by David Benem
The robed form took a step back, to Tream’s relief. “Yes, you did meet your end. I’ve received confirmation of the Lector’s murder.”
By the dead gods! They did it!
“However,” the figure continued, “I am hoping you have more for me than simply the news of his death.” Pale, long-fingered hands adorned with silver rings emerged from the sleeves of the black robes, and pulled back the hood to reveal a face. It was a pale, hairless face of indeterminate gender, split neatly in half by a thick, black stitch. The flesh on either side of the stitch wriggled and stretched unnaturally.
Tream fought against a horrible, swelling fear. Think only of the coin! The coin! “W-we were h-hired to kill the man, and we d-did. There was a p-price for our work.” He straightened to his full height, doing his best to appear intimidating but his bowels groaned and felt ready to spill.
“Rewarded you shall be,” the figure said quietly, smiling to reveal yellow teeth. “Yours was a great step toward a greater end.”
“Y-you promised a th-thousand silver crowns.”
The figure stood silently for a moment, tapping its long, ringed fingers together. “You do not trust me.” It reached inside the robes, and produced five slim cylinders of gold. “Khaldisian gold ingots. Together they are worth even more than the balance of my debt. The amount entire is yours, if you can answer my questions to my satisfaction.”
Tream’s hands trembled as he held them outward. The gold glinted in the dark. It was more money than he’d ever seen in one place. The figure offered him one, and he snatched it desperately. He inspected it in the same way he’d seen pawnbrokers inspect the stolen jewelry he’d fenced. It was heavy and etched with strange symbols. He bit it with his rotting teeth, as he’d seen pawnbrokers do, but realized he had no idea what that was supposed to reveal. Tastes like gold, I reckon.
“What did he say?” the thing asked.
“Who?”
The figure cocked its pale, stitched head. “The Lector. It is said the Lectors of the Sanctum always utter something upon death, something of great importance. What did he say?”
Tream shrugged curtly, his eyes not wavering from the small fortune in the figure’s hands. “He said nothing, I’m afraid.”
“It was your blade that slew the Lector, yes? And there were no other survivors? Then you must have heard something. Some words, a phrase, perhaps more. Perhaps you did not understand what it meant at the time.”
Tream kept his eyes on the gold, but his free hand found the pommel of his sword. He suspects I’m lying. “I really must be—”
Suddenly a shadow dashed before Tream’s eyes, forcing the black robed figure to the ground. There were heavy thuds and grunts and a mad scuffle in the dark, and the ingots fell clanking to the ground. Tream looked frantically up and then behind him. Someone had leapt from Old Gallows Rock and onto his patron.
He quickly bent low and seized the gold, pressing the ingots to his chest as he stood. He then watched as the attacker was suddenly thrown, landing with a heavy thud nearly fifteen feet away. Impossible. The black robed figure then shot to its feet, its hideous, split face twisting with a perverse grin.
The attacker stood also, slapping dust from his breeches. Tream squinted hard, and in a moment realized he recognized the man. The green-cloaked ruffian from The Dead Messenger. The man pulled a long sword free of its scabbard, the sound of it piercing the dark. He uttered something in a tongue Tream did not comprehend, and the sword hummed as a faint, green flame spilled down its length.
Sorcery! He’d heard tales, but such powers were thought to have left the world long ago.
In answer to the challenge, the black robed figure spoke in harsh, misshapen words both low and guttural. Broken sounds that pained the ears. Tream felt too frightened to move and watched as blackness coalesced about the creature’s ringed fingers. The space about the figure darkened to a foul gloom, as though all the night’s shadows were summoned to its call.
The man in green leveled his weapon at the figure, the flames brightening and curling up his arm. “Your kind has seen its last days, Necrist,” he shouted. “This murder of the Lector will stir all the light to action, and we will crush you and all your kind.”
“It is you who faces doom,” the Necrist said. It cast its hands downward and the dark shadows flowed from them. “We have delved deep into the old hells and have found power. We are coming to take what is ours.”
Serpentine strands of black formed in the space about the green man, entwining about his legs. He hacked at the shadows with his fiery blade and they diminished but did not disappear.
Tream’s eyes burned with dripping sweat and his hands quivered. Cursed! This work was cursed! Forgive me, mum, for ever doubting you!
The green-garbed man uttered another string of words and the entanglement of shadows broke apart for an instant. He leapt free and rushed toward the Necrist, brandished his flaming blade.
Tream thought suddenly of his mother’s sweet, soothing voice. Of the soft lullabies she sang, telling of the dead gods and the threat of the things they’d left behind. Of the Sentinels, the Necrists, and other secrets. He thought of these things and wrenched free of his stupor.
The Necrist retreated several steps and was swallowed by the wreath of black shadows surrounding it. It appeared as a cloud of absolute blackness, shifting and swelling as though possessing no physical form.
The green-cloaked man charged forward, his sword a bright blaze. He swept the weapon in ferocious arcs, assailing the blackness and rending the dark shadows. The combat pressed close to Tream, and he leaned back as far as Old Gallows Rock would allow.
Just then, the black figure emerged from the swirl of shadows, its back toward Tream and only an arm’s reach distant.
Tream reached for his sword and yanked it free, suddenly thinking of his mum’s deep faith. He looped his free arm—clutching the gold—over the figure’s head and about its neck, and drove the sword clean through its gut.
A horrid howl came from the thing, a frenzied shriek which sounded like something being sucked away rather than shouted out. Tream released the hilt of his weapon and the Necrist collapsed in a heap. It hissed and writhed and clawed at the ground before it fell still. Tream pulled back his hands in disgust, almost dropping his gold in the process.
The blackness dispersed immediately, the shadows finding again their dark recesses.
Tream breathed heavily. He tucked the ingots in his pocket and scampered several steps clear of the thing.
“You,” said the man in green.
Tream recoiled, almost having forgotten the man’s presence. His heart quailed with fear. He sidestepped along Old Gallows Rock, his back pressed against its surface.
The man took several steps forward, his blade dimming as he approached. “You killed the Lector.” His tone was measured and menacing. “I heard your every word, both here and at The Dead Messenger.”
Tream shook his head frantically. “I killed no one,” he said, tears clouding his eyes. “You must believe me, sir. I did not kill the Lector.”
“Ha!” the man said, grabbing Tream by the dirty collar of his shirt. His black eyes glimmered with anger. “You think I did not hear your exchange with the Necrist?”
Dear Illienne, don’t let this be the end of me! Tream sank to his knees, blubbering. He pressed tears away from his cheeks and stammered as he spoke. “I-I’m a coward, sir. I am a l-liar and I am a coward. I did not kill the Lector, but I know the men who d-did.” He wiped snot away from his lip and sobbed. “My mum’s faith kept me from doing it. I came back here to collect the reward before the real killers could.”
The man spat. “So, you would have me believe you were a liar then, but are not a liar now. You must think me a fool.”
Tream grabbed at the man’s cloak. “I swear to you! I swear to you I had not the heart to kill him, and I’m not bold enough to lie to the likes of you.” He pulled away from the man, casting his eyes downward. “It was
Karnag Mak Ragg. He’ll come back to this place, and Handsome knows him well.” He hung his head. Forgive me, friends.
The man raised a boot and kicked Tream back against Old Gallows Rock. He leered over him, holding his sword close to Tream’s face. Tream tried to look away from the man’s penetrating gaze but could not.
“You are a pathetic crook,” the man said, withdrawing at last. “You do speak the truth.” He kicked Tream again, causing him to topple to his side. “You helped save my life, so I will spare yours. But I will not countenance the sight of you. Be gone, and may Illienne grant you what you deserve.”
Thank the dead gods I am spared!
Tream scrambled away, falling over in the process and then stumbling upright in desperation. He fumbled with his pocket and found the gold still rested within. He clutched it firmly and smiled and wept all at once.
Then he ran. He ran and did not look back. Most of all, he feared he would see Karnag there, with teeth bared and eyes ablaze with fury. Tream knew such a man would never forgive. Not in a dozen lifetimes.
9
HOW LIFE ENDS
A THUNDEROUS POUNDING RESOUNDED from the door of Lannick’s cell. He started from his deep sleep, nearly rolling out of his straw cot in a panic. The sound seemed almost unreal, like a remnant of a bad nightmare. He scratched at his head with both hands, trying to gather his wits and adjust to the sudden shock of the waking world. It was very late at night, or very early in the morning, and certainly not an hour for entertaining guests.
My grand escape? Has it arrived at last? “I’m—” was all he could manage before the door was thrown open.
The orange flicker and greasy smoke of torchlight spilled into his cell, followed by two dark silhouettes. Large men, armed and armored and draped in red cloaks.
The Scarlet Swords. Alas, a far cry from my lovely Alisa. Lannick put on his bravest face and rose from his bed. “Well met, gentlemen! How ever may I help—”
The butt of a quarterstaff slammed into his gut, throwing him across the floor’s damp stones and leaving him breathless. His chest rattled and he gasped. His lungs felt like deep bellows he could not fill. He turned and rose to his hands and knees and gasped again. He sucked hard, wheezing with the effort. At last there was breath.
Just then the staff cracked across his temple. He was knocked flat against the floor. His head rang and pounded with pain. He crawled clumsily to the wall and pulled his knees against his chest. The figures before him were a blur of red and black, and it seemed a third had entered the room.
A heavy boot crushed his foot. He felt one toe break, perhaps more. Pain seared his body. He groaned, which made his temple throb. He pressed his hand to the side of his head and felt a tender knot rising.
A knee smashed into his chin, and his skull smacked against the wall behind him. He swooned again, blinking through tears and struggling to focus.
This is how life ends.
“I think that’s enough for now, Keln,” came a voice, shrill like scraping steel.
General Fane. Lannick did his best to still his nerves, pulling his head upright to face his tormentor, his nemesis.
“Leave us,” Fane said, gesturing with the torch at his Scarlet Swords. The two armored figures trudged from the room, leveling hard stares at Lannick as they exited.
Fane looked especially grotesque in the sputtering torchlight, the swell of his burned face mottled and stretched. His mad eyes twitched in their dark sockets.
“Now,” Fane said, his tone mocking. “You didn’t think I’d leave Ironmoor without saying my heartfelt goodbyes, did you?”
Lannick gritted his teeth. He found he could not speak.
The general leaned closer. Lannick thought for a moment of spitting in the man’s face, of finishing things with a dramatic flair, but his jaw cracked and would not open. Blood dribbled from his nose and across his lips, and a coppery froth was the best he could manage.
“Ah, it seems my men were overzealous in their task. Forgive me.” He straightened and took a step backward, smoothing his surcoat with a gloved hand. “I really wished only to talk.”
Fane paced before Lannick for a moment, his polished boots clicking rhythmically on the stone tiles. He eyed him with patent revulsion. At last he paused, placed the torch in an iron sconce by the door and stooped gracefully to sit on the end of Lannick’s cot.
“You have no idea the inconvenience you’ve caused me,” he said, eyes darting about the cell. “I should kill you, you know. A less calculating man would certainly strike that course, and claim vengeance in the traditional fashion.”
Lannick rested his forearms on his knees and leaned against the wall. His tongue was swelling and painful—he’d bitten it. He moved it about his mouth and regarded the general. He was a smallish man, hands drifting often to the trappings of his station: the decorative blade, the dangling medal, the embroidered lining of his scarlet cloak. A pompous, self-impressed prick, and a sadistic one at that. Would that our places were switched, Fane, for I would take profound joy in your demise.
Fane straightened and regarded Lannick. “But I am a most calculating sort. I have achieved my position not through brute strength or expert swordsmanship, but through resourcefulness, through sheer cunning. I have learned when one way is shut there are other passages available to achieve one’s ends, if one but possesses the intellect to chart them. I have been cornered, I have been besieged, I have been outnumbered. But I have never been broken.”
Lannick shrugged. He’d hoped to display a dismissive gesture, but instead his limbs moved slowly and with a painful protest. He rolled his bleeding tongue about his mouth.
Fane stood and pulled his sword free of its scabbard. It was a long rapier with a gilded guard and grip. “You ruined a plan of mine, or, should I say, a component of that plan. You defiled a sacrifice that was to have been virginal. A sacrifice that would have greatly aided my ambitions, that would have brought me power.” He took a swift, whistling swipe with the rapier.
Lannick winced and tried to press back, but the dank wall braced him.
“As I’ve said,” Fane continued, “other passages always open to the keen of mind. Oh, I remember you, Captain deVeers.” A smile twisted his hideous face. His mad eyes danced. “For one man to endure so much seems a great inequity. A great fall from grace, the murder of his family at the hands of my Scarlet Swords, years spent living with regret, and now a death certain to be rife with suffering. Ah, but perhaps this is justice for your treason? To think, if you had bedded any other man’s daughter, you might be visiting the bitch right now for another turn between the sheets. If you had crossed any other man those many years ago, you might be standing now in my place.”
So much for a quick death. Lannick hung his head, for he knew what would follow. He heard the click-clack of Fane’s boots as the general approached, and he offered no resistance when the general eased his battered chin upward with the flat of his blade.
“The Necrists were delighted when I told them I could deliver them a Variden. One stripped of his protections, one whose mind they could pry apart for its secrets. They thought this suitable consideration for my bargain.” His smile vanished. “They will strip your body clean of its skin and your mind free of its sanity, until you can endure no more and surrender the last of your order’s secrets. You will be forced to betray all you hold dear. And then you will die.”
Lannick forced the sword from his throat with the back of his hand. The blade was honed to a vicious sharpness and it cut flesh as he pressed against it but he cared little.
“They will come for you soon enough,” said Fane. “You may have hours or you may have days, but they will come. They will use what they learn from you to hunt down the rest of your order, and dismantle the very foundations of Rune. You can take solace in knowing you have served well as my unwitting accomplice, Lannick.” He returned his blade to its sheath and walked smartly to the door.
Fane chuckled as he retrieved his torch. “Mo
st, including myself, thought you were long dead. It seems such thoughts will be proven correct soon enough.”
10
THE PROBLEMS AT HAND
PREFECT GAMGHAST SAT quietly in his small chambers, focusing for a moment on the drifting dust motes illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight. He’d found concentration was a difficult state to achieve of late. He was often distracted by the mundane or consumed with worry, and in either case unable to set his mind to the problems at hand. If only our most difficult challenges were set upon us when we still possessed the vigor of youth.
On the desk before him was a blank sheet of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. He’d been contemplating the instruments since noon, but had been unable to capture his thoughts with written words. Instead, he’d fussed with the unruly wisps of his white beard, cracked his knuckles, and picked at a chipped corner of his desk. Is this how I’ll meet my end? Lost in thought and incapable of action?
He seized the quill and dipped the nib into the inkwell, decisively. He held the quill poised over the parchment, the ink dripping and pooling into an ever-widening splotch as he waited for words to coalesce in his head. But, after a time, he realized such gestures would not give shape to his muddled ideations. He returned the quill to the inkwell.
His eyes drifted again to the motes of dust. He watched them float and flutter, shifting with even the slightest movements of air and lacking any purpose or direction. I will not be thus. He inhaled sharply and knotted his brow, urging his thoughts to assume some sort of sensible order, some pattern from which he could decipher meaning.
A list, he insisted. I shall begin with a list.
He retrieved again the quill, drawing the excess ink from the tip by wiping it over the mouth of the inkwell. He cleared his throat and pressed the quill to the parchment. “The Necrists,” he wrote at the top of the sheet. He stared at the words, watching the ink soak into the fibers of the parchment until it achieved a dull, deep black.
