Sins of a Sovereignty (Amernia Fallen Book 1)

by Plague Jack

  “And pulled the tablecloth off the table as he fell.” Pendragon and Evrill both laughed now at the memory. “And then lain in the mess and start eating chicken wings off the floor until father had him dragged away. I miss Lazarus. Pity the plague got him.”

  “What ever happened to Liam?” asked Evrill.

  “I heard he died at sea, but who knows?” Pendragon shrugged. The gilnoid violinist played a slow, sad song and a few couples had begun to dance, slowly getting lost in each other’s eyes.

  Evrill stood and grabbed Pendragon’s hand. “Let’s join them.”

  “Why not?” said Pendragon, standing. Thanks for the liquid courage, Salus. He put a hand on Evrill’s waist as they joined the crowd and became invisible. “You lead.”

  “Has it been a while for you?” asked Evrill.

  “Only about…twenty years. I’ve felt more alive in the past few months than I have since the Green War.”

  “Me too.” She smiled. “It’s good to break the routine and have another adventure.”

  “For the first time since the Green War, I’ve wanted to live again.”

  Evrill leaned in and kissed him lightly through his beard, and Pendragon kissed back, putting butterflies in his old stomach. Evrill leaned away. “When this is done, Clark, you should leave your estate behind and come live with me at Harpy’s Point.”

  “I… I think I’d like that,” said Pendragon, and they danced until the music stopped.

  Pendragon wore Kaevin’s shield upon his back as he traveled south, making it through the Nixus fields in less than a day. He stopped again in the ruins of the church and took a moment to look back at Capricorn, her white spires jutting in the distance. “Goodbye, Capricorn,” he said with a salute. “We won’t meet again.”

  Chapter 9

  Death is not enough of a punishment for the crimes Darius committed. I want him killed and I want the body desecrated. Do you understand me, O’Connor?

  —Sir Clark Pendragon

  Shrike awoke to the sound of banging on his door, just as he had every morning for the past two weeks. At the noise, the sprites he had smuggled with him from Nurse Joy’s spy chamber screamed and shrieked from inside their cage. He got dressed and made sure to count his hatchets as he tucked them into his coat. Again the door shook with a loud bang, and Shrike answered it to find Mordigan, his massive, armored body filling the door frame. “Good morning, beautiful,” Shrike greeted him.

  The gilnoid scratched the holes where his nose had been before blue crystal abuse rotted it away. Mordigan was hideous even by gilnoid standards. “I bring toast,” he said, pushing a plate forward into the dwarf’s hands, “and roasted hen.”

  “I much prefer cock,” said Shrike dryly.

  “It’s good meat,” said Mordigan, missing the joke entirely. “Chicken is chicken.”

  “I’m inclined to disagree,” said Shrike, taking the plate and plopping himself down on the bed. Mordigan had been placed in charge of Shrike since Pendragon’s departure. Shrike had been given permission to go anywhere in the tunnels he pleased, as long as Mordigan never left his side. The door to his room was bolted shut from the outside at nighttime and unlocked in the morning. He was a prisoner, albeit—for now—a pampered one.

  Two weeks, thought Shrike as he finished his breakfast. Too long without seeing sunlight. “Mordigan!” he snapped to get the gilnoid’s attention. “Would our dear leader mind if we went up to the surface today? Even dwarfs get claustrophobic with time.”

  “No,” said Mordigan. “Orders say we can’t. Must always obey his orders.”

  I wonder if the crystal made him more obedient or just cooked his brain. To the dwarf’s surprise he had been largely ignored by Salus, who had instead turned his attentions to planning the siege of Norfield. This made Shrike anxious as he knew he would be called upon, but didn’t know when. I feel like a pig in a pen, waiting to be slaughtered. Shrike had brooded during the first week. He had managed himself better during the second and had begun devoting his time to exploring as much of the halls under Capricorn as he could. “Where shall we explore today?” Shrike asked.

  Mordigan shrugged, bored. “Been everywhere. Done everything. Them tunnels run big, but they still run out quick.”

  “Yes, yes they do.” Unlike the surface. The surface is big and beautiful and open and endless… “Perhaps we’ll have to see what trouble we can get ourselves into,” he said, tossing the empty plate onto the pillows. “Come along, then.”

  They left Shrike’s room and entered the long hall of matching doors. Although Shrike’s was the only room that could be bolted shut from the outside, Shrike had the sneaking suspicion that these rooms had once been prison cells in a darker age. Now they were assigned to members of the Wild Hunt deemed valuable. The room to the left of Shrike’s was occupied by a dwarf banker whose bank had been burned down during the Norfield riots. To his right slept a nocturnal elf couple whom he had never seen but whose nightly noises kept him uncomfortably awake at night.

  The Hall of the Gods had been turned from impromptu courtroom to makeshift marketplace. It was here that the Hunt was conducting their trade. It was the place to go if you needed an extra ration or a whore for the night. The god statues oversaw the transactions, their hollow eyes staring almost inquisitively.

  “How much for a jar of absinthe?” Shrike asked a legless faeling merchant who was selling drugs from a tattered old tent he had scavenged.

  “Twenty silver,” he replied, smiling wide to reveal a mouth of sharp white teeth.

  “Twenty Silver?” scoffed Shrike. “I found a guy who was selling it for ten.”

  “No,” said the undoctored faeling. “No, you didn’t. I’m the only drug seller here. That’ll be twenty silver.”

  Shrike reached into his pockets and found only lint. “You got any coin, Mordigan?” The gilnoid shook his head. “Do you know who I am?” asked Shrike

  “Aye,” said the child man, “you’re that dwarf that buggered Darius with his spear.” He spat at Shrike’s feet. “You’re a traitor to your own people.”

  “Depends on who you call my people,” said Shrike. “But Salus has some interest in me.” He turned towards Mordigan. “Mordigan, raise your hammer above this gentleman’s head.” The gilnoid’s eyes darted back and forth with indecision. “Do it or I’ll escape and you’ll get dumped into a heap of trouble.” The fear of a reprimand was all the motivation Mordigan needed to raise his maul above the faeling’s head. “Now, I’ll be taking that absinthe,” said Shrike, taking a bottle from the drug dealer’s stand, “unless you want my friend here to squash you into a puddle. How many blows do you think it would take, Mordigan?”

  “Just one,” said the gilnoid.

  “Just one,” repeated Shrike, taking the absinthe and looking over the cart again before greedily grabbing a bottle of vodka. “Have a good day.” They left the drug seller, who slung a string of curses at them as they departed.

  “You drink the green fairy?” asked Mordigan.

  “Nope,” said Shrike. “I’ve never touched drink, nor crystals, but it’s always good to have a bribe on hand.”

  A pair of guards stood watch under the Nemesis statue, wrapped in their cloaks of verdant green. Shrike nodded at them as he passed, and they stared back coldly from the darkness of their helmets. Mordigan and Shrike descended one of the staircases that flanked Nemesis’s twisted visage. Down they went, and soon the hustle and bustle of the market was replaced with the sound of hammer upon hot metal.

  Dwarf and elf craftsmen worked tirelessly, forging armor, blades, and arrowheads for the coming battle. “Work faster, all of you!” screamed Kaevin as the burnt dwarf limped around the room, inspecting the work of his fellows with a perfectionist’s eye. “We will be marching in less than twenty-three hours. That means we officially have less than a day to get everything we need done. Salus is expecting at least seven thousand arrows. You are not going to disappoint!” he shouted, his voice somehow managing to pen
etrate the constant screams of metal being cooled and the sound of steel being folded with tongs and hammer.

  “I have a present for you,” said Shrike as he approached the master smith, vodka in hand. “For the pain.”

  Kaevin took the bottle and, after removing the cork with his teeth, took a heavy swig. “What do you want?” he asked, leaning on his cane and scratching the scalded half of his face.

  In response, Shrike opened his coat to reveal the rows of silver-handled hatchets. “I need to have these reinforced and sharpened.”

  “I shouldn’t,” said Kaevin as he took another long swig. “But fuck it—why not?” he continued as alcohol dripped down through the white beard that still covered half his face. “Come back in a few hours. They’ll be ready.”

  “Can I have some absinthe?” asked Mordigan as they left the forge dome to wander the passages.

  “What will I get in return?” asked Shrike as they traversed the tunnels to find a massive oaken door under a heavy stone arch. Nemesis’s image was carved into the keystone. The seventh god had no eyes, unlike his kin. Instead his exposed brains ran down his face and stopped at his bony cheekbones. A pointed nose perched over sharp, lipless teeth.

  Why, of all the gods, is Nemesis the only one with a proper face? Shrike asked himself. This particular door had been locked every day for the past two weeks, and every morning, just after breakfast, Shrike would attempt to force it open. Today proved to be his lucky day. The doors opened easily with a heave and a moan.

  They entered to find themselves at the top of a stone amphitheater lit by a ring of torches. Strapped to a medical table and sliced open was what Shrike hoped was a faeling and not a child. There were three figures peering into the faeling’s body cavity. The first was tall with a broad build. Salus. The second was a woman with a body of sharp corners whom Shrike recognized as Evrill. The third figure was slender and shorter even than Shrike. A faeling, thought Shrike as the figure turned, revealing bloodied surgeon’s scrubs, her face obscured by a mask. The door closed behind Shrike with a bang and the trio turned around all at once.

  “Am I interrupting one of your sex games,” asked Shrike, who was met with Evrill’s glare. Damn that woman and her confounded glares, he thought to himself. I wish Pendragon was here. I bet I could talk him into pulling out that stick she keeps shoved up her ass.

  “Mr. O’Connor!” said Salus jovially.

  He always says everything happily, that one. Just another reason Shrike had to hate him.

  “We were just discussing a topic that you may have some interest in. Come closer.” The handsome elf beckoned him forward and Shrike followed.

  The dwarf took a spot around the medical table, while Mordigan stayed behind and took a seat in the middle of the amphitheater. “As I was saying,” said the faeling doctor, standing upon a stool to see over the table, “the retractable claws have been removed from the fingertips.” She gestured to a bloody bowl where the claws were unceremoniously piled. “A pity, really,” continued the faeling, “but we can’t risk any slip-ups. She must be identical to the human younglings.” The surgeon nodded at Evrill.

  “Stolk’s spent plenty of time up close with faelings, and he’ll know just what to look for. If his lusts demand human children we must trick him into thinking he has a human child. The doctoring must be flawless.”

  “And what if he sees through the surgery, Dr. Hemlin?” asked Evrill.

  “He won’t,” said Salus. “Hemlin here is a master of cosmetic alteration.”

  Hemlin, thought Shrike. The name Hemlin had been notorious during the Green War. Hemlin had been among the first of the faelings given sentience by the elves. This first generation had been nicknamed Darius’s Children, and by all accounts, they were the most heinous of war criminals. But then again, who isn’t these days?

  “I am,” said Hemlin, her voice soft and calm. “I promise you he won’t be able to tell the difference. In addition to the removal of the claws, the ears have been rounded. Ocular surgery proved difficult, and to be quite honest I thought I’d blinded her when I removed the reflective lenses and her nictitating membrane,” she said, poking at the blindfold across the unconscious faeling’s eyes. “No more night vision for this one.”

  “I would love to see your notes on ocular operation, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Evrill. “I’m curious as to how you removed the second lens without damaging the first.”

  Shrike pushed up the patient’s lip with a gloved finger, revealing the new set of small, flat teeth. “If Stolk’s going to be getting close to our sleeping friend here, won’t he notice the scars from the surgery? How do you plan to hide them?”

  “Evrill has developed a concoction to help with that,” said Salus. “It seems she can make just about anything out of plants and worm guts.”

  “So is the sleeper a spy or an assassin?” asked Shrike.

  “Assassin,” said Salus. “Jario Stolk has controlled the Bysmal Swamp and the Whitewood for far too long. His deviancy is renowned, as are the crimes he commits against the people of Sinstolke. Another atrocity enabled by the powers that be. The Stolk family has terrorized Amernia since the country was colonized by the Vaetorians. It’s high time someone put them down.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Shrike. “Stolk has plenty of bastards but no legitimate heir. But although he deserves to die impaled on a spear, killing him may inspire another fresh batch of race riots. Amernia doesn’t need a repeat of Norfield.”

  “Norfield won’t happen again,” said Salus. “We’re being more cautious.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” said Shrike. He could feel Salus’s anger brewing beneath the surface and he enjoyed it. “You can’t just go around killing all the evil humans and expect everything to get better. Those vile men are the dam that hold back anarchy. Remove them and chaos will flow.”

  “Do not lecture me as if I were a child,” snapped Salus, his eyes cold. “Sinstolke is being handled delicately. Dr. Hemlin, please excuse us, we have a meeting to attend.”

  The faeling nodded and reached for a needle and twine. “Very well,” she said. “Visit me when you are done. It will be time to wake the patient.” Hemlin bent down to grab something tucked away under the table. “And here, Evrill, take my notes on ocular operation. You may learn something new.”

  Evrill took the thin moleskin notebook from the faeling and brushed the dust off its cover with delicate fingers. “Thank you, Dr. Hemlin,” she said with a polite nod. “Please let me know if you need more healing potions.”

  “I won’t,” said Hemlin. “My kind’s accelerated healing should clean up whatever your chemicals fail to.”

  “Calcifer and Pierah are waiting in the war room,” said Salus. “And I’m afraid if we don’t hurry they may bring the walls down around our ears.”

  “Oh?” asked Shrike with a raised eyebrow. “Are the ideological differences too much to bear?”

  Evrill smiled. “Thus far, their interactions consist of mutual provocation.”

  “Adorable,” said Shrike. He could hear muffled arguing from the war room’s tightly sealed door.

  “Salus,” said Mordigan from the stands. “If you don’t mind, maybe I could stay here and watch the doctor work?”

  Salus sighed and rubbed his temples. “You have sinister interests, Mordigan… But, fine, you can stay here. Mr. O’Connor, you are coming with us.”

  An odd choice, inviting someone you don’t trust to a war meeting, thought Shrike, unless there’s something you want them to see… “Is refusing to participate an option?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Salus, opening a side door along the floor of the amphitheater. Shrike followed Evrill into the war room. It could have once been a storeroom. The ceiling was arched and the sides of the chamber curved downwards. The walls at the back and front were half-moons, tilted upon their sides. As they approached the circular iron ring table at the room’s center, the dancing light from the torches revealed the elab
orate painting that covered the far wall.

  There was no mistaking the handsome elf in full plate, who triumphantly led an army of elfkin, as anyone other than Salus. His cloak of deep green billowed in the wind while a storm of flaming arrows raged above him toward a fleeing army wearing the colors of the five great houses. “Chima’s work,” said Salus. “Her grasp on reality is fragile at best, but give her a paintbrush and she can paint wonders.”

  “For your ego,” said Shrike. But Salus ignored him to take a seat at the round table.

  Pierah sat on one side. She had removed her yellow turban, revealing a scalp of thick blond hair that tumbled to one side. She has big eyes. Some might find her pretty. I wonder if Calcifer’s noticed.

  “You selfish bitch,” said Calcifer, who sat opposite Pierah. “Do you have any idea what those girls are going to have to go through?”

  Pierah laughed and put her feet up on the table. “Yes Bottler, we’ve been selling whores to Norfield. But none have been forced, and all understand the risks involved. Have you become so bored since defeating all the hellions that you’ve decided to declare yourself protector of the working girls? Do not claim to understand the problems of women, you little boy, or you’ll only make an ass out of yourself.”

  Before Calcifer could sling a retort he was interrupted by Evrill, who placed a hand on his shoulder and took a seat beside him. “Norfield has never been taken,” said Evrill. “And I have never seen a city taken by full frontal assault. Pierah’s girls are there to spy until the Wild Hunt arrives and then to open the gates for them. They are absolutely crucial to the battle. It’s a necessary evil that is being asked of them, Calcifer. Please try to understand that.”

  “Necessary evil. A slogan used by those who are conditioned and enabled to accept their own weaknesses.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Shrike as he took a seat beside Calcifer. “But not everyone can be like you. The common man is not born with wits and given gifts from the gods.”

  “Enough of this,” said Salus, who stood with his hands on the table. “Calcifer, you need to understand that this world is ugly, and ugly things are frequently required of its people. And as for you, Pierah,” he said, turning to his associate, “it would be wise for you to refrain from provoking our guest. Poke a bear with a stick and you are guaranteed to get bitten.”