The Wrath of Heroes (A Requiem for Heroes Book 2)

by David Benem

  The thane sat quietly for a moment then arched his brow. “And you think he should be removed from command? This is why you call upon me?”

  No turning back.

  Lannick nodded. “I call upon you not just because I think he should be removed from command, but because I think he should be hanged for treason.”

  Cudgen grumbled noisily then Arleigh smacked the table with his one remaining hand.

  Thane Vandyl coughed again, a hard, long hack that rang of illness. “It seems your companions may disagree.”

  Lannick steadied himself. He felt moved by his hatred of the general and his certainty of the man’s treachery, but at the same time old doubts nagged at him. He gritted his crackling jaw, knowing he had to press on. “General Fane is a madman,” he said. “You know of the deserters? You must know why these men have done this, why thousands—thousands!—have fled the front, yet not made their way home? It’s because of the general. You know this.”

  Thane Vandyl suppressed a cough then sat quietly, eyes downcast. His steward shifted behind him, smoothing an unseen wrinkle on his black tunic.

  “You know this,” Lannick persisted. “You most of all.”

  “Lannick,” Arleigh hissed.

  Lannick ignored him.

  “The council stands by their choice of commander,” the thane said, though to Lannick the man’s eyes said something else. “Our foe has been an unexpectedly daunting one and some soldiers simply lack the nerve to face that enemy. The general cannot be faulted for the cowardice of some in his charge.”

  Lannick dragged in the smoke-filled air. “Those men are not cowards. They are Rune’s best hope. Besides, why would Thane Vandyl provision a gathering of cowards?”

  Thane Vandyl’s keen eyes pierced Lannick’s. “I…” he muttered, his lower lip stiffening. “I do not provision cowards.”

  “No,” Lannick said, daring to leave himself no room for retreat, “you do not. You provision a great gathering of soldiers who stand ready to save Rune. Soldiers who can topple Fane from his pedestal and set this war aright. You provision them because you know Fane cannot continue to lead Rune’s soldiers to defeat after defeat, and you know that someone must stop him. We,” he said, certainty swelling in his throat, “are here to help that cause. We are old soldiers ourselves, soldiers who managed to win Rune’s last war by overcoming this general’s madness.”

  The room was quiet, the only sound that of the snapping torches in their sconces. Lannick sat still, feeling the weight of his companions’ eyes and refusing to meet them. He kept his gaze steady upon the thane as the old man shifted beneath his bearskin cloak.

  “Hmm,” the thane said at last. “But our enemy is dangerous… More dangerous than anyone suspected. Why would I not want a gathering of armed men nearby? Why would I not want such a gathering precisely where they are, standing between the enemy and my gate?”

  “Because,” Lannick said, “you are a great thane who honors the greatness of Rune, and you would not suffer seeing your kingdom fall to our most ancient enemy. You would not suffer the return of Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares.”

  Vandyl sniffed sharply. “Those old tales?”

  Arleigh chuckled. “We don’t believe them, either, Thane Vandyl. Sorry to trouble you.” He began to push his chair away from the table.

  Lannick felt old furies fire within him. He stood and leveled a finger at the thane. “You are the twenty-seventh thane of Rellic! You know the accounts of your forefathers! Do you deem them liars, now?”

  The steward took a stride forward. “Sir! You will not address the thane in this fashion!”

  Thane Vandyl twisted his gnarled hands into fists. “Nor will you dishonor my forebears in this place. Loryn—”

  “I do not dishonor them!” Lannick said. “I am one who knows they fought the foes their histories claim. I am one who knows they braved the deepest darks, and they kept those foes at bay when needed. I am one who knows they provided aid to those who wage war in the shadows of this realm.”

  “And what,” Vandyl said, coughing, “does that have to do with the foes marching upon us now?”

  “Everything. Everything, because the foe we face is the very same faced by your forefathers. The Spider King has allied himself with the Necrists, as has General Fane. This is no mere war for land or wealth. This war is for the very dearest of stakes. If men such as we do not take action now, all will be lost.”

  Thane Vandyl’s glare softened and he took a long breath. His knobby hands unclenched. “You believe this, don’t you?”

  Lannick nodded. “I do, Thane Vandyl. I do with all my heart.”

  The thane pushed himself upward. “Precious few of us do, anymore. I’ll give you an escort of twenty of my oath-bound. Take coats of mail, weapons, supplies. Whatever you require. Tomorrow you’ll set out for the deserters’ encampment and my oath-bound will let those in charge know you are there with my blessing. They’ll also let those men know to listen to you and share with you their confidences. They’ll be made to know that I for one believe you’re the man most qualified to lead the assault on General Fane.” He coughed. “Those men will listen.”

  Lannick exhaled heavily, shoulders drooping and his legs suddenly so weak he nearly collapsed. He nodded again and looked to his companions. All regarded him with slack-jawed expressions.

  Lannick almost laughed aloud.

  I could really use a drink.

  “Well I didn’t expect that,” Cudgen Ashworn said, sounding dumbstruck.

  Me neither, Lannick thought, gaze drifting about the torch-lit mess hall of Thane Vandyl’s oath-bound. Soldiers—all in the thane’s colors of brown and red—hefted tankards of ale at tables about them, carousing into the night’s wee hours.

  “You knew the thane would help us?” asked Kevlin, scratching his square chin.

  Lannick gave a slow, thoughtful, and utterly false nod. “I’ve always known the thane’s heart,” he lied, “and knew for certain he’d stand on the right side of things when pushed.”

  “Have to say,” said Arleigh, slurping a foam-capped tankard across the cramped table, “you did a decent job of not getting us killed, Captain.”

  Brugan puffed out his chest. “The captain here did a hell of a lot more than that. I told you lads Lannick’s the same hero who led us to victory at Pryam’s Bay, and I meant it. Well done, Captain.”

  Cudgen sniffed. “Didn’t think you still had it in you.”

  Lannick felt a grin stretch his mouth and forced it away. It stirred his heart to hear such things from these men, though he knew better than to wear that satisfaction on his face. He distracted himself with his new longsword from the thane’s armory, pretending to inspect the quality of the steel.

  A heavy, apron-clad woman came near and touched Lannick’s shoulder. “You sure I can’t fetch you an ale, dear?”

  Brugan smiled wide. “You’ve earned it, Lannick. I’m proud to say you’ve earned it.”

  Perhaps just the whole barrel? Lannick thought, slipping the sword into its scabbard. “Dead gods, yes,” he said cheerily. “A tankard of your very finest, m’lady.”

  Brugan grinned and nodded. “No man’s earned it more than you.”

  The serving woman soon returned with a tall, handled tankard, golden foam crowning its contents. Lannick had always preferred wine and the stronger spirits, though nowadays knew better than to risk dancing with those demons.

  So ale it is, he thought, his crooked face curling with a genuine smile. He drew the mug close and slurped the foam off its top.

  Arleigh raised his tankard. “To the captain,” he said, his tone ringing with what seemed almost sincerity.

  Lannick hoisted his own. “A lot of hard work ahead.”

  “Aye,” said Brugan, “but these first few strides have been strong ones. We’re marching with the support of one of Rune’s most revered thanes. All thanks to you, lad. Now we win this war!”

  Cudgen saluted with his mug. “Never thought I’d drink
to those words, but glad to be doing so now.”

  Lannick tipped the mug and took a deep draw. It was dark, bitter stuff, though with a smooth finish. He took another drink and set the tankard down, savoring the ale’s flavor and watching with familiar bemusement as the oath-bound soldiers crowed and joked and laughed, spittle spraying from their lips as they did.

  A group of soldiers in the hall’s far corner—visibly drunk—began swaying their tankards and singing some bawdy song.

  The drafty, dreary Hole You’re Inn,

  Its piss-stained ale and sailors’ gin,

  Made me head sway east to west.

  That rotten, horrid Hole You’re Inn,

  The crooks the crooked ‘keep let in,

  Picked clean the pockets of me vest.

  That ugly, awful Hole You’re Inn,

  The moldy cheese and bad mutt’n,

  Left me cot a filthy mess.

  But pretty Rosie’s sly and fetching grin,

  And the lovely little dress she’s in,

  Are sure to get me there again!

  Cheers sounded. The performers raised tankards, tossed the contents down their gullets, then belched and stammered back to tables with wide smiles on their faces.

  “Hadn’t heard that one before,” chuckled Arleigh Lay, turning back to the table.

  “Sounds like a terrible, disreputable place if you ask me,” said Brugan, shaking his head. “I hope folk don’t speak of The Wanton Vicar that way.”

  Lannick tugged down another mouthful of ale. “Why would anyone ever talk that way about your tavern, my friend?” He gave an expression of outrage. “I daresay The Wanton Vicar has the best lamb stew in all of Ironmoor, if not the whole of Rune.”

  Brugan looked to him, brow cocked. “Damned right it does.”

  “Indeed, Brugan,” Lannick continued, knowing well his friend’s fondness for flattery. “I swear I heard that stew’s praises sung at a dozen taverns, both in and out of Ironmoor. Legendary stuff, it is. The very, very best.”

  Brugan sank back in his chair, a sheepish grin pinching his lumpy face. “It is delicious. I just hope Lacy hasn’t changed the recipe. Fresh rosemary can be hard to come by at times and forgetting that could ruin my reputation.”

  Lannick tipped his mug toward his friend. “And a fine reputation that is, Brugan.”

  “Speaking of reputations,” said Cudgen, “seems you still have something of the better of yours, Captain.” He shook his narrow head. “Captain,” he repeated. “So what’s our next move? What do we do from here?”

  Lannick took a slow sip of ale. “With the thane’s men marching among us the deserters should listen. They should listen to what we know of General Fane. If they do, and if they’re willing to march soon, we’ll march on Fane. If we kill him quickly enough there might be time to save Riverweave and turn back the enemy there.”

  Brugan raised his tankard. “Aye, Captain. Those deserters will rally to—”

  The door to the mess flew open and smacked against the wall with a loud crack. A mail-clad sergeant took several hard steps in, breathless and red-faced. “To arms…” he wheezed through ragged breaths. “To arms!”

  The room fell utterly quiet for a long moment, expressions turning from mirth to confusion.

  “What’s happened?” demanded one of the revelers, slamming his tankard upon a table. He squared his pot-bellied form to the man at the doorway.

  The red-faced sergeant rubbed at his eyes. “Two lads atop the ramparts. I couldn’t tell who they were by the looks of them.” He shook his head and his lips trembled. “Their faces… Something’s in the keep.”

  Lannick tensed.

  Faces?

  Necrists?

  “Well, what in the old hells is it?” the reveler asked, hand moving to the pommel of his sword. “Arranese?”

  “I… I don’t think so. Something in the dark. The shadows moved…”

  Lannick’s hand found his Coda and he stood tall. “I’ll go with you,” he said boldly. “I know what stalks the night.”

  The pot-bellied oath-bound looked to Lannick. “What is it, stranger?”

  Lannick straightened his spine and regarded all in the room, trying to stifle the doubts creeping in his head. “There are things stalking Rune far more dangerous than the warriors of Arranan,” he said. “Old forces are at work in our kingdom, wicked things that work the shadows. Grab torches and oil, and lead me to them.”

  “This nonsense again?” grated Arleigh.

  “With you, lad,” Brugan said, giving Arleigh an angry glare. He rose to stand beside Lannick.

  The red-faced soldier stared to Lannick with eyes wide beneath a knotted brow. “What I saw wasn’t natural, and the shadows shifted about it.” He nodded. “Torches and oil, you say?”

  “As much as you can find,” Lannick said, hefting the scabbard of his new sword and walking toward the door. “Now.”

  “You heard him, soldiers!” shouted the man. “Move!”

  A clamor arose as the soldiers set aside tankards and readied their weapons. Beneath the din there came the murmur of voices, soft-spoken words quavering with what seemed an edge of fear.

  Lannick stopped at the open doorway and gritted his teeth, achy jaw cracking as he did. He looked out upon the night beyond, the heavy black that had settled upon the courtyard and smothered the frail torches and lanterns lit within. Oath-bound soldiers moved haltingly about, eyes straining against the dark. The air seemed still, stagnant, but a chill crept upon it.

  Lannick tugged in a deep breath, knowing precisely what it meant.

  Lannick pressed into the darkened courtyard. Footsteps crunched behind him as the men from the mess filed into the keep’s ward. More torches sparked to life, a dozen or more, though the night yielded nothing.

  “Careful,” Lannick said, scanning the dark. The night’s chill tickled the nape of his neck and he shivered. “They are among us,” he said, suppressing the tremble in his throat. He turned to the red-faced sergeant. “Where are your fallen men?”

  “Atop the southern rampart,” the sergeant said quietly, eyes darting here and there. He pointed. “Up that tower there.”

  Lannick nodded and began walking, determined to make his strides stoke his courage. “This way. Bring the torches and keep them moving. Don’t allow the shadows to settle. Make certain the oil’s handy.”

  Arleigh and Cudgen jogged to his side. “This is a load of shit, Lannick,” Arleigh hissed. “You’ll not gain any man’s confidence by telling him a bunch of lies meant for children. You risk the thane withdrawing his support on account of these delusions!”

  Lannick shot Arleigh a baleful look. “Come with me, then. Come bear witness yourself, but be prepared to risk your life if you do.”

  Arleigh spat and pulled loose his long dagger. “I fear no man.”

  “These are not men,” Lannick said. “Not anymore.”

  “Captain?” called Brugan, lumbering just behind them. “I’ve one torch lit and a few more at the ready, and managed to grab a jug of oil as well. I’ll await your orders.”

  “Good, Brugan,” Lannick said, noticing the big man’s uncomfortable wince as he hefted the brands and oil with still-wounded shoulders. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine, lad. I remember what to do from… the last time round. Outside my tavern.”

  Lannick nodded. He neared the base of the tower and slowed. Ahead stood the tower’s entrance, an arched wooden door resting ajar with only darkness beyond it. The air felt cold despite the warmth of summer.

  He turned, seeing a dozen or so of Thane Vandyl’s men standing behind him. The red-faced sergeant stood closest though the rest kept a healthy distance, holding torches high and fingering weapons as their eyes searched the ramparts above.

  “Keep hold of the torches,” Lannick said firmly, “and follow me up the tower. Leave some men with torches in the courtyard, though, and make certain they move the flames about.”

  “You’re sure of this?�
�� said the oath-bound sergeant. “You’re sure we aren’t just making ourselves all the more visible and vulnerable to whatever’s in here? You sure we’re not just running headlong into an ambush?”

  Brugan turned to the oath-bound soldier. “The captain knows what we’re dealing with, sergeant. He knows what he’s doing.” He returned his gaze to Lannick and lowered his voice. “You do know, don’t you?”

  Lannick nodded. “All too well. Keep your wits sharp and follow me.” He stretched his shoulders and rubbed his neck, trying to shake off the chill. He gritted his teeth, squeezed the hilt of his sheathed sword with one hand and stretched out his other against the door’s splintered surface. He pushed forward. The hinges groaned and the cold from within rushed out to seep into his very bones.

  “Torches!” he shouted.

  He waited for the light to grow behind him then entered the tower’s base. Though more torches had been fired, their yellow flicker flailed weakly against the darkness ahead. Lannick looked down to his own shadow, stretched and shifting upon the stone floor and winding stairwell ahead. Beyond, just up the spiral staircase, the darkness seemed impenetrable.

  He paused and listened, noticing how the night’s sounds had muted to a whisper. Brugan and a couple of others stood just behind him, though the crackle of their torches and shuffle of their boots seemed barely audible. It was as though the shadows drowned everything in nothingness.

  He reached into the satchel strapped upon his belt and found again the box of his Coda. There were enough armed, trained men in tow that he’d not likely need to call upon its power—so long as the Necrists were few. Yet two soldiers had died already and without the Coda he’d probably not be swift enough to prevent the death of at least a few more. He shifted his jaw and studied the dark.

  Can I trust these men with the secrets of the Variden?

  Do those secrets even matter in such times?

  He took a hesitant step toward the dark, his boot scraping against the rough stone of the tower’s first stair. He could count the edges of only three more of the winding stairs, as though everything after had been swallowed by the dark. The light behind him failed against whatever stood beyond.