by V. S. Holmes
The man must have only sat for the one. Arman grinned and began to read.
The Rakos garrisons scattered across the continent guard the largest Laen cities. It has been suggested that they are forts, like our own, but from what I have seen, that is not strictly correct. Garrison is simply the only word I have. Anyone who wishes to enter the Laen city must pass the gates, and if the sight alone does not scare one off, then the inhabitants of the gatehouse well might.
It’s been said that the Rakos keep monsters, or make them the way the Laen made the gods. If that is true, then I question the Rakos’s sanity. These creatures are not made of flesh and soul. They are earth and fire and burning anger.
Arman ran his fingers over the sketch on the opposite page. It was a monster, by human standards. The flesh looked like stone. Some sort of fluid oozed free where the skin cracked at the joints. Great plates curled up at the edges. Any echo of a human shape was overshadowed by the horns branching from the head and shoulders. Lumps on the back could have been wings or armor. It hunched, as if uncomfortable standing on only two legs.
Arman imagined it was a fearsome sight in person, but all he felt was pity. Still, a grin grew on his face. He reached over and tugged the bell pull. My power may be an enigma and fairly useless thus far, but intimidating armor can never go wrong.
Arman turned to the serving man who appeared at the bell’s ring. “Could you bring me the sketching materials from my room, and deliver this to General Aneral?” He scribbled a few lines on a scrap of parchment and handed it over. When the man had gone, Arman turned back to the book, flipping through to the sections that described actual battle. His ability to transform his arms into smoke was fascinating, but he had yet to read that any Rakos had such an ability. Full-blooded Rakos controlled fire, from what he read, and the explosion of the campfire on the road hinted he might as well.
He spent the rest of the morning designing armor that echoed the monster. He was not a man who leaned towards armor, nor had he ever designed any. General, please don’t tear all of this apart. In the back of his thoughts was another, the idea that the Rakos had created these monsters. What if he could do the same?
He was almost through the third sketch when he heard the general clear her throat from a few chairs away.
“That serving man told me a dead man wanted to see me. Took a moment to realize what he meant. You look well, for a dead man.”
Arman grinned. “Death becomes me, what can I say?”
“Quite. What did you need?”
He handed her the papers, watching for any reaction as she perused them.
After a moment she sat, looking closer. “This is armor.”
“Yes. I found a drawing of one of the creatures the Rakos created—Earth Shakers they were called it seems. Though I’m still uncertain what my actual purpose is, I thought looking like a gods’ nightmare would be a good start.”
“Have you been finding any information on your actual powers? Armor is a good start, and this is a fine design, but it’s only armor. Armor protects you, and you are a weapon.”
Arman sighed. “There are few mentions of the Rakos in this library—foolish humans too afraid to even mention us in books.” Contempt burnt in his words, though it was unconscious.
Eras glanced up from the design, her hazel eyes narrowing on him. “Watch that pride. It can lead to bigotry.” The warning was softened by her smile, but only just.
He rose and went to the window, looking out on the overcast day as she continued to examine his drawings. “My temper is getting worse. I have slight abilities, but they are more parlor tricks than anything else. That was the first light in days.” He shrugged. “I don’t rightly feel Rakos most of the time. I feel things I know are because of the power, but nothing that feels different from myself. Just new.”
“I imagine you were always a Rakos in some fashion.”
Arman snorted. “For someone who wields fire and earth I did a terrible job in the forge.”
“You were a smith?”
“Not really. My father was, as was my grandfather. My friend, Wes, took over the clients when my father died. I did the jewel work and the designs.”
“Breaking the earth’s natural form would have been hard for someone whose soul was made of earth and metal. I’d bet your designs leaned towards natural shapes and rough surfaces. Organic things.”
Arman stared at her. He wanted to make a rude comment about her having knowledge beyond what was rightly appropriate. It irked him that she was right. It irked him that the blood had controlled him for so long. Have I ever been my own person? Had he ever been simply Arman? “It doesn’t make sense, general. I’m a diluted mess of old, forgotten power.”
“That is no excuse for procrastination. We both know you could try harder.”
Arman snarled. “I do what I can! Unlike milady I have no race of mentors eager to help me learn, to answer my questions! They’re dead! Whatever is in my blood is an echo, nothing more!” Every sentence grew in volume, his words grinding on the stony rumble of his power.
“You have me, but I’ll be damned if I feed you knowledge. I don’t know what will resonate with your abilities.”
“I’m human! I’m no Rakos guard, able to call forth monsters to shake the ground.” He stormed down the stairs. He knew the anger simmering under his skin would prevent any more studying. He rubbed his temples as he walked. His words to Eras about his temper had been an understatement, and a large one at that. As a boy he had been quiet, slow to anger. Now the smallest things made him fume. He was not even certain why he was so angry with the general. Is it because she thinks I’m a Rakos, or because I’m not one? He had read that the Rakos had fearful tempers, but there was little else about what he could expect as he delved deeper into that side of his ancestry. With a snarl he shoved his hands into the pockets of his light jerkin and made for the barracks.
Φ
Arman tripped over the package on his floor when he returned from the bars. It was closer to dawn than dusk and he bet that his veins contained more alcohol than blood. And more of either than any Rakos power. His blurring vision swung back to the package he had kicked under his bed upon entering. He fished it out and tore open the plain wrapping. It was a thin book, bound like a journal, but in leather rather than the usual, cheap canvas. There was no title or embossing. A short letter was tucked into the front.
This was written by a dear friend, one whose voice you may recognize. He was one of the last to ever see the Rakos. Among other things, he tells of their powers and what their offspring were capable of.
Should you want more advice or clarity, I am here. Though I’d appreciate if you try to leave your bitterness at the door.
-General Aneral
He knew he had been rude, but was grateful the general had enough sense to realize his actions said far more about his thoughts on himself than about her. He undressed and crawled into bed, belatedly lighting a lamp before opening the book. He liked the author immediately.
I would like to say this tale began in a time of peace and happiness, but I would be lying. ...
Φ
The 38th Day of Fluerme, 1252
The City of Mirik
Bren straightened with a groan. “Damned if I’m going to survive this without becoming as twisted as a crone.” Crouching for the better part of an hour that day had done little to help his back. He winced with pain and relief as his backbone popped. He trudged up the stairs towards his room with a sigh. His thoughts had darkened in the bowels of the palace and he could not shake the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something.
Helonin waited by the lieutenant’s door. “We sail for Athrolan in a week’s time.”
Bren was used to the characteristic lack of preamble. “The city is coming along well, sir.”
Helonin leveled an appraising stare at the younger man. “Will you return here once we are through at the capital?”
Bren frowned at his boots. He understood the res
pect behind delivering the question in person, rather than by squire, but he wished he were alone to think.
“You’ve been an asset, at least in dealing with the city-folk and helping the men learn the streets. If you wish to stay in Athrolan, however, you’ve given us enough.”
“One pair of hands can make a difference, and the Kit are still uneasy.” Bren glanced at the man. “Thank you, though.”
Helonin clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll be glad of the help. There was another reason I came to find you.” He drew out a plain iron box the size of his palm. “This is from the treasury. It might mean something to you. If not, then its missing won’t matter.”
Bren nodded and thanked the mariner again. When he had gone, Bren ducked into his room. He had thought returning to Mirik was the only option. Realizing he could train with the soldiers and Arman in Athrolan made him question his hasty choice. Mirik was home, and he had missed her sorely, but his heart felt every broken stone. He shook the indecision away and sat on his bed. The box was heavy in his hand and he flicked the lid open, curious. A heavy ring was tucked into a bed of forest green velvet. The band was wide and simple, sized for a large hand. The translucent diopside was native to the iron rich rocks of the island. Bronze shaped into a snake wound over the flat face of the olive gem. Bren’s mouth fell open. It was the signet ring of Mirik’s king.
Helonin had made a bold statement and Bren suddenly made sense of the mariner’s words. If this means nothing to me, it will not matter that it’s no longer among Mirik’s treasures. Bren’s continued denial of the throne was judged by many. When the castle is made into an Athrolani fort my choice will have been made. He tucked the box into the back of his desk’s drawer and drew out a blank parchment to write Arman. His letter would be sent on the schooner leaving that night.
Φ
The 48th Day of Fluerme, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
Helonin hid his amusement at Bren’s seasickness, but his men were less kind. The lieutenant found himself the butt of most jests during the three-day sail to Athrolan. The boat docked late in the afternoon and he could not rush down the gangway quick enough. Most of the sailors disembarked to the navy barracks lining the western edge of the harbor. Bren shouldered his pack. The queen was putting him in the palace for the week.
“Barrackborn!” Arman leaned against a piling near the street.
Whatever surprise Bren felt at the man coming to greet him was erased by the man’s changed appearance. As he wove through the crowd he noted Arman was now nearly as broad as him. They grasped arms, Bren frowning inwardly at the unnatural dry heat of Arman’s skin. “How have you been?”
“Well enough, though rather bored. You?” Arman fell into step beside him as they headed towards the palace.
“Much the same. Rebuilding a city is tedious work.” He drew a breath. “It’s good to have a change of scene—Athrolan’s streets are a bit livelier than Mirik’s.”
“You mentioned city-people. Are they really as wild as the soldier’s paint them?”
Bren shrugged. “They’re odd, certainly. Mostly, they are desperate. Hopefully Athrolan will bring enough business to Mirik to give them food and money of their own again. Though who knows if they remember how to live in society.” They continued, swapping stories of the days since they had last spoken.
Bren’s room was the same as his last visit. Arman leaned against the doorframe while Bren unpacked. “Her Majesty plans on holding the report in the morning tomorrow and the day after. The rest of the week will be to decide what to do from here. Did you have any plans for the evening?”
“Food and drink, in that order. Why?”
Arman grinned. “I have a bar you should see. I can come by your room when we’re headed into the city.”
“I’ll see you then.” Bren put away his few belongings, including a thin journal he had used to record the meetings with the Kit. He rang for bath water and spent what was surely an embarrassing length of time soaking. He was dressed when Arman knocked on his door.
“We’re meeting the others in the street.” Sure enough half a dozen soldiers waited on the corner of Palace Way.
Bren was curious to see the lively greetings they afforded the Rakos, and more so when Arman exchanged laughing barbs with them. He had never seen the man so relaxed and he wondered how much of Arman’s grim exterior had been due to Alea.
“This is Lieutenant Brentemir Barrackborn,” Arman introduced. “Bren this is Sousa, Kal and Witt. Over there is Joen, Cennen and Hexion. Hex’s sister owns the tavern.” Bren was warmly welcomed as they started down the street.
“So Barrackborn, did ye hear about the Rakos here saving the Warehouse District?”
Bren glanced at Arman. The sailors in Mirik had brought word of the floods and Arman had mentioned them briefly, but this was news. “No, actually.”
Sousa crowed excitedly and began the tale. Somewhere along the line Bren discovered the man’s love of story-telling included exaggeration. He repeatedly glanced over at Arman to determine what was fact and fancy. Even without the license Sousa had taken, it was an interesting story.
“And then he put Hasian in his place—nearly beat the man to Toar and back!”
“Enough, Sou,” Arman interrupted. “Save some stories for when he’s drunk enough to believe them.” The excuse was a thin one, but the men accepted it and Sousa quickly picked up another tale.
Bren’s interest was piqued. Exactly how much has changed? He watched the changed mannerisms of Alea’s guard, eyes narrowed. He wondered what she would find when she returned.
Φ
The 1st Day of Lineme, 1252
Buzzing conversation filled the meeting hall when Bren arrived with Arman. The day before had been serious and quiet, but its topics fueled the discussions now. The colonels and general were already there, along with the commander. The noise ceased abruptly when the queen arrived. She smiled as she took her seat, her gaze resting on each of the gathered officers. Bren watched her, curious. This is what they want me to become—minus the headdress, perhaps. She looked as benevolent as ever, but there were lines across her brow that had not been there a few months before.
“Welcome, all.” She glanced at the scribes perched behind her velvet elbow. “Shall we begin?” The conversation began with new maps of Mirik and reports on the amount of stone used and gained from the city. The treasury reports would take a day unto themselves, but the rough sum put a frown on Queen Tzatia’s face. Bren relayed his dealings with the Kit and their way of life. Hearing his home touted like a prize, to be divvied as the spoils of war made him sick. He mentally cursed his involvement in the meetings. He hid a clenching fist under the table.
“Lieutenant?”
Bren glanced up, blood flushing his neck in embarrassment. “Forgive me, your majesty, I was deep in thought.”
Tzatia hid frustration well, but her eyes were tired. “Sir Helonin said you had thoughts on the city, the plans?”
Bren leaned forward to orient himself with the maps facing the queen. “I know your majesty intended her for a fort, but I was looking over the plans from King Brenterik’s reign and had a thought.” He pointed to the swath of cobbles stretching between the city walls and the harbor. Helonin had been unreadable when Bren brought his thoughts forward a week before and the lieutenant was eager to share. “A market here would be perfect for trade—Toar knows the island has enough timber. Trade routes could be re-established. The temple and noble districts, where most of the stone is, could be rebuilt as residences. Fields could replace the old slums and graze royal flocks.”
Tzatia’s soft cough interrupted him. “Lieutenant, these ideas would certainly raise the city. I think it would be wise to note, however, while there is enough money in Mirik’s treasury for such endeavors, we would be fools to spend it thusly. There is a war on, one her king started.”
The anger at seeing his home torn apart, bankwasted, and pillaged rose, and determination took the r
eins of his mouth. “What of afterward, your majesty? I have enough faith in my sister to believe there will be an after. To let Mirik fall when its port could open up the northern ocean, would be madness.”
The queen’s face hardened. “The northern ocean has nothing but Ageless iron and ice to offer. You speak as if you rule Mirik, when you have expressed distaste for such a title. I remind you that you cannot have the glory and power of a king with the responsibility of a soldier. Choose your course and hold fast to it, otherwise you are simply wasting our time.”
Bren’s mouth snapped shut and he looked down. He wanted to storm from the room, but it would only serve to drive the queen’s point home. “Forgive me, your majesty. Of course you are right.” His words were polite, but he spat them from his mouth with venom. He did not hear the remainder of the meeting and was the first to leave when they were dismissed, ignoring Arman’s offer to go to the tavern again.
A knock interrupted him as he forgot his rebuked pride in a book. He glowered, tempted to pretend to be out. A second knock came and he jerked the door open. “What, Arman?”
Instead of the expected visitor, Reka leaned against his door frame. “I thought Arman was lying when he said you had holed up here. I heard the queen showed you your station.”
Bren made a face. “I’m sure everyone has heard. Did he send you to drag me out to drink?”
“No, but I’m headed for a mug-full, if you wanted to join me.” She grinned. “Last I saw you, we were stumbling into the infirmary at Shadow.”
Bren tugged on his jerkin and locked his door. “I didn’t expect to see you.” He tucked his hands into his pockets as they walked. “I thought the Bordermen were scouting with Athrolani patrols.”
“We are. My patrol rode in this morning. You’ll be going back to Mirik and I thought I’d visit while I could.” She turned down another set of side streets, different from those Arman had taken. The road wound along the upper tier of the city, curling around the western edge of the harbor. It was a seedy area above the navy barracks and shipyards. The farther they walked from Palace Way, the darker the alleyways became.
