by David Benem
He again folded the parchment into a tiny triangle and tucked it into one of the pockets lining his robes. Is any of this worth the danger it would entail? He sat for a long moment and then puffed out the sputtering candle on his desk.
Likely not.
It was a pleasant afternoon, the rare sort to compel Bale to wander outside without any real reason to do so. He found his walking staff and a book, Arythail’s Poetics. Not the sort of study in which he typically indulged, but he was in need of distraction.
The Abbey’s courtyard garden was a tranquil enclosure of flowering trees, pleasant-scented herbs and exotic plants, and secluded benches. A few robed acolytes sat or strolled in silence. Speaking was forbidden here. There came only the sounds of birds warbling, a breeze rustling amidst the trees, and the distant, muffled discord of the city beyond the Abbey’s walls.
Bale settled on a stone bench in the shade of a white-bloomed dogwood and withdrew his book. It was a worn volume of indeterminable age, an antique which had squatted in the library’s recesses for perhaps hundreds of years. Bale wondered how many hands had caressed its leather, how many dead acolytes had cracked its spine. He held the tome in the crook of his arm and savored the musty odor wafting from its brittle pages.
After reading through a few poems he concluded he enjoyed the feel of the physical volume far more than its contents. He was no student of verse, but it seemed to him that Arythail was given to forced rhymes and trite imagery.
He began turning the pages more rapidly, perusing titles and opening verses rather than digesting the poems whole. After a time he admitted that, in spite of its quaintness, Arythail’s poetry was impressive for the sheer breadth of its subject matter. The poet mused on love and hate, charity and vengeance, and the travails of both paupers and kings. There were verses of pure fancy, and others recounting the events of history with surprising insight. One, A Dirge for Erkelon, caught his eye. He read it through, down to its final stanzas:
The beasts besiege with hearts of black
Whilst tears wander a well-worn track
Set by the smiles of long ago.
“If” calls the herald of remorse
Never daring a righteous course
From tower’s height he falls to death below.
He’d read of Erkelon, the last lord of the Gray Gates. It was said he’d permitted the hordes of Yrghul to pass through the Southwall Mountains in the War of Fates, a thousand years before. Although Erkelon knew the cause of Illienne to be righteous, he wavered, fearing much the retribution that would come from the Lord of Nightmares. He allowed Yrghul’s men to march unchallenged through the mountain passes. Once through they sacked Erkelon’s fortress and slaughtered its people. Erkelon, overcome with grief, leapt to his death as his fortress burned.
Bale closed the tome slowly and rested his hands upon its worn cover. Is such the fate of those who abide the advance of evil?
He sat, contemplating. After a time he stood and smoothed his robes, only to catch his hand against the outline of the folded parchment tucked within them.
Not the distraction I needed.
He straightened his weary back and withdrew into the shadows of the Abbey.
5
BETTER THAN DEATH
LANNICK RECKONED HE’D been in places far worse. The cell seemed only half as filthy as his quarters, the room’s arrow-loop window permitted a picturesque view of Ironmoor’s bustling harbor, and prison food was a sight better than rumored. At the very least, it’s better than death.
In the two weeks he’d been in the brig, his wounds had mended some. The shivering sweats he’d endured in the first week had also dissipated, although Lannick still craved a drink more than the air he breathed. He’d begged the guards for a cup of wine or even a flask of rotgut, but was rebuffed nicely the first time and not so nicely the second. He hadn’t yet mustered the courage for a third request, worried as he was they’d make worse the pain that still lingered in his ribs from General Fane’s boot.
Despite denying him libations, the soldiers were positively gentlemanly as far as prison guards were concerned. Lannick supposed it had something to do with the place being a military prison. He figured his captors were of the mind that the inmates they held were a more civilized lot than the murderers and cutpurses rotting in a common jail. His chest swelled a bit at the notion, but then upon further thought he chuckled and winced.
He sat at the edge of his bed, eying the door for a long, nervous moment. Morning was the least pleasant thing about the place. He awoke every day with a cold pit in his guts, certain the day would be his last. However, General Fane had yet to pay a visit, as had his Scarlet Swords. He’d heard the guards mumble that the situation with Arranan was not going well, which Lannick trusted was keeping the general and his brutes occupied. His sense of dread had diminished slightly with every new morning’s sunrise, and he was almost beginning to allow himself to hope.
Perhaps I will survive even this.
This day seemed a particularly fine one. Lannick arose and pressed his face against the arrow-loop to catch the sun’s warmth. To the east, half a league distant, a myriad of colorful, broad-sailed ships filled the harbor’s blue waters. Trading ships from every corner of the world. He sighed wistfully, remembering his plan to escape Ironmoor aboard such a vessel. He imagined he’d be drunk on sailor’s rum about now, swaying gently in a hammock below deck.
As he surveyed the harbor he counted a number of military vessels, sails emblazoned with the gold dragon of Rune. Most were moored to the docks, met by lines of red-sashed soldiers. Indeed, he noticed the docks swarmed with soldiers, thousands of them, hastily making their way aboard the ships. Even confined in his cell, Lannick envied them not at all. He’d seen quite enough of war.
A knock shook the cell’s thick door, and a shallow bowl of boiled oats skittered beneath. Lannick called out, and an instant later a pockmarked face filled the door’s barred portal. “You’d better not be asking me for that whiskey again,” the guard said.
“Why of course not, good Horus,” Lannick replied, as though the accusation were utterly ridiculous. “Just an honest question, soldier to soldier.” He’d noticed that Horus, though humpbacked and lazy-eyed, relished any implication that he was a fighting man rather than a prison attendant. “Why all of the commotion on the docks? It looks like an entire Column is setting sail. Will you be disembarking as well?”
Horus seemed perplexed by the question, and it took him a moment to straighten up and fix his good eye on Lannick. “Well, no. They don’t need me. Not just yet, anyways. But some of the thanes aren’t answering the call to war, so I guess you never know…”
“Some of the thanes?”
“Brandiss the Thane of Stormfall, for one. There’s talk he won’t commit his oath-bound. Claims he’s under threat of invasion from those sheep-herding highlanders and won’t risk it. And there’s others, too. Thane Meledin of Farwatch won’t send a single soul to the front, saying he fears an incursion from the sea. And—”
“The Sea Lord himself?” said Lannick, mostly to himself. He was surprised to hear Thane Meledin, such an old friend of the High King, would withhold his support of the Crown in wartime. Lannick’s head hadn’t swirled with politics in years and he wondered how much things had changed while he’d been slumped over a bar. “Well, if you’re called to war, Horus, you’ll have to regale me with stories of your heroics when you return. Some grand tales those will be, I’m certain.”
Horus grinned slightly, his good eye glazing over momentarily. “Yes. Yes, you’re probably right.”
“So it’s really war, then? Looks like a lot of men moving about.”
Horus glanced back and forth, making like he was scanning the hall for eavesdroppers. “Word is things aren’t faring well. Not well at all. We took custody of a man last evening. Said the Arranese killed the commander of the Gray Gates and sent his head right to Riverweave. What’s more, they’ve slaughtered nearly every garrison in the S
outhwalls and are crossing the mountain passes, if he’s to be believed. General Fane’s ordered the whole Third Column to Riverweave. He hopes to crush the invasion before the Arranese can head north, but there’s many men who’re certain to die before he gets there.”
“Well, let us both hope our dear general is triumphant. I’d pity the Spider King of Arranan if the general saw need to unleash your fury.”
Horus grinned again, and he cupped the side of his mouth as though to shield his words from others. “We keep a stash of wine and some harder stuff in the mess. If you can promise me it’s just between us, I’ll bring you a bottle.”
Lannick belched loudly. It was the sort of long, guttural belch that could only be summoned from a fully sated belly. Horus had exceeded his promises admirably. Half a well-seasoned, roasted chicken and a wedge of sharp cheese. The meal paired well with the bottle of spiced Khaldisian wine Horus had brought. Uncorked, even! Lannick had guzzled the first half, but intended a more leisurely conquest of the rest.
The reminders of his confinement were everywhere, yet the wine liberated him. Dark thoughts vanished, the pain of his wounds was readily ignored, and his straw-filled cot seemed an indulgence of comfort. He hummed an old traveler’s tune, gesturing with his bottle at the song’s lulls and crescendos.
For the first moment in days his head wasn’t haunted by ghosts of regret. Thoughts of his “old life”—as he’d come to think of it—were suddenly less painful, and the dark void in his heart felt momentarily filled.
Lannick thought of laughter. His children’s laughter. He thought of snatching his oldest boy and flinging him upward, of the boy’s wide grin as he did so. He thought of the chuckles of his infant twins as he pranced clumsily about before them, arms waving as he pretended to be some great sea serpent threatening them with tickles. Of his beautiful wife watching it all with an admonishing smirk on her face, telling him he was being silly.
Lannick’s hand drifted to the locket about his neck and he smiled. This feeling was fleeting, he knew. Eventually the thoughts of his family would turn to the harrowing image of finding them murdered and mutilated, and his chest would tremble with heartache.
But for this moment, he heard laughter.
Three-quarters through the bottle of wine Lannick’s stomach lurched and groaned loudly. He’d subsisted on prison gruel for two full weeks, and reckoned his innards were not ready for the sudden digestion of rich cheese, roasted meat and potent wine. Another groan and an uncomfortable swell in his buttocks sent him rushing to the foul-smelling bucket in the room’s darkest corner. Just as he perched himself astride the bucket, his door rattled with knocking.
My wine! His eyes darted to the foot of his cot, where sat the bottle in clear view of the door. He cursed his stupidity, knowing the wine would be seized as contraband and his arrangement with Horus would come to an abrupt end.
“Prisoner!” said a gruff voice. Lannick couldn’t see through the door’s portal from this angle, but knew the guard was not Horus.
“I’m, um, indisposed here,” Lannick said loudly, hoping to pull the guard’s attention to this side of the cell. “Could you grant me just a few moments? I’m worried this is going to be something most foul.”
“Indisposed?” asked the faceless voice. “What kind of smart talk is that? This had better be no kind of trickery.”
“No trickery, sir. It means I’m taking a crap.”
“Oh. Right. Indisposed, of course. I’ll leave you to yourself then, for a short bit anyways.”
“Thank you,” Lannick said, and he meant it. He would have enough time to finish his precious wine. He sighed and finished his task on the bucket.
There came a shuffle from outside his door. “And prisoner?” said the guard. “You’ll be wanting to clean yourself up something nice. You have a visitor.”
Fane. Alas, all good things must meet their end.
The guard shackled Lannick’s hands and led him from his cell. Lannick’s eyes were wide as he walked, as much with curiosity as fear. It was his first real chance to take full account of his confinement. When he was thrown in his cell two weeks prior, his eyes had been swollen and crusted with blood so he hadn’t seen much of anything then.
He realized he hadn’t missed much, as the brig had seemed a better place from the inside his cell than from without. Dark passageways, sputtering torches, and every manner of rank odor and agonized cry. It was frightening and disheartening, a place of torment and terror. A pained howl sounded from a cell beside him, a shriek that hardly seemed human. Lannick shivered and reckoned that if breaking the spirit was the place’s purpose, it was most certainly suited to accomplish it.
The guards, too, lent a burden to the place. They were soldiers suffering from disabilities, lamed by combat or otherwise, doubtless deemed liabilities on the battlefield. The guard before him dragged his left foot as he walked, and had but two fingers on his right hand. The other guards they passed wore cruel stares, seeming as much prisoners as jailers themselves.
Lannick cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. Might I inquire as to the identity of my visitor?”
The guard grunted. “I don’t know. I was told to fetch you. I was also told to do it right quick, so I figure it’s somebody important.” He turned his thick head and eyeballed Lannick. “You’d best hope the time you wasted shitting causes no trouble for me.”
“I thank you again for your kindness, sir.” This guard seemed to possess nothing of Horus’s good nature. Nevertheless, Lannick reckoned he’d best be courteous to the man, as he certainly felt no desire for another beating. Not before General Fane has his turn, anyway.
The passageway gradually widened and windows to the outside world broke the monotony of the stone walls and heavy doors. They passed a hearth room and a large mess area, and Lannick guessed some prisoners were regarded as less threatening than others. A knot of inmates crowded about a mess table, laughing heartily as they bantered with a guardsman. It sounded almost like casual talk amongst free men.
“Captain?” shouted someone from the mess table. “Captain Lannick?”
Lannick turned suddenly to see one of the men waving wildly. He felt a flush of shame color his cheeks. He cast his head down and pretended not to hear the man.
“It is you!” the man said. “Boys! That there is Captain Lannick deVeers! The hero of Pryam’s Bay! The Scourge of Tallorrath, we called him! The High King himself declared him a Protector of Ironmoor. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
Lannick kept moving, hoping the guard would do the same. He did, much to Lannick’s relief. Soon they were out of the mess hall.
The guard turned again to regard Lannick. “That you? A captain?”
“No.”
Not anymore.
“Your visitor’s in that room,” the guard said, gesturing to the door.
Lannick felt his guts wrench. He’d known this would come from the moment Fane leered over him two weeks before, the man’s grotesque face stretched to a sick grin. Lannick’s tongue felt suddenly thick in his mouth and the remaining taste of wine sickened him like poison.
The guard eyed Lannick with a crooked brow and beady eyes. “No tricky stuff,” he said. “No taking anything from anybody, and don’t even dream of getting out of here. I’ll be waiting just outside, and I’ll be watching. I’m fully prepared to run you clean through if you get any grand ideas.”
“You needn’t worry about that. I suspect my visitor will dispose of me long before you have the chance.”
The guard snorted. “Save your clever talk for your visitor.” He pressed the door open with one hand and yanked Lannick by his shackles with the other.
Lannick stumbled inside the small room. It was brightly lit by a large window of stained glass at its opposite end, and his eyes struggled in the light. A dark figure sat at a solitary table in the room’s center.
My end awaits.
Lannick felt a hand pressing him, forcing him into a chair opposite the figure. “Sit down
, prisoner,” said the guard.
His eyes adjusted after a moment, and he realized his visitor was not General Fane. Not at all.
A woman sat tranquilly at the table, her hands folded before her. Although not classically beautiful, the sight of any woman, at this moment, was nearly enough to make Lannick swoon. Her dark hair was cut short, in a practical fashion. She wore simple clothes of earthy colors, all greens and browns. Lannick was mystified.
She smirked and arched her brow over eyes of warm brown. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Lannick squinted at the woman as he fumbled through his memories. Did she have him confused with someone? She was utterly, completely unfamiliar. “Of course I do. How ever have you been?”
“Well, ever since our little encounter two weeks ago, I’ve found my life to be rather hectic.”
Encounter? Damn my wine-soaked head! “Uh, I’m terribly sorry. How can I help?”
Her smile broadened. “You’ve already helped quite enough, thank you. We met two weeks ago, that night. You do remember my name, of course?”
Lannick’s jaw dropped as the gearwheels of his mind finally clicked into place. She was the friend. The friend of General Fane’s daughter. Of course! But did she ever give me her name?
“Alisa,” she said with a knowing look. “And you are Lannick. I realize you were somewhat altered during our last encounter.”
Lannick grinned despite the awkwardness of the situation. Even though he’d been completely drunk that night, certain images had proven indelible. Rare was the man who could lay claim to such romancing such a beauty. “Yes, of course.”
She regarded him seriously. “‘Yes’ you remember my name, or ‘yes’ you were altered?”
Lannick’s grin vanished and he placed his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t been quite myself since we last met.”
