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

by David Benem

  Bale looked to Kressan, his large nose catching the sickly scent of the Necrists’ burning flesh. “So you’ll come to Rune’s aid, then?”

  Kressan held her eyes to his. “The Sentinels will hold their council and we shall abide its decision, whatever that may be.”

  “But you’d abandon the whole of this world by ignoring Rune’s plight. You’d leave us all to darkness.”

  “Be grateful, Zandrachus Bale, that you have an equal seat at that table. Understand, though, that eternity recounts but precious few events. I wonder if the ruin of Rune would be such a thing.”

  23

  RIVERWEAVE AT LAST

  “Riverweave at last!”

  Lannick would have otherwise been overjoyed at those words. Barked from Harl’s rotten mouth, though, they seemed ominous, threatening.

  He shifted against the splintered backing of his box and caught what sights he could through the thin slits between the wood. Judging from the misty, barren land about they seemed still a distance from the city, though they were certainly coming closer. Lannick wasn’t encountering General Fane in the manner he’d hoped, and hope was becoming a vanishing thing.

  “Let’s rest the horses, boys,” said Harl. “Rest the horses and have a decent lunch. Who knows how things are nearer the front.”

  “The onions and leeks?” came a voice.

  “Fuck no,” grumbled Harl. “Cook up the rest of that bacon. The lot of it. It’s high time for a victory feast. A fine feast before the general serves me an even finer one.”

  “As you command, Captain Harl,” said a man. Hard laughs followed.

  “You lads laugh at that,” Harl said, no humor in his tone. “Well just remember I was the Scarlet Sword. I’m the one the general will recognize, the one he’ll respect. You keep up your laughing and maybe I forget to tell the general of your loyalty to his cause.”

  The laughter fell silent.

  “Like I said,” Harl grumbled, “cook the fucking bacon. Gather up some kindling and make my damned lunch.”

  Lannick could spy Harl’s soldiers trudging out into the mist, bending occasionally to yank brush from the soil. They mumbled among each other, though the words were lost upon the air. Soon they vanished in the gloom. Harl, meanwhile, had hefted a sack from the cart and reclined against it, seemingly waiting for his meal to be served.

  Harl chuckled and knotted fingers behind his greasy head. “Hope you’re still alive in there, Captain Lannick,” he said, his voice almost wistful. “You’d better be, because you’re my best chance at getting my life back.”

  Lannick said nothing, though he sensed a perverse kinship with the man. At this moment he hoped Harl could provide him redemption as well, that Harl could get him close enough to Fane that Lannick could drive a blade through the general’s chest.

  Harl grunted and sat straight, fussing with what meager kindling he had. “Hurry, lads,” he said. “My belly ain’t getting no fatter with the three of you traipsing around the wild like fairies.”

  A shout sounded.

  “The fuck?” said Harl, shifting upward.

  Then the thump of hooves and the creak and jingle of tack.

  Harl’s men dashed back to the camp, desperate looks on their faces and their kindling either dropped or forgotten. They scrambled for weapons.

  “The fuck!” Harl barked.

  “Ho there!” hailed a high, raspy voice. “Illienne’s light upon you!”

  “Who the fuck comes?” demanded Harl. Lannick squinted through a gap in the box’s boards to see the nasty fellow staggering upward to stand. From the heavy mist beyond emerged a rider upon a white steed.

  The rider, a bald man in brown robes hefting a staff, cleared his throat. “I am Prefect Lavris Kreer of the Ancient Sanctum of Illienne the Light Eternal.”

  Harl chuckled. “You’re in the midst of a war, old man. War’s no place for spookers.”

  “I’m acutely aware of the peril. Indeed,” said the prefect, rising tall in his saddle, “I pursue it.”

  Harl shuffled his feet and placed a hand on the hilt of a sword—Lannick’s own prized weapon—resting in a belted scabbard. “We’ve no spare food or supplies, if that’s what you’re after. Boys!”

  “Not at all,” the prefect said, drawing closer. “We’ve no need of supplies, as Illienne has blessed us with her bounty. We merely seek information.”

  “We?”

  “Forgive me,” the robed prefect said, raising a hand. “My associates tend to shy from strange eyes. Come, my friends.”

  Three more riders appeared like apparitions becoming flesh as their horses sauntered through the mist. One wore heavy brown robes, two others cloaks of forest green.

  Variden?

  Lannick turned about, struggling to catch a better view through his splintered coffin. Harl paced between the cart and the newcomers, and Lannick’s thin view and the thick haze made details difficult to discern.

  “Help!” Lannick chanced, his throat ruined by dehydration and a night spent groaning in pain. The word sounded barely more than a rasp.

  None seemed to hear.

  “As I said,” continued the prefect, “we merely seek information. We’re on the trail of a killer, the most awful sort of man. A highlander from the north, a filthy barbarian who’s taken something from my order. We’ve tracked him and his band and they’ve passed near this place, murdering one of my acolytes just two days ago. Have you seen this man? A large fellow with long braids and a fierce countenance? He’s undoubtedly committed unthinkable atrocities. Have you seen him?”

  Harl stood still for a moment. “There are plenty of killers in this war, and plenty more heading toward it. Hard to single out a man.”

  The prefect patted his purse and a purple smile curled beneath his long nose. “I know that information—valuable information—is not always freely given.”

  Harl ran a hand through his matted mess of hair. “Well, now that I think about it… A big man, you say? Mean-looking bastard?”

  “Help…” Lannick whimpered.

  “He would have had companions with him,” said the prefect.

  “Hmm,” Harl rumbled, rubbing his chin in what seemed an attempt to appear thoughtful. “Boys? Do you remember those marauders we saw yesterday?”

  “Uh,” answered one of Harl’s companions. “Ah, yes! The marauders!”

  One of the green-cloaked men urged his horse forward a few strides. He had a round, boyish face beneath a bowl of brown hair.

  Wil?

  “Of course!” boasted Harl. “It was yesterday. They were headed off south,” he said, jerking a fat thumb over his shoulder. “Due south, right toward the front. A vicious-looking lot—worse than any others we’ve seen.”

  “Indeed,” murmured the prefect, rubbing his narrow chin as though the information were particularly profound. “The highlander travels to embrace the Spider King. The stone does not deceive, and reveals just what I’ve feared all along. We should ride.”

  “Wait now!” barked Harl. “My coin! You promised me coin, spooker.”

  “We should wait, indeed,” said the green-cloaked man with the youthful face.

  The prefect clucked his tongue and fiddled with the strings of his purse. “Coin, ever the sad pursuit of lives resigned to mortal needs.” He tossed the coins toward Harl. “Our business is done, then. May Illienne light your path during these troubled times. Friends? Let us be on our way.”

  “Not just yet,” said the green-cloaked, brown-haired man.

  “You sense something else here?” asked the prefect. “Your missing comrade, Wil?”

  Wil!

  “Wil?” Lannick croaked. “Wil!” he said, his voice like the scrape of a whetstone.

  “I do,” said Wil. “Your prisoner. Whoever you’re holding in that box. Who is he?”

  Lannick sucked at his teeth and drew up all the bile and spit he could manage then tugged it down his throat. “Wil!” he screamed, voice finally forceful. “Help me!”
r />   Wil drew his horse closer and cocked his head to a side.

  Harl wheeled toward the cart. “Shut up.”

  “Wil!” yelled Lannick, desperation fueling his words. “Help!”

  Wil placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Identify your prisoner, soldier.”

  Harl drew his weapon—Lannick’s own sword. “A prisoner for General Fane. None of your concern.”

  “It appears it is my concern,” said Wil, his tone level and meaningful. “Your prisoner asks for me by name.”

  Harl laughed but sounded uneasy. “Nonsense. He’s a deceitful bastard. Probably just heard your spooker say it and now he’s playing games. We’ll deal with him. Boys!”

  Again, no answer from Harl’s men.

  Lannick sucked in a sharp breath. “Wil! It’s Lannick!”

  Wil glared at Harl. “What’s more, you’re holding his sword.”

  “This thing?” Harl asked, looking at the blade as though the weapon had grown eyeballs. “Just a weapon I found after a scrape with Arranese scouts a few leagues back—”

  “Wil!” Lannick shouted again.

  Wil rubbed his Coda and looked to the other Variden. They exchanged a nod.

  “I said we’ll deal with him!” spat Harl.

  Boots thudded toward Lannick and a sword slipped through a slit in the box, jabbing against Lannick’s shoulder. “Shut your mouth,” growled Harl’s man.

  “You’ll hand over your prisoner,” Wil said, his voice grave. “Then you can be on your way with no quarrel from us.”

  “The prisoner is mine,” Harl said, his harsh voice rising. “You fellows should ride along.”

  “Release him. Release him now.”

  Lannick heard the hiss of drawing steel. He tried to see something, anything, but the pressing blade kept him against the far side of the box.

  “I said the prisoner is mine. Ride along before there’s trouble.”

  “Trouble it is, then,” said Wil.

  Shouting.

  The clash and clang of weapons.

  More shouting and the thuds of forms falling to the ground.

  The sword withdrew from Lannick’s shoulder and the scuffling sounds came close and then fell quiet.

  He shifted to the box’s wall and saw what appeared to be the end of a short encounter. Harl and his men lay face down the mud, pools of blood forming beneath them. Wil and his lanky companion sheathed their swords, the green glow of the blades waning.

  “Wil…” Lannick wheezed, eyes welling with tears. “It’s me. It’s Lannick. Help me…”

  “The broken finger will mend in its splint,” said the old, droop-nosed prefect seated across from Lannick atop the cart. He inspected Lannick’s hand with jaundiced eyes. “I can’t replace your severed finger, but the poultice will ease the pain and ward off any infection. Your hand won’t be the same, though still far more usable than it would’ve been had Illienne not intended our meeting, Lannick deVeers.”

  Lannick pressed himself from the cart and stretched out his hand. He winced at the pain in his shoulder, but that too had eased with the prefect’s ministrations. “Thank you, Prefect,” he said. “I reckon I’d be headed to my death if you and your companions hadn’t arrived.”

  “Who knows?” said Wil, standing nearby. The still-rising sun of late morning gave a glow to his round, youthful face. “You may be headed there still, Lannick.”

  Lannick looked eastward, across a plain of muck and mist toward Riverweave. The sun had burned away much of the mist, though at this distance the only hint of the city was a smear of dark smoke. “I have to, Wil. I’ve come too far and suffered too much to choose a different path now.”

  Wil held quiet for a moment. “I’ll not try to sway you. Not anymore. Your purpose, regardless of the motive driving it, serves ours and thus it serves Rune. Indeed, Ogrund marches with your ragtag army even now. He tried to find you, but too many fled in confusion that night for him to track you.”

  “And where’s the army? Have they engaged Fane?”

  “Not yet. Ogrund tells me they’re near the city but must slip inside in smaller groups with the aid of smugglers. Smugglers,” he huffed. “An unseemly process, though I suppose it’s necessary.”

  Lannick felt a smirk tilting his face. “They’re doing just as I suggested,” he said mostly to himself. And perhaps there’s time yet for me to join them…

  “When you’re done with this, we could use you, Lannick,” Wil said. “We’ve lost another of our number. Alisa. I trust you remember her.”

  Lannick’s smile fell. “I do.”

  “She died just days ago,” Wil said, hand caressing his Coda.

  Lannick swallowed hard. “How?” he asked.

  “She died at the hands of Necrists while trying to rescue two Sentinels from the tower of the Spider King in Zyn. A most courageous endeavor in a most fearsome place.”

  Lannick grimaced and looked to Wil. “I only met her on a handful of occasions though all were important. All changed me for the better. When I’m through with the general I’ll do my best to help you.”

  “We need you, Lannick. We believe the Sentinels escaped the tower, though we’ve no way of knowing for sure. I pray they did, for I fear we’re in a fight as dire as the War of Fates. The Sentinel Castor—who’d tried summoning the Sentinels back to Rune—was murdered and his spirit is now held by his killer. We track the assassin now, and I’d demand your help in doing so if I didn’t know your task may prove just as important.”

  “I promise you, Wil. I’ll be back. I owe you—and Alisa—as much.”

  A slight smile dimpled Wil’s face. “I’m glad to hear it. Take one of these horses and head to the western side of Riverweave. Ogrund and your men are but a mile or two from the city, right along the Silverflow, and I’ll let Ogrund know you’re coming.” He rummaged through the cart’s various sacks and crates then hefted the purse containing Lannick’s Coda. Wil tossed that and Lannick’s prized sword to him.

  “Thank you, Wil,” Lannick said.

  “Don’t lose these again.”

  Lannick wove his new drab mare through muck and a mass of people beside the Silverflow, tugging the reins with one good hand and another ruined. Countless folk moved along the northern riverbank, fleeing the war clawing at the city’s southern edge. They passed Lannick, carrying meager belongings, faces muddied and desperate.

  He could see it now—Riverweave—perhaps two leagues distant. From this vantage the city seemed a smear of cheery colors beneath the clearing sky, though he knew better than to expect any cheer within the walls. Just to its south rose heavy columns of black smoke.

  He swallowed hard, knowing many good soldiers were dying on orders from a man unhinged. Much blood had been spilled, and many wounds inflicted.

  He searched about for signs of Black Jon and his men, for red flags or sashes crossed with a black stripe. Amidst the swollen throng, though, he could find nothing.

  At last he looked to one of the grimy travelers and bent low. “Have you seen soldiers along the river? Any folk west of the city who aren’t fleeing it?”

  The traveler, a man with hollow cheeks and a back bent beneath the load slung upon it, stopped and stared to him wide-eyed. “Who’d not flee?” he asked, voice hoarse. “There’s naught but starvation, disease and death there, and the Arranese are certain to overrun the city within days.”

  Lannick sighed. “I wish you better fortune than you’ve found.”

  “By the looks of you,” the man said, nodding to Lannick’s bandaged hand, “I should be wishing you the same.”

  “Better fortune is precisely what I’m hoping to find.” Especially after the hell of these last many years.

  “Well, you seem to be going in the wrong direction then.”

  Lannick grinned crookedly. “I’ve an overdue debt to pay, and the man I owe it to is somewhere within the city walls.”

  He flicked the reins and moved onward, deeper into the horde of refugees. They shuffled a
side to let him pass but the sheer numbers made for slow going. It seemed every resident of Riverweave had poured from its gates. They were clad in rags of every color, so finding however many of Black Jon’s men were still outside the city seemed impossible.

  He thought of donning his Coda and reaching out to Ogrund but decided against it. He didn’t feel quite ready to open his head to his old order—he needed Fane dead first. That, and the next time he wore the Coda he knew he’d not be able to remove it. He’d betrayed the Variden many times and, despite that, they’d saved his skin not once but twice.

  That, too, was a debt that needed repaying.

  He’d kill Fane as a soldier, not as a Variden. Then he’d rejoin the order and do his best to save Rune from the ravages of the Necrists and the Spider King.

  He studied the moving multitude, determined to find his companions. The occasional glint of steel drew his eyes, though it seemed a good number of those fleeing the city had armed themselves with spears or swords or the like. He looked also for the gleam of armor, but after seeing none he reckoned the old soldiers knew better than to reveal themselves so close to Riverweave and the general’s men.

  The river, too, appeared a cluttered mess. Boats well-built and others cobbled from scraps bore sad-eyed passengers. Some desperate folk even clung to chunks of driftwood, kicking legs and churning arms to propel themselves against the river’s flow. Few managed to move forward, and Lannick reckoned fewer still would survive.

  He flicked the reins again and moved on, steering his horse close to the river’s edge. He kept eyes trained upon the boats riding the Silverflow and at last spotted something out of place. There, fifty yards or so away, floated a skiff bearing a handful of ragged passengers, riding the river’s run against the drifting flotsam of refugees.

  Lannick rode closer and closer still. As he came near he spied a green-cloaked man at the riverbank near the skiff. The man had a shaved head set low upon his shoulders and eyes squeezed to a squint.

  Ogrund.

  Lannick dug his heels into his horse, the beast lurching to a trot through the mire along the riverside. The horse tottered and Lannick clung to it, and only after a few wobbly strides did it find its footing.