What Remains of Heroes

by David Benem

  Lannick did not reply but instead looked wearily upon his Coda, the dull iron inlaid with countless lines of strange script. The words formed the spells that empowered his order, the ancient secrets that granted them the strength to fight the old evils of the world. The same spells that chained his mind to the others of the order and confused the purpose in his heart.

  “No,” Lannick thought, directing his words to the Variden. “I cannot. Not now. My task is not yet done, and my purpose is not yet yours.”

  “Your purpose?” Alisa answered. “What, some misguided revenge for your family? Think of your selfishness, your hubris! We are facing the very end of the world if we fail! And you? You are consumed with setting right a wrong that can never be undone. Your family is dead. Nothing you can do will make your family live and breathe again. Nothing!”

  “You are a prideful fool, Lannick!” screamed Wil. “Honor your oath!”

  Lannick fumbled about for his sword, grasped it with tingling hands, and guided the point to the thin gap where the Coda latched to his wrist.

  “Lannick!” screamed many voices in his head. “You cannot abandon us again! Not at such a moment!”

  He twisted the blade and the Coda snapped open. A burning sensation swept through him as it slipped from his wrist, the pain of departing power. Voices wailed in his head, making his skull feel as though it would split. But soon the pain left him and the voices fell silent.

  Lannick sighed heavily, knowing this latest act would not be taken lightly. Any Variden who abandoned the order was regarded as a traitor of the worst kind. And now he’d just done it a second time. He retrieved the Coda and placed it in its box, just beside the flask of whiskey in his purse. He frowned and shook his head.

  Brugan’s hand fell upon his shoulder. “I’ll not ask what happened here for a long time, Captain. But when I do, I want the truth. You owe me that much, at least.”

  Lannick nodded and pulled himself up. “When you ask, I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “What should we do with the bodies?” He wiped a tear from his eye with a thick thumb. “Unless my eyes are lying, those were your family’s faces.”

  “No,” Lannick said, sheathing his sword. “My wife and children rest safely in their graves. The rats and crows will finish what’s left of these things.”

  “Well enough,” he said. “Let’s get clear of this place. To Rellic and the rest of the lads. We have a war to wage.”

  Lannick found again the outline of his Coda in his purse. “Perhaps more than one.”

  28

  REMAINS

  ZANDRACHUS BALE TUCKED his hair behind his ears and shielded his eyes from the setting sun. Lyan the Just had revealed to them secret passages through the hearts of the mountains, and that meant stumbling through shadows for days. Now, at last, there was sunlight, but his squinted eyes could barely discern the features of the broken landscape from its shadows.

  “I don’t miss that lady one bit,” spat Lorra.

  Bale nodded. Lyan’s presence had been unsettling and he was glad to be rid of her. But now they were set upon a journey to a most dangerous place. Zyn, Arranan’s capital city, would be a place most unwelcoming of an Acolyte of Rune’s Sanctum.

  Just ahead of them stood the Gray Gates, the ancient towers said to mark the end of Rune and the beginning of the godless lands. They were tall spires of carved stone, perhaps sixty feet in height, etched with weathered images of Illienne and her Seven Sentinels. Beyond the towers lay Arranan.

  As they walked between the spires Bale rested a hand upon one, recalling the poem he’d read before leaving the Sanctum. A Dirge for Erkelon, it was called.

  The beasts besiege with hearts of black

  Whilst tears wander a well-worn track

  Set by the smiles of long ago.

  “If” calls the herald of remorse

  Never daring a righteous course

  From tower’s height he falls to death below.

  The poem concerned an old lord of this place who’d allowed Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares to pass between these very structures, so fearful was he of the black god’s anger. Once through the gates, Yrghul broke his promise to pass peacefully and laid waste to the lord’s fortress and people. Bale shook his head. Can there be such a thing as courage in the face of such evil?

  It struck Bale that Erkelon had chosen a course he’d thought to be righteous, one that would spare his people. Yet, it had resulted only in death. Bale wondered if his task would meet a similar doom. He wondered if he’d better serve his order by traveling back to Rune, by warning Gamghast and the others that General Fane had bargained with the Necrists for an object of awful power, an Auruch. Or would he do the better thing by completing the Lector’s last endeavor?

  There were no assurances. Only perils.

  He looked across the darkening landscape before him, an empty place of rocks and dust and stunted trees. He lowered his head. He was about to set foot in the land of Rune’s enemy, and was so very far from home.

  “Let’s hurry,” said Lorra. “There’s a stream bed between those hills there. That’d be a good place to camp for the night.”

  He followed along, finding the warm ground treacherous in the dimming light. He nearly tripped over something—a boot. He paused, and as he scanned the low hills about him he spied countless bones and burned-out husks encased in blackened armor. In horror he realized these were the soldiers of Rune who’d been the first to confront the invading army of Arranan. He watched as a hot wind whipped about and caused the skull of a nearby corpse to crumble into a whiff of dust.

  Is this what remains of heroes?

  He shuddered and hurried to catch Lorra. They hastily made camp in the lengthening shadows, the words between them few.

  Soon the sun sank beneath the far horizon, and all was cast in darkness.

  Prefect Gamghast shifted about on the bench, his body complaining with every move and posture. There came a sharp pain down his leg and he groaned. The sound echoed loudly through the quiet space of the Abbey’s dining hall, empty at this late hour save for the three prefects.

  “Are you well?” asked Prefect Borel, eyes glossed with tears.

  Gamghast rubbed at his aching back with an aching wrist. He’d used the Sanctum’s most potent ministrations but was still reminded at every moment of his wounds. He nodded and sighed. “My pain is a trivial thing when weighed against our real concerns. The highlander uttered words to me, words that could only have been Castor’s confession. They were words in the elder tongue, words he could not have possibly known otherwise. He said—”

  “The confession!” Prefect Kreer croaked. “The highlander recited what might have been Castor’s last confession and you decided to withhold this from us? From the Dictorian? What right have you, Gamghast?”

  “What matter is it?” Gamghast growled. “What matter that I kept it to myself? The Dictorian was bound to drag Castor’s spirit from the highlander. Knowing that the man heard the confession would only have fueled his lust for power.”

  “And just what did he say?” Kreer said. “What were the words?”

  Gamghast massaged his wrist and grimaced. “He spoke of our old enemy. He said the Necrists are trying to summon Yrghul’s power back to this world, and have found a potent ally. He said the Sentinels needed to be summoned.”

  “The Necrists?” Borel whimpered.

  Kreer raised his chin and peered down the length of his long nose. “How dare you, Gamghast. Perhaps if you’d remained truly faithful the Dictorian’s efforts would have succeeded.”

  “On this we agree, Kreer. Perhaps if the Dictorian knew of the confession’s utterance he’d have been more ruthless in trying to thwart Castor’s plan. Perhaps he would have simply beheaded the highlander before trying to pry the spirit from him.”

  Kreer leveled a bony finger at Gamghast. “And perhaps thereby he would have saved the Sanctum by transferring the spirit to one deserving of it. Perhaps a more appropriate vessel coul
d have wielded the spirit to defeat our enemy. You have doomed us.”

  Gamghast pressed against the table, ignoring the painful twinge in his back. “You witnessed the same events as I. Castor would not be displaced. Remember one of our most basic tenets: Castor chooses his vessel. I cannot fathom his motives, but there was a reason for the choice. Theal should have known that. Never confuse faith in the divine with the arrogance of men.”

  Kreer sniffed smugly. “It is you who is the arrogant one, Gamghast. It was you alone who dared question what both Merek and Dictorian Theal knew to be true. It was you alone who doubted the righteousness of their task.”

  Gamghast slapped his good hand against the table. “And it is I alone who was right!” He had no patience for this talk. Not anymore. He scowled at Kreer. “And now it is you who stands in their stead, you who knows the will of the gods? You’re a fool!”

  “Gentlemen!” urged Borel, his voice screeching. “We must stand together through these troubles. Argument serves only to divide us.”

  Kreer glared at the man. “If calling this something other than argument comforts you, then call this an inquisition. I say if there is a doubter among us, he only weakens our ability to counter the enemies warned of in the confession!”

  “And,” said Gamghast, feeling his blood rush to his cheeks, “if there is one so blinded by misguided faith, then we are consigned to repeat the Dictorian’s mistakes and end up piled in the crypt beside him.”

  Kreer’s purple lips twisted to a sneer. “You do remember the Dictorian’s last act before he died, don’t you? He stripped you of the title of prefect. I for one think we should abide Theal’s wishes.”

  “Gentlemen!” screeched Borel again.

  Gamghast laughed humorlessly. “Those words were born of madness. Dead gods, the entire endeavor was madness!”

  Kreer rose to stand. “I will not have you question the Dictorian’s righteousness, not in the mere days following his death. Nor will I simply allow us to abandon his efforts. I intend to carry on his task, and retrieve Castor’s spirit. Certainly there are those among the Variden who remain committed to this, as well. I will call upon their assistance, and set aright the placement of Castor’s spirit.”

  “You truly intend to continue Theal’s march toward certain doom? You will mindlessly seek to possess Castor’s spirit for yourself, rather than deal with the forces marshaling against us?” Gamghast grabbed the staff leaning against the table beside him and pulled his creaking body upward to stand. “If this is your course, Kreer, then I would gladly relinquish my post in order to disassociate myself from you!”

  Kreer glowered at Gamghast. Moments passed. Kreer’s face tremored with anger but he said nothing. Then, without warning, he stormed from the table.

  Gamghast watched Kreer trudge toward the double door that led from the chamber, and noticed Wit standing timidly beside it. Kreer moved brusquely past the lanky simpleton and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “P-Prefect Gamghast?” called Wit, approaching.

  “What is it?” he said, his voice still stained with anger. He breathed deeply and smoothed the wisps of his white beard. “I’m sorry, Wit. What is it you require?”

  Wit chewed at the nail of his thumb for a moment before speaking, nerves creasing his brow. “You have a v-visitor.”

  “It’s past ten o’clock,” said Gamghast. “Who is it?”

  “At least a f-few people. I think one might be that nice smelling lady who came here a while ago. I think.”

  The queen? Gamghast pressed away from the table and walked as quickly as his painful ankle would allow. “Lead on, Wit.”

  “Gamghast?” called Borel after him. “You’re just going to let Kreer leave? You’re going to let him pursue the highlander without us?”

  Gamghast huffed. “I’m through standing between that man and what he thinks his prayers tell him. Castor’s spirit is the highlander’s to wield, and it’s not for me to question why. If Kreer wants to die because he insists otherwise, then so be it.”

  Gamghast spied the Abbey’s vestibule ahead and counted no fewer than six cloaked figures, their faces hidden within the shadows of their hoods. He slowed, concerned at the sight of so many strangers at so late an hour. There was a time when the Abbey had opened its doors to all, gladly accepting the sick and the troubled. But such could no longer be the case. He leaned against his staff and sighed. It seems from now on our doors will ever be guarded by fear and suspicion.

  “That’s her,” mumbled Wit, gesturing ahead. “In the middle. There’s a few other nice smelling ladies with her and two rough looking men.”

  Gamghast squinted, trying to discern details in the flickering light of the corridor. Indeed, one of the figures had a swell in the midsection, a fullness of pregnancy. By Gamghast’s count Queen Reyis was nearly seven months pregnant, and complications at such a stage were not uncommon. “Get a room ready, Wit. One with a comfortable bed. Then I’ll need you to run to the apothecary. Get nightclover, hagsweed, and powdered tinder root. Be quick about it.”

  Wit nodded and headed back down the hall. Gamghast paused and then continued his limping march forward.

  The figure in the center of the vestibule pressed thin hands against its hood, revealing a face of elegant features framed by a cascade of flaxen hair. Queen Reyis.

  “My queen!” Gamghast called. He rushed into the vestibule and braced his hands against his staff, sinking as close to a kneel as his injured body would allow. “The Sanctum is honored by your presence.” He struggled upright and studied the woman, noticing her eyes were red and surrounded by dark rings. Her hands trembled. A tall figure moved close to her.

  “Prefect Gamghast,” she said, her chin raised but her voice quavering. “You once offered me shelter. Does your offer stand?”

  Gamghast shook his head, confused. “Of course, my queen. The Sanctum is ready to assist you by any means available to us.” He patted at the mad wisps of his beard. “Something has happened?”

  Queen Reyis drew a deep breath and seemed about to speak when she choked back a sob. She waved a hand as though asking for a moment.

  The cloaked figures about her moved hurriedly to her sides, whispering comforting words and placing hands upon her. “I-I cannot…” she breathed. She stumbled forward but was caught by her companions.

  The tall figure near the queen threw back its hood. It was Tannin, the castle guardsman who’d allowed him passage through the castle sewers during his last visit to the Bastion. There was a bloody mess where his left eye should have been and his bent nose was caked with dried blood. He came near Gamghast and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Prefect,” he said stoically, “the High King is dead. We need your help.”

  The High King of Rune? Dead and without an heir? Gamghast inhaled sharply and swooned, squeezing his hands against his staff. It was too much, though, and his hands were too old and wrenched by age. He fell, smacking his head upon the floor.

  Tannin grabbed him and slapped him and Gamghast’s eyes fluttered open to see the thick-necked guardsman’s one remaining eye peering at him intensely from a face nearly ruined.

  “Get up, old man,” Tannin said firmly. “Death is the only rest we can count upon in days such as these.”

  29

  CHANCE

  “THESE ARE DEEP wounds,” Paddyn said, a tremble in his voice. The rough lad moved his hands hesitantly above Karnag’s unconscious form, seemingly unsure what to do. “He’s bled like this for days. How is it he still draws breath?”

  Fencress Fallcrow said nothing, for she had no decent answers to offer. Karnag lay unresponsive upon the bed before them, as he had for days now. Blood wept from many vicious rents, and shimmered crimson in the frail candlelight. They’d tried everything they could, all to no avail.

  “He needs a healer,” said Drenj tiredly as he stared out the room’s paned window. “It is late in the evening and I can do no more. I fear he’ll die before morning if he doesn’t have the
help of a skilled healer.”

  Fencress laughed ruefully. “The best healers in Ironmoor are the members of the Sanctum. I don’t reckon they’ll be keen on doing us a favor after the bloody mess we made of their Abbey.”

  “What, then?” said Paddyn. “He’s sure to bleed out soon. We just stand here and watch him die?”

  Fencress shook her head and sighed. She couldn’t say ‘nothing,’ because that sounded like surrender and she couldn’t bear the thought of giving in. Karnag meant too much to her and she refused to relinquish her hope he’d survive, her hope he’d become his old self again.

  “And where could we go to fetch help?” Paddyn said. “The city guard won’t forget what we did. We’re trapped in this city, and certain to be found if we stay.”

  “He’s right,” said Drenj. “There’s no help for Karnag here. We should leave him here and sneak out. The three of us could manage it, Fencress.”

  “I’ll not leave without him,” said Fencress firmly.

  “So that’s it?” Drenj said. “We stay, your friend dies, and the three of us rot in chains or worse.”

  Fencress held her head high. She needed to make a show of things, lest the boys think she’d gotten soft. There is always a chance. There has to be.

  “Well?” said Drenj, his voice cracking.

  She turned away from Karnag and paced about the spacious room they’d rented at the inn. “Boys, I’m a damned good killer, a light-handed thief, and a performer of some renown. But in my heart I am first among all things a gambler. Chance is by definition a fickle thing, yet it’s been my experience that a string of bad dice is inevitably followed by a fortunate roll. It’s a strange notion, but you learn to trust chance. You trust that somehow, someway, the dice will turn in your favor.”

  Drenj looked to her with eyes wide. “What?” he spat.

  “Faith, you mean,” said Paddyn.