Hafgan caught himself muttering about how easily he could have slain the men around him, even orchestrating what he would do with his spear, step-by-step, as if he were composing a dance. He shut his mouth at their alarmed stares.
At some point, Hafgan fell asleep against the hard ground and woke hours later, finding nothing changed. Some movement, actual food, and real rest had been enough to help him regain some of his strength. He went through some of his exercises with the spear, gaining an impression of the weapon’s weight and balance. Though he still lacked his old energy, it felt good to strain his muscles and do something familiar. This spear was an extension of himself, seemingly crafted just for him. Just holding the weapon seemed to bring him an unusual vigor. He continued to push Offeirs to see where the spear had come from, but no one would tell him. In fact, no one would say much to him at all. Strange, considering they were sacrificing their lives to free him.
The Pwoll lay deep within the Laenor, where several of the cruel prisons were isolated—far enough away that penitents could not communicate with one another, but close enough that they could easily be monitored. Hafgan knew the place, at least from years ago, and began to plan for their escape. There were some tunnels that led to the surface city of Hackeneth, but also a few that spilled out on all sides, and elevations, of Limner. Some of these pathways were known only to the Dyn Doethas, meaning that there were few left living who knew of them.
A loud whistle split the air and the Offeirs began to stir, grabbing their weapons. Ulin, who had been napping loudly for some time, snorted, blinked his eyes, and leaned over to Hafgan.
“Make ready, boy. It’s time.”
Down the passageway, a few shouts echoed out, these followed by a brief clashing of arms and some muffled shouts. And a death cry, as well—a sound that Hafgan was very familiar with.
Rian appeared from the shadows, accompanied by two more Offeirs. And, behind her, some familiar faces.
“Lieutenant! We be worried!” cried Paston, looking far worse for wear himself. Alwyn smiled a tired smile, revealing newly filed-down dogteeth. Enric nodded, his face and head covered with a stubble that Hafgan had never seen. His hair was an unusual orange-red color.
“We were worried,” Hafgan corrected, almost automatically. He was suddenly surrounded by his budredda, each one of them slapping his back and giving him salutes. One or two even hugged him. It was almost as claustrophobic as the Pwoll, but Hafgan didn’t want his men to step away. He felt a sudden wet pressure behind his eyes.
Rian shoved her way through, her small, lithe body scattering the larger fighters like an upturned sack of marbles. She strode up to Hafgan, staring at him in a way that made her seem just as tall.
“It is time for us to all get out of here. We will seek refuge to the south. There are some left among the Fflam Madfall who continue the fight against Leyr. We will assist them, build up a force, and eventually return to Hackeneth to fling Leyr from his perch.”
“And his bleeding Flawless God, too,” coughed Ulin. He didn’t look particularly well, but he stood as straight as the spear clenched in front of him.
Hafgan observed Rian as she began to usher her Offeirs forward, touching each one on the arm and saying encouraging words, smiling that authentic smile. She would have been an excellent leader, and an excellent life partner. Had his life been different, he could have been happy. As it was, he didn’t deserve happiness.
He cleared his still-sore throat. “Rian, what path are we taking? I know of some back ways.”
“The back ways are blocked, choked with rock and rubble. We head to the falls.” She pulled at her medal, an unadorned copper circle worn by the followers of Oletta. Her hand clenched the rough circle and she yanked at the chain. It snapped, and she tossed the thing aside with a dull clang.
“There will be blood.”
***
And blood, there was.
Though the Pwoll’s chambers were fairly isolated, deep in the Laenor, and guarded by only a few Wasmer who were being punished with undesirable duty, the closest path to the surface took them through the heart of Sebiant Rhisfel, the barracks for the Carreg Da warrior class.
As Rian had hurriedly explained, most of the seasoned Carreg Da warriors, along with Leyr, were out on campaign against the Ineyth, securing their northern borders. Meanwhile, Rian had coordinated a raid on a small Carreg Da village to the south with some of her Fflam Madfall allies, effectively drawing attention away from Hackeneth.
However, even with the distractions, there were always warriors on hand in Hackeneth, and it wasn’t long until their way forward was blocked by Carreg Da fighters. As was their way back.
The budredda fought as a unit, just as they’d been trained—a bristling hedgehog of spears. Captain Yanso had been freed along with the warriors, and while he refused to even look in Hafgan’s direction, he fought as fiercely as the rest of them, rallying them with Rostanian war cries and coordinating their offense with practiced orders. In the close confines of the tunnels connecting the main chambers of Sebiant Rhisfel—where there could be only eight men fighting abreast—the discipline of his budredda continued to win out against the less disciplined, more individualistic fighting style of the Carreg Da warriors. Nonetheless, within the first twenty minutes of fighting, two budredda were lost, pierced by the spears of their enemies.
Hafgan left his men to their own devices as they pushed forward, directed by Rian. He rather tended to the rear guard, where the Offeirs managed to hold their own, but just barely. He darted to wherever he was needed, blocking fatal blows from falling on the less-trained religious men, or landing a killing blow to an unprotected side. He was weak from his imprisonment and had to make each move count. In the confusion of the melee, though, he managed. Even malnourished and half-maddened, he was better than the best of the warriors around him.
It had been so long since Hafgan had truly fought outside of his hedwicchen. Battle, in that void, was the calculation of a thousand probabilities, an intense focus on the most important details, and a mechanical but flexible reaction to any possibility. Outside of his hedwicchen, it was a thrilling and terrifying experience—a constant scrape for survival while numberless choices warred in his head as equally important. There was no detachment from those around him, and a persistent fear scraped inside his skull, particularly as he saw friends and acquaintances fall while he could do nothing.
Ulin was the first of the Offeirs to die. Battered by the passage of time and slowed by whatever sickness slogged through his veins, the aged Offeir of Traisen took a spear to his belly. He smiled a red smile as he clenched at the length of wood protruding from his gut; Hafgan felt a sickening pang of guilt, knowing that the man would not be joining his imaginary god in the afterlife.
After seeing the old man die, he again sought his hedwicchen. But whether from his madness from the Pwoll, or from being touched by the crimson light of the Red Eye, it was like trying to capture water with his hands. It kept slipping away; he could feel it, but couldn’t quite grasp it. His emotions—fear, anger, confusion—flared every time that he tried.
“Hafgan, down!” shouted Rian from over his shoulder. He dropped to his stomach as an arrow whistled overhead. They had entered a larger chamber, a training yard, and one or two of the young Carreg Da had bows and vantage points. One Offeir and one more budredda fell before they fought their way into the next tunnel, and Paston caught an arrow in the meat of his left arm. Hafgan pulled him into the center of their little circle of warriors.
“Sergeant, this is going to hurt,” he said, gripping tight the arrow before pushing the thing through. To Paston’s credit, he didn’t lose consciousness, though he screamed enough to shake the mountain. The men rallied and fought hard as Hafgan cut off Paston’s sleeve and bound the wound; his second was well-loved among the budredda, and they would do anything to keep him safe.
In fact, each one of them was well-loved, and each death was a great loss.
“I�
�m fine,” Paston said through gritted teeth. “I be leading from the back for a bit.”
“I will be leading from the back,” corrected Hafgan, grabbing his ornate spear and pushing forward. The rage at seeing his first budredda hurt, and the loss of several more, boiled his blood, bringing to the surface every scrap of hate that he felt for Leyr. For Yurin, and for himself.
Using his gifted spear, he vaulted over his set-upon men, stepping on the head of a Carreg Da warrior to propel himself forward and behind the line of Carreg Da. Before a single fighter turned, three bled from fatal wounds to their major organs. In Ardian culture, striking from the rear was said to lack honor. Seeing the eyes of the man you killed was supposed to somehow elevate you. But, for the Wasmer, killing was killing. Even having spent five years among humans did nothing to change Hafgan’s opinion on the matter.
Four more warriors rushed at Hafgan, and he curled his lips back as he met their attack with a primal scream. He ducked a clumsy lunge from one, laying him out with a rib-crushing shoulder to the chest. Another drew blood on his shoulder with a quick jab. He bared his teeth, jumping into the man’s guard and slitting his throat with a choked-up grip on his ancient weapon. Without a pause, he next used the fallen warrior’s dying body to catch the spear of a third attacker, disemboweling him with a swipe of his spear. The thing seemed to cut through their war leathers like butter. The final warrior stared at Hafgan, took two staggering steps backward, and then began to flee. Hafgan shouted something wordless and heartless at him, flinging his weapon and catching the man in the back. He fell into the earth, writhing for a moment until Hafgan ripped out his bloody spear.
Hafgan did not feel any weakness. The weapon seemed to glow in his hands. He wanted more blood.
He whipped around, looking for another enemy with wild eyes. Breathing heavily, he saw a group of Wasmer pointing their spears at him. He readied his own weapon, leaning into his back foot, ready to leap forward. Until Rian pushed through, shouting his name.
“Hafgan! Hafgan, you bleeding dimwit! You’re going to get yourself killed, after we went through all this trouble to heave your dirty bones from that hole in the ground. Hafgan… what’s wrong?” Her hair was matted with blood, and she seemed to weave on her feet in exhaustion.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing. We must continue on. The falls are not far; I can hear them.” He spun abruptly and strode out ahead of his men.
And he tried to forget the urge that he’d had to pierce Rian’s heart.
Chapter 35
“Where the fuck is she, boy?” Darian demanded, slamming his fist into the desk.
“I told you; she fell behind fighting off those masked bastards. I have no idea,” Fenrir said, finding the inside of his glass easy to look at compared to his father. They were secreted in his father’s office above Warehouse Six, Fenrir having been ushered there when he’d returned to the compound—limping heavily on one leg and dripping blood from a half dozen shallow cuts. Tennyson’s masked goons had been very thorough in making Fenrir’s escape story seem plausible.
“So, I am supposed to believe that Ingla, one of my most seasoned and best-skilled Adders, fell behind while you, a mess of a man with a shattered knee, managed to fight your way free?” Darian’s anger did not appear to be focused on Fenrir. Even with this, however, his head seemed to be elsewhere.
“That was the point of the training, wasn’t it? I’ve gotten better. And, I know more than anyone—it only takes one lucky shot. Or, one unlucky shot.” He finished his second glass of wine with a gulp. Local stuff, from one of the small wineries on Vineyard Way. He hated it, to be honest, but it was strong. And, with everything in front of him, he needed something strong.
Darian sighed, and moved the wine bottle away from Fenrir as he reached for a third glass. Apparently, additional fortification was not on the menu.
“No matter. I’ve little doubt that she will turn up. She is stronger than you know.” Darian looked up, his eyes tired but intense. “It was stupidity to publicly attack these people, boy. There were not enough Adders nearby to deal with something like that.”
“Things would have gone better had your Wolf Knights managed to keep their balance near the Spike.”
“Not my knights, boy…” he muttered. Then he pulled a small book out of his desk and began to write something down in his bold handwriting.
Fenrir only observed. His father was much the same man as in Fenrir’s memory, a powerful tyrant always looming larger than life. He had always seemed so unstoppable, imperturbable, like a mountain or the Plateau itself. And yet, lately, he seemed preoccupied, disengaged. Maybe his mental faculties were slipping. Maybe the stress of running a mercantile empire, coupled with his new lordship, was getting to him.
It would be so easy to reach across the desk and grab his father’s throat. He might even be able to close off Darian’s windpipe before he managed a noise to alert the Adders outside the office. If Fenrir played his cards right, perhaps he could trick the guards and make his way out of the compound, maybe even finding a way to get a likely unwilling Astora out of this Yetra-forsaken place.
Maybe. If. Perhaps.
Darian rose abruptly, his face and mannerisms nothing if not decisive.
“Well, boy, you had better suit up. We have a long night ahead of us.”
“Ahead of us?” Fenrir asked, realizing how dumb he sounded.
“Yes, boy. You are to accompany me, as an Adder, to the fete and council meeting this evening. I’ve little manpower to spare this night, and you with your… having gotten better skills… should bolster my personal guard nicely. And, I know I have your loyalty.” Darian’s eyes flashed, and thoughts of meldus flitted through Fenrir’s mind. He grimaced at the reminder of both that poor woman’s gruesome death and his current dilemma.
Fenrir nodded to his father. “I will protect your life as if it were my own.” Basically valueless, in other words.
Darian rolled his eyes. “And, actually pay attention, boy. Events that will influence the future of our country will take place tonight.”
Fenrir pulled himself to his feet and winced. The House had done a thorough job, indeed. He creaked toward the door, looking forward to escaping the burning eyes of his father, even just for a bit. And, to taking some of Martis’ devil’s root pills.
“Oh, and Fenrir…” Fenrir paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Make sure you are well-fitted with a helmet.”
“Why, so no one will see your shameful spawn?”
There was a pause.
“No, I just didn’t think that you’d want Astora to recognize you.”
***
Thankfully, Darian did not spend much time at the fete.
Fenrir had to stand at his shoulder, along with two other Adders named Mel and Kenpin—the latter being the same Rafónese man he’d once watched fight in a training battle wielding a great hammer. He sweated beneath his helmet, watching a hundred visiting nobles from around Ardia feasting, and then dancing, all to celebrate a war that was thought to be won. Against their own countrymen.
The nobles had even commissioned some players to recreate Escamilla’s murder and Tilner Pick’s demise. Of course, Escamilla was depicted as a decrepit old hag who was apparently stabbed in the back by some little boy while meeting with her group of drunkard, hick captains. And Tilner was a clear pedophillic fop, ordered to jump onto a ten-foot pole that ended with the actor falling into a cake. The player playing Lord Faris was none other than the great Manis Deon, handsome and powerful beyond reality. So, Faris must have been the one to commission this insulting, dishonest play.
But Fenrir could barely spare a thought for any sort of outrage. First because he knew that, in a previous life, he would have cut off any of these men’s fingers for a sack of yets. Second because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that these depictions were not the reality. And third, and probably most importantly, because he couldn’t take his eyes off of Astora.
She was just…
well, she simply drew the eye. She wasn’t the prettiest of women there by a long shot, though she was lovely in her own way. Luckily more like his mother than her own mother. Her chestnut hair didn’t have the silky smooth look that was popular among the noble ladies; it was interrupted by unruly, unpredictable waves. Her face resembled Fenrir’s, perhaps a bit too much, with a strong chin and a broad nose. But her eyes, they captivated. Her manner, too. All of these ladies were more refined, more polished. But they didn’t shine like Astora. They only reflected her brilliance.
His daughter flitted from conversation to conversation, easily and effortlessly weaving in and out of groups. He could hear her lilting, authentic laugh carrying across the ballroom. Among Rostanian nobility, it wasn’t polite to laugh so loudly, but Astora didn’t care. And Fenrir smiled every time he heard it.
Once she came to the table nearby, talking with two noblewomen from Draston who appeared to be longstanding partners of Darian’s. In Fenrir’s mind, the conversation was the embodiment of who his daughter had become.
“Ladies Lillian and Gregoria, how simply pleasing it is to see you!” Astora said, her voice all silk and smiles.
“Likewise,” said a dark-haired powdered harlot, her waist hardly larger than Fenrir’s forearm. Likewise certainly didn’t seem like an accurate statement based on the tone. The long pause beckoned for Astora to leave, but she didn’t take the hint. Or maybe she just ignored it.
“How goes the fur trade, Lillian?” Astora asked, placing a hand on the chubbier one’s arm. “Have you recovered from your losses?”
“Losses? I, uh…” Lillian stammered.
“Yes, losses. I heard that you will be selling half of your holdings by Ascension next year. I imagine that will have put a strain on your father, the poor man. Has he started drinking again? That stuff is simply toxic for him.”
Lillian’s mouth hung open, either from the surprise at her family’s plight, or because she was being reminded of it.
Wisdom Lost Page 42
