The Silver Claw

by Erik Williamson

  Taeron peered out the window into the courtyard, again bypassing Ben’s questions. “We embark at five minutes past, when you hear the Midnight Vespers bells tolling. Quite sudden, yes, but. . . I think a nighttime departure is a fine symbol for an adoption; freeing her from darkness into new life, no?”

  “I rather like that.”

  “Good, good.” Taeron scanned the courtyard below once more. “Let’s be off then. . .”

  Five days later, on the banks of a Longar lake neither of them knew the name of, Taeron blessed Goldie’s adoption before they parted ways.

  “Is she to be Goldie?” Taeron asked. “Or have you chosen a different name for your daughter?”

  Daughter. Ben turned the word over in his mind. My daughter.

  “My wife always wanted a child. A daughter. . .” Ben’s voice cracked. “Lyda’d already named our girl, who we were never able to have. Her name was always going to be Emmidawn.”

  “Then her name shall be Emmidawn.” Taeron placed a white gown over her head. “And this day shall symbolize a new dawn for the both of you.”

  Emmidawn blew a raspberry and scolded her new clothes with an incoherent flow of babble. They said their goodbyes and Ben swung Emmidawn onto his shoulders. Her face broke into a big grin as she reclaimed her seat atop her fisherman-throne. Bouncing atop Ben’s shoulders, she pointed up the road and gleefully bellowed ‘Da!’

  Father and daughter resumed the long walk home.

  Ben was ready to be home, and ready for some brightness in his home after so many lonely dark years. On the cusp of turning only 40, for seven years he had looked and acted rather like a man staring into the face of death. While his body had taken a beating on this trip, his countenance shone with the giddiness of first-time fatherhood. His friends would hardly recognizable him.

  Emmidawn looked a new girl as well. Her honey-blonde hair, after much shampooing and brushing, now lit up in the sunlight. Her face had been scrubbed clean—much to her annoyance—and her pudgy cheeks were puffing back to their full roundness. For Ben, her bright face glowed like a sunrise over the lake after a particularly stormy night.

  Emmie’s vocabulary was all monosyllabic babble. But Ben had tuned in to what her big grey eyes were saying as they danced and plotted and teased with subtly changing shades that spoke with a graceful eloquence. There was no way of knowing just how old she was, so Ben decided the day he rescued her would be her second birthday. It seemed fitting.

  As attuned as he was becoming to his little girl’s moods, she was prone to slipping abruptly into an unreadable silence. Ben would catch her staring fearfully across their lake for no apparent reason, her eyes struck with solemnity. What she remembered of her old home and family, or the cruelty her captors had subjected her to, Ben would never know. Nor could he possibly know what she was thinking. But in his mind, these were periods of grief over all she’d lost. He honored her space, ever ready to greet her with a smile and a full embrace when she was ready to re-join him.

  As eloquently as her eyes spoke, though, hearing Emmie’s exuberant ‘Da!’ would forever become one of Ben’s most treasured possessions. Their first few months together, ‘Da’ certainly didn’t mean Dad. He never could guess what she thought she was saying. But he knew it meant she was calling for him; that was all he needed.

  Before long, though, Emmie’s shrill ‘Da’ unmistakably meant Dad. Even as the years passed, whenever Emmie got emotional, she reverted to calling him ‘Da.’ And whenever she did, Ben would always picture his grubby, pathetic Goldie, ‘fresh’ out of her filthy coffin, their first difficult week together.

  The most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  X - The Lone Mountain

  Two figures approached, each bootfall clacking against the black marble floor echoed like a death knell in the cavernous throne room at the peak of the Keep. The woman, annoyingly, held her head high but Haddurah could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that it made him feel unwelcome and small. As intended. . . Her lips curled with a touch of humor.

  “Report!” she cried, her reverberating voice betraying no mirth.

  Head inclined, Lomuir presented her queen with a gilded box containing a clump of muddy honey-blonde hair. She bowed to one knee, Danzius parroting her movements.

  “My lady,” Lomuir replied with a confident deference. “All has been accomplished. Precisely as you commanded.”

  “Yet you return with but one man?”

  The question hung in the high rafters for two heartbeats.

  “More than this one man, of course, M’lady. But with all our goals accomplished.”

  "It's taken nearly three centuries to build a force big enough to strike. I entrusted you with 2/3rds of that army.” Haddurah gestured to the two of them. “And, this?”

  “The Bandu fought hard, M'lady. We expected nothing less. Yet we killed every man, woman, and child in those settlements. And Chastien’s blood is no more.”

  “You leave me with less than 500 troops.” Haddurah toyed with the gilded box as she toyed with her haughty general. “After manning my outposts and lookouts, my scouts. . . you deprive me of any semblance of a standing army.”

  “Baiweer and Kaisson are obliterated. The girl is dead—and with her, the royal line. We suffered high casualties, yes. Most regrettable. But that is the price of success.”

  The witch-queen studied Lomuir with a false casualness. She glanced at Danzius, noting droplets of his sweat on the black marble floor.

  “So Chastien is dead? You killed the girl?”

  “Yes, M’lady.” Lomuir pointed to the box. “We followed the traitor’s intelligence to the finest detail. Chastien’s descendants are no more.”

  The sweetest words she’d heard in centuries. But still, she should have been there, Haddurah stewed. Put the wretch to death herself. It was her right to perform the sacrifice. But the raking claw wounds in her abdomen had flared, crippling her on the very eve of their march; bed-ridden for weeks, unable to rise or eat. Not that anyone need know that. Let Lomuir think she’d been esteemed highly enough to lead the assault. Let any ambitious lieutenant believe that even the death of Chastien’s last rightful heir was merely of casual interest to her.

  But I should have been there myself!

  “Finest detail, Lomuir?” Haddurah needed assurance.

  “But of course, M’lady.” Lomuir’s chin rose. “Bring the traitor. I assure you, my every action will meet his approval.”

  With her mask of casual indifference, Haddurah considered her general. She wanted to believe Lomuir. She’d grown weary, over the centuries, of this chase. To have it over wouldn’t simply be a victory. It would be a relief.

  “Very well.” Haddurah waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve executed the traitor anyway. That’s the shame about traitors—no good after one use, are they?” She rubbed her abdomen. Nothing. . . well, good. “Tell me. Did the little wretch beg for mercy?”

  “She was, uh, too young to speak. . . m’lady.”

  “Of course.” Haddurah fingered the gilded box. “Did she die painfully? Screaming as she sunk to the depths?”

  “Screaming, M’lady? She. . . was drugged.”

  “You didn’t stay,” Haddurah said flatly. “You don’t actually know.”

  “M’lady. . .” Lomuir bowed her face from view, concealing how the accusation rankled her. To stay at that accursed place, to wait hours for the ark to sink, had not been specified!

  “Kelebis stayed,” Danzius blurted out. “He’d the most, uh, faith of any of us. Seemed a fitting honor he alone witness the sacrifice.”

  “I see. Where is our man of faith now?”

  “He went mad, stark raving mad, and ran. We found him dead. Must’ve killed himself.”

  “Winnepaca will do that to a man,” Lomuir added silkily. “But the child is dead. As promised.”

  “Yes, Winnepaca will do that to a man,” mused the queen. She felt a slight stab in her gut. The pain came and went, so unevenly, e
specially over the last several decades of being so close to success. A phantom reminder, nothing more. Lomuir was one of her very best; there was no reason to doubt her. “My compliments, General Lomuir, on a job well done.”

  The two marched out as quickly as they could manage.

  “But you had better be right!” Haddurah called to their desperately retreating backs. “That woman’s line has been a thorn in my side far too long. I need that girl dead. The little thorn had better stay dead.”

  13 Years Later

  300 G.D.

  XI - Bermark, Dungarvale

  Dreggar had walked his old sales route through the lowland fishing Khuuls and east-central passes for 15 years. It was reassuring to know the quirks of his contacts, which roads washed away in rainy season, the quality of ale and linens from inn to inn. But something inside Dreggar blanched at plodding the same path his whole life. He requested to be reassigned. The Dungarvale scenery would be a definite downgrade but the route was more lucrative. Well, as lucrative as anything could be in the Vale.

  On a dreary grey morning he checked in at the Bermark north gate—an oddly unnecessary custom, he told the bored guard who okayed his entrance—then readied himself to meet new people, work some charm. While he was an affable schmoozer, it wasn’t until the moment of having to drum it up that he was struck by how much he’d miss familiar faces and the unspoken ease established over years of doing business with the same folk.

  With a resigned sigh, Dreggar made straight for the open market, the hub of any town like Bermark. It didn’t feel so different from Drennich, really. Dungarvale, however, was plenty different. As much as he relished needling his brother Urwen about Drennich’s shortcomings, it was progressive in ways that were openly rejected in this corner of the Vale.

  He breathed in the familiar sights and sounds of market spaces and sales stalls. Shoes, cloaks, fresh meat, baked bread. Listened to the dickering and negotiating, customers and shopkeepers bantering back and forth. Music to a salesman’s ears. Then he heard a sound even more musical. The best possible sound in an unfamiliar town.

  “Dreggar? That you?”

  Dreggar tracked the voice to a stall peddling fish and assorted miscellany, to a man with arms outstretched in welcome, whose face and deep-set eyes conveyed he’d spent his life on the water. Dreggar tried to place the weather-beaten man.

  “Forgotten us already, have you?” the hooded teenage girl at his side asked. Mischievous grey eyes—strikingly grey—glittered from underneath the hood. Dreggar knew instantly.

  “Ben?” Dreggar’s grin broadened. “What’s a crusty old fisherman doing so far inland?”

  Ben looked too thin, too old, and sadly out of place. No wonder Dreggar had difficulty placing him.

  “You nailed it with old,” Ben replied.

  “Dad turns 54 this year.” The girl stuck her tongue in her cheek and glanced playfully up at her father.

  “Emmidawn? Can’t be.” Dreggar shook his head. “The little devil who’d stuff her face with my candies whenever I turned my back. By the time I left Khuul Duvar, my pockets were empty of anything even resembling sweets.”

  “Best hand ‘em over, then. Save you the surprise later; all you’ll find is those nasty raspberry candies.”

  “Definitely Emmidawn. You’ve got your hands full, friend,” Dreggar said to Ben, then turned back to Emmie’s big smile. “How old are you now, Emmie?”

  “All of 15 years,” Ben replied.

  “Fifteen and a half! Turning 16 in five months, I am.” Emmie threw her head back and honey-blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders. She quickly stuffed it back under her hood.

  “I wager you’re the life of every party. Your poor dad must have to fight off suitors with his halberd.”

  Dreggar winced, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken. His should’ve been the natural assumption for a cute, vivacious girl like Emmie. But Dreggar knew better. Her big smile held like a mask as the silvery sparkle drained out of her eyes.

  With a blink, her eyes copied the mask of the smile. But nowhere near as convincingly.

  Of course there’d been no suitors, Dreggar cursed himself. These petty people. Ridiculous prejudice and grudges—no one better at it than Dungars. And they were taking it out on this poor girl. Dreggar knew an apology would be too awkward, especially amidst the loud tussle of the market

  “Back in Duvar, they said you’d moved to the Vale.” Dreg pulled his eyes away from Emmie’s and pushed down a hot lump of anger. “Not a chance, I said. Ben leave the Khuul? How long’s it been?”

  “Two years,” Emmie replied, averting her eyes from a couple passing by. “That water calls us every day. Yah, Da?”

  “Every day.”

  “I got calls to make but we need to catch up.” Dreggar shoved his hands into his pockets. “Tonight?”

  “Yah, we could put you up,” Emmie said. “Cold meal. Hot bed. Can’t pass on that enticing combo, eh Dreg?”

  “Count on it, Emmie.” Dreggar beamed at her. At least her buoyancy hadn’t been crushed here. . . yet. “Feed me fish heads and sleep me under the porch, I’ll take the company any day.”

  Arriving at their house that evening, Dreggar felt the twist of sadness turn deeper in his gut. They hadn’t lived in luxury in Duvar—who did in the Khuul and Vale?—but it was a typical stone fishing villa home: simple and comfortable. In Bermark, they were housed in one of the many shanty-filled quarters; wood floor hut with sagging sides, buried on the edge of town, overlooking lifeless grasslands. It was a shanty, though, filled with love. They swapped stories deep into the night. Despite having lived in Bermark for two years, fast friends had been hard to come by; a familiar face with a shared history was a treat all around. Finally, Emmie said she’d best turn in; she had to be at the market before sunrise. As she rose from her chair, she scolded the men for keeping her up late.

  “You turn in, too, Dad—Doc’s orders. Besides, I can’t have you two staying up late causing trouble.” She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and headed inside, dramatically enjoying playing the role of the adult. “I’ll be 16 soon, you know; if you hadn’t realized.”

  Dreggar hugged her good night and reminded her that, yes, that had come up a time or two. As much as he loved Emmie, though, he was anxious to get Ben alone.

  “Quite a girl you have, Ben.”

  “Aye. Most days she’s all that keeps me going. I’d like to say she keeps me young but, well. . .” Ben leaned back stiffly, rubbing his face. “Not that she doesn’t try.”

  And there, that was it. Right where Dreggar wanted to go. Ben was so much slower and melancholy. Not the Ben he knew.

  “You worry me.” Dreggar set down his cup, and with it, all pretenses. “We’ve done business for years, but I’ve always considered you a friend, far more than a trader. You’re a fisherman, for God’s sake. How could you leave Duvar?”

  “Refill, Dreg?” Ben motioned to his cup.

  Dreggar covered it with his hand. “Uh-uh. Talk to me.”

  Ben gazed across the sparse countryside, stubbornly refusing the ‘talk’ Dreggar wanted.

  “Are you happy, Ben?”

  “I’ve nothing to complain about.” Ben stuck out his stubbly chin. “Been too far down that road once before. Never again.”

  “What about Emmie then?” Dreggar jerked his head toward the house. “She’s trying to hide it, but she is not okay.”

  “Yeah.” Ben’s shoulders sagged. “I knew the move would be hard on her. But Em’s Em, you know? Sunny as the day. Something happened early on, though; devastated her. She gave up. Still won’t tell me why.”

  “What I said, this morning. . . I’m sorry.” Dreggar held out his hands, pleading. “She’s a beautiful kid, though. Should have boys lining up for even the slightest chance with her. I thought my home—and your home—were backwards. But, Dungarvale?” Dreggar paused; Ben didn’t answer. Dreg continued quietly, “This place is killing you—both of you.”

&nb
sp; “Funny, that’s what the doc said back in Duvar. Said I wouldn’t last six months if I didn’t get to a drier climate.” Ben flexed his fingers. “Got so bad I couldn’t bait a hook, tie a knot. Hands in and out of the water all day was murder. We had to live. This was the best I could come by. Only other option was just waiting to die.”

  “But. . .” Dreggar was dumbstruck. “You’re not that old.”

  “We make choices, Dreg. Those choices have consequences.” Ben gazed skyward. “I wouldn’t change my choices for a longer life. Less pain. Nothing.”

  Dreggar frowned. Ben wasn’t one to spout philosophically. What had he missed?

  “Truth be told, I’ve half a mind to move back.”

  “You just said it would kill you.”

  “Emmie loved Duvar. Working the docks. Piloting the skiff. The guys I worked with accepted her. Folks in town treated her as an outsider, sure, but most let her have her place. Here. . .” He waved derisively towards the sounds coming from town.

  “She’d never move back knowing it’d kill you.”

  Ben checked that Emmie wasn’t at the door, leaned forward and whispered, “she doesn’t know, but whether here or there, I’m looking at months. Simply a matter of time.”

  Dreggar was at a loss to respond.

  “Got poison in my blood.” Ben rubbed his hands, gave a rueful smile. “Sharpnie venom, it seems, can lay dormant for years. Once it wakes, though, clock’s ticking.”

  “Wait. . . sharpnies?”

  “Eating away my muscle and nerves. Time’s ‘bout up.”

  The two men sat silently on the sagging porch for several minutes.

  “I’ll find you something,” Dreggar said at last, nodding his head as though that could make it true. “In Drennich. Higher altitude. Better doctors. Better people.”

  “I’d never ask you to do that.”

  “Not waiting for an invite. You ‘re not dying here like this.”

  “Appreciate that, more than I can say. But I’ve worked hard all my life. I don’t want pity or handouts. I don’t want her feeling like a charity case either.” Ben looked down at his hands. “But I appreciate it, Dreg. Not for me, just. . . I couldn’t bear leaving Emmie here alone.”