Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Hafgan shook his head and relaxed the tension in his shoulders.

  His brother had always been a bit odd.

  Chapter 14

  Emma was on edge.

  There was something about Farrow’s Hold that scraped at her already bare nerves, whittling away at her tenuous grip on her psyche. It had been a week since their arrival, when Emma had thought that all she needed was a comfortable bed, a warm bath, and a few hot meals to regain a semblance of herself. She had had all of those things—though it had taken three baths to fully clean her hair—but she felt worse than ever.

  It may have been the great hold, itself. Surrounded by forty-foot-tall stone walls, the keep was massive, a city unto itself. Her and her officers’ quarters were not in the hold proper, but rather in one of the many smaller ancillary buildings, which had once housed a noble family. The Sentael estate had clearly been void of residents for some time, though, and a deep emptiness lingered, as if the chill rooms were meant for those who’d used to reside here, long gone or longer dead. The tunnels that connected the ancillary buildings with Farrow’s Hold were desolate and hollow, and though black cloaks patrolled these passages and kept them well-lit, there was a forsaken, vacuous hush to them that turned Emma’s stomach.

  It may also have been the people of Jecusta. The place was a hornet’s nest of intrigue and plotting, nobles and rich landowners stinging each other for whatever scraps of influence they could muster. In her first day, Emma had been invited to the personal residence of Borin Lasgow, a wealthy dealer of weapons and the sole manufacturer of Jecusta’s famous yellow yew bows; to the residence of Roanel Sens, the ambassador from Algania and the mouthpiece of their grand chancellor; and the residence also of Evina Linstael, the most powerful woman in Jecusta. Evina’s husband, the magnate of the Eastern Sweeps, was known to be an ineffectual pedophile, and she ran a quarter of the country, in truth. Nonetheless, Emma had politely turned down all meetings, unwilling to wade into an unfamiliar morass of intrigue. No wonder Lord Unael appeared so worn and weary.

  Or, it may have been the fact that Emma had no one to talk to. She could be herself in front of no one and be honest in front of no one, not since Escamilla had slipped into unconsciousness weeks ago. Instead, Emma’s captains and soldiers needed to see her as hard, the fearful woman that would not hesitate to drag someone to death should that need suit her. They were reserved around her, and treated her with a respect that bordered on fear. The mercenaries’ captains, Ferl and Trina Almark, were less formal with her, but she didn’t trust Ferl, and Trina had not yet pulled herself out of her depression. The closest Emma had to a companion was the wise-cracking Nail—one of her Rotten Apple Knights—and even he was reluctant to engage in any meaningful conversation.

  In short, Emma felt alone and empty. The mask of the hard, assertive general and politician was beginning to crack, faults forming as she struggled to hold it together.

  “My lady, it is late to be traversing the tunnels, even with your omnipresent knights.” Emma peered into the lamp light to see Captain Braston emerging from the emptiness. Thankfully, he’d decided to let his beard grow back out again, covering up his unsightly pock marks. Her knightly escort relaxed at the familiar face.

  “I could say the same to you, Braston,” Emma said with the hint of a smile. Of the captains, she felt that Braston avoided her the least. In her world, that hinted at loyalty.

  “I had joined some, uh, new friends for some socialization.”

  Judging from the nose-crinkling smell and his glassy eyes, kerena had probably been involved, as well. Perhaps Braston was not the picture of duty that he’d portrayed while on the march.

  “Smells like quite the social event,” muttered Nail, nudging the big man at his side.

  “I can be social,” said Hammer, Nail’s notoriously stoic brother and another of Emma’s personal guard. Hammer was, as his nickname implied, a huge and powerful man. There couldn’t have been many taller in the entire army, and none stronger. Emma had once seen him, single-handedly, lift a fallen tree out of the road, tossing it aside like a twig rather than allowing a minor delay for their army. He was notoriously reticent, unlike his loquacious brother Nail.

  Braston had the grace to seem embarrassed. “Apologies, my lady. I take it you are visiting our Lady Escamilla?”

  “Yes, I’d like to sit with her for a time.” Sit, and talk to her. At least Emma could pretend as if someone was listening. She could pretend that Escamilla was well, and that her sudden rise in the world was all a bad dream.

  Braston nodded. “Let me join your escort, then.”

  “No need for that. I have these two for company.”

  “Please. I could use a walk, anyway.” Braston wore a pleading expression. Emma nodded and let the man save a bit of face.

  The passages were strangely empty this evening. Farrow’s Hold, everything within the walls, was many times the size of even the Plateau. Whereas the Plateau was supported by Little Town—with servants’ quarters, barracks, food storage, and so on—Farrow’s Hold was fully independent. It had been built as a fortress, long before the city had existed. Typically, the place was bustling, overflowing with not only the upper echelons and administrators that ran the city and country, but also a veritable army of servants, cooks, messengers, and various other functionaries.

  But, though Emma heard some discordant echoes in the distance, she and her small entourage passed no one, which only emphasized the fearful emptiness that was so pervasive of late. Their time in the tunnels was thankfully short, however, and soon they were ascending the staircases that led to the guest quarters in the main hold, the luxurious apartments where Unael was housing Escamilla during her final hours.

  As if he could glimpse the ins of her mind, Braston paused for a moment, turning to her. He was looking more sober with each passing moment.

  “My lady. We need to discuss the matter of… of Lady Escamilla’s eventual passing. Her assets, those still available to us, will be managed by the local bankers. However, we must make decisions regarding the services.” He coughed wetly into the crick of his arm. The reek of kerena wafted across the distance between them. “Unael wants to host a service, as do the Yetranians. Unfortunately, the styles are… mutually exclusive.”

  “Why is that?” Nail asked. None of her Rotten Apple Knights were Yetranian. She’d made sure of that.

  “The noble lords, in Jecusta, are always incinerated and returned to the earth as a mark of honor,” Braston explained, pausing to cough periodically. “However, the burning of a body is reserved only for the worst sinners by Yetranian law. Cremation, in this way, would mar Escamilla’s legacy to so many in Ardia. So, we must either please the Jecustans or our own Yetranians.”

  “Sounds like a dilemma,” Nail agreed, his larger brother grunting in agreement.

  “Cocks,” mumbled Emma, so that Nail barked a laugh at her curse. Escamilla’s death, even, could not be simple. Though she’d employed Ignatius at Brockmore for years, she was anything but a devoted Yetranian. Only as devoted as necessary to forward her agenda and to pacify her Yetranian followers, in fact. Emma honestly didn’t know what her lady believed in.

  “We will talk about this tomorrow. Let us bring together Ignatius and Harivor; see if we can find an accord that will work for both.”

  “Not likely,” Nail growled. He shared her fervent disdain of Ignatius, though she did her best to conceal it these days. He would be ally.

  They emerged from the steep staircase into the plush-carpeted hallway that marked the western guest quarters. Typically, the gas lamps lit these passages as brightly as day, flaunting the superb, rare artwork that crowded the walls. But, half of the lamps were flickering, and the other half were off. And, there was no sign of the soldiers who should have been standing guard.

  “Something’s wrong!” Braston hissed, tearing a dagger out of his boot. He’d evidently left his sword behind. Thankfully, Nail drew his steel longsword while Hammer pulled his gig
antic greatsword from his back. Emma probably couldn’t even have lifted the thing, but Hammer could wield it with a single hand.

  “Nail, you must take the lady back while Hammer and I investigate.” Braston muffled a cough. “Send black cloaks and whomever else you find.”

  “No, I will not be left behind. Lady Escamilla could be in danger.” Not that it should matter—she was an inch from death. But, somehow, it did. The thought masked the creeping fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “My lady…” Braston pleaded.

  “I will stay behind you. Now, go!”

  The four crept down the hallway, Hammer and Nail leading the way, swords held ready. Braston stuck to Emma’s side, dagger held in a hand that was either shaking from the kerena or from dread. Emma licked her lips and placed her hand on the hilt of her own knife. She had taken to wearing a weapon openly after dragging the men. Not that it should dissuade attackers—she hadn’t a clue how to wield it effectively—but mayhap it gave her the appearance of capability.

  They reached the decoratively-carved twin oaken doors to Escamilla’s room. Emma gasped, and saw Nail and Hammer both stiffen, while Braston made a grunting sound. There was a… wrongness on the other side of the door. A cloying feeling that choked Emma with a cacophony of emotions. She didn’t know whether to cry, sprint away screaming, or thrust her dagger between Hammer’s shoulder blades. It took every bit of will power, every modicum of her spirit, to just stand in front of that door.

  “You two, take down the door. We must protect the lady,” whispered Braston, his breath coming in gasps.

  Hammer shook his head as if to clear it, and then he split the doors wide open with a great kick from his booted foot. The doors burst open, bits of wood flung into the air as the lock was torn free. Emma peered between her warriors as they rushed into the room.

  Just in time to see a great, black spear thrust into Escamilla’s heart.

  “No!” she cried, trying to push past her warriors while Braston held her back. She fought fiercely, elbowing Braston in the face and even reaching for her dagger before a ferocious slap stunned her long enough for him to grip her more firmly. Through her stinging cheek and a maelstrom of emotions, she became aware of the scene in front of her.

  Escamilla was pinned to her bed by a spear of pure darkness, tendrils of red power laced around its stave. It was wielded by an ethereal shadow, a cloud of blackness that sucked up all light in the room. Emma felt her mind splitting just looking at this apparition, her brain unable to comprehend the utter chaos that lived inside that cloud.

  Hammer was either much braver than her or taken with a rage. He sprinted toward the dark shape with a fierce war cry, covering the distance between the door and the huge, four-post bed in an instant. With a great, two-handed swing, Hammer’s sword blade somehow missed the shadow, which flitted to the side. Hammer’s greatsword cleaved though one of the bedposts as he stumbled to one knee. He recovered, spun, and took a burning red sword across the gut with a sizzling hiss. The smell of cooked flesh made Emma wretch, as did the sight of Hammer’s intestines flopping to the ground as the sword cleaved his body like a burning poker through a chunk of ice.

  The shadow leapt backwards, its fiery sword leaving streaks of light in the air. When it moved, it was in the shape of a man.

  Hammer tumbled to the ground as Nail surged at the shadow with an ear-splitting howl of grief. His sword lashed out like lightening—Nail was a fantastic swordsman. The blade was deflected with glittering sparks by the red sword, which immediately riposted. Nail leapt to the side and the burning blade only scored a burning gash on his free arm. Nail next lunged forward with a precise jab, his form immaculate as he darted toward the heart of the man-figure cloaked in shadow. And, suddenly, he was tumbling to the ground, his foot severed just above the ankle.

  His subsequent scream was seemingly absorbed by the shadow man.

  “Run, lady!” Braston said with a thick voice, shoving her toward the staircase. Emma stumbled a couple of steps, but turned around. There was no running from this. And, Escamilla… she could not allow the great lady’s body to be further defiled by whatever that creature was.

  Her chaotic emotions seemed to converge into a single one: vengeance.

  Braston launched his dagger into the shadow as it stood over Nail, ready to finish the fallen knight. There was a grunt as the projectile struck something solid in the heart of the shadow. With the distraction, Braston surged toward Hammer’s fallen greatsword as curses spat forth from the dark mist. So, this thing could be hurt!

  Braston struggled to heave the huge sword in front of his body. He was not an insubstantial man, but Hammer’s weapon was as heavy as an anvil. The dark figure coalesced into a clear figure of a man, pointing one finger at Braston. A beam of blood-red light, as thin as a wooden skewer, shot from the figure’s finger and pierced Braston’s forehead. He dropped to the ground without a sound.

  The figure, no longer cloaked in an ethereal shadow, cursed and kicked at Nail, who lay on the floor unconscious, lain flat by either blood loss or shock. The man’s back was facing her. Maybe she could get to him before he turned around, ramming her shaking weapon into the monster’s back. Do something before he could further harm Nail. To save even one man who’d fought so hard for Escamilla. She gripped her knife and started forward, feet making nary a sound upon the plush carpet.

  The man’s head jerked up, and he blinked out of existence where he’d been, only to suddenly be standing before her.

  “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I think you should release that knife.”

  It fell from her good hand—whether from terror or his command, Emma didn’t know. She met the eyes of the assassin, or tried to. He was wearing spectacles that were formed of an opaque, black stone. It was hard to tell around those spectacles, but he appeared to be of middle age, maybe in his early forties, with a bit of gray at his temples, though his hair was still mostly brown-blonde. There was something off about his appearance, but Emma couldn’t think straight with four bodies lying strewn across the room. Her earlier courage had dissipated like a sputtering candle in the darkest evening.

  “You must be the new Lady Breen, the servant girl everyone’s been talking about. The red-headed, one-handed bitch, no?” He smiled a forced smile, though Emma could see the quivering rage behind it.

  “Ugh, let me take these fucking things off.” He turned his back to her once again, tearing off his spectacles and secreting them in a pocket of his deep black cloak.

  Emma just needed to scoop up the knife and stick it in his neck…

  “Better. You have no idea.” He ran his hands through his hair—such a normal, human gesture from a man who’d just killed or incapacitated three fighting men and a woman in her sleep. His eyes were a deep blue and seemed to swirl like a maelstrom.

  He turned back to her. “You are awfully quiet, my dear. Not at all like the bitch I was expecting.”

  Emma caught a glance at the spear that still pinned Escamilla to the bed. Her rage built and fed the flames of her courage. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” she managed through clenched teeth.

  “Obvious questions, but good ones. I would ask the same in your situation.” He made a casual sweeping gesture toward Escamilla, as if he were shopping for fruit. “Clearly, I am not a friend. But, I need not be an enemy.”

  Emma steeled herself, resisting the urge to fiddle with her hands. “You didn’t answer my question.” He raised an eyebrow at that, which highlighted what was wrong with the man’s appearance. His head, above the eyebrow and ear, was misshapen, partially collapsed. The hair masked it, but the deformity was unmistakable. Nonetheless, there was something familiar about the man, the way he moved. The way he spoke. But she’d never met a man with a smashed head before.

  “You can call me ‘Disorder’ for now. I don’t deserve a real name.” His face suddenly twisted in anger, and he darted across the room to a carved wardrobe. He grunted as he toppled the great piece of furniture to
the ground, kicking at it and snapping the wood. For a solid minute, he reduced the wardrobe to splintered bits of debris, grunting with the effort and punctuating blows with curses.

  As abruptly as he’d started, Disorder stopped and strode back to her, stepping over Hammer’s corpse and tracking blood on the lovely old carpet. It will have to be replaced, Emma thought dully, looking at the fabric. Those stains will never come out.

  “Apologies. These fucking things…” he patted his pocket, “… will drive you insane if you aren’t careful. One of the reasons I’d rather not do this myself.”

  “Then why… Why did you come here? Escamilla was going to pass in a few days at most,” Emma said, stepping back from the unpredictable killer with a swallow. Maybe, if she kept him talking, someone would arrive. More Apple Knights or black cloaks, other guests of Lord Unael. Someone.

  “Of course. It does seem a waste. But who am I to decide?” Disorder took a deep breath and rubbed his side, his hand coming back stained with blood. Braston’s knife must have nicked him. “That bastard got me, but I’m a decent hand at healing. Well, we wanted to send a message, after that urchin failed. Escamilla going quietly in her sleep was not consistent with that message. This should be sufficiently dramatic to get everyone’s attention, don’t you think?”

  “Who are you people? What message?” Emma felt disconnected as she met Disorder’s gaze. There was no longer that horrible surge of emotions, but rather Emma felt this was a dream. It had to be.

  Disorder bared his teeth, and Emma found herself slamming into the ground, the man astride her. His forearm was across her windpipe. She struggled weakly, hitting at his face with her mutilated hand. That seemed only to fuel his rage. He pushed harder, cutting off her airflow completely.