Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “No, it isn’t. We agreed—”

  “But we could get in trouble.”

  “Enough! I’ll do it.”

  A figure stood above him, blurry in his vision and silhouetted by the moon. The form raised its arms above its head and the wind seemed to kick up, lashing branches across Fenrir’s blurry vision. It held something that appeared to be a demon’s skull above its head. No, not a skull. A rock?

  The rock came down, smashing into his knee. Fenrir screamed, trying to move away, but many strong hands held him in place. The rock rose once more, and again crashed into his knee with the force of a vengeful god.

  Fenrir howled, eyes clenched shut to blur out the sight as if that would help with the pain.

  It was agony. The shattered bones and fibers ground together like sausage being pressed in a butcher’s shop.

  His godsdamn, fucking knee.

  ***

  Fenrir Coldbreaker sat up, disoriented and breathing heavily. His head throbbed, and his lower back was stiff. And his knee! Oh, did his knee ache!

  He realized then that he’d been sleeping awkwardly, his leg bent back behind him. It wasn’t re-shattered, thank the gods. Gingerly, he straightened out the damaged joint, grimacing as it sent waves of pain through his body. Even the best surgeons had been unable to fix him completely, either initially or afterward. No wonder he’d had that terrible dream.

  But where was he? He pushed himself up from a frigid stone floor, shaking his head to clear his vision and wiping cold sweat from his forehead. Not the first morning that he’d awakened on a floor, although in Rostane, the tavern floors were typically built of splintered, wooden planks, as were the floors in his boarding house for those unfortunate nights when he couldn’t find his bed. He did feel just as weak and dehydrated as he would in those situations, but didn’t think he was hungover.

  There was essentially no light, so Fenrir felt his way through the space. It was, indeed, a room. Mortar-stoned walls, and only a few paces wide and deep. There was a thin, barred door on one side of the room—locked, of course, as cells always were—and the place smelled like shit. On closer examination, though, the smell was actually him and whatever soiled rags he wore.

  He hadn’t been wearing these rags, last he remembered. No… he’d been wearing an ill-fitting set of steel armor, sprayed with the blood of Duke Penton, and he’d been surrounded by Knights of the Wolf and at least one godsdamned pasnes alnes. One of those cursed magic users! He was lucky that he wasn’t splattered all over the wall, like Merigold had done with those mercenaries back in Hunesa.

  Despite his plight, Fenrir spared a thought for the young girl, wondering how she was. Wondering whether she was safe with the Army of Brockmore, and whether there still was an army. He’d done his part, if memory served. Hopefully, Escamilla and the rest could do theirs. He’d rather not have anything more happen to Merigold. Though she’d not told him the whole story, it was clear her recent life had been pandemonium.

  The other woman in his life was also with that army. Emma Dram, his crimson-haired, sharp-tongued, cripple-handed minx of an ex-lover. Though she wasn’t necessarily the one who’d gotten him into this situation, she’d delivered her orders with such certainty and finality that it felt, to Fenrir, like she’d controlled his fate. As if she had steered him into a flawed, but somehow successful, attempt on Duke Penton’s life. He supposed it was what he deserved—he was the reason her hand was crippled, after all.

  And, though they had been traveling together for at least a couple of months, he had never found the time, or the nerve, to apologize.

  He shoved thoughts of Merigold and Escamilla and Emma from his mind. Obviously, there would be plenty of time to ponder the meaninglessness of those relationships later, given his new occupation as a prisoner. After killing the little duke—as unpopular as the man had been in Rostane, and despite the duke having started an unjust war—Fenrir would almost inevitably be executed. Likely, no one would shed a tear. Certainly not any of the ladies who’d just occupied his thoughts.

  So, a cell. It wasn’t a big stretch to assume he was at the Plateau. His fingertips told him that the walls were identically-cut, mortar-stoned blocks. He could feel the bumps and divots that he was so familiar with. How many hours had he stared at these blocks, focusing on any imperfection? When one is on a ten-hour guard shift, one finds stories in the walls themselves. That splotch resembled a bare-knuckled fighter, face swollen from too many fights, while that one looked like a shaggy dog. The two would walk together after the arena fights, and…

  Again, Fenrir shook his head, trying to clear out the fog. Somehow, he had gotten back to the Plateau—a couple hundred miles from Florens—while remembering nothing of the trip. That distance had taken the Rostanian Army weeks to traverse, although they’d been plagued by poor organization and training on the march. Even so, he must have lost at least a couple weeks of his life, depending on how long he had been unconscious in this cell. By Ultner’s soggy testicles, it must have been one of those pasnes alna, using their powers to fuck with his mind.

  Some hinges screeched in the distance, and there was the sound of a metal door slamming shut. Armored, booted feet approached his cell as a light became visible down the hallway, burning his eyes like they were those of a newborn. Apparently, Fenrir would learn more about his situation without delay. He took a deep breath and attempted to focus, squinting against the light as shapes formed outside of his cell.

  “He’s awake,” came a young voice which Fenrir didn’t recognize.

  “Of course; he was supposed to be conscious by now. Open the door.”

  This voice, Fenrir did recognize. The rising rage burned away his mental fog in an instant.

  “If it isn’t Fenrir the Coldbreaker, the regicide pile of shit himself.” Sigmund Fitra strolled into the cell, flanked by two Knights of the Wolf, the man’s rodent face twisted in a smile. As always, the skinny man was resplendent in the most expensive clothing that money could buy, and he still had the platinum Rostanian wolf emblazoned over his heart—the sign of a general in the military. Interestingly, he also had the three-masted ship of the de Trenton family on the opposite breast. It seemed like quite the conflict of interest, serving both the state and private enterprise.

  “Regicide is a term reserved for king-slaying,” Fenrir pointed out. “Little Penton was not a king, no matter how he styled himself. At worst, I am a murderer. But, given that we were in wartime, on opposite sides of the conflict, there is no crime. Penton was a casualty of war.” He wasn’t exactly trying to absolve himself, but perhaps he could anger Sigmund with knowledge. It was an excellent weapon against the ignorant.

  The grin didn’t leave Sigmund’s face. Damn.

  “Always such impertinence. However, you have reached the end. You have no friends to help you. No allies. Escamilla is dead. Her army has scattered beneath the raging storm of Rostane. Florens is ours, and Draston prepares to capitulate,” Sigmund answered with smug pride.

  The general must have felt personally responsible for these successes.

  “Capitulate to whom?” Fenrir asked. “Penton is dead and has no heirs. Rostane must be scrambling to find a new ruler. I would expect politics to subvert the war effort. In fact, I would not doubt that Penton’s successor would hail me as a hero for killing the war-hungry tyrant. Are you here to give me an award?”

  “These politics are not your concern. Dukes and counts and barons are so above your current station—literally and figuratively—that you might as well not strain yourself thinking about them. Rather, you should focus on your own fate.” Still with that smile. His crooked nose gave him a sinister appearance.

  Obviously, Sigmund wanted Fenrir to ask about his fate. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction. It wasn’t like his circumstance would change if he knew the plan.

  “How did you end up being a general, Siggy? You can barely manage to dress yourself without servants, and yet you somehow lead men? You think anyone respe
cts someone who sucks my father’s cock to get promoted? And—” A back-handed slap from one of the gauntleted knights sent Fenrir staggering backwards with an aching face.

  “You will show respect to the Lord General,” said the young Wolf Knight, roughly grabbing his arm.

  But Sigmund’s smile had finally left his face. The stinging in Fenrir’s jaw was worth that.

  “Again, Fenny, you must not realize your plight. I have the pleasure to inform you that the Council has deemed your presence to be a threat to national security. You are to be executed, publicly, within the month.”

  “Oh, so Rostane is being ruled by a council right now. Thanks for the glimpse into what’s happening upstairs.”

  “I look forward to lowering you onto the spike myself. I expect a big turnout,” Sigmund sneered, curling his lip. Fenrir remembered the boy as a youth giving him that same condescending stare. The general turned to leave.

  “Sigmund, wait,” Fenrir said, hanging his head, his overgrown, greasy hair tickling at his eyebrows.

  “What, are you going to beg for mercy? Beg for mercy from me? Even you should be smarter than—”

  Fenrir yanked out of the knight’s grip and slammed his fist into Sigmund’s face with all of his strength. The second knight rushed forward to restrain Fenrir as the first regained his grip, but Fenrir did not struggle. Escape hadn’t been his goal.

  “My Lord General, I apologize…” said the young Wolf Knight, fear plain in his quivering voice.

  “You imbecile!” Sigmund sputtered from behind his hand, clutching his face. “I will see you lashed!”

  “And you!” He moved his hand, revealing blood streaming from his nose and trailing into his mouth. Sigmund got within an inch of Fenrir’s own face. “Let me see if we can advance your sentence. I’ll see you soon.”

  Sigmund turned away, adding, “Soften him up. Nothing permanent; just enough to make him cry. I do not want him to be numb to the spike.”

  As the Wolf Knights began striking him, Fenrir smiled around the pain.

  Worth it.

  A Desperate Plea

  If you liked Solace Lost (or, if you hated it but stuck it out in case it got better), please leave a review! All authors, but especially we lowly self-published ones, rely on reviews to get any traction, and it also serves as a great motivator to continue.

  https://www.amazon.com/Solace-Lost-Michael-Sliter-ebook/dp/B07BGW6BDP

  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39326498-solace-lost

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve always been the sort of reader who actually reads the acknowledgements section. Why? I don’t know any of these people, just as you, valued reader, will not know any of the names that follow. Maybe I read this section to see what is important to an author. Maybe I read it to gain a better understanding of the sheer number of people it takes to successfully create a book. Or, maybe I just automatically read whatever words pop up in front of me. If you, valued reader, have gotten this far, you are probably in the same boat as me. Ready?

  Regardless, I would love to pretend that I wrote Solace Lost, the work of art that it is, in a vacuum, bereft of outside influence, tortured genius that I am. But, in reality, I had the support of some truly amazing people. Foremost, Katherine, my first and only wife so far, bizarrely supported my decision to finally take up writing… two weeks after our daughter was born. She was also my sounding board and first editor, helping me work through some bloodlettingly sharp edges in the first draft. I also am grateful to my beta reading team, each of whom are responsible for small tweaks and major changes to the book: Bill Ready, Kristina Langhammer, Dominique White, Morgan Jones, Rita Rys, and Adam Clarke. I was also amazingly lucky to have found a great editor in Jennifer Collins who caught my many, many typos, and identified inconsistencies that a blind sea cow would have noticed, and yet somehow snuck through my own editing sessions.

  On the artistic front, I stumbled upon René Aiger, who created the amazing cover art for Solace Lost, and David O’Meara, who designed the cover itself and created the map of Ardia from my penciled chicken scratch on a poster board.

  And lastly, and most importantly, I thank you, valued reader, for taking a chance on a first time author. It is so humbling to know that a person I don’t know decided to pick up something I wrote, whether if it was from the description or the awesome cover art. I appreciate you taking that chance, and I hope you felt it was worth it. There will be more to come.

  About the Author

  Mike Sliter was born in the deep wilds of Cleveland, Ohio, where he fought off at least two siblings for scraps of pizza. His bedroom, growing up, was a monument to fantasy, containing a stack of worn and well-read books, a medieval Lego civilization spanning half the room, and a very real sword circa World War II. Today, he pursues his fantastical passion by writing novels to supplement his day job as a workplace consultant.

  Copyright

  Solace Lost

  Copyright © 2018, Michael Sliter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN Print: 978-0-9998021-0-6

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Editing by Jennifer Collins

  Cover image by René Aiger

  Book design and map design by David O’Meara

  Published by Dragyn Press

  DragynPress@gmail.com

  Visit http://www.authormikesliter.com/