Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “No, that’s it. And, my reward?” Bold, she knew. Or stupid.

  “Your reward? For now, we will say ‘your life’ and be done with it.” There was a hint of a smile on his chapped lips. The hairs rose on the back of her neck.

  “Well, what should I do with my life, Patriarch, that you’ve so freely given? The House will be after me, and I’ve seen what they do to traitors.”

  “As if you didn’t know the risks.”

  “Aye, but I thought it would afford some protection.”

  The Patriarch clenched his fists, skin turning white and highlighting the brownish scabs on his knuckles. Morgyn tried to swallow. She’d gone too far.

  “Why don’t you go spend some time with those slugs? You just need to stay alive for a few days, girl. Then, I will send for you.”

  The Patriarch stood, obviously dismissing her. She pushed back from her chair and began to rise, herself.

  “Oh, girl.”

  Morgyn paused, partially crouching over her chair.

  With unnatural speed, he reached across the table and hooked her in the mouth, sending her stumbling to the ground. Her lip tasted of sweet blood, and her head spun from where it had just struck the floor. The whimpering squeak she let out was not entirely feigned.

  “Never question me. You, and those you care about, live by the grace of Oletta. I will not tolerate more failure. Now, get out of my sight.”

  Morgyn scrambled to the door and slid into the hallway, wiping blood on her already-filthy sleeve.

  That had actually gone much better than expected.

  Interlogue: Lust

  “Oh, sweetling. I apologize, it has been longer than usual. I had some things that needed my personal intervention. And, I truly apologize for my rash behavior upon our last meeting. The emotions can become overwhelming at times, as I know you can understand. I can see that you have not been without pain in your life.

  “It is beginning to happen, just by degrees. I can see you beginning to lose yourself. But, you still have so much of your mind, which is impressive! It is your body that is betraying you.

  “Your lust, at the moment, is clearly standing in the gentle light.

  “Do not feel embarrassed. In fact, I feel flattered that I can still elicit such a reaction from a man such as you. A rarity, you are. I know enough about you now to say that you are a good man. And, I have been in desperate need of a good man, of late. I am pleased that my followers got one correct, particularly after so many mishaps.

  “Please, know that even a good man has his share of temptations. I know of yours, and you are forgiven. This girl…. Come to me… you recognize this girl, no? With this lovely auburn hair and a figure to rival my own? Yes, I know you lost yourself, spending several nights in passion with this girl. Sandra is her name? I see you look at Sandra now with lust in your eyes. Your primal emotions are revealed to the world. And yet, I say to you, you are forgiven. You are merely a human. An animal, really. The lust you feel now, that you try so hard to fight, is natural.

  “Leave her be? Of course, sweetling! I do not harvest women. They make an… insufficient end product. Useless, really. They lack the aggressions and hungers of men, at least in any way that would be useful to me. That, and, when I harvest, I take on some of the characteristics of my donors. I have found that too many women can make me… soft. Doing the… things I must do can become more challenging if women enter my donor cycle.

  “Women can serve me in other ways. This girl, here. I find her hair to be pleasing, so I enjoy having her in my sight during the day. She is well-treated, of course. You need not worry.

  “Such kindness in your heart. I know this must be hard for you. I know you resent this girl. That you feel like she tempted you, stole your fidelity to your wife, though she is long passed. But, you kept your faith. The fact that you feel that way tells me again: You are a good man.

  “I tell you now. Your wife has passed. Fidelity has no meaning. You did not betray her; you could not betray her. Regardless, would she not want you to be happy? Would she not want you to experience the pleasures of flesh again, since she was forced to leave you?

  “I have told you that I have also struggled with lust, in my time. Amorum… Amorum took my away from myself, and I could barely control my basest instincts when he came into my life. Ultimately, lust both saved and shattered my world.

  “Would you not like this girl now, sweetling? I still see your lust, unabated despite the shame of your memory. Would you not like for me to return your chair, and allow this girl to gently mount you and curtail your lust, though briefly? Would you not like to run your hands through her gorgeous, flaming hair, feeling the silken flow melt through your hands?

  “I see that the answer is yes. Your hands—your entire body—shakes with anticipation. And yet, you would still resist, despite your worn humanity. You surprise me, sweetling. You are stronger than most. You are braver than most. And, remember that I have known so many, many men when I say you are dumber than most.

  “Girl, you may return to the above. On your way up, please stop and ask one of the Lanei to bring a chair back to this man. I have a feeling that he will be thankful for that comfort, come next visit.”

  Chapter 7

  The muscular man strained against his bonds, his veins standing out on his skin like vivid blue scars. Two Wasmer struggled against the bearded man’s strength, each bearing a rope looped around the man’s wrist. And then the man suddenly stopped his struggle, throwing his captors off balance. He ripped one hand free and tackled the Wasmer on his left, landing three crunching, heavy blows before two other Wasmer tore him off their companion, dragging him to the ground. A third Wasmer joined the fray, wrapping his arms around the man’s flailing legs and finally subduing him.

  “Why do you keep trying?” Hafgan Iwan demanded, pushing through his men to see the familiar commotion. Rin Yanso, former captain of the Rostanian Army, snarled at him as usual, even as the Wasmer tightened the loops on the big man’s wrists.

  “I will never submit to you, Wasmer,” Yanso spat, the last word coming as a fierce curse from his tongue. “You might yet drag me to Pandemonium, but I’ll make you suffer every step of the way.”

  Hafgan appraised the man. It had taken weeks for Yanso to fully recover from the injuries inflicted by the gwagen that terrible night. The Rostanian captain and the Wasmer had simply been in the way as the soulless creatures had flowed over the walls of the compound toward the Army of Brockmore, but they’d not been spared a great many causalities. Yanso had very nearly been killed, but there was a deep strength within him, an inner drive handily matched by his very real physical prowess.

  The minute that Yanso had recovered enough to be fully cognizant of his situation, he’d begun his escape attempts. First, he’d tried riding off on one of their few horses, bareback, before a mounted Wasmer had managed to knock him from the saddle with the butt end of a spear. Then, he’d overpowered one of his guards—breaking the poor Wasmer’s jaw—and limped off into the night. The Wasmer had had no trouble tracking Yanso with their superior night vision, but it had been a true fight to bring him down even with him being injured.

  As Yanso had grown stronger, his many injuries healing, his escape attempts had grown ever more fierce. Hafgan was continually amazed that he continued fighting, often in the face of spearpoints. The men had strict orders not to harm Yanso more than necessary, though, and the Rostanian took full advantage of it.

  “Were you to leave us now, you would be dead within days. The Tulanques are inhospitable in the best of times, and with winter approaching, you would find yourself lost, hungry, and frozen,” Hafgan told him, folding his arms.

  Yanso stood tall and strong against Hafgan’s scrutiny. “Better dead than a prisoner to you fucking cretins. You bird-sucking, shit-eating, goat-faced… fucks.”

  “You only be a prisoner because you make it so,” said Paston, Hafgan’s second-in-command. The shorter Wasmer scratched at his omnipresent facia
l hair, self-conscious of his Wasmer heritage even in front of a single human. The lieutenant had grown accustomed to shaving his face clean, twice per day, but he could no longer feed that habit. After hundreds of miles of marching, much of it through the harsh terrain of the Tulanque Mountains, luxuries like sharp razors, warm clothes, and adequate food were just dreams of the past.

  “I be saying we just toss him off the mountainside and be done with it,” growled Enric, nursing a bruised arm from the earlier scuffle. Enric somehow managed, despite their lack of supplies, to continue keeping his head and face shorn of hair. His pale, hairless head was crimson from the cold, but he seemed unaffected.

  “It’d be preferable to spending another day with you fucking goats!” Yanso responded, relaxing in the arms of his captors.

  “As much as I’d prefer to see you broken at the bottom of the mountain, we need you,” Hafgan said, shifting his balance to his left leg. Ever since that arrow had ricocheted off his right hip, weeks ago, there’d been a nagging pain whenever he stood still. “It would be better for you, for all of us, if you just came along easily.”

  Yanso seemed to slump, as if finally relenting. Of course, that wasn’t the case, and Hafgan was expecting the sudden activity when Yanso lunged out of the relaxed grips of his guards, grabbing a dagger from the belt of one as he passed. With a fierce precision belaying his musculature, he thrust the dagger at Hafgan’s unarmored chest. Hafgan easily sidestepped, making no riposte. Yanso caught himself and followed up on his attack before being yanked back by his bonds. He slavered and snarled like a feral dog on a leash.

  “Release him,” Hafgan said, the chill wind tousling his overgrown hair.

  “Sir?” Paston asked, licking the space where his second set of dogteeth used to be.

  “Is my Ardian lacking?” No, his diction was near perfect. There was nothing like commanding men to polish a Wasmer’s tongue. “I said, release him.”

  Reluctantly, the Wasmer released the ropes. Yanso glanced to each side, sensing a trick, but none of the Wasmer reacted. So, Yanso cut through his bonds with the stolen dagger and faced Hafgan, squinting against the bright sun which was amplified by the snowy peaks surrounding them.

  “What’s this game, Wasmer?”

  “No game. You best me, you leave. We’ll even give you supplies. You can maim me, kill me. Whatever you must do,” Hafgan said, his voice growing monotone as he reached for his hedwicchen—the center, the emptiness that was so critical to this battle. His muscles reached a state of relaxed readiness, his mind emptying itself of his many worries and fears, memories and insecurities. Rather, he was fully immersed in the moment, as if the moment were the sky and he were a cloud.

  There was nothing unnoticed, nothing beyond his capacity for understanding. Everything around him signaled a pattern and hinted at what was to come. To the untrained, the amount of information could be overwhelming, overpowering all five sense. A master, though, could focus, filtering the noise and extracting the most important details. Yanso began a furious set of attacks as Hafgan effortlessly compiled the details of this particular fight and opponent.

  One. Yanso’s lip curled slightly just before he made an attack.

  Two. His right leg was weaker; his movement was slightly hampered by some old injury.

  Three. He’d learned his thrust improperly. The weapon angled slightly upward, which would prevent his weapon from sliding between the ribs.

  Four. Hafgan himself was struggling on dodging to the right, as pushing off his left hip still caused him pain.

  Five. Paston was on the threshold of interfering, readying himself to trip Yanso with his spear.

  Hafgan made a harsh negating motion with his hand, meeting Paston’s eyes. He ducked under another telegraphed attack by Yanso, slapping his opponent in the ear—a horrid insult to the big man. Yanso bared his teeth at Hafgan, a wild ape attempting to intimidate another, before launching a half a dozen more strikes. All of which Hafgan dodged, parried, or ducked. Half of which he punctuated with a slap to some part of Yanso’s head.

  “You fucking goat—stand and fight!” Yanso snarled. His eyes darted from side to side, looking for other methods of escape. His gaze settled on Enric for a split second longer than the rest of his surroundings. The hairless Wasmer leaned lazily against the butt of his spear, obviously confident of the outcome of this battle.

  Even within his hedwicchen, Hafgan could not move fast enough.

  Yanso stepped hard toward Hafgan, but it was a faint. He pivoted on his weak leg, lashing about with the dagger at the surprised Enric, who dropped his spear as he leapt backwards off-balance, taking a deep gash across his chest. Yanso scooped up the spear just as Hafgan hurtled into him, bearing him to the ground. Somehow, the huge Rostanian captain retained his grip on the weapon and managed, in the tangle of flailing limbs, to wrap the haft around Hafgan’s neck.

  There should have been fear surfacing within Hafgan, the panic of a fish flopping on the beach. The haft dug into his neck like a vice, cutting off his ability to breathe. Yanso was driving a powerful knee into his side now, causing a flair of agony in his healing hip like the jab of a knife. And yet, within his hedwicchen, Hafgan felt no urgency. He recognized his emotions as if he were reading them from a sheet of paper, and simply used this information. Action was necessary.

  Yanso was stronger, a bull of a man. But, the hearn doethas had taught Hafgan to fight strength with intelligence based on keen observation. Though Yanso was weeks out from his major injuries, like Hafgan, he was not fully recovered. Hafgan’s first elbow being driven into Yanso’s previously shattered ribs merely elicited a grunt and a tightening of the haft around his neck. The second, however, forced a scream that echoed across the mountains like the call of a thousand demons.

  The third blow sounded with the audible crack of a bone snapping.

  The big captain cried out, dropping the spear as Hafgan spun around, smacking a booted foot across the side of Yanso’s face and driving him to the ground. Through his hedwicchen, Hafgan was aware of his bruised neck and burning lungs, but that knowledge wasn’t enough to deter him from pinning Yanso to the rocky ground. He dug his elongated fingers into the man’s rib whenever his struggles grew too fierce.

  “Stop this foolish game,” Hafgan said in a hushed monotone. “You fight and you fight. You hate and you hate. And for what?”

  Yanso gazed up at Hafgan through pain-filled eyes, every breath a wheeze. His shaggy hair, sweaty from exertion, hung down over his face like a mask. The thick, shaggy texture betrayed some Rafónese heritage somewhere far in his past.

  “For what?” Yanso chuckled, which turned into a hacking cough that likely wracked his body in pain.

  “Yes, for what? Why hate the Wasmer with such passion?” Hafgan expected that Yanso had fought in the border skirmishes, and experienced some loss at the hands of his kinfolk in years past. He was of age for that to be the truth. But what did he keep fighting for?

  “You, Wasmer, searching for some reason behind my hatred of you and your kind,” Yanso hissed, wary of aggravating his injury. “Perhaps expecting that your people wronged me in some way. Stole my family away, or killed a comrade in the skirmishes. Some tragic backstory to explain why I despise you. The fact is, I’ve suffered no loss to you fucking goats. You have neither harmed me nor those around me. I didn’t fight in your skirmishes, and no one I know personally was affected.”

  Hafgan looked hard at Yanso, wishing his hedwicchen allowed him to peel back the man’s skin and understand his thoughts. The big man smirked in return, blood splashing over his teeth from a blow that Hafgan didn’t remember delivering. A dull urge to break the man’s nose tickled at the edge of Hafgan’s hedwicchen, but he ignored it.

  “It is not anything that you have done, Wasmer. It is what you are. You are alien. You are not human. You scum are an abomination, an affront to creation. You seek to walk among us, live among us, pretend to be human. Pretend to have a goddess-given soul. But, you are
empty. Soulless freaks!” Yanso’s eyes were intense, filled with a burning, irrational hatred. “You, the ones they called budredda, are the worst offenders. You think that you will trick us into believing you’re human. You think that we are so stupid? You seek to live among us? Be one of us.” Yanso spat crimson with a bitter chuckle. “Never. We will never accept you goat-fucking freaks. You soulless, fuzz-skinned fucks.”

  Hafgan stared at Yanso, allowing his hedwicchen to dissipate. Some things required emotion for interpretation. Never had he seen or experienced such unadulterated hatred, such a pure and yet unfueled rage. If the big man spoke true, his detestation was based in nothing. Nothing at all! No Wasmer had ever hurt him, and yet their very existence—the fact of Hafgan’s existence—drove this man to such extremes of hatred that he was willing to fight, and kill, without provocation.

  Emotion always seemed stronger after the hedwicchen, in the way that the taste of an apple was so extremely tart after one fasted. Hafgan felt a rage overtake him, a muscle-shaking, teeth-grinding rage. A rage that he could scarcely control, looking at this man. This small, insignificant man so bent on hating him for his birth, not for anything he had done. Something that Hafgan had dealt with for his entire life among humans, which was somehow embodied in this uncouth Rostanian captain. This bigoted human. This… fucking scum of a subhuman bastard.

  Hafgan jammed stiff fingers against the man’s broken ribs, holding steady as Yanso writhed and struggled. He drew in close to Yanso’s face, smelling his travel-stale breath and feeling its heat against his furred cheeks.

  “You pitiable, hateful man. You speak of souls? Doesn’t your Yetra say ‘the soul is a measure of kindness a man spreads to others, friend or enemy?’ Does she not say that ‘the soul is strengthened by a man’s conviction to others?’ You, the hateful and vitriolic person that you are, must have a malformed, diminished soul. You are nothing more than a bitter, vicious dog, longing to be put down.”