by David Benem
Lannick looked to him, quiet for a moment and with a pit in his chest. “You’re damned right,” he said at last. “For nearly a decade I forgot what a valuable thing hope can be. But now I have it again. We have it again. Be glad we have it still.”
5
FRIENDS
Bale turned to his side, uncomfortable on a bedroll that did little to dull the edges of the sharp stones of the Arranese steppe beneath it. What was more, the thin sheet he’d propped overhead with a stick did nothing to blunt the blaze of the rising sun. The sight of the Necrists a few nights before unnerved him still and his ankle throbbed with pain, but he was tired and stubborn and not about to surrender to the day’s toil.
He squeezed shut his eyes, determined to send the sun back beyond the horizon and return the sky to night. Then, as if in answer, darkness pressed aside the light glowing through his eyelids, blotting the sun’s brightest beams. He smiled wanly, glad to give his aching ankle and blistered feet more time to heal.
A sharp kick struck him.
“Ouch!” he screeched.
“Quiet, Bale,” grumbled Lorra from nearby.
“Then stop kicking me!”
Another kick. Sharper this time.
“Get up,” said a woman’s voice.
But that’s not Lorra.
Bale pried his eyes to a squint and beheld a black silhouette framed against the harsh Arranese sun. He yelped, threw aside his makeshift tent and scooted back along the rocky ground. A Necrist!
“Easy,” said the figure, the voice a touch softer. “I’m a friend.”
Lorra growled beside him and darted upward, dust puffing in yellow plumes from her rough-hewn clothes. She brandished her wooden cooking spoon in an angry hand. “You’re no friend of mine! Are you some kind of thief?”
Bale rubbed at his eyes as they adjusted to the sun and the figure resolved in his vision. It was a woman, short-haired with wide brown eyes and a cloak of forest green. She wore a scabbarded short sword and had a practical look about her.
This is no Necrist.
“I am no thief,” the woman said.
Lorra thrust the spoon outward like a dagger, her face wrinkled and suspicious. “Then what do you want? You’ve been following us?”
The woman turned her eyes to Bale. “I’m here to learn what an acolyte of the Ancient Sanctum of Illienne the Light Eternal is doing in Arranan, so far from his quiet Abbey in Ironmoor.”
Bale pinched his loose nightshirt about his skinny form then reached for the bundle of his brown robes. “And who are you to want to know?” he asked, tugging the robes over his head. He looked nervously to her sheathed blade.
“My name is Alisa,” she said, bowing. “Like you, a loyal servant of Rune. And I suspect our purposes in this wretched land are intertwined.”
Bale squinted, as much from the sunlight as distrust. “And what is your purpose here?”
“I was tracking something. Something moving through the night. Something you saw just three nights ago, Acolyte. You know of what I speak.”
Bale cocked a brow and rubbed at his overlarge nose. He didn’t know yet whether to trust this stranger, but knew he was a poor liar. I’ll ask more questions, not give answers. “How is it you know we saw anything?”
A smile danced across the woman’s lips. “The two of you blunder through this land like blind bumpkins. I could smell those rotten roots you were cooking a league away. That,” she said, her expression becoming somber, “and my order has ways of detecting spellcraft.”
“You insult my cooking?” Lorra growled.
“Your order?” Bale said.
Alisa dropped to a knee before him. “Do you know who keeps watch? Who fights the enemies lurking along the shadow’s edge? Do you know of the Vigilant?”
Bale pressed a finger to his lips, dredging the depths of his knowledge, those esoteric things he’d studied in the books buried deepest in the Abbey’s library. Those books laughed at by scholars, some even forbidden. There’d been a book on Lector Erlorn’s—the Sentinel Castor’s—private bookshelf, which the Lector had suggested he read only a few months before his death. The Variden were described therein. “Variden…” he murmured. “The descendants of Valis…”
The smile returned to Alisa’s face. “You know secrets well kept, Acolyte. I am impressed. Then you know what it is you saw that night?”
“Necrists,” he said quietly, giving up on his questions. “Necrists and their creations.”
“Yes,” she said. “I located their lair in Zyn and tracked them across this very waste.”
“You know their destination?”
“Rune,” Alisa said. “Likely to join the Spider King’s army. I followed them to the foothills of the Southwalls then left my watch to another of my order. I returned to find you, to see what you know—and how I can be of help.”
Lorra squinted at the woman, wooden spoon drooping. “We let her stay with us?”
“For now,” Bale said, looking timidly at Lorra.
Lorra’s apprehension remained etched upon her hard face. She paced at a wary distance.
Alisa gestured for Lorra to come near. “Please,” she said, her tone earnest. “You will find we need each other.”
“Bale?” Lorra asked.
Bale nodded. “We’ll listen to what she has to say.”
“Good,” Alisa said. “I found food before coming to you.” She presented a small satchel and revealed a number of small, greenish eggs. “Breakfast?”
“A welcome treat,” Bale said, gulping down a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Delicious.”
Nearby, Lorra grumbled something that didn’t sound as complimentary. “I’ll forage for stouter food while the two of you talk of how tasty these tiny eggs are.” She dropped her bowl with a clatter and rose, flashing Bale an angry grimace.
Bale looked to her with pleading eyes, but that didn’t stop her from stomping away from their campsite.
“She seems quite the character,” Alisa said once Lorra was a few dozen yards away.
“She’s a loyal friend,” Bale snapped.
“I am sure she is,” Alisa answered, brown eyes staring meaningfully at Bale. “You may find I am, as well.”
“We’ll see,” he said slowly. He knew but little of the Variden. The books he’d read instructed that Valis vested his power in physical devices upon his death, devices used by his disciples to carry on his vigil over Rune. Bale surmised he’d trust the woman in better circumstances, but surrendering that trust in the wastes of Arranan seemed a different matter.
Alisa scraped the last of her eggs from her shallow bowl. “Zandrachus—”
“Just Bale, if you would. My father called me Zandrachus.” His contempt for the man rang sharply on his voice.
“Very well, Bale. Circumstances are dire, and we must speak directly. There is no time to do otherwise.”
Bale placed his bowl on the hardpan dirt beside him and smoothed his robes.
“If you know of the Variden you can guess my purpose in this place,” she said. “Rune has been invaded by the Arranese, and, as you’ve seen, the Necrists have a role in this. As a Variden I’m sworn to watch over Rune, to keep an eye on her enemies. I have scouted this land to see just how grave our problems are and the scale of the Necrists’ involvement.”
“And how grave are those problems?”
She sat quietly for a moment, eyes downcast. “The gravest, I fear. We know not for certain, but from what I’ve learned things are far worse than we suspected. The Necrists are many, Bale. They are many, and their hive is beneath Zyn. They are entwined with the Spider King. He receives their counsel. Worse, he may be a Necrist himself, though none of our number has managed to get close enough to determine that with certainty. But we do know the Necrists mingle with his army, even performing rituals on soldiers dead and dying.” She looked back to the sun, as though seeking solace in the light.
“I saw one in Riverweave,” Bale said. “A Necrist. Conferring with Genera
l Fane and speaking of some black bargain. They talked of an ‘Auruch.’ I know little else, for I traveled south thereafter.”
Alisa’s eyes widened. “We knew of some contact, but nothing of that nature. We’ve focused our efforts on the Spider King and the Necrists, though it seems Fane deserves more… scrutiny. One of our number—or, at least, one we used to count among us—has set out for Fane’s head. I’ll send word to my order that he requires assistance.”
“From here?”
“We have methods of speaking, even at great distance, by virtue of the gifts Valis bestowed. But,” she said, pulling closer. “I have said much, and you very little. Why are you here, Bale? You learned of General Fane bargaining for an Auruch yet you continued here, into this barren land. Why? What drives a man such as you so deep into the land of our foe? You don’t strike me as a traitor, nor one particularly accustomed to the rigors of travel.”
The sun’s glare had grown intense and Bale felt sweat beading on his brow. “I am no traitor.”
She edged closer still. “You observed a small army of Necrists, a direct threat to Rune. And still you continued your trek. Why? What is of such importance?”
Bale noticed the woman’s left hand caressing a bracelet of iron worn just above her right. He suspected it was one of the devices passed on by Valis.
“I can help you, Bale. I serve Rune above all, as you do.” Her large brown eyes were suddenly difficult to avoid. “You know of your Lector’s true nature, don’t you?”
He felt as though the answer crept along his tongue, drawn out by this stranger. Sweat dripped on his face and his heart pounded. I am too weak an instrument! “Yes!” he squeaked.
“You know he was something more than a man, don’t you?”
He tore his gaze away from hers. She knows. He tugged in a breath, trying to calm himself. “Castor,” he whispered.
“Then we each serve a Sentinel. As I said, our purposes are conjoined. Did you find the site of his murder?”
“My superiors at the Sanctum tasked me with finding that, and with seeking answers.”
Alisa eased back, her hand dropping from the black bracelet. “We discovered who killed him. A man who carries his spirit still.” She sighed. “I hate to bring news of more tragedy, but both our orders have been beset by it and I fear more will come. One of my brothers, Merek, captured Castor’s killer. He’s a vicious highlander, an assassin who was retained by the Necrists to slay your Lector. Merek captured him and took him to your Abbey, and there they tried to tear Castor’s spirit from the highlander’s flesh. In the process, the highlander slew your Dictorian, and my brother Merek died as well. We know not where the highlander is now.”
Bale sat slack-jawed.
“What’s more,” Alisa continued, “High King Deragol passed, less than a week ago. There are rumors Queen Reyis is with child, but only rumors. She’s said to have disappeared from the Bastion, and the castle’s halls are fraught with chaos and whispers of betrayal—”
“The Last King, indeed.”
“I needn’t tell you what trouble this portends.”
Bale tucked a dangling strand of hair behind his ear. “Such is the nature of troubled times.”
“Another of my brothers—also slain—accompanied Castor on his quest. We knew the purpose of his mission. You know of that purpose as well?”
He nodded, finding his earlier distrust had vanished. “To summon the Sentinels to Rune in defiance of the banishment.”
“I see now that Castor anticipated these events.” Alisa fixed him with her gaze. “And so I am led back to my original query. What is your purpose here?”
“I continue Castor’s quest, to find Kressan the Kind in Zyn. Then I am to bring her to the Sacred Place beneath Cirak.”
“Then you’ll have my help in doing so. There’s another friend of ours there and he’s certain to aid us, as well. Nevertheless,” she said, rising and extending a hand, “we have a most arduous task ahead. Get up, Acolyte. We’ve no time to waste.”
They walked in the dying light of evening through a valley between flat-topped hills. Fires dotted the hilltops, and Bale guessed they marked camps of roving Arranese. He wondered whether they, like the Necrists, were headed for Rune and war.
“Make camp now?” muttered Lorra from several yards ahead of them. She’d spoken only rarely but ever gruffly since the morning.
“Not yet,” said Alisa. “We need to get clear of these hills. We’re safer from the Arranese at night than we are during the day. But as you are coming to know, Acolyte, the darkness gives us things to worry over besides the Arranese.”
Bale pulled his robes close. With every breeze he felt a chill—real or imagined he could not be sure. Whichever, he knew he’d not be comfortable during any night spent on this steppe after witnessing the march of the Necrists and their abominations.
“Another mile or so,” Alisa said, “but no fire at our camp this night.”
Bale nodded and tried turning his mind from the image of the Necrists. “Your order,” he said. “How many Variden are there? The accounts I read were unclear.”
Alisa’s eyes glinted with the light of the fading sun. She paused, seeming to consider whether to answer. “There are but twenty, twenty-one if I count Lannick… If I count the one who abandoned us.”
“So few?” he asked, his curiosity kindled.
“Valis divided his power among us, just as Illienne did among the Sentinels. Had Valis divided that power any further it would have been diminished, leaving us too weak to combat our enemy.”
“And what of the other Sentinels? The histories are unclear and some of the Sentinels unaccounted for. Did they divide their power or retain it? What is it you know of them?” He stopped, knowing he spoke too quickly. “Nothing?”
“The occasional rumor. Rumors infrequent and fleeting and rarely confirmed. There were rumors a hundred years ago of Thaydorne venturing into the Bowl of Fire in search of one of the old hells left by the Elder God. Another that Sienne served as a trusted advisor to the last Sage-Emperor of Harkane. Lyan the Just was allegedly spotted just a decade ago, stopping the execution of a traitor at a watchtower along the western shores. Pastine is thought to have vanished and been survived by but a handful of disciples. All considered, it is such that we wonder if many of the Sentinels abandoned this world long ago. I hope your Lector was correct in thinking they could be summoned back. I hope there is meaning to your quest.”
“There is, Alisa. We spoke with Lyan the Just in Cirak, just weeks ago.”
Alisa turned sharply to him, eyes wide and glittering in the fading light. “You were in the presence of a Sentinel?”
Bale sniffed in a breath of the dry, dusty air. “It was… uncomfortable.”
“You have seen a rare thing, Acolyte. Tell me of this.”
Bale rubbed at his nose and trudged along. “It wasn’t what I expected. She was majestic and intimidating and seemed to fill the entire room when she spoke. She was more than mortal, certainly, and I felt the presence of divinity. But there was an anger, too. Some deep-seeded hatred for Rune that I imagine has festered in her heart for a thousand years.” He tucked long strands of gray hair behind his ears. “She said she’d wait for us to complete our quest and then speak with the other Sentinels. However, I have much doubt she and the others will be persuaded to come to Rune’s aid.” He looked to her. “Do we have other friends who share our cause? Others who might help us?”
Alisa smiled slightly. “We have friends, Bale, but few. Most have forgotten the evils of old, or would rather think nothing of them. Your order has stood with us. The heads of your order always shared with us those portents and omens they felt necessary to our task. I mentioned Pastine, who is survived by disciples who may help as well. I know one for certain who may assist us.”
“Pastine…” Bale said, recalling the Sentinel was known as ‘nurturing’ but recalling little else. “Are we enough? Are we enough to defeat the enemy?”
A
lisa took a long, even breath. “Rune has weathered many storms without Lyan and the others, but I worry what comes now is too fierce a thing without the aid of all the Sentinels. Let us pray Castor foresaw things that we cannot.”
Bale nodded and turned tired eyes overhead, to stars struggling to light the sky in the wake of the waning sun.
Prefect Gamghast sat at the table in his small quarters, old eyes trained to his solitary window. Raindrops spattered against the glass from an angry sky, a thunderstorm darkening the summer day. And there, not far from the Abbey, stood the foreboding silhouette of the Bastion, erstwhile home of the High King of Rune.
He looked upon the brooding mass of leaden stone, a cold pit forming in his belly. Somewhere within—upon the throne most likely—was Chamberlain Alamis. Gamghast’s mouth sank to a bitter frown beneath the wisps of his beard as he thought of the man’s treachery.
His attention turned to the frayed note upon his table, the note the now-dead scullery maid had given to Bale shortly before the acolyte’s departure. “The King is being poisoned,” the note began. “That’s why he’s gone mad and why he’s making no babies. He is in grave danger. Beware of the chamberlain. He speaks much with a man whose face is made of stitches.”
It seemed a certainty that Alamis had forged a relationship with the Necrists, and had played some role in causing the High King’s troubles with conceiving an heir. It seemed a distinct possibility—nay, probability—that the chamberlain had hastened the High King’s demise, as well.
Rage seized Gamghast and he slammed a gnarled fist against the table.
How could we have been so blind? How could our old enemy have worked beneath our very noses for so long?
He looked back to the window.
Because we’ve holed up within these damned walls for too long, poring over old books while our enemy courted an alliance with the chamberlain himself…
They’d permitted the old order of their world to crumble about them, its foundations corroded by arrogance and ignorance and neglect. They’d raised only faint protest when formerly routine audiences with the High King were refused. After all, the royal staff still called upon the Sanctum regularly for the treatment of ailments and matters of faith. But they never encountered the High King during such visits, and after a time only the Lector was permitted an annual, ceremonial audience with the man.
