The Sigil Blade

by Jeff Wilson

  “Is that really what you want me to tell him?” Thovin said.

  Logaeir stumbled a little. None of this had been any part of any plan.

  “Tell him that so long as he does not interfere, I will leave him alone,” Logaeir said with finality.

  Hilek laughed in a disturbed way that inspired a chill in Logaeir’s veins. The man’s sanity appeared fragile at best, and he was no doubt all the more dangerous because of it. “Time to go,” Hilek said to Thovin.

  Thovin took a few steps forward so that he was right next to Logaeir. “This opportunity will not come again if you pass it by, Logaeir,” he whispered.

  That Thovin had known who it was he was speaking to was no surprise, that had been a given from the outset. But the man was earnestly trying to persuade him, and seemed to being doing so out of honest sympathy, and this gave Logaeir reason for pause before he responded. “You can tell him that so long as our goals coincide, I am sure we can work something out,” Logaeir whispered back.

  Hilek was still laughing softly to himself as they parted company. Logaeir couldn’t imagine what was so amusing, but he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it was. His head was spinning as they made their way back aboard the Retribution, failing in all his efforts to understand what had happened. He was supposed to pretend to be Lord Aisen the Blood Prince, convince Herja that he was nothing more than a simple criminal with vain ambitions, and hope that she didn’t decide to kill him.

  Instead he had made some sort of tentative bargain with Seoras and had not seen Herja at all. He might have taken it as a positive outcome, after all he didn’t want to go anywhere near Herja, but Logaeir knew that this couldn’t be over, and as such he felt no relief. There was something else at work here and he needed to understand it before he could move forward.

  He was puzzling over these concerns when he closed the door to his cabin and noticed a strong sweet smell. It was the balsam resin that protected Herja’s skin. Now he had some understanding of what it was Hilek had been looking at when he was staring out towards the ocean, but Logaeir couldn’t guess how Herja had gotten onto the ship and then entered his cabin without ever being noticed by any of his men.

  “You are not him,” she declared from where she stood in a dark corner of the cabin. Her deep voice sputtered as if obstructed by fluid in her throat.

  “Not… who?” Logaeir fumbled unnecessarily, caught completely off guard. He flattened his back against the door and began reaching for the handle. How is that going to go? he wondered silently to himself. Images of Herja chasing him down as he tried to flee his own ship convinced him that it would be a bad idea.

  “You are not Aisen,” she clarified. “Maybe the same height, but your build is wrong and your eyes are the wrong color. He doesn’t carry himself like a mouse hiding from a snake either.”

  Logaeir expected he probably did look something like a trembling mouse just at the moment, and Herja seemed to detest him for it. Herja could certainly play the part of the snake in the analogy that she had given, and Logaeir found it illuminating that she saw herself that way. Invoking what composure he could manage, Logaeir stepped forward towards a table that was bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Logaeir surreptitiously drew his knife while taking a seat, keeping it hidden from view beneath the table, gripped firmly in his hand and ready for use.

  Herja left the corner and took a seat as well, her chair protesting under the weight as she settled in beside Logaeir. The sheen from the coating on her dark grey skin glistened under the light of the oil lamp that hung from the ceiling.

  “Now there’s a brave man,” she said with approval. “What did you think of Thovin and Hilek?”

  “Hilek, he was the short one, had an unbalanced look in his eyes?” Logaeir asked. “He wasn’t what I would consider the best of company.”

  “Nearing the end of his usefulness I fear,” Herja admitted. “But you don’t throw a thing away just because it’s broken and can’t be fixed. Not until you can replace it.” Suddenly her face brightened. “How would you like to be bound?” she asked.

  It was an impossible thing to do, but as best he could, Logaeir tried to contain the revulsion he felt at this vague proposition. “I don’t think it agreed with Hilek all that well,” he said, “and I’m not sure I would like it much either.”

  “No, you probably wouldn’t,” she said, almost rueful as she reluctantly rejected the idea as well. “But that doesn’t leave me with a reason to let you live.”

  Logaeir decided to employ his contingency plan, which even after all the time he’d had in which to consider it, still struck him as pure stupidity. In one quick motion Logaeir drove the dagger he had been hiding into Herja’s midsection, just above the armor around her waist. It stopped, striking something hard less than an inch beneath her skin. Logaeir pulled the weapon free. There was no blood, but the knife was sticky with resin, and the point of the blade was chipped from the impact.

  “Why!” she demanded. “Why in the three realms would you do something so stupid? Just because I can’t be killed doesn’t mean I enjoy having my stomach cut open.”

  Herja was angry and annoyed, but she had made no move to respond. Logaeir knew that if she decided to kill him, there would nothing he could do. He had been assured that he could not hurt her and told to expect this exact sort of reaction, which in the context of the circumstances was unbelievably muted, but as he watched Herja, Logaeir still wasn’t convinced that he was going to survive.

  “I thought your skin was armored. I didn’t think it would do any damage.”

  “So you just decided that you were going to test it out!” She cried. Herja remained angry, but she was also looking at Logaeir with respect that had not been there before. “The armor thing is usually true,” she said, calming down a little. “Just not in my case,” she added with a hint of embarrassment.

  Herja began to examine the cut in her tunic where the blade had gone in.

  “I hope I didn’t do any serious harm,” Logaeir said, still worried that she might yet decide to retaliate.

  “One of the first things you do when you find out you are dead,” Herja said, “is to get rid of most of your internal organs.” She apparently didn’t understand how this sounded to someone else. Logaeir tried not to react.

  If he had possessed enough courage, Logaeir would have liked to have asked what it was that he had hit with his knife that had prevented it from going deeper. Logaeir was sure that it was not bone. He suspected it was hardened metal.

  “There isn’t really anything you could have damaged,” she continued. “My shirt though, it isn’t the sort of thing I can replace. And you wouldn’t believe how terrible Thovin is at mending. Hilek is surprising’ good at it though.”

  Logaeir shook his head as he listened to her talk at length as if these were all very ordinary things. “You are rather grounded for an immortal being,” Logaeir said, expressing in an understated way, the discordant wonder which he felt so strongly each time Herja spoke. She did defy every expectation he would have presupposed of an undying corpse. Logaeir didn’t dare say it out loud, but once you got past the more menacing aspects of her appearance and behavior, she had something resembling a sense of humor and was companionable in her own fashion. Or at least she might have been were it not absolutely imperative that she be persuaded to leave the island as soon as possible.

  “Seoras was right about you,” she said. Her pleased expression projected what Logaeir was certain must be a draugr’s approximation of happy. “You and your Ascomanni could be very useful.”

  Chapter 15

  Commander Ledrin

  Ruach’s efforts to carry out his captain’s orders had been repeatedly frustrated. They had met up with an Ossian ship named the Wave Splitter, but there had been no opportunity to speak with the ship’s captain. He and Oren had been kept on Krin’s ship, the Black Strand, and were at this moment sailing into the Citadel Harbor under escort.

  Two short stint
s at sea had been enough for Ruach to know that he was never going to enjoy the constant rolling motion of a ship, and he looked forward to setting his feet upon the earth once more. Krin had watched them for the entire three days at sea, and he followed them even now as they disembarked the Ascomanni vessel.

  A solemn face greeted both Oren and Ruach. Patiently waiting on the weathered planks of the waterfront dock, stood Commander Ledrin. News of their return had obviously preceded their arrival, or the foremost among the eight commanders who shared in the leadership of the Sigil Corps wouldn’t have been here. Ledrin looked both anxious and displeased as he waited for his men to approach.

  “I don’t see him,” Ledrin said, stating the obvious. “I hope you at least managed to locate him.”

  “We found Aisen,” Oren said, eager to share the news, “but he isn’t with us.”

  Oren was about to continue but Ruach interrupted, directing a casual momentary sideways glance in Krin’s direction. “It would be best if we spoke somewhere else.”

  “Have your little meeting of Sigil Order initiates,” Krin joked. “I can see that I’m not invited. I’ll stay on my ship, and have a secret meeting of my own.”

  “This is Captain Sarel Krin,” Oren said, belatedly introducing their companion. “He is a leader among the Ascomanni.”

  “You will be coming too, Captain Krin,” Ledrin ordered. “I have questions that you will answer once I have spoken with Oren and Ruach and our ‘little’ meeting is over.”

  The Ascomanni strongman cracked a smile at the remark, which he had taken for an attempt at humor, but Ledrin just continued to frown.

  “I’ll not complain,” Krin said, looking up at the tall walls of the white fortress that overlooked the harbor, “if I get a tour of that place.”

  “I can do better than that. I can arrange a room for you,” Ledrin said.

  There was an unused dungeon in the fortress, and Ruach wondered whether things were going so poorly that this was what the commander was making reference to. Deciding not to share that particular speculation with Krin, Ruach made an attempt to make it clear that the Ascomanni captain was here as an ally.

  “Captain Krin is here at our behest, with an offer of support,” Ruach said.

  “And he is welcome to stay,” Ledrin replied. Almost as an afterthought he added a qualification to the offer. “If you are willing to accept an escort that is—neither you nor your crewmen are permitted to enter the city or leave the dockside areas unless you are accompanied by one of my officers.”

  Ledrin began to walk, followed closely by the two officers. Krin hoped they would be going to the fortress, but Ledrin was taking them to a group of garrison buildings, advantageously positioned between the bustling harbor and the sprawling town built up beneath the protective shadows of the Port Citadel.

  The soldiers who policed this area, as well as many of the tradesmen and a few of the laborers, were of apparent Edoric descent, but the waterfront was otherwise dominated by men from different Rendish nations, primarily Ossians, moving merchandise to and from the ships that were tied up in the harbor. Goods moved between the docks and the city via checkpoints, manned by uniformed soldiers from the garrison, and tariffs were collected with each exchange.

  Krin knew that on the Edoric side of these checkpoints, there would be no corresponding mix of cultures. Foreigners were banned from traveling within the borders of Nar Edor, except as Ledrin had said, under a protective escort provided by the Sigil Corps. It wasn’t quite clear who was being protected from whom under this arrangement, but he understood the reasons for the animosity and distrust. Given a history of attacks by Rendish raiding parties in the past, it was remarkable that a ship belonging to a man of Krin’s reputation had been allowed into the harbor.

  After reaching the garrison, Ledrin soon ushered Oren and Ruach into his private offices and was about to leave Krin in the company of a couple of soldiers who were standing guard beside the door. Neither of them stood out to Krin as particularly intimidating men, and they were nowhere close to the Ascomanni captain in terms of size or strength. However, Krin had received enough training from Oren and Ruach while they had been at the Ascomanni encampment to understand just how capable these soldiers would be.

  “We are not to be disturbed for any reason,” Ledrin said to the waiting guards. Before closing the door, Ledrin gave the guards one more instruction. “See to Captain Krin. I am sure he is expecting our hospitality and could use a little refreshment.”

  “Neysim Ells,” said one of the soldiers once the door had been shut, addressing his towering guest while extending his hand in greeting.

  “Sarel Krin,” the Ascomanni captain replied. He accepted Neysim’s hand and gave it a firm shake, testing the strength of the other man in the process.

  “The common room is this direction,” Neysim said, pointing the way as he began to lead Krin out from the anteroom of Commander Ledrin’s office.

  “If it means food and drink, I’ll follow where you lead.”

  The other solider remained posted outside Ledrin’s quarters as they headed down the corridor and travelled towards the center of the garrison.

  “It’s a shame your friend isn’t coming,” Krin said.

  “Egran? He isn’t exactly a friend, and he would be abandoning his post if he left, though I don’t think he would even want to come. He isn’t over-fond of Ossians.”

  “I’m not an Ossian,” Krin responded. “I’m a citizen of An Innis, by way of Seridor.”

  Neysim blanched at the revelation that Krin was from Seridor.

  “Last I saw of Nar Edor, was from the deck of a ship, twenty years ago.”

  “You came with Beodred’s men.” Neysim concluded.

  “And left a prisoner to the Ossians,” Krin answered. “I may have come here with him, but as to actually being one of Beodred’s men, I wouldn’t make that claim, not as such, or at least not willingly so. I was maybe fourteen and wasn’t part of the fighting in the city. All the same, I did get to enjoy several months in a makeshift prison camp overseen by none-too-friendly Edoric soldiers when everything was done.”

  “You were a conscript?” Neysim asked.

  “That would be one way to put it. I was a barely grown young man forced to join the Alliance, little different from so many others who made up the bulk of Bedored’s forces,” Krin confirmed. “Most of us were only too ready to turn on Beodred given an opportunity, and ultimately, that is what we did. We murdered the men who had been left in command of our ship, but we were captured by the Ossians when we tried to get past their blockade.”

  As they arrived at the common room, Krin’s recounting of these events was interrupted by the bustle of sounds which on a daily basis could always be heard in consequence of the garrison’s soldiers gathering for the afternoon meal. Several dozen of these soldiers were at this moment eagerly consuming dark bread and large quantities of pork taken from butchered hogs that had been roasted on spits in the center of the room.

  “Joining the Sigil Corps doesn’t pay much, in fact it doesn’t pay at all, but we do eat well,” Neysim said as he cut open two loaves and filled them with portions of meat carved from one of the animals.

  Neysim found an empty spot for them at one of the tables and deposited the food there before leaving to grab a couple of drinks. Krin had barely had time to sit down before his host reappeared holding two large cups.

  “Are you really an Ascomanni captain?” Neysim asked as they ate.

  “There are a few now, but I was one of the first,” Krin bragged. Krin might have argued that he was the very first; however, it sounded like an exaggeration even to Krin, despite knowing it to be the truth.

  “I’ve heard that Aisen is raising an army of Ascomanni to besiege the capital,” Neysim said, hoping that his guest could confirm the rumor.

  “I wouldn’t say that there are enough of us Ascomanni to amount to what you would consider an army,” Krin said.

  “I shouldn’t
be asking,” Neysim apologized, “not here, and not before Ledrin has had the chance to meet with you. It’s hard to not be curious though, not with the way things stand.”

  Krin didn’t ask how things stood. He was caught on something his host had said a little earlier.

  “You really don’t receive pay?”

  “Even a first year initiate has access to disbursements. You can obtain Order funds when needed, but no one receives wages, and you don’t own anything but your sword, and that only once you have earned it. Not even the commanders own anything.”

  “My men get an equal share of all that we capture,” Krin said. “I’m surprised the local lords don’t hire away your best men.”

  “It can happen, but never our best,” Neysim said. “In the first place, most of the nobility distrust the Sigil Corps so strongly that they would never allow one of us into their employ.”

  “I thought that Edoric lords sent their children for ten years of service to be trained by the Order,” Krin said. He really was confused by this. It was commonly repeated outside Nar Edor that service in the Sigil Corps was in some way compulsory for younger sons among the elite of that insular land. It was strange to hear that nearly the opposite was in fact closer to the truth, and that the nobility did not trust this re-founding of the Sigil Order.

  “It isn’t common, but there are some that do,” Neysim acknowledged. “And there are others that are willing to recruit from the ranks of the Sigil Corps, but they understand they may be adding men with divided loyalties. You swear only one oath when you join the Sigil Corps, and that is that you will swear no oaths.”

  “So a former soldier of the Sigil Corps is always either an unsworn man, or an oath breaker. No wonder the nobility doesn’t approve.”

  “It’s more than that. Time in the Order changes a man. We are bound to principles that guide our actions in ways that often conflict with the interests and unchecked ambitions of powerful men.”

  “There is nothing wrong with ambition, and nothing keeps loyalty like coin,” Krin argued. “I’ll wager I could buy yours.”