Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

The first six, or was it seven—time blended together in the courtyard—had passed quickly as the first. Abennak giggled, applied his absurd method of choosing combatants, sparked chaos. Quick flashes of blades ensued, then victory. The matches had grown more difficult; Irreor's final opponent had managed to last five minutes.

  "I need to return to Farren," he said.

  "You're thinking now?"

  "Yesterday. Today." He shrugged, thinking of the baker. He needed to protect his friends from the Mad King's folly. They couldn't end up in Abennak's hole-of-a-dungeon. "I don't care, but it needs to happen soon."

  The merchant frowned. "I'm needing you to finish that tournament. There's something inside there. I can feel it in my skin. I—"

  "You sit here with your wife on your arm and a grin on your lips," Irreor spat. "I watched a man hauled off to be tortured. Void take me, the look in Abennak's eyes makes Crest look like a kitten."

  "I know," Gar Tsi muttered.

  "You didn't see it, didn't feel—"

  "I'm not needing to, boy. I'm seeing it in the city, in this very tavern. Look at the people around you, vacant-eyed and silly-jawed. They've got nothing left for themselves. They're doing what Abennak tells them, but the man isn't having a mind left." He took a long swallow of ale and smacked the tankard into the table. "Worse than I thought, worse than I feared."

  Teel stroked his arm.

  "You need to see it," Irreor hissed.

  "Why?"

  He searched for an explanation, but none came. The merchant and his wife couldn't understand what he'd seen, the glint of madness, yes, but worse—the glint of sanity. In too many ways, Abennak knew exactly what he was doing. It wouldn't have been as bad if the king was simply mad, but he was madness with reason.

  The Mad King had a purpose.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A single candle lit Villeen's room, its light dancing against her skin in rhythmic steps. Thick reddish-brown bricks separated her from the rest of the castle, so that no other minds would wander too close. The door was locked and the walls were bare and lifeless, just as she required.

  They didn't need to see what she did.

  We can't create life. It's not possible!

  She'd said those words to Wisk and Abennak, and her brother had agreed. But what if she'd been wrong? What if her father had managed to create a life? Worse, what if he'd managed to create hundreds, or thousands? His notes claimed he'd need more people for his war, but how many?

  "No, it's not possible," she muttered.

  Gentahl was easier with fewer minds present, and almost nothing was impossible if she stood alone. With no one else near, she could've crafted her own castle, filled it with chandeliers and tapestries and tables. The Mad King's castle wouldn't have compared.

  Was it possible to create another human, even one imperfect as the guards or the assassin? Her brother would've told her not to try this. He would've told her it was brash and foolish and too dangerous to even think about. Her brother might've been right.

  "But I've got to try."

  If she found out how her father had managed to create life, she might be able to use it to track him. Another clue, another answer—anything would help. They hadn't come closer to finding the general or the instrument.

  This was her only option.

  She singled out a thread of gentahl, thrust it deep within her own mind. A body was easy to imagine, with pale arms, skinny legs, thin lips and trimmed nails. Mottled white hair to wear as a crown.

  The mind... oh, the mind—that was not such a simple thing.

  Should she fill it with memories and thoughts, or would those things come naturally? What about love and hate? Should she include those? If I ignore them, they'll appear on their own. A baby doesn't have those things at birth, does she? No, she acquires them through a lifetime.

  A mind must be crafted from the bottom up, like a statue of mud.

  An image flickered in her thoughts, light as the shadows dancing on her skin, heavy as the surrounding bricks. Its mind was a spark in the center of its forehead, brighter than the candle, darker than the corners. It was also more than those things, and less than them.

  Void take me, it feels.

  And it did. A slight pulse, the barest of breaths—the thing in her mind reached to her with thoughts of its own. Why was it here? What did she want with it? She couldn't answer those questions, but she'd find a way.

  She drove her gentahl deeper into her own mind.

  Twisted.

  She released the thread and slumped forward, unable to find the strength to stand straight. Her arms felt as if they'd been coated in tar, her head as if it'd been filled with sludge.

  Her brother might've been right; this was too difficult to accomplish.

  And yet her creation appeared, crumpled against the castle's stone floor with slightly parted lips and hands balled into fists. Long blonde hair, nearly white, cascaded down the thing's back, and glossy, feminine eyes opened to peer at Villeen. Recognition glowed within, but not the kind she'd expected—less understanding, more accusing.

  The thing reeked of a corpse left in the sun.

  King's bloody cock, it's possible. It's—

  The thing shrieked, high and shrill. It clawed itself to its feet and took a hateful step toward its creator. Then two. Step and snarl, step and snarl. Closer and closer, as if to claw or kick or bite. A piece of skin dripped from its elbow, and its fingernail fell to tap the floor.

  Villeen placed her back against the wall.

  This wasn't what her father had done. This was worse. Gobs of flesh dripped from her creation, falling to the floor until nothing remained but a puddle and a mouth. The thing's final shriek lingered.

  Villeen panted with uneaven inhalations and expulsions. "Damn you, Father. It's possible to create a life, and you've done it. But, void take me, it's too horrible. Do you know what you've done!"

  No answer.

  He'd created something he shouldn't have, and he'd forced her to do the same. But the guards with Wisk weren't like this, nor was Wisk himself. They'd thought and moved, hadn't screamed with such hatred. Why? What had she done differently?

  "It doesn't matter," she told herself.

  If Wisk was indeed one of her father's creations, then she'd watch him, but do little more. Ultimately, he was a pointless whisper in the wind. So what if her father had created him? So what if he knew it?

  "It doesn't matter!"

  If only she could've convinced herself of that.

  A knock thumped against the door, and she forced herself to lean against it. She couldn't let anyone see the puddle of fleshy bits. More, she couldn't see anyone like this. Not after that.

  She'd never do this again.

  "Vill?" her brother asked, his voice muffled by the door.

  "Go away, Fier."

  "The king wants to see us. Demanded, really."

  "I'm not—"

  "He wants us to see the end of his tournament, said we needed to understand. I think we should listen. It's only for a couple of hours, and you can study afterward. Vill?"

  "Don't care. Leave me—"

  "I can't."

  "You can!" Anger built in her chest, and it slopped from her mouth to say, "Void take you, Fier, leave me alone! Abennak can rot on his pyre for all I care."

  Silence.

  Then the patter of footsteps drifted down the corridor.

  Villeen ran her fingers through her hair, but the pounding in her head wouldn't relent. She'd pushed herself too far, used her gentahl to an extent that, even alone and with no other minds present, had stretched her abilities to their edge.

  And I found nothing, just a puddle of pain.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A blade whistled toward Irreor's neck. He ducked beneath it, countered with his dagger. Steel clashed and sparks fell, and he angled his sword to block a strike to his ankle. His opponent, a wiry man with an overly-large nose, wielding a longsword and a small, round buckler, snarled and p
ressed the attack.

  On the castle's stairs, Abennak slurped bits of yesterday's melon into his mouth, uncaring that they'd sat on the ground for an entire day. Ants crawled amongst the fruit, but he gobbled them down.

  A ring of twenty guards surrounded the courtyard, tense and alert. Near the gate to the city, Gar Tsi and Teel watched the tournament's final two rounds. They hadn't wanted to come, but Irreor had insisted they see it.

  And now they'll understand.

  Two others fought across the courtyard, too far away to notice the details of their battle. Irreor’s opponents couldn't have known they competed with someone trained by a Kilnsman. Hours of practice with Kipra and Bran, countless more hours spent alone, his father's precise maneuvers honed to that of the sharpest blade—how could anyone anticipate these things?

  They couldn't, and that was why they'd lose.

  Other than Irreor, only three men remained, and the twinkle of imagined gold shone in their expressions. They must've dreamed of how they'd spend the money, but they couldn't know what they faced.

  I'll use Abennak's gold against him. I'll hire mercenaries, train the citizens. Anything to stop hi—

  He caught an attack with his Synien, thrust it away, and skirted to his opponent's left. The other man's buckler dropped half-an-inch, and Irreor hopped forward, ducked inside a wild swing, and touched his dagger's edge to the other's throat.

  "End round!" Abennak shouted. He strode from the stairs, fluttering his hand at the losers. "I need the two of you like I need a turkey in my gut. Blegh! Go away like good little melons."

  Irreor cast a glance at the merchant, and Gar Tsi whispered something to his wife. Did they see what the Mad King was? Did they understand?

  I can only hope.

  -Hopes will be feeble, little more than mosquitoes in a flame. Sure, it will poof, but then only smoke will remain.-

  Irreor snorted to himself. But if hope is worthless, then so is despair. You can't have one without the other. Your theory is flawed.

  "Whispers and whispers," Abennak muttered. He circled to Irreor's back and placed his chin on Irreor's shoulder. "Do you think he's talking about me? I'll bet he is. And why shouldn't he? I'm far more smarter than he."

  "They came because I asked them." Irreor said. "No other reason."

  Abennak smiled a secretive smile. "And what of you, my little melon? Are you still squishy and mushy and gushy on the inside? Have you toughened your shell?"

  "I—"

  "If I smash you against the ground, I wonder if you'll ooze across my cobblestones. Ah, perhaps you might, given the cha—"

  "I don't give a shit about your melon, and I care less for your wonderings."

  The Mad King roared with laughter, harsh and grinding, like two boulders rubbed together. He tapped Irreor on the forehead. "One."

  He skipped to the final entrant, a short, stocky man with a spear. Abennak tapped the man on the forehead, whispered something, then stood back and spread his arms wide.

  "Begin!"

  The spearman sprinted. He wore a heavy leather tunic, studded and sparkling in the sun, reinforced with steel bands that pressed through the hide. His weapon, a leather-wrapped, hollow metal pole with a jagged blade at its tip, lanced for Irreor's throat.

  Irreor deflected the spear with his Synien and spun to the side.

  'Be wary of a good spearman's reach,' his father had warned. 'They're tricky bastards, and they'll snag you from farther than a swordsman can. It's best to snap their spear in two if possible. Hope for the best if you can't. Use your speed.'

  Irreor dodged, ducked, and blocked.

  From the corner of his eye, Teel stepped forward, but Gar Tsi hauled her back by her elbow. The merchant said something in a quiet tone, too low to hear, but something along the lines of, "Let the boy finish this."

  Again that spear snapped forward and again Irreor swept it aside.

  "Fight me!" the spearman screamed, and he rushed the swordsman.

  It ended.

  Irreor rolled beneath the spear to slap the flat of his blade against the other's shins. The spearman sprawled to the ground, and Irreor leapt to his feet to place the tip of his blade against the back of the other's neck.

  Abennak clapped. Not the clap of a happy man, it was the clap of a man who dreaded what he was about to do. He dug his nails into his forearms as he drew closer. "I knew you'd win. Knew it."

  Of course he'd won, had the man expected any less? Irreor threw another glance to the merchant and his wife. Teel wore a dazzling smile, but the merchant frowned and crossed his arms.

  "Give me the gold," Irreor said. "And—"

  "Kill him," Abennak hissed, pointing at the spearman.

  Like a siphon, those words leeched the air from Irreor's lungs. "This wasn't to the death. You promised! No, no, no, I'll not kill a defenseless—"

  "Do it."

  The spearman squirmed as if struggling to his feet, but the king kicked him back into the dirt. Guardsmen tightened around Irreor like a noose. Thirty feet. Twenty feet, then they halted. Gar Tsi and Teel kept close to the gate, but two guardsmen broke ranks to stand at their side.

  "Wobble and wobble," the Mad King said. "Would you kill to save them? How far and far would you go?" He stepped closer. "Are you the hard outer shell, or the mushy gushy pulp?"

  Neither! I'm... I'm....

  This wasn't what he'd come for. The guards near his friends slid their blades from their sheaths. They'd use them, if the king ordered it. They wouldn't have a choice.

  But what choice did Irreor have? Kill the man at his feet or watch his friends die? That wasn't a choice. It was an ultimatum, and more than Gar Tsi and his wife were at stake. The southern kingdom awaited Abennak's armies. Kipra and Bran and Krayr would be lodged beneath this bastard's thumb.

  War.

  How could Irreor stop it?

  "I can't," he muttered to himself.

  "Ah, but that's a wibbly wobbly decision," Abennak said, and he motioned to the two men near the merchant and his wife. "They'll flip and flop on the ground. Their blood will pitter and patter to the sand."

  "No!"

  "Then what will you do?"

  Irreor hesitated, and Teel again stepped forward, as if to help, as if to somehow stop this. She couldn't, she should've known that. Her husband reached to snag her arm, but a guard's mailed fist smashed her face, and she flopped to the cobblestones.

  Abennak giggled. "Limp as a doll, arid and dirty as a whore."

  Gar Tsi knelt to cradle his wife's head, brushed the hair from her face. He hugged her to his chest. The guardsmen towered over her, jabbing their sword tips into skin.

  They waited.

  The Mad King stood near enough to brush with a finger, close enough to slice with sword or dagger. Irreor's father had taught him... taught him... nothing. Eenan Ark hadn't explained how to handle this.

  Void take me, what do I do? I made them come, I insisted they see—

  -He'll do what he feels he must. My general, ah, my general, he'll feel the pulse in his chest. And in that instant, as clouds cover the sun and the first hints of rain splash his cheek, my general will be born.-

  I don't want to be that man!

  Clouds blotted out the sun. Rain splashed his cheek.

  "Kill the merchant's wife," Abennak said.

  "No!"

  -To end a war, he'll kill a man.-

  Irreor lashed his blade out, angled it to slice through the Mad King's heart. Delicate and sure as a raindrop, it whistled closer and closer. It halted. Air or water or something else—similar to the voice's thread, but more reckless and furious—held him, stronger than bands of iron. His blade had drawn a shallow gash across the king's chest, and Abennak dabbed his finger against the wound.

  "Tsk tsk," the king said. "That's not and not very nice, is it?"

  Irreor strained to push his weapon deeper. His friends might die, even he might die, but the risk was worth the reward. He should've done it yesterday, when no one
would suspect, when the merchant and his wife weren't here—but he'd been a fool.

  Kipra and Bran could’ve remained safe. They could’ve laughed and lived.

  What's stopping me!

  -Ah, if only it were that easy.

  Invisible bands tightened like a constrictor around its prey.

  The king sucked the blood from his finger. "Ah, but you don't remember how to do this, do you? Shame on the donkey you rode in on. Wisk, our melon needs a lesson in how to be gristly and tough. Teach him. Turn him into a peach's seed."

  Abennak skipped beyond the reach of Irreor's weapon, and an old man stepped into the circle. Throwing knives lined his belt and the brace across his jerkin. Two shortswords jutted from behind each shoulder, and he reached back to slide them from their sheaths. He wore a smirk like a grinning skull, skin pulled tight against bone.

  "You've a choice," Abennak said. "One I never give nor gave myself. Kill this assassin and everyone goes free. You can flip and flap and flower your way from my city. He wants it. Will you do or done it?"

  The assassin laughed and waggled a finger beneath Irreor's nose. This wasn't a helpless man. It was one trained to kill, one who'd probably murdered countless people.

  Yes, he could kill this man.

  "Will you do it?" Abennak asked again, lighter, softer.

  "Yes."

  Abennak wandered over to the spearman. He sat heavily on the man's back, giggling and clapping. "Can and can, or will and will?"

  Whatever held Irreor loosened, then released.

  The assassin thrust both shortswords at his chest, but Irreor leapt away at the last instant. They stood apart for several seconds, adjusting, analyzing.

  Blades whirled, collided, grazed and sparked. Irreor worked his longsword and Synien with quick, precise motions, but the assassin blocked every strike, countered every counter.

  Blistering. Blazing. Unstoppable.

  The assassin hopped beyond range to fling a throwing knife, then two. Irreor deflected the first with his dagger, but the second tore a ragged gash through his sleeve and kissed the flesh beneath.

  Yet another knife darted at Irreor's chest, but he leaned to the side, transferred his weight, and used his momentum to charge the other man. Two sparks, then three and four, and the assassin retreated beneath his assault.