“Move quick, brothers!” The commander sprang from the bow, and Clyfe tossed the oar inside the longship. As he leapt from the craft, another wave crashed into the vessel. He almost lost his footing as the icy water of the Passage welcomed him into its embrace, the edge of the longship wrenched from his grasp. The ebbing tide pushed him forward, and he regained his footing, keeping his head above water. The salty tang on his lips was at once familiar and calming. Surely Bara Bayan was with them this night.
He surged forward, finding the side of the longship once more and bringing her to sand. His fellow warriors shoved, and together they beached the craft. The Hooded descended with a spry step onto dry land. The warriors converged around him, and together they ran, low to the ground. Clyfe whipped his shield from around his back, forearm extended. The cool, tight grip was harsh beneath his fingertips. The Hooded was between them, protected on all sides.
“Shields up!” the commander barked. Clyfe knelt to the ground, bringing the shield outward and over his head. It was none too soon. The whistle of arrows split the night, and seconds later they thudded into the shields. None penetrated Clyfe’s barrier. Several struck the shields in front, and the grunts of the warriors followed.
“Forward!”
Clyfe rose to the balls of his feet and sprinted, staying in line and straining for the call of more arrows. All he could hear was the steady drum of hundreds of his brother’s footsteps behind him on the sand as they approached the town.
The walls were wood. Tall, at least fifteen feet in the air. But that was nothing for a Hooded.
“Shields up!”
Clyfe barely had time to find formation before two arrows crashed into the front of his shield. He fell back but kept his legs under him. There was no splintering of the lightweight yet thick wood on his arm. The arrows remained embedded, but he left them there when the order to advance was once again shouted from Commander Froth.
Faster they ran, and Clyfe’s calves burned. His long legs begged to be released across the expanse, the blood in his veins pulsing, his body aching for the open air. But he kept his head down. The time for release was soon.
“Hooded, cast!”
The Hooded to Clyfe’s right, encased as he was by the protective ring of warriors, didn’t seem encumbered. A blood-curdling shout erupted from the Hooded as he raised his hand. Clyfe glanced up as another volley of arrows headed their way. He was knocked from his feet as the wall ahead exploded.
The arrows passed over his head. The screams of his fellow Islanders filled the air as some of the arrows found their mark. Scrambling upright, he shook his head. A jagged hole, at least fifty feet across, burned across the wall. Flames licked toward the sky, the orange haze leaving a halo effect in his vision.
“Engage!” Froth bellowed. Grinning, Clyfe raced forward. His legs ate up the ground, leaving the rest of his fellow warriors behind. He was the first through the wall.
The town had just begun to awaken. A thin line of defense was assembled, broken bodies scattered from the wall in front of them. The archers had found their end. Clyfe dashed to the front line with a growl. He extended his shield, and an arrow shot at close range sliced straight through, catching just before it punctured his face. It was a close call.
Battles were full of close calls.
He roared, drawing his curvedblade and crashing into the front line. The scared clansmen fell under his onslaught, and the soon-following assault of Clyfe’s brothers. The thrill of battle coursed through him, the adrenaline peaking as he swung his curvedblade at the first sight of human flesh that caught his eye. Blood splatted into the night, drenching his shirt. With a laugh, he turned and planted a kick into the belly of another enemy, swinging his blade to chop the arm of a lad who clearly didn’t know what he was doing.
It was over too soon. Clyfe only had three kills before the Hooded marched onto the scene. The clansmen fell back in fear, many turning tail to run. The Hooded cast, annihilating any who remained.
Clyfe ran to follow the deserters, cutting down any he found. One man ran into a hut, throwing the door closed and latching it. He followed, barreling through the wood as if it were kindling. It snapped, and he caught himself before he fell over the splintered remnants. Raising his blade, he scanned the interior. The man trembled, covering a woman and baby with his body as they screamed in terror.
“Please...” the man’s eyes were full of pleading. “My wife, my son, spare them!” He shoved them down further, turning to crouch in front. Sweat stained his shirt and dripped from his face.
“Why?” Clyfe asked, grinning. He raised the blade. “Why, when no such recourse was given for my sister?”
“We had nothing to do with that!” The woman raised a defiant eye to Clyfe. “Whatever the failings of the Flatland King, we cannot be held responsible.” She clutched the infant to her chest as it continued to wail.
She had compunction. He would spare her.
He reached to drag the man away from her. She scooted further, eyes changing from courage to fear in the span of a second. His heart softened, and he turned away and dragged the man outside so she wouldn’t have to witness his death.
The fool groveled, pissing and crying. Clyfe sliced his throat. Best to relieve the sphere of such a coward. He turned as blood soaked the sand, striding into the hut. He blinked. The woman and child were gone.
Liar’s teeth! Clyfe searched the hovel. A barrel had been shoved away from the back, revealing an escape route. He exited the hut and swung around the back. A small path led into the town, now awash with fire. The Jattalian bands must have begun the victory burn. Clyfe sighed, shaking his head and wiping his blade on the wash hanging in the back, probably the woman’s laundry from earlier in the day.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he went in search of another conquest. But he couldn’t get her defiant face from his mind. Such fire, for someone whose husband had just died. Maybe it was best that she escaped.
***
The Hooded was resting in the leader’s headquarters as Clyfe marched into the house. What was the local chieftain called here? Elder? Whatever the case, his home was only moderate, with simple furnishings and no sign of wealth. Screams echoed throughout as the commanders took their pleasure where they could find it. There was a part of Clyfe hoping none were the woman.
Strange, to be caring if she escaped. Perhaps he felt if he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anyone else to, either? He frowned and shook his head. Maybe he was getting soft.
The Elder lay in a pool of blood on the floor, throat slit. He was dressed in only his trousers, as if he had been sleeping when the attack occurred.
“You fought well.” The voice startled Clyfe from his observance of the body.
Clyfe turned to the Hooded, who had let his cloak fall from his head. The old man’s face was haggard, tired, but his eyes glittered nonetheless. “They call you Clyfe,” the Hooded said.
“Thank you, accessor.”
“I have noticed you prefer to be first through the walls. You are fast. And angry, it would appear. Why?” The Hooded’s eyes lingered on Clyfe’s face, making his heart beat an uncomfortable rhythm. He hated talking about his sister.
“I only long for freedom for our accessors.” Clyfe kept his face and voice smooth.
“It is more personal than that, Warrior. You have a grudge. Perhaps something deeper even than that.” The Hooded smiled, but it was gentle. “Whatever your loss, don’t let it cloud your thinking and judgment.”
“Judgment?” Clyfe snapped. “You of all people should understand! The Flatland King would have your head before he would hear a word from your mouth!”
“It would be his loss, then.” The old man stood to his feet, wobbled, and laid a hand out to steady himself on a nearby table. “Do not make the same mistake he does, Warrior. Listen first, then exact your revenge. But only as long as it is warranted.”
“I don’t understand.” Clyfe frowned as the old man closed his eyes as if in pain,
brow furrowed. “You just slaughtered dozens of men without asking any questions.”
“A necessary means, I’m afraid. But I would not do so unless it was vital. Blood enough has been shed to satisfy the Liar.” He opened his eyes, now watering. “He will have a good night, I think.”
“Who?” Clyfe asked, but he already knew.
“The call of his greed for blood will not be sated, but I think he will be satisfied for now. Until next time, Warrior.”
The Hooded plodded away, into a corridor and past a commander who exited a chamber. He entered as the commander left, closing the door behind him.
It was Commander Froth. Rubbing his stomach, he nodded at Clyfe.
“Found your spoils, Clyfe?” He grinned, searching the area. “Where is food? I’m starving.”
“Commander.” Clyfe saluted and then exited the house. For some reason, his desire for pleasure had left him.
Chapter One
Gerard Redstone
Keep his head down. Move with the crowd. Stay to the side. No, watch his back. Easy, there’s a child. There’s an old woman. What’s that smell? Food cooking? Truth, it was cold–
Gerard rammed into a cart stalled on the street. Reeling, he rubbed his head and ducked off before the driver could see who had collided with his wares. Something tickled at his nose. He reached up to wipe away droplets of blood.
Fool. He needed to watch where he was going. This wasn’t Rollvear anymore. And no one was watching out for him.
Why had he come, after all? It had been years since he had seen Matias. Gone was any desire to carry on the Redstone traditions; gone, when it had become apparent he was different. He could remember anything and everything about his life, down to what day and hour a conversation had taken place, or what scroll he had read four years ago and at what time. But it was life that was hard to deal with. Memory was one thing. Social interactions were something else.
He skidded to the side to avoid a wheelbarrow running over his foot. Why were people always in such a hurry? For that matter, why had he even come to Vale? He owed the Rook nothing.
That’s wasn’t entirely true. Still, it was pleasant to at least try to lie to himself.
He kept his eyes up but head down. It was how one survived. Gerard reached into his pocket, grasping a crumpled parchment. He must have read it a hundred times, although with his flawless memory he knew what it said just as soon as he laid eyes on the words:
Why haven’t you come home? Adella says you still live and sleep on the streets. It’s not becoming of someone of your strength and aptitude. Please. Events are unfolding faster than I can keep up with. My death is near, and I have something of import to show you. Meet me in Vale.
The script was familiar. The Rook would have known that Gerard would recognize his handwriting immediately.
There were so many reasons he stayed away from the old man. So many. Home was not where the Rook was.
The location named on the other side of the parchment had faded from the wear it had undergone. Gerard had been there once already; years ago, now. He could have walked there in his sleep. He leapt over a pile of dung that sprang across his path, frowning. Why did horses insist on defecating in the middle of the road? Most unbecoming.
He sniffed himself. Perhaps he should not judge the horses too much. When was the last time he had bathed? But it came to him. Forty-two days ago, seven hours, thirteen minutes, and four... five... six seconds.
The spired dome of the Temple rose in the sky, dwarfing all other structures around it. He was close.
Passing by a scaffold, he raised his head to the hangman’s platform being erected. Who was foolish enough to be caught breaking the law in a place like Vale? He scoffed. Better them than him. Still, the dome of the Temple rose in the background of this symbol of death. He shivered. Some things didn’t stand to reason.
Passing around a corner, he stepped aside as a carriage roared down the street. It splashed him with dirty remnants of a storm. Or horse piss. Or last night’s wash. He shrugged and moved on. The stench would only add to his already pungent odor. Who would care, anyway? Not the Rook.
The drab inn was not far down the street, and he hesitated. Here it was, then. The moment of truth. Would he face the past with honor? Or stand here all day, debating on what to do? The milling throng of servants and Mools provided a good many distractions. Where were they going? What were they saying? Why were they frightened?
He listened. Their talk was of a mutiny, suppressed just last week. Where was evidence of such a thing? The wealthy must have cleaned up the streets. They had an image to protect, one that he had never cared for. A place like this would swallow a man like him whole, and still have room for dessert.
The sun started to drop before he moved closer to the inn, edging toward the door, heart racing. His palms were sweaty, mouth dry, feet itching. Wait... this was a bad idea. He opened the door, eyes adjusting to the dim interior awash with lantern light and shadows. Surely the Rook would understand if he didn’t come. This was too hard. Too sad. Too forlorn.
Number twelve. Third floor. Duty seemed to be what was dragging his feet up the rickety staircase. He paused as someone rushed down past him. They didn’t look at him, didn’t even seem to know he was there. Good. It was one thing to interact with someone on his own territory. Brate Hightower, for instance. The lad had basically plopped down beside Gerard in his own home. Those streets were his comfort. Not Grole’s House. Not Vale.
The steps dumped out into a dimly lit corridor. Number twelve was at the end of the hall.
He didn’t have to do this. He had nothing, nothing to prove.
But his feet didn’t listen. Nor his hands when they reached out to knock on the door, nor his ears when they heard the soft command of “enter!” Nor his brain forcing his arms to move, open the door, and step through.
The Rook lay on a dirty bed, the only thing in the room except for a window opening to the street below, and a pack in the corner.
“My son.” The voice was as familiar as his own. But the face was ancient. Flecks of skin wafted down from it, peeling and molted. Gerard’s stomach dropped to his knees, and his heart hammered a staccato beat.
He swallowed. “Father.” His feet propelled him forward, eyes gazing down on the form hunched in the bed.
“You came.” It wasn’t a tone of surprise, but calm assurance. As if he knew Gerard would arrive right on time.
“Yes.” What more was there to say? A thousand memories assailed him, of nights spent in study, always study. Solitude. Quiet. There would be days when Father – no, the Rook – wouldn’t say a word, so invested in his reading and learning he sometimes forgot he had a son. A prodigy, but a son nonetheless.
“Thank you.” A hand raised to grasp Gerard’s own. It was thin, peeling, like the face staring at him. “The scrolls are in the corner, there.”
“Which ones?”
A cough shattered the frail frame before him. It was a whisper, really, as if that was all the strength he could muster. It ceased, then a long exhalation of air. And then nothing. It was the last gasp of a dying man.
Matias Redstone was dead.
Gerard stepped back, limbs going numb. He sat for a long passing of time as the sun drifted low and set, the shadows of the room lengthening and deepening. Gerard didn’t move to light a candle. There was nothing in the room to light.
Finally, as if awakening from a dream, he stirred himself and walked to the corner. A pack held an assortment of books and scrolls, whatever the Rook had found important enough to bring from the mountain and die for. Fool man.
He hunched down and sat cross-legged, grabbing the first one.
Frides. The whole book started replaying in his mind, word for word. He put it to the side.
Fortress of the Deep. Mool tongue rolled across the recesses of his brain. A beautiful, haunting, old language, the last written record of it a thousand years past. Why would the Rook have brought this? Several more books and
scrolls spilled from the pack. But something else caught his eye. A flat parchment, new script across the vellum. He raised an eyebrow. It was addressed to him.
Gerard, I know you are angry. I was not a good father. Who expected me to be? Certainly not your long deceased mother, Creator bless her. He knows I used her for her progeny and little else. But I had an obligation, you understand. You. The Redstone line must be passed on. Grole’s House needs us. The Scrape Lands need us. The web needs us. You know this. You have read the manuscripts. You have pieced together the reasons why the Brothers remain in hiding. And, I’m afraid, that time is coming to an end.
The Seer will try to bring the web down, Gerard. And there is a part of me that thinks you should probably help him do it. Everything he needs to know is harnessed in that beautiful mind of yours. I destroyed that parchment as soon as you found it, but little did I know then that you had the gifting of perfect memory recall. You’re special, Gerard. I knew you were, but I just didn’t know the extent before you ran away.
Here you are, in Vale. I knew that Malok Mountain Keeper couldn’t handle the amount of knowledge, when he was with me, which would be required for the web to come down. So I came here, to the Reader’s father. Kole del’Blyth is a good man, Gerard. And I think that the Reader will return home. So wait for her, assist her, and when the time is right, you will know what to do. Your path will cross with Malok’s, if you remain with Graissa.
That’s not all. Fortress of the Deep, as you well know, belongs in the hands of the Mools. But it also belongs in the hands of the Stewards. It’s in your head, too. I suppose you will have to figure out the best time to give it to them. Kole knows. But he only sees what is right in front of him... for now.
I’m sorry. I wish I had loved you. You deserved it. But finding love in my heart was not an easy task. I think maybe you understand that part of me. Knowledge is everything. Love is secondary. And the Deep? Well, you suppress it, but in time, I think you will realize that suppressing it is harder than you think. It’s like taking part of your soul and throwing it into the dark.
The Last Steward Page 2
