Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Tinto barked some orders in Rafónese and the men ambled back into formation. He didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the horrid maiming of the man, who lay curled up like a dying spider. Rather, he frowned slightly at the lack of acuity with which his men responded to his commands. He turned back to Lisan, shaking his head and speaking as if she was a confidant.

  “Things are going to the pit, lately. The men are keyed up and anxious, quick to anger and quick to strike. Only fear of punishment keeps any semblance of discipline, and, to be honest, I’ve barely the energy to keep them in line. And really, I can’t blame them. War is at our doorstep, a war against an enemy we don’t understand. An enemy we never can see.”

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Well, if we don’t know who we are fighting, how do we know we aren’t fighting you?” The logic stank of paranoia, but Tinto’s perfect face was deadly serious. “Our leaders have been found dead in their beds, bodies pierced by burning blades. Our ships—merchant and war alike—return as bits of lumber and the odd limb washed up on shore. Our people rise up in dissent, treating our noble order with disrespect and the occasional act of violence. We’ve had to become less tolerant to discourage such acts.”

  Lisan’s mouth was open, and Ill’Nath continued to glare at anyone who thought to glance at him. Lisan glanced at the fallen man and licked her lips. “This has been happening for what—weeks? Months? We only just arrived.”

  “Yes, but—let us state the obvious—you are skinned differently from us, which makes you both suspects and targets. I’m afraid that, regardless of your nebulous reason for visiting this end of the world, you will need to come with us, as much for your protection as ours. You will be a guest at the Opal Tower.” Tinto snapped his fingers, and four Sun Guards stepped forward with binding ropes held ready in their gloved hands.

  Ill’Nath did not hesitate. He whipped his great club around with such speed that the hapless Sun Guard before him couldn’t blink before his head collapsed with the sodden sound of a fallen pumpkin. Before anyone else could act, Ill’Nath crushed the ribs of a second man and was moving with purpose toward a third.

  Lisan seemed shocked by the unexpected violence, but decided to follow Ill’Nath’s lead by slashing at the throat of the white-coated guard in front of her with a frantic swing of her short sword. It created enough distance that she managed to find the space to launch an arrow at the face of the next guard. The man turned his head just in time, and the projectile was deflected by his helm.

  “Damn,” she muttered, grabbing another arrow from the omnipresent quiver at her side. She levelled her bow, but did not initially release.

  The Sun Guard recovered and mobilized quickly enough, forming a semi-circle of bared steel facing off against the two warriors, a cloaked Merigold, a dying man, and a half dozen trapped Polanicers. It was then that Meri noticed she was gasping, sucking in air like a fish on the beach.

  “That was poorly done, islander.” Tinto spat from behind the safety of the sword wall. “Truly no harm would have come to you through detainment. Now, though, you have murdered three Sun Guard! Obviously, the result is a very painful, and very public, execution.”

  The dying man coughed and sputtered at Merigold’s feet. A bloody hand grasped at her leg, contacting her skin. Without a thought, Merigold drew the maenen of the man.

  In an instant, her breathing was calmed and she regained her control. The man was dying. What she was doing was a mercy.

  And, to save their lives, Merigold Hinter needed to kill again. She drew more deeply of the man’s lifeforce.

  She played with three gorgeous children in the mud.

  She saw one of those children dying of a wasting illness.

  She saw a second slip off the roof of a building, breaking her neck.

  She saw the third, a near-grown woman, leaving Polanice, heading north without a word of farewell.

  Tears streaming down her face, Merigold unleashed the stolen maenen of the dying man. She shaped it into red, glowing plates and launched these into the crowd of Sun Guardsmen. The first plate cut halfway through a man’s midsection, the hissing smell of burning flesh filling the air. It struck a second man in the leg, cutting the thing halfway off before losing its power and falling into the mucky snow with an explosion of steam.

  A second plate was lost to her vision the second it left her hands, but the shrieks and screams told her that the thing caused an equal amount of havoc and death.

  She propelled a third plate forward, straight toward the beautiful face of Captain Tinto. His reflexes were lightning, and he slashed the burning disk out of the air. But, unlike on The Graceful Whale, the plate did not shatter. Merigold had adapted her formula.

  Knocked slightly off-course, the edge of the hardened plate caught Tinto in the cheek, sending him reeling into the ground with a bellowing howl. The spent plate killed at least one other man and injured a third before dissipating.

  Still, a dozen or more Sun Guard circled, swords glinting in the wan light of day. Gritting her teeth, Meri drew to form another plate—but the maenen was gone. The well was empty. The old townsperson had died, either from her leeching, his wounds, or both.

  Meri felt a shivering exhaustion take hold, her legs feeling as if she had worked three nights without sleep, but she dared not fall. These men, broken, bleeding, and scared, would be the end of them if she did. Instead, she hid her exhaustion like a predator, moving her hands to remove her hood and unveil her face.

  This, like everything in life, was a test.

  She stoicly observed the path of destruction, the injured and dying. Tinto was being hoisted up by one of his lieutenants, while other wounded lay untended in pools of their own blood. Meri glanced down at the fuel for her destruction, the now dead man with the lost daughters. She narrowed her eyes at the Sun Guard arrayed before her.

  “Flee,” she said, softly. The men seemed paralyzed, some still holding swords raised and half preparing for an assault while others openly wept.

  “Flee, and you will be spared.” A little more volume. The Sun Guard, those still standing, shuffled backwards. Meri felt Ill’Nath at her left shoulder, and Lisan the Arrow at her right.

  “Flee! If you linger or pursue us, your end with be inestimably worse than those on the ground. Flee, and return to your families!” She refrained a choking sob and bared her teeth like a predator.

  “Flee or die!” Merigold howled then, in a voice that was nothing like her own. The Sun Guard, and any townsfolks who’d been trapped by them, scattered as if the demons of Pandemonium were nipping at their heels. In scant moments, only the dead and mortally wounded still remained. With a chill, Meri realized that she’d meant her words. If any had lingered, she would have found a way to end their lives. If they pursued, she would see them dead.

  She dropped to her knees, further staining her coat and leggings with coppery blood and sickly brown mud.

  “Ill’Nath, you are a dolt,” Lisan muttered with little enthusiasm. “We had a path out without violence. You need to follow my lead, not vice versa.” The huge islander merely grunted in return, busy wiping his club on the cloak of a fallen Sun Guard. “Merigold, that was… that was effective.”

  For a killer, being effective was at least a compliment.

  “Are you… okay? We need to move,” Lisan said, touching Meri’s shoulder for a scant moment.

  “Yes, give me a moment,” she said quietly.

  She knelt in the various slimes and tried to wipe her mind free of the memories of the fallen townsperson, and of her own feelings about what she had just done. It should have been getting easier.

  Dear fucking Yetra, it had better not ever get easier.

  The frantic neighing of a horse caught her attention. Meri rose on legs that felt like melting ice. Five horses, chestnut mares all, were lashed to a low fence nearby. The Sun Guard had left so quickly that the officer mounts had been left unattended.

  “Well, at the very l
east, we have solved our transportation problem,” Merigold said, forcing a wan smile onto her face. They’d have to move quickly and gather the rest of their party; it wouldn’t be long until the Sun Guard gathered enough force and courage to come back for her. Merigold stepped over a severed arm, with her two protectors at her shoulders.

  On to Agricorinor.

  Interlogue: Wrath

  “You are looking well. Your nerring has recovered far past what I had expected, and your maenen shines as bright as the stars in the night sky.

  “Oh yes, it is a beautiful night. The leaves are beginning to vacate the trees, giving a clearer vision of the stars. Here, so far from any cities, the view is not obscured by man-made imitations of light. No, each constellation glows with power, and it brings joy to my heart. When you have existed as long as I have, it is a rare thing that can still elicit strong emotions. The stars, natural beauty, always stirs something inside of me. As do you, sweetling.

  “It has been too long since I have seen you, and it has truly been my loss. But, I can see resistance in your eyes, and your muscles strain at your bonds. Your natural aggression may be beginning to surface as your nerring shrinks and decays, but I think not. I think that you begin to resent your presence here. You, who were so enthusiastic to serve me earlier.

  “Wrath does not become you, sweetling. I know this is a vice of yours, perhaps your only vice. But, when wrathful, your intentions were always to protect those close to you, like your Merigold. In a case like that, is this truly a vice? I will leave that to the Taneos. I would believe that wrath can be justified, and perhaps even improve our world, so long as the instrument of such wrath does not lose perspective.

  “Early on, I did lose perspective. When I left Aquine, I swore vengeance against those who had destroyed everything that I knew. Even not knowing who they were, and, of course, being completely unsuited to dolling out such vengeance. Who was I—a teenage girl who had never touched a weapon—to punish those who had the power to kill and imprison thousands of people? Nonetheless, logic was not a consideration. I was not in control of my emotions, so overwhelmed had I become in the aftermath of Aquine.

  “Amorum was impressive, as ever. Though the vengeance was mine, it was reflected in his eyes. He gathered what survivors there were and armed them with whatever weapons were left. Many were afraid, but Amorum, the great orator that he was, doled out courage like an army cook doles out food.

  “We set out, with a makeshift army of several hundred with no fighting experience… but with a great deal of resolve. We did not immediately pursue the attackers to Oagon, though a number of survivors had identified them as being from that region. It would have been a slaughter as it were. So, we traveled as a group to recruit others to our cause, as Amorum once had done on his own.

  “Building an army from rubble is not an easy task, but nothing was too much for Amorum. He used me. Not for my body—as I refused to be touched after Aquine—but as a standard. A beautiful young girl, her family slaughtered and her world displaced, was a symbol that people would rally behind. In other villages and towns, such loss had become so common. My plight appealed to these people.

  “Soon, I was giving speeches without Amorum, my words full of vengeance and violence and vehemence. Whereas Amorum was calm and appealed to something deep within his audience, I was all emotion. I could work a crowd into a frenzy, lusting for the blood of those who would commit sins without provocation. There was hypocrisy in this, but I cared not. I only wanted to make the Oagonan bastards suffer.

  “It took almost a year, but we raised an army sufficient to stage an attack on Oagon. They had the weapons of Aquine now, and a siege would only lead to our deaths. So, we instead planned and plotted a way to drive the Oagonans to attack us outside the city. We camped outside the city for weeks, out of range of any of the death-dealing weapons of war. My army began to melt around me, men and women deserting as they saw the might of the enemy. Our army dwindled to a quarter of its original size, and then the Oagonans attacked.

  “This was only a ruse, however. When they attacked the apparent remnants, our true forces—having been hidden in the forests—assailed the city. We visited the same torment on the Oagonans that they had wrought upon Aquine and so many others. We lost ourselves in the blood of our enemies and the blood of innocents. Me, especially.

  “It was then that I discovered my powers. So few, in those times, could access miernes of any kind, and even fewer could sense those with the ability. It was neither frowned upon nor made illegal, such as in your Ardia, nor welcomed, such as is the case in Sestria. It was simply unheard of.

  “I had become separated from my bodyguard and Amorum, lost in my wrath. I saw an Oagonan cut down one of my soldiers—a young, blonde boy—from behind. I flung myself at him, tossing aside my weapon. When my hands wrapped around him, my anger and wrath overwhelming me, I felt a force within him. Something that I could touch and take within myself. Something I could shape and control. And I did.

  “None could touch me, that day. With a burning scythe and a thousand fiery projectiles, I rent all of those around me into bits of flesh and viscera—enemy and ally alike. Flesh was shredded, limbs were torn from bodies, and hearts were plucked from chests. I held that first man’s power inside of me until I could find and restrain another. And then another. It was intoxicating, more so than the finest wines or the most potent opiate. I was overwhelmed with it, reveling in the power… reveling in the blood and death.

  “If Amorum hadn’t stopped me, I know not what would have happened.

  “The Blood Maiden was born that day. What, you have never heard that moniker? Another convenient fact lost from the histories. I had begun the day wearing a white, silky dress under a silver breastplate. I was not meant for fighting, sweetling. I was meant for inspiration. The young beauty, fighting for justice and harmony, as Amorum put it.

  “By the end of the day, everything was stained red. The fabric of my dress was stained crimson, and the blood had melded to the silver of my breastplate. Even my hair was hanging in wet, red tendrils across my splattered face. By the time I regained myself, people had fallen to their knees worshipping me. I lost my existence as a woman that day. My wrath had taken that away. Never again could I have a normal conversation about the weather or food or someone’s hopes and dreams. Instead, people—friends and followers—only viewed me with fear and awe from then on.

  “Ah, sweetling. So many strive for such power and for such respect. But, I recall a great feeling of loss. Of emptiness. I have enough experience in this world to know that my experience was not unique. Those driven by vengeance—upon attaining their goal—lose motivation for everything. For me, had it not been for Amorum, I would have also been lost. But, as always, he propped me up and kept us moving forward. To my destiny, many would say. Perhaps my wrath had bettered the world; we will never know what would have changed had I remained in control.

  “Enough for today, though, sweetling. I already long to speak to you more, but, as always, pressing matters require my attention. It is time to do what must be done.

  “Please hold onto yourself for me, sweetling. A good man, as you are, always listens. Even when he does not wish to. It has been so long since someone truly listened to me.”

  Chapter 18

  Fenrir—the guardsman, the Bull, the Coldbreaker, the taker of fingers and killer of brothers—whimpered as he slumped to the dusty ground. He clenched his eyes shut, exerting all of his remaining willpower to restrain from dripping tears into the dirt.

  “Get up, trash. I said, get up!” Ingla barked at him. Fenrir did not immediately move. He couldn’t. His mouth felt like it was full of sawdust, his limbs like they were little more than flaccid bits of twine. A swift kick in the ribs didn’t help the situation, although it did give him the slightest motivation to regain his feet, holding his side to lessen the pain.

  “This is the man who broke the Lady Escamilla out of the Plateau? The man who killed Duke Penton?
The man who was born of Principal de Trenton?” Ingla spat onto his boot, never breaking eye contact. Her deep hazel eyes, so often filled with anger, simply regarded him with disgust. She really was pretty, in a small, violent kind of way.

  As in most cases like this, there was only one thing to do. Fenrir hung his head and let his shoulders slump, looking away—defeated. And then, in a sudden burst of motion and energy, he swung at Ingla with a right hook, twisting his hips to hit her as hard as he could.

  To his complete and utter surprise, he connected.

  A glancing blow, anyway. Ingla had begun to step backwards, so his meaty fist only caught her chin, but much of his strength had returned over the past weeks, and the brutal physical training sessions—running, calisthenics, weight training—that had left him whimpering like his ex-wife had given him back some speed. So, even that glancing blow sent Ingla reeling, spinning nearly a full circle.

  Of course, she recovered like a skilled circus acrobat as Fenrir stumbled back into a clumsy fighter’s stance. That one, last-ditch punch hadn’t had the intended effect of putting Ingla out of commission, and his body was spent. He didn’t even have the energy to sweat anymore.

  Maybe he did need to drink more water.

  Ingla wiped away some blood from where he had split her lip. She tasted it and smiled, which was an unnerving sight on a face that spent most of its time scowling.

  The lithe Blue Adder closed the distance between the two of them in a heartbeat. She batted aside Fenrir’s raised arms disdainfully, striking him in the stomach with a quick jab. As he doubled over reflexively, her foot flew up, catching him under the chin. Again, he was on the ground, spitting out blood from his skewered, bitten tongue.

  Ingla crouched easily by his spinning head.

  “There’s some little fight in you, it seems. I made a mistake, letting you get close to me. I will not make that mistake again, trash.”