Sentinelspire

by Mark Sehestedt

  “I believe you,” said Sauk. “You told me Kheil died. I didn’t believe you. Didn’t want to. Thought perhaps my brother had returned by some miracle. Now I see that I was a fool to hope.”

  Lifting his gaze from the flames, Berun looked up and said, “Kheil is dead. I am Berun now.”

  “Berun, sworn of the Oak Father,” said Sauk, his upper lip lifted in a sneer. “A damned leaf lover. A blight beater.”

  The world came into sudden, sharp focus. Even the sounds of the stream and men talking as they went about their business seemed clear, every ripple of the water and companionable jibe distinct. Berun recognized the sudden awareness in him for what it was. Anger. He’d been holding a lid on his fear since seeing those letters scratched in the boot print. Fear that Kheil’s old life was catching up to him after nine years of trying to bury it. But Sauk’s casual curse of the Oak Father and his servants had lifted that lid off his fear, and here in the nighttime camp, Berun found himself filled with anger. No, not anger. Pure, cold rage. Nine years! Nine years of burying the past, and here it was again, spitting in the face of all he now held precious.

  “You never answered me,” said Berun, his voice careful and controlled. “What do you want? Why this ruse to draw me out here? ‘A fool to hope.’ Please. You didn’t go through all this for a reunion. You want something. You said Talieth found me. Did she send you? Are you still her father’s favorite lapdog?”

  The rest of the camp had gone quiet halfway through Berun’s speech. Every man now stood watching, some sitting paralyzed with bits of food held before open mouths. Others were caressing the hilts of their weapons. All eyes were on Sauk.

  The half-orc’s eyes had narrowed to slits, and he was grinding his teeth as he watched Berun.

  One of the men standing behind Sauk, a tall man with dirty blond hair who looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days, said, “I think we ought to teach this one some courtesy. Eh, Sauk?”

  “Val, that you?” said Sauk, not turning around.

  “Yes.”

  “If I want to know what you think, I’ll ask you. You want to lead this party? All you have to do is get through me. Understood?”

  Much of the boldness went out of the man’s gaze, and he looked away from Berun. “Understood. You’re the boss.”

  “Am I?” said Sauk, still not taking his eyes from Berun. “Or am I the Old Man’s favorite lapdog?”

  Berun said nothing. He forced his muscles to relax. He sat less than five feet from one of the fiercest hunters he’d ever known, and he was surrounded by seven armed men, all watching and ready to kill him, awaiting only their master’s word. And there was still the tiger to consider. Hopeless. If he’d had some distance and more cover between him and the men, if his bow were ready, if, if, if …

  If it came to that, he wasn’t going back to the grave alone.

  Then Sauk did the last thing Berun expected. He threw back his head and laughed, rocking back and forth on his rump, his hands on his knees. Confused, Berun looked around. A few of the men relaxed, but most still stood tense, hands on weapons. The looks on their faces showed that they were just as confused as he was.

  “Oh, Kheil,” said Sauk, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of one hand. “Pardon me. Berun. Berun, it must be. Kheil was never such a damned fool.”

  “Fool or not, Kheil is dead,” said Berun. He tried to hold on to his anger, but he could feel it slipping away. “I’m sitting here alive.”

  Sauk went still again, though the mirth did not leave his countenance. “Well, for now anyway,” he said. “You think the Old Man sent us, is that it? Sent his favorite lapdog after his favorite assassin? Bring the naughty boy back home? The little runaway?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Berun saw several men exchanging amused glances, and the one Sauk had called Val grinned and shook his head, like a favorite uncle amused at his nephew’s latest foolishness.

  “Not even a little,” said Sauk. “Wrong on all counts, in fact. Berun, you are sitting surrounded by conspiracy. Every one of these men, this half-orc included, has sworn to see the Old Man of the Mountain dead. Or die trying. Now sit and listen.”

  Chapter Five

  You spoke truly about one thing,” said Sauk. “I didn’t come for a reunion. Gerrell?” The half-orc looked to one of his men, the one who had held the spear on Berun down in the ravine. The man’s wounds were all cleaned, though filth still covered his clothes. “Food ready yet?”

  “Almost, Sauk.”

  Sauk returned his attention to Berun. “Not much, I’m afraid. We haven’t hunted in days. Bits of smoked venison stewed with whatever else they throw in. Doesn’t taste like much, but it’ll fill you. There’s bread, too, though you might have to pick out the bugs.”

  “Tell me what you want with me,” said Berun, “then I’ll decide whether to accept your hospitality.”

  “What makes you think I’m giving you a choice?”

  “There’s always a choice, Sauk.”

  “Not always a good one.”

  Sauk rummaged through the leather satchel at his belt and pulled out a half-eaten hunk of brown bread. Seeing that, a flood of memories hit Berun. He knew that no matter how hungry Sauk became, if anyone offered the half-orc meat, he would not eat it. Sauk served Malar, the Beastlord, and he would eat no flesh that he himself had not hunted and killed. He’d choke on moldy, maggot-infested bread first.

  Sauk bit into the loaf and spoke as he chewed. “That druid. The one the Old Man sent us to kill nine years ago.”

  “Chereth,” said Berun.

  “Yes,” said Sauk. “Or as we in the Fortress have come to call him: ‘The one who got away.’ ”

  A few of the men, listening in, laughed at this.

  “He the one who killed y—uh, killed Kheil, that is?”

  “No,” said Berun. “The rangers executed Kheil. Chereth called me back to serve the Oak Father.”

  Sauk nodded and swallowed, and Berun caught a glimpse of a strange look that the half-orc quickly hid. A knowing, pleased expression. Another memory hit Berun. Something Talieth used to say. The best way to catch a liar is to ask him questions to which you already know the answer. Was that Sauk’s game here?

  “And then?” asked Sauk.

  “Then?”

  “After you were … ‘called back to serve?’ ”

  “Chereth brought me to the Oak Father and taught me the ways of the wild.”

  “His ways,” said Sauk.

  Berun knew that Sauk was thinking of Malar. Sauk was zuwar, a hunter sworn to the service of Malar the Beastlord. The Beastlord was also of the wild, but only of its more bestial aspects—the hunt, the kill, survival of the strong. The Oak Father did not deny those aspects, but Chereth had taught him that these were only one leaf on a tree that grew many branches.

  “You knew Chereth well, then?” asked Sauk.

  “He was my master,” said Berun, and left it at that. In truth, he had known the old half-elf as well as anyone, which was to say he’d seen only the surface of a pool that ran very deep.

  “Did you know that five years ago Chereth came to Sentinelspire?”

  “I … suspected.”

  Sauk’s eyebrows shot up. “And you let your beloved master go? Knowing what you know? Knowing us?”

  Berun clamped his jaw shut and stared into the fire.

  “Your Oak Father breeds odd disciples,” said Sauk. “Your master walks headlong into death, and you don’t so much as go after his body, much less vengeance.”

  Berun said nothing. He knew that Sauk was trying to provoke him, partially to see what information another torrent of angry words might reveal and partly out of his own personal disgust for the so-called “leaf lovers” and “blight beaters”—druids and their ilk who did not embrace the savagery of the wild.

  “Do you know why your master came to Sentinelspire?” said Sauk.

  “He”—Berun swallowed to keep his voice from breaking—“wouldn’t tell me.”<
br />
  “Ah,” said Sauk. “Old leaf lover wanted to protect his precious disciple. That it? Well, you know more than I thought. But this I’ll bet you don’t know.” The half-orc smiled and took another bite of bread. He chewed, swallowed, and took a sip from a waterskin. “Your old druid came to Sentinelspire to kill the Old Man of the Mountain.” Sauk paused, giving the words time to sink in—or perhaps letting the hook dangle before the fish. “Imagine that. An old leaf lover coming to the most impregnable citadel east of Thay and hoping to kill the king of killers. Now there is a tale!”

  Sauk’s words didn’t really surprise Berun. He’d long known that there was some sort of history between Chereth, Master of the Yuirwood, and Alaodin, Old Man of the Mountain. What exactly that history had been, he had no idea. But nine years ago, Alaodin had sent Kheil, the best assassin in his arsenal, to kill Chereth in his homeland, surrounded by hundreds of allies. Such a desperate mission could not have been a random act, nor even a job bought and paid for by some western lord or lady. It had to be grave and personal for the Old Man to have sent Kheil. In the five years since Chereth had left him, Berun had not passed a day without wondering of his master’s fate. All those days of wandering through villages, seeking other druid Circles, looking for word from the old half-elf, hoping for any rumor but finding none. To now have it confirmed …

  Berun felt … what? Tired. That was it. All those years of hoping had given him purpose. To have that hope crushed left him feeling lost and weary.

  “But,” said Sauk, his voice going quiet, scarcely more than a whisper, “here’s the thing I bet you didn’t know.” He smiled. “Chereth is still alive.”

  Breath caught in Berun’s throat. “Alive?”

  “As you and me.”

  “But … the Old Man?”

  Sauk smiled. “Hale as ever.”

  “But you said that you and your men have sworn to kill him. I don’t understand.”

  “You want to know about your master or about the Old Man?”

  Both, Berun realized, and he didn’t like that.

  “Truth be told,” Sauk continued, “you need to hear both. That’s why we came for you. Your master made the same mistake the Old Man did—he hunted prey in its own den. Nothing is more dangerous than a wild animal cornered in its home. Long tale cut short, the Old Man captured your master and has held him prisoner all these years.”

  “Prisoner?” said Berun. The thought of old Chereth locked in the stony cells of Sentinelspire …

  “At times,” said Sauk, “the Old Man spends half the day and night talking to the old leaf lover. Enjoys his company like a favorite uncle. Other times, the Old Man questions him. Questions him hard.”

  Sauk didn’t have to explain. Berun knew all too well what an interrogation by the Old Man of the Mountain entailed.

  “Sometimes,” said Sauk, “the Old Man uses his … arts”—the half-orc scowled as if he’d tasted something sour —“to leech power from the leaf lover.”

  Berun’s anger turned cold. The Old Man had once been a devoted follower of Bhaal. The death of his god had hit him hard, made him desperate in his search for a new source of power. He’d never been too particular about where the power came from.

  “Other times,” Sauk continued, his voice dropping low, “the Old Man hurts your master. Hurts him just for the pleasure of it.”

  “What?” said Berun. “Why?”

  “ ’Cause that’s what the Old Man does.”

  “No,” said Berun. “Not Alaodin. He’s a killer, but it’s … business. Even the Old Man never hurt just to hurt.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” said Sauk. “Almost nine years. Things have changed at the Fortress. Things happen now that …” The half-orc’s voice faltered and he shook his head. “Dark things. Vile.”

  “What kind of things?”

  Sauk scowled into the fire and made the sign of the Beastlord—three fingers hooked like claws, which he dragged down his face and heart. “Not here,” he said. “Not in the dark.”

  “You? Afraid?”

  “Afraid?” said Sauk, thinking as he chewed a large hunk of bread. He swallowed. “If you mean am I made weak at the thought of dying, then no. I don’t know that kind of fear. Not anymore. But there are worse things than death, and I have hunted enough prey—many stronger than me—to know when it is time to strike and kill and boast, and when it is best not to draw attention to yourself. Besting those stronger than you … that is honor. Calling down doom … that’s just foolish.”

  Sauk chewed his lip and stared into the fire. The rest of the camp had gone quiet, caught up in Sauk’s tale.

  The half-orc broke the silence. “But that’s not why we came for you. This is about that old druid locked in the Fortress.”

  “His name is Chereth,” said Berun. “And why do you care?”

  Sauk looked down at his bread, as if considering another bite, but he grimaced and put it away. “About the half-elf?” he said. “I don’t. Old leaf lover means nothing to me. But the Old Man … he’s gone mad. You know me, Kheil. I have no qualms about killing when there is profit in it, or a fair fight. But a bloodlust has seized the Old Man. He’s gone beyond simple murder-for-hire to massacres. The old fool is killing for pleasure or just plain meanness. He’s put our entire operation in jeopardy. Last winter, he killed three of our best clients—western nobles who paid well. But Talieth …”

  “What?” Berun cursed the eager tone in his voice. Very few days had gone by over the years that her face, her scent, the feel of her skin did not come to his mind, but every time he thrust them away. Kheil had loved her. And Kheil was dead.

  “Talieth suspects something darker is at work. She fears her father is on the verge of doing something … irreversible.” Sauk ground his jaw and looked away. His nostrils flared and he slapped the ground. “Damn it all, we want him dead.”

  Berun held Sauk’s gaze. The half-orc looked back, unflinching.

  “We?” said Berun.

  “Me, Talieth, and every man here. A few others at the Mountain.”

  “So kill him,” said Berun, his voice hard.

  Sauk snorted, but there was no humor in it. Only disgust. “We tried,” he said. “Talieth sent her best blades but the Old Man killed ’em all. The Old Man has been using your master’s power to set new guardians. Things I’ve never seen before. Things that haunt the dark places of the mountain. Things that scare even Talieth, and I’ve never seen anything frighten that woman.”

  A smile threatened to break over Berun’s face but he held it back.

  “But it doesn’t end there,” said Sauk. “The Old Man rooted out any who had colluded with the assassins. Didn’t just kill them. He tortured them. Till they begged for death. When we left the Fortress, their bodies were still on the walls. Some dead and rotting. Even the crows won’t touch them. But some … some were still alive.” He took a long swig from the waterskin and swallowed with a wince. “Wrapped in thorns and vines, bleeding, their skin rotting away even as they begged for someone to end their pain.”

  Berun shuddered. “Talieth …?”

  “The Old Man suspects her. He’s no fool. But she is his daughter. She’s still alive—or was when we left—but she walks the razor’s edge. She’s all but a captive in the Fortress, and the Old Man might kill her any time the whim hits him.”

  “How did you get away?”

  Sauk spared a glance at his men and a smile, sly and pleased, crossed his face. “Well, I said the Old Man rooted out the assassins. I should have said ‘any he could find.’ He found several. Too damned many. But not all.”

  “As far as you know,” said Berun.

  The grin froze on Sauk’s face, faltered, then fell. “Yes, as far as we know.”

  “So the Old Man could just be biding his time. Playing you like a cat pawing at a mouse.”

  Sauk’s eyes narrowed. “I’m no mouse.”

  “What about your men?”

  The tall blond man behind Sauk b
ristled and scowled at this, but he held his tongue.

  “You aren’t half as smart as you think you are,” said Sauk. “Talieth’s always had a gift for magic—more than a little touch of the seer’s gift.”

  “Don’t tell me what I already know,” said Berun.

  “Really?” Sauk’s eyebrows rose, but Berun saw the mockery in the expression. “Kheil knew Talieth well—in many senses of the word. Seems that Berun remembers. Maybe Kheil isn’t so dead after all, eh?”

  Berun didn’t respond.

  “Using her … gift, Talieth found you, whatever you choose to call yourself. She knew you were alive. But … well, it seems that leaf-loving master of yours doesn’t know how to hold his tongue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your old master talked. Sang like a damned minstrel for his supper. Mad the Old Man may be, but he’s no fool. He figured out who this ‘Berun’ was … is … whatever. There are still blades in the Fortress loyal to the Old Man. Had it not been for Talieth’s particular gifts, they might have found you first.”

  “Found me?” Berun’s heart hammered, and he suddenly felt as if his breathing were too loud and quick. “What does the Old Man want with me?”

  “You have something he wants.”

  “Something he wants?” said Berun. “What—?”

  “Air eye lin, or something like that.”

  “Erael’len?”

  “As you say,” said Sauk. “Never could wrap my tongue around the damned elfspeak.”

  “It’s Aglarondan. It means—” Berun stopped, cursing himself.

  “Means what?”

  “Three Hearts.”

  “Three Hearts,” said Sauk. “How sweet. Damned leaf lovers. No teeth in their jaws. When your old master talked, the Old Man became interested. Very interested. Seems he not only misses his favorite assassin, but he’s hungry for this thing you carry, the Three Hearts.

  “Which is why Talieth sent me after it,” said Sauk. “After you. So what do you say? Kill the Old Man and help save your old master. Are you with us?”

  “No.” The word slipped out before Berun could stop it. But he didn’t regret it.