Rath and Storm

by Peter Archer (ed) (retail) (epub)

  No!” Turning away from the minotaur, Gerrard hurled the sword at the war chest with surprising force. It banged loudly against the chest’s upraised lid, the sound echoing across the large empty training yard. “Even the gods can’t undo the past. Whatever I owed her was paid in blood—my clan’s blood, Rofellos’s blood.”

  “You have not changed a day,” Tahngarth charged. “You throw things in a tantrum, but your horns are still as blunt as the day you walked away.”

  Gerrard said nothing.

  “It’s true that Rofellos died because of your choices,” the minotaur continued. “He died because you chose to pursue the Legacy, your destiny.”

  “That’s right,” Gerrard said cynically, “and I’m not going to risk anyone that way again.”

  “Then Sisay will die because of what you choose to do now. You will always find reasons for doing or for not doing. The reason for doing this,” Tahngarth paused, his throat stiff as he raised his head higher, “is because we need you as well. Hanna has reviewed the pieces of the Legacy we have collected and says you may be our only hope of using them to reach Sisay in Rath. Do not let her die too. You could not save Rofellos. But you are Sisay’s only hope.”

  At the mention of Hanna’s name, Gerrard felt himself soften. He remembered all the time she had spent handling the artifacts as each new piece came aboard, her eyes alive with anticipation as the two of them uncrated some recently acquired relic. And he remembered sitting down with her and his friend Sisay, before the bad times, the three of them sharing wine and discussing the myriad implications of each artifact’s power. Sisay had been his confidant. They had shared moments that none of the others would ever know about but that he would rather die himself than lose.

  He sighed. “You know this is a trick, don’t you, Tahngarth? Whoever took Sisay is probably counting on you to drag me kicking and screaming back aboard Weatherlight. You’re going to put your hoof right in the trap.”

  “Then we will all put our hooves in the same trap, and we will all walk with the same limp.”

  Gerrard considered for a moment. “I have a…situation here in Benalia. It demands my involvement, too. I can’t do both.”

  “Need overrules choice,” Tahngarth said simply. “Sisay needs you.”

  * * *

  —

  The afternoon exercises were a blur. Gerrard offered a terse and unconvincing story about the absence of both Javero and Torsten, then let the other students leave early. He considered taking aside those he knew had been approached by Lord Kastan, but he was unsure of what to say. What price treason? A soldier’s allegiance is to Benalia, and if it’s not, why stain its army with your presence? Where does responsibility to oneself end and responsibility to others begin?

  But that, he knew, was the real question, and he didn’t want to ask a question to which he didn’t already know the answer.

  At sunset, he raked the sand, double-checked the war chest locks, and sat in the shadows as the light ran away from the training yard. He turned his hourglass pendant over to watch the sands trickle from top to bottom. Once, when he was younger, he had thought it novel to count the number of enemies he’d killed. In the middle of battle, the significance of surviving could easily be overshadowed by the excitement of killing. At first, when there were few, Gerrard remembered every one of them, their last looks of surprise or pain before he sent them to whatever followed life. He became uneasy with the realization that they were people. After all this time he could still see their faces, hear their cries for mercy. It was too late for any of them. But Sisay’s was a cry for help he could still answer.

  Well after dark, he locked up the training yard and went below to his quarters. The lantern in his entranceway had gone out, and he paused to light it, fumbling for a moment with his flint in the blackness.

  “I’ve brought you a present, Master Gerrard,” a voice snarled from the darkness as the flint struck.

  Gerrard turned slowly, the lantern’s light rising behind him. His shadow jumped across the entranceway walls and into the main quarters where Torsten stood, his throat bandaged with a black circle of cloth, a dagger in one hand. In the other, he held a bloody head by the hair. As the lantern’s light reached the skull and the shadows fell away, Gerrard could see the earring, speckled still with blood. Javero. His bulging eyes had been sewn open, frozen in a stare. The stitches through the eyelids looked like small spiders lined across the dead boy’s face.

  Gerrard met Torsten’s stare coldly, swallowing his rage. Torsten pointed the tip of his dagger at Gerrard’s chest.

  “He was alive when I did it,” Torsten said arrogantly. “But I’ll spare you that indignity.”

  He tossed Javero’s head to Gerrard’s feet.

  “You’ve got the ball bearings of a brass man,” Gerrard answered. His sword was sheathed, but there were weapons all around the chamber. Swords, axes, polearms—he only needed a moment to reach one. “I’m a master-at-arms, Torsten, and you show up here with a dagger. Why didn’t you come blindfolded, too?”

  Waving the dagger, Torsten advanced. “I’ve been training with assassins, Master Gerrard,” he said, “and assassins need only a dagger when they have poison.”

  He slashed with the dagger, aiming at Gerrard’s middle. Gerrard backpedaled, throwing the lantern for effect and watching for his opening. As Torsten dodged left to avoid the lantern, Gerrard dove right, narrowly missing Torsten’s backhanded cut as Gerrard rolled into the main chamber of his quarters. He knew better than to come to his feet. Instead, he lunged forward, under the table, reaching up under it as he did so to find the dagger he kept secured there. Behind him, Torsten grunted as he swung, cutting where Gerrard’s throat would have been had he still stood.

  Gerrard tipped the table as he rose, shoving it hard toward Torsten, who jumped back. In the entranceway, oil splattered when the lantern broke and ignited the curtain that served as door. The room began to heat quickly.

  “You might as well be blindfolded,” Gerrard said, displaying his own dagger, “because now we’re even.”

  Torsten raised his weapon again. Gerrard flipped his dagger end for end, caught it by the blade, and threw it at Torsten’s sword hand. The knife rolled sideways in flight, then buried itself in the back of Torsten’s hand from knuckle to knuckle instead of from knuckle to wrist. Torsten wailed with surprise and pain as the blade drove through to his palm. His own dagger flew from his grip. Instinctively, he reached to catch it with his uninjured hand. The blade sliced neatly across his palm as his hand closed around it.

  Realization set in as he met Gerrard’s knowing gaze.

  “Good catch,” Gerrard said.

  Torsten began to tremble, dropping the poisoned dagger and looking wildly around the room. He teetered as if he might fall, shook his head as if to clear it, then scratched absently at the bandages covering his throat wound. Taking a step further into the room, he snatched the elaborate rod from the nearest shelf. He pointed it at Gerrard.

  “I remember this,” he said thickly, licking his lips, eyelids fluttering erratically. “From the first day of training. Powerful magic.”

  “It’s only as good as the hand that wields it,” Gerrard said.

  “Yes,” Torsten seemed to drift away for a moment, swaying on his feet again, “and I’m good.”

  “No,” Gerrard answered. “You’re dead.”

  “Maybe. But I’ll take you with me.” Torsten pointed the rod and twisted the grip. A magnificent blast of yellow light exploded from its core, roaring out the barrel and enveloping Gerrard. The quarters around them were momentarily bright as day. The rod hummed loudly as it unloaded its magic on the room. Just as suddenly, the magic went away, leaving the two men standing in the dimness of the chamber as they were before. Gerrard smiled.

  “I bet you wish you’d gone for a real weapon,” he said.

  Torsten groaned, dr
opped the Null Rod, and sank to the floor. His knees drew up to his chin, and he wrapped his arms around them. Gerrard kicked the poisoned dagger away before he knelt next to him. The young man’s breathing was quickly becoming ragged. Angry red blotches were already spreading over both of his cheeks.

  “Where’s Lord Kastan, Torsten?” Gerrard asked. “You know where he hides, where I can find him.”

  Nodding, Torsten stared up at the ceiling. His eyelids had stopped fluttering. Now he stared as blankly as the eyes in Javero’s decapitated head. “I don’t want to die alone.”

  “I’ll stay with you until you pass,” Gerrard said softly. “But before you go, tell me where Lord Kastan is hiding.”

  * * *

  —

  Commander Alaric tore a strip of bread from the loaf and passed it across the table to the albino, who accepted it with a gracious but awkward nod. The albino’s long white hair whispered over his shoulders as he moved. Despite the late-night shadows dancing all around Alaric’s quarters, the albino seemed to shine, as if the feeble light from the lanterns set him aglow.

  “No tasters tonight,” Lord Kastan sighed, smiling. He sniffed the bread. “I come ill-prepared.”

  “You’ll notice I’m not serving Vesuvan wine,” Alaric said, sharing his guest’s smile. “I seem to have mislaid my only bottle. Oh, now I remember. It isn’t Borlean, it’s Vesuvan.”

  “Just as well. I’ve been told it goes down rough, like poison.” Kastan’s smile faded. “Do you think he knew?”

  Alaric shook his head and smoothed his gray mustache. “He was upset about this Weatherlight matter. He was simply too distracted to drink.”

  Rubbing his fingers as if they were cold, Kastan said, “Better, perhaps, if you had encouraged him to rejoin the ship. Save us this bloody business.”

  “Then he would remain a wild card. He could return at any given moment to raise rebellion against the officers. And he would, too. He’s thick with the knights. They’d march against us, for certain. It would be civil war in Benalia.” Alaric bit off a mouthful of bread, chewed slowly, swallowed. “It’s better this way…provided your boy’s up to the job.”

  “It’s not the boy who needs to work, just his dagger,” Kastan answered. “With a touch of stealth, we’ll get poison to Gerrard’s heart one way or another.”

  Gerrard stepped out of the darkness of the entranceway and into the lamplight. Alaric choked on his bread. Leaping quickly to his feet, he dashed around the table to stand between Gerrard and the albino assassin.

  “I didn’t want to disturb your conversation, Commander,” Gerrard said tightly. “I’m glad I waited.”

  Alaric put his hand on his sword. “This is an unfortunate surprise,” Alaric admitted. Behind him, Lord Kastan rose quietly, turning to face Gerrard.

  “This would seem to be the day for them,” Gerrard agreed. “I was seriously considering staying—I figured the Benalish army couldn’t be corrupted as long we were vigilant. But that was before you sent Torsten after me.”

  Alaric darted a look at Lord Kastan, the commander’s eyebrows knitting in annoyance. “Never send an assassin to do a soldier’s work, eh?”

  “In your command, what’s the difference?” Gerrard snapped. His hand dropped to his sword’s hilt as Alaric reached for his own blade.

  “Perhaps,” Lord Kastan said, his voice barely rising above a whisper as the two men went for their weapons, “the time has come for a bargain.”

  Gerrard stopped, as did Alaric.

  “A command position of your own,” the albino suggested; he looked to Alaric for support, who nodded curtly. “You work closely with the soldiers. Even without reports, you know who has talent.”

  “And there’s always gold,” Alaric added.

  “How much gold?” Gerrard asked. He moved into the room, putting the table between them. He stopped near Alaric’s cabinets.

  “Name a figure,” Alaric said.

  “There are conditions.”

  Lord Kastan began to speak but Alaric cut him off. “Then name them! You have us by the sword buckle. What do you want?”

  “First, no more assassins are recruited from my ranks. I don’t care what the other masters-at-arms do, but nobody gets drafted out from under me.” Gerrard waited for both men to nod before continuing. “Second, you clean house among the officers. Lord Kastan recruits from without, not from within.”

  Kastan grimaced, but Alaric said, “It will be difficult, but if it buys your silence, then so be it.”

  “Well then,” Gerrard said, opening the cabinet and reaching inside, “that just leaves one more thing. Let’s drink to our newfound alliance.”

  He put the bottle of Vesuvan wine and two glasses on the table.

  “After you, gentlemen,” he said, grinning. “Should I be thinking of a toast? Or maybe an epitaph?”

  “I should have known we would do this the hard way,” Alaric said, drawing his sword. “You’re a bastard, Gerrard. And a stupid one at that—we’re two against one. I’ve no doubt you can take one of us, but the other one will gut you.”

  Gerrard drew his own blade. “I brought a guest.”

  The minotaur had to bend to get through the door, but he rose to his full height once within the main chamber. He hefted his own two blades expertly, crossing them. Tahngarth snarled something in the language of the Talruum minotaurs, and his lips frothed with his fury.

  Gerrard gestured at Lord Kastan. “If he moves, cut him down. The knights should be here any time now. They’ll deal with him if he’s still alive.”

  The albino stared up at Tahngarth, taking in the minotaur’s broad muscular chest and furious stare, then quietly sat down again at the table.

  “You summoned the knights?” Alaric asked.

  Gerrard nodded. “When Torsten told me where to find Lord Kastan, I thought it might be a good idea to make sure he ended up in the proper hands. In mine, he’d probably end up dead.”

  Alaric turned his sword over in his hands, glaring at Gerrard while he did. “You’ve killed me, boy. When the knights arrive, my career ends. Twenty-two years in the Benalish military, ground under your boot.”

  “Your own boot, I would say,” Gerrard mused. “You were my friend once, though, Commander. So here.” He slid the bottle of Vesuvan wine toward Alaric. “I’ll say it was Lord Kastan’s doing. You’ll die with some semblance of honor.”

  Alaric stared at him, then down again at his sword. “If I fight my way out—”

  “They’ll still figure out what you’ve done,” Gerrard finished. He pointed at Tahngarth. “You have only his silence if I’m alive. Cutting your way out of this won’t save you unless you think you can kill both of us. I’d bet on us, if I were a gambling man.”

  Slowly, Alaric put his sword down on the table, reaching for one of the glasses with a firm hand. He then poured the dark Vesuvan wine into the glass.

  “Before you practice murder,” Gerrard said as Alaric lifted the glass to his lips, “you should first learn of suicide.”

  Commander Alaric nodded. “A hard lesson learned, boy.”

  He drank quickly.

  * * *

  —

  They had gathered for Captain Gerrard on Weatherlight’s deck, thirty sailors strong in the morning’s first light. Tahngarth introduced him to those who had joined since his departure, many of whom had already heard of his exploits. Gerrard accepted their compliments as well as their uncomfortable stares. For every one of them who thought him a hero, he knew there was one who thought him a coward. It was entirely up to him to change their minds.

  At the end of the line, he bent to greet Squee, the goblin cabin boy who had been so enamored of Sisay when he first came aboard. The goblin shook his hand awkwardly, then hid nervously behind Tahngarth’s knees. Gerrard looked up into the minotaur’s unreadable eyes.

  �
�You’re first mate, Tahngarth,” he said.

  “Again,” Tahngarth snorted. “Always a first mate. For the captain’s record, I was captain from Sisay’s abduction until this moment.”

  Gerrard grinned. “Two steps up, one step back. Don’t feel too alone. You and I’ll both get demoted when we get Sisay back.”

  The minotaur bowed his head for a moment, closing his eyes as if in prayer. He let out a great breath through his nostrils, shaking his nose ring. “I have been afraid to say ‘when.’ ”

  “I’ll tell her you said so,” Gerrard said, moving on, “when she comes up that gangplank.”

  Finally, he came to the last crew member. The two stood uncomfortably facing one other while Tahngarth and the others drifted to their stations to prepare for sailing. Hanna smoothed her blonde hair behind each ear, adjusted the various tools on her work belt, and shuffled her feet once. She’s still beautiful, Gerrard thought. He looked out at the sails, let his eyes follow the goblin across the deck, and listened to the sounds of port life drifting to the ship from Benalia. Finally he said, “I missed you, Hanna.”

  She half-smiled, then caught herself and straightened her expression. “Welcome back aboard.”

  “Thanks.” He paused, wondering what he could say that would change things. Instead he said, “Tahngarth tells me we’re going to need a wizard to get to Rath.” When she nodded, he added, “He also tells me you know someone who can help us.”

  “In Tolaria,” she said. “I can navigate us there.”

  “So why did you decide to come back, Gerrard?” she suddenly blurted. “Let’s face it: you’ve been running away from the Legacy since the day you first learned of it. It never really meant anything to you, did it?”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Gerrard said softly. “If it gets me what I want or what I know is right, I’ll use it, but if it doesn’t, I’ll forget about it. We can just toss it over the side when we reach Rath. I’m back for you, for Tahngarth, and for the rest of the crew. And most important, I’m back for Sisay.”