by David Benem
She rolled to a side and saw the still forms of Drenj and Paddyn lying nearby. There was also Karnag’s great pile of gore, but no sign of the highlander or that bastard Merek.
Several of the shadowed figures moved toward her. “What…” she moaned as she tried to press upward, but she collapsed back to the ground from lack of strength.
Hands seized her, yanking her to her feet. Her body was limp and she could offer little resistance. She opened her eyes as wide as her considerable tolerance for pain would allow and saw all about her olive-colored, angular faces, armors of knitted hides and leathers, and an arsenal of exotic weaponry. She sighed with a sputter of spit and surrendered to their grasp.
“Bring her to me,” came a thunderous voice which seemed to send tremors through the very earth.
Fencress rolled her head about, searching for the source of the sound. A short distance away, silhouetted against the sun, was a towering man no less than three feet taller than any fellow she’d ever seen. A colossal, sinewy figure wearing a sword Fencress guessed was taller than she was.
Her carriers dragged her closer until the gold disk of the sun was concealed behind the behemoth. Fencress’s vision slowly adjusted to the light and she beheld a great head, shaven and traced with strange, geometric tattoos, lines dividing the face into tiny, slanted squares, like the web of a spider. But as she was pulled closer still she saw this was no tattoo, but rather a nasty stitching splitting the man’s countenance into dozens of patches of stretched, writhing flesh.
She shuddered and drew a fearful breath. And so endeth the tale of Fencress Fallcrow, Death’s Dancing Mistress.
The figure reached out a monstrous hand and took hold of Fencress by her skull. She was plucked painfully upward with disturbing ease and wiggled about like a rag doll. Her neck stretched with a crack in the vice-like grip and she frantically reached upward for support among the massive fingers. She pulled herself up with her last bits of strength to keep her neck from snapping.
“You,” the giant said, “are not the ‘Gravemaker.’ You are but an ordinary thing, a pathetic wretch.”
“Yet she is unharmed, Spider King,” said a smaller man standing near. “She and the other two were the only ones at the site unwounded. Perhaps the three of them did these things together.” Fencress noticed the smaller fellow’s head was stitched in a fashion similar to that of the giant.
Fencress dangled as the giant studied her as a midwife would a newborn babe. “Yet,” the Spider King said, “I no longer feel the presence of my brother, fleeting as it was. What use could these mortals be?”
“They may know something of your brother,” said the other.
“They have killed none of my children. They bear no mark of the gods. They can know nothing, none of the real truths, for they are not wrought from the same substance as I,” said the giant, dropping Fencress to the ground. “Leave them.”
“Your grace?”
“Leave them to die.”
21
STARTING OVER
LANNICK SAT BEFORE the fire in the common room of The Whaler’s Widow, trolling a spoon through a thick stew of smelts and stringy vegetables at least a few days older than fresh. What the stew lacked in freshness, though, it made up in texture: it was easily chewed and thus only mildly bothersome to Lannick’s crooked jaw.
A storm raged outside so the creaky inn near the docks was jammed with sailors and deckhands taking shelter from the downpour and warming their bellies with ale. They were a rowdy bunch, full of salty talk, tall tales, and bawdy songs.
“So then,” croaked a fat-faced fellow drinking with friends near the fire, “the wench tells me the kid isn’t mine at all! So I ask her who the father is, and the whore tells me ‘Sam, I don’t give two shits who the father is. I just don’t want this little bastard getting your ugly looks.’ So then I tell her my name’s not Sam, and she tells me ‘Maybe not, but your just as ugly as he is!’”
The group roared with laughter and slammed their mugs together, spilling a fair amount of ale in the process.
Lannick smirked, finding the crowd to be a pleasant distraction from the troubles haunting his head. He’d made the inn his home for two weeks, staying away from his more familiar spots in hopes of distraction and anonymity. He needed a break from his past, a place to clear his head and think things through. A place for starting over.
His wounds had mostly healed, with the only reminders of Fane’s most recent brutality being a painful click in his jaw, a faint whistle in his bent nose, and a chipped tooth. He’d also sobered up—nearly anyway—and indulged in only a mug or two of ale near bedtime. He’d even taken to working his sword arm and practicing his fighting footwork on the docks at dawn. And most of all, he’d finally conceded Brugan was right. Something had changed within him, and he needed to take hold of it or risk losing it forever.
“Captain!” called a man over the din of the crowd.
Lannick instinctively turned on his stool at the word, dropping his spoon in the stew and finding the hilt of his sword.
“Captain!” said the man again. He was a tall man, his head nearly brushing the tavern’s rafters. He shouldered through a knot of drinkers and his eyes moved briefly over Lannick. Then he took a seat at the table behind Lannick’s, across from another man wearing a wide, tri-cornered hat trimmed with a large yellow feather. He’d been addressing someone else.
Lannick turned back to his stew and took a deep breath. Captain. He’d held that title, long ago. So long ago it seemed now another life. But the memories remained.
He remembered the brisk salutes of his men and their resounding answer of “Captain!” after he’d shouted his cry for courage in the cold, pre-dawn hours so many years before. He recalled how he’d charged the icy shores of Pryam’s Bay, his division of a thousand men at his heels, and how they’d hacked desperately through the enemy soldiers to set fire to the ships of Tallorrath. He remembered how they’d rescued the captives, gutted every one of the invaders, and saved Rune from invasion.
He remembered, too, the stunned, scorched visage of General Fane. “Captain?” he’d asked incredulously, his charred face still smoldering and his mouth agape as Lannick dragged him from the wreckage of a burning ship. Lannick had slain a dozen Tallorrathian raiders to reach the captured general, but not before they’d thrown the general’s bound form into the heart of the flames.
He also remembered High King Deragol’s kind, appreciative smile when he’d held forth a decorated blade and said, simply and firmly, “Captain.” The crowd gathered in the elegant gardens of the Bastion had cheered as Lannick bowed low to accept the blade signifying him as a Protector. As one of Rune’s greatest heroes.
All had cheered. All but one. Fane had not clapped nor bellowed nor whistled. He’d stood there, strangely still, his face a mess of black scabs and blood-soaked bandages. He’d looked at Lannick with empty eyes as though wishing him death, his thin mouth shifting as through trying to taste glories no longer his own.
And lastly Lannick remembered Brugan, regarding him with a frantic gaze and shaking him from a drunken blur with shouts of “Captain!” Lannick had slowly revived and was reluctantly withdrawn from the arms of a Khaldisian prostitute to listen. He’d stood stunned and hollow-chested as Brugan told him Fane’s Scarlet Swords had broken down the door of his home, where slept his wife and children.
Where he found them slaughtered.
Lannick moved his hand again to the sword, gripping its handle until his knuckles grew white.
Fane, I will hunt you down, and I will wreak ruin upon all that remains of your soul.
The following day Lannick woke early, his head clear and his body filled with a vigor it hadn’t possessed in many years. He was different, he knew. Or at least he hoped he was. He knew he hadn’t bested his demons—not all the way—and thought with dread for an instant of how easy it would be to slide headlong into those old, miserable habits. But not today.
He breakfasted on a meal of
soft cheese and dark bread in the common room of The Whaler’s Widow, thanking the pleasant widow herself for hearing his footfalls and insisting he be fed. He cleaned his plate, donned his sword and cloak, and headed out to the nearby docks.
The docks were awash in the hazy glow of the just-rising sun and striped with the thin shadows of the ropes and spars of ships listing gently in the harbor. There were fewer ships than usual, and most of them were either warships or local fishing trawlers. Trade, especially with such faraway places as Khaldisia and Harkane, had seemingly slowed if not stopped altogether. Many of the vessels appeared vacant, with only the occasional ship hosting the vague semblance of a crew.
Lannick walked along a narrow pier, his boots scratching against the weathered wood. He’d always been fond of the scent of sea-brined air and he breathed it deeply. The rising tide lapped against the supports below and a flock of gulls floated lazily overhead.
Before him were only the endless, churning waters of the Sullen Sea. Every wave’s crest and every cloud’s tuft was set with the golden hue of the rising sun. There seemed to be only tranquil possibility, only peaceful expanse.
He regarded it all with a wry smile. What lay before him was anything but peaceful, and nowhere near tranquil. Things were about to get quite complicated and quite bloody. Nonetheless, this place seemed a suitable location for starting anew, a place for focusing upon the deeds to be done.
When he reached the pier’s end he sank to a crouch and drew his sword. It wasn’t as evenly weighted a weapon as the one he’d had forged before Pryam’s Bay, or as elegant as the decorative sword the High King had presented him thereafter. This sword’s handle was wrapped with fraying leather, the cross-guard was bent, and the blade was chipped in places and heavier at the end than in the middle. It had certainly seen better days.
Not unlike me.
He calmed his thoughts and began. He thrust the blade forward, toward the rising sun, his right leg taking a long step for balance and leverage. He thrust again, stepping quickly sideways to the pier’s edge, then parried with a step backward, then another thrust, then one more. He moved quickly, his feet feeling lighter than they had in some time. If nothing else, his recent hardships had trimmed his belly, granting him some of the quickness he’d lost in recent years.
Slowly his troubles drifted from his head and he focused only on his movements, determined to make them all swift and crisp. He slipped to his side, dodged and charged forward. He crouched and lurched and struck, again and again, and the planks of the pier hummed from his footfalls and the sword became a blur in his hands.
His brow dripped with sweat and his muscles burned but it bothered him not at all. It felt right. He wasn’t as strong or swift as he’d been at Pryam’s Bay, but then he wasn’t as slow as he’d been a couple of months ago, either. He felt like a dangerous man once more, a man set with a deadly purpose. He thrust his sword again, imagining it sinking into Fane’s black heart.
“Hullo, Lannick,” came a scratchy, disconcerting voice.
Lannick whirled about, his sword at the ready.
Standing there on the narrow pier, between Lannick and dry land, was Silas, the one-eyed pawnbroker. Behind Silas were two rough-looking sorts, one a giant hulk of a man with an executioner’s axe, the other a smaller fellow with a curved dagger clutched in dirty hands.
Silas’s face was strangely placid, his cheeks sagging sadly. Lannick had seen that look before, usually when the pawnbroker had asked him to draw “interest” from a deadbeat debtor. That generally meant a good beating, the gutting of a family pet, or even slicing off a finger or two. Lannick shuddered at the memory of such deeds.
“Lannick, my old friend,” Silas said, his voice weak and withering. “Why have you done this?”
Lannick lowered his blade and moved his other hand to his purse. He had a couple of silver crowns he could spare. “I’ve been… occupied, Silas. I can pay you something now, and I promise you I’m good for the rest.”
Silas shook his head. “Imagine my disappointment upon discovering you’ve been renting a room in such a pricey seaside inn while owing me so much?” He sighed and looked downward. “I talk not just of your rent and the loans I made to you, but also of the many years I’ve had you in my employ. Think of all the times I helped you when you were down. Why? Why would you withhold my money and hide from me? You know I am not a forgiving man.”
Lannick gritted his teeth. He had no time for lectures or threatening talk, especially from the pawnbroker. There were larger matters demanding his attention. “Silas, I’ve had to deal with other things. Problems—real problems—from my past. I’m sorry for the delay.” He dipped his hand into his purse, brushing across the box of his Coda and finding a couple of coins. He thought for an instant of fixing the Coda to his wrist but decided against it. Instead, he grabbed the coins and offered them to Silas. “I can give this to you now as a gesture of good faith, and you can trust I’ll pay you the rest when I can.”
Silas slapped Lannick’s hand and the coins plopped into the sea. “The time for such gestures is long past. You owe me three months of rent, plus another six silver crowns for loans and interest. That’s eleven in all. You either pay with coin now, or you pay with flesh. You remember those terms of mine, don’t you, Lannick? I never imagined I’d have to deliver them to you.”
Lannick straightened and squeezed the hilt of his blade. “I have no quarrel with you, Silas, and no desire for violence, but I don’t have that kind of coin on hand. I can give you a couple of crowns now but the rest must wait a few weeks.”
Silas tilted his head and took several silent steps backward, his expression unreadable. “That will not do, Lannick. You have betrayed me, and in my business I cannot tolerate betrayal. You should know that.”
Lannick’s face flushed with anger. “I have not betrayed you, Silas, and I have not been hiding from you. I’ve been dragged through hell and back. You will get your coin when I can pay you. Eleven crowns and more.”
Silas’s face froze in a disturbing half-smile and he took another few steps backward, pressing between and behind his two companions. “Boys…” he breathed.
The big fellow was the first to move, blundering forward and heaving his huge axe overhead. As he neared Lannick he threw the axe viciously downward with arms the size of tree trunks. Lannick darted back as the axe head smashed into the wooden planks and shattered one to splinters. Lannick was just able to avoid the blow without falling into the water, but his heels had found the end of the pier and he fought to keep his balance.
The axe head caught in the planks for an instant, but not quite long enough for Lannick to take advantage. By the time his footing was firm the big man had pulled the axe free and was twisting it back to swing it sideways. Lannick knew his short sword would never be able to redirect such a weapon—not in these tight quarters—so he made ready to duck or jump. He figured the oaf thought to bring a fight to an end with a single, overwhelming strike, probably guessing he could split Lannick in two at the belly. I’ll throw myself on the planks, and then make it quick.
The man spun the great axe about his hip with tremendous force, so much so there was no hope he could adjust its path. Lannick dropped face down as the weapon whistled toward him. He then lunged forward on hands and knees once it had moved over him. He drove the tip of his sword right into the man’s bits.
The big oaf dropped the axe and stumbled backward, clutching his bleeding crotch and letting loose a pained squeal. He knocked into Silas before tumbling off the pier and into the waters of the Sullen Sea, causing Silas to stagger backward and fall. The oaf splashed wildly about in the sea, and it was obvious he couldn’t swim and would very likely drown.
Lannick turned to the smaller ruffian who stood grinning with a wild look in his bloodshot eyes, his hands caressing his dagger like a lover. He seemed to be the sort who enjoyed killing, and Lannick knew that was never a good sort to encounter.
“You don’t want to join your f
riend, do you?” Lannick asked as amiably as he could manage.
The ruffian shrugged and smiled crazily, his dagger at the ready.
Lannick held forth a hand, pleading. “Silas! We can settle this without more bloodshed! This is a dispute over only money, nothing more. Certainly we can resolve this?”
Silas pressed himself to his feet and dusted off his breeches, his face still disquietingly calm. “Only money, Lannick? You should know I don’t regard it as only money. Money is not an end in itself, but rather the one means to obtain all other things, whether they be things of comfort, power, or even love. When you take money from me, you are stealing from me all those other things as well.”
“I’ve stolen nothing.”
“Borrowing money with no intention of repaying is the very same as stealing.” Silas slipped his hand into his coat and produced a cleaver, its wide blade glinting in the morning sunlight. He moved to stand beside the dirty ruffian, leaving no way around them on the narrow pier. “And when you, a man I trusted, a man I helped, took money from me, you betrayed me in the worst possible way.”
Lannick scowled. He’d wanted a break from his past, from those nine awful years. He wished there was another way but knew there wasn’t. Sometimes the past can only be washed away by blood.
Lannick knew better than to wait this time. He danced toward the ruffian, keeping his strides uneven and unpredictable and flipping his sword in his hand so to hold it upside down. The ruffian sank low, the long dagger swaying in his hands and ready to strike.
The ruffian’s dark eyes fixated Lannick’s midsection and he panted like a dog. Lannick had seen such eyes before and reckoned the man would worry only about inflicting violence rather than becoming the victim of it.
He saw there his chance.
As Lannick closed the distance the ruffian’s eyes widened and he shoved his dagger toward the spaces between Lannick’s ribs. Just as Lannick had hoped, the man had failed to guard himself. Before the fellow’s arm had fully extended Lannick’s sword was already deep inside that soft space between his neck and collarbone. The ruffian’s arm jerked and his dagger dropped from twitching hands.
