Lem reached out and touched the blade to Mauldin’s flesh. A moment later, the lord slumped onto the bench and fell over on his side.
A bloody kill; those were his instructions. Clearly intended to send a message. But to whom? And to what end? Lem rarely contemplated these things. Not for a while now. As he opened Mauldin’s throat, he felt glad that his family would not be there to discover the body.
Snatching up the parchment, Lem exited the garden and strode at an easy pace down the broad promenade. The inn was not far. But he was not ready for sleep. He passed several clerics who had likely been visiting the nobility and wealthy merchants who populated this part of the town—bestowing the blessings of Kylor upon their homes … for a small donation, of course. And so near to the Holy City, these were no rank-and-file clergy, but rather bishops and cardinals with titles such as Giver of Hope or Banisher of Darkness, bestowed upon them by the High Cleric for their service, which Lem had come to learn meant that they were adept in procuring substantial donations. They were an arrogant lot, the sense of entitlement showing in their expressions when they occasionally were obliged to enter the poor and downtrodden areas. The more hopeless the people were, the fewer visits they received. One of the many hypocrisies that raised his disgust for Kylor and those who claimed to represent him. Lem enjoyed the fear in their eyes when he would demand entry to the church on the occasions the inns were full up. The Blade of Kylor, contrary to what was written in the texts, was neither loved nor respected. One young cleric had actually pissed his robes when Lem showed him the medallion bearing the symbol of his office.
He reached to his shirt and felt a lump hiding beneath the cloth. Not the medallion the High Cleric had given him; that he kept in his pocket most of the time, a practice he’d adopted once he learned that they were easily replaced, upon losing the first one to a most talented thief. He’d lost two others since, both replaced within a few weeks, arriving with stern admonishment that he be more careful in the future. However, it had not been in Rothmore’s handwriting, so Lem guessed that the High Cleric wasn’t as concerned about it as he’d initially feared.
He pressed his fingernail where the two halves of the locket joined, the desire to look upon Mariyah’s smile growing stronger with each step.
Rounding the corner, he nearly collided with a hulking man in a polished leather breastplate and yellow-plumed helm. He shoved Lem hard, sending him stumbling into the street.
“Out of the way, boy,” the man barked.
Behind him was a cleric in the finest satin robes, the Eye of Kylor sewn in gold thread over his heart. His raven hair was slicked back, his face powdered like a Sylerian noble, and his fingers were festooned with gem-encrusted rings of the highest quality. The value of his attire alone could feed a small town for a week. He did not so much as give Lem a second glance as they strode by, as if the acknowledgment might sully his flesh.
Typically, Lem would dismiss this behavior as not worth the trouble. But for some reason, this time he could not keep his anger restrained.
Stepping back onto the promenade, he said, loud enough to be sure the cleric could hear: “Adjouta.”
The man stopped mid stride and spun around. Lem was glaring at him, hand hovering above his dagger.
“Are you all right, Your Eminence?” asked the guard, who was moving between Lem and the cleric. When the cleric did not answer, standing pale faced and stone still, his hand drifted to his weapon. “What did you say to him, boy?”
Ignoring the question, Lem turned and started away at a leisurely pace.
“Stop!” the guard shouted.
“Leave him,” the cleric said. “It … it was nothing. I’m late as it is.”
Adjouta. Justice, in the ancient tongue. Though it was the only word he knew, it was more than enough. As much as the medallion, it identified him as the Blade of Kylor. He could have pressed the issue and had the arrogant man practically groveling in the street, but there was the possibility the guard might do something foolish. In a straight fight, Lem would not stand a chance. But Lem was not so stupid as to fight a seasoned warrior head on. A quick swipe of his blade to any unprotected flesh would end matters. A shove was not cause enough to end a life. And he had made his point. The idea of the cleric looking over his shoulder for the next month, wondering if the Blade of Kylor was coming for him, was satisfaction enough.
Admittedly, not all clergy were like that. The further from the seat of power one traveled, to small-town churches and monasteries, the more one found charity and kindness to be commonplace. They truly believed in their faith and did their best to obey the teachings of Kylor. Curiously, there were two different books. The Archbishop claimed theirs held the true word; of course, the High Cleric claimed the opposite. While similar, there were many additional passages in the Ralmarstad’s version, mostly spelling out restrictions on daily life and how to punish apostates, heretics, and others who offended the church. Whether the passages had been added later or removed by the High Clerics in the other version would depend on whom you asked. Lem couldn’t care less either way. He was disgusted by the hypocrisy and dogma of it all. In his mind, it was nothing more than a way to assert control over desperate people.
On the next block, he was again forced to hop into the street by a trio of drunken soldiers. These were proper soldiers, bearing the sigil of Malvoria, not hired guards. One shouted a slurred warning for Lem to watch where he was going, but wasn’t aggressive about it and quickly turned back to his comrades. Lem had noticed more soldiers about in recent days. All the kingdoms that were anywhere near Ralmarstad kept a sizable standing army; Malvoria in particular, as the Holy City was within its borders. But their growing numbers were obvious. This had not gone unnoticed by the citizens either. Complaints were abundant if you listened at the taverns. Rumors of war were beginning to spread, but Lem didn’t think they had merit. He’d been twice to Ralmarstad, and so far as he could tell, they were not mustering armies for an attack. While Lem was an assassin and not a master of war, such a thing would still be hard to miss. The High Cleric had not mentioned anything about it, nor did he seem concerned.
Lem stopped to listen to a street poet for a time, tossing him a copper when he was ready to move on. The aroma of fresh bread reminded him that he had not eaten since early that morning. He wasn’t dressed for the more expensive establishments and would certainly be turned away if he tried to enter. A pity. It was the one true luxury he allowed himself.
Lem settled for a small tavern adjacent to a bakery, a block from the main market square, figuring that at minimum the bread would be fresh. To his disappointment, there was no music, and the small number of patrons made him less than hopeful the fare would be decent. Still, it didn’t reek of spoiled ale and moldy timbers, and the bartender and servers were in clean, crisp shirts and pressed trousers, so at least he wasn’t likely to end up with a sour stomach.
In casual places like this, his thoughts would occasionally turn to Martha. She had been the first person to show him kindness in an otherwise brutal world. Had Zara remembered the night he left? He sincerely hoped not. He had told himself that one day he would return to Harver’s Grove to see how Martha had fared, but that would likely do more harm than good. Even should he arrive with enough armed guards to dissuade Zara from taking revenge, it could endanger Martha.
A serving boy hastened by, carrying a tray of breads and sliced fruits to a table near to the bar. The fruit didn’t appear overripe, and the scent of the bread made his mouth water.
“Since when are you such a finicky eater?” Shemi had asked a few months back.
“Since I don’t get to eat your cooking anymore,” he’d teased.
He really wasn’t as picky as Shemi thought. But since leaving Vylari, with pleasures rare, it had become almost a hobby to find the best food in a new city.
Sitting at a table just off from the rear door, he ordered a glass of wine and told the server to bring him whatever he recommended. Once he had his
wine, he removed the parchment from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table.
Your Holiness,
I am aware that you have discovered my betrayal. Sister Dorina has told me that you will likely be sending the Blade of Kylor to settle accounts. As she has informed me that she will confess this to you, I can only say that I hope you are not angry with her. She is not a part of this, and only told me so I could prepare myself and my family for what is coming. She has been a good friend to me over the years and is kind to a fault. Forgive her.
The darkness approaches, old friend. Belkar and his army will soon be upon you. Once the ancient magic fails, he will come. No power exists that can withstand him. I wish I could tell you that there is something you can do to stop it. But I am through with lies.
While there is no excuse for my sins, know that I was deceived, as are many who have enabled his return. We were made promises of immortality and youth in exchange for our obedience. I suppose the oldest of temptations are always the hardest to resist.
Pray for me and for my family. And may the Light of Kylor shine upon you until the end of days.
Your Friend,
Britanius
Belkar? He recalled a song he knew that had the name in the lyrics. A coincidence, perhaps. He knew of no king or queen by that name, nor any noble, for that matter. But reference to “ancient magic” and mentions of an army were troubling. Could Lord Mauldin have been mad? He hadn’t appeared so. But impending death could do strange things to a mind.
The second parchment in his pocket insisted its way to the fore. On it was the name of Lord Mauldin, the manner in which he was to die, along with instructions for Lem to present himself to Bard Master Julia Feriel upon completion of his assignment. A command that would send him hundreds of miles away and effectively end his effort to save Mariyah for … who knew how long?
Upon receiving the order, he had nearly thrown his balisari from the balcony of the apartment he and Shemi rented in Throm, a Lytonian town near the border of the Trudonian Plains. Mariyah was within his reach, and he could not bear the thought of leaving until he had figured out a way to free her from whatever curse had ensnared her mind.
It had taken Shemi two days to convince him to go.
“You cannot defy the High Cleric,” he’d said, in his most understanding yet firm tone.
“I’m not leaving,” Lem had shouted, for probably the hundredth time. “Not until she’s free.”
“You said it yourself: The manor cannot be breached. And even if it could, without knowing what spell has trapped her, there’s no telling what might happen if you just stole away with her. For all you know, she’d die.”
“You don’t think I know that?” he’d shouted, waving his arms and pacing along the balcony. The scene had drawn quite a few stares from passersby. But Lem did not care. His anger had blinded him.
Shemi had stepped into his path and placed his hands on Lem’s shoulders. “Listen to me. You have to go. I’ll find a way to get inside the manor while you’re away.” He held him firm until Lem met his eyes. “We know where Mariyah is, and we know that she’s unharmed. You searched all this time. Don’t be a fool when we’re so close to the end.”
It had taken another full day for him to accept what he knew he had to do. Defying the High Cleric could land him in a precarious position. Rothmore might not have the power of a king in the direct sense, but he was not to be underestimated. With a word, Lem could become the most hunted person in Lamoria.
The meal, which consisted of a goodly portion of mint lamb and fresh greens, was better than Lem had anticipated, allowing him to take his mind off dire events and trials ahead. He made a mental note of its location and made sure that the cook received a few extra coppers before he left.
A light rain had moved in by the time he stepped back outside, and the distant roll of thunder promised it would become heavier soon. He sniffed the air, frowning. Not long ago, he could have smelled the rain coming hours in advance. Perhaps spending so much time in towns and cities had dulled his senses. He had undergone so many changes, none for the better.
He rarely thought about returning home anymore. Vylari had become a distant dream; a memory of a time and place now lost. And the Thaumas … where he had once been desperate to find them to learn what was behind the vision the stranger had shown him, that had become a mere afterthought. Freeing Mariyah was now his primary concern. If Fate brought him in contact with the Thaumas, so be it. The more he learned about the people of Lamoria, the more he was coming to believe it had been a deception—though meant to accomplish what was unknown. And at this point, he no longer cared.
Lem shook his head and picked up his pace. No dark thoughts, he told himself. You promised Shemi.
Shemi was relentless in his assertion that once Mariyah was free, Lem would go back to being the person he had been prior to leaving Vylari. He wanted to believe it. But even tonight, opening the throat of Mauldin had not bothered him. Dead flesh. That’s all it was. A lifeless mass that held no more value than so many leaves on the ground. The sight of blood pooling on the stones and soaking Mauldin’s clothes was no more shocking than had it been a puddle of water.
He reached the inn just as the rain was coming down in earnest, bringing back the memory of his first kill. Lord … what was his name? Lord Brismar Gulan. He still could not picture the man’s face. It had evaporated from his mind that night and never returned.
“Have my horse and wagon ready at dawn,” he called over to the innkeeper who was dozing at the counter. He tossed him a copper, which startled the man fully awake as he scrambled to keep it from falling to the floor.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, nearly toppling backward from his stool. “Will you be taking breakfast?”
“No.”
The room, reserved for traveling clergy from Xancartha, was more spacious than those in which he usually stayed. But for a few extra silvers, it was easily procured. Not as elegant as some, meant for lower ranked bishops and the like, but there was a couch and a pair of chairs, along with a full chest of drawers and a closet.
Lem peeled off his wet clothes, and after stowing away his blade, changed into a fresh night shirt. It would take two weeks to reach the Bard’s College. Two weeks of anxiety and restlessness. He should deliver the message he had been given by Lord Mauldin. Xancartha was on the way. But no. He would not waste more time. A courier would do just as well.
As he drifted off, Belkar the Undying played in his mind. One line in particular: The prison walls once locked away, forgotten and alone. To freedom and to victory, when shattered is the stone.
What did it mean?
Nothing, you idiot. It’s just an old song.
Still, something told him that there was a connection. The lyrics went on to tell of Belkar’s battle against a great and terrible army and his desire for conquest. In the end, he was betrayed by those closest to him and imprisoned for eternity. His last words promised that one day he would return and take his vengeance.
It had not been Lem’s favorite song by any stretch, and he’d only played it on a handful of occasions.
He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket tight. No sense pondering yet another unsolvable mystery. His life was already replete with the unknowable.
3
DREAMS, RIDDLES, AND FIRE
Hearth and home is a fine thing. But there’s nothing quite like a grand adventure.
Shemi of Vylari
Mariyah steeled her courage, muscles tense, legs parted, and arms spread wide. A hot wind blew in from the north, carrying with it thick gray dust and acrid smoke that stung her eyes and throat, doing nothing to cool her sweat-soaked flesh. Another wave was imminent. Death incarnate, in the form of a vast army of black soulless eyes, their spears and swords forever sharp, their bodies never knowing pain or fatigue, each one a slayer of a thousand foes. They were relentless. Unstoppable. Yet she had beaten them back time after time. They had broken against her like waves on the cliffsid
e. Before her arrival, the battle had raged for hours. Yet no fallen enemies lay among the dead. Only the bodies of her comrades, hacked apart and mangled, strewn like broken twigs over the field. At her back, the whole of Lamoria; before her a vast sea of barren gray earth, the horizon shrouded by a thick mist—within which the doom of the world was poised to strike its final blow.
“You suffer pointlessly, my love. Your destiny lies with me. Why are you fighting? A word from you and it ends. No more pain. No more suffering. You need but to speak my name and there will be peace eternal.”
Belkar’s voice descended from the ashen sky, his tone soothing and compassionate. Even through her hatred and fury, Mariyah could feel her heart wanting to yield. All she had to do was accept him as her own and the suffering would cease. Why was she fighting? To defeat his army meant killing Belkar, and no power in Lamoria could do that. The ancient Thaumas had tried. The most powerful men and women in Lamoria had pitted themselves against his might. They had tried and they had failed, their strength no match for their immortal foe. Only through deception had they been able to drive him back.
Images of a terrible battle flashed through her mind: great columns of fire, raging tempests, and countless streaks of lightning consumed a rock-strewn field at the base of a snowcapped mountain. It felt like a memory yet she knew she’d never witnessed anything like it.
In the far distance, figures appeared from the mist. At her back, the cries of the helpless begging to be saved tore at her ears. She held up her palms, then slowly clenched her fists. She would not give in. Somehow she would prevail. Or perish in the attempt.
“I will not allow you to die, my love. Time everlasting awaits us. This is all for nothing.”
The ground trembled from countless boots as the pitiless horde continued their unrelenting march, churning up more clouds of dust, giving the enemy the appearance of ghostly demon spirits. If only that were so. These were not spirits but flesh, bone, and sinew. And like their master, immortal.
A Chorus of Fire Page 3
