by David Benem
Fencress stopped and fingered the small wooden sun she kept strung about her neck. She needed to believe this, these words of hers. “No, I mean chance. We’ve tried everything we know, done all we can to hedge our bet, so to speak. Now we let the dice roll and hope for a good turn. There is something inside our friend Karnag that we don’t understand, and I reckon the odds he’ll make it through this aren’t so long as we think.”
Drenj snorted. “So we are going to just stand here and watch him die. Then wait to be captured ourselves.”
Fencress paused. She couldn’t bear watching Karnag like this, all weak and wheezing and bloody. Nothing would change his condition so long as they idled about this room, and they were risking capture just as the boys had said. They needed a way to escape the city and save her friend.
“We don’t just stay here, do we?” said Paddyn, his eyes pleading.
“By no means,” Fencress said. “I am not going to just stay here. I am going to venture downstairs to the bar and enjoy a libation or two, and wait for whatever chance has in store.”
“Have you gone completely mad?” said Drenj, waving his arms. “It’s the busiest time of evening! Don’t you think it’s a poor idea to lounge idly about the inn’s common room when it’s certain to be crowded with patrons? We need to keep out of sight! We’re wanted criminals, Fencress!”
Fencress glared at him. “We’re killers for hire! Of course we’re wanted! What is it about that notion that suddenly seems novel to you?” She snatched her black gloves from a table and tugged them on. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Drenj rushed to grab the door just as Fencress moved through it. “Madness,” the Khaldisian muttered, just before slamming it shut.
The common room of The Wolf at the Window wasn’t crowded, and no eyes lingered on Fencress overlong as she descended the staircase to its center. The innkeeper, a stout fellow with a neatly-trimmed red beard and an easy grin, manned the bar now, and gave Fencress a knowing wink as he pulled a draught of ale from a cask. Fencress nodded in reply, and found an unoccupied table near the rectangular room’s crackling hearth.
The inn was certainly comfortable enough, near Ironmoor’s elegant merchant district. The chairs were padded, the candlesticks brass rather than iron, and the tapestry decorating the long wall was likely worth more than the going rate for assassinating a minor royal official. A serving girl with a full set of white teeth wandered among oak tables carrying trays of lamb and pheasant to the bejeweled patrons laughing over glasses—real glasses!—of red Khaldisian wine.
It was not at all the sort of place Fencress and her companions had grown accustomed to, but they’d been desperate when they’d stumbled upon its door. Karnag had collapsed soon after they’d stormed their way out of the Sanctum’s Abbey, and this had been very first inn they could find. Chance had fallen in their favor, though, as the innkeeper had seemed trustworthy enough. When they’d slipped a gold ingot into his hand in exchange for discretion, Fencress felt confident of the deal.
The man approached Fencress now, hoisting a ceramic mug crowned with golden foam. “Good evening, my lady,” he said, setting the mug before Fencress and taking a seat across from her. “What a rare pleasure to see you during the evening. May I sit for a moment?”
“Most certainly,” answered Fencress. She’d never given the fellow her name, nor would she. “Any man I trust is welcome in my company.” She swept the mug from the table and took a long drink, enjoying the crisp, fruity flavor of the ale. She licked the foam from her lips and smiled. “So, friend, have there been any inquiries concerning our stay at your inn?”
The innkeeper picked at an unseen tangle in his short beard and then leaned close. “Hard to say. That is, there’s all kind of talk of strange and terrible things afoot in Ironmoor, but for me to say whether any of it concerns you would require me to know the nature of your business here.”
Fencress took another draw of ale and studied the fellow’s green eyes. She’d learned a great deal from her many games of deadman’s dice, and found those skills as life-saving as any swordplay or footwork she’d acquired. There was always the chance of misjudging or getting a bad turn of the dice, of course, but at least she could get a decent read of the odds. This man’s eyes were calm and sincere—his help had been purchased with that gold ingot. “The Sanctum,” Fencress whispered. “Any word of the Sanctum?”
The innkeeper sank back in his chair. His red brow arched and his pink cheeks puffed and he exhaled slowly. “You were the ones!”
Fencress matched the man’s gaze but said nothing for a long moment. She thought of drawing one of her twin blades for emphasis, but figured she’d leave them sheathed since this seemed a respectable inn. “Let’s just say I’m the curious sort, friend.”
“Well, if you’re asking about the trouble there a week back, then yes, there’s been talk.”
She eased forward and encircled her gloved hands about the tall mug, just as she would a throat. “Continue.”
The innkeeper looked to his side and, after seeming to satisfy himself that there were no eavesdroppers among the sparse crowd of merchants, he pulled closer. “These days the Sanctum doesn’t hold much sway with the Crown. That said, murder so close to the Bastion is a serious thing, and there’ve been guardsmen making the rounds, questioning the proprietors of the local inns and taverns. They’re offering a reward,” he smiled timidly, “but nothing near an entire gold ingot.”
Fencress couldn’t help but smirk. No matter what king men kneel before, money is ever their master. “And what of the gates? Are the guards as discerning about what—or who—goes out, as they are who and what comes in?”
“From what I hear from the traders who come here, the war with Arranan isn’t going any better. With news like that folk have been trying to flee the city for days to head north or west. Problem is, the guards have been detaining people, mainly those stout enough to bear arms. The Crown says it would never have any part in conscription, and claims these restrictions on travel merely ensure Ironmoor’s citizens remain secure in the event the Arranese advance this far north. But, just as it’s always been, our rulers have a knack for telling us the knife at our back is just a gentle guiding hand.”
Fencress tugged at her gloves. “And those who don’t look like fighters? They’re allowed through?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Why would the Crown want them? Just more folk to feed, and that means something if the Arranese arrive at our gates and provisions become scarce.”
Fencress pondered this, thinking over the odds. Karnag looked awful, and she reckoned she and the young lads could make a good show of illness. “Do you have a wagon you could spare? Perhaps blankets?”
“I do,” he said slowly. “But such things are worth coin…”
She thought again of drawing her blades. They’d given the man an entire gold ingot, and had parted with another in order to gain entrance to Ironmoor just a week before that. She didn’t feel comfortable parting with any more of their fortune.
Just as she was about to offer the innkeeper a subtle threat, she heard it: that old, familiar sound of dice rattling across a table. She turned and spied two fat, silk-clad merchants huddled over a table on the room’s opposite side.
She turned back to the merchant. “Get that wagon and an armful of blankets ready. I’ll have the coin for you shortly, friend.”
Chance is a thing to be trusted, after all.
Fencress studied the fatter merchant’s eyes, dark and heavy from much Khaldisian wine. Any skilled player knew it was not in the dice but rather the eyes where the game was truly played. This fellow’s eyes shifted nervously as Fencress stared.
He’s lying.
She tilted her overturned cup a bit, just so she alone could see the dice she’d rolled. Three cubes, streaked and stained like bad teeth, showed two ones and a four on their upward faces. It was an outstanding roll-in-the-hole, with one pip being the best face a die could show. In the center of the table was
a single die, a community die that counted toward both players’ cups. It, too, was a one, giving Fencress a total of three of them, or “the stocks” as it was known by experienced players of the game.
The merchant had just laid down a wager even fatter than he was, twenty silver crowns sloppily piled just next to his cup. It was a wager that, considering the stakes, spoke of an excellent cup. He was posturing as though he held the stocks or even more: the four ones that comprised “the racks.” The last community die had yet to be rolled, and five ones would make “the gallows.”
The slightly-less-portly merchant to the fatter man’s side had turned his cup upward immediately upon hearing the bet, signaling surrender. His three dice showed nothing of importance: a three, a five and a six—not a single pair and no ones. A matched pair would equal a one, and the lowest pair would win if no player’s cup held a one. This fellow didn’t have anything but the community die, and hadn’t had the nerve to bluff.
Fencress looked again to the fatter merchant, his round head crowned by a stupid, floppy hat complete with a peacock’s feather. His jowly face was splotchy and ugly. And the man’s thick, wet lips twisted about like two slugs coupling.
“The wager is yours, little girl,” the man said, his tongue thick in his mouth. “You going to match, or give up the ghost?”
“Giving up the ghost” meant surrendering what coin Fencress already had on the table, and it too was a term parleyed about by regular players. Such talk suggested this man knew the game, yet this bold a bluff was uncommon among seasoned participants.
Again, Fencress looked to the eyes. Beady, shifty and wine-sodden. Just above them, on the man’s tanned brow, sweat was beginning to form. They were liar’s eyes. The merchant was lying, and of that she was dead certain.
Chance has to turn in our favor, considering what we’ve endured. She drew open her purse, counted out thirty silver crowns, and slammed the fistful on the table. “I’m raising you ten silver crowns, fat man.”
“Ha!” the merchant said, clumsily counting out ten more crowns from his silk purse. “Then the final roll is to you.”
Fencress took the second and final community die from the table’s edge, warmed it in her gloved hands, then tossed it across the table with a practiced flick of his wrist. The die bounced off the merchant’s pile of coins, spun about, and settled with a three facing upward. A four would have helped her, giving her enough to match the racks, but this was a meaningless toss.
The merchant looked to her and then spilled another ten crowns into his pile. “A pity. I was hoping to make the gallows. I guess I’ll have to settle for the racks.”
There came a sound from outside the tavern, a clanging of bells and shouting. The merchant looked to the window briefly, but soon stared smugly at Fencress once more.
“Three pips under that cup, eh?” Fencress said. She snatched another ten silver crowns from her purse and placed them on the table to match the bet. “Fat man, you strike me as a swindler, haggler, and keen-eyed appraiser of goods and quite possibly young boys. But a gambler you are not. You have too many tics, too much bluster, and far too little patience. The silver is mine.” She lifted her cup with a dramatic flourish, revealing her roll-in-the-hole of two ones and a four.
The merchant sat quietly for a moment, rubbing bloodshot eyes with thick hands crowded with gold rings. He then peeked under his cup and began to chuckle. He took a deep draw of his wine and his chuckle turned into a belly-shaking laugh. He slapped the table. “The stocks don’t best the racks, little girl!” he boasted, and yanked his cup upward. Sure enough, under it were three dice, each showing a single pip on the face.
Liar! Fencress sat slack-jawed. She could always spot a bluff, always sniff out a lie. She looked hard at the man’s dice. Were they a touch cleaner, a bit less pocked and stained? Have I been cheated?
The merchant threw out his arms and began drawing all the coins toward his side of the table, laughing as he did. “Little girls should know better than to play a man’s game.”
I’ve been robbed. Fencress stood from the table and her hands found the hilts of her blades.
Just then the tavern’s door was thrown open, smacking against the wall and bringing with it a rush of warm air that threatened the candles’ flames. A guardsman staggered through, clad in a chainmail tunic and a red coat bearing Rune’s golden dragon.
Fencress looked desperately to the innkeeper at the room’s opposite end and froze. Have we been betrayed? Has the innkeeper turned us in to the Crown?
The guard looked not to Fencress or the innkeeper. Instead, he lurched to the common room’s center and braced himself against a table. His breathing was labored. After a moment, he straightened and prepared to address the room.
Fencress looked about, searching for a place she could hide or escape from the inn. Betrayed! Chance can’t be so poor for so long!
Then the guard spoke. “Citizens of Rune,” he began dramatically, “our High King, the great High King Deragol, who reigned over a land largely at peace for many decades, has passed.”
The merchants leaped from the table, their backs to Fencress.
“What!” the fatter one said. “Our contract!” he exclaimed. “It was with the Crown! Does this mean it’s no good?”
The other folk in the room displayed similar emotion, though most over the High King’s failure to produce an heir. “What will become of us?” one older man kept repeating.
Fencress grinned and eased toward the table. She sank low and pulled as many silver crowns as she could, filling her purse to the point of bursting. She also eyed the merchant’s dice, noticing again their paler hue. She snatched them in her palm, and felt they had an odd heft to them. Then she tossed them on the table. All ones, all with the awkward tumble of loaded dice.
If she weren’t in such a rush, Fencress reckoned she’d kill the man. She looked to the fat merchant again, studying his face and committing it to memory. Just in case we ever cross paths again, friend.
The patrons were crowding about the guardsman, shouting questions and gesturing wildly. Fencress slipped away, sneaking among the room’s shadows and staying low. She neared the innkeeper and shoved a handful of silver crowns in his hands. “That wagon best be ready, friend.”
“It is,” the innkeeper said breathlessly, eyes wide as he looked upon the silver crowns. “Out back. Try the North Gate—it’s always the least watched.”
Fencress nodded and darted upstairs to summon her friends. She reckoned they’d be able to sneak away in the confusion so long as they didn’t tarry. With any luck, there would be an uproar at the gates, and exiting the city would be an easy thing.
Chance, it seems, has finally turned in our favor.
He drifted along a dreamlike horizon, floating upon a division between light and dark. Beneath him was a breathtaking expanse, a great topography stretching to the limits of his comprehension. This was not a physical landscape, though, but one of future events. It was a vast atlas of fate, a foretelling of the destinies of all things.
Karnag beheld this. His thoughts followed the fates of men and women, watching as cruel events took them from prosperity to ruin. He saw women exult in the promise of pregnancy and then shake with anguish as they held stillborn babes. He saw families feud over scraps of food as their harvests withered. He saw proud heroes rise and then be brought to their knees by calamity, and observed great kings shiver and die alone.
He calmed himself and focused upon these many varied endings. People clawing at their skin while withering from plague. Weeping as their entrails bled from dysentery. Fumbling with gnarled hands over skin knotted with lesions, decaying like lepers.
And he saw, too, men perish at the hands of others. He saw generals plot and scheme, planning deception and disarray. He saw vast armies charging across fields wet with blood. He saw blades clash and shields shatter, and saw warriors gnash their teeth as their flesh was ripped asunder. He heard howling cries of victory and the lamentations of d
efeat, and watched as a once-great kingdom crumbled.
And upon all these events was cast a shadow. The shadow of a great blade, a blade before which men fell like wheat before the scythe.
Karnag knew this blade, for it had a name.
Ealyr Rigellus. Heaven’s Reaper.
And Karnag knew, too, its wielder, for it was his kinsman.
It was Thaydorne. Thaydorne the Sentinel, said to bear Illienne’s strength.
Brother.
Karnag beheld this god-among-men. Watched as he wreaked tragedy upon Rune and its children. Watched as Thaydorne slaughtered the very people he was oath-bound to protect. Watched as he took vengeance for a millennium-long exile and worked to pry the power of the Lord of Nightmares from oblivion. Watched as a world cowered before horrors unimaginable.
There was no such thing as chance, only a grim march toward an inevitable ending.
This is the fate of all things.
Then Karnag withdrew, and searched for his own place amidst this destiny.
He saw his hands slicked with blood, grasping a sword humming from bones it had broken. He beheld corpses piled before him, soldiers and beasts alike heaped like precious riches before a king. He beheld hundreds of men die at his feet, and others flee his countenance in terror.
He watched as his rage shook this landscape of fate, and changed events already foretold. Those who were dead arose, and those who were living fell to their graves. He watched as he reshaped destiny, and became the slayer men most feared. Watched as he became the storm of destruction that would change the world.
No. The glory of death would not be Thaydorne’s to possess.
This fate is mine alone to make.
He withdrew again, this time into his physical body. It had healed now, nearly enough to fulfill his purpose. He opened his mouth and sucked in a warm, salty air. It filled his lungs and fed his limbs. His fingers twitched, seeking weapons.
His eyes snapped open.
I come for you, my brother.
