Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “No!” shouted both Fenrir and Barin as they surged to their feet, both men finding their advancement blocked by sword blades at their own throats.

  Tennyson laughed—a hideous and gleeful sound.

  “You are all so predictable! Everyone, sit down and perhaps no one will die. Perhaps.”

  The protectors grasping Morgyn released her. Her heart was in her throat, choking her, and she wiped away tears before gathering herself enough to focus on whatever horrors would come next. She sat on her shaking hands.

  “So, Bull, you apparently care for this girl.”

  “I just don’t want blood on my meal.” He gestured toward the laden table, taking a bite of a bit of chicken as if to prove his point.

  “Right,” Tennyson said drily. “Well, perhaps I will just end this one.” He pointed to the Sestrian.

  “What do I care about a filthy Adder?” Fenrir asked, washing down his chicken with a swig of wine.

  “Right,” Tennyson said again. He nodded to a steel-haired protector in an eagle mask, who punched the Sestrian across the face, knocking her chair over. Then, the man kicked her once. Twice. A third time. She only grunted through her gag.

  Fenrir was stoic at first, but flinched more at each blow. “Fine! Enough of this, Tennyson. No need to torture women and girls. Just tell me what you want of me, this time.”

  Tennyson sat back in his chair. “I assume your father has something over you. It’s unlikely that paternal love drove your father to free you from your death sentence.”

  “I am well-loved,” said Fenrir. Morgyn was surprised how calm the oaf of a man was. Her own heart had failed to slow.

  “Certainly not well-loved enough to enjoy the goodwill of a notoriously stingy Darian de Trenton. Tell me, Fenrir de Trenton. You once asked me to punish your father. Do you recall that?”

  Fenrir was silent for a moment, and then he nodded abruptly.

  “If I were to tell you, now, that I have changed my stance on that issue, how would you react?” Tennyson’s devil’s face appeared to grin even wider. The Sestrian Blue Adder, having been propped back up in her chair by twisted, animal-faced monsters, began to struggle at Tennyson’s proclamation.

  Fenrir, of course, didn’t react. “I would say that it would be a difficult thing to accomplish, particularly as he is now known as a lord around these parts.”

  “Not particularly difficult if one has someone on the inside.”

  Morgyn shivered at his tone. The implication was clear.

  “I can’t imagine you have a person close enough for that to work.” Either the big man was intentionally daft, or purposefully acting that way to delay the inevitable request.

  “I think that I do.” Tennyson nodded at his men again. Morgyn felt a blade tickling her neck and saw that the Sestrian was in the same position. Nonetheless, Fenrir didn’t immediately move. He gazed at Morgyn, eyes inscrutable. Then, he shifted his gaze to the Sestrian woman. He sighed deeply, the effect like steam escaping an overfilled kettle.

  “Why now, Tennyson? You know you have me. You know you’ve had me for years now. So, just tell me. Why now? Why couldn’t you have offed the man twenty years ago and saved me some pain? Or, hell, why not when I asked you?”

  Tennyson barked a very wry, very human laugh. “I’ve put a lot on your shoulders these past months, Bull, so I will share some of the reasoning. Ardia is a changing place, and not changing for the better. The duke was an incompetent, but at least he was too strong-willed in his incompetence to not entirely be a puppet. It was our role to oppose him, but you killing him set off a chain reaction. The Council now holds power. Your father. Faris. De Ingus. Witton, Erlins. Things are becoming far more… deviant than I expected. Events are moving in the wider world beyond Ardia—events that are, for various reasons, meeting their lines of convergence here.”

  “Why here?” Morgyn asked, her desire to know briefly outweighing her fear. For the second time, she was the center of attention in this terrifying, stuffy room.

  “Shouldn’t you know, given who you serve?” Recherche Oletta… Morgyn could feel her ogra against her skin. She was doomed once they found that little artifact, the thing that let her gaze into the nethers between worlds, or whatever the fuck it did.

  “I only serve myself,” she said, quietly. Barin smiled sadly at that, as she’d known he would. Tennyson waved at the men behind her, who began to haul her to her feet. Apparently, she was no longer welcome amidst this group of men. A second pair started to haul Barin from his chair. The conversation continued while she went limp, passively resisting her captors to learn just a bit more—anything that might help her with Recherche Oletta on the off-chance that she lived through this.

  “Regardless, it is why the members of the Council must die. They make deals beyond their understanding, creating an… unfortunate situation that has already affected our neighbors across the Vissas. Things are going to get bad here, Fenrir. Know that what I ask of you is actually for the betterment of this country. Believe it or not, I do not relish torturing girls and women—nor men, for that matter. But, I do what must be done to ensure your loyalty in this matter. I do what must be done to preserve this place, to preserve what must be protected.”

  “There’s one problem. I can’t do it,” Fenrir said, his voice quiet, wrenched with pain. Morgyn was almost to the door, and she couldn’t see his face, but he sounded… he sounded lost.

  “What, you suddenly have qualms about killing a man who once buried his fingers into your flesh as a punishment? Like you said, I have you,” said the devil in the silver mask.

  Morgyn suddenly jerked forward, out of her captors’ grips for a split second, for just long enough to hear Fenrir’s words before she was dragged out of the room by her feet.

  “I would love to end him. He deserves death ten times over. But… if he dies, so do I. So does my daughter.”

  Interlogue: Pride

  “Unfortunately, sweetling, we have reached a point where your maenen can no longer nourish and sustain me on its own. I cannot begin to describe the disappointment. Tasting your goodness has been the only delight in my life, of late. I am surrounded by incompetence and narcissism, and, though I appreciate my tools, I cannot help but grow frustrated as I begin, yet again, to make my presence felt in this world.

  “My Erudites have brought me another man, but he is not so good as you. He has done some terrible things, though you would not have known it from the way he lived his public life.

  “I should not be upset, my sweetling. We all have done terrible things. Few greater than me.

  “I told you of my gluttony, how I betrayed a trusted ally to instigate a war so that I could continue to sate my inexhaustible need for maenen. After that victory, my influence waxed as Amorum’s waned. My people had grown rich from the rapine of Feriline, and most were unwilling to accept Amorum’s message of Harmony. His efforts to make peace with those surrounding tiny kingdoms and countries lost traction. As I told people—what was to prevent others from betraying us, as Feriline did?

  “Truth be told, I barely had to convince the people that war was the right path. They had tasted wealth and victory, and the idea that all should be united under our rule—my rule—had an innate attraction.

  “Without even speaking to Amorum, I could sense his defeat from a distance. He had dedicated his life to spreading words of peace and Harmony, attempting to bring people together during a time of chaos and war. And yet, here he was, a leader of a people who ached to subjugate those around them.

  “It embarrasses me to say that I felt the urge to gloat. So great was my pride that I wanted Amorum to recognize that I had taken control of the people.

  “One day, in a great council chamber in our Feriline, one of my followers insulted Amorum, calling him a dusty old relic, laughing at his continued efforts to sway the people toward Harmony.

  “I lost control. At that time, my nerring was unrivaled and I was swollen with maen. Without the need to draw from ot
hers, I sealed my followers in the council chamber and disassembled the man, piece by piece. I kept him alive far past his endurance.

  “I learned that I still had love for Amorum, despite everything that had come between us.

  “Instead of gloating, I went to mend my relationship with the great man. I will spare you the details—I would rather not recall the details, in fact. Suffice it to say that it went… poorly. My pride, after all, could not be overcome, and Amorum, after all, had a touch of pride, himself.

  “Nonetheless, despite this confrontation, he did not leave me. I am uncertain, to this day, why he stayed.

  “With my army of pasnes alna, and my growing conventional forces—conscripted from Feriline and flocking to the victorious Blood Maiden from outlying regions—I was near unstoppable. We did not pause to gather our strength, as before. Rather, we immediately set off to make war.

  “Twelve years. Twelve years, we struggled against a thousand warring countries. Some capitulated without a fight, our reputation spreading more quickly than our army ever could. Others, however, fought harder than I would have thought possible. With each tiny kingdom and country we took, Amorum set to trying to peacefully integrate the countries into my growing empire. Others of my officers and leaders—Wantran particularly—dealt with our conquests less civilly. There was too much for me to keep track of, so as long as Amorum was not insulted or threatened, I gave my people free reign.

  “It was my pride, sweetling. As we continued to take what you now know as Siawen, the southern continent, I began to feel invincible. Untouchable. I began to believe the stories of the Blood Maiden, that I must be a god. How could I not be? I had power unrivaled, even by my strongest officers. Even than Wantran, though she had access to yenas. People pressed their foreheads to the ground when they saw me coming; took care of my every want. I had the finest foods from every country. The most beautiful, exotic lovers. I wanted for nothing. I was like a goddess, then. Unrivaled.

  “Eventually, I owned most of Saiwen and even a portion of Imsal. The lands were different, back then, millenia ago. Bigger. The wars—both my war for dominance and those that followed—changed the face of the world. Although Ardia, long before it was your little country, was a challenge.

  “The Wasmer lived in this mostly unsettled land. They had traveled from the west, somehow circumventing the Great Barrier, and settled many years before my dominance had spread to western Saiwen. I had seen a small number of Wasmer in my life, but had not realized that they had the numbers—or the intelligence—that they later showed me in your Ardia.

  “They had their own goddess, it was said. Oletta. Goddess of wisdom.

  “In my pride, I assumed she was a fraud. That she had simply confused the superstitious Wasmer, taking a figurehead place as their leader. I did not realize, at the time, the hypocrisy of my assumptions.

  “I also assumed that she would be weak. Pride, sweetling, causes us to underestimate those around us. In this case, I was quite wrong.

  “With my empire stretching far to the east, my conventional army—and even many of my pasnes alna—had been left behind to keep the peace. It was surprisingly challenging to exert control over a city thousands of miles away, one who had not seen its goddess in years. So, when fighting the Wasmer, who were more numerous than now, we were hard-pressed. We did manage, with reinforcements, to slowly push them back toward the mountains you now call the Tulanques.

  “They fought our pasnes alna with miernes of their own, their so-called sibrowd gwintan—Wind Whisperers—to great effect. However, we had our own weapons that I had not yet unleashed upon the world.

  “The Feral. The Soulless. The Empty. Your unfortunate fate, sweetling. Gods, if I could have known you in my youth…

  “Your goodness continues to fill me with guilt. But, guilt keeps me from repeating my sins.

  “I had never killed any of my donors over the years. In turn, I had forbidden others from murdering their own donors. Some had given in completely to their animal instincts… unable to wear clothing, carry weapons. Others—as I learned—if you left them enough nerring, would retain enough of their instincts to have some sense of self-preservation. They could bear armor and wield weapons, though blunt weapons were often safer.

  “These Feral were easy to control. They never attacked those who had drawn from them, and it only took a tiny bit of power—a suggestion of it, really—to point them at an enemy and say ‘attack.’

  “The Feral were brought to the frontline, and leveled against the Wasmer. These fought with a ferocity unknown by men, their basest emotions unrestricted, needing only to kill. The Wasmer retreated across the country as our forces tasted victory again and again. It was a slow march, as it did become more difficult to restrain the Feral following a battle… after they had developed the taste for blood and killing. We had to use them sparingly.

  “Not far from what you now call Rostane, my forces were handed their first real defeat! I lost thousands of men and even more Feral. Even a number of pasnes alna. This Oletta had joined the fight, and she brought her might to bear upon my forces.

  “For years, I had rarely taken part in the battles, content to allow my captains and army to put their own lives at risk while I simply reaped the rewards. Wealth, of course, but more importantly, an ever-flowing supply of maenen. But I was needed here. It would not do for men to lose their faith in me, and another rout could do just that.

  “So, the armies—my own and the Wasmer—again joined, just south of today’s Tulanque Mountains. I did not utilize the Feral there. Rather, I wanted to focus my own powers—and the powers of my pasnes alna—on the enemy magics. Most specifically, this Oletta.

  “The conventional forces battled. The Wasmer were excellent warriors, but my forces were veterans, hard from years of war. We also had great creatures from the Imsal, the northern continent. The lithros, beasts with six legs that could brush off arrows with their tough skin, and provide my officers with an increased line of sight, allowed them to more easily control the battle. My pasnes alna also rode atop the lithros, although they held back during the beginning of this battle.

  “Soon, our experience wore at the Wasmer, and they brought forth their own weapons, the sibrowd gwintan. My pasnes alna met that threat, and the battle was at a standstill, neither side gaining dominance. Until Oletta joined the fray.

  “She was magnificent. She wielded pearen with such acuity, such artistry, that I was amazed. She drew from deep within the earth itself and called forth great waves of power, selectively slaughtering my soldiers while preserving her own. She had such utter control.

  “Nonetheless, I was the Blood Maiden. How could she hope to stand against me?

  “My forces retreated as I stepped forward, surrounded by my guard and my donors—followers who were ready to sacrifice themselves for the honor of my touch. I unleashed my own powers, which were more potent than Oletta’s, but less discriminating. Waves of flame and blades and death cut across the battlefield, killing some of my own but more of hers. Before long, the battlefield was clearing, and Oletta and I strained against each other.

  “My donors were emptied by the dozen, made husks in an instant. I began drawing from my bodyguards, sending many of them running. Around Oletta, the land crumbled and split. Today, these Ashlands are still uninhabitable south of the Tulanques.

  “I will never know how she made it past my defenses, sweetling. But, a tiny bar of power—the width of a finger—pierced my body, sending me to my knees. I still have the scar.”

  “At the same time, I drew of my own vast maen, sending a wave of power at her. Her assault ended, though I know not what damage I did to her. Her forces retreated, carrying with them their wounded goddess. Not killed, I learned later. At the time, however, I could only think of my own wound.

  “Fatal, it would have been. And my powers were not good for healing… not at the time. I had not bothered to learn of the human body, how to fix or how to mend it. How to translate maen and
maenen into physical manifestations of the body.

  “I would have died. I should have died. My followers wept and looked away. Killed themselves, in some cases. Many were unable to bear the thought of their immortal Blood Maiden dying. Unable to comprehend that I was not invincible.

  “Wantran came to me one night. She somehow incapacitated my many guards, managing to reach me undetected. She stood over me, the nearest thing I had to a rival. I was at her mercy. With her power, her ability to draw maenen and yenas, she could have set herself up as a goddess, just as I had. She could have ruled over these men, these countries, this world, just as I sought to. She could have ended me, weak as I was.

  “But, she did not. Her eyes were sorrowful as she beheld me, and she reached out to touch my hand. I shied away. Of course, I shied away—she was pasnes alna, likely to suck me dry. But, I had no escape. She grasped my hand and held it for a long while. Looked into my eyes. And, she healed me.

  “It was excruciating. I thought it was my end; my screams must have echoed throughout all of my domain. But, with the damage to my organs, the pain of the healing was worse than the pain of the wounds. Sweetling, I cannot describe it adequately. It was as if my tissue first had to die before it could be reborn.

  “But, I was healed. Weak for days. Months…. Sweetling, sometimes I still feel the pain. In speaking of it, I feel the pain right now. Here, in my left side and in my back. I do not know whether Wantran left a bit unhealed, or even left the scar as a reminder of the cost of pride. She was lost to me soon after, and it is too late for me to ever know.

  “You, sweetling, are beyond pride. Soon, you will be beyond pain, as well.

  “I could almost envy you, but we know the cost of that sin.”

  Chapter 32

  They buried Marius with his brother.

  It was not an easy task. Even after they’d thawed part of the ground with a huge bonfire, the ground remained mostly frozen. Lisan and Ill’nath used Marius’ sword to hack the chill soil to pieces, with even Merigold taking a turn, despite her empty exhaustion. Even so, they were barely able to dig deep enough to cover the bodies. It was ill-suited to their sacrifices. But, this was all their diminished party could do.