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

by David Benem

  Can vengeance be so close?

  Kaldare looked to him. “We’re soldiers, Captain. More, we’re leaders. We shouldn’t abandon our men.”

  Lannick squeezed the blade all the tighter. “I’ll not tell you what to do, Sergeant, but I’m here to kill General Fane. I’m here for that most of all.”

  “You’re right, Lannick,” said Ogrund, taking a stride closer. “Our best chance might well be now, or rather near to now. We should take cover and hide until morning. Then we can enter the mansion after the sun breaks the darkness and the Necrists’ power wanes.”

  Lannick placed his wounded hand upon the Variden’s shoulder. “Let’s do this, Ogrund.”

  “With you, Captain,” said Arleigh. Cudgen the same just after.

  Kaldare stood silently for a moment before shaking his head and smacking his fists together. “I’ve just lost two good lads at the hands of Fane’s Scarlet Swords, and those are only the most recent of that man’s crimes. I’m with you, Captain. If now is our best chance, we must seize it. Let’s kill the general.”

  27

  AN UNHOLY END

  The battlefield below had all but emptied, Rune’s soldiers having retreated behind the scant cover of Riverweave’s walls with the horde of Arranese warriors crashing against them. Reeds and grasses lay bent and blood-stained.

  All were gone now. All but the mangled mass of the dead and their reek upon the sea’s breeze.

  Prefect Lavris Kreer stood in the stirrups of his white steed, a thin hand shielding his eyes from the sun just breaking the distant horizon of the Sullen Sea. “My Variden companions,” he said, “certainly your young eyes are keener than mine. The seeking stone holds to the field, though I see nothing.”

  Wil eased forward in his saddle, the leather creaking. “Naught but carnage as far as I can tell. You’re certain the highlander could not have corrupted the stone? That he could not have worked Castor’s spirit to deceive you?”

  Kreer stiffened, thoughts drifting to the highlander’s certain deception with the Spell of Remembrance. No, he thought. I would sense—I would know—such a perversion of the Old Faith.

  “Prefect?” Wil asked. “Could he not do this?”

  “The highlander may be prone to deception, but the powers I employ far predate that barbarian’s theft of the spirit and do not rely upon a human medium. These powers derive from Illienne herself, and, as such, are beyond corruption.”

  Wil looked to him, brow cocked. “Beyond corruption? And yet we’ve now learned it is Thaydorne himself who is the so-called Spider King, that it is a Sentinel who lays siege to Rune. Thaydorne, too, draws his power from Illienne, yet it’s clear he’s corrupted by ambition, the Necrists, and Yrghul’s wickedness.”

  Kreer stretched a long finger upward. “I have yet to accept the truth of this rumor,” he chided. He then raised a second finger. “More, the Sentinels were human once, and thus carry with them human failings. Only the elder powers, the elder prayers of the Old Faith, can be trusted.”

  “This rumor is truth, Prefect,” said Wil, eyes narrowing. “What I’ve learned from my brother Andrill is beyond question. Through my Coda I learned this truth from Andrill, and through his ears I heard this truth from the mouths of the Sentinels themselves, from—”

  “Listen!” hissed Stendall, the tall and lanky Variden turning his horse southward. “Be quiet and listen!”

  Drums. The low thunder of drums like a heart’s beat upon the air.

  “Where, Stendall?” said Wil, easing his steed a few strides ahead. “My ears can’t discern the direction.”

  Stendall gestured southeast.

  Prefect Kreer sat tall in his saddle. “Wait. We must simply wait. The drums signal the arrival of the Spider King and his coming clash with the highlander. If the Spider King is Thaydorne as you claim, then either these two will conspire or one of them will meet an unholy end.”

  Wil grunted. “And if it’s Castor who meets that end? What then?”

  Kreer’s lips tilted. “When the body is broken the soul will be set free. Another vessel shall be filled.”

  “Wil,” Stendall said, guiding his horse a few strides down the slope. “Wil, I see him. There, amongst the corpses.”

  Prefect Kreer peered beyond his Variden associates but could see little in the morning sun. “Lund?” he called to the freckly acolyte just behind him. “Can you see this? The stone does point that way.”

  “I’m not sure, Prefect,” said Acolyte Lund, shuffling beneath his brown robes. “There are so many bodies and it’s… There… There?”

  Stendall nodded. “He’s waiting. He’s waiting for Thaydorne. Just listen.”

  Kreer straightened and squinted, staring down the slope. Low upon the breeze and the thumping of drums he heard it. A guttural, harsh sound, a language from the darkest and most vile of places.

  From Yrghul himself.

  Kreer sniffed in a breath through his long nose. “The spirit must be freed…” he said. “The highlander speaks blasphemy, the words of the Lord of Nightmares. Castor would never give voice to such lies.”

  Wil eased his horse near. “My brother Merek knew this to be true and I’ve no cause to disagree. No Sentinel loyal to Rune and the Light Eternal would commit the atrocities this man has so wantonly perpetrated. I must agree with you, Prefect. He possesses a bloodlust that betrays a wicked nature.”

  Kreer looked to the man. “Precisely, Variden. Precisely.”

  The prefect returned his eyes to the battlefield, seeing now the highlander standing not a hundred yards away, down the steep slope and amidst a pile of broken bodies. The broad man was clad in stained leather, black hair flailing in the breeze. At his side he held a massive blade and his gaze was affixed to the southeast.

  To the drums. To the Spider King.

  “Thaydorne!” the highlander screamed, his voice a jarring commandment. “It is your time, a time foretold by fate! Come!”

  The drums sounded louder and at last Kreer could see movement farther down the field. There, perhaps a league nearer the sea, moved figures, several dozen with weapons glittering in the waxing sunlight.

  “Prefect,” said Wil. “You and your acolyte should come closer. Stendall and I can conceal us, and I fear such concealment is quickly becoming necessary. Those upon the field are not friendly to the likes of us, no matter what you think of Castor’s spirit.”

  Kreer held still for a moment, peering down to the highlander. Castor, he prayed, should you depart the blasphemer’s corpse, fill my body and I swear I will serve with all the dignity and wisdom you deserve.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun, feeling its warmth.

  Sweet Illienne, I am but a vessel waiting to be filled.

  “Prefect,” Wil said again. “The enemy is near.”

  Kreer nodded and pulled the reins, guiding his white steed toward the Variden. Lund clumsily did the same with his dray mare.

  Wil clasped the black iron Coda upon his wrist and his companion Stendall did also. Both muttered word upon word. Elder words, the words of true, divine spellcraft gifted by Illienne herself.

  Kreer recognized the rudiments of the language, of course, though he knew not how the Variden gave force to the phrases. Each of the Sentinels and their followers possessed and guarded over their own powers, and Kreer knew the disciples of Valis wielded some of Illienne’s most potent abilities.

  His mouth pinched to a scowl, but he quickly swept aside any sense of jealousy. Soon, he knew, he alone would hold the spirit of Castor, the spirit of an eternal Sentinel. The Variden would remain mere fractions of their master, mere hints of his divinity.

  “Stay close, Prefect,” whispered Wil. “For now we will seem no more than brush and branches to the highlander, the Spider King, and the Spider King’s entourage. Wander not, though, lest you be revealed.”

  Kreer glanced to Wil then steadied himself, training his eyes again upon the field.

  “Thaydorne!” bellowed the savage
once more.

  Kreer gritted his teeth, knowing in the depths of his soul the highlander should have been slain at the Abbey long ago. Castor’s spirit had been stolen and defiled, the desecration becoming worse with every passing day.

  He so despised this barbarian. He so loathed him for the prize he had stolen, the sacred spirit he’d taken for himself.

  “I will kill him myself!” he blurted.

  Wil turned to him. “No, Prefect!” he hissed. “This highlander is more powerful than any one of us. He’s proven that already, at your Abbey, and has clearly grown in strength since then. We must not be rash. We must take greater care than we ever have, for it is clear the stakes are at their greatest.”

  Kreer sniffed and swallowed, then settled upon his horse. “We are concealed?”

  “Our forms are hidden, but not the sounds we make. Silence is vital, Prefect.”

  “Very well,” Kreer said quietly. “May Illienne protect us all.”

  The drums thundered all the louder as the newcomers approached. Dozens of ornamented Arranese both mounted and on foot picked their way through the field of broken corpses, drummers at their fore. In the center of the Arranese strode a hulking man, standing several heads taller than any about him and his skin stained gold.

  Kreer drew a sharp breath, knowing now the Variden’s rumor had to be true. This so-called Spider King was no mere mortal. “Thaydorne…” he murmured.

  “Prefect,” whispered Wil. “Look at those in his tow.”

  Kreer scowled, spotting a number of figures in cowls and robes of black, flesh concealed from the rising sun. “Necrists. Are you certain they won’t be able to see us, to see through your illusion?”

  Wil shook his head. “Not in so small a number. Only a great many working together would be able to pierce the veil we’ve woven.”

  The Spider King and his entourage moved onward, closer and closer still to the highlander. They came to within fifty feet of the highlander awaiting them, the savage’s great blade weaving through the morning air as though beckoning a fight.

  “This is no meeting of allies,” whispered Kreer. “One of these Sentinels will fall this day.”

  Wil nodded. “We witness a momentous and terrible thing.”

  Kreer knitted his hands together and prayed once more to receive Castor’s spirit. Sweet Illienne, your humble servant stands ready.

  “Thaydorne!” The highlander’s roar seemed unnaturally loud, the very earth quaking beneath them all.

  The drums faltered.

  The field was still for a time, everything pausing for the span of several breaths.

  Then the enormous, gold-skinned Thaydorne moved forward, pressing the decorated warriors aside like children. “And so I behold the truth with my own eyes,” he boomed. “The fabled Gravemaker is none other than my brother Castor, wearing yet another face and hiding within yet another mortal’s body. You dare confront me, Castor? Here, before my chieftains? You choose an odd and unfortunate occasion for your embarrassment, my brother.”

  “Come,” said the highlander. “It is the anointed time, the time the mighty Thaydorne meets his fate.”

  Thaydorne passed his drummers then slowed. He looked to the highlander with a curious gaze. “You have no gift for combat, Castor, and no divine blessing to aid you against me. I am the soldier and you the scholar. You have challenged me and slain those in my charge, but because of our kinship I offer my forgiveness. I will forgive you should you but join me against the kingdom that banished us. Join me, and together we will seize what was stolen from us a thousand years ago. All that and much, much more.”

  The highlander stood unmoved, sword still swaying.

  Thaydorne’s face, a handsome, golden visage beneath a hairless head striped by many black lines, twisted to a snarl. “Have you lost your ears, Castor? You have slaughtered my champions, some of my best. You have issued threats! Yet you are no match for me, Castor. Not in combat, no matter what mortal form you occupy. How dare you do this!” His whole body seemed to tremble with anger.

  The highlander laughed. He laughed and he lowered his sword, though only slightly. “You fail to understand, Thaydorne. I am not Castor. I am more. I am the Gravemaker. I am the wielder of light and darkness and the death between. It is you who must yield, and you have but this one chance.”

  Thaydorne took long strides about a knot of corpses and came to stand within mere yards of the highlander. “You challenge me?” he snarled, unsheathing the monstrous blade strapped to his back.

  Kreer looked upon it with eyes wide. Ealyr Rigellus. Heaven’s Reaper, the very sword said to have struck down Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares.

  Thaydorne leveled the weapon toward the highlander. “For all your wisdom, Castor, you have proven yourself a fool. I urge you once more not to do this, my brother.”

  The highlander raised his sword. “I am not Castor. I am more. You must know, Thaydorne, that Yrghul summons but one son. He summons me, and this day you will learn why. Bring your strength. Bring your steel. No matter. You shall be destroyed and desecrated all the same.”

  Thaydorne’s chieftains dashed ahead, coming to stand alongside the colossus and rattling weapons. His Necrist companions remained hunched together at the rear, hissing their dark words.

  “No,” Thaydorne commanded. He swept his blade and it hissed in the air as he did. His massive form seemed made entirely of muscle. “I need not rely on any man’s help. I need not rely on sorcery. I possess divine strength, divine fortitude. I will tear apart this perversion with my hands and my blade. Mine alone.” He threw his golden arms outward. “Make my arena.”

  The Arranese chieftains—ornamented warriors with painted faces—moved as one, rushing to ring the two Sentinels and the many corpses between them. Once the wide circle was complete the drums rumbled anew.

  “We battle now, Castor,” said Thaydorne. “The time for mercy has ended. I fear you will feel pain at your death, my brother. Great, great pain. And I apologize for none of it.”

  Karnag Mak Ragg beheld the foe before him. This golden giant, this Sentinel, wielded his blade with a force and quickness Karnag had never felt nor seen. Thaydorne cleaved the air, sweeping the blade down and up and across with a speed that nearly blinded and a strength that shook the earth.

  Yet Karnag knew the weapon’s path before Thaydorne’s arm guided it thus.

  The Sentinel was strong. He was quick.

  Karnag, though, perceived all before it happened. He moved and weaved with a new elusiveness he’d stolen from the shadows. The Sentinel’s sword came close again and again, near enough that Karnag could feel the whip of hot air upon his skin.

  But the blade did not find flesh.

  Thaydorne possessed immense strength, but Karnag ever remained a fraction of an instant ahead. The great Sentinel struck and struck once more the corpses tangled upon the field, their bones shattering and bodies bursting in showers of gore.

  The strikes came swiftly and Thaydorne’s sword howled as it brushed near. Karnag contorted and evaded and parried, though he could find no room to attack.

  But he had embraced his prescience. He had mastered it. And with the knowledge he’d taken from the Necrists, he’d mastered the dark magics as well. He beheld things yet to be and the shadows lurking between.

  More, he beheld those things through the eyes of a killer.

  He waited for his moment.

  He waited with the patience of the greatest slayer the world would ever know.

  There.

  Thaydorne’s foot smashed into the guts of a fallen Arranese—one of his own so-called champions—and for an instant it snagged in the ribcage.

  Now.

  Karnag ripped Gravemaker toward the Sentinel with great rage. The sword found home, slicing into Thaydorne’s side.

  Thaydorne stiffened and tensed for a moment, time enough for Karnag to yank the blade free of the giant’s body.

  But the Sentinel did not falter. Not for long. Thaydorne shoo
k off the wound and renewed his assault, pressing upon Karnag with fury and flashing steel. He roared, his golden face set with wrath and his voice like thunder.

  The Sentinel’s attacks came quickly. So quickly they narrowed that span of foresight Karnag beheld, so quickly he could not react to them in time.

  Heaven’s Reaper drove into his thigh, shearing through leather and skin and sinew. Karnag managed to slither away just before the blade broke bone.

  He cried out and lurched back, feet finding thin spaces among the many dead. He felt the shadows working within him, mending the wound. The pain, though, remained. A searing pain that weakened and distracted him.

  “I am stronger than you!” screamed Thaydorne, gold and massive and menacing before him. “I am faster!”

  Another sweep of the fabled blade. Karnag managed to avoid it, but only barely.

  “I am a god among men!” Thaydorne roared. “What are you?”

  The blade came too close again, biting into Karnag’s hip.

  “Gah!” Karnag spat. He retreated, squared to his enemy, then wheeled his weapon about. He willed his mind to disregard the pain and focus upon those moments between moments. Upon those small, almost indiscernible details written on the atlas of fate.

  There, again.

  “I am a god!” shouted Thaydorne.

  Thaydorne gloated before him and Karnag lunged, driving the point of his blade into the giant’s sword-arm.

  The Sentinel gasped and nearly dropped his weapon. His arm bled like that of any mortal and his blade twitched in a hand that seemed to struggle to grasp it.

  Karnag smiled. “I am death.”

  Thaydorne’s brow bent and worry crept across his face. “Castor, you cannot—”

  Karnag leapt ahead, roaring, and swept Gravemaker before him. The sword ripped through Thaydorne’s abdomen, a torrent of blood following it. “I am death!”