by David Benem
After a winding route through the Abbey’s maze-like passageways, he arrived at the counter of the apothecary. The withered, bespectacled acolyte who manned the counter seemed a kindred spirit, in that he avoided eye contact and discussion as adeptly as Bale. Bale had to clear his throat three times before the alchemist removed his attention from an array of glass globes full of colored liquids and swirling fumes.
“Rat poison and drimroot,” Bale said simply, wondering if he’d said too much for the alchemist’s liking.
The alchemist grumbled something Bale took to be an acknowledgement and trudged up a ladder servicing the tall shelving behind him. Shelf after shelf bowed from the weight of decanters, vials, powders, casks and dried herbs. The alchemist grabbed a small, brownish sprig then snatched a jar from one of the upper shelves. He descended the ladder, handed Bale the dry sprig then meted out a few granules from the jar into a pouch.
Bale gave a curt nod and left. It occurred to him that he’d made dozens of trips to the apothecary over the years, but they’d never exchanged words beyond the requested concoctions and had never traded names. It seemed a perfect relationship.
He retrieved his traveling cloak, staff, and a book from his cramped quarters and departed. It wasn’t until he’d arrived at the Abbey’s outer door that he noticed the book’s title, On Digestion and the Production of Feces. Hardly the sort of tome to contain the sacred commands of an exorcism, but chances were the scullery maid wasn’t the literate sort. A smile slipped across his weary face.
A light spring rain stirred up the scent of the sea, yielding a smell much like days-old fish. Bale rubbed away drips of rain from his large nose and inhaled deeply. He found the odor not altogether unpleasant, but loathed the notion of enduring the outside world at midday. The streets were sure to be crowded in spite of the weather. Yet, he had a job to do, so he set out upon the wet street with plodding steps.
The Abbey stood in Ironmoor’s Nearer Ward, a collection of time-worn structures. These stone shrines had served as the homes of the Rune’s great seats of power for time immemorial. The Abbey of the Ancient Sanctum of Illienne, the Grand Court of the Magistrate Examiners, and the House of Minor Laws.
Old tombs jealously guarding treasures disregarded long ago by the rest of the world.
He rounded a corner and spotted the hulking form of the High King’s castle, the Bastion. Atop its tall tower loomed the gold statue of a dragon. Bale figured on a clear afternoon he’d be walking now in the cast of its shadow. But not today, when the city appeared a ruin of gray stones cowering beneath a gray sky.
The Bastion was near yet distant. Deralor the Mad, seventeenth High King of Rune, had ordered the construction of several walls surrounding the Bastion in concentric circles, with the breaches alternating between north and south on each circuitous wall. Bale grunted his frustration, knowing that although a stronger man could likely hit the castle with a thrown stone, it’d take him quite some time to walk there. The rain was cold and miserable.
The streets were crowded by all manner of official, emissary, bureaucrat, and magistrate. The sort of folk unmoved by the rain, chins held high, cloaks of oiled leather sparkling with inlaid jewels and voices booming with patent hubris. There was talk of imminent war with Arranan and their mysterious Spider King, the interminable trade dispute with the Merchant-Lords of Khaldisia, and rumors of discontent among Rune’s eight thanes. Each boldly proclaimed solutions, only to be shouted down by others in their company. Bale shambled between the knots of people, trying hard to ignore the jostles from their gesticulations.
Even Bale’s fellow acolytes seemed like pleasant company when measured against this ilk. He passed one richly dressed magistrate regaling his listeners with a bad joke about the sexual proclivities of High King Deragol and the true reason he’d not yet sired an heir. Bale roared with mock laughter, long and loud, and enough to draw the magistrate’s reprobating glare. Bale widened his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and then quickened his pace.
The crowds waned as Bale neared the Bastion, the bickering officials giving way to red-sashed guardsmen and hooded servants. The guards at the gates knew him on sight, he was sure, but waited for him to present his sealed warrant before parting their crossed halberds. They didn’t question his errand, but Bale could hear their whispered derision. They laughed about the castle being haunted, as there was no other reason an old kook from the Abbey would visit with such frequency.
“Spooker,” one called after him. Bale continued walking, having heard the insult many times before.
He passed through the massive portcullis of the last gate and entered the Bastion’s grounds. Even to Bale it was an impressive sight. Meticulously trimmed pathways meandered through a decadent garden containing flowers of every shape and hue. In spite of the heavy clouds overhead, the young blossoms of spring were brilliant.
Beyond the gardens stood the Bastion, the massive castle of Rune’s High King. The castle proper was an angular bulwark of stone, all stout walls and battlements the color of the sea stirred by storm. Somewhere in its depths was the Godswell, said to be the very place at which the gods Yrghul and Illienne descended into oblivion many years ago. The Old Faith instructed that the final battle of the War of Fates had been fought upon this very ground.
At the Bastion’s center rose the Tower of Lords, an incredible structure of sculpted masonry and one of Rune’s true wonders. It stretched more than three hundred feet from its base to the great golden dragon at its peak. Gilded reliefs covered its outer wall, depicting the High Kings and their triumphs. There was Deranthol, the first High King, standing with Rune’s greatest heroes, the immortal Seven Sentinels, to receive the Blessing of Illienne the Light Eternal. Next a relief depicting them with swords aflame, striking down Illienne’s old foe, the dark god Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares, then the two gods descending to oblivion. There was Derand, son of Deranthol, with Rune’s eight lesser kings—or ‘thanes’ as they were known—kneeling before him and pledging fealty. Then Derganfel the Purer, riding with the thanes and battling the Sentinels as they tried to wrest the throne from him, and another portraying the Sentinels’ banishment. Upward the reliefs went about the tower, a visual history of ten centuries. The last, just more than two-thirds the distance to the tower’s crest, depicted a stylized King Deragol standing ever vigilant over a peaceful land.
A display rife with falsehoods, but inspiring nonetheless.
Bale’s chest swelled as he regarded the images. The older reliefs told of times altogether different, when true goodness mustered against true evil. Many members of the Sanctum believed good and evil sat at opposite ends of a balancing scale, and if one dipped the other rose. The more evil in the world the less good, and the converse. Bale thought differently. He guessed the true goodness in men’s hearts, the kind that kindled self-sacrifice and real courage, only manifested in the face of true evil. At all other times, like now, it sat dormant, smothered beneath layers of ambivalence.
Along either side of the flagstone path to the Bastion’s main entrance stood two rows of crimson-sashed guardsmen, faces veiled in the traditional display of humility in the presence of their divinely blessed king. Bale passed swiftly and uneasily between their silent forms, approaching a great door bearing the dragon emblem of Rune. He began ascending the granite stairway leading to the door, but just then one of the guards beside him jolted as though rudely awakened from a slumber.
“Halt, sir!” the guard huffed through the thin fabric of his translucent veil. He was a portly sort, the same oaf who’d confronted Bale during previous visits to the castle. “You will state your name and your business with the Crown.”
Bale rolled his eyes and presented his warrant. “Acolyte Zandrachus Bale of the Ancient Sanctum of Illienne the Light Eternal. I am here at the summons of the king’s staff, whose business I am not compelled to discuss with you.”
The guard suppressed a yawn and waved Bale along. “I’ll fetch Chamberlain Alamis. I’m sure he’l
l be thrilled at the news of your return.”
Chamberlain Alamis was a tall reed of a man, impeccably groomed and dressed in an elegant robe of blue silk. He wore no cover upon his face or head, which Bale found an odd departure from the customary display of deference to Rune’s High King. The man’s pale eyes studied Bale with unsettling intensity, and he bowed mechanically as Bale approached. He shook Bale’s hand limply, then gestured toward a long hallway and they began walking.
The interior of the Bastion was even more impressive than its imposing exterior. It was an ancient place of impossibly long hallways of polished stone, lined with flickering candles, priceless relics from conquered lands and storied weapons of old heroes. The walls stretched upward and arched toward soaring ceilings so high they were lost in shadow. It seemed a place worthy of great kings and old legends, and even Bale’s stalwart cynicism wavered upon viewing the marvel.
The chamberlain leaned toward Bale. “I apologize for yet another intrusion upon your dearly valuable time, Acolyte. I’m quite certain you have matters of far graver import demanding your attention. However,” he leaned closer, as though to avoid unwanted ears, “High King Deragol has been quite, um, eccentric, and it seems to be catching.”
Bale found it strange that the chamberlain himself would preside over his visit, but thought it best to play along. He nodded deeply and rubbed at his chin, doing his best to portray the calm, thoughtful appearance he guessed people expected from members of the Sanctum.
Alamis halted abruptly and remained still until a hooded official had passed them. He then seized Bale with a hard grip upon the shoulder and pulled him uncomfortably close. “Your faith binds you to protect the Crown, yes?”
Bale found the chamberlain’s penetrating, pale eyes unnerving. “I serve the Faith, and thereby the throne and the kingdom.”
“Queen Reyis suffered another miscarriage last winter. Her eighth. You are aware of this, yes?”
“I am,” Bale said, trying to pull free of the tall man, “but the royal couple’s difficulties with conception are well known. My order trusts Illienne the Light Eternal will bless them with a child, and ensure the bloodline of High Kings remains intact. It is a matter of faith.”
“Perhaps. But what is not so well known is the effect this has had on the High King. Alas, he’s gone quite mad.”
Bale had heard hints of this in recent years. The High King was approaching fifty and there was growing concern he would not be able to sire an heir. “His tragedies would weigh upon any man.”
“But this is not any man, Acolyte. This is Rune’s High King, the most powerful man in all the world. Your order proclaims that this man is possessed of divinity, the great blessing of Illienne. Think what would happen if our enemies knew High King Deragol had been reduced to a blubbering fool. Already some of the thanes raise questions they wouldn’t have dared in previous years.” He drew closer, painfully so. “These are the most dangerous of times, Acolyte. Our enemies are bold and numerous, and present both without and within our land. Perhaps even within these very walls.”
“You have my word, Chamberlain. The Sanctum will do everything we can to help. I should summon my superiors. They should meet with the High King to see if this illness can be cured.”
Chamberlain Alamis’s eyes narrowed. “No. You will not. Between his bouts of blathering, the High King has decreed he wants nothing to do with the Sanctum. I am sure this is simply a tragic consequence of his state, but for the time being his wishes must be honored lest he succumb to greater madness.”
Bale did not reply, instead shifting his eyes about to avoid the chamberlain’s unnerving glare.
Alamis paused for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. You will relay these directives to your order. What he, and I, require of you and your superiors is trust, Acolyte. Trust when I speak, I speak for High King Deragol. Trust I serve him, and have his implicit authority. Trust me, and bring me word of any hint of treason. Trust, and do not question.” He regarded Bale for an instant longer and then released his grip.
Bale rubbed his shoulder. “We live to serve. We would never betray the Crown.”
Chamberlain Alamis resumed his march down the hall, his pace brisk. “Excellent. To the kitchens, then.”
Bale followed, finding the thought of dealing with rats preferable to dealing with people.
The scullery maid seemed a simple woman, stoutly built, chubby faced, and dressed in the plain, hooded robes of palace servants. She seemed also an earnest sort, and her accent marked her as hailing from the coastal farms of the Waters of World’s End, far to the north. Bale had read such folk were renowned for their forthrightness, although not their intelligence.
She seemed frightened, and in her melodic speech recounted arrhythmic taps on doors, unattended objects moving about the kitchen during late hours, and squeals and shrieks from the larder. She then fell silent and glared disapprovingly at Alamis.
Perhaps not the brilliant sort, but certainly a sound judge of character. “There is more you’d like to discuss?” Bale ventured.
The scullery maid whispered a curse and gestured toward the chamberlain.
Bale turned to the chamberlain, who was returning the maid’s glare with a bemused smile. “It would be best if you left us, Master Chamberlain. Discussions on the subject of possessions and demonic manifestations are most delicate in nature, and require the complete confidence of the witness. It seems this woman has more observations she can only discuss in private.”
Alamis looked suspiciously at Bale, his pale eyes narrowing in seeming appraisal. “Very well,” he said at last.
Bale noticed the scullery maid’s eyes nervously follow the chamberlain as he glided across the steamy expanse of the kitchen. The chamberlain stopped and leaned against a sturdy table and began paring his nails with a small knife. He seemed sufficiently beyond earshot, so Bale urged the maid to continue.
She gripped his hand almost painfully. “There is more, spooker.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I meant Acolyte. I mean no disrespect.”
With a nod he urged her to continue.
“I don’t confuse no rats for devils, sir,” she said quickly. “I am no fool, and I know there is evil afoot in this place. I risk my life in doing this, but I could think of no other way to get word to you.”
Bale shot a glance across the kitchen and his eyes were met by the chamberlain’s sneer. Bale had only just met Chamberlain Alamis, but knew already he neither liked nor trusted him. His influence with the throne was well known, and if the High King were truly mad then the chamberlain was very likely running the castle, if not the whole of Rune. To run afoul of this man would be most dangerous. Yet… Something stirred within Bale, a bravery he’d rarely possessed. He breathed deeply and exhaled.
The maid pulled at his cloak, her eyes pleading. “Can you help me?” she asked.
Bale nodded, thinking of something his teacher, Lector Erlorn, had once told him: “Character is doing what you don’t want to do, for reasons you cannot avoid.” He held the woman’s eyes for a moment. “I will keep your confidence, even at my peril,” he said.
“I can’t bear the weight of secrets,” she whispered, pressing a piece of folded parchment into Bale’s hands. “Especially dark ones.”
Bale winked as he tucked the paper inside his robes. “Now,” he said with a quick thump of his staff. He secretly produced the sprig of drimroot and squeezed it tightly, producing a great puff of pleasant-scented, white smoke. It was a simple trick, but a minor miracle to those unfamiliar with alchemy. “Let us dispel these wicked spirits!”
3
MURDER TO MAKE
KARNAG MAK RAGG squinted in the morning sunlight, flint-colored eyes surveying the vast valley of oaks and poplars draped with mist. The Ghostwood, at the southernmost edge of the kingdom of Rune, struck him as similar to the wind-bitten highlands of his youth. Both were hard countries, unforgiving and full of predators.
Like me.
He pressed himself
upward to stand and shook fresh blood into brawny limbs. Morning meditations were a ritual common among his people, used to seek hidden truths or consult with ancestors long dead. Karnag was not given to such nonsense, but found the meditations stilled his restless mind. With his waking hours rife with violence, he needed what calm he could find.
“Awake at last, eh?” asked Drenj from the mouth of a small tent at the opposite end of the hilltop clearing. He was a Khaldisian from far to the south, his brown tunic sagging from his form to reveal olive skin covered in tattoos. “I was beginning to think you’d learned to sleep on your knees. Like a camel.”
Karnag ignored the young man’s remark and set about readying his weapons. He often grew weary of such prattle, borne by nerves or bravado and bearing no meaning. Such words were breaths wasted rather than saved for combat.
“Are you certain I can’t lend you a knife?” the southerner said, dragging a whetstone down the length of his curved Khaldisian steel.
Karnag brushed aside the thick braids of his black hair and studied the weapons he’d laid on his bedroll, all agleam in the morning sun. Six daggers balanced for throwing. Two swords, one short for tight quarters and the other a long, two-handed blade for cleaving men apart. A hunting knife he’d used for gutting deer that fit neatly in his boot, and a blackjack for laying out a man without spilling blood. “I’m certain,” he said.
“Do you figure on using all of those things in a fight?” asked Drenj.
“Careful, lad,” said Tream, a dark-eyed thug with rotting teeth. “You’re new to this company, and Karnag’s not the sort to be trifled with. Least of all by a skinny whelp like you. He’s a damned nasty killer, boy. Nastiest of them all.”
The Khaldisian seemed undeterred. “Are they trinkets for decoration?”
Karnag scowled, his patience wearing. “They all have their purpose.”
“You have only two hands, you know,” said Drenj, laughing overlong at his joke as though encouraging the others to join him.
