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

by David Benem

  The Sentinel staggered but did not fall. He withdrew several strides beyond the reach of Karnag’s sword and looked to him with eyes wide. His hand clutched his belly, blood flowing freely through his fingers, then glanced to the huddled Necrists cowering outside the ring.

  “How?” Thaydorne croaked.

  Karnag gnashed his teeth, Gravemaker poised before him. “You do not listen, Thaydorne,” he grated. “You do not learn. I am not Castor. I am more!”

  Karnag witnessed the coming instant, the briefest opportunity. Shock still rattled Thaydorne and his good hand still struggled to contain his innards. He would not be able to evade the strike.

  Karnag charged toward his foe. He dashed aside the giant then whirled about, shrieking and swinging Gravemaker low. The blade tore through the tendon just above Thaydorne’s heel and the Sentinel dropped to his knees with a heavy thud.

  Karnag wheeled round once more, whipping the sword with a terrible strength all his own.

  The steel ripped through Thaydorne’s throat and the Sentinel’s golden head fell from his golden body in a tumble of blood and gristle.

  Silence.

  The whole of the gathering seemed to inhale and Karnag reveled in it. He grasped with both hands Thaydorne’s severed head, all golden and striated by black stitches.

  He lifted the head above him and turned slowly about, looking to the decorated Arranese whose painted faces sagged with drooping mouths. “This is your Spider King, and this is his end!” He heaved the head toward that edge of the circle nearest the lurking Necrists.

  The Necrists chittered for an instant, but then fell quiet.

  “You dare not,” Karnag snarled, black tendrils escaping his mouth.

  The Arranese stood in dumbfounded silence, gazes affixed to Thaydorne’s disembodied head. The skull still listed to and fro upon the field, eyes wide like those of a slaughtered cow.

  Karnag saw this and he laughed. He rounded the circle and laughed all the more, spittle spraying from his mouth as he cackled. “You thought him a god?”

  They dared not answer him.

  “He promised you conquest. He promised you deliverance and he promised eternity. But he cannot deliver these things. He cannot deliver these because he was from the beginning deceived—he was unsuited. He thought he was summoned as the chosen of Yrghul, but Yrghul chose but one son. I am the chosen son, and it is I alone who can lead you to eternity. It is I alone who can destroy Rune!”

  The Arranese swayed and shifted and the Necrists whispered.

  Karnag threw his arms outward, Thaydorne’s blood dripping from them. “It is I alone! Follow me now, and together we will take the whole of the world and the whole of the heavens above!”

  A murmur arose.

  The Arranese chieftains moved forward, tightening the circle they’d formed. Karnag stood tall in their midst and as they neared him they bowed low.

  “We follow strength, my lord,” said one of the bowing Arranese. “We are humbled in your presence.”

  “Rise,” Karnag said.

  The chieftains did so, haltingly. Fear stained their eyes.

  “And you?” Karnag roared, pointing Gravemaker toward the huddle of Necrists beyond the circle.

  The necromancers stood only for a moment before prostrating themselves upon the plain.

  Karnag reveled in it all, sucking in the death-tainted air.

  Then, though, he remembered the eyes upon him, the spies who dared watch him become.

  He wheeled toward the hillock, toward his old pupils. Toward the aged prefect and the bumbling acolyte. The fools who thought they’d hidden from him.

  He leveled Gravemaker and laughed. “You? You dare think you can capture what is mine to possess? Come, then! Come!”

  Two green-cloaked Variden appeared and yanked away the prefect and acolyte, their petty illusion spoiled. The four hurriedly mounted horses and galloped over the hillcrest and away.

  Karnag smiled at this.

  Those men would warn others.

  Together, they would spread Karnag’s tale.

  Together, they would spread news of his deeds, and all who heard it would fear.

  28

  OLD SCORES

  Lannick stood at the window of the abandoned merchant’s shop, looking out from the barren second floor to the streets below. The sun had risen to near midday and reflected off many puddles of water and blood. Smoke seemed to rise from everywhere and the air carried the ring of combat and the stink of the dead.

  The streets just below, though, were empty save for the occasional soldier charging toward the battle or a group of them hauling away an injured comrade.

  “Black Jon’s holding his own!” blurted Private Yurick, the last of Kaldare’s men. He was a burly, exuberant and red-haired youth who’d taken a liking to the Scarlet Sword’s axe that had felled his companion. He hefted the weapon now, shaking it toward the window.

  “Let’s hope so,” Lannick said with a smirk. “Rune needs Black Jon and all his men.”

  Ogrund grunted from behind them in the small room. “More than you know. I’ve just learned the enemy is far more dangerous than we expected. We war against eternal forces, Lannick. These are grave moments, and never has so much depended upon us.”

  Lannick turned to his Variden companion. “Then we must kill the general. We must focus on that now. On that above all things. All those other troubles will be waiting for us when we’re done.”

  Ogrund nodded slightly, eyes narrow as ever. “I am with you, Lannick. But remember also what I said. Our comrade Alisa learned the general bargained with the Necrists for an Auruch. We have no idea what powers he may command. We must take care.”

  Lannick clenched his crackling jaw. “Fane dies this day.”

  “Then what the fuck are we waiting for?” sneered Arleigh Lay. He scraped his dagger across a whetstone and wore fresh bandages about his forehead and mess of black hair. He snorted. “Let’s kill the bastard.”

  “Fucking agreed,” muttered Cudgen Ashworn through a cough, a wince and a hand pressed against his side. “We’ve old scores to settle. Each and every one of us.”

  Lannick turned back to the window, a smile finding his face. He looked to the governor’s mansion two blocks distant, its white walls and red-shingled roof bright beneath the sun. He squeezed a hand about his sword. “Ogrund?”

  The squint-eyed Variden pressed close to the window, appearing to study the sky and then the nearby mansion. “Yes,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Now is the time.”

  They splashed across the street, cloaks hunched high on their shoulders. The nearest structure, a tall building with heavy eaves and boarded windows, provided cover.

  “The streets are nearly empty,” said Arleigh. “We’re safe for now.”

  Lannick peered round the corner, down a narrow alley that emptied near the mansion. “There don’t seem to be eyes on us yet.” He tugged in a breath and pulled his sword free of its scabbard. “Let’s go.”

  They rushed through the alleyway and the refuse crowding it.

  Then footsteps.

  They stopped short of the alley’s mouth, listening.

  “Come close,” hissed Ogrund. He clutched a Coda that now glowed a pale green.

  Lannick drew near to the Variden, knowing the man meant to conceal them from whoever moved beyond.

  Scarlet Swords—a half-dozen of them—trotted along the street. “Fane’s losing the city,” grumbled one. “His own soldiers are turning against him!”

  Lannick felt his heart leap. “This is our chance,” he whispered.

  The Scarlet Swords moved on, the sounds of their steps fading. Soon the street seemed quiet and unoccupied, the only noise that of the battle raging in the distance.

  “Now,” said Lannick. “We go now.”

  “Remain close to me,” said Ogrund. “So long as you do we’ll appear no more than a huddle of refugees to any onlookers. Wander too far, though, and you’ll be revealed to their eyes.” />
  Kaldare looked to the Variden with a cocked brow. “You can do such things?”

  “Trust him,” said Lannick, “and do just as he says.”

  Arleigh snorted. “Once again, this fellow’s more useful than I’d thought.”

  They slipped from the alley, moving across and up the wide thoroughfare. There, a mere fifty feet away, stood the governor’s mansion, a tall, two-storied structure of white wood agleam in the sunlight. A smattering of red-sashed soldiers wandered the fenced grounds and a couple of Scarlet Swords leaned against tall columns lining the home’s facade.

  “Let’s move past,” whispered Lannick. “Move past the mansion and take in everything you see. We need to find our best way in.”

  They walked in a tight group, hands squeezed about weapons and eyes affixed to the mansion and the foes loitering about it.

  “Stay close, lads,” Lannick whispered. “Stay quiet.”

  They crept along, most glancing nervously to Fane’s guards then hiding their eyes. Lannick, though, knew the power Ogrund worked and scrutinized the mansion’s every angle, window and door. It was a massive structure with lush gardens, the whole of it standing behind a tall fence of wrought iron. The home had numerous entrances and exits, and there didn’t seem nearly enough men to maintain an adequate watch.

  “There,” he whispered, pointing toward the rear of the building as it came into view.

  A single Scarlet Sword slumped upon a bench, stoop-shouldered with a bottle of wine beside him. He looked blearily about, seemingly untroubled by the combat raging not far away.

  Lannick looked to Cudgen Ashworn. “Can you take him out from here? Silence him with a single arrow?”

  Cudgen stared about. “Get me a better angle,” he said quietly. “Then I’ll skewer the son of a bitch.”

  They walked to the intersection just ahead then turned to move along the rear of the property. The Scarlet Sword glanced to them but briefly, returning his attention to his wine.

  “Here’s a good spot,” said Cudgen.

  “Quickly,” whispered Lannick. “Ogrund’s concealed us, but we’ll look suspicious if we linger.”

  Cudgen drew an arrow from his quiver. “I’ll not take long.” He fitted the shaft to his bowstring and drew, groaning as he did. “Damned ribs,” he hissed.

  Lannick leaned near him. “Can you do it? If the soldier cries out we’ll have trouble.”

  Cudgen sniffed and nodded his thin face. His hands shook but then steadied. “No one’s robbing me of this.”

  He let fly and the arrow plunged into the Scarlet Sword’s gullet with a thud. The wide-eyed, red-cloaked soldier collapsed from the bench, rolling into a bed of flowers with soft rustle.

  Cudgen grunted. “No one.”

  “Let’s go,” Lannick said, pointing toward a nearby doorway of the mansion. “The other soldiers are elsewhere for now.”

  They bolted forward, pouring through the gate and across the grounds. Lannick leapt over the fallen Scarlet Sword and pressed toward the entrance. The door gave way with a sharp shove and in moments he and his companions had squeezed their way inside the mansion.

  He felt the chill immediately.

  “Ogrund…” he whispered.

  “I sense it, Lannick. I sense there may be a good number of them. We must take care.”

  Lannick clenched his blade all the tighter and sidled down the short hallway before them.

  Soon they came to a chamber, a larder seemingly intended for fresh stores of bread and produce. Now, though, withered vegetables drooped in wet sacks and loaves of molded bread wilted upon the shelves. All of it reeked of decay.

  A door stood at the chamber’s far end and Lannick eased it open. The room beyond—a kitchen striped with ribbons of light from shuttered windows—appeared unoccupied by anything but stench. A cauldron of fetid stew hung within a fireplace, and atop a counter rested a rotting hunk of meat swarming with flies and maggots.

  “Kindling,” Lannick said through a grimace as he gestured to the hearth. Against the bricks stood a low, neat stack of sticks and firewood. “Everyone grab some.”

  The men did as ordered, each taking a handful of dry wood. If there were as many Necrists as Ogrund suspected, they’d need flames.

  Lannick led them onward, across creaky wooden floors that complained far too much for comfort. They moved into a great parlor filled with plush chairs, tapestries, and tall windows veiled by heavy curtains. An eerie quiet smothered everything.

  Ogrund clasped Lannick’s shoulder. “There.”

  Lannick turned to see a winding staircase near the front door to the mansion. He nodded. “Quietly.”

  They tiptoed up the stairs but the wood groaned as though they trudged. Their chainmail hissed and their weapons rattled. It seemed all too loud to Lannick’s ears, especially with shadows lurking in every space unlit by the thin striations of sunlight.

  He stared toward a second floor engulfed in darkness. “It’s too quiet, too empty… He must know we’re here.”

  Ogrund nodded. “Or they do.”

  Lannick ascended, trying to remain soft on his feet but the wood complained all the same. He held his sword before him and his bandaged hand drifted to his Coda. He wondered whether it’d prove wise to chance this endeavor without it. He clenched his teeth then resigned himself to the inevitable.

  I’ll need it.

  They pressed on. The stairs led to a long hallway. Only scant light penetrated the corridor from the rooms that lined it, all the doors splintered in places. The air became ever colder.

  Lannick paused to peer through cracks in the doorways. A library. Two bedrooms. Spaces lit by thin rays of sunlight but all empty.

  “Where is he?” asked Arleigh.

  Ogrund pointed a finger toward the ceiling. “I’d reckon there, in the attic. He and his council of Necrists.”

  Lannick stared ahead. After a moment he shook his head. To the old hells with it. With his wounded hand he pried open the lacquered box holding his Coda then slipped the hand through. He twisted his wrist and the cool iron closed about it.

  Many images and many thoughts crowded his head, just as he knew they would. He’d readied himself, though, and focused on the task at hand. On the person—the vicious murderer—who awaited him just ahead. On his dead family. On the last decade stolen from him.

  On vengeance.

  The thoughts and images faded. He sucked in a steadying breath then led his companions down the hallway. Then down another and another again.

  They came to the base of another stairwell, the chill intensifying as though the cold cascaded from the ceiling. Lannick caressed his Coda. “He is there,” he whispered. “Waiting for us. Light the firewood. We’ll use it as torches, then as weapons when the times comes.”

  Kaldare grunted. “But we’ll forfeit any element of surprise. If the whole of this place is as dark as this, he’ll perceive our approach long before we get near.”

  Lannick, scowling, peered toward the darkness above. “It matters not. He and his Necrists know we’re coming.”

  They moved upward, carefully and with weapons and torches before them. Lannick couldn’t be certain, but thought he heard a faint chittering upon the air. No doubt the Necrists were working their sorcery. And no doubt General Fane played some part in it all.

  “Captain,” whispered Arleigh. “We should just set fire to the whole fucking place. Let the flames sort these bastards out.”

  Ogrund grunted. “No. The Necrists could still escape through their shadowpaths. So long as they can find or form a line of shadows, they—and the general—can escape.”

  Lannick nodded. “We’ll need to face him. We need to make certain he dies.”

  The tight stairwell wound to a door, heavy and shut before them. Lannick tried the knob, gently, but it was locked from within. He leaned close, trying to hear some hint of what awaited them. There were indeed chitters and slithering sounds. Necrists’ voices, distant and fading.

  The ai
r’s chill felt as though it faded as well.

  “Ogrund?” Lannick hissed.

  The Variden’s narrow eyes widened. “Hurry!”

  Lannick reared then smashed the door with a shoulder. The wood did not bend. He slammed his shoulder again. The wood did not give, but just then a faint click sounded.

  He tried the knob again and the door yielded. He paused. “It’s unlocked?”

  “Go!” barked Ogrund.

  They charged through.

  The room, though, appeared empty of any foes. It was a tall, raftered attic strewn with tables and chairs haphazardly arranged. Its few, narrow windows were covered by boards and curtains of black, and no sunlight wandered within the dark. The room stank of pitch and the floors sucked at their feet.

  They moved forward, staring up to the blackened beams. Their torches lit most of the space but shadows danced all about.

  “They’re gone,” Lannick said. “Either they escaped, or were never here.”

  Ogrund strode on, holding his torch firmly before him. “They were here, an instant ago. I sense a shadowpath has just closed. There…” He pointed toward what seemed the darkest corner of the room. “They left through a portal there.”

  The room’s door—the one they’d just entered—slammed shut. There came a clatter from beyond it.

  Then hammers. Heavy hammers pounded from the other side.

  Worse, smoke arose. A foul, black smoke from the floor beneath.

  “Fire!” screamed Arleigh Lay. “Fuckers did just what we should have!”

  A sweltering heat smothered them. Flames began licking their way through the floorboards.

  “Dead gods!” cursed Lannick. He dashed to the door and smacked a shoulder against it.

  The door wouldn’t give.

  He kicked it once and again and still nothing.

  “Help me!” he shouted.

  Kaldare rushed near. He slammed the door but to no avail. “Private Yurick!” he barked.

  Kaldare’s soldier bounded across floorboards that shuddered beneath his big form. After a signal from the sergeant the youth smashed the door with a shoulder that struck like a sledge. The wood splintered in places but remained unmoved.