by David Benem
“Lannick,” Alisa continued, her voice quiet, “Wil told me of your family, of their murder at the hands of Fane and his men. Of how you disappeared thereafter.” She placed her hand on his. “I cannot pretend to understand the hurt you’ve felt or the depths of your depression. But there comes a time when one must let go of regret. The past cannot be rewritten.”
Lannick felt his expression darken. “Such platitudes are easily spoken, especially by someone who hasn’t suffered.”
“You have to choose a better life, Lannick. Seize this chance fate has granted you.”
His hand found the locket about his neck, the one containing hairs from the heads of his children. It had always served as a comforting remembrance, but this time it brought a swell of awful images to his head. He thought of the Necrist and the misshapen Shodafayn digging about in a gravesite, hacking off the faces of his wife and children. He blinked.
“Lannick?”
He said nothing, and instead stood and walked with long strides back to the inn. Alisa called after him but he did not answer.
Once in his room he found his wine had soured somewhat, but he did not care. He swilled it down in hearty gulps until the jug was empty.
He sat at the edge of his bed and wept until sleep took him.
The inn was a safe house for the Variden, with a generous supply of provisions on hand, and the innkeeper hadn’t raised any questions when Lannick visited the storeroom and retrieved an armful of items. At least there’s one soul in this place who doesn’t ask me questions or level accusations.
Lannick inspected the assortment lined across his bed and lit by the sunlight of early morning. He admired the traveling cloak, brown and plain-looking and a contrast to the deep forest green traditionally worn by the Variden. The linen shirt and leather breeches beside it didn’t fit just right, but were close enough so as not to pinch or sag. There was a leather belt and a matching purse to be worn upon the hip. Next to those rested a knife, a roll of string, a wedge of cheese and a few apples. There was a coin purse, also, which Lannick grabbed and jingled to ensure that the many silver crowns inside hadn’t found their way out. There was a flask he’d filled with whiskey. Just to help me sleep, of course. And lastly there was a sword, simple and sharp and clean.
Lannick dressed, stuffed the small items in the satchel and stretched the cloak across his shoulders. He thrust the sword in its scabbard and it hung across his thigh. His boots were new and the hard leather bit but he reckoned they’d be broken in before he reached the gates of Ironmoor, a dozen or so leagues to the south.
He stood for a moment, looking in the mirror. He sucked in his gut and straightened his spine, and for the first time in years felt he looked like a person of substance, not some drunken wretch or lowlife scoundrel. Perhaps Alisa is right. Perhaps I can choose a better life.
As he turned to leave he realized the flask of whiskey still lay on the bed. He thought for a moment of leaving it, but then seized it and dropped it into his purse.
Just to help me sleep.
He was perhaps a quarter mile beyond the door of the inn when he heard the drumming of hooves on the road behind him. He lowered his head and kept walking.
“Lannick!” It was Ogrund’s voice, low and hoarse.
Lannick ignored him, hoping for an instant Ogrund would allow him to leave without any more talk.
Ogrund pulled his bay horse to a walk alongside Lannick and leered at him with his squinted eyes before speaking. “You took the oath, Lannick.”
Lannick continued his march in silence.
“Are you renouncing your oath, then? Again? Even after we rescued you? Your Coda found you for a reason, Lannick. You cannot abandon us.”
Lannick spat and shook his head. He kept walking.
“No one has ever left the Variden, Lannick. Wil may not be able to say it, but I can. We need you. There are portents, omens. Something is afoot and it is something of grave import. The Necrists are emboldened. They attack us openly, something they wouldn’t have dared in the past. They have grown more powerful, and their ambitions have grown accordingly. And worst of all, the Sanctum’s Lector was murdered—a Sentinel slain! You were one of our best, and you swore an oath to fight such evil.”
Lannick stopped and looked up at Ogrund, the morning sun perched over the man’s thick shoulder and setting his edges aglow. “You speak much of our oath, Ogrund, but nothing of its consequences. What wounds have you suffered? Have you lost family? Have you been tortured, had your children’s faces ripped from their skulls and worn like ballroom masks? What would our oath mean to you then?”
Ogrund was quiet for a moment, his eyes barely more than slits. “Our oath is everything, Lannick. We honor the cause eternal, even in the most difficult of times.”
“I have other debts to honor now,” Lannick said.
“Where is it you will go? Will you return?”
“To Ironmoor. As for your other question, I do not know. But I can assure you I’ll go nowhere else, and Alisa should know where to find me if you’re searching.”
“You cannot betray us again,” said Ogrund.
Lannick stared at him, his face burning and his brow knotted. “I never did in the first place.”
Ogrund scowled and turned his horse about. “You saved my life on a handful of occasions, Lannick. For that, I’ll wait until afternoon before I tell the others of your departure. But then you’d best consider us square.”
“Fair enough,” said Lannick, setting off again on the road.
“And Lannick?” called Ogrund after him. “Stay clear of the deep shadows. The Necrists know men by the scent of their flesh and the shadows they cast, and they don’t ever forget.”
16
VISITORS
ZANDRACHUS BALE STUMBLED behind General Fane as the man stormed off the deck of his warship and down the gangway, a dozen of his Scarlet Swords in tow. The general halted abruptly, gesturing with a gloved hand to a small crowd gathered at the far side of the docks. They were clad in little more than rags, and were shouting protests over the conscription of men and the seizure of property.
“Not at all the greeting I’d anticipated upon reaching Riverweave,” said Fane. “Especially after days spent on the Sullen Sea. I would have expected an outpouring of gratitude upon my arrival.”
One of the crowd hurled something, possibly a tomato, which landed with a splatter less than a dozen feet from the general’s men.
Fane eyed the crowd for a moment, straightening his surcoat and adjusting his gloves. “Keln,” he said to a cruel-eyed, red-haired swordsman at his heel, “teach this rabble to respect their betters, particularly the sort here to save them from the Arranese. Choose the eldest male.”
Keln nodded his understanding and strode toward the small crowd, his heavy boots thundering upon the timbers. The ragged crowd grew louder as he approached, howling obscenities and shaking their fists.
They were a hundred or so feet away and Bale could not discern the soldier’s words over the din. Whatever he said stirred the mob to a heightened frenzy and soon they were hurling more than insults. Bale saw several protesters strike Keln with handfuls of feces and rotting vegetables. The Scarlet Swordsman did not waver.
After an exchange of angry shouts, Keln ripped a man from the crowd by his shock of white hair. In an instant, Keln had swept his blade from its scabbard and brought it down upon the man’s neck. His head was severed clean, and Keln tossed it toward the crowd like a challenge. They fell suddenly silent and withdrew several paces.
Bale grimaced and choked back the bile rising in his throat.
“Such are the lessons of war,” Fane said, and resumed his march ashore.
Bale found Riverweave far different from the tall belfries and leaden stone of Ironmoor. The city sprawled across the boggy delta where Rune’s two mightiest rivers, the Drimrill and the Silverflow, emptied into the sea, and as much of the place floated upon massive barges as sat firmly upon the ground. Wooden buildings
of every color lined a vast maze of canals and tight streets, and the place seemed to have more bridges than a man could count. It was a notorious meeting place of all the world’s cultures, a grand bazaar where every good and service imaginable was available if one but had the coin.
Bale thought it’d be an interesting place to visit at any moment but the present, where war had seemingly turned the city into a tinderbox. The citizenry harried the refugees clogging the city and scuffled with the soldiers seizing their homes and supplies. Fane’s soldiers reacted with their swords, and blood was spilled in the streets. The governor had taken issue with Fane’s methods, but the argument was settled when the general declared the governor a traitor and had him strung from one of the city’s many bridges.
Bale hurried to keep pace with Fane and his Scarlet Swords as they marched along a causeway beside the Silverflow. Nervous eyes watched them from nearby windows, and ahead was an arching bridge from which a number of bodies dangled.
“Damned traitors,” Fane screeched. He looked to Bale. “Does my method of justice perturb you, spooker?”
Bale grimaced but decided against voicing any objection.
“Alas, some men have the stomach for what must be done, and others do not,” Fane said, smiling with satisfaction. “But as for other matters, my offer still stands. You stay here, and I will send a detachment to secure the body of your Lector.”
“I greatly appreciate your generosity,” said Bale, “but there are certain rites which need to be performed, certain rituals at the situs of passage.”
“Threats are everywhere,” said Fane, gesturing across the river to a home consumed by flames, its residents fleeing a group of soldiers wielding swords and torches. “I don’t expect a man such as you comprehends the stakes of a war between great nations, or the vicious lengths to which ambitious men will go to achieve victory.”
Bale looked askance at the general, observing how the man walked with his chin raised, his black eyes constantly appraising his surroundings. Oh, I think I can guess how vicious an ambitious man can be.
One of the crimson-clad soldiers walking ahead of them shouted, and Bale peered over the man’s shoulder to see a throng of ruddy-skinned refugees crowding the path ahead. Several of the Scarlet Swords rushed forward and roughly removed them from the causeway, tossing the refugees into the river amid loud protests.
“Those people,” Fane said, waving a hand at the refugees flailing about in the river, “could be Arranese spies for all we know. Victory in battle requires the most rigid discipline, the most steadfast resolve. Any soldier or citizen failing to obey orders to the very letter is a danger, and must be corrected or eliminated. My orders were clear: all denizens of Riverweave must clear the causeways, bridges, and docks while the soldiers disembark. Those mongrels are fortunate they weren’t put to the sword. I am merciful, you must know.”
Bale pulled a strand of hair away from his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. Fane was an increasingly frightening presence, and Bale was sickened by the man’s capacity to treat innocent citizens of Rune—the very people he was charged to protect—with such cruelty. His stomach knotted and felt ready to spill its contents. “You are indeed merciful and just, General.”
General Fane grinned, the deep furrows of his scars stretching and growing white. “But we digress. As I said, my offer still stands.”
“I thank you but I must refuse.”
“Do you? You realize the savagery of the enemies we face, and that you will be afforded no protection from my army once you leave my side? There will be none to save you from the Arranese pouring from the passes of the Southwalls.”
Bale bowed his head. “It is my hope the Old Faith will light my way.”
Fane laughed. It was a series of clipped, sharp huffs and snorts.
Even this madman’s laughter is tailored with military precision. “I meant that with all sincerity, General.”
“Did you?” he asked, cocking his hairless brow. “Of course you did. Well, if that is the case then I must give you an order,” said Fane.
“An order? General, I am no soldier,” said Bale nervously.
“No, you are anything but. Nevertheless, you are within my jurisdiction now, as Riverweave and all points south have become a war zone and as such are subject to martial law. As a citizen subject to this law, you are bound to observe my commands. Do you understand?”
Sweet Illienne, please heap no more burdens upon me. I am too weak an instrument!
“Do you, Acolyte?”
Bale nodded, worried any word he uttered would ring of deception. His stomach churned.
“Excellent. When you have finished with your mission, as you’ve termed it, you will return to me and you will disclose the details of your findings to me. Every last detail.”
Bale’s head spun. I am such an awful liar! Dare I assure him I will? He swallowed a mouthful of spit and nodded, again finding gestures far easier than words.
“Very well,” said General Fane, coming to a stop. “As a reward for your loyalty I am sending my very best swordsman to accompany you. Keln?” he said, turning to the fierce-looking soldier behind him. “Please accompany the acolyte, and see my orders are followed to the letter. Keln, remind me to speak with you over my supper this evening regarding the details of this assignment, and the two of you can leave at first light tomorrow.”
Bale shifted about in the straw-filled mattress in the servant’s quarters, unable to sleep. He turned to his side and looked with revulsion at the sticky, red smear on floor’s planks. The former occupant did not leave willingly. I sleep in a dead man’s bed.
Fane and his men had tossed the governor’s family and staff from his mansion, and Bale had been assigned a room not far from the general’s own. The general had acted as though it had been a gesture of profound kindness, but Bale knew better.
The air had a chill to it, something that shook him to the bones. He rubbed at his arms with a shiver. The flickering light of fires and the din of chaos filtered through his shutters from the troubled streets outside. Looters and angry citizens clashed with soldiers, and the streets resounded with glass shattering, folks shouting, and houses burning to the ground. There came also the rings of steel and the cries of the dying.
At last Bale concluded he would not sleep, so he pulled himself out of bed and adjusted his nightshirt. He tiptoed around the wide stain of blood, opened his door, and walked down the long hallway. He didn’t bother to acknowledge the soldier who just so happened to be seated at the hall’s end, and just so happened to decide to follow him down another hallway and then down the winding staircase to the mansion’s first floor.
Bale walked to the kitchen, dimly lit by a sputtering candle, and found a kettle of tea suspended over the ashes of a dead fire. He found an earthenware cup and filled it. The tea was only lukewarm but it was flavorful, like flowers and oranges mixed together with a hint of foreign spices.
He looked about the kitchen, taking account of the pots, cleavers and knives. He thought again of the long ride ahead with Keln, and snatched a knife from a wooden cutting block. He gripped the handle and tucked it inside the sleeve of his nightshirt. One never knows when such a thing will be of use.
The red-clad soldier entered the room just after, his presence bringing a flush to Bale’s cheeks. The soldier didn’t seem to notice, though, and poured a cup of tea from the same kettle. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
Bale avoided the man’s eyes and nodded. “Just fighting off a chill,” he said and left the room, retreating up the staircase.
He hurried along the first hallway’s length, but then slowed as he noticed light emanating from the cracks of a door. As he walked near it he heard voices. He craned his neck and moved his ear close to the doorframe, curiosity seizing him.
There were indeed voices, one of which had the unmistakable scraping pitch of General Fane.
“You have asked much of me, and I will deliver,” came Fane’s voice. “Just as we bargained.
But I demand assurances.”
There came another voice, a low hiss, and the air grew noticeably colder with the sound. “We will succeed. The Lector is dead, and that has crippled the Sanctum just as our master foretold. The High King will join him in death soon enough. Our other enemies have dwindled drastically over the centuries, leaving precious few capable of opposing us. Our efforts will succeed, for we have seen it written in the blood of the dead.”
It seemed to Bale the light dimmed and the air grew colder, bringing to his mind the stories of the Sanctum’s most ancient enemy. He shuddered. A Necrist? Impossible.
“I have come to accept many aspects of your faith,” said Fane, “However, I am by nature a skeptical man. Certainly you appreciate that men often require assurances of more… substance? Understand that once we move forward with this, I have everything to lose should you and your colleagues fail in your task.”
The hissing voice sounded again. “The blood does not lie. It is just as our master has foretold.”
There was a thud, the sound of a fist striking a table. “I’ve heard quite enough of this wizard’s talk,” growled Fane. “I am the only man in Rune who can accomplish what you’ve requested. If you wish to count upon my services, then my prize must be delivered. Now. And only thereafter will your demands be met. Certainly you realize my station affords me many advantages, and my loyalty cannot be purchased with mere promises.”
Again the hissing voice. “One of my brothers journeys to Riverweave as we speak. He carries with him the Auruch, and you will have it before your army marches. We will have then honored our promise, and we will be watching to make certain you honor yours.”
An Auruch? Bale knew the word—it was a word in the elder tongue for an item of great and dangerous power, something left by the Elder God before he gifted dominion of the world to his children. The Sanctum had accounted for some, but not all, of the objects. Our task grows ever more perilous.
