Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Bethany Kerrig… the awful shrew of a woman who Darian had forced a younger Fenrir to marry. Fenrir’s heart began to pound.

  “I offered them a buyout, however. With much more generosity than I should have, but they did have something I wanted.”

  Gods, no. By Ultner, not even Darian would do such a thing.

  “Astora now lives in my compound,” Darian continued. “An intelligent girl, she is. A lovely girl, too. Two unusual traits, given her parentage.”

  Astora. Fenrir’s daughter, named for his mother.

  After one of Fenrir’s extramarital affairs and the most intense argument of Fenrir’s life, Bethany had moved to the Kerrig estate in Draston, taking a young Astora with her. Though they’d stayed married on paper for the sake of the trading company coalition, Fenrir had rarely seen Bethany afterward—to his delight. Neither, however, had he seen his daughter.

  Astora… she must be sixteen or seventeen by now. Fenrir had thought about her on occasion, from time to time. Thought about writing. Even written a letter once, when he had been deep in his cups.

  But, he had never sent it.

  And now the girl was being used by his father. This evil, sadistic old fuck.

  “I think that Astora may even become my heir,” Darian continued. “I used to be convinced I needed a male heir; outdated thinking, that was. Your Lady Escamilla—a woman—rallied a nation to war after becoming more successful than near every other merchant in the country. Of course, her attempt failed, but that had little to do with her gender.”

  Darian called down the hallway to his Blue Adders, summoning them.

  “The girl has such a bright future, boy. I certainly hope she manages to stay safe here in Rostane. It is a very different place from Draston, after all. Rostane can be… unkind.”

  Fenrir hung his head, beaten. From beneath lowered eyelids, he could see Darian’s cock-blowing smile.

  “Ingla, as we discussed, this prisoner will be coming with us. You are charged with his safety while we work on making him presentable again.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the small Sestrian woman, her eyes running over Fenrir appraisingly. She did not appear impressed.

  Darian turned sharply on his heel, only glancing over his shoulder at his son.

  “Oh, and do not think to betray me, boy. I have eyes everywhere, even within your former organization. If I sense even a hint of treachery, I will do what must be done, no matter how unpleasant.”

  Chapter 9

  “Put these on,” snapped Ingla in a sharp Sestrian accent, shoving a sack at Fenrir.

  Fenrir glanced in the bag. Clean clothes, the first that he would have experienced since his brief time in Brockmore. A clean woolen shirt, dyed in the blue of de Trenton, his father’s logo stitched on the breast.

  “No,” Fenrir replied, dropping the sack to the cold stones at his feet.

  Suddenly, he found himself slammed against the wall, armored forearm pushing against his trachea. He could only gasp as her powerful, lithe arms cut off his air supply. He had no strength to speak of, let alone fight with.

  “You trash,” Ingla said, her eyes flashing in anger. “I will not tolerate your disobedience. When I say to do something, you do it. When I say put on the clothes, you put on the clothes. When I say eat, you eat. When I say sleep, you sleep. Do you understand, or are you too dense?”

  Fenrir mumbled something.

  “What was that?” Ingla asked, stepping back.

  “I said ‘you look prettier when you are angry.’” Fenrir coughed and cleared his throat, reaching down and grabbing the discarded clothing. He began to change out of his rags.

  “Some privacy?” he asked, noticing that Ingla did nothing to avert her gaze. She said nothing. “Fine with me. Let me know if you like what you see,” Fenrir said, shrugging and flashing her a smile. He might as well have smiled at a block of steel.

  Ingla was younger than he, maybe in her early thirties. Her Sestrian heritage was evident from her olive skin and thick, tar-black hair, which was tied in a tight braid. Though she only came up to Fenrir’s chin, she had an aura of command about her, and he felt himself the smaller one in the room. Fenrir was nearly certain that Darian had assigned him a female guard as a sign of disdain or in an effort to embarrass him. Truth be told, if he had to have someone at his side at all times, it might as well be a pretty lady, frightening though she might be.

  “More quickly,” Ingla snapped as Fenrir dressed, punctuating her words by slapping her hands together. Fenrir sighed.

  “What is the plan, Ingla?” he asked.

  “Do not speak my name. You will call me ‘Sergeant,’” she barked.

  “Well then, Sergeant, what is the plan?”

  “Like Lord de Trenton said, we are to get you cleaned up. You are no good to us like that.” Ingla gestured at Fenrir’s now-clothed body. His arms were shaking as he buttoned the shirt, and the reek of piss and weeks’ worth of dirt were even evident to Fenrir himself.

  “And then?” Ingla glared at him, and Fenrir clenched his jaw. “And then, Sergeant?”

  “And then, we tend to your health. Now, we must go.”

  Ingla shoved a gas lantern at him and then ushered him out of the cell. Fenrir stumbled as he took more than three consecutive steps for the first time in weeks. By the gods, his legs had grown so weak, and his head was spinning. And his symptoms were not limited to the physical.

  He had resigned himself to death. He had given up. Pandemonium, he probably desired it.

  But now he was to live again, if as a tool of his father.

  Being used was not an unusual feeling for Fenrir. One of the reasons he’d joined the military as a teenager was because he didn’t want to be in control of his own life, or rather he did not want Darian to be in control of his life. For near twenty years, he’d been a simple tool of the Rostanian military, doing what he was told—standing there, guarding that. After his disgrace, he’d become a tool of The House. Again, doing what he was instructed for a little extra spending money, though many such tasks were unsavory and often dangerous. Fenrir had then became beholden to Lady Escamilla. He’d found an army for her. He’d slain a duke for her.

  Simply because she’d asked him to.

  And now his fate was sealed as his father’s tool. Something that he had striven to avoid his entire life. But, what else was he to do? Allow himself to be killed? Not an option, regardless of his myriad sins. Betray his father and know that his only daughter, estranged though she may be, would be killed for his actions? That didn’t seem particularly attractive, either.

  Until he’d been forced to reflect on his shit-show of a life during his imprisonment, Fenrir had lived his life with few regrets. He’d drunk himself into oblivion, fucked married women, stolen and cheated, and chopped off fingers… but aside from a few cases, he’d never spent too much time ruminating or given over much time to regret.

  But, of all of the actions and events in his life, of all of his mistakes and missteps, vices and moral weaknesses, Fenrir had regrets about his daughter. Fenrir regretted missing her life, much as an amputee might miss a phantom limb. And, like an amputee, Fenrir felt a strong urge to drink at the thought of what was missing from his life. The thought of actually seeing Astora—actually speaking to her—was enough to ignite in him a compulsion to seek the oblivion of the bottle. Now, the question was, where could he find a drink around here?

  “Coldbreaker.” Fenrir flinched as a hoarse voice whispered his name from the darkness. He halted his shamble and glanced into the nearest cell.

  Lying in the corner was a man clothed in rags, much as Fenrir had been only minutes earlier. The older man’s face was wasted and drawn from hunger, and his limbs were trembling as he attempted to rise. The once long and well-kempt mustaches of Tilner Pick were practically lost amidst his bushy, gray beard. Lady Escamilla’s trusted confidant and most loyal man had fallen as far as Fenrir himself.

  “Move!” Ingla commanded him, roughly gra
bbing Fenrir’s arm and pushing him forward. Fenrir, despite his weakness, yanked his arm forward from her and spun, shoving Ingla forward and freeing his arm. She mustn’t have expected any resistance, because she stumbled to her knees. Recovering almost instantly, she drew her short sword as she whirled around, leveling it at Fenrir’s neck. He raised his arms, still holding the lantern.

  “Apologies, Sergeant. Old reflexes and all that. Would you mind if I had a word with this man?”

  Ingla was breathing heavily, her face screwed up with anger. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, took a deep breath, and lowered her blade. Fenrir exhaled slightly. He hadn’t truly expected three inches of steel in his throat—Darian obviously wanted him alive—but seeing Ingla’s fury in that moment had made him fear it just a bit.

  Ingla turned her back to Fenrir and walked three paces away, slamming her sword into its scabbard and folding her arms. Fenrir waited a moment, but the Blue Adder did not move a step. Permission apparently granted.

  Fenrir leaned against the bars.

  “Pick. So, they got you, too.” He was very conscious of his fine clothing, of the symbol of his father.

  “Coldbreaker, you saved my life that night.” Pick’s eyes were alarmingly focused, perhaps even fevered. Fenrir wanted to look away, but he was captured by the gaze.

  Fenrir thought back to that night. He remembered seeing Sigmund Fitra, that twiggy little fuck, raising his sword to strike down Pick. Then, Fenrir had broken through the power that had bound him, ramming his sword through the little duke. Since then, he hadn’t spared a thought for Pick. Fenrir felt a brief, unusual twinge at that.

  “If I did, it seems it was only temporary,” Fenrir said gruffly.

  “Coldbreaker, you did save my life. And perhaps you saved Escamilla’s, as well, that night, by killing the duke. That is more important. So much more important,” Pick said, his voice desperate.

  Pick didn’t know about Escamilla’s death, then. He didn’t know that the Army of Brockmore had been routed.

  “Um, well,” said Fenrir, finally breaking away from Pick’s wild eyes.

  “Coldbreaker, please listen to me. You are a good man. Better than I thought. Much better, though you keep it well-hidden. It seems that you have a way out of here. If you can, if possible, please, give Escamilla my regards.”

  “Um…”

  “I know you believe she does not love me, and perhaps you are right. Perhaps she never has.” Pick grasped the bars, his knuckles white. “But it matters not, Coldbreaker. I love her. That is all that matters. Love is like that, Coldbreaker. Have you ever been in love? It is nonsensical, defying reason. Most emotions can be controlled or repressed, but not love.” Pick wiped at his bloodshot eyes.

  Love sounded like a terrible, painful thing. Something not worth the effort.

  Tilner Pick must have been concealing the ache of his heart for years, the emotion no different than a cancer slowly eating away at him. His blind devotion had likely caused Escamilla pain while she’d still lived, too, as she would have had to break the man’s heart on a daily basis. And, if something happened to either of the pair, the other would be devastated. Tilner Pick’s heart would shatter like a fragile wine glass, and Escamilla—had the tables been turned—would have been remorseful for never returning his love.

  No, certainly not worth it.

  The only love Fenrir had ever known had been for his mother, and she was so far gone that he could not even remember the pleasant feelings. No, he only remembered the pain of loss, and the emptiness that had followed it. By Ultner, it had been decades and it still lingered.

  “Coldbreaker, tell Escamilla that I love her. And… that I forgive her for never loving me.”

  “Tell her yourself when you are out of here,” Fenrir replied, stepping back and glancing toward Ingla. Her fists were clenched, though she had not otherwise moved.

  “You know there is no ‘out of here’ for me. Please, Coldbreaker. Tell her for me. Promise me.”

  “Pick…”

  “Promise me.”

  Fenrir signed. “Okay, Pick. I will get her the message. I promise.”

  Tilner’s legs gave out then, and he fell roughly to his knees. He rested his forehead against the bars as sobs wracked his body, as if Fenrir’s promise had busted a dike that had been containing the water of his emotions.

  Fenrir reached out to the other man, but halted his hand inches from the man’s shoulder. Instead, he turned and limped off toward his escort. Toward his father. Toward his daughter.

  For a moment, Fenrir longed for his tar-black cell.

  Chapter 10

  Farrow’s Hold, the great, pulsing heart of Jecusta. Emma had once heard it called the lovely mother of Ardia. The mother part was undeniable. Ardia had, until a hundred and fifty years before, been a territory of Jecusta, which was why they shared a language—or close to it—as well as a social structure and certain architectural styles.

  Lovely, though? Only if someone felt that loveliness was crumbling squalor. If beauty was the memory of something that had once been great, something now infested by tens of thousands of aimless, parasitic ants.

  “Tell me again of this place. What is it that I am looking at?” Emma asked, her voice as frosty as the winter’s air. When had the heat of the summer faded into early winter? It felt as if they had been marching for a lifetime.

  “Of course, my lady,” said Harivor, Lord Unael’s emissary. His Jecustan accent—more refined and pure than the bastardized Ardian—was pleasing, as was the fact that he deferred to Emma in all things. A rare quality these days. He sniffed loudly before beginning; the lanky, near-bald man seemed to have carried a chronic cold since she’d met him weeks ago.

  “Farrow’s Hold is one of the wonders of the world. Just look at the arches, my lady! The arches are of unparalleled beauty and craftsmanship. Even from here, you can see them stretch across the city, forming bridges over the many canals and connecting many of the great buildings that tear through the sky.” Emma’s gaze followed Harivor’s pointing finger, witnessing a number of crumbling arches that would be unlikely to support even a single horse and cart. To the south, it seemed that one had collapsed some time ago, leaving a great heap of rubble that no one had bothered to remove.

  “The sky must be lower here,” mumbled Nail, pulling at his tattered apple tabard. Since the dragging of the deserters, Emma had taken a personal guard of Apple Knights, beholden only to her. Just in case. She’d heard her guard called the Rotten Apple Knights once or twice. Not everyone was in favor of her brutal decision.

  But, the fact was that not a single soldier had left her army since.

  Harivor pointedly ignored Nail’s comment. “Not only do our arches soar into the sky, but our goods also fly across Saiwen. Of course, you know of the beer of our famous breweries…”

  “Piss water,” said Nail, scratching at his goatee in a faux attempt to conceal his words.

  “…But the most valued commodities of Jecusta are the textiles. Never will you find more beautiful rugs and tapestries, hangings and art. Our techniques are more advanced here than anywhere in the world, allowing us to produce such beauties at much greater quantity and quality than anywhere else.” Harivor eyed Emma. “Perhaps, my lady, should Rostane fall into your hands, we can forge a partnership rivaling that of Lord Tinst and your King Thontos. Perhaps, one day, we shall share our knowledge.”

  The emissary was full of vague promises and hints of collaborations. There were so many, though, that Emma thought that he actually believed that she could retake her duchy with her ramshackle and exhausted little army. At times, mayhap she actually believed that she could, but they were brief.

  “Perhaps, indeed, my lord Harivor.” Emma could be vague, as well. She pointed ahead of them. “Tell me, who are those people?”

  A group of two men and three women struggled to heave a melon-laden cart up a steeply-inclined, unevenly-paved road leading toward the main city gate. A Jecustan merchantwom
an howled at them, lashing out with a long, flexible rod. The men labored shirtlessly despite the cold, their pale skin covered in a criss-cross of tatoos. One was covered in trees, a great forest carved into his body. Another’s skin was painted with birds, hundreds of multi-colored avians flying about his back in an overwhelming display of color. The laboring women, on the other hand, though of the same race, had no marks on their bodies. Their hair, however, was so long that it looped nearly to the ground and back again, tied around their necks. It must have been growing for their entire lives.

  “Those…” Harivor sniffed, “…are the Oshwon.” He said nothing further until Emma prompted him.

  “Tell me more,” she commanded.

  “The Oshwon used to live in a great valley to the east, refusing our offers to bring them civilization and trade. Rather, they raided our farms and stole our children. We brought war to them and won,” he said with finality.

  “These are your slaves?” Emma asked, observing the Jecustan maiden beating the Oshwon.

  “These are indentured servants. We were merciful, given the destruction they wrought upon our towns, our armies, and our people. There were some who called for extermination, the elimination of the entire people, lest they rise up again. Instead, we clothe, house, and feed them in exchange for menial labor. Their children are born free and can eventually become citizens.” His voice made it clear that this was a charity, a gift to these supposedly savage people.

  Emma observed the Oshwon for a moment more, her brow furrowing in obvious distaste. She hadn’t known the Jecustans to be slavers; slavery was a thing of the past in Saiwen, a barbaric remnant of less modern times. Perhaps north, across the Vissas Sea, it existed, but not on her continent. Not so far as she’d known.

  Of course, Escamilla had said her own sister had been sold into slavery by her father.

  “I’ve had enough history for now. Take us to Lord Unael,” Emma said, gesturing at the small party that was to meet with the lord of this city, and likely the most influential man in the expansive country.