Gilead's Blood

by Dan Abnett

  The children laughed. There were four children in that house: Russ, the eldest, strong and firm; Roder, the joker; Emilon, the golden-haired girl; and little Betsen. Lilanna was full of myths and they loved every one.

  AS STORIES GO, the fate of these children was better than any innkeeper or wetnurse could dream up, even in their most salacious moments. Russ was found nailed to the oak-beam ceiling with the other adults of his family. Roder roasted on the hearth. All they ever found of Emilon were some bloody scraps of her golden hair. Lilanna the nurse was cut into five pieces, as were the other servants of the house, and strewn indiscriminately with them upon the midden. Only Betsen survived. Thirteen years old, she had been away at court in Middenheim, preparing for life as a lady-in-waiting to the Graf’s wife.

  She returned for the burials. A pale, silent ghost, she was looked after by Prince Horgan at his palace. She spoke to no one.

  It was a summer night when she found the pool at last. Two years had passed and, despite her guardian’s repeated urgings, she had ridden out most evening and afternoons, into the emerald glades of the forest. She had always believed the tales her old nurse had told her. Now they were all she had left.

  The pool was deep and clear. Translucent. It stood in a glade far off the regular paths, surrounded by twenty solemn larches. She knew it was Eilonthay the moment she came upon it.

  Betsen dismounted, pulling her velvet gown close around her. She went to the water’s edge and knelt down.

  ‘Folk of Tor Anrok, help me now. I seek vengeance for my family, cruelly slaughtered as sport. Do not turn away from me.’

  She knew it was just a myth. But that did not stop her coming, night after night.

  HE PUT DOWN his wood axe and knelt. His heart was heavy in his chest. There was the human girl again, kneeling by the clear water pool, sobbing out her wishes. How many times had it been? Twenty? Thirty? How many times before he noticed her?

  He coiled himself into the tree so he would not be seen, and bit his lip so he would not answer her as honour demanded.

  Finally, she stood again and moved back to her waiting horse. A moment later, she was gone into the moonlight.

  Fithvael, last warrior of the tower of Tor Anrok, sighed. It was not right. If he had only been younger, stronger. But he was old and he was tired. Years and years ago, before that decade-long quest and the miserable years since, he might have acted differently. But he was just an ageing woodsman now, haunting the glades, tending the trees, cutting logs to feed his hearth, waiting for a quiet death.

  THE TOWER OF Tor Anrok was as silent and secretive as ever. Daylight, stained green by the canopy of leaves, fell upon its high, peerless walls. From a distance, its beauty remained. But close to, its decay was evident.

  Since the passing of Lord Cothor, it had fallen into ruin. Briars overgrew the outer walls and lichen discoloured the pale stone. Casements had rotted and fallen in, and birds nested in holes amongst the roof slates. Sections of wall had slumped and spilled exquisite hand-carved sections of translucent stone onto the loam.

  Fithvael approached it apprehensively. The many tricks, traps and magical wards that protected the tower glades were still active though the place was dead, but they held no threat to Fithvael. He had lived in this place for most of his life, and as swordmaster had maintained those very defences. His feet knew where to step, what stones and paths to avoid; his hands knew the glyphs he had to make to cancel charms.

  His apprehension came from what he might find here. He remembered too well the day when he and Gilead had returned to the Tower of Lothain after their long vengeance mission, and found it derelict. The misery of that day had never left him. Lord Cothor had died - they found his grave in the sacred grove - and it seemed all other life in the tower had vanished overnight. The household staff, the guards, the ostlers, the very life itself had simply gone. He and Gilead had searched miserably for a while, but they had found no trace. The Tower of Tor Anrok was overgrown and empty.

  He had not returned there in a long while.

  Fithvael set a red-feathered arrow against the string of his black yew bow and crept into the dismal courtyard. He was almost invisible. Long before he had packed away his scarlet cloak in favour of a dull green huntsman’s cape. His corselet of ithilmar mail was covered by a moleskin tunic. He gazed sadly around the unkempt yard, where brambles and thorny roots had split the flagstones. He remembered the long ago days when the warriors had trained there; great men like Taladryel, Nithrom, Lord Cothor himself. And the boys, the twin heirs.

  ‘Gilead?’ he called softly. ‘My lord?’ he added cautiously.

  Silence, but he did not expect an answer.

  He found Gilead in the throne room, slumbering in the great gilded chair that had been Cothor Lothain’s. The elf warrior, slim and powerful, lolled in the seat, his longsword dangling from his slack hands. The blue-white steel had mottled and the golden dragon hilt had dulled. Plates of spoiling fruit and meat stood nearby, and empty flasks of wine.

  ‘Gilead?’

  Gilead Lothain awoke, shaking off some dreadful dream. ‘Fithvael? Old friend?’

  ‘Lord.’

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Gilead murmured. He reached for a nearby bottle, realised it was empty, and sank back into his seat.

  ‘Twelve moons since I last called upon you,’ Fithvael admitted.

  ‘And how goes your life?’ Gilead asked absently. ‘In your little hut out there in the forest? You know there is always room for you here in the tower.’

  ‘I would not wish to live here anymore,’ Fithvael said bitterly, looking about the ruined shell, seeing the grey daylight falling through spaces in the tiles and walls. Broken glass lay under each window. There was a smell of rot and mildew.

  ‘Yet you’re here? Why?’

  ‘True to our old pact, the pact with the humans of the town hereabouts, someone has come to the pool and asked for our help. A human girl. Her plight is great.’

  Gilead shook his head. ‘Those days are gone…’

  ‘So it seems,’ Fithvael said sourly.

  Catching his tone, Gilead looked up, fierce. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We should help her, lord. It was our way, the way of the old pact that was in place before your late father’s time-‘

  Gilead swore softly and waved Fithvael away. ‘I have done my work. Ten years, avenging my brother. I will not stir from here until death comes for me.’

  ‘Your brother would have helped. Galeth would have helped.’

  Even before the words were out of his mouth, Fithvael knew he had opened the old wound. He froze, ready for the onslaught.

  Gilead got to his feet, unsteadily. The dulled blade dropped from his hand with a clatter.

  ‘You dare to speak to me of that?’ he hissed. The hiss turned into a cough. It took a moment for Gilead to recover his voice. ‘Galeth was one with me, my brother, my twin! We were one soul in two bodies! Do you not remember?’

  Fithvael bowed his head. ‘I do, lord. That is what they said of you…’

  ‘And when he died, I was cut in two! Death entered my soul! Ten years! Ten years I hunted for the murderer! Hunted for vengeance! And when I found it, even that pleasure did not slake the pain in my heart!’

  Fithvael turned. He would leave now. He could not face this.

  Then he paused. His heart was pounding in his chest. It surprised him, but there was anger in his blood. He turned back again sharply, fearing what he would see. Gilead still stood, glowering at him, dark sunken eyes glaring balefully from his thin, wasted face.

  ‘I was there too!’ Fithvael growled at his lord. ‘Ten years I stood with you, till the end of the matter! I was the only one of your followers who survived the quest! Did I not suffer too? Did I not give you my all? Did the others die for nothing?’

  ‘I meant-‘ Gilead stammered.

  ‘And look what became of this proud house in your absence! All dead! All gone to dust! The pride of Tor Anrok withered becaus
e the son and heir was lost in nowhere, hunting his own pain! The line of Lothain, thrown away for your solace!’

  Fithvael was quite sure Gilead would strike him, but he cared not. His lord shook, anger blazing in his eyes, but Fithvael strode towards him, snarling out his words.

  ‘I pity you, lord! I have always pitied you and mourned your loss! But now… now you wallow in that pity, waiting for a death that may not come! A warrior of your mettle, indolent and wasting away when others may benefit from your skills? You may crave death, but why not use what life you have to aid others? That was always our way! Always!’

  ‘Get out!’ Gilead screamed, shaking with anger. He kicked wretchedly at the plates and bottles that littered the floor around his throne. ‘Get out!’ He stooped and snatched up a bottle from the ground and flung it at his oldest friend.

  It missed by a yard and shattered. Fithvael did not duck or flinch as he stalked back out of the hall.

  FOUR DAYS PASSED. Gilead Lothain knew little of them. He slept, or drank, hurling the empty flasks out through the broken windows of the hall, watching them smash and glitter on the yard outside. Pain thumped in his skull, pain that could be neither unloosed or fettered. Now and then, he would howl at the night sky.

  Dawn came, waking him. He was lying at the foot of his father’s gilt throne, dirty and cold. The pain in his mind was so great, it took a few moments for him to realise that it was not the pale light that had woken him. It was the frenzied croak of ravens.

  Unsteadily, he walked out into the tower yard. Ravens lined the walls, dark, fluttering, rasping. Many others circled overhead. Occasionally, one would drop down and peck at the huddled form on the flagstones of the gatehouse.

  ‘By the Phoenix Kings!’ Gilead stammered, as he realised what the shape was.

  Fithvael was almost dead cold. Terrible wounds had sliced into his ancient armour, and blood caked his body and arms. Gilead drove off the carrion birds and cradled him. The veteran swordmaster’s eyes winced open.

  ‘Who has done this?’ Gilead murmured. ‘What have you done, old friend?’

  Fithvael seemed unable to talk.

  ‘Have you… have you shamed me, Fithvael? Did you go to help this human girl?’

  Fithvael nodded weakly.

  ‘You stubborn old fool!’ Gilead cursed.

  ‘M-me, lord? S-stubborn?’ Fithvael managed.

  Gilead lifted him up and carried him into the tower.

  *

  THE WALLED TOWN of Munzig, as I may have said, lies in the patchwork of Border Principalities south of the Empire in the forests below the Black Mountains. It is a steep, gabled, timbered place surrounded by high curtain walls. Lofty and proud, the Prince of Munzig’s palace stands on a promontory of rock above the market town, commanding good views of the River Durich and the forest tracks rising beyond to Black Fire Pass.

  Betsen Ziegler had lived at the palace for two whole years since her return, since the funerals. She had rooms in the west wing, where for months she had done nothing but slumber uneasily and weep. The palace staff worried about her. Fifteen years of age and yet far older in her bearing and mind. Pain does that to a person. Pain and grief.

  After a year at the palace, she started to request books to be brought to her, and she would go out into the town and renew acquaintances with those that had known her lost family. In the evenings, she liked to sit in the palace’s herb garden and read.

  That particular evening, the scents of the garden were thick and heady around her, and her book lay unopened on the bench at her hip. The ancient one, the strange elf woodsman with his kind eyes and soft voice who had appeared to her by the pool, had promised her so much, yet she had heard nothing. She was beginning to believe she had dreamt it all. Another night, then she would slip away from the palace after nones and ride to the pool again.

  A breeze swayed the thick lavender and marjoram around her. An evening chill was settling. She was about to rise and go in when she realised there was a figure behind her. A tall, slender form, just a shadow, was watching her.

  She gasped and started up. ‘Who-‘

  The figure stepped into the light. At first she thought the ancient elf had returned. But it was not him. Where her mysterious guardian had been kind and unthreatening, this one was lean and powerful, and his noble, pale face was almost cruel. His alien gaze burned into her. He was cloaked in scarlet, and beneath she saw intricate armour. He was truly like a creature from a dream.

  He spoke, in a musical language she did not understand. Then he spoke again, tutting softly to himself. ‘Of course. I must be employing the leaden human tongue. Are you Betsen Ziegler?’

  Despite herself, she nodded. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Gilead Lothain, last of my line. I was told you came to Eilonthay and asked for my kind to help you.’

  Again, she nodded. ‘Another warrior answered me and told me he would render aid,’ she began. ‘I do not understand why-‘

  He hushed her. ‘Fithvael is a brave soul, but his fighting years are passed. He has asked me to take on your errand and complete it.’

  ‘I-I thank you for it,’ she said, still nervous.

  ‘Collect your things, a mount, and slip out of the palace at darkfall. I will meet you outside the city gate.’

  ‘Why? Can’t you just-‘

  ‘Your quest is one of vengeance, as I have been told it. I know all about vengeance. You must come with me.’

  She blinked, struggling to form another question, but he had gone.

  IN THE DARK trees a hundred yards from the gate, he was waiting, sat astride a slender warhorse. Betsen rode up to him until they met under the limbs of an old elm that sighed in the night breeze.

  ‘Am I dreaming this?’ she asked.

  ‘Humans often dream of my kind because they don’t believe we exist. But I do exist. I live. Of that much, at least, I am sure. Let us begin.’

  The girl was bright and sharp-witted, and that surprised Gilead, who had never been much impressed with the mental dexterity of humans. Not that he had had much truck with them over the years. When she told him of the crime against her family, of the dreadful murder done, he felt an ache of sympathy that also surprised him. Once she had told of the killings, she was silent for a long while. Gilead found himself watching her. She was fifteen, young even by the miserably short human timescale, but pretty, in that vulgar, human way.

  Then she began to tell him what she had found out in the two years since the crime. For the third time he was impressed. It must have taken a great deal of wit and ingenuity, not to mention courage, to tease out this intelligence. These were the facts as she knew them, and as she had told Fithvael, the facts that had sent him off to his wretched defeat. She repeated them now to Gilead.

  There was a merchant lord called Lugos, who dwelt in an old fortified mansion maybe ten miles beyond Munzig. He was old and very rich - as rich as the prince himself, some said; richer still, said others. In fact, no one could account for the way a merchant, even a prosperous, successful man like Lugos, could have amassed quite such a fortune. He had ambitions too, courtly ones. The Border Princes could always stand another count, another duke.

  The most whispered rumours said that Lugos had crossed into the Darkness. That he had dabbled in forces he did not understand and should not have unlocked. Even that he was a sorcerer, married to evil. No one had proof. No one, except perhaps Betsen herself, had even dared to find any. Lugos was a respectable man, a powerful man. He had a personal militia that rivalled the standing garrisons of some small towns. His mansion was a fortress. He had the ear of powerful men at Court.

  Betsen knew that her father, who had been an up and coming merchant, had entered into business with Lugos in an attempt to increase his trade. Lugos had nurtured him, as all good merchant lords do when they find an eager trade partner. Betsen believed that in the course of this business dealing, her father had learned a little too much about Lugos - and Lugos had decided to silence him. And he ha
d done it in the bestial manner his unholy masters had determined.

  The mansion was a stronghold indeed; a great blackstone building with good walls and picket towers along the perimeter.

  Gilead watched the place from the cover of the tree line. He did not need solid proof of the evil within, not in the way humans seemed to need. He could feel the vile filth of the place oozing out at him. If he had found this place under other circumstances, he would not have needed the girl’s urgings to feel the need to destroy it. It was an affront to the nature of the world.

  ‘Stay here,’ he told the human girl, handing her a light crossbow. ‘I will send for you when the time comes. This device is loaded. Aim carefully and squeeze this if you need to. But I think you will not be so troubled. I will keep them busy.’

  ‘Alone?’ she asked.

  ‘Alone,’ the elf agreed, eyes dark in the shadows. ‘I will deal with them alone.’

  ‘I meant me,’ she returned fiercely.

  ‘You’ll be safe,’ he repeated, catching her tone in surprise. She was sharp, sharper than he expected of a mere human.

  He made to ride on, but she stopped him. ‘Your… the other, Fithvael? He told me about you. About your pain and loss and… what you have been through.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have done that,’ Gilead said, his slanting eyes dark and unfathomable. ‘It was not a human concern.’

  ‘He told me so I would understand why he was undertaking my quest and not his master, the great warrior.’

  Gilead was silent.

  ‘I understand,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I understand your pain was so great you had no desire to become involved in another’s pain. What… what changed your mind?’

  ‘I was reminded of the old duty my kind chose to take up. That changed my mind.’

  ‘He said you wanted only to die.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But he also said he thought you should be using your life to help others until death came.’

  ‘He said a great deal.’

  She smiled. ‘I suppose he did. Are you embarrassed?’

  ‘No,’ he lied, hiding his feelings in the lumpen human language.