Sentinelspire

by Mark Sehestedt

  Most of the vines in which Berun stood did not move, but one strand shot forward, quick as a cobra, and snatched Erael’len from his grasp. He let it go, his senses returning to normal, and the vine slapped it into the open, bloodied palm of Chereth.

  The druid’s eyes lit with exultation, and the madness in that gaze was clear to Berun. How could he not have seen it before?

  “You have defied me for the last time,” said Chereth. “You will—”

  Berun shouted, “Now, Tali!”

  Fire—a great river of it, like a dragon’s fury—erupted from the stone sun where Talieth stood. It shot outward, straight for the old druid. Perch screamed and ran to the edge of tower.

  Chereth simply smiled and raised Erael’len. The fire washed over him, so hot that it singed Berun’s skin from several paces away, but Chereth did not move, and his smile did not falter. He simply stood there, letting the flames wash over him.

  The fire sputtered and died, a few flames dancing around the sun-disc before flickering away. The stench of burned vines and leaves filled the air, and near the edge of the tower, Talieth slumped to the feet of the statue. “I’m … sorry,” she gasped. “I … could not hold it … any longer.”

  Chereth shook his head as he walked over to Berun. “You think I didn’t hear your little signal?” he said. “ ‘Remember the winters! Remember our nights by the fire!’ How touching. But I have had years to study and master what the Imaskari left behind. Nothing in my tower can harm me.”

  Holding Erael’len in one hand and raising his staff in the other, Chereth summoned two great masses of vines forward. One wound round Talieth and bound her to the statue. The other grabbed Berun, sharp thorns shredding his clothes, and threw him against the bole of the oak tree in the center of the roof. Berun’s breath exploded out of him, and he felt and heard his ribs break. The vines kept coming and coming, wrapping round him and the tree, binding him there with arms outstretched.

  Simply breathing was agony. The vines constricted, grinding Berun’s broken ribs together, and darkness threatened to overwhelm his vision. But then the foliage slackened slightly, and the pain eased. Still, Berun could hear a cracking sound. It took him a moment to realize that it was not his bones or even the vines, but someone approaching. He looked up and saw Chereth walking over the carpet of leaves. Blood and gore still covered the druid’s face from Perch’s attack, and his hair and robes were a tattered, tangled mess from the fight.

  “Damn you,” said Chereth through clenched teeth, and Berun saw that he was trembling with fury, tears mingled with the blood on his cheeks. “Damn you to the darkest, deepest hell, you ungrateful, ignorant whelp. Your futile attempt, your … foolishness!” Words failed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, then looked at Berun again. “The world has turned too far. It will be months before I can complete my plans. Months!”

  Berun said nothing.

  “But you haven’t won,” Chereth continued, “only delayed the inevitable. You have done something else, though.” The half-elf’s eyes narrowed, and he looked upon Berun with hatred and contempt. “You know what I am going to do while I wait? I’m going to kill your woman over there. Then I’m going to hunt down that little pup of a disciple of yours—him and his whore. I’ll kill him last, after he’s watched me kill her. And I’ll kill him slowly. And the whole time he will know it is you that brought this upon him, when he could have had paradise—or at the very least, a quick death in glory.”

  “No,” Berun said, though it was agony to speak. “You … won’t.”

  “Oh, but I will.” Chereth smiled, a truly horrific sight through the mask of blood. He raised his staff, and the vines binding Berun’s left arm tightened and stretched, so it seemed that Berun was holding the knife out to Chereth. “First I’m going to take care of you. Once and for all. You’ve been too full of surprises today. Best to end it now. What was it you told Talieth’s little bed warmer out in the Shalhoond?”

  Berun’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, yes,” said Chereth. “I have watched you for many long days, and once Sauk found you, I watched closely. That night by the fire during your escape, what was it you said? ‘The greatest weapon is the weapon at hand and the willingness to act.’ The first thing the Old Man ever taught you, you said. After all you have done to me, I certainly have the willingness to act. And look”—he reached out and took the knife from Berun’s hand—“a weapon, literally ‘at hand.’ Let’s put it to good use.”

  Chereth brought the knife up and slammed it down, plunging it through the vines and deep into Berun’s flesh, right where his neck joined his shoulder, right into the large vein. Chereth pulled out the blade and blood spurted all over them both. It seemed to fuel the druid’s fury. He turned the knife and stabbed—

  “I—!”

  Again.

  “—am—!”

  Again.

  “—through—!”

  Again.

  “—with—!”

  Again.

  “—you!”

  He stopped and let go, leaving the blade stuck between two of Berun’s ribs. The second—or had it been the third?—strike had pierced one of Berun’s lungs, and he could feel blood beginning to fill his chest. He coughed once, bringing out a spurt of blood. He could hear Talieth crying.

  Berun smiled.

  “What?” Chereth stood there, panting from exertion. “Why are you smiling?”

  “The … second—” Berun coughed again, spraying more blood.

  “The second?”

  “—thing!” Berun had to pause between each word to gather enough air, and even then each one came out wet with blood. “The … Old Man … taught … me.”

  A small spark of curiosity overtook the fury in Chereth’s eye. “And what was that?”

  “Al—” Another cough, this one so hard that blood filled Berun’s nose and leaked out. “Always … watch … your back!”

  Chereth whirled.

  Next to the stairway stood Lewan, Berun’s bow in hand, arrow pulled back to his cheek—the steel point aimed directly at Chereth. Lewan’s fingers, grasping the bowstring, opened, and as the curve of the bow straightened, snapping the string forward with a sharp whisper of air, the runes etched into the bow glowed a brilliant green.

  The druid raised his staff and spoke a single incantation.

  Berun did not know if his life was failing so fast that his brain had already begun its long sleep, or perhaps it was simply the blessing of the Oak Father upon the bow, but in that instant he thought he saw a flash in the air as Chereth’s magic failed him. The arrow flew straight and true, burying itself in the half-elf’s chest. It struck with such force that it spun him around, and when he fell upon his hands and knees, he was facing Berun. By the time he gripped his staff and pushed himself to his feet, he was shaking like an old man with palsy—

  —and Lewan had another arrow drawn and nocked. But only for a moment.

  Chereth opened his mouth in a last, desperate attempt to call forth his magic, and the arrow struck him there, passing between his teeth. The steel point bored through his skull before the wood of the arrow stuck.

  The old druid fell back onto the vine-covered roof, his legs kicked twice, and he died staring at the sky.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The bowstring was still vibrating when a great mound of vines and leaves erupted. Sauk rose to his full height, snapping branches and raking thorns down his skin as he freed himself. A few thick vines round his shoulders would not give, so he swiped at them with a dagger until the severed ends dangled behind him like some bizarre, thorny half-cloak. He spared Lewan and Talieth a quick glance, dismissed them, and fixed his gaze on Berun. He stomped toward the oak, and Lewan heard a growl growing in the half-orc’s throat.

  “Lewan …” said Ulaan.

  “Stay back,” he told her, then took another arrow from his belt, laid it across the bow, pulled the arrow to his cheek, and aimed the steel point at Sauk. “Stop, Sauk!
Stop where you are.”

  The half-orc’s gaze flicked to Lewan. Sauk saw the threat and stopped. He turned to face Lewan and smiled. “You think you can take me with that twig tosser”—he spat blood onto the leaves—“before I get to you? You’ll only get to loose one arrow before I reach you.”

  “I’ve been a hunter most of my life,” said Lewan. “Once chance is all you ever get.”

  “Stop this! Both of you!”

  Lewan heard movement behind him, and from the corner of his eye he saw Talieth step up beside him.

  “Sauk,” she said, “I know you. I know your code. You won’t prey upon anyone weaker than you.”

  “This isn’t about honor anymore,” said Sauk. “This is about blood. Berun killed Taaki.”

  “No. His lizard did—and only after Taaki almost killed him. It was survival, Sauk. Life and death. You would have done no different in the same situation.”

  Sauk snarled, the growl building in his throat, blood running off his good tusk and the silver one. His grip tightened around the knife.

  “I am truly sorry about Taaki,” said Talieth. “But understand this. The only one on this tower stronger than you right now is me, and I am telling you that if you take one more step toward Kheil with murder in your eyes, it will be the last step you ever take.”

  Talieth’s voice sounded weak and strained, but Lewan heard the truth in her words. It was not the first time he’d been told that Sauk believed that killing those weaker than him was dishonorable. The bow, drawn and ready and aimed at Sauk, made Lewan a formidable foe. And though it took every ounce of will he had left, Lewan slackened the bow and lowered it—though he kept his fingers with a tight grip on the arrow.

  Sauk ignored the gesture, keeping his eyes fixed on Talieth. Lewan noted that the half-orc gripped the knife so tightly that his entire arm trembled.

  Sauk threw his head back and roared. Talieth took a half-step back and raised her hands, a spell already forming on her lips, but when Sauk lunged, it was behind him. He buried the knife in Chereth’s chest. Lewan heard bones break like shattering stone. Sauk pulled the knife down, cutting through muscle and shattering the dead druid’s ribcage. Lewan stared wide-eyed as Sauk tossed the knife away—with such force that it sailed over the edge of the tower—ripped open the half-elf’s chest cavity, and tore out the heart with both hands. He held it in his fist, raised it over his head, and shouted something in his own tongue. The only word Lewan understood was the last—“Malar!”—then Sauk bit into the heart, tore out a chunk with his jaws, threw the rest away, and looked over his shoulder at Talieth. Fury filled his eyes, and great hurt, but Lewan could see thought there as well. Sauk the Assassin was returning, though Sauk the Predator was not entirely gone.

  Talieth held her stance a moment longer, then relaxed. She arched one eyebrow and said to Sauk, “Are you done?”

  Sauk chewed, drips of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth as he considered. At last he looked down at Chereth’s mutilated body, spat out the heart, and said, “He’s done.”

  Lewan, Ulaan, Talieth, and Sauk stood before the oak, facing Berun. Although the druid’s magic had left the vines, they still bound Berun to the tree. Only his head was completely free, and it hung limp. Lewan still held the arrow on the bowstring, and he kept an uneasy eye on Sauk, but the half-orc, while certainly far from calm, seemed to have control of his rage. Talieth had dismissed Sauk entirely, and she stood with her hands outstretched, seeming hesitant to touch Berun.

  “Is he …?” said Talieth.

  At the sound of her voice, Berun’s eyelids fluttered and remained half open. He coughed, and a thick gout of dark blood sprayed onto Talieth’s outstretched hand.

  “Oh, Kheil—” she said, her voice breaking. But when she turned and looked at Lewan, her eyes were cold and hard as new steel. “Help me get him down. If we can find a healer—”

  “No!” Berun croaked. The one word brought another fit of coughing, and he splattered them both in blood. Neither cared.

  “I won’t lose you again, Kheil,” said Talieth, looking to Berun again. She held his face in her hands and lifted it so he could see her. “Chereth is dead. We can—”

  “No,” said Lewan.

  “Silence!” She turned a look on Lewan that bordered on murder. “You will help me.”

  Lewan did not flinch or even resist. He held her gaze a moment, then looked to his master. Tears welled in his eyes, and he said, “He’s beyond saving, Lady. Let him die upon the Oak. It’s what he wants.”

  “No!” Talieth threw herself forward and tried to embrace Berun. “Do not die! If you do, I swear I’ll drag every priest of every faith here until one of them can call you back.”

  “I … will not … answer!” The last word came out of Berun in a wet gasp, and a fit of coughing seized him, bringing up more blood. But then he settled, and his next words were clearer, though scarcely above a whisper. “I go to my Father.” He managed to find some last bit of strength, and he lifted his head to look at Sauk, Lewan, and Talieth. “Good to … have you three … here. At the end.”

  Berun let out a final, bubbling breath, then his muscles went slack. He hung upon the oak, a dead weight in Talieth’s arms.

  Talieth let out a long cry that Lewan felt sure could be heard on the distant canyon walls, then she slumped to her knees and wept at Berun’s feet.

  Lewan heard a frantic rustling of leaves off to his right, and when he looked, Perch crouched upon the ledge. The lizard seemed to realize that his master was gone. He threw back his head and let out a long, trilling wail.

  Sauk growled and took a step toward the ledge.

  Lewan half-raised the bow and pulled the string back. “Don’t,” he said.

  The full light of a clear morning shone down on Sentinelspire when four figures emerged from the Tower of the Sun. Lewan, hollowed-eyed and covered in blood, supported Ulaan with one arm and carried Perch on his left shoulder. Behind them walked Talieth, the Lady of Sentinelspire. All were scratched, cut, smeared with blood, and their clothes were little more than rags. The proud gait of the queen was gone from Talieth’s bearing. She looked defeated.

  The woods of the courtyard were in devastation. Many of the trees and much of the foliage had burned, scorching even the rain-soaked grass beneath. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay everywhere. Most were the assassins of the Fortress, but here and there lay the darker shapes of the creatures that had served the master of the tower. The dead tiger lay on her back in the blood-soaked grass, her innards splayed over her torso.

  A group of figures huddled on the lawn outside the courtyard. When they saw the trio emerge from the tower, two of them ran over. Lewan recognized one as Valmir, but he’d never seen the other man. They had weapons in hand, but when they came close enough to recognize Talieth, they lowered them. The stranger slowed to an easy walk, but Valmir ran forward to embrace Talieth.

  “Gods,” said Valmir, “you look like …”

  For once, Valmir was at a loss for words, and the impudence was altogether gone from his eyes.

  “What happened,” said the other man, and he nodded at the tower, “up there?”

  Talieth said nothing. She didn’t even look at the men, just gazed at the buildings across the street, obviously not seeing them. Her eyes seemed … haunted, Lewan thought.

  “Everyone’s dead,” said Lewan. “The Old Man, Master Berun … everyone except us.”

  “And Sauk,” said Ulaan.

  “Where is Sauk?” asked Valmir.

  “When we left, he was just sitting up there,” said Ulaan, “staring into space. As far as I know, he’s still there.”

  “Gorin, why don’t you go up there and check on him?” said Valmir.

  Gorin snorted. “Right after you hug me tight and call me mother. You go check on him yourself.”

  Valmir scowled at Gorin, then looked up at the tower. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Atop the Tower of the Sun, before the great oak tree, Sauk sat.
The morning breeze off the mountain set the tree’s leaves to whispering and tosse d the half-orc’s unbound hair into his face.

  After a long time, he looked up at the body on the tree. Sauk’s knife was gone. He made the sign of the Beastlord—three middle fingers curled like claws—on his forehead, dug his middle nail deep into his skin, and opened a fresh gash down his forehead and across his cheek.

  “Dam ul dam, Malwun.”

  He sat there, looking up at Berun, and tears mingled with the blood on his cheeks.

  About the Author

  Mark Sehestedt grew up in the high plains of eastern New Mexico. He now resides in Maine with his family, where life is awesome.

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