Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  His lungs burned, but he forced himself to take another breath.

  The rain was good. It disguised any noise, and kept unwanted visitors far from the warehouse. After all, who wanted to visit an empty building in the midst of a storm? The homeless, perhaps, but a sturdy lock kept them away.

  With two men out searching for the gateman, Gell, the nine remaining men formed a half-circle.

  Irreor shouted at them above the rain. "Spar unless I say otherwise. Use whatever you're most comfortable with—spear, sword, dagger, whatever—but I can't offer advice for more than a blade."

  They'd cleared away a stack of timber to make space for training. They'd fashioned crude bunks with the wood, piled blankets atop them to serve as mattresses, and shoved them against the walls. Pernik had built a long, wide table, and he'd placed it at the back of the warehouse to serve as a headquarters.

  Crude furniture, maps stained with raindrops, men reeking from sweat—perfect.

  No torches burned. No candles flickered. They couldn't afford to let any light escape from the high windows, especially not with the sky dark and revealing. They navigated a gloomy grayness, not the best conditions for training, but battles rarely occurred in desired conditions.

  War always seemed to rage amidst mud or boulders or darkness.

  Bran slapped an iron cudgel against his palm. He still hated training with the others, yet he'd also proven to be one of the best. His aggression simmered below the surface, restrained, but the man was only a notch below Irreor when he unleashed it.

  At first, Irreor had simply watched the men practice, gauging their skill so that he'd know how to use them.

  Just as he'd hoped, Pernik knew the city's underbelly. The man had studied it, always aware of what was happening but never able to stop it.

  'Council wouldn't listen to me, either,' he'd said the night before. 'I was too close to Ark, they said. Bastards! They were just covering for Crest—we all knew it.'

  How that must've torn at the old officer.

  Kipra disappointed Irreor. Slow, lax, uncaring—she'd obviously not trained since he'd left. Her counters weren't as clean as he remembered, her footwork was sloppy, and she stumbled through the maneuvers as if only half remembering. She'd fought with far more precision the night he'd returned, so what had changed?

  Had it been a fluke?

  "Now, or when you feel like moving your ass?" Kipra asked.

  He snapped his gaze to her, realized he stood in the middle of the training area. Yet her tone and sly, arrogant expression—she wasn't ready for this. Maybe she thought she was, but the past days had shown her ineptitude.

  He kept his tone even and subdued. "Kipra is with me. The rest of you pair up as you wish."

  The men grunted in acknowledgement as they spread out.

  Irreor tugged his blade and dagger free as he strode to the far corner. He forced himself to take a calming breath. "You've kept up your training?"

  "No," she said. She wore her midnight hair in a tight ponytail, and she narrowed her eyes as if laughing at him. Yet something insidious coiled around that joy, choking it.

  "How did this happen?"

  She twitched an eyebrow.

  "You and I," he said, gesturing around the enclosure. "A warehouse of grunting testosterone and sweat, metal clashing in a squealing orchestra. It's like my deepest wish." He lifted his face to the rafters and mouthed, "Thank you."

  "You're impossible. I'd rather stick my blade in your guts, Ark"

  "Lies. I'm very possible."

  Weapons clashed. Men gasped and grunted. Irreor widened his stance, just as his father had taught him so long ago, just as he'd driven it into mind and body since he was a child.

  He waited.

  Her first attack—faster than when he'd last sparred with her, faster than anything she'd displayed since he returned—swept toward his midsection with a subtle twist of the blade.

  A flick and roll of his wrist provided the counter.

  She anticipated it, as he hoped she would, and leapt away. But she didn't leap away with the same dexterity she'd attacked with, and her foot slipped on the rain-soaked ground.

  He quickly glanced at the other men.

  Bran fought near the far wall, his tunic stretched against his chest. He sparred with an overweight man whose head barely reached Bran's chin, but then, most were shorter than the blacksmith. The man with the bulging gut moved smoothly, flinging a broadsword at the blacksmith's face before circling. Slice and circle, jab and circle.

  Bran ducked his head and wove his cudgel in diagonal arcs as he retreated.

  Kipra lanced a shortsword toward Irreor's heel, and he tore his attention from the others. He lifted his foot to allow the attack to whisk beneath, stepped behind it, and delivered a short punch to her stomach.

  She grunted, but whipped her blades up to catch his, hopped to the side, and returned a riposte of her own—faster than anything he'd seen, almost faster than Abennak's assassin. Had her slip been a ploy?

  It must've.

  He cursed himself. She was skilled. She recognized every twitch of his weapon, countered it with frigid, calculated proficiency, weaving her blade like a serpent even as she flowed the opposite direction. Through it, she stabbed at his face and chest and legs.

  He attempted to parry, but she withdrew just as his blade touched hers. Her eyes burned with something—determination, concentration, perhaps even anger. She lanced an attack to his left as she slid to the right.

  A decoy.

  He flicked his Synien half-heartedly to block it, and cast another quick glance over his men. Sparks showered. As before, they hacked at one another, pivoted, parried and attacked. They'd improved more than he'd suspect—

  A growl escaped Kipra's throat as she smashed his Synien aside.

  Not a decoy.

  Pain erupted, quick and furious, like red-hot steel against skin, and a crimson circle widened beneath his sleeve. Blood wound down his forearm to drip from his elbow.

  Kipra hopped back and laughed, loud and joyous and victorious, as silence blanketed the warehouse.

  Pernik's jaw dropped, and the other men, all veterans and knowing what a Kilnsman should've been capable of, licked their lips as if unable to believe what they'd seen.

  "You've improved," Irreor said, and the words tasted sour, like she'd betrayed him. In a way she had, though it was his own fault. He should've seen it. "You never stopped practicing. I should've—"

  "No, Ark, I never stopped, but you were stupid enough to think I did."

  "Of course." He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Look at what I've created: a lustful killer who attacks the arm. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

  "Forget it. You don't understand. You never did and never—"

  "Lies. I'm perfectly capable of understanding." Sure, she'd beaten him, but at least she was capable. "What could possibly thrill you about a flesh wound? It's not a kill or a—"

  "You lost."

  "I'm not dead."

  Her lopsided, victorious smile lingered. Clangs and rings and sparks resumed as the others returned to practice, and Bran and Pernik approached with grins of their own.

  The blacksmith smacked Irreor's wound, and the gash flared with pain.

  "She told me she'd slice me open if I let you know she'd kept training," Bran said. "She also swore she'd beat you today, but I didn't expect it. Nah, not against you."

  Irreor's cheek twitched. She'd planned it from the start. Somehow, she'd known he'd be more worried about the other men. She must have even planned the slip. You demon-damned woman, I should've seen it.

  -Deep and insidious, her hatred will be a tendril that reaches from her soul. Souls. Will my people have those? It doesn't matter. Her anger will strengthen her. She'll reject him.-

  Why? She doesn't hate me. Void take me, she's smiling!

  For years, the voice had claimed how much she'd hate him, how she'd despise him. It challenged every memory of her face, every thought of her.r />
  -I mustn't ignore the details—the way she'll look at him, the gleam in her eye, the angle of her jaw. Ah, so proud. That detail completes my world. It completes my people.-

  It feared her.

  Irreor dug his nails into his palms. "Bran, Pernik, go back to your practice. Tell the others to re-form their groups. Work for three hours, then go to the city. We need to know more about Crest's activities. Find anything."

  The blacksmith wrinkled his forehead. "But you—"

  "Do it!"

  Two seconds passed, then ten.

  Pernik pulled Bran away. They returned to the other men, and the clash of blades halted. Pernik organized them into new groups, and the clashes, grunts, and curses began anew.

  Irreor turned to Kipra. "Walk with me."

  "Where?"

  "Out."

  "I don't think you should be out—"

  "I've been in this damned place too long, Kipra. I'm going out, and you're coming with me."

  She scowled, but followed as he slipped from the warehouse.

  Hot rain slashed at him from dark, low-hanging clouds. Thin rivers of water and dust and grime washed the cobblestones. Despite his earlier hope, even in this weather, folk crowded the city. They drifted too close to the warehouse, too aware of where he'd come from, but they kept their eyes lowered to the cobblestones as they trudged onward.

  Aware that Kipra trailed close to him, Irreor stomped on.

  Both maintained their silence as they neared a line of vendors. Crest's new guardsmen towered above the corners of each table, discouraging theft with hard faces and bared steel.

  Huddled beneath a thin canvas, a woman gazed at Irreor with a tug of the lips that revealed two missing teeth. Crow's feet accented a wrinkled, motherly face, and the occasional gray strand hid within black hair. "You're wanting apples for yourself and the lady?"

  "Are they fresh?"

  "No." She hacked a cough, uncaring that spittle fell onto her wares. "They're half rotten. Probably got worms, too, but there ain't no helping it. That's the way it is and that's the way it'll stay."

  "You grew them?"

  She chuckled. "No, I just sell them as best I can."

  "Who brings them into the city?"

  She shrugged. "I guess you'd be needing to talk to Nekaron Rellik about that. He's directing all the wagons now, and only he knows where things are coming from. Like I said, I just sell them the best I can."

  "Ark," Kipra hissed. "I don't see why—"

  "Where can I find him?" Irreor asked the woman.

  "I ain't knowing, but he's got a nephew named Gell who normally works the gates. He brings in the wagons and checks them over before they come to us."

  Kipra released a thin whistle as Irreor frowned. He hadn't expected Gell to be Rellik's nephew, and the news almost forced him to call off their search for the gateman. However, something stopped him.

  He's our best shot. If I can't trust him, well, I'll deal with that then.

  -Information. They'll need to know who to trust, who to spurn, what armies to send. How will my daughter, my sweetest daughter, manipulate my world? She'll need to know, yes, but she can't know too much. No, not too much.-

  I don't suppose you'd like to tell me if I can trust Gell?

  Silence.

  Irreor snorted. I thought not.

  "Ain't no need for snorting here, Son," the woman said. "You'll get your snot all over my apples. Speaking of that, you'll be wanting to buy one or two? I got my own children to feed, but they'll not be eating if you ain't buying."

  "How much?" Kipra asked.

  "Two silver pennies."

  Irreor shook his head, slinging drops of water from his hair. "Three years ago, I wouldn't have paid more than a copper for half a dozen."

  "Things ain't getting easier," the woman said. "You want them or not?"

  He dug into his coin pouch and slapped two gold pennies on the table. It was more than was needed, more than most saw in a handful of months, but the coins he'd received from Kinslek would provide more than simple revenge.

  They'd also help feed these people.

  Irreor grabbed one, waited for Kipra to grab another, and they again entered the thick river of people. Rain hammered down as they moved on, and very few people spoke in the crowded, sopping market. They just lurched through the streets as if they had nothing better to do, nowhere better to go.

  Kipra shouted over the rain. "Damn you, Ark, where are we—"

  "There."

  He pointed to a crumbling building, the barracks where he'd trained with his father, and a place he'd not visited since Eenan's death. A rotted door hung half off its hinges. Irreor shouldered it aside, wrinkling his nose at the stench of moss in the gloomy, damp room. A single rusty sword, too pitted to use, leaned against a moldy stand, and a single sooty torch hung in the far corner, its weak glow barely illuminating the room. Unused pegs, meant for armor, lined the rough-cut walls. In the corner near the door, three chairs surrounded a wooden table.

  "They don't even use it anymore," he whispered to himself. "I thought it might be empty, but this is wrong."

  He bit into his apple, but the fruit was warm and spongy, and he hurled it against the wall. Let the bloody rats get it. They probably keep this place cleaner than anyone else.

  Though difficult to admit to anyone, he'd always wanted to return to this place. Fear, and reverence for the memory of his father, had convinced him to stay away. It was easy to ignore in the year after his father's death, and yet, with his return to the city and his friends, to the responsibilities he'd seemingly inherited from Eenan Ark, he needed to see this place.

  He ran his hand over the walls, remembering his father's face, the practices and aching muscles. The happiness. But it was a one-sided happiness, filled only by his father and those days of blades and sparks. He pulled his hand from the stone to examine the smudges on his fingertips.

  Something was missing.

  I can't even remember—

  "They haven't used it since before you left," Kipra said. "Why'd you bring me—"

  "I can't even remember her face."

  "Who?"

  "My mother."

  Kipra jerked as if slapped. "Ark, I didn't come here so you could—"

  "I feel like I should remember her, but those memories are blurry, like they never happened."

  He moved to the corner, sat in a dampened chair, and gestured for her to follow.

  For an instant she glared down at him, but then her expression softened as she moved to take a seat. Torchlight flickered. Rain hammered louder and louder, but somehow their whispers rose above the roar.

  -She'll hate him because of what her sister will be, what her mother will have been.-

  "I shouldn't have mentioned her." He jerked his head to the side, but the voice's thread still tickled the base of his skull, gauging him like Irreor had gauged his men. "I didn't come here to talk about her."

  "Why then?"

  He took a deep, steadying breath. The voice had always been so certain, so confident. It had always known what would happen, what people would think, how they'd feel. The cursed thing was never wrong.

  "I need to know why you hate me," he said.

  "You're arrogant, ignorant, and a fool."

  "There's more to it than that. You hate all men, even Bran, to a certain degree. I can see it in the way you look at him, that gleam in your eye, the proud angle of your jaw." Harsher than intended, he said, "That's the way you look at everyone."

  "So?"

  "Three months ago, the wagons took us to a small town called Vestel, on the western side of the Kurin Mountains. That place doesn’t see too many visitors." He paused to provide a gentle smile, knowing his next words would inflame her more than the driest kindling. "Every village and mudhole has whores. They call them maidens in the north."

  Again, her jaw tensed, and again, a savage gleam sprang to life.

  "What was your mother's name?" he asked.

  "Paien,
" she snarled. "She's a pretty little coward who—"

  "Your real mother's name. Paien and Haral Steel adopted you. Your real mother was a whore, just like your sister. Your mother's name was Kailee."

  Kipra froze. In a flat, wooden voice, she said, "I never told you that. I never told anyone. They never told anyone. How could you know?"

  Irreor glanced away, unable to speak of the voice's whispers. He'd buried that secret deep, piled grime and memories and lies atop it. As with Bran, he couldn't allow anyone to know of it.

  "Three maidens worked in Vestel—"

  "I'm not listening to this." Kipra wobbled to her feet, and her chair crashed against the ground. "You never understood me, and you can't hope to try now—"

  He slapped his palm against the table. His heart ached for what he'd already done and what he'd have to do, but he forced himself to glare into her furious, emerald eyes, at her smooth cheeks, at the obsidian hair that whisked across her face.

  Maybe you're right. Maybe she hates me. Maybe she'd rather stick a blade in my chest instead of look at me. But you can rot in the void if you think I'm not going to try.

  -Mistakes will be made.-

  Irreor pushed the voice to the back of his mind. "This isn't easy for either of us, and I can't even imagine what it's like for you. I want to empathize, to know all the secrets locked within you, but I can't. I've got to defend this city."

  "What do you want with me, Ark?"

  "I suppose, if my father had gotten hold of you when you were younger, you'd probably be better with a blade than I am." A line of dirty, grime-ridden water dribbled beneath the door. "I need to know I can trust you, but this tension makes it difficult."

  Like that water, trust was a crooked, dirty thing. 'To gain it,' his father had once said, 'a man must be willing to give it to another. Sometimes, the knife he forges lances his own side. Pick your battles.'

  Irreor hoped he'd wisely chosen this one.

  She said, "What do you—"

  "I need to glimpse the demon. This is hard. Oh, how I know it's hard, but I've learned that to draw a demon out, we must give it something to feed on. It eats our memories, our plans, our wishes."

  Kipra's chin quivered.