A Sellsword's Hope

by Jacob Peppers

  That brought his thoughts to Gryle, the chamberlain, and he grinned to himself, remembering the man’s visit two nights past. Aaron wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who was struggling with newfound fame. The short, pudgy man who, in another world, another time, would have spent his days educating princes and princesses about which fork to use at dinner and fussing over their clothes like a mother hen. Now, he had become revered as a hero to the army at large. His deeds before they’d left the city—and tales of his impossible strength—had circulated throughout the army, and the fact that he’d bested one of Kevlane’s giant monstrosities single-handedly had done nothing to dissuade the people of his status as a living, breathing hero.

  A situation with which the chamberlain was supremely uncomfortable, and he had come asking Aaron how to deal with it, as if the sellsword had any idea. Which, of course, he didn’t, just as he didn’t have any idea how to deal with the fury that the chamberlain said overcame him during the fight, an unthinking, mindless need to kill that sounded similar to what Aaron had experienced on the occasions when his own Virtue’s power had gone out of control. He had met Aster Kalen, after all, the last to bear the Virtue of Strength, and the man had clearly been insane.

  Melan was not always so… Co said. Once…once, he was a good man. A good friend. If a bit vain.

  I’m sure he was, Firefly, Aaron thought back, but whoever he was, he is that man no longer. You told me as much.

  Yes.

  Aaron wondered at that. If they won the coming war, it would be in large part due to the gifts the Virtues provided their bearers, enhancing their abilities and making them something more than human. The problem, of course, was that such power always had a price. For him, the price came in the form of an uncontrollable rage. For Beth, the Virtue had granted her great speed, but had, at the same time, stolen years from her life, making her old before her time. A side-effect that was no doubt working on the woman walking beside him even now.

  He glanced at Seline, seeing if he could detect any signs of premature aging. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t know her well enough, and he resolved to ask Leomin if he’d noticed anything the next time he saw him.

  Nor was Gryle immune to the double-edged blade which was the power of the bond with the Virtues, and Aaron hadn’t missed the strange facial tics the chamberlain had displayed when last they spoke. Holdovers from a night spent fighting Kevlane’s abominations, or the first indication that the Virtue was doing its dark work? Aaron thought he knew the answer all too well.

  Tianya, the former leader of the Tenders, and possessor of the Virtue of Perception, had also suffered for her Virtue’s sake. When Aaron had first met her, she’d been forced to live in a dark, soundproof basement that had seemed more like a cave than part of a house within the city. Leomin, too, had spoken to Aaron on more than one occasion of the cost of bearing a Virtue, reckoning it to a battle that the bearer would, inevitably, lose. The Speaker, the possessor of the eighth Virtue, had told Aaron that the Virtue’s power could be controlled, its damaging side effects mitigated, but the man had also been willing to sacrifice his life and the life of his companions to open the gates of Baresh. Simple, heroic sacrifice, or an indicator of his own Virtue’s power working on him, changing him?

  There was no way to know for sure, and that uncertainty raised another question. Was Kevlane evil, truly? Or was his mad need to see the world destroyed simply a product of carrying the Virtue of Adaptation for so long? Had his mind been twisted and warped by the Virtue’s influence after so many years?

  It is…possible, Co said slowly, clearly reluctant to add weight to Aaron’s worries. But, even if it is, does it matter?

  Aaron considered that. No. No, it doesn’t. Whether the mage was evil by himself, or had been made so, he was a threat to be dealt with. And in the end, if they did somehow manage to defeat him? How long before Aaron gave into the rage, how long before Gryle went insane from the Virtue’s power, or Leomin? Would he, would they, become just another monster, threatening the very world they had sacrificed so much to save?

  The thought was not a reassuring one, and Aaron walked on in silence, his mood growing darker with each step he took. Another worry then, to add to the growing list. Not the least of which was that they had still received no word from the Speaker and the other Akalians. They should have joined the the army by now, and with each night that passed without hearing news, a sense of hopelessness rose in him, one that was becoming more and more difficult to force back down. Had Kevlane’s creatures found the barracks hidden away in the woods? Or did Tianya or Caleb succumb to the Virtue’s power?

  The woman hadn’t seemed crazy the last time they’d spoken—at least not any crazier than usual. Or, maybe, that wasn’t exactly true. After all, Aaron had been forced to delve into her mind, a mind overcome with madness, and help her escape it, had he not? Still, he thought the woman was probably alright. She had appeared well enough when he’d left the barracks, but he’d been in such a hurry to make it back to the city and help Adina and the others fight Grinner that he’d paid little attention. What was worse, he hadn’t even taken a moment to speak to Caleb before leaving, couldn’t say for sure how he was doing at all, or in what manner the darker side of the Virtue of Intelligence might present itself. The woman, he thought, was alright. But what of the boy? For reasons he couldn’t understand, this thought, more than any other, clouded his mind and would not leave. What of the boy?

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Caleb sat huddled underneath a small earthen overhang in the forest. The nook had been carved out when some large tree in years past had fallen, succumbing, perhaps, to a particularly cold winter or to simple age. He was covered in sweat and dirt, and was just now managing to get his breathing back under control. He was the possessor of the Virtue of Intelligence and, as such, was arguably the smartest person in the world, having answers for which most people, in their limited understanding of the world around them, didn’t even know there were questions.

  Yet, for all his knowledge, if there was an answer to the problem before him, he could not find it, and he stared at the unconscious woman lying a few feet away from him in the small bit of covered space the overhang provided, struggling against a hopelessness that threatened to overcome him.

  It had not been easy, getting her out of the tree without hurting her or himself or making so much noise that they would alert one of their hunters, but he had managed it. Had managed, too, to half-carry, half-drag the unconscious woman to this small shelter, hoping it would be enough to hide them from the view of any of Kevlane’s creatures that might pass. Upon first arriving here, he had felt a great sense of victory of a challenge overcome, but he did not feel so now. Now, he felt only despair.

  How long before one of the creatures managed to find them? He’d done his best to hide their small shelter, covering it with limbs and shrubs in the hopes of keeping them from view, but for all that, he knew that the creatures, possessed of uncanny senses, would find them sooner or later. He could not even console himself with the fact that he might hear them, should they approach, for despite their speed, the creatures were quiet and, what was worse, it had begun to rain only shortly after he had brought the woman here.

  A hard, driving rain, the sound of which would certainly mask the approach of any of the creatures. Yet even that wasn’t the worst of it. He had done what he could to push Tianya further back, into the driest part of the overhang, yet still the water reached her, winding its way through the hastily-constructed shelter he’d made, adding the risk of her catching a bad cold to their troubles, a cold which, in her weakened state, might well be enough to kill her.

  Caleb himself was soaked through, had been so for some time, and in the cool northern night, his hands had begun to tremble with a chill, one that was growing worse with each passing minute. He wished, not for the first time, that he could light a fire, but he dared not. Such a blaze would serve as a beacon for the creatures roaming
the woods and would draw them to him and the unconscious woman like moths to a flame.

  His thoughts troubled, he crawled toward the woman—the overhang not allowing enough room for him to stand—and pressed a hand against her forehead, wincing at the fever he felt there. Frowning, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing some elderberries that he’d happened across while dragging Tianya to the shelter. He mashed them up and stuck them into her mouth. It would have been better, he knew, to have boiled the herb and made it into a tea for consumption—knowledge gained from the Virtue he possessed—but such niceties were beyond them now. The berries would, he hoped, help with her fever and the cold she’d no doubt be fighting. Of course, they were mildly toxic in themselves, but he thought that, given their current situation, they could worry about unfortunate symptoms they might cause when—and if—they survived the next few hours.

  The woman didn’t open her eyes, but he was relieved when she swallowed on reflex, taking the berries he offered without rousing from unconsciousness. When that was finished, Caleb hurried back to the entrance, putting his back to it and blocking most—but not all—of the driving rain from reaching the woman.

  The small task complete, his thoughts went back to their situation. Tianya needed rest, proper food and care, none of which he could give her here. They needed to reach the army where they would find the supplies and medicines that her weakened body needed so badly. The problem, of course, was that for all his Virtue-gifted intelligence, Caleb was still a thirteen-year-old boy, and even if the woman was far too thin, she was heavier than he could manage for long. His muscles still ached from the short trip getting her here, to this small hidden sanctuary. Her body was weakening, and to grow stronger she needed the healing that only sleep could provide, but if he waited long enough for her to get the rest she required, the army would only get further away. And rest or not, he knew that the woman would not last long in the cold and wet of the woods without proper food or medicine.

  They couldn’t stay, for to stay meant a slow, cruel death as her frail body eventually succumbed to the elements and the fever, yet neither could they leave, for even if he did somehow find a way to move her, still there were Kevlane’s creatures to think about. They were out there in the dark woods, he knew, gliding along the shadows of the trees and searching for him and the woman. The thought sent a shiver through him, but he told himself, knowing it was a lie even as he did, that it was just the cold and the damp.

  The creatures were out there, and without the woman’s heightened senses to warn of their approach, what chance did he have? Particularly when he would be struggling under the weight of carrying her, and he doubted he would even realize they were upon him before they were both cut down. He thought that, had he been in the forest alone, he could have made it to the army. By his calculations, they were only three, perhaps four hours away now. He had even considered leaving her for long enough to get help and coming back, but had quickly dismissed the idea.

  Even if she somehow survived that length of time alone and unconscious—unlikely to say the least—there was a good chance Caleb wouldn’t be able to find where she was again. For the dark and the rain made it all but impossible to find any landmarks—he’d looked already—and even in broad daylight the small overhang would be all but invisible to the naked eye unless someone stumbled upon it. It was, after all, why he had chosen it in the first place.

  No, going on without her in the hopes of coming back with help would be nothing more than a death sentence, slower, perhaps, than if they braved the woods with him trying to carry her to what he hoped was the army’s location, but no less certain for all that.

  Leave her. The voice came out of nowhere. It wasn’t Palendesh’s voice, nor was it his own, and Caleb jumped in surprise.

  He spun, looking behind him, half-expecting to find one of Kevlane’s creatures crouching there, shadowed in the darkness. Foolishness, of course. The poor souls upon which the mage practiced his Art were no longer capable of speech, and had they found him and the woman in their hiding place, they would have no doubt let their blades do the talking for them in any case. Caleb frowned. Palendesh?

  Leave her. The voice came again, and though the voice was not his own nor the Virtue’s, there was something vaguely familiar about it, as if he had heard it before, in a dream, perhaps.

  Who are you? he thought back.

  The voice didn’t respond to the question, and when it spoke again it went on as if he had never asked it. She is dead either way. Whether here or with you dragging her to the army, the woman will die. Alone, you will have some chance. Small, but some. It is the only thing to do—the only intelligent thing.

  No, Caleb thought back, shaking his head in furious denial, as if by doing so he might banish the voice and its cold logic. I won’t leave her. I can’t.

  Then you will die, and the others, left without your mind to guide them, will die too. You alone will bring on the destruction of the world and those you would call friends.

  “Who are you?” Caleb hissed, his voice shaking from the cold and his fear both.

  You know.

  He frowned at that, opening his mouth to speak a denial, but then stopped, realizing what it was about the voice that sounded so familiar to him. It was his voice. Not the voice of the thirteen-year-old he was now, but the voice of himself as a grown man. A man who understood the ways of the world, who knew well its dark truths. His voice. His words. Leave her.

  “I won’t,” he rasped. “I can’t.”

  Yes, you can, the voice said, he said. You must. A thousand things you might wish for—soldiers to guard you, the medicines you need to save her, warmth and comfort, yet none of those you have, nor will you. The woman will die—that is certain. The only choice is whether you will die with her or not. The problem is not unsolvable. It has a solution. It is only that you have not wished to see it. You cannot save her. You never could.

  Caleb glanced at the shadowy form of the unconscious woman, watched her breath rise and fall slowly. Too slowly. The voice might sound cruel, but there was a cold truth to its words, one that was undeniable. A cold, dark truth, but a truth just the same. Had he really thought that he could save her? Had he really believed that, somehow, he would be a hero, would rescue her and not just her, but the entire world, that he might somehow save them all?

  A child’s hope, a child’s wish, and he heard his mother’s voice in his head then, the way she had spoken what felt like a lifetime ago, before she’d left him at the tavern and gone on to live her life with her new, better family. Foolish boy. Useless, foolish boy. Cruel words, maybe, for a woman to say to her son, but that didn’t make them a lie, did it? However much pain even the memory caused him, that did not mean they were untrue.

  It was a simple equation—he was no hero. The woman would die. Tianya, some small part of his mind thought, her name’s Tianya, would die regardless of his efforts. There was nothing he could do to save her. Even without her, there was a chance that he would die before reaching the army; with her, it was a certainty. And if he died, then Perennia’s army would be without two Virtue bearers when they fought Kevlane and his own twisted army.

  Leave her, the voice said again, and this time it didn’t sound cruel at all. In a way, it was almost comforting. It wasn’t as if he had a choice, was it? What use would there be in him throwing his life away to no purpose? If he had a chance to save her, well, that would be a different thing. But he didn’t, and he couldn’t be blamed for that, could he? None of the others would blame him, he knew. They would just be glad that he, at least, had survived the attack on the barracks. They would understand. Surely, they would understand.

  But would you understand? Would you blame yourself? This thought came not in Palendesh’s voice, nor in the adult version of himself, but his own. “Palendesh?” Caleb asked, his voice weak and afraid, hoping that the Virtue might somehow help, might guide him to the right decision.

  But there was no answer, only the sound of the
rain pattering outside their makeshift shelter. The Virtue either would not or could not answer, and it seemed that whatever decision he made, Caleb would have to make it on his own, for he could not delay it any longer. Even doing nothing, he knew, was making a choice in itself, a choice that would only serve to have them both die when they were inevitably discovered by one of the creatures, an outcome that became all the more likely with each moment he wasted on indecision.

  There was no time, then, to wait on the Virtue to answer, no time to mull over his decision. He had to act. And now.

  Leave.

  “Fine,” he grated, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “I will leave.” He rose to his hands and knees again, glancing at the entrance to his shelter for a moment before turning back to the unconscious woman. “But she is leaving with me.” The last he said with confidence, not a confidence born of a belief that they would both survive the coming journey, for it seemed all too certain that they would not. Instead, the confidence in his voice, in his heart, came from the fact that what he was doing felt right. Either they would both survive, or neither of them would. There would be no compromise.

  The voice, either disgusted at his choice or losing whatever power it had possessed, did not speak again, and with his decision made, Caleb began to think about how he would bring it to pass. He would have to make a stretcher to drag her on, for over such distances as they would travel, he would not be able to carry her for long, and they could not afford the delays that would inevitably result each time he was forced to stop and rest.

  And what of the sounds the stretcher will make? This thought, he heard with relief, was only the worry of a thirteen-year-old boy. Frightened, true, but his. Yes, the sound of the carrier sliding across the ground would inevitably make some noise, and he would only have to hope that whatever sound it did make as it slid across the forest floor would be masked by the rain or the other assorted sounds of the forest.