by David Benem
“Worry not.” She reached across the table and pulled his hand close to her. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Your captors will not permit us much time, so I need to get straight to the heart of things. I saw something that night, Lannick. Something that has drawn me here.”
Lannick’s eyes nearly crossed as he listened, for he had no idea what she meant. Is this woman mad? Has she come to court my affections again?
With her free hand Alisa pulled Lannick’s loose sleeve upward. Slowly it peeled back, until his mark was revealed. The watchtower and the elder word “Variden.”
“The Vigilant Ones,” Alisa whispered.
Lannick’s eyes widened. He tried to pull his arm away but she held him fast. When she finally released him he snatched his arm back as though it’d caught fire.
“We toil each of us in secret,” she said, “but we are never alone. The Vigilant ever stand guard.”
“What?” Lannick asked, dumbfounded.
Alisa undid a button on her sleeve and pulled the cloth back to the crease of her elbow. About her wrist was a bracelet of heavy black iron which Lannick recognized as a Coda, the sacred instrument of the Variden order. And further up, upon her forearm, was emblazoned the same watchtower emblem. She sighed softly, then rejoined Lannick’s stare. Her brown eyes seemed to blaze. “The spirit of Valis moves within all the Variden, Lannick. It must have been the will of that spirit that caused me to choose you that night. I will return to save you.”
6
THERE IS POETRY
“BLOODY WORK THAT was,” Fencress said. She was the only one who’d spoken freely with Karnag since they’d murdered the Lector and his company. Drenj seemed ashamed of the mess he’d made of things, and Paddyn’s stare hadn’t left the ground.
“Aye,” Karnag said. “Murder usually is.”
Fencress grinned, her blue eyes dancing in the shadows of the black cowl she often wore. “I think when you kill that many men, it becomes something other than murder. But what, precisely? Assassination strikes me as implying the killing of just one man. So does execution. Slaughter sounds like we’ve just gutted pigs or cows or some such farm animals, and I don’t fancy the ring of it.”
“What about killing?” ventured Drenj.
“Too common,” said Fencress, waving her hand as though shooing a fly. “Too broad. Too… clumsy. I like to believe there is poetry in our work, and it is just a matter of giving it voice. What say you, Karnag? After all, it was you who did the very most of it.”
Karnag liked Fencress, but more for her skill with a blade than for the prattle of her tongue. “I’ll leave the poetry to you.”
They rode on in silence. The forested path seemed less taxing now that their task was done. Karnag found himself enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy above them. He was breathing easier, and his restless thoughts had given way to a calm satisfaction.
As he’d anticipated, they’d not suffered the wrath of dead gods, the skies had not shaken, and the Lector had bled like any other man. There were those words he’d heard from the Lector, but aside from the strangeness of their utterance there’d been no terrible consequences.
Drenj cleared his throat behind them. “Maybe massacre?”
Fencress breathed sharply and then paused for a moment, as though she’d forgotten the earlier discussion. She turned about in his saddle and clapped her gloved hands. “Quite well done, Khaldisian. Quite well done. It was, indeed, a massacre. A massacre!” She slapped her knee as though struck by an epiphany. “You see, Karnag? There is poetry.”
That evening they found a clearing atop a low rise and made camp. Agreeing a modest feast was in order, they sorted through the stash of wine and foodstuffs they’d found in the Lector’s traveling crates. Paddyn managed to down a wild pig, and after gutting it they roasted it with onions over their fire.
Paddyn made most of the preparations, going about his work quietly and alone. Of all the company that remained, Karnag reckoned the young bowman was most affected by the events of the previous night. He was a rough-looking lad but just barely old enough to be called a man, and Karnag guessed he’d fallen into this business only through the worst kind of desperation.
“What ever are you doing, my friend?” Fencress shouted to Paddyn.
The lean bowman froze, holding a wine bottle over the spit to allow the liquid to drizzle on the pig. “Marinating.”
“Urinating?” exclaimed Drenj, waving his hands and starting toward the pig. “On my supper? You northerners are as barbaric as the spice merchants claim!”
“No,” Paddyn said with a gap-toothed grin and a welcome show of humor. “Marinating. With the wine. Flavoring the meat, is all.”
“You’re a fool nonetheless, boy!” Fencress shouted, rattling an empty bottle. “The dead don’t drink. The libations should be saved for the living!”
Paddyn’s smile broadened and he poured the wine liberally over the carcass.
The pig was done just before nightfall. They sat circled about the fire and ate as quickly as their jaws would allow. It was the best meal Karnag had tasted in weeks, perhaps longer, and the pork was tender and delicious, much better than the salted meat and molded cheese he’d eaten in the saddle.
Once the pig was picked clean the men settled back and spoke in carefree tones. Their anxieties over killing the Lector and his men seemed to subside.
“So, Karnag,” said Fencress, “what was it like? Killing the Lector I mean. He has to have been one of the greater names to have perished at your hands.”
Karnag shrugged. “The same as any other. He bled and fell still.” He’d not mentioned the strange words to the company, and reckoned he never would. Even now he wondered if the sound had been real or imagined.
“Poetry, indeed,” Fencress said mockingly. “I always knew you were much more than a mere murderer.”
The talk soon drifted to money, as it often did. Karnag listened as the killers spent money they’d not yet been paid. It was a source of distraction, so he didn’t bother to interrupt.
“I’ll start with a new set of clothes,” said Fencress, fingering her cowl. “Perhaps something ladylike for once.”
“Oh yeah?” Paddyn said, stoking the fire with a bent stick. “I’m hiring a big, fat whore. The kind capable of burying me in her gigantic tits.” He made a burbling sound and shook his head to and fro.
Fencress feigned offense with a hand over her mouth. “You speak of such things in front of me?”
“Maybe I won’t when you look all ladylike,” said Paddyn. “But then I might try a go with you when you do.”
Fencress smiled but her hands fell to her twin swords. “Those who’ve tried that have lost their cocks or their lives, and sometimes both. Which will you lose?”
Karnag grunted and spat. “Enough. There’ll be plenty of ways to spend your coin in Raven’s Roost.”
Drenj looked up from the fire, wiping his hands on his breeches. “We’re heading there, then?”
Karnag picked a piece of meat from his teeth. “Aye.”
“But you said you hadn’t decided,” said Drenj. “You said you thought we’d be cheated, or worse.”
Karnag eyed the Khaldisian squarely. “If we’d cut but one man I might be happy with the four hundred crowns we were tendered in advance. But thanks to the greed and stupidity of one of our number, we slaughtered eleven.”
Fencress cleared her throat. “Massacred, you mean.”
Drenj laughed loudly, seeming to desire a shift in subject and tone. Karnag, though, would not suffer it. “We should have left you to deal with that mess by yourself, Khaldisian. We should have watched as those brutes carved you to pieces.”
Drenj lowered his head. “I am sorry, to all of you. I drifted asleep. When I awoke the three of you were nowhere to be seen. I didn’t know whether you’d slain the Lector and left me. I saw those men sleeping and thought it would be an easy robbery.”
Karnag spat again into the fire.
“I haven’t given you your share of the coin yet. I may find need to alter the terms of our bargain.”
Drenj stiffened, his dark-lined eyes narrowing. He said not a word for the balance of the evening.
Karnag’s night was fitful. Any sense of calm had abandoned him, and he jumped with every crunch of brush and groan of tree limbs. His hand frequently found the hilt of his short sword, and at last he decided to bring it into his bedroll to clutch it as he tried to sleep. He cursed his nerves as a weakness, and resolved to be their master. He breathed hard and squeezed his eyes shut.
Eventually sleep found him, but it was a restless sort haunted by horrors. A frantic, hissed phrase echoed incessantly through the depths of his dreams. “Necrista traellus a abridalusi Yrghul y ogo alliata. Illienne cradus e Warduren renden e sallem orn argo apocha.”
He awoke with a start and could hear the phrase still. They were the Lector’s undead words, he knew. Although he felt he’d barely heard them when they were first spoken through unmoving lips, they were emblazoned upon his mind. He knew not their meaning, but knew they would never be forgotten.
He sought to summon his earlier bravado, closing his eyes and focusing on the memory of driving his steel into the Lector’s throat. He would not be troubled by the fears of faith. He resolved that the memory of that night would not be feared, but embraced. He was the Lector’s slayer, his conqueror.
After a time he opened his eyes to the sight of a sky filled with stars. He gripped the hilt of his sword, and felt the disquiet leaving him. He sensed the blade understood him, for he shared its purpose.
He turned in his bedroll to face the dying embers of the fire, following the drifts of short-lived sparks and moonlit smoke. He looked upon the glow for a time and thought of himself as the fire, that which consumed all else. In that, he found comfort.
At dawn they awoke to the thunder of hooves. Karnag scrambled from his bedroll and grabbed his short sword. He stood, trying to make sense of the commotion. He saw the blurred shapes of several riders in succession as they raced down the trail toward Raven’s Roost.
He noticed their own horses were spooked, wheeling wildly and nearly breaking free of their reins. He found Paddyn and gestured for him to tend to the horses, then he slipped through the trees to the path.
The riders who’d passed were already well distant, but from their dress they appeared to be ordinary folk, not bandits or fighting men.
“They must be in quite the hurry,” said Fencress, emerging from the trees to stand near Karnag. “Didn’t even stop to say hello. How utterly rude.”
Shouts sounded from the opposite direction of the trail. Karnag turned about and within moments caught sight of several more riders charging hard along the path.
“Off the road!” the lead rider screamed as he approached. He was an older man in rough-hewn clothes, pots and pans strapped to his pack and clanking as he rode. Behind him came a brown-robed woman on horseback, and behind her a boy a few years shy of manhood.
“What madness is this?” Karnag shouted as they passed.
The older man did not voice a reply, instead making a shooing motion with his hand. The woman, too, ignored them. The boy looked at them with eyes wide, but did not slow.
“Why do you flee?” Karnag screamed after him.
The boy twisted his head once he was beyond them. “The Arranese! They’re coming across the Southwalls!”
Karnag and Fencress watched until the riders faded from sight and then withdrew from the road.
“War,” said Fencress, “can be a most profitable thing for people with our talents.”
Karnag nodded. “We’d best reach Raven’s Roost before the Arranese put their torches to the place. We’ll take what’s owed us and then plan things from there.”
They set out immediately after seeing the riders, but progress on the trail came slowly. There was every manner of obstacle and setback, including a downed tree and a flooded creek. Worst of all, an illness had spread among the horses. By mid-morning the horses moved clumsily on trembling legs, and the men decided they’d best dismount before the beasts tumbled and crushed them against the trees lining the trail.
“This is not a good omen,” Paddyn said, the dread returning to his face. “It is said the dead gods can punish in such ways.”
Karnag threw down the reins of his steed and gave Paddyn a fierce look. “The only punishment you need fear is mine, boy. Any talk of dead gods and magical curses and other such nonsense left this company the moment Tream did.”
Paddyn averted his gaze and did not reply.
They resumed their slog down the trail but their efforts did not last long. The horses became lathered with sweat and grew skittish. They were getting worse.
Soon the horses refused water and wouldn’t respond to commands. Paddyn tried draping a blanket over his mount, but the horse shook it off and in doing so knocked the young man into a tree. The company dismounted.
“These beasts will not live out the day,” Drenj said, holding his horse by the bit of its bridle and inspecting its mouth. “I’ve seen this sickness before.”
Karnag regarded his own horse, noticing a reddish mucus dripping from its muzzle and crusting its panicked eyes. The Khaldisian spoke truth.
“We should give them a rest, some clean water,” Fencress said. “We can’t be sure they’ll die.”
“Perhaps,” said Drenj. “But the late stages of this sickness are not kind to these animals.”
“Grab what items you can carry,” said Karnag. “I’m slaughtering these beasts.” He stripped his horse of its baggage and pulled Gravemaker from its scabbard.
He set about dispatching the horses in turn while the others looked on grimly. The animals slobbered and shook as they died, and the last, Paddyn’s dappled mare, jumped wildly as Karnag approached. The others turned away as Karnag ran the length of his blade through her ribcage, toward the heart. A great groan came from the mare as Karnag pulled the blade free. She shivered and slumped to the earth.
After Karnag had cleaned his hands and arms of blood they shouldered their packs and set upon the path once more.
They left the beasts to rot.
7
MURMURED DISCUSSION
WORD OF THE Lector’s murder reached the Sanctum’s Abbey in the dead of night. Rumors swirled of a green-cloaked stranger having sought a private audience with one of the Sanctum’s elders, Prefect Gamghast, and it was said the two had spoken for hours. Gamghast apparently whispered the dire account to the other prefects, whereupon Prefect Borel was said to have fainted.
By first light every denizen of the Abbey knew of the tragedy. They rushed to the long tables of the dining hall where they fretted together over plates of fruits and breads, speaking solemnly about the news.
Bale’s heart sagged upon learning of the tragedy, for he’d counted the Lector—the Sanctum’s second-highest ranking member—as perhaps his only friend. The two had enjoyed many conversations in the Abbey’s garden, and the Lector had instructed Bale in subjects and spellcraft other acolytes were told were forbidden. He’d also allowed Bale occasional access to his private library, a wealth of arcane texts Bale had devoured beneath candlelight. He would be missed.
Bale never breakfasted with others, or enjoyed any other meal with other people, for that matter. Yet, his curiosity over the awful circumstances of the Lector’s death had dragged him to join the collection of acolytes in the dining hall. Bale shied from their nervous talk and scanned the tables to find a place near the elder members of the Sanctum. He assumed the appearance of caring only about peeling his orange and perked his ears to eavesdrop.
For a time, words among the small collection of elders were few. Prefect Kreer pulled at his long nose and picked at his gnarled knuckles, saying nothing. Prefect Borel, a man almost perfectly round in shape, sniffled and rubbed tears from his eyes with fat thumbs. Prefect Gamghast, now the Sanctum’s second most senior member behind only Dictorian Theal himself, pondered a gre
at leather-bound tome. His face was so deeply lined with wrinkles it struck Bale as a seaside crag, and his wild, white beard the crash of waves against it.
Murmured discussion resounded from every corner of the hall, but the prefects sat in somber silence. Bale began to wonder whether he’d be better served by lurking nearer another table. After a time he’d finished the last wedge of his orange, and thus had lost the necessary prop to excuse his presence in the hall. Frustrated, he smoothed his robes and stood, and began making his way to another location.
Just then, Gamghast shut the tome with a thud and cleared his throat. Bale searched quickly about and snatched an apple from a large plate sitting amidst another huddle of acolytes, all of whom turned to regard Bale contemptuously. Bale glowered back, then licked the apple to stake his claim. He held out the apple toward the acolytes for an instant in a mocking gesture, then licked it again.
Would anyone like it now? I thought not.
He dashed back to his table and assumed as casual a posture as his awkward actions would permit. He produced a small knife from the pockets of his robes and began peeling the red skin from the apple in slow strokes. The task was halfway done when at last the men spoke.
“Our dear Lector is dead,” said Kreer, his wheeze of a voice sounding even weaker than usual. “The Sanctum has suffered its greatest loss.”
“This is the worst of news,” said Borel through a choke of tears. “It is a sad day when any of our number depart this life, but the Lector? And in so foul a fashion? It is too much to bear. We are lost without him!” He blew his nose into his handkerchief.
Gamghast pulled at the wisps of his beard and drummed his fingers against the cover of his book. “Yes, he is dead. It is heartbreaking news and we will honor his passage. But there is only so much time for grief, brothers. We require answers, and we require them in swift order if we are to honor the mission of our order. Why was the Lector traveling so close to the Southwall Mountains? So close to Arranan? He’d claimed he needed to attend to matters concerning his sister, but his family’s lands lay far to the north, near the Waters of World’s End. Why would he see a need to hide both the purpose and destination of his journey? From even us? These things trouble me…”
