by Tyler Krings
There is a flower that grows on the western banks of the Reverie River, or did, before the Empire dammed it and made it part of their war machine. It was not hard to find its powder and mix it with tea. Its effects are known as a common stimulant but used over time…it is deadly. I have mixed this in my tea for last two years, knowing that my time was limited, and my death would not cast any shame on the family, but then something happened. You came home. I should have waited, but the years in the dark were a burden I could not bear, and when the time came, when our worlds finally realigned and a spark of happiness lifted my heart, I knew it would not last. And here we are. I did this. There is nothing you could have done. I am sorry, my love. Parts of me hope that you will never read this letter, while others are glad that I have finally written them. I am not the proud woman you married. What strength I had then is surely gone now. I know now that there are no gods. Only demons. And I take mine with me. Please, do not think too harshly of me.
* * *
With all my love, Mady
* * *
The figure stopped speaking and approached silently until the face of Emersin’s wife was visible in the shade between windows. She stopped a chair away from his and sat. Her dark eyes met his, but his face did not waver. She was every bit as he remembered, high cheekbones and laughter lines around an easy smile. Her full head of dark hair hung loosely around her shoulders, caressing the soft cloth of her modest dress. He could have stared at her for hours, but even if he could move his hands, he would not have reached out to her.
“Bullshit,” he said. She looked at him quizzically. “She wouldn’t have.”
She inhaled calmly. “I did.”
Emersin raised an eyebrow. “She, you, killed yourself?”
She folded her hands on the table. “Why is it so unbelievable?”
“The woman I knew would not have taken her own life.”
“When the time came, I was not that woman.”
“Fuck you. And this. What is this, anyway? Anu?” He nodded to his hands. “Seems another prison.”
She gestured and his hands were free. He stood immediately and walked to the window. The tops of clouds covered the outdoor floor, and in the distance a blazing sun hung high. He cursed and turned back to the woman at the table.
“These are not the halls of Anu,” she said. “You are not dead.”
“Then this is about Murder’s business,” he growled. “Send me back, I’ll have none of it.”
“Please, listen,” she pleaded.
“No. The gods are not to be lauded—they are murderers and liars, and goddamn fuck them all! I won’t do their bidding anymore. For fuck’s sake, entire nations have been slain by my hand for their bidding!” He came back to the table and sat, putting his head in his hands. He felt the wetness under his eyes and realized that he had been crying. “If you are real, and you are here,” he said to her softly, “then that is all I need. I would gladly rot in Lamen than allow them to butcher the girl.”
When she said nothing, he looked at her and found her tears matched his own. “I’m not,” she said, “I’m not in…Anu.”
He slowly raised his head and stared at her in horror. His imagination ran wild with the untold torture she had undergone for the last few years, and suddenly he was reaching for her. She took his hands across the table and squeezed tightly. “Oh, Mady…” he whispered. “The judges—”
“Did not care for the adultery.”
Emersin stood quickly and reached for a sword that was absent. The source of the voice was found at the other end of the long table. A man in white walked slowly toward them, his hands held casually behind him. Mady stood reverently and bowed her head.
“Hers is not the first case that has been thus. The old rules govern the Judges’ will with an iron fist, I’m afraid. That is the way of things. But…this can be changed.” Emersin could see the man’s head clearly now: a golden mask and burning eyes with a white hood hid any other discerning features. “You are right in that we are not to be trusted. Whatever faith you might have had in us has no doubt faded entirely, and for that…I cannot blame you. But”—The Lord held out a finger.—“there is a way that you can help her. Do this last thing I ask, and I will bring her forth from Lamen with my own two hands. The two of you will be reunited in eternal bliss.”
Emersin stared down the lone god and his contemptuous frown did not waver. “I cannot possibly trust you.”
“No. You can’t. That is why her sentence has already been revoked. When she walks free of this place, it will be into Anu and all its heavenly glory, where she will know love and peace. Do this thing I ask, and it will be your reward as well.”
The general spared a look at his wife, but she would not meet his gaze. “What is it I must do?” The general could not see it, but the figure seemed to smile.
“You must accept a position in my Legion.”
“What position?”
“Why, my general of course. The General of Angels.”
Emersin nearly laughed. “And there are none in your employ that could accept such a position?”
“Oh, you belittle yourself, but you have not spoken falsely. The Ways cannot contain the power of Angels or gods, so we must use a gate. One that is sealed. I need that seal broken, and one of us cannot do so. Do you accept?”
Emersin did not bother to spare his beloved one last look. He knew what it was she desired. Indeed, she was not the woman that he had known; her strength and will mere shadows of what they once were. Emersin does not doubt that the being before him spoke truthfully. Perhaps the rewards would be great, and perhaps I should accept. Save for this warning in my mind. If this is Murder’s employer…
Emersin appeared to ponder a moment longer. “I accept.”
Jon watched as Ana and the Red argued. When the Red stomped away in anger, he thought to run to Ana and give her comfort but, strangely, felt it would be an imposition. He waved it off, knowing whatever they had been speaking of was most likely beyond his comprehension. The night before had been one of sheer bliss; dancing in the woods led to drinking wine aged a thousand years, which led to sex he did not think they could duplicate in a hundred lifetimes. When Ana had told the Wise of their union the morning after, Jon had nearly broken into a fit of laughter at the sight of their faces.
The old man finished harnessing Irving to the cart and made to move supplies from the barn floor to the cart bed. Some were foodstuffs and blankets, enough to keep a few cozy in the few hour trek into town. The others were ritual supplies: candles and markers made of chalk, a wineskin—at least Jon assumed it was full of wine—trinkets and things that held no value but had been staples in the old man’s room. Having already saddled Isca, Jon made to brush invisible dust from her flank. She did not seem to mind.
“So,” Jon started, “Niandithir, huh?”
The old man let him know that he had heard but did not speak.
“Okay, fine. What about when you said, ‘blood magic?’” Jon pressed.
The old man grunted and lifted a box of supplies into the cart. Jon dropped the brush into the bucket and moved to help. “Thought you said there was no more magic.”
The old man settled a box onto the cart and pushed it into the fore. “None that should be used. Or known.”
“And yet…?” surmised Jon.
“And yet nothing. There is no knowledge here that would benefit you.”
Jon dropped the box dramatically into the back of the cart. “Oh, come on! Enough with the bullshit.” The old man stopped what he was doing and placed his hands on his hips in wearied annoyance.
Jon took a step toward him. “You told me magic was dead. An ‘ancient art no longer in practice,’ and here’s the fucking Lord of Slaughter—”
“Murder.”
“Whatever! Who seems to have a passing knowledge of a so-called ‘ancient art no longer in practice.’ There is something bothering you; what harm is it now to tell me?”
The old man did not r
espond right away. He looked off into the distance, and his mouth moved as if to ready words he did not want to speak. “Magic and creation go hand in hand. While humans no longer require it, and gods no longer acknowledge it, its foundations remain. If one knew how to coerce the power that runs through the veins of the world, that power would rise could rip asunder the entire continent. What the Lord of Murder did…he has allowed the laws of creation to be broken. Specifically, the laws regarding the interference of beings not of this world.”
Jon turned that over in his mind. “So Murder…can interfere?”
The old man grunted. “Interfere. Physically.”
Jon felt his eyes grow wide. “So it can kill humans now as it pleases. Any god can.”
The old man picked up a box. “No. There are limits. The spell he has cast is limited to this area. Fate has set the board. All his pieces can now be played. He merely waits to see ours.”
“You, Ana, and the Wolf have all been interfering aplenty.”
“Ana and I are human. The Wolf is…a wolf.”
“You mean you’re gods in human bodies.”
The old man grunted. “The gates have been closed. Gods cannot come to earth in their divine form.”
“And you know all this because?”
“Because I’m fucking old, and I know shit. Grab that last box.”
Jon eyed the boxes. “You know magic as well?”
“Hmpf. Better, I should hope, than our enemy.”
Jon grabbed the last box. “I feel like this knowledge would certainly benefit me. ‘Whatever is known about the battlefield, no matter how small, is not poor intelligence.’”
The old man gave him a sidelong look, trying to hide the hint of a grin. But all he said was, “Now is not the time to be a smartass.”
The cart was loaded and horses packed. The Wise waited on the back of the cart while the boy and Ana sat astride Isca. The old man walked to the house once more. Dax waited for him on the porch. Noah stopped a few paces from the shepherd.
“The house will stay lit for you,” the old man said. “I’ve laid out food for the cow. Nort will be by in the morning to bring her to his farm. You’re welcome to join him there if you like.”
Dax looked thoughtful. “I’ll stay here. Wait for you to come back.”
The old man stuttered. “I…um. I don’t think I’m coming back, Dax.”
“Well,” said the dog, “I’ll be here when you do.”
The old man smiled. “You never did have much sense. You were right about one thing.”
The dog grinned. “The mates.”
“What? No…well, yes. I mean something else”
“I’m right about most things, Wanderer.”
The old man nodded in agreement. “This is a good place.”
“Yes. It is. I’ll see you soon, my friend.”
16
Harvest Moon
The graves were shallow. The effort to remove the loosely packed earth went unheard in the hours of the early afternoon, as most of the townsfolk made themselves busy readying for the Moon. When Rom and Ham emerged from their graves near the river, the two collapsed on each other in exhaustion. With enough heavy wheezing, Rom finally pulled himself up into a sitting position. He noted first that the light cover of snow on the ground was unmarked and fresh. The second thing he noticed was he had just pulled himself out of the ground. The shock of the dream, or what he thought had been a dream, was again settling into a nightmare that he had yet to come to terms with.
“You know,” said Ham, “I’m kind of pissed, but kind of not, that they didn’t give us a proper burial. That would have been really hard if they’d put us in a coffin.”
Rom nodded, shaking dirt from his face. Indeed, they had not been given a proper burial. They were far removed from the actual graveyard and were some distance from the town itself. Hastily crafted wooden headstones marked the graves and their bodies were wrapped in scented linen in imperial colors. Someone had gone through the trouble to at least acknowledge that they were dead, something Rom did not think Arne was like to do. The Lord of Death had told them much. One thing in particular: time was not on their side.
“We need to hurry,” Rom breathed and pulled himself to standing. He wavered as he suddenly felt sick, frigid blood and fluid moving in him like a slow mudslide. Ham stood too, and promptly fell.
“Fuck me,” said Ham with his face in the dirt.
Aye, Rom agreed, there are a few things Death might have left out.
They paused on a hill overlooking Errol’s Fortune. The old man sat atop the wagon guided by Irving, the Wise sitting quietly behind him. The boy and the girl rode Isca, speaking quietly together, her head laying on his neck as the boy softly smiled. The old man could sense the pack tracking them through the forest. The Wolf had gathered his numbers through the night and now they paced and waited, staying out of sight and reach of the guardsmen’s bows. The night before had granted little rest and, in truth, the old man hadn’t sought any. He and the boy had faced numerous battles and skirmishes, but this was something else. Not since the Revolution had Noah experienced such a charge in the air, as though a hundred thousand eyes from above and below watched their every move, waiting to see the players on the board and the moves to be taken.
“You two go into town,” he said to the boy. “You are expected. We will make our preparations in that field, there.” Open and wide, the nearby field would serve to limit collateral damage, and it was close enough to the town that he could extend protection to Jon and Ana. For a time at least. The boy nodded and reached out his hand. Noah took it in his own. He met the boy’s eyes, the eyes of his son, who had been a man for many years now, but Noah could not think of him as anything other than his boy. Ana reached around and placed her hand on theirs. With no more words the two set off to the town, leaving Noah to guide the rest to the battlefield.
Tents had been placed in the town square, decorated and vibrant with the colors of winter and harvest. The townsfolk looked happily busy, raising banners and stands, cooking and drinking. Some of the early dancers shared their skill in the middle of the town square. Children ran here and there, chasing one another and deftly dodging adults and work. The harvest itself was long past, with most crops harvested, sold, or stored the month prior. The Harvest Moon as a spectacle paid homage to an ancient tradition of harvesting the souls of unwed men and women after a certain age into service of the gods. The temple that had led the practice was no longer in service—indeed most temples to various deities lay now in disrepair, with only a few remaining followers after the wars, before the rise of the Empire. The only temple that drew any respect was the Temple of the Four that paid homage to the gods of Light, Dark, Life, and Death. That temple currently advertised a highly anticipated orgy, as it boasted the most attendance during the Harvest Moon than any other throughout the year. Harvest Moon was observed now primarily as a reason for young couples to say their vows and everyone else to drink and revel.
Jon and Ana were recognized as one such couple as they entered through the western gates. They passed under the arch several to shouts of congratulations and praise that Jon accepted with a wave and a smile.
“Look at the guards,” Ana whispered.
“Aye,” Jon agreed. He had already noticed them. Still and eerily quiet, each and every one wore placid smiles behind helmets and full armor. Each and every one bore the Maddog insignia. They did not look Jon and Ana’s way as they entered the town with a handful of folks eagerly awaiting the revelry. In fact, they did not look at anyone.
They continued into the throng, Isca weaving through the people and carriages as though she had wandered this maze a thousand times before. Jon noted several things as they passed into the market square: first, every rooftop garrisoned a bowman; second, every alley and back road held two spearmen at attention. Calvary patrols gave the appearance of preforming lazy, good-natured regular rounds, waving and conversing politely, but their spines were too rigid, and the
ir hands never left the hilts of their swords.
“Well, I think they’re ready for us,” Jon commented. Ana said nothing, but he could feel tension in her shoulders as they neared the home of the Women’s Council.
Hersh swallowed the last of his beer and waited politely as Mary poured him another. Beeter raised his head from his arms to take another swallow. The two of them had been given a wide berth, and their section of the bar was quiet, as most of the early drinkers had taken their action outside. Ham and Rom were dead, while Arne had been locked up for murder and released in the same day. None of their “superiors” were keen to comment on any of it, and most of the local boys had been given the day off to enjoy the Harvest whilst the entirety of the Maddogs patrolled the streets. Though they found all of this highly suspicious activity, Hersh and Beeter had been nursing beer, since they had been given the day, and were now sufficiently drunk. Hersh placed a coin on the bar and reached for the fresh tankard, only to be beaten to it by a hand covered in dirt.
“Oy!” Hersh looked up to find Ham draining the lager in a single gulp. A second dark shadow came over his shoulder and wedged himself next to Beeter. “Rom?” Hersh asked. The man covered in dirt nodded and waved at Mary. She looked at him with a dropped jaw but instinctively reached for a clean glass.
Beeter raised an eyebrow before asking, “Thought you two were dead?” he pointed to Rom. “Did you bury yourselves alive?”
Rom grabbed the glass that Mary slid over the bar. “We were. Are, actually.”
Hersh and Beeter shared a look. Ham polished off the beer and belched. “You seen Captain Magrin?”
Hersh shook his head.
“Commander Emersin?”
“Well, no, but what you want to talk to him for?”
Ham breathed and leaned over the bar. “So who’s in charge?”