Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “She’s alive.”

  “The dead don’t usually cough. Thanks, though,” Ferl said drily.

  Fenrir was briefly irked, but let it go. Always the better option. Besides, he was not the sole proprietor of sarcasm. He lifted the girl up—she was surprisingly light—and set her on the chair. Usually, he’d have appreciated an opportunity to survey a young, naked blond girl in her twenties. But even Fenrir, a well-known debaucher, couldn’t see the girl as more than a victim, or near victim, of rape. He’d never resorted to such a vile crime, though he’d sometimes paid for his pleasure. Half the fun was with the chase, but not in a literal sense.

  And still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d met this girl before.

  “Pasnes alna. Only explanation,” said Ferl.

  “Pasnes alna? A magician?” Fenrir had some passing knowledge of the order of magicians, those who called themselves pasnes alna. His father… Darian de Trenton, rather… had had some dealings with these world-bending weirdos, despite strict laws forbidding the use of magic, or the presence of magic users, in Ardia. Fenrir had overheard many a tedious lecture and passionate debate regarding the morality of magic while standing guard in the Enlightenment, keeping visiting Scholars safe from imaginary foes.

  “Yes. I’ve seen similar sights before, though not quite so… colorful? This girl must be a pasnes alna.” A witch, then. Someone who could manipulate the world through the use of powers that Fenrir could barely understand.

  Wait. This girl, a witch. Something about an inn. Getting clunked in the head…

  Fenrir burst out laughing at the absurdity of it, the pure low probability and scant likelihood that he’d have run into this girl again. He drew Ferl’s dead-man’s glare, the captain fingering the hapler at his side. Fenrir shook his head.

  “This girl isn’t a pasnes alna. She’s a fucking barmaiden.”

  ---

  The girl, Merigold, was lying on a cot in the corner dressed in her old clothes, which had amazingly escaped the worst of the human explosion. Fenrir had dressed her himself, noting the fresh bruise on her face as well as a crisscross of partially healed bruises all over her body. She’d been poorly treated, and recently, too.

  When he’d grabbed her clothes, Fenrir had also found a sort of make-shift weapon, a long, rusty nail, wrapped in a copper-stained bit of cloth. Merigold had been poorly treated, but she wasn’t quite helpless. Together with the weapon, the dead men in the Cleanly Hog’s office attested to that.

  Fenrir wasn’t squeamish. He’d cut off at least enough fingers to make a new pair of hands. But, looking at this bruised and beaten girl, remembering the utter fear and pain in her eyes before she’d lost consciousness, Fenrir had felt his age very acutely for a moment.

  And for a second moment, he had thought of Emma. She’d been mistreated, too. Maimed in a very painful and very obvious way. Being four-fingered (or worse, in Emma’s case) was typically a death sentence for a servant-class woman. Sometimes, people would simply murder a four-fingered. But, more often, being branded by The House consigned such victims to a life of ostracization, derision, and unemployment, until they slowly wasted away from hunger or disease. Emma had been lucky that Escamilla had kept her on. Her life would be very different right now otherwise.

  Her life would also be different if Fenrir hadn’t entered her room that night, if he hadn’t held down her hand and swung his knife. If he had disobeyed his superiors, forfeiting his chance to work with The House and perhaps even his life. Then, maybe not, Fenrir corrected himself. If he hadn’t performed the deed, then some other enforcer would have played the role, and probably done a more accurate job. At least with Fenrir’s mistake, Emma wouldn’t be automatically flagged as four-fingered. It could have been a kitchen accident or some birth defect that had maimed her. In fact, Fenrir may have done Emma a favor by botching the job.

  And, of course, he had made a stack of yets.

  “We’ll have to report the victims to the guard. The two victims,” Ferl was saying to Fenrir. Hunesa, despite appearances on this side of town, was a city of strict law and order. Ferl, himself, could be prosecuted if his men were implicated in these murders, as he was technically their commanding officer even between engagements. Ultimately, it was easier for Ferl to simplify things in this situation—two men fought over a woman and some money, with one killing the other, and then the woman killed the second in self-defense. No need to mention that a third man had been blasted across the walls.

  Ferl had left Christoph to guard the site of the macabre massacre, and he’d pulled several of his men to clean up the mess as much as was possible. Fenrir didn’t envy their task: mopping up as much blood as they could, collecting the quivering globs of humanity spread across the room, and disposing of all of it at random places around the city. Ferl seemed to know exactly how to hide the fact that a supposed magician had exploded a merc.

  “No one is going to miss Musk, anyhow. I don’t know where he’s from, and it’s likely nobody else does, either. It’s typically a safe bet that no one in my company will be missed in the unfortunate case of an early demise,” said Ferl with a wry grin. He was reclining in his chair, seemingly recovered from any anxiety over the brutal death of his men.

  “What about the other two?” This business of casual murder intrigued Fenrir. The House was very covert in its pursuits of human termination, whereas Ferl’s Company seemed quite practiced at getting away with murder in the open.

  “Sergeant Paran was a liar and a thief. Not necessarily a disqualifying factor in our line of business, except that he lied and stole from me. He wasn’t authorized to negotiate deals with the kind of money we found in that room.” Fenrir suddenly noticed the feel of the cold coins against his sweaty ankles. “Clearly, he planned to take that money and run. And obviously, the three of them planned to rape that girl.”

  “Wrong decision, evidently,” observed Fenrir.

  “Indeed. There’s a time and place for that sort of behavior. My men know that. They also know that to rape between engagements is a hangable offense—at least, it is in most cities. If local authorities didn’t take action, it would have been handled internally. Paran and Woody consigned themselves to death, regardless of that girl’s actions. I just hastened Paren’s demise while simultaneously allowing us to protect this girl.”

  Ferl didn’t seem like the sort who was big on sheltering the innocent, and Fenrir’s skepticism must have shown through on his face.

  “Ah, yes. I’d generally care little about keeping some city bitch safe. The rules are in place for the reputation of my company. You think that city leaders would want to hire, or house, or allow to visit, a group of rapists and murderers? This girl, however, is a special case. Killing a pasnes alna can bring the wrath of their kin. And, as you can see, they certainly have the power to dissuade persecution of their kind.”

  “A few months ago, this girl served me eggs in some backwater inn. I’m telling you, this is no career magician.” Even as he spoke, though, Fenrir recalled her strange touch. How she’d seemed to steal something vital from him. But, it just seemed so unlikely.

  “While I’ve no doubt that you saw this girl…”—but despite his words to the contrary, Ferl appeared quite doubtful—“…it isn’t impossible that she is also a pasnes alna, a metsika, or at least has some magical potential.”

  “Magic, and its use, are illegal in Ardia.” Fenrir answered, realizing that he sounded much like those peasants and bumpkins who he’d often entertained with war stories.

  “And to think, I took you for a shrewd and intelligent man, despite your appearance,” Ferl said with a small smile.

  Jackass, Fenrir thought idly.

  “Stealing is illegal. Do people steal? Do people lie and cheat and avoid paying taxes? People have far less control over the manifestation of magic abilities than they do over their own behaviors. I’ve heard that one in a hundred people are born with some magic ability. Think what that means. In Hunesa, a city of m
aybe one hundred and twenty thousand souls, twelve hundred of these people can use some form of magic. In such a cosmopolitan area, with travelers and wayfarers streaming in and out of the city, there might be two thousand people within thirty miles of us who could replicate the scene in that office! Pasnes alna—schooled magic users. Metsikas—untrained, but potentially powerful magicians. Wild ones, as they’re called. Or those who have weak abilities and have not been detected. All flitting about, mucking up the world.”

  Chances are, then, that Fenrir knew somebody who could use magic. Thinking of the mess in the other room, he shivered.

  “How do you know so much about magic? In Ardia, books on the topic have been taken off the shelves, far as I know. Burned, if the stories are true.” Fenrir was still playing the ignorant peasant, but would have hated to admit that it was not entirely on purpose.

  “I’ve traveled the world, and many places are more open-minded than Ardia. In fact, most places are more open-minded than this backwards country.” Fenrir felt a sting at the jibe. It was a weird feeling. He hadn’t realized that he had nationalist tendencies, particularly after being ejected from the Rostanian guard. “I’ve also got six soldiers, regulars, who have some ability. Five are minor metsikas, all of them, too weak to merit interest in any of the pasnes alna schools or organizations. The sixth is… well, Ashland is a special case. All six are greenies, and even the metsikas know enough to be more than useful.”

  Metsikas. Pasnes alna. Greenies? This conversation—this day—had taken quite a turn. A simple negotiation turned into dissecting the disgusting aftermath of a magical battle, followed by a lesson about magic. Time to get back to business.

  “Speaking of useful, we should talk business,” Fenrir responded with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge.

  “Excellent transition.” Ferl was sharp. Tilner was going to hate this man. This thought, at least, brought Fenrir some pleasure after the stressful day.

  “Now, tell me, what can Ferl’s Company do for you?”

  Chapter 29

  Crack!

  Hafgan blocked a clumsy overhead attack, nimbly disabling his opponent with a quick jab to the stomach. From within his heddwichen, he then heard heavy footsteps in the grass behind him. Hafgan dove off to one side, feeling the breeze and hearing a woosh as a weapon just missed his arm. He swung his spear blindly behind him at gut level, flicking his wrist for some extra force. A grunt told him that he’d struck true, though he was already spinning his spear up front to face his next two assailants.

  Most men, when outnumbered, would assume a defensive stance, sitting back and waiting for an opening or a riposte. The Dyn Doethas, however, taught that hesitation could be fatal. Indecision only gave your opponents more time to communicate and coordinate their efforts while you would become less certain, more anxious.

  Hafgan danced to the left, swinging his spear low until it was partially deflected by his reactive opponent’s own spear. He continued to flank the men so as to effectively face only one at a time. With two hands, he next flung his spear, lengthwise, into his adversary’s face. The surprised man raised his sword to protect himself just as Hafgan’s heavy boot connected with his stomach. Hafgan scooped up the previous opponent’s dropped sword as he leapt over the man, deflecting a wild, astonished swing as he landed. His final opponent was so off-balance after Hafgan’s riposte that he stumbled and fell to his back. Hafgan was on him in an instant, digging a knee into the fleshy area below his sternum as he raised the sword.

  Finally, he touched the blunted sword, gently, to the man’s neck. Then, pulling himself out of his heddwichen, Hafgan helped the dazed man to his feet.

  Eight Wasmer were in various states of injury around the training ring. One was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The others were rubbing bruised limbs or egos as they formed up, standing at rough attention after their handy beating by the weapons master.

  Hafgan had gone completely untouched during the training battle, though he’d used all of his skill—and a bit of luck—to do so. Nonetheless, he could see the growing awe in the eyes of his men, this group of twenty-seven misfits who he’d been training for two weeks now, even after the march had begun.

  But there was no pride to be found in defeating eight men who had never touched a weapon before a couple of weeks ago.

  Each morning, before the sun came up, he led these men in intense calisthenics—jumping, diving, changing direction quickly—so hard that at least one person vomited up the last night’s supper during each session. Afterward, he would teach them of the spear, going through proper handling and the multiple uses of the weapon. A spear was not just used for jabbing from behind a shield. A spear could be used to swipe and butt and trip, to block and dodge, to confuse and misdirect. Of course, it took time to master, but competence could be achieved much more quickly than proper handling of a sword or axe, and it could ultimately be more dangerous in the hands of an amateur than most any other weapon.

  “Men, what did you see?” Hafgan asked of his gathered misfits.

  Silence for a second.

  “A fucking beating,” muttered Derek then, rubbing his arm. There was scattered laughter, and Hafgan tried to hide a smile.

  “A fucking beating, Lieutenant,” corrected Hafgan.

  “Yes, sir!” Derek saluted smartly, the ‘sir’ exaggerated with his chronic lisp.

  “Aside from a fucking beating, what did you see?” He was growing comfortable speaking in front of these men, and it was easier to find the correct wording.

  “Lieutenant, you fought with more than just your spear.” This from Elan, a well-spoken, wild-haired, over-enthusiastic youngling. He hadn’t fought in this training battle for that very reason. He needed to learn to cool down and fight with his head, and so he needed to learn through observation. And, as it turned out, he was surprisingly astute.

  “Correct. How many of you be injured by my spear?” Half raised their hands. “The rest of you were harmed by fists, shoulders, and your own weapons. The lesson?” For Hafgan, speaking in front of Elan was the hardest, as the boy had been born and raised by Wasmer in Rostane, meaning that he’d learned the Ardian from birth. It was unnerving, knowing this and trying to find the right phrasing, though the boy seemed not to judge him. In fact, the boy was in utter awe of Hafgan and followed him around in a quite irritating fashion, a puppy begging for scraps.

  “Surprise,” said two of the men in unison. Hafgan had been preaching this message since the start. The best way to achieve victory, both in individual battles and with armies, was to do something unexpected. A skilled boxer might take down every opponent in an organized tourney, but faced with an inebriated opponent in a tavern, he could be overwhelmed simply due to the unpredictability of his adversary.

  “Correct. Always change the rules. Fighting toe-to-toe with a skilled warrior, you will be losing… you will lose. But, surprise that warrior, and you may yet live.”

  “Lieutenant, why–” began one of his soldiers, but was cut off by another.

  “Lieutenant, we won’t be fighting like you ever. Why bother watching you beat on us? For that matter, why bother training like this? There is nothing to be gained.” Enric was older than Hafgan by maybe ten years, and kept his face and head completely shorn of hair. It took a great deal of time and maintenance for a Wasmer. He was also the most reluctant of Hafgan’s little crew—muttering complaints during the training and questioning his advice, shirking duty whenever possible. He was the rotten piece of fruit that could corrupt the entire bucket, but Hafgan was reluctant to toss him aside completely. Likely, as with most others in this group, he’d probably been abused and mistreated by humans and Wasmer alike, and was simply used to rejection—it was why he claimed to have joined. Hafgan needed a way to strengthen this man instead of reject him.

  Hafgan strode toward Enric, standing scant inches from him, locking his gaze. Enric, surprisingly, didn’t back down. He had courage, if not confidence.

  “You,�
�� he began scathingly, concentrating on speaking carefully, “…will never attain my level of skill. Perhaps you should leave this group, and train with the regular army. With the fodder. As it is, you are the least of those assembled. Even…” he scanned the crowd, “…Paston could best you.”

  Paston stepped forward, if uncertainly. He had become Hafgan’s right-hand man, a sergeant in duty if not name. He had promise of being an adequate fighter, but his true value lay in his organizational abilities. Before being drafted, he’d worked for a small, overseas trading company, keeping their books. He had a head for numbers and paperwork—something that was so incredibly valuable in a disorganized army on the move. He’d managed to get their unit needed supplies and weapons through bureaucratic obscuration, something that Hafgan only half understood. Considering his dual role here and in The House, it shouldn’t have mattered to Hafgan whether his Wasmer unit was well-supplied, but it somehow did.

  “Bah! I be having nothing to prove and no quarrel with Paston,” said Enric, hairless face uncertain now.

  “Truly, the words of a budredda coward.” There was an audible gasp as Hafgan uttered the most insulting term that could have been used for these misfit Wasmer. Filth. Trash. Midden.

  Less than Wasmer. Less than human.

  Without reacting to the crowd, Hafgan tossed his own spear at Enric, who was bristling at the disregard and insult. Hafgan turned his back to the man then, showing further disdain for his abilities. He grabbed another practice spear from a stack and handed one to Paston, giving him a level stare. Hopefully, the intelligent man understood what Hafgan was doing.

  The two faced off within the loose ring of would-be fighters who silently awaited the outcome. This was the first time that Hafgan had allowed a battle between his men, and the practice was strictly forbidden by the human generals. Since Hafgan had taken Siarl’s place as warleader, several others had been lashed for this organized infighting. His own eight-against-one battle just now would probably also be condemned, were anyone else to hear about it. Nonetheless, Hafgan knew this had to be done.