“Meedryk, are you listening to me? You nearly killed a man. You could have been executed.”
“I had to tell my master that I flubbed a flash burn,” he said. “It was humiliating. I learned to flash burn when I was an occulist. But I couldn’t tell him what I was trying to do. I couldn’t tell him that I was using the spells of a third-circle canalist.”
Aramaesia pressed down on his back and he screamed. “Meedryk!” she shouted. “Breshargn drowned because he drank of the forbidden river. Will you continue to drink? What will be your fate?”
Meedryk craned his neck toward her, his eyes squinted. “What?” he winced at the effort. “Who is Breshargn?”
She shook her head. “It is not important. Knowledge must be earned, Meedryk Bodlyn. You have knowledge that you have stolen, so you do not respect it.”
“I didn’t let go of the powder, Aramaesia,” he said. “I didn’t really cast the spell.”
“I am not talking about the spell, Meedryk.”
“Then I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Precisely,” she said. “You do not.”
†††
Grae sat in his pavilion, alone, pushing jurren meat around his plate. He unstoppered a wineskin and tapped out the last few drops. Images of the officers he’d known drifted in his mind. High-born men whose fathers paid for their commissions. Men like Mulbrey’s Chamberlain, who could smile and sip Dromese Scarlet as he talked of massacres.
Grae stood and tugged absently at the leather tabard over his mail until it was straight. He yanked at the iron buckle on his sword belt until it was centered beneath his navel and thought of Duke Mulbrey and men like him.
He glanced at the arrowhead rank insignia on each of his shoulders. The one on the left seemed to dip forward so he unfastened it and used a piece of string to align it properly to the seam. It wasn’t right, what these men did.
Can you order someone to put an entire village to the sword if you have never heard a mother, whose throat is about to be cut, telling her young son to close his eyes? Is it proper to order soldiers to assail an unassailable fortress without having seen most of a battalion lying dead on the marches? Without hearing the screams of men as boiling sand is showered upon them from machicolations? Without seeing the other soldiers flee in fear of their own brothers, who had been melted into howling monstrosities?
To issue an order without understanding, in gross detail, what it is you are asking is an injustice. It is the one injustice in the world that can never be forgiven. But it didn’t give Grae the right to question his orders.
Every given order can be questioned and investigated. A soldier can drive himself mad sorting through the politics behind each order, sifting through the just and unjust. Grae was not adequately equipped to determine which orders were proper and which were not. No soldier was. To pretend he knew the truth behind an order was to look for an excuse to avoid it.
Grae abandoned his meal. He took his half-cloak from a wooden staff buried into the ground then dabbed at it with a linen cloth that he dipped into a bowl of crushed lavender, mint and water.
Laraytia couldn’t take another Civil War. Gracidmar and Durrenia would pick the kingdom clean while Laraytian killed Laryatian. Could one boy really set such a thing in motion?
Yes. Even a child could keep Lae Duerna Duchy in the hands of conspirators. Even a child could prevent the king from quenching the flames of dissension.
He sat at his table—nothing more than a flat circle of light wood set onto a tripod—and used a charcoal nub to write a short letter. When he was done, he folded the scrap of parchment and drove his officer’s ring into melted wax to seal the letter. He held the letter for a long time before he felt another presence in the room. Something dark and patient. It was The Headsman. A black-cloaked, grinning fiend waiting to take Grae’s place.
†††
The fire crackled. Soldiers sat close to the flames, holding oiled weapons and sharpening stones. Sage told a joke about a shepherd and a female centaur and laughter rippled through the camp.
Rundle Graen spoke into the laughter. “How come we ain’t seen Black Murrogar again?”
The laughter dimmed. Then faded entirely. Sage wiped at his eyes and smiled. But after a moment, not even the smiles remained.
Lokk shrugged his bulging shoulders. “We’ll see him again.”
The soldiers settled back and the darkness seemed to grow darker. Drissdie stared into the forest for a long time, his arms folded tightly around himself. Shanks and Rundle ran stones over their blades.
“Hey Lurius,” Shanks called. “How come you never sharpen them swords ‘a yours?”
Lokk’s eyes smoldered as he stared at the big infantryman. The rasping of stones across metal ceased. Lord Aeren broke the silence, his voice faint. “They’re theiyras, are they not? Swords of the Eridian tornati.”
Lokk turned his gaze upon Aeren, but it was softer stare.
“You were a tornati once, weren’t you?” said Lord Aeren. “I recognized the swords.”
“What do you know of tornati?” said Lokk.
Aeren cleared his throat and glanced at Rundle, thought carefully on his words. “My mistress travels to Eridia every few years,” he said. “She goes to see the menageries. You Tornati are given the most amazing creatures to kill.”
“What’s a Tornati?” asked Shanks.
“The tornati are showmen of battle. They kill animals, and sometimes men, for crowds.”
“That right?” said Shanks. “Like a pit warrior?”
Lokk rose to his feet and took a step toward Shanks. Lord Aeren spoke quickly. “That is an offense, Shanks. Like calling a master sculptor a stone mason. The Tornati are artists, the most revered men in Eridia. They sculpt with swords. They fight in a stadium called a corona, the crown of any Eridian city. The Tornati might as well be their kings. I had the privilege of watching a bout once. A Tornati they called Atretia the Bull. He fought a vrusk lizard. I’ll never forget the poise that man had. He banged his theiyras overhead, calling the beast to him. I can remember that sound. It rang out across the corona so clearly. My mistress said the swords are made to ring when struck against one another.
“Theiyras,” said Shanks. “That’s what they call them swords?”
“Yes,” said Aeren. “Special swords. Forged in Southern Annecia. It is said that it takes three craftsmen a full year to make one theiyra.” He studied Lokk. “I’m sorry. I thought you stole those swords at first. But I did you a great disservice. You earned those swords, didn’t you? Why did you leave, Lokk? You must have been worshipped there. Why would a tornati become a mercenary?”
Lokk sat down again, said nothing. He stared at Lord Aeren with a blank expression, his eyes distant.
Shanks pointed to the sheathed Theiyras. “Can I see one ‘a them fancy swords?”
“You don’t want him to draw them out,” said Sage. “He told me that he won’t sheathe them again until they have taken a life.”
“Is that a Tornati custom?” asked Aeren.
“It’s a Lokk Lurius custom,” said Lokk.
“What’s the point of that?” snorted Shanks.
“Leave it,” said Sage.
“Go bugger yourself,” said Shanks. “I was just wondering, is all.”
They sat for a time, oiled stones rasping on metal. Lokk let his eyes wander to the burnished sheaths that held his theiyras. There was a time when he drew those swords often. When nothing pleased him more than ripping them from their sheaths. Nothing was so satisfying as carving flesh with blade, as seeing the crimson stain of blood wash through the engravings in the steel.
But anything could happen when swords were drawn. And that power could get away from a man. His swords began leaving their sheaths more and more often. And then one day, they left on their own. The swords became the master, and he a slave once more. And on that day, the only someone that truly mattered to Lokk Lurius fell. Blades carved flesh, and the crimson stai
n of her blood washed through the engravings.
He promised her deathstone he would never draw those blades again, knowing that his words were lies. He aged into a compromise. If he knew that something had to die when the theiyras were drawn, then he could wrest control from the swords. The high price of a life kept the theiyras sheathed. He became master once again.
“Well I don’t wanna be around when you sharpen them,” Shanks laughed and held his axe up to check the edge.
“If you don’t stop talking,” said Lokk. “I’m going to draw those swords right now.”
Chapter 28
It took the Grand Enchanter half of a year to empower the Cobblethrie stone. When the task was complete, he was asked if it would work—if the Black Shudders could be conquered by the spell.
The Grand Enchanter drew himself tall and replied with two words: “No idea.”
—From “Beyond the Cobblethrie Curse,” by Ellion Muldyr
Ulrean was still too weak to walk, so Aramaesia carried the child to her haypad, with Maribrae following behind. When they had gone, Shanks spoke softly to the other soldiers. “Zoop,” he said. “Did you lot get a look at that piece ‘a work in the boy’s head? What’s the tale on that?”
“Is decoration?” said Jjarnee. “To look pretty?”
Sage shook his head. “No,” he said. “That stone seemed a part of his skull. As if it grew out of him.”
“It is said to have healing powers,” said Sir Jastyn.
“You know that for certain?” said Shanks. “… My lord.”
“None of you need call me that on this journey,” said Jastyn. “No titles are necessary among fellow soldiers. Address me as you would another trudge.”
“Okay, you lump of wyvern shit,” said Shanks.
“What did you say?” Jastyn’s eyebrows were halfway up his forehead.
Shanks shifted uncomfortably. “That’s… that’s how soldiers talk to each other. You know. It’s funny. Makes bonds.”
“I see, you son of a pustulent whore.” Jastyn smiled.
Shanks gave him a crooked smile.
“That’s right,” Sage nodded to Shanks, “you freakishly stupid harpy’s queynt. It is how we talk to each other.”
“Listen …” said Shanks, his eyes slitting.
“Listen to what, you cockless thrull fart?” said Jastyn. “This bonding is great fun.”
“I’m gonna bond my axe to your heads, you man-lickers,” said Shanks.
“Go ahead and try, you bleeding arse wart,” said Meedryk, chuckling. His laugh died when Shanks glared at him, but he didn’t look away. They stared at each other until Shanks turned and threw his mug at Drissdie, hit him in the head with a clunk.
“Ha! There goes another half of your memories, Spigot.”
“Trudge Whitewind,” said Sage. “What do you know about that gem?”
“Not much,” Sir Jastyn replied. “Ulrean was born sickly. When his older brother died, his health became of paramount concern to Lae Duerna. The boy’s father, Duke Orien, paid an unfathomable amount of money purchasing the gem and had a group of magicians enchant it. They said it would keep the child healthy.”
“Unfathomable, eh?” said Shanks. “So, did it work?”
The knight shrugged.
“He’s alive,” Lord Aeren offered.
“Cost a bit of money did it, that gem?” asked Shanks.
“Aye,” Sir Jastyn replied. “It’s a flawless vulnerayne.”
“Sage, how much would you say a flawless vulnerayne like that would be worth?” asked Shanks.
Sage shrugged. “I didn’t get a good look at it. Many, many drakes, for sure.”
“Many, as in hundreds of drakes?” asked Shanks.
“Many, as in thousands of drakes,” said Sage.
Shanks whistled. “Enough to buy a small army for half a year.”
Shanks, Rundle and Drissdie looked toward the boy.
“Of course, this is all just talk,” said Sage. “I mean, it is in the boy’s head now, so there isn’t any value to it anymore.”
Shanks took another long look at the sleeping boy. “Yah,” he said. “Just talk.”
Maribrae walked into the circle and stopped in front of Jastyn.
“Lord Whitewind,” she said stiffly. “May I please have a word with you?”
Jastyn shifted and smiled nervously at the other soldiers.
“He ain’t Lord Whitewind no more,” said Shanks. “He’s just a regular puddle of piss now, like us.”
“So have I noticed,” said Maribrae.
“Excuse me gentlemen,” said Sir Jastyn, and he followed Maribrae out of camp.
“There they go again,” said Drissdie.
“He don’t look happy,” said Shanks. “Maybe he’ll let me take his place next to her tonight.”
Jjarnee’s eyes were slits. “You not have talking so much.”
“Have you lost your senses, talking like that about her?” added Sage.
“Why does everyone get so uppity over her?” said Shanks. “She’s his songmaiden. He fucks her. That’s all. She ain’t nobility.”
Sage stared at Shanks, exchanged glances with Lord Aeren.
“What?” asked Shanks.
“Nothing,” said Sage. “Forget it.”
Shanks shrugged his meaty shoulders and gnawed at a wing on his plate. “So,” he said. “A thousand drakes, split five ways. That’s quite a haul, eh?”
“Whatever do you mean, Beldrun?” asked Sage.
“Nothing,” said Shanks. “Just talk. You understand. Just talk.”
“You know what else would be just talk?” said Lokk Lurius. “If I said, ‘I bet I could cut Shanks’s neck and make a stream of his blood spray thirty paces.’ That would be talk too.”
“Look,” said Shanks. “I’m just trying to make entertainment.”
“Is that your name for it?” said Sage.
Shanks looked back toward the child. “Just talk.”
†††
Maribrae led Jastyn twenty yards into the forest. “Have my words found your heart?”
“Mari,” he said. “What would be said of me if I left before I had so much as looked upon the creature I was sworn to destroy?”
“That Sir Jastyn survived when the others of his squad were slaughtered. Advise them not to send a squad to do the work of a brigade.”
Jastyn smiled and stroked her cheek, and for the first time, Maribrae recoiled at his touch, at the condescension of that touch. “A brigade,” he chuckled. “There is hardly a brigade left in the West, my sweetberry.”
“Play your mind upon it longer,” she said. “The child, Ulrean, could be our charge. No voice would be raised against you for leaving if the life of Ulrean were your spur. A hero. They would sing your name for sheltering the last breath of the Cobblethries. Jastyn the Savior.”
“He’s not the last breath,” said Jastyn. “And I would hardly be met with cheering throngs in Nuldryn for rescuing a noble of Lae Duerna.”
Maribrae took his hand. “Liked or hated, the Cobblethries are… were…” she shook her head, “are a mighty house of the West. If praise comes not from Duke Mulbrey, then perhaps from King Tharandyr. And from the Cobblethries, and Lae Duerna and Maulden Duchy. All would hail your name, Jastyn. Not your brothers. Not your cousins. You. Jastyn Whitewind. Jastyn the Hero.”
“My sunlight,” said Jastyn. “You would have me take this child from his protectors? To wander the forests of Maug Maurai with only you and me as his guardians?”
She nodded, her braids bouncing. “Best he take his chances fleeing the Beast than dashing at its jaws.” Maribrae’s voice trembled. “For what purpose do you continue this fatal journey?”
“My love,” he said, “You know the answer to that. What would my life be without accomplishment? I must earn my nobility. I must conquer this beast, as Maegen Grimbrand destroyed the Manx Serpent. I must become someone.”
I won’t scream, she thought.
But it w
as difficult.
“Do you need more than you have?” She spat. A rage blossomed in her, years of silent suffering. “Must you live in a thousand legends? Legends they are, Jastyn. You chase what doesn’t exist. What isn’t real.” She advanced on him, the treachery of tears once more in her eyes. “Will you say it to me again? Will you tell me you are nothing? If you are nothing, Jastyn Whitewind, then what am I? What am I, that loves you more than herself?” She thrust a finger upwards. “Shall we look at the stars again, my darling? Shall we stare into the darkness? You shan’t find your heroes up there, Jastyn. There are no titles for you there. Will you not see it? Will you not see it?” She surrendered again to the tears. Fell to her knees, and tapped her chest with a forefinger.
He knelt and threw his arms around her. Stroked her hair as she cried. “Mari,” he said. “You know that to protect you is, and always shall be, my first priority.”
I won’t scream.
“Protect me?” she said, wiping her eyes. “Black Murrogar could protect nary ‘a one of his charges. What do you estimate your chances?”
“Murrogar had no support,” he said. “Just provincials. A handful of guards and pikemen. And they were surprised by the Beast. You have some of the best fighting men of the West as your guard. Lokk Lurius, Beldrun Shanks, Grae Barragns. These are among the finest fighting men I have seen. And you know I have seen Laraytia’s best. The others, they are no quintains either. They are a quirky bunch, but they are Standards. This squad is legendary, Mari. And you heard Drissdie; Murrogar is still alive.”
He kissed her forehead and spoke again. “Every heroic struggle has a moment of doubt, of fear. Without those moments, the struggle cannot be heroic. That fear is what makes the struggle glorious.” He kissed her lips. “I will protect you.” He kissed her again. “The squad will protect you.”
She allowed him to kiss her neck, but her eyes stared deep into the growing blackness.
I won’t scream.
“And who will protect you?” she asked. “Who will protect the squad?”
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