Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Malless glanced up, noticing a woman dressed in a filthy dress moving inexorably toward him. His face was drawn and tired, his eyes black from lack of sleep or from living in a constant state of hangover for the past months. He seemed scared but determined, a decisiveness behind his eyes and actions that she had not seen in the young man since before they’d fled Florens.

  “Lady Breen!” he shouted, his voice ranging out clearly across the carnage. “I won’t kill you unless I must.”

  Emma said nothing, but continued toward him.

  “Emma, I warn you. I do this for Florens, and you will not get in my way.” Emma gripped Jeffers’ sword and bared her teeth. Malless took a reflexive step back. “Very well. Paul, Brian, make it quick!”

  Two Florensians, both as dark-haired as their duke but nearly twice the size, moved gracefully toward Emma, both of them with the easy confidence of seasoned swordsmen. To Emma, though, they appeared to be moving in air as thick as tar. Even their expressions—somewhat alarmed, if she were to guess—were nearly frozen. Their faces, young and determined, fanned the flames of her rage.

  She closed the distance between herself and the swordsmen, picking the one on the left as her target. Fueled by a fury that she could not explain, let alone control, she lunged forward with a sword that was too heavy and an arm that was too weak. And yet, the blade did not shake in her hand, and it entered into the man’s chest straight through his breastplate. She withdrew the blade, and he fell to the ground as gently as a bubble blown by a child.

  She whirled around and saw the second man readying a swing, his sword poised to strike her across the shoulders. She crouched easily, glancing up as the sword slowly cut the air above her. Emma scuttled to one side. Jabbing upwards, she took the man unaware beneath his chin, her blade penetrating his skull.

  Emma felt herself grinning as his blood rained down on her face.

  She twisted to her feet, staring at Erik Malless. He stood, stunned and rooted to the ground, simply staring at the remains of his best warriors. His wet, terror-filled eyes met Emma’s and she grinned wider, taking a step in his direction and resting the slick, crimson sword on her shoulder. She barked a wild laugh that sounded sweet to her own ears.

  And, abruptly, something heavy slammed into her, carrying her to the ground. Her head jolted against the frozen, ashy lawn and stars burst in her vision. The weight on top of her was greater than just the body of the man who’d carried her to the ground, though. It threated to crush her as her rage left and she realized what she had just done.

  The burning in her heart, Disorder’s gift and curse, subsided.

  Nail looked down at her as Trina Almark, Havert, and three female warriors beat Malless to the ground with clubs and the flats of their swords. The lithe Rotten Apple knight wrapped his arms around her, both restraining her and providing a sort of comfort that she had not felt since Escamilla had passed. She freed her arms and squeezed the footless warrior right back.

  And then Emma began to sob, her tears cutting canyons through the drying blood on her face.

  Chapter 39

  Fenrir thought of his mother.

  After all these years, her face still shone in his memory. Her gentle, sad smile. Her cool, but mischievous eyes. The way that her jaw would tighten whenever Darian was nearby, and how her brow would furrow when she saw his brothers. Most of all, he remembered her songs… the songs of the Domain. The songs of courage. The songs of endurance.

  The day they’d found her, wrists slit by her own hands, sitting in a tub of warm water, they’d refused to let Fenrir see her. Darian, an iron sentinel, had him dragged away by two of his newly-recruited Adders when he’d refused to leave. Fenrir had screamed and cried and cursed and blamed, but Darian had made no move, showed no emotion. No concern. No human emotion.

  He was a monster, and monsters needed to be put down.

  They stood atop the northern edge of the Plateau, the chill winds of early winter cutting straight through Fenrir’s leathers. The moons were just rising, and provided enough reflected light to illuminate the bustle in Little Town below, and even with darkness approaching, lanterned boats and ships navigated the Fullane to the mouth of the Vissas Sea. Far in the distance, Fenrir could see blobs on the horizon that must be war galleons, sitting in readiness for an assault on Hunesa.

  Sigmund, unaware that Fenrir was Fenrir, stood just a step away from him, arms folded in a way that concealed his missing finger—men adapted to their injuries. Darian was standing a ways away beneath one of several wooden pergolas, having a hushed, but heated, discussion with Astora. Every so often, a clear word would rise above the wind and sail into earshot, but not often enough to define the content of their conversation.

  There was no one else around, not even guardsmen. It was near silent atop the Plateau. It couldn’t have been a more perfect opportunity, truth be told. Now was Fenrir’s chance to act.

  Only one part of what was to come brought Fenrir any pleasure. He yanked off his helmet.

  “Hi there, Siggy,” he said with a smirk as he decked the man in his oft-broken nose. In the same motion, he disarmed his lifelong antagonist and tossed his sword over the edge of the wall.

  “What…” Sigmund struggled to his feet, hand over his face, blood running across his gloved fingers. Fenrir hit him a second time in the gut, and then again in the face as he doubled over. The man dropped to the ground. That should settle him for a while.

  It hadn’t been a silent exchange, though, and both Darian and Astora turned toward him as he stalked in their direction. It should have been an easy thing to end his father and secret Astora out of the Plateau through the servant passages that honeycombed the walls. With the money Tennyson had given him, they would never have fear of wanting.

  And Fenrir didn’t look at Astora. He had eyes only for his target.

  “Finally getting around to killing me, boy? What did Tennyson offer you?” Darian was all calm.

  “They didn’t have to offer me anything to want to see you dead. But…” he smirked, “…to answer you, lots of money.”

  “And why do they want to see me dead? The alliance with the Menogans, I take it?”

  “Don’t care.” It was the alliance, though. Fenrir knew that, and he also knew that Tennyson would not want to see Darian’s life spent if he knew the merchant king opposed this alliance. It didn’t matter, though. He’d been paid to do a job, not to think. He was a dog, as Tennyson was apt to say. And this dog was keen to assume the mantle of the alpha and protect his pup.

  “Right. Coldbreaker the Uncaring. Would you care if thousands of Menogan killers despoiled Ardia? Burning our farms? Raping our daughters?”

  Fenrir still didn’t look at his daughter, and she still didn’t speak.

  “Doesn’t matter. We won’t be here.” Fenrir drew his blade.

  “You see those ships on the horizon?” Darian turned his back to Fenrir, pointing to the galleons he’d noticed earlier. “They are transports, full of Menogan warriors, held at bay by our own war ships on blockade. With this alliance, the blockade will be lifted, and they will be welcomed into our country. An expansionist people reaching the edge of their own empire, a people we know very little about. People, if it be true, who are known to harness the power of magic in battle in order to subdue… no, to obliterate, their enemies.”

  “Don’t care,” said Fenrir. Though, he thought of Merigold, and how she had spattered two men across the wall.

  “I will not let this happen. Even now… Oh, there we are.” One of the transports glimmered for a second before it became obvious that it was catching fire. “Even now, my Adders serve to fight off this threat. Why do you think I needed to reach into the dregs for protection tonight? Poor protection, I might add.” Darian turned back to face him, mirroring Fenrir’s smirk.

  “Nice story, my lord. It doesn’t change things. You die, I live. She lives. Others live.” Fenrir’s jaw was clenched tighter than a virgin. He should have struck by now. Darian
needed to die.

  Fenrir was an enforcer. He’d had this conversation plenty of time, albeit with the price being a finger and not a life. He raised his sword just as Darian pulled something from his coat, holding it up in gloved fingers.

  “You know what this is, no?” It was a tiny vial of a pinkish, reddish substance. Fenrir paused, feeling his blood run cold—picturing his skin blistering as his muscles melted away.

  “Your pallor tells me you understand this is meldus. Imperfect, as a weapon, though we are working on it. But, this shatters easily, and even the fumes are enough to bring down an angry dullard.” Darian’s lips curled into a sickening smile that held no real glee.

  “You would kill your own son?” Fenrir asked, his voice hushed.

  “You would kill your own father?” Darian returned, his voice quietly mocking.

  The wind picked up around them, father facing son and son facing father. Neither moved; neither spoke. So much had been said, with so much more left unspoken. Fenrir clenched his teeth and noticed his father’s jaw tighten, as well. Darian adjusted his grip on his deathly vial while Fenrir did the same with his sword. The light of the white moon seemed almost bloodied.

  “Stop this right now, you Ultner-sucking fools!” Astora demanded, stepping between bared steel and lethal chemicals.

  “Move, girl,” Darian said in his gravelly voice.

  “Astora…” Fenrir hissed.

  She turned on him in a fury, eyes narrowed. “You! You don’t get to say my name. What is wrong with this family? Murderers and monsters! Manipulators and thieves. I would have been better off with my mother, destitute though she is. At least she has some basic kindness…”

  “I don’t recall that,” said Fenrir, unable to help himself. Astora glared at him, but then she cracked a small, sly smile—one so much like his own.

  “I said some basic kindness.” Her face transformed in an instant then, back to a mask that reminded him of Darian. “But you two would rather kill each other while things are going to pandemonium around us. Look…” She pointed out toward the Vissas, where another transport was catching fire. “What is the outcome of this going to be?”

  “Preservation of our country, girl. You know that,” said Darian. He still held his vial in front of him, though not as warily.

  Fenrir darted forward, shoving Astora to one side while sidling around her. There was no going back, not after drawing steel on his father. Either Darian died now or Fenrir died later, no matter the speech that his daughter gave. He lunged at Darian, his form perfect. Yet, somehow the old man sidestepped and kicked him in the back of his knee, sending him crashing forward.

  He pivoted as he fell, staring up at Darian’s silhouette against the white moon, raising his vial of meldus. Fenrir knew he was done.

  “You think I haven’t learned how to defend myself after years around the most elite fighting force in the country? But, boy, I truly didn’t think you had the guts.”

  He lowered the vial, clenched in a fist, and turned his back. Then he walked over to Astora, helping her to her feet. She shot Fenrir another furious glance, the weight of ten years of neglect underlying her gaze.

  “But, I would never seek to do the same. Punish you, certainly. But you are my last son, and… I still love you. Contrary to what you think, I am not a true monster,” Darian said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Are you not? I think I agree with my brother on this one.” The harsh voice had cut through the night like a scythe through wheat, and Fenrir twisted to his feet upon hearing this voice that he had not heard for twenty years.

  Stepping over a fallen Sigmund and approaching them with a fluid grace was a figure wearing a tight black cloak that flapped in the wind like the crackling of a fire. Fenrir felt his innards turn to water and a sudden urge to fling himself from the wall to avoid what was coming. Then, a flash of hot anger twisted his lips back, so that he beared his teeth at the approaching man much like a grinning wolf. He strode toward this new enemy, death on his mind. As he moved to pass his daughter, Astora stepped back into his chest. He felt a sudden, stomach-wrenching weakness at the need to keep her safe.

  Darian didn’t move a step.

  “Aiden. The rumors were true, then.”

  “Half of all rumors are lies and the other half twist the truth. I am that twisted truth.” He spread his arms wide, and Fenrir could see the portion of his skull that was smashed in, it being only partially concealed by the same strange black spectacles worn by Finn Lo’Argeen. The skull that he had smashed in with a belaying pin on that boat, years before.

  Ethan had started the conflict, that day when Fenrir had been forced to accompany his brothers on a ‘pleasure cruise’ on the Vissas. In reality, it had been a test of Fenrir’s ingenuity, in that he had only taken two beatings in three nights. The third night, though, everything had changed. Ethan was the eldest brother, and yet Darian had chosen Aiden to accompany him to Sestria to set up a distribution center and reconnoiter secure locations. It had been a step toward making Aiden the heir apparent of the bulging de Trenton empire, and Ethan hadn’t been having any of it.

  Fenrir remembered doing his best to stay out of it, hiding behind some lashed-down barrels as the seas became rougher and rougher. Ethan had started shouting, and then shoving Aiden. Aiden, as always, had escalated things until blood began flowing freely. Fenrir remembered that he hadn’t been able to keep from smiling, watching his tormentors torment themselves for a change. Fenrir had snuck closer and closer, trying to get a better look at his older brothers’ pain. He’d knocked over a lantern, then, distracting Ethan just as Aiden had swung his fist with the full force of a favored middle child.

  Ethan’s head had snapped to the side and he’d careened into an empty ship hook, the dull metal point nonetheless driving itself into the young man’s brain. Aiden had stood over his brother’s body, seemingly torn with grief as he’d wailed and howled. He had whipped around after that, and Fenrir had seen madness in his eyes. But it hadn’t been defense that had propelled Fenrir to strike with that spare belaying pin. Before Ethan was killed, he had decided—this was his chance. This was his chance to avenge his mother, as these Ultner-fucking bastards had certainly driven her to the edge.

  He’d felt Ethan’s skull cave in as the bar of iron had connected with his temple. And, as his brother had fallen into the sea, his only concern had been to avoid blame and concoct a story that would be three parts truth and one part lie.

  His brothers, he would say, had killed each other.

  “You may call me Disorder. Aiden is dead. Brother made sure of that.” Disorder nodded to Fenrir, smiling deeply. “You survived my little attempt on your life, and have gone on to do great things. I didn’t expect any less from you, killer.”

  Fenrir’s emotions tore at him, escalating from terror to guilt to anger. He fought them, though. He looked at Astora finally, and felt her against his chest, and he fought harder.

  “You, Darian, are a thorn in the side of my masters. And, brother is right. You are a monster, though perhaps wearing a different mask than most.”

  “And you, son? I did not make of you a fratricide; you chose that yourself.”

  Disorder’s voice keened like a wounded mountain cat. “You pitted us against each other! And Ethan’s death was a mistake!”

  Disorder flashed out of existence in a dark mist, a sudden implosion of humanity. He rematerialized an inch from Darian, who reacted by bringing up his vial, though it would be just as likely to kill both of them as Disorder. He didn’t have a chance, though, as a bar of hot redness shot from Disorder’s outstretched fingers and blasted completely through Darian’s shoulder. Fenrir could smell cooked flesh—a lot like the scent of roasted pig.

  Darian fell to the hard, freezing stones, emitting a great scream of agony that carried out over the city. Several screams echoed in response; terrible heart-rending howls that tore through Fenrir’s remaining shreds of resistance.

  Feral were roaming the Plat
eau. He could hear human shouts and screams reverberating through the great fortress. Death was filling the chambers below them.

  Disorder knelt over a gasping, moaning Darian. He touched a finger to Darian’s other shoulder.

  “You are a foolish old man. The vote had passed and orders to seize the Plateau were scraped. The Menogans would have come aground peaceably, had your men not attacked their ships. Now, the nobility must burn in effigy of their losses. The council will survive, of course. Most of the councilors, anyhow. It will be easy to blame the man who leads the Adders for a hostile takeover. The man whose general set the Feral against Escamilla Breen’s army. The Menogans, then, will be the heroes who slayed the monsters running rampant across the fortress.”

  Darian struggled weakly, and Disorder casually slapped him down with as little effort as one might subdue a toddler.

  Fenrir knew he should do something, but he was unable to act, unable to gather the motivation to even move in a self-preserving fashion. Instead, he wept. For his brother, maybe. For his father, or what should have been. For himself, too, for pity was always his refuge.

  His death was overdue. Ultner knew, he’d cheated it enough times. Every time he’d escaped an enraged husband after exploring his wife. Every time he’d taken a man’s finger. Every misbegotten adventure he’d had since the botched job, he’d cheated death. And, Ultner knew, he desired it. Fenrir looked again at Astora, and realized what a failure he’d been all his life.

  And then Fenrir stopped fighting. He simply gave up.

  In a spiral of dizzying colors, his consciousness snapped out of his body and hovered above him, a vulture examining a soon-to-be corpse. Fenrir could see himself, holding his weeping daughter close as his brother knelt over his father. For the first time since killing the duke, Fenrir was truly in his disembodied state, his thoughts stuck within his phantom as his body simply existed below. Phantom-Fenrir.