Solace Lost
Book 1 of Pandemonium Rising
By Michael Sliter
For Madeline, my little dragyn
Contents
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Copyright
Map
Chapter 1
Fenrir took a last long pull of the cheap stout and shoved his pewter mug across the bar with some reluctance. He’d probably had five or six pints of the horrendous stuff over the past couple of hours, but he deserved a bit of fortification.
It was stressful work, after all, taking a man’s finger.
The former guardsman slapped down a few yets and left the dingy little tavern without a word. In a town as small as Umberton, Fenrir couldn’t escape without notice, though; the wandering eyes of the locals followed him out the door. A traveler–especially a big man draped in relatively fine, dark clothing–was inevitably an object of curiosity to the local bumpkinry. But, it didn’t matter. After this evening, he would be out of this piss-poor place. And, a few days on, he would be back in the comforting walls of Rostane, his home, and arguably the greatest city in Ardia.
Fenrir strode further out into the inky darkness of the evening, moving stiffly along the hard-packed dirt road. His right knee was even tighter than usual, and he grimaced as the twenty-year-old ache loosened, one painful step at a time. The lingering winter chill certainly didn’t help matters, as the soreness was always worse in the cold.
He spat the bitter taste of beer onto the ground and cursed at the squalor of this place. Umberton was barely more than a village—a gathering of a few hundred loggers, laborers, and the odd artisans. During the day, the place was surprisingly colorful. In fact, the town practically glittered with crimson, most of the building facades highlighting the only resource that allowed this place to even be a speck on a map: Arbutus wood. The Arbutus tree only grew in this region, something about the soil making it flourish. The Yetranians said that this region had formerly been ashlands, earth devastated during a battle of the gods in times long past, with the bodies of the dead giving the land a strange, sanguine fertility. Superstitious nonsense, of course, like most Yetranian religious prattle. Regardless, products made from the twisted, blood-hued tree were incredibly desirable among the rich and notable. They sold for small fortunes in the Ardia’s major cities and countries beyond, though apparently none of that trickled back to Umberton itself.
In Fenrir’s experience, the people who did the hardest labor rarely saw the best rewards.
He pulled his collar tighter around his neck and began to pick his way down the road more quickly, which was a more difficult task than it seemed. Unlike Rostane, which in the evening shined nearly as bright as day thanks to modern gas lamps and cleverly-placed mirrors, Umberton was almost completely dark now, the waning moons obscured by meandering clouds. Lamps and torches lit the entrances to the few red-faced taverns, but the scant light was swallowed by the night before illuminating the main throughway in any meaningful sense.
This was fine from a practical standpoint. Fenrir didn’t exactly want to announce his presence to any wandering Umbertonians. Nonetheless, the darkness did pose a few problems—namely, the mounds of donkey and horse shit, as well as the occasional pothole that littered the well-used road—so Fenrir wound his way down the street carefully, avoiding these obstacles as best he could. If it hadn’t been dark, Fenrir knew he would look completely ridiculous, a broad, muscular man mincing his steps and shuffling around even the smallest of impediments. However, necessity was necessity. Tripping and twisting his already weak knee would make this job immeasurably more difficult. Even worse would be falling in the waste ditch, an eight-foot deep crevasse of putridity running along the south side of the road. The god of stench embodied in a layer of runoff, night soil, assorted trash, and Ultner knew what else. Umberton was a shithole, literally and figuratively.
After a quarter hour-long awkward dance down the center of Umberton, Fenrir ducked into a side lane, moving toward the large, two-story house that he had scouted out earlier in the day. The light shining through the glass-paned windows–a lavish luxury in a place like this–showed that his date for the evening was, in fact, awaiting his courtship.
Fenrir allowed himself a moment’s rest, leaning down to tighten the straps on the leather support brace he wore on his knee. A friend of his, a physician, had designed and created it especially for Fenrir. It was, in many ways, one of the most important tools of Fenrir’s trade. Sending a silent thanks to Martis Aieres (who would undoubtedly disapprove of his current task), Fenrir took a quick, fiery sip from his silver flask and continued toward the house.
As he approached the front door, Fenrir paused, sucked at his teeth, and swallowed. He considered himself neither a coward nor a brave man. Just a practical man who did what was needed, when it was needed. Of course, what was needed did not always align with, say, the law. But this was a world where men needed to do the occasional unsavory thing to keep ahead, and Fenrir was willing to do that thing. So, here he was.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to release it slowly. After a pregnant moment, Fenrir stepped onto the wooden patio of the house and, abruptly, felt his consciousness ripped from his body in a dizzying maelstrom of flashing colors. When the disorienting experience faded, as it always did, Fenrir could see himself from a distance—as if he were hovering around his body, a spirit attached by an ethereal, binding leash. He was able to observe and think and ruminate, but unable to control his body’s physical actions.
It was confusing as Pandemonium, whenever this fission occurred. Phantom-Fenrir, watching his Body-Fenrir do the hard work while his consciousness simply observed from afar. Fenrir had never been able to discern a pattern in the timing of these manifestations. It had happened for the first time when he was about fifteen. He had been fighting with his brothers, which was a fairly routine occurrence. Yet, somehow, that day must have been different because, abruptly, Fenrir had seen the quarrel from above, and been watching as blood flowed as never before in a fraternal conflict. It had been terrifying, with his mind straining and screaming from above while his body struggled below.
But that had been decades ago. Now, his Phantom emerged as a matter of course. He’d never known it to happen to anyone else, though it wasn’t as if he brought up the oddity in polite conversation. Anything hinting at the unknown or the arcane in the inflexibly superstitious, Yetranian-heavy Ardia was a quick path to a knife in the dark.
Besides, this particular ability wasn’t worth bragging about. It was fucking useless.
Phantom-Fenrir saw Body-Fenrir standing before the rich Arbutus wood door of his target’s two-story home. He thought that he cut a rather intimidating figure in his tar-
black shirt and dark trousers, a deep brown cloak wrapped about his frame. Standing six feet tall, and with the broad chest and the sinewy arms of a man who had spent his entire life training with weapons, Fenrir could understand why he was perfectly-suited to his current line of work. Well, near perfectly. His past failures weren’t worth considering in this moment.
He saw himself reach beneath his shirt and expose the heptagram medallion hanging around his neck. The sharp, seven-sided star—the symbol of The House, his current employer—was nearly impossible to handle without cutting oneself. Fenrir supposed such cuts were intended to be symbolic of opposing the powerful underground organization, but he tended not to overthink it. Leave philosophizing to the Scholars and Savants, he figured. Leave the appendage gathering to him and the other enforcers.
Body-Fenrir tried the doorknob, finding the door unlocked and unbarred–a strangely fortuitous start to the venture. Fenrir’s consciousness skipped ahead, fluttering through the doorway and along the ceiling like an impossibly fast spider. He saw himself enter the house and walk across the greeting room, tracking dirt and various excrements onto a decorative carpet. Apparently, he had stepped in some animal dung without realizing, or smelling, it. Phantom-Fenrir could see that his body was tense, and that his hand was resting on the hilt of the wickedly curved knife that was strapped to his belt. The first floor was barren; Fenrir did not see the quarry he was seeking, and so his body proceeded to the stairs leading to the second level. From Phantom-Fenrir’s disembodied view, he thought that, if his body was attempting stealth, it was doing a hideously bad job. The floor was creaking, the buckles on his boots were jingling, and he occasionally bumped into furniture. Apparently, spending a few hours at a tavern was not the greatest of ideas when one’s stealth needed to be more on par with that of a fox than an ox.
Regardless, the stairway was the only exit from the second story, so even if the occupant had fair warning, there would be no escape. Body-Fenrir stomped up the stairs, clearly abandoning any pretense of covertness. The stairs emptied into a large, brightly-lit chamber that constituted the entirety of the second floor. On one end of the room was a sleeping area comprised of one large bed that was flanked by two decoratively-carved end tables. Above the bed was a painting representing a scene that was commonly displayed in the heavily religious Ardia. A slender, bare-chested woman, her silvery-white hair covering the most desirable bits, was perched atop a rock, arms held high and apparently cleaving the crimson firmament, parting the skies and allowing pure light to sneak through. Men and women knelt nearby, cowering below the rock, giving obvious obeisance to the goddess, Yetra. Typical Yetranian dross.
On the other end of the chamber was an office area made up of a wide and solid wooden desk, bookshelves, and several ropey plants. Everything was made of Arbutus, hinting at the barely-restrained wealth of the owner. Atop the desk was a bronze Scales of Justice statue, the universal symbol of office of an adjudicator in Ardia.
Phantom-Fenrir could see himself approaching the desk. The man sitting behind it, who was obviously aware of Fenrir’s presence, continued to pointedly ignore him, bending over a blue leather-bound book.
Body-Fenrir paused two feet back from the desk, arms crossed. He waited another moment. When the man turned a page in his book, Body-Fenrir pointedly cleared his throat.
“I knew that one of you filth would be here eventually,” the man said, exhaustion weighting down his voice. Still, though, he did not look up.
“Filth? Filth is a term that should be reserved for men who do not fulfil their obligations, Adjudicator Frommis,” Fenrir answered, his deep monotone filling the second story like the knoll of a funeral bell. “Filth is a term for men who take yets for services not rendered.”
Martin Frommis slowly raised his head then, glaring at Fenrir with icy hatred. He was an older man, silver hair trimmed short and revealing a balding pate. Despite a slight hunch to his shoulders, though, he still appeared to be sound and wiry in the manner of a twisted, but strong, Arbutus tree. Frommis’ eyes were still, too—unafraid. Fenrir supposed that the man had seen worse than a House enforcer. Years of adjudicating in a great city would give one perspective, after all… a bird’s eye view into Pandemonium.
“You know I didn’t have a choice. You filth offered coin. Coin you knew I needed to cover my daughter’s dowry, so she could be married without the embarrassment of her father’s tumble into poverty. My investments, everything I had saved, all lost thanks to a greedy, thieving banker.” Frommis scrubbed at his lined forehead with one hand. “But, the evidence levelled against Pontz was too strong. Had I adjudicated in his favor, there would have been a riot; I would have been torn to shreds!”
Frommis continued to meet Fenrir’s dispassionate gaze, a beta wolf challenging the pack leader.
“I don’t know why you are trying to convince me.” Body-Fenrir unfolded his arms, rolling his shoulders. Loosening his neck with a sharp pop. Frommis flinched at the sound. “Besides, you took the money, no? And here you are, living in the most expensive house in this shit town, rubbing in the fact that you took our money without fulfilling your promise. Tell me, did you even try?”
“I had no chance. Pontz was a clear murderer. He was caught covered in blood near the scene, laughing and jesting. He disemboweled the victim, you know. A young, pregnant woman! You people knew this was the situation. I tried to explain it!” Frommis continued to finger the oversized leather-bound book in front of him, his voice rising as he spoke.
“It was my understanding that you were paid to make that evidence disappear, to make the witnesses change or doubt their testimony. To find other witnesses to discredit this evidence. Whatever needed to be done. But, no matter. The House has decided to render the punishment, and I have no authority to override the words of my superiors,” Fenrir noted with a careless shrug.
“But…”
“You waste your words, adjudicator.”
Phantom-Fenrir, from his floating vantage, could see his body stepping forward. Could see himself reaching for Frommis’ wrist, almost as if time had slowed. He could also see Frommis grasping for something under his book. His phantom self screamed a warning. Useless, he knew.
As Frommis began to extract the hidden dagger, Phantom-Fenrir thankfully saw his body anticipate the move. Before the dagger had even cleared the book, Fenrir snatched up the Scales of Justice statue and crushed Frommis’ hand against the solid wood of the Arbutus table. Frommis screamed, dropping his weapon, and clutched the injured hand to his chest as he fell heavily back into his seat. Judging from the audible snapping he’d heard, the Scales had broken at least a couple of bones.
Fenrir couldn’t decide if that was terribly fitting, or terribly ironic.
“Enough. You’ve had your payment. And look, I can return your money. I can give you more coin!” wheezed Frommis, breathing heavily, his face a mask of pain.
“You know it doesn’t work that way, Frommis. The House always leaves its mark. Now, left or right?”
Phantom-Fenrir could hear his emotionless voice filling the chamber. By Ultner, he could be intimidating.
“Please, no… Please, please,” whimpered Frommis, his earlier confidence as shattered as his hand. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Left. Or. Right?” Fenrir asked stoically, skirting the desk to take his place next to Frommis.
“Left, in the name of the Goddess! Left!” Frommis managed through his clenched teeth. The unbroken hand. This man either revelled in pain or he wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Left it is.”
Phantom-Fenrir saw himself step behind Frommis, pull out a knotted rag, and shove it into the man’s slack mouth. Tying it snugly behind Frommis’ head, Fenrir pulled out his curved, serrated knife with one hand and grabbed Frommis’ left wrist with the other. Having had multiple tiny bones in his other hand broken, Frommis must have already been in true agony. Maybe too much pain to truly realize what was happening, as he barely resisted. Fenrir could
see himself pushing Frommis’ left hand flat against the desk, forcing the man’s body forward. He wrapped the adjudicator’s little finger into the palm then; he did not want to do any ancillary damage.
Fenrir rested his knife on the man’s ring finger and began to apply pressure, to saw. A hush permeated the room, the sort of quiet that exists in the space between when a vase tumbles from a table and when it shatters on the floor. Or, just before a ship careens into a jagged collection of rocks during a storm.
Just then, in that gap of quiet, a voice called up from downstairs.
“Father? Father, are you home? The welcome room is a mess!”
Chapter 2
“Father? Are you upstairs? Seamus and I are here. Sorry we’re so late!”
All at once, Fenrir’s consciousness slammed into his body, hurtling through space in the course of a disorienting moment. His eyes burned as if they were infected, and he blinked confusedly at Frommis, trying to get his bearings. His knife had just bit into the skin of the adjudicator’s ring finger, the clean, red line not yet bleeding. Fenrir drew the weapon back, and the serrated knife shook slightly in his hands, as if being held by an epileptic geezer.
Fenrir took a deep, settling breath, eyes darting between his victim and the stairway. How in the name of Yetra’s tits had he forgotten to lock the door? This bastard adjudicator lived alone and rarely had visitors, but Fenrir still should have taken basic precautions. This was not going to end well.
“Martin? Is everything okay?” A deeper voice called from below. Seamus, evidently.
“Father? Are you proper? We are coming upstairs,” shouted the high-pitched voice of the girl.
Frommis, the voice of his daughter sinking into his pain-addled mind, lost the vague look he’d had in his eyes and started to struggle to his feet. In response, Fenrir dropped Frommis’ wrist and grabbed the broken hand, applying pressure, shutting down any escape attempts—pain is an excellent deterrent. As the retired adjudicator writhed in pain, his shouts muffled by the gag, Fenrir leaned in close and held up his knife in a steadying hand.
Solace Lost Page 1