An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  Shamke gave a grunt of acknowledgement, though he didn’t seem pleased in having to do so. Kefier cleared his throat. “Show me this gap,” he said. “You said you were being helpful, right?”

  Abel opened his mouth before shrugging. He led them up a rocky slope to the side of the manor and to the woods in that covered most of Lahrin’s property. They picked their way through the trees and stumbled upon an overrun trail leading back to the manor. Animals must have used it at one point. The trail led to a part of the stone wall where a tree had collapsed, its withered branches half-buried in rubble.

  “Up the trunk and in,” Abel said. “It’s a straight drop.”

  Kefier didn’t need a second bidding. He pulled himself up the branches, crossed the trunk, and made his way inside.

  Kefier had put in names of Boarshind mercenaries he recommended for the job, all checked and approved by Yn Garr. They were trustworthy soldiers, easy-going, unlikely to attract attention, and more importantly, sufficiently paid. He had been reviewing reports from previous jobs when Jarche walked into his office and told him he was to make the trip to Port Greenleaf in Baidh himself.

  He had laughed, stretching his arms behind his back. “Right. Because the cuisine is something I can’t miss.”

  Jarche didn’t seem amused. Kefier noted her silence and grew serious. “Is there something wrong? Yn Garr himself told me these soldiers would be sufficient.”

  “Not with your people, no. Tell Yn Garr that something came up and they won’t be available for this job.”

  “I won’t do that without good reason, Jarche. Lady Dahrias will visit next week and that I just can’t entrust to anyone.”

  “That one?” Jarche sniffed. “Reschedule. Tell her you’re sick. What she is doing worrying about military tactics for? Doesn’t she have balls to attend, suitors to reject?”

  “I...don’t think that woman has ever attended a ball in her life.”

  “She’s a noble. Of course she has—they all do. You’re going to Baidh, Kefier.”

  “You still haven’t explained why.”

  Jarche’s expression changed. “Your parents were Duke Lahrin’s wards.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that. He opened his mouth to argue and the words died in his throat. He swallowed.

  “Lahrin has been gone a long time,” Jarche continued. “Chances are you’ll find nothing of interest. But Enosh wanted to go once, to see if they had left anything behind. Yn Garr didn’t agree.” She drew close to him and tapped her fingers along his arm. “You will be safe, I think. You cannot read well. The master will overlook that.”

  “What the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do the entire morning?”

  “Trying, Kefier. Please. I don’t see your scribe anywhere.”

  He snorted. “Her horse had to get shoed.”

  “I wouldn’t take her, if I were you. Yn Garr would get suspicious.”

  “I’m suspicious. Tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for, Jarche.”

  “You’ll do it for your daughter,” was all she had said before walking away.

  Now, standing in that dark, empty hall, Kefier drew a deep breath. “Fucking Jarche,” he said. He had cut himself going through a broken window and blood streaked along his arm, making him feel dizzy. The boy had mentioned poison on the fence. He wondered if the whole house was soaked in it.

  Ignoring the wound, he made his way to the main staircase. It was built along one side of the wall and was narrower than he expected for a manor with such high ceilings. Dust covered the steps and balusters like a blanket of snow, obscuring the rich, deep colour of the wood.

  At the first landing, he turned and saw a painting on the wall. The figure on it—that of a woman with dark hair—was incredibly lifelike. Something about her face made him pause. He forced himself to look away. He had to search while there was still enough light to see—he didn’t know what time the sun set in Baidh and he had neglected to bring a lantern.

  Kefier went into one empty room and then another. The woman’s image remained in his head. He frowned and went back out to look at it again. The woman in the painting was Kag. He noticed two other paintings on the wall across from it. One was a man, black-haired and with steely blue eyes reminiscent of the woman. The other was an older woman with golden hair.

  He progressed to the third room. This one had a smashed handle, and it was clear from the moment he stepped in that any valuables that might have once been inside were gone. The imposing, four-poster bed was rotting, the ripped mattress thrown to the side. The moldy scent of old animal droppings filled the air, marking the variety of creatures that must have been birthed in the room over the years. Kefier wrapped the scarf around his face to block out the choking odour and approached the bookshelves.

  The broken wood statuette of the Goddess Namalah was still there. Yn Garr’s report stated that it was not expected to be, not after so many years, but it was a common enough object in Baidh for a thief to ignore. Kefier picked it up and placed it on the third shelf, pressing it against the wood until he found a groove that fit the underside of the broken piece, where Namalah’s leg had been. He heard a click. He did the same thing on the first shelf, and then the second.

  The bookcase to his right swung open.

  The vault behind the bookcase contained a few dozen books. Most were written in an archaic Kag-based language that Kefier couldn’t make sense of. He pulled them out one by one, arranging them on the floor where he could count them. Remembering what Jarche said, he paused and cracked one open. There was an illustration of a corpse in fine detail. The words blurred when he tried to read them, but the few he could make out indicated that it was research about the body’s connection to the agan. Another book seemed to go into detail about corpse-stitching, an ancient art that had been abolished in many places that encouraged practice in the agan, including Dageis.

  Yn Garr’s report mentioned that Duke Lahrin was interested in such obscure knowledge, though it was not known whether he had the capability to indulge in them. Although Yn Garr’s orders were to gather the books in this specific vault, Kefier recalled from his father’s stories that Lahrin had kept a library in his dining room.

  He left the books and made his way downstairs. The double-doors leading to the dining room were cracked and the shelves were empty. The furniture was still intact. Kefier picked the chair closest to the window and sat down, feeling it creak under his weight.

  His father had studied here. Studied, and lived, and met the woman Soshain, with whom he turned against his vows. The Kag found such stories romantic and sentimental, but in Gorent, it was despicable, a thing you swept under the rug in the hopes it would eventually go away. Enosh’s mother, a woman of noble Gorenten blood, had died with the shame of being replaced by a housemaid.

  Kefier caught a small staircase spiralling down from the hall outside the dining room. In the Kag, servants had their own quarters and Lahrin’s household was no different. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find; Lahrin would’ve replaced his mother as soon as she left. But he inspected every room, pretending it was a thing he would’ve done, anyway. It was becoming difficult to process his emotions.

  The last room was locked. He tested the bronzed handle twice, to be sure, and then kicked it open. A cloud of dust exploded in his face. Coughing, he turned his head to avoid inhaling it further, and in the choking haze caught glimpse of a narrow bed. The sheets were grey and caked with grime. At the other end of the bed was a desk. Two leather-bound books were stacked on top of it.

  Kefier caught sight of a pile of infant’s clothes laid out on the far corner. He passed over them to pick up a book, blowing at the dust as he thumbed through the pages. They were notes and journal entries, scrawled in a familiar script. Even though years had passed, he would know that handwriting anywhere; he had spent years trying to learn to read from it.

  He heard a creak and hid the journals in a pouch strapped to his chest. He buttoned his vest o
ver it and made his way back upstairs. As he emerged from the hall, a man dressed in the Baidhan guard regalia turned to him.

  “You!” the guard barked. “Explain yourself!” The man pulled out his sword and approached him.

  Chapter Three

  “Give me the word,” he said. “One word and I’ll say fuck you all to the world.”

  “Like you haven’t already tried that.” She smiled and drew away from him. “This was a mistake.”

  He returned the smile with his practiced one, the one she knew he gave every woman he deemed worth his time. “You’re not supposed to say that until you’ve seen my morning face. The drool, the eye-crust. Then you change your mind.” He reached for her, but she was already too far away from the bed.

  “You…” she started. She stopped, realizing he was waiting to hear what she had to say. That startled her. She still wasn’t sure, after all these years, if she could read him at all. It was easy enough with everybody else, people with less complex intentions and desires. “Good night,” she murmured instead. “Let’s not speak of this again.”

  “I’m just glad to be of service, my lady.” Was the look of dismay in his eyes another act? She needed to ask him, one of these days, who taught him these theatrics. They were too convincing.

  Sume opened her eyes. Tetsung, head in her lap, stirred. “Hi,” she said.

  Tetsung took a rattling breath. “Hello.”

  “Save your strength. Once we get out of here…”

  A ghost of a smile landed on Tetsung’s lips. “Bird flew far,” he said. “Don’t think...can walk. All the way back.” The griffon had taken Tetsung first, rolling his injured body into an empty field and leaving him there while it returned for her and Arn.

  She stroked his hair. “Let’s not think about that right now.” She turned, hearing the door open.

  “Has he talked?” Arn demanded.

  “Perhaps if you get him a healer, he’ll be in a position to do so,” Sume snapped.

  “I think the closer he is to death’s door, the more compliant he’ll be,” Arn retorted. He pressed his boot against Tetsung’s ankle. “Or maybe I can go back, find his family. Maybe that’ll loosen his tongue.”

  “Do that,” Sume said, “and it may well be your last act in this world.”

  Her threat seemed to amuse him. “What are you going to do about it? If you can’t even keep track of your own child…”

  Sume placed Tetsung’s head to the side, using her scarf as a pillow, before she got up. Arn smirked. “And now you’re angry? But it’s true, isn’t it? You abandoned your child. All these years, and she hasn’t seen a hair on your head, and for what? So you can prance around with that pompous nut. I mean, I’ve heard he’s good in bed, but to forget that you’re a mother first…”

  She slapped him. The blow was hard enough that Arn doubled back, his hand on his jaw. He spat. “He will talk,” he said. “You will make him talk. If nothing else, I can hurt your daughter.”

  “As if Yn Garr would let you,” Sume said in an even voice. “She is more skilled, more valuable to him. Isn’t that why she’s there and you’re stuck here doing the dirty work?”

  He lunged at her, as if to return her blow. When she didn’t flinch, he roared and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Tetsung coughed. “Wise, to goad him?” he asked.

  “There is a lot of rage in him,” Sume whispered. “The angrier he gets, the more chances for a mistake. All I need is one.” She pressed her hand against his wound. It had stopped bleeding, but the swollen heat of it was unsettling.

  “Goen and Hana got away,” he murmured. “Glad for that.” He breathed again, his eyes fluttering. His skin was damp and pale.

  “You’ll see them again.”

  “Don’t think so.” Tetsung took her hand and stared at it, as if gathering his thoughts. “Not the same girl,” he murmured, more to himself than her.

  “A woman, now,” Sume said. “I told you.” She smiled. “You’re not the only one who got old.”

  Tetsung tried to chuckle. “I loved you back then. Madly. Watched you sail away. Didn’t know what to do. Afraid I’d lost you. Was right.” He closed his eyes and pressed her hand against his heart. “Tell me,” he whispered, “that you are loved, where you are.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “I don’t know if I would use those words.”

  “Hana loves you. Dai. Broke their hearts when you left that night. So many years ago. Maybe you forgot.” He took another breath. “Your family. Still there. Goen, now, too. A handful. A kind heart. He is...this life...whatever is keeping you there…”

  “It’s not what you think, Tetsung.”

  “Listen to me. Damn you. Listen. Go home.” He grabbed her shirt, but suddenly breathless, he fell back.

  She cupped his cheek with her hand. “Sleep, Tetsung,” she said. “We’ll go home together.” He looked through her, unseeing.

  Tetsung died sometime in the afternoon. Sume positioned his body in a corner of the room, her folded shawl serving as a pillow under his neck. She closed his eyes and knelt by his shoulder, where she recited Sakku’s prayers for the dead twenty-seven times. Tetsung’s clan recognized another deity as their patron, but those prayers were all she knew.

  After she finished the ritual, she bowed to the body and opened the door. The griffon glanced at her.

  “Steady, Faran,” Arn said, holding out a hand. He was sitting next to a fire. “He’s gone, I assume. I’ll get my men to make a pyre and send his ashes back to Fuyyu. I know he’s got something you want, and I know it has something to do with the location of Naijwa’s beast.”

  Sume shook her head. “We spoke about family. You made a mistake. And now a good man is dead, all because—”

  He threw a cup at her. It missed and shattered against the wall. “Do you think me stupid?” he roared.

  She didn’t move. “I think,” she said, “that you’re a very lonely boy, Arn. Yn Garr has twisted your mind into thinking that whatever this is you’re doing has meaning. You’re not like the others, not doing this for coin or fortune or because you have no choice. With that creature of yours, you can be anywhere, as far away from Yn Garr as you want to be.”

  Arn gave a cold smile. “Save your speeches for your daughter.”

  “She’s heard enough, thank you very much. Do you understand the gravity of what you’re doing...of what you’re helping Yn Garr accomplish? Countless innocent people have died, and will continue to die—and for what? The man is deranged! His lust for power…”

  “Power?” Arn snorted. “You know so little, woman. There is more than power at stake here.”

  “Then help me understand,” Sume gasped. “My daughter is trapped in this madness. Give me a reason and perhaps I’ll step aside.”

  Arn licked his lips. He got up and unbuckled his sword, holding it loosely in his hands. “Stay here,” he told the griffon. The creature shuffled its wings and laid down next to the fire. He glanced at Sume. “Follow me.”

  They walked along the path in the dark, which did not seem to bother Arn at the least. It wasn’t long before they reached the edge of town. Sume thought about alerting the Fuyyu guards and decided against it. Even if Tetsung was dead, she still needed to return his body to his family.

  It did not occur to her to be frightened. In her mind, Arn was a boy, just like Dai...a little older, but with the same dark moods. He was, perhaps, less guarded, a byproduct of a mind more conflicted than anyone she had known. She remembered their previous encounters—how, despite his ravings, he seemed unable to kill directly. It infuriated Enosh, who criticized inefficiency even when it worked out in his favour.

  Sume reminded herself that it wasn’t that Arn did not like to kill. Rather, he preferred deaths with a purpose—dramatic ones that fit into his own version of the world. He seemed like the sort of person who, knowing the ramifications of it, licked his lips in front of his enemy, anyway, like he couldn’t function without the show.

  T
hey stopped in front of a small house in a narrow street that smelled like a cistern. She saw him flex his arm a little, revealing the sword glinting in the scant darkness. He glanced at her before kicking the door down.

  She heard somebody scream as Arn barged inside. A moment later, he returned, dragging a woman by the hair. He pressed his blade against her collarbone.

  Sume stepped back. “Arn, you don’t have to do this.”

  He ignored her and kicked the woman to the ground. She spat at him. He wiped his mouth with his arm and laughed. “This is the bitch who abandoned me and my father,” he said. “The whore who thought this is better than anything in the world my father had to offer. I scoured every alley in the Kag only to find her here, in Fuyyu, of all places.”

  “I have no son!” the woman screamed. He struck her across the face.

  “She likes to say that,” he said. “She is not, as you can see, the most articulate of people. I find it hard to believe I ever crawled out of her womb.”

  The woman spat again. “You can tell Kusa if he’s trying to pass some brat he sired to me he can go fuck himself. Not that I blame him…” she added, looking him in the eye.

  Arn slid the sword into her belly then, one clean stroke. The woman screeched. He grabbed her, pulling her body back into her home. She dropped to the floor on a pool of blood.

  Sume watched as Arn wiped the blade on his knee. “Was there a point to this?” she murmured. “That was your mother, wasn’t it?” Tetsung’s death had left her drained. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if Arn attacked her.

  Arn gave a thin smile. “That whore,” he said, “left my father when I was still an infant. I’ve long ceased to consider her my mother; less so now that she is a lump of rotting flesh.” He spat on the body. “My father loved her, though I can’t tell why. What she did to him left him a broken man. He had dreams, and she…”