Grudgebearer

by J. F. Lewis

  Echoes of Zaur voices raised in shouts of dismay, anger, and alarm found their way to Rae’en’s ears. “You know the way?” she asked.

  “Trust me.” The human winked at her. “How are we ever going to be married if I don’t get you out of here?”

  “Married?”

  “I like him.” Wylant moved past them to check the hall. “And the good thing about humans is if you decide you don’t like being married to one, they only live a hundred years or so, and then you can find a new one.”

  Rae’en dug through her saddlebags, looking for the ring her father had given her, but it wasn’t there.

  “Did you see a ring?”

  “No.” Tyree shook his head. “But the Zaur were packing things up to send to their warlord. Something that small . . . maybe they sent it on ahead?”

  “It was soul-bonded to my father,” Rae’en growled. “We could have sent him word.”

  “You can tell him you’re safe in person.” Wylant pulled Tyree toward the hall. “Which way?”

  “This way.” Tyree immediately led them in the direction from which the shouting seemed loudest. Were they fighting someone else?

  “Are you sure?” Rae’en asked.

  Tyree simply smirked. “Trust me.”

  Rae’en absolutely did not, but Wylant followed the human and Rae’en followed her.

  CHAPTER 51

  HOMECOMING

  You’re relaying all this?

  Of course, Vander sent.

  Yes, Maker, came Bloodmane’s unnecessary reply, the Armored are watching.

  Resisting the urge to let his fingers curl his hands into fists, Kholster took in his surroundings slowly. What he saw brought on a flood of mixed emotions as he reentered the city of Port Ammond for the first time in six hundred years. Home. Through him, they were all home, but it was as if he’d returned from a long campaign only to find the barracks infested with vermin.

  On either side of Kholster, a contingent of guards maintained a polite distance, their gazes turning to him as often as they scanned for other dangers. Behind twelve mounted knights Dolvek was carried on a palanquin with a healer tending assiduously to his wounds.

  Maybe the Vael didn’t mix the antidote right, Vander thought to him. He could still die . . .

  Not with my blood in him, Kholster scoffed.

  The healer, a worried old Oathbreaker in flowing white robes with Sedvinia’s features tattooed over his own, waved his hands over the prince. Sedvinia’s likeness, so similar to her twin Shidarva’s, shed tears as her tattooed eyes opened and the soft aura of her magic flickered up and down the prince’s body. Kholster sniffed disdainfully, and one of the youngest guards reflexively dropped a hand to his sword.

  A rabbit, Vander warned.

  Amused, Kholster growled at the guard, feigning a charge.

  “Leave him alone, Kholster,” Yavi disapproved.

  “No more taunting stump ears?” He laughed bitterly, turning his amber and jade eyes in her direction. Kholster waved at the dark-haired guard. The young Oathbreaker’s ears had darkened noticeably in embarrassment and his lips were pale. “You didn’t wet yourself, did you, boy?”

  Perhaps . . . Bloodmane let the transmission trail away.

  Perhaps? Kholster thought back, keeping an eye on the guard’s hand, which was straying dangerously close to the hilt of his sword.

  “No, I didn’t, scarback.”

  “Good for you, stump ears.” Kholster grinned, baring his doubled canines. “You going to draw that sword?”

  Any word?

  Not yet, Kholster. They just found an entrance to the tunnels and engaged the Zaur. As soon as Zhan knows anything—

  Fine.

  “Kholster,” Yavi said more sternly. “Please.”

  “I only asked a question.” Kholster spread his arms wide in invitation. The young soldier cast a pleading look in the direction of his commander, but the officer was at the front, with the knights.

  “I’m exactly what you fear me to be, stain,” Kholster continued. “You’ve seen the passage of what, two, three hundred years?”

  The guard nodded. Captain Fahn’s shadow stretched across the ground between them. The captain watched the exchange from horseback as he rode back down the line.

  “Is everything all right here?” he asked Kholster.

  “Nice to see you again, Fahn,” Kholster answered. “I was just trying to entice your young guardsman here into drawing his weapon so I could kill him with it.”

  Fahn bore the haunted expression Kholster associated with other veterans of the Sundering. It was the same look he’d seen in the eyes of his own troops who’d waited years to make new tools afterward, the soldiers who hunted too much and spoke too little. Fahn cleared his throat.

  “Please, Kholster. The guards are here for your own safety and . . .”

  “Liar!” roared Kholster, taking two quick steps toward the mounted Oathbreaker. “They are here because you fear me. Do not pretend I need protection from you.”

  “Please, sir,” Fahn stammered. “A little decorum . . . is it really too much to ask?”

  “It is,” the Aern hissed, spittle landing on Fahn’s saddle and lower legs. “Keep your soldiers away from me, for their protection, because if any one of their blades clears its sheath, if any of you lying, untrustworthy, oathbreaking wastes of life so much as lays a finger on me to help me up the stairs or catch me should I stumble, I will send them to meet the Harvester and they can complain to him.”

  Fahn looked at the palanquin and then back to his men, resignation in his eyes. “Sergeant, break your men up into groups of two. Send them ahead to clear the streets. I want all the shutters closed. No one is to look out of any windows facing the street.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldiers began to separate into groups, and Yavi rolled her eyes.

  “Do you really have to be that way?” she asked. “These aren’t the same people you fought against.”

  “Some of them are,” Kholster replied. “Captain Fahn over there was a foot soldier during the Sundering. He has a Litany. You recite it, and I’ll fill in the details.” He waited a beat. “No? I recognize some of the rank and file as well. Most of all, I recognize the loathing. I’m a blemish on their honor, a mistake.”

  Yavi folded her arms beneath her breasts. “I just can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

  That’s cheating, Vander sent. She’s—

  I know what she’s doing.

  Captain Fahn gave the remaining soldiers the order to advance. Two guards remained at the rear, and two knights rode in front of the palanquin, but the others had gone on.

  Ammond was still a beautiful city, but much had changed. Kholster wasn’t sure why the changes took him by surprise, but they did. The Tower of Elementals had once possessed four globes of magic spinning in circles at the apex of its central tower. The globes had represented the eternal cycles of air, fire, earth, and water. In their places there were now stone images, each depicting a humanoid embodiment of an element.

  It was nearing dawn, but there were no cook fires burning in the central barracks; no scent of chirrum-smoked venison drifted on the wind. Instead, the air smelled like horse manure and garbage. By dusklight, the city seemed dead and lifeless. The strains of some far-off tavern song or another carried in the night; it was sung not by the raucous voices of Aern but by humans instead.

  Kholster noticed Yavi adjusting her samir and spat on the ground.

  “Hey, I like this samir. It doesn’t bother me at all,” Yavi protested. “It’s kind of an honor to wear it. My mother wore this samir.”

  “And your grandmother,” Kholster answered. “I know. I was there. I recognize it.”

  “Is that the fabled Aernese superiority, I hear?” Yavi snapped. “Surely you’re not looking down your noses at the mortal Vael?”

  “This was a mistake,” he said angrily. “You have my apologies. I will await you at Oot.” The Aern turned away from the gates and walked toward the
forest. To hells with Oot and the Grand Conjunction! I came. I met. Oath fulfilled. I’m going to see what the hells is keeping Zhan. I’ll find Rae’en myself. Kholster still wasn’t certain how he’d let the Vael talk him into coming to Port Ammond at all. He should have held his ground and insisted that they treat the Eldrennai prince, Dolvid, Dolvan, Dolvek, whatever his name was, at Oot.

  Vander, I want you to—

  “Kholster, wait,” called Yavi.

  Kholster had almost begun to turn when one of the two guards walking at the rear stepped into his path, a hand on his sword hilt. “Stop right there, Bloodmane. The Vaelsilyn said to wait.”

  “So she did,” Kholster snarled. Faster than the soldier could react, Kholster buried Grudge in the guard’s chest and snatched the soldier’s sword with his left hand. “And as it so happens, I was going to do so, but she is not my kholster. I am not subject to your laws. And my name is not Bloodmane. It’s Kholster.”

  “You scarbacked murderer!” The other guard drew his sword.

  Kholster jerked Grudge free of the knight’s chest and parried a blow with the sword in his left hand. The knights from the front of the column signaled the bearers to lower the prince’s palanquin, and Captain Fahn sat astride his horse, openmouthed and unsure.

  Show them this, Kholster told Bloodmane as he spun to face the other soldiers.

  Maker, please, Bloodmane sent back, they’re only—

  Only what? Kholster sent back. Only slavers? Only stump-eared fools who shouldn’t even walk this planet, much less the land my kith and kin shed blood for? Only the people I hate most? Only what, Bloodmane? WHAT?!

  Kholster felt the Arvash’ae rising up inside him and he welcomed it. Yes, he thought to himself, me against the city. They’ll kill me eventually, but my army will kill every last Eldrennai. The Bone Finders will find my bones. Death will be a welcome rest for me. Unlike . . .

  “. . . Rae’en,” he hissed.

  Kholster turned toward Fahn with a growl, rolling his head to stretch his neck muscles. Perhaps thinking he saw an opening, the guard swung at Kholster’s back, grimacing when Kholster batted his blade away with a swift swipe of Grudge, shattering the blade.

  “Stop!” shouted Yavi. Her samir slipped down around her neck as she shouted, head petals falling in front of her eyes. “All of you, just stop it! You’re acting like children. Deadly, scary, heavily armed children, but still children!”

  Kholster’s Arvash’ae bled off without ever getting started. Nothing could stop a raging Aern more quickly than a Vael. His anger picked back up when he saw the lustful looks on the faces of the Eldrennai. As if reading his mind, Yavi tugged her samir back into place, her hands shaking.

  Kholster, Bloodmane’s voice echoed in his mind. I have something to tell you.

  Ye-es? he thought back to the armor. Oathbreaker glances flickered back and forth, catching the lantern light.

  I told the Eldrennai about the Zaur.

  Of course you did. Kholster slung his warpick up onto his right shoulder, ignoring the flecks of blood spattering his cheek and back.

  I should have asked you for guidance, I know, but I acted alone and . . .

  Did you tell them anything else? Kholster thought back icily.

  No, they don’t know about the army and they don’t know we can speak together.

  “Why?” Kholster said aloud to Yavi and thought back to Bloodmane. The young Vael’s samir moved gently with her breath. In that moment, she reminded him of Wylant, fiery and beautiful. He closed his eyes and saw through Bloodmane’s. It was the same empty chamber, but the unborn Aern no longer stood at the center of the room.

  The Eldrennai king came and asked me to listen to him. He offered me a scroll with the words of life on them. You should listen to him. I was there at the Sundering. I was with you when you fought. He is a different being now.

  Aren’t we all? Kholster’s world spiraled out of control. Yavi was speaking to him, but he was too engrossed by what Bloodmane was telling him to give her his attention.

  Very different. Changed. Stricken. The guilt he feels is palpable, Kholster.

  Guilty? He’s guilty? Kholster thought angrily. Well, I guess we might as well go home then and tell all the other exiles that the Eldrennai are different now. Nothing left to avenge; they feel guilty! We can all be Foresworn and let the blacks of our eyes go white, while our bones crumble and our teeth fall out leaving empty holes in gray gums that will never be filled, because the mighty Eldrennai after thousands of years have finally grown a conscience.

  I think he wants to return us to you, to give us all back to our rightful occupants. If he returned us, couldn’t that satisfy your Oath? Is there room for mercy?

  I have none left. Kholster sat down in the street. It died with Rae’en. He dropped the guardsman’s sword and unslung his warpick, letting Grudge rest across his knees. Yavi continued speaking to him, but her voice, soft and gentle, fell upon deaf ears. The moment—the sudden feeling of confusion—was identical to the feelings which had coursed through him on Freedom Day.

  Kholster dove deep into the memory hoping to find the sudden clarity he’d found then.

  Under Eldrennai rule, every victory earned new rewards for the Aern. Sometimes that had been a new barracks, or a rarer ingredient for weapons or armor, or a new training area. Near the end, they had even been granted two days leave each month. At each victory celebration, King Zillek would award them something as a sign of his thanks.

  On Freedom Day, at the end of the Demon War, Kholster remembered kneeling at King Zillek’s feet, listening to his speech. Zillek had been fond of speeches. He had praised them for pushing the Ghaiattri back into the demon world. He had acknowledged the brave Aern who had died to accomplish it, the loss of Aern who had at the end advanced Armorless into the void as part of a last desperate gamble to take the Ghaiattri by surprise and close the gate from the Ghaiattri side. He had named them the Lost Command, had ordered a monument built at Fort Sunder in their honor, and then he had offered the Aern anything.

  Kholster would always remember it. “Anything, sire?”

  “Yes,” the king had boasted. “Nothing is too good for my brave army.”

  The Eldrennai king had offered anything . . . and Kholster suspected the king was Oathbound to provide it. As a soldier who had been a slave for millennia, whose people had been tortured and killed for sport by kings this one never even knew . . . what else could he do but ask.

  “So what is it to be?” Zillek had patted him on the head affably. “A new barracks? More Vaelsilyn? Perhaps you’d like your own keep near Albren Pass or Stone Watch, a better staging area for defense against the Zaur?”

  “Freedom,” Kholster had whispered.

  “What?” The king had recoiled as if Kholster had transformed into a Zaur. “Don’t be absurd,” Zillek had said, as if he were speaking to a naughty pet. “I like the idea of the keep. I’ll give you the keep and send some more Vaelsilyn out there with you. Good. Now that’s settled. Kiss my sword.”

  In that moment, Kholster had felt the chains of magic binding him to his king fail. A tightness he’d never lived without fell away, and the breath he took next was the first he’d ever taken that truly tasted good.

  A direct order from an Eldrennai superior had always brought instant submission from the Aern; part of the enchantment which had been bound into them from creation, but no longer. In denying them their freedom, ironically, Zillek had granted it. Kholster had been, for the first time in his long life, free to act as he chose.

  Staring into the eyes of his king, Kholster saw his own realization echoed there. Next, he had done the only thing he knew how to do. Without any thought or plan, he had reached out with his right hand and grabbed the king’s sword. Forged of enchanted steel, the blade should have sliced through his gauntlets and into his fingers, but it hadn’t. It had shattered like glass, just from Kholster’s desires: for revenge, for freedom, and to be something more than an exceptionally wel
l-trained beast of war.

  As he had hoped and planned through long years since the Battle of As You Please, Kholster had struck out with Hunger, burying its spike deep in Zillek’s skull.

  No.

  Peering into Yavi’s green eyes, Kholster came back to the present and saw himself reflected within. Blood from the fallen guard ran down from Grudge’s hooked head, and dark stains ran up his arm.

  “Kholster, are you all right?” Bloodmane and Yavi asked him in unison.

  “You will never understand, Yavi,” Kholster said softly. “I see that now. Or maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I am the only one who still . . .”

  No. I’m not. Bloodmane, he transmitted mentally, Please send word to the fleet. Tell them the invasion begins in three days. The Zaur will likely attack from the south, and we will come from the east as planned. We will crush the Oathbreakers between the two armies and then fight the Zaur.

  Yes . . . Master, Bloodmane thought back.

  Master. Kholster’s blood chilled at that.

  I am not your MASTER! If you don’t want to do it. . . . Overwhelming loss filled Kholster as he communicated with the armor, a piece of himself as changed as the Port Ammond to which he had returned. Then don’t. Rise up. Fight for the Eldrennai if you want. Let their king wear you if you must, but do not call me Master! You are not my slave. You are a part of me. If you want to be separate, then so be it, but I have sworn an oath. I set the conditions upon which I would return and kill them all. They brought this on themselves. I pledged to see them dead and I keep my oaths.

  Must it be so? the armor asked.

  Kholster did not answer.

  He wiped the blood from his hands, smearing it across his jeans in a long, semi-clotted streak. Bittersweet, the scent of the blood oaks in bloom wafted over him on the chill night breeze, mixing with the aromatic hint of roses from the royal gardens. Yavi was still speaking in gentle tones, part conciliation and the rest subtle rebuke. Even one hundred years ago, perhaps, he might have fallen in love with her, but now she was too young and too naive for him.

  “. . . and so that’s just what I’m trying to say, you know, that none of us really understand how it feels to carry the weight tied to your heart, but . . .”