What Remains of Heroes

by David Benem

  Fencress chanced a look and saw the spooker still on his bench, continuing to observe the mad flight of the birds.

  He didn’t see us.

  The doves were a radiant white in the morning sun, twisting and turning in an ever-changing shape. They changed course once again, darting from the courtyard’s far side, to above the door, then about a tree shading the spooker’s bench. The spooker gawked at them still, head tilted backward and mouth agape.

  Fencress studied the spooker’s exposed throat and released the totem. She eased back on the roof and pulled her blades from their sheaths. She nodded to Paddyn and Drenj—they needed to dispose of the spooker. Perhaps a killer can’t be expected to be anything other than that.

  She was jarred by a sudden squeal from the spooker. The man sat swiping his hands frantically against his face, spitting and sputtering as he did. He stood abruptly and threw his hands to his sides, revealing a face covered in bird shit.

  Fencress smiled, doing her best to suppress a laugh.

  The spooker grabbed his book and dashed across the courtyard, threw open the door and disappeared within the Abbey. The door remained open.

  Can it be the dead gods answer prayers from even the likes of us?

  Dictorian Theal stood just before the shackled form of Karnag Mak Ragg. “We toil on your behalf, beloved Castor!” he said, his voice booming in the crypt. “We do the bidding of Illienne the Light Eternal, and we will set free what this beast of a man has enslaved!”

  The Dictorian and the highlander were illuminated by a column of brilliant sunlight channeled though a shaft hollowed into the rock above, a chute containing many mirrors designed to catch the sun’s brightest light. Just outside the light’s center stood Prefects Borel and Kreer, and beside them, at the Dictorian’s shoulder, was green-cloaked Merek. Gamghast, though, stood beyond the glow, uncomfortable in their midst. This is a terrible risk we take.

  “Prefect Kreer!” Theal demanded. “The text!”

  “As you command,” said Kreer, pausing to give Gamghast a disdainful look.

  Gamghast stiffened. Alas, too few find righteousness in uncertainty.

  Theal stretched his hands toward the kneeling highlander as he examined the book Kreer held before his eyes. “The Rites of Excision, the sacred incantations for freeing a captive spirit. Recorded by the Sanctum’s twenty-third Lector, only two generations ago and very likely in direct anticipation of today’s events. When I begin, be ready. This demon before us may refuse to yield the spirit willingly, and he’s likely attained some degree of power as a result of his containment of Castor. And Prefects?” Theal said, glancing over his shoulder. “Join your prayers to mine. Repeat every word of the Rite. Summon all the strength within yourselves, and channel your thoughts to me. The spirit of Castor should be guided thus, and find its place within me.”

  Gamghast edged forward. We must not interfere with Castor’s choice. He moved his mouth to speak but Theal’s eyes found his and he fell silent.

  “Remember your orders, Prefects.” Theal said. “Question not what I know to be the will of Illienne. I have foreseen this.” He returned his eyes to the book and began the incantations.

  Dictorian Theal’s voice rose to a clarion call. It filled every corner of the crypt and was answered by endless echoes from the stones. They were ancient words, divine words. Words said to be the very tongue of the dead gods themselves, words of power used to work the most potent spellcraft. They hummed in Gamghast’s ears well after they were spoken, as though once put to breath they were given life.

  Borel and Kreer dropped their heads, their lips moving to repeat Theal’s words. The voices became a drone, a chanting repetition of words of power, a reverberation serving to enhance the power of the Dictorian’s chant.

  Gamghast, though, knew the words were lost to him. He had no heart for this. His mouth moved, but he gave no sound. His head fell, not out of pious reverence but out of profound disappointment.

  Then there was a rattle. Gamghast jerked his head up to see Karnag shifting his broad form, listlessly trying to shed his chains. His skin was stained the color of salmon from much old blood, his back and arms were striated with scars. His head was a mess of thick braids covered in filth, and his face was cloaked in shadow.

  The chanting continued for long moments and Theal’s voice grew more intense, desperate even. Sweat dripped from his brow and his arms shook as though struggling to pull down the heavens to help him. Yet, there was little evidence of any change in Karnag Mak Ragg.

  After a time Theal slammed shut the tome and strolled about the shackled highlander. He thumbed the cleft of his chin, seemingly lost in thought.

  Merek moved to Theal’s side, eyes intent upon the highlander and his sword half-drawn from its scabbard. “Dictorian,” hissed Merek, “why do these spells not work?”

  “I have others yet to try,” said Theal, his voice thick with arrogance. “Out of respect for Castor I began with the most mild, the least damaging incantations. With these next spells we will rend the spirit from the flesh.”

  “And if those fail?”

  Theal shook his head. “There will be no failure. We will cut his head from his shoulders and pour out the spirit in that fashion, if need be.”

  Karnag shifted suddenly, violently, and the chains rang. Slowly he raised his chin, moving his face upward toward the light. His gray eyes glittered fiercely beneath his heavy brow. He did not speak, but there was danger in that expression, a grim warning against further meddling.

  “Your spellcraft augments the chains, yes?” Theal said, glancing at Merek.

  Merek nodded. “I channel my thoughts to the bonds, Dictorian. They will hold.”

  “Good.” Theal walked to Karnag and stood before him. He shoved forth his hand and seized the highlander by his black braids, then yanked his face into the light. An awful growl came from Karnag and his neck twisted at an awkward angle. “Release the Sentinel! By Illienne I command you, release him!”

  The highlander jerked about and his body trembled. He choked for air and struggled against the chains. His muscles tensed and the chains scraped and groaned. He turned his eyes toward Theal and bared his teeth with abject malice. “I will yield nothing to the likes of you,” he said, his voice deep and eerily tranquil, a matter-of-fact pronouncement of a certain doom.

  Theal’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened but he soon regained his composure. He released the highlander’s head and stood tall before him, as though to display a lack of fear, a righteous serenity. “Is this Castor who speaks, or the twisted captor of his most sacred spirit?”

  “I am more than either of those things, Dictorian Theal. I am the ender of lives, the conclusion of souls. I am the ultimate wisdom of death.”

  Theal stumbled back a step and turned about, his back to the highlander. “You see! Do you see, now? This beast is not our Sentinel, not our master!”

  Gamghast glanced sideways to Borel but the rotund prefect betrayed no emotion, standing with eyes closed and continuing his chant. This is terribly wrong. We cannot question Castor’s will in choosing this vessel! There must have been a reason!

  Theal turned boldly toward Karnag. “Have you nothing more to say? Tell us why you’ve enslaved the spirit of Castor to such ill-meaning ends!” He came ever closer, and then reared back a hand and slapped Karnag sharply across the face. “Release him! Release him to me!”

  The highlander’s great arms pressed forward. The chains stretched and shook with tension. He said nothing but regarded Dictorian Theal with dark eyes—a killer’s look—and spat thick blood across the floor.

  “Very well,” Theal said, striding to Kreer’s side and studying the open tome once more. “If you will not offer the spirit willingly, then your mind will be ruined and your body turned to rot. You will cough out the spirit with your last breaths.” He looked over his shoulder. “Prefects! Join your prayers to mine!”

  Fencress dug the blade further into the servant’s side, not enough
to draw blood but certainly enough to command the attention of any man who valued his life. “Alright, Wit,” she whispered into the fellow’s crusty ear, “that’s a good start. You’ve seen my green-cloaked friend. Have you seen him this morning?”

  “Er, umm, uh…” the gangly man said. He seemed to say that a lot. They’d happened upon him moments before, while sneaking amidst the shadows of the countless corridors. He was the only person they’d spied in the Abbey who wasn’t draped in the robes of a spooker, so Fencress reckoned he’d prove the least troublesome.

  “Remember, friend, I haven’t much time, and even less patience. Was it this morning?” She gave the blade a good twist to make certain its meaning was clear.

  “Yes!” Wit said, shaking his hairy head. “Yes it was. Gamghast had me wake him for their meeting.”

  Fencress gave the servant a good-natured slap on the cheek. “Now that’s the spirit, Wit! That’s precisely how business gets done, my friend. You give me information such as that, and I let you keep your hide free of unsightly cuts and bruises. Now, where and when was this meeting?”

  “Er, umm… I don’t remember!”

  “Fencress!” hissed Paddyn, gesturing behind them. “Someone’s coming!”

  She paused and heard shuffling footsteps. “Help us now, Wit, or this blade goes clean through your guts. That would be an awful shame, especially considering our newfound friendship.”

  “The c-crypt! The end of this hallway, then right, then left! Just down the stairs!”

  She nodded and withdrew the blade. “It should go without saying, Wit, that you haven’t seen us and that all is right and well on this fine morning. Just as it should be. I’d hate to have to pay you an unfriendly visit so soon after reaching a solid understanding.”

  Wit winced, rubbed at his side, and gestured down the corridor. “That way. Down the hallway. Go.”

  Karnag Mak Ragg pressed hard against his chains, almost upright. The bolts anchoring the chains creaked and the bricks about them splintered. The highlander’s body was terribly wounded. Fresh blood streamed from countless striations and dripped from his nostrils and eyes. Old scars seemed to bleed anew and his body twitched with waves of obvious pain.

  Yet, he stood. It seemed to Gamghast there was an indefatigable purpose driving the man, an indomitable spirit refusing to yield to the Dictorian’s demands. Can this be Castor?

  Dictorian Theal continued his incantations, now chanting an ancient blood rite intended for the most difficult exorcisms, those in which the body was not meant to be spared. Divine light flashed from Theal’s hands and his voice soared. Gamghast had seen bodies ripped apart like parchment with such words, yet the highlander remained standing.

  “The old curses are futile,” Karnag said, his tone unnerving in its calm assuredness. “Dictorian, I will ask you this only once. Abandon this deed. Set me free, mortal, or I spill your brains from your head.”

  Theal threw his hands down in frustration, shaking his arms. “He refuses to surrender the spirit!” He turned toward Merek, his eyes mad and his lips shaking. “We must kill him!”

  I can be silent no longer. Gamghast cleared his throat, loudly and with meaning. “Dictorian! I cannot suffer this! We cannot claim to know Castor’s will, nor can we stand in the way of our Sentinel’s intent! Surely you see there is a reason the incantations do not work!”

  Theal leapt toward Gamghast, his mouth drooling and his eyes blinking. He shoved Gamghast with frightful strength, sending him toppling across the crypt’s floor.

  Gamghast tumbled across the bricks, striking his head, his arthritic knees, his gnarled hands. He came to rest near the crypt’s door, and then pain screamed at him from every joint in his old body. His head swooned and his eyes struggled for focus.

  “Be thankful!” screamed Theal. “Be thankful I don’t order your death, Prefect! Or should I say Acolyte Gamghast? Yes, that has a much better ring to it. Leave us, Acolyte!”

  Gamghast coughed and tasted the coppery taint of blood on his tongue. He rolled to his elbows, and with no small degree of concentration brought his vision into focus. Theal had returned to Karnag and had seized the highlander by his black braids.

  “Merek!” Theal screamed, pulling Karnag into the column of white light. “Your blade!”

  Gamghast tried to shout his protest but his body would not comply. He coughed again and blood sputtered from his lips. He struggled to stand but knew several of his bones were broken. “Theal…” he wheezed. “Do not do this…”

  Theal wrenched Karnag’s head backward, exposing his throat. “Merek! Strike now!”

  Merek yanked his blade from its scabbard with a ringing sound and brought the weapon before Karnag. He adjusted the green cloak about his shoulders and then pressed a hand against his Coda. He pulled a deep breath and nodded to Theal. “It is the will of Illienne.”

  Gamghast struggled again but his limbs hardly answered him. His spine was wrenched at an awkward angle and didn’t seem willing to move. He slumped back against the door, and his head came to rest against the wood.

  He heard then a commotion on the door’s other side, the sounds of violence. What is this? A trusted acolyte had been left to guard the door, but…

  “It is her will!” screamed Theal, his voice screeching. “Kill him!”

  Gamghast heard the dull sound of a latch being turned on the door’s other side and then felt his body forced uncomfortably aside by the door’s opening. He gasped, feeling a searing pain lace his form, then watched as three darkly clad figures stepped indifferently over him and into the crypt. Gamghast tried to voice an alarm, but his lungs would only wheeze.

  “Kill him!” Theal shrieked again.

  Merek brandished his sword and reared back, preparing to strike at Karnag’s throat. But just then there came the twang of a bow, followed by a dull thunk. Merek stumbled backward, clutching an arrow protruding from his chest. His sword fell from his hands and clattered against the bricks.

  “What!” Theal yelled, whirling about.

  Karnag roared then, and screamed and shook, and there came a terrible sound like the roll of thunder. Karnag threw his hands skyward and the chains shattered and fell from him. He lunged and caught the Dictorian by his shoulders and pulled him close.

  “No!” cried the Dictorian. “Someone help!”

  Karnag squeezed the man to his breast and grasped his skull between thick hands. He flexed and crushed the Dictorian’s head as though it were a child’s bauble, spattering blood and brain matter across the floor. The Dictorian fell to the stones, limp and lifeless.

  “I will bathe in the blood of my brother,” said Karnag grimly, “and that of many more. The spirit is mine alone to wield.” He stepped over the body at his feet and staggered forward.

  Gamghast’s eyes drifted toward the crypt’s far end, where stood a black cloaked figure over Merek. “Remember me?” said a woman in black. “Remember your betrayal? No one, and I mean no one, wrongs me or my friend. You should never tangle with the most dangerous beast. That was your undoing.”

  Merek struggled for a moment with the arrow protruding from his chest as the woman brandished two identical swords. She displayed them only briefly before shoving them into Merek’s eyes. The Variden convulsed and then fell still.

  “Boys?” the woman said. “Shall we?”

  The three intruders turned and followed Karnag from the shaft of sunlight and toward the door.

  The woman paused and looked toward the cringing forms of Borel and Kreer. “You spookers will pray for us. Pray we stay safe, and pray we don’t come back. Because if we do, we’re bringing Karnag with us, and he’ll be the death of you. Every last fucking one of you.”

  27

  OLD REGRETS AND BAD MEMORIES

  LANNICK WALKED DOWN Temple Street, trudging through the leaden mist of a rainy afternoon. The rain drummed against the hood of his cloak and made slick the street’s cobbles, and the air carried the scent of dead fish. Between the rain and the
fishy stench it seemed a familiar day in Ironmoor, and Lannick reckoned he wouldn’t miss it much.

  He saw the shingle of The Wanton Vicar ahead and caught a hint of lamb stew in the air. He smiled, guessing Brugan couldn’t bear to leave the place without fixing one last meal.

  He arrived at the door and found himself just as nervous to turn the knob as he’d been in the many years before. In those times he’d dreaded the turn because it meant sinking deeper into that same rancid hole, that dark place filled only with old regrets and bad memories. Now, his apprehension came not from the familiar but from the unknown. Can I do these things? Can I have courage again?

  He studied the dimpled brass knob and thought for a moment of turning around, of running away never to return. He thought of booking passage aboard a merchant’s ship, of sailing the endless sea under sparkling starlight, of finding a faraway port where he could make a new life for himself. He thought of how starting over seemed in so many ways better than trying to right his mess of a past.

  No. Not better. Just easier. He turned the knob, pulled open the door and slipped inside.

  It was a good crowd, something Brugan surely enjoyed. A peg-legged fellow played a screeching fiddle at the room’s far end, singing a lewd lyric in a hoarse voice. The serving girl danced a jig beside him and a number of folks crowded nearby, laughing and whooping and taking long draws from tall mugs. Farther away were several greedy-eyed fellows hunched over a game of deadman’s dice, and a few more desperate sorts slouched hopelessly against the bar.

  Lannick’s expression wilted when he noticed one man sitting in what had been his usual spot, only months before. He thought of the anguish he’d experienced since then, but knew if it hadn’t been for that he’d still be there, drowning in cheap wine and despair.