Fire and Sword

by Dylan Doose

  “What do you mean, who is she?”

  Ken’s stare was unsettling, even if he was in a warm bath filled with lavender petals while he was giving it. Perhaps that made it even more unsettling. Ken was always calm, always relaxed, but his guard was never down; his sword was always drawn. If there was a time right at the start when Theron thought Ken to be no more than a brute, that time was long gone.

  “I would tell you if I could, Ken. I swear. No doubt you find it as suspicious as I that she has appeared to take an interest in me, but I cannot say why. I have many enemies from all around the world, but I had never imagined an enemy as great as her.”

  “Who are your parents, Theron?” There was no implication in Ken’s tone, for there was rarely anything in Ken’s tone, but his eyes said enough. He was a smart man, far smarter than he appeared. He had an apish brilliance, a kind of instinct that bypassed philosophical explanation and homed in right on the questions of things, the ones that begged answers.

  Theron’s stomach turned at the mention of his parents. He felt that newly familiar anxiety growing in his chest, the ever-expanding stone of dread.

  “Within the week, Ken, we shall go out in search of contracts,” Theron said firmly, his eyes locked with Kendrick’s. “You are right,” he continued. “I cannot be ruled by fear, even if it is a fear for my people. There is more evil in Brynth than just the rats, and as a hunter I am obligated to find it.” Theron motioned a female servant standing in the corner to come forth with a towel. He rose from the bath and raised his arms as she dried him. He did not look at Ken, but he knew the man’s eyes were looking for his. The evasion of the question regarding his parents would not be ignored, but luckily Ken left it alone for now.

  * * *

  “I’m still having trouble with it,” Aldous said to Chayse as he closed up his father’s book and looked over at her sitting in a reading chair to his left in the study. She was perhaps most beautiful when she was focused on a book. She held a great majesty of both physical and intellectual prowess as she sat with her powerful legs crossed and her hair tied back as she read Hagalaz: Bestiary of the North.

  “Having trouble with what?” she asked without looking up from the words.

  “Accepting what my father wrote as completely viable,” Aldous said. Saying it aloud to Chayse made his stomach turn a bit, for who was he to say that his father’s work was outlandish? He was only seventeen. Yet he had experienced much. He’d experienced his father’s only great conflict; he’d experienced his father losing that conflict; he’d experienced a count’s dungeon; and the rats. He’d experienced the seekers, and, worse yet, the Emerald Witch. As he thought this, the guilt in his gut faded and turned into resolve. He was young, but in his young age he had experienced enough to develop his own opinions on the world. Hadn’t he?

  “I mean, it still feels to me almost pompous,” Aldous continued. “I know my father was an adventurer. He told me his father was, too, but I know Father never engaged in anything like you or Theron, or certainly not Ken. I don’t think he ever had to make one of the choices that he talks so certainly of in his books. It seems… high and mighty.” He let the last words out with a sigh, on a single breath, as if they were forced from him.

  “Of course it is high and mighty,” Chayse began with a comforting smile. “I believe your father was writing down standards that every man and woman should strive to uphold. Impossibly high standards, so even if they were to fall short they could still be good people. The desire for vengeance and justice to be trumped by a hope for restoration is not a ridiculous notion. It is a perfectly rational one. Yet, despite its rationality, it is hard to imagine carrying it out.” Chayse paused and shook her head, as if she just in that moment came to some realization. “Yet I suppose we are overcoming that desire for justice right now in this house. At least, I am. Theron overcame it right away.”

  “Kendrick?” Aldous whispered.

  “Yes. If Theron ends up truly driving Ken to do good with the rest of his life, then your father’s theory will be true. But it was easy for Theron to have the power to choose Ken’s recovery, as your father would call it, over justice, or vengeance, because Ken had never harmed him. Had I been one of Ken’s victims or even the victim of any man who was just following orders, I wonder if Theron would have had such an easy time deciding on giving Ken a chance.”

  “Exactly. That is why I say it is relative,” Aldous said, excited that he and Chayse were on the same page, for if he had taken up this conversation with Theron, he would not hear the end of the hunter’s well-constructed but still circular reasoning. “Goodness,” he continued, “righteousness, and bloody everything else, for that matter, is relative.” That was very plain to Aldous; relativity seemed inarguable because it encompassed every argument already.

  “That is why philosophy is a most tedious thing.” Chayse closed up her book and leaned over to Aldous. “I often find it nauseating and a fruitless effort to delve into these things, endless circles of reasoning that just become more unreasonable each and every time the circle makes a full rotation. In truth, I read what Theron read so he had someone to talk to about all of that noise. Perhaps there is truth in it.” Chayse paused, and then said, “Or perhaps it is the way smart men intellectually indulge in nonsense.” She smiled. “Don’t tell Theron I said that. You’re a different man than your father, Aldous. You don’t need to force yourself to believe what he did. It doesn’t change the fact that you love him. I promise you, I don’t see eye to eye with my parents. I don’t think I ever did, but I can’t help but have some memories of fondness, and I can’t help but love them. Your father was a good man, and he did what he could with what he had.”

  Aldous stared at her, hearing some of her words, but not the others. “You said you don’t see eye to eye with your parents,” he said, confused. “You’re talking about them as if they’re alive…”

  Chayse looked away. “It’s likely,” she said after a moment.

  “Likely?” Aldous asked, even more confused.

  And in the silence that followed, he sensed that she wanted to be alone.

  “Thanks, Chayse.” Aldous closed the book and stood from his reading chair. He walked away from the fire, down the hall to his chambers, and stuck Darcy Weaver’s Indisputable Science of Goodness on a random shelf where it could fit.

  “Sorry, Father. The only thing that is indisputable is conflict, and that is solved with action, not words.” He ran a finger down the spine of the book and walked away, back into the library, where Chayse was still reading, and he scanned the shelves, looking for something else, something clearer, something he could use. The titles all ran together. There were books about plants and philosophy and farming. There was one titled The Botany of Moonswidow, another titled Utopia, and a third titled Leviathan. Aldous stepped closer and tapped his finger on the title. Almost did he pull it free and open the pages.

  “Done with it?” Chayse asked.

  He looked at her for a moment and then understood that she spoke of his father’s tome. “Done with it,” Aldous said. “Do you have anything on magic? Not alchemy, but real magic.” He was looking at Chayse when he asked, and she looked up right away.

  “That would be condemnable by death,” said Chayse, a sinister sneer curving her full lips.

  “I’m already condemned to death.”

  “So you are,” Chayse said. She was quiet for a moment, her expression contemplative. And then she gave a small nod, as if she had reached a decision. She closed her book and rose. “Come with me.”

  Chayse led Aldous down the hall of the lower level in the east wing, past the baths.

  “Where are you two going?”

  Aldous and Chayse turned to see the towel-clad Theron and Kendrick emerging from the room, steam gliding into the hall behind them. Theron looked stern, and all of a sudden Aldous felt like he was doing something very wrong.

  “It’s dinnertime. Come along. Whatever mischief you think you’re up to, leave
it be.” Theron’s tone was easy, but something about him in that instant left Aldous feeling uneasy. And when he glanced at Chayse, she looked as uncomfortable as he felt. She narrowed her eyes at Theron and Aldous thought he was about to witness yet another sibling argument. Tension passed between them before Chayse turned and walked silently back the way they had come.

  * * *

  There were no words at the beginning of their meals, and sometimes no words all the way through—unless Theron and Chayse were having one of their brother-sister spats. That evening was no exception. The meal was one of Ken’s favorites, beef and venison with pudding. Had they not trained the way they did every day, each and every one of them would no doubt look much like Count Salvenius by now. In the midst of the devouring of meat pudding and the guzzling of dark ale, there was a trumpet sound from outside the estate, followed soon after by a hard thumping on the heavy brass knockers of Wardbrook’s mighty doors.

  Theron lifted his head from his plate and, mouth stuffed with food, called, “Hakesworth! Door! Messenger… trumpet! Door!” He swallowed. “Everyone get yourselves together. Act respectable. Especially you, Ken. Stop stuffing your face like that. It’s barbaric,” Theron said with contempt as he wiped more than a bit of everything from his own face.

  Ken looked at the others at the table, who were all stuffing their faces in the same manner as he, cheeks puffed up like chipmunks, sweat on their foreheads.

  “Who’s here?” Ken asked, feeling a bit nervous about a guest. They had been in solitude with only each other and the staff of Wardbrook for months now; the only guests had been the rats.

  “A contract. I can feel it in my guts,” Theron said as he rubbed his food-distended stomach.

  They waited a pregnant moment. Theron shot Aldous a glare. “Wipe your shirt. You have crumbs.”

  Sir Hakesworth appeared in the doorway of the dining room. With him was a royally dressed man in garb just as fancy as Theron’s, escorted by two silver-clad guards. They all wore red cloaks.

  The man in front was skinny, with a long face and a thin black mustache that looked painted on his upper lip. He had one of those faces that Ken just wanted to punch. It was the face of the type of man who talked a lot of fire, stared a lot of lightning, and did a lot of nothing when things got gritty.

  “Lord Wardbrook, I present to you the royal messenger of His Grace, the Duke of Dentin,” said Hakesworth.

  The messenger stepped forward.

  “I am sorry to interrupt your… dinner,” the skinny, spick-and-span man said. He made no effort to hide his displeasure at the sight of the hearty meat pudding and thick potato and onion soup, as if he were somehow above a strongman’s meal.

  “Not at all, not at all. Please, sir, sit down. You and your escort are welcome at my table. There is plenty to go around.” Theron stretched his hands to the many free chairs around the massive dining table.

  Ken fought back a scowl and hoped the man did not sit, for those were his third and fourth helpings Theron was offering this stranger.

  “Thank you,” said the thin-mustached man. He snapped his fingers and his two men removed their helms and took a seat with the messenger. Hakesworth left the room and promptly returned with plates and utensils for the guests.

  A servant poured the messenger and his two men ale. The messenger waited until his goblet was full before asking, “Do you have any wine? An estate of this caliber surely has wine.” The air of superiority in the man’s tone reminded Ken of the Brynthian officers in the army, men—if they could be called that—who paid for their station in the military. They went to school to learn about war, when men like Ken had to learn about it in the fire of combat and struggle to stay afloat in the sea of blood left by the dead.

  “You don’t like ale?” Ken asked, no doubt to Theron’s displeasure, but Ken wasn’t looking at Theron; he was glaring hard at the messenger, angry at the insult to his friend’s hospitality.

  “No. I have developed a finer taste in the Dukedom of Dentin.”

  Theron lifted a brow at Ken, but Ken ignored the warning.

  “Ah, well, have some of this. I take it you are hungry.” Ken slid the massive serving bowl, filled with meat and shire pudding and drippings, toward the messenger and his guards.

  The man offered Ken a tainted smile and scooped up a scant spoonful onto his plate, and then slid it down to his men. They took proper servings. They were, of course, doers, and doers knew what was what. That included knowing that when you have a hefty meal before you, always, always eat it, for it may be your last. The talkers never seemed to get that; instead, they developed finer tastes.

  “So, honorable messenger of His Grace, the Duke of Dentin,” Theron said, “what message do you bring all the way here to Wardbrook? At this late hour.”

  “I bring not a message but a contract, for you: the great hunter Theron Ward,” said the messenger, that smug smile still on his face. It was as if he were making an effort to act like a right bastard.

  The messenger pulled a piece of parchment from a satchel; it was rolled, tied, and sealed with red wax and the sigil stamp of a fox. He handed the parchment to one of his guards, who then stood and walked it over to Theron. Ken wondered if the man’s legs were broken, that he couldn’t walk it himself. Theron took the scroll, all the while staring hard at the messenger.

  Ken could see that he was assessing the man, perhaps assessing his legitimacy. Just because a man said he was a thing did not mean he was indeed what he said himself to be.

  Theron opened the parchment and read, his face unchanging. After a minute or two he said, “Yes, we accept.”

  “We?” asked the messenger.

  “We,” said Theron.

  The messenger looked down his nose. “I was under the impression you hunted alone. That is what the bards sing about, at least.” He squeaked a short laugh, and still he had that smile on his face, his thin, stupid mustache drawn on top. Worse still, he slid his untouched pudding into the center of the table.

  Don’t kill the messenger, Ken. But oh, he really wanted to do just that.

  “I did,” Theron said. “Now I don’t.”

  “I carry his things,” Ken said.

  “You’re a bit old to be a squire,” said the messenger. He had another quick laugh as he looked Ken up and down the way one might appraise livestock. Ken wanted to tell the man who he was, tell him what he had done, and what he would do if the weasel didn’t smarten up, show some respect, and eat his damn pudding. Ken had spent years trying to put his past behind him, but in this moment, he would have garnered pleasure in having it known. Of course, Ken said nothing. He just stared back at the bastard.

  “Theron is not a knight,” said Chayse. “He does not have a squire.”

  “He has a man to carry his things,” Ken finished.

  Theron remained silent. It was hard to say what was causing the tension in the room, and Ken wondered if this was always the atmosphere when Theron received a contract. He doubted it. There was something else. Whatever Theron had read on that parchment, he did not like, yet he still accepted the contract.

  “And who are you?” the messenger asked Chayse.

  “His apprentice,” she said.

  The messenger looked back at Theron, snickering. “You have taken a woman as your apprentice? You really are singular in your methods.”

  “You should ask the beasts and men she’s slain if what is between her legs had any effect on their heads leaving their bodies.” To everyone’s amazement, it was Aldous who released that fiery response. Ken had forgotten the boy was even at the table.

  The messenger scowled.

  “And you are?”

  “I am a writer. I am the man who documents Theron the Great and Mighty’s hunts and adventures,” Aldous said without a moment’s hesitation.

  “As I said, we accept the contract. We will leave tomorrow at first light,” said Theron.

  “Very good,” said the messenger. “The duke will be very pleased.”<
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  “You should stay here at Wardbrook until morning. We can voyage together, perhaps develop lasting friendships.” It was the least inviting invitation Ken had ever heard. Theron said what he said, but it sounded to Ken like: “Leave my house, leave me to my pudding and ale, and I will see you in a week when I arrive in the Dukedom of Dentin.”

  “No, no. We will begin our trip back now. Perhaps camp at midnight. The duke does not like to be kept waiting,” said the messenger, no doubt implying that Theron and the others should be heading out with them.

  “Very well,” Theron said, his tone hard. “You go on ahead. You can forewarn the duke of our acceptance of his contract. We will be hot on your heels, and we will kill his monster.”

  The messenger protested no further. He stood and bowed. His men had not finished their meal and looked to be displeased to be taken from it, but they left all the same. And so the contract was accepted, the duke’s messenger left, and Ken went back to stuffing his face with a hearty meal, for he did not know if it would be his last.

  * * *

  Curse your broken world, world of men, world of filth. A thousand kings, kings of dirt, kings of gold. Great masters of the old, masters of the mold, your day reaches its zenith and the twilight is nigh. The long night is here, and under the endless moon man shall learn he cannot eat his gold when all his dirt and soil turns to ash, when he runs to the edge of the world and the edge is not far enough, when he jumps from the cliff and the fall is not long enough, when with trembling hands he ties the noose around his neck. Man and his thousand kings will know that not even in death will they have found solace from the wrath. The wrath of the flame, the wrath of the wizard, as they burn, they will finally see.

  * * *

  A letter to the King of Brynth, written by Arch Mage Phelix Calliban from his cell one day before he was burned at the stake.

  * * *