The Way Into Chaos

by Harry Connolly

  Tejohn held his spear in his lap, point aimed at Lar. Once the king transformed, would Tejohn still owe loyalty and service to him, or would he be nothing more than another grunt? Tejohn hoped he would never have to make that choice.

  The king bared his teeth as though he was suffering from terrible stomach pain. Suddenly, he looked very like a young soldier Tejohn had known twenty-four years before, when he was a young soldier himself. The two of them had been cut off from their square somewhere south of Deep Stone Lake. Tejohn had been uninjured, but the other spear—barely older than a boy--had taken an arrow in the guts. They’d stayed up all night talking in low whispers. They’d been strangers, but by the time the fellow died at dawn, they knew each other quite well.

  Now Tejohn couldn’t remember the young man’s name. That night had changed Tejohn’s view of the world--of soldiers, war, and heroism--but although he could recall the man’s round, moonlit face as he gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to cry out and give away their position, Tejohn could not recall his name.

  Song forgive me. He deserved better.

  The day faded slowly. Tejohn could not see the mountains clearly, but he could see their colors as the sunset light filled the valley. Everything became beautiful, like a multicolored fog, and he wondered how it seemed to those whose vision was sharp. The king spent most of that time casting spells, slowly exhausting himself without ever standing off the ground.

  The western end of the valley still had a faint glow of pink when Reglis returned.

  “Arla and I agree that there are at least twelve fighters.”

  “Fire and Fury.” Tejohn was good with a spear and especially with his sword, but three against “at least” twelve would never work, even if their enemies were not behind a wall. “Have any good news?”

  The young man shrugged. “They’re drinking.”

  Tejohn clapped Reglis’s shoulder and returned to Arla’s position. Of course, he still couldn’t see the camp, especially since the slow-fading day had suddenly become twilight, but he could see a fire going in the courtyard.

  “My tyr,” Arla said. “There are six men around the fire, and each has their own jug. Sometimes, another man will join them, and he carries two jugs, which he shares. The Durdric like their drink.”

  “Guards?”

  “Two have been summoned to watch, my tyr. One on the wall near us, one on the far side. The near one keeps a jug that he sneaks drinks from. The other is too far to be certain.”

  Tejohn sighed with relief. “A well-stocked wine cellar will even the odds a bit, in time.”

  They crouched together at the base of the hill, Arla giving a running description of the fighters’ actions: when they wavered on their feet, when they staggered away to empty their bladders, when they fell into fistfights. It was the last one that interested Tejohn the most. He demanded to know how many men came to watch, how clumsily they fought, and who celebrated by tipping back a jug. Even from their place at the dip of the hill, they could hear the drinking songs.

  Eventually, the Durdric lay upon the ground or staggered away from the fire, and the songs died away. Had midnight come? Tejohn was not good at judging the hour of the night. He and Arla began to discuss how she could best approach the camp and take out the guards with her bow.

  Finally, Lar surprised them all by creeping up to their forward position. “Bless—” he said, then, after much struggle, forced himself to say “Now.”

  “My king,” Tejohn said, “if we give them another hour, I think—”

  But Lar had already taken a dart from his quiver. He stepped to the top of the hill, exposing himself to the guards below. His hands were already in motion.

  Tejohn waved a hand at Reglis, stopping him from grabbing hold of the king and dragging him out of sight. They were too far to take this shot, of course they were, but Lar was still the king, Fire take them, and his will was law.

  The spell went off, and the dart sped away from them at tremendous speed. It sounded faster than anything Tejohn had ever heard in his life.

  “Hit,” Arla said. She lay across the top of the hill beside the king, staring below.

  “Which way did he fall?” Tejohn whispered.

  “Forward,” she answered. “Out of the camp. That was the near guard.”

  Lar was already casting again. When he finished, this second dart sped away from them with that same hissing, rushing sound.

  “Hit again,” Arla said. “Great Way, I’ve never seen such a shot in my life. A second hit. The far guard has fallen onto the walkway at the top of the wall. I don’t see anyone moving in the camp in response.”

  Tejohn put on his steel cap. “Let’s start killing.”

  Tejohn saw Arla and Reglis fall in behind him, each holding their bow and spear. Wimnel took Lar’s sleeve and urged him to stay. Good.

  No one called the alarm as they ran down the trail. No one shot arrows at them or waved signal fires. They reached the gate without incident and found it shut.

  Reglis lowered his big shoulder as though he was about to throw his massive body against the gate, but Tejohn held up a hand to stop him. The doors did not meet exactly in the center, and Tejohn pressed his eye against the gap. He couldn’t see well, but the fire burning in the yard was bright against the darkness. He bent low, peering through the gap, until he saw the bar holding the gates together.

  Fire and Fury, he had been hoping the Durdric had broken the bar without repairing it. No matter. He took Regis by the shoulders and steered him to the place the wall met the gate. “Hands braced on the wall,” he whispered, and the young captain did so.

  He turned to Arla. “Over the top, quietly, without raising the alarm. Open the gate for us.” He spoke to both of them. “I don’t want to hear a single sound until every enemy is dead. This is not a test of honor, arms, and skill, understand? Tonight, we are assassins.”

  Reglis sighed as though he’d lifted a heavy burden, but Arla only nodded and let Tejohn boost her onto the captain’s back. She peeked over the top of the gate, then slid over. Tejohn wished she’d taken longer to look over the scene, but she freed the bolt and slid it back.

  Reglis followed Tejohn inside. Their boots scraped against the loose rock scattered over the yard, but in the Sweeps, the noise of the wind overwhelmed all.

  Finstel corpses lay carelessly piled beside the eastern wall: guards, servants, civilians all mingled together. He could see no children—a tiny, unexpected kindness—and the corpses appeared to have been butchered. Most of them had been killed by the same downward stroke, probably while kneeling. Probably executed after they’d tried to surrender.

  Stretched out by the fire were seven more bodies, all with two or three jugs beside them, and all snoring loudly. They wore goatskin robes and had seashells woven into their beards. Arla watched Tejohn carefully. Reglis was just a few steps behind.

  Tejohn knew what they needed. He passed his spear to his shield hand, drew his three-hands-long sword and chopped hard across the throat of the nearest man.

  He died without even a gurgle. As if given permission, Reglis cut the throat of the man beside him and Arla slid quietly into the barracks, drawing her knife.

  It might not have worked if not for the continuous roar of the wind and the emptied jugs of wine. The men by the fire died quickly, and Arla killed twice as many while they slept in the darkness of the barrack rooms.

  The far end of the yard by the water tables was already littered with bodies, most of them wearing the rags of servant laborers, but some in the unadorned gear of civilian guards. Reglis found a separate room at the south end of the barracks with a dead man on the threshold. The man wore scholar’s robes.

  Tejohn stepped over the dead man and scanned the interior of the room, which was lit by a glowing stone. The sleepstone was there, along with piles of trunks and baskets and a gurgling water pipe that ran from the ceiling through the floor.

  But there were no fighters, so Tejohn moved across the yard.
The animal pens--covered recently with a makeshift roof--contained only animals, but the doors to the warehouse had been broken down, and while there were no lights inside, Tejohn could hear the snores of two men. He took his time, let his eyes adjust to this new level of darkness, then slit both of their throats.

  Arla and Regis met him at the doorway to the warehouse. Regis was breathing heavily through his mouth, but Arla seemed almost to glide through the darkness. In the moonlight, her bloody hands looked black.

  Tejohn understood what she felt; he, too, was full of the thrill of taking. It was not a happy feeling. He would never share it with Laoni or their kids, but it made him feel huge and powerful.

  “The tower is last,” Tejohn whispered. “The tower door is open and looks to be unguarded. We can see firelight inside, but no silhouettes. Not yet. Am I right, guide?” She nodded. “We’ll finish this in there.”

  Arla nodded her head, her wide eyes shining in the moonlight. Reglis shrugged his shoulders. “My tyr,” he whispered, hefting his spear. “I will enter first.”

  Tejohn took his spear from him and laid it on the stony ground beside his own. “You’ll follow me, and be sharp about it. Guide, nock an arrow and keep close.”

  Tejohn leaned away from the warehouse and peered at the tower windows. The upper floor was dark, but light flickered behind the open door. Tejohn hurried forward, the thrill of killing already fading. He lifted his shield high and held his sword close to his chest, point forward.

  The entryway was deep, of course, as deep as the thickness of the stone walls. Tejohn came to the edge of the inner chamber, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

  He leaped into the room, sensing the downward stroke of the man on his right before he could see it. The man shouted to give power to his blow, but his hammer struck nothing but the granite floor.

  Tejohn swung backhanded at him, biting deep at the spot where his neck and skull met. The man’s war shout ended abruptly and he crumpled to the floor.

  But Tejohn didn’t wait to see what became of him, because there were two more men behind the dying man. They each held their weapons high, and Tejohn made note of the stone axes they held, their body language, the half-drunken wildness in their eyes.

  His body already knew what to do: he charged at the man on the right, sidestepped his downward stroke, and buried the point of his sword in the man’s guts. The man on the left was stepping forward, but Tejohn knew the enemy’s stroke would come too late.

  Everyone was too late, as far as Tejohn was concerned. Everyone moved slower than he did and they always had, in every fight he’d ever been in. His years of training--and of teaching--in the gym had kept him sharp, but his speed and strength were something he had been born with. The Durdric had been wise to attack from his shieldless side, but it would not be enough.

  Tejohn raised his shield to catch the stroke of the axe before it reached its full power. The blade cut through the metal rim, splitting the shield down the center. Tejohn pivoted, nearly wrenching the weapon from the man’s grip.

  It was wedged tight. The man released it--he had an odd little round shield on his left, little larger than his head--but Tejohn was already well into his downward stroke. His too-long sword struck deep into the side of the Durdric’s neck, cutting down into his chest.

  The man made a terrible gurgling noise as the blood ran into his lungs. Tejohn wrenched his sword free and pivoted to face the rest of the room. A fourth Durdric with a short spear retreated from the other side of the door, keeping Reglis at bay with quick, short thrusts. He backed toward the stairs, but his terrified expression made it clear he did not expect to survive.

  Reglis lunged toward him then stepped back. Arla rushed into the center of the room and shot him in the chest. As the arrow went in, the spearman froze, as warriors always did, a grimace of pain and despair coming over his face. Reglis did not know enough to press his advantage, but it was only a few more breaths before he knocked the man down with his shield and slipped the point of his sword between his ribs. The Durdric died screaming.

  Arla had another arrow nocked by then, but the enemies were all dead or dying. She and Reglis looked at Tejohn with a new sort of respect.

  Tejohn didn’t like it. Yes, he was skilled at killing. He was a weapons instructor to the king, Song knew. What did they expect? What’s more, the thrill of taking had turned sour and chilled beneath the weight of so many corpses. “Check the upper floor and the roof.”

  The third man he’d killed had died on his side, facing the fire. Tejohn knelt beside him. He wore a leather vest with wooden plates sewn into it. His axe head had been made of flint. It was sharp enough but too brittle for a long battle.

  And there, on the man’s beard, was a seashell. Tejohn lifted it with bloody fingers. The Durdric were mountain people, traveling from their lands through the high, narrow valleys of the Southern Barrier. Where did they trade for shells? And why? Stories said they used the shells as coin...in fact, they hated all metal and mining, for some reason. Tejohn had never understood why.

  Footsteps on the stair behind him made him turn. “There’s no one up there,” Arla announced. She and Reglis seemed almost disappointed.

  “Arla, take a burning brand from the fire and get up on that wall. We need to signal the king to come down. Reglis, go with her in case we missed someone. Bar the gate once the king is inside.”

  They left. Tejohn retrieved his spear and headed for the room with the sleepstone. He dragged the scholar into the yard and went inside.

  There was something about this room that wasn’t right. Setting aside his spear and shield, he laid his hand against the burbling pipe, feeling the cold mountain water running through it. It disappeared into the floor behind some baskets.

  Undisturbed baskets, in fact. The chests along two walls had been broken apart, their contents strewn everywhere--blankets, leggings, underclothes, anything. But directly behind the sleepstone was a stack of woven baskets that had been opened but not otherwise disturbed.

  They were empty, of course, but had the Durdric found them this way? He tried to lift the nearest one and discovered it was pegged to the wooden floor.

  Of course! The water, the scholar’s corpse, the false baskets... Tejohn searched the floor until he found a board with a metal ring attached. He lifted it, and a hidden trap door opened, revealing a deep pit carved into the stone below.

  They were called “treasure rooms,” but they weren’t meant for gold or jewels. Treasure rooms hid people, especially children and spouses of tyrs, wealthy merchants, and other nobles. The scholar had been killed while fleeing to a hiding place where he could wait for the invaders to gather what they wanted to steal and move on.

  This one was nearly twenty feet deep, and the water that trickled through drained out of a hole in the floor, probably emerging farther downslope. A folding ladder hung off the near side.

  Reglis and Arla rushed through the doorway, carrying Lar between them. “Get his cuirass off,” Tejohn ordered. They worked at the straps of the king’s armor as Tejohn eased the young man’s helmet off.

  Lar’s face was swollen and distorted, and he was panting like a dog. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands frozen like a bird’s talons. Tejohn suddenly couldn’t breathe for a couple of moments. Great Way, keep him on the path. We need him.

  While Reglis fumbled with the straps of the king’s cuirass, Lar grabbed Tejohn’s hand in both of his own. He couldn’t move his fingers, but he managed to press something small, like a pebble, into Tejohn’s palm.

  Then the cuirass finally came off. Blood had soaked through the king’s padded flannel underarmor shirt, but before Tejohn could find the source, more began to pour from both nostrils. Fire and Fury, the boy was dying in front of his eyes. Tejohn shoved Lar back onto the bed of the sleepstone. The king cried out, blood foaming out of his mouth.

  The young man sprawled on the slab, and Tejohn stepped back. Reglis stared wide-eyed, his fists clenched
protectively under his big square chin. Arla stood in the doorway looking as though she was ready to run a race. Just behind her, Wimnel stared ashen-faced at the spreading flow of blood.

  Tejohn turned back to Lar. He’d known this young man since he was old enough to swing a stick. Great Way, please let this Gift heal my king.

  Instead, he watched his king die.

  The flesh around Lar’s face burst open, pushed outward by another skull growing beneath it. The king grabbed hold of his own skin and hair and pulled it downward like a cloth mask, revealing bloody blue fur beneath. Then he devoured it.

  Then the creature jammed its fingers in its mouth and bit down, scraping the flesh off its own knuckles like moss from a stone.

  “Great Way,” Wimnel said. “Great Way Great Way Great Way protect him. Protect our king.”

  I failed him. I was sure the sleepstone would work but I failed. The creature did not fall into a slumber, the way human patients did, but it was still helpless in mid-transformation. The grunt was helpless.

  Tejohn didn’t touch his weapons. He couldn’t use his sword or knife against Lar. He just couldn’t. He took up his shield.

  The creature tore Lar’s bloody shirt in two, exposing skin split over bloody fur. Great Way, the thing was huge.

  “No!” Tejohn shouted. He didn’t even know what he was refusing, or why he was saying it, but the word would not be denied. “NO!”

  He jammed the bottom of the shield under Lar’s… the creature’s body, then lifted and shoved. Reglis leaped forward to join him in the final push, rolling the thing’s surprising bulk off the sleepstone.

  The grunt’s hip struck the edge of the pit, then it tumbled out of sight.