The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  “It’s not a claim, and you know it, road guard.”

  “Yes, yes. A decree of military provision formed your band. The Lord Chancellor signed the blight-stricken document.” Jaken felt his bazen peeling away, the truth’s inescapability tugging at the edges.

  A single long sigh reached Jaken’s ears. Despite the pale grayness of the Sergeant’s skin, Jaken’s sidelong glance caught some redness flushing his cheeks. The Guardian’s jaw grinded, the muscles knotting and releasing. When Yabusan returned with the second mug, the sergeant snatched its handle forcefully. Warm ale splashed over the side onto the gray-skinned wrist, and Jaken sat back, his hand on his sword’s hilt, as the Guardian exploded from his chair.

  “By the light-forsaken stupidity of men, innkeeper, this is supposed to be warm, not hold the temperature of a volcano!”

  Jaken did not know what prompted him to reply, but he heard the words coming from his mouth before he could stop himself. “It seems, Guardian, that the changing military doesn’t care much for granting leadership roles to those who can’t hold their temper in check. And just over small spillage of hot ale. I may need to—”

  He could not finish. A sword blurred from the Guardian’s sheath into the air, seemingly coming to life and moving of its own accord. Before Jaken blinked, the point of the dully white blade, initially black, pressed into his neck. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to give Jaken pause and to avoid deep breathing.

  The Guardian’s voice deepened, his next words flowing with vileness. “You will keep your mouth shut, Jaken Holst. Or you’ll not speak again.” Jaken could only blink in response. Before Masten could take that as confirmation, a voice cracked through the warmed air.

  “Guardian, there will not be violence in this common room. I can tolerate your disrespect, but a drawn sword, unprovoked nonetheless, is punishable by placement in the stocks.”

  Jaken felt the Guardian’s eyes boring into him. His breathing had become gasps. His boiled-up hatred palpable. I’ve got you. Jaken’s thought skittered away. A palm slapped down on the bar top. Another eye blink, and the sword vanished, blurring away as fast as it had appeared.

  “Forgive me, Innkeeper Yabusan.” The Guardian’s voice held a semblance of regret, yet Jaken dared not look anywhere except the fireplace, for fear of upsetting the blighted creature again.

  “If you pull either of those again, Guardian, then you will be reported to the Lord Mayor for an unwarranted violation of the peace.”

  In reply, the Guardian offered a slight bow from his waist. As he readjusted, a new voice startled them all. An old voice, like papyrus being unrolled and holding shock, asked, “What’s going on here, sirs?”

  All three men turned to the old man who had woken up and stared ahead. His pale, almost whitened blue eyes took turns staring at either of the closest two men. From behind the bar Yabusan caught Jaken’s gaze and winked.

  “Hey Old Jac, it’s nothing for you to worry about. Why don’t you take room five at the end of the hall? The blizzard’s still blowing hard. I don’t need for you to freeze your old backside getting back home to the farm.”

  “Yabusan, that you?” Old Jac replied as he turned in the seat, the seat’s fabric and his bones creaked.

  “Yes, Old Jac. Did you hear me? Go to room five. Come get the key.” Yabusan’s voice had increased in volume with each word.

  Old Jac replied, “I may not be able to see you, but I can hear you just fine. The Gods seemed fit to ruin my eyes but leave me the ears.” The old man stood up from the chair, spryer than any of the men had expected.

  “We’re not going to argue about what really took your vision, are we?”

  “Blast you and your explanations. Leave me alone,” Old Jac snapped. He squinted ahead across the bar top at Yabusan’s extended hand. He had retrieved a brass key from the innkeeper, and Old Jac paced across the room to grab it from Yabusan’s proffered hand. “Give me that,” the old man muttered, his voice softer. He clenched the key and made his way to the stairwell. Halfway up the stairs, he yelled back, “I’m not paying for this, Yabusan, I’ll tell you that. I’ve done enough for this town and you.” Whatever else Old Jac said became muffled by the distance and absorbing wooden walls.

  A breath later, the still-standing Guardian called out, “Give me a room. I’ll be staying here one night. I hope to not see you in the morning, road guard,” he called over his shoulder, as he walked to the bar.

  “Here.” Yabusan motioned a second key toward the Guardian.

  “I suppose your free rooms only extend to old fools.” Not a question, but simple observation while the Guardian grabbed the key.

  “Oh, Old Jac can say what he likes when he’s tired and cranky. That old guy,” Yabusan pointed upstairs, “will be paying. Just like you will be in the morning when you bring back the key.” Yabusan smiled, his grin widening across his face. “I’d be glad to serve you warm ale anytime this evening, if you’d like, sir. I’ll probably not have any evening entertainment due to the blizzard, even though it is dying off.”

  Jaken chuckled to himself as the Guardian cursed under his breath before departing the room. Yabusan called after the Guardian, who stopped halfway up the stairs. “Breakfast will be served at mid-morning.” The Guardian continued up, his boots offering only the smallest of scraping along the stair’s well-worn wood.

  Yabusan held up his hand with three fingers when Jaken finally turned from the stairwell. The innkeeper mouthed the words room and three, then swiped his index finger across his neck from ear to ear. Shock befell Jaken’s face. Yabusan replied with a mix of confusion followed by a shrug of his shoulders. Jaken thought, Can he mean to kill a Guardian? A Sergeant? Jaken stood and paced over to the bar while listening to the slight steps of the Guardian. The innkeeper had refilled the glass mugs with ale while he waited for Jaken to reach the bar. He placed the foam topped mug in front of Jaken just as the man began speaking. When he reached the bar, Jaken sat atop the stool he had used earlier, then whispered to Yabusan.

  “You can’t honestly expect me to take that suggestion seriously?”

  “Why not?” Yabusan asked before taking a sip of the dark brown ale.

  “Because you and I agreed, long ago, to stop such nonsense.”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” He took a drink, this time draining half of the mug.

  “I don’t have time for clichés, Yabusan. Nor your insane requests.” Jaken peered at the ale. “Perhaps your beer is finally getting to your brain.”

  Yabusan scoffed before placing the mug down where it had left a wet ring on the bar top. “There is nothing wrong with the ale,” Yabusan started, but trailed off at Jaken’s raised eyebrow. Defeated, Yabusan said, “No need to disparage the ale on my account.”

  “Forget the blighted ale,” Jaken said, his voice barely above a whisper, but holding enough fire to pull Yabusan’s gaze to Jaken’s. He took a sip to stifle the heat boiling up. Sipping, Jaken felt for a layer of bazen, but reached nothingness. “Blast,” Jaken muttered before sipping again. Suggestions of murder do not sit well in my mind. “This ale is actually quite good, Yabusan. Is that cinnamon mixed in there?”

  Yabusan waved away the question like brushing away an annoying fly. “You need to carefully consider my request, Jaken Holst.” Yabusan mimicked the Guardian’s cadence almost perfectly. When a hint of a smile reached Jaken’s lips, the innkeeper leaned over the bar top and asked, “What other option do you have? What if he sees your ‘cargo’?”

  Now Jaken stared downward into the mug, his defeat mingled within the bubbling brown ale. Still staring into the mug, Jaken muttered, “I suppose I knew something drastic would have to occur when I noticed that bastard coming up to the door. His behavior wiped away any thoughts of letting this end peacefully.”

  “What do those men know of peace?”

  Jaken looked upward from the bubbling ale, his eyes locked on Yabusan’s. They stared for a moment. Then Jaken nodded. Yabusan squatted
, then reached under the bar top and pulled back a hidden door. Without looking up from the hidden compartment, Yabusan placed a small brass key, barely the length of Jaken’s thumb, on top of the bar. He stood back up and said, his voice barely above a whisper, “You’ll find a secret door in your room on the wall adjacent to the third room. I’m sure he’ll have a chair under his doorknob and the windows locked and barred. The hinges on the secret door are always oiled. A small eyehole will give you plenty viewing area to ensure he’s asleep.”

  “You’ve done this before,” Jaken said unquestioningly. Yabusan nodded, then replied.

  “Only when necessary. An innkeeper must be prepared for any contingency.”

  “Night will fall soon. I will check on my cargo, then rest until dinner.”

  Jaken stood and finished the remainder of the ale before plodding up to his room. Wonderings of whether he would see Sol again flickered at the back of his mind. Jaken pushed the thoughts down to ensure he would be ready when the time came for their plan.

  Sala, my wife, you’d never imagine this kind of death and carnage. Rune-weavers opened the abyss on the Plains, which left the living . . . empty. After too many battles to count, I’m coming home. Now, just days away from you and the boys, I ask myself how I’ll be able to look into your eyes for fear of you somehow seeing what now taints my being.

  Pon Jas

  letter home to Tolsont

  5985 Runic Reckoning

  24 — An Unwanted Duty

  By the time Yabusan and Jal provided the inn’s inhabitants with dinner, night had washed away Sol’s light. Jaken heard the innkeeper thanking Jal for assisting in such bad weather conditions. Despite Jal’s balding head and worn-down face, the spry spring in his step belied his age. Few needed to be served, though, as the Amakiir family and Old Jac refused to come from their rooms. The former politely asked to have their food delivered to the room. Old Jack simply yelled obscenities until Yabusan complied with the request. The innkeeper grumbled during the entire preparation and delivery. When Jal offered to take the food to the old man, Yabusan laughed then muttered, “You’ll not come out alive.”

  Jal nodded in acquiescence, seeming to, at least to Jaken’s observation, understand Old Jack’s rancor. The servant fixed dinner for the three folks waiting in the room—the Guardian, Jaken, and a young woman, no more than twenty years old. Jaken had not seen her before but offered minor pleasantries with a grin before all three settled into silence. All stood near the fireplace staring ahead into the flames until Jal mentioned that dinner was served.

  The dinner’s pleasant aromas wafted upward, filling the room with various odors. Roasted meat and yellow potatoes pulled the waiting patrons’ gaze to the large spread of a wide bowl of spiced chicken, rolls lathered with butter, and a smaller bowl of diced carrots. A steaming mug of ale and bitterly hot coffee waited aside each plate. A tiny metal pitcher of creamer and several spice containers had been placed close by for convenience.

  Sergeant Masten sat and devoured the meal before the others finished half, then brusquely asked for one more mug of ale. The young woman gave a sidelong glance of disgust at the Guardian, yet she glanced down to her food when he looked in her direction. Good. She’s got more wisdom than me, at least. I tend to kick the hornet’s nest. Jaken mulled over his thoughts, continuing to layer his bazen, despite a slight grin of nonchalance.

  As Jal brought the Guardian the requested mug of ale, the young woman stood. Jaken stood, his respect working through instinct. After pushing in her chair, she thanked Jal for the fine meal, then caught the Guardian and Jaken’s eye and nodded.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Within moments she had returned to her room, her footsteps silenced by the third step.

  Jaken finished a second helping of the stew, then stood to depart. He pushed in the chair, and the Guardian offered, as Jaken stepped to the bar to thank Jal, “You have a fine evening, Jaken Holst. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other. Soon.”

  Confused, Jaken glanced at the Guardian and replied, “I hope for you the same. As for seeing each other soon, that’s a relative assurance. Goodnight, Guardian Masten.”

  He replied by simply raising his mug, partially obscuring the lower part of his pale, gray-skinned face. His eyes levered into Jaken’s, offering him an unmistakable certainty that soon would be more quickly than Jaken desired.

  With each foot placed on the staircase’s steps, Jaken felt the plan to dismiss a potential threat to his charge cement into certainty, rather than a vague and seemingly ill-advised discussion. When he grabbed the door handle to Celex’s room and opened the door slowly, so as to not disturb the potentially sleeping inhabitants, the plan transfixed into reality. This family is going to end up getting me killed, Jaken pondered as he spoke with Ellia near the small wood stove. Their hurried words, quieted enough that the curious Kylia and Eosy would not catch any words, brought forth a discussion. They would leave at Sol’s rise. The Ter Sa’un had begrudgingly allowed for the boy to travel, but only at Ellia’s insistence, at least as far as Jaken understood. Jaken finally departed, but not before offering some reassurance to the entire family. Celex had even woken up and stared at Jaken.

  “You’ll all be fine. I’ll have horses readied in the morning. We leave a half hour after sunrise. Good night.”

  His voice sounded steady to his ears, yet the reassurance only gained traction with the children when they all turned to Ellia. When she nodded begrudgingly in agreement to Jaken’s words, they visibly relaxed. Before Jaken exited the room, he paused to take in their faces one last time in case he would never see them again. Each face burned into his mind; the level of concentration needed nearly stripping away his bazen.

  Once in his room, Jaken unlaced and removed his boots. He placed them adjacent to the door underneath the chair he had propped under the doorknob. He placed his shortsword on the floor within quick grasp. Preparation will be the only thing to keep me alive. He spent the remainder of the evening in his cramped room napping. I’ll need every bit of strength and wit I can muster, he thought as sleep fell over him. Despite his racing mind, his bazen allowed for a sleeping awareness, but at a cost. The continual use of the layered bazen drained his mind more than could be measured by any tangible means. His brain felt tired through the constant utilization of his bazen—each layer had been piled on like layers of sediment after successive floods. Before finally letting his eyes close, Jaken heard the expanding metal of the room’s wood stove and realized, he would be able to actually rest, at least for a few moments

  Jaken’s eyes shot open. A moment passed before he gained his bearings. Miniscule slots in the stove’s design showed a dull red, not the fiery orange. Moonlight streamed through the small two-paned window; Jaken could see faint wisps of his breath. Even the tips of his nose and ears had chilled, then the task he had decided upon returned and firmed in his mind. He took a long drink from a metal canteen hanging from the chair he had sat in during the nap. He felt his mind focus, everything else pushed aside, yet relaxed long enough to let the water rehydrate his brain.

  After drinking half of what remained, Jaken pulled his socked feet under him and stood. He stalked across the floor with the shortsword firmly in his grasp. The other hand held the key with the string wrapped around his wrist. Silence emanated from the floor with each step. Jaken crouched at the secret door; even with Yabusan’s description of the doorway, Jaken had had to scan the wall for several seconds. Even then he had to feel along the wall’s smooth wood, eventually finding the invisible seams. Hidden deep within an empty knothole, the keyhole waited.

  Jaken held his eyes shut tight while his heart throbbed for sixty beats in his ears. The sword swayed almost imperceptibly with each beat. Finally, he opened his eyes, his right eye directly in front of the tiny eye hole. He could make out the entire room and no movement caught his attention. Until his gaze set upon the bed—the slight raising and lowering of the Guardian’s breathing. Jaken held his breath and could
make out gentle wheezing of the Guardian’s sleep. Masten had laid his twin swords across the room, the moonlight glinting off their exposed blades. Satisfied, Jaken felt for the knot, having memorized its location, and inserted the key as he had practiced many times before he had rested. He turned it counterclockwise, and the door released from its holding. The slightest pressure change brought a whiff of warm air past Jaken’s exposed skin.

  He laid the tiny key upon the wood floorboard next to the wall after unwinding the cord from his wrist. Pushing with his palm, Jaken kept his focus on the sleeping Guardian. The door opened until Jaken pushed it to a perpendicular position to the wall. Jaken held on the door’s top while he crouch-stepped into the room. An ache within his knees poked at the boundary of Jaken’s bazen. I may be able to control my mind, but my body has its own limitations, Jaken thought. The thought had become something of a mantra, and it had saved his life more than once in the past. Deep within the multi-layers of the bazen, bodily pain could be ignored, but only so long.

  Once completely within the Guardian’s room, Jaken rose up to his full height. With each breath, the slight soreness within his knees dissipated. He crossed the three paces to the Guardian’s side and held the shortsword over his gray face. In the moonlight his face, neck, and now-bared arms looked pale, almost ghostly. Jaken angled the point of the blade on the feathered pillow. A blink later Jaken pushed the middle of the razor-sharp blade below the knot in his throat.

  Blood ribboned along the cut.

  Jaken felt the blade slice deep through the exposed neck flesh. When the blade reached half its width into his throat, the Guardian’s eyes shot open. Rage filled the tinges of his eyes, yet panic widened the pupils impossibly wide. Jaken felt shock rip up his arm; never had he seen a person respond to death in such a way.

  The shock’s power did nothing to stop Jaken’s deep-slashing pull of the sword. His mind and body had committed—the man’s life was forfeit, and Jaken had to continue. By the time the sword’s tip pulled free of the Guardian’s neck, Jaken felt the blade score along a vertebra. He leapt back a full pace. Blood sprayed outward, just as Jaken turned his head with eyes and mouth shut. The Guardian’s heart pushed only one violent spray before he reached up with both hands to cover the mortal wound.