Grudgebearer

by J. F. Lewis

  Finally, as Kholster frowned at a well-built stone bridge and began to march into a gully full of rocks and brambles, Rae’en spoke.

  “Why aren’t we taking the bridge?”

  “What?” Kholster asked. “That thing?” He snarled at the bridge as if it were disgusting. “It’s all manner of strange. What kind of wood do they call that? It’s gone gray and moldy.”

  “Wood?” Rae’en’s mouth fell open. “Father, it’s stacked stone.”

  “It’s no such thing and whoever built it could hardly have done a worse job if they’d been struck in the head with my warpick and spun three times in a circle before starting.”

  Rae’en eyed the bridge then her father. “It’s a wonderful spot of craftsmanship—even Uncle Glin would agree.”

  “Tell me no lies.” Kholster strode toward her and did not stop until they stood less than a finger’s width apart. Even at full height, her father stood a hand taller than she did. This close, his breath washed over her eyes, the points of his doubled canines hard to ignore as he spoke. “I say it is a wooden bridge made by humans with little care and no knowledge of safe construction.”

  Rae’en’s mind reeled. “But it’s not,” she whispered. It’s not, is it? she caught herself thinking at Arbokk.

  “Are you whispering to yourself or addressing your kholster?”

  “My kholster,” she answered flatly.

  “Then speak up.” Had she caught the hint of a grin at the corner of his lips? “I say it is wooden and unsafe.” His hot breath made her blink despite herself. “What say you, soldier Rae’en?”

  “Ah . . . one moment, Kholster.” Stepping back from her father, Rae’en reached into the leather pack on her right side. With mental thanks to her Uncle Vander for the endless drills on packing, she found a steel blade quickly by touch and drew it out. With one look at Kholster and another at the bridge, she tapped the stone with the flat of the blade. No, it wasn’t some cleverly concealed illusion through which her father had easily seen. It was certainly stone, just as it appeared to her. How could he be so wrong? How could he not clearly see it was a sturdily built stone bridge?

  “Well, soldier?” When she turned back to face him, there was less black in his eyes than before. His amber pupils had expanded, as had the ring of jade around them. His breath came in ragged pants, seeming on the verge of the Arvash’ae. “Your kholster is waiting for an answer.”

  “It’s stone, Kholster. On my oath, as best as I can tell from what I have perceived, the bridge is stone and safe and whole.”

  “And you say that I, First of One Hundred, First of all Aern, First forged, First free . . . am wrong?!? You dare say this? On your oath, you’d best answer me truthfully.”

  “I . . .” For a moment she hesitated, then steeled herself. He’d said on her oath, and he’d get it. “Yes, Kholster.”

  “Good.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “I thought I was going to have to lead us right off the mountain into a ravine before you spoke up.”

  “Wait. What?”

  Kholster moved past her. “Oh. You’re right.” He tapped the bridge rail with his third knuckle. “Stone it is. How about that.” He looked over his shoulder with a wink, eyes completely normal again. “Thank you, soldier Rae’en.”

  “You did that on purpose!?”

  “Did I?” Kholster hopped up on the stone railing and did a cartwheel along the edge. His mail did not so much as clink. “If I can say nothing else good about the man, Saul Gundt knew how to build a bridge.”

  The way her father held his bone-steel mail close to his skin impressed Rae’en almost as much as this—whatever it was he had been trying to prove with the bridge—irritated her. She was still getting used to letting her warpick cling to her back. It also told her he hadn’t gone mad. A cartwheel in soundless chain with warpick remaining safely in place served as nigh definitive proof that her father was sound of mind and body. Doing it on the railing was just brag.

  “What were you thinking? Why? Why would you—”

  “You’re a kholster,” her father said evenly as he dropped down on the other side of the bridge. “You tell me why I did it. Your Overwatches can’t give you the answers. You’re on your own now in a way you haven’t been in thirteen years.”

  “I can think for myself.”

  “I believe you,” Kholster answered, “but I need to know you believe yourself. Kazan, M’jynn, Joose, and Arbokk have been a thought away for more than half your life. It changes the way we think, the way we process problems. For some it supplants the ability to think independently . . . completely.”

  Right, like I—, she cut herself off in mid-thought.

  “Right, like you what?” Kholster asked calmly.

  Her eyes widened. “You can hear my thoughts, but—”

  “Can I?” Kholster asked, face impassive.

  “But you just did.”

  “Did I?” Kholster’s amber pupils seemed to bore into her, searching her for evidence of some crime or fundamental flaw.

  What did he mean, could she think without her Overwatches? Of course she could! At times she slipped up and sent thoughts she didn’t mean to broadcast, though she sometimes whispered to herself as she’d seen other kholsters do . . . and, yes, communicating with her Overwatches had become second nature to her and to them. They were like best friends who could be shown, and allowed to comment on, anything and everything in an instant.

  Her dad did the same thing with Vander and . . .

  “It’s Vander,” Rae’en spat as the idea came to her. “Or one of the other Armored Overwatches. You—”

  He ordered you to report any thoughts I sent out, right? she sent, as though to her Overwatches, though she knew they were out of range.

  “Answer aloud.” Kholster frowned.

  “In case they are trying to answer for me and make it look like I answered?”

  “Because I’m Kholster and those are my scars on your back.” His frown didn’t deepen as she’d feared, but it stayed a frown. That’s what I get for trying to inject a little levity when he’s testing me. He’s just so serious, Rae’en thought to herself.

  “You asked Vander to report anything I thought to my Overwatches directly to you, right?” Rae’en said.

  “Only in this specific instance,” Kholster replied. “And it’s kholster Malmung, not Vander. Vander is already at sea with the rest of the invasion force. You could have deduced that, but well done all the same.”

  Gah! He’s right, I should have, she thought but asked aloud, “The youngest of the Armored?”

  “Point of view. His was the final warsuit created before the Life Forge’s destruction,” Kholster acceded. “Though, he is not technically the youngest. Styrm and Drin are, but that’s not part of the lesson. Why the boar hunt across the countryside? There are two reasons: one theoretical and one practical.”

  “You . . .” Rae’en chewed on her upper lip. “You wanted . . . to see how long it would take . . . for me to correct you?”

  “Did I?” Kholster’s face gave no hint to let her know whether she was right or wrong.

  “I . . .” She doubted herself for a moment, but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like the correct answer. “You wanted to know if I could tell you that you were wrong and when I did, to see if I would back down or hold my ground against you.”

  “Many can’t.”

  She smiled broadly, exposing all four sets of canines.

  “Good work.” The praise thrilled her. “But that’s only one of the reasons.” Her heart sank.

  Because he could remember every step he’d ever taken? Because he hated the Commerce Highway? No, he couldn’t hate it that much, their path kept bringing it back into view over and over again. If her father truly hated the road, they’d either not see it at all until the last possible moment or he’d have marched them right down the middle to get it over with, like ripping out a tooth that was taking too long to fall out on its own.

  H
is nostrils flared as if he smelled something. Was that a hint? She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Trees. Flowers. Some kind of canine animal that had warded off some of the summer heat by dipping into a mountain stream. Fungus . . . something mushroomy, but not a scent she’d smelled before. Mushroom was one of the few plant-like substances an Aern could stomach without yarping it back up, but surely that wasn’t it. Then she smelled it. Human waste. Subtle, but there. A latrine?

  “Does it have to do with humans?”

  “It doesn’t have to be humans,” Kholster answered, “but they’re as good as any for this purpose.”

  Why would he be looking for humans? Or other sentients?

  “And it’s not old friends,” she said it half as a guess but discounted it as the words left her throat. The way he’d said it didn’t have to be humans meant that he was looking for a type of person or persons, but not a specific individual.

  She scratched absently at the stub of her little finger. It was making progress thanks to all the liver (weasel and otherwise) her father had been going out of his way to make sure she ate, but—

  Wait.

  “It’s liver, isn’t it?” She started across the bridge toward her father. “You’re trying to find some bandits or highwaymen so we can kill them and I can eat their livers to help grow my finger back faster!?” By the time she’d reached the halfway point, Kholster was smiling again. “It’s not like liver is the worst meat in the world, but I’m getting tired of eating it, Father.”

  “Keep that in mind,” he kissed her on her forehead as she reached him, “the next time you get the urge to lop off a body part.”

  CHAPTER 18

  LIVER

  Cadence Vindalius felt death in the air long before the first Aern burst through the thatched roof and landed in the bedroom. She lay in the dead farmer’s bed nursing baby Caius, fighting the urge to do nothing and let it all end. She knew the male Aern would let the female decide what to do with Caius if she died, knew it just as surely as she knew the female would spare her son. It was her own life in flux. Her son had a destiny. Cadence wished she knew more about it, but her powers didn’t reach that far into the future. A candlemark, no further; even then the power was not hers to control.

  A phantom scream from outside drew her attention to the window—not that there was anything to see yet. Stray rays of sunlight from the open window picked out the flecks of violet in her otherwise gray eyes, but there was no breeze to be let in at this time of day, leaving the room stale and hot. Heat plastered long tresses of black hair shot through with streaks of red and orange (purple at the ends) to her head. She’d stripped down to an undyed cotton blouse and breeches to help stay cool while she nursed, the thought of trying to struggle back into the gray pants and boots which lay at the foot of the bed, not to mention her long coat, though it was her only garment with sewn-in defensive plates, or Hap’s green brigandine in the wardrobe, was anathema to her.

  I’d rather die bare-legged if it comes down to it.

  Caius opened his eyes briefly, gazing up at her through eyes with reds instead of whites and irises the same shade of violet as that which flecked her own. If he sensed trouble, whatever he saw in his mother’s eyes reassured him. Cadence smiled. Down below, in the main room of the farmer’s house, Tul laughed at something Merrol said. A hard scowl settled onto Cadence’s face. She was glad they were going to die.

  Cadence had never liked either man. She didn’t like the way they looked at her when she nursed the baby. Hells, that was why she’d gone upstairs, despite the heat, to nurse Caius in the first place. Was it petty that it also figured prominently in her decision not to warn the two bandits?

  No, she thought, you both have it coming seven times over . . . and so do I.

  Still, she had to do something. Knowing only a scattered handful of time remained for her to decide what to do, Cadence took in the room. Not that there was much to take in. Hap never left her a blade, hadn’t since he’d stolen her all those years ago. She guessed he took such precaution out of habit now more than anything else, she supposed she was wed to him at this point . . . but she still resented him . . . she resented all five of the bandits with whom she shared her life. The room, she reminded herself.

  A chair, a chamber pot, a wash basin . . . another woman’s clothes in the wardrobe—the farmer’s wife, another casualty. Cadence’s eyes fell on the bedside table, on a tiny black silk bag sitting unassumingly next to her mortar and pestle.

  She felt them coming nearer. Two disparate forces of mayhem and destruction sprinted toward her out in the noonday sun. One crept up the stone outcropping behind the house, the other moved across the grounds . . .

  The bag. She couldn’t look away from it.

  I considered other options first, Hap, she thought to herself. Even if I did raise the alarm, with you and Ghrol out for supplies, the best chance of staying alive is right there on that rough-hewn bedside table.

  A smile touched her lips. There was no decision at all.

  You’d take any excuse to twist crystal, she heard Hap’s complaint in her mind. Not that he was actually speaking. She loved and hated Hap in a complex balance, but he was no Long Speaker. She’d simply heard him say it so many times it had become part of her ritual. Anytime she twisted now, she heard him, even when the real Hap was the one telling her to twist in preparation for a fight.

  Maybe you’re right, Hap, she thought to herself. Maybe you’re right.

  Setting a complaining Caius aside, Cadence slipped her breast back into her cotton top and grabbed the small silk bag from the table. Tamping three pearl-sized red Dienoxin crystals into her palm, she glanced briefly at the mortar and pestle before a twinge in her gut told her she didn’t have time to do it the right way. She took the crystals into her mouth and, bracing for pain, bit down on one of them. As her rear right molar cracked, she bitterly regretted letting Darbin, the leader of their small band, talk her out the steel molar caps she’d wanted with the profits from the last big job.

  “But think of the crystal we could buy you for all that, babe,” he’d cajoled, knowing how much she hungered for it even when she didn’t need the boost. “You don’t crunch crystal anyway. Not unless it’s an emergency.”

  Darbin made her sick, but that was because he knew the way people worked; Darbin could see their weakness and use it against them. She’d half-expected to see him bringing the farmer’s daughter back up from the barn by now, her treating him as if he were her rightwise husband, not some—

  Pain flared as she crunched the second crystal and the third, replaced a few ragged gasps later by the flush of power, the raw touch of the god of war’s essence. It flowed through her jaw, numbing the pain, the aches, the doubts, and, more importantly, waking and enhancing the Long Arm and the Far Flame talents lurking within Cadence Vindalius’s unusual brain.

  Baby Caius mewled, still yearning for the breast, and Cadence chuckled sweetly. “Silly little man,” she said, looking into her baby’s blood-red eyes, “Mama has work to do.”

  The first Aern crashed through the thatch with no war cry just where Cadence expected him. He looked handsome in a beast-like way . . . handsome and rich. Every Aern was born with a fortune under their skin. The bone-steel chain he wore was a queen’s ransom all by itself. If they could sell just a few of those tiny rings before the Bone Finders came for it . . .

  Think of what it would buy for little Caius, she thought.

  Not to mention the crystal, Cadie. Not a thought for that, Hap’s voice accused. Of course not.

  A thin crimson line of blood ran down the corner of Cadence’s mouth as she spat out a chunk of broken tooth and called for the flame. The Aern’s eyes widened in surprise. Cadence had time to wonder whether the crystal should now be called Nominite since Nomi had stolen the war god’s fiery locks and become a god herself.

  You’d like that wouldn’t you, Cadie.

  Her first burst of fire missed the Aern, striking the corner of the
wardrobe and setting it alight. Hap will beat me for that if I don’t get his armor out in time, she mused.

  That’s not all I’ll do.

  The Aern dropped low, rolling to the side, making her set fire to the floor.

  Just burn the whole hideout down, why don’t you, you useless nit!

  The first few shots always go a little wild. I’ll get him. Her hair flew out around her head, the streaks of color, signs of years of crystal use, sparked twice then lit up from within.

  That’s better, girl. Burn bright! Burn hard!

  We’re close enough to the Junland Bridge that we might be able to get it to a good smuggler. Her brain changed gears again as the pulse of the crystal’s power made her thoughts skip and scatter. Maybe, she thought, we should call it Cadencite after me, because I—

  Burn him!

  Right. Right. Sorry.

  She meant to do just that. She coiled the power into herself like a serpent ready to spring, then held it. She saw the bearded Aern’s scowl and his bared fangs and lost her train of thought. He moved in slow motion from her point of view, and somehow that made it worse, made him seem more of a threat.

  The Aern frowned as she hit him with the Long Arm, summoning it into both hands in her mind and tossing it forward like twin battering rams of thought. She followed up with fire, let the flames wash over him. Such a strange emotion in his eyes . . . pained, but not pain. Head engulfed in fire, he was thrown backward through the bedroom door and out into the abbreviated hallway, striking the wooden railing at the top of the loft and bursting through it.

  As the Aern tumbled toward the family room, Tul lurched away from the dining table, cards flying as he went for his huge two-handed sword. Why he always propped it under the window Cadence decided she would never understand. She nudged the sword with the Long Arm, sending it sliding to Tul’s hand, and he laughed.

  “Thanks, Cadie!”

  They were the last words he ever spoke. A strange warpick, clear and shining like glass in sunlight, came through the window, its spike-like tip punching through the top of his skull, collapsing his bones as it tore through the cranial cavity and dropped him to the floor. His lifeless hand rested on his sword.