Reaver's Wail

by Corey Pemberton

  “Gods,” Argus said, watching the flames eat through the wooded hills. He hadn't believed the Comet Tailer then, but a part of him believed the man now. It looked like all of Davos had become its own bellows, consuming all in its path, belching smoke and flame.

  “Should we turn around?” asked Brenn.

  “No.” They'd gone over this. There hadn't been a destination in mind when they'd commandeered the sailboat. Yet with all the places where they were fugitives or exiles, it was the only logical choice.

  Brenn shrugged. They sailed closer to the inferno, and swore when they rounded the corner and saw the cove.

  “What in the blazes?” Argus said.

  “Blazes is right.”

  The floating city was gone. All that remained were lingering flames where the piers and boats had been. The sea no longer looked like the sea. Now it was choked with driftwood and floating corpses. Argus smelled pitch and the acrid scent of burnt human hair.

  “Mercy,” said Brenn. A simple prayer.

  There was none to be found.

  The flames had spread ashore, where they worked on the merchant stalls. Some had even crept up the hill, leaping across the trees to the stone houses where the wealthier people lived.

  It wouldn't be long before the blaze claimed most of the island. The only refuge to be found—if there was any—would be out at sea or at the top of Bank Road, huddled among the cliffs.

  “How did this happen?” Argus asked.

  “Who did this? That's what I want to know.”

  Brenn pointed to one of the corpses. The dead man floated past their boat, a pair of arrows lodged in his chest.

  Argus rushed to the starboard side, then port, then back to the middle to grab the Nalavacian by the arm. “We have to go ashore, Brenn! There might still be people alive!”

  Brenn frowned, and his eyes softened. “What are we supposed to do for them, Argus?”

  “They're our friends! Mercenary brothers and drinking buddies and women we loved and loathed. Don't we owe it to them to at least try?”

  “You're right, my friend. I just don't want you to get your spirits too high.”

  Argus turned away, coughing on wayward smoke. He watched the debris floating and blanketing the water. “Don't worry about that.”

  Brenn steered the sailboat away from the cove, to the south edge of the island. “Come on. There's another place we can get ashore.”

  They rounded the cove. Argus watched the flames all the while. They were mesmerizing, and in a strange way, almost beautiful. Until he imagined all the people whose lives they'd snuffed out.

  Brenn guided them toward a tiny inlet and said, “We'll have to wade in. It's too shallow to sail any closer.” Once they dropped anchor, he grabbed his sword and gestured for Argus to do the same. “Better bring that, old friend. You're a madman when you take those powders. But even when you're mad you're a better swordsman than almost everyone in all the kingdoms.”

  Argus picked up the weapon and sloshed into the waist-deep water. “This sword is shit. It's thrice as heavy as Reaver.”

  “Again with bloody Reaver!” Brenn roared, his voice echoing off the cliffs. “Say that name one more time. Go on, I dare you.”

  Argus didn't. Even in this altered state, he knew better than to cross Brenn when he was angry.

  He thought about Reaver plenty, though. Ever since he realized he'd left her in the inn before Syrio's feast. They were already miles away from Azmar by then. After a lot of arguing about turning back—Brenn refusing all the while—they had almost come to blows.

  Finding a sack of powder on the sailboat had been a nice consolation prize. It was honey-colored and unfamiliar; but, when it wasn't making him tremor, it carried him into a deep sleep where he didn't think about Reaver.

  They waded toward the pebbly shore, ankles twisting over coral and unseen rocks. The sun was nearly down. Soon they'd have nothing but the flames to guide them.

  Finally they reached the beach. Brenn led them up the slope and into the woods. The flames hadn't spread to this edge of the island yet, though he could smell the pungent scent pressing close.

  They forged a path through the brush, hacking away vegetation that refused to yield. All the while they kept climbing. Then, when they were well above the largest smoke clouds, Brenn cut east toward Bank Road.

  The foliage thinned. It had been tamed by men out here, and soon they stepped onto the end of a residential street that ran perpendicular to Bank Road.

  Brenn snarled. “Craven bastards! Killing innocent women and children…”

  They strode between the ransacked houses. A street of the dead. Corpses littered the cobblestones. Women and men, old and young. Argus studied their faces. His chest tightened. Every new face brought him that much closer to those of the people he knew and loved.

  About halfway to Bank Road, Brenn stopped. Two bodies lay before him. He turned away and covered his face.

  Argus rushed forward and looked at them. Tears welled in his eyes. First there was Chet, a stable boy who'd taken care of Argus's horses in better times. Beside him lay Sheila, one of the barmaids at the Rusty Flagon. A cute girl with brown curls. He'd never seen her wear a frown.

  “They were in love,” Argus said. He bent down, fingers trembling, and closed their eyes. “Chet told me all about her.”

  “They were just children!”

  “Young love…”

  Argus spotted a dagger in Chet's hand. Sheila wielded a candlestick. It gave him a shred of comfort that they hadn't just been slaughtered like lambs—that they'd fought back.

  “Come on,” Argus said, no longer able to look at them.

  Brenn fell in beside him and on they went. They passed a lot more bodies and a few more friends. With each step Argus's heart grew heavier, and by the time they reached Bank Road he could hardly bear it.

  “Chet wanted to be a fighter, you know?”

  “Is that right?”

  He nodded. “I only had time to show him a few things. The proper stance. Basic movements.” Little good that it did him…

  Brenn clapped him on the soldier. “He went out like any man should. He's feasting now, in Setep's hall.”

  They wandered up Bank Road, where the bodies thickened. The stones were slick with blood. They stepped over overturned carts and mangled limbs and horses who looked up at them with dead rheumy eyes.

  A few paces ahead, Argus said, “Wait. Look at this.”

  Brenn stopped beside him and pored over the carnage until he spotted what his friend was pointing at. There, among the corpses, a black breastplate gleamed in the sun.

  “Gods,” Argus said. “It was Calladonian men who did this.”

  Brenn spat onto the bloody cobblestones. “Whoreson! That Eamon won't stop until the entire world burns.”

  As they climbed the hill, they found more dead empire soldiers mixed in with all the others. They kept walking until the hill leveled off, then stepped onto Bannerless Square.

  This had been a beautiful place only days earlier. Full of verdant gardens and pristine homes where some of the island's wealthiest residents—even a few of the bankers themselves—lived.

  No longer.

  Davosi and Calladonian soldiers lay tangled together, locked in death. It was here where the outlaws had made their last stand… and lost.

  Argus looked down Bank Road at the fires below. He felt the heat even up here. The flames lapped up everything before them. Greedy. They were climbing steadily—about halfway up the hill.

  “It won't stop,” he said. “Not until it consumes every tree on this island.”

  “Come on,” Brenn said. “Let's check the Builders Bank.”

  They reached the marble stairs and groaned. Above them, the stairway was strewn with bank guard and empire soldiers. They'd painted the marble with shattered limbs, entrails and blood.

  “All that money is gone,” Argus said, pointing to the top. “Every last dragon.”

  “No,” Brenn said.
He shook his head, and kept shaking it as they climbed the steps. When they were around halfway up his conviction faltered and he let out a string of curses.

  “Well that settles it,” Argus said. “War it is. Imagine how much money the wealthy kept here…”

  “I was a little wealthy once,” Brenn snorted. “At least I thought I was. Until we stepped ashore this cursed island.”

  Something drove them on anyway. Around and around they went, until they reached the landing that led to the bank's entrance.

  A pair of men stirred amid all that death.

  They hurried over to them.

  “Hey!” one of them said. “You aren't for the empire, are you?” He had a pug nose and curly brown hair. He wasn't quite a man yet. Just a year or two older than Chet…

  “Fuck the empire!” Brenn said.

  The boy's eyes widened. “That's the spirit… hey. Is that Brenndall the Bold?”

  He nodded.

  “We could have used you a few hours past.” His eyes lowered to the other survivor, a bank guard whose head lay cradled in his hands. From the looks of it, he wouldn't be a survivor for much longer.

  Argus knelt beside the boy and asked, “Why'd they do this? Is anyone else alive?”

  The boy winced as the guard, an exile from Mael whose face was stained with purplish-black splotches from squid ink, coughed up some blood. “There are a few others. Tucked away in the hills some—hey, do you know anything about healing?”

  Argus looked the Maelish man up and down and spotted a crushed breastplate. He looked like he'd been trampled by a horse. There were bound to be crushed bones and organs as well. “I'm afraid not.”

  “I… I don't know what to…” the boy's voice trailed off. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “The only reason I'm still here was because I pretended I was dead.”

  Brenn put a meaty hand on the boy's shoulder and said, “You fought hard. Left your soul on the battlefield.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.” Brenn pulled the kid away from the fallen guard. “Look away,” he said, lifting his sword. “You don't need to see this.”

  The boy turned.

  “May Setep receive you in his halls, for you've fought and died well.”

  The guard gasped as Brenn's sword plunged right into him. His eyes trembled. Froze. And then the rest of him went still.

  “You can look, lad. It's over now.”

  The boy whirled. He looked down at the body and wiped away his tears. “You should have seen 'em, Brenn. They surrounded the island. Landed at dawn before most of us were up. They fought like… like madmen. Like you.”

  Argus grabbed the kid and shook him. “Why? Why did they do this?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don't know. They kept screaming while they fought. Yelling about the Sculptor. How he wanted this place to burn.”

  “You know these woods?” asked Brenn.

  “Sure. Like the back of my hand.”

  “Go see who else you can help. They need you.”

  The boy stood taller and his lips curled into a wisp of a smile. “I will! Thanks, Brenndall.”

  “Be smart,” Argus said. “Don't wander too close to the flames.”

  The boy waved, then disappeared down the stairs.

  How many others? he thought. How many others just like him in those woods?

  Brenn led them into the Builders Bank. Not a soul remained. There were only bodies and piles of bloodied papers. The invaders had gone all the way down to the vaults, whose doors were left open.

  “Empty!” Brenn said. His voice bounced off the giant empty cavern and traveled back to them. “Gods.”

  They crawled out and found themselves fugitives, exiles, and penniless.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The only thing left to do was loot what the Calladonians had left behind.

  They found some bread and cheese and fresh fish in one of the nicer homes, and cooked the fish over a fire fed by cupboards they'd hacked apart themselves.

  “Looks like the fire's dying down,” Argus said.

  “The winds changed. They're pulling it back to sea.”

  They sat on the edge of Bannerless Square while they ate, watching Bank Road. They'd spotted a few survivors while searching for food, familiar faces from the Rusty Flagon who told them of others in the woods. Most were busy building boats to carry them away from here. And, as was predictable for the Davosi, no one trusted each other.

  “What now?” Argus asked. He ate the last chunk of bread and stood on the edge of the square, watching the island burn.

  “Now? Now we drink, my friend.” Brenn grabbed the wine they'd found, popped the cork, and took a healthy gulp. He handed it to Argus, who took a swig. They passed it back and forth until it was gone. Then they opened another.

  The wine warmed him, but not even the finest vintage could make Argus forget. He closed his eyes and saw Sheila and Chet. There were others, too, lurking in the background with pale faces. All those he hadn't yet found, but whose lives had ended.

  “I need powder,” he said, rising to his feet. With Emperor Eamon's strict prohibition against such things, his men were bound to have left some behind.

  Brenn scowled at him, but didn't say a word.

  “I'll be back soon.”

  Argus worked his way down the hill, over the bodies and blanket of shattered glass. He had a destination in mind: the Rusty Flagon. If there was any place in Davos where he'd find powder, that was his best bet.

  He kept his eyes on the flames, which had settled for the lower half of the island. He couldn't bear to look down at all the blood and wide-eyed corpses. The air grew thicker the closer he got toward the sea, and soon enough he was covered in sweat.

  Argus looked at the clouds massed on the horizon.

  Rain?

  He snorted. Maybe that would have saved some lives a few hours earlier. But fate took her time. She was fickle.

  “Bitch,” Argus said, continuing on down the hill. He'd learned long ago not to trust her—not to buy in to her charms and false promises.

  He was just about to walk into what was left of the Rusty Flagon when a voice stopped him.

  “I should have known not to trust you,” it said. A woman. She stepped out of the shadows of the glassblower shop across the street, seeming to materialize out of thin air.

  Argus turned with his sword in hand.

  His blade did nothing to deter her. Her body, blurry in the darkness and spitting rain, grew more solid as she crept out of the shadows. Her green eyes glared at him. Her hair was wild, auburn and orange and red like the fire itself.

  “Well,” he said, “I'll be damned.”

  Willow stepped forward, and only then did Argus realize she was holding a sword as well. Not just any sword. His sword. Reaver.

  “You didn't uphold your end of the bargain,” she said.

  “That's my sword. I'll need it back now.”

  Willow pulled it away and smiled. “Sad. I've never seen a prisoner so eager for his shackles.”

  “Give me the sword, woman.”

  “Come take it from me.”

  Argus sneered. He shuffled a few steps forward in his fighting stance. Something stopped him. The way Willow made no effort to defend herself—how those eyes regarded him with all the attention he might pay to a horsefly—was unsettling.

  “I could end your life in an instant,” she said. “Perhaps I should.” She looked down at the bodies between them. “Yet this is punishment enough. Look at the cloud of death around you, Argus of Leith. Look what your treachery has wrought.”

  “I didn't know Belen was going to be there. He deserved to die. For what he did to my mother and I. For what he was still doing to my sister!”

  The woman nodded, shivering a bit in her sleeveless surcoat. “That may be true. But now many more have died because of that man. And many more will. He's beyond mad, Argus. You can't deny it; you saw him yourself. You want your sword back? Take it. It leaves a bad taste
in my mouth.” She dropped Reaver and it clattered onto the street.

  Argus crept forward, watching her closely as he bent over to retrieve it. He dropped the other sword the moment he picked it up, and a part of him forgot why he had come down here in the first place.

  “How did you get this?” he asked. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Willow waved him off. “Magic makes even sneaky men such as yourself about as subtle as a wild boar. But it's much simpler than that. I followed you, and made sure you had your red robe.”

  Argus backed away. His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down. For being on a burning island, her blue linen dress was remarkably clean. Almost spotless.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “I came ashore right after you and that monstrous man you're traveling with.”

  Argus grunted, unsatisfied with her explanation. A part of him—a part that grew more vocal as he looked past her beauty—wondered if she started those fires herself.

  They looked at each other a long while. Rain pelted the cobblestones in large, stinging drops. Torrents of it now, buffeting the hillside amid rumbling thunder.

  “What now?” Argus asked, shivering in the chill. “I betrayed my word. I don't deny it. Why have you come back? If you're going to kill me, get on with it.”

  Willow cocked her head. “I'm not going to kill you, Argus. You've already dodged one execution this week. Take me to your companion. Then all will be revealed.”

  “Fine,” Argus said, leading them up the hill. “He isn't going to like you, though.”

  She smiled.

  * * *

  Argus's instincts were right.

  Brenn liked Willow even less than he'd expected. When he wasn't glowering at the woman, he was busy berating Argus for bringing her into their lives.

  “What in the blazes were you thinking? Getting yourself involved with a sorceress! Haven't you heard of them stealing babes from their cribs? Or driving men mad?”

  “To be fair,” said Willow, “most of those are old wives' tales.”

  “How should we know? No one's seen a healthy sorcerer or sorceress roam the world since my father's father's time. Prove it, woman! If you truly are what you say.”