by S E Wendel
Some eyed them, others gave them no notice. When one approached, licking his lips, he was quickly drawn away.
“Don’t be stupid,” said his companion, clapping his shoulder. “Those’re Manek’s.”
They were left in somewhat peace, though each grimed face brought on a new wave of terror. These men with their ashen cloaks and dirty faces were just as nightmarish as they had been in the dark. Now Ennis could clearly see their faces, expressions, eyes, and saw nothing to take comfort from.
Crawling around Irina, Lora slumped down next to Ennis and the friends, having put their heads together so many times before in mischievous plots, now leaned close to each other, united in their grief.
Putting her bound hands atop Ennis’s, Lora said, “What’s to become of us?”
Sniffing, recalling her tears with sheer will, she replied, “We’ll be all right.” Peering around, she watched the movements of the men. They were sticking to the main streets, the ones they knew from last night. The side streets and alleyways were all but deserted. The morning shadows were long and dark.
“We could slip into the drain,” Ennis muttered, “and from there to the harbor. We could take the mountain paths—they wouldn’t find us. We could make for Berredey—though I’m loath to ask Hammel Winwood for aid, he wouldn’t turn us away—we could go to Ells, tell the king what’s happened, raise an army and come back…”
“Ennis, shh—”
She looked back at her friend. Lora’s oval face creased with a deep frown.
“If I told you to run, would you?”
“Ennis, you can’t—”
“Would you?”
Lora took a sharp breath. “No.” She gave Ennis’s hand a squeeze. “Being rash now will only cost you your life.”
Her heart burned with fury and frustration both, warming her blood and sparking her temper. She yearned to fly. But then, she couldn’t leave Lora or Irina. She opened her mouth to plead, but Lora quickly interrupted.
“Please, Ennis, please—I can’t lose you too.”
Tears ran from Lora’s eyes, making Ennis bite her cheek. She’d give Lora her way for now.
A loud neighing ripped at her sanity as a beast of a horse bore down on them, reined in at the last moment. From the black monster leapt the warrior from last night. He came slowly, as if they were wild animals and would scatter should he come suddenly.
He ducked into the house behind them, the eaves of which had kept them partially dry through a light morning rain. They’d been kept outside, at the mercy of the cold night, Ennis assumed, to keep them away from the men inside. The warrior had quickly assigned the house as a makeshift hospital for the most wounded of his men.
The warrior returned with a cloth and a wooden pitcher. He kneeled before Ennis, and she leaned back into the stone wall as far as she could.
He set the items down in front of her. “For…” He motioned at her bloodied face.
Perhaps he felt guilty looking at her, she thought sourly. She half wanted to leave it there just to make him feel bad, but the crusted blood itched and was already flaking off.
He watched her as she reached out and poured water over the cloth. She brought it to her face and began dabbing her nose, the movement made uncomfortable by her bound hands.
“You’re Ehman Courtnay’s daughters,” he said, apparently unable to find anything else to say. His voice was deep, almost a rumble, but Ennis hadn’t expected him to be soft-spoken. She was bemused by his haphazardly waving brown hair that hung down to shadow a lightly freckled face. What she might have taken for a young man was complicated by his brown eyes, deep and pensive, that looked a lifetime older.
He’d addressed Irina and Ennis, for the dark-haired Lora looked nothing like the Courtnay daughters. Both sisters had the Courtnay hair—golden and leonine—but while the elder was sharp angles and straight lines with blue eyes framed in fair lashes, the second was broader, her jaw thicker, her hair ending in curls, and her eyes more gray than blue. Lora sat in contrast with her richly brown hair that curled in ringlets down her back and skin that would have been pale as porcelain were she not dotted almost head to toe with dark freckles.
“Yes,” Ennis said quietly, starting on her ear.
“Which are you?” he asked. He grimaced then rephrased, “What are you called?”
“My father called me Ennis,” she replied, her face as severe as her tone.
“And I’m Irina,” her sister said softly, her eyes anxious.
He nodded then turned his gaze to his third choice. “And you?”
“Lora Finnley, daughter of Hugh Finnley.”
“A swordsman?”
Lora sat straighter, indignant. “Captain of the Guard.”
One of the men nearby chuckled. “Some job he did.” He received several stony glares for his tact.
Looking down at the ground for a long moment, the warrior said, “Your fathers did their best to protect you.”
It seemed to take him only one fluid movement to be sitting atop his horse once more. Gazing down at them from his mount, he said softly, “Everyone’s wanted at the Keep. Can you walk?”
They rose as one, their bound hands linked together. Men gathered behind the horse and its rider, and the three highborn women fell into step.
As they began walking, Ennis took the moment to steal glances at the warrior. He seemed a somber man, his mouth, even at rest, framed by two small lines. His nose was sharp and his shoulders broad underneath the great fur-lined cloak he’d draped over him. He didn’t have a beard, but his chin and jaw were shadowed with the promise of one. Most of all he seemed very well suited to the great beast he rode. Ennis had never seen such a horse and couldn’t help shying away from the creature each time it threw its mane. It was almost twice the size of any horse Ennis had ever seen, and her father had prided himself on his large horses.
“Do you dislike my horse?” asked the man, peering down at her wrinkled nose.
“That is not a horse.”
He blinked at her before the edges of his lips turned up wryly, the lines around his mouth melting into dimples. She received a quick elbow to her ribs from Irina. A piercing look from her sister reminded her she was out of line, though she rarely went a day without getting a disapproving look from Irina. But this was different, the stakes and their uncertain fate written in Irina’s knitted brow.
As the sisters exchanged looks, the man atop his horse said, “I’m called Manek. Should you want for anything or come to trouble, say that you’re mine and that’ll be the end of it.”
His small speech ended with their arrival in the castle square. The scene seemed even sadder, were it possible, in the quiet morning light. The corpses had stiffened and the blood had congealed, mixing with dirt and grime.
Many of the bodies were piled into a chillingly twisted heap, hands, arms, and legs pointed in every direction. Those who still lay on the ground were evenly lined up, separated from the neighboring corpse by the man’s stripped armor and weapons. Her father and Hugh Finnley were the first bodies, followed by other captains and swordsmen. Ennis began to shake.
From the direction of the Keep came Larn, his armor gleaming but his face just as ugly and dirty as before. As he gazed about the crowd, Ennis could see his features more clearly; watery green eyes sat far back in his head, shielded by a fair but heavy brow; his lips were a thin line that seemed to stretch too far over too many teeth; and his nose, broken many a time, seemed to want to go in four different directions before ending at his nostrils.
Smiling, he boomed, “What a lively place!”
This made the men laugh, and commanding their avaricious eyes, Larn took up Ehman Courtnay’s armor and sword. He considered the circle of men and captives. From the gleam in his eye, he’d obviously already chosen who would receive Lord Highcrest’s treasured war clothes, yet he still took his time, making a show of it.
Finally, he sauntered over to Manek. Their expressions couldn’t have been more different
as a grinning Larn presented him with the spoils. Manek received them silently even though the men around him made jealous noises and shouted gruesome compliments.
“The finest for the man who breeched the Mountain Gate and opened Highcrest to me,” said Larn with a yellow-toothed smile.
When handed the gold-hilted sword, a blazing sun carved into the pommel, Manek saved face and gave Larn a servile grin, then bowed his head. Pleased, Larn turned his attention to the two Courtnay daughters who stood beside Manek.
“Looking so sad,” he clucked. He leaned in further, what lip he had curling above his teeth. “You won’t be the last Highlanders to find themselves slavemeat, mark me.”
With a contented smirk, he turned back to his warlord. “Enjoy my gifts, Manek.” He glanced back at Ennis. “Use them well. But be sure to show them their new place.”
After a stare that lasted too long for comfort, Ennis took a relieved breath when Larn turned his back on them. Her skin still crawled, the fine hairs on her arms raised, as he went back to the line of fallen Highcrestan men. The armor and swords of Hugh and the swordsmen were then distributed to Larn’s other warlords.
When all the spoils lay in the hands of the horde, Larn and a few of his warlords approached the stripped corpses. Ennis felt herself go cold.
“Look away,” Manek murmured in warning.
She didn’t know what to look away from, but when it happened, she couldn’t no matter how she tried. It took Larn no less than four hacking strokes to cut away her father’s head from his body, and when it was finally free of its last tendon, he kicked it aside. From somewhere to her right she heard Essa wailing.
Ehman Courtnay’s head rolled a few feet before stopping, the distorted face staring in the direction of his two eldest daughters. Ennis closed her eyes as quickly as she could.
She kept her eyes shut tight, though it only made the sound of hacking flesh all the worse. She jumped when Irina cried out, opening her eyes to catch her sister just before she fell to the cobblestones.
“No! Arek, no…no, please,” Irina whimpered.
The last decapitated head Ennis recognized through the gore. Arek Morn, the dashing young lord from Dannawey who’d charmed both Ehman Courtnay and his eldest daughter, was set to marry Irina in the spring. Tears spilling down her dirty face, Irina filled her fists with pale gold hair and Ennis had to stop her from ripping it out.
Their bloody sport finished, Larn and several others set upon the pile of corpses with torches and began a sickening bonfire. Through the flames, Ennis watched the Murderer of the Highlands’ eyes dance in delight.
Three
Principle among those who despised Themin’s beloved humans was Dea, horrible and beautiful. She did argue and her temper flared at Themin’s heavenly court, but he would not heed her demands to take away their immortality. Quenching her rage, the conniving goddess disguised herself as the Heavenly Queen Ceralia and went to Themin’s bed that night. After he awoke, Dea revealed herself as the trickster she was, and when the sun reached its peak, gave birth to Ean the Deceiver. With her clever son at her side, the fearsome goddess did declare eternal hatred of the mortals, and they called her the Destroyer for it.
—Mithrian creation myth
“We’re leaving. Today,” said Manek.
“So soon?” Waurin asked incredulously.
Manek looked up from the saddle he’d just taken off his black warhorse, Oren. “There’s nothing here anymore.”
“There’re still spoils to be divided.”
“Since when have you liked the company of corpses?” asked Manek in a hiss, the smell of Larn’s bonfire still burning in his nostrils.
Waurin heaved a sigh. Though he stood more than a head taller than Manek, and two heads more than most men, it was Manek who squared his shoulders and set their course. When ordered, he’d put his mind to breeching the Mountain Gate and sacking Highcrest; there was certainly no changing it now that he wanted to leave the ruins behind.
“I thought you’d be pleased to walk the streets of Highcrest a conqueror,” said Waurin, leaning against a barrel.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this...”
Waurin frowned. Whenever Manek began to mutter to himself, Waurin knew well enough to stay silent and wait.
“What use is Highcrest as a ruin?” Manek demanded, beginning to pace. He could feel Waurin’s eyes following him. Finally, he turned to face his friend. “Are you with me or not?”
Waurin looked down at the ground, his big arms crossed. “Larn won’t like our leaving.”
“I don’t give a damn what Larn likes.”
“He’s our lord, Manek.”
Manek’s eyes, fierce and fiery, flicked to Waurin. “He thinks he can buy me with swords and women.” He shook his head. “Not after everything he’s done. Not after Anneka.” He nearly choked on his sister’s name.
“I’m not saying you have to respect him. Just—”
“Who is it you’re loyal to?” Manek demanded.
“You,” Waurin said quietly with a frown. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you of it.”
Guilt burned in his gut for letting his anger get the better of him; he didn’t mean to badger Waurin. There was little Manek wouldn’t do for Waurin, even if it meant defying Themin himself. Campaigning just always set his teeth on edge. Manek couldn’t wait to be away.
“I know. I’m sorry, truly.” He put a hand on Waurin’s shoulder, and they nodded at each other.
“Good. You should be,” Waurin said, regaining his customary lopsided grin. “But you’re a fool if you think Larn won’t take us leaving early as an insult after gifting you so much.”
Manek’s face became stony. “I did what he asked.” But the fight in Manek was already beginning to evaporate. All this talk of Larn was exactly that—talk. Manek knew the price of defying Larn, and it wasn’t a price he was ever likely to pay. Ten years ago, Larn had come to the Lowlands with his army, demanding fealty. Unable to refuse, Manek’s father had ridden out on campaign with Larn, and would do so for the next five years. Until his leg was mangled, half of his men killed in a vicious battle in the east. And so, the role of warlord had fallen to Manek. For five years Manek had marched with Larn, had taken his orders and killed for him. For five years Manek and his men had kept the Lowlands safe. But some days, when the smell of burning, rancid flesh wafted on the breeze, it was harder to remember.
Waurin shrugged. “Everyone will be headed homeward sooner or later.”
“Sooner for us.” It might seem like open defiance to Larn, but Manek couldn’t bear to keep his men here over winter, so far from home. The promise of home at the end of a long campaign was all that sustained the Lowlanders.
“When will we leave?”
“By midday if possible.”
“Well then,” Waurin said while stretching his arms, “I’d best gather my men.”
Manek caught his shoulder. “Be quiet about it,” he said with a pointed look.
“When am I not?”
“When are you is more like it.”
Waurin laughed as he made for his men. Manek’s smile disappeared with his friend.
Strapping his sword belt around his hips, he turned towards the Keep, where Larn had made camp. But before getting far, the three women who’d been gifted to him caught his attention.
Lora, the dark-haired daughter of the Captain of the Guard, lay on the mound of blankets that he’d provided them, her head resting in the lap of the second Courtnay daughter. Her eyes were half closed, as if she tried to sleep with her eyes open.
Irina, the eldest, sat slightly away from the other two, her head cradled between her knees and her face hidden by a curtain of unkempt yellow hair. Her knuckles were white, clenching the fabric of her soiled nightgown.
And then there was Ennis, her bound hands resting on Lora’s shoulder for comfort. But that was the only soft thing about her. The way she looked at him stopped him in his tracks. He’d killed men who looked
at him with less malice than that girl did then.
He felt her gaze, hot and hateful, following him as he walked up the street and didn’t feel rid of it even when he knew she couldn’t see him any longer.
Larn’s camp near the Keep was full of roaring men, giddy with drink and captured women. He tried to blind himself to all else but the threshold of the Keep as he weaved around debauchery and gore.
The great hall was in a sorry state. Though no longer boasting corpses, dried pools of blood were reminder enough of the recent violence. It’d been a task to breech the Keep—harder than it had been to break open the Mountain Gate. But they had broken through nonetheless. And now Larn’s colors decorated the Keep, his red banner with a black eagle swooping down to strike, replacing the blue standard with a prancing gold lion. The Keep stood at the highest point of Highcrest, a tall cluster of towers, halls, rooms, and staircases. The ancient stronghold speared the blue sky, and now Larn’s insignia did too.
Larn’s chief warlords were gathered in the great hall, and Manek knew from the hush that fell over them that he was the last and was late.
“Ah, Manek,” Larn said with a smile, dissipating the silence. “I have something that should interest you.”
Approaching the large cedar table, which bore an enormous map made from at least five animal hides, Manek chose to look at the vast expanse of inky land rather than any one man. He was all too familiar with that map, and one look at its new markings told him Larn’s intent.
When he finally looked up from the map, he watched a grin spread over Larn’s face. Before he could say anything, Manek asked, “What’ll be done with Highcrest?”
Larn lifted his brows in mild surprise at the question. The other warlords shifted uncomfortably as they awaited an answer.
“Does my strategist have any thoughts?”
“I was simply wondering what you’ll do with your new city,” replied Manek, looking down at the map. “You have so much already...”
Larn put his four-fingered hand down on the map, squarely over the Lowlands, and leered at Manek. “And I will have more.”
