

  Chapter Five

  It had been forty days since Bannal’s escape. Enosh knew because he counted them—because mornings since that day had started to feel increasingly like mornings after a night of hard drinking. Sleeping draughts had stopped working and women no longer helped.

  He stared at the rafters on the ceiling, the back of his hand on his forehead, and tried to gather his thoughts. Instead, he found himself weaving through a patchwork of distant memories. Most of it involved his room in Cael, in Yn Garr’s mansion, where he had a nice, soft mattress and all the books he could have ever wanted. He had not been back there in a long time.

  He got up, pulling himself into a chair, and bent over the desk. The letter from Sume was still there, untouched since that night he’d met with Azchai. He played with the seal, not really meaning to read it, and pressed the edge into a dog-ear. He noticed a second letter, the seal stuck to the first. He removed the seal with his thumb and tugged the pages apart. The new letter was penned by a different hand. The scrawl was messy, almost child-like.

  He stared at it in shock.

  “Aret-ni. Go here. Need to know.” The letter was dated several weeks after Sume’s. Underneath, he’d signed it simply with a “K”.

  Surprisingly enough, his first thought was that Kefier had learned to write.

  Their father had never found the time to teach him. He had already been ill when Kefier was born, and all his energies were spent in running the village and making sure Enosh, his firstborn, had the skills necessary to take over when the time came. But the time came too soon: even before the illness had consumed him, the hunting accident happened. Kefier had been so young…

  Enosh’s face tightened. His brother must’ve picked up his literacy from that mercenary rabble. Still, to write like this when he was Meirosh’s son and a prince of Gorent…

  He sighed, knowing that this train of thought would lead only to disappointment. He had tried before—had begged Kefier to consider their position after their father had died. He needed to do his part for their people. But Kefier, ever so stubborn, had only been interested in dogs and hunting and picking up seashells. He knew how to best trap deer in the forest, but could not muster enough thought to figure out his position from a map. Enosh Meirosh-sa-Tar’elian’s brother could not even write his full name!

  Enosh pushed the letter away and chided himself for getting worked up over this. He knew better than to pick at old wounds. He found a shirt, threw on a cloak, and ventured downstairs, where he found an empty table overlooking the courtyard. There, he gestured to the serving girl and watched the chickens milling along the fence-line until his coffee arrived. It was a strong brew, laced with cinnamon, saffron, and fresh cream.

  “I see you’ve really taken to the Gasparian way of life.”

  Enosh closed his eyes for a moment. “You have to stop doing that,” he said, glancing up at Yn Garr.

  “Doing what? Walking up to you to check on how you’re doing your job?”

  “I’ve been doing it remarkably well the last ten years or so, in case you weren’t paying attention.”

  “When you were a boy and spoke like that to me…”

  “And I’m not a boy anymore, in case you weren’t paying attention. Let me have my coffee
first, sir. Then we can talk.”

  Yn Garr’s jaw tightened, but Enosh ignored it. He stirred his coffee, watching red, black, and white swirl together, and took a sip. The concoction was so ridiculously good that he dared another before sitting back and smiling at Yn Garr. “Now you have my full attention.”

  “You haven’t found the mage.”

  “Of course not, master. You’d be the first to know if I had.”

  Yn Garr’s eyelids narrowed.

  Enosh took a third sip of coffee and sighed. “There is ah—that is, I’ve found someone who may know where he is. I’m still investigating that angle.”

  Yn Garr pressed his hands together in front of his face. “You’re investigating.”

  “Glad to know your hearing still works.”

  “He may be on his way to Dageis by now, bearing news of our operations to the Plateau, and you’re still investigating.”

  “I doubt he’s halfway across the desert by now. I’ve got men posted along all the routes he could take and none of them have seen anything.”

  He pushed his chair aside to allow room for the serving girl to place a tray in front of him. The smell of spiced lentil soup, with a dollop of soured cream on top, and the garlic-dotted bread made his mouth water. “Is this all you came here for?”

  “Is my presence such an unnecessary burden to you now?”

  “No, sir. But I have work to do, sir.”

  “That serving girl included?”

  “No, sir. That job’s over.” He smiled thinly.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of several workers from a nearby construction. Enosh took the time to pull the tray closer to him and break the bread in half. He dipped part of it into the soup and had a few bites before he realized that Yn Garr’s attention was on someone else. He glanced up and saw that Sapphire had walked in with the men and was on her way to a table.

  Yn Garr got up and walked towards her. “Bannal’s mage!” he barked. She glanced at him, and to her credit, pretended not to look surprised.