by David Benem
He heard the squeak of the kitchen door and turned to see Brugan emerge, toweling off his burly arms with a stained rag. The barkeep grinned widely and gave Lannick a nod. “Glad you came, Captain. Come, have a word with me.”
Lannick smiled and followed the big man into the kitchen. The room was filled with a steam rising from a cauldron over the fire and smelled heavily of lamb and rosemary.
“Hungry?” Brugan asked, ladling a scoop of stew into a mug. “Not many fine meals where we’re heading, so enjoy it while you can. The lamb cost me a small fortune, but I reckon that’s only right. Farewells always take something from you.”
Lannick accepted the mug and dug a spoon into it. He’d not eaten well these last few weeks and knew he’d need his strength. He chewed and nodded, reckoning the stew to be one of Brugan’s finer efforts. “Thank you,” he said around the mouthful.
“One of my favorites. I’ll miss it.”
“So will your patrons. Are you closing the place?”
“Dead gods, no. I’ll need the coin when we come back. My serving girl Lacy will run things. She’s an honest sort and a good sight prettier than me, anyhow. I just hope the walls of Ironmoor are still standing by the time this is through.”
Lannick took another hearty spoonful. “You think they will be?”
Brugan laughed. “I figured you’d be more worried about us making it back here in the first place!”
“I am, Brugan. Fane is a ruthless sort, and if he catches wind of our efforts he’ll march to fight us and leave Riverweave to the Arranese. And if we defeat him on the field? Then we’ll have tens of thousands of well-rested Arranese to battle. I’m not sure I like our chances.”
Brugan placed a hand on Lannick’s shoulder. “Everything you say is likely true, Lannick. Yet, in spite of all that, I have faith in you.”
Lannick sighed. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s said that. I’ll try not to let you down, old friend. It’s just… I’m not sure I can…”
“I know.” Brugan blinked and waved a hand dismissively. “Now. Get some of that brash humor and bravado back in your head and remember you’re still the Scourge of Tallorrath, the Protector of Ironmoor. Or at least you look an awful lot like that fellow.” He laughed and moved back to the cauldron to stir the stew.
“About our business, then,” Brugan continued. “Kevlin has a farm about thirty leagues southwest of here, near Thane Vandyl’s hold of Rellic. He took a few cartloads of old weapons and rusty armor to the place last week, and has arranged for horses for us a league or so outside Ironmoor. We figured it best to keep such things out of the city, just in case the High King’s soldiers start sniffing around for more supplies. You and I leave tomorrow morning. Some of the rest have already gone ahead, and the others won’t be far behind.”
Lannick grinned crookedly. “A bunch of old soldiers mounting one last charge. Let’s hope it turns out better than it sounds like it should.”
Brugan slapped Lannick’s shoulder. “Not just old soldiers, Captain. Old heroes. Now grab a chair in the common room. Let me finish this stew and then I’ll fetch us both an ale. The good stuff.”
Lannick found a table not too far from the peg-legged fiddler but far enough from the crowd about him. He eased into a chair, the wound from Silas’s sword still bothering him.
The fiddler was between songs and took time to crack his knuckles and turn the pegs on his instrument. He plucked at the strings with his thumb and after a few adjustments seemed satisfied with the tuning. He gestured for the small crowd to be seated. “This one’s not for clapping or carrying on,” he said gruffly.
Lannick didn’t much care for the fiddle. Its wail sounded like a cat being flayed, but the fellow’s voice was engaging. There was an earnestness to it, an authenticity of having endured true pain.
The sailors brave, on knees they prayed
Chosen first to fight
The sailors brave, their souls they gave
To Illienne the Light
The Siren’s Call set sail at dawn
Her brave young sailors strong
The Siren’s Call she’d never fall
With the likes o’ them along
On churning seas her masts broke free
The storm would take their lives
The Sullen Sea would not be breached
Even faithful men must die
The sailors brave fell to wat’ry grave
In deep, dark depths below
The sailors brave their souls they gave
To dead gods far below
These sailors doomed, by sea consumed
Sailors brave want not this end
The gods I curse with ev’ry verse
And will ne’er pray to them again.
The peg-legged fiddler stood and limped toward the bar, and there came a muted clapping from the crowd. Lannick clapped also, remembering well the tale of The Siren’s Call. She’d been the first ship sent to scout the seas near Tallorrath after war was declared, ordered to sail amidst a terrible storm a dozen years before.
Brugan joined Lannick at the table, placing between them two tankards capped with foam. “He was on that ship, you know,” Brugan said, tilting his mug toward the fiddler. “The only survivor of The Siren’s Call. The fellow doesn’t talk much, but one night he had a bit too much whiskey. Told me he floated on a barrel for weeks after the ship sank, and that sharks gnawed off his leg before he could fight them off.” He shook his head. “What a damned foolhardy thing that was. Those boys died for no reason at all.”
Lannick eyed his friend suspiciously. “You remember who ordered them to sail into the storm, don’t you?”
Brugan grinned. “I knew you’d catch that, Lannick. Fane was a bastard back then, and is an even worse one, now. I thought it’d be a nice touch, a way to stir those coals inside your belly and get you ready for this.”
“I am ready,” Lannick said, taking a swallow of the ale. He’d always preferred wine or the stronger stuff, which was probably why Brugan had offered him this instead. It had a bitter flavor, but a better aftertaste.
“Oh, I know you think you are, but I still see uncertainty in your eyes. Part of you is still afraid you’ll let us down, somehow. Afraid you’re unworthy of our trust. That same look you’d wear just before you slumped over my bar for days at a time.”
“I can’t just pretend the last nine years didn’t happen, Brugan. The men don’t trust me anymore, and what’s worse is some blame me.”
“They hate Fane more than they hate you.”
“That’s not exactly a comfort, Brugan.”
The big man shrugged and sighed. “It’ll take a little time, sure, but they’ll come around once they see the changes I’ve noticed in you. Just keep thinking of your dead family.”
Lannick eyed Brugan darkly. “Don’t speak of them.”
“But that’s what this is about, Lannick! Nothing you do will ever bring them back. They’re gone. Yet, you can honor them instead of letting them drag you into the grave with them. You can honor them by bringing justice to the man who took them from you. Their deaths aren’t on your hands. They’re on his. Now, you’ve gotten better at realizing that most of the time, but not all of the time.” He drained his tankard in a massive gulp and slammed it on the table. “You need to set your mind to this thing, and never allow it to waver. Not for an instant. Not until this is done.”
Lannick took a deep breath. Brugan’s right.
Brugan’s look softened. “You can’t let the lads down, Lannick. Even if you tried. You’ve given them hope just by deciding to do it, by agreeing to take a stab at this harebrained quest for redemption. You’ve inspired them already. And as for you, that old strength is in you, my friend. If there are times you feel it lacking, just remember you have me and many others to lean upon. We can do this, Lannick. We can set right those old wrongs.”
Lannick nodded and took another drink, draining his mug. The fiddler had started a new song, this one much liveli
er than the last.
“Now,” Brugan said, “I have the guestroom arranged for you upstairs. Get some sleep. You’re going to need the rest.”
They arose before dawn and quietly gathered their things and some satchels of food Brugan had assembled. “Just dried meats and hard cheeses,” Brugan said. “Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep. And who knows what that old sheepherder Kevlin thinks grown men should eat.”
Lannick shouldered a satchel and looked out one of the tavern’s clouded windows. The cobblestoned streets were wet with rain and the sky was just shifting from black to purple. He pressed his face close to the glass and watched the rain fall. Just then, he thought he spotted a black figure standing across the wide street. The lights in the common room reflected against the glass, though, and he found it difficult to see clearly.
But then he saw it again.
He pulled away from the window. “Blow out the candles and dim the lanterns,” he said. “There’s something watching us.”
“It’s early, Lannick. Before the sun comes the shadows play tricks on the eyes. Besides, it’d be a trouble to—”
“Do it!” Lannick hissed.
“As you command, Captain,” said Brugan, his voice thick with irritation. Soon, the common room was dimmed to near-darkness and Brugan sniffed impatiently.
Lannick crept toward the window and again found the figure. It was tall, thin, and draped in black robes. Its face was hidden within the depths of a cowl. A chill crept up his spine.
“Probably just some drunk in a stupor,” said Brugan from beside another window. “With all the seedy joints on Temple Street, that’d be nothing unusual.”
“I don’t think so.”
“C’mon, Lannick. All those troubles in your head have you seeing things. Now let’s… What in the old hells is that?”
Lannick saw it too, the stunted thing ambling along the sidewalk toward the tall figure’s side, pausing occasionally to prod and poke at the shadows nearby. A Shodafayn, one of those twisted beings that served as navigators of the shadowpaths. “Brugan, light all the candles again and brighten the lanterns. And keep them moving. Don’t let the shadows inside this room remain in place for more than an instant. Do you understand?”
Brugan’s mouth fell open. “You just had me blow them all out.”
“Do you understand!”
The barkeep huffed but set about his task. Within moments he’d brightened the place considerably, and turned in the room’s center while swaying two lanterns about. He paused and looked at Lannick, clearly befuddled. “Why am I doing this?”
“To keep us safe while I think.” Lannick tapped a finger against his chin and was surprised to notice his other hand was in his purse, wrapped about the cool metal of his Coda. Dare I enter that world, even for a moment? If I return only to leave again, the Variden will never forgive me.
“Lannick my love,” came a whisper.
He looked out the window and saw the Shodafayn digging at the shadows near the tall figure. Lannick knew the faces they wore, the horrors they intended to wreak upon him. He fingered the Coda and knew he had no choice.
He yanked the Coda free and slammed it upon his wrist. It locked into place with a dull click and for an instant glowed with a greenish hue.
His head was struck by a cascade of images. Not his visions, but those of others, of other Variden. Visions from his green-cloaked companions in places far away. Creeping across hills overlooking a vast encampment of Arranese warriors. Stalking a desert city full of soaring towers, trying to stay on the trail of a dozen black-robed figures. Lurking in the shadows of a great underground complex, avoiding the eyes of any who might see. There were many others, as well. They were the collective experience of the ever-watchful Variden, all of them joined by their Codas.
There were warnings, too. Warnings of profound danger. Fear that the Sentinel Castor was being help captive by a vicious mortal. Fear that the Spider King of Arranan possessed fell power. And a suspicion he and the Necrists were working in concert toward some wicked end.
And there were voices reaching out to him, also. “Lannick, are you with us at last?” came Alisa’s voice. “Brother, you have finally found the strength to fight with us!” said Ogrund. “Have you dug out of your wretched hole for a moment?” asked Wil.
And finally there was purpose, the divine guidance imposed upon all Variden by the Sentinel Valis. A pressing need to find the enemy, to protect Rune. To wipe the land clean of the agents of Yrghul. To do all this but remain hidden, to keep safe the High King but never allow anyone to know of the order’s existence.
It was a great deal to bear, and it was overwhelming. But Lannick remembered the mental exercises he’d learned when he was schooled in the order’s ways, so many years before. He bent his mind to a sharp focus, and after a few moments the flood subsided to a trickle.
He adjusted his cloak on his shoulders and drew his sword. “Bring the lanterns near the door.”
Brugan stopped his clumsy dance and blinked. “What is it we’re doing?”
“I’m going after those things and you’re going to help me. When I open the door, throw the lanterns across the street. Right at them. They hate fire. The shadows shift too much for them so the flames will distract them. Then,” he grimaced, “stand clear.”
Brugan nodded. “Whatever you say, Lannick. So long as you’re certain.”
Lannick twirled his sword about, first in one direction and then the other. The steel felt good in his hand. It felt right. He would cut down these demons and give his family their final rest. He stepped to the door, inhaled sharply and looked to Brugan. “Ready.”
Brugan pulled the lanterns close to his chest. Lannick threw open the door and reared back, making way for Brugan and his lanterns. The big man shouldered past him and heaved the lanterns toward the street’s opposite side. The glass shattered, spraying oil and flame across the cobblestones and the abominations.
A horrid shriek came from them, and their bodies jerked spastically about as they tried to shake and slap away the fire. They seemed confused and surprised, their heads turning this way and that.
Lannick raised his sword and lunged across the street. Words formed in his head. Ancient words, divine words. He felt the power of his Coda, the power of purpose, and he fell upon them with a mighty force. A green fire leapt from his blade and he struck with a strength and swiftness unknown to mortal men. He struck at their flailing limbs and the beasts reeled before him.
The Shodafayn dwarf and Necrist witch fell backward, their black robes torn with wounds and smoldering from fire. Lannick stood over them with his sword aglow. “I will bury you now,” he said. “Forever.”
The Necrist shook aside her cowl to reveal the face of Lannick’s dead wife. Though split by a black stitch the face remained hauntingly beautiful. “Lannick, my love,” she said in a voice that sounded so much like his wife’s.
Lannick paused. How many times did my wife say those words to me?
The Shodafayn nuzzled against her and it, too, pulled back its hood. The face of Lannick’s elder son gazed at him, burbling through a mouth wet with slobber. It whimpered as though pleading for mercy. “Dada!” it cried, its wide eyes staring through stitched skin.
My son.
“My love,” said the Necrist, writhing on the ground and caressing her breasts.
My wife.
“No,” said Lannick, but his voice lacked conviction. He brandished the blade but had not the heart to strike again. He staggered back, away from them. Away from their faces.
The Necrist seemed to sense his hesitation. She struggled upward and took a step toward him. She held her arms toward him and shadows pooled about her hands. “My love,” she said again.
The Shodafayn toddled to her side, mumbling its childlike babble.
“Lannick!” It was Wil’s voice, rising from the murmur of thoughts. “Don’t fall victim to your weaknesses! Strike down the enemy!”
“No,” Lannick said, but wa
s unsure whether he’d meant the word for the Variden or the Necrist.
The Necrist took another step forward. The shadows were swirling now, reaching toward him and curling about his form. They were cold, the feel of them causing his small hairs to rise. But there was a strange comfort to them, a suggestion his pain would subside if only he succumbed.
He dropped his arms, staring deep into the Necrist’s eyes. They were black, far darker than his wife’s had been, but there was something of that same life within them…
“Strike, Lannick! You must!” It was Alisa’s voice.
The Necrist came closer still, closing her eyes and opening her mouth, inviting a kiss. Lannick felt the tug of the Shodafayn’s small hands upon his legs and he heard its giggling.
“No,” Lannick said again. “No.” He closed his eyes and knew the terrible path he had to take. He tightened his grip on his sword and he struck, cutting first at the shadows encircling him and then at the enemy.
Again and again he struck. He hacked at them mercilessly, bringing his blade upon their bones with countless, vicious swings.
They fell, gravely wounded, and still he struck. He cleaved at the faces most of all, and tears fell from him as he cut eyes and cheeks and lips.
Soon there was only blood and splintered bone. But hacked he did, hearing the ring of his blade as it found the cobblestones beneath the bodies. He struck until his hand went numb and he could no longer grip his blade.
There was a hand upon his shoulder. “Captain,” said Brugan, “they’re dead.”
Lannick stood still for a moment and looked upon the decimated forms before him. His hands trembled and his sword clattered to the ground. He reeled and spilled the sour contents of his stomach on the cobblestones. He swooned but Brugan steadied him.
“It’s alright, lad,” Brugan said.
Lannick sank to his knees and his whole body shook. His muscles burned and his arms fell slack. They’re dead. At last they are dead.
“Lannick!” came an unwelcome voice within his head. It was Alisa. “You’re safe! Now, join us! Find me in Arranan where I track the Necrists. Honor your oath!”
