“I’m here to see Martis.”
“I’m certain that Sir Aieres, ahem, would have nothing to do with you.” Fenrir had heard that Aieres had been knighted for service to the duchy. It had completely slipped his mind.
“Listen, I’m a friend,” Fenrir managed, lurching forward against the door. “Fenrir de… If you don’t let me… in… you will find yourself… without a job.” He was gasping at this point. He’d lost more blood, and was in more pain than he’d before realized. Now that he was close to his destination, he couldn’t push back the blinding ache much longer.
“Ahem. I will investigate your claims. I, ahem, kindly ask that you wait here.”
“Wait, get back here, you… villainous… something.” Exhaustion was taking hold, and Fenrir had little energy enough for keeping his feet, let alone for witty insults. This little pissant was going to pay, by the gods! Or, he’d worship this man for letting him in.
Leaning heavily against the door, shivering and trying to maintain his balance, Fenrir found his mind wandering back to this morning, to his father. They’d never had what anyone would claim was a good relationship. Fenrir was the third son, born of the second wife, the southerner, the nomadic witch, Astora.
His mother had been everything to him. He’d fit in so poorly with his family, with his so-called brothers, with the cutthroat mercantile business. His father had all but ignored him most of the time. Darian had traveled so frequently in those early days and, when he’d been in Rostane, he’d been actively involved in his experiments. The longer stretches that Darian had spent at home, he had spent primarily with Ethan and Aiden, educating them in economics and teaching them the ins and outs of the business. Showing them the secrets of the expanding de Trenton mercantile empire, and the burning ice. Fenrir had never been privy to those secrets, and honestly had never had much interest.
He and Astora had spent much of their time walking around the city together, touring the markets, milling about the various districts. They had particularly enjoyed sitting in a secluded spot by the Fullane, not far from the docks at the widest part of the river. Fenrir remembered holding back branches to help his mother work her way through the brush at the edge of a park, having to rediscover their special place every time. But, that had been how it remained their special place.
Astora would teach him of the far south traditions there, away from the bustle and casual cruelty so pervasive in the de Trenton estate. He’d learned of the religious holidays that his mother celebrated, considered pagan rituals here in Yetranian-heavy Ardia. Fenrir had loved to hear about the dances and the songs of his mother’s people, and he’d occasionally convince her to sing. Astora would rarely raise her voice above a soft murmur, almost as if it were sacrilege to voice the songs of her people so far away from home. And though Fenrir couldn’t understand the Domain tongue, he could follow the rise and fall of her voice, feel the emotion in her melodies. Many of the songs were mournful dirges, the Domain being a harsh land, with the southern folk often falling to hunger, cold, and disease. However, many of the songs had filled Fenrir with hope—hope that his mother would be happy, finding joy here in a land so different from that of her birth. Hope that he would develop a relationship with his brothers, and that they would respect him, that they would stop hurting him. Hope that they would stop hurting Astora.
Fenrir was unevenly humming one of those songs now, distracting himself from the agony of his wounds, keeping himself on his feet. He remembered this song the best. Astora had told him that it was the song of her tribe, the Srota. Most of the tribes of the Domain were nomadic, following the herds of snow elk and seals. But the Srota were a fishing people, staying in their region regardless of ice or months of darkness. Astora told him that during the darkest and coldest part of the year, the endless night, the Srota would sing this song. To bring them hope that the sun would again rise, that the winter would end.
Even though the winter did end every year in the farthest reaches of the south, it had never ended for Astora in the much more temperate land of Ardia. After she’d ended her own life, Fenrir remembered singing this song quietly at her wake, over her body. He’d been the only one who gave a damn about Astora at the wake or anywhere in Rostane, most of the attendees being Darian’s business partners and sycophants, bowing and scraping for extra attention, discounts, and for a slight edge. So it had been Fenrir, mourning his mother alone, singing a song of hope when he felt no hope at all.
As he fell to his knees against Sir Martin Aieres’ grand wooden door, Fenrir resolved that de Trenton would be replaced by his mother’s surname. A name honored by the Srota, a name as old as the people of the Domain. Kalabrot. Translated to the Ardian: he who breaks the cold. The Coldbreaker. It was Fenrir’s last thought before he finally succumbed, losing consciousness at the doorstep of his salvation.
---
Fenrir was standing on a tall hill overlooking a valley, a wide, rushing river in the distance. It must have been the winter, as what grass there was appeared to be either dead or dormant, and almost all visible trees were stripped of leaves, their bare branches creaking as the wind periodically gusted through the canopies. Interestingly, Fenrir had no impressions of cold. In fact, he couldn’t move a muscle, but at least he wasn’t hurting anymore. Even more strangely, he had the impression that he could see in all directions at once. Rather than being disorienting, the enhanced vision felt entirely natural.
In the distance, not too far from the river, he could see a tall, squat building with the appearance of an ashen stone cube, a grand staircase leading to the top. At the peak of this odd structure was what appeared to be a temple, crowned by a great fire burning in a golden bowl, its purplish smoke dissipating into the colorless sky.
Behind him—or in front of him, it was all the same—Fenrir could hear melodic voices, speaking to one another from the other side of the hill. All at once, a large group of men, clad in brownish robes and bearing spears and shields, crested the rise as they headed toward his position. Many wore unadorned hoods, and several others, not equipped with instruments of war, had helms resembling the plumage of some great, azure bird. The group, at least five hundred strong at this point, was still some ways off, but Fenrir could have sworn that most of the feather-capped warriors were women.
Now, another army approached from the river. Time seemed irrelevant on this hill; the first group was moving quite slowly to his position, while this second army seemed to advance with great speed. These were quaintly armored folks, some riding on large, grizzled animals that Fenrir had never seen before. These creatures were shorter than a horse, but twice as wide and long! Each bore several men, and some of these men wielded staves adorned with the skulls of animals. Foxes, wolves, great birds.
All at once, the armies collided, the first group awaiting the larger army with the strange mounts and antiquated leather armor. The musical voices of the defenders grew louder, and Fenrir recognized the sounds as belonging to a dialect of the Wasmer. Wasmer fighting what looked like humans, albeit humans of a sort that Fenrir had never seen. They were pale-skinned, their pupils nearly white, and though many of them had long hair, it was generally wild and unkempt. Others were bald, and they all fought with a singular ferocity Fenrir had never seen. It was if they had no cares aside from tearing the Wasmer to pieces. Some of these strange men even abandoned their weapons to throw themselves bodily at the Wasmer, impaling themselves on the spears, but not stopping their attack until life bled from their bodies.
Both armies flowed around Fenrir, not noticing him in the least. Slowly, the Wasmer were driven back by the superior numbers and the furious onslaught of the attacking army. Before long, one of the shaggy animals drew close. Fenrir could see now that the creature had an extra pair of legs supporting its middle section, and a special harness system creating a sort of saddle upon which road several warriors. One of the riders dismounted and approached Fenrir directly, not looking through him as did the others. The rider bore a stave with t
he skull of a large cat, and was wearing a cowl that covered her face. A second and third rider, the third being very slight in build, similarly dismounted and joined the first, wielding a goat stave and eagle stave, respectively. The cat-skull stave wielder pulled back her cowl and reached out to touch Fenrir, though he could not feel her hands on his body.
And then she ripped the very life out of him.
---
“As you can see, the wound was abluted and any severely damaged tissue was removed. The remainder was sutured using a long, curved military needle, as gouges this deep rarely occur outside the confines of battle. Or severe accidents with tools. Because of the blood loss, the patient has been unconscious for nearly a day and required a transfu… oh, the patient wakes. Please, leave us for now.”
A calm, relaxing voice, like water babbling over shale. Fenrir struggled against the extreme weight of his eyelids. When he managed to get the gummy things open, he immediately grimaced and squinted against the bright light. As his vision adapted, a large, sterile room became more visible around him. The walls were white-washed and free of décor. There was a small wooden bench along one wall, and a chair right next to the bed that Fenrir was apparently occupying. Turning his head, he saw the distinctive braided beard—now mostly white—of Martis Aieres.
“So, you’ve decided to join us, Fen. You took quite the nap, there,” Martis said, smiling, his good humor always bubbling to the surface. Surprising for a man in an occupation where he witnessed death on a weekly basis.
“Indeed. I’ve had a long day.”
“It’s been at least two days since that wound was inflicted upon you, a day and a half since the wound was exacerbated. You nearly bled out on my doorstop; terrified old Kanic half to death,” said Martis, his strong hand resting on Fenrir’s wrist. Martis was about ten years his senior, but had the finger dexterity of a juggler from one of those traveling shows.
“Kanic, huh? I vaguely remember some ass barring me entrance. I suppose I should thank the man, but I’d rather punch him.” Fenrir’s low chuckle transformed into a painful cough.
“Kanic does have that effect on people, but I could never hope for a better servant. Now, what brings you to me in this sorry state?” Sorry state, indeed. Fenrir’s shoulder was burning, but not nearly as sharply as before. The knee continued to throb, too, and he could both hear and feel his heartbeat pounding thickly in his skull.
“Trouble.”
Fenrir gave Martis a recap of the assassination attempt. He trusted few people as he trusted Martis. The physician had been his first friend when he’d joined the guard at the Plateau. Captain de Hosta had forced him to see Martis after receiving Sergeant Alus’ recommendation, to see whether Fenrir’s knee was permanently shattered. De Hosta would not take a crippled guardsman, no matter what Alus said.
Martis had met a very reluctant Fenrir. In fact, Fenrir had been a real prick, resisting the examination, unwilling to report pain in response to different tests. But Martis knew his business, and had nimbly examined Fenrir’s knee with powerful fingers, twisting his knee to locate the pain, which was made evident by Fenrir’s reluctant grunts and moans. Martis had soon managed to disarm Fenrir’s hesitancy with his optimistic, kindly temperament, though, and been able to establish a diagnosis. After a small operation in which Martis removed a splinter of bone from his joint, and during which Fenrir had learned of the remarkable properties of a substance called ether, the two had become fast friends. Fenrir had never understood why this intelligent, charming man would want to befriend a relatively unlearned guardsman who’d run away from home, but it never seemed to matter.
“…and she stitched me up. I won’t give you the lurid details that immediately followed, but I would categorize that day as slightly above average,” finished Fenrir.
“Ah, I never understood your way with the ladies. I’ve always been of the monogamous sort, like the noble swan. But, even the swan occasionally wishes he were a wild turkey, especially when he observes you, gobbling about,” said Martis, using his typical circuitous wit. “Now, your shoulder wound was much worse than a simple stabbing. It seemed like someone tried to stick a pestle in the mortar of your shoulder, so to speak.”
“Not far off, Martis. Let’s just say that my father and I had a falling out.”
“Ah, the epic battle continues! The steely will of Principal Darian de Trenton versus the indomitable spirit of Fenrir de Trenton.”
Fenrir appreciated that Martis didn’t ask for details about the incident. But given his talents, Martis could probably guess what had happened based on the forensics of his wound. “It’s no longer de Trenton. It’s Fenrir Kalabrot.”
“It was that bad, then?” Martis’ lips were a straight line, as close a frown as the physician ever wore.
“Yes, it was that bad,” said Fenrir, struggling into a seated position on his bed, assisted by Martis’ guiding hands. Fenrir’s head swam, but he remained upright.
“Kalabrot. If I am not mistaken, Coldbreaker? I’ve always thought that you had Domain blood, but I was never certain.” Martis had likely been certain, Fenrir knew. Ethnography was a hobby of his.
“Yes, my mother…”
“No need to speak more, my friend. Might I recommend that you go with the translation? Coldbreaker is quite an intimidating name, something that might be helpful in your current line of work.”
“By the gods, you know about that?” Fenrir felt his cheeks redden. He’d been working for The House for two years, and thought he had accepted his new role in the world. But, though Martis’ expression had not changed, Fenrir felt a great press of guilt now, as if he were being smothered by the spotless, white sheets that covered his body.
“When a man is unconscious and even his boots are soaked in blood, it is customary to undress him. And, it is difficult to miss a heptagram sheathed in an inner boot pocket.” The physician’s smile twisted wryly.
“Martis, I…”
“Again, you have no need to speak more. I imagine there were few options left to you, after that day. You know, I’ve always thought that what happened at the Ardian Council was a true misfortune, and I am still at a loss to explain it. The bump on the head, of course, was an effect, not a cause, of the event. By the way, is that a habit? You’ve obviously been recently concussed, and the back of your head looks like you were dragged across gravel. What happened, and what symptoms have you experienced? The wound seems old.”
“Well, uh, it’s a long story…” stammered Fenrir, surprised to get a word in.
“Ah, forgive me. I tend to go off topic when it comes to the practice of medicine. But, yes, that day was a misfortune. A man must do what a man must do, though. I understand that, and I bare you no ill will for your current line of work. In fact, I am impressed that you have the fortitude to do what is necessary for the job. Perhaps the steely will lies not just with your father. On occasion, I’ve been occasionally forced into unsavory things, so I can relate to the dilemma,” said Martis, his usual jovial expression having darkened with the words.
“Thank you, my friend.” Fenrir guilt melted away from the warmth of his friend’s empathy. And he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to put words to his current predicament. Besides, Martis had figured out the whole scenario before Fenrir had even awoken. Seeing the heptagram, Martis would have known that Fenrir was employed by The House. And the only one who would likely attempt harm on a member of the underground organization would be The House itself.
Of course, now, in light of the events of the past couple of days, Fenrir wasn’t so sure. The House was the most likely suspect, of course—Tennyson trying to erase him after the incident in Umberton. But, Tennyson had said that The House was not done with him. Unless that had been a veiled threat, there was the possibility that Fenrir hadn’t been targeted by his own organization at all.
It very well could have been Darian de Trenton, his own father, who’d sent a hired killer. The man was heavily suspected to have murdered before, an
d Fenrir was certain those suspicions were based in truth. The disappearances and relocations of so many of Darian’s competitors were too coincidental and, in Fenrir’s experience, coincidences just didn’t exist. In his case, Fenrir would not have been surprised if the assassin had been sent by his father as some twisted test. If Fenrir could survive the attack, Darian would consider him, once again, to be an heir, and thus would have summoned him for that meeting. That was the way that his father worked, the twisted old fuck.
He had no hard evidence for this claim, though, and wouldn’t have considered presenting evidence against his father regardless. The only detail that would have hinted at his father’s involvement in the assassination attempt was that his father had known exactly where his shoulder wound was, jabbing his fingers into exactly the right place. But, it had also been obvious that Fenrir was wounded—he’d been covered in dried blood. And it was possible that Darian had seen the wound through the small tear in his shirt. Or, Darian had already known where to strike…
So, either his father, a powerful merchant king, or Tennyson, a leader of spies and murderers, were out to kill Fenrir. And, there was even the possibility that the attack had nothing to do with Darian or Tennyson. Perhaps some four-fingered fuck wanted revenge on the wielder of the knife. Regardless of who was after him, he had little choice but to get out of Rostane. That is, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered.
“So, what’s the prognosis, Martis?”
“Well, there are a few things to consider. First, your shoulder wound. The knife wound did not do much in the way of real damage, but the exacerbation after the fact tore some muscle. You will need to keep your arm immobilized for at least two weeks while the muscles mend. Along those lines, you lost a great deal of blood, and I needed to do a transfusion,” said Martis, gathering medical supplies into his omnipresent satchel.
“Who was the lucky donor?”
Solace Lost Page 12
