Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Lastrahn stood silent, unmoving.

  “We know your plot, champion. My brothers and sisters are waiting to finish what we started in Helador. We nearly succeeded, we won’t fail again.” He coughed bright crimson, grimaced, but his eyes kept right on burning. “You won’t reach her. Vastroth’s precious spawn will never be yours.”

  Lastrahn placed his boot on Exequor’s crossbar. “She won’t be yours either,” he said, and shoved the sword through Abaal’s chest. Ryle couldn’t imagine the pain he felt, but the Praeter never flinched, never stopped snarling. In the end, as Lastrahn’s boot stomped down on his chest, Abaal coughed one last time, and went still.

  They weren’t Kilgren, but he’d taken some small piece back. Two of the sparks that had burned his life to the ground were finally stamped out.

  Ryle didn’t know if he’d ever felt so cold. He wrapped his injured left arm around his body. “What did he mean?” he asked. “Who is the hostage in Gearspire?”

  Lastrahn’s chest heaved and he met Ryle’s gaze. “Vastroth’s daughter.”

  “You said she was the daughter of the Praeter leader.”

  “She’s that as well.”

  Ryle’s brain felt slow and stupid. The daughter of Vastroth and the Praeters? He didn’t possess enough words to describe the horror he felt.

  “He’s holding his own daughter prisoner?”

  “Some men only care about power. Some will do anything to have it.”

  Ryle tried to piece this revelation together with the Praeter’s words. The resulting idea left him feeling even colder.

  “The Praeters aren’t just trying to stop you, are they?”

  “A hostage is control, especially when it’s Vastroth’s only child.”

  If the Praeters took her, they controlled Vastroth, the world ended. If Vastroth succeeded, he controlled the Praeters, the world ended . . .

  Ryle’s hands shook. Glad’s brew had long since worn off, but he still needed the answer to one last question. “I thought this was about revenge,” he said, and then pressed into territory he wouldn’t have dared if he possessed enough energy to care about anything. “About Selendre.”

  Lastrahn’s fist closed like a steel trap then fell open again. “It’s about her and many others. It’s all connected. You must see that now. Nothing is ever simple. No problem is as small as you first think.”

  Ryle let loose the last sigh he had. He couldn’t take any more. The threat was too enormous, and he was too small to face it right then. His knees buckled and he dropped to the roof.

  A long moment passed.

  “That was a hell of clever idea. Stabbing her to release her energy like that.”

  Ryle blinked. Blast he was tired. “I just guessed,” he finally said.

  Lastrahn burst out laughing. The sound was loud in the still night. “You really are as crazy as your father.”

  Ryle made himself look up. Moonlight back lit the champion, and Ryle realized it had stopped raining at some point. The champion watched him, eyes sharp.

  Ryle’s mind refused to comprehend his words. “You knew?”

  “Since you walked into that dump in Shelling. You look just like Kilgren. I wouldn’t have let you come otherwise. No one else is motivated enough to find him.”

  Ryle felt nothing. He was too tired and burned out for anything to touch him. That was probably a good thing. Otherwise he might’ve thrown himself off the roof before his world collapsed any further.

  Lastrahn gestured toward the dagger now flickering in Ryle’s barely burning hand. “I thought old Mero only taught the sword.”

  Blood coated Ryle’s hands. Too much blood.

  He didn’t want to tell Lastrahn the truth. He feared doing so more than anything, but like an unstaunched wound, the words poured forth.

  “Kilgren trained me. I fought for him. Many times.” Ryle choked.

  Lastrahn was frowning. “You just earned your swordmark.”

  “Before I trained with the Professor.”

  “You’re not that old,” he said.

  “You think children can’t be made to fight?” Ryle’s throat burned. “Since I was ten. Kilgren taught me how to raid. How to kill. Like you said, some men will stop at nothing.” Ryle started shivering. He couldn’t do anything to stop it. “Later, I escaped. The Professor took me in. Taught me how to fight down the darkness. To use the sword.”

  The cold dark around him felt like that night again. When his mother tried to save him, and instead he killed her.

  A fat drop of blood fell from the tip of the dagger in his hand. He couldn’t stand the sight of it any longer. He dropped the dagger, clawed the bracer off—ignoring the sharp pain—and flung it down on the roof. The sickening light winked out. His scarred hand was simply flesh and bone once more. Blood ran from the holes in his wrist. If he’d possessed more energy, he would’ve screamed.

  “Then I should thank them both,” Lastrahn said.

  Rage, sudden and violent, jerked Ryle’s head up.

  Lastrahn’s eyes locked onto him and didn’t waver. “If you hadn’t killed before, you wouldn’t have lived through tonight. Regardless of who taught you, whatever you’ve done, it helped you live through another day. To fight on. So you hate your past. That’s nothing new. Not in this line of work. Bury that shit in a shallow grave, and move the hell on. You can’t do any good if you’re dead. Keep. Pressing. Forward. There’s nothing else.”

  He thought perhaps Lastrahn wasn’t only talking to him. The pain in the champion’s eyes echoed deep inside Ryle’s chest. In the same place where he pressed back the darkness.

  Ryle shrugged, his anger quickly burning out.

  “Whether you hate it or not, you use that knife with skill,” Lastrahn said.

  “When I have to,” Ryle said. “When I don’t have a sword.”

  Lastrahn looked down at him for a long moment. His gaze carried judgment and revealed no conclusion. Then he turned and scooped Abaal’s sword from the roof, pulled the sheath from the dead man’s side, and slid the blade home.

  Then he held it out to Ryle in his wet, bloody hand. “It’s yours, if you still want it.”

  What Ryle wanted? What a terrible, awful, brutal question. He couldn’t have what he wanted. He couldn’t have Casyne. He couldn’t have peace. He couldn’t have salvation. Not if there was a chance Kilgren might remain alive in Gearspire.

  Lastrahn’s offer was meaningless. What he wanted didn’t matter. There was only what he would do, and the path he’d chosen. In the end, none of that had changed. He had to bring his father to justice. The road was darker, more violent, and for all that, utterly necessary. Because foes like these Praeters waited at the other end. Men like his father still stalked through the dark.

  And someone had to stop them.

  In the distance, a bell tolled. The final day of the festival had arrived. The day when the survivors stepped out into a new world.

  Ryle reached out and took the sword. For an instant, he thought Lastrahn smiled, sadly.

  “Welcome to Advent Day, squire. Now, get your ass up. We have to go kick in Gearspire’s front door.”

  Want More?

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  Drailey’s tale continues in . . .

  Acknowledgements

  I don’t know if this is true for every book, but this one certainly took a long, scenic, often frustrating, but always exhilarating, route to reach its final destination. I think those who have watched it progress would agree it was a pretty crazy trip. Along the way, more people than I can count have touched this book in one way or another, but I’d like to n
ame a few here. If I forget anyone, my apologies. As I said, it’s been a long road.

  Thanks to my editor, Anastasia Poirier, my cover artist, Matt Davis, and my book designer, Shawn King. They helped carry this book across the finish line, and transform it into a real tangible thing. They all do great work and if you’re in the market for such services you should check them out.

  Thanks to all the readers who have provided feedback over the years, especially the Quindecim crew at the David Farland’s Writers’ Groups. They are my first critique group and the ones who read through the earliest versions of the book. Thanks to the staff and instructors of the Orycon Writers’ Workshops, the Surrey International Writers Conference, and the Writing Excuses Retreats. The knowledge I gained at those events was invaluable and helped me improve my writing enormously. Thanks also to the Speculative Fiction Writers at FVRL, and both the Writing Excuses Alumni and MRK’s Alumni. They are all constant sources of ideas, support and inspiration.

  Special thanks to Jonathon Burgess for being my first writing compatriot, and introducing me to many of the other writers I call friends today.

  An enormous thanks to my family. They are encouraging, loving, and always there for me no matter what I need. Without their support I would have never made it this far.

  And last, and most certainly never least, thanks to my wife Glendyne. You’ve shown me the world in more ways than one, and there’s no one else I would rather be on this journey with each and every single day.

  About the Author

  Jeremiah Reinmiller is a lifelong computer geek, martial artist, and native of the Pacific Northwest. When he’s not building clouds (the computing kind, not the rainy ones) he’s probably hunched over a keyboard hammering out words in a semi-organized fashion. His stories have received the 2014 Sledgehammer Writing Award, and been published by Subtopian Press, Abyss & Apex Magazine, and Cantina Publishing. He resides in Vancouver (the one in Washington, not Canada) with his wife and their two cats. Information on what he’s up to, and more of his stories can be found at www.jqpdx.com.