Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Malless, however, had not fit into that standard noble mold. He’d been strong, assertive, and resourceful. The sword he’d often worn at court hadn’t just been for show. While not entirely undefeated in tournament combat—a more delicate type of swordplay that the Rostanian guards practiced—he’d been the victor more often than not. Fenrir had actually felt respect for the man, and he felt a pang at learning of Malless’ fate. And he was also surprised that Malless would have pitched himself from a balcony, into the streets, where he would be found by commoners. Seemed entirely unlike the man. But, he shrugged off the emotions he felt quickly, focusing on the task at hand.

  “Distressing news, indeed. Well then, long live his grace, Duke Eric Malless. Now, if you would excuse me, we have business elsewhere.”

  “Of course, m’lord.”

  The gaggle of servants pressed against the wall so that Fenrir, Emma, and Escamilla could squeeze pass. Fenrir did not look back, but he hoped that the ladies, Escamilla in particular, still followed his directives. The last thing that they needed was for rumors to be flying about that Lady Escamilla, dressed in the livery of a servant, was not in her chamber, but sneaking through the walls of the Plateau.

  Within moments, the group of escapees was out of sight and back on their way.

  “Malless. I can’t believe it. He was alive and hale only this afternoon. Why would he have killed himself like that?” asked Emma, addressing Escamilla.

  “Malless is not a man who would give his life in vain. Especially not in such a tasteless manner. Given the circumstances, I would expect that he managed to organize an escape attempt, much as we did. And, I would gather that it went awry, with Malless ending up somehow near a balcony,” said Escamilla.

  “But he wouldn’t have just jumped. He must have been forced out.”

  “Emma, you must think! The little duke wanted Malless’ capture to be a secret. What would happen if Malless were killed secretly?” Escamilla’s tone was similar to that of a Savant quizzing a student at the Enlightenment.

  “Well, news of his succession would be delayed. Maybe for weeks. Months.”

  “Yes. There. Then what?”

  “And then Penton could capture or kill Eric, leaving Taean next in line.”

  “So…?” Escamilla continued to push Emma, and Fenrir listened intently, willing his armor to squeak less.

  “So, Malless must have realized that he was trapped and had no escape. That the only way to save Florens and his son was to ensure that his body be found in a very public way. That the news would travel faster than Penton’s fastest runners, as news often does.”

  “Excellent, Emma. You are making up for your churlish behavior earlier. You must always think of all possible angles, of all possible motives. Your life may depend upon it. All of our lives might depend on it.”

  Fenrir half turned, glancing back. “My lady, I would hate to interrupt this lesson, but we are nearing our destination. I would counsel silence.”

  “As you say, Sir Coldbreaker.” Again, no hint of sarcasm from Escamilla, although Emma glared daggers at him with a fury that matched her curly red locks.

  ---

  Eventually, after what seemed like half the night, they reached the bottom of a very narrow, very steep, and very long spiral staircase. Fenrir, his bulky body confined by even bulkier armor, almost fell a time or two. But, they eventually reached the lowest level of the Plateau and approached the western armory, their ultimate destination.

  For a moment, Emma’s curiosity overcame her long-standing disgust for Fenrir. “Once we reach the armory, then what? There are only two exits from the Plateau: the front ramp and the rear lift. You’d better not get all killed.” Her hands were on her hips, fiery curls spilling over her shoulders. Gods, Fenrir remembered her standing like that, only wearing far fewer clothes.

  “If I wished you harm, Emma, I would have simply left you in your cell. In fact, my employer gave me no directives regarding you. I could still leave you here,” Fenrir hissed at the red-haired, red-tempered woman. He’d always been good with the ladies.

  Emma stepped forward, her eyes flashing. Escamilla placed a restraining hand on her shoulder, digging in her fingernails. Emma took a visible, deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Okay. What comes next?”

  “We are meeting another associate who will lead us the rest of the way.” Fenrir actually didn’t know who they were meeting, or how, exactly, they were getting out of the Plateau. Evidently, Tennyson had been worried about what might happen if Fenrir were captured, that he might give away some secrets of The House. Or, he just plain didn’t trust Fenrir. Regardless, Fenrir still attempted to radiate confidence to Escamilla and, particularly, to Emma. For some senseless reason, it was important to him that he appear poised in her eyes.

  As if that would justify what he had done to her.

  Thinking of that, Fenrir glanced down at the gnarled remains of her hand. A hand that had once caressed him, tickled him, dug its nails into his back. Now, despite her subconscious efforts to conceal it, her hand was obviously little more than a mangled appendage, looking for all the world like a lobster claw, even opening and closing slowly as she spoke. Fenrir recalled that Emma had always had that nervous habit, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides when anxious. Steward John had used to become furious that Emma was unable to stand completely still, appearing both relaxed and alert as a servant should. Her hands were always in motion.

  “We are going to be entering the armory through a door known only to a select few. We should avoid the guard, as they will be on the other side of a locked gate. However, let me move out first and ensure that the way is clear.” Confident. Assured.

  While the ladies remained in the shadows, Fenrir continued his cautious walk down the hallway, coming to a stop and turning to face what appeared to be a blank, mortared-stone wall. He listened, ear to the stone, for several long moments. Hearing nothing, he placed his forearm and shoulder against the wall and pushed. He continued to strain, digging his boots into the ground. Nothing. He stepped back then, considered the wall, and moved over two paces. He once again braced himself against the wall and pushed. Nothing. Harder.

  And then he was tumbling into the armory, his own armor clanging as he ricocheted between the ground and the false panel as the mechanism released all at once. So much for stealth. As usual. He drew his sword and held it in front of him, though he could see nothing but the dim light from his lantern, still back in the servant passage. He listened and waited. He let his eyes adjust to the low light and could make out that he was standing directly within the armory, surrounded by racks of spears and swords in various states of repair, from the flawless to rusty relics. He had apparently knocked aside a stand of halberds, which had unfortunately been placed in front of his passage, adding to the metallic symphony that he had produced. Bad luck.

  Seeing and hearing nothing for several minutes, Fenrir reached back through the wall and beckoned the women into the armory. He retrieved his lantern and handed it to Emma, watching her fumble it since he had accidentally proffered the light to her crippled claw-hand. Another good move on his part.

  The western armory was a massive, multi-room compound, primarily housing weapons and shields, as opposed to the eastern armory, which was larger and contained suits of armor. Fenrir, Emma, and Escamilla were in a smaller room adjoining the main armory hallway. Fenrir pushed the false panel back into place, set aright the fallen weapons stand, retrieved the lantern from Emma, and led the group toward the hallway with no real goal in mind. Someone was to meet them in the armory, and that person obviously knew that they had arrived. Unless he was deaf, of course.

  Fenrir walked carefully down the hall, keeping the light of the lantern focused in front of him as well as he could, glancing into each room as he passed. Weapons, shields, and more weapons. He didn’t see anyone, and was becoming anxious that his contact had already been caught, killed, or just never made it into the Plateau. Without this person, they’d
be screwed deeper than a sixteen year-old virgin at the Ascension Festival.

  “Whatcha doin’?” A small voice asked from behind the group. Fenrir spun around, roughly pushing past the women to place himself between them and the unknown lurker. He held his sword out in front of him, shifting himself into a light, balanced stance, his weak knee positioned behind him. He adapted his vision to the shifting of the dim lantern light, which fell upon a small figure that seemed very out of context.

  It was a small girl, little more than five feet tall, wearing rough-spun, loose-fitting burlap clothes like a beggar. Her hair was short and brown, and Fenrir could only tell it was a girl because of her feminine facial features—delicate chin, luminous brown eyes, and plump cheeks. And suddenly he realized he had met her before. He saw her eyes widen in mutual recognition, despite the fact that his features were largely concealed by his helm.

  “Morgyn, was it?” Fenrir asked, hesitantly.

  “Was it?” The girl, looking right at him, blatantly rubbing her crotch with her left hand as a subtle reminder of that day on Vagabond Way.

  “What are you doing here?” Fenrir had a sinking feeling that he knew. He sheathed his sword.

  Morgyn reached under her shirt and pulled out a heptagram, this one identical to the one that Fenrir had left with Martis. What was she doing working for The House? He didn’t know the entire roster, but last he’d heard, this girl was possibly in the employ of Recherche Oletta, the organization rivaling his own. The girl glared at him.

  “I’m getting you out of here.” By the gods, his fate would hinge on this little girl, a girl whose bruised crotch ensured her loathing of him. Now, he’d be journeying with two women who detested him and a third who would likely sell him if it suited her interests. Fenrir had heard all about how ruthlessly mercenary Lady Escamilla could be.

  “It’s not safe for a little kid like you to be running around. You’d better just tell me where to go and run along.”

  “You’d never make it. And, besides, I only get my money once you are out of here.” She smirked at the word “money.”

  “Seems I’ve little choice in the matter, then. We need to keep moving. But, I want you to stay behind me.” Fenrir leveled a long, disdainful look at the girl. “It will be safer that way.”

  Suddenly, Morgyn wasn’t standing before him, and his lantern illuminated just a bare stone floor. He turned, trying to locate the girl but seeing nothing. There was a loud bang and a flash of pain as something collided with the left side of his helmet. As he turned, he felt another blow against the back of his knee (luckily, the good one) and his leg buckled. Before a third blow could land, Fenrir—over his surprise and thoroughly enraged—let out a grunt and swung his arms backward, connecting solidly with Morgyn’s chest as she tried to continue dancing around him in the dark. The girl lost her balance and fell to the ground, and Fenrir knelt on her and restrained her arms, forcing a small iron baton out of her hand.

  “Get off that girl, you beast!” shouted Emma, pulling at his arm.

  “The little bitch attacked me!” Fenrir hissed back. “And keep your godsdamned voice down, woman!” Emma covered her mouth. Gods, he hoped that no one had heard the commotion. He peeled off his helm, now dented at his temple. “What is your problem, you little fucking rat?”

  “I don’t need you to keep me safe!” Morgyn spat at him, baring her teeth.

  Fenrir grunted, pushing himself up. After a moment, he offered a hand to the girl, who considered it for a moment before twisting to her feet without his help. Fenrir shrugged.

  “Okay, lead us…” Fenrir stopped and strained his ears. He heard voices—a lot of voices. The sound of metal scraping on metal, perhaps a set of keys. Someone must have heard his helmet getting clobbered, or the shouting of the women. Fucking women.

  “Oh cocks!” cursed Emma quietly. Escamilla even let out a small sigh, betraying her own anxiety.

  “It’s about time we get out of here. Morgyn, lead the way. And quickly,” said Fenrir, taking charge of the situation, though his heart was pounding. He was surprised it wasn’t ringing against his breastplate, announcing their exact location. “And take these. We might need them.” He grabbed a couple of spears from a nearby weapon stand and doled them out to Emma and Escamilla, the former holding hers awkwardly in her good hand and her claw. Escamilla, as always, seemed perfectly at ease—even holding a weapon.

  “Oh, this would be better.” Fenrir corrected himself swiftly, taking the spear and handing Emma a slender curved sword, this time making sure to slip it to her good hand. He wrapped a leather sword belt around her hourglass form then, his hands lingering for a moment on her hips. Damn, but the memories. He quickly buckled a scabbard in place, and she sheathed the sword without any real grace. “Now, let’s get moving. And quickly!”

  Morgyn led Fenrir, Emma, and Escamilla down the main chamber hallway before abruptly turning to the right, into an adjoining chamber, a room that was adorned with a variety of shields. Though it was hard to see clearly by lantern light, Fenrir could identify several different crests on very different types of shields, including the Rostanian wolf, the Florens river otter, the noble horse of Algania, and the scorpion of Northern Sestra. There were many more that he did not recognize.

  Morgyn moved into a corner of the room and crouched, fumbling for something under her rough shirt. Fenrir gestured for the other women to go on ahead of him to Morgyn, and he again drew his sword and faced the door, continuing to listen as he heard a loud, metallic creaking. The armory door. His palms were sweaty beneath his leather gloves, and he adjusted his grip on the sword before blowing out the lantern.

  This whole thing had been a terrible fucking idea. He should have run.

  “Hurry, girl!” Fenrir wheezed from his overactive lungs, glancing back at the women.

  In the brief interim, Morgyn had procured a key and was working on unlocking a small trap door. Emma stood uncertainly nearby, sword now drawn and held out awkwardly in front of her. Escamilla, on the other hand, had her feet staggered, and was holding the spear with both hands as if she were an infantryman. Fenrir hoped her fighting form was as good as her stance, because the footsteps and voices were getting closer.

  “Get over here! Down—now!” said Morgyn, gesturing at the opened trap door. Escamilla didn’t hesitate, running over and descending into the opening, gripping her spear awkwardly in front of her as she climbed downward. Emma hesitated at the threshold for a moment until Morgyn furiously gestured at her. She shoved the sword into the scabbard and descended next. Fenrir moved carefully backwards, sword still held at ready, until he reached their egress. He, too, sheathed his sword.

  “Give me the key and get down there, girl.”

  “No.” Her eyes flashed.

  “Give it to me. I’m not going to argue.”

  The girl gave Fenrir another hard look, but handed him the key, which he almost lost in his gloved hand. She nimbly flung her legs over the edge, easily gripping the rungs, and was out of sight immediately. Light was visible from the main chamber, and Fenrir could now clearly make out voices.

  “Spread out and check the rooms. Jermaine swore he heard voices earlier, and that banging didn’t sound like no rats.” This from a commanding voice, probably whichever sergeant had drawn the short straw for the night shift at a typically meaningless post.

  Moving as quietly as possible, Fenrir lowered his armored body into the hole, trying to avoid scraping the walls. It was a tight fit, but he managed to descend a couple of rungs without much noise. He carefully gripped the trap door and began to lower it then, a small squeak coming from rarely-used hinges. He flinched and paused for a moment.

  “All clear! Nothing here. Checking the next chamber on the right.”

  Shit. Fenrir guided the trap door home with a loud, metallic whine.

  “What was that? Over here!”

  Light slitted down into the hole just as Fenrir moved the door the final inch. He reached up, feeling around for th
e keyhole in the darkness.

  “In the corner!” Heavy feet pounded toward the trapdoor.

  Fenrir tried to focus on his dusty battle training, on what he learned during those early war games. Recruiters were pitted against recruits fighting with blunted weapons in battle lines. Despite the twenty intervening years, Fenrir remember the need to be disciplined, steady, in the face of a charge. No panicking. He moved the key calmly, systematically, until he found the hole. Fenrir drove the key home and turned it to the right, locking them in just as there was a tug on the door.

  “Someone was here! Someone is down in the ruins! Call for the keys—we need to get down there!”

  Fenrir let out a trembling sigh as he lowered himself into the darkness, entering the ruins upon which the Plateau was built.

  Chapter 12

  Emma reached the bottom of the ladder, her legs shaking as if she’d just run around the entire perimeter of the city. But it wasn’t exertion that had her so unsteady. If they were caught, she and Escamilla would almost certainly be used as an example to the rest of the little duke’s guests. Based on her experience with Penton’s desire for women, she was petrified of what tortures he might contrive beyond crudely lopping off limbs and letting blood. All that was standing between them and a veritable army was that prick Fenrir and some little beggar girl. The girl had spirit and an amusing violent streak (at least, watching Fenrir get blindsided had been entertaining), but she’d be little use against any number of armored guards.

  “Come over here, dear. Get behind me,” whispered Escamilla out of the darkness. Emma felt her way over to her friend and employer, giving her a deep embrace. Escamilla stroked her hair for a moment, and then nudged her away.

  “Tell me what you saw up there,” demanded Escamilla quietly.