Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  There were a handful of Wasmer standing side-by-side with his budredda. All stood at the ready, gazing into the frightening night that was full of the sounds of fighting, screaming, and dying. They stood in the eye of the storm.

  “You do not look so good, yourself, Paston. None of you do. Report.”

  “The battle against Siarl’s traditionalists be raging—”

  “Was raging,” corrected Hafgan, absentmindedly. He was searching the ground for his spear.

  “Was raging. We budredda held our own, Lieutenant. Several of our brothers be… were down early, but we held and gave it back worse. You stopped the archers for us, charging at the enemy, giving hope.” As always, Paston’s eyes held only awe. “Without warning, a wave of these creatures swarmed our battlefield. There must have been dozens, if not hundreds, judging how it be soun… how it sounded. Some had weapons, some came at us with only their hands”

  “How many budredda are left?” asked Hafgan. He found his spear and leaned against it like it was a crutch. Enric, unbidden, cut through Hafgan’s shirt and began wrapping him tightly in long cloth bandages, quenching the flow of blood from the wounds covering his torso.

  “The pale ones only stopped to fight us where we be in their path, like we be just an obstacle. Otherwise, we would all be gone. The traditionalists who were fighting us turned to meet the new threat, as well. Otherwise, again, we would all be gone,” repeated Paston, looking away.

  “How many?”

  “We are twelve, at least that we’ve found. We can thank Enric for our survival—the bastard be… was wild.” Enric said nothing, hanging his head. Nearly two-thirds of his brothers were gone.

  “Eight of the traditionalists still fight with us. And we have some wounded,” Paston continued, gesturing around.

  One of the traditionalists knelt over the body of Siarl. The gray warrior lay dead, his throat ripped out by the teeth of one of the creatures. A rough iron dagger also protruded from his side, and there were numerous other wounds. Any could have been the deathblow. Three of the creatures were dead nearby.

  One of the budredda—Edwine—spat on the body of Siarl, and the grieving traditionalist jumped to his feet, bristling. Hafgan limped forward and slapped his own man down, though without much force. He gestured hotly to Siarl.

  “This man was a true warrior, a great fighter. He is what the Wasmer made him, and cannot be blamed for his prejudice. I understand you are grieving, but he shall be afforded respect.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Edwine said, his back stooped in shame. Hafgan checked a sigh and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “We must always afford our enemies respect, though it be… is a hard lesson to learn. I have made the same mistake.” Hafgan made a point to meet the man’s wet eyes.

  The sounds of fighting and howling grew dimmer, the terrifying enemy now a pale, deadly river rushing to the northwest. The Rostanian camp, judging from the direction of the sounds, must have been overrun. More souls claimed by the night. Something about these creatures tickled Hafgan’s memory, but his head was too foggy from being knocked around, not to mention all of the blood loss.

  There was a grunt of pain nearby then, and the Wasmer turned to the sound in unison, weapons ready. A large shape, limping and holding its arm across its ribs, drew into focus, illuminated enough by the moons to be visible to Hafgan.

  “Captain Yanso?” Hafgan asked incredulously.

  “Wasmer,” Yanso said, speaking the word like a curse, pain evident in his eyes. The captain was bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, some of them obviously bite marks. His steel breastplate—the only piece of armor he wore—was newly embellished with a huge dent. That bit of metal had probably saved his life.

  “Enric, tend to the captain. I will be fine.” Hafgan didn’t feel fine. He kept his feet, but only because his men, and the other Wasmer, were watching. The power of social pressure could not be underestimated. Pandemonium, it could keep the nearly-dead standing.

  Yanso was silent, but let the Wasmer tend to him. The captain saw no difference between the budredda and the traditionalists—all were trash to him. He must have been in true pain to allow a member of a race he despised to give him assistance, especially when that assistance required touching his person.

  “Captain, what happened tonight?” Hafgan asked, limping over to the captain as he reclined against the tree, being wrapped in bandages.

  “Ha. Why should I tell you?” His weak laugh lacked any enthusiasm.

  “Because your men are dead. You’d rather we left you in the woods? The smell of blood, and all these bodies, would draw wolves before long. Wolves at the very least,” said Hafgan, stiffly crouching next to the man.

  “The fucking pasnes alna lost control of these things. Fucking Fitra, sending me out here. Goddamn weasel-faced dick sucker. Ultner-fucking shitbag,” Yanso growled, hands forming fists.

  “Pasnes alna?” Hafgan’s stomach felt like a stone dropped in a well. The memory that had recently been so foggy was beginning to materialize.

  “Yes, fucking pasnes alnes. Magic users, you ignorant shit. They kept these things underground and used their powers to compel them forward after I delivered orders, toward the Army of Brockmore. But, they pushed too hard or didn’t care that we were in the way. As soon as Alexan, Pinetoe, and me left the compound, they came rushing out, flowing over the walls and busting through the gate. That screaming…” The big man was breathing heavily. “Alexan tried to run and was borne down in an instant. There was nothing recognizable about his body afterwards. Pinetoe turned to fight, the fuck-eyed fool. I pressed against the wall and most of the creatures streamed over me. A few, though, noticed me—” he stopped speaking and gestured to his wounds.

  Hafgan had stopped listening toward the end. The bigoted captain’s words had fully cleared his head.

  During his time with the Dyn Doethas, he had studied the histories. It had been the part of his training where he’d easily excelled and could avoid beatings more often than not. That was, until he’d delved too deeply, into the forbidden libraries reserved only for the sworn Dyn Doethas, never meant for the Haearn Doethas. His opinion—that his masters should have been impressed with his initiative and his ability to sneak through guarded, locked doors—had only been greeted by a severe, bloody thrashing, and confinement to the Pwoll, a deep hole the size of a closet, with no room to even turn, for a week. Some did not survive their time in the Pwoll.

  Before being caught amidst the great stone shelves, Hafgan had found a great, hide-bound book sitting on a pedestal, its old, nearly rotten pages crumbling to dust unless he used the lightest of touches. He couldn’t resist looking, though. He’d lusted for knowledge like the poor lusted for wealth. How stupid he’d been, back then.

  It was a book of deep histories. Forbidden histories that contradicted every Wasmer convention. Arwinyadd Anerin had been killed by the Dyn Doethas for his hubris, not by that human expedition. The first war with the Ardians—back when the country had consisted of loosely-banded tribes and groups of settlers who called the region Ardialos—had not been a result of food and resource depletion in the Wasmer towns. No, these resources had instead been hidden to instigate a justified war against the human frontier. And, as he had suspected even back then, most of the holy dictates and divine messages from the pantheon of gods, directing and guiding the Wasmer over the years, had simply been manipulations by the Dyn Doethas. That revelation, written in the words of Carreg Da founders and those who’d come after them, had crushed his already-wavering faith in the goodness of their gods.

  Even deeper histories discussed Wasmer wars with an entirely different group of humans, before the Ardians and the Ardiolos. A much younger Hafgan had only been able to skim the faded, peeling writing, trying to absorb as much as possible before he was caught. But this war, it involved an incalculable number of human pasnes alna who devastated the land around the Tulanques, while the sibrowd gwintan—Wasmer Wind Whisperers, ancient pra
ctitioners of since forgotten magics—sought to protect the mountains.

  The purpose of this battle had been obscured, but Hafgan now recalled a reference to endless armies of creatures like these, pale and wild men driven only by the basest of emotions—rage, passion, and hatred—and controlled by pasnes alna. Some were said to go into battle unarmed and completely naked, arousal evident on their bodies. Others, those who still had some control, would be equipped with light armor and light weapons. All would fight with a strength, speed, and fury that belied their size and armament. There were references to these creatures tearing out throats, as they had Siarl’s, and battling far beyond injuries that would have sent a normal man, howling in pain, to the ground.

  The book had called these creatures the gwagen.

  The empty.

  The soulless.

  In the margins of the book near this selection, a newer pen had scrawled a note, and Hafgan still remembered every word, it having been burned into his memory like a brand in the flesh of a hog.

  When the gwagen come again, the gods shall be reborn, and the world shall be made anew through darkness.

  A prophetic message. There’d been something of magic about those words. Though he’d never been superstitious, and had little faith—particularly given his insight into the de facto ruling class of the Wasmer—these words had turned Hafgan’s blood to ice, his mind to jelly. Though he’d never quite been able to explain why, he believed, with his whole being, what had been written there in that margin.

  And after seeing these gwagen—for that is what they must be, he thought—and feeling the crippling terror of their calls even through his hedwicchen, witnessing their fury and strength and their unwillingness to bow to pain… this vague prophecy flared to light within his mind once more, filling him with the forgotten fear from his youth.

  Hafgan pulled away from a sullen, now silent Yanso, and limped over to the creature that had attacked him, kneeling by it painfully. He rolled the body to its back, examining the face. The broad jaw, the downy hair on its face. He pulled back the creature’s lips, revealing the dual dog teeht that he recalled being bared at him during the fight. The dual canines of a Wasmer.

  He rose with difficulty, Enrir and Paston rushing over to help him.

  “Paston, gather the men. It seems that the danger has passed for us, this night, but others may still be out there. We will gather what survivors we can—budredda, traditionalist, or human. Tomorrow, we bury the bodies and begin our march.”

  “March, Lieutenant? Surely you don’t still be meaning to attack the flank! We are devastated,” said Paston, panic rising on his face.

  “I suspect there will not be a flank, come morning. No, we march to Hackeneth, the seat of the Carreg Da,” Hafgan said with a deep sigh, feeling the weight of the mountains settle on his shoulders.

  “With respect, sir, why the fuck would we be doing that?” asked Enric, still scratching dried blood from his scalp.

  “To warn them.”

  The gwagen, it seemed, had returned. And Hafgan would do whatever he could to prevent an encroaching darkness, even if it meant returning to Hackeneth. Even if it meant returning home.

  Chapter 37

  “If we’re going to die, we might as well be a little drunk. Here, it’ll take the edge off.”

  Tilner Pick slapped the flask away from Fenrir, sending the silver container whirling into the trees, sloshing flecks of liquid onto several men along the way.

  “Hey, that was good stuff!” said Fenrir with mock anger. It had been nearly empty, or he might have actually been upset.

  “You’d best focus on the task at hand. I do not even know why Escamilla would send you, you goddess bastard,” said Tilner through clenched teeth.

  Fenrir, Tilner, and their one hundred and forty soldiers—the elite of Ferl’s Company and the Army of Brockmore—stood in a dark clearing a mile west of Ingram, a small town north of Florens that was currently occupied by the little duke and his guard, at least according to Tilner’s intelligence. Always a questionable thing.

  “I do,” said Fenrir, pulling another flask from his belt and taking a long pull, savoring the burn of Ultner’s Piss, a strong Hunesian whiskey. Always good to carry a back-up, particularly during wartime.

  “Why, pray tell? Is it because you are a heroic, noble warrior, a god among men? Coldbreaker, a man who spreads love and wisdom everywhere he goes?” Sarcasm dripped from Pick’s mouth.

  “No, it’s because I’m expendable.” Fenrir liked Escamilla. He really did. But, he was also realistic. Everyone in this army was a tool to that woman, from him—a hired hand that she wasn’t even paying—on to that adolescent messenger she’d taken to bed. You could trust Escamilla, sure. Could trust her to look out for herself. By Ultner, she was fighting this war to protect herself from her little shadow assassin.

  “You would imply that I am expendable, too? No. I am here to ensure the mission will succeed. You are as likely to desert as anything,” said Tilner.

  Truth be told, Fenrir had thought about running more than once. He should have lost Tilner in Hunesa, before contracting Ferl’s Company. Or feigned receiving a message from Tennyson, saying he’d been recalled. Or just stolen a horse and ridden east as fast as possible. Surely, Escamilla couldn’t have spared anyone to find one bastard of a man. And, surely, he could have found somewhere that was out of Tennyson’s reach.

  But, instead, he found himself here, again ready to risk—and probably lose—his life because someone had told him to do it. Was he so accustomed to taking orders that he’d die because someone had pointed him at a cliff and told him to walk? Ultner’s shriveled balls, Tennyson was right in calling Fenrir a dog.

  “No, you are here because Escamilla doesn’t love you,” Fenrir answered the other man. And from the corner of his eye, Fenrir could see that the barb had hit home, as Tilner’s jaw clenched in the light of the waxing moons. “Can’t you see it? It’s obvious to the rest of the world. You watch her constantly, seek to touch her whenever possible, to protect her when she doesn’t need it. Why do you think she sends you away whenever she can? You are a shadow she doesn’t want. Her tastes run much… younger.”

  With a strangled grunt, Tilner spun and stomped off. Fenrir smiled, grimly self-satisfied. He’d spent little time with Tilner since the drunken fool had proclaimed his weakness in front of Ferl and Christoph in Overton. Tilner, as ever, had been at Escamilla’s side while Fenrir had spent most of this time with the mercenaries. Ferl and Christoph never spoke of that night, never discussing Fenrir’s alleged fainting spell. But Fenrir could swear laughter played in their eyes when they spoke to him, and that Ferl, particularly, occasionally smirked when the group would meet.

  Now, certainly, he had hurt Tilner right back. The twisting pain in the man’s usually stoic face had been evidence enough of it. In fact, was it hatred that had burned in Tilner’s eyes?

  Fenrir made a note to keep an eye on Tilner in the upcoming battle. Falling on a “friendly” sword was the last thing that he needed.

  He could just add Escamilla’s retainer to his pile of problems. His aching knee. The fact that his supposedly-dead brother was trying to have him killed. His ex-lover giving him orders, and him still wishing, if he were honest with himself, that he could bed her. Oh, and there was the fact that he’d probably be dead in an hour or two.

  From a breathless messenger, they’d learned that the Battle of Florens had been a surprising success, despite a few hiccups. As a result, their mission was even more critical. The last coded missive had been closed with the phrase, “At least, incapacitate as many high-ranking officers as possible.” “Before they kill you” had been implied.

  “Captain,” said a man as he came sprinting out of the night. He must have passed their pickets without notice, Fenrir thought; if they weren’t doomed all doomed, he’d recommend the lash for those men.

  “Payton. Report.”

  “It’s Denrick, sir.” Oops. He’d never been go
od at names, but commanding officers never were. Perhaps he’d been born to lead, after all.

  “Your name doesn’t change the order. Report.”

  “Where is Sir Pick?”

  “Away. Now, report.” Denrick pursed his lips, but proceeded with the report.

  “Ingram is relatively quiet, sir. Most of the duke’s guard—several hundred men—is camping a half mile outside of the town and not on high alert. They don’t appear to expect an attack.”

  “Penton?” Fenrir asked.

  “He is most likely holed up in the inn. The Graceful Arms. It’s really the only inn in the town, and it’s certainly the nicest and biggest building. The place is ringed in steel, though, front, sides, and back. Wolf Knights have the place surrounded.”

  “The balls don’t stray far from their cock. What?” he asked, seeing that Denrick was giving him a look. “It’s an old saying. Now, listen, what else is in the town?”

  “Not much, sir. The town mostly caters to travelers heading to Florens who are unwilling to travel the last few miles late in the day. There’s a stable, a whiskey distillery, a couple of bakeries, a few dirty boarding houses, a general store, and an herbalist. Maybe I saw a clothing store, too. A bunch of tightly-packed houses, of course.”

  So, a few hundred men within a ten minute march, and an inn ringed by elite soldiers. Not to mention that Fenrir had to figure out a way to get into that inn to kill the most powerful man in the country—and hopefully find a way to get the Pandemonium back out.

  Denrick had a small frown on his face, and he was fingering his sword hilt absentmindedly, as if thinking the same thing as Fenrir. The inevitability of his death in a few hours and all that.

  “Denrick, you are from Rostane, no?” asked Fenrir abruptly, noting the man’s inflections. Even within Ardia, dialects changed from duchy to duchy.