Ekho gathered her strength, and the roots below the kenku emerged and twisted around his spindly legs. She seemed to offer further encouragement with a trilled sound, and the root constricted, snapping the creature below the knees. It howled, knocked its totem to its chest, and pulled from within a divot in its shoulder a small green seed. The seed bloomed and the creature blew it toward Ekho. In the air, the blooming seed went orange, erupted in fire, and it struck her in the chest.
Nergei saw that Mikal had finally found his feet, and both saw the burning bloom explode in Ekho’s sternum, throwing her back and burning her severely. An incantation crossed his lips, and a blast of ice surrounded the twisted kenku’s head. It froze solid, crackled, and broke to pieces. The swarms of wasps, no longer enthralled, lost purpose, lost intention, fell to ground or scattered back to the trees.
Mikal went to Ekho, Nergei following timidly. Her burns were too severe. She expired as they stood over her, Mikal’s hand upon her forehead.
The archers, no longer dividing attention between their targets and the wasps, resumed, giving the town the advantage. Or so it seemed. The kenku were not still pouring out from the trees. A number remained in the clearing, continued to fight, but the danger did not seem as great. Padlur ran a kenku foot soldier through with his blade.
Nergei looked at Mikal and said, “Are we winning? Is this victory?”
Mikal looked up from Ekho at the field. “It appears so, lad. But too easily, I fear.”
Within the village walls, Sten tried to keep pace with the man with the blade. That is the Raven Queen’s symbol at his chest and on the back of his clothes, he thought. He is a zealot. He is her avenging assassin. What has she to do with this?
The Raven Queen’s man dodged his way through the villagers who waited in the streets for any kenku that managed to break through the ranks, to find entry into Haven. He never once raised his weapon to them, preferring, it seemed, to get them out of his way as he made for—what? Londih, perhaps? The councilors? But the assassin moved past the great hall without giving it a look. He moved through Haven, east to the observatory. To the Stargazer.
The kenku must have sent this one to kill him so they could take the village, Sten thought. They may know of him, but would not know that he has retreated within the walls of his home, that he is not a factor here right now. Sten considered leaving the assassin to the Old Stargazer who, if the stories about him were true, would make quick work of him. But Luzhon changed his mind. Past the great hall, and nearing the path up to the observatory, she stepped out to engage the Raven Queen’s man. He had easily passed the others, but she was able to trip him up, to stop his progress. “No, child!” Sten shouted. “You cannot stand against this one.”
“You are not mine,” said the assassin. “You are not for my blade.” But he was not able to push her away before she managed to strike him with a blade of her own. The short sword Sten had given her, but he had instructed her too little about its use, even less about proper strategy, when to run and when to fight. It was not always good to be brave, nor was the strike she made a powerful hit. She managed only a mild cut to his arm, but it refocused him on her. “You are not mine, but if you insist on meeting my mistress this day, I can oblige,” he said. “Not with this blade, though.” The assassin dropped the large blade and pulled two smaller, curved ones from the sheaths on his legs. When Luzhon swung on him again, he caught her sword between them, twisted, and pulled it from her hands. She stumbled, he advanced, and Sten managed to stop him from delivering a killing blow by mere moments.
“Me instead,” said Sten, pushing the assassin back.
“If that is the way,” said the assassin. “I am the claw of the Raven Queen. I am sworn after only one this day, but will indulge you if I must, old man.” Temley lunged forward, grasping at Sten instead of swinging or thrusting with his blades. When he had a hold on Sten, Temley uttered a word in a language Sten did not know—a language that seemed covered in dark—and Sten felt his body fall to pieces.
The two of them broke apart into a flock of birds. The ravens flew away in the direction of the mountain, up above the village and the observatory.
The ravens flew together in a mass up the mountain, onto a narrow cliff—only the width of a man’s body—high above Haven. Where the mass formed, Sten and Temley emerged. They were on a dangerous precipice. “This seems a proper perch, yes?” The great blade was there, too, stuck in the ground behind him. “Sworn to me,” said Temley. “It does not leave my side. And though it is consecrated to spill the blood of another, I believe my queen will allow a worthy second to fall to it.” He dropped the curved daggers and reached for the hilt.
Sten got his balance and thrust forward at Temley before the man could pull his blade from the ground. Temley was unbalanced, but did not topple from the edge. Sten saw an aura around him, a divine boon that manifested as wings which worked to steady him. Another adjustment, and Temley had his blade in his hands, was swinging its great weight around for a low attack on Sten.
Sten used his own blade to parry the swing, stopped it in the dirt. He tried to step on the blade, flatten it and keep it lodged there, but Temley pulled it away in time. Temley’s eyes flashed, and he took his left hand from the blade’s hilt. He held the hand up, spoke again in the shadow-tainted language, and darkness shot from it. It covered Sten’s eyes, blinding him. Temley used that time to swing the blade back, gripped it with both hands, and attempted an overhand blow. Sten’s vision gone, he still anticipated the move, and used his free arm—gauntleted in thick leather—to glance the blow into the rocks beside them.
The darkness fell away, more quickly than Temley had anticipated. As he tried to gather the blade for another strike, Sten lowered himself, and sprang. He threw his shoulder into Temley, struck him hard in the midsection. The great blade gathered no momentum, and Temley’s grip faltered. Sten took advantage of the moment, and kept himself close to Temley. As long as he could stay toe to toe, and as long as he could keep the Raven Queen’s man off balance, he knew he could eliminate the advantage of the sword. One blow from it would’ve been enough. But Sten would not allow for another blow to come.
With his free hand, Sten grabbed Temley’s tunic and brought him near. The assassin was enraged, too emotional to have the presence of mind to take his hands from the hilt of the blade, instead struggling to shake himself loose and bring it up. Sten stomped on Temley’s foot, pinned it under his boot, further locking him down.
Temley’s face grew red and then black. Sten pulled him in and watched lines form and emerge, like the feathers of a raven growing out from within him. His nose and mouth grew long, and hardened like a beak. The wing aura at his back went from insubstantial to increasingly opaque. A croak formed in Temley’s throat. A deep, furious sound, like none Sten had ever heard. Sten’s blade was too close between them to do any real damage to Temley so, instead, he leaned back, gripped the man’s tunic tighter, and forced his forehead hard into the elongating nose, crushing it. Blood exploded out, gushed forth from the shattered bits of beak and mangled lump of flesh. His eyes watered and swam. Temley went momentarily limp. Holding him but extending his arm, Sten brought his blade around, overhand because of the narrow quarters, and hacked into Temley’s neck. It sunk in. Temley’s head lolled. Sten let go, and watched the body slump and fall from the precipice to the rocks below.
Pain. Such pain in the old man’s hands. Like never before. But purpose, too. Thrilling purpose. The voices were hiding in the stars. The voices were taunting him. But he thought he knew how to track them down. He was sure he knew how to track them down.
No more worry about the boy. No more worry about anything.
The boy. He saw the boy. He fell into a memory of the boy, of something he had observed years earlier. The boy, at night, feeling the strange fire in his blood. The boy, alone, rocking back and forth on his bedroll. The boy, beginning to cry because of the burning in his fingers. It did not hurt. It did not ache. It was ju
st heat. Unfamiliar heat. He could feel it through the boy. The old man watched the boy spit into his palm to cool it. The old man watched the boy grab the candle beside his bed. Watched the boy’s hand melt through the candle, the wax running to the floor. The old man felt the panic in the boy. The panic not bred in him by the heat, but bred in him when he saw the wax on the floor. The melted wax on the floor. The melted wax that would make the old man angry with him. The mess he had made. The mess he might not be able to clean until the morning. The mess he might not be able to clean before the old man saw it and punished him. Whispers in the old man’s head: Now is the time to bind the boy. Bind his powers behind your magic. Bind his powers behind my magic.
I must bind his powers behind my magic, the old man thought. I must keep them from growing.
Not the boy. No more thoughts of the boy. No more worry about anything.
Galsey, the arrow never misses. Kolber, the axe of Ioun. At my sides again. Not at my sides. Galsey, the arrow sails through time. Galsey, the arrow pierces through the gloom, through the fey. Kolber, you inspire fear. Galsey, you send an arrow out through to the stars.
The stars.
The stars.
The pain in the old man’s hand as he used it to push the sky along, as he asked for the eye of Galsey to peer through distance, to strike out at the voices. Kolber, beside me. My friends. My dearest friends. How I miss my dearest friends.
Replaced now with pain in the old man’s hands. Whispers in the old man’s head. Stars swirling in the old man’s eyes. Death the taste on the old man’s tongue. Fire in the old man’s jaw. Pressure in the old man’s joints. Pain in the old man’s hands.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sten took some time finding his way down from the cliff where the Raven Queen’s assassin had brought them. When he made it down, he met Luzhon. He shook his head.
“This is my home, Sten. I wanted to defend it, as well,” she was crying with fear and anger. “They told me to stay inside, and I was going to stay inside, and then I saw that man coming, and—”
“I know, child,” he said. “And I don’t know that I could’ve stopped that man without your help.” Sten touched Luzhon’s shoulder.
“They will never acknowledge that I helped.”
“I do, child.”
“As do I,” said Imony, appearing from behind. “I saw it.”
“When you leave, Sten, it will not matter. Londih will age and hand the village to Kohel.”
“Then perhaps, my child, I will stay. If the old man has given up on defending you, perhaps Spundwand and I will stay and teach you to take his place. Kohel can have his position, can bark out his pointless orders. You and Nergei, and perhaps even Padlur, can be the real foundations on which his throne sits.”
Luzhon went silent, and stopped her tears. Sten stared at her, saw her face, smiled, rubbed his head. “Please, stay,” she said.
“We shall see,” he replied. And he turned to find Spundwand and Imony, who had left the clearing after the final retreat of the kenku.
“Of the warriors we gathered, Sten, we have lost only Ekho,” said Spundwand. “Mikal and Magla are finding a place for her body.”
“A burial?”
“Unlikely,” said Spundwand. “A sworn protector of the mountain would prefer to be left out somewhere to feed the local wolves. Magla convinced Mikal of that after much cajoling. They will return soon, but are right now out there somewhere. I believe Magla also wanted to scout around and make sure the kenku have actually retreated.”
“Let us hope so, my friend. I don’t think we could face a second assault.”
“The man?”
“A divine blade, Spundwand. Oathsworn to kill the old man in the observatory.”
“The kenku seemed to lose their will when the man made it into Haven. More so than when Magla dispatched their chief before the first charge. I do not think I understand, Captain.”
“Neither do I, Spundwand. But why is not within my charge.”
“Nor mine, I suppose.” The dwarf said a prayer, and the two walked into Haven to find a place to rest.
It was Luzhon who noticed first, and she went immediately to Sten. In the great crush of villagers, the great noise of the revelry, the celebration that had filled Haven’s hearths and hearts, Luzhon noticed his absence. Everyone around them, encircling the heroes of Haven, holding them, and admiring them, handing to them drinks and food. Cuts, still fresh, still sore, were tended to by the admirers, the grateful—hunters and healers who had never dressed wounds of the magnitude seen before them, but who did their best and did so with gratitude, without word. As the villagers sang together and wept together, as they lifted Padlur and Kohel from one bruised shoulder to the next, offered them praise for the great success of the warriors they had brought to protect them, as goodwill was offered to the two least deserving of it, the young man responsible for first discovering the great leader of the heroes was missing. Nergei, the orphan boy, was not among the revelers.
“My son has brought us these champions,” said Londih to a gathered crowd of councilmen. “He will be a worthy successor to me, yes?” There was a cry of agreement and Londih drank it in. “And Padlur a fine second perhaps.” The boys were unaware they were the topic of conversation, instead engaged in telling stories to a crowd of the children of the landed villagers—paying special attention to the girls. They capered and exaggerated, acted as each other’s eyewitness or accomplice. Puffed up each story with new, more unlikely detail. Padlur striking a kenku so hard, the blade sliced through and connected with the creature beside him. Kohel in the city, outwitting a shopkeeper who had attempted to take advantage of good village folk with unreasonable prices. The two, side-by-side, helping guide the warriors back to Haven, and discovering the goliath in the woods near the village, taming the savage with their strength and affinity with the natural world. Luzhon, mostly unnoticed, moved through the crowds, searching for Nergei.
“It must have been wonderful, child,” said a woman who grabbed Luzhon, spun her around, and planted a kiss on her forehead, “to have been with the boys when they discovered these wonderful heroes. You must be very proud to have been a witness to it.”
Luzhon managed only the slightest smile, but could not find within her the strength to speak, to correct her. The myth had already taken hold. Within hours of victory, of safety, the lie had become the truth.
Sten heard similar stories, but pained and exhausted by combat, he was unable to summon the energy to correct them, as well. He and Spundwand sat, backs against a ruined stone wall in the center of town. Spundwand was content to empty a stein, to hold it up, and to wait for a passing villager to fill it with wine or ale.
“This wall is not like the masonry in this village,” said Sten, when finally his tongue returned.
“This is what I told you about at the ruin,” said Spundwand. “There is history in this place.”
“It is as you suspected?”
“I recognize these stones, Sten. I know this work.”
“And they don’t know?”
“It seems not, Captain. I believe they are completely in the dark.”
“In the dark about what?” asked Luzhon. As she searched for Nergei, she had found the two friends by the way.
“It is nothing, child,” said Spundwand. “A past so long forgotten, your great grandmother’s mother has forgotten it.”
“Dwarves live a long time, young lady,” said Sten. “And they love nothing more than to remind us humans of it. To remind us of how brief our lanterns gutter before they snuff.”
“She need not know, Sten.”
“Of course not, Spundwand. She need not know. But perhaps she might like to know.”
“I would,” said Luzhon. “I would tell the others. It would do the people of this village good to retrieve a memory or two.”
“Later, child,” said Spundwand. “I promise to tell you all I know and all I suspect. But later. Until then,” Spundwand raised his stein
again, shivering with a moment of pain from the bruises on his arms and chest. “Until then, a little more ale will ease the soreness Moradin’s mercy has not yet drawn from my body.”
“I am looking for Nergei,” said Luzhon. “I have not seen him since before the battle. Have either of you?”
“No,” said Sten. “He has not been here. I would like to see him, as well.” Sten rubbed his head and smiled. “The boy has done me a great service. As have you, young lady. I am an old man, and doubt I have another battle in me. But this will send me to the final journey with no small amount of pride.”
“It is a nice village,” said Spundwand. “A nice little village.”
“The air is cleaner than it is in the city,” said Sten, his hands at his sides, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply.
“The roads more manageable. Less populated with cutthroats.”
“All true,” said Luzhon. “If only the people were able to recognize a real hero instead of a false one. Please. Help me find Nergei?”
Sten was the first to stand. Spundwand seemed unlikely to follow, seemed rooted to his place beneath the wall. But he realized his arm was still aloft, and his cup was still empty. He would need to seek out further drink. So, stubbornly, slowly, he stood with his friend and the girl, and he allowed them to lead him wherever it was they were going.
“Perhaps he has gone to see his master in the observatory,” said Sten.
“Yes,” said Luzhon. “That is probably right. I have not checked there yet.”
So, traveling the long way around the small crowds to avoid entanglements, stopping only once at a cask rolled near the town square for the celebration so that Spundwand could fill his cup—which he was barely able to do, the great wooden thing had been drained so thoroughly—the three walked to the road that led up to the observatory.
And there, standing frozen in the middle of the road, was Nergei.
“There you are,” said Luzhon. “I have been searching.”
The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel) Page 18
