Brothers of the Knife

by Dan Rabarts

  “Well?” Bane snapped by way of greeting, which was actually rather polite by his own standards. “What did you see?”

  “Greetings Father, Mother.” Grebbeth dipped his horns and lifted his tail in deference. “Are you sure you want to know this awful truth?”

  “We know Hrodok paid Akmenos a visit in the kitchens yesterday afternoon. That fool Skerrl saw him, but never thought it might be a warlock responsible for what happened, and now you say you have word of Hrodok. Do share, because if I walked all this way for nothing, I’ll make you very sorry.”

  Grebbeth’s crooked grin didn’t falter beneath his father’s ire, his confidence suggesting he truly had evidence of some doing most foul on his brother’s part.

  “Show us,” Arah said.

  Grebbeth’s gaze flicked to his mother, as if a spell had been broken.

  Yes, Bane is still the alpha, but his sons are boys no longer, and he has raised them to be cunning, and ambitious. He ought to be wary.

  “Hrodok blustered through this morning and made sure we were tied up with searching for Akmenos, but I spared a scry for him as well. He looked like he was about to do something foolish, and I wanted to keep an eye out, you know, in case he needed aid.”

  “Get to the point,” Bane growled, leaning over the smoking firepit.

  “Very well,” Grebbeth flicked his claws, casting dancing green sparks into the flames, which blazed quickly before dying. Thick white smoke boiled up, and forms moved within the shifting coils. “Now,” Grebbeth said, settling into a chair as his parents watched the unfolding scene, transfixed, “enjoy the show. It gets good.”

  ~

  When Eldarian came to the sun was casting gaunt shadows through the trees along the ridgeline. Something hot, wet, and rough grazed his face. He rolled away, clutching his aching head. He blinked, relieved he could see, though his vision was blurry. He hurt all over, and he stank of burnt hair and singed skin.

  “Marlot?” he croaked, recognising his horse, snuffling at his face. The horse was a monster in battle yet gentle as spring rain to his master. Heavens be blessed! “Marlot, I knew you would find me.” Eldarian pulled himself upright, clutching Marlot’s saddle for support. Then the memory of betrayal, of slaughter, rushed back.

  The sight hit him harder than any sword-blow or witch-bolt. He gagged, almost toppling from the saddle. Dozens of corpses swung languidly in the breeze, their bellies open to the night, throats spread wide in bloody grins. Every one, strung up, gutted and skewered with arrows, Prince Larthia among them, none of them more than butchered meat. Warriors beside whom he had fought, soldiers who had obeyed him, friends who had trusted him. Good elves and true.

  Eldarian had led them to their deaths.

  Hrodok—traitor, murderer—could not be working for his emperor; this was no imperial plot, but some outside scheme hatched to drive a bloody wedge between the conquering hornung and the vassal elven nation. Eldarian and his warriors were pawns in this theatre of blood that must be played out, one way or another, for the sake of great men playing at empires.

  And yet, Hrodok had left him alive. A lone survivor to bear witness, to carry the story home.

  Eldarian retrieved his sword from the grass and then, wincing against countless throbbing aches, he hauled himself onto Marlot’s back.

  Hrodok had insinuated himself into Eldarian’s party, had sent his men off to lie in wait, denying the elves their horses, had played on Eldarian’s pride and his need for vengeance to bring him to this killing ground. That he had survived the massacre was almost too cruel a burden to bear.

  He couldn’t spend the night burying fifty bodies. Wolves would catch the scent, and when they came they would not pause to differentiate living from dead. Yet Eldarian couldn’t leave his fallen compatriots there, hung out to rot like meat. He drew his sword, the same that had commanded these warriors to fight and to die, and nudged Marlot forward. Riding up to the offal reek of the disembowelled corpses, he lashed out, slicing the ropes that held them. Corpse after corpse fell to the meadow floor. It was the least, and the most, that Eldarian could do. Were his soldiers to have any justice, it would be at the end of the sword, and many swords, at that. Landaria would not stand by while the its people were murdered. Be it Hornung or some power-mad rogue, there would be blood paid for blood.

  Pausing only to retrieve the corpse of his fallen prince and sling it across Marlot’s rump, Eldarian spurred his horse into the gathering dusk. In good time, he would hunt down the traitor Hrodok and have his revenge.

  ~

  “So where is he now?” Arah demanded.

  Grebbeth shrugged. “He could be anywhere, since the charm I placed on him faded. Fraag has alerted the city guard so they might detain him when he returns.”

  “If he returns,” Bane grumbled. “That wasn’t simple murder; it was a statement, one he knows will be heard far away, and which will not go without retribution. But why would Hrodok betray the empire?”

  Arah was not as outraged as she had expected. Of all her sons, Hrodok was the most likely to do such a thing were there some advantage to be gained. “He won’t dare return to Kriikan. The rewards for his treason must be great indeed.”

  “But from whom?”

  “Our foes are many, and our strength is in large part due to our vassal nations bowing before us. If we start killing off their princes and soldiers within the safety of our borders, we will face rebellion from every nation we’ve subdued. This foe cannot defeat us militarily, but hopes to do so from within, turning our own power against us. Whatever they’ve offered Hrodok must be greater than the promise of becoming a Cursemaster.”

  Bane turned his glare on her. “What could possibly be greater than becoming a Cursemaster?”

  Arah met his gaze levelly. “You who swear service to an emperor must ask that? There is always something more.”

  Bane turned from the cinders of the seeing flame and paced the floor. Arah glanced at Grebbeth, saw the recognition in his eyes. Bane and Hrodok, father and son, were more alike than either of them might ever admit.

  “It couldn’t be just because he hates the elves, could it?” Grebbeth muttered. “Because of Thurgrin, and the Battle of Ascouria?”

  Arah turned to the window and cracked the curtain, so Grebbeth might not see the sudden sheen that sprang to her eyes at the mention of her lost son. Her years as a voice of reason at her tempestuous husband’s side smoothed any emotion she might let slip before her son. “No, had it been simple revenge, he would’ve killed them all, and not made such a display of the act. This speaks to a deeper motive. I’m afraid we must assume our son has betrayed us for the gain of some unknown enemy. To unravel why, we must learn the truth of his allegiance.”

  “Well,” Grebbeth said, his narrow eyes darkening to slits, “you could start with his whore.”

  Bane stopped pacing. Grebbeth may well be as sly as his brother, possibly more cunning than Arah had given him credit for. How long had he been biding his time for the perfect moment to hang Hrodok out to bleed?

  “What would a whore know?” Bane growled.

  Grebbeth pursed his lips, as if savouring a fine wine. “The real question is why would a hornung warlock find his fancy with a human piece of meat?”

  ~

  Fascinated by the massive carcass that filled the clearing, Hrodok slid from the horse before it’d come to a halt, his own hooves skidding in a slurry of rotting humus and black ichor. Feeding wolves scattered at his approach, but his sudden appearance wouldn’t keep them at bay for long, not with such a feast for the taking. The wyvern’s neck had been severed, its spine rent, the thick scales sliced cleanly apart. He’d seen wyverns on his travels, but never one so neatly dispatched. He shivered.

  He was no woodsman; he couldn’t tell from the chaotic tracks marring the clearing who’d come and gone in the melee. But the wyvern, probably the same he had seen earlier that day, was not merely a wild one that had chanced upon the scene. It was saddled and har
nessed confirming wyrmken involvement. Of all the races that lived in the shadow of the Skullspine and on the shores of the Scorching Sea, the wyrmken were the most elusive. Not only had the Hornung expansion failed to subjugate the reptilian race, but every empire to have risen and fallen in the past thousand years had encountered a stone wall when they turned their attention to the wyrmken. Yet for all their belligerence when it came to beating back invaders, this reclusive nation had never brought war upon the races who had so often tried and failed to break them. What were they waiting for?

  The plinth was a sodden mess of drying blood, redolent with ozone and singed hair. Sianna had not been waiting at the hut as she’d promised, although there had been hot stew on the stove, suggesting she had left in a hurry. She’d said she’d meet him here, and meet her here he would.

  Away in the trees the wolves began to howl, emboldened by hunger.

  Hrodok shivered. He could drive them off with sorcery if need be, but the lure of the dead wyvern ought to keep their attention from him. There was more meat on the carcass than a pack of wolves could eat in a month.

  When morning came and the Coven found Hrodok’s parting gift in the river meadow, Kriikan would have more to worry about than one missing warlock. By then, of course, he would be gone, spirited far away.

  If Sianna came. Why would she not? He’d proved his loyalty, made his sacrifice. Why would she reveal to him the secrets of the plinths, take him to her bed, if she’d not meant to honour their bargain? He’d done everything she’d asked, and things had turned out as hoped, even if the plan had changed along the way.

  Which raised the question: who had killed the elfling lord?

  Hrodok had gone to the kitchens, distracted the staff, sprinkled the lethal powder over the prince’s crème brulée. It had been easy to tell the guest of honour’s bowl, as he was being served in a golden dish only slightly less ostentatious than that of the Emperor himself. However, the prince had died eating his starter. Hrodok hadn’t let this concern him at the time. Battle is fluid, and he’d adapted. Grasped the stakes and played his hand like a master. So what if someone else had also picked on this night to strike a blow against the Landarians, or Hornung? The prince was dead, his end achieved. Hrodok’s cohort would ride back to the castle, bereft of their glorious leader, bearing a tale of a wyrmken ambush and the elves’ demise. Doubtless fated to hang on the morrow when the Landarians were found.

  Such weak things were the pawns of stronger creatures, like Hrodok and Sianna, whose designs exceeded the understanding of mere mortals. He refused to believe himself a pawn in an even larger game, but these two inconsistencies—the appearance of wyrmken, and the prince’s untimely death, even by just an hour or so—gave him doubt.

  Doubt would not win. Sianna would take him away from Hornung, and he would start his quest for the Eternal Stair.

  The howling of the wolves drew nearer. Hrodok shuddered. Dwarfed by the looming trees, Hrodok huddled closer to the rocks, bathed in broken shafts of pink and ochre moonlight. Sianna had promised she would come. If she didn’t, it was all for naught, and Hrodok had made a fatal miscalculation.

  The plinth sat dark and silent. The wolves circled. Hrodok cowered and waited. For all that his scheming could bring a nation to its knees, until he reached the Eternal Stair, he was still a mortal husk of skin and horn and hoof, like any other. Plenty could go wrong before then.

  Then a whisper of light glimmered across the plinth, swirling as if by an invisible breeze. A spell leapt from his lips and his body vanished, appearing on the plinth in an eyeblink. The sickly light flared and faded, but it was enough. Hrodok reached into the void and grabbed hold of the silver thread that wound between the interstices and held on tight as something dragged him into the darkness.

  Chapter Eleven

  “So,” Akmenos ventured, when he could speak again, “do you mind if I ask your names?”

  “Wha’ for?” the first hyena asked, pushing a smoking haunch of meat across the table towards Akmenos. Blood oozed from the joint, besmirching the flat stone. Akmenos couldn’t be sure what sort of meat it was, and even though he had no objection to eating his meat rare, there was a fundamental difference between rare and raw. He carefully cut a slice from the most burnt edge he could find.

  The other hyena, he of the terrifying laughter, entered the cramped stone chamber, a cave worn smooth by years of habitation. He placed a gourd of water on the table, sweetened with honey as per Akmenos’ instruction. Wherever they sourced their water, it was far from artesian. It tasted downright foul.

  “Well, it’s what civilised folk do when they meet and eat together, sharing names. Unless you’re some sort of secret brotherhood or something, in which case you tend to use secret names, aliases and such. Or so I’ve heard.” He inspected the meat, found it more pink than bloody red, and chewed it gingerly.

  “Well, wassa your name, first.”

  “Akmenos,” he offered brightly, extending a hand across the table. “Pleased to meet you, once again.”

  “Me name Jack,” the second hyena grunted, taking a long swig from the gourd. “Mista fat-horn right ‘bout the water. Better like this.”

  “Thank you kindly, Jack.” Akmenos nodded. “Bad water can make you quite ill, but there is plenty in honey which can make you well, so the two should balance each other. Here, try it, Mister ah…”

  The first hyena looked at him guardedly, and with distaste at the gourd. “Mista fat-horn can call me Al.”

  Akmenos blinked. “Jack,” he said, and then “Al.” He nodded once to himself, trying not to smile, failing. “Jack. Al.”

  Al loomed over the table. “Wassa funny, fat-horn? You think me name funny? Huh?”

  Akmenos sidled backwards, trying to suppress a chuckle. “No, not at all, Jack, uh, Al. It’s just that…well, Al, I guess I’ve never heard hyena names before. I thought they might be more, um, fearsome. And, well, you know—”

  “No, I don’t know. You tella me why you laughin’, or I rippa you right in half!”

  Akmenos should’ve been terrified, but he could barely stifle a giggle. “It’s just that I’m terrified of jackals, and I’ve not met one before, but…”

  “We’s not jackals! We hyenas! Jack, hold this fat-horn down sossa I can gut ‘im!” Al lunged.

  “Al!” Jack jumped in, pulling Al away. “Hessa jus makin’ a fool jest, is all. Leave him, at least until he’s a bit fatter. Shame to waste him.”

  The words chilled Akmenos. He was a prisoner, and potentially a menu item. The only reason he wasn’t locked away was because the barren desert beyond this shadowy mesa was enough to hold him with neither walls nor chains. He must convince these beasts he was one of them, somehow.

  The hyenas had a veritable city here inside the desert mesa, squirreled away in the tunnels and burrows they had led him through. The mesa was easily home to hundreds of hyenas, with dozens of giant scorpions nestled and tethered around the place, and who knew what else? Perhaps he could wrangle his way into their confidence and gain a place as their royal chef, if there was a king to be found, and then poison the whole bleeding lot of them. Not exactly an original idea, but better than plumping himself up for slaughter.

  Jack led Al away, grumbling. Akmenos was still hungry, and the sliver of meat he’d gnawed on had set his stomach to growling. He hefted the unidentified joint and returned it to the coals. There were no crocks, pots or pans to be seen, but Akmenos found a few flat stones and set one into the coals to heat. With any luck, he could carve some slabs from the haunch and enjoy some properly cooked meat before the hyenas returned to joint and cook him. He pulled an onion and a potato from his pocket, and sliced them thin, to cook in the fat from the meat.

  For a short while he was lost in the sizzling of lunch, smells and sounds to fill his ears, nose and soul with hope. He had just achieved what he might call lunch, when the afternoon disintegrated into chaos. Howls erupted somewhere outside, followed by the clash of wood and metal. Were A
kmenos a man of action, he would’ve abandoned his meal, grabbed any weapon he could find, and prepared to face whatever threat may come. But Akmenos was no fighter. He was hungry. Disappointed his potatoes wouldn’t be quite as tender as he liked, he scraped the hot food onto another slab and began to shovel meat, onion and potatoes into his mouth. He was still sucking cool air over his burning tongue when the fighting spilled into this cave. He scurried—plate in hand—behind the table.

  Al sailed through the air and smashed into the far wall with a sick crunch. The hyena slumped shapelessly to the floor, suggesting his spine was now several more pieces than it had been moments before. Akmenos pressed himself against the table and continued to chew ferociously, for of all the things he could do with ferocity, eating was the most ferocious. If whatever was coming was also intent on killing him, he may as well die with a full belly. It was only fair.

  He heard Jack’s horrific laughter then, as if some kind of macabre battle cry, and the thump of spear meeting flesh. The hyena’s cry was met with a bellow that shook the walls, a thunder of roughshod feet and smashing timber. Akmenos licked his plate. The whole thing could’ve done with a spot of caraway, but it was a gamey meat, quite flavoursome on its own. Kind of like beef, only bigger, fuller, somehow.

  Jack’s howl was cut off with a sound like a cleaver hacking through a side of ribs, and the room went quiet aside from the rushing of blood in Akmenos’ ears. He laid the plate down and felt for his knives. Check. His trusty salt and pepper grinders were still looped into his apron, plus an assortment of herbs and spices. There was even a small bottle of oil, which he might have been able to use to slip away from this mess, but alas, at that moment someone stepped around the table. Akmenos saw a leg. A very large leg, ending in a massive, blood-spattered cloven hoof. Behind this leg, beside the fire, rested the upright remains of the haunch Akmenos had butchered for his meal. The similarities between the cooked haunch and the living leg before him were hard to miss, both the shape and the size.