Hafgan sat back in his chair, the sharp edge of anger dulling for the moment.
“Tell me, Taern. What has happened here?”
Taern smiled wide, either relieved at not being bludgeoned or excited that his ploy had worked. “Little news reaches you people in Rostane, eh?”
“To Rostane, there is little of value in the mountains aside from iron ore and silver.”
“Typical humans. Well, I suppose we don’t make the effort at facilitating communication with our neighbors to the east, do we? No matter. It has been years since you vowed never to return. How do you find Hackeneth?”
“Aside from being filled with assassins?” Taern raised a questioning eyebrow at this. “It seems emptier. More… dilapidated. I noticed a temple to Traisen that seemed to have fallen into disrepair, and there’s refuse in the streets.”
“Dilapidated? Your vocabulary has certainly improved, my son. But, that is an accurate description. Faith in the old gods has waned in recent years. Since you left, in fact.”
Hafgan wondered how much he’d had to do with that. Plenty, he would wager. But there was more here to discover.
For the first time, Hafgan looked around the room where they were meeting, deep within the Laenor. It wasn’t what Hafgan would have expected from a Dyn Doethas, from the de facto ruler of his caste and the founder of the Haearn Doethas, a new caste that blended together knowledge, faith, and military prowess. Taern’s chambers were rough-cut rock, having none of the painstakingly-carved stone murals that graced the walls of most of the Laenor. Furniture was scarce; aside from the rough two chairs they occupied and a table, Hafgan could only see a small, lumpy-looking bed jutting out of an adjoining room. Most stunning was that Hafgan could not see Tarn’s ornately cut spear, Torri Carreg—Stone Breaker—anywhere in the room. He had never seen Taern without the supposedly magical, but more likely creatively-named, weapon.
There was only one explanation.
“You lost control,” Hafgan said, quietly.
Tarn barked a bitter laugh. “I lost control, yes, with no small thanks to you. Your proclamation at the Reckoning that day, made in anger and fear, sparked something within the people. It sparked something within Leyr Trystan. It may be the first time that he ever agreed with you.”
Leyr had been one of the other Haearn Doethas, slightly younger than Hafgan and a constant rival. Where Hafgan was fast, Leyr was faster. Whereas Hafgan was strong, Leyr was stronger. Whereas Hafgan was clever, Leyr was brilliant. And so it had irked Leyr to no end that Hafgan somehow beat him in sparring as often as not, and that Hafgan had fallen into the role of Tarn’s favorite. Of course, Leyr had never known that being the favorite left Hafgan with significantly more scars.
“What was it that you said that day, Hafgan? Do you remember?” Tarn asked, his eyes now burning with intensity.
“That the Dyn Doethas have no right to rule…” Yes, Hafgan remembered the rebellious words shouted during the Reckoning. Words echoed in the Cylch, particularly when the victorious fighter, standing tall and covered in blood, demanded attention. Taern had been on one knee, weaponless and furious, while Leyr had been sprawled out, seemingly unconscious.
“The Dyn Doethas have no right to rule,” repeated Tarn, almost consideringly. “You know, they never really and truly ruled. That’s why I needed you, Hafgan. That’s why I needed the Haearn Doethas. Those war leaders were so petty, fighting one another and scraping together their own little domains within the Carreg Da, within the other clans. Starting wars simply to retain their tiny dominions. Certainly, we were able to guide and influence, but we never had truly ruled.”
“You lied and manipulated. You changed the histories. You spoke with the voices of the gods to send good people to their deaths,” Hafgan reminded him, leaning forward intently. He had seen evidence of these lies with his own eyes, when he had once had the daring to infiltrate the forbidden libraries of the Laenor. Books of histories that might as well have been children’s stories or fairytales, so different were they from the supposed truths that Hafgan had heard all his life.
“And, for all that, we still never truly had control,” Taern said sardonically. He rubbed at his temples in a practiced motion that belied his nerves and anxiety. “Hafgan, I say this to you now. You were right, that day. We never had the right to rule. The Dyn Doethas should never have been in charge.”
“That is quite the admission. You finally believe that you cannot lead the people through lies and manipulation?”
“Hafgan, do you truly think me such a monster? I had always been appalled at the lengths the Dyn Doethas went to in order to eke out a little bit of extra influence, in order to rally the people behind a flawed common cause. Did you know that they had actually initiated a project to climb to the heights and create a gate to block Enorry Falls? To control the very life blood of Hackeneth as a sign from the gods that the people were on the wrong path? Three dozen enslaved laborers from the other tribes were even sent to climb to the peak and begin construction. Half died on the way up, and the other half were killed when the project proved unsuccessful.” Taern stood up abruptly and began to pace. Looking at the polish on the floor, Hafgan could see this was a well-trodden path for his former Arwein.
“I would not put it past them, certainly. They have done worse.” Hafgan thought of what he had read in the libraries. Dyn Doethas, hiding food and letting people starve in order to start a war with the tribes of Ardialos. Assassinating one of their most influential war leaders, Arwinyadd Anerin, for his hubris, and blaming a human expedition. Making up gods to be worshipped. Building the religion of the people around lies. Traisen, the god of war, was as real as the nighttime stories that humans told about Wasmer.
“It’s why I created the Haearn Doethas. Trying to build a caste of Wasmer who could have the physical rule—through martial prowess—and also the knowledge to make wise choices with that power. Perhaps, then, we would not have to lie to our people and we could actually be something, besides simple mountain dwellers.”
“With you pulling the strings of this caste, of course,” Hafgan snarled. He had heard this diatribe before.
Taern paused in his pacing and turned to Hafgan. “Providing guidance. I am not so evil as past Dyn Doethas. I know the histories. I would not let us make the same mistakes.”
“How many despots and dictators have said that in the past?” Hafgan asked, rising to his own feet so as to not be at a disadvantage.
“Every single one, I would imagine. But I would have been different,” Taern said, not without some sense of irony. “But, as you said, the Dyn Doethas have no right to rule. We have confused our histories so that we barely know what is true and what is not. Sometimes, my son, I pray to Traisen or Oletta, actually believing that they are real, that my prayers could be heard! We are entrapped in a cycle of lies and mistruths; the people will never be able to handle the reality. I would have tried to erase our fake histories rather than contradict them, starting something new for our people. With your help.”
Hafgan longed to attain his hedwicchen, and to eliminate this strange mix of rage and sympathy, hatred and love, that he felt toward his teacher and tormenter.
“Arwein, tell me what happened,” Hafgan repeated.
Taern’s face screwed up for a moment, taken with some strong emotion.
“You left Hackeneth, as was your right. I admit, I was furious at first, seeing it as a betrayal of me. A betrayal of our people. After all, you had finally achieved the first step of what we sought to do!” Taern clenched his fist for a second before releasing it. “But I realized that you were right. I had lied to and manipulated not just you, but everyone.”
“What made you realize your mistake?” Hafgan asked warily.
“The fact that Leyr agreed with you, at least with the sentiment. That we should not rule. After you left, the people were stunned. Not because you were well-known, but for the very fact that you weren’t. The fact that you seemed to emerge from the mountain, d
efeat all comers in the tournament, including me, and then turn down such power. It was an act of either insanity or divine intellect. Coupled with your proclamation, people began to lose faith in us.”
The Haearn Doethas had largely been training in secret, and at the Reckoning within the Cylch, they’d emerged to battle with the other best-known warleaders and challengers. Almost to a man, the Haearn Doethas had won their matches, ultimately ending up battling each other. Which is how Hafgan had ended up facing off against Leyr, under the stone and sky of the great colosseum.
Hafgan shrugged. “I am surprised that I was able to have such an impact with a few words that I spoke, which were, like you said, spoken in anger and fear.”
Taern chuckled. “You were just a piece. There were others working against the Dyn Doethas for some time. Strong-willed warleaders. The richest of the merchants. Embittered and jealous priests. Rian played a role.”
Hearing Rian’s name outside his hedwicchen brought a new surge of emotions to Hafgan. Luckily, shame and guilt were old friends.
“So, I initiated this avalanche, and others took advantage of it. The Dyn Doethas lost the respect of the people. They lost control of the people. And Leyr worked with them to undermine you,” Hafgan concluded, guessing at the outcome.
Taern stared at the ceiling, exhaling deeply.
“No, it was worse than that, my son. At this point, I would welcome disrespect or lack of control. Either could be regained with effort. By Traisen and Oletta and Ewen and the rest of the damned false gods, that would be preferable.”
Taern leveled a look at Hafgan, and it was one that made him shiver. It was a sort of broken intensity in his former Arwein’s face, like a shattered mirror reflecting the light of the sun.
“I am the last of the Dyn Doethas. There was a purge.”
Chapter 17
Merigold was not well-traveled. Granted, she had finally left the Duckling and seen two of the great cities of Ardia. Hunesa, the ramshackle Crossroads of Nations, with a dozen different clashing styles of architecture matching the myriad nationalities walking the streets. It was a patchwork quilt of awful. Florens had been a beauty viewed from a distance, over fields choked with mud-covered bodies. Now, it was likely a shadowed ruin of itself, sacked by the voracious and undisciplined armies of Rostane.
Both, though, had been better than the shithole that was Polanice. Some cities could boast of having been great at some point in their pasts, retaining a bit of gold visible after a polish. Other cities could say that theirs was an industrial prosperity—not necessarily clean, but instead effective and productive. Polanice, the port on the southernmost point of the Rafónese peninsula, could say neither.
A victim of constant hurricanes and floodings, the city smelled like a sopping sewer. The roads, their pavement buried in mud and muck from years of shifting waters, were treacherous. The wooden houses stank of rot and looked to be in disrepair, and the people were a fit for their surroundings. The dark-skinned Rafónese dominated the streets, loitering or walking about as if it were more pleasurable to stand amidst the falling snow than amid the mildew of their homes, which perhaps it was.
But, the temperature and the weather were much harsher here than in Ardia, and Merigold shivered in her heavy coat. She glanced around for Lisan in the small market, acutely noticing that dark looks were being shot in her direction from the locals. Meri felt trapped, though they were in the open air.
“There is nothing,” said Lisan, appearing from the crowd of suspicious Polanicers. Ill’nath, at Merigold’s shoulder, held one hand on his club, eying anyone who came nearby. The cityfolk were wary of them, sometimes glaring at the travelers with unadultered hatred. Their reactions did not reach the point of violence, but Meri thought that had a lot to do with Ill’Nath and his giant club.
“How can there not be a single horse and cart anywhere in this city?” Merigold asked, feeling distinct unease in this market square. They needed transportation for their trip to Agricorinor; walking would not be an option in this snow.
“Oh, there are plenty of horses and even more carts. But there is no desire to sell them to us.”
“Why?” Merigold demanded. They were foreigners, but they had been nothing but respectful since landing in the city five days ago. There were dozens of ships at port, though few of these were from Saiwen, which Meri attributed to both the civil war and the fact that it was storm season. The Graceful Whale had just missed the worst of a weather front, but a couple of ships had limped in, ragged and lopsided, in the last couple of days. Even with that, Meri thought it strange that they had seen very few light-skinned Saiwenese around, Polanice being one of the only major ports for a hundred miles.
They called this place the Gateway to Rafón, though Polanice made a very poor first impression.
“Suspicions,” said Lisan, turning at the sound of abrupt shouting and catcalls. She fingered the strung bow slung over her back and Meri gripped her dagger, looking toward the disruption.
A wash of white swept the road as the put-upon crowd began to disperse angrily. The only sight of cleanliness that Polanice could boast was their city guard, the Onelan, which translated roughly to ‘the Sun Guard.’ Two dozen men in pristine uniforms marched forward in white leather armor, white coats, and white helmets, all trimmed in silver. A handful of officers followed behind them on horseback. Some of the Polanicers flung mud at the Sun Guard; they were apparently not well-liked by the poorer, dirtier residents of the city.
Like many others, Ill’Nath, Lisan, and Merigold pressed themselves against the ice-rimmed facades of the nearby storefronts. Merigold covered her head with her hood as best she could; her platinum blonde hair made her stand out like a whore in a Yetranian chapel. Ill’Nath, though, took no such precautions, and stared at the guards with open hostility. Meri knew little about the man, but she had heard that Pintan islanders were generally resistant to authority, having no centralized government of their own. Ill’Nath did not appear to be an exception. His pale skin, and the fact that he kept his massive arms bare despite the cold, drew no shortage of attention.
Merigold held her breath, hoping the patrol would pass without incident.
“Bu nedi?” called one of the Sun Guard, speaking Rafónese. “Soluk derile.” The column halted abruptly as the townsfolk continued to scatter, as if having a sixth sense for conflict—as crowds often did. The guard had a reputation for being brutal, and few would think to stand against them. Merigold had the same thought, but trapped as they were against the shoddy buildings, it was a simple matter for the guard to flank them.
An officer dismounted and pushed through—the only one of the Sun Guard lacking a helmet. He could only be described as pristine. White teeth were a stark contrast to his coal-black skin, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. His beard was trimmed perfectly, and the hair on his head was perfectly greased so not a single strand stood askew. His young, handsome features were as symmetrical as a duck egg.
“Pintan, hand off that crude weapon,” he commanded, speaking Ardian with scarcely an accent. “Thank you. And you, Ardian, do not think you can draw that bow and shoot more than a couple before we skewer you.”
Lisan subtly stepped in front of Merigold, trying to shield Meri’s face with her broad body. A few other Rafónese were trapped by the guards, so Lisan may have thought to keep Meri yet hidden.
“No one need be skewered, lord…” Lisan said with a smile, not exactly brightening her ugly features.
“Captain, not ‘lord.’ Captain Curan Tinto, at your service. And you are, my light-skinned sister? What are you doing here?”
Lisan ignored the first question. “We are just visiting.”
Tinto chuckled, a refined and calculated laugh that actually sounded authentic and would probably have been contagious given different circumstances. “No one would visit this shit-heap of a city, traveler. How did you get here? On which ship was your berth?”
“We arrived via The Graceful Whale just
recently,” Lisan answered slowly, as if she was trying to orchestrate a lie but couldn’t quite get the music right.
Tinto pinched his nose dramatically and took two steps backwards. “Oh, so smugglers. And yet, I hear there were no goods offloaded from your boat. Few ships travel from Saiwen with nothing to offer but a few measly passengers. Why, then, do you find yourself in our particularly sodden asshole of the world?”
Lisan began to say something in response, but was cut off as a heated argument drew everyone’s attention. Merigold glanced to her right, trying to be circumspect, but that was difficult to achieve when a man was being brutalized scant feet away.
A Sun Guard, his chubby but vicious features evident beneath his helmet, shoved an older townsperson against the facade of the buildings for a second time. The Sun Guard barked something, gesturing with violent hands, and the trapped townsperson only mumbled something in return. His fear was palpable, and Meri tried to edge away, but found herself with no room.
The townsperson’s fear and meek response only seemed to enrage the guard.
Without any preamble, the white-armored brute yanked his knife from his belt and started hacking away at the townsman’s raised arms. The victim howled, his voice echoing through the dirty streets as his face twisted in helpless agony. Before long, the man fell into a pool of blood—not quite dead, but crying and whimpering at his arms being gouged to the bone. The Sun Guard wiped his sword on the inside of his own blood-freckled white coat before moving back into a cluster of other guards, his weathered face twisted in disgust. A small group of these men started shouting animatedly at one another in an apparent argument.
Meri’s own cloak was flecked with blood, but she dared not look up. She dared not make a move to help the fallen man, though he writhed at her feet. She was near panic, but could do nothing.
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