Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “I understand. This pin—” he gestured to the apple insignia affixed to his shirt, “—grants me access to the circles of the powerful. And a shit-pile of paperwork, too. Frankly, I’m exhausted,” Fenrir said with yet another sigh.

  “You look it,” said Emma, pointedly appraising him.

  “Thanks for noticing. Now, you didn’t answer my question. Why are you delivering notes?” He began reading the missive.

  “Because there are certain elements within the army that cannot be trusted with…” Emma stopped suddenly. Fenrir had suddenly gone almost deathly pale. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide as he frantically scanned the contents of the letter. The rest of his body seemed frozen in time, the only motion coming from his chest, which rose and fell in a rapid, shallow rhythm.

  “Fenrir? Fenrir, what… Gods, what is the matter?”

  Her voice seemed to shatter the paralysis that had gripped Fenrir so abruptly. He hurled the paper away and scrambled backward, looking for all the world as if the letter had turned into a venomous spider about to sink its fangs into his palm. The leg of his chair must have gotten caught during his frenzied motion because Fenrir half tumbled, half leapt out of it. He was now standing next to the chair, one hand on its back while his other hand worked awkwardly across his forehead, down to his mouth and back up again.

  “Fenrir!” Emma cried. She was growing genuinely fearful of what the letter portended. Had some unexpected threat arisen? Were they all in danger?

  Fenrir gulped a lungful of air and stopped fidgeting. He reached down and grabbed the letter, turned back to Emma, and placed it in her hand. He seemed suddenly cold as stone, but she noticed that his arm shook almost imperceptibly as he held out the paper. Emma read the letter as Fenrir began to pace behind the desk.

  “Wait… Someone tried to have you murdered?” she asked. Something about the name of the assassin’s employer seemed familiar… Aiden de Trenton. De Trenton?

  “Wait, is that your brother?” Emma asked. At this, Fenrir ceased his pacing.

  It couldn’t have been his brother, though! She remembered, long ago, lying intertwined with Fenrir in his bed, talking about their families. Fenrir had always been reluctant to speak on the topic, but he had consumed a good deal more rum than was typical even for him, and he’d been more forthcoming that night as a result. He had two brothers, Aiden and Ethan, both older, both born from a different mother than his own. But when he’d been a teenager, before he’d joined the military, both had passed away. There’d been suspicions that there was foul play involved in their deaths, an attempt to harm Darian de Trenton and his mercantile empire, but they had never been proven. The details of their deaths had been suppressed from public knowledge, and Fenrir had clammed up if she attempted to probe.

  Fenrir met Emma’s gaze for only a moment. He had seemed so hard, so stoic a moment ago, but the brief gaze betrayed a turmoil beneath the surface. He looked away quickly. Emma touched his arm and felt a tremor before his muscles tightened up. Such pain.

  Emma moved around him, her hands resting lightly on his arms, and peered into his face. His eyes were clenched shut, but even though he was facing away from the light, she could see thick tears squeezing from beneath his lids. She was shocked by this more than anything else. Something was terribly, terribly wrong here.

  “Fenrir…” she said, gently pulling him into an embrace. He stiffened at first, his whole body taut with restrained emotion. A whisper of a moment later, he broke. Fenrir gripped her tightly, burying his face in her neck, sobs wracking his body.

  How could she be holding a man who’d hurt her so? A man who’d been able to look into her eyes while he mutilated her? A man whom she had loved, despite him being married.

  A man who’d likely had little choice in the matter of what he’d done to her.

  He jerked back suddenly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Escamilla’s intel must be flawed. My brother… Darian’s son, rather, is gone. He is gone,” he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. “I need to talk to her. I need more than this.” He gestured to the brief, crumpled note.

  “Fenrir… What happened with your brothers?” Emma asked quietly.

  “I cannot discuss it.” His voice had hardened. It had been worth the attempt to try, though. Emma made a mental note to ask if Escamilla knew anything significant about the de Trenton family. No matter how hard the nobles and powerful merchants tried to conceal their lives, there were always spies.

  “What are you going to do?” Emma asked.

  “What can I do? Someone’s trying to kill me, and I don’t know who.” So, he was in denial. “But, here we are marching to a battle that we probably can’t win. So, I guess I’ll see which kills me first.”

  “Why do you stay, Fenrir? I get that you helped us out of the Plateau for a stack of yets. But, is it worth it?” Emma truly wanted to understand, but so far hadn’t been able to figure out what was driving him.

  “Fah. You think I’ve seen a single yet from that job? In fact, everything that I had hidden at the boarding house is likely gone by now. There’s nothing to my name.” He laughed, a noise empty of true mirth. “By Ultner, I don’t even have my name to my name!”

  “So you stay because you are poor?”

  “I’d leave in a second, even without a yet to my name. However, the people I work for… You do not want to cross them. I haven’t heard a word from them, but, if they were to call upon me and find me missing…”

  So, Fenrir was actually afraid of these people. Emma looked down at her hand, embittered. He was right to be afraid.

  “Regardless, Emma. I need to get to a staff meeting with Ferl and his scounderals. What was that other missive that couldn’t be trusted to just any messenger?” He was acting as if the past several minutes had never happened. Emma was both concerned and impressed by the man’s ability to ignore reality.

  Resigned, Emma handed him the second letter. She already knew the contents, and had explicit instructions to ensure there was no confusion. He began reading as she recited.

  “You are to gather seventy-five of the most skilled mercenaries from Ferl’s Company and, along with an additional seventy-five soldiers from The Army of Brockmore under the command of Tilner Pick, travel northwest tonight, splitting from this force with utmost secrecy.”

  He stopped reading and just stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

  “You are to lead a covert operation and attack the rear of the enemy camp on the evening of our first engagement. Our spies report that the little duke has joined the rear elements of the Rostanian army, hoping to witness the fall of Florens in person.”

  Fenrir dropped the missive, which fluttered dejectedly to the ground. He rubbed his tired face.

  “Your force is to infiltrate the enemy camp, guided by our spies and scouts.” Emma paused, and then added, “You are to kill Duke Samuel Penton.”

  Chapter 34

  Hafgan tried to pretend everything was normal.

  As always, he ran the budredda through their morning drills, teaching them balance and stance, lunging and swiping, blocking and dodging. And he began to teach them of the heddwichen—the emptiness, the center, the core—that allowed good fighters to achieve greatness. It had taken Hafgan months to learn and years to master, so obviously his men struggled and grew discouraged. Not really a teacher, Hafgan in turn grew frustrated with their lack of progress. So often, doers cannot teach, while teachers cannot do.

  The general military training for his Wasmer unit had ceased, though, as they were now on special assignment. The day following the murder of Elan, Captain Yonso had sent the several hundred Wasmer on a forced, double-time march overland for four days, the Wasmer moving much faster than the Rostanian Army. Yonso even accompanied them, though he and his group of thirty human bodyguards were mounted and kept themselves well apart from the Wasmer.

  And now they were in a very unusual place. A frightening place, if Hafgan was being honest with himsel
f.

  The Wasmer were guarding a wall. An eight-foot tall, tightly-built wooden stockade that was just over a mile in circumference, exactly in the middle of nowhere. Where this wall had come from, well off the path and in the thick forests southeast of Florens, Hafgan did not know. There was no evidence of the myriad laborers who must have spent a great deal of time and sweat in constructing it. Hafgan would have expected a logging camp, lumber mill, or something similar, but there was nothing. However, the wall was relatively new, and the stumps of trees were freshly cut.

  The greater mystery was what was beyond the barrier. It very well could have been a logging camp, but Hafgan doubted it.

  His unit had met up with a small group of twenty Rostanian soldiers, all appearing exhausted to the point of collapse. They had evidently been guarding this compound and were no longer up to the task. Men had been deserting daily. Hafgan realized why during his first night.

  There were noises coming from the walled compound—strange sounds that intermittently punctuated the silence of the night, haunting the mind like a barely-remembered nightmare. They were always just on the edge of hearing, but Hafgan could swear he heard loud pounding sounds and howling, distant screams. Human screams? Of pain? Of fear? Of passion? Even with his training, even by achieving his heddwichen, Hafgan was unable to suppress a shiver at the sounds. His men had barely been sleeping and were constantly on edge.

  Their main task involved serving as unmounted scouts, traveling in groups of about fifteen to prevent anyone, by any means, from discovering this compound. So far, the Wasmer had killed two messengers from Florens, both of whom had been seeking help from Draston. They had also killed one scout from this so-called Army of Brockmore that was marching to Florens. The army would reportedly arrive at Florens three days after the Rostanian forces had begun their siege, if the city managed to hold out. Both armies were moving slowly due to the storms, though the Rostanian Army—which trained away most of each morning—was as speedy as a mountain goat in winter.

  The compound, whatever it was, must be hiding a weapon for use against this marching army. There was no other explanation.

  The unease of his soldiers was not Hafgan’s only problem. There was also the fact that he had completely lost contact with Tennyson, and that he no longer had access to the majority of his own contacts within the military. He was uncertain of what to do. Should he maintain the disguise? Try to thwart whatever was hiding within this compound? Or should he simply desert rather than risk his life?

  The risk was becoming greater as the battle approached, and not only from external forces. Siarl and the traditionalists continued to rail against his command in less and less subtle ways. Men weren’t rising at the designated time, were ignoring scouting group assignments, and even openly disobeying direct orders. Hafgan had had to use force to impose order on more than one occasion, while Captain Yonso did nothing to assist. He’d simply set up camp with his men a half mile away from the barricade, eating the best food and drinking the best ale, and staying dry amidst the rolling storms. He obviously resented this assignment, having sullenly described the mission in as few words as possible to Hafgan before retreating to this camp.

  Lastly, four of the Wasmer—traditionalists all—had been reported missing. Likely deserters.

  The whole situation was, as the humans would say, a big pile of shit, and he was without a shovel.

  “Lieutenant,” said Paston, for a second time. Hafgan pulled himself from his brooding state and paid attention to the present. The scouting parties were dispersing in every direction while he, Paston, Enric, and a few other budredda stayed at the base camp, near the sole, gated entrance to the compound. Since their arrival, nobody had entered or exited.

  “Yes, Paston?”

  “A fifth man could not be accounted for this morning. Bedwyr…”

  “You mean…”

  “Yes, our Bedwyr.” Hafgan was astonished. Bedwyr was one of the budredda, the oldest member of his little bodyguard. Bedwyr had not been conscripted like the rest of the budredda; he had decided to join the military. He’d before been a water runner foreman, running a crew of orphans and urchins in filling several of Rostane’s many great water barrels. A job with little glory and less pay, and he’d even been disrespected by homeless children. He’d enlisted voluntarily, perhaps swayed by the stories of heroic military exploits and the camaraderie associated with soldiery. His pride as a budredda compared to the greatest peaks in the Tulanques.

  The fact was, Bedwyr would never have deserted. Not after he’d finally found some measure of belonging.

  “That is a problem,” said Hafgan slowly.

  “Sir, Bedwyr would not be deserting us. He be our brother,” said Paston, echoing Hafgan’s thoughts.

  “Indeed. Paston, something is happening here. It may be this thing we are guarding, or it may be Yonso and his men. But, something is wrong and we are in danger,” Hafgan said thoughtfully. Despite his distraction, he still spoke Ardian with little issue. It was becoming less and less effort now that he was becoming accustomed to his leadership role.

  “Sir?” Paston prompted him nervously. “What do we do?”

  “I have… friends… outside the Rostanian Army, who need to be informed of these happenings, of this location.”

  “Sir, that is treason!” said Paston, shock evident in his hushed voice. Their entire mission hinged on secrecy.

  Hafgan brought his own voice down to a whisper. With most of the men on patrol, they were unlikely to be overheard, but it never hurt to be cautious in these situations.

  “Paston, you must know more than anyone. We need not be beholden to Rostane. The duchy has rejected us. The army has rejected us. This assignment be… is… stinking of treachery, as if we Wasmer are expendable. I have learned, in my time with humans, that you cannot trust them to have your interests in mind. They will do whatever they can to hold you down, belittle you, keep you weak. No, Paston, you can rely only on yourself. We can rely only on ourselves. And we must do what is necessary to keep ourselves safe.” Hafgan found that he believed every word that he’d said. These budredda had grown on him, and he wanted to keep them safe. Even keep them out of the coming battle entirely, if at all possible.

  And get them away from this place.

  Paston’s met Hafgan’s eyes for the duration of his little speech, and then tilted his head back as if beseeching the gray early morning sky for answers. The soldier was certainly torn with indecision—he took his oaths seriously, and committing to Hafgan meant betraying military secrets. But, Hafgan knew that Paston’s decision was a foregone conclusion.

  “Sir, you be right, of course. Please, tell me what we must be doing,” said Paston, lowering his head and again looking to his superior. There was only trust in his clean-shaven face.

  Hafgan sighed and pursed his lips. These men would follow him anywhere. That was a heavy weight to bear. A mountain, even.

  “Find me two men that we can trust above all others. We need to get word to my friends…”

  Chapter 35

  Florens had been under siege for three days, though there was little evidence of it. From afar, the city was a pearl on the water. White buildings—painted wood—sprawled over the gentle hills that were the foundation of the city. Ships floated lazily along the great Ingwine River, and even fisherman were out with their nets; Florensians had to eat, after all, even during a siege. And, above the city rose the Amphitheater of Spring, a great circular structure carved in the likeness of intertwining trees, branches forming arches to allow entry to those interested in such spectacles. Florens was known for its love of the arts: the epic plays, famous singers, and massive orchestras. It may have been Emma’s imagination, but she thought she could hear a few gentle notes carried along the breeze.

  Perhaps the reason that Florens was still standing is that the city had a very unique defense compared to Rostane and most other Ardian cities. Originally, Florens had been built on the sharply-curving south bank
of the great Ingwine River, which was a half mile wide. As the town had grown into a city, its growth propelled by the constant trade resulting from its proximity to the river, the local government had realized that there was an increasing need for defense. Prosperity drew conflict like meat drew maggots.

  However, because the city was so far from the Tulanques or any decent quarry sites, the cost of a hewn stone wall had seemed prohibitive at the time. A ten year public project had begun as a result, whereby a wide, deep ditch was dug, curving around the southern reaches of the city, leaving room for growth. The ditch was eventually flooded with the waters of the Ingwine, essentially creating the island city of Florens, protected on all sides by rushing water. There were docks on the west end of the city, and two wide, floating bridges on the north and south ends. The bridges could be pulled into the city with relative ease for protection, and sections could be removed to allow for the passage of larger watercraft. In retrospect, the city founders had realized that a stone wall would have cost far less, but such is the way with hindsight.

  The Rostanian Army was busy preparing to assault Florens from the north—across the Ingwine—while simultaneously repelling Escamilla’s forces from the east. Engineers and laborers were constructing siege engines—ballista and onagers—as well as building dozens of flat-bottomed rafts. There was a small, six-foot retaining wall along much of Florens’ shoreline, but Malless did not have enough men to defend against a diffused assault, not with the possibility of soldiers swarming over the city from a hundred landing points. Meanwhile, the Rostanians were creating an earthen bulwark to repel Escamilla’s forces. Thousands of men with shovels could make a small fortress, though the soaked ground and still-dripping clouds had been hampering these efforts quite significantly.