What Remains of Heroes

by David Benem

  “No,” came Lorra’s voice as she placed a firm hand upon his arm. “Finish this.”

  Bale breathed and took a tentative step forward. They were close now, less than a hundred feet from the pavilion. He clasped Lorra’s hand with his own and redoubled his pace, determined.

  “Castor, at last,” came a voice, stoic and commanding.

  The sound was not one sensed by Bale’s ears but rather his thoughts, words spoken within a hollow of his mind. Bale glanced to Lorra but her face betrayed no hint of disturbance. I alone hear these words. How must I respond?

  He looked ahead, seeing Lyan upon the pavilion before them. She appeared to be quite tall—taller than was natural for a person—and her skin, most of it left uncovered by a shift of white silk, looked as though it was dusted with gold.

  “You are not Castor.”

  Bale felt his confidence wavering. He could see now the Sentinel’s eyes were entirely black and her bald, golden pate bore the image of a set of measuring scales. As they drew closer and ascended the pavilion he realized she was even taller than he’d guessed, perhaps eight feet in height, and her frame, while feminine, was rippled with sinewy muscle. Her features were severe and her expression harsh, and she appeared quite willing to use the gold sword strapped to her exposed thigh.

  “I-I am n-not Castor,” Bale said, looking down to his feet. His voice shook and uncertainty swelled within him. I am too weak an instrument! He clenched his jaw and decided upon the introduction he’d learned by rote. “I am Acolyte Zandrachus Bale of the Ancient Sanctum of Illienne the Light Eternal.”

  She studied him for an uncomfortably long moment. “One of Castor’s pupils. I sense his teachings in you. He is here, yes?”

  Bale jerked his head upward. These words had been spoken aloud. “No.”

  Lyan regarded him with an unsettling look and took a step forward to loom over him, her gold skin radiant in the cavern’s shifting light. “Where, then, is he? I journeyed far to come here, and have waited many days. He dares send a mere pupil in his stead?”

  Bale wanted to speak, but his head swirled and he could do naught but stammer.

  Lyan leered over him. “I am immortal, pupil, but even my patience can be stretched to an ending. Tell me, where is Castor?”

  Bale cleared his throat, stilled himself and stared upward into Lyan’s pitch-black eyes. “Dead.”

  Lyan hissed sharply and leaned away. “Nonsense. Castor is immortal. If he’d left this plane I would have sensed his departure.”

  Bale held her gaze though it pained him to do so. He cleared his throat again, hoping to subdue the tremor in his voice. “Castor summoned you, but before he could reach this place he was murdered.”

  “Murdered… His mortal coil may perish, but his spirit will find another.” She slowly circled him and Lorra, her movements lithe yet threatening. “Nevertheless, it is troubling such action would be taken against one of us. And if this thing did occur, I hold no doubt the killing blade was wielded by one of the many ungrateful mongrels of Rune, one of the weak-blooded descendants of those who dared question our righteousness!” Her brow knotted, twisting the mark of the measuring scales, and her hand fell to the pommel of her sword. “You desecrate this place with your presence, mortal. Leave me, and when you find him you will send Castor to explain himself.”

  “No,” Bale said, wringing his hands. He looked to Lorra and she nodded encouragingly. “You must hear me, Lyan. Castor is gone. I visited the place where he died and used the ways he taught me to observe his final moments. As far as my order can tell, his confession was never heard and his spirit never manifested among us after his death. He’s lost to us.”

  Lyan paused and gazed toward some unseen place. “Castor is my brother, but he is a fool. Rather than treasure the gift bestowed upon him by our Mother, he chose a different path, one where only his spirit was eternal. And why did he choose this? To honor an oath to protect the very lords of Rune who’d betrayed him.” She walked to one of the white pillars and pressed her golden hand upon it. “Castor’s fate is a just punishment for so casually surrendering his true immortality.”

  Bale pinched at his chin, uncertain of what to say. He knew he was meddling in things far beyond him, delving into thoughts and emotions hardened by many centuries. He could not hope to fathom this Sentinel’s mind or soften her heart. Yet, he had to do this. He thought of one of Lector Erlorn’s old sayings: ‘Character is doing what you don’t want to do, for reasons you cannot avoid.’

  He breathed deeply before speaking. “Castor has asked you to return to Rune. Though I know not what he discovered, I know he warned Yrghul was returning and that Rune once again required the protection of its greatest heroes. Will you honor your oath, Sentinel?”

  Lyan whirled about, anger dancing across her face. “Will I honor my oath?” She drew her sword and walked toward him. “You dare pose such a question?” She brought her blade even with Bale’s throat. “I no longer bother with soothing the small worries of mortals, nor do I assuage their tiny concerns. You will leave this place, now, and when you find Castor you will send him to me. Your time with me has reached its conclusion. Be gone.”

  Suddenly Lorra sprang forward. She pressed Bale backward and moved to stand between him and the Sentinel. “No!” she screamed, her entire body trembling from the effort.

  Lyan’s brow raised and her mouth curled with a hint of bemusement. “And what is this filthy thing?”

  Lorra puffed her chest clenched her fists. “I’m nobody,” she growled. “I’m nothing to you. But I’ll not let you treat him this way. Do you realize how far he’s traveled to see you? The risks he’s taken? How hard it’s been for him? Do you? No, you don’t, because you know nothing of courage!”

  Lyan’s slight smile turned to a vicious snarl and she whipped the sword to Lorra’s chest. “You will suffer for this, mortal!”

  “Have at it,” Lorra said, leaning forward so that the tip of the blade pressed against her sternum. “I don’t fear you. But you wouldn’t know anything of fear, would you? Of course you wouldn’t. You can’t die, so you’ll never know what true courage is, or true strength. You’ll never have to stare down death, or struggle to survive those moments that nearly break you. We have, so you will listen to what Bale needs to say. And if you won’t, then to the old hells with you!”

  Lyan tensed, but after a moment she lowered her sword and the menace faded from her gold face. “This one has some fire within her. Very well, pupil. I will allow you to speak your words, but only as gratitude for serving my brother Castor. Be brief, and be forewarned that I will not again allow insults to pass unpunished.”

  Bale placed a hand upon Lorra’s shoulder and eased her away from the Sentinel. He smoothed his robes and looked once more into Lyan’s black eyes. “Forgive us, Sentinel, for we mean no disrespect. It’s just that we have endured much and cannot bear to see our task fail now. I cannot speak as Castor would, and know not the details of the message he hoped to convey. However, I do know Rune is under siege, both from without and within. Arranan and its Spider King wage war against us. What’s more, the High King’s chamberlain is in league with Necrists, as is the commander of Rune’s armies.”

  Lyan’s gold face was an impassive mask, her eyes merciless.

  Bale breathed deeply and held her gaze, undeterred. “There are worse things, too, Sentinel. Castor warned Yrghul’s power could be pulled from the Godswell, and I can attest his agents are preparing to do just that.”

  Lyan smiled coldly. “Then perhaps Rune is receiving justice at last. We should never have been cast out, and now Rune and its king will learn the price of arrogance.”

  “Then you will break your oath? You will allow Rune and its High King to fall to Yrghul’s minions?”

  Lyan’s face darkened. “My oath, pupil, was broken long ago, but not by my choosing. My obligations to Rune and her people were forfeit the day High King Derganfel declared us traitors and cast us into exile. The day his gree
d and lust for power above all things blinded him to what was right and just. The day he was corrupted by his petty jealousy, his mad lust to command the adulation we enjoyed from Rune’s people. We were gods among you, mortal, and your forebears chose to defile our names rather than pray for our favor! Now you come to me and pray for my help, for my forgiveness?”

  “But Castor honored his oath still!” Bale pleaded. “Can you deny his wisdom?”

  “Castor is wise, but he is weak. Without us at his side he was nothing. Tell me, of what use is wisdom if it is not followed by justice?”

  Bale felt the strength of conviction and took a step toward Lyan, coming to within only a few feet of her towering form. “And what, Sentinel, is justice if it is not preceded by wisdom? You speak only of revenge, a misguided desire for vengeance upon people buried centuries ago. You talk of your eternal nature, yet your loyalty is long dead. Illienne demanded these things of you, Sentinel!”

  Lyan’s hands drew forward as though she intended to wrap them about Bale’s throat and she held them just before him. “You dare presume tell me what our Mother demanded? We honored Her with our mercy, pupil. We could have ripped your little kingdom apart. We could have torn your paltry castles to the ground and cast your kind to the old hells left by the Elder God. We could have wiped the land clean of your image, but instead we were merciful.”

  “If you fail to act now you will accomplish those very things. And when we are defeated and Yrghul’s full power is wielded by our foes, do you think they will grant you mercy?”

  Lyan took a step back. “Yrghul is sealed in oblivion. Even if your kingdom falls, such a thing could not come to pass.”

  “The Necrists believe the High King will die without an heir,” Bale replied, recalling the discussion between General Fane and the Necrist in Riverweave, many nights before. “They say when he does, the Godswell will be open to them. They say it is written in the blood of the dead.”

  “Yrghul speaks to the Necrists through such means, just as Illienne speaks to us through… other ways.” She paused. “Yrghul is a deceiver, though, and lies flow from his mouth as often as breath. Only one blessed by our Mother could open the portal to oblivion, and that would be a terrific undertaking. His servants, even if they’ve gained new power, cannot accomplish such a thing.”

  Bale’s head filled with many worrisome possibilities. Where is Castor’s spirit? Could it have been captured? If the Sentinels carry such anger, is it so unlikely one of their number could betray us all? “Unless,” he ventured, “a Sentinel has been taken. Or turned.”

  “Never,” she said. “Never…”

  “Think of your own anger, Lyan. Think again of Castor’s murder, and of our inability to find his spirit.”

  Lyan looked upward for a long moment, searching the cavern’s heights as though the answers were written upon the stone. Then, after a deep breath, she returned her black eyes to Bale. “I will consider these things, pupil. While I do so, you will travel to Zyn, in Arranan, and there you will find my sister Kressan. You will return here with her and we will speak further of these things. Do not tarry.”

  Bale’s eyes fell to the white marble floor and his shoulders slumped. He felt at once relieved and encumbered. The weight of his task had grown even heavier. “But how will I find her? Arranan is a hard country, and Zyn is a large and…” he swallowed, “dangerous city.”

  “Castor taught you his ways and wisdom, yes? Divination? The seeking stones?”

  “Uh, why yes,” Bale said, his hand finding the sleeve of reagents he carried.

  “Let me touch the stone. My essence will allow you to find Kressan, and the others.”

  Bale did as Lyan asked, all the while wondering how an instrument such as he could possibly complete the task before him. How could he ever survive this?

  Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal servant.

  26

  THE MOST DANGEROUS BEAST

  FENCRESS FALLCROW SCRATCHED her horse’s neck, knowing the animal was faring little better than she. They’d spent weeks tracking Merek toward Ironmoor and hadn’t seen a decent meal or a reasonable stretch of rest, so she worried another gallop right now might be the mare’s last. She reckoned the only option she had—other than hoping to stumble upon a group of road-weary travelers with fresher horses—was to bet the long odds. Maybe Merek hadn’t yet slaughtered Karnag with the help of the Sanctum at their Abbey.

  Maybe.

  She thought of the past several weeks. How she’d hauled herself and her companions across a field of the dead and the dying, and how they’d dragged themselves over ragged hillsides, through prickly bogs, and across vast stretches of desolate land. How they’d nearly starved, and how they’d barely escaped a patrol mistaking them for Arranese spies. Fencress ripped away the cap of her flask with her teeth and took a long pull of whiskey she’d stolen from a merchant’s wagon. Weaker folk would’ve died, but she’d not allow such a thing.

  She gazed at Karnag’s gigantic sword, Gravemaker he’d called it, slung along the side of her horse. She’d found it near Karnag’s pile of human parts, still wet with blood and crusted with gore. Perhaps her friend would survive long enough to use it once more. But to what end? She gulped down the burning whiskey and grimaced.

  The road ahead was paved with flagstones and lined with pennants snapping smartly in the warm afternoon breeze. About them rose low hills covered with heather and sedge, and the air had a brackish taint to it. They were close to the sea, and that meant they weren’t far from Ironmoor and its Abbey.

  “How far, Paddyn?” Fencress asked, looking askance at the young archer. The lad’s grubby cheeks were sunken and his torn clothes were wrapped about him like a leper’s bandages. She looked at her own threadbare shirt and knew she looked nearly as wretched. Alas, dapper looks and daring deeds are rarely partnered.

  “Five leagues or less,” Paddyn croaked, his voice raspy. “We should arrive shortly after nightfall.”

  “If we last that long,” said Drenj from behind him. “Remind me again, Fencress, what exactly you hope to gain from this deranged venture? Why are we doing this?”

  “Because Karnag is my friend,” Fencress said, the force of her voice surprising. “Because Karnag is my friend, and because we were betrayed. I’ll not rest until my knives have known the red center of Merek’s heart, and neither should you. No one wrongs us and lives to boast about it, friend. No one.”

  “This is madness,” huffed Drenj. “You’re sounding like him, Fencress. We should be somewhere safe. Spending our gold while this war ruins those foolish enough to fight it. Karnag chose his course, but that shouldn’t mean we’re bound to it.”

  Fencress tugged at her gloves, tightening them against her hands. “Long ago, in my glorious youth, I was an acrobat with a traveling circus. For a time we had in our company an old Khaldisian animal trainer, Alil, who worked with all manner of beast, from falcons to dogs to horses. We even had a white tiger from Arranan. Every now and again Alil would have too much ale and entertain the audience by goading the animals, tugging their ears or pulling at their tails. In his final show, he thought to tease the tiger, slapping its nose and belching in its face. The tiger endured this for a short while, but then ripped free of its chains and tore Alil’s head clean off, showering the screaming crowd with blood.”

  Drenj sniffed. “Is there some meaning to this charming tale?”

  Fencress pulled at the rim of her cowl. “Never provoke the most dangerous beast.”

  Prefect Gamghast looked at his window, the rain tapping against the bleary glass with only a haze of gray beyond. The sun was no more than a smear in the leaden sky. Dare we shelter hope in such times?

  “It’s been a long while, Prefect,” said Merek from across the table. “A long while indeed since we’ve found the need to work together. I’d guess it’s been nearly a decade since you and I have spoken. I’d say I’m happy to see you, Gamghast, but the fact that we need each other again is a most ominous
sign.”

  Gamghast tugged at the white wisps of his beard. “You know nothing of an acolyte from the Abbey? Nothing of Acolyte Bale? I’d dispatched him south to seek answers to the questions posed by Lector Erlorn’s death.”

  Merek shook his head of greasy hair. “Nothing, Prefect, but then I did not make it as far as the site of the murder. It’s possible your acolyte is still searching the south, or even journeying homeward. But, then, all battles leave dead soldiers, I’m afraid.”

  Gamghast sighed. Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal servant Bale.

  “If it is an answer you seek, Prefect,” Merek continued, “I believe we have found it.”

  Gamghast breathed deeply, hoping Bale remained alive. He shifted his thoughts to the practical, to those problems that could be addressed. “Yes, yes. The highlander. You’re certain he did all of these things? You’re certain he committed these atrocities?”

  Merek rubbed his Coda. “He did. Before I captured him I saw these things with my own eyes. It was wanton violence, a lust for blood the likes of which would be known only to a madman. That’s precisely why you must pry the spirit from the flesh and allow it to find a nobler vessel. When it was spoken, your Lector’s confession could be heard only by the sadistic man who killed him, and that man has twisted the spirit’s power to awful ends. This beast must be relieved of Castor’s spirit or we risk one of our greatest protectors becoming one of our gravest foes.”

  “It’s just…” Gamghast paused.

  “You hold reservations? Surely you see the same need for this as I?”