The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  We found the butcher at the end of the main street, his business close to the tanner’s. The smell of blood and meat that drifted from his shop and the building out back brought Wag’s head up from his position on the back of my horse, and I saw him tense.

  “Not now, boy,” I said. “We don’t want attention.”

  He didn’t bark, but I saw him crouch with his legs beneath him, ready to spring from Dest’s back.

  Bolt nodded to Rory. “Get at least fifty pounds—a hundred, if possible. It won’t hurt to let people see a couple of those daggers.”

  I kept one hand on the hilt of my sword and the other on Wag, who had started shaking the moment Rory had disappeared into the butcher’s.

  “I don’t understand why King Laidir tolerated a place like this,” Bolt said.

  “Much of the land north of the Rinwash falls under the domain of the Orlan family,” I said. “I’m sure you can imagine why they allow it.” While I waited, I surveyed the village again, searching for a reason for my discomfort beyond the fact that we were surrounded by ruffians who would gut us for our purses the moment our backs were turned. Isenore filled a cut in the land that ran north to south, with most of the old stone buildings bordering the river that came down out of the mountains.

  Hints of stone still showed where there might have been a cobblestone street, but they had long since been scavenged, and residents and visitors alike had to negotiate the mud for their business. We’d have to wash and brush the horses tonight. A few honest businesses—at least they appeared honest—populated the street: a smithy, a cobbler, and a dry-goods store were visible in addition to the butcher’s and tanner’s place.

  Then it hit me. “There’s no church here.”

  Bolt looked at me, then performed his own assessment of the town, catching the eye of a rough-looking woman standing outside a boisterous tavern. She stood in a tight blouse that revealed an alarming expanse of bosom, regarding him with a look of challenge I’d seen the night women in Bunard wear, but the scar running down the right side of her forehead and into her cheek gave it a different interpretation. He nodded and patted his sword and the woman smiled and lifted her drink as if he’d paid her a compliment. “I don’t say this often,” he muttered, “but some of these people are more than a little scary. Do you wonder that there’s no church, Willet? Have you seen anyone here who looks like they want to be saved?”

  He went on. “I wonder when the church surrendered and withdrew.”

  That struck too close to home, and I didn’t want to think about how quickly it might have happened. My own experiences as reeve and soldier had shown me just how thin the patina of civilization on mankind was. Beneath it, we were all raving.

  Rory stomped out of the butcher’s with his hands filled with wrapped meat, his shoulders bunching with the strain. “I don’t see why I had to carry it.”

  Bolt smiled. “The life of a guard is service, boy, and service means work.”

  Rory gave him a sour look as he wiped blood off his hands. “Funny how every time there’s an unsavory task to be done it’s suddenly time for me to render service.”

  “And you’re perceptive,” Bolt said. “That’s another reason I chose you as my apprentice.”

  Rory tied the meat into place on the back of his horse. “Your purse is substantially lighter than you might expect. Everything in this town costs twice as much as it should, and everybody looks at you strange.” He jerked his head toward the shop. “Especially the butcher.”

  Wag’s nose twitched, and he extended his head as far toward Rory’s horse as he could without falling. “Shhh. You’ll eat as soon as we get clear of the town,” I said.

  We turned our horses south and rode away. A small crowd of villagers, each of them sporting scars and weapons, watched us leave. Bolt reined up and paused long enough to meet their collective gaze. Then he drew his sword and executed a series of sword cuts that were impossible to follow, but the hiss of the blade cutting the air was all too easy to hear. When he stopped, his sword appeared as if it had materialized in his hand, the point trained on the heart of the nearest villager.

  “Do you all understand?” he called.

  The man on the receiving end of Bolt’s display was the first to nod and turn away, but the others followed soon after.

  We rode out of Isenore and put the horses to a gallop for a league, then alternated between a canter and a trot. We didn’t stop until we couldn’t see the road. Then we made a cold camp in the woods, eating while we listened for signs of pursuit.

  I watched Wag tear through a small mountain of raw meat, ripping and swallowing chunks whole, nabbing bits in midair with the skill and speed of a gifted acrobat. His muzzle blurred, and he bore no resemblance to the oversized dog that had ridden quietly with me for the last week.

  In the midst of feeding he stiffened, and I heard low rumbles in his throat that made me want to be somewhere else. I could see his nose twitching, and a chorus of whines, growls, and yips created a tapestry of sound in the air. Bolt pulled his sword and motioned to Rory. The boy’s hands blurred, and the next time I could see them clearly he held a knife in each one, the blades grasped almost delicately between his fingers, ready for throwing.

  “Stay with him,” Bolt said to Rory. “I’ll check to see what’s out there.”

  “Let’s get next to the trees,” I said to Rory. “If the villagers come at us with arrows we’ll want to put something between us and them.”

  The two of us waited, our backs against the boles, ears straining for some sound that might presage an attack, while Wag stood at attention over his half-eaten meat. I couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Or so I thought. The trouble was I’d been sired and raised in the city. I couldn’t distinguish between the footfall of a deer and the step of a man. Rory’s gaze darted at each sound, his daggers dancing in his hands as if he were playing an instrument only he could hear.

  Thirty minutes later, with the last muted light of day fading, Bolt entered the small clearing shaking his head. “There’s nothing out there that I could find, but a sentinel’s sense of smell is never wrong.” He pointed to Wag and his brows furrowed. “I don’t think it’s the villagers he smells.”

  It took me a moment to understand, then I saw it. “He’s facing south.” I peeled off my glove and put my hand on Wag’s head. All sight and sound fell away as my perception tunneled through Wag’s eyes and into his mind. The lure of meat just in front of my paws made me drool with the desire to taste the flesh still salty with traces of blood, but beneath that aroma lay odors I knew, eddies on the wind that evoked memories of loss and pain. There could be no doubt. As I smelled those unique scents, earthy and human, I saw again the vision of a man carrying a sentinel pup out of the clearing of Faran’s farm.

  Within Wag’s mind I followed the trail of the memory backward and cursed myself for a fool.

  “They’ve been here,” I said as I lifted my hand from Wag’s head and the world became dominated by sights once more, “and in Isenore before that. Two of the men who killed the sentinels and the other pup. Three scents.”

  “When?” Bolt asked.

  “About a week ago, I think.” I looked at Rory. “You said the butcher looked at you strangely. That was probably the second time he’d gotten a request for that much meat.”

  “It’s too bad we missed them,” Rory said. He flipped both daggers into the air and caught them at the same time by their handles. “I’d like to show him what I think of men who kill defenseless animals.”

  Bolt shook his head. “Sentinels are hardly defenseless, not even the pups. I’m just as happy they have a week on us. It’s likely that one of the men is gifted like Laewan and the other is a dwimor. I don’t want any part of that here in the forest.

  “If we can track the man who stole the pup to a city or even a good-sized town, we have a far better chance of taking and killing him there. He’s looking for someone and he’s going to be using that sentinel to find the
m.” He shot a look at me. “It’s not too hard to guess where he’s headed and who he’s hunting.”

  Chapter 35

  “That’s not right,” Fess said, pointing across the dell of rich green that separated them from the village. Without waiting for a reply, he shook his head in rebuttal. “No. No. No.”

  Bronwyn shifted in her saddle, keeping her face neutral. She was a woman who loved her silences, but expressions she’d employed over the years to quiet commons, merchants, and nobles alike seemed to have no impact on Fess. Neither did the tone of voice she’d cultivated to communicate displeasure. Glance and glare alike were absorbed by Fess’s enthusiastic equanimity, as if they simply didn’t exist. Even when maintaining one of his brief and infrequent silences, he still managed to convey a sense of noise.

  “Aer, help me,” Bronwyn muttered to herself. “I’ve apprenticed an enthusiast.”

  “Your pardon, Lady Bronwyn?” Fess said, turning to her.

  She gestured toward the village. “Tell me what you see.” The town of Havenwold lay before them, situated at the northern tip of Caisel, where it bordered the forest. A low stone wall, no higher than ten feet, circled the town with gates facing east, west, and south.

  “Look at the traffic, Lady Bronwyn.” He pointed.

  Unlike the villages that bordered the Darkwater farther north, traffic here appeared brisk out of each entrance, but heaviest from the east and west gates, those closest to the Darkwater Forest. Most of the comings and goings appeared to be people on foot or with a single pack-horse or mule.

  Fess dismounted and moved to the pack at the rear of his horse. “If what I’ve read is true, that’s strange. Not many carts going in or out.”

  This was another facet of Fess’s personality that Bronwyn hadn’t anticipated. The boy read constantly, an unintended benefit of his church-based swindles, and he often displayed a depth of knowledge that surprised her. Yet even at that, he managed to undermine the peaceful solitude people were meant to experience while reading. Instead, he laughed out loud, argued, and generally kept a running commentary on his source material via a series of grunts that she found unnerving.

  “Doubtless you’re more accustomed to the bustle of Bunard,” she said. “Havenwold is a town, hardly more than a village. Its traffic is proportional to its needs.”

  Her apprentice frowned. “Perhaps, but I think it would be wise to gather a little more information. Which is the dominant order in Havenwold?”

  “Aer forgive me,” Bronwyn whispered as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Normally it would be Vanguard this close to the forest,” she said more loudly, “but Havenwold boasts a large presence of the Absold.”

  The perpetual grin that ran across the boy’s face turned positively feral as he rummaged through his pack. After a moment he pulled a robe dyed in royal blue, the color preferred by the Absold order of the church, and pulled it over his head.

  Bronwyn sighed. Newfound experience from the three previous towns they’d passed through told her what would surely follow.

  Fess must have caught her expression. “It’s not as if I’m lying, Lady Bronwyn.” He smiled, the picture of innocent joy. “You yourself said that we serve all orders of the church. So, in a sense, I really am an acolyte of the Absold.”

  “Humph,” Bronwyn said. “Just as yesterday you were a postulant of the Vanguard and the day before that the Servants.”

  As usual her remonstration slid off of him like water off hot iron. “You can ask any one of the urchins, Lady Bronwyn—I’ve always had difficulty making up my mind.”

  Balean covered his mouth with one hand and coughed. “The information he’s brought to us has proven helpful,” he said. Bronwyn suspected Fess, in some way unknown to her, had managed to suborn her guard’s unyielding stoic obedience.

  She stiffened in her saddle, powerless to keep her mouth from tightening into a rictus of disapproval Fess would merely ignore. “I can’t gainsay it.” Truth to tell, the information had been useful, if somewhat less than urgent. The Clast had established small but well-attended associations in each of the towns they’d passed through. Once the threat from the Darkwater had been neutralized, the Vigil would have to step back and let the orders settle how they intended to deal with this latest incarnation of that ancient heresy.

  With an effort, Bronwyn forced the muscles in her face to relax as she favored Fess with an approving nod. “As Balean has said, the information has been valuable. You have a way with people that encourages them to talk to and sometimes even unburden themselves to you. I suspect that you have a talent for others. What I cannot abide are the tales that follow whenever you return from these little fact-finding expeditions of “gifts” the brothers and sisters have bestowed upon you. I won’t demean either of us by having Balean search your bags or your person for evidence of your profiteering.” She paused to take a breath. “Once again, I forbid you to con these poor churchmen out of their provisions.”

  Fess’s smile slipped. “The con isn’t really my specialty, Lady Bronwyn. That’s always been more in keeping with the Mark. He’s tried to teach me a bit about it, but I’ve never had the patience for it, if you see what I’m saying. What I’m doing is called a bluff. It’s quick and mostly for small sums, usually forgotten in a fortnight. A con is something else entirely.”

  He patted his robe, nodding amiably, then placed his foot into the stirrup and mounted once more. “Where will I find you, Lady Bronwyn?”

  She mused for a moment. She’d been through the village of Havenwold several times over the years, but none of the inns had made a particular impression upon her memory. “Find the inn closest to the south gate,” she said. “We’ll be there this evening.”

  Fess rode off at a canter, the wind ruffling his blond hair in a way that could only be interpreted as mirthful. She shook her head. Her past and circumstances had contrived to forge her into a person of serious character, or so she’d always thought, but when had she become so resolutely dour? Her apprentice, by all accounts, had encountered his own share of suffering—losing his parents to a fire, then his aunt to fever, which put him on the streets and then into service to the urchins.

  Once, and only once, Balean had caught sight of Fess bathing in one of the simple wooden tubs the inn had set aside for such use. He told her he had seen grizzled veterans with less adornment. All the remonstration she had to offer couldn’t shame Fess as completely as an unobstructed view of the scars that laced his torso. No amount of sympathy could pry their tale from the boy’s lips.

  She shook herself out of the memory. “Let us see what information we can glean in the taverns.” She shook her purse. “I’ll look a little out of place, but I think with enough lubrication, anyone will talk.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay out of sight, Lady Bronwyn? If someone recognizes you . . .”

  She held up a hand. “Then you will have to rescue me from whatever prison the local head of the Absold can devise.”

  Every trace of expression dropped away, until only the implacable purpose of a Vigil guard remained. Even for a Vigil guard, Balean was considered cold.

  Hours later Bronwyn sat at her table in the shabby inn nearest Havenwold’s southern gate. She fingered the glass of wine from the arid region surrounding the city of Elbas. The innkeeper had surprised her by having it. And she wondered how he’d come to possess it. The dark red vintage danced on her tongue and left hints of orange and tamarind on her palate.

  She replayed the weeks that comprised the previous months within her mind. Every step she and the rest of the Vigil had taken to combat the threat coming from the Darkwater had carried merciless necessity. Not one could have been delayed or omitted, right down to Toria’s investigation of the Clast or her own patrol of the forest

  That—she thought as she took another ungracious gulp of the wine—scared her more than anything. Every step and response of the Vigil might as well have been nothing more than the movements of a gifted dancer. She shook her head. No. That
comparison held too much imprecision to be useful. It implied a certain amount of cooperation and independence. No. An analogy with a master puppeteer and his marionette would have been more apt.

  Even their victory over Laewan at Bas-solas had been turned back upon them. She leaned back in her chair, thinking uncharacteristic thoughts. How many of those poisoned by the Darkwater had the Vigil managed to save after the slaughter of the festival? None, of course. The poison of the Darkwater was perfectly virulent, or nearly so.

  And what had they learned from breaking the vaults of those poor damned souls? Nothing.

  Black thoughts combined with desperate memories to create accusations that struck her like flails. Cesla and Elwin had known the cost and requirements of leading the Vigil. With the additional centuries of experience after the Gift Wars, they would have simply ordered those corrupted by the Darkwater to be put to the sword. Unlike Pellin. If the Vigil had done that, instead of staying in the Merum cathedral in Bunard for weeks to break each vault in the hopes of more information, they would have departed the city earlier. Perhaps they would have left before the leaders of the four orders took it in their heads to take them all prisoner. Perhaps they would have escaped before the first dwimor had come for Lord Dura.

  Balean turned from where he stood at the window facing the street, and she pushed herself up in her chair, trying to ignore the way her bones protested the effort. He crossed quickly over to her table and sat next to her.

  “He’s coming,” he said.

  “Is anyone chasing him?”

  Her guard shook his head. “Not this time, Lady Bronwyn.” He paused to chew on his lower lip. “But he looks serious, very serious.”

  That alone might have been enough to give her alarm, but Fess appeared in the doorway at that moment, his visage confirming her guard’s appraisal.

  “Aer help us,” she said. “He’s swindled someone with a temper, and now we have to run for it.”