Reaver's Wail

by Corey Pemberton

  She snorted. “Offend me? I'm just worried about the poor girls.”

  Siggi raised his glass again. “To the lady with the sharp tongue.”

  They carried on drinking and carousing until the candle on their table guttered then went out. Besides a slightly larger belly and a tan, Siggi was just as Argus remembered him years ago. He still wore the black and white robes that marked his priestly order. It was a dizzying garment to look at, especially when one was drunk. Splotches of black and white alternated at random; they made the wearer look a bit like a dairy cow. Siggi still had his burly black beard too, with patches of gray and shaggy hair to match, though he'd kept one side of his face and skull clean-shaven in accordance with the priests of Blegga custom.

  At one point during the night Nasira asked how he'd ended up on Davos. Wasn't he supposed to be meditating at a temple somewhere in Rivanna?

  Siggi laughed and clinked her glass. “I worship in my own way, lady. Let's just say I have a problem with moderation.”

  The Rusty Flagon racked up casualties as the night wore on. Sleeping patrons. A few broken chairs and plenty of shattered glasses. Harun slumped into the booth and shut his eyes, no longer able to bear Siggi's endless tales.

  “So there I was, way up in the Hilt. You ever been to the Hilt? Don't. A terrible place. Unless your idea of amusement is slipping on ice and freezing your bollocks.” He waved a hand and belched. “Sorry, Nasira. Anyhow, it's just me and half a dozen scoundrels I wrangled up in this very tavern.”

  “Then what?” asked Argus, quickly losing patience.

  “Then me and these lads—proper little mercenary posse they were—scale the walls of the Cravens' Pit and ambush a few jailers.” He slid a finger across his neck and winked. “Once we got the ring o' keys it was just a matter of letting all the mad bastards free. They organized themselves after that. Didn't stop 'til they'd emptied every dungeon on those islands.”

  Argus's eyes widened. “That was you?”

  The Rivannan smiled. “One and the same. And now I find myself here. Drinking and whoring my way through a small fortune.”

  Argus studied the suds at the bottom of his glass. One of Emperor Eamon's first orders of business had been to ship the rebellious tribe leaders and assorted criminals up north to the Hilt, the frozen island chain at the edge of his domain. Last he'd heard, the Hilt riots were still a major spur in the emperor's boot—a distraction that kept him from mobilizing for war.

  “Who funded you?” Argus asked.

  Siggi put a finger to his lips.

  “Was it the Rivannans?” Though they had yet to declare a side, rumors abounded that they were doing whatever they could to undermine Calladon.

  “Mum's the word, old boy. Not that I don't trust you. But I don't trust you that much.”

  Argus leaned back in the booth, impressed. Siggi might have been a sloppy drunken fool, but if he'd done even half the things he'd claimed, his prowess in battle was as good as ever.

  “Trust is a prized commodity in these times,” Nasira said. She drained the last of her ale and settled into the booth, her eyes covered in a drunken haze.

  “Quite right, my lady,” said Siggi. “Quite right.” Up came his glass again, and when he set it down, he wore half the ale he'd guzzled on his clothes and beard.

  While Siggi tried to prod Harun out of his drunken slumber, Argus leaned close to Nasira and said, “Got another three thousand dragons to spare?”

  She glared at him. “You must be joking. We already agreed upon the rate. You can't expect me to pay more—”

  “No. Not for me. For Siggi.”

  Her eyes widened as she glanced at the pudgy man across from them, who'd begun to sing drunkenly into Harun's ear. “Him?”

  “That's right. He's a bit of a… well, let's just call him an unrepentant hedonist. But he's as strong as an ox. Fearless. You won't regret having his mace around once you release that message.”

  Nasira shook her head, sending a whiff of that intoxicating blend of powders she wore drifting across the booth. “How do you know I plan to release it?”

  Argus didn't answer. He had heard the Eldwhisper only twice. The first time he'd been a young boy, though the message was nothing but the drunken slurs of an Azmarite teenager who'd probably gotten his poor head lopped off. The second came seven years ago, when Lord Syrio announced to the world that the war between Pellmere and Garvahn had ended.

  If Nasira had her way, soon there would be a third.

  “How do you know?” Nasira asked.

  “You aren't just delivering that voxtrap to someone. You're going to the Eldwhisper, aren't you? So everyone living within the Kingdom of Eld's old borders will hear it.”

  Nasira raised a finger to deny it, then let it fall. “The whole world, more or less. You're smarter than you let on…”

  “I do my best. But if you want to make it out of Azmar alive—and I assume you do—you'd best have adequate protection. Harun and I can handle ourselves. But that city is crawling with Calladon loyalists. They won't respond kindly to your precious little message.”

  “Hmm.” Nasira rested her chin on the table, thinking. “Fine. We can bring him on for escort duty and protection. We can't tell him why I'm going to Azmar, though. If you or Harun say a word, good luck getting the rest of your dragons.” She grimaced at the man across the table. “I don't trust his big mouth.”

  “Neither do I. But I've seen enough to trust his mace.”

  It didn't take much convincing for Siggi to agree to join them. His jaw dropped when Nasira brought up the terms of payment. A mighty generous offer. Not that he needed the money, he told them. But he yearned for another job—a good reason to leave Davos before the whoring and drinking bled him dry—so he shook Nasira's hand without hesitation.

  “We sail east early tomorrow,” Argus said. “Meet us at the docks at dawn.”

  Siggi groaned. “Always such an early riser, this one. Very well. I suppose I should stop drinking.” He grabbed his glass again. “Cheers to that.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After they booked lodging in the inn above the tavern, Argus left everything but Reaver in his room and wandered into the night.

  It was the powders that drove him out. He couldn't bear knowing they were only a few doors down, tucked away in Nasira's satchel. If he lingered much longer, he'd find himself in her room, taking them at dagger point.

  The hour was late, and the crowd at the Rusty Flagon had thinned. Some had taken their celebrations outdoors. He passed a few clusters of drunken sailors and plenty of stray dogs. None of them paid him any attention.

  Argus looked down the hill to the sea, where the lamps on the houseboats glowed. He turned off Bank Road onto one of the crooked alleyways. He followed it across the island until all the voices faded away. Here was home, a quiet place, tucked away among the shadows of beautiful houses with terraces and high walls.

  He felt invisible in these parts. Just how he liked it.

  Argus couldn't say how long he wandered—or why he did. He didn't stop until he reached a familiar destination: the Founder's Garden.

  Davos had little respect for history or tradition. But the first residents made an exception for the trio who had turned this place from an uninhabited island into an outlaw haven. Maybe they had envisioned the bustling port it would become; maybe they hadn't. In either case, they had started the momentum, and that was worth remembering.

  Argus stepped into the garden, surrounded by almond trees and towering palms. He let the breeze carry him along the packed sand walkway, between the hedgerows to the base of the statues.

  There they were, the founding trio cast in bronze. They loomed over him, more than double life size, staring down to the sea. The plaques beneath them were worn. That didn't matter; Argus knew their stories by heart.

  First there was Talgat, the heretic from Mael who'd been condemned to death for his lack of faith and somehow managed to float all the way to Davos, clinging to a piece
of driftwood. Next there was Maria, the mad beggar girl from Azmar, who through sheer cunning had amassed enormous wealth and influence before spurning it all and murdering her sycophants.

  Finally there was Fotis of Leith, the man who captured all of Argus's attention. He stared into those bronze eyes, watching, waiting for them to blink. They never did. Fotis was a thief, a storyteller, an explorer whose thirst to see new lands and have adventures was never sated. Rumor had it that a storm in the Salamar Sea claimed him. Yet many others—long-term island dwellers, mostly—swore that he was alive and well. They said he'd decided to retire somewhere quiet and leave the world behind.

  Argus stared at the statues a little while longer, then turned away and spat.

  “That's no way to show respect.”

  Reaver was out in a flash, filling the night with the clean ring of steel. Argus crouched into a fighting stance and pointed his weapon at the hooded woman in front of him.

  She held up her hands and smiled.

  “Gods, woman! What business do you have here? Or do you just enjoy sneaking up behind men in the middle of the night?” He took a step back and kept Reaver pointed at her.

  “I mean you no harm,” she said, removing her hood and releasing a heap of auburn hair that flowed all the way down to her waist. “Far be it for me to wish ill will on someone of your stature. You're the closest thing to royalty in these parts.”

  Argus lowered his blade, but his eyes were still sharp. “How do you know about that?”

  She pointed to Fotis's statue. “Can't you see the resemblance?”

  Argus scanned the garden, half convinced he'd stepped into an ambush. When he confirmed no one else was around he sheathed his weapon, grabbed the woman, and pulled her behind a hedge of azaleas. “Don't speak of that again. Do you hear?”

  The woman leveled her eyes at him. They were green, the color of moss thriving in the shadows of a forest. “As you wish. Fotis wasn't a perfect man. Far from it. But it's unnatural to deny your parentage.”

  “You know nothing about me, woman. The man up there is nothing more than stories and blurry memories. He's not my father; I'm nothing like him. May the seagulls cover his statue in shit.”

  “I know more than enough. I know that you're more alike than you'll ever admit.”

  Argus scowled at her. His right arm trembled. Reaver called, demanding blood. He overcame the urge and waited.

  “I followed you here,” she said. “From the tavern.”

  “How?” Argus cocked his head. The ale had dulled his senses, yet only a ghost could have trailed him in that deserted alley unnoticed.

  “I have my ways.” Her lips curled into a smile. “My apologies for startling you. Though I must admit I did enjoy your reaction.”

  Argus grabbed her by the shoulder. “The hour is late, and I'm in no mood for riddles. Now state your business. Or be gone forever.”

  “My business is your business. If you'll hear me well.” She hiked up her dress, dropped to her knees, and began playing with the earth between the hedgerows.

  “What are you doing?”

  She just kept running her hands through the soil. Then she lowered her lips until she was almost kissing the ground. It started to tremble. Argus leaped aside and watched as a chunk of earth jutted upward like a tiny mountain range. It kept rising until it was as high as his waist, then stopped abruptly.

  The green-eyed woman stood up and ran her hands along it, stroking it the way a mother might stroke her child's hair. More whispers. She clapped her hands. Chunks of earth broke off from the mass, the entire thing rearranging itself into the shape of a crude bench.

  She looked at him, smiling. “My feet are tired, and the way back to Bank Road is long. Sit.”

  Argus's hand fell to his sword hilt. That grip was the only thing left anchoring him to reality. “Who the blazes are you, woman?” His face paled, and the ale sloshing in his belly made him queasy. He regretted asking the question because he feared he already knew the answer.

  The woman perched on the earthen bench she'd made and crossed one slender leg over the other, motioning him closer. “Don't you know? I've tried to keep a low profile, though I fear in this city my reputation precedes me…”

  “A sorceress,” said Argus, his tongue tangled on the word. “It can't be. Daphne was—no. This is nothing more than a cheap parlor trick.”

  She held out a hand, which was adorned with rings of all shapes and sizes, and waited until he took it. “You might be drunk,” she said, pulling him to a seat beside her, “But your eyes are true. Feel the earth beneath you. It's just as real as you and I.”

  Argus scooted to the edge of the bench and watched her warily. “Who are you? Truly?”

  “My name is Willow. Though I've gone by many others this year past.”

  “What do you want?”

  She touched the scabbard on his hip. “This.”

  Argus jumped up and backed away from her. “Reaver is mine. And she shall stay mine until my dying day. I won her fair and square.”

  Willow shook her head. “No. That's where you're mistaken. You belong to Reaver. A wretched thing, that cursed weapon.”

  Argus found himself drawn toward her, unable to control his legs. The woman's beauty was otherworldly. The way she spoke intoxicated him in a way that not even the strongest spirits could. He moved closer despite the danger. “What do you want with my sword? You're a bloody sorceress. Why not create your own?”

  “I have no use for steel. What I need is a man who can wield it. Someone willing to do what no one else can.”

  Argus's eyes bounced around the hedgerows, which aside from a few rustling thrushes were empty. “And what might that be?”

  Willow grabbed his tunic and pulled him close, so close their faces touched. “Kill Emperor Eamon.”

  Argus pulled away and started to laugh. “Why in the blazes would I do that?”

  “Because you don't have anything to live for so long as you're a slave to that sword.”

  “Reaver is a weapon. Nothing more.”

  “You're sharper than that, Argus. Deny it all you will. But you know better. That sword has changed you. It's always on your mind. It drives you to fight and kill even when you know you shouldn't.”

  Argus opened his mouth to reply, then turned away, unable to face those piercing eyes.

  “The weapon you carry is imbued with magic. Don't tell me you haven't sensed it.”

  He considered her words. Reaver had been Siggi's once. He claimed it was first found in a shipwreck off the coast of Mael. The sword that refused to rust, he called it. It had passed down a long line of owners, mercenaries whose lives ended on the battlefield, before making its way to Argus, who won it off the Rivannan in a wild night of gambling.

  The sword was exceptionally light and lethal. Perfectly balanced. Those had been Argus's only concerns until that very moment.

  “Why do you think you're still wandering?” Willow asked. “Hunting cheap bounties when you have more than enough dragons to retire to the countryside. Find a good woman and work the land, have children.”

  “Maybe that life isn't for me.”

  “That's the sword talking. And when it isn't the sword, it's the powders. Entire months gone by not knowing where you were, fighting and growing older but no wiser.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Deny it with your words, Argus, but in your heart you know it's true. Ever since you were a young boy there has been a hole inside. A craving for secret knowledge. Magic. Not just the ersatz kind those fools make from powders. The deep, the real.”

  The stars spun around him, and the azaleas began to waver. Argus staggered over to the bench and leaned against it. The sorceress had flayed him with her words. She'd peeled back the truth and exposed pieces he refused to admit himself.

  “Do it,” she said, “and I'll release you from the sword's bond. And I'll teach you magic. The road is long, but you have potential. I can sense it.”


  “W-why don't you do it? If you want the emperor dead so badly, why not kill him yourself?”

  “He knows my face. His guards won't let me get close.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Please. The world doesn't need another war.”

  “What the world needs is not my concern. It has blessed others. But it's done little for me except chew me up and spit me out.”

  “Fate is pliable,” she said. “Do this thing, and the entire course of your life changes.”

  “It sure will. They'll execute me. Build a gallows and invite everyone to watch.”

  “Not if you don't get caught. Besides, the noose is already wrapped around you, my friend. Every day you roam with that sword—kill with it—it tightens.”

  Argus stared at the woman for a long time. Suddenly he was hot, every muscle quivering in the balmy night. He took a deep breath, let it out. It did nothing to slow his racing heart. “How?”

  Willow checked the garden and beckoned him closer. After she told him her plan, Argus agreed. Then asked how he could know she'd stay true to her word.

  “My word is my bond, but I understand you'd like assurances.”

  Argus was just about to reply when she wrapped a hand around his head and pulled him in. Her lips pressed against his own, juicy and warm. She kissed him until time slipped away. When their tongues touched Argus felt her power rushing into him. Like someone had just blown on a candle flame and turned it into a bonfire…

  Finally Willow pulled away, and his lips tingled.

  “Your breath is my breath now. What gives life can also end it. So long as you do what I've asked and I recant on my promise, the next breath I take shall be my last. We are bonded, Argus of Leith. And that bond shall not break.”

  He nodded. The logical part of his mind had disappeared sometime while they locked lips. He reeled from that taste of her power. It dwarfed storms and blizzards and all the caprices of men.