Friendly Fire

by Dale Lucas

  Feces. Probably human waste. Destroying the dwarves’ temple hadn’t been enough for this lot. They’d been keen to violate it with a bath of piss and shit as well.

  Monstrous. Simply monstrous.

  Disgusted, Rem turned away from the altar and the reliquaries. When his eyes fixed on the columns flanking the altar, he noted that the heinous desecration had not stopped on the dais behind him. On the pillar before him, it looked as if someone had dipped their hands in the priestess’s spilt blood, then inscribed sloppy crimson words on the column itself.

  Trifling, Beset by greed, and Rid the earth of these were scrawled hastily, one beneath the other. The other pillar, about ten or twelve feet away, on the far side of the altar, bore a message of its own, also written in blood.

  Humble them with fire and sword.

  Rem felt sick, and somehow knew that it was not just from the smell of shit emanating from the altar. The bitterness on display here—the naked hatred—made him honestly, physically ill. Rem knew what it meant to hate. He’d hated people in his lifetime, some of them total strangers, some of them his closest relations. But that was how he chose to hate: person by person, individually, for personal slights or observed miseries inflicted upon undeserving victims. He hated his father for being ambitious and cruel. He hated one of his cousins for being a boor, a fool, and a rapist, and for never being held accountable for his crimes. Once he’d even hated a perfectly kind and intelligent young man who had won the affections of a local girl they both pined for. But he could not, for the life of him, understand the sort of blind hatred that led a person to demonize an entire people, just for being who and what they were.

  And yet here was that hatred, made manifest in all its ugly glory before him. Trifling. Beset by greed. Rid the earth of these. Humble them with fire and sword.

  Those weren’t just insults. They were declarations of war.

  Torval hove up beside him and studied the haphazard inscriptions.

  “Can you read them?” Rem asked quietly.

  “Thanks to your Indilen I can,” Torval said grimly. “By all the gods, I wish I couldn’t.”

  Rem waited. For a long time Torval studied the words directly ahead, on the pillar nearest them. After a time he turned and studied the other pillar. Finally he returned to the pillar before them. His expression had not changed. It was grim, thoughtful, and more than a little pitying.

  “What do you think?” Rem asked.

  “I think,” Torval said slowly, easing nearer to his partner, “that things are about to get ugly.” He searched the area, to make sure they were alone, then spoke to Rem in a hoarse, low voice, as though he feared being overheard. “This? This is bad. Terror. Cowardice. Hit-and-run. Masks. Spilling blood in holy houses. It’s vile, plain and simple. But when those dwarves decide to strike back …? I promise you, it’ll be just as bad … maybe worse.”

  “Well, then,” Rem said, “we’ll just have to make sure no more dwarven blood is spilt.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Torval said. “We can’t trust a word from Eldgrim’s mouth, not a one. It isn’t that he’s a liar by habit, mind. It’s that he doesn’t see the profit in keeping his promises to human authorities, or those who would claim to be his allies. In his mind, you tall folk are all the same—all envious, or hostile, or just eager to exploit him and his for your personal gain. I seriously doubt he’ll wait to retaliate. He’s probably got a plan brewing as we speak.”

  “Can we stop it?” Rem asked, meaning not just the two of them but the whole of the wardwatch.

  Torval studied the pillar before him and the pillar adjacent, then turned his gaze toward the great pool of blood on the flagstones of the central aisle. He sighed.

  “Not likely,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bjalki wandered the citadel like a ghost. He sat for a time in his seat beside the ethnarch’s throne, hearing Eldgrim’s wroth curses and furious threats to the wardwatch.

  “I need to see meaningful effort from your wardwatch, or I shall send my swords into the streets of this quarter to protect my people. I’ll fight the councils on it if they hinder me, and I’ll see you stripped of your rank and badge if you challenge me!”

  Eldgrim would do it, too. There was no reasoning with the ethnarch even at the best of times, let alone when his blood was up.

  And he was not wrong, was he? Their people had been wronged. Justice had been denied them. If the locals could not protect them, why shouldn’t they protect themselves?

  Gods of old … we are on the brink of open war in the streets.

  I should have saved her.

  Why did I not fight harder to save her?

  Eldgrim continued to froth and rage even after the questioning was complete and the watchwardens had departed. After a time Bjalki grew tired of the ethnarch’s fury and excused himself. He meandered through the back corridors of the manse for a time, then out into the cold, clear night, haunting the shadows on the periphery of the courtyard. Outside the citadel gates curious onlookers clustered while citadel guards struggled to keep them back. In the shadow of the temple itself, across the courtyard, the watchwardens milled about, moving in and out of the temple, talking in furtive whispers among themselves about the senselessness and savagery of the crime, the great quantity of blood. Bjalki lingered within earshot of all these conversations, and unconsciously absorbed them, but in truth very little penetrated the frozen, sword-shocked stasis of his mind. He heard, but he did not comprehend; he saw, but he was not aware. At one point he found himself leaning against one of the outer walls of the great temple, palms high on the cold stone, head hung low, a steaming puddle of vomit at his feet. He did not remember vomiting, but whose else could it be?

  After the excitement in the courtyard and the temple itself died down, Bjalki drifted inside the temple. A few watchwardens of the Fifth and a handful of citadel guards moved in the great, empty space, but for the most part the place was as dark and silent as a family tomb. A few lamps were lit, no doubt to support a closer examination of the premises. No one had attempted to clean up the wreckage surrounding the ceremonial altar. No one had washed the vile graffiti off the front pillars. No one seemed eager to bend to work with brush and bucket to scour away the great congealing pool of Therba’s blood now staining the flagstones of the main aisle.

  The docent’s blood. Therba’s blood. Dwarven blood. There it lay, a vulgar black puddle on the paving.

  Something caught his eye, a dim glint in the shadow of one of the great pillars lining the main aisle. Bjalki moved nearer, crouching down to get a better look.

  It was a rag … or rather a scrap of cloth. Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, Bjalki thought it was naturally dark gray. Presently, though, it was soaked with blood.

  He remembered the masked man who’d been struck by Therba, who’d fallen so hard and cracked his head on the flagstones. He remembered the sound of the tearing cloak, and the man who had knelt at his wounded brother’s side, pressing that scrap of cloth to his bleeding skull.

  This is the blood of one of Therba’s murderers, he suddenly realized.

  In answer to a strange compulsion—a desire he could neither articulate nor understand—Bjalki shoved the bloody rag in the pocket of his robes.

  The grim trophy made him think of Therba again. Bjalki turned back to the great pool of her blood just a few strides away. He stared, unable to take his eyes off it. It seemed to admonish him. To taunt him. To shame him.

  What could he have done? Those men had held him, hadn’t they? And he was no warrior—he was a priest. He hadn’t held a sword or an ax in his hands since he was a youth, and even then only for the few summary drills that all young dwarves were taught. He was neither especially strong, nor especially fast, nor especially brave. He was not, now that he thought about it, especially anything. And because he was not especially anything, the dwarf he’d called teacher—and friend—had died.

  I could have fought them. Should have fo
ught them.

  I could have hurt them, if I’d only tried. I have hands. Fists. Teeth. Feet.

  If I fought hard enough, I could have at least died fighting for her.

  But instead I cowered and watched. I broke free of them eventually, didn’t I? Perhaps if I’d fought harder, sooner. If I’d kept my wits. If I’d waited for the right moment.

  But no. I cowered. I submitted. I only fled when their leader told me to run. I would praise his mercy if it had not come as too little, too late.

  Like my own resistance.

  What am I to do now, eh? What purpose can I possibly serve in a season like this? Therba was strong, learned, wise, courageous. She told Eldgrim the truth, even when he preferred not to hear it. She shamed her people to noble action when they would have fed their basest instincts. She moved our people—and our leaders—to deeper labors, more earnest penitence, more honest charity, and more true compassion. I cannot replace her. I’m not wise enough, or brave enough, or experienced enough.

  And they will all know. Word will get round. Everyone will know that I could have fought, I could have tried to help her, so that we could either escape together or die together. But instead I saved myself, and I let her die. They will all know, and they will shame me. Even if they never say a single word, they’ll shame me with their silence and their piteous glares and their whispers.

  He had come to a door. He hadn’t even realized he’d been wandering again—out of the temple, through the back corridors that led to the chapterhouse, down a series of dark, untrodden hallways. Somehow, through no conscious effort of his own, his feet had brought him to the place he always came to when seeking solace or insight: the library.

  He pushed open the heavy oak door and slipped inside.

  A single oil lamp burned under a clouded glass hood on a flat-topped stone column that stood just a few feet from the door. Bjalki was drawn, mothlike, to the flame and the way the translucent glass hood amplified and softened that light. He took up the lamp and carried the little brass bauble across the chamber to the reading table in the far corner—the very same table where Therba had found him poring over scrolls just days ago. There familiar candles waited. Carefully Bjalki lit each of them from the pilot flame of the lamp in his hand. When the candles were glowing and the light in the shadowy scriptorium had increased sufficiently, Bjalki withdrew and returned the parent lamp to its pillar. Then he crossed wearily back to the reading table and let himself sink into his favorite reading chair. For a long time he slumped there, trying to tease out just what it was he was thinking and feeling. He could determine neither.

  The war is not coming, he thought. It’s upon us. The riot … the fire … Therba’s murder and the temple desecration. They are no longer warnings of what might come—they are proof that the terror—the fury—has arrived.

  We cannot rely on the wardwatch. They owe us nothing and can promise us nothing.

  We cannot deploy the Swords of Eld—no matter how justified we might be to do so. If the ethnarch’s house guard metes out bloody justice to even one human in the dwarven quarter, the whole city will rise up against us. They will always protect their own, and see us as aliens and criminals.

  What’s left, then? How do we protect ourselves—avenge ourselves—if we cannot take up arms in our own defense?

  Suddenly there was a sound in the chamber like a braying ass, and Bjalki realized he was crying. His whole body shook. Snot hung in long ropes from his nostrils. His vision was awash with tears. Stinging, bitter, copious tears. Try as he might, he could not stop. He wiped at his nose with his sleeve and kept trying to choke the sobs down, but there was nothing for it. All that he had failed to feel, to face, for the last few hours came rushing in upon him.

  He relented. For a long, long time he sat there, slave to his sobs, hoping they would soon be exhausted. He never wanted to know this feeling again.

  Bjalki blinked and wiped his eyes, trying to banish his tears. This was weak and foolish. If his heart was sick and his soul in mourning and his desire for justice stirred, he should do something. He should act—as Therba would have—not just moon about how helpless and confused he felt.

  Our people need protection, he thought. Retribution. How can I give that to them? What can one bookish priest do?

  He let his gaze wander to the table before him. A number of old codices and scrolls he’d been recently perusing lay nearby in reasonably neat piles. Idly, Bjalki studied them, letting his fingers trace their leather covers, their cracked and frayed old spines, their uneven leaves of parchment or vellum, their hasps of brass and silver.

  Regarding the Gods. The Book of Ormunda. Treatise upon Trials and Lamentations.

  His eyes returned to a single volume.

  The Book of Ormunda.

  Bjalki blinked. Ormunda, the most celebrated and accursed of dwarven mages. Had he and Therba not been discussing her only days ago?

  In those days war was endless. Our people tried to live in peace, but Ormunda the Red saw how weak we’d become, how vulnerable. She showed our people the way …

  She summoned demons from the Fires of the Forge Eternal.

  And they fulfilled their purpose. They gave our people strength and resolve when they had none. They enacted the worst punishments—the most terrible depredations—upon our enemies, so that, in the end, we did not have to.

  He heard Therba’s voice then. Do you think that absolved Ormunda? Savior or no, she blighted us. She damned herself. Do not lift her up as a hero, Bjalki. Even in her own tale, she is the villain.

  Bjalki’s hand plunged into the pocket of his robe. He drew out the scrap of cloak that he’d picked up in the sanctuary … soaked in the blood of one of Therba’s murderers.

  This blood—blood tied to the perpetrators—it could be all that the right power needed to seek out their enemies, to deliver retribution.

  Therba’s voice echoed in his mind, wholly unbidden. She damned herself. Do not lift her up as a hero, Bjalki.

  Bjalki shook his head and spoke aloud to himself. “Perhaps,” he said in the gloomy, empty library. “But she made a choice, and that choice saved our people … even if it ultimately damned her.”

  He stared at the book before him and shuddered. Was he really considering this?

  It only took him moments to decide. Bjalki sniffed. His tears were all gone now, as was his desire to weep. There was work to be done—hard work, bitter work, but necessary work. And this time, no matter what it cost him, he would be true. This was his only salvation … his only redemption.

  Those who threatened his people would pay dearly, and Therba would be avenged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Fifth’s answer to ambushes and temple desecrations by masked marauders? Armor. All those on the midday shift—Rem and Torval included—were set loose in the watchkeep armories and told to cobble themselves together a more or less full suit, complete with a shield and a few weapons of varying lethalities. Rem was a little excited about that prospect at first—he hadn’t worn armor in years, since his last tournament melee, back home—but hunting through the forgotten, half-rusted hodgepodge of armor pieces littering the watchkeep armories proved far more challenging than just picking out a suit.

  For one thing, no two pieces matched. No two greaves, no two gauntlets, no two pauldrons. Clearly everything available had been gathered by the wardwatch by slow accumulation. Second, even when matching was not a concern, there was the issue of sizing; a person could not simply snag a plate or banded cuirass and strap it on. One’s armor needed to fit, at least somewhat, or it would prove uncomfortable, hindering, even potentially dangerous to the wearer in the heat of battle. And finally, of course, there was the issue of to what extent they should armor themselves. Ondego had given no requirements. He had said only that he wanted his watchwardens to be protected and armed for pitched battle, and, likewise, capable of defending more than just themselves should things get dire. But protecting oneself for a street skirmish and prote
cting oneself for life-and-death fighting on a field of combat were two very different matters.

  Left to his own devices, Rem tried to strike a balance between protection and mobility. And so, after searching the armories for almost an hour, he managed to gather a light chain mail shirt, a pair of mismatched greaves that fit the shape of his lower legs well, despite looking nothing like one another, a banded mail breastplate that afforded him excellent protection from direct attacks while also allowing some freedom of movement, and, miracle of miracles, what he assumed to be the only matching pair of vambraces—thin, light, steel sheathed in leather—hiding in the whole armory. To this cobbled-together outfit he added a stout wooden shield, then called it a day. Now he, like all his companions on the midday shift watching over those dwarves at the temple construction site, would be ready for almost anything their enemies could throw at them, even if they looked like a bunch of ragamuffin mercenaries in motley while they did it.

  “Look at him!” a feminine voice said. “The Bonny Prince cuts a striking figure indeed!”

  Rem turned, knowing the speaker instantly: Emacca, a tall, muscular Tregga horsewoman and one of his frequent sparring partners in the watchkeep courtyard. The nomad was striking in her own right, easily a fingerlength taller than Rem, wide at the shoulders and hard of limb, her soft, almost feminine face marked by a storm of ritual scars and tattoos from her days riding on the Great Steppe, off in the northeast beyond the Ironwalls. She’d chosen a fine complement of pieces from the armory, all providing a great deal of protection and movement without weighing her down.

  Rem posed heroically, playing the fool and not caring. “What do you think, Emacca? Shall I strike fear into the hearts of my enemies?”

  “Love and devotion, most like,” said Sliviwit as he passed. He tickled Rem’s chin as though he were a kitten as he hurried by. “Such a pretty, pretty lad.”