The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel)

by Beard, Matthew

  “Of course,” said Sten. “She is a guardian.”

  “How did she do that?” asked Luzhon.

  “She is of the Great Circle of Nature. A warden of this mountain, Luzhon. She can ask the forces of the primal world to assist her when needed, much like Mikal can draw from the realms of the arcane.”

  “She would also make a formidable ally,” said Spundwand. “She seems adept at killing kenku.”

  Seeing the party advancing, the goliath woman leaped down from the rocks to the forest floor, standing before the nine travelers with her hammer cocked, her legs spread wide in a sturdy battle stance. Any trace of exhaustion that might have been upon her in the last few moments of the fight with the kenku—all broken around her—was gone, and if there was to be a new fight, Sten didn’t doubt they would struggle against her.

  Not that he had any intentions of fighting the warden. He would make her his ally—and Haven’s—or he would wish her well-met and good journeys.

  “Warden,” he cried, sheathing his own weapon, then holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. “We wish you no harm, and in fact seek your help.” To the others, he said, “Put away your weapons, friends. There is no fight to be had here.”

  Only then did the warden lower her hammer, keeping her hands on its haft even as she rested its head on the ground. Standing up out of her battle crouch, the goliath drew her gray body up to its full height, tossed back the black braids of her hair, which fell down the length of her back, four or more feet to reach the middle of her heavily-muscled thighs. Her blue eyes gleamed beneath the ridge of her forehead as she scanned each of the members of the party, both the mercenaries and the Haven teenagers alike. At last, she spoke, her voice loud as the cracking of glaciers, the thunder of snow down the mountainside in the spring.

  “I am Ekho, guardian of this peak and all the peaks around it,” she said, again surveying the faces of the group. “And among your number I recognize five of my charges, although most are only children. Is that who Haven sends to seek help in these long hours? Mere babes?”

  “We are hardly children,” spoke Kohel, indignantly. “I am the son of the Crook of Haven, and one day this mountain will be mine, too.”

  “If you think that is so, then you are the saddest among your companions, as you will go to your doom deluded. And you are doomed. I have seen the kenku moving in the forest, and there are many of them, more of them than there are people in your village. I will do what I can against them, as I have all those who invade these peaks, but I too will one day fall in battle, my honor—”

  Ekho paused, but only for a moment. “My honor restored and my place in the forest secure.” She gestured back at the fallen kenku that littered the clearing. “This is part of what I will pay for my good death, and it is honest work, fighting these creatures. What will you pay for yours?”

  Kohel had no words, and for a moment no one else spoke. Then Padlur said something, from the back of the crowd, the quiet space he had inhabited since leaving the city, and even before. He spoke so softly none could hear him, then stepped forward and spoke again, slowly but more loudly, addressing Ekho rather than any of the others. “We will give what we have, warden. Maybe I am just a boy, as you suggest. But I am a boy who knows his bow, and who loves his home, as you do. And I will fight for it, same as you. All we ask is that you fight for it with us.”

  Spundwand checked Sten’s face, then clapped his younger friend on the back. He whispered, “These children have some stones after all, to address a goliath in such a manner.” Sten nodded in agreement, said, “Yes, but look how it will work. Better than you or I.”

  “And who are these others?” asked Ekho. “Mercenaries? Hired swords?” She spat into the bloody snow. “What good will the honorless be? The spirits will not rouse for them.”

  It was Luzhon’s turn to speak. “Not honorless at all, warden, only warriors and wizards upon hard times, as we are on hard times. We have little to offer them, and yet they have agreed to help us anyway. Isn’t there honor in that?”

  Nergei took the last turn, his hand clutching the crystal beneath his shirt. He stood beside Luzhon, saying, “I am the Old Stargazer’s servant, warden. It was he—along with the chief—who sent us to the city to seek help. I know he too would be happy to hear that the goliaths of the mountains were with us.”

  “I have heard of this Old Stargazer,” said Ekho, relaxing her grip on her hammer without actually giving the appearance of resting. “My own chief spoke of him, long ago, when I was a child. It has been many years since he last walked out into the forest to speak to us, and we assumed he was dead, that his great age had finally gotten the best of him. What else would account for his failure to keep Haven’s half of the mountain safe, as he always has before?”

  Nergei looked down, kicked at the stones with one foot. “I do not know, warden. I wish I did, but I do not. My master is—not the man he had been as of late.”

  Into the silence that followed this admission, Sten stepped forward, offering his hand to the warden. “I am Aldo Sten, and I am the one these representatives have contracted to defend their village. I would be honored to have you fight at our side, as well as any of your tribespeople who would join us. Haven and the goliaths share this mountain, and what affects one affects the other.”

  “You are correct,” said Ekho. “But did the people of Haven think of that when they cut down the forest’s trees to build their impermanent homes? Did they consider that when they shaped her rocks to terrace their gardens and fields? Were they caring for the mountains when they took too many deer from her forests, so that they might have extras to sell?”

  Sten started to object, but Ekho waved him off with one of her giant hands. “Forgive me. Those are not my words either, but those of my chieftain. And not even my chieftain, not anymore.” The goliath lifted her hammer, rested it upon her shoulder. “I will accompany you, and help you as I can, although I will not stay within your walls. I prefer the mountainside, and will stay close to Haven and scout the area while you prepare the village for the assault we know is coming. That is all I can offer, and I hope it is enough.”

  “Of course, warden,” replied Sten. “But what of the others? What of your tribespeople? Will they join us?”

  “No, Aldo Sten. Not if I am with you. I am outcast, cast out and cannot return, for my failures—my crimes—are unforgivable. You have spoken to me, and beseeched me for my help, and in doing so have cut yourself off from my kinspeople, whose honor demands that an outcast be unseen, unheard, and unspoken to, for the rest of her life. You did not know, but that will not buy you forgiveness. I am yours, but now they will never be, no matter how much more an army of goliaths might have helped you, instead of just this single one.”

  “We are happy to have you, guardian of the peak,” said Sten. “We, too, are outcasts in one way or another. You will fit right in.”

  “Thank you,” Ekho said. “If we go to Haven to protect it from the kenku, Sten, we must hurry. I have watched the creatures prepare for a full assault. It is only days away. They have sharpened their blades and brought this unnatural cold to the mountain. They intend to take the village very soon.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Is your faith strong? the revenant had asked. Nothing in me is stronger, thought Temley. My spirit, my skill, my resolve—all built upon the foundation of my faith.

  Erak had left Temley with the kenku, said a brief good-bye and strolled away, his queen’s work done—there, at least. Temley noticed his distraction and felt sure the servant of the Raven Queen was pondering a new obligation. Temley was not unhappy to see him go. At first, the revenant’s provenance—his direct connection to the Shadowfell—had bewildered and awed the shadow acolyte. But his manner was, in Temley’s estimation, unbecoming. He was not what Temley had expected. He was, frankly, far too human—his concerns seemed ordinary, his manner altogether too informal—and Temley was happy to put him out of his mind, to focus on his divine task. He felt ce
rtain that, when his time came, when he had taken residence in the Shadowfell, and when he was called upon by his queen to return to the world, he would never act as frivolously. It seemed to him unlikely that the revenant was, in his former life, a servant of the queen at all. He had likely spent his life in the pursuit of more life, giving thanks to Avandra or Melora or Pelor—a god whose divine order worshiped the world and the things within it instead of the world beyond.

  And thus began the ritual. The kenku had made for him a tent, simple but private, and left him to his preparations. From his pack, Temley pulled a long object wrapped in black silk and tied with a black ribbon. He pulled free the knot, and parted the silk. Within was Claw, a blade almost as tall as Temley himself, long and straight and thin. The tool of his craft. The message of the divine messenger. The signature of the Raven Queen’s divine proclamations. He passed his hand across the blade, whispering a blessing, teased at the edge between thumb and forefinger. It was as sharp as the day it was forged of black steel somewhere in the Shadowfell.

  Holding his weapon, Temley felt his history with it. When he turned twelve, the power of his faith was such that he was taken to a wing of the temple that had always been off limits to him, and he was introduced to Thorne, master trainer of the Raven Queen’s coterie of pious and stealthy killers.

  Thorne was a shifter—half man, half feline. The fur around his face had grown gray and stiff, a few of his sharpened teeth were broken, and he had lost two fingers from his left hand. But despite his advancing age, he was lithe and strong, and powerful beyond the limits of any other in the temple. He was, however, no threat to the high priest at the temple, or his small group of advisors, because Thorne’s faith was simple and direct. His body was the instrument of his faith. The day Temley was introduced to him, Thorne lowered himself to stare deep into his eyes. “You see the blade on my back, boy?” he asked. Temley, unable to speak, nodded his answer. “That blade is my prayer to our queen. Every cut it makes is a word of praise. Every soul it sends to the Shadowfell is my thanks to her.

  “One day, my child, you will pray as I do.”

  He was trained alone. He spent the next seven years in the company of only Thorne. The older man would occasionally leave for two or three days and return with a fresh, small wound on him, tired and a little slower, but he would always come back. And training would always begin again immediately. Temley was trained with a series of great blades, each the size of him. Each a little heavier. He learned to make the weight of the thing a part of his own weight, to swing it with his whole body. He learned to commit to each swing in a way that left no wasted motion. “It is a dance,” said Thorne. “When a blade connects, you do not stop and reverse. You move through. Every thrust and swing has two or three follows that continue your attack.

  “A blade of this size can leave you open if you are not constantly in motion, child. Within the swing must be the dodge for the possible counter. Within the thrust must be the seeds of the final blow. You must know when the kill is at hand, Temley, because when you commit to the deathblow, you will leave yourself more open than ever. You must always be sure.”

  Temley listened and learned. A year in, they began to train in the burgeoning powers granted as a divine boon to Temley by the Raven Queen. He learned to step with the shadows, to focus darkness, to armor himself in his faith. Thorne taught him the skills of ruthless, single-minded pursuit. “Above all, child, you will find the target that the queen has given you, and you will follow it. And with her grace, you will step through the target’s guardians or comrades like you step through a veil of shadows. You will slip by them, and continue after the one whom the queen has marked—the one given the great honor of death.

  “Have no mercy for the prey, Temley. The Raven Queen calls them to her. This is the greatest mercy one can hope for. You do them a kindness, whether they know it or not.”

  Temley learned well. He grew strong and resolute. And, though he knew it was wrong, he grew envious of those he would one day be sent to kill. He tried to keep the feeling to himself, but one day he found himself admitting it to Thorne. “Master,” he said as they sat eating their evening stew, “I have learned so much with you, and I worry. I will grant death to so many. So many will be so lucky. What if no one will be able to grant death to me?”

  Thorne eyed him, picked a small bone from his teeth. “We all die, Temley. Have faith that one day you will meet someone who will spill your guts on the ground or put an arrow through your eye. The queen will not forget about you.” Temley felt calmed. One day, he would die. Just like one day, Thorne would not return.

  And one day, he did not. Temley was nineteen and Thorne had been away for four days when into the temple’s isolated wing came the high priest. Temley recognized the vestments, but not the man wearing them at first. Eventually it occurred to him that it was the young priest who had purchased him from the road gang that had captured him years earlier. He was much older, and had, it turned out, only recently taken on the role of the high priest of the temple. His predecessor had gone to the queen.

  “Thorne will not be back, Temley. You are now the arrow sent from this temple to fell our queen’s enemies.”

  Temley fell to his knees and kissed the high priest’s feet. “I will not fail you.”

  “I am certain of it,” said the high priest. “I saw the winter in you. I knew you would be a worthy successor to Thorne. In a few years, I will perhaps send you a child to train, as well, but for now, we believe you will not fail us.”

  Temley bowed and sharpened his sword. For his first task, he avenged the temple by killing, quickly and cleanly, the desert-dwelling witch who had managed to defeat his master. In her hovel, he found the long braid that had hung down his master’s back, hanging over the old crone’s cook pot, and he took it with him to the temple, where he hung it in his cell. In quiet moments, he would stroke it, and speak to Thorne, asking after his contentment in paradise.

  And so he spent a decade doing the bidding of the temple and of his queen. When not tasked, he sat in his cell and he prayed and he waited. When tasked, he worked efficiently and happily. The years had been very good to him.

  “Wake up, Claw,” said Temley. “We have a man to visit.” Within the weapon, something thrummed. Temley placed his hand on the blade again, and felt it gently shiver in pulses. He smiled and wrapped it again in its silks. He picked it up and slung it over his neck, holding it by resting his arms over it, like a water carrier balancing two vases on a pole. He had dropped his pack and his belt pouches. He wore only his black tunic and trousers and a long black cloak. He carried Claw and nothing else. It was all he needed for the coming hours. Everything else was a needless encumbrance.

  Temley left the tent to find a quiet place to pray and prepare. The kenku kept a wide berth around the man, sensing that he was not to be challenged. Most did, anyway. The large kenku—the one Temley had seen dispatch three others—found a place to sit near to Temley, and stared silently at him. Other kenku would approach him and attempt to coax him to leave Temley be, but he brushed them aside with an intimidating noise, a clipped, chattering shriek. Temley knew the creature was watching him, and understood well the intent, but he did not encourage the kenku with provocation. It was unworthy of Claw, and it was not his target. It was, Temley remembered, a dangerous warrior, to be sure, but the greatest danger was not in his talons or his skill. It was his pride, his desire to be seen as the greatest threat in the camp. His need to instill fear, and through that fear earn the respect of his fellow raiders. Temley did not fear him, and the kenku could tell.

  But, then, Temley feared nothing. The kenku was unaware of that. Perhaps if he had access to the very soul of Temley, if he was able to, for a single moment, comprehend the nature of Temley’s faith, he would’ve cast away his pride and stayed very far away from him. The Raven Queen was the marrow in the man’s bones. He had known no life but the life of the faithful. Born of pilgrims, he had been only weeks old when his parents
stumbled upon road agents looting the goods from a merchant’s wagon after they had killed him and his guards. The two had nothing of value, and had they not surprised the bandits, Temley’s parents would’ve been told to be on their way, deemed unworthy of the effort it would’ve taken to kill them. Instead, as they approached the wagon, a bandit caught only their movement, and in an instant, knocked two arrows in a longbow and let fly. Two perfect shots. Two arrows ripped into Temley’s parent’s necks, cut arteries, severed spines. They fell forward, and bled to death. Temley’s mother held him to her breast, lay on top of him, and nearly smothered him in her bloody cloak. The archer went to check on his kills, and turning the woman over, he spotted the baby in her arms.

  The archer was a worshiper of the goddess of fate. He took the child’s survival as a sign, and split from his compatriots for a few days to take the child to a monastery in the Hawkspire Mountains. Temley grew up knowing only the faithful of the Raven Queen, and it filled his spirit entirely. He had been trained to exact revenge for her when she asked, and he had done so many, many times. When followers of arcane knowledge attempted to use their magic to circumvent fate, Temley was called on to make things right. When divine intervention was asked to lessen the effects of a sudden frost on the crops of a town, and the Raven Queen’s glorious season was cut short, Temley was sent to punish the celebrant who issued the prayer. Temley did as he was commanded. And he knew that one day, he would be rewarded. He would die. And he would meet his mistress.

  Wishing for death was a blasphemy—he knew that and did all he could to put such feelings aside. But he had accepted his death. And that is why he feared nothing.

  Inevitably, the large kenku decided he would test Temley. As the human sat before a campfire, sipping the broth from a root vegetable soup another of the kenku had given him, he saw the shadow of the creature surround him. For a moment, he admired the silhouette that surrounded him; a bird figure, beak and ruffled feathers, enveloping his shadow, taking its place. But Temley’s reverie was broken when talons grabbed his shoulders and yanked him up. An unfortunate turn of events; Temley had been enjoying the soup.