The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  Tears stinging his eyes, he bent over a bloody voyoté to dig out a small traveling shovel. He would bury his friends properly if it took him until hiverra. Then, after this morose honor had been observed, he would sit and allow death to take him. The wait shouldn’t be too long, he reasoned as he mechanically scooped the first pile of desert sand. Blood covered the food rations and stained the oasis, so starvation would quickly become an option. It was a fate that a few hours ago would have been unthinkable and wrong. Now he welcomed it with grim resolve. Perhaps Kynell, who for some reason had not seen fit to stop this tragedy, would at least let him participate fully in it. The simple wish brought out a hollow laugh. Why should Kynell give him that mercy? He hadn’t done so with his brother or his father. It seemed the Prysm god wanted him to be alone in this world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mid-lunos was approaching and the darkest hour was upon Keroul. It was the time when the three lunos aligned and the thrice-bright light was limited to one. The land seemed then to be submerged in shadows. A brightly painted plain became half blackness, while the valley that earlier had proudly displayed her trees to the sky now hid them in secret cavities. Where once three great lights shined upon a man, now he could move through the streets unseen.

  Such a man moved thus. With an expression so dark it cast its own shadow, he slid from blackness to blackness, looking neither to the right nor to the left. His mouth was disfigured by a perpetual sneer. His nose was sharp, along with the rest of his features. He looked skeletal, as if warm food were a foreign concept to him.

  The man soon reached his destination: a run-down tavern that glittered stubbornly against the darkness. The Shattered Lantern saw enough customers these days. Time was when the men of the town were occupied with their family and friends. Now, with the Cylini battles stealing more and more of the country’s youth, those who were left behind seemed to only have time to drink and revel in forgetfulness.

  Business was consequently booming and the owner of The Shattered Lantern was enjoying the profits. There he stood, booted feet stamping on the table with impeccably inaccurate rhythm, a strip of flavored dried meat in his right hand, and a full jug of barley wine in his left. His shirt was brightly colored enough to be gaudy and its gold-laced ridges served the lowly task of absorbing whatever liquid fell from his mouth. In short, a bright but tasteless man, content to pour his ample earnings directly into his own product.

  “Heya!” he whooped, finishing his song with a flourish of meat-stick. “And that’z how ye string a wench with words!”

  His audience, at least those who could coordinate such an effort, applauded appreciatively.

  “Thank ye, thank ye. I tell ye, tomorrow I’ll yodel for the king!”

  Amidst the laughter, a young voice called out. “Eh, I bet you will, Bokran! You’ll sing yourself right into the royal dungeons!”

  The uproar escalated as Bokran peered down imperiously from his rude perch.

  “Eh? Who sez that?” His slurred speech, however, could not be heard above the celebrants, so he opted for a firmer, louder tone. “By th’ plains of Jashimor, who sez that?!”

  The furious demand silenced his customers. Bokran, who was often a jovial fellow, was also well-known for his temper. The night air was turning bitter in preparation for the early snows and no one was inclined toward forcible ejection from the warm tavern. As one, eyes lowered.

  “Ah, I see how ‘tis!” Bokran continued, aggravated further by the lack of response. “We have ourselves a coward in our presence! Speak, boy, before I kick ev’rybody out! It’s as cold as the Northern Caves out there, an’ I’d hate to close up shop early!”

  At this, the noise began to regain its former level. When Bokran threatened to close shop, all knew the time to take the sodden man seriously was over. Individuals could be thrown out, but never the whole paying crowd. After a moment, the same youthful voice rang out again above the din.

  “Why, Bokran, I just wanted to see how red your face could get! I declare, I’ve never actually seen it go purple.” At last, a face emerged from the press.

  “Corfe.” Bokran spat. “I see yer back to yer old self. By the Plains, boy, get home to yer mother.”

  The young man of nineteen cycles smiled coldly as the tavern-keeper heaved his bulk down from the table.

  “Leave my mother out of this, please. She’d turn over in her grave if she knew half the things you said about her.”

  Bokran was too hardened to apologize for his lack of tact. “Then go find a shop to rip off. I’m sure there’s plenty aroun’ to occupy yer time.”

  Corfe’s smile disappeared. “I never took what wasn’t rightfully mine.”

  “Ha! Don’t preach that to me! I’ve a friend out fourteen athas because of ye.”

  “He lost in a game, Bok. And he didn’t pay up. Besides, he could spare the money.”

  The keeper’s eyes narrowed. “An’ I can spare ye in my ‘stablishment. Get out, Corfe. Find a hovel.”

  The youth was not intimidated. “I’ll find myself a table. And maybe one of your serving girls.”

  Ignoring the drunken man’s “bah!” Corfe turned on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd to a side table, where a drink was already awaiting him. With an oath, he dropped himself into the wobbly chair and glared at the wall. A blight on Bokran and all his worthless customers. Tomorrow, he was going to leave town and be done with the lot of them. He had more important tasks to do than drinking bad alcohol and insulting innkeepers. Tomorrow he would be on the road. Perhaps then the dust of the trail would blot out the strange coldness that had crept into his sleeping and waking hours. The man could not possibly find him here tonight, and before long, he planned to never be found again.

  As he deluded himself, the door of the tavern opened wide, rocketing cold air into the room. The startled oaths were silenced, however, when a figure wrapped in a heavy black mantle stepped inside. He strode purposefully toward Bokran, taking no notice of the path that cleared before him.

  Corfe watched in horror as the man reached the keeper and questioned him in a low voice. No, Bokran. For once, be quiet. In reply to the boy’s silent entreaty, the intimidated fellow pointed a finger toward his table. Without another word, the stranger turned.

  There was no escape and even if there were, Corfe’s fear served only to freeze his limbs and his tongue. As the man drew nearer, his thoughts congealed into one improbable prayer: Don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Don’t see me.

  Then he was there, his sunken eyes pinning his prey. “Corfe,” he said. His voice expressed no emotion. “Come with me.”

  Corfe shook his head but the man grabbed his arm and jerked him to his feet. Even in their drunken stupor, the patrons could not ignore the hysterical cries of the youth as the dark figure dragged him into the street. The door slammed, an awkward silence followed, and then came the sound of the impeccably inaccurate rhythm of Bokran’s boot, pounding the table.

  “A song! A song! For our dear departed son!”

  __________

  To struggle against his captor was a waste of energy, as Corfe well knew. He soon cut short his cries for help.

  The man would be his executor. Corfe was old enough to realize that no one crossed Zyreio’s servant and kept his life. What a fool he had been to fall in with this serpent in the first place! If he had been wiser, he would have realized that no amount of hunger or need was great enough to justify what now awaited him.

  Corfe had thought himself unassailable, secure in his reign of petty thievery and misdemeanors. There were even a few timely murders to which he could point in pride. So when this dark, hollow man approached him with what had seemed like a small chore—the duping of a Patronius—he had jumped at the opportunity to extend his talents.

  The acting job was an odd one. If the man had come to ask his services for playing the part of a drunk, a thief, or a corrupt bureaucrat, the task would have been easy. Instead his new employer required something quite c
ontrary to his personality: an innocent, or close to it. The role was simply a young man around nineteen who was intelligent (Corfe had that down), generous (he could work on it) and a pious slave of Kynell (a true test of his acting abilities). All of this was a cycle ago, and the months following the agreement had been filled with intensive study of Rhyveladian history and Kynellian Lore. He had brushed up on his manners, abstained from his day-to-day business, and practiced an innocent sparkle. The man had supervised him thoroughly: every grace had to be polished, every show of compassion made genuine. For a cycle, Corfe had abandoned his natural inclinations and donned the robe of purity and righteousness. Toward the end, even his own comrades were fooled. Poor old Bokran had gone so far as to ask if the boy was intending to join the Patroniite Fraternity. The plans of the dark man were succeeding and as the cool season of hiverra neared, there was only one person left to convince.

  Patronius Telenar’s small court was held three fortnights every cycle; two in the later breach season and one as the warm season of autore approached. The rest of the time the Patronius spent searching the land of Keroul and beyond, combing every city, every hamlet, every house for his prize. And each cycle he had discovered nothing. After broadcasting his search far and wide, he always returned to Lascombe to find hundreds of would-be Advocates, as he called them. None of them had convinced the priest, though Corfe had no doubt that his performance would be a success. Why? Because his mentor was flawless and exuded an awesome authority none could resist. Such a figure could only choose his students correctly; he would triumph over any force, let alone some Keroulian priest.

  The young actor had consequently marched confidently into the small chamber. There, under a dusty window, sat the subject of many gossiping tongues: the famous, enigmatic Telenar pa Saauli. Corfe was not impressed. Where he had expected a towering force of a man, he encountered a short, stout scholar. And where he had anticipated a fierce expression and piercing eyes, he encountered quite normal features and eyes that were serious enough, but partially obscured behind small, wire-framed spectacles. Restless hands constantly found their way to a trimmed beard, a nervous habit formed from many cycles of anxious pondering. The billowy robes of the Patroniite Fraternity fit him well, however, and gave him some semblance of authority. Ultimately, only one characteristic of the man Corfe had expected proved correct—a face well-formed for laughter held no trace of cheer. Telenar was tired and discouraged. More than fifteen cycles he had been searching and it was rumored that time was running out.

  A Patronius en preporatorium announced the young man’s presence.

  “A candidate, Patronius.”

  Telenar rose and dismissed the acolyte with a nod. The youth shuffled past Corfe without a word, closing the door on judge and defendant.

  “Sit down, please, young candidate,” was the judge’s gracious welcome.

  Corfe obeyed silently, having been ordered not to speak unless a direct answer was requested.

  “You are the first candidate in a while,” Telenar continued as he resumed his chair. “I had begun to fear Rhyvelad was running out of young prodigies. Do you think this is possible, young man?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  There was no reason to conceal his identity; his home was a town many, many leagues from Lascombe and his name a common one. “Corfe, Patronius.”

  Telenar leaned back, studying the figure before him at his leisure. “When were you born?”

  “I am nineteen cycles, sir.”

  “That’s not what I asked, young Corfe. I asked when you were born.”

  So this was how the interview would be conducted—trick questions, double-sided answers. Well, this was something to which Corfe was accustomed.

  “That would be 1,601 cycles of the Corruption, sir. I celebrated the day of my birth four days ago.”

  “And you are well-versed in Kynellian and Rhyveladian history, I presume?”

  “All of my life.”

  “Let’s talk about this Corruption, then, when Zyreio planted his tongue in the Plains of Jasimor and so corrupted all of Rhyvelad.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  Telenar leaned forward, his watery gray eyes intent. “Can you tell me what was the chief of these corruptions that have stained Rhyvelad’s great mantle?”

  It took a moment for Corfe to recall his lessons and as he produced the answer, his palms began to sweat. “You are referring to deceit, Patronius.”

  “Very good, young Corfe. Indeed, I think you know this lesson so well that you are not only aware of the chief stain, but practice it on a regular basis.”

  Corfe started at the sudden accusation. “But—”

  Telenar shook his head. “Do not waste your time on protests. I knew your colors from the moment you walked in the door. The only reason I have kept you is to ask you this: who sent you?”

  Corfe swallowed. None of the training had prepared him for this, but he suspected that revealing his employer’s identity would be a fatal disclosure. Telenar noticed his panic and guessed accurately the cause of it. Rising, he stepped around his desk and seated himself beside the young imposter. His tone was compassionate.

  “Are you so terrified of Zyreio’s servant that you would gamble the wrath of Kynell?”

  No response. Telenar raised his hands. “I would expel you as an impostor, only I can guess the price of failure from such a master. You should stay here, where you will be safe.”

  The gentle suggestion jerked Corfe into action. He rose hastily, knocking over his chair, then stumbled toward the door. It was bad enough that he had failed. All the worse if the Dark One found him hiding under the wings of a priest.

  __________

  They seemed to walk for an eternity. Corfe was not bound by chains, nor did he have any intention of escaping. To attempt it would be to foreshorten a life already ending. Not a word was spoken and the prisoner was told nothing of their destination.

  The night around them was bitter. The cold winds off the sea seemed intent on attending their every step. Corfe wrapped his heavy jacket tighter around him, looked appealingly at the stars, and shivered. Never was there a lonelier time than late breach season night. The whole world seemed waiting to die in its embrace, forsaking all that was living and beautiful for snow and ice. Well, at least this would be the last bitter night he would know.

  The man seemed to know his thoughts. “You are expecting death.”

  Chafing his cold hands, Corfe nodded. “Yes.”

  Still looking forward, the man continued. “Why are you expecting to die?”

  “I have failed you and then I tried to escape you. Everyone knows you have no mercy.”

  If Corfe had been watching, he would have seen the man smile. His voice, however, showed no change. “You are right. I show no mercy.”

  They continued walking, the captor lost in his thoughts and the captive kicking himself for not playing his cards a little better for his last conversation. They were, by now, far outside of the small town and walking perilously close to the coastal bluffs. Corfe could not see the crashing waves at the bottom, but the sound of their attacks issued most ominously from the darkness. He swallowed and summoned his courage.

  “You asked why I expected death. Is there another way?”

  The man stopped, allowing the wind to stir his dark hair and add ice to his voice. “Do you know who I am?”

  “You are a servant of Zyreio.”

  The man’s eyes glinted in morbid pride. “The servant of Zyreio. I am Amarian, Obsidian’s Advocate.”

  “You are the Advocate?” Corfe repeated, clinging to conversation as his only hope.

  “You forget your lessons already.”

  “So the time of battle has truly come again.”

  “How quickly you remember. I underestimated Telenar, but I did not underestimate my student. Your performance was pitiful.”

  As terrified as Corfe was, the blow to his pride stung. “I h
ad no chance to give a performance. He suspected me as soon as I entered. The greatest of actors would have failed.”

  “You failed because you were empty of any qualities similar to my brother. I was a fool to think Telenar would be so easily misled.”

  Corfe fell silent, amazed at the amount of information the man had offered. Brother—yes, the Advocates were brothers. He had read that in the Ages. So there must be another power equal to this man’s. He looked again into Amarian’s face and decided otherwise. No power could equal that of Zyreio’s.

  Amarian glared at the invisible sea. Perhaps he would spare this one’s life, since some assistance may be necessary for what he was planning. He looked again at the boy and read not only fear, but awe that could be transformed into devotion. Yes, he would do.

  “You ask if there is another way?”

  “I do.”

  “There is. But it requires silence.”

  Before Corfe could cry out, Amarian clasped his throat in an iron grasp. Whispering strange words that sounded like a prayer, he looked up into the night sky and Corfe had the unpleasant sensation of his voice departing from his body. When Amarian released him, he could no more utter words than the silent cliffs on which they stood.

  CHAPTER THREE