by David Benem
“She’s not safe here. Neither is the High King.”
“But where could they go? What is a king without a castle?”
“There must be a place,” said Gamghast, doing his best to sound more confident than he was.
Tannin eyed him suspiciously. “Alamis will squat on the throne the very moment it’s abandoned. High King Deragol cannot leave this place or there will be chaos.” He rubbed at his square chin. “The queen, though, could take a holiday, for instance. Such departures are not uncommon. But to where? Her family hails from Riverweave, which may soon be under siege.”
Gamghast thought of the Lector, of the Sentinel Castor, and the many centuries he dared to hide in the very shadow of the Bastion. Could we do such a thing? He breathed deeply. “There are places not so far away. Places where Queen Reyis could seek shelter until this storm abates.”
They found Queen Reyis at the place they’d arranged, a servant’s quarters far removed from the more well traveled halls of the Bastion proper. She arose from a simple chair and moved through a clutch of attendants to greet them. As she approached, Gamghast could not help but be warmed by the woman’s radiant beauty, the cascade of her flaxen hair and the glow in her cheeks. She was elegant and stately, and Gamghast dropped to creaky knees before her.
“Rise,” she said. “There is no need—or time—for formalities.”
Gamghast did as asked, struggling upright. He met the queen’s gaze, noticing the dark rings surrounding her eyes and the worry woven upon her brow. Sweet Illienne, why are our most difficult trials set upon us when we are weakest? He drew back the hood of his robes. “We must speak privately.”
Reyis turned to her attendants, several young women and a withered old man. “Please, leave us.”
The young women moved swiftly to the door, and the old man—clearly blind—shuffled behind while tapping a long switch before him. Tannin followed but stopped near the door and gave a quick look to Gamghast. “I’ll be outside,” he said. “Ready.”
Reyis’s eyes lingered upon the door for a moment after it had closed and then her gaze rejoined Gamghast’s. “You appreciate our danger here, Prefect?”
Gamghast tugged at his beard. “Chamberlain Alamis is consumed by his lust for power. He desires only the throne, and has allied himself with many foes. I have already warned you of his dealings with the Necrists. Now it seems he has courted others to his cause, as well.”
Reyis’s head drooped. “You have no idea how these betrayals have cut my husband. They were childhood friends. Alamis was the son of one of the members of High King Derandale’s council, and as boys he and Deragol hunted together, fenced together, traveled together. All of those things young men of privilege do.” She sniffled and pressed her fingers to her eyes.
“I never knew.”
“When Deragol’s episodes began six years ago, after my second miscarriage, Alamis was the most loyal of friends, the most caring. He would sit with me at my husband’s side, soothing his brow until the tremors subsided. But the madness worsened and Deragol weakened. After a time, Alamis seemed to view it as an opportunity.” She clenched her hands into fists and her expression darkened. “I could see the change in his eyes—how he looked at my husband with disgust and at the throne with envy. He was a friend only so long as friendship served ambition. The moment he sensed an avenue to power, he seized upon it.”
“Does he know?”
“Of this?” she asked, pressing a hand to the swell of her belly. “Dead gods, no. I fear the moment Alamis learns of my pregnancy he’ll try to terminate it by any means available to him. A drop of poison in my wine, a tumble down the stairs, even a knife in the gut… There is no evil beyond the man’s grasp.”
Gamghast grabbed Reyis’s hand, grimacing as he realized his sudden breach of decorum. He shook his head, determined to proceed. “You cannot stay here. You are not safe, nor is your unborn child. Come with me. Tell whoever matters that you’re taking a holiday, that there’s trouble with your family in Riverweave. Tell them whatever it takes to get you clear of the dangers lurking in these halls.”
She sniffled again and waved a hand dismissively. “I cannot. You must know Deragol is a mere shell of a man. He would not survive without me at his side. Your own Lector tried helping him, and even he could not determine the source of his illness.” Her lip trembled and then she looked away. “His time may be nearing its end.”
“If I may speak directly, there is far more at stake than your husband’s sanity. More at stake than even his life.”
Queen Reyis stared at him coldly before speaking. “Alamis would use my absence as an opening. He would seize the throne.”
“He may do so anyway, even with you walking these halls.” He regarded the queen grimly. “High King Deragol is beyond our grasp, now. It is you who carries the future of Rune.”
“No,” she said. “I will not abandon him in this state, and I will not hand Alamis yet another advantage. Many who’ve remained loyal to my husband would waiver if not for my presence here.”
“Please, my queen. Time is not in our favor. Chamberlain Alamis is winning new alliances every day. The Arranese are marching and soon may be at Ironmoor’s gates. And what is more, your pregnancy will soon be visible to all.”
“But that will give people hope.”
“Or it will give Alamis all of the motivation he needs to strike. Consider it, at least.”
Queen Reyis glared at Gamghast, but soon her eyes softened. “I will consider it, Prefect.”
“Don’t wait too long. There is great danger here.”
Queen Reyis’s shook her head. “No. Not just here. Everywhere.”
24
OLD SOLDIERS
LANNICK WALKED BRISKLY along the cobblestoned street, pulling his green cloak about his shoulders. It was a dreary night, with rain falling from heavy clouds aglow from the full moon behind them. All about the street were shadows. Black shadows fell from the wooden buildings crowding the street, dropped from every chimney and every lamppost, and sat like thick pitch in the innumerable spaces between the cobbles.
“Stay clear of the deep shadows,” Ogrund had told him when he’d left the Variden compound. He thought of his nightmarish journey through the shadowpaths, dragged along by the hideous Shodafayn wearing the faces of his dead children. His hand drifted to his satchel and he found the outline of the box holding his Coda, just next to his whiskey flask. He wondered which of the two he’d need first.
There came from behind him the muffled echo of footsteps. He glanced over his shoulder to peer back along the dark street and spotted a figure thirty or so feet behind him. In the dark everything seemed comprised of shadows, and he couldn’t identify a Necrist at this distance without his Coda. He quickened his pace.
This was one of the oldest parts of Ironmoor, built along the remnants of the city’s original wall. It had a haunting feel to it. Between the rows of run-down homes were the ruins of old battlements and the graves of old soldiers. Few homes showed any sign of habitation, with candlelight spilling only rarely from fogged windows.
Nine o’clock tolled from a far-off belfry. After the rings faded Lannick listened for other sounds hidden amidst the drumming rain. There was still the faint sound of footsteps, but when he glanced back he saw the figure was farther behind him. Probably not a Necrist, and probably not chasing me. He took a deep breath and exhaled, wondering if he’d ever feel safe without the company of a stiff drink.
A few hundred feet ahead was his destination, Gregor’s Watch, a stout tower silhouetted against the ghostly gloom of the sky. The tower was one of the few landmarks in Ironmoor not named for this or that High King. Rather, it was erected in honor of a brave soldier, a commoner, who’d singlehandedly repelled a score of enemy besiegers from a breach in the wall centuries before, saving the city. Lannick had always known Brugan to have a flair for the dramatic, and guessed the location of the meeting had been chosen with such inspiration.
As he approac
hed he saw torchlight near the tower. There were faces, also, flickering within the shadows of hooded cloaks. Six figures stood beside a door at the tower’s base, and Lannick reckoned these were others Brugan had summoned to the meeting.
He came closer and the faces resolved out of the darkness. There was an anvil-jawed fellow with eyes set deeply in their sockets. It was Kevlin, a brawny sheepherder who’d wielded a deadly axe at the battle of Pryam’s Bay. Beside him was another familiar face, a thin man with a closely-cropped beard flecked with gray. Cudgen Ashworn, the very man who’d placed arrows in the skulls of two Tallorrathian soldiers standing before Lannick on that hellish night.
There were others, too, whose faces he recognized. Valiant fighting men who’d stormed the shores of Pryam’s Bay with him, put the invaders to the sword, and helped rescue General Fane. He cursed the memory and the cruelty of fate.
Lannick slowed as he looked them over, wondering what they’d think of their old captain. These were the very men who’d cheered him after the battle, men who’d carried him up Ironmoor’s winding streets to the Bastion when they’d arrived home.
But what will they think of me now? It felt as though the last nine years had left a stain visible to any who’d known him before he’d fallen so far. His hand wandered to the flask he kept in his satchel. Can I do this?
The door opened and the men filed inside. Lannick caught sight of many more men within the tower—the room seemed filled with old soldiers.
“Lannick!” came a shout from behind him.
Lannick jumped at the sound, his hand moving instinctively to his sword before he saw it was Brugan brandishing a grin that ran from ear to ear.
“You filthy rascal!” Brugan said, his voice hearty and cheerful. He lumbered over to Lannick and grabbed him in a bear hug, squeezing hard and hoisting him upward. “I’m glad you came, lad. I admit I was worried you wouldn’t show.”
“B-Brugan…” Lannick said, gasping for breath and wincing from the pain of old wounds. He smiled gratefully when Brugan dropped him back to the cobblestones and released him. Brugan continued toward the door but Lannick stopped him short. “I can’t. Not just yet.”
Brugan placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a knowing look. “The first steps are always the hardest, Lannick.”
Lannick shrugged. “It’s a tough task, Brugan. Tough for any man.”
Brugan gestured toward the door. “Well now you’re about to have a whole company of good soldiers willing to help you.”
“But that’s just it. I can’t bear the thought of letting them down again. What if we aren’t up to this task? What if Fane and his Scarlet Swords get the better of us again? I want vengeance, but I’m not sure others should be risking their lives to help me. And what’s more, I’m not exactly the same man I was back then.”
“Lannick, you have it in you. I know because I’ve seen it. And you’d only let these men down by not trying to set things right. You aren’t the only one Fane wronged, and these men are bitter over how they were treated after Pryam’s Bay. What’s more, these are men who see Rune falling to pieces and its armies being led to death by the very man who betrayed them. Many of these old soldiers have relatives—sons, even—fighting under General Fane and perhaps dying as a result of that madman’s arrogance and incompetence. They’ve heard of the deserters leaving Fane’s Third Column and massing near the Silverflow River.” His grip on Lannick’s shoulder tightened and his eyes glared intensely. “They just need a little push. They need a leader.”
“The nerves are still shaky, Brugan. This will not be an easy thing.”
“Nothing worth doing ever is.”
The interior of Gregor’s Watch was a wide, round room, filled with a few benches, a few tables, and perhaps two dozen rough men who’d seen better days. Pigeons cooed and fluttered in the high rafters overhead, stirred by the clamor below.
Brugan exchanged cheery handshakes with the men nearby while Lannick slipped into a darkened nook in the wall, eager to avoid notice for a bit longer. A few of the men’s eyes found him, though, and he felt his cheeks flush the moment they did. The gazes seemed hard and angry, and Lannick knew they blamed him for their troubles after the last war.
“Well, lads!” said Brugan loudly, arms wide as he moved to the room’s center. “Here we are. A long overdue reunion of the real heroes of Pryam’s Bay!”
“You’re right, dead gods be damned,” said one of them. The rest grumbled their agreement.
Brugan meandered between the tables and benches, hands clasped behind him as he inspected the men just like he’d done when he was Lannick’s sergeant, all those years ago. “You’ve all heard of General Fane’s latest blundering effort.”
“Bastard,” cursed a man.
Brugan nodded in agreement. “You’re damned right he’s a bastard! And the very worst one at that!” He pointed a finger and swept it across the room. “We were all there together, at Pryam’s Bay. We remember our sacrifices on that cursed night. How we lost so many friends and shed so much blood to save Rune and win the war against Tallorrath. And we also remember what happened after that, don’t we?”
More grumbling followed, the men’s heads bobbing in agreement and their eyes fixed firmly on the big barkeep. Lannick smirked, remembering how he’d always left the speeches to Brugan.
Brugan spat. “When we all thought we’d be gaining promotions and notoriety and all of those good things after that war, he stole them from us! He forced us to retire, with no ceremony or pension or even a damned thank you. When we complained, he threw us in the brig, just like he did to old Cudgen there!” Brugan’s voice sank low and his eyes narrowed. “We were forced to abandon the only livelihood we knew—soldiering—and we were cast out like lepers while Fane and his Scarlet Swords claimed glory.”
The men shook their heads and hissed.
“And we also remember what happened before the battle, don’t we?” Brugan continued. “Those hapless, irrational decisions, those hints that Fane wasn’t right in the head? Of course we do. We remember how General Fane nearly lost the entire war. We remember how he left us at midday, so prim and pompous on his black steed, telling us to hold our positions while he and his Scarlet Swords delivered ‘the master stroke.’ How he and his small group of so-called elite fighters would surprise the enemy on those icy shores, set fire to their ships, and drive them from Rune. We remember how he so desired to claim victory alone and keep us from the spoils. We remember how he thought he could do all of that without us. Without us! Without the very men whose blood and blades had gotten him that far! We remember that arrogance, and we remember how we had to save him from capture!”
The men shouted elatedly, urging Brugan onward.
“Well, lads, now is our chance! Some of you have sons, others brothers or nephews or friends, fighting under Fane’s heavy fist right now. And if that’s not enough, all of you have heard the whispers in the streets. Those softly spoken worries that Rune—Rune itself!—is losing a war against an enemy who is not our match. And why does this happen?” Brugan paused, looking about the room. “Why? Because the wrong man is leading our armies. The wrong man is ordering good men to war. The very bastard who betrayed each and every one of us.”
“Dead gods, Brugan,” called out a man. It was Cudgen Ashworn, the archer from Pryam’s Bay. “What nonsense are you selling here? You want us to march? To march south and fight the Arranese? We’re well past our prime, and General Fane would likely gut any one of us on sight.”
“Cudgen,” Brugan said, moving closer to the man, “I have our leader. Our weapon against Fane and his bastards.” He gestured boldly toward Lannick. “Captain?”
Lannick cringed. He hadn’t anticipated this. Some if not many of the men loathed him. He had no tongue for inspiring speeches, only clever lies. He had no plan, no idea how he could pull off this whole endeavor. It seemed so impossible, so implausible. I have no right to ask anything of these men.
“Captain Lannick deVeers?�
�� Cudgen said, his tone something between mockery and utter disbelief. “You’re telling me I should follow him again, after all the good it did me last time ‘round?”
Brugan silenced him and the rest with a stern gaze. After a moment he gestured again. “Captain?”
Lannick took a tentative step forward. Brugan clapped, looking about the room as though urging others to join him. A few did, though most remained still and silent.
Soon the room quieted but for the restless pigeons in the rafters above. Lannick stood there for what felt like far too long a time, saying nothing as his mind reeled to find words. In the faces of the men he found nothing, just skeptical stares and blank gazes. Brugan looked at him with a wide smile, which Lannick swore was wavering. I cannot craft a speech. What can I say to these men?
He cleared his throat and took a few more strides forward, trying to look as though he was about to say something thoughtful. He was nervous, though, sensing that palpable shame, that sinking feeling in his guts that these men knew him to be no more than a drunken wretch, a man unworthy of anyone’s trust.
He dropped his eyes from theirs, and as he did he caught sight of his sword. He remembered Brugan asking him whether there was any meaning in him wearing a blade once more. “The sword’s for the bastard who’s tormented me for nearly a decade,” he’d said. He placed his hand on the pommel and gripped it hard. There was comfort in the steel.
He watched his knuckles whiten on the hilt and in his mind he saw it. Fane standing over him as he lay bleeding and broken in the brig. Fane preening before him like some perverse peacock, his red surcoat precisely tailored, his boots polished to a keen shine. A sick smile twisting his scarred face into a grotesque knot. Gloating over the horrors he’d wreaked upon Lannick and his family.
Gloating.
Then Lannick realized it.
I have my hatred.
