Heygar exhaled. “The gods are dead; so are all the demons. Lures, enchantments, and stirring evils, they’re all the same thing really.”
“The gods are most certainly dead.” Bereziel drifted off, his eyes focusing on faraway things, and Heygar sighed loudly to pull him from his dramatics.
Nothing changes.
“It was perfectly fine casting a lure in the wars when it suited, so why argue now?” Heygar didn’t mind being under the influence of a lure, especially those he had cast upon himself. A lure made everything easier.
“I’m not talking about a thousand unsuspecting soldiers being lured into believing what they fought for was righteous. I’m talking about your brethren. I’m talking about the family you surround yourself with. I’m talking about the woman you intend to marry,” Bereziel wheezed. The effort appeared to exhaust him.
“What makes you think I intend to marry Cherrie?” Some things a weaver just knew. Like dark things stirring? That close to the world beyond, there might be glimmers of precognition. It didn’t really matter. Heygar was planning to pledge himself to her before the night's end. “Will you just do it?” He gestured to the gold.
“Even I don’t know how a lure will fully behave once cast? But, I do know your comrades will follow you regardless. You need not prey upon their greed, my friend. Venistra is a terrible place. Give them free will to face it. Each of them is destined for great things. That much I know.”
He took Heygar’s hand. There was a renewed desperation to the fading man’s pleas. What has he discovered in Venistra to cause such fear? He hadn’t begged like this in almost two decades—since Heygar had first asked for a lure. Back then, there was only a hint of silver showing up in the weaver’s black hair, and they would race each other to the brothel to earn Cherrie’s company for the night. Bereziel had been the finer sprinter; Heygar had won the marathon.
“In Venistra, where the light is hazy, the wet air is bitter, and hopelessness is a potent fever, a lure is what will keep our spirits raised. A lure is what will keep us going when everything is lost. A lure is what might save us all,” Heygar muttered. Time to seal the deal. “You value your privacy here. Do you want me to tell Cherrie you are back in Dellerin City? How well will your concealing enchantment work if she knows of its existence? Do you want her to see you like this?” Heygar said coldly, and then he felt the full weight of guilt. Too far. He could see the pain on his friend’s prideful face, and he knew he had crossed the line. He tapped the pouch of gold.
Bereziel nodded and placed both his fingers upon the case. He took a sharp blade and slit the tips of three of his fingers in a swift motion. He cupped his hand and swiftly turned it over, allowing a few delicate streams of crimson to flow into the box of gemstones. His eyes were shut tightly in concentration, and what colour he had had swiftly left his face. Was this another step too far? Heygar almost thought about stopping his friend but instead, he remained still.
“Siiiiiilllllleeeennnnciiiiiiooooo.” A shudder ran down Heygar’s back as his oldest friend chanted deeply. Bereziel drew his hand away and recovered the first stone. It was black and dull.
“The rat. Maybe I should have lured him with a little cheese.” Bereziel’s voice had changed completely as the source energy took hold. It was strong, cruel, and familiar. He appeared weaker, but forbidden practices infused him somewhat. It would not last, however. He was the vessel for a brief time, and what was stolen from the soul and weaved into the enchantment left a dreadful hollowness in its wake.
“Do not refer to Silvious as that,” warned Heygar of his fateful little companion. Freakish-looking as he was, he was a kind little beast.
The weaver shrugged indifferently and removed a dark-green stone, regal and smooth.
“Denan,” whispered Bereziel and nodded approvingly. “He still hasn’t escaped your clutches? A fine man like that will always be hard to entice, even if he is enticed by the wrong things. Perhaps returning home will help him find his way.” Bereziel held his fingers over both stones. For a moment, Heygar felt unsteady, as though the floor shook gently.
“He is more than ready to form his own group, but for now, he only wishes a place as my right hand.” Heygar wondered why he needed to explain his or his current best friend’s actions. Denan loved their group. He could earn a fortune with his name alone, but in Heygar’s Hounds, they could be legends.
“I merely made a comment,” Bereziel sniffed.
“Well … don’t.”
The next was Cherrie’s stone. Wild red and clear. It shimmered in the candlelight. Bereziel touched it gently. Heygar never liked that part and was happy when her former customer moved on to the next rock.
“You know this is your one,” Bereziel said in a strange, forceful voice as he held a raw sapphire out in front of him. “This is the pinnacle. Are you sure you wish to do this?” he warned in one last attempt.
Heygar knew well that a lure was one of the finer enchantments when weaving, and it was invaluable to the right leader. It was the desire to accomplish a task. It preyed upon one’s reservations. The more fears and doubts pressed on the nerves, the greater the enticement. Heygar knew his comrades well. They would obsess on the reward, and the lure would drive them. Greed was a powerful ally, but with mercenaries, it was almost sacrosanct.
Yes, there was always a little danger with any enchantment, but no lure had steered him wrong. For some unknown reason, the weavers’ guild had outlawed the practice many years ago, and it was likely Bereziel was the only weaver capable of such weaving nowadays. When he died, so, too, might this art. It was a trivial matter. He needed this enchantment this evening, and he was receiving it. Why worry of the things to come?
“You know what I desire. Enchant me.”
“I warn you I will not lure them to follow you mindlessly. I will lure them to complete their task in Venistra. Should one of you fall, the lure’s effect shall add itself to those remaining, at least, until the task is completed. Only then will the weaving dissipate,” Bereziel whispered.
Heygar nodded. “I’d best make sure we don’t die.”
After a moment, Bereziel held his hands over all three and closed his eyes, and he reached for another stone. There was a glimmer of recognition, and Bereziel smiled warmly. He lifted a second from the chest and eyed them carefully.
“Iaculous, the child, and Arielle, the beauty. When I saw them last, there was only a spark, but now it has taken fire,” Bereziel said of the white rock and crystal stone. He took a deep breath and placed both rocks in his hands for a breath of time. Both rocks glowed for a few moments before dimming. “I’ve never seen that before,” he said with delicate awe. “The lure sees something in them that I cannot.”
“He is no child anymore. He has been a capable healer the last three years, and Arielle is no beauty compared to her sister.”
“To him, she is, and she is deserving of someone who sees her for what she truly is,” Bereziel said. He caressed the stone gently as if holding her soul itself.
“Maybe I could send her to you, instead of Cherrie.” Heygar laughed.
He felt a little crude, thinking of Arielle offering her body for coin. If truth be told, she wasn’t built for the harshness of the mercenary life. She could fight like the rest of them, but it had not escaped him that she spent many a lonely hour in the darkness, crying for any blood spilled. He had been killing from a far younger age, but she never took to it like her sister. If he’d had his way, she would never march with them, but Cherrie was loath to leave her alone for very long, lest she fall into a much darker world. Lest she flee the one she was already in.
Bereziel stared at him irritably before placing both stones side by side. They glowed again, and he laughed giddily. “They could be soulmates, like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he whispered.
“Are you saying that me and Cherrie aren’t?”
“Take no offence, friend. Souls are lonely, solitary things, but sometimes two can intertwine. I’m sure
you and your love can perfectly become intertwined—if not with the spirit, then at least with the flesh.” Bereziel laughed, but his eyes stayed upon the stones.
“He still hasn’t hupped upon her,” Heygar muttered under his breath. Bereziel ignored this. “Hasn’t even tried to kiss her either.”
“He will,” the weaver said. “Their child could rule the entire world,” he blurted in that same strange voice. Ancient, knowing, and lost.
“I’d best keep them in the group, so,” quipped Heygar. He wondered if he was mocking his friend, the source, or even himself.
“I would very much like to meet with them both. I would find it interesting to know the effect a lure might have upon their souls,” Bereziel said, and then he reached for the last stone before Heygar could reply.
“Ah, yes. Eralorien, your fabled weaver. The old man with the wandering thoughts and wandering hands too,” Bereziel spat and dropped the plain glass shard on the table. After a moment, he flicked it with a withered, irritated finger.
Heygar smiled. “Oh come now, Bereziel, jealousy does not suit you. One of the finest weavers I’ve ever hired.”
“He’s a thurken fraud,” snapped Bereziel. “His hair is barely greying, and he’s twice my age. What type of weaver looks that healthy?” he added as if he had something to prove. As if Heygar didn’t believe Eralorien was a weak replacement. He was fine enough a weaver for casting a few wards of healing but little else, and his apprentice displayed just as little aptitude for the arcane. “I don’t know how Iaculous hasn’t stagnated under his instruction too,” Bereziel noted.
“I disagree. I suspect Eralorien has learned to reverse the ageing upon the body while weaving,” mocked Heygar.
Bereziel recoiled ever so. Not enough to give a great deal away in a game of chance, but enough that Heygar might surmise his activities this next year.
“Oh, Bereziel,” he lamented, and his friend shrugged as though it were trivial that he’d sacrificed what remained of his life trying to undo the terrible ageing process that weaving had inflicted upon the body. A body withered far quicker with little soul to call upon. Even Heygar knew there was no returning of the soul. Any weaver who said differently was a liar or worse, disillusioned.
“If you thought so highly of his skill, it would be him weaving from his soul,” the weaver muttered and held his hand over the stone. The room appeared to shake once more and fell still just as soon as it occurred. “It is done,” Bereziel whispered, and he held his head in his hands. He shook uncontrollably, and all strength left his voice. The vibrant man of the source had diminished back to the ancient shell once more.
“I feel no different.”
“How many years have you been stating that? You will know when it happens,” Bereziel said.
Heygar smiled. “Until we meet again, my friend.”
“I know I will meet you all again in some shape or form. Be wary in Venistra. There is darkness there that is not of this world. Something waiting in the darkness. Mallum is not what the king will have you believe him to be. I am glad I am no part of this task,” Bereziel said, and then he leaned back in his chair suddenly, closed his eyes, and fell asleep immediately like a strangler’s puppet left to rest at the end of a performance.
Heygar nodded and bowed. “We will meet again, if not in this life, then perhaps in the world beyond,” he whispered to the wind. Then he left the fading man to his silence.
3
Customs Before The March
The air was cool on Heygar’s face as he strode from Bereziel’s house, down through the winding streets of Dellerin. He passed the abandoned market square, long closed since the call of the night, and headed along the delicate flow of the canal until he came to the finest establishment in the entire kingdom: The Drunken Assassin.
Heygar and his comrades had always stayed in this six-story behemoth before setting out in search of their next task and never once tasted failure. The ale was warm, and the food was tepid. Why break from tradition? Mercenaries were a superstitious bunch, and Heygar was no different.
He met Silvious, the rodenerack, in the doorway. Heygar always thought him a fascinating rogue with an uncanny ability to squirm out of precarious trouble. He was mostly human, unlike many of his brethren from the Addakkas inlets, but not for a moment did that grant him any grace among most humans. The Hounds were fond of him but never showed him the respect he deserved.
Silvious was almost four and a half feet in height but could out-leap any man twice over and slice any cur’s throat with his clawed fingers quicker than any serrated dagger. “Mostly human with a little rat thrown in,” he was inclined to point out to any fiend who took umbrage at his presence. He hid his unnatural ears beneath a thin hood and, with his propensity for shaving, he allowed himself to blend in among humankind—at least, at first glance.
But if one were to look a little closer, it was plain to see that his jaw was a little too sharp, his nose a little too pronounced, and his bucked teeth razored. And if one looked even closer, they might even see the strength and fire in his dark, beady eyes.
“It’s a little chilly out here, Silvious,” Heygar said, nodding to the inviting light of the tavern within.
“I didn’t want it to be like last time. I wanted to wait until everyone was here. ‘Sides, I don’t mind the cold,” Silvious whispered and twitched his nose unnaturally—unnatural for a human; perfectly natural for a rat.
The low murmur of conversation, jests, downing pints, and popular songs filled the night, and Heygar felt for his companion. He was too human for acceptance by his rodenerack kind, and man never needed an excuse to strike out at anything that was extraordinary. No one knew why the rodenerack were as they were. Some said it was the work of demons from a millennium ago. Others said it was simple cunning on the rodents’ part to integrate themselves into civilisation. As if rats weren’t despicable enough without mimicking their human counterparts. Maybe they were just the next step in evolution. Or a step behind.
It didn’t really matter to Heygar. Silvious was a master thief, and he trusted the beast with his life. There were worse companions to have when travelling into unforgiving lands. He wondered if Venistrians were as nasty to their kind as he had heard.
“I imagine I’m the last to arrive,” Heygar said, marching through the door. The rodenerack followed swiftly behind.
It was the music blaring from a talented troupe in the corner which caught his attention first. Only the best musicians were likely to make a living in any tavern in the city, and this troupe were no different. They enraptured the crowd with simple melodies and drove the room towards merriment and drunkenness. Heygar listened for a few bars as he surveyed the room for obvious threats.
It had only been two hours since the king had openly proclaimed the Hounds were saviours of the kingdom, and despicable plans might already be in motion. Just because he was a legend didn’t mean assassination was not around the corner or sitting at the bar. Any mercenary company that took out any of The Seven was likely to make a fine name for themselves. And though such an exact ill fate had befallen this group before, the company responsible usually and mysteriously disappeared without a trace before the season was out.
Heygar’s eyes focused on a young man in the corner. His eyes were still, and his face was pale with worry while all around him sang and drank heavily. Now, why was a young lad in a fine establishment like this daring not to enjoy himself? After a few breaths of time, a young girl sat down beside him. His face lit up. Immediately, they engaged in conversation as if their young lives depended on it. Heygar smiled at his miscalculation. A fresh courting was a wonderful thing to behold. If he could, he might keep that in mind when the fighting began.
Content that most patrons were present for respectable reasons, he walked the room once before leaving a handful of silver coins at the counter for their half-night stay. He didn’t bother trying to catch the eye of his comrades, who were spread out, engaging in good times. They had
been since he had left them a few hours earlier.
Heygar grabbed a stool and seated himself at an occupied table in the middle of the room. “Leave,” he said, and the owners of the table leapt from their seats, lest the legend tear them apart.
Silvious sniggered and took an empty seat. Within a few pulses of blood, the rest of his Hounds flocked around him. Arielle and Iaculous dropped their playing cards mid-bet and took the empty seats beside each other. Always beside each other. Never too far apart either, Denan and Cherrie emerged from a secluded corner and sat down on either side of him, his closest allies and confidants. They’d been with him since the beginning. With Bereziel, they were first known as “The Luistra Four,” but time was ever-moving, and now there were more potential legends to call upon and a hundred stories between them. Eralorien was last to sit with them. Vibrant and intimidating, he carried his illusions and delusions softer than most.
“What is the good word, General?” Denan, his second in command, asked. He was a few years younger than Heygar. With a strong, sharp jaw, black hair, and a matching goatee, it was no surprise that most women fell under his charms easily enough. He was gentle and quiet when at peace, but in the raging movements of war, he was fierce and brutal. It was the Venistrian blood in him.
Already, the eyes in the inn focused on the impressive collection at the table. Conversation dropped, and ears became more eager. The troupe were constant, as most talented troupes were. They played loud enough to cover the conversation. Despite the melodies, every patron knew exactly why this meeting was taking place and guessed every word spoken. Mallum had terrible things coming to him for rebelling against the king, did he not? If the Hounds knelt at Lemier’s crown, well, he really wasn’t that bad, now was he?
“The word is gold, and it shines. Our beloved king will offer one hundred apiece.” Heygar produced his bag of coin. He dropped it on the table, and Silvious swiped it up swiftly. “Twenty apiece to start, and the rest to whoever survives,” laughed Heygar as the rodenerack dealt the coin out to his comrades.
The Seven Page 3
