by David Benem
“The Faith is still sacrosanct within these walls, Chamberlain. It is through the Faith that the High King’s power—and yours—is granted.”
The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed, his smile one of bemusement. “Do you recite these platitudes for my benefit, or for your own?” He clucked his tongue, chiding. “It must be a difficult thing, clinging to old beliefs no one else shares, knowing your kind is widely regarded as doddering old fools.” He drew closer, and his voice dipped to little more than a whisper. “There are times, Prefect, when old branches must be pruned, so that newer ones can thrive. Now is such a time.”
Gamghast straightened his spine, bringing his eyes level with the chamberlain’s. “Mine is a sacred calling.” He dug into his robe and produced a sealed scroll and shook it before him in a fist, nearly smacking it against the chamberlain’s smoothly shaven cheek. “This is my warrant, signed by High King Deragol himself on the very day he ascended to the throne. I need not your permission to call upon him!”
The chamberlain was a picture of calm and the thin smile did not leave his face. He breathed deeply before speaking. “You can dispense with the histrionics, Prefect. I, for one, believe your Sanctum meddles in dark magics behind a convenient veneer of religion. I can think of no greater hypocrisy than yours.” He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves and his shoulders sagged. “That said, who am I, a mere steward, to deny your task?” He bowed, gesturing to the hallway to his right. “This way, my dear Prefect.”
The throne room of the High King was as impressive a thing as Gamghast had ever beheld. It was a massive, circular expanse, at least a hundred feet in diameter, with great buttresses ringing the round of the wall and meeting somewhere far above to form a domed ceiling. The granite floor was leaden in hue and cast with a map of inlaid gold portraying the whole of the known world, with the kingdom of Rune at its center. The gold inlay glowed, reflecting the light of innumerable, aromatic candles lining the chamber’s edge. There were no windows to be seen, and there was the smoke of incense hanging in a low haze. The heavy scent caused a catch in the back of Gamghast’s throat and he coughed.
At the room’s far end stood a dais, at least six feet in height and perhaps four times that wide, atop which was the throne. It was a tall chair of ivory, and the Old Faith instructed it was formed from shards of bone pulled from the mortal shell of the dead goddess Illienne the Light Eternal. The throne sat empty now, yet the power of the Crown was palpable in its place.
“This is your first time here?” Chamberlain Alamis asked, thumbing the cleft of his chin. “Ah. Of course it is. I apologize. I forget you are only a prefect, accustomed as I am to dealing with people of more… significance.”
Gamghast let the comment pass. Engaging him now serves no purpose, and only augments the dangers of my task. He avoided the chamberlain’s pale eyes, focusing instead on the room’s wall. Ancient relics and treasures of great value adorned the wall, just beyond the ring of candlelight. Antiquities from as far back as the War of Fates, when the gods Illienne and Yrghul descended to oblivion and left the world to men. Swords, shields, and articles of clothing from great and powerful figures.
Alamis paused as though to allow the room’s grandeur to weigh upon the prefect. He fiddled with a button at his collar before setting off toward the throne with long strides. “This way is the throne, Prefect.”
Gamghast followed, gathering his robes from his ankles in a fist as he struggled to match the tall man’s pace. As he walked he could not help but study the inlaid map decorating the granite floor. He moved northward according to the map’s orientation, from the vast desert wastes at the world’s ending, through the uncharted jungles of Rimgald to its pirate-infested coast, across the narrow stretch of the Ebony Sea, through the Bowl of Fire, into exotic Khaldisia along its border with fierce Arranan, near Arranan’s ancient city of Zyn, home of its secretive Spider King. In a few more strides he was crossing the peaks of the Southwall Mountains, and as he did he reckoned countless Arranese warriors were doing the same at that place in the world. Then he was within Rune, across her old forests and into the holds of the thanes. Through the southern holds he crossed, then to Ironmoor and north to the hold of Farwatch. He glanced to the map’s east and saw the island kingdom of Tallorrath and farther still the glint of proud Harkane, its honor-bound people ever at war. Onward he walked, through the high countries and mist-covered Stormfall, hold of Thane Brandiss, then to Rune’s vague border with the untamed highlands, then at last the Waters of World’s End.
At the head of it all, upon the crown of the world, was the foot of the great dais and the throne of the High King.
The chamberlain came to a stop a few feet away from the first stair of the dais. “The throne of Rune’s High King,” he said, his voice rising to fill the great hall, “The seat of the entire world’s dominion for a thousand years. Imagine,” he said, his tone longing, “all the kings and warlords and thanes who’ve bent their knees before this chair to lick the boots of the High King. Think of all the great powers emasculated in the shadow of this seat.”
“Or,” Gamghast said, eyeing the throne, “from another perspective, all of the ways in which Illienne’s blessing has manifested, and the righteousness it has worked through imperfect instruments.”
Alamis moved closer to the dais, and then ascended several steps. “That is what your faith instructs, is it? That a dead god blessed a line of kings, and it is by virtue of that they continue to rule? How quaint. How convenient.” He shook his head and smirked before taking another few steps upward, more than halfway to the throne. “A fine story for children, perhaps, but I prefer to believe things are thus only through the art of taking. Whether by force or compact or swindle, Rune has taken. It has taken and thus it has reigned.” He ascended the final steps and stood next to the throne, stroking the ivory armrest. “Who is to say Rune cannot have power taken from it?”
“Those are perilous words, Chamberlain,” Gamghast said, clearing his throat of the tickle of incense.
Alamis smiled and eased into the seat of the throne, tapping the armrests. “Are they? Perhaps they are, but it is not my ambition I imply. It is yours.”
“Nonsense,” Gamghast said, clearing his throat again. He looked about the chamber and noted they were entirely alone. “Chamberlain, I am here by sacred warrant to speak with High King Deragol. I have no time to waste in parley with you.”
“Oh, I disagree, Prefect. I think you will find we have need for much discussion, and those discussions have only begun. With things being such, I would urge you to speak honestly. The matter of your treason could be more gently regarded with an earnest confession.”
“Treason?” Gamghast coughed and pounded the butt of his staff against the floor, causing it to shiver in his hand. “That is an odd charge coming from you, Chamberlain.”
The chamberlain leaned forward in the throne. “I am a shrewd man, but I would not have guessed you’d be so bold as to come charging into the Bastion, brandishing that wrinkled old scroll. I had thought to level these accusations in a more formal manner, but your brash request to see the High King compels me to act.”
Gamghast shook with anger and he tugged at his white beard. “This talk is no more than drivel. Now bring me to the High King!”
Alamis abruptly stood and his countenance darkened. “It is I!” he shouted, the sound reverberating through the massive hall. “It is I who commands the throne! It is I who rules in the stead of our mad king! And it is I who accuses your order of high treason!”
“We serve the High King!” Gamghast roared, taking a stride up the dais. “Your charges are rubbish, and by inventing them you cast dishonor upon the Lector’s death!”
Alamis’s eyes seethed as he looked upon Gamghast from the top of the dais. “Do not dare attempt to deceive me, Prefect. I have many eyes and many ears. Missives can be intercepted, and even the quietest discussions overheard.”
Gamghast spat on the ground and turned to take his leave. �
�You have overstepped your station, Chamberlain. There are others on the council who will honor my request.”
“Prefect! I have not dismissed you.”
Gamghast turned, readying a response, but paused when he noticed the chamberlain withdrawing a note from within his blue garment.
Alamis held the note before him, an accusation. “I have proof, written in the Lector’s own hand. A plea to the Sentinels that they return to Rune, ready to make war.” He shook his head. “Most believe the Sentinels vanished long ago, but we know better, don’t we, Prefect?”
What does he know? Could he know the Lector’s true identity?
“Your Lector’s actions stand in direct violation of the ancient edict banishing the Sentinels from Rune. He was summoning them! The Sentinels, the very ones who tried to usurp the throne those many years ago! Has your Sanctum grown so bold as to believe you can ignore history and the rule of law? To believe you can draw old traitors within our walls?”
Gamghast breathed deeply. “The Lector served the High King, just as all members of the Sanctum are bound by faith to do. I am most certain he acted in defense of Rune. If he called for the aid of what were once our greatest heroes, then the question is why? I would gladly offer my assistance to your investigation, as the Lector’s actions clearly speak of an urgent danger to us all.”
“Strange,” Alamis said, inspecting the note. “If your Lector was acting in defense of Rune, why then was the message intended for Zyn? Why was it being sent to the capital of Arranan, the very nation with which we are at war?” He leveled his eyes at Gamghast. “Your Lector meant to betray us all.”
What could this mean?
The chamberlain began descending the dais. “Lector Erlorn not only disregarded the edict of banishment, but he sent word to Rune’s most ancient traitors, summoning them to battle. And now, as though on cue, Arranan invades our borders! Your Sanctum has grown so mad with ambition that it has chosen an alliance with Rune’s enemies, and invited this invasion.” He tucked the note within his robe. “If I so choose, I could have every member of your sad order arrested and executed for treason. Do you wish to press me on this, Prefect?”
Gamghast’s face sagged. “Chamberlain, you have me at a disadvantage. I am willing to assist you, if you’d just allow me to inspect the note.”
Chamberlain Alamis descended the last stair and came close to Gamghast. “Every man who deals with me is at a disadvantage, Prefect. Rune bows to the banner of the High King, but I am the true ruler of this realm. Mine may not be the head that wears the crown, but mine is the fist that wields the power. You and your kind will stay clear of the Bastion. The days of your meddling with the High King are at an end.”
Gamghast realized his mouth had fallen open and he snapped it shut. “But… It is our holy charge. Our reason for being.”
Alamis smiled wickedly. “Ah, my dear, pathetic Prefect. I pity you. It is always a shame when the old realize they are no longer needed. You can almost see the life drain from their eyes when they realize the workings of the world have passed to younger, more capable hands. Stay clear of this place, Prefect. Stay out of the way.” He brushed a finger against the Gamghast’s shoulder, as though removing lint. “Pass quietly into the night.”
14
FEAR
FENCRESS FALLCROW GUIDED her skinny gray mare along the tree-darkened path which ran atop the bank of a shallow stream. The water ran noisily, making conversation difficult. But then, none of them had spoken much at all since they’d fled Raven’s Roost two days before.
She rode at the rear of the company, just behind Drenj and Paddyn. She smiled wryly as she watched them. The two swayed slump-shouldered and silent in their saddles, not daring to exchange even glances, as though they struggled mightily with something in their souls. Ah, the difficult moral conundrums of killers.
At the group’s lead, perhaps thirty or so feet ahead, rode Karnag. His broad back seemed a fortress wall, adamant and impregnable, and the weapons slung across it served a grave warning. Fencress had always held profound respect for the highlander’s skills in combat, but now there was something else mingled with those feelings. Fear.
She tugged at the black leather of her cowl to bring it low over her brow, hiding her blue eyes in shadow. She had a knack for gambling, and her many games of deadman’s dice had taught her much could be learned from the eyes. It’d be best if Karnag couldn’t read hers.
Fencress reckoned she’d killed more than a hundred men. She’d killed folk of all sorts, from deadbeat debtors to petty royalty, from simple farmhands to warriors of great renown. She’d killed with blades, axes, fire, poison, and even a pot of boiling rabbit stew. Most of those killings had been at a close, almost intimate distance, such that she’d been able to watch the life drain from the eyes of the dying. Yet, she’d never seen a man die in a fashion remotely like the horse trader in Raven’s Roost.
Fencress had heard of rare magic, as well. The old tales told of great sorcerers wielding the fires of the dead gods, speaking with the dead, and moving in ways unseen. It was rumored the old codgers of the Sanctum could heal the sick by prayer alone, and summon the lost spirit of Illienne to aid in their protection. But those tales were of sorcerers and spookers, folk who pored over dusty books and arcane objects in studies lasting decades before such secrets could be plied. How could Karnag command such a power?
She’d poked at his memory with countless, cynical challenges, but she could no longer question what she’d seen. Karnag had ripped a man apart, from cock to crown, with nary more than a word.
Fencress had sensed a change in the man even since they’d massacred the Lector and his men. Karnag seemed set with a grim purpose, and the taking of lives was no longer a means to a greater end but an end unto itself.
Fencress’s horse stopped suddenly, uncertain how to navigate a jumble of tree roots stretching from an old poplar to the creek below. Fencress scratched the space between the mare’s ears and patted her neck, encouraging, and after a tremulous step she was across the obstruction and on the trail once more.
“It’s alright, girl,” she said. “The path is frightening to us all.”
That night they found a clearing atop a rise and made camp in silence. Karnag chose a spot near the campfire, where he sat motionless and stared at the flames. Fencress and the rest gave him a wide berth, choosing to remain within their tents or near the horses.
For what she knew was overlong, Fencress tended to her mare, picking barbs and bugs from her mane and feeding her chunks of a bruised apple Fencress had found discarded on the path. In truth, she was wary of being near the highlander, and didn’t fancy the thought of the fellow’s conversation. She turned from his horse and saw Karnag’s silhouette atop the rise and aside the fire, and couldn’t help but finger the religious totem—the rough, wooden carving of Illienne’s golden sun—dangling from her throat.
She thought of the look in Karnag’s eyes just after they’d left Raven’s Roost, just after he’d killed the horse trader. They hadn’t been the eyes of her old friend. Instead, those gray eyes had been lifeless, as though the soul no longer lit them. She’d seen the eyes of cold-blooded killers, even in the mirror at times, but this was a different gaze. The look of the dead.
“Your horse is as clean as the day she tumbled from the womb,” came a quiet voice in the darkness.
Fencress whirled about, her hand finding the hilt of one of her twin blades and pulling the weapon loose. There was Drenj, standing on the other side of the horse and scratching its shoulder with his long fingers.
“You just nearly lost that hand,” hissed Fencress, sliding the weapon back into its sheath.
The Khaldisian nodded his head toward the rise. “You and I should speak.”
Fencress walked to the other side of the horse to stand beside Drenj. “Carefully, Khaldisian,” she whispered. “After what we’ve witnessed, I’d reckon any talk among us that doesn’t include Karnag would be viewed as conspiracy.”
“That is inviting death. I’ve known Karnag for years, ever since…” she said, her voice trailing off. She’d known Karnag for a dozen years, ever since he’d killed three bastards trying to have their way with her after catching her drunk and unarmed in Riverweave’s slums. She paused. The young Khaldisian hadn’t earned the right to know that. She held his eyes with a steady look. “He’d kill you for such a thing even if he were right in the head, which he isn’t now. Haven’t you seen how he’s changed?”
“I have seen how he’s changed!” he hissed. “And that is precisely why we must be rid of him. It is inviting death to stay at his side.” He shook his head, eyes downcast. “I have followed him only for the coin, but even that has lost meaning in his shadow. He’s unstable, Fencress. He has made me terrified of the night.”
Fencress nodded, for she knew of what the Khaldisian spoke. Karnag’s sleep, if it could be called that, was tortured, and the highlander whispered incessantly in a strange tongue while he slumbered. The night before, he’d screamed out in seeming terror, shrieking madly at some unseen horror.
Drenj shivered, as though shaking off a chill. “He will kill Tream, and cover the town in his blood. But what else? What other havoc will he wreak? Who knows how many others will die in the wake of those deeds, how many others will be caused to seek revenge upon him? ‘Dark work brings dark rewards,’ they say in Raven’s Roost. The place at his side is a dangerous one.”
“Perhaps,” Fencress said, frowning. “But of all the enemies we could have right now, he may be the very worst of them.”
Drenj was silent for a moment, scratching the horse absentmindedly. “You may be right, Fencress, but he won’t stop with Tream.”