The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “Those boys at the bottom of the stairs can tell you what it can do. Assuming at least one of them is conscious,” Desmeres said. He leaned his head close over the shoulder of his hostage. “Though I’m curious how you seem to have such knowledge of my goods.”

  He hauled the man backward until he had his back against a wall, then switched to threatening the man’s throat with the sword blade rather than the dagger. In a deft motion that suggested the rush of battle had chased away a bit of his bleariness, he sheathed the dagger and used the freed hand to remove the man’s helmet. The unobscured face was anything but a match for the ornate and respectable armor. He looked positively shabby, cheeks striped with scars and reddened with gin blossoms. The face, in fact, was familiar. Realization quickly dawned.

  “You’re one of the old Undermine fighters, and one of the new honor guard. Not one of the better ones, either. No wonder you knew the blade. I just got through repossessing them from the lot of you. I wouldn’t have thought you would end up in an Elite uniform.”

  “It was quite against my wishes, I assure you,” stated one of the other soldiers.

  The man who had spoken wore a familiar uniform. In most ways, he dressed just as his fellow soldiers did. The differences were subtle, but many. The detailing of his enameled armor was a degree more complex. He had a grander plume on his helmet, and the helmet itself contained as much gold as steel. In one hand, he held a sword that fell well short of the standard set by the rest of his equipment. The flat was notched with the remnants of a hundred battles, though the edge had a pristine and well-maintained gleam. It was a veteran’s sword, one that had seen its owner through too many battles to be set aside in favor of something more fitting of his new role. His other hand clutched a stout wooden cane. Judging by the weight the man put on it, he wouldn’t be standing if not for its aid. His helmet largely obscured his face, though enough of it was visible to make it clear the man was the oldest of the elites in attendance. He was still of fighting age, perhaps, but in a perfect world he’d be near to retirement from active duty. He continued, voice steady and calm.

  “I insisted that filling the vacant positions in the Elite with her cronies was foolish, but our new queen fancies herself something of a tactician. She takes a more active role in our activities than her predecessor ever did.”

  “Forgive me, sir. Your voice and face seem familiar, but I’m still somewhat at the mercy of some very fine wine,” Desmeres said, inching sideways along the wall toward the bar. “Would you care to introduce yourself?”

  “Anrack,” he said.

  “Ah, yes. Captain Anrack. I thought the Shadow had killed you ages ago.”

  “No, though not for lack of trying. He came closer than any foe yet, but he managed only to take my livelihood, not my life,” Anrack said, thumping his cane. “And my proper title is now Elite Commander Anrack.”

  “How delightful to see you back on the Elite then. And having been promoted in the time honored military fashion; you’ve replaced a more capable soldier who died in duty.”

  Anrack’s face hardened. “I’m familiar with your tactics, Lumineblade. Your words will not unbalance me.”

  “From the looks of it, a good stiff breeze is all it would take to unbalance you. Now, I know you aren’t eager to see one of your brother Elites die on your very first mission as commander, so why don’t you step aside and let me through. I promise to lead you on a merry chase that will slake the years-long thirst for the hunt that has no doubt left you parched.”

  “I would sorely hate to see one of my brother Elites fall. Which is why it pleases me that you’ve taken as a hostage a man unfit for the armor he wears. Elites…”

  “If you unleash them on me, I assure you I’ll give you some very fine reminders of the poor decision.”

  “Apprehend him,” Anrack said.

  Desmeres acted quickly, planting a boot in the back of the now useless hostage and heaving him toward the charging soldiers. In the precious moments of confusion the maneuver bought him, he scrambled behind the bar and drew his dagger, slashing it across the top of a stout brown bottle. Once the dagger was sheathed again he snatched the bottle up and dashed into the open. An underhand lob sent the bottle twirling in the Commander’s direction, spilling strong-smelling liquor along the way. Anrack raised his weapon to deflect, but the bottle shattered against his blade, dousing him.

  “You wretched, deceitful, unscrupulous—” Anrack spat viciously.

  “I did warn you, Captain,” Desmeres said, pulling down a tallow candle from a wall sconce and tossing it to the ground.

  The spilled liquor took to flame in a wave of dancing blue light. Fire traced its way along the drops scattered across the floor, then wound its way up Anrack’s body. The expertly trained soldiers leaped to the aid of their commander, leaving only the man holding his position at the door to stand in Desmeres’s way. Desmeres slashed his sword with enough force to knock the final soldier’s weapon out of position, then lowered his shoulder and drove it hard into the chest plate of his foe.

  A fully armored soldier was very nearly impossible to move when he didn’t want to be moved, but the running start, startling blow, and chaos caused by the spreading flames were just barely enough to put the young man off balance. Desmeres rolled aside, slipping through the opening he’d created, and stumbled out into the freezing wind and blinding snow beyond.

  The dawn had turned the constant cloud cover a brilliant rose color. Light glared off the fresh blanket of snow that had fallen during the night. Desmeres cursed the light as it stung mercilessly at his booze-addled vision. A breeze kicked up the last icy flakes of the night’s snow, pelting his cheeks and forcing him to squint. If he’d had to find his horse in these conditions, his little diversion would have easily run its course by the time he was ready to make his escape.

  Fortune, it seemed, did indeed shine upon drunkards and scoundrels on occasion. The soldiers had found his steed and tied it to the rear of a large, black carriage. He knew the vehicle well. In the days of the war, the army used it to transport prisoners of the Alliance. He was quite sure this one was eagerly waiting to serve that purpose for him. Not today, however.

  He slashed his weapon through the rope that secured his horse and pulled himself onto the steed’s back. For good measure, he slashed the ropes restraining the nearby Alliance Army horses and gave one a firm blow to the flank with the flat of his sword. It released a startled whinny and bolted, causing the others to scatter as well. The recovering soldier from the doorway had to dive aside to avoid being trampled. Satisfied he’d done enough to keep them off his trail for at least a few minutes, Desmeres spurred his horse to a gallop through the snowy streets toward freedom.

  “All things considered,” he muttered breathlessly to himself as he looked over his shoulder, “that could have gone much worse… And I do believe my headache is beginning to ease. Genara may have been onto something with that remedy of hers…”

  #

  Inside the brothel, the Elite had been swift to act. Three men stomped out the flames on the floor while others doused tablecloths and threw them over their commander. They extinguished the fire with minimal damage to both personnel and property, but the brief delay let Desmeres escape. When the flames died away, the others had pulled Anrack from the ground where he’d been tackled by those seeking to rescue him. Now he sat in a chair at the center of a huddle of Elite soldiers, helmet in hand.

  “Enough,” Anrack muttered, pushing away a soldier who ministered to him.

  “Commander, the flames reached your face. You need proper bandaging or the scars will be severe,” warned the soldier, a damp rag in hand.

  “I said enough. Scars are reminders of our shortcomings,” he said.

  He raised his sword, using its well-kept edge as a mirror. Sure enough, he was badly blistered along the right cheek. Another few moments and the flames could have cost him the vision in his right eye.

  “And these will serve me well in
that regard. Each day I shall look myself in the mirror and see the cost of underestimating my foe. Give me my cane.”

  “I would recommend you take a moment to recover before—” his attending soldier began.

  “Give me my cane, soldier. And I will not permit any further disobedience or I shall have you removed from the Elite. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Commander,” the soldier said, scurrying to obey.

  With his cane in hand, Anrack hauled himself to his feet, waving off attempts to aid him. “Where is the owner of this den of sin?”

  Klye stepped up, bowing his head in deference. “The owner is not present at this time, Commander. He makes his home in Verril. I take full responsibility for all that has occurred. If it had been clear to us upon Mr. Lumineblade’s arrival that he was an enemy of the queen, we certainly would have turned him away. And it goes without saying that we never would have attempted to keep secret the room in which he was staying.”

  “Quiet. Did he sample your wares? Was one of your women in his bed?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  The master scurried off and returned not a minute later with Genara. Anrack looked her up and down critically, then motioned to the chair he’d recently relinquished.

  “Sit,” he grunted.

  “Yes Commander,” she said, tipping her head and demurely taking a seat.

  “I would have expected someone such as Lumineblade to have a taste for a higher class of trollop,” spat Anrack scornfully.

  “With all due respect, Commander, Desmeres’s tastes are exquisite. In wine and in women.”

  Anrack sneered, limping a step closer but keeping his distance as though he feared he might catch some wretched disease if he was foolish enough to touch the woman. “You recently sold yourself to a traitor to the throne. Your opinion matters little to me.”

  “I did not, Commander,” she said simply.

  “It will do you no good to deny the truth.”

  “I speak the truth, Commander. He bought a shoulder to cry on. The rest went unused.”

  “I know what goes on in this place…” Anrack rumbled.

  “As do I, and I’m sure it was going on in every other room, but in the one I shared with Desmeres there was only wine and words.”

  “And what of those words.”

  “I don’t know that they will be of much help to you. He said he was out of sorts, confessed his association with the Red Shadow, and resolved to fill his days for the foreseeable future by repaying debts the Red Shadow held.”

  “That is all he told you?”

  “That is all.”

  He looked her savagely in the eye. She looked back, uncowed despite his attempts to the contrary.

  “Very well. I’m through with you now. But if I find you have kept something from me, you will share his punishment when the traitor is captured.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Get her out of my sight,” he growled.

  Without waiting for the soldiers to manhandle her out of the seat, Genara stood and paced through the curtain beside the bar.

  “What shall we do now, Commander?” asked the soldier who still held the bloodied rag from treating his superior.

  Commander Anrack stood, eyes distant, mind buried in thought. When he spoke, it was with firm resolve.

  “Your name is Stocklin, correct?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “You were serving the Elite under General Teloran, were you not?”

  “I was, Commander.”

  “For how many years?”

  “Five, commander.”

  “Long enough to have been part of her constant search for the Red Shadow then.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “I hear tell that in her last battle, Desmeres and Trigorah fought beside one another. Is that so?”

  “It is, Commander.”

  “Were you present during that battle?”

  “Sadly, I was not. I’d been badly injured some months before while under the temporary command of a man called Arden. I’d not yet recovered.”

  Anrack raised his voice. “Were any of you present at Trigorah’s final battle?”

  “No, Commander,” came the chorus of replies.

  “The rest of you, when the horses are recovered, get after him and stay on his trail. Regularly deploy messengers with news of your progress and plans. Use the code I’ve distributed for the messages.” He pointed to the soldier who had been treating him. “You and I shall return to Verril. As I understand it, the secret files of the Generals are still being gathered and deciphered. I want to see them myself. I want to know the details of what Desmeres was doing during his brief service to the Alliance Army. Additionally, I want all of the information on the search for the Red Shadow. If the words of the harlot are true, then Lumineblade’s plans involve the past dealings of the Red Shadow. If we target his legacy, it will bring us closer to our current target as well. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Commander!” barked his soldiers.

  “Then carry out my orders! When next we cross paths with Lumineblade, we shall be prepared for his treachery.”

  Chapter 2

  Commander Anrack sat stiffly upon a bench in the entry hall of Castle Verril. Perhaps six weeks ago it saw its new queen’s coronation. Since then, there had been a whirlwind of activity. Verril had been Anrack’s home since his injury had forced his retirement from the Elite. During the days of the Perpetual War, it had been a place of much talk but little action. Decisions were made here, that much was certain, but few representatives of the military ever seemed to come or go. The exceptions of course were the five Generals—who, for as long as he could remember, had held the reins of the Alliance Army and commanded entirely from within these walls.

  He shifted uncomfortably, enduring a sharp pain from his bad leg and wincing at the still throbbing burn to his face. Across from him, separated by a single door from the grand entry hall, was the personal quarters of General Bagu. As recently as two months prior, the movements of every last soldier in the nation’s military had been coordinated from behind that door. Now stout boards barricaded it.

  Anrack didn’t have all of the answers about the Generals. Perhaps no one did. Prior to the Battle of Verril, most of the north truly believed they were the faithful protectors of the land, using their wit, guile, and will to keep the Tresson forces from overrunning the north generation after generation. Many, Anrack included, still believed that was so. The new story, one aggressively spread by Queen Caya and those who had helped her rise to power, claimed they were villains, monsters from another plane who sought to weaken the world through endless war before claiming what remained for themselves. It was madness, of course, but he did not begrudge the queen for dreaming up such absurdities. The last man standing earned the honor of telling the tale of the battle. Whether it was a revolution or a liberation that brought her to power, it was well within Caya’s right to sculpt history as she saw fit.

  As if conjured by his less-than-charitable thoughts of the new leader, Queen Caya appeared from a side hall at the center of an entourage that clambered to keep up. He jabbed his cane between two of the stones that made up the well-worn floor of the entry hall and hoisted himself from his seat, muttering to himself.

  “There was a time when a monarch could not sneak up on a man,” he grumbled. “At least Erdrick was decent enough to arrive with the proper fanfare.”

  “Elite Commander Anrack!” Caya called from across the hall.

  She quickened her pace toward him, separating from the pack of advisers and attendants to reveal herself fully. This, too, separated her from what he’d come to expect from nobility. The king was old, and heavily heaped with garments of the finest cloth the Northern Alliance could provide. Caya was dressed far more practically. The tailoring was still exquisite, but no more than the temperature called for: a short, fur-lined jacket; fine leather gloves; sturdy, warm trousers. Trousers. The queen didn’t even have th
e decency to wear a gown. This was why a youthful woman had no place on the throne. Someone with age and experience would know that such a position was one to be treated with reverence and pomp.

  The members of her entourage separated into three groups as she quickened her pace. Three armed guards, including one who was tall and stout enough to count for two by himself, kept a step or two behind. An assortment of servants and attendants, weighed down by gowns and vestments appropriate to their positions, followed a few steps farther behind. Last among them was a portly and red-faced older man who had the refined but frazzled look of one who had not yet adapted to the challenge of being an adviser to this new queen.

  “I trust you’ve been seeing to the Elite properly under your new appointment,” she said, stepping up to offer her hand.

  “Your Royal and Imperial Majesty,” he said, struggling to bend a knee.

  “Up, up,” she said, pushing his shoulder before he could finish the gesture. “You’ve taken more than your share of injuries in the defense of our great land. I won’t have you struggling to offer up some silly genuflection. And speaking of injuries, that burn on your face is a fresh one.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty—”

  “Uh-uh,” she said, raising her hand to stop him. “If we’re in the middle of a ceremony, then by all means we’ll adhere to the rules of style. I’m not going to spit in the eye of tradition. But if we’re to get anything done around here, we can’t be wasting so much breath on ‘majesty’ this and ‘imperial’ that. Caya will do. Queen Caya if you must. I’m not even wearing the crown. Our long-departed Queen, rest her soul, must have had a rather impressive head of hair. I don’t know how she kept the thing in place!”

  Anrack blinked. The encounter with the queen had already diverged from what his well-regimented brain had been expecting, he no longer knew how precisely to proceed.

  “We were talking about the fresh burn, Commander,” Caya helpfully prompted, clearly no stranger to the destabilizing effect she had on the more traditional members of her court.