Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “The duchy, yes. The city, no.” Denrick shifted his weight.

  “Why do you fight for Escamilla? Against your countrymen?” he asked next, legitimately curious.

  “I… she pays well, and would take care of my family. Five years’ wages are promised to my wife, to be paid in the case of my death.” Ah, the death contract. His wife would be rich, would have plenty of money to use in seducing other men. Fenrir didn’t have the heart to tell the man, or to remind him that, if he died and Escamilla lost the war, his wife wouldn’t get shit.

  “Very good. Well, go gather the sergeants and find Pick. I have a plan…”

  ---

  Certainly, setting fire to the distillery had seemed like an excellent idea at the time. But, admittedly, Fenrir had been, and still was, relatively drunk. The biggest surprise was that no one had really contradicted his plan. Not even Tilner.

  It was far enough from the center of the town that the act would not likely be perceived as an attack. Distillery fires were known to occur with some frequency, which was why distilleries were so often in small towns like this. It would be a nice, bright blaze to draw the eye of any defenders, to distract the townsfolk as his forces attempted to infiltrate the inn, kill the duke, and run back out into the night.

  That was, until the first explosion shook the town to its very roots. And then the fire spread to several nearby houses in a heartbeat.

  The town was fully illuminated now, glowing as brightly as a vault full of gleaming yets, and there was no hiding in the brightness.

  Well, so much for subtlety. Fenrir was as bad at strategizing as he was at stealth.

  “Charge! To the inn!” His twenty-five and Tilner’s twenty-five rushed the rear of the building, a sprawling and somewhat dingy two-story structure that was guarded by several Knights of the Wolf who were decidedly not preoccupied by the fire. Fenrir’s remaining hundred men were supposed to stage an attack on the encamped bodyguards as soon as the alarm sounded, as a distraction, and Fenrir hoped they followed that order. They’d be outnumbered at least five to one.

  By the time they reached the inn, five of his men had been taken down by crank-bow bolts and a trumpeter had already sounded a shrill “distress” song, recalling the encamped forces into town. And the kitchen door was already barred, the Knights of the Wolf having retreated after expending their shots.

  Godsdamned distillery. And still, the fire continued to spread throughout the wooden town like a contagious disease.

  “Windows!” Fenrir commanded. “And get that wood and break down this door.” Four men grabbed an uncut log from a nearby wood pile, and three returned with it, one caught by a bolt shot from the second level as he moved.

  Two of his men broke through the glassed windows, and then one was stabbed while trying to crawl in. He reeled back, vomiting blood before he lay, twitching, on the ground.

  Fenrir didn’t want to die. The reality of this battle—the barricaded inn, hundreds likely converging on his location—made the outcome seem inevitable. He needed to focus, though; he needed to survive.

  In a fizzing wash of color, Fenrir was looking down at himself amidst the chaos, his eyes squinting in the brightness of the fire as it continued to spread throughout the town. Phantom-Fenrir thought his body looked tired, but Body-Fenrir no longer appeared frightened. He shouted out orders, recalling the men from the windows and focusing on the doors. At the very least, Body-Fenrir appeared to be radiating the cool competence of an officer.

  The men broke through then, and Phantom-Fenrir was inside the kitchen, watching the battle develop. His men—mercenaries and Escamilla’s best troops—stumbled over the discarded log, and Phantom-Fenrir saw the first two being cut down. The next two, however, managed to get a foothold, forcing back the sword-wielding Knights of the Wolf with their spears. The kitchen was no place to swing a sword, though, and soon those knights had fallen. Body-Fenrir and Tilner entered last, Tilner ordering two men to cover the door. Phantom-Fenrir could feel malice when Tilner glared at the back of Body-Fenrir’s head, but he made no aggressive move. Phantom-Fenrir knew, dispassionately, that Tilner was too honorable to strike a man from behind, even if that man had treated him poorly. There was no question of that.

  Phantom-Fenrir flitted to the common room just in time to witness a massive cluster of shit. His men had a foothold here also, but were fighting off twice as many men. Chairs and benches were on the ground, and roasted garlic pheasant stew was splattered all over the room, mixing with the blood of the fallen. An odd detail to notice, the flavoring of the stew, but Phantom-Fenrir simply knew.

  There was also the strong… feel… of liquor in the air. The Knights of the Wolf had been imbibing heavily, probably choking down the swill from the very combustible distillery nearby. Bad form, for a bodyguard. Few were armored, but nearly all held weapons. Better equipped knights with crank bows were trying to enter through the front door, but were having trouble joining the melee through the throng.

  The little duke was nowhere to be seen, nor were any of the high-ranking officers. Had Fenrir been one of these officers, he would have either fled or barricaded himself upstairs. The path upstairs was open, too, the stairway nestled next to the free-swinging kitchen doors. Body-Fenrir waved forward two soldiers and Tilner Pick, and led the way up himself, leaping over the body of a bleeding, gasping Rostanian soldier as he went.

  Only one enemy soldier barred the upper landing, resplendent in his gold and green Knight of the Wolf’s garb, short sword raised in front of him defensively.

  “Fenrir?” the man asked incredulously, lowering his sword.

  Phantom-Fenrir recognized Silas immediately, his stocky build, his wide, jovial features. Last he’d seen the man, Silas had been guarding the southern gate of Rostane, giving Fenrir a friendly warning. A good friend, Silas had always been. Phantom-Fenrir recalled the shorter man pulling military recruits off of a younger Fenrir, saving him a more severe beating.

  Last they’d met, Fenrir had promised himself that he’d treat Silas to an ale in the near future.

  Instead, Body-Fenrir’s sword lashed out, taking Silas in the throat.

  His friend’s sword dropped as his hands clutched wildly at his neck, trying in vain to contain the blood that spurted forth in a thick sheet. His eyes were surprised as he met Body-Fenrir’s dispassionate gaze, sliding against the wall to the ground. Body-Fenrir stepped over him without a second glance.

  There were two Knights of the Wolf at the end of the wide hallway, and Body-Fenrir sent his men ahead to take care of them. One of Fenrir’s soldiers, an old, one-eyed mercenary from Sestra, fell immediately, but his body pulled the sword from one knight’s hand. The disarmed man was quickly slain by Pick’s Brockmore solider, and Pick himself skewered the second knight as he tried to escape through the locked door behind him.

  Phantom-Fenrir found himself on the other side of the door just as his body slammed through the wooden barrier, fragments of the door knocking one guard off of his feet and causing a second to stagger backward. That guard fell to Tilner’s spinning sword, his arm mostly severed above the bicep. His men rushed in, finding themselves at the sword points of a semi-circle of eight men.

  It was a large conference room, a long, oaken table bolted to the ground on the far side and surrounded by solid, ornate chairs. There were two large emerald green rugs, each with a white chevron pattern along the borders, covering the entirety of the floor.

  The still-burning town was visible through a great window that spanned the length of the wall, though the Rostanians, or the remaining villagers, had formed a bucket brigade. Shadows from the great blaze danced around the room in a seeming masquerade ball of chaos.

  “Gentleman, please lower your weapons,” came a condescending voice from behind the wall of knights. “I would like to meet the conductors of this daring raid. After all, we are in no true danger, are we?”

  Four of the Wolf Knights moved reluctantly aside, their armor creaking, and Phantom-Fenri
r could see five men revealed in the flickering light. Savant Iolen, the High Strategist, was the speaker, wearing his characteristic dull maroon robes, hands concealed in his pockets. Fenrir would recognize that voice—and the sardonic tone—anywhere. Flanking him were Lord Faris, dark and noble, clasping his hands behind his back, and General Melwin Krast, the sixty-plus-year-old general of the Rostanian military regulars. He’d been a captain when Fenrir had been a trainee, and he’d always seemed competent and just, but far too inflexible to be a true leader.

  The little duke, Samuel Penton the Third, was just rising from his plush chair. He was not wearing the muscular breastplate or cape that had typified his jaunts around the Plateau even before he’d been made duke. He seemed diminished without them, a shadow of the man he pretended to be. His young face was tired, but his eyes flashed at seeing bare metal pointed in his direction.

  The duke’s voice boomed across the chamber. “General, why have your men allowed this rabble into my presence?”

  The final man, the one being addressed, was one whom Fenrir recognized without any conscious thought. Even Phantom-Fenrir, usually a dispassionate observer of Body-Fenrir’s exploits, felt a surge of red anger at the sight of him.

  Sigmund Fitra, made a general of the Rostanian forces by the money and false generosity of the man who had once called himself Fenrir’s father, stepped forward.

  “I apologize, your grace. But the Knights of the Wolf are not under my purview. Captain de Hosta has that honor.” Always a fucking slimy weasel.

  “There is no need to assign blame, your grace,” said Lord Faris, his voice calm, as always. “As Iolen said, there is no danger here.”

  “Indeed, my lord. Indeed! Oh, what do we have here? I feel like I recognize this beast of a man.” Body-Fenrir ignored Iolen, holding his sword at the ready. “Please, my friend, lower your weapon.”

  Body-Fenrir pointed the tip of his sword at Sigmund, grating out one word, his deep monotone filling the room. “Siggy.”

  Sigmund paled, clenching his fists. One hand was four-fingered. So, Tennyson had actually done him a favor. Phantom-Fenrir vowed to give the man a great hug, Ultner’s mask or not. Though Fenrir was unlikely to survive this encounter—nor would he survive such a hug.

  “Your grace, I know this man! He is the exiled son of my benefactor, Darian de Trenton! A scum who worked for The House and is now apparently in league with our greatest enemy. Calls himself Fenrir Coldbreaker now.” Trying to curry favor, as always.

  The little duke slowly approached Body-Fenrir, glancing askance at Iolen and Faris. Faris gave a quick nod, and Penton stopped a few feet away.

  “I have heard of this man. You worked for my father, no?” Penton raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, had you been better at your job, my father would still walk among us. You know, they say it was poison, just before the Ardian Council.”

  “They also say you were the poisoner,” spat Tilner Pick, lunging forward with a great, sudden thrust. He was prepared to trade his life for the duke’s.

  No one moved to intervene, though, not even the duke. Instead of seeing his sword tearing through the duke’s chest, Tilner froze mid-step, every one of his muscles appearing to tighten simultaneously, and he toppled to the ground like a statue, its stone base eroded by time.

  His sword clattered to the ground, and Sigmund scuttled to the duke’s side to retrieve it. Tilner managed a strangled, sobbing grunt.

  “Silly, insubstantial man. You think to harm the future king of Ardia?” The duke tittered wanly, the farting sound a noble made when amused. “Who is this man?”

  “Your grace, this is Tilner Pick, one of Escamilla’s captains and advisors. Perhaps a lover. He’s been seen often in her company,” offered Krast.

  “Oh, perfect. Assuming she survives the night, his head would be an excellent gift for our dear lady. When should we hear of our victory, by the way?” asked the duke.

  “Soon, my lord. Our colleagues promise success, and we’ve little reason to doubt them,” said Faris.

  “Excellent! Now, let us tend to this lover of Lady Escamilla. Perhaps we shall send his withered jerky as a special treat for her, as well.” Penton again laughed, extremely amused with himself.

  “It shall be done, your grace. As soon as the fighting dies down below, and we can leave for the safety of the camp. I fear that those flames will continue to spread,” said Lord Faris, glancing at the burning town outside.

  “No. Do it now,” ordered Penton. “We will leave this place immediately after we deal with these fools. The sight and smell of blood does not offend me, and I care little for these garish rugs.”

  Body-Fenrir braced himself as Sigmund, the stick of a bastard man, stepped to Pick’s side and started to raise the man’s discarded sword, its blade unreasonably large compared to Sigmund’s gaunt frame.

  Phantom-Fenrir could perceive the glee in the duke’s eyes, mirrored by the obsequious malice in Sigmund’s face. The remaining Brockmore soldier darted forward in a vain attempt to save his officer, but this man met the same fate as Tilner, his affected body betraying him as he tumbled to the ground. At a gesture from Faris, one of the Wolf Knights casually thrust a sword into the soldier’s back. The man could neither struggle nor scream, an insect left to the mercy of a sadistic child.

  Fenrir was a dead man. They all were. At the very least, he would not see a good man killed in front of him, not without putting up some sort of fight. Phantom-Fenrir willed his body to act.

  For the first time, the body listened, its front leg twisting in preparation for a lunge.

  Phantom-Fenrir perceived a great pressure, the feeling of a powerful wind crushing him against a wall. Of a mountain collapsing atop him. Being buried alive. His ethereal body was being compressed, and he felt an indescribable pain seeming to tear out his very essence. In the edge of his intangible consciousness, though, he could also see his body continuing its forward momentum, if slowly, as if through a swampy muck.

  He had the strength to resist this! His phantom could protect the body, a shield against this strange power, allowing his body to strike.

  The duke’s arms were folded, a lazy smile on his face as he waited for a head to roll at his feet.

  Sigmund raised the sword, again. Ready to strike down Tilner after the brief interruption. The leather-wrapped hilt was visible through the gap where his ring finger used to be, and his crooked nose was twisted in a snarl.

  Sigmund, the bastard who had abused him as a kid. The bastard who had, with his brothers, shattered his knee, condemning him to a lifetime of pain. Sigmund, who’d mocked his foreign mother in audible whispers. Sigmund, who’d taken his place as his father’s son.

  For an idle second, through the inescapable, crushing pain, Phantom-Fenrir’s thoughts flickered to that scared girl, Merigold. Blond hair in a braid, tired and alone. And then Emma, bouncing red curls surrounding him as she grinned in pleasure.

  Fenrir’s body lunged forward, forcing itself through the stillness as his phantom provided shelter from the strange force. His sword was driven straight through the unarmored man, an easy kill, the bar of steel suddenly protruding from his back.

  Little Duke Penton fell limply to the ground as Body-Fenrir retracted his sword, and the Wolf Knights surged forward as Sigmund dodged back behind their iron fastness.

  Then, in one easy motion, the knights toppled forward in the same way Pick had before them. A graceful, coordinated, metallic avalanche. The sounds of battle had faded below, and an uneasy quiet stretched out as Phantom-Fenrir tried to make sense of what had just happened. Even the fire, outside in the village, had begun to dim as a gentle rain began to fall.

  All at once, his phantom was forced back into his body, and Fenrir fell to his knees, the exhaustion and pain and emotions of this battle all striking him at once. He felt heavy, sluggish, his limbs aching as if he had just run from Rostane to Draston and back.

  “Very good! Very good!” called Iolen, true amusement in his voice as he
stood clapping his hands lightly. “I remember him now, Faris. Where was it?”

  “The Ardian Council,” said Faris, his hands still clenched behind his back. He was granite, unmoved by the bloody events in this room.

  “Ah, yes. The fainting guardsman. Let’s hold on to this one. He may yet be of use to us.” Fenrir remembered Iolen, the fucking senior Savant at the Enlightenment. His cocky, goading tone echoing through the council chamber as he’d pronounced the death sentence on Fenrir’s career, not to mention his comfortable life.

  “With respect, High Strategist, Lord Faris. Principal de Trenton may take offense if this murderer is brought into the city,” said Sigmund, a hunch to his shoulders as if he realized that Fenrir could have easily run him through instead of the duke. Ultner’s pointy cock, Fenrir should have targeted him.

  “Enough, Fitra. The duke is dead, and certain cautions must be exercised. See to these men; they should be recovering in a few minutes,” Iolen replied.

  “And this Tilner Pick?” asked Krast from the back of the room.

  “There is no need to dirty the carpets. Unlike his grace, I quite enjoy the pattern,” said Lord Faris. “Keep him for now.”

  Iolen walked toward Fenrir, who barely had the energy to look up. Lord Faris joined him, black and silver hair falling over his face while he examined the kneeling man.

  “Coldbreaker, was it?” asked Iolen. Fenrir tried to gather the energy to spit in his direction, but his mouth was as dry as those ruins beneath the Plateau. Instead, he merely hissed.

  “Feeling faint?”

  Fenrir’s head began to pound, black spots filling his vision. He was sweating, soaking his cotton shirt in an instant. His legs grew weak and he slumped to the ground.

  The last thing he saw was a dead, desiccated rat lying discarded in the space between Lord Faris and Savant Iolen.

  Chapter 38

  “Our chances particularly increase if Pick and Coldbreaker succeed in their task,” said Escamilla, rubbing her face in a fashion that mirrored Emma’s own exhaustion. It was well past midnight, and the command staff had not yet agreed on their tactics, on their next steps. Though, there was only one viable option.