What Remains of Heroes

by David Benem

  Gamghast frowned. “It is said Castor chooses his vessel upon death. There is always a design, always a purpose behind his choice. Some talent possessed by the person whose body he decides to inhabit, some characteristic enabling him to rise to the challenge of the times. What if this beast, as you call him, was best suited to Castor’s purpose? We could be thwarting a divine plan at the most critical of moments.”

  Merek snorted. “He had no choice this time, Prefect. He possessed this murderer because there was no one else in his own company left alive. Castor’s soul is imprisoned by this man, and only by setting him free will he be able to help us fight our enemy.”

  Gamghast was quiet for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain. If only I knew your will, Castor. But we are merely men, and can do no more than our best. He pushed away from the table. “We will begin at first light tomorrow. It’s said Illienne’s power is strongest then, just as the sun breaks the night. Perhaps her wisdom will shine more brightly upon us, then.”

  “You needn’t doubt me, Prefect. My order has gifts as well, and I know this man’s deeds have not been those of Castor. We must relieve him of the spirit, but it will not be an easy thing. There are others to assist us, yes?”

  “Yes, those who know the truth of the Lector’s identity. Prefects Borel and Kreer, and of course the Dictorian. They’re already researching the Rites of Excision. We’ll meet you at dawn.”

  Merek looked at him grimly. “I’ll bring my sword.” With a sweep of his green cloak he left the room, and the door rattled shut behind him.

  Gamghast turned again to the bleak, featureless sky. Such little light shines upon us in such days.

  Gamghast tiptoed down the narrow stairs, hoping somewhere there were answers. The stairway led to an antechamber, at the far end of which stood an ironbound door fastened with many locks. Beside the door was a desk, where sat Prefect Borel studying a yellowed tome. The rotund prefect looked up as Gamghast approached, his jowls seeming to threaten to pull his face back into the book at any moment.

  “He hasn’t stirred,” said Borel, his voice tremulous. “I haven’t gone in there, though. He seems… unsafe.”

  Gamghast nodded. “Then you believe Merek?”

  “This man is likely not a medium Castor would have chosen. Thus, it does seem the spirit was stolen.” He tapped the page of his book. “This is a register of every Lector of the Sanctum since our order was founded eight hundred and twenty six years ago. There is not a single hint of misdeed, malice or murder. Every Lector was a model of the peaceful pursuit of wisdom, a subtle and secret rudder for the High King.”

  “Were their times as dire as those we now face? Could it be Castor never before saw a need to become something more… visceral?”

  “That’s desperate logic, Gamghast. You know what kind of man Lector Erlorn was, what kind of soul was Castor. This thing Merek has brought us is nothing like that. Think this through. If we do nothing, and assume this was all part of Castor’s plan, we risk a war against our most terrible foes without the crucial aid of our Sentinel. And if we take action and remove the spirit from this man, and it turns out we are wrong? Is it not reasonable to assume Castor would find another host? One among our number?”

  “Such a thing has never been done, Borel. We know not the consequences of displacing the spirit.”

  “But you can imagine the consequences if Merek is right, and we fail to take action?”

  “Perhaps,” Gamghast said, looking toward the ironbound door. “Yet I cannot help but doubt.”

  Borel closed his book with a thump, sending forth a cascade of dust. “Such is the curse of every mortal.”

  Gamghast tugged at his beard and made his decision. “Open the door.”

  Borel raised his brow. “You don’t mean to speak with him? To test the spirit yourself? It’s unwise for us to be in this man’s presence without all the support we can muster. We should wait until morning.”

  “Open it.”

  Borel huffed and fumbled with a ring of long keys. The locks scraped and squealed as they turned, sounding as though it’d been ages since they were last used. At last all that remained was a great bar of iron across the door’s middle. Borel tapped a crank at the bar’s center. “You’re certain of this?”

  “No one, not even a Variden, will instruct us in the ways of our master. If we are to intervene it will be by our own choosing, not at the urging of another.”

  “Very well, but I’ll not dare go with you.” Borel paused before placing his hands on the crank. He struggled to turn it, but finally it moved with a dull clank and the door creaked open. “May Illienne guide our hands.”

  Gamghast pressed through the door and entered the Abbey’s ancient crypt. It was a vast chamber, its gloom yielding little to the candles lit along its walls and its stagnant air smelling of death. He flinched as the door clanged shut behind him.

  He remained still, peering toward the room’s sunken center. The breath caught in his throat as his vision adjusted and the scene before him became clear.

  There, bound against the brick floor by heavy chains, was the man Merek had captured, the man who carried the spirit of Castor. Karnag Mak Ragg. A highlander. A warrior. A murderer.

  Gamghast crept alongside the old stones of the wall, feeling it best to keep his distance. His hand brushed along the wall’s many hollows containing the bones of revered members of the Sanctum long dead. There were among them many Lectors, or rather former bodies of Castor. All of the Lectors had been pious figures who’d guided the Sanctum toward a deeper understanding, a deeper wisdom. All so different from this man.

  The highlander remained motionless, save for the swells of his broad back as he drew breath. He was a massive man, certainly a most dangerous sort even without the spirit of a Sentinel within him, and Gamghast found himself thankful for Merek’s insistence he be held in chains.

  Gamghast took a step forward. He paused for a moment, fearing any reaction from the highlander but there came none. He took another step and then another, and soon came within mere feet of the assassin. He squeezed shut his eyes. “Castor?” he whispered.

  A slow exhale was the only reply. Gamghast opened his eyes to a squint and studied the man. The highlander knelt before him, bowed low to the floor and wrapped in black iron. His skin shimmered in the candlelight, much of it stained a dark red. His tangle of black braids was covered in filth, seemingly bits of bone and gristle. His powerful arms, pressed out against the bricks, were covered with silvered scars from what Gamghast guessed were many terrible wounds.

  Can this be Castor’s vessel?

  “Castor?” he said, just louder than a whisper.

  The highlander made a soft sound, a whimper. Gamghast eased back. It seemed to him the man’s breathing was deepening, the rises of his back growing.

  “Castor? Is this you? Is this the form you’ve chosen?”

  Suddenly the highlander’s hands drew into fists, thick veins stretching against the skin. There was a growl and his shoulders flexed and his chains rang.

  “Speak!” Gamghast urged. “Tell me, Castor, what must we do?”

  The highlander struggled against his chains but after a time settled. There came then from him a murmuring, a slurred burble of sounds. Gamghast leaned forward, trying to make some sense of it.

  “Necrista traellus,” hissed the highlander, “a abridalusi Yrghul y ogo alliata. Illienne cradus e Warduren renden e sallem orn argo apocha.”

  Gamghast pressed a hand to his lips and nearly stumbled. Is this Castor’s confession? Dare we displace the spirit?

  The highlander struggled again against the chains. He raised his head and spoke once more. “Necrista traellus a abridalusi Yrghul y ogo alliata. Illienne cradus e Warduren renden e sallem orn argo apocha.”

  Gamghast’s head spun, his thoughts wrestling with the awful meaning of the words. The Necrists move to summon Yrghul’s power and have found a powerful ally. Illienne commands the remaining Sentinels be summoned t
o honor their oath before all is lost.

  He shuddered, knowing the words had to be Castor’s confession, that secret truth sent from Illienne herself. It seemed then the whole of the world suddenly depended upon the desperate decisions of his order. Our old enemy works to wield the power of the Lord of Nightmares. Dare we chance interfering with what might be Castor’s plan? He rushed forward and placed a hand upon Karnag’s sweaty brow.

  Karnag eased at Gamghast’s touch, his scarred form seeming to accept its chains.

  “Castor,” Gamghast said, relieved. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  “It is I,” came a throaty utterance from the highlander. “And it is another.”

  “Who, then? Is this your plan, Castor? Must we destroy this vessel to allow your spirit to pass to one of our order?”

  Gamghast waited for many long moments, but there came no reply other than the guttural sounds of the highlander’s breathing.

  “An entire gold ingot?” said Drenj, his dark face twisted into all manner of anger. “And our horses, too? Certainly those guards would have taken a lot less to open the city gates for us, even at this time of night. You didn’t even bother to haggle.”

  Fencress was tired and in no mood for questions. She looked at Drenj and her rage boiled over. She ripped one of her blades from its scabbard and lunged at the Khaldisian, pinning him against a shuttered storefront with a hard thud. “This has nothing to do with gold, Drenj. This is about our friend, about saving his life. If you want the damned gold, then take it and go.” She yanked the remaining ingots from her cloak and shoved them in Drenj’s face. “But you’d best spend them before I find time to hunt you down.”

  Drenj’s expression quickly changed, his eyes pleading. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. These have been hard days, and that’s a lot of coin considering our t-troubles. It’s like everything we’ve done and all we’ve lost have been for nothing.”

  Fencress gritted her teeth, pressing the blade closer to the Khaldisian’s throat and shoving the ingots into his nose. “I’m not done with our task yet. We have many foes before us, Drenj. I shouldn’t need to worry about the men standing behind me.” She eased the blade closer.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. Paddyn’s.

  “We’re all tired, Fencress,” Paddyn said. “He meant nothing by it.”

  Fencress held Drenj against the storefront for a moment longer but after a deep breath she pulled back. She held the blade toward the man briefly before slamming it into its sheath.

  Drenj rubbed at his neck. “I haven’t ridden with you for as long, but with all we’ve done I consider you my friend. I’m in this until the end.”

  Fencress spat and forged ahead along the cobblestones. “You’d best be. Both of you. Any patience and goodwill I possessed have been spent. They’ve been stolen from me by hardships and betrayals and this awful mess consuming us. Pray we finish this, so I can convince myself there’s something right in this world. Something looking after even the likes of us.”

  “We’re with you,” said Paddyn, running to catch even with Fencress.

  Drenj joined them also. “Just tell us where to go.”

  She marched onward, scanning the streets for any swinging placard set aglow by the warm light of a hearth. “We need rest. We’ll find an inn, grab a drink and sleep for a short while. Then we’ll find Karnag.”

  Prefect Gamghast awoke to the ringing of the belfries clanging out the morning’s sixth hour. He lay still in bed for a time, waiting for the echoes to vanish. This was a day both invigorating and frightening, and for a moment he was uncertain if he carried the conviction to pull himself from his pillow.

  Just then a cock crowed, somewhere, and that innocent, ignorant sound seemed a signal. He huffed, tossed aside his blanket and arose.

  He shuffled to the mirror near his wardrobe. There’d long been many wrinkles written across his brow and cheeks, but it seemed to him this morning there were more. And if there weren’t more then at least the ones that had been there were more deeply drawn.

  Gamghast rinsed his face over a washbasin and rubbed at his tired eyes. He pulled his robes over his shoulders and tried vainly to straighten the many wild wisps of his white beard. He stood near his door and sighed before opening it. At last he trudged into the hallway.

  The Abbey’s corridors were quiet at this hour. There was only the rumor of sunlight in the infrequent, narrow windows, and only the occasional door showed any flicker of candlelight through its cracks. The corridors wound and twisted, but after a while Gamghast neared his destination. He paused before rounding the last turn.

  Merek and Prefect Borel were already waiting for him near the stairwell to the crypt. Merek was draped in his cloak of forest green, his deeply set eyes burning like embers and the Coda upon his forearm resting against his sword’s pommel. Then there was Borel, nervous as ever, his drooping jowls quivering as though on the verge of weeping and his hands clutching a heavy tome against his chest.

  “And the Dictorian?” said Gamghast.

  Borel sniffed. “We await his arrival.”

  “You need wait no longer!” came a booming voice. “I am here, and Illienne shines brightly upon our deeds, my friends!”

  Gamghast turned to see Dictorian Theal, the titular head of the Sanctum, striding toward them in robes of brilliant white, a golden sun emblazoned upon his chest. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his hair an even mix of gray and the blond of younger years. He swept toward them with a trail of servants in tow, his cleft chin upturned and his eyes aglow.

  Gamghast bowed with his hands outstretched but Dictorian Theal brushed past him to seize Merek’s hearty shake. “Our old friends, the Variden, the children of Valis!” the Dictorian said, his smile broad and white. “What a pleasure it is to welcome you to our Abbey, yet how troubling it is to know the reason you’re under our roof. Thank you, and your dutiful order, for honoring the old oaths. Thank you for returning our Lector’s spirit to us.”

  Merek nodded and released the Dictorian’s hand. “We will proceed, then?”

  The Dictorian excused his retinue. As they exited his face darkened and he drew close to the Variden. “That body will not house a Sentinel. Not for a moment longer. The spirit of Castor should only reside in a devoted vessel, a vessel capable of heeding the call of Illienne. The divine spirit should reside in someone who strives to emulate divinity. One from our number. One such as me.”

  Gamghast jerked his head upward. “Are we so certain?” he said. “Are we so certain we know his plan better than he? Are we so certain we should interfere?”

  The Dictorian spun toward Gamghast, his face bearing a sour look. “Ah, Prefect Gamghast.” Theal’s handsome face shifted from gentle concern to paternal scolding. “Always so addled by indecision. If only you possessed the faith Illienne demands of us. Perhaps then you could have achieved more, risen to a higher station. Perhaps you would have been capable of displaying greater wisdom at moments such as these…”

  Gamghast stood upright and smoothed his robes. “You lay claim to the wisdom of Castor, now?”

  Theal took a hard step toward Gamghast. “Remember, Prefect, it is I who leads our order. Our Lector has died, his voice has been silenced. Now it is my hand guiding us. It is my heart expressing Castor’s will. You will do as I say, or you will be cast from this place.”

  Gamghast studied his feet. “Dictorian, you see things unseen,” he said flatly. “I am an instrument of your will.”

  Theal stood stiffly. “Yes you are.” He turned from Gamghast and stretched out his hands. “Merek! Let us begin this!”

  Fencress skulked across the slate shingles, searching the Abbey’s rooftops for a suitable opening. They’d cased the vast structure just before sunrise and had found few windows and fewer doors, and nothing that wouldn’t have required a great deal of killing and commotion. She tugged at her cowl, shielding her gaze from the rising sun, and hunkered against the shingles. She studied for a time the many ang
les, chimneys and kitchen vents of the rooftop. There has to be a way inside this mess of stones.

  A moment later her ears perked to the sound of a creak followed by a click—a door closing. She signaled to Paddyn and Drenj, motioning toward the direction of the sound. They moved then in unison, Fencress with silent footfalls and the others making only a faint scrape.

  After a few dozen feet they came to the edge of a roof, and below them was an enclosed courtyard decorated with flowering bushes and well-groomed trees. She noticed a withered old spooker strolling about in the morning sunlight, eyes firmly affixed to his feet. He wandered along a tiled path before settling on a bench, and then opened a hefty book. Just opposite the courtyard from the bench was the door.

  Fencress thought for a moment of slipping down and slitting the fellow’s throat, nice and neat. Yet, the notion troubled her. Her hand found the totem strung about her neck, a wooden carving of Illienne’s golden sun. No. There will be enough blood today as it is.

  Just then there sounded a loud crash. A flight of doves scattered skyward from a nearby tree with a great rushing sound. She looked to see a shingle shattered upon a pathway below. Above it, Drenj perched on the lip of the roof with hands upraised as though pleading innocence. Paddyn squatted a few feet away, staring at the courtyard with eyes wide.

  “Shit,” murmured Fencress.

  The spooker had his face upturned now, head rolling to follow the flight of the doves with squinted eyes. The birds wheeled about in a erratic dance, toward the far side of the courtyard, then high above, then back toward their tree. Fencress watched with dread as the spooker’s eyes tracked them, closer and closer to where the three assassins crouched on the rooftop.

  Fencress turned her head downward toward the slate shingles, hoping against hope the black leather of her cloak would hide conceal her. She cursed under her breath and squeezed her totem. If there is any god above or below who can save us, I call upon you now.

  She heard the flutter of the doves above them. Drenj yelped something in Khaldisian, a word that sounded like some kind of animal call. Suddenly the sound of the wings faded, as it seemed the doves had changed course toward the courtyard’s far end.