by David Benem
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are divined from the author’s imagination or are being used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, places or events is entirely coincidental.
The Wrath of Heroes
A Requiem for Heroes, Book Two
© 2017 David Benem. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9961939-3-1
Cover and formatting by Damonza.com
Map by Dan Martin (http://www.wondrousworks.art)
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1 - BACK IN THE SADDLE
2 - DOUBT
3 - A CURSE UPON THE WORLD
4 - THAT HINT OF DANGER
5 - FRIENDS
6 - TROUBLE
7 - THE PAST’S LONG FINGERS
8 THE GODSWELL
9 - NIGHTMARES
10 - A SLIVER OF HOPE
11 - ONLY MEN
12 - THE HAND THAT SAVED THE WORLD
13 - THE PROMISE OF REDEMPTION
14 - ZYN
15 - THERE IS ONLY DEATH
16 - TO WAR ONCE MORE
17 - THE GRIP OF DARKNESS
18 - THE HOME OF THE SPIDER KING
19 - OLD ACQUAINTANCES
20 - DESPERATION AND DEPRAVITY
21 - THE WORST OF TREASON
22 - THE SANDS OF FOREVER
23 - RIVERWEAVE AT LAST
24 - THE HEADS FROM THEIR BODIES
25 - HOMECOMING
26 - BLOOD TO HEAL THE WOUNDS
27 - AN UNHOLY END
28 - OLD SCORES
29 - A NEW BEGINNING
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I can’t do this alone and I’ve realized I wouldn’t want to. I’ve had plenty of excellent help from plenty of excellent people and that’s made the journey all the more worthwhile. Thanks first and foremost to my most patient and loving wife, who’s always the first to give me praise even when I’m not certain it’s deserved. Thanks to my amazing kids, whose many talents and many smiles remind me every day there is real joy in this world. Thanks to my dear mom and dear sister. Thanks to my many fine friends who read the words nearly as quickly as I wrote them—you helped me feel good about the first book and even better about the second. And thanks to the fabulous Laura M. Hughes for the insightful edits and inspiring comments.
Special thanks also to the indie fantasy community, particularly the Terrible Ten and the SPFBO crowd. Long live the writers!
And, most of all, thanks to those many supportive readers who’ve been willing to take a chance on my work, for taking the time to leave reviews and mention it to friends and online. Word of mouth is everything for an author, and I can’t thank you enough. I hope you enjoy this next step in the journey as much as I have.
To Dad,
I miss you.
1
BACK IN THE SADDLE
This would be a lot easier if I were drunk.
Lannick eased back in the saddle and scratched at his scarred face, grimacing crookedly as he did. His destination, Kevlin’s farm, stood only another day’s ride distant. There a motley bunch of old soldiers awaited, a fair number of whom either thought him dead these last nine years or at least wished he’d been.
A gull squawked in the afternoon sky, a rumor of Ironmoor and the Sullen Sea two days behind them. The place dragged at his thoughts still, with murky, wine-blurred memories of too many years spent draining too many tankards. Too many years spent blaming himself for the murder of his family at the hands of General Fane.
He sighed. Part of him worried he wasn’t fit to leave that place, like he belonged to its seedy taverns the same way a corpse belonged to a tomb. But another part of him—an increasingly louder part—hoped leaving meant a sort of liberation, like he’d buried that bloated carcass of shameful mistakes and left it behind.
He looked to the landscape aside the dusty road. Low hills with thin trees and tall grasses rolled languidly about, dotted by the occasional farmhouse or mill of piled stones.
Lannick grimaced again.
And nary a tavern in sight.
“Now there, Captain,” said Brugan beside him, the barkeep’s thick form looking as though it might cause the scrawny, piebald horse beneath him to snap in two. “I’m seeing that old look, that sad scowl you’d wear when you’d skulk into my tavern after making an ass of yourself the night before.”
“You needn’t worry, Brugan. I won’t be turning back to that.”
“But Lannick,” Brugan rumbled on, acting as though Lannick hadn’t spoken, “you needn’t feel that way. You gave your speech to these lads. They agreed to join this effort and follow you, remember?”
Lannick remembered well his “speech.” He’d managed precisely one word: vengeance. His heart had trembled that day much as his hands would the morning after a bad drunk. He knew the men harbored ill feelings toward him for what had transpired after the Battle of Pryam’s Bay, almost a decade before. After Fane branded Lannick a traitor, every last one of his men was decommissioned. Those who’d voiced objections were tossed into the brig.
First a parade of proud heroes, then a march of shackled prisoners.
He looked to Brugan. “I reckon most of those men blame me for what happened after the war.”
“Don’t fret, Lannick. The lads will come round. They respected you. All of them did, and they will again.”
“That was a long time ago. When you gathered them up in Ironmoor a couple of weeks back, all I saw was doubt and anger. They think I betrayed and abandoned them and I reckon it won’t be easy convincing them otherwise.”
Brugan clapped a hand against Lannick’s shoulder. “You’ve changed these past months. You’ve changed into something closer to your old self and the lads will see that. Hell, you even look like your old self again, if the eyes can forgive a crooked jaw and twisted nose!” He chuckled. “Even with your new dents and divots, you look less the scoundrel than that shaggy-haired, stubble-faced drunk I got too used to seeing at The Wanton Vicar.”
Lannick scratched at the salt-and-pepper hair he’d been keeping cut short in soldier’s fashion. “I always was the handsome sort,” he said with a smirk.
“You and me both!” Brugan laughed, patting his flat, nubby face. “But you need to trust me, Lannick,” he said, sounding serious once more. “The lads will notice the way you’ve changed, and I know it won’t take them long. Let your deeds speak for you and the lads will listen.”
Lannick nodded, eyes dropping to hands looped by the leather reins of his horse. His palms were yellow with callouses, his knuckles striated by small scabs and scars. They seemed different hands than what they’d been months before, when they’d seemed most suited to drawing a tankard to the lips over and again.
Now they seemed hands most fit for hefting a sword, and that notion carried with it the thought of the man for whom that sword was intended. That mad, vicious bastard who’d taken from him all he held dear.
General Fane.
Lannick bunched his hands into fists, a sudden anger swelling within him. “Aye.”
“Lannick, all you need do to make this happen is keep from slipping into those old habits again. Stay away from the drink. You need to—”
“I know,” Lannick said firmly, his hatred of Fane chasing doubt to the far corners of his head. “There’s no need to worry.”
“Better not be. I’m happy to be your sergeant again, but I’m through being your nursemaid.”
“Enough, Brugan.”
Brugan regarded him with a cocked brow, his lumpy face puckering in odd places. “Oh?”
>
Lannick was rankled by the challenge in his friend’s tone. “Dead gods, man! I don’t need such talk from you!”
“Really? You need such talk most of all from me. You don’t think I recognize that look in your eyes? That look when you waver from old hero to old drunk? I have every right to remind you, to keep you in line. How can you expect the men to keep from doubting you so long as you doubt yourself?”
Lannick stared straight ahead. His will faltered at times, sure, but he remained determined to see this through.
“I shouldn’t make sure you’re staying true to this?” Brugan asked. “I shouldn’t make certain the resolve hasn’t fled your heart?”
“No,” Lannick said, voice steady. “You think I don’t want a drink now and then? Of course I do. But I’ve stopped blaming myself for the death of my family, and realize now their blood has not stained my hands. It’s Fane. It was always Fane, and it took me far too long to realize that. Don’t worry, Brugan. I’ll not let my thirst—or any other weakness—keep me from vengeance.”
“That’s it, Lannick,” Brugan said, his tone softening. “You can’t be forgetting that, no matter how hard it is. We can win this thing, but we’ll need every bit of venom and vigor within us all. Keep your edges sharp, lad. Even if it means reopening those old wounds now and again.”
Near evening they caught sight of other riders kicking up yellow dust far ahead. The glint of metal shone upon the riders in the waning sunlight, weapons likely. Crows cawed from a skinny tree then scattered, as though racing to warn the local farmers of strangers on the road.
“Perhaps a few more lads riding to join our cause,” Brugan said, pride lifting his voice. “Cudgen said he’d passed along word to his relations. Not former soldiers, but a few capable lads whose father commanded a garrison near the Southwalls. The fellow died at the front because Fane refused to send reinforcements. We can expect them and perhaps more.”
Lannick didn’t answer, studying the figures. Two on horseback, two others atop a horse-drawn cart. They were well distant but it seemed clear they were riding toward them, not away. What was more, Lannick spied red sashes on their shirts. The High King’s men. Men under Fane’s command.
“More of our lads,” Brugan said, a smile creeping across his face.
“No,” Lannick said, finding the hilt of his sword. “Fane’s men. Keep your weapon ready in case this gets complicated.”
Brugan shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted. After a moment his wide face paled. “Dead gods. There are a couple of lads in the bed of that wagon. I heard rumors of conscriptions, especially after the thanes got word of the desertions at the front. They’d never try that sort of thing in Ironmoor where it’d draw notice, but out here in the countryside I reckon it’s a different matter. We should leave the road and make for cover.”
Lannick shook his head. “They’ve seen us already and they’ll track us down if that’s what they’re after. Best to take our chances and try talking our way around any questions.”
“And hope they find no use for a couple of old soldiers?”
“I’d suggest only admitting to being a barkeep and his favorite drunk,” Lannick said through his crooked grin.
Brugan smiled anew. “I can play that part, and have an idea or two. Don’t say a word. Pretend you can’t hear and can’t speak. Leave the talking to me.”
“I usually do.”
The distance between them was closing. Soon Lannick could see the figures wore not only the red sashes of the High King’s armies but leather armor and plenty of weapons, as well. The wagon held two young men with hands bound, though it seemed big enough to hold half a dozen or so more. Lannick reckoned the soldiers were itching to fill it.
“These soldiers aren’t likely to be the hardest of men,” Lannick said. “Regulars, perhaps, but not the sort needed at the front. Probably old dogs or lame ones.” He frowned and rubbed at his aching jaw. “But then we’re not exactly at our best anymore, either.”
“Speak for yourself,” Brugan said with a huff. He loosened the straps holding his hammer to his saddle. “I can still crack heads with the best of ‘em. I was always gentle with you when I had to toss you from my tavern but most other louts weren’t so lucky.”
Lannick studied the soldiers as they approached. They were much as he expected: two with bellies broad as their horses, two others with faces pinched from age. Nevertheless, they were well-armed and armored, while Lannick and Brugan had merely a sword and hammer between them.
“Halt, by order of Chamberlain Alamis,” said the fattest one, a man on horseback with a sour sneer twisting his pimply face. He raised a hand and pulled his miserable-looking horse to a stop.
“The chamberlain?” Brugan chuckled. “Since when is he—”
“Since High King Deragol died two nights back,” the soldier said with an annoyed tone. “Died without an heir, he did.”
A terrible weight fell upon Lannick’s mind and his hand moved to his Coda. The High King? Dead without an heir? His thoughts were pulled along an old and almost forgotten course, a feverish curiosity coupled with a driving purpose.
Most regarded the High King as a blithering idiot, but Lannick knew the man and his forebears carried a divine blessing. Illienne the Light Eternal had blessed the High King’s line with the grace to rule Rune, and the ability to touch the Godswell where Illienne and Yrghul descended into oblivion a thousand years before. It was said only those of that bloodline could touch that eternal gate.
Without the High King, could another open the Godswell? Lannick gripped the box holding his Coda, seized by fear and desperate for the information the Variden were certain to be trading.
“Hadn’t heard that,” Brugan said, shaking Lannick from his thoughts. “Troubling news.”
“Needn’t trouble you fellas,” said another mounted soldier, an old one near the wagon with pale eyes and half an ear missing. He had three yellow stripes on his red sash, marking him a sergeant and the leader of this contingent. “We’re still at war and the army needs sword-arms all the same,” the man continued. “You fellas look like you’d make fine fodder for the front.”
Lannick did his best to appear unmoved. The problem was the more he tried to look like he wasn’t troubled the more troubled he became. He felt sweat beading on his forehead and it wasn’t overly hot.
“Sorry, lads,” said Brugan. “My friend there is deaf. Dumb, too. Can’t hear, can’t talk. I’m a cousin of his—alas, with a trick knee and a few other infirmities myself—taking him back to the family farm so he’s no longer a burden to the good folk of Ironmoor. He can milk a cow, maybe, but he’s not good for much else.”
“That so?” said the half-eared sergeant, matter-of-factly. “I reckon I’ve heard worse lies along this road, but a lie’s a lie all the same. You boys look familiar…” He stared to Lannick. “You ever serve?”
Brugan puffed his chest a bit. “I did, and proudly at that. That is until my knee took a hard blow from a hammer in the last war. Sadly, my cousin’s afflictions kept him from taking up arms for the Crown.”
“That so,” the sergeant said again, pale eyes narrowing. “I guess my sight must be failing me, ‘cause he looks real familiar. Clagger, see whether this ‘deaf’ idiot minds a wee whisper in his ear.”
Clagger, the fat one who’d stopped them, clicked his tongue and eased his horse forward. He came even with Lannick and looked to him with a nasty smile. He pulled uncomfortably close, tilting in his saddle until Lannick could see the purple veins on the bulb of his nose and smell his fetid breath.
“Now, lads,” Brugan said, holding his hands out. “We don’t want no trouble, least of all from honorable soldiers of Rune. As I said I served honorably myself many years ago! Men like us—old soldiers—needn’t disagree.”
The sergeant sneered. “Clagger?”
Clagger grabbed Lannick’s chin between plump fingers and drew even closer, bringing his mouth just beside Lannick’s ear. Lannick felt sweat trickle
down his brow, wishing very much Brugan had told a very different lie. With his far hand he found the hilt of his sword again.
“Good day, lad,” Clagger said softly.
Lannick blinked but did not otherwise move, keeping his eyes straight ahead and playing the role of deaf mute.
“I said…” Clagger’s voice rose, its volume becoming painful.
He’s going to shout. Shout as loud as he can.
Lannick wasn’t about to have his ear ruined. Damn it, Brugan!
He heard Clagger’s deep inhalation. Then Lannick gave the fellow a hard pop in the gut with his elbow followed by a fierce whack to the throat with the back of his fist. Clagger reeled backward, struggling for balance with flailing arms. He teetered and fell from his horse with a heavy thud.
“To arms!” screamed the half-eared sergeant, struggling for his sword as his horse wheeled beneath him. The soldiers driving the wagon followed suit while Clagger kicked at the dirt, hands pressed against his throat as he gasped.
Brugan freed his hammer from its straps. He pulled his horse close to one of the soldiers seated atop the wagon. Brugan twisted the hammer back and made ready to swing.
Lannick ripped his sword from its scabbard and dropped from his horse. He moved straight at Clagger. The man’s eyes bulged as Lannick closed upon him. He struggled upon his back, waving hands frantically. Lannick noticed the man’s sword in a scabbard on his horse but the beast meandered a dozen or so yards away.
Lannick felt a hint of mercy stir within him. Then the nearby crack of Brugan’s hammer against bone forced such notions from his head.
There can be no half-measures now. No turning back.
He plunged his blade into the man, through a pleading hand, a layer of hardened leather and into the chest beneath.
Lannick pried his blade from the corpse and looked about. The soldier Brugan had struck twitched on the dirt beside the wagon, half his head turned into a bloody crater by Brugan’s hammer.
Only two soldiers remained, the two older ones. The veterans. The half-eared sergeant with a dented blade in hand and a hooded, squint-eyed codger standing in the wagon’s bed with a bow drawn.
