by David Benem
Lannick withdrew the weapon and stepped back to allow the man to flop headfirst into the sea. He lowered his sword and turned to face Silas, knowing the pawnbroker never committed violence himself—always preferring to watch instead.
“You were always quick,” said Silas in his discomforting monotone, “even for a drunk.”
Lannick shook the slop from his blade with disgust. “Forget this thing, Silas. Leave me be.”
Silas adjusted the patch over his missing eye and his shoulders drooped. “No,” he said glumly, and threw his cleaver toward Lannick’s head.
Lannick dodged the cleaver easily. However, he didn’t see the small knife Silas wielded until it was almost too late. The blade had been intended for his gut, but Lannick managed to shift his body just enough that it dug into his hip instead. His flesh burned as the weapon scraped against bone and twisted about.
Lannick wrenched himself free and seized Silas by the throat. “My blade was never meant for you!” he roared.
Silas’s mouth fell open as he gasped for air. Lannick reared back and shoved his sword through the maw, his hand nearly ripping through the other side.
Silas collapsed, dead, his head a bloody mess.
Lannick blinked hard and his mouth trembled as the body fell to the planks, trembled for an instant, and then grew still. He looked upon the pawnbroker’s corpse for a quiet moment before kicking it from the pier.
He shook the blood and gristle from his skin as though shaking off an awful chill, and suddenly wanted whiskey more than anything. He limped back toward The Whaler’s Widow, leaving behind him a trail of blood.
Lannick sat naked upon the edge of his bed in the small, sunlit room, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bloody rag in the other. The wound—in the fleshy part between his hip and his rump—hurt horribly and had yet to stop bleeding. He soaked the rag again with the whiskey bottle and pressed it against the wound, and then took a hearty pull himself to deaden the pain.
He swallowed and gritted his teeth, as much from the burn of the whiskey as the memory of the morning’s events. He regretted the needless violence, regretted that his past had such an awful habit of grabbing at his heels and dragging him back. All he wanted was a break, a clean break from the mistakes of the last nine years. But then perhaps there is no such thing as clean break. Not from my past, anyway.
He took another long strip of the cloth he’d borrowed from the widow and wrapped it around his pelvis, about the bloody rag and then around twice more. He needed to stitch the wound but his hands were still shaking from the fight. He painfully pulled his clothing on and staggered downstairs to the inn’s common room.
The place wasn’t nearly as raucous as it’d been the night before. A couple of crusty fisherman chatted near the fire and another fellow brooded over a tankard near one of the room’s square windows. The widow was mopping the planked floor, softly singing an old sailor’s dirge.
Lannick walked gingerly to an empty table in a corner and eased himself into a chair with a wince. The widow looked at him, her plump face brightening with a kind smile. Her eyes drifted toward the rafters, as though lost in thought, then suddenly she dropped the mop, raised a finger and shuffled to the bar. She rummaged about, retrieved something then rushed to Lannick.
“Oh my,” she said in a breathless tone, “my old head is as leaky as that damned boat that drowned my husband, Illienne bless him. I nearly forgot. A great big fellow came here last night after you’d retired. Said someone had left a note for you at his place, some unsavory bar I think, and he asked me to give it to you. That, along with another one.”
Lannick thanked her and took the two notes, figuring they’d been delivered by Brugan. The first was folded into quarters and closed with a wax seal bearing a familiar mark: a watchtower. The mark of the Variden. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then opened the note slowly, almost worried something would jump at him from the parchment.
The note was written in a coded text, a secret language of the Variden. At first it was difficult to decipher, but soon Lannick found the old knowledge returning to him and the meaning of the symbols became clear.
“Lannick,” the note began. “I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’ve found some kind of peace with your demons. I know things have been difficult, but I know also that within you is the courage to overcome them.
“I write to you in desperation and I appeal to your virtue. Our colleague Merek has learned the murder of the Sanctum’s Lector was arranged by the Necrists. What is worse, the murderer now hosts the spirit of Castor. Merek managed to capture this murderer and is transporting him to Ironmoor, where he hopes the Sanctum can remove the spirit and restore it in one of their number, so that Castor’s wisdom and power are preserved. If this cannot be done, then I fear our ability to fight our enemy will be greatly diminished.
“Merek has also discovered that Arranan’s Spider King is no ordinary warlord. He keeps the company of several Necrist sorcerers and may be a Necrist himself. This Spider King marches against Rune with an army tens of thousands strong, and has decimated its forces at every turn.
“I need not tell you what catastrophe these events portend, nor need I describe to you the stakes. Our worst fears are taking form, and Rune could soon plunge into its darkest moment. Our Order’s need has never been greater, and we require every last of our number if Rune is to have any hope of surviving the coming storm.
“Come back to us, Lannick. I beg you.”
It was signed simply “Alisa.”
Lannick slumped back into his chair, stunned. He breathed deeply and his head sagged after reading the note once more.
He set it aside and opened the second note, a roll of stained parchment covered in a sloppy scribble. “Meet at Gregor’s Watch on Averday, on the full moon. Nine o’clock. I have our army, Captain.”
Lannick recognized the clumsy script as Brugan’s, and Averday was but two days away. His head sagged even lower.
“Is everything alright?” asked the widow, mopping the floor nearby.
“I’ll need another bottle of that whiskey.”
“For that cut of yours?”
Lannick had almost forgotten about his wound and he rubbed it absent-mindedly. “Uh, yeah.”
Lannick again sat at the edge of his bed, threading the dark string through the needle’s eye. His hands had stopped shaking, but he couldn’t be certain whether that was from the passage of time or the effects of more than a couple of swigs of whiskey.
The wound near his hip still wept blood but was otherwise clean. Satisfied, he squeezed it closed with one hand and pressed the needle through with the other. It stung a bit, but not nearly as much as it would have without the whiskey. A shame that’s not the only reason I need to drink.
He pulled the string through then around the wound and then through it again. After a few more punctures with the needle and loops of the string the wound was sealed, held shut by an uneven, black stitch. Not pretty, but it will do.
Lannick pressed a cloth to the mouth of the whiskey bottle, wetted it, and then gently wiped away the blood. As he did so he found himself reminded of that awful night, that passage through the shadows and the hideous faces of the Necrist and her Shodafayn abominations. He remembered with terrifying clarity those thick, grisly stitches binding the faces of his family to the skulls of those demons. He remembered how the flesh stretched and wriggled and bunched, straining against the stitching. He guessed they would not have looked like human faces at all, had their features not been so painfully familiar.
He grabbed the whiskey bottle again and took a long drink and then slammed it down upon his bedside table. After wrapping and rewrapping clean cloth strips about his hips he dressed and strapped on his sword and satchel. He grabbed the note from Alisa and stood still for a long moment, looking out his window at the twilit sky and the purple sea beneath it.
He thought of all his troubles, all the hardships he’d endured both by his own hands and
by those of others. He thought of his family, of their deaths and their burial. He thought of all those dreadful nights thereafter, of his nights spent sobbing, of his rejection of the Variden, and of his descent into drunken desperation. He thought of his dark deeds for Silas and of Silas’s face impaled upon his sword. He thought of his nightmare in the shadowpaths with the perversions of the faces he loved, and of burying his family once again.
Then he thought of General Fane. He thought of the man leering over him after he’d been beaten and bloodied, and of the smug smile twisted across his grotesque face.
He thought of his dilemma, of the hard choice between honoring old oaths to the Variden or disregarding them in order to exact revenge upon General Fane, of rejoining his order to fight the enemy in the shadows or galloping to the front to take his vengeance.
He thought of all the things before him, all those impossible deeds needing doing.
His shoulders drooped and he made ready to leave the room.
Is this how heroes are born?
22
THE AWFUL PAST
ZANDRACHUS BALE PICKED his way through the mountain pass, his hastily made walking staff wobbling precariously with every uneasy step. He averted his eyes from every vista and every cliff’s edge, terrified the heights would cause him to swoon with vertigo. His feet ached, his knees creaked, and his back was bent with exhaustion.
“How much farther?” he said, as much accusing as inquiring.
“Dunno,” said the wild-haired, spindly-legged woman walking half a dozen paces ahead of him. She smelled terrible, like a cheese several days too old, but she was the only person in the mountainside village he’d found who was willing to guide him to the ruins of the ancient city of Cirak. That was five days prior, and he surmised this was the first word she’d spoken since.
“Well,” he said, trying to sound curious rather than concerned, “how can you be sure where it is if you don’t know how far it is?”
“Dunno that, neither,” she said curtly, squinting at him with sea-green eyes. Her face was wrinkled and caked with dirt, and her shoulder-length hair gray in places and red in others. Yet, Bale suspected she was younger than she appeared.
Bale followed her up a narrow gully full of loose gravel, struggling with his footing. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”
“I ran away from home a lot, sometimes to there. I’ve snooped around a few times. Lots of dry dirt and old bones. A dead place. Last time was years ago, and I knew better than to come back.”
“Years ago? Do you remember exactly how many years ago?”
“Dunno. I forget.”
Bale tucked a long strand of his gray hair behind his ear and shook his head. He’d read of Cirak, knew vaguely of its supposed mountaintop location, but the Southwall Mountains were a vast and dangerous place. Without knowing the location precisely it was very likely they would become lost and then die. “But,” he asked, “you do know where it is, yes?”
The woman stopped abruptly and wheeled about, a bony finger leveled at him. “Dead gods be damned, yes! Everyone knows where it is, so we can avoid the place! If you don’t believe me, then good luck finding it yourself!”
Bale threw up his hands. He realized he had no choice but to trust the woman, and having her dislike him probably wasn’t a good idea. Not when she could send him plunging to his death with a simple nudge. He smiled weakly.
They continued on for a while in silence, through tight, winding passes and across an old switchback path carved into the side of the cliffs. Bale found himself shutting his eye closest to the path’s edge in hopes of ignoring the sheer height. Invariably, though, his gaze would wander to the edge and he’d see a valley thousands of feet below. His stomach lurched and would have emptied had there been anything of substance within it.
“So,” he said, trying to distract himself, “what is your name?”
“Lorra,” she said gruffly.
He paused and bowed awkwardly, “Lorra, I’m Zandrachus Bale, Acolyte of the Sanctum of Illienne the Light Eternal.”
“Good for you, whatever that is.”
“You haven’t heard of the Sanctum?”
“No.”
“We’re students of the Old Faith. Guardians of truth and seekers of wisdom.” He pulled at his chin and thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us referred to as ‘spookers.’”
“Ah. Loony wizards.”
“A common misperception. Our works are derived from the ancient wisdom of the goddess Illienne. They are divine in nature. The works we perform aren’t ‘magic,’ but rather divine methods of seeking truths. We are also well versed in curing ills of the body.”
Lorra stopped and looked at him suspiciously. “You can heal the sick?”
“We have methods. Is there something I can help you with, when we reach Cirak? Or perhaps your family? I’m thinking your help has been worth far more than the few silver crowns I’ve promised to pay you. I could help.”
She paused for a moment. “I have a lot of bad memories. Bad feelings from the awful past. My brothers and father.” She sniffed and looked skyward. “Rape and some things even worse. Can you help with nightmares?”
Bale regarded her sadly and then looked at his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t help with that.”
They made camp for the night near a mountain stream, finding kindling for a fire near a few scraggly trees. Lorra turned out to be a capable cook, making a pleasant-smelling stew of onions and leeks she’d brought from her village and herbs she found near the stream. Bale graciously accepted a wooden cup and sat near the fire to eat.
“It’s delicious,” he slurred through a mouthful before swallowing. “But you may not like me by the time morning comes. Onions tend to make a trumpet of my, well, you know…”
“You’re sleeping downwind, then.”
“Very well,” Bale said, giggling. He’d always found farts to be a source of tremendous amusement, particularly in the solemn, poorly ventilated halls of the Abbey. He wondered briefly about the acoustics of the mountain faces and laughed a bit louder, imagining the echo of a hearty baritone playing across the Southwalls.
Lorra looked at him with something resembling disgust and resumed eating in silence. Bale felt mildly embarrassed and shifted away from the fire, focusing instead upon the night sky. The moon and stars were brilliantly bright, casting a silvery glow upon the mountains. It was a serene, beautiful place, and seemed a whole world away from the Abbey. Bale smiled, amazed he’d made it so far from home.
Lorra stood and retrieved Bale’s empty cup. “Why do you travel to Cirak? It’s just a jumble of old, ruined things. A place only of death. A frightful place.”
“Old and frightful to some, but a most sacred relic to those like me. Cirak was once a great city, a majestic place. It’s said to be the site of the first battle between Illienne the Light Eternal and Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares. And it was home to a grand temple to Illienne.” He lifted his chin. “Yrghul defeated Illienne there, more than a thousand years ago, and cast the city into ruin. It’s said that after the War of Fates a group of architects and masons went to Cirak and built a new temple atop the ruins of the old, and erected glorious statues to honor the Sentinels. It was considered a holy place, at least until the Sentinels were banished.” He rubbed his nose. “You’ve heard of the Sentinels and the War of Fates, haven’t you?”
Lorra waved a hand dismissively. “Never.”
“Never? Well,” Bale said, pulling his hair behind his ears and settling closer to the fire, “eons ago the Elder God made ready to depart this place, and upon doing so He gifted dominion of the world to His six children. To Illienne He granted dominion over Rune and lands nearby. One of her brothers, Yrghul, was given a land far to the south, in a place now known as the Bowl of Fire. For a time Yrghul’s kingdom thrived, becoming like a glittering jewel. But then, in a terrible instant, a great ball of flame from the heavens obliterated his realm. Yrghul grew mad with grief over the los
s of his people, and he cursed the Elder God for the tragedy. In his rage he sought fell powers in old hells laid bare by the devastation, those dark places left buried by the Elder God when He turned from this world. With those powers he set out to exact a misguided vengeance, a desire to lay waste to all the lands of his siblings. The struggle that followed became known as ‘The War of Fates,’ and it happened a thousand years ago. It—”
“I didn’t say I wanted to hear about it.”
“But—”
“No,” Lorra said firmly, her green eyes narrowing.
“Oh,” Bale said, lowering his head, suddenly reminded of how different people were outside the walls of the Abbey. Most people find comfort in ignorance.
They sat quietly for a time near the fire. Bale stirred the embers occasionally with his staff, warding away the chill of the mountain air.
“You’re an odd one,” Lorra said abruptly. “By the looks of you you’ve traveled far, and you don’t seem to be much of a traveler. Couldn’t you have picked an easier place to meet this person?”
Bale thought of the Spell of Recounting, of the feel of the wet, withering piece of flesh in one hand and strange movements of his other as his body mimicked the Lector’s own. His hand had jerked and swirled as though writing invisible script, until at last Bale’s mind had caught their pattern and recognized the words. “And, thus, Lyan, I summon you,” were the words. “I implore you to honor once more your most sacred vow. I will come to the Sacred Place at Cirak, and together we must return to Rune, before He does. I have sent summonses to the others. The very fate of the world is in jeopardy, and only we can save it.”
The ‘sacred place’ had to be the ancient Temple of Cirak. Bale grimaced, for the words still frightened him as he wondered what, exactly, he would find in the ruins of Cirak. Perhaps I’ll find the awful past, as Lorra called it. He shivered and pulled his heavy robes about him.
