Yanso grunted and heaved for breath against the pain, his eyes glistening with agony and rancor. He had breath for only four words. “Goat… faced… shit… fucker!”
Hafgan’s rage, barely held in check by his haern doethas-trained will, broke free. He slammed his forehead against Yanso’s face, feeling a crunch as the man’s nose broke. As Yanso’s hands darted to his new injury, Hafgan intercepted a wrist and slammed it against a nearby rock, breaking the bone with a crunch. Without hesitation, he next punched the man across the face once. Twice. Three times.
And then he was borne to the ground, the weight of Paston and Alwyn preventing him from killing Rin Yanso. He struggled mightily and two other Wasmer jumped into the pile. Slowly, the fury lessened. His senses returned. His other emotions surfaced, primarily those of guilt and shame. He took several deep breaths against the pressure of his men and squeezed his eyes tightly before locking his gaze with Paston’s.
“We be needing him, Lieutenant. We be needing his account of the attack. We be needing any intel—without harming him, you said.”
Paston appeared stupefied at the sudden violence perpetrated by his superior. Hafgan was typically so calm, so controlled. When was the last time anger had taken him like this? Not for years, not since… not since Hackeneth. That day with Taern Llegyn…
“Sir?” Paston asked, reaching down a hand to help him up as the other Wasmer scattered.
Hafgan ignored Paston, walking over to where Yanso still lay on the cold ground, illuminated by an oddly reddish sun that had finally broken through the chill clouds. His face was a ruin of blood and bruises, and he cradled his wrist against his stomach, though his ribs must have been like a dagger in his side. What had come over him, to commit such intense violence against this man? He’d dealt with such hatred for years, and he knew the type of man that Yanso was. Why had this time been different? Shame sat in his stomach like old, sour goat’s milk.
Paston stood slightly behind him, his presence like a heavy conscience. Hafgan didn’t even glance back.
“Bind his ankles and bind his wounds. The captain will continue with us, and I do not expect him to cause us any more trouble.”
Chapter 8
Fenrir couldn’t remember a time when his body had not ached.
Always, the knee pained him. That was a foregone conclusion. The thing had been mangled, after all, by that twiggy bastard Sigmund. His shoulder, torn by knife and fingers only months before, never stopped throbbing. Martis Aieres—his trusted friend and a skilled physician—had said the pain would fade, particularly if he continued to do the strengthening exercises forced upon him during his recovery. But it was also a foregone conclusion that he was going to neglect the exercises, and would have even if he hadn’t been caught up in escaping from the Plateau, recruiting a mercenary army, engaging in a civil war, and so on, not to mention the assassination of a duke.
The rest of his body was covered with new and fading bruises, small scrapes, and a couple of oozing lacerations that just wouldn’t heal. How could they heal when he was beaten every couple of days at Sigmund’s orders?
Fenrir had expected to be executed days ago. Weeks ago? He wasn’t certain how long he had been down here; no light reached the interior of the Plateau, and he wasn’t fed with any regularity. The fat he had built up during the time since his disgrace in the council chamber above had melted away. Muscles were atrophying, too, so much so that it was an effort to rise. But there was no reason to rise, really.
Maybe he deserved to be executed. He had relived that night, the night of the raid on Little Duke Penton, over and over again. He was a soldier, true. But, even a soldier shouldn’t kill his friends.
Silas had been a friend to Fenrir from the earliest days of his military career. When the other recruits had beaten and abused him, an older Silas had pulled them off and dished out punishment of his own. He’d been a protector in the truest sense, his mere presence and the threat of reprisal keeping Fenrir safe. Sometimes, it had chafed Fenrir that he needed such protection; he’d often operated under the arrogant illusion that he could take care of himself. But, with his merchant background, he’d been hated among the peasant recruits, and there was only so much a single man—let alone a boy—could do against many. Silas may even have saved his life a few times.
And Fenrir had repaid that pleasure by killing him, twenty years later.
He remembered seeing Silas guarding the stairs that would lead him to Duke Penton, watching the action unfold from his weird, disembodied state. The man had recognized Fenrir in an instant and lowered his weapon. He’d not been a threat, not at that point. Nonetheless, Fenrir’s weapon had torn across his throat. In his memory, his sword moved in slow motion, parting skin, tissue, and arteries as blood spurted unevenly across Fenrir’s breastplate. Silas’ face was not pained. No, it held recognition, surprise.
Accusation.
Fenrir tried to convince himself that he’d had no control. In the past, when he’d been in his phantom state—floating above his body like a ghost—he’d merely been an observer to his body acting in service of his goal. At least, that was how he understood the process. Martis seemed to think he was delusional, that his out-of-body experiences were either a result of drinking too much, frequent concussions, or a trick of memory. But Fenrir knew there was more to it than that.
It was fussy, in his memory, but hadn’t he resisted the magic that had crippled Tilner Pick and his remaining soldiers? Had Phantom-Fenrir made that happen? Savant Iolen and Lord Faris had seemed to think there was something special about Fenrir, though neither had sullied their fancy robes by coming down to see him in prison. The last Fenrir remembered, one of them had used magic on him, causing him to pass out.
Could that be why he’d fainted, all those years ago, in the council chamber? Could Faris or Iolen have knocked him off his feet with magic?
Probably. But to what end?
Fenrir tended to suppress those thoughts as his mind ran in circles during his imprisonment. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had killed his friend, and was himself slated to die.
When he’d killed Silas, Fenrir may not have been in control. But, he had the aching feeling that, even had he been in full command of his body, he still would have done the same thing. Silas had been an obstacle because of Fenrir’s orders to kill the duke. There’d been no time for a conversation, and his men would have finished Silas anyhow, rather than leave an armed man at their backs. Silas’ death had thus likely been unavoidable, so why did Fenrir feel so low about it?
Maybe because he had never really seen himself as a bad person. Sure, he drank a good deal, and did his best to manipulate women into sleeping with him. But those were victimless crimes. Some husbands may have disagreed, but, had they been decent husbands, their wives wouldn’t have ended up in his bed (or him in their bed).
And, sure, he worked for the most powerful underground criminal organization in Ardia, cutting off the ring fingers of men and women who wronged The House, or those who contracted with The House. But he was just the tool in those situations. He was just the knife—and did you blame the knife when someone ended up cut? If he hadn’t committed the deed, then someone else would have. He might just as well get paid for the task.
His mind briefly pictured Emma, pinned down by his knee as his knife cut through her hand, sending fingers and a chunk of flesh flying to the ground. Fenrir remembered the agony in her eyes. The gut-wrenching surprise.
He shook his head at the thought, clenching shut his eyes. Silas’ torn arteries briefly floated in his vision.
Shit, maybe he was a bad person. Maybe he’d been a bad person all along.
After all, he had killed his brothers.
Well, one brother, anyway.
Jingle. Creak. Clunk.
Someone was coming. Perhaps it was his time.
***
“You look—and smell—like shit, boy,” came a gravelly and terrifyingly familiar voice from outside Fenri
r’s cell. Though the light momentarily blinded him, there was no doubt as to the speaker.
“Father,” Fenrir responded, his own voice cracking from disuse and dehydration. “Or, should I say Principal de Trenton?”
“Say as you wish,” said Darian de Trenton over the sound of the cell being unlocked. Two soldiers pushed inside—one man, one woman, both of them resplendent in the vivid blue of de Trenton. Blue Adders both of them, from the elite fighting force under the control of his father. They were the best. Each soldier, even the much smaller woman, could have disarmed and dismantled Fenrir at his fighting peak. Now, beaten and emaciated, he’d stand a better chance against a horde of wolves in winter.
Fenrir’s eyes adjusted, and he saw his father for the first time in months. The older man was unchanged. Younger, even, though perhaps that effect came from the smile that twisted his face. Gods, it was Fenrir’s own smile flashing back at him. A charming, crooked smile that could disarm a lady at twenty feet and make a friend of an enemy at thirty.
Darian rarely smiled.
“Henson, Ingla. You are dismissed for the moment. I hadn’t expected the boy to be such a… shambles.” Darian waved his arm.
“Yes, my lord,” said the soldier Fenrir presumed to be Ingla, the petite Sestrian women with a smart salute. The Blue Adders left quickly, their steps reverberating in unison off of the flagstones and echoing through the prison.
Father and son—if they could still truly be defined as such—regarded each other silently for a few moments. Fenrir struggled to his feet, failing to hide the effort required.
“‘My lord,’ is it, now?” Fenrir coughed, wiping his bearded face.
“Again, I let people call me as they wish. If it gives my people some comfort, during this tumultuous time, to treat me as a lord, who am I to stop them?” Darian’s smile widened.
“Ever the martyr, my lord,” Fenrir said.
“Tell me, boy, how is your shoulder?”
“Some shit got in the wound, but I managed to fight that infection.” Fenrir, the master of tact.
Darian regarded Fenrir for a moment with his Pandemonium-black-blue eyes, and, as always, Fenrir felt he had to make an effort not to squirm. Here he was, imprisoned with nothing to lose except his life, and even that had a short time limit attached. And yet, Darian still held such power of him.
Interestingly, that realization gave Fenrir courage.
“Why are you here? You’ve already disowned me, my lord. Threatened me to stay away from you and your holdings—which I have, by the way. Are you here to revel in my pain? Watch as your unfortunate offspring is given to the Spike? Laugh while it happens while drinking a fine wine?”
Darian did laugh, then, with surprisingly good-natured mirth. Fenrir flinched back from the unfamiliar sound.
“No, boy. I am here to thank you, in fact. You have done me quite the favor.”
“What could I have done for you?” Fenrir’s mouth hung wide open with the shock of the thought.
“Murdering our poor little duke, of course.”
“How could that have helped you?” Fenrir asked.
“Oh, Rostane has become quite a different place in recent months, boy. Interestingly, many of Rostane’s fine nobles have found themselves discredited, tangled in scandals, or in deep, insurmountable debt.” Darian’s smugness hinted as to the origins of these various turns in circumstance.
“Let me guess. Somehow, you, my lord, have turned this to your advantage?” Fenrir suggested, leaning back against the always-damp stone wall. His legs were too weak to hold him up unaided any longer.
“Such cleverness,” drawled Darian. “Listen, boy. The time of nobility is done. It is an outdated concept. Why should a person be given the right to rule simply due to the loins from which he sprang? There is so much incompetence in this country. The little duke is a prime example. His father was a fine man, a modern man. Whereas his son was an insecure and pompous buffoon. Unfortunately, boy, great men do not always breed great offspring.”
“Subtle, my lord.”
“Subtlety seems lost on you. Anyhow, those who run our country should be those proven to be competent, not those who have the ‘correct’ blood. A country, after all, is little more than a large business. And who better to run a business?” Darian crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow expectantly.
“You?”
“By the gods, absolutely not! This is not a job for any one person! No, a voting council is most appropriate. A council composed of the best the country has to offer, those who have shown, over the years, that they can proficiently manage people and yets. Certainly, I would fit that description, as would others. It is a shame that your Lady Escamilla was lost in the civil war. Though I had my share of conflicts with the woman, she would have been an excellent addition.”
Sigmund had told Fenrir that Escamilla was dead, but he’d held out hope that the little shit was lying. His father, however, was so matter-of-fact that Fenrir knew the strong, cradle-robbing old woman was gone. His success in killing the little duke was meaningless. Their little army must be lost, scattered, and Florens taken despite all their efforts.
What had happened to Emma?
Fenrir fought to keep his face blank.
“Why would you care to run the country? You already have everything you could ever want.” Darian was a frugal, severe man, not given to splendor or lavish living. By the gods, aside from his single vice—a love of fine, imported wine—the merchant king might as well have been a poor man.
“As if you have any idea what I want. You took no interest in the family business, remember?” Darian asked.
“You took no interest in your family,” Fenrir retaliated.
A silence again filled the scant space between the men, Darian standing tall and threatening, with Fenrir leaning wearily against the wall, too resigned to feel his typical fear. Family was always a tense topic between the two men. Last time they’d discussed family, Fenrir had ended up disowned—and with Darian’s fingers buried into his shoulder up to the knuckles.
Family…. Did Darian know that his brother still lived?
“No matter,” Darian broke the silence. That had to be a first. “You ask why I would want to be involved in the governance of the country. Though the answer is complex, as is everything, I will simplify things for you. Open trade, boy! Rostane—all of Ardia—is one of the most closed-minded countries when it comes to trade. Import taxes are charged whenever a good enters the city. Export taxes are charged whenever a good leaves the city. Taxes are higher and higher, the further a good travels or is intended to travel. Even within the damned country, tariffs are charged from duchy to duchy.”
“This is about money?” Darian must have a deeper vault than anyone in Rostane, if not Ardia!
“It’s more than money, boy. It’s about the world. Here we are, holed up in our little dens, our little cities. Hoarding our goods, our specialties, our wealth. These tariffs and taxes… they halt progress. They halt advancement of the world, the opening of borders. They prevent sharing of cultures, the mixing of peoples. Meanwhile, the taxes do little to benefit the peoples of our country. They fill the coffers of the nobles, who go on to squander the wealth on meaningless pursuits instead of reinvesting in the country, research, and people,” Darian finished scornfully.
His father. Apparently quite the philosopher, scientist, and proponent of multiculturalism. Meanwhile, he’d neglected his own family to the point that his son was rotting in prison.
Also, Fenrir had little doubt that the motives ran deeper than open trade. Darian was not quite so good of a man.
“Got it. Open trade, my lord. Well, I am pleased to see you so elevated in the world. But, if you would please excuse me, I would expect that my next appointment will be arriving soon,” Fenrir said, turning away from his father to jokingly attempt to tidy his hair.
Surprisingly, Darian barked out another laugh.
“Sometimes, you are actually funny, boy. I’ve missed that,
from time to time. No, your final appointment is here at this moment. You are coming with me. I have need of you.”
“With you? You’ve disowned me! And I think I’d rather face the Spike,” Fenrir announced, pushing away from the wall and taking a step toward Darian. The older man smirked.
“Oh, boy, you are still disowned. That has not changed. You can keep your ridiculous name. Coldbreaker? Ha.” Unparalleled humor from his father.
“Then what could you possibly want from me?” Fenrir asked.
“Saving your life is not enough to secure your help for one simple task?”
“No.”
“Fine, boy. I need to secure the Council’s rule in this country. As I am sure that you know, there are many… clandestine elements in this city. They are a rot on the framework of society. Erosion of the foundations of our culture. They hold far too much power over many of those in charge. They must be eliminated. So, let us start small.”
Darian reached out, placing his hand on Fenrir’s shoulder. Fingertips—perhaps unintentionally—resting on the cloth covering Fenrir’s jagged, pink scar.
“I need you to destroy The House.”
The House. The most powerful underground organization in the country, and Fenrir’s employer for the last couple of years. A group of very dangerous people; Fenrir had seen their work. The Spike would be a mercy compared to how they treated those who shared their secrets or betrayed them.
“No thanks, my lord.”
Darian’s hand gave Fenrir’s shoulder a quick squeeze and the man stepped back, scratching at his chin.
“Did you know that the Kerrig Trading Company went under?” Darian asked, conversationally. “Indeed, just a few months ago, they sold their final warehouse in Draston, not too long after I saw you last. I have to say, that was a rare miscalculation on my part, thinking that it was an alliance worth forging. Peirson Kerrig is near destitute, as is his daughter Bethany.”
Wisdom Lost Page 10
