by Dave Dobson
I struggled back to my feet. Clarice had saved me, but at too great a cost. This was bad. Both of us were hobbled by injuries, though I couldn’t tell how severe hers was. Marron looked at us both, glancing back and forth, his sword making small circles in the air as we faced him. I wondered at his hesitation. He could likely have finished both of us off, but perhaps Clarice's unexpected assault had made him cautious. He gave a low laugh and took a step towards me.
I risked a glance at Clarice. She wore a grim expression, still holding her side. She shot me a look. I tried to see how much blood she’d lost, but her cloak was dark, and its folds hid her injury. I noticed her fingers twitching as she held her side. Was she in pain? Had her wound caused spasms or palsy?
No, I was a fool. The Argot. Behind him, she signed. Distract.
I looked back at Marron, trying not to alert him, but also looking frantically for what she had seen. And I saw it. It took all I had not to focus there, but instead I stared at Marron’s eyes. They were cold and gray.
“What you don’t know, Marron, is that I’ve spent the last few months learning sorcery,” I said. “You thought Brand’s spells were strong? The clans’ mystics are far stronger. I have learned their ways.”
“What?” said Marron, his voice full of scorn. “That’s weak, even for you. You expect me to believe such a pathetic lie? I’m insulted.”
I couldn’t disagree. But this was the only road I could think of. In for a penny, in for a sovereign, I thought. “You saw what I did with the machine here.” I held my arms up in what I hoped was a threatening, magical pose. He took a step forward and raised the sword again. I started the Arunian chant, the one that activates the pool, the one I knew by heart now, from my earlier training and from my time with Gora. But I didn’t use the singsong rhythm of the pool ceremony. Instead, I spat out each syllable, twisting my fingers into aggressive gestures.
And Marron hesitated. Not much. Just for a second. It could have been the host of terrible things we’d seen that day, or some fear borne of seeing Brand’s wand snuff out people in an instant. Or my convincing acting. Or maybe a change of heart, Marron deciding, no, surely, I've killed enough Inquisitors already, time to turn over a new leaf? Definitely not that. Whatever it was, it was what we needed. Just as Marron took another step toward us, his face frozen in a grim snarl, a huge arm slid around his neck from behind.
In a continuous motion, Boog ran his other arm around the back of Marron’s head, hugging Marron tight against his chest, squeezing his neck from both sides between bicep and forearm. Anatomically, I knew, he was pinching off the two vessels that brought blood to Marron’s head. I'd seen him do it to a few belligerent drunkards before, and I’d had it done to me back in the training yard under Mistress Fennick’s careful gaze. If Boog had a good grip, Marron only had few moments of consciousness left.
Marron flailed for a second or two, then reversed his grip on his sword. He wrenched his hips to one side, then swung the sword down and plunged it backward, stabbing at Boog. Boog grunted and fell back. I could see him struggling to maintain his grip on Marron, but Marron stabbed again, and Boog had to release him to avoid it. I could see a wet hole in Boog’s leather jerkin on his lower left side. Marron’s sword had found its mark.
For a moment, the four of us stood, Marron gasping for breath, his sword at the ready, his head spinning from side to side as he tried to watch all of us at once. Boog prodded the wound at his side, his eyes fixed on Marron. Then he ran his tongue around the inside of his lips and turned to face the count. Clarice pulled hard at her cloak, and the pin popped, and it fell away, floating to the ground. She raised both fists in a perfect rendition of Mistress Fennick's ready stance.
Clarice clicked her tongue. Marron spun to her, and as Boog and I watched, she signed in the Argot. Topple the Wolf. This was one of Mistress Fennick’s drills in unarmed combat, a complex one from the fourth year intended to take down an armed opponent safely. Or mostly safely. Me bird, she continued, her fingers obvious to Marron. This could be dangerous, if Marron had learned the Argot. But even if he had, he hadn’t sweated in the yard getting pummeled by Fennick for five years running. With any luck, he wouldn’t know what we were up to.
I slid sideways so that I formed a triangle with my friends. Marron stood at the center, spinning to keep us all in view, blade out. Me turtle. I signed.
Me noodles, signed Boog. Of course, he meant Me ram, but the signs were easily confused. The important part was that he was on board.
Clarice darted in toward Marron, her fists swinging, but favoring her injured side. He swung at her, more to fend off her fists than to attack. She ducked, took a step back, then lunged again. Marron stabbed at her, and if she’d really intended to land her punch, she’d probably have been run through. But the role of the bird was to draw attention, and as Marron thrust at her, she spun back. He took a step forward at her, trained as some fencers are to pursue weakness with strength.
The role of the turtle in this scenario was not glamorous, but it was dangerous. As Marron stepped forward and his weight shifted to his front leg, I dove in to crouch next to his legs. My injured shoulder flared in protest. This put me well in range of his sword, but at an awkward angle, or so I hoped. He looked down at me, puzzled, but raised his sword to strike. And as he did, the ram, or perhaps the wrathful noodles, struck him from behind. Boog hit him at a run with shoulder lowered, and Marron flew over me and sprawled on the ground. He let out a grunt as he landed on loose rocks, all that remained of the broken pavement of the market square. His sword clattered away across the temple floor.
I hopped to my feet, and Boog took a step back to steady himself. Clarice ducked down to grab Marron’s sword, and she spun towards him, blade raised. The three of us stood over him, panting, but he didn’t move. A pool of red spread from his head as he lay face down on the stones. Boog touched his shoulder, then rolled him over. Marron’s eyes stared up at the brightening sky. His pupils were large and uneven, and a trickle of blood spilled out from a dent in his temple. No breath issued from his mouth, and his tongue hung to one side. Marron had met his end.
Epilogue
I stood in the small chapel in Headquarters, turning pages in our Book of Honor. There were two new entries since I’d last looked a couple of weeks earlier. Both of them posted at the border. A real shame, since the conflict was essentially over now. The body of Nera had been returned to the clans, along with a personal message of explanation and apology from the new Prelate. Ganghira, or maybe Gora, had convinced the clans that this was enough. The hostilities were mostly ceased other than small skirmishes. Prisoners were being exchanged, and new border and trade treaties were in the works, to be pursued as soon as the peace agreement was final. It was much easier to negotiate with Ganghira’s central government than it had been with each clan independently, before the war. It would take time, but the situation was improving.
The city was putting itself back together. The rampaging Faeran monsters had killed around two hundred people, many of them Faerans. The total was not exactly known, as the dead left no bodies behind, but the Guild was keeping a list of those missing. Removing the Eye of Hrogar from the statue had caused the strange temple to sink down once more and the roof to close up. Nobody had been willing so far to build anything on top of it, but hopefully it would stay closed for centuries, or forever, and it would pass from memory as it had before. I had strained to reach my consciousness down to the prison below the temple, but I could not penetrate the wall of coolness, now whole and strong and thick. I could not find Faera, but I am sure it was still below, slumbering, or perhaps still raging, but contained.
Along with the unfortunate Nera, the four other artifacts were removed from their holes in the temple floor. They’d been sent far away. The new Prelate, Corienne, voted in by what remained of the Council of Nobles to succeed Jeroch, had ordered them placed in remote, inaccessible places, hoping never to see them used again. The crown was buried deep in a mine
in the eastern part of the lands controlled by Frosthelm, and the mine was then collapsed, and the entrance covered up and buried with no markings or signs. The mace she’d ordered transported by heavily-guarded barge along the Serpentine, through Kantis to the south, to the ocean, where it was to be placed on a seafaring ship and dropped overboard in deep water. I wasn't privy to the fate of the Fingernails or the two moon-and-sun amulets, which had been fished out of their holes in the floor, but I assumed it was something similar. I hoped that would be good enough. The events that transpired and the presence and nature of the prison were recorded, but all mention of the details of the ritual had been destroyed, even from libraries, in the hope that it could never be repeated.
Boog and I were back at work. Our names and crimes were cleared right away, and we had been awarded the Order of the Prelate along with Gueran, Clarice, and many others who’d helped. The purge of the remaining Faerans and of Marron’s lackeys and minions had mostly run its course. We’d even been promoted, early, to the rank of Inspector. Along with the rest of the Guild, we were still tracking down the last few remaining names from Jeroch’s warrant. None of Marron’s appointed inspectors remained in the Guild. Kreune, back from the border and newly named High Inquisitor, had seen to that. Most of them were awaiting trial. Some of the Faerans, especially those who were nobles, had killed themselves or fled the city rather than face justice. I was sure that Marron had more friends and allies than those listed on the warrant, but as the murderer of the Prelate and the chief sponsor of the Faerans, Marron’s name was poison now, and all in the court were busy placing as much distance between him and them as possible.
Gueran passed by the open door of the chapel, noticed me, and stopped. “Mingenstern,” he said, his voice cool, and with its ever-present mocking edge. “The Augur was looking for you. Perhaps she needs someone to destroy the city again.” Once, his needling would have bothered me. Today, I thanked him and smiled. He went on his way. The Augur was fascinated by my report of the other pool, and she’d had me go over all the details again and again. I was now nearly her equal using our pool, and I knew she wanted me to take over as Augur when she stepped down, which she hinted would be soon. But I was certain that my place was in the field, with Boog. And Clarice.
I looked down at the book again and ran my finger up the page to the earlier entries. Sophie Borchard, High Inquisitor, murdered by unknown agents of Count Marron during the Faeran Incident. Her actions and leadership helped save the city. They certainly had – without her protecting the amulet, we’d all likely be dead at the webbed hands of the Faeran monsters, or ruled by Marron. My guess was that the ‘unknown agent’ was Tolla, even though I'd seen her at Brand’s house before and after Sophie died. But it didn’t matter much now.
Below Sophie was the entry I had come here to see again, the one that I had a harder time letting go. I’d argued with Kreune to let it be included in our book, even though such a thing had never been done before. It was a touchy matter among some of the inspectors. But there it was. Lucianna Stout, ally and friend to the Inquisitor's Guild, murdered by the wizard Brand during the Faeran Incident. Without her heroic efforts and skill at arms, the city would have been lost. My throat closed up, and my eyes grew moist. I had barely known her, and she had tried to kill me when we first met, but she protected my life and died for me and my friends out of nothing but loyalty and duty. I glanced around to make sure nobody was looking, and then I touched her name in the book and spat on the floor. I was sure she’d understand and be pleased.
I closed my eyes, thinking over all that had gone by. My physical wounds were healing, but it would be a long time before the memories faded. If they ever did. I didn’t really want them to.
An arm slipped around my waist. “Mother of Blood, but you’re quiet,” I swore.
Clarice laughed. “Boog wants to know when you’re coming for dinner,” she said, her left hand playing with her falcon pendant. "It’s meat pie tonight, your favorite.” She kissed me on the cheek, and I felt warm all over. I looked at her, smiling at me, her cheeks full of freckles under her green eyes. She’d let her hair grow out since her return from the border, but it was still short. I thought it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Other than her smile, of course.
The new Prelate had offered to restore her house name, and this was working its way through the arcane procedural maze of laws, titles, lands, heraldry, and pervasive snobbery. She said she didn’t care whether she was a Jerreau or a Burgeo, commoner or noble, as long as she was with the Guild.
I took her hand in mine. “Let’s go now,” I said.
Notes and Acknowledgments
Thanks for reading this book. I hope you have enjoyed it. It’s been a long time coming. I started the book in 2005, and I have worked on it for the past fourteen years, although I took multiple long breaks. My wife, Christina, has always been the book’s biggest fan, so I finished the first draft in 2012, in time to give it to her for our 25th anniversary. In the next seven years, I got the book professionally edited, I sent queries to lots and lots of agents, and I wrote and rewrote. Then, there was a pretty long hiatus while I served in a faculty leadership role at the college where I work, but once that was done, and as I neared my 50th birthday, I committed to finishing. And here we are.
I have lots of people to thank. Many of my family and friends served as readers for various versions over the years, and they offered advice, encouragement, ideas, and a lot of the fire that kept me going. There’s not much in this world that’s more rewarding than somebody you know and respect taking the time to read a story you’ve written and then sharing their excitement about your characters, your story, and your world that you’ve made, and laughing your jokes. So many of my friends and family have given me that gift over the years. I’ll name some of them here, but there are others I’m likely forgetting to mention. My apologies for this. Know that you are appreciated even if I suck at acknowledging you.
My wife was my first and best reader, and she’s always loved Marty and Boog. In the early days, I used to send her a few paragraphs at a time, or a page, or whatever I’d written each day, and she always loved it and wanted more.
Once the first draft of the book was finished, I prevailed upon many more people to read it and to help me with it. My father-in-law, Brent Farmer, shared it with an editor at his company, Karen Boss, and reading her early comments, full of help and enthusiasm, was one of my happiest experiences of this whole process. My mother-in-law, Jackie Farmer, also provided really helpful early feedback, as did my kids, Bri and Nick. Nick created the image of the Faeran amulet that graces the book cover and the website.
My father, John Dobson, read the book and worked over a lot of the plot and details with me during a family car trip. This echoed back to my childhood, when he would make up and tell me and my brother stories in the car over long drives on our family vacations. These stories, and his creativity, are very important inspiration for this work. I wish I had recordings or transcriptions of those tales, told serially across the American Southwest from the 1970’s to the 1980’s, but I remember them fondly.
My good friend Derek Hagen read the book early on, and his pure joy in talking about it was another of my favorite memories of this project. I can remember him saying, “I love that it’s the hellfrogs! I so wanted it to be the hellfrogs, and it was!” Nobody mourned Lucianna harder than Derek, too.
My friends Jeff Vanke, Dan Hurwitz, and Adam Hauerwas all provided support and valuable comments. Alex Reutter, with whom I’ve played many a game of Little Green Guys with Guns, but whom I’ve never met in real life, posed some great questions. I got helpful feedback from another editor, Monica Perez, at Charlesbridge Publishing, in exploring if the book could fit into the Young Adult genre, and in providing a professional critique and some things to work on. Early on, I was helped by some writing groups online who read the first chapter and other parts and offered feedback. Some of those folks were part of Critters.org.
One of the most helpful readers and editors of my work was Rose Fox at Copymancer.com. She provided a thorough developmental edit for the first draft of the book and showed me the value of getting professional help. I was too stubborn to take all her advice, but I did take a lot of it, and anything you enjoyed in the book probably should share credit with her. In particular, she urged me to balance the gender of all of the characters in the book, something I should have done as a feminist and supporter of women’s rights, but didn’t do initially, because I suck. The book now has a mathematically exact 50/50 gender ratio in characters major and minor. That turned Frosthelm into a more egalitarian society than many fantasy settings and than the real medieval world, but hey, it’s a fantasy setting, so I can make it what I want, and gender equity is cool, so there it is. Rose also gave me loads of other great advice, some of which I followed, including changes to the plot, and about Marten’s character and the relationship between him and Clarice.
Two of my colleagues at Guilford College read the book, Mylène Dressler and Heather Hayton. Both of them are better writers than I. Each of them gave of their considerable talents to their geologist colleague who was writing a silly fantasy novel, and I’m beyond grateful to both. Mylène has a number of published novels, and I’ve loved each one I’ve read. See more of her work at MDressler.com. You’ll be glad you did. Heather is one of the most creative and dedicated teachers I know, and I am lucky to be team-teaching with her for the first time this coming academic year.