Grudgebearer

by J. F. Lewis

  “All is well, Marcus Conwrath.” He knew the voice well, as well as he knew his own. It stirred a deep rush of emotion, relief breaking free and pouring over him in a way he hadn’t felt since he’d been a babe in his mother’s arms. Yet he also knew he’d never heard this voice before in his life. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  “What . . . what happened?”

  Around him, the world had faded to tones of gray as, simultaneously, another world of vibrant colors began to flow in. He smelled freshly thatched roofs and his mother’s roast lamb and baking bread and . . .

  “You did well,” the sonorous voice continued. “I couldn’t be more proud. I know you would have liked to be there more for Randall Tyree, but Japesh is a good friend and I’m sure he’ll do all he can. Besides, Randall is a clever lad and—”

  “Wait,” Conwrath pulled free of the arms enfolding him, stumbling forward through the space previously occupied by Kholster, surprised to have been so easily released. “What happened? Wha—?”

  Standing across from him, Marcus Conwrath observed a being in bone armor, helm hovering casually in the air as though it had been set aside and left hanging. Sharp Eldrennai features blended with the harsh cast of an Aern’s and a very human smile. He had dark hair, with eyes like the beginning and the end of time, just, Marcus thought, like his statue in Castleguard. Looking into those eyes was like standing on the edge of a parapet and staring down at the ground far below. It thrilled and frightened in equal measure.

  “Torgrimm?” Conwrath guessed.

  The god’s smile deepened, revealing laugh lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Marcus. It’s me.” The god stepped forward and clasped him on the shoulder. “Sower and reaper. Lifebringer and harvester. You know me, Marcus Conwrath. You’ve known me since before I planted your soul in flesh.”

  “So the Grudger . . . Kholster . . . ?”

  Torgrimm nodded. “He didn’t want you pressed into Shidarva’s service as her Justicar. I sensed you didn’t desire it either. There’s still time of course . . .” The god frowned. “If you want that. I oppose all unwilling influence by the gods over mortal souls, but I would allow her to revive you if—”

  “No,” Conwrath answered too quickly. The memory of the goddess’s thoughts mixed with his own, pushing and controlling him, made him shiver.

  “I thought not.” Torgrimm smiled again. “But it’s your life to live, not mine. The others, they forget that.” The god’s eyes darkened, putting Conwrath in mind of the days after his father died, when his grandfather would sit staring into the fire, his eyes looking through the flames at memories young Marcus could scarcely have comprehended. “Far too often.”

  All around them, frail remnants of the living world resolved into a hut from Conwrath’s distant memories. The ancient wobbling table. The woven wicker chairs. Even the horrible cracked and smelly old bearskin rug. “Gran’s house?”

  “When you were six,” Torgrimm said, “you prayed this was what death would be like. I thought it might do for a start.”

  “A start?”

  “You never decided what you wanted out of death, Marcus.” Torgrimm sat his helm on the table as if he’d just noticed it hanging in the air. “Some don’t. Some do. I try not to judge unless I’m forced to do so.” The god waved his hand, and Marcus’s eyes lit up to see his Gran’s old wooden tea set and clay teapot appear on the table. His mouth watered as thick biscuits filled with slabs of smoked venison appeared next to two pewter cups.

  “Life can be so hard on some of you that I have to take certain matters into my own hands for some souls until they calm down, but not you. I knew you were a good one from the first yowl.”

  “You stuck around for that?” Marcus sat in his grandfather’s chair and bit into a biscuit. It had been years since he’d had one. And they’d never been as good since Gran passed. She’d had a secret to her biscuits that’d died with her.

  “That’s the best part.” The god grinned. “Each soul is like a measure of clay meted out. Each receives an equal measure. But what you make of it is wholly your own. Some use their portion for good works, others for terrible ends, while still more hurl their portion carelessly against the wall of life. I observe each and all. Some invoke laughter, others tears. Any interference on my part is parsimonious lest I look upon a soul at harvest time and see the print of my own handiwork, my own fingers, if you will.”

  “Then you know everything,” Marcus said softly. “We should worship you as the god of knowledge, not Aldo.”

  “No.” Torgrimm waved the comment away. “Aldo truly is the god of information. All facts and fictions are his to know. He knows every page, every hidden design, every law of the universe. He even knows everything you’ve ever done. He knows everything. But I know everyone.” The god finished the sentence stressing the “one,” and Marcus began to understand.

  “Then how do you punish the wicked? Or is that . . .”

  “My wife, Minapsis, the Horned Queen, the Queen of Bones.” Torgrimm clucked his tongue. “She rules the dead. Not me. I rule no one.” Conwrath caught himself wishing Torgrimm ruled everyone but contented himself to chew and swallow the hearty biscuit. He ate in silence for a time then cleared his throat, poured himself some tea, and drank it down, savoring the slightly astringent bite as it went down.

  “What next?”

  “Next you go on to Minapsis, unless you would prefer to try again in a fourth life . . . though, if you’ll take an old god’s advice, I quite like what you’ve done with this turn.”

  “Reincarnate?” Marcus sputtered. “Like the gnomes?”

  “If you feel unfinished.”

  Marcus shook his head. “No, I feel completed. There are things I wish I could do. Keep an eye on Randall, give him my last name when he’s old enough to understand it, and make sure he doesn’t become some cursed pirate or highwayman, but another life? No. I wouldn’t want that.”

  “I thought not.” The god screwed up his lips as if trying to decide something and then a slice of sourberry pie appeared on a small tin plate in the middle of the table, a tumbler of whiskey next to it. “Dessert?”

  Marcus beamed. “Mother’s recipe?” Though he knew the answer to his own question just by the smell and the slightly burnt edges of the crust.

  “Do you mind,” the god asked as Marcus picked up a fork, “if I ask you a question?”

  “Of course not,” Conwrath laughed.

  “The other gods play games with the souls and lives of sentient beings I have delivered unto Barrone. You felt Shidarva’s touch. And though she is more desperate than cruel, and certainly well-intentioned, I grow weary of even her interference.”

  Marcus waited for the god to continue, but when, pie halfway consumed, Torgrimm showed no sign of continuing, Marcus prompted him. “I’ve heard no question thus far.”

  “Do you think it would be acceptable if I did so . . . just once?” His expression soured as if he found the concept repellent. “I would ask, of course, and not in the asking-that-is not-truly-a-request manner Shidarva used with you. I would never!”

  “I believe you.” Marcus thought on it. “What would you need?”

  “I cannot say,” Torgrimm said quickly. “Aldo knows all, except for the minds of the gods. Were I to speak it aloud, even to a soul . . .”

  “He’d know?”

  “He might.”

  “And he must not know?”

  “Not until the last possible instant.”

  “I trust you.”

  Torgrimm sighed, obviously relieved. “You all say the same thing. Even the ones I’m throwing back to try again out of sheer frustration.”

  “How many have you asked?”

  “Several billion,” Torgrimm shrugged. “I lose count.”

  “I’ll take your word that that’s a real number.”

  “Do you mind an additional question?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What do you think of Kholste
r?”

  Marcus let out a long, slow breath, instinctively reaching for his pipe and smiling pleasantly when his favorite, lost long ago on one battlefield or another, appeared before him. This could take a while.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FORESWORN

  Kholster smiled despite himself at the sight of Okkust’s son chewing on a bit of raw liver. Pausing to deliver a cheerful “ah know” in Kholster’s direction, the child bared doubled canines and returned to his meal. Kholster wondered how infants from other races managed being born without teeth. The concept of nursing, though he understood it, still felt alien. Almost as alien as camping out under the stars.

  “Perhaps I should start camping out more often than on my centennial visits to the north for the Conjunction.” He whispered the thought into his own cupped palms, making certain not to transmit it to any Aern accidentally.

  A Hearth Stone provided warmth for the child without illumination. Kholster felt a chill at the back of his eyes as they maintained optimum visual spectrum. His current battle company lay spread out over the plain, their locations constantly available to him, both via the images provided by his Overwatches and the pull of their soul-bonded weapons, or, in the case of his daughter, her soul token.

  You needn’t have summoned so many, he thought at Vander.

  I know you didn’t call for reinforcements, but I wasn’t sure the good people of Darvan would honor our agreement.

  How many humans have turned back?

  Only a dozen.

  You did well.

  Kholster watched Rae’en in the dark, a Freeborn child, the second he’d had in six hundred years. She still seemed a miracle. He wished in some wistful way she’d been an artist, like her brother. That he could have sired a child who’d lived to see adulthood and never killed another sentient still baffled him. Then again, Irka could never lead the Aern, could never kholster another. But Rae’en . . .

  He caught her watching him in the dark and smiled. Rae’en could kholster them all. Could arvash the world if that’s what she had to do. He knew the look. Had, in fact, originated it.

  You did the right thing, too, Vander thought at him.

  Perhaps, Kholster allowed. He lay flat on the ground. Unused to traveling with those of lesser endurance, he’d grown out of the habit of stopping for breaks so frequently. The waiting and being quiet so the others could rest was maddening. I’m not sure it was worth losing the captain, though.

  Shidarva had her nasty hooks in—Vander thought.

  I could have talked her down. Kholster closed his eyes to see through those of Bloodmane, and through Bloodmane, the eyes of Scout, Okkust’s armor, as the armor led a team of diggers, tunneling under the crystal wall meant to seal off access to Fort Sunder. She can be reasonable. I talked her into releasing her champion when we saved the world crystal, Vander. I could have tried it again. She’s just so proud of her own sacrifice. A continent of people, everyone at Alt, died, and I can’t see what it bought anyone—they dethroned one god and put another in his place.

  That was a millennia ago, Kholster. Even gods can change in that span. Besides, the people of Darvan are much better off with their new magistrate.

  I’m not sure it matters, Kholster thought back.

  Scout broke through the last barrier of earth, climbing through to stand within three hundred feet of Fort Sunder. A stream of fellow warsuits followed, sprinting for the cracked wall. In less than a candlemark, they were inside the fortress’s outer walls and facing another wall, this one composed of the bones of the dead. The bones of all the Aern who had died at the Sundering filled the courtyards and passageways of Fort Sunder, their bones piled as high as the inner keep in places.

  It looks like they started with an eye toward arranging them carefully, Bloodmane intoned. Then, perhaps they grew tired of their work.

  I will shatter the Life Forge, Kholster! Wylant’s voice echoed through Kholster’s memory. If you do not stand down. I will do it.

  I believe you, Love, he’d whispered back. But I cannot stop.

  You’ll all die!

  We will merely most of us die.

  Kholster! Don’t make me do this!

  Do it, Kholster’d told her. It’s within your power—your only chance to win.

  But I don’t want to win; not at this cost.

  Then you understand, in your darkest hour, what it is like to be me, in mine.

  Of course she’d done it. She’d promised to put her people first. Had she done any less, how could he ever have continued loving her? Kholster smiled in the dark. Then frowned.

  “Ex-husband?” he whispered into his hands. “Why ex?”

  What if we don’t? he asked Vander.

  Don’t what?

  What if I break my word and we become Foresworn?

  Rather than kill the Eldrennai? Shock rang clear in Vander’s mind. I’ll grant you there are fewer Leash Holders left alive as time wears on . . . and I have no burning need to rush across two continents to pick a fight, but to be Foresworn?

  Yes.

  Your oath would be broken . . . and your words bind not only us, but also the Freeborn! We wouldn’t even be able to . . . to . . . touch each other’s minds . . . not even each other’s skin. Our very bones would repel us, one from the other, for all time.

  Do you want to kill all of the Eldrennai, Vander?

  Silence stretched out, speaking ever louder as it dragged on.

  Tell the Overwatches at South Number Nine to bring me the Foresworn. I have questions for him when we return.

  Yes, Kholster, Vander acknowledged.

  *

  Four days later, Kholster regretted his request to see the Foresworn, and he regretted going alone. He could have changed his mind, of course, and decided not the see the former Aern. He could have summoned Vander or Rae’en or any Aern to join him. But now that he’d thought of it, talking to the Foresworn seemed like a thing he should have done a long time ago, and doing it in front of other Aern seemed somehow cruel. He stopped in the snow and frowned before moving on.

  The snow-decked peaks of the Duodenary Mountains, so-called because the Dwarves had divided them into twelve distinct zones, loomed large above as Kholster trod the Dwarf-and-Aern–wrought steps carved into the side of the Ninth. Small bone-steel tokens worked into the corner of each step kept him on the path even as he focused his sight back and forth between views of the construction in the Royal Museum of the Oathbreakers, where Bloodmane watched impassively, and the restoration of Fort Sunder, as the warsuits, under Scout’s direction, began to organize the bones of the departed.

  Minuscule segments of bone-steel beneath certain steps provided additional location information: a cluster of three rows of three told Kholster he was still on the Ninth Miner, wedges above and below the cluster told him he neared the boundary of the north-south bypass where he was to meet the Foresworn.

  Deciding to give the Foresworn his full attention, Kholster opened his eyes. From his vantage point, Kholster could just make out the stone features of Jun, the builder and god of the Dwarves, worked into an adjacent mountain face. Coal, to his knowledge the last of the great dragons, sunned himself on a nearby peak, the sight bringing a smile to Kholster’s lips. The dragon was getting old and sore; it was good to see him out and about instead of soaking himself in the lava flows deep beneath the mountains.

  Smoke rose in a winding plume above the watchtower between the north-south division where he’d instructed the Foresworn to meet him. The fully stoked fire blazed brightly, but the Foresworn himself did not appear to have made it. An armor-clad Dwarf waved at Kholster, pointing farther downslope.

  There he was. Lost?

  Hurrying to the watchtower to wait, Kholster was greeted by the watchmaster.

  “Watchmaster Binnolbloh, Kholster Kholster.”

  “Just the one Kholster is fine, Watchmaster. It was my name before it was a title or rank.” Long vowels, Kholster noted, fondly reminded of the trace of an accent Hel
g had picked up from her time in North Number Two. Her “sir” rhymed with “far” or “star” rather than “fir” or “stir.”

  “Of course, sir.” The Dwarf’s stomach rumbled with the sound of stone on stone, a clear sign of nervousness. Had this Dwarf never met an Aern?

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh.” The Dwarf stomped his feet, “Coal, sir. The sight o’ im scrambles mah bedrock.”

  Not everything is about you, Kholster reminded himself.

  “It that a oneward accent?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “My Dwarven wife, Helg, picked up a touch of that when she apprenticed to Planner Yommorna.”

  “My ma studied under her, as well,” the Dwarf said, perking up. “Of course, she was born in East Number Two and my dad was from Prime itself.”

  Kholster nodded appreciatively. He’d been to Prime and, other than being the first city the Dwarves had built when they resettled to the Duodenary Mountains, Kholster hadn’t thought much of it, but the Dwarves were quite fond of the place and being from there seemed to carry with it a certain social advantage.

  “Your outcast is down there,” the watchmaster said to fill the silence. “I don’t think he can make it up the steps.”

  Kholster leaned over the battlement and studied the Foresworn from a distance. Clad in leather breastplate, long coat, trousers, and buskins, the Foresworn looked like an oversized babe dressed for battle. No trace of metal adorned him. His hair, bleached to a shock white to announce his status, grew long if not unkempt. What struck Kholster most, though, were the eyes, which he could just barely make out from his vantage point above. They had whites like a human’s in place of an Aern’s black sclera.

  “Kholster,” the Foresworn called loudly. Waving a gloved hand high. “I’m here.”

  “I see you, Parl.” Kholster felt the subtle pull of each bone-steel pellet in the steps, and beyond those, he sensed his Overwatches, and if he concentrated he could find all the others and their bonded weapons. From the Foresworn, he felt a push . . . a subtle repellent force.

  The Foresworn perked up like a dog at the sound of his own name, grinning ear to ear like some lovestruck fool to hear it cross the lips of his former kholster.