by David Benem
He drew a breath and braced himself.
One more step toward redemption.
The entrance to the command tent was flanked by a couple of rough, mail-clad soldiers hefting broadswords. The corporal gave them a curt nod then disappeared inside. After a couple of minutes he returned, flanked by a short, stout man in an unadorned brown shirt.
“Lannick deVeers?” asked the man, coming close. He tilted his bald head upward to regard Lannick with eyes pinched by crow’s feet. “Captain Lannick deVeers?”
Lannick gave a halting salute. “The, uh, one and only!”
The man held a rolled parchment Lannick guessed to be the thing Randyn had given the patrol. “Thought you were dead.”
A wry smile wandered to Lannick’s face. “At times I thought I was.”
The man chuckled. “Glad we both were wrong. I’m Black Jon, former lieutenant in General Fane’s army and now leader of this band of so-called deserters. I don’t ordinarily receive newcomers at the command tent, but it seems to me you deserve a measure of respect. I remember what you did at Pryam’s Bay. Come on inside and let’s talk for a while. Corporal, you and your men are dismissed.”
The tent’s interior was a hexagonal space dominated by a flat, four-wheeled cart serving as a makeshift table. Atop it were various maps and markers, and about it were seated two men—veterans, judging from their age—locked in heated discussion. A third, a burly soldier with a long mess of brown hair and a stained tunic, shuffled at the tent’s rear with a limp.
Black Jon gestured to a bench at one end of the cart-turned-table. “Have a seat.”
Lannick slipped onto the empty bench. The two men halted their discussion and turned to eyeball him with what seemed cool consideration.
“Gentlemen,” said Black Jon, walking round to sit in a chair at the table’s head, “this here is Captain Lannick deVeers, a genuine hero of the war with the Tallorrath. Bid him welcome.”
One of the men, a thin fellow with thinning black hair, scratched a face unremarkable but for its smugness. “The very captain who was charged with treason at the war’s end, as I recall.”
Lannick cleared his throat. “I… I—”
“And the very same who won that war,” said the other in a gruff voice. He was thickly built, with bristly brown hair. “Well met. I’m Sergeant Kaldare, and the idiot opposite me is deMond.”
“Sergeant deMond,” said the other. “And you’ll find I’m far from an idiot.”
Kaldare smirked. “I was trying to be kind. Captain deVeers, don’t mistake this man’s arrogance for intelligence. He—”
“How dare you!” barked deMond. “No man has studied military history more than I!”
“And none has fought less,” chuckled Kaldare.
“Enough!” said Black Jon, glaring at his sergeants. “The two of you can silence your rivalry for now. Harl,” he said with a gesture to the big man limping behind him, “some water for our guest, please. I’m sure the captain’s journey has been a long one.”
Lannick nodded. You have no idea.
“Sir,” grunted the man, then lumbered to the tent’s far end and set about fumbling over a table. He soon returned cradling a cup in massive hands then smacked it down before Lannick. Half the cup’s water slopped onto Lannick’s lap.
“Careful, Harl!” Black Jon laughed. “The captain needs a drink, not a bath!”
Lannick smiled and looked to Harl. The man’s long hair framed a stern face stretched with many scars. “It’s no problem,” Lannick said. “I reckon I could probably use both. Thank you.” He took a deep drink and looked to the others. “Thank you all. You received word of our coming?”
“We have our scouts,” said Black Jon, “as well as contact with certain high-placed people throughout the kingdom.”
“Wise decisions both,” Lannick said, doing his best to assume an air of capability.
Black Jon’s face straightened into a more serious look. “Speaking of those high-placed people,” he said, holding up the scroll in his hand, “it seems Thane Vandyl believes you’d make a fine addition to the leadership of our little outfit, and that we’d best listen to you.”
Sergeant deMond stiffened, his brow arching. “We know nothing of this man outside of a long-forgotten victory, a descent into treachery, and who knows what else.”
Sergeant Kaldare made a loud sputter. “We’re all traitors at this point, deMond.”
Lannick smiled crookedly, finding comfort in the man’s apparent support.
“Aye,” chuckled Black Jon, though humor quickly left his face. “I’m happy to listen to you, Captain, but understand that while I trust Thane Vandyl’s judgment, I need to trust my own even more. I need to know why you’re here, why a bunch of old, retired soldiers would seek to join our ranks. Retired soldiers we’ve heard nothing of in a decade.”
“My men didn’t retire,” Lannick said. “They were decommissioned. They were loyal fighting men who had no choice in the matter. As for our purpose,” he said, his tone filling with the certainty of his words, “we’re here because of that madman presently commanding Rune’s armies. I’ve suffered—we have suffered—much at the hands of our dear general, and we aim to set things aright. We mean to take down General Fane. First for vengeance and second to give Rune some chance of winning this war.”
Black Jon sat with eyes trained on Lannick. “And you think that simply taking out the general turns the tide? That one man has made all the difference? You don’t think displacing the general will send the army into chaos?”
“Fane is the very worst of men, a man so twisted by ambition he’s lost all sense of sanity. He means to lose this war. He’s sending good soldiers to their deaths.”
Black Jon’s gaze did not waver. “Why do you say this? The High King’s own council keeps the general in power. Why do you think his defeats are the stuff of treason rather than blunder or bad luck?”
Lannick looked to the man. “If you don’t think that then why leave his army? You don’t think his ‘bad luck’ could take a turn for the better?”
Black Jon was quiet for a long moment. “Maybe I left because I thought it wise to sit things out until his luck turns. Or maybe it’s because I’m a coward. A sniveling, whimpering coward who shits himself at the merest hint of violence.”
Kaldare chortled, smacking the table. “Tell that to those Arranese we routed at Hargrave! As I recall your sword was painted with most of their blood.”
“Ah yes,” said Black Jon. “The very battle that led our dear General Fane to threaten to string me from a tree.” He moved his hands in a choking motion about his neck then shook his head and huffed. “Captain, we know the general’s come unhinged. At Hargrave he’d ordered us to stand down but we didn’t, and as a result we had a rather unpleasant visit from several of his Scarlet Swordsmen. Then, after, we started hearing similar accounts, word of Fane being quite vengeful when victories won were not according to the very letter of his commands. But the thing was, it seemed the only victories achieved were those where men acted contrary to those commands. I didn’t know if it was madness or arrogance or a desire to lose the war, but I reckoned it didn’t matter. We knew we’d best leave the ranks before ending up piled among the dead.”
“Aye,” Kaldare said. “Three hundred of us, gone in the black of night.”
“And now you have thousands,” Lannick said.
“More than two thousand men,” said Black Jon. “As soon as word spread soldiers began following us. There was resistance—harsh resistance—from Fane and his Scarlet Swords at first. Many died, else we might have twice our current number. But I reckon you know well how spiteful a bastard the general can be.”
Lannick shifted his crackling jaw. “I do. Better than most.”
Black Jon nodded. “That I’d heard. I served in the war against Tallorrath. Not at Pryam’s Bay but on the seas, fighting galley to galley and deck to deck against those salty devils. Nevertheless, I heard what you did in that battle, a
nd something of what happened to you afterward. You were wronged, Captain. You and the whole of your lot.”
“You’re damned right,” Lannick said, swallowing hard. “And we’ve waited long enough for revenge. Revenge, and redemption.”
“You’ll not need to wait much longer.”
“When?” Lannick said, pressing close to the table. “When do we march? You must know Fane’s treachery worsens with every passing day. Who knows how many men will die if he’s not stopped?”
“Three days,” Black Jon said. “Three short days. There are two hundred men riding from the south to join us. Once they do, we head to war. We head to war and we head there with the very same purpose driving you. We head to war to remove General Fane from command. We’re glad to have you, Captain.”
Lannick reclined against his traveling packs, away from the hot blaze of the campfire. The ground he stretched upon was somewhat damp and lumpy, though he reckoned that wasn’t much different from his bed in Ironmoor’s Hollows.
And at least this dampness is rainwater rather than, well, something worse.
“Hungry?” grunted Kevlin deKray, looking to Lannick from the fire’s opposite side. “We’ve got plenty of cheese and bread, and the soldiers at that fire there said we could share their soup.”
“Thanks, but not just yet,” Lannick said, shooing a mosquito and allowing his eyes to wander the darkened encampment. A multitude of men gathered about tents and low fires, chewing away at their suppers and waxing bravely over deeds yet to be done. Weapons rested against carts and sacks, swords and bows and axes just waiting to be put to their purpose. Horses snorted and whinnied in a nearby corral.
A real army.
His companions, the old soldiers of Pryam’s Bay, kept mostly to themselves but a few engaged the deserters about them. Some of the words worked their way through the din, including Arleigh Lay’s shouted vow to slice off General Fane’s cock. Arleigh left no confusion among his listeners, illustrating the promised deed with a twist of the long dagger gripped in his remaining hand.
Lannick smirked and turned his gaze to a sky full of stars. His father had taught him of the constellations long ago and Lannick found their shapes with practiced ease. He spotted the Spitted Sow and the Three Witches, sketching the forms with his eyes. High above, at the night’s apex, burned the bright star known as the Eldest Eye. And there, beside it, stood the starred outline of the Hero of the Heavens, a constellation resembling a warrior with sword upraised.
He remembered his father telling him the tale of that last one when Lannick was barely tall enough to ride a pony. The stars, he’d told Lannick, were torches carried by guardians of the Elder God’s heavens, and the Hero was the Elder God’s champion. The Hero, brave and strong and pure, battled beyond the heavens’ gates, refusing to allow the cold dark to enter. On those nights the stars dimmed, the Hero remained locked in that desperate struggle. The brighter nights that followed signaled her victory.
The stars shone brightly now. They blazed across the blanket of night, thousands upon thousands of fires kindled and crackling and chasing away the darkness surrounding them. Lannick reckoned that if he believed all those things he had as a boy, he’d believe the Hero had bested the dark in a brilliant, decisive battle.
He didn’t believe such things anymore. Not as much, anyway. Yet, there was something of it that bolstered him. Something that gave him hope.
Perhaps it was a sign, an omen. A promise that he could be the man he once was. Perhaps he could be like the Hero, brave and strong and pure, and could prevail against General Fane and all the foes certain to stand before and after him.
He smiled at that, thinking how proud his father—and his wife and children and only friend—would be.
He shifted upon his traveling packs, no longer holding any regard for the dampness of the earth beneath him. Ironmoor stood far behind him now, and all that stood ahead was the hope of redemption.
He shut his eyes and slept more peacefully than he had in years.
14
ZYN
Zandrachus Bale swayed beside Lorra and Alisa in the creaking wagon’s bed, crammed between scratchy sacks of pungent spices and piles of colorful silks. He craned his neck about the form of the Khaldisian merchant manning the reins and saw beyond a road of straw-colored dust etched across the steppe of broken stone. Travelers dotted the sun-baked thoroughfare, lean Arranese on horses and a smattering of other merchants hauling wagons heaped with oddities.
Beyond it all lay Zyn, a city much larger than Bale had imagined. It was a massive sprawl—miles across—situated on an otherwise bleak and rocky plain. A pale wall surrounded most of it, though the populace seemed to have spilled beyond its bounds, erecting tents and sandstone buildings outside the confines. Behind the wall, standing watch over a vast myriad of squat structures, dozens of tall minarets gleamed white in the afternoon sun. At the city’s center, standing taller than all the towers, rose an obsidian obelisk, a behemoth of black stone.
“What is that?” Lorra asked, pointing with a thin finger.
Bale rubbed the tip of his overlarge nose. “I reckon that’s the home of the mysterious Spider King.”
“It is,” said Alisa. “Precisely as tall as the Tower of Lords in Ironmoor, a mocking reflection of it. It was built in mere weeks, if what I gathered is accurate. The construction was performed entirely at night.”
Bale’s eyes widened. “All under the cover of darkness…” he whispered. “The Necrists?”
“Their abominations carried every brick,” Alisa said. “I told you I’d located their lair. It lies underground, beneath the Spider King’s palace. I couldn’t get near their sanctuary, but from what I understand it is a sick imitation of the Godswell. Those taken there never return.”
“It is their butchery,” Bale said with a shudder.
Lorra seized his hand and squeezed it. “Are we safe?”
Alisa turned to them. “I’ll not give any false assurances. Zyn is dangerous. Though the Spider King and his army are far away, he’s left some of his most powerful allies here until such time as they’re needed. We must take utmost care with our every action, and employ every manner of discretion. I can conceal us for a time, but we must reach our destination before nightfall.”
“Our destination?”
“A friend. He’s remained in this city, observing what he knew were troubling events. Until we reach him, you must allow me to speak with any who confront us, and follow my every lead. Beware the shadows.”
“What can we expect?” Bale asked.
“Our darkest foes, performing their darkest acts.” She looked askance, brown eyes troubled. “On one night—my last in this city—I watched as a cartload of children entered the gates of the Spider King’s palace, just as a cartload of small bones left it.”
“The Arranese countenance such things?”
“They see the Spider King as their god, a terrible and fearsome one. None dare question him or his associations, for fear of death or worse. Those who challenge him are taken in the night, and only the dead gods know what he does with them. Terrible things, I’m certain.”
“Probably torture and worse,” murmured Lorra, voice laden with pain.
Bale looked to her. He nodded and cast his eyes downward, feeling the hard sun hammer upon him.
The sun had dipped to the far horizon by the time they made their way to Zyn’s outskirts, the road now a crowded avenue of chalky bricks. The city’s edge seemed a confusing jumble of tight streets and squat structures of yellow stone and animal hides. The hot air hung thick with the odor of pack animals and spiced oils. Voices called out in harsh Arranese accents, shopkeepers drawing attention to their wares and mothers scolding unruly children.
A strange beast honked beside them, a heavy-tusked and white-maned thing atop which sat a sinewy Arranese man holding a longbow. Bale drew his hood down to just above his eyes and cowered low against the wagon’s side.
The other wayfarers about them w
ere mostly Arranese, sharp-featured with skin bronzed from lives spent upon the sun-beaten steppe. There were smatterings of foreigners, though, including Khaldisian traders and a few small groups of black-skinned Harkanians—legendary warriors from across the sea. Much to Bale’s relief, none regarded them with particular suspicion as they sat in the wagon’s bed.
They came within sight of the wall, a mass of bleached stone etched with geometric patterns. At the arched gate stood a spear-wielding group of guards interrogating those trying to enter the city. Near the guards loomed another man, robed in white, seeming to preside over the process.
Bale began to sense a wrongness about the place, some vague, creeping haunt at the edges of his mind. They rode now in the shade cast by the great spire of the Spider King and the darkness it splayed upon the road felt oppressive. Bale’s eyes wandered to the structure’s surface and he saw strange glyphs scratched into the jet-black stone. A sick chill slithered up his spine as he looked upon them.
Alisa drew near him. “You feel it, don’t you?” she whispered. “All who serve the Sentinels can.”
“What is it?” he groaned, trying to shrug off the ill feeling.
“Need I tell you?” she asked, eyes wide with meaning. “We’ll need to leave the caravan soon. We risk great peril if we are on these streets when night falls. Hide your fear lest it betray us.”
He shook his head and tucked strands of long, graying hair back within his hood and behind his ears.
Lorra seized his hand and pulled him close. “Tell me, Bale.”
He looked to her, seeing the worry upon her face. “Remember the wall of shadows on the steppe?” he whispered. “This city is home to more of such things. We must find shelter before darkness falls, or…”
“Or what? Will they find us? Will they take us to that black tower just like those children she spoke of?” Lorra asked.
Bale rubbed his hands together, afraid of giving voice to what he reckoned was the truthful answer.
