The Echoes of Sin (The Kinless Trilogy Book 3)

by Philbrook, Chris

  “There will never be a time when you are not afraid,” Marcus said with a soft voice, just loud enough for the men in the tower to hear. A warm summer breeze blew through, punctuating his statement, stilling the moment. “Fear tells you that you are alive. Fear tells you that you want to live, that the impending chance of death is something you dread, and want to avoid. I’m not afraid of dying so long as there is an Apostle nearby to usher my soul along. The fear of being maimed sits with me though. Never been able to shake that curse.”

  All the men present at the top of the tower listened to their commander with intent faces and ears, their fear forgotten for a moment as their leader spoke from his heart.

  Marcus continued, speaking to the day and not the soldiers, his voice monotone, “I have this recurring dream where I’m on horseback. Calamity actually, my Gvorn. She and I are charging into battle and it’s horrible and majestic. The blood is in the air, metal clangs on metal, the ground shakes from the pounding of hooves. I hear the shouts of triumph coming from my friends and allies, and I hear the screams of pain and loss coming from my foes. It’s shameful isn’t it, to find exultation in the death and dismemberment of your enemies? Too late at that point to fret about what is right and what is wrong. In war there is only what is necessary to survive. But in my dream Calamity and I are charging down a tall Knight, this armored enemy who stands with no fear of me, or my mount, ignoring the raging strife on every side of us. He is a pillar of defiance. And as I am about to strike him with my blade, he spins, ducking out of the swing, and I miss. I look down to him, and see in his eyes through the crack in his visor that he has me. He has gauged me properly, knows my quality, and it’s too late for me to avoid his skill and power. He has a spear then. And he drives it into my hip, breaking my leg and tearing a hole in my flesh that sears me with more pain than is imaginable, and I fall from my Calamity, and when I hit the blood red grass below, I wake up, cold and sweaty, an ache in my side where my dream bit me.”

  Marcus let the strange story sit in the waning moment of the day.

  “What happens to us in our dreams is not real Knight Major,” one of the archers said. Marcus looked to him. He was young. He couldn’t be more than eighteen winters old and yet he had a strength to him, something in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, and the way he stood. Despite his fear, he had courage.

  “Nothing in this life is real, and maybe that’s the trick. All men will meet an end one day. By blade or hammer, sickness or simply old age, all of us will be ushered into the afterlife to be spirits. How we die doesn’t matter. How we choose to live reflects on our legend, and on our reputation after we have passed. And I will not let my fear of being hurt change the stories people will tell about me for the rest of time. People will tell tales of what is coming here soon. And they will say that the Ghost Makers fought without fear. That we stood side by side, afraid but not backing down, never turning away, man to man, woman to woman, arrow to spear and blade to hammer, and we bled together, and we died together.” Marcus turned from the young archer and surveyed the massive field of Empire combatants below, easily outnumbering his meager force ten to one or worse.

  “But most of all soldiers of mine, they will tell the tale of how we won.”

  Peiron Fitch needed space from prying eyes, and listening ears. He needed solitude, and he needed it fast.

  The false Apostle was walking in the streets of Ockham’s Fringe no more than a hundred feet from the base of the hastily built tower that Marcus Gray stood atop. If Peiron knew that the Knight Major was atop the tower, he might consider setting it on fire, or tying to tip it over to end the upcoming battle sooner, but in the first of several approaching moments of good fortune for Marcus, the Apostle was ignorant of his location.

  As he moved about he wore his sand colored Apostle’s robe, with the hood over his head. Peiron had shaved his brown hair off nearly to the scalp in anticipation of the war that was mere hours from birth. If he had a head injury the short hair would allow another healer to tend his wound quick, but more importantly, he could now blend in with the vast majority of shaved headed soldiers moving all around the town. Peiron knew that the treachery he was near to committing would result in his execution if he was caught, and he had no room in his plan for dying just now.

  He smiled with a touch of madness as he headed down a dirt side street, nodding to the soldiers who ran past him after he put on a serious face. The men were carrying small barrels of freshly fletched arrows. They ran at full tilt, ignoring both him and the two arrows that hopped out of the top of the barrels, landing in the dirt with near inaudible thumps. He stepped aside for the runners. When they turned the corner heading to some bastion of defensive power where the projectiles were needed, Peiron stomped on the two arrows, snapping them in half.

  “First blood,” Peiron muttered softly. He scampered away to put distance between him and his small act of sedition. “Foolish. That was foolish. Moron. What if you get caught?” Peiron whispered under his breath. As he thought of a way to punish himself after the battle another pair of soldiers with barrels ran past. With a strong will he averted his urge to turn around and see if more arrows fell. It wouldn’t do to risk being caught for something so stupid, at the precipice of his grand achievement.

  Peiron had kept track of what homes were empty in the village. There weren’t many in the hamlet; perhaps a hundred homes, plus the shops and businesses required to support such a remote town. He knew one dilapidated two story home with the barn built underneath the living space above was empty. He’d claimed it as his own when the fear-stricken owners had fled south on the last train. Before he ducked into the straw and shit filled space for animals he looked up and down the street. No one was watching the lone Apostle’s movements.

  “Perfect,” he said as he disappeared into the darkness. Ten strides later and he was heading past the recessed wrought iron gate that doubled as the front door, and was taking the rickety stairs up two at a time to the kitchen above.

  Dirty bowls and cups littered the small round table and kitchen counter beside the washbasin. Peiron had no interest in cleaning up his messes on the eve of victory. There would be an undead servant for that soon enough. He scurried into the back bedroom and shut the wooden door behind him. He coughed hard once when a gust of air blew fresh dust up his nose and down his throat. He could feel the teasing tickle of a sneeze coming, so he pinched his nose to suffocate the sensation. When the threat of the sneeze passed, he climbed up onto the bed and sat cross legged, slowing his breathing with conscious effort.

  When his heart was calm, he began his spell. “Spirits of this pathetic lump on the ass of Elmoryn do my bidding. I need the ear of General Dalibor Hubik, who is on the plains nearby, and is as miserable as I am of this place.”

  The air in the dusty room swirled in a sluggish stir. With a grunt Peiron urged the presence to listen hard, and hesitantly, it gusted higher, coming to attention.

  Lazy spirits. I don’t understand who would put their faith in them. “They are prepared for your attack as we discussed. When you let fly your first volley of arrows and they beckon for me to send the aid message, I shall agree to it, and send instead nothing. I will then kill the other Apostles able of the Sending. All is as it should be. Ockham’s Fringe will fall, and the Queen shall have what she wants at long last.”

  Peiron sighed, satisfied as the whirling dust shifted towards the wall heading east, signaling that the immaterial spirit had passed through the wall and was on its way. It wouldn’t take long for the message to reach General Hubik. He was less than a mile away as the crow flew. Peiron got to his feet and smoothed out the thin blanket he’d sleep with later that night, if the battle lasted through the night. He exited the bedroom, passed through the kitchen, and descended down the wobbling stairs that were designed to be yanked up in the event of an outbreak of the undead. He hid a laugh about how useless they’d be in a few hours when the dead marched side by side with the Queen’s soldiers. Can’t
send a dead body to kill you? Fine, we’ll just torch your home.

  “Apostle?” A voice called out from the street as Peiron stepped onto the straw of the barn.

  He was startled. “Yes? Who goes there?”

  A young soldier—a corporal—as Peiron recalled after seeing his face, stood near the fence that spanned the open end of the barn entrance of the home. His skull was shaved so close as to shine in the golden setting sun, and he was covered in beads of salty sweat. The young warrior waited until Peiron approached to answer. “Corporal Sutton, Minister. I’m sorry to bother you but the Knight Major wants you close by. He feels the opening of hostility is but minutes away.”

  The Knight Major is an astute observer. “Very well then Corporal Sutton. I spirited away for a short rest. I fear the time for relaxation is near to over for us all.”

  The corporal nodded and rested a hand on the hilt of his long sword at his hip. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Minister. I sure hope the Ancestors are here in force with us this day. We’ll need their support to hold The Empire off long enough for our reinforcements to arrive. Are you ready for a fast Sending?”

  It’ll take more than a thousand dead spirits to stop what’s coming for you Corporal. “I’m very ready. I’ve got the message memorized, and as soon as the Knight Major gives me his command I’ll head to a quiet area and cast it. I may need your assistance. Are you tasked to anything of import?”

  The corporal looked surprised. “No. My sole responsibility is to return you to the Knight Major. After that I’m back under his command.”

  “Excellent. I need you gather four very important Apostles for me. They need to be brought together. Every Apostle that backs me up must be ready to do another Sending if mine fails. Can you do that?”

  The corporal nodded without thinking. “Of course. Whatever you need. Just give me their names and I’ll have them organized.

  The General wishes to tell you that you have done well Peiron Fitch, a voice said to him from the aether. Peiron went stone faced, trying to pretend that he wasn’t being spoken to with The Way as the youthful soldier stood ready for his instructions.

  They must’ve sent a powerful Waymancer… Someone able of a spiritless Sending. Possibly a Necromancer of the highest accord? Peiron feigned a sneeze to buy the spell time to finish its message to him, and to hide the look of shock that had to be on his face. A thrill passed up and down his spine as he thought of his close proximity to such tremendous power. High ranking Generals and Necromancers so close…

  We shall bait Varrland into battle after the sun sets. We shall let fly with arrows lit aflame, and they will burn, and they will die, and they will rise again to do our Queen’s bidding. Rest assured Peiron Fitch, if you are to die in this, you shall be brought back as a servant of the Queen to survive forever. Do not fail us in this time of importance. All the battle lies with your actions.

  When he was sure the ghostly message in his ear was over, Peiron let slip a fake sneeze.

  “Good health,” the patient soldier said.

  “Thank you,” Peiron said, wiping his nose with a dirty handkerchief from his robe pocket to buy time to reorganize his thoughts. Once he shoved aside the reality of dying in a city set aflame and he put the still dry rag away he addressed his new companion. “Let me tell you the names of the people I need you to fetch for me, and as I do, take me to the Knight Major.”

  “Of course Minister.”

  They began to walk back the way Peiron had come from, and the imposter listed off the four names of doomed Apostles.

  —Chapter Three—

  PREPARATION VERSUS TREACHERY

  The first sign of the attack came to the warriors like clouds clearing from a star strewn sky. Instead of white sparkling pips behind puffy white clouds, the tiny dots revealed were islands and specks of menacing flame. The defenders watched as dozens of immobile barrel sized braziers were lit by a scattered handful of dancing torches carried by Empire runners. Marcus knew in the pit of his empty belly these markers of flame would be where the first flaming arrows would come from.

  He was still in the same guard tower, high above the village below. It had a good view of bad events. The wind had picked up with the sun’s retirement a few hours before, and he had to raise his voice to be heard by the men nearby over the licks of the cool air, and the commotion below. “Start the pumps on the roofs and in the streets immediately. Everything must be damp in no more than ten minutes. Message the archers in the towers to sight in on the large flames. Those will be where the most dangerous of their arrows will come. Instruct them to mind the wind. It moves from north to south now and blows hard enough to stray an arrow far at that range. Remind them tonight that we are the Ghost Makers, not the mistake makers.”

  The archers in the tower with him readied their arrows on strings and breathed deeply to calm their nerves. Quietly they discussed with each other how to gauge their shots. Over their whispers Sergeant Dunwood crouched and hollered through the trap door an almost exact repeating of Marcus’ words down to the runners below. The soldiers scattered when the sergeant finished. The Knight Major’s instructions would reach the other towers across the small village in less than a minute.

  “Apostle, is your spell ready?” Marcus said in nearly a growl. His blood was setting to boil, preparing for war, and his internal friction came out in his voice.

  “Aye sir. At your command I’ll return to the village below and send what words you wish,” the Apostle said back.

  “What is your name?” Marcus asked the young priest, looking at him. Studying the make of the man. He looked too young for such great responsibility, but the same could be said for the soldiers who served under him. Too young to be such experienced warriors, but not too young to die.

  The priest was slight, with a smoothly shaved skull peeking out from under his loose hood. He’d cut the hair with a sharp blade only hours before, and had the nicks to show it. He had dark, fierce eyes that looked back at Marcus with the power of the focused. His dark eyes had faith, and fervor. Before the young man spoke at all Marcus had judged him true to the task appointed to him.

  “Peiron, my lord. It is my pleasure to serve at this most auspicious of times and places,” he said back to Marcus. His voice was set with confidence, and didn’t sound pandering or sarcastic in the least.

  “I am not your lord, Apostle. I am a soldier. If you must, you may call me Sir, as I am a Knight. But I am no lord.”

  Peiron inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the warrior’s humble wish without saying a word.

  “Are you ready to do this thing? Your Sending spell?” Marcus asked him as he turned back to the spreading sea of orange-white flames. Dozens more, tinier still than anything seen yet were spreading in uniform lines across the war host, unfurling like a great serpent make of flame. The ranks of archers without doubt.

  “As I said Sir, yes.”

  Marcus realized that he had indeed asked the young priest twice. He smiled wistfully. Is that a lack of focus? Or old age? Ancestors forbid it is nervousness. “My apologies Peiron. My mind is in a hundred places right now but not in this conversation it would seem.”

  “Very understandable,” the Apostle said in a conciliatory tone.

  Marcus turned to face him again. Dunwood stood at Marcus’ shoulder, making the conversation even weightier. “Peiron I cannot emphasize enough to you how important it is for you to cast this spell quickly, and clearly. We will not be able to hold out long against so large a force. We are here to delay. Getting the message to Daris for our reinforcements will be the difference between our success, and dismal failure. How good a field general I prove to be will not matter if your spell doesn’t carry fast on the wind.”

  Peiron’s fierce eyes never strayed from Marcus’. “I am aware of the brevity of the situation Sir. I volunteered for this because I am a master of the Sending spell. My skill with The Way is second to none in this regard. I also volunteered for this because I knew I could d
o it. I will be brave. For my people. For my nation. I will not fail you or them this night. I will make you, my family, and my nation proud or die trying tonight.”

  Marcus felt a ripple of pride course through him as the young man spoke. The Knight Major’s sense of hope flourished, if only until his men began to die. “Good.”

  Marcus turned back to the gray sea of the nighttime plains, now awash in a thousand pin pricks of orange lights. The flaming arrows would come soon, and not long after that, the cries of pain and death.

  Corporal Beckett had a strange job in this battle. Instead of riding with the cavalry or launching arrows high into the sky to plummet down on the enemies of his nation, or swinging his sword to lop off the arms and heads of his foes, he was tasked with what sounded mundane but would be crucial. Perhaps his responsibility would matter more than all the others combined; the corporal was tasked with being a fire officer.

  “Pump faster boys! No, not like that! Work top to bottom! Spray the roofs first, let the water run down!” Beckett yelled at his engine team. The short man from south Varrland had a deep booming voice that seemed far too large for his mustached face. The Knight Major—in a possible stroke of genius in Beckett’s opinion—had commandeered a trio of fire engines from the city of Daris. The capital of Varrland was well known for its tall wooden buildings, many six stories or higher, and it was also well known for the time and money it had spent on fire control. The city’s Artificers had devised a mobile water pumping machine on a large cart. With strong men operating a two person pump, the horse-drawn engine could toss water through hoses fifty feet into the air, putting out all but the absolute tallest of fires in the city on the worst of days.

  Fearing the flaming arrows of The Empire, Marcus had commandeered and tasked the engines to Ockham’s Fringe, and now they blasted well-drawn water onto the thatched and tile roofs of the village buildings before they were set aflame. If it worked, it would allow the soldiers to focus on the fighting, instead of the panic as they turned to put out flames that threatened to cook them alive.