by David Benem
After a time he undid the ties of the simple cloak he wore and he stood, letting the garment slide from his shoulders. He then unfurled the green cloak and regarded it. It was worn and weathered but retained its color: a forest green edged with silver embroidery. The embroidery was a swirling script, an ancient spell told to the Variden by Valis, the Sentinel of Rune. Lannick could not decipher the words, but knew they imparted to the wearer certain protections against the dark.
With a swift movement Lannick slung the cloak across his shoulders and waited, almost fearfully. After all these years he almost expected the cloak to make him feel something, some change in his substance, some shift in his thinking. But there was nothing, and the cloak felt much like the ordinary one he’d just discarded. After several heartbeats he sighed, allowed the tension to leak from his form.
He then turned to the box. It was small, such that it could be held comfortably in one hand. But this was no mean thing, he knew. He lifted it from the bed and held it before him. There was an unnatural heaviness to it, an unexpected heft for so small a thing. The box, too, was etched with script, this spell one of concealment meant to hide the box from unwelcome eyes.
At last he opened it, revealing a thick bracelet of dull iron. My Coda. There was sunlight streaming from the window, but the Coda reflected none of it. There were markings carved upon its surface—another spell—and the Coda was said to be comprised of a hundred thin layers of that black metal, each one etched with a different invocation.
But these were no simple enchantments, no pale imitations of the forces that had forged the world. These were ancient commands in the very language of the dead gods. This was a thing possessed of true magic, a divine potency given form.
His hand hung above it, trembling, for long moments. He’d last worn his Coda the day he buried his family. He’d been branded a traitor for belonging to an order devoted to a banished Sentinel. After the murders he renounced the Variden, blaming the slaughter of his family upon his association with them. He thereby gained the High King’s pardon for his so-called crime, but not his forgiveness. He’d vowed then to never again walk that path, and he’d broken the Coda loose with a smith’s hammer.
Times change, and people with them. He gently lifted the Coda from the box. It unhinged as he did so, leaving a space through which he could thread his wrist. He held it just over his wrist, slightly behind the hand, and paused again.
He knew if he did this he would be bound to the Variden once more. The Codas were forged by the Sentinel Valis, who poured into them all remnants of his divine power. Valis had made the instruments so that he could uphold his oath to protect Rune, even after the death of his mortal form. His power would live on through his followers, the Variden. The Codas granted every Variden the ability to work formidable spellcraft while obscuring them to their enemies. The Codas also created a link by pulling the Variden toward a common purpose and preserving for the order each mind’s knowledge after death.
“We toil each of us in secret,” Alisa had said, “but we are never alone. The Vigilant ever stand guard.”
Lannick paused before returning the Coda to its case and snapping the box shut. Lashing the Coda would join his thoughts to the other Variden. Although he would remain free to make his own decisions, the others would sense his actions and he would be pressed to follow the order’s purpose. He thought then the Coda could be as much a shackle as an instrument of power, and he wasn’t yet ready to be tethered to the cause.
He thought too of Wil’s statement. Wil had mentioned that four of the Variden were slain by Fane and his men once Lannick’s affiliation had been discovered. Perhaps he could try setting some things right before placing others at risk.
He stashed the box in the satchel upon his belt and made ready to leave.
Not just yet.
The Wanton Vicar looked the same as ever, its squat wooden structure leaning tiredly against the ruins of a cathedral. Lannick stopped before pulling open the door, wondering how different things might have been had he not wandered into the place that evening not so long ago. He sniffed, shook his head, and walked inside.
It was a light crowd, as it generally was this time of the afternoon. A couple of shady-looking men played deadman’s dice in a corner, silver coins scattered across their table. At another table a few richly clad sorts, merchants likely, sat in hushed conversation. The place smelled of garlic and beef, and Lannick suspected a stew was simmering in the kitchen.
Behind the bar was Brugan, wielding a rag in a thick hand as he polished the bar, wearing a grin Lannick knew was almost ever-present. The big man’s ugly face had never seemed a more welcome sight. His nose was perhaps more flattened than it had been the last time they’d met, lending his face an almost sunken shape. But his good cheer remained.
“Take a seat wherever you’d like,” Brugan said, his eyes not straying from his task.
“Do you have a seat at the bar?” Lannick asked, mirth finding its way to his face.
“I said wherever you’d—” Brugan stopped midsentence when his gaze found Lannick. “Dead gods! Lannick? Can it be?”
Lannick remained beside the door, his smile widening. Old friends are a comfort to the soul, no matter what they look like.
“It is you!” said Brugan, rushing from behind the bar. He seized Lannick by the shoulders and then wrapped his burly arms about him, squeezing tightly enough to make Lannick wince at the wound in his ribs not yet healed. “I feared the worst, and thought you were dead.”
“I live, Brugan,” said Lannick, pressing free of the burly man. “I’m okay.”
Brugan regarded him with a cocked brow. “You look… different. You’ve had some rough days, I’m sure. I promise you, Lannick, I did not betray you to Fane and his brutes. But my serving girl Lacy walked in and they put a sword to her throat. She wouldn’t give your name but told them you lived in the Hollows when they made her bleed. She’s not to blame.”
“I know, Brugan. No one’s to blame but me. I’m sorry for bringing my troubles to your door.”
Brugan shrugged. “Friends need to do that sometimes, especially when they have nowhere else to go.” He gestured to the bar. “Now enough of such talk. Grab a seat. Wine? This one’s on the house, my friend. And maybe a good number more.”
“No, no. Just hot tea, if you have it.”
Brugan looked at him dumbstruck, as though Lannick had sprouted a second head. “Tea it is,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Lannick eased onto a stool at the bar, his usual spot. He assumed what he felt was an all too familiar pose, elbows on the bar, shoulders high, head hung low. He wondered just how many evenings he’d spent in this very spot, draining cup after cup of wine until his thoughts softened and his regrets washed away, at least until he awoke the next morning with his head pounding. Regardless, he couldn’t help but allow his eyes to drift to the many bottles of wine and whiskey lined behind the bar, as well as the casks of ale near the tankards and cups. Greetings, my old friends. He thought for a instant about calling out to Brugan to forget the tea, but just then the barkeep emerged from the kitchen with a steaming mug.
“Careful,” Brugan said. “It’s hot.” He stood there for a moment, quiet, and Lannick could feel the man’s eyes upon him. “You’ve changed, if you don’t mind me saying. And I don’t just mean your new nose.”
“I reckon I have,” said Lannick. “Pain and heartbreak will do that to a man.”
“I won’t ask what happened to you. I’m sure you’ll tell me when and if you want to, and I’m sure it was nothing pleasant. But whatever happened, I’d say it’s chipped some new edges into you.”
Lannick nodded and took a tentative sip. The tea was spiced with cinnamon and clove—an expensive blend from Khaldisia. It was just the sort of kind thing Brugan would do for him on occasion.
“Should I take anything from the fact that you’re wearing a new sword?” Brugan asked.
“I lost my old one, and figured I
’d have need for a blade fairly soon.”
“Perhaps sooner than you think. That filthy pawnbroker Silas was sniffing around here for you, a couple of weeks back. Said you owed him a lot of money. I told him you owed me even more, and to let me know when he’d found you.” He winked.
“I’m good for it, this time. But the sword’s not for Silas.” He scowled. “The sword’s for the bastard who’s tormented me for the last nine years.”
“At last? By the dead gods, man, it’s about time!”
Lannick closed his eyes and smelled the rich vapors from the tea. The odor bit pleasantly. “Unfortunately my nemesis is hundreds of leagues away, battling the Arranese.”
“He’ll return here at some point. If he survives the war, that is. Have you heard talk of the war?”
“Here and there. Sounds as though things aren’t going as planned.”
Brugan snorted. “That’s a kind way to put it. A couple of southerners, mercenaries by the looks of them, were in here last night. They said the Arranese have yet to lose a battle, that they’ve crushed Rune’s armies at every turn. At this rate they’ll take Riverweave within the month, if not sooner.”
Lannick frowned and sipped his tea. “General Fane’s a slippery sort. He’s likely hatched some plan to lull the enemy into thinking they’ve won, and thus lead them into a trap. He’d do that, you know. He’d let many men die as part of a deception. ‘Necessary losses,’ he’d call them.”
“That’s what the High King’s council has to be telling themselves. They’d have replaced any other commander by now and had the man hanged for such failure. But, then, Fane holds more sway with the council than ever.”
“Dead gods, that’s an awful thing.” Lannick fixed his eyes to Brugan’s. “Well perhaps I’ll just disguise myself and enlist, and volunteer to go straight to the front. I can still use a sword better than most, and I’d get my chance before long. I’d get close to Fane at some point, and do what I should have done a long time ago.”
Brugan stooped closer, and there was a fire in his eyes. He slapped a heavy hand on the bar. “You could do more than that, Lannick. There are rumors of a revolt among the soldiers, of seasoned fighters deserting instead of following Fane’s orders. Fane’s not a sane man, and soldiers are beginning to realize it. It’s just the same as Pryam’s Bay. You remember it, Lannick. You remember that look in his eyes, and the way the men turned.”
“Oh, I remember that look. I’ve had the pleasure of gazing upon it rather recently, as a matter of fact. Right after his Scarlet Swords gave me this lovely new face.”
Brugan slapped the bar again. “And I recall how that war was won. You were the hero, Lannick. You won the battle of Pryam’s Bay and saved Rune from ruin. The ‘Scourge of Tallorrath,’ they called you. You did all of that, with the help of a few of your friends, of course,” he said with a smile.
Lannick studied his mug of tea. “What are you suggesting, Brugan?”
“There are men willing to fight who won’t fight for Fane. Thane Vandyl, Thane Meledin, and Brandiss Thane of Stormfall still stand aside. Meledin for one holds a debt to you from Pryam’s Bay, and my guess is he’d honor it. The High King’s council demanded two columns of soldiers be kept in reserve—they’re not complete fools. If those thanes were to take up the cause—”
“I’m not that man anymore. I’m no proud hero the thanes would trust.”
“No? Was it so very long ago? Are we such different men now?” He sank lower, bringing his face even with Lannick’s. “Men would follow you, Lannick. Those deserters? The men running from Fane? They’re massing, Lannick. They still serve Rune, but won’t march for Fane. We could join them, rally them, and march with them. And when we do march, the thanes will take notice. Nobles value debts like no other, for they see debts as the currency of power. If Meledin heard you were marching against Fane, he’d get involved. The others would be bound to, after him.”
Lannick waved a hand dismissively.
“There are still many soldiers who remember you, who respect you. Folk who knew you were no traitor, and knew you were only punished because of Fane’s mad jealousy.” He straightened. “You could win this war.”
“That’s not me anymore. I can’t pretend to be who I once was. Not after all that’s happened.”
“You’re a different man, Lannick, but that doesn’t mean you need to be less of one. I’ve watched you sit here and crumble under the weight of your grief. I’d watched it happen for so long and with such inevitable certainty that I’d given up trying to save you. But I see that old spark in you again, Lannick. Something’s changed. Take hold of it. Grab this chance before it escapes you forever.”
Lannick nodded. “You’re halfway right, Brugan. I’ll admit I’ve spent years blaming myself for what happened to my family. Years poring over the consequences of every decision I’d made, examining all the ways I could have changed things by not doing this or by doing that instead.” He shook his head. “I’d been thinking about it all wrong. And I’d been laying blame on the wrong man. I want my revenge, Brugan. But let’s leave it at that.”
Brugan fixed Lannick with a hard eye. “What better revenge could there be? What better way for you to destroy Fane than to take from him all his glory? All his power? To strip him of everything he holds dear, just as he did to you? Then, at last, when he cowers at your feet in shame, you take from him his life. By the dead gods, Lannick, it’s time for the old ghosts of Pryam’s Bay to return. It’s time for us old, broken down heroes to finally set things right.”
Lannick smiled but the expression was fleeting. “It’s a pleasant thought, Brugan.”
“It can happen. We can make it happen. You know you aren’t the only man Fane wronged, Lannick. You had the worst of it, but he wronged every man who stood at your side. We were decommissioned after the war. All of us ‘heroes’ were cast aside, with no glory or reward or honor. Replaced by every mindless bastard willing to remain loyal to Fane.” He pounded his fist on the bar. “Any member of your company who protested was thrown in the brig for a year or more, as a lesson. We were fighting men, Lannick, and Fane took from all of us the only living we knew. There are a good number of lads who’d love to push that man from his pedestal, and climb up there themselves. A lot of lads who won a war but were treated like dogs instead of soldiers.”
Lannick took another sip of his tea. “I don’t know, Brugan. That’s a large task, but I’ll think about it.”
“Well then I’ll await your orders, Captain,” Brugan said. He clasped his big hand upon Lannick’s shoulder. “Just don’t let me down again.”
The sun was sinking behind Ironmoor’s western edge when Lannick left The Wanton Vicar. Long shadows stretched across the cobblestoned street. Lannick stopped and prodded his satchel, finding the outline of the box holding his Coda. Its presence provided some comfort, but not nearly enough.
Temple Street was nearly empty in spite of the evening’s pleasant weather. There were a few ne’er-do-wells ambling between the nearby taverns, but the street was far quieter than Lannick had hoped. He reminded himself Rune was a nation at war, but couldn’t resist tugging his cloak tightly about him as he walked.
He examined every face he passed, seeking signs of rotting or stitched flesh. His eyes strained as he peered at every shadow, looking for shapes emerging from the darkness. He thought of his torturous journey through the shadowpath, and wondered if he’d ever again feel at ease in the night.
He felt a sudden chill settle upon him and did his best to shrug it off. It came upon him again and he paused, thinking of the Necrists. He cursed, and then steeled his gaze and set his jaw, assuming every outward appearance of bravado in hopes it would grant his soul a similar strength. Purpose is one thing, but courage is entirely another. He redoubled his pace, walking with a firm, unwavering stride. He needed to find an inn, a place where no one would think to find him, and figured the best place was Ironmoor’s bustling harbor.
He found a wide thor
oughfare through Ironmoor’s finer neighborhoods. The taverns gave way to fancier storefronts, and there came the calls of merchants urging prospective customers that the war in the south meant a limited supply of exotic goods. Many customers milled about, their hands poised near their purses.
Lannick walked easier, finding the presence of others a welcome relief. Even as emboldened as the Necrists had seemingly become, he reckoned they’d never confront him amidst so many others. He paused occasionally, inspecting the storefront displays of Khaldisian silks and spices, thick wools from near the Waters of World’s End, and carved woods and ivory from Harkane. What value such things held at wartime was a mystery to him, but puffy-faced and perfumed customers desperately haggled for them nonetheless.
The crowd grew as he walked, but so did the shadows as the light retreated from the sky. Lannick pressed ahead with greater urgency, moving amidst the throngs of people and gripping the outline of the box holding his Coda.
Then he stopped. Ahead of him, perhaps thirty yards away and moving closer, was a tall figure draped in black robes. At this distance he couldn’t discern any details of the person’s face but he was in no position to take chances. He located an alleyway weaving between two buildings and dashed toward it.
The alley was cast entirely in shadow, the narrow space between the large buildings nearly shutting out entirely the fading light of the evening sky. It seemed cold, also, and a stiff wind whipped through the divide. He could not see the far end of the alley, but the air smelled of livestock so Lannick reckoned he was approaching the Old Market. He pressed forward, hoping there would be more people there.
“Lannick, my love,” called a soft voice. Not just a whisper, but a icy breath in his ear.
He whirled about but there was no one. Only the dark shadows of the alleyway. He turned and ran at a full sprint, leaping over the crates and garbage littering the alley. At last he broke into the wide square of the Old Market. Hundreds of people milled about the tents and stalls, packing up their goods or striking the day’s last bargain.
