by Plague Jack
“And what’s to keep Evrill from letting Salus torture me before shipping me back to Roselock?”
“Evrill would never condone torture, not even for you. And she has no need for coin. At this point I wouldn’t worry about Roselock.”
“Everyone should be worried about Roselock—that’s the whole point of this damned rebellion, isn’t it? I’m a bit hesitant to trust your word, based on your not-so-perfect history of impeccable decision-making. For such a master swordsman you have an astounding history of failing those in need: Phineas, Gabriel, and even the Bottler’s little whore. I’m not claiming my hands aren’t just as red as yours, but it’s never been my duty to protect, has it?”
Shrike was taken by surprise when Pendragon grabbed him by his collar and slammed him against the wall. “Don’t you dare throw them in my face, you little coward,” growled the Dragon Knight, his voice a low yell. “I fought for my country back when it still belonged to the Vaetorians, and I was with Gabriel when they sunk the Yellow Keep. Gabriel and I were coming back from hunting when it happened, a whole village of people sunk right into the bay with their foul magics. I fought alongside him for vengeance, and together we drove the Vaetorians out one by one. I fought with elves and dwarfs to free this country from the Van Canns. Of course, you wouldn’t remember any of that, would you? Do you have any idea what it’s like having a great man, a great friend’s death on your conscience? You know nothing of sacrifice or nobility. How can you when you’ve never answered to anyone but yourself?”
Shrike stared at Pendragon in anger for a moment before realizing his mistake. “Sorry,” he said, “I went too far.”
Pendragon let go of Shrike’s collar, and the dwarf landed on his feet. “Believe it or not, I actually came here to thank you for your help at the trial.”
“It was a mock trial, anyway,” said Shrike. “I have the sneaking suspicion that Salus is sending you away for more reasons than he’s telling. I’m on thin ice as it is, being the Queen’s ex-spymaster and all…”
“I know the feeling,” said Pendragon. “But I’m ready to handle whatever gets thrown at me.”
“I doubt that,” said Shrike. “But please don’t die, for both our sakes.”
A wave of heat hit Pendragon, which would have been sweltering had he been wearing his armor. He stood in a stone hallway lined with the elfkin who were deemed unessential. They slept in bundles of blankets and on top of whatever furs they could carry with them. Arched doors lined the hall’s walls, each leading to a narrow chamber just like Shrike’s. These rooms were filled with whoever was considered important enough to warrant the luxury.
Mordigan, the noseless gilnoid from the trial, bolted the door to Shrike’s cell as Pendragon exited. Pendragon gave a friendly nod, which went unreturned from the hairy creature who scratched his nose hole and ground his teeth together in response. Better get a move on, then, thought Pendragon as he walked away from Shrike’s cell. A pang of worry for the dwarf shot through his gut as he glanced over his shoulder at Mordigan who glared back. Calm down, Clark. If anyone can take care of himself it’s Shrike, he told himself as he strolled down the dimly lit corridor.
The Hall of the Gods had been filled with the Huntsmen’s merchants, who opportunistically seized the chance to sell their wares at inflated prices. Being underground, however, did not exclude the Wild Hunt from needing their rest, and most of the shops were closed for the “night.” As to what time it actually was, Pendragon could not say.
The statues of six gods lined the hall, their empty eyes staring and judging. What a perfect place for a trial, thought Pendragon. I’ve been judged before the gods themselves… and most surprisingly found innocent. Across the hall from him stood the statue of Cambrian, his cilium-covered tentacles curling at the base of his statue. Pendragon had never been a religious man as his experiences with magi and sorcerers had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Before they were hellions trapped inside a bottle, they were spoiled pretentious sloths, drunk on their own power and happy to lay about dining on cake. Just like Phineas, he chuckled. What sort of god gifts power so recklessly? He paused and reconsidered. Then again, the days of magic being commonplace have come and gone. Perhaps Cambrian isn’t so different from us. I am not the man I was when I left Voskeer. If I can change, then perhaps the gods can as well.
He pulled Christopher from his sheath and knelt before Cambrian, just as he had knelt before the Queen months ago. The gods get begged for wishes all the time. If I’m going to pray, I’m going to make my prayer worth something. He closed his eyes as he leaned on his sword. Oh, praise be to thee, mighty Lord Cambrian, he began, just as he had been taught as a child. Too formal, I feel foolish. I am not a godly man, he tried again, and being a god, I’m sure you’re already aware. I don’t pray for myself—my problems are my own—but instead I have a boon I have no right to demand. This world is changing too quickly: sentinels, the Wild Hunt, red dust, and Nixus. It’s the Nixus that haunts me the most, and coming back to this blighted ruin has reminded me of just how grave our mistakes were. Pendragon looked up at Cambrian’s face, inspecting the gentle conch-like curves of the god’s horns. I’ve seen magic do great things throughout my life. I’ve seen monsters made of men and watched cities sink beneath the sea… all because of the power of the gods. If the gods can do all that, then surely you could get rid of the Nixus fields and we could retake Capricorn? There would be no war—or are you keeping the Nixus here to punish us?
“He’ll ignore you,” said Salus, interrupting Pendragon’s prayer. He wavered a little as he stood beside the statue, a blue bottle in his hand. “They always ignore you.”
Pendragon felt silly as he stood up and sheathed Christopher. “Not all of us.”
“But most,” replied Salus, taking a swig from the bottle before reading the label. “Blue Demon wine, dated 905 AC. That’s one of the advantages to running a rebellion: you get all the best alcohol to yourself. Although if we’re being honest, for four-hundred-year-old wine, I’m unimpressed. Maybe I’m just too drunk to appreciate its subtleties. See for yourself,” said Salus, offering Pendragon the bottle.
“I’m not in the mood,” said Pendragon. “But I will be later.” He smiled and poured the blue wine into his flask. “I’m sure Quintero will put the thirst in me.”
Salus raised his eyebrows. “I’m amazed the trial did not.” He took another drink.
Pendragon looked around. The Hall of the Gods was mostly empty, except for a few shopkeepers who were camping in their tents. A few watched him warily with sunken eyes. How does he expect his men to take him seriously if he struts around drunk? “We are being watched. Maybe you should go to bed.”
“Bah!” Salus laughed. “They don’t care. This is the Wild Hunt, not a force of spoiled nobles’ whelps and naive farmhands. What do they care if their leader has a drink too many? All the Hunt needs is someone to point them in the right direction. Their fury will do the rest.”
“Morale can win a battle, but if they fail they’ll depend on your leadership to save them.”
“They won’t fail,” said Salus. “They can’t. Every man, woman, and child who has gathered here knows they have no choice. Victory lies ahead.” Salus took another drink. “There is a certain irony in having the Dragon Knight work for me.”
Pendragon raised an eyebrow. “Because I once worked for the Queen? Gods be damned, I am getting sick of everyone dredging up my past.”
“You’re not the only one who worked for Roselock,” said Salus. “I served in the Scaled Legion.”
“You were a dragonslayer?”
Salus nodded. “We were hardly a legion. More of a handful. I think they just thought the name was intimidating. Twelve men, pulled from every fighting force in Amernia. I was one of the last members to join. I only helped take down two dragons… it was horrible work. The first one we killed was female, a hundred and twenty feet long and scarlet-scaled. We followed her for days around the outskirts of the Whitewood, but ever
y time we got close she puffed her smoke and flew away. After a week of failures we set up our ballistas between a pair of whitewood tree trunks. We tied one end of rope to the ballista bolts, and the other end, we staked in the ground. The poor bitch never saw the harpoons coming. She tumbled to the ground, her leathery wings all torn, and was impaled on the half hundred spears we set to catch her. It was a clean kill. Another two days were spent slicing her up. When we were done we sent the pieces to Voskeer. Of course, we had no idea what they were being used for. We thought we were just exterminators.” Salus finished the last of his wine and threw the bottle at Cambrian’s statue. It exploded on Cambrian’s forehead, and the old god scowled in disapproval as blue wine dripped down its face.
There’s no way Shrike wouldn’t recognize Salus’s name if he had been a dragonslayer. So either his story’s a lie or Salus is an alias. The Hunt seems a haven for nameless men… “Salus isn’t your real name, is it?”
“Evrill wants to speak with you,” said Salus, ignoring the question. His eyes met Pendragon’s, cold and hard. “She’s down below having a talk with Pierah. I think you should join her. It’s getting late.” Salus turned and, without looking back, slinked off into the tunnel behind Cambrian.
He’s not the worst commander I’ve dealt with, thought Pendragon. He descended the spiral staircase next to the podium where Salus had judged him a few days prior, and entered the forge.
Someone, very long ago, had tunneled deep enough to tap into a reservoir of molten lava deep under Amernia. The lava traveled for miles through carefully constructed pipes until it reached the dome where the smiths labored. An open air aqueduct carried the fiery liquid in a ring around the edge of the chamber’s domed ceiling, revealing rotting and curling oil paints that ascended into the dome’s shadow.
Forges had been set up around the outer ring of the room near the lava flows. Dwarf and elf craftsmen worked tirelessly, forging armor, blades, and arrowheads for the coming battle. The scream of submerged metal jarred Pendragon’s ears as he approached Kaevin’s tent.
“Your armor’s ready,” Kaevin said, standing by his forge. “It didn’t need much mending, but I mended it nonetheless.”
“Thank you,” said Pendragon. The cloth he wore felt strange after so much time under plate armor. “May I see it?”
“Of course!” said Kaevin before ushering Pendragon into a leather tent. “This way,” he said hobbling forward.
Clark Pendragon was a giant amongst men and a titan amongst dwarfs, so to say Kaevin found him intimidating would have been an understatement. Inside the smith’s tent stood Pendragon’s armor mounted upon a stand. It’s green plate glowing with rainbows from where it had been oiled. Roaring dragon helm snarled as fierce as ever. “It’s beautiful,” said Pendragon. “I haven’t seen it in this good of shape since it was commissioned.” He reached into his pocket to remove a satchel of gold. “Let me return the favor.”
“Absolutely not. I owe you a life debt,” said the burned dwarf, pouring himself a glass of vodka. “Now, were I a great warrior I might join you on your quest to meet Quintero. Maybe sacrifice myself heroically the first chance I got. Fuck that.” Kaevin continued downing the vodka. “Instead I’ll repay you in steel.”
“With all due respect,” said Pendragon, “you already repaid me at the trial.”
“Bullshit,” said Kaevin, holding a finger to his temple. “I’ve spent enough time around leaders, schemers, and men of authority to know how things actually work. That trial was a joke. I know it, you know it, and every member of the Wild Hunt whose head wasn’t squashed by a doctor’s forceps knows it.”
Pendragon smiled. “Is that most of them?”
“More than most, by the look of things,” said Kaevin, smiling a half smile. He hobbled over to a low-lying table upon which a broad, diamond-shaped object lay covered by a cheap and dirty cloth of gray wool. “Come here, I’ve made you something.” Pendragon approached apprehensively. “Go on,” Kaevin urged, and Pendragon gave the cloth a firm yank, revealing one of the finest shields he had ever seen.
A dragon’s face, molded from solid metal, marked the center of the shield. Its wings spread out on either side in a wide arch of dwarven steel. Pendragon picked it up and slid his shield arm through the braces in the back. It was heavy, but comfortably so. “You are a true master,” said Pendragon, noticing the tiny chain that hung from inside the shield. “What’s this do?” he asked.
“Don’t touch that!” snapped Kaevin.
“Why not?” asked Pendragon. “Kaevin, what’s this chain do?”
“Dwarven surprise,” said Kaevin. “Pull that chain only when your ass is getting handed to you with a ferocity you can’t handle. Or you really want someone dead.”
“Kaevin, what’s the chain do?” repeated Pendragon, both amused and frustrated.
Kaevin laughed. “I’m not telling you. Save it for when you need it most, which with where you’re going should be soon.”
Pendragon thumped the shield back down on the table. “I’ll be back for my equipment later if you don’t mind keeping an eye on it.”
“Not at all.”
“I heard Evrill wanted to see me. Have you seen her?”
Kaevin rubbed the burned half of his face. “Might have, a few hours ago in the banquet hall. She’s amassed quite the retinue.”
“Banquet hall” might have been too flattering a term for the makeshift cafeteria the Hunt had assembled, since the only options for the hungry were bread and soup. The banquet hall was a room in the shape of a crescent moon, packed with tables.
A gilnoid played a peppy tune on a violin as Huntsmen played cards and drank the night away. Pendragon found Evrill and Pierah sitting alone in a corner.
Pierah pushed a chair out for Pendragon with her staff while keeping her eyes locked on Evrill’s. “Calcifer is a grown man, Evrill. His choices are his own. If he wants to help the Hunt you have no right to interfere,” said Pierah.
“Good to see you, Clark,” said Evrill, smiling before turning her attention back to Pierah. “You and Salus are manipulating him and feeding his hate so he’ll join your fight. Calcifer has always stayed out of politics for good reason.”
“Most people avoid politics until politics screw them over. Calcifer and the Hunt are making a fair trade. He wants to avenge his sister? Lover? Whatever the fuck you call it. We want Norfield. It’s not manipulating,” said Pierah, although Pendragon doubted whether or not she believed herself.
“She’s right, Evrill,” Pendragon spoke up. “Calcifer reminds me of Gabriel—headstrong, self-righteous, and talented. A very dangerous combination. He won’t stop until he hits an immovable object. It’s just the way his kind work.”
Evrill sighed and sipped her wine. “An apathetic approach.”
“I have bigger things to worry about than Calcifer,” said Pierah, standing. “Go ahead and try and talk the Bottler down, Evrill. Just know that if you succeed you may no longer be welcome here.” She nodded at Pendragon and walked away, her staff banging on the floor as she went.
They sat in silence for a moment. “Bit fierce, that one,” said Pendragon.
“Her, Calcifer, and Salus are the new generation of movers and shakers.”
“I know,” said Pendragon, taking a sip of Blue Demon wine from his flask. “Isn’t it terrifying?”
Evrill laughed. “I doubt we seemed much different to our parents when we were their age.”
“I sure didn’t,” said Pendragon. “But my dad never cared for me, or maybe he just didn’t show it. He already had two sons and didn’t need a third. Gabriel always complained about his parents and upbringing, but he had it pretty good at the Yellow Keep.”
“Your father didn’t care much for anyone.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Clark, do you remember when Liam Van Cann came to Voskeer? When we were fifteen or so?”
“Oh, gods,” said Pendragon, smiling wide. “I’d forgotten all about that. Liam Van Cann was such a pom
pous blowhard it hurt. I remember him strutting into Voskeer for his bi-yearly inspection of Vaetor’s favorite puppet nation. Liam loved to rub his power in my father’s face, and all father could do was grin and bear it. As a boy I loved watching him squirm. ‘Pendragon,’ Liam would say, ‘Pendragon, why is it so hot here?’ Like my father could control the weather. ‘Pendragon, why does this city smell like horse shit? Pendragon, a gilnoid’s looking at me. Make it stop.’ The man whined so much you would have never guessed he was a competent fighter.”
“I only encountered him once,” said Evrill. “Once was enough.”
“After a day of listening to this grown man whine like a child it finally came time for dinner. We all sat down to eat in the Tarnished Palace’s great hall, and by this point I think my father had popped a blood vessel. Liam sat down, looked at his plate, and said to my father, ‘I don’t eat any meat that comes from a mammal,’ and pushed his plate away.”
“You could have heard a pin drop.”
“And who should come barging in, drunk as always? My fool of an older brother, Lazarus, rest his soul. On his back was a freshly skinned stag.”
“You forgot that he was also three hours late,” said Evrill. The violinist had changed his tune to an upbeat medley, and some of the more exuberant elfkin had begun to dance.
“That’s right, he was,” said Pendragon, chuckling. “So he was three hours late and his kill was dripping blood all over the floor. The look on my father’s face was priceless. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted. My brother looked at Liam and threw the dead deer right in front of him, splattering his fancy clothes in deer blood. Lazarus was braver than he was smart.”
“Quite the statement-maker, your brother,” said Evrill. “But I don’t think your father would have been mad if Lazarus hadn’t slipped in the blood.”