The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia

by James Berardinelli

  In the end, he wept but after the tears had stopped flowing, he berated himself for his weakness. The fault had lain with her, not him. Had she done what he had demanded, she would have still been alive. Defiance of that sort demanded punishment. Doing the right thing wasn’t always easy but there was no cause to cry like a child. Lynda had done things for him that no other woman had but she was gone and it was time to move on.

  As he had expected, his maid’s disappearance excited some gossip but nothing more substantial than idle curiosity. When it became clear she wouldn’t be returning, the Duke hired another woman to replace her, although this one was considerably older and less attractive. Perhaps The Knave’s father had known about the liaison and suspected Lynda’s departure might be related to a pregnancy. The Duke’s choice for the new maid assured history was unlikely to be repeated, although even if she had been pretty, The Knave wouldn’t have invited her to his bed. His sexual appetites had perished with Lynda. Women no longer excited him. A visit to the city’s most exclusive brothel proved fruitless - despite the ministrations of several courtesans, he was unable to perform nor did he have any great desire to do so. Life’s flavor had turned to ashes. Even his sessions with Madame Isabelle, once a daily high point, lost their appeal. She might have been the only one to recognize a change in her pupil; he had so little day-to-day contact with his parents and siblings that if they had noticed anything unusual, they likely would have assumed it to be a byproduct of his usual moodiness.

  Days and weeks passed for The Knave, with the Summer season giving way to the Harvest season, and little changed. He spent more time in his rooms, leaving only when some necessity demanded his presence. Most of his waking hours were occupied with brooding and his nights were filled with the nightmares he was unable to keep at bay. He lay abed often but got little sleep. His natural irritability was exacerbated.

  One rare day when he ventured outside the mansion, he experienced a defining encounter. While rambling through Basingham’s wide, crowded marketplace searching for overpriced goods, he came face-to-face with one of his childhood adversaries, Panthas, the first son of Archduke Pontos. As had been the case when they were little, Panthas proved capable of enflaming The Knave’s dark side. The routine meeting turned into an argument and the quarrel became ugly when The Knave pushed Panthas aside with too much vigor, knocking him over and causing his doublet to become muddied. The next morning, The Knave received an official challenge by way of Panthas’ second. The duel, which was technically illegal for anyone under the age of Maturity, was to be conducted outside the city limits at dawn two days hence. As the challenger, The Knave was accorded the choice of weapon.

  His lack of proficiency with ranged weapons - guns, bows, slings - made those easy to eliminate. Panthas was known for his ability with a sword, so that was an equally poor option. After also rejecting maces, axes, and hammers, The Knave eventually settled on knives. As soon as Panthas’ second departed to inform the Archduke’s son of his opponent’s preference, The Knave paid a visit to the apothecary. The man’s medicinal competence was questionable but his talents extended to less reputable substances than anti-pregnancy potions.

  “It has to act quickly to disable,” he said, explaining what he wanted.

  “The problem with that kind of poison, Young Master, is it’s invariably fatal and usually easy to detect. My recommendation is to use something more subtle - a little sprinkle on the food or in the grog. It will take some time to act but you won’t be disappointed by the result, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “I don’t have days or hours or even minutes. The moment the poison is administered, it must cause incapacitation.” Otherwise, I’m dead - not that death means much to me anymore.

  The apothecary shrugged as if to suggest that people who didn’t take his advice eventually regretted it. “If you’re determined to go with a contact poison, there are several options. How much coin you got?”

  “Money isn’t a problem. Give me your best.”

  The man smiled a toothy grin. “If your coin purse got no bottom, I can give you something that’ll put the other man on the ground in two seconds with froth coming out his mouth in five and blood from his ears in ten.”

  Exactly what I’m looking for.

  It wasn’t cheap and The Knave was certain the price had been exaggerated for his benefit but the situation was desperate so he didn’t haggle. That omission earned him a raised eyebrow and another insincere smile. He left with a lighter purse but in possession of what he needed to give him a chance against a bigger, more skilled opponent.

  The Knave arrived at the appointed location for the duel early enough to be sure he was there first. He carefully applied the venom to his two blades, making sure none came into contact with his skin. Although the apothecary had said it needed to enter through an open wound to do optimal damage, it could burn exposed skin and, if it touched the eye, it would cause blindness.

  Panthas and his second reached the clearing a few minutes before dawn. Both boys were surprised to find The Knave alone - it was highly unusual for any participant to come to a duel without a companion. They surmised that The Knave was so solitary and generally disliked that there was no one he could trust.

  Panthas’ second gave a long-winded recitation of the rules of the contest. Each participant was allowed two knives. The confrontation was not necessarily to the death - either combatant could quit at any time. Their loss by withdrawal would satisfy honor’s requirements. However, because of the nature of the weapons, a crippling or fatal outcome was possible. In any event, the victor would be decreed immune from retribution assuming the strict code of honor was adhered to. Once both boys affirmed an understanding of the conditions and an agreement to abide by them, Panthas’ second stood back and the contest began.

  The opponents took some time circling each other and making occasional feints. The Knave wasn’t an adept knife fighter but he knew the basics from having watched matches held in Basingham’s less reputable quarter. He was content to let Panthas make the first move. All he had to do was counter it, avoid getting his throat slashed, and deliver a blow that broke the skin. Panthas was wearing some kind of leather vest and leggings that a knife probably wouldn’t penetrate, but his arms were bare and his neck and face were exposed.

  Eventually, his opponent wearied of the preliminary dance and moved in for a strike. The Knave twisted away from the blow but was unable to land a retaliatory hit of his own. The boys separated again, both more wary. The Knave wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing but he could tell by Panthas’ appraising look that the other boy might be toying with him. It occurred to him that Panthas was likely as experienced with a knife as with a sword; the blow, when it came, could be quick and decisive. This wasn’t necessarily a duel to the death but there was no doubt in The Knave’s mind that the only way Panthas would get satisfaction was to cripple or kill. His situation, never good to begin with, had turned grave.

  The Knave’s next action was born out of desperation. His clumsy attack had the advantage of surprise but Panthas was too good a combatant to be taken completely unawares. The Knave felt two blows strike his body in quick succession - one to his right shoulder and the other to his left forearm. The latter bit so deeply that he dropped the knife in that hand. But his other weapon did what it needed to do. The wound was a mere graze on Panthas’ finger - a seemingly insignificant cut - but it decided the duel. The crazy grin of victory that broke out on the Archduke’s son’s face was short-lived. In less than two seconds, before he could deliver a death blow to the Knave’s exposed back, he was doubled up in agony, screaming and crying as he collapsed to the ground. While Panthas’ second rushed to his friend’s side, The Knave retrieved his dropped knife and departed the scene, looking for a healer who could staunch his bleeding and bandage his wounds.

  It took a day for the consequences of The Knave’s “victory” to rebound on him. The poison that had killed Panthas was easily traced and the secon
d readily provided all the necessary details about the duel. The Archduke demanded an immediate meeting with The Knave’s father during which conditions for reparations were detailed. A thundercloud masking his features, the Duke returned from the discussion and immediately summoned his son.

  The Knave stood before his father, head bowed, and endured a verbal flaying. “By all rights, you should hang for this. The stupidity of fighting a duel at your age… then to cheat by using poison! No son of mine would stoop so low. You have no honor! You’re fortunate Archduke Pontos is willing to settle this matter without involving the magistrates. It will cost me a tidy portion of my wealth and your sister will have to wed his new heir.

  “Then there’s the matter of the mysterious disappearance of your former maid, Lynda. I don’t know what happened to her and I assume you’re not going to tell me but after your actions in the matter of the duel, I believe you capable of many disgusting and horrific actions I’d previously thought beyond even you. You aren’t just an unprincipled knave; you’re a cruel and craven misanthrope who should no longer be allowed to continue in civilized congress.

  “Your punishment is this: you are disinherited and stricken from the family roster. You may no longer call me ‘father.’ You are banished from Basingham, never to return while I draw breath. And you are consigned to the priesthood. A representative of Prelate Ferguson will arrive on the morrow to ‘escort’ you to Vantok. Don’t mistake this for an optional career. Should you consider leaving the Temple, Ferguson and his minions will be within their rights to charge you with apostasy, which carries a gruesome death sentence.”

  The die had been cast. His fate was sealed. There was nothing he could say or do to escape this path. His cozy, comfortable, rootless life was at an end.

  For The Knave, training as a priest was akin to a term of imprisonment. He thought about escape on many occasions, but one consideration kept him in the temple: he had nowhere else to go. Much to his surprise, cloistered life was to his liking. After an initial period of reluctance, he became active and dedicated, and a strange thing happened while living in those sheltered quarters - the nightmares stopped.

  After having been in the temple for nearly a full year, he received a summons from His Eminence, Prelate Ferguson. The Knave approached the audience with trepidation. During his period of confinement, he had seen Ferguson only once at a distance. The man’s reputation was one of asceticism and fierce devotion to the gods. He was uncompromising, unforgiving, and domineering. The Knave didn’t know anyone who liked the man, but everyone respected him.

  As was customary, The Knave knelt on the cold, hard floor during the audience while Ferguson stood, towering over him. There was an ornate chair - one that looked suspiciously like a throne - but the Prelate didn’t use it. He was an ancient man, having lived close to seven decades, but there was nothing grandfatherly about his regal bearing. His bearded face was lined but his hard blue eyes were unclouded and sharp.

  “I have watched your progress, My Son, since your arrival. I’m most pleased by what I’ve seen. You came to us under duress, with strict orders to be kept here even if it was against your will. Today, I lift that ban. You are free to come and go as you see fit. But I offer two pieces of information for your consideration. First, Archduke Pontos has made a formal request to me for your extradition. He wishes you to return to Basingham to stand trial for the offense that brought you here. I refused him; you are now a priest-in-training and therefore beyond secular justice. He has no claim upon you.

  “Secondly, we are approaching a time of great crisis. The gods have revealed this to me and me alone. I cannot speak of the nature of the crisis at this time, but know that it is coming soon and, when it happens, it will reshape the order of things. I believe you have it in you to be one of my lieutenants during this time of upheaval. Factor this into your decision as to whether you wish to stay in the temple and become a priest or explore your options in the outside world.”

  As The Knave exited the formal audience hall, his decision was already made. It was here, under the stewardship of the gods’ representatives that he had found himself. No longer was he “The Knave.” He had reclaimed the simple, humble name he had been given at birth: Justin. That was who he was at this moment, and this is where he belonged. Little did he know that an ancient and feared appellation waited in the future for him to lay claim to it.

  The Warrior

  Vagrum was one of my personal favorite secondary characters, and this sentiment was shared by many early readers of the books. The storyline required that he die early in “The Curse in the Gift” - a scene that shocked many - but I wanted to write something new featuring the character in better days. “The Warrior” functions as one of several direct lead-ins to “The Last Whisper of the Gods.” It transpires a mere decade before that book begins and features several recognizable “cameos.”

  Some days, it felt good to be alive. This was one of those. Using the back of a gloved hand, Vagrum wiped the still-warm blood from his face. His opponents, all three of them, lay dead at his feet. Had they coordinated their attacks, they might have brought him down but he was too big, too ferocious, and too skilled for their haphazard approach to beat him. Today, victory belonged to him and the rest of the boys from Obis. Now it was time to collect his pension and marry his girl. They had been waiting for this day for what seemed like ages.

  According to what they had been told during an abbreviated briefing, this was the largest and most organized bandit encampment in the whole of the North - big enough to threaten some of the smaller settlements outside the city’s immediate environs and a definite danger to merchant caravans traveling the Great East-West road from Syre to Obis. No more, however. Fifty of Obis’ best soldiers had been more than a match for the two hundred bandits. Vagrum’s company had lost perhaps ten men. The bandits had been routed with half their number dead and the rest scattered. Eventually, they would regroup. In another half-year or so, King Rangarak would have to send out another band of “Bandit Killers.” After spending six long years in the service, this had been Vagrum’s last confrontation. He had given enough of himself to the army, losing an eye and most of one ear and gaining a mass of scars. The time had come for him to settle down. He was going to build a house for himself and Justine and sell his sword arm to her village to earn his keep.

  “Ain’t gonna be the same without you, Vagrum,” said Dauphin, one of his closest friends. They had been through thick and thin together over the years, often fighting back-to-back. The bond of comradeship between them had been fired in battle, sealed by blood.

  “Reckon you’ll be takin’ your pension soon,” said Vagrum. It was the sane thing to do. If they stayed long enough in the service, even the best fighters eventually made a mistake and a mistake in battle meant the end. Age was the warrior’s enemy and Vagrum could feel it creeping into his bones. No doubt the same was true of Dauphin.

  “Aye, there’s truth in that. Ain’t gonna stay up here in the freezing North like you, though. I got my sights set on Vantok. Paradise in the South, they call it. They say the women down there are just as willing as the ones in Syre but you don’t hafta wear your boots to bed at night to ward off the cold.” He smiled a crooked smile at the thought.

  “My girl’s up here and she don’t wanna head South.” It was unfortunate, though. Justine was in fragile health - always had been - and Vagrum thought the warmer climate would agree with her. But she wouldn’t consider leaving the village where she had been born and raised. Her parents were dead but her brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and grandda were all there. If Vagrum wanted her, and he surely did, he would have to stay in the frigid North.

  “She might say that now, but waddabout in the middle of the Winter, when the snow’s piled up to the top of her head?”

  The same thought had occurred to Vagrum. He liked the North during the latter weeks of Planting, through all of Summer, and much of Harvest, but Winter was another thing. Many times in the past,
he had headed for the warmer climes of the lower farming villages when the air turned cold. No longer, it seemed. Justine didn’t like traveling and she was wed to the idea of staying where her family was. It was her only condition for marrying him. To have someone that pretty, that sweet, that gentle in his life… it was worth almost any sacrifice. They could stay warm by the fire and in each other’s arms. In the North, Winter was for making babies. Two-thirds of the population of every village was born during Harvest season.

  “I’ll miss you, Crags,” said Dauphin.

  “Same here.” There wasn’t much more to be said, and neither of them was a man of words. They’d shared some good times - at least a dozen campaigns, and not all of them on a battlefield. Vagrum recalled one epic night when they had visited as many taverns and brothels as time and stamina would allow, each trying to outdo the other drinking and whoring. In the end, Vagrum had been declared the victor - he was stouter and taller than Dauphin and could hold his liquor better. But times like those were better left in the past. In return for imparting wisdom, age stole away stamina. He was ready to start a new chapter. The wildness of his youth was a thing of the past. He looked forward to taking his ease by the fire, smoking a pipe, screwing his wife, and raising his children. Such a life would have seemed dull and pointless to his 20-year old self. Now that he was well past 30 and pushing through middle age, he couldn’t think of a more appealing way to spend his days. Dying abed had become a more appealing option than perishing on the battlefield.

  Vagrum was a mountain of a man - a big, brawny brawler who had earned the nickname “Crags” as much as for his scarred, rugged features as for the size of his body. In a social setting, he was intimidating. Even friends didn’t like arguing with him. In a fight, he was fearless and his presence had sent many a foe into full flight. The Iron King of Obis, Rangarak, acknowledged few of his soldiers by name but Vagrum was an exception. His reputation was known far and wide across the North. His enemies would rejoice from the news of his retirement. The village to which he was headed, a remote place called Ostabel, would gain a formidable protector.