“They died for you,” Erik said, thinking of the scroll that had saved his life and the lives of the citizens of Fen-Stévock. “Drake and Samus. Vander Bim. Mortin, Bim, and Thormok. Threhof. Befel. Switch even. Those people in South Gate. They all died for you—and for what?”
As he questioned what he had done, what had happened in just the last months, let alone the last two years, an image flashed through Erik’s mind. Men stood before Erik, chanting, “Eleodum! Eleodum! Eleodum!” over and over again. Erik, wearing a dazzling suit of armor emblazoned with the symbol of a fist clenching a red fletched arrow, led an army into battle. He didn’t know whom he fought, but he won, and his soldiers shouted his name again. The sky, clear and bright and blue, showered him with gold rain as blackened and charred skulls cracked and broke under the hooves of his horse.
Then, another image flashed in his mind. It was one of him and his family, his parents, his sisters, and, yes, his brother. They were on their farm, only it was ten times the size of their land now. A hundred men worked it, and even the Hámonian nobles were working the fields with the other hands. His mother wore a beautiful gown, and his sisters tied gold thread in their hair. His father wore high, hard leather boots and a high-collared coat of red and gold. He watched out over his fields and then looked at Erik.
“Thank you,” his father said. “You are my favorite son and, because of what you have done, Erik, all of this will be given to you. These men will bow to you.”
Then, Erik saw Simone. She also wore a gown, hers of silver and blue and glowing in the moonlight of a clear night. She was more beautiful than he remembered, her blonde hair like threads of gold, her skin pale and milky and soft. Two boys danced at her feet. They were his boys, Erik’s boys. But, then, it wasn’t just Simone there. He saw a dozen women—dark skin and pale skin, dark hair and blonde hair—all beautiful, all desirable. They were all his, all his wives, and two or three children from each one danced about them and sang and giggled as each one of his wives bade him to come to bed with them.
“Come, lay with me,” they all said, sweetly, seductively. But the sweetest and most seductive was Simone. She stepped to him. He couldn’t see any of the others. He could smell her, rose hips and mint and lemon grass. She pressed herself against him, and his face grew hot as he felt himself rise. She stepped back, not wearing a gown anymore, but a shift of soft, translucent fabric. She pulled it away, revealing herself fully to him. She laid back on a large bed, begging for him to join her. And then the rest of his wives were there as well, all of them naked in the bed, begging, desiring, waiting.
Erik shook his head.
“What, by the Creator, was that?” he asked himself. “Those are a fool’s thoughts.”
Erik had no desire to stay in Fen-Stévock, nor Golgolithul, let alone lead its armies. The day his father and mother wore a high-collared jacket and a gown would be the day they died, if that day hadn’t already happened. And as for letting a hundred farmhands work his land while he stood and watched, Rikard Eleodum would never let that happen. Simone—he had often thought of what their life together might be like, of what their wedding night might be like—would never be happy if he took other wives. The thought of her made him ache.
He knew in other places, in other countries, men took more than one wife, but not in the valley in which his farmstead lay, especially with Simone as his wife. She wasn’t the jealous type, but she was strong and could be stubborn, and any other woman trying to share their bed would likely find herself running home to her mother, broken and bruised.
And, yet, those thoughts still danced about in his mind. He looked to his dagger. He wanted to ask it but then remembered what it had told him.
There is something not right about this place. It feels like Orvencrest.
He shivered at the thought of Orvencrest. The darkness. The dead, just beyond the shadows. Their distant cursing and hissing and laughing. He scrunched his eyebrows, and it felt like a thousand ants crawled up his back. He saw the hair on his arms stand on end and decided he wanted to get out of this room, out of this house. He walked to his door, but then the Messenger’s words rang loudly in his head.
“Do not go wandering about,” he had said. “Those that wander tend to get lost.”
Still, Erik opened his door.
Candles sitting in black iron sconces dimly lit the hallway. Nafer’s room sat directly across from his, and Erik considered joining him but didn’t. He walked down the hallway to where two sweeping stairways led down into the main room. Opposite the bottom of each staircase, at the far end of the room, a fire raged, but that proved the only light in the area. Erik felt drawn to the double front doors, something beckoning him. He quietly slipped down the stairs and soon stood before them, within arm’s reach. He could open the door, get some fresh air, watch the stars overhead, and remember home. He smiled. He touched the round metal handle with a single finger, closed his eyes and opened the door.
The smell of fire and smelting metal and rotten flesh hit his nose. His eyes shot open, and there was no night sky, no stars. He wasn’t even in Fen-Stévock anymore. The sky was anything but clear, the black, choking smoke of industry clouding any hopes of seeing stars or the moon. Erik saw a thousand rotting corpses. An army of dead men waited for him in a field of brown, dead grass.
How?
The dead laughed. Erik drew his sword, Ilken’s Blade. It was with him, in this place. And he cut through them as they came. His steel touched the dead flesh, and they exploded into a thousand pieces. He saw his hill, in the distance as thunder and purple lightning raged behind him, and he knew a black mountain range loomed there. He made for his hill. The dead came, and he fought, sending each one of them into oblivion. He knew they would be gone. There was something about what happened when his sword touched them. They were gone and would never come back.
It felt like he had been fighting for hours. He must have destroyed a thousand dead men before he finally stood at the foot of his hill. Then, he saw them. It was a group of dead men that he recognized. Three of them were well decomposed, and two were fresh, some of their color still intact. Two of the dead men who were well-rotted looked like the slave boss who had attacked the gypsy caravan in the Abresi Straits. Dark, oily-looking beards clung to bony chins, and their black robes hung from their bodies in tatters. They both carried curved swords as well. The skin that still managed to stick to their bones was a darkened tan, and their eyebrows were thick, shadowing eye sockets void of any eyes. Another was Fox. He looked less and less like himself, but that red hair still managed to stick out from his head.
The general, Patûk Al’Banan, stood before Erik, fresh, his skin only pale with a few black spots. Death had already stolen his powerful muscles and jaws, and he looked a faint resemblance of the strong man he once was. And then there was Switch, even more gaunt and frail than ever.
“You can’t win,” Fox said, bugs crawling out of his mouth and into his eye sockets as he spoke.
“I’ve already won,” Erik said.
Fox hissed and stepped forward. Erik swung Ilken’s Blade. If the dead man had eyes, they would have looked surprised, for when Erik struck him, the result was different than before. Fox glowed as beams of light exploded from every part of his decaying body until he finally burst into tiny pieces that floated to the ground like snow. The two slavers came on, and the same thing happened to them as they disappeared from existence, nothing more than dust floating on a faint breeze. Patûk had none of the strength he possessed in life, and Erik easily dispatched him as well. He cursed as his body lit up, and then he too was dust.
Erik turned to Switch. He lifted his sword over his head, gripped tightly in both hands. Switch fell to his knees and began to weep.
“Please, Erik,” the dead man whimpered, holding a hand up in front of his face.
“You don’t deserve mercy,” Erik said.
“No, I don’t,” Switch replied. “I’m a terrible bastard. I have been my whole life. I betra
yed the only friends I ever had and now look at me. I’m sorry.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re stuck here,” Erik said, “wandering with the dead.”
“No,” Switch said through sobs, “I’m sorry. I truly am. I did you wrong. You trusted me, and I repaid you with treachery. If I could go back and do it differently, I would. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
Switch looked up at Erik. He cried even though there weren’t any tears falling from his eyes. His pale skin looked even sicklier, and his hair hung in knotted clumps, some of it already gone.
Erik lowered his sword and shook his head.
“I forgive you, Switch,” Erik said.
The thief looked up at Erik, and he began to fade away, a translucent specter until he simply disappeared. The last thing Erik saw was the man’s smile, and then he was gone.
Erik wanted to walk to the top of the hill and sit under the weeping willow tree, even though the man who was normally there wasn’t to be seen, but something caused him to turn. When he did, he was back in the house, facing one of the household eunuchs.
“What are you doing, sir?” the eunuch asked, his voice deep and prying.
“Nothing,” Erik replied, taking his hand from the door handle. “You startled me.”
“My apologies, sir,” the eunuch said.
“It’s all right,” Erik said. “I’ll just return to bed.”
The eunuch grabbed Erik’s arm, and for a man who was pudgy, bald, and soft looking, his grip was surprisingly strong.
“You mustn’t wander,” the eunuch said. The tone of his voice deepened. “You might get lost in the night.”
“Don’t worry,” Erik said, pulling his arm free of the eunuch’s grip, “I won’t.”
He returned to the stairs and headed quickly to Nafer’s room, knocking on the door softly. As soon as the dwarf opened it just a sliver, Erik pushed his way into the room.
“We need to leave this place,” Erik said.
Nafer just stared with pursed lips and raised eyebrows.
“This place is evil, Nafer,” Erik said. “It feels like Orvencrest. We need to get out of here.”
“Right now?” Nafer asked.
“No,” Erik said. “We’ll wait until predawn. Better if we stay together?”
“Aye,” Nafer replied.
Erik went into his room, grabbed his swords, his armor, and his haversack, and returned to Nafer’s room, where they waited. It seemed a long while before they finally crept into the hallway slowly and quietly. They went down to the main hall and stood in front of the double door entrance. Erik looked to Nafer one last time. The dwarf nodded, and Erik opened the door. Then he remembered what his dagger had told him.
Mind both your mind and your tongue.
A dozen guards were waiting for them as they stepped from the house. Six of them pushed Erik to the ground while the other six held down Nafer. Terradyn and Raktas came running from the house, yelling at the guards holding the two. As they argued in Shengu, Erik could tell that the Messenger’s bodyguards were angry and on the brink of fighting with the guards when one of them produced a letter. Terradyn read it, promptly crumpled it when he was done, and threw it to the ground, but he did nothing else. The bodyguards worked for Andragos, but the guards’ instructions had come from someone higher.
The guards picked Erik and Nafer up and shoved them forward, leading them to the stairway that led up to the large dais of Fen-Stévock’s keep.
“Keep quiet when you enter the keep,” Terradyn said as they followed them and the guards.
“Do not look at the Lord of the East,” Raktas added. “Look down, and do as you are told. And keep your thoughts away from him.”
Standing in front of the stairway, Erik saw another small retinue of soldiers pushing Wrothgard and Turk. Erik felt a sudden elation and moved to run to his friends.
“Turk!” he yelled, but the butt of a spear to the back of his leg brought him to his knees, and the soldier that had struck him said something to him in Shengu that he assumed to be ‘Silence.’
Erik looked on, past Wrothgard and Turk, but saw no Bofim or Beldar. He looked at Turk.
“They are safe,” the dwarf said in his own language. He too was met with a spear to the back of his leg.
“And Demik?” Erik whispered.
Turk simply looked at him, his eyes red, and shook his head.
The guards stood Erik and Turk up and marched the four companions up the stairs. A walkway lined by columns led to the entrance of the keep, which stood open. Andragos was there to meet them, and a sharp look from the Messenger caused the guards to back away from the four mercenaries.
“I told you not to go out at night here,” Andragos said, his voice hard.
“I would try to explain myself,” Erik said, “but I think you probably already know why I thought what I did.”
He met Andragos’ eyes. There was understanding there, truth, and a bit of sadness. He nodded and folded his hands behind his back.
“As much as I understand, noncompliance in this place can mean a fate worse than death, Erik. That may be a cliché much of the time, but here it holds a savage truth. I do not know exactly what is going to happen to you and your companions, but you must follow my instructions, do you understand?”
Erik held Andragos’ eyes, and there was truth. Erik nodded.
“Only speak when spoken to,” the Messenger commanded, speaking more to all the mercenaries. “When the Lord of the East comes into the room, you will prostrate yourself before him. When he tells you to rise, you will come to your knees, but keep your eyes to the floor. When he asks you to please stand, you will do so, but keep your eyes down. Finally, he will ask you to look at him, which you will do. Do you understand?”
All four of the mercenaries nodded.
“Good,” Andragos said. “Follow me.”
He led them through the keep’s entrance.
Windows on either side of the great hall gave the room light. Large fruit trees lined the walls, all in onyx planters. Trellises covered the walls instead of tapestries and paintings, each wooden framework covered with vines and crawlers, all with flowers of many different colors. Two great cats lay next to one of the planters, each white with black stripes and collars studded with diamonds and sapphires. They eyed Erik and the others as they walked by them.
Guards lined the wall as well, all of them clad in black armor, the symbol of the Stévockians emblazoned on their breastplates. Pointed visors hid their faces, and they stood motionless, holding tall, square shields and pikes. Despite not being able to see their eyes, Erik imagined they followed him as well as he made his way to the center of the keep.
A purple curtain extended from the high ceiling to the floor in the center of the keep, falling on a raised dais. Tall apple trees grew directly from the ground on either side of the dais, reaching higher than any other apple tree Erik had ever seen. In front of each of tree were pools of water, each with a fountain that spouted up so that it would fall back into the pool like rain. Men and women lounged around on chaises and rugs and pillows in front of the dais, some scantily clad in white, translucent robes while others were naked. Some of the men and women played flutes and lyres and lutes while others simply talked and giggled and caressed one another. Atop the dais, in front of the great curtain, sat three chairs, all well cushioned with low backs and low armrests.
The Messenger turned.
“Prostrate yourselves in the presence of the Lord and Emperor of the East, High Lord Chancellor of Golgolithul, Patron of Family Stévock, and Protector of Háthgolthane.”
The men and women stopped talking and playing their instruments and lay on the floor, face down. The mercenaries followed suit. Erik heard shuffling he presumed to be the curtain followed by footsteps.
“Rise,” a voice said in Westernese. It was soft, albeit commanding.
Erik pushed himself to his knees but kept his face to the floor.
“Please,” th
e voice said, “stand.”
Erik did as he was told, as did his companions. But he kept his eyes down. He could see, looking up ever so slightly, three people standing atop the dais.
“Look upon the Emperor of the East,” the voice commanded.
Erik lifted his head. Three people stood on the dais. Two of them were women. One woman had almost white hair, with pale skin and piercing blue eyes. She wore a shear dress of black, two strips of material covering her breasts and meeting at a snug buckle about her waist. The rest of the dress billowed out and touched the floor. The other woman had black hair, dark brown skin, and emerald eyes that seemed to glow, and she wore the same exact dress as the first, only hers was white. Both were beautiful, with perfect noses and lips, high cheeks and round chins. They could have been twins if it wasn’t for the different colors of their hair and complexions of their skin.
Between them stood a man, tall and lean, his bare chest showing a body used to training and exercise. A thick, red sash was tied around his waist, and he wore black pants of loose material, allowed to billow out before tapering back around the man’s ankles. His black hair spilled down his back and over his shoulders, shadowing a slender face, a square jaw, and piercing, green eyes. He was handsome, beautiful almost, and Erik found it hard to take his eyes off the man.
“So, you are the ones who have succeeded in my quest,” the Lord of the East said. “And yet, one of you isn’t even one of the original men we called to Finlo.”
He stepped forward. All four of the mercenaries kept their eyes on the Lord of the East but said nothing.
“And, yet, you have not really fulfilled your duty, have you? You looked at my treasure, even though my friend, Andragos, here told you not to.”
They still said nothing.
“You disobeyed me,” the Lord of the East said. “Do you know what happens to disobedience in my realm?”
“Your Majesty …” Erik began to say, but the two women on either side of the Lord of the East hissed, cutting him off.
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