“Don’t ask so many questions! I don’t want to hurt you.” He released the pressure and twisted to his feet with inhuman grace. Disorder offered his hand to help her up then. Emma scrabbled to her feet on her own, coughing and sputtering as she gulped in iron-smelling air.
“Okay, I will not ask so many questions. But, if there is a warning, I just want to know what I should be warned of.” Emma held her hands in front of her, speaking as if she were appeasing a wild, unpredictable animal.
“Ah, fuck. You must think me insane.” Emma didn’t respond. “It’s these fucking spectacles. That’s why I prefer to send others. Let’s start again. I’m from Recherche Oletta, or at least I work with them. I answer to higher authorities, as do they. As do we all. And, they are coming.”
Emma wanted to ask who was coming, but feared that one more question might send Disorder over the edge of the precipice like a slight breeze. She needed to survive this. She needed to survive this and kill whoever had ordered this attack. And if this Disorder could bleed, then he could die. They all could.
Disorder sighed and slumped his shoulders, rubbing at his whirlwind eyes. His mannerisms smacked of familiarity, but Emma couldn’t quite place it.
“Know that I do this, lady, to save lives. When they come, the only way to protect the people is to preempt opposition. To prevent people from taking up arms and fighting. For they will be slaughtered. I do this to protect them. To protect them,” Disorder repeated, almost as if to convince himself.
“I understand,” Emma said softly, leaning away. “It makes sense.”
He snatched her wrist, hand inhumanly strong. His eyes dug into hers. “Don’t patronize me. Now, you’ve saved me a trip, this night. For I would have visited you, too. You have this one opportunity. You will cease your hostilities toward Rostane. You will disband your army. You will leave this place and make yourself unknown.” Disorder touched a finger to her chest, directly between her breasts. A warmth appeared at the surface of her skin. An irritating warmth, like a mosquito bite or a small scrape. But that warmth began to penetrate her body. She struggled against Disorder, but his grip was impossibly firm, an implacable iron shackle. The tiny ball of heat pushed through her flesh, through her bone, and lodged itself firmly into her heart.
It wasn’t exactly a pain, but it caused her to panic nonetheless. Emma could feel it, this power, lodged in her heart. It was an alien presence, something that didn’t belong inside her body. Something that didn’t belong in this world. She began breathing heavily, panting, trying to fight the building dread.
“There will be no hiding, my lady. You must follow my instructions to leave, unless you wish to meet the same fate as Lady Breen.” Disorder glanced over his shoulder, back toward Escamilla’s corpse. “I want to keep people safe,” he muttered. Then, he locked her gaze one more time and gave her a crooked smile—a smile that would have been charming in a different circumstance. In a tavern or ballroom; in a merchant’s shop or on the road.
And, suddenly, it clicked.
“Aiden de Trenton?” Emma asked in a hushed voice. This man, this darkly insane, immensely powerful man, was Fenrir’s brother. The resemblance was clear—in the corners of the eyes, in that smile, in his posture. This was the man who had sent a killer after Fenrir.
Emma expected another blow, an emotional explosion from Disorder. But, instead, he pushed past her. “I haven’t used that name in a long time. As my little brother would tell you, Aiden de Trenton is long dead,” he said softly. With that, he reached out, put his dark spectacles back on, and disappeared into the shadows.
Emma shuddered and nearly fell to her knees. But, she forced her weakened limbs to propel her to Escamilla. She laid on the bed next to the woman, cheek to cheek, and began to sob.
Chapter 15
Fenrir groaned and rolled onto his side. His muscles were bathed in fire, twitching impulsively like those of the recently dead. His hand shook like a feeble old man’s as he brought it to his face to rub at his squinting, pain-filled eyes. Fenrir took a deep, shuddering breath which ended with a coughing fit, forcing him to curl up his body in order to lessen the tearing of his stomach muscles.
The fit passed, and Fenrir closed his eyes, hoping that the oblivion of sleep would help him through this torture. Before the next round began.
“Fenrir Coldbreaker, as I live and breathe!” A familiar voice. A… friendly voice?
“That’s… Martis?” Even Fenrir’s voice sounded broken, dry and cracked as the ashlands that supposedly peppered the continent. He forced his lead-heavy eyelids to rise, concentrating until his eyes focused on the face of his long-time friend.
Martis Aieres smiled, his eyes creasing as he approached. Fenrir could swear that there was more white in his braided beard and short hair than ever before, though it had only been a few months since he had seen the physician.
“It is indeed Martis, my friend. You’ve developed a fantastical ability to hurt yourself and wake up to my aging face. You must be some sort of magician.”
“If I were a magician, I would magick away the pain,” Fenrir groaned.
“Let’s see what we have here.” Martis began his typical poking and prodding, his powerful fingers ungently forcing cries of pain from Fenrir. Gods, was it more than twenty years since Martis’ competent exam had yielded yelps of pain from a young Fenrir? After he’d washed out of the Rostanian infantry? By Ultner’s graying pubes, he wasn’t young anymore.
He certainly didn’t feel young right now. His knee, of course, felt like it was full of gravel. But, there were so many other pains plaguing his body that Fenrir was unsure how many other major injuries he had. “Why are you here, Martis?” he asked. “Not that I’m upset to see you.. erg… though you could be a bit lighter with the touch.”
“Do I call him your father? No, certainly not, given that you have been disowned. And yet, here you are, housed in the servants’ quarters of the de Trenton compound, languishing in the lower levels. Out of sight, it seems, but not out of mind. Now, why…”
“Rambling again.” Martis had that tendency. The older physician laughed lightly, not at all insulted. He never was.
“Ha. I should know better than to indulge my penchant for serpentine conversation whilst entertaining Fenrir Coldbreaker. ‘Fenrir the Impatient’ could be added to your honorifics.”
“So, Darian sent you,” Fenrir said, attempting to reel Martis in.
“Calling him by his first name. Interesting. You both avoid mention of your relationship and acknowledgement of his high status in this country. Principal de Trenton. Councilor de Trenton. Perhaps King de Trenton, one day?”
“By Ultner, let’s hope not. Ow!”
Martis gave his arm one last probing jab before stepping back from his examination. “My friend, you are intact. Bruises, no breaks. Cuts that will heal without intervention, aside from a cream that I will provide to avoid infection. And your muscles will continue to ache for days, although you are unlikely to receive any reprieve.”
“My first march,” grumbled Fenrir, straining to pull himself up into a seated position. He exhaled deeply, as if he had just shifted the earth in the attempt.
“What’s that?” Martis raised a bushy gray eyebrow.
“My first march. I remember, when I… emancipated myself from Darian and joined the Rostanian military, Sergeant Alus sent all of the new recruits on a forced march. That old bastard rode a horse and forced us, double time, on a twenty-mile march. Full gear—backpack, spears, and so on—strapped on our backs. I lagged behind at times, but forced myself forward. I couldn’t wash out in my first week, not without crawling back to Darian. And I couldn’t do that. So, I ignored the pain and kept going.” Fenrir felt a strange catch in his throat.
Martis simply watched, slightly askance, as he slowly fumbled around within his physician’s satchel.
“The next day, I could barely move. I couldn’t move. I thought I was dying, in fact. This…” Fenrir weakly gestured to his body,
“…is significantly worse than that.”
There was something sad behind Martis’ smile. Fenrir couldn’t meet his eyes, and glanced away.
“I can give you something for the pain, but you need to be drinking water whenever you have the chance.”
Fenrir would have preferred an ale or a dozen, but no such luxury was available to him. No, Fenrir was still a prisoner, though his warden had changed.
Apparently, the shambling zombie that was post-incarcerated Fenrir was no use to his father. Instead, he’d been locked away in the cellars of the servants’ housing in the de Trenton estate, though this was marginally more comfortable than his cell, he admitted. Namely, he had a bed. Too short, too narrow, but it was a bed.
And, three times a day, a Blue Adder would unbar his door and toss a heavy sack of food his way. Dried meat, dried fruit, dried… everything. Stuff fit for servants, but Fenrir tore into it with gusto. He’d gained weight, if not muscle, rapidly.
Fenrir spent a bit of time limbering up every day, moving his arms, stretching his injured knee. He’d even attempted to emulate his morning physical training regimen, from back when he’d been a guardsman. Not that he had much of an illusion of escaping his father’s nest of adders. Just that, maybe, he figured that if he could regain some strength, he’d live a bit longer.
But he’d fallen out of the routine pretty quickly. Down here, where he was, it was too easy to lapse into lethargy. There was too much time to laze about. Too much time to ruminate about family.
Someone had also left a book in his little room. A thick, heavy fucker of a doorstop, the book was. Not something a servant would bother toting about, assuming that the servants in the de Trenton estate were literate. He knew his father preferred to employ the poor and unenlightened. It seemed charitable to some, but Fenrir knew that the less educated a person was, the less capable they were of stealing secrets. Regardless, no servant would be reading Trading Logistics and Logical Trading: Basics and Essentials for Domestic Trade by Eronean Envis. The very book that his father had shoved down his throat in his early teens.
So, even now, locked in a cellar and recovering from weeks of incarceration and malnourishment, Fenrir did not crack open the book. A tiny, useless rebellion.
A month, at least, he’d spent in this cellar, his only company being his dreary thoughts and the occasional silent Blue Adder. Interestingly, Ingla—his initial guardian, the woman charged with his safety and well-being—had never been among those who brought his food. No, it hadn’t been until he’d recovered his energy that Ingla had made an appearance.
And put him into this sorry state that had brought Martis around.
“Here, take two of these every six or so hours.” Martis handed a small cylinder to Fenrir, it containing several small, amber balls.
“What’s this?” Fenrir asked.
“It’s a concoction of my own design. Ground devil’s claw root and innto flower, measured precisely and suspended in honey. These precise doses allow for standardized administration of the medicine, and prevent patients from overdosing or becoming addicted. I won’t exactly call my tablets revolutionary—I have not the ego for that—but they certainly represent an advancement in modern medicine.” Martis smiled widely.
“I am lucky to know such a brilliant man,” Fenrir drawled. He popped four of the tablets into his mouth.
“Lucky to know me? No. Lucky to be alive after what happened to the little duke? Absolutely.”
Fenrir grunted. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Only water. I would like to ask you for the details of that encounter…” The thick oaken door creaked open, “…but that will evidently have to wait for another time.” Martis began to gather his things.
Ingla stepped into the room. Marched, was more like it. Fenrir stifled a moan. How could he fucking take more of this? There was nothing left of him. Nothing.
The small Sestrian woman, wearing her blue leathers, folded her arms and raised a single eyebrow. Fenrir struggled to his feet, straightening his back with a herculean effort. Even more of an effort were the crooked smile and the wink he offered.
“If it isn’t the lovely sergeant, the sunshine of my life.” Martis stifled a chuckle. Fenrir knew he’d pay for that, but he couldn’t resist with Martis in the room. His friend always seemed impressed by his relentless prowess with women, and Fenrir did not want to disappoint.
“Physician. I expect that you will be needed by evening. And tomorrow. And the next day.” She did not take her focused eyes off Fenrir. He tried not to shrink, though he felt much like a fly preparing to have its wings plucked off by a child.
“Indeed, Sergeant. Fenrir, my friend, I will see you this evening.” He smirked, his braided beard swinging back and forth.
“And tomorrow. And the next day.”
Chapter 16
Hackeneth was a marvel.
Hafgan had seen the seats of four duchies in Ardia. Florens, built upon a man-made island at the bend of the great Ingwine River, renowned for its arts and culture. Draston, wide and sprawling across the Singing Plains, called so because of the sound the wind made as it tore unheeded through the fertile farmlands. Hunesa, an amalgamation of a dozen cultures that had somehow formed its own identity. And, of course, Rostane, the city of stone that most closely tried to emulate life in the mountains.
And yet, none of them came close to the majesty that was Hackeneth. Though it contained less than half the population of any of those great cities, the largest Wasmer settlement was grand. Built at the throat of Limner and Phean, two of the highest mountains in the Tulanque Mountains, the surface of the city was a forest of sprawling stone dwellings that housed the lowest castes of the Carreg Da—the laborers, miners, and farmers. Most scraped together a living in the nearby fertile valleys or in the subterranean root farms. Others chopped and harvested the endless supply of trees throughout the mountains to create structures and warmth for the citizens of this place.
From the heart of Limner, Enorry Falls roared down from its heights, draining into the Fullane River. And though it wasn’t evident to a casual observer, Hafgan knew that the power of the waterfall was harnessed in a dozen different ways to fuel the various enterprises of Hackeneth. Some was diverted into storage chambers that created running water for the more powerful castes, much of it heated in pipes from a constant burn of the coal found in abundance nearby. Waterwheels were used to power lifts and various mechanicals that helped the city run.
While half the city was aboveground, the other half—including the home of the warrior castes, the richer merchant caste, and the Dyn Doethas—was beneath Limner. In fact, most of the surface dwelling places were just visual shells, with many of the houses being connected by a series of well-marked tunnels. The Wasmer had excellent vision and preferred low-light areas, so the tunnels and caves of the mountains served them perfectly.
They were an underground people; thousands of years in the mountains had trained them to be that way. Yet, Hafgan knew that Wasmer had not always been bound to the darkness.
“Hafgan, Hafgan, light and tall.” A hoarse voice, speaking the Wasmer tongue, scratching at Hafgan’s ears.
Yurin peeled himself from the wall of a stone residence that lined the main street leading to the north side of the falls. He fell into step with Hafgan, who’d been walking vanguard of his budredda. They streamed behind him in even, regular ranks, having spent the night doing their best to clean up their appearances. They’d polished their weapons with snow and cleaned their clothes with rocks. They were still filthy and stinking, but a bit less so than the night before.
“You will be staying a step back from the lieutenant,” growled Paston, gripping his spear with white fingers. He was Flam Madfall, born in the southern mountains and ever warring with the Carreg Da. Though his parents had left the clan years ago, Paston still retained his fear of Hafgan’s birth clan. And, being budredda, he was doubly an outlander. A quarter of his men had never been in the mountains, and the othe
r quarter wasn’t Carreg Da. So, they were all on edge.
“You think to poke me with your little stick, budredda?” Yurin asked with a twisted smile. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword over his shoulder; Hafgan knew that he could draw the giant thing with lightning speed.
“Paston, let it be. There will be those who wish us much greater harm than this man.”
Paston relented with a grunt, though he retained his two-handed grip on his weapon.
“So, how do you find Hackeneth as an outlander? Does the beauty delight? Does the grandness fill you with awe? Are you terrorized by the sight of our temples?” Yurin gestured at a crumbling statue of Traisen, the god of war, that sat in front of a rough stone building signifying a neglected temple. Hafgan started at the disrepair; even a few years ago, the common folk would have clamored to get into that place. He remembered, on seventh day, his parents dragging him for miles to reach the temple, Yurin in tow, to pray for a safe lumber harvest. His family was of the laborer class, and cutting down trees was always a dangerous proposition. If Wasmer weren’t crushed by falling trees, then limbs were destroyed in the transport of the wood. That was all, of course, assuming that neighboring tribes didn’t raid the temporary lumber camps, killing or enslaving laborers for their own use.
“I find it… terribly dull,” Hafgan said, letting himself speak the Wasmer tongue, the fluid language feeling unfamiliar on his tongue. “I find I missed it not at all.”
“Nor has it missed you, my brother. So, it sounds like the humans suit you? Have you fucked any of their women? Have you become one of their little chiefs?” Yurin grinned his maddening grin.
“That’s why I find myself here. I have become their king.” Yurin narrowed his eyes, glaring at Hafgan before he realized it was a joke. Hafgan hadn’t joked much when he had been growing up with his brother. There had been little to joke about.
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