Grudgebearer

by J. F. Lewis

  No surer sign that Eyes lie sleeping than to hear First Bones in my head. Zhan’s thoughts came tinged with a mild distortion from the required rerouting via End Song, Zhan’s warsuit. My hounds are scattered like leaves in the wind, Kholster. Some lie ahead. Some behind. If you’re planning on being gutted, I’ll move them all in.

  And Caz?

  Silencer indicates you should look high and left.

  Kholster did so, catching the briefest flash of Caz’s skull helm looming behind an archer manning a keyhole. The Bone Finder’s eyes touched on Kholster’s, his narrowed gaze seeming to say, “You watch your quadrant, I’ve got mine covered.”

  Once spotted, Caz dropped away unseen.

  “Was that Caz?” Rae’en hissed.

  Kholster touched a silencing finger to his lips and answered with a brief nod, smiling as he walked on.

  Ahead, the line of travelers split into two separate and mostly distinct lines, the people seeking entrance to Mason divided. Those bringing in goods stepped to the left, and those with other business to the right. Kholster moved to the right.

  Rae’en followed Kholster’s lead, stepping into the queue of people not bearing goods but seeking entrance to the city.

  Are your warsuits? . . .

  In the wind, First Bones. It’s easier to conceal my two-hundred-plus End Song and Silencer than it is to hide your five thousand. Did you have a task for us or . . . ?

  No, just . . .

  We are of one mind and spirit, if that’s the nettle in your boot, Zhan thought. Dredger and Garris were reunited last night. I sent him up to Fort Sunder to help them sort bone metal. I wish you would agree to have an increased number of Ossuarians trailing you. Once you reach The Parliament of Ages, you’ll be on your own completely for a few days.

  Good. Kholster breathed a sigh of relief. No problems then.

  Zhan laughed, presumably at Kholster’s version of no problems. None concerning the warsuits. We seek the bones. They seek the bones. There isn’t much room for strife amongst Ossuarians whether the metal is outside or in.

  “I hope not,” Kholster murmured.

  “You don’t get to skip the line?” Cadence asked. Sweat still stood out on her skin. Red streaks marked the veins at her neck. It was a wonder she hadn’t gotten the shakes, but if she didn’t have them by now, she wouldn’t . . . which told Kholster he’d been right all along. She didn’t need the crystal. Someone had convinced her she needed it, gotten her addicted to it, and was slowly using crystal abuse to burn down her abilities to a more manageable level. Whether or not they knew that was what they were doing, other than the control through addiction portion, Kholster couldn’t say. Any brigand who would follow a man like Darbin struck Kholster as either a monster or a dangerous fool.

  “Hey.” Cadence thumped his shoulder when he did not answer immediately. “Hey. I’m talking to you, wolf ears.”

  “Perhaps,” Kholster turned to face her. “But why should I, as you say, skip the line?”

  “You’re a king or a hero or some such!”

  “King Wolf Ears?” Kholster swatted away the hand of a pickpocket trying to reach into one of his Aernese saddlebags. Two hands wide and three hands long with bone-steel reinforcements at the bottom corners and a matching fastener at the middle, Kholster’s saddlebags were only lightly singed. “Don’t make me take your hand, child. Your screams might wake the baby.”

  He gestured to the heavily slumbering Caius in Rae’en’s arms, but the nattily dressed street thief was already in full flight.

  “Hey.” Cadence thumped Kholster’s shoulder again. “Shouldn’t there be a procession or something?”

  “I don’t like them.” Noticing the line had moved forward, Kholster filled in the space.

  Thump. “Or an envoy?”

  “Draekar will tell them I’m here once I’m inside the city,” he called over his shoulder. “Usually, I’m at South Gate making my way into Bridgeland before they can get organized enough to ‘greet’ me.”

  A few more steps forward in the line, and Kholster’s nostrils flared at the familiar scent of rock dust. He didn’t know if humans could smell the difference between the various types of rock worked and sold in Mason, but he recognized the tension easing from Rae’en’s shoulders, her stance more relaxed even as he felt the smells so reminiscent of South Number Nine work their quiescent effect upon himself.

  “Hey.” Thump. “If you fall asleep,” Cadence needled, “can I leave?”

  “You can do whatever you like then or now,” Kholster answered, “but if you want the babe returned to your care, I suggest you follow along to the Harvester’s temple to ensure you will be recognized as his mother upon the completion of your cleansing.”

  “It will never work.” Cadence stamped the ground in frustration, cursing as she had to grab Kholster’s arm or tumble to the dirt. “They don’t take crystal users.”

  “Not usually.” Ahead of them, a scuffle between the guards and a traveler seemed to indicate the lack of appropriate paperwork, identification, or spending money.

  Kholster counted twelve guards in gray brigandine, six with swords belted to their waists and six with spears. Combined with the Long Speakers, one with silver trim to her gray robe, the other with black trim clearly marking him as a Long Arm, and the other archers that had to be up on the walls somewhere behind arrow slits, there were a lot of guards. Kholster was amazed that the human bothered.

  Thump. This time the thump was further punctuated by a snort from Rae’en. “If you’re so keen on helping people.” Cadence gestured at the scuffle.

  “I’m not.” Kholster took a step closer to Cadence, bringing them chest to chest. He expected her to back away, but Cadence stood her ground. If anything, she seemed to lean into him. He waited a hundred count as they breathed in each other’s exhalations. “Was there anything else?”

  “No.”

  He stood there for a ten count. “You keep thumping me on the shoulder.”

  “Sorry.”

  In the corner of his eyes, Rae’en’s chest shook as she struggled to hold in laughter. With a heavy sigh, Kholster turned back toward the gate. Another six guards joined the others.

  Bird squirt. Draekar knows we’re here, yes? Kholster thought to Varvost, Fifth of One Hundred and his temporary Prime while Vander slept.

  Yes, and Zhan says the Bone Finders are in position if need be.

  Who?

  Caz, Teru, and Whaar. He says they have a reputation in the Guild Cities.

  The Long Speaker approached slowly, proud, but scared.

  What the hells are they up to?

  “Shall we report your arrival?” the Long Speaker asked. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of Cadence.

  “No.” Kholster eyed the guards. “And for the next hundred hours, this one is under my protection, as is her child.”

  Look steadily at the guards for a three count, Vander requested.

  Kholster looked past the Long Speaker. Utilitarian helms, like smoothed and emptied tortoise shells, covered each soldier’s hair, the leather straps tied under their necks. They wore dark leather gloves of some pungent animal Kholster did not immediately recognize. Boiled leather plates, the same color as the gloves, protected the thighs, hobnailed boots like his own serving to shield the feet and lower legs.

  Not bad if your opponent doesn’t attack the back of your knees, Vander thought.

  Or throat or face or eyes, Kholster thought back. You didn’t need to wake.

  Sure I did. Eyes of Vengeance said you’d started pestering Zhan . . .

  Pestering?

  Oh, yes. You’re a spectacular pain in the jaw, but I’m used to it.

  Ha!

  The Long Speaker had been saying something, but Kholster realized he hadn’t heard it when she turned on her heel and walked away; he’d been too caught up in the assessment of the guards and his banter with Vander.

  Did you track any of that?

  Sorry, Kholster, I’m sti
ll too sleepy to lip read and you weren’t transmitting sound.

  Habit, Kholster thought back by way of apology. Check with the others.

  Doing it now.

  “Kholster Bloodmane,” called a guardsman approaching from the rear. A band of copper rimmed his helm and the edges of his brigandine, marking him, Kholster assumed, as a commander of sorts. “This year you won’t slip away so easily.”

  Marrow, Bloodmane broke in, says that’s Captain Pallos and that Whaar tracked what the Long Speaker said. It was a warning about the Speaker’s College’s intolerance for those who dilute their talents with drugs.

  Thank you.

  “Captain Pallos.” Kholster stepped forward, offering to clasp hands. “I’d like to think that wasn’t a threat.”

  CHAPTER 28

  WYLANT’S WORRIES

  The cooling yet still-warm wind of summer-turning-to-fall blew through the open windows of Wylant’s rooms at Port Ammond, scattering the pages of Prince Dolvek’s latest dispatch from her desk to flutter to the hard stone floor. Moonlight touched the smooth, attractive lines of Wylant’s face, revealing red, puffy eyes and chapped lips. Her coverlet lay cast aside on the floor, exposing her nakedness to no one but the gods. Rubbing at her nose as she slept, Wylant flinched as if in the grips of a nightmare.

  Ever since Kholster had named her Aiannai, she had not dreamt properly. Instead, Wylant relived past events without the benefit of dreams to recast and obfuscate the things with which her unconscious mind needed to come to terms. Crystal-clear reenactments of events long past were all she had, forcing her to deal with them and move on . . . or not . . . just like the Aern.

  The memory which caused her to toss and turn on this occasion was pleasant enough. A gnomish Dreamsmith might even have explained the images as a longing for simpler days, claiming the stresses of command were too much for a female. They would have been wrong on the one hand and as sexist as the typical Eldrennai male on the other.

  A memory of spring. The spring after Wylant’s eleventh campaign against the Zaur. She sat on the terrace atop Fort Sunder, gazing down at the severe plains of Jun’ghri’kul, “the Broken Table,” now cleansed of all trace of the tainted reptilian hordes, and smiled. Only her husband would have them maintain such a lawn. Easier to spot the enemy, true, but two hundred acres of purple and green in all directions? One day the purple myr grass would choke out the scrubby green, and then she wondered if it would make her happy or sad.

  Wylant plucked at an errant thread on the sleeve of her blue dress and chided herself. I promised myself I’d stop wearing these stupid things when I became a knight, she thought. But Kholster seems to like them, and armor does make impromptu trysts with the Aern I love a great deal less . . . spontaneous.

  In the memory, her blonde hair was still long and caught up with a silver ribbon. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and wore it loose, an easy way to make Kholster smile, and she suddenly wanted to see him smile more than anything in the whole of Barrone.

  Kholster walked out onto the terrace and grinned exactly as she’d planned. She loved that smile, his upper and lower canines exposed in a way that would remind anyone his people had been built for killing and, well, eating, others, but also somehow conveying he had no intention of doing so. He’d just shaved, as had been his custom after every campaign since they’d been married, and he wore his red hair long, because she liked it that way and he thought it only fair to wear his hair long for her since she wore hers long for him.

  Wylant looked into Kholster’s strange black sclera eyes and smiled. Their hands touched and the memory repeated.

  That’s all there was to it: him outside of his warsuit and her in a dress. Their hands touching. Her seeing him smile. Feeling loved, wanted. And then again. And again. And again as if her brain felt the need to torture her with things which could no longer happen and with bonds long broken.

  Wylant rocked forward in the darkness, startled awake by the first sneeze. Her diaphragm seized, locked in the initial stages of a protracted second sneeze. The scent of the Zaur filled her nostrils, a sickening mixture of body odor and reptilian waste.

  At least I’m awake, she thought, then, Gods, not again.

  A rapid consecution of sternutations shook her, sneeze after sneeze running each into the other to create a sustained rattling buzz which could have been humorous if the act itself were not so painful. Rolling from her bed, Wylant landed on the cold stone floor, cursing after one particularly great sneeze slammed her forehead into the stone.

  Eyes watering, streams running down her face as she grabbed first for Vax and second for her pouch of jallek root. Vax felt right in her hand, a part of her—as always. His edge caught the moonlight, as if on purpose, casting a wedge of brightness on the ceiling then adjusting to show the pouch. The vexing leather container was less accommodating and gave no sign of crawling obligingly to her outstretched hand to surrender the medicine within. She blinked at her bedside table, which lay on its side, having been knocked over at some point during the ordeal.

  A frustrated growl escaped her lips. Struggling to her feet, Wylant glared at the errant pouch and stabbed at it with Vax, smirking as the sword elongated helpfully into a spear. Angling the spear up, Wylant willed the weapon to shrink again, snatching the jallek root from its tip as Vax complied.

  “Good boy.” Pinching a wad of the dried black root, she pushed the bitter substance beneath her tongue. Astringent juice, strong enough to force a lesser person to gag, filled her mouth, but with it came instant relief.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” she snarled. “Every night? What is Dienox playing at?”

  “General?” Kam’s voice called from beyond the door of her quarters.

  “I’m,” she screwed her face into a sour expression, one eye open, the other closed as she struggled against another sneeze, “fine, Kam. But wake The Sidearms. I want to ride at first light. We’re heading to North Guard. I want to check the watchtowers personally. Again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice, and she was glad of it. As if she didn’t know the nobles thought she was mad. Maybe I should take the Lance up Albren Pass to the foothills . . . ? She ran a hand over her head, the stubble pricking at her palm as it always did on her fifth day without a shave. Prince Dolvek would have fun with that, I have no doubt.

  She blinked in the predawn darkness and, sure that the jallek root had her allergies under control, summoned a floating spark of pulsing electricity and spat it from her throat with a word. The pale blue of her magic illuminated the stone-floored room of her billet, washing over the sparsely decorated room with a cold, crackling light. A lone wall-length mirror displayed her well-toned body, but Wylant had little patience with mirrors.

  There was a time when she’d gazed into looking glasses critically, applying powders and dyes, adorning herself vainly for a husband who, though appreciative of her efforts, respected her more for her ability with a sword, her competence in battle, her intelligence, wit, and veracity than he ever could for her beauty.

  But that had been long ago. Though her body was as ageless and fit now as it had been then, she treated it like a tool for accomplishing her goals and executing her duty. She had loved once and would never love again, which was all well and good to her. It had to be. The first time had almost destroyed them both. Any other relationship could be no more than a dalliance, and she had little enough patience to spare on matters of importance and none at all to waste on dalliances.

  She walked to the waiting basin of water which sat atop an ornate steel table, forged in the Aernese style with blood oak leaves wrought into a small ring around the edge of the bowl, the rest perfectly smooth and unadorned. Wylant set Vax down on the stone. Picking up a washcloth from next to the basin, she dipped it into the cold water and washed in her brisk morning ritual.

  Opening the pack she’d readied before bed, Wylant took out the bone-metal straight razor Kholster had left behind at his exile, s
et it down next to the water basin, and returned to her pack for a small jar of ointment. The acrid tang of crushed myr grass and thick, rich, surprisingly nonsticky, blood oak sap caused her nostrils to flare involuntarily. Dipping her fingers into the red-brown mixture, she spread the lubricant liberally across her scalp before setting to work with her razor in long, even strokes, shaving against the grain, wiping the blade on her washcloth between strokes, leaving traces of grease and blonde hair behind.

  “Blessing of the gods.” Wylant sneered at the sight of it. Let the Eldrennai see it however they wished. Wylant had come to see favor of the gods, Dienox in particular, as nothing less than a curse.

  For a long time, even before Kholster, Wylant had let her hair grow longer than was efficient despite the problems it caused with tangles, brushing, and getting stuck in armor. But that had been before the Sundering, before . . .

  Having given the lotion more time to soften the coarser hair, Wylant shaved the back of her head next. From there, she worked her way down, removing every bit of “blessing” Dienox had felt necessary to bestow. There was only one blessing Wylant wanted from the gods.

  She looked at Vax, watched how he slid across the floor like a snake, pooling and reaching up onto the bed where he rested briefly before resuming his sword shape in the fading body warmth of her mattress and closed her eyes in silent and unanswered prayer. If she noticed the shape held by the metal in those few moments, the general did not allow herself to dwell on it. Such thoughts could only drive her mad, and had for a time, before she’d come to accept what she had done.

  Rinsing herself off with a dousing from the metal basin, the Eldrennai general walked out onto her balcony to dry. From there, even in the dark, she saw the Gulf of Gromm, the green-blue water, dark and foreboding. The air smelled wrong, tainted. It tickled her nostrils, just shy of soliciting a sneeze. Hoping to prevent a relapse, she spit the wet lump of jallek root off the balcony and replaced it with a fresh pinch.

  The smell of the Zaur, the ancient enemy of her people, had faded from her nostrils, but she was a hairbreadth from issuing a check on all the Watches and running a formal border inspection. She knew, of course, what King Grivek would say.