The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  Taren mused on that as they passed out the postern gate. A friendly guard greeted them cordially, then they emerged onto a city street. They were in what appeared to be a transitional area with the Temple District in one direction, where majestic, palatial houses of worship to various deities seemed to try to outdo each other by the height of their bell towers, number and quality of marble statues, stained-glass windows, decorative tiles and mosaics, and all-around stunning architecture. In the other direction was the Noble District, a gated enclave of large manors and exquisite homes built along shady tree-lined boulevards.

  Arron led them down a broad street toward the center of the city. Small shops and taverns and even a classy-looking brothel quickly gave way to the noise and activity of the Industrial District. Hammers rang in smithies, while in counterpoint, chisels clinked on stone in masonry shops. The acrid stench of a tannery assaulted the nose, and spread out around were shops of coopers, wainwrights, and many other trades. The sheer amount of industry took Taren’s breath away. He supposed Llantry could match it, but that city’s businesses were spread out, not all concentrated in a single area.

  A swift-flowing canal passed through the district, circling Foundry Hill, atop which the city’s great foundry hunkered, puffing smoke into the sky. They crossed a stone bridge over the canal, passing through even more of the Industrial District.

  Arron sidled up near Taren as they walked. “So what’s this I hear about an eligible queen you’ve got your eye on?” He grinned at Taren, eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Taren groaned, for Nera had obviously been talking freely about his memories that she’d viewed. “Does she always do that?”

  “What, see what’s in your head and then spill it to others?” Arron laughed. “Only to those she loves best, I imagine.”

  Taren shook his head but then gasped in surprise when he looked over to find the most stunningly beautiful woman he’d ever seen walking in the Temple District. “Gliding” might have been more apt, and “woman” was too slight a term, for she must have been a celestial: her platinum hair and fair skin and pure snowy dress shone with radiance. She wore a golden bow slung across her back. Many people cleared a path or bowed and took a knee before the celestial, who ignored them. After a few dozen paces, she bent her knees and launched herself into the air with seemingly little effort. Feathery wings sprouted from her back and swiftly carried her out of sight in the direction of the Ashen Plains.

  “A virtue of Sol,” Arron said to the trio’s wide-eyed stares. “They occasionally visit the temple or elsewhere, delivering messages or prophecies or whatever it is they do.”

  The industrial zone ended, and they made their way past a mix of shops and taverns and restaurants. The half-elf chatted about his life in Nexus as they walked, pointing out the slums in the distance where he and Nera had lived.

  “Easy does it,” someone shouted in a braying voice. “Get that rope tied down there! If it falls, that’s yer arse!”

  A group of gnomes swarmed all over a wooden scaffold erected at the face of a building. Hanging from a complicated system of ropes and pulleys was what looked like some sleek, giant shell, an iridescent ebon shimmering with a rainbow of colors in the afternoon light. One of the shell’s corners had slipped free of the supporting rope, and it hung crookedly. After much shouting and cursing in at least two languages on the part of the foreman, the gnomes managed to get the shell secured and raised to the third story of the building they were working on, which was fashioned entirely of the black shells. A pair of gnomes preceded the shell’s placement with large bladders they carried, squeezing them to squirt some sticky yellow goop along the edges of the adjoining shells. They scurried out of the way, and the newest piece stuck fast once it was set in place.

  “Oi, there be Ferret the Fierce!” boomed a loud voice. “Reiktir’s beard, ye thumped some boyos right proper the other night!”

  A pair of dwarves were walking past them, waving and grinning at Ferret, who waved in return. Her hood was back, revealing her metallic features though she still wore her other concealing clothes and gloves.

  Taren caught Ferret’s eye with a raised eyebrow, and she simply shrugged.

  “Been meeting a few people since you and Mira are busy all the time,” she said, somewhat defensively. “Who woulda thought dwarves were so big on arm wrestling?”

  “Arm wrestling?” Arron said. “Huh. Guess you learn something new every day.”

  Ferret shrugged. “Gotta do something around here for fun. I’ve managed to make a fair bit of coin at it too.”

  “I apologize for that,” Taren said, picturing Ferret wandering the streets alone, and feeling somewhat guilty for not looking after her better. “I’ll try to not be so absent if I can help it.”

  Ferret bumped him with her shoulder, causing him to take a lurching step sideways. “Don’t worry—it’s nothing. You’ve much more important things to worry about than keeping me company.”

  “But I miss your charming company,” he said with a smile, slinging an arm companionably across her shoulders.

  Ferret giggled then disentangled herself after a moment. She made a convincing throat-clearing sound. “So, Arron. Tell us about Waresh Hammerhelm. We found his tomb a bit earlier and were curious as to his story.”

  “Hammerhelm?” Mira looked at her curiously. “I met a Queen Hammerhelm of the dwarves during my journey.”

  “Really? Must be his kin,” Ferret said.

  “Ah, Waresh,” Arron said. “Alas, he didn’t survive the battle. Nera wanted to see him interred properly in the dwarven manner, here near his friends rather than back home, where he wasn’t well liked. It was the curse, you see—he acquired a cursed axe that led him to madness.”

  “Cursed axe?” Ferret prodded when he fell silent.

  “Aye. Here, just ahead is our destination. Let’s stop and wet our throats. A tale’s telling is always eased with a proper tankard, I always say.”

  Laughing Lunatic Zombie, the shingle overhead proclaimed, and Taren instantly recognized the name of Arron’s favorite watering hole. It had been Wyat’s favorite also, where the old companions had always gathered over ales after their respective adventures to catch up on old times.

  The Zombie wasn’t quite what he expected, for it wasn’t especially fancy or seedy, its clientele a mix of different classes of people. It was simply a comfortable, homey tavern that served some excellent food and drink, and at a reasonable price. The old barkeep greeted Arron upon arrival, and they clasped hands like old friends.

  Within a few minutes, Taren was sitting in a comfortable chair, drinking a very tasty ale with Arron, upon his recommendation. Mira chose water, and Ferret went without, as usual. A minstrel was playing an unusual but spellbinding tune on his lyre, the melody likely influenced by some faraway culture on a distant plane, and Ferret listened raptly.

  Once the minstrel took a break, Arron related Waresh’s tragic story, which ended with his noble sacrifice to wound the Engineer so that Nera could gain the upper hand in their battle. Following that story, Arron launched into old tales of adventure with Wyat and Nera. The loquacious half-elf was a natural storyteller, and Taren felt as if he were transported back to his youth, listening to Wyat’s stories again. However, Wyat hadn’t known the story of how Taren’s father, Arron, and Nera had gotten into a massive tavern brawl one night, and he listened intently, hungry for any new details about his parents. The ale flowed, and he allowed himself to get carried away by tales of friendship and derring-do.

  Perhaps the Zombie’s most potent charm was that it felt like home and brought with it a powerful sense of nostalgia. He mourned anew for the loss of his uncle, as well as the father he’d never known. But he did say a silent prayer of thanks to Sabyl that he was able to meet his mother and get to know her and Arron better.

  By the time the hour had grown late and the Zombie’s door had shut behind him as they headed back to the castle, Taren was hoping that he might return someday to sha
re with a fellowship of close friends tales of his own successful victory against the forces of evil.

  Chapter 47

  The group traveled west, following the shoreline of Zoph Lake, and true to Jahn’s prediction, arrived in Carran on the afternoon of the second day. Their fortunes had taken a turn for the better, and they made the rest of the journey without encountering any additional Nebaran patrols.

  Creel gazed out at the blue expanse of the lake and the white sails dotting the waters. Even though war raged throughout the kingdom, the sizable city’s renowned fishing commerce seemed little affected.

  Turning his attention to the plains before the city, however, revealed a much grimmer sight. The remnants of the Ketanian army were camped outside the walls, the ragged tent city a reflection of the decimated force. Sentries were posted at the perimeter, and patrols swept the surrounding area within a few hours of the city. They had passed another group of scouts earlier that afternoon, and Jahn had exchanged words with the others briefly before they continued on.

  From Creel’s best guess, the army numbered fewer than five thousand men, and based on the prevalent infirmary tents, a great deal of those were wounded. They rode between the encampment and the city walls, passing a small group of exhausted clerics who were returning to the city as night fell, likely having spent the day tending the wounded.

  “How many remain of the army?” he asked Jahn.

  “About three and a half thousand able-bodied men, give or take. Several hundred grievously wounded, beyond the clerics’ abilities to save. Others with minor wounds but recovering.”

  “And the city garrison?” Rafe asked.

  “Another thousand men, but they’re stretched thin patrolling the walls and streets and providing security for the castle. With all the refugees inside the walls, simply keeping the peace is proving a job and a half.”

  Kavia snorted. “Never could get used to such a crush of people behind their walls. If the enemy comes in overwhelming force, where’s there to retreat to? At least on the steppes, we can relocate our villages to safer territory.”

  “Might not be any safe territory left soon if we can’t stop them, Kav,” Jahn replied seriously.

  The plainswoman nodded sharply but made no other reply.

  When they neared the city gates, Jahn released Kavia and the rest of his men to return to camp and rest. Two of the scouts delivered the sixteen healthy horses they’d acquired from the Nebarans to the paddock, which would please the stable master. Jahn remained to escort the others to Lord Lanthas and deliver his report.

  The city gates remained open, and a large group of travelers and refugees milled around in a disorderly mob, pleading for admittance. Jahn rode past the bottleneck, and the gate guards waved them through upon seeing his uniform. Within the walls, the mood was somber compared to the bustling, carefree city Creel remembered from his last visit, just a couple years past. People still crowded the streets, conducting their business, yet city guards were a frequent and visible presence maintaining order. As in Ammon Nor, refugees packed the inns and open spaces, many of them looking as though they had nothing remaining but the clothes on their backs.

  When they arrived at the castle, they dismounted and removed their gear, then a pair of stableboys led their mounts away.

  “Where’s Lord Lanthas?” Jahn brusquely asked a retainer the moment they stepped inside the entry hall.

  “He’s in his war council, Sergeant,” the man replied. “Do your companions require rooms?”

  “Later. They’ve urgent news for the duke.”

  They traversed a long hallway decorated with colorful paintings and urns and marble statues in alcoves. The building was more palace than fortress, with a soaring vaulted ceiling and tall windows letting in ample sunlight. Before reaching the main audience hall, they turned aside to a smaller chamber with a pair of guards at the doors.

  The men greeted Jahn cordially, one guard opening the door and waving them inside. Within, a group of eight men, nobles and military officers by appearance, sat around a long table, maps and missives spread out before them. The tension in the room was palpable.

  “And now we’re to just sit on our hands, counting on elves and dwarves to come save our kingdom?” a young blond-haired man demanded. He was pacing around and gesticulating animatedly. “We’ve lost the southlands, and if they finally decide to attack en masse, we’ll likely lose Carran as well. We cannot wait on these so-called allies to appear, even if they are so inclined. We need to march east with the remaining soldiers, break through to Llantry, and rally the kingdom! The northern lords need to be reminded of their obligations and provide more men. Once these moves are made, all will fall in line behind our queen. Sianna shall inspire them to action.”

  An older man with close-cropped white hair and a soldierly look rubbed at his temples as though trying to massage away a headache. “I don’t disagree with your assessment, Sir Edwin, but the queen directed us to organize a conclave here. I don’t think she realized the gravity of our own situation. With Sol’s blessing, she’ll be arriving any day…” He trailed off, noticing Creel and the others, and frowned.

  “Milord, my squad helped rescue these gentlemen and lady from a Nebaran patrol,” Jahn said into the uneasy silence as all eyes turned to them. “They bear urgent news from the queen.”

  The older man, Lord Lanthas, the Duke of Carran, rose to his feet. “Lady Iris! I nearly didn’t recognize you. Have you accompanied Queen Sianna? Where is she?”

  Iris drew herself up straight, steeling herself to deliver the bad news, and stepped forward. “My lord, I regret we bring the gravest of tidings. Queen Sianna was betrayed and captured through treachery in her own castle.”

  Startled gasps and curses arose from around the table. The young blond knight strode over and clutched Iris’s wrists. “How can this be? We received a hopeful message by bird not even two weeks past, written in Sianna’s own hand. Rumors reached us about an attack on the castle, but her message came through, and we praised Sol, thinking the rumors bollocks.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Iris replied.

  “How?” Lanthas asked, stunned. “Betrayed… Which of those conniving dogs would seek to steal her throne?”

  Iris winced and tried to pull away from the knight’s grasp. “You’re hurting me, sir.”

  Sir Edwin released her and took a step back, turning briefly to regard Creel and Rafe dismissively before returning his attention to Iris. “Tell us what has happened at once! We must enact a rescue. Who is responsible?”

  “Sir Edwin!” said Lanthas. “They’ve had a difficult road. Please, take a seat, and bring some refreshment.” He gestured for them to join him, directing the last at a servant hovering near a side door.

  “I’m responsible, if you must blame someone,” Creel said, interposing himself in front of Iris before Sir Edwin could harangue her again. “The lass is not responsible—leave her be.”

  “And who the Abyss are you?” Edwin asked. He looked Creel over more closely and apparently didn’t like what he saw. “You look like a common footman.”

  “Master Creel is not responsible,” Iris snapped, her cheeks coloring in anger, and stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Creel. “We should be thanking him, if anything. He and his companions saved Queen Sianna, Rafe, and me from assassins and fiends in the woods twice already. And before you turn on Rafe, he bravely escorted us from danger when the castle was overrun.”

  You tell them, lass.

  Creel might have smiled at her spirit, had the situation not been so dire. The queen’s handmaiden showed courage in facing down a room full of nobles and military men. But as it was, Creel was tired and in need of food and drink and didn’t appreciate being ranted at by some dandy.

  “Sir Edwin,” Lanthas snapped. “Stand down. Please, my friends, join us. I thank you for undertaking such a daunting journey to deliver us this news, grave though it may be.”

  Creel pushed past Edwin, and the othe
rs fell in behind him, ignoring the agitated knight. He gave a courteous bow to their host. “Thank you, milord. I’m Dakarai Creel, and you already know Lady Iris. The guardsman here is Rafe.” He sat at one end of the table, Rafe and Iris beside him. Jahn hovered nearby, and Lanthas beckoned him to be seated also.

  A pair of servants returned with decanters of water and wine and a platter of bread and cheese and sausages. They helped themselves to some repast, and Iris recounted her tale, starting with the attack on the castle by Nesnys and her assassins then their flight into the woods. Creel related the details of the mayor’s betrayal at the castle and Sianna being taken from the dungeons but glossed over his own escape, instead telling of how they came to notify the duke at once.

  “And I plan to track down and attempt to rescue Queen Sianna as soon as we have a solid lead on where she’s been taken,” he concluded.

  The duke and his council exchanged grim glances throughout the tale, occasionally asking questions to clarify. They had obviously had their hopes dashed, the waning flickers of a torch at last gone out.

  “I’ll string that bastard Calcote up by his stones,” Edwin vowed sullenly. He had finally collapsed into a chair, distraught at the news.

  “So we can expect no aid from Llantry, and the northern lords will await word from the queen before committing more forces.” Lanthas sighed and rubbed his cheek. “We basically have no cards left to play. We’re at the mercy of this bitch Nesnys and her armies.”