Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  "Spit it out," Kipra said.

  Bran pointed to the sleeping men. "Look at them. Look at how calmly their chests rise and fall, as if the city isn't falling apart, as if their lives haven't been thrown in a firepot."

  The blacksmith's tone stabbed Irreor, but the wisdom in it, the intelligence he'd never truly accepted—he needed that now.

  -So many plans, they stack and pile. I'll sort them in order to succeed. And in the early morning, as the sun shines through the warehouse, as the city awakens to that glorious light, my general will understand what he must do.-

  "Bran, you don't need to do this with us," Kipra said.

  Bran released an ironic laugh. "No, I do. They've all got families. Crest's men have families, too. I don't want this! Daylight shines through our windows. It gives us hope for our lives, for our families."

  Irreor pushed aside a map, allowing his friend to continue.

  "How do we feel when our families are torn from us? I wanted to curl into a ball. I wanted to be with my mother, not working in the forge."

  "Not every family is like yours," Kipra muttered. "Men don't care if—"

  "You're wrong," Bran said. "I love you like a sister, but you're wrong here. If we kill a family or two of Crest's guards, well, the rest will stop caring about protecting his loyalists. They'll go home to protect their families, and people like Sengin will be exposed."

  A soldier’s rumbling snore broke the silence.

  The blacksmith's plan oozed through Irreor's mind like a thick, slimy slug. Kipra had already watched him torture the merchant, though she hadn't judged him for it.

  Can I kill innocent families, just to draw Crest's men away?

  He shivered at the answer.

  "It's the only thing I can think of." Bran shrugged. "I remembered how I felt after they took my father, and, well, I hate the idea, but I think it would work."

  "Aye," Pernik said. "It'd work, boy. If we want to be bring ourselves to that."

  Bran sighed.

  "Do we have a choice?" Irreor asked. "Pernik, let the men sleep a few more hours. Once the sun is high in the sky, we'll send them into the city to scout. Have them look for Crest's lieutenants. Follow them. Find their homes."

  "They won't like it," Pernik said. "Don't worry, they're supporting us, but some of those families are our neighbors. These men will have watched the children play in the streets, the women hanging the laundry."

  "None of us like it," Irreor muttered. "But this is our only solution, and until we come up with something better, it's what we'll try for. We must force Crest off balance. He's simply too fast."

  Bran and Pernik surrendered tight, unhappy nods and wandered to their cots.

  Kipra examined Irreor with pursed lips, clicking her nails against the table as if waiting for him to speak, perhaps considering how to tell him he was a fool. She'd avoided him since he tortured and killed Rellik, and that night—dark, vile, hated—had replayed in his mind time and time again.

  Had he misjudged her? Had he misjudged himself?

  "Ark," she said, and paused. "I won't be used. I won't be discarded."

  "I would never use or disc—"

  "We can't lose our focus on Klen... on Crest." She smiled, tender and uncertain, like a butterfly freshly hatched. "It's all that matters."

  His hands trembled. Something new lurked within her eyes, something unexpected but craved. She cared, but she wouldn't let him bask in it. Instead, she flipped her hair over her shoulder, stood, and strode from the table.

  He chiseled that instant into his mind, for the next days wouldn't come easily. Sunlight bathed the warehouse, brighter than he remembered, and he allowed himself to smile.

  A true smile. Too long had passed since one crossed his face. It felt strange, like a thing forgotten and then remembered, filling him with a warmth he'd not believed possible since his father died.

  Not even the voice could steal this from him.

  You were wrong. You were always wrong!

  -Ah, and she'll look upon her husband in the last seconds of her life, and she'll plead for him to save her. But he won't. I can't let him. Blood will fall.-

  The sunlight dulled.

  Irreor's smile faded.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Smoke awakened Irreor, a tender thread tickling his nose.

  Like a living cloud it dove into his lungs, sucked the air from him, and he expelled it with a sharp cough. It stung. It burned. He flicked open his eyes to dancing orange and red flames. They twined and twisted and lurched as he leapt from his bed. Sunlight streamed from the high windows, lancing the chaos, and a fire roared unchecked, clawing up the warehouse walls.

  How long had he slept? Minutes? Hours?

  Demon-damn, this isn't—

  Timbers groaned above his head, near to collapse.

  -He'll fight his way through the flames, gather his men, and they'll pour from the warehouse. Harsh and visceral clangs of battle will ring across Farren's streets. With Crest's death, my general will be born.-

  Irreor ducked low, attempting to crawl beneath sooty, choking clouds, darting to the other cots. His men slept, their faces oddly peaceful, and he jabbed the first in the arm before jumping to the second.

  Third. Fourth.

  They awakened slowly at first, but shouts filled the warehouse within seconds. They crashed into one another as they rushed for the exit, cursing and snarling, hacking coughs inside the orange glow.

  Irreor attempted to ignore his stinging lungs as he shouted, "Gather at the door, but do not open it! Ready your weapons. Get in order. Move, damn you!"

  Seconds, so brief and blessed and critical, ticked past.

  Flames licked the windows.

  Kipra and Bran appeared out of the smoke. Both pressed wool tunics to their noses as they crouched close to the floor. Smoke billowed wider, thicker, if that was possible. Their eyes watered as they awaited orders.

  Irreor forced his way to the door, pivoted, and watched the far wall collapse. This was perfect in an imperfect way. They'd been caught sleeping only days after they assassinated Crest's trade minister.

  Coincidence? Unlikely.

  "Prepare to fight," he shouted.

  Bran, Kipra, Pernik, their men—all readied their weapons.

  Irreor shoved open the door.

  They rushed outside, billowing into the street like the smoke billowing from the warehouse. They gasped for clean air as a man—clean-shaven, snarling, clad in a guard's uniform—launched himself at Irreor.

  Irreor ducked beneath a swing and lopped off his attacker's leg.

  Kipra blocked a slash from a black-bearded man, slid her blade down his, and twisted her wrist to open his throat. She gazed down with widened eyes and parted lips, as if to etch the memory into her mind.

  The man twitched. His blood pooled. He fell silent.

  Three more guardsmen shot through the smoke, and Irreor, Bran and Kipra met them. Irreor slid beyond a strike and glanced to the side, where his men engaged the attackers. Each of them had felled one of Crest's, though blood oozed down Pernik's forehead. The old officer wiped it from his eye, and in the same motion he whipped his blade downward to embed it in an attacker's throat. Slow, steadied, assured, the crafty old veteran wrenched the weapon free.

  He hacked out a loud, harried laugh, and spun to slice the head from another man. "Bring it harder, you sons of donkeys!"

  The others struggled.

  At least five of Irreor's men had already fallen, and his heart twitched at the sight of their corpses. Two more dropped within the following seconds, victims to daggers and axes and jagged spears. Yet they didn't die instantly, for that would've been too easy. Their eyes blinked rapidly, pain splattered across their faces. One gurgled and lay still, and the other managed to crawl to his companion's side, leaving a narrow trail of crimson gore to mark his passage. He lay his head on the other's chest, and breathed a last breath.

  Those men had followed Irreor into this, knowing they
might die. They'd accepted his orders without question, without reservation.

  Now they were dead.

  More would follow.

  Bran shoulder-charged a man, smashing him from his feet, and the blacksmith swept his cudgel down to splatter brains across the cobblestones.

  From beyond the smoke and the fighting, a voice shouted, "Make them pay! They've tried to bring our city low, but we won't let them. No, we won't let them!"

  "Crest," Kipra hissed, and she gutted another opponent. She rushed forward, and thick gray smoke swirled to mask her path.

  -Will she match him in a spark of blades? No, I don't think she will. I must make it something more, something unexpected. Crest will be a master swordsman, rivaled only by the best of Kiln.-

  No!

  Irreor had spent so many nights on the caravan trails, imagining a life with Kipra, a life that often seemed impossible. But after their last talk in the barracks, added to their light, glancing touches, and perhaps, perhaps, the feelings she now held for him, they proved that impossibility wrong.

  He couldn't lose it.

  Irreor blocked two lightning stabs from a pair of guards, countered, and skipped over their corpses. He leapt to follow her. If the voice was right, Crest would hack her to pieces.

  Damn you!

  Two more men converged on him. They attacked in unison, the first thrusting a longsword at Irreor's gut and the second slashing at his throat. Irreor blocked both, then pivoted on his heel to spring forward. He hacked the first man's arm from his shoulder and rammed his Synien into the second man's groin.

  Both shrieked and dropped.

  He strode on.

  The swirling smoke thinned.

  A primitive roar ricocheted from his left, and he swung around. Fifteen paces away, Kipra knelt, face pinched in agony, with one shortsword lifted above her head. Blood streamed from a jagged gash across her cheek, staining the front of her armor.

  Crest towered over her.

  -Kylen Crest will kill with less remorse than a hunter with a beast. He'll be a butcher, but a cold and calculating one. Ruthless. Intelligent. Manipulative. Stronger than even my blacksmith. Yes! These skills will propel him forward. They'll allow him to rise to power. Ah, I see it so clearly.-

  Crest hammered a massive bastard sword against Kipra's smaller blade.

  The impact drove her knees into the cobblestones, but she pressed her lips together, refusing to cry out. Her blade wavered and dipped, but she lifted her free hand to steady it. She attempted to stand, but the giant's bastard sword sped downward. Her knees buckled as her blade clanged against the ground.

  A long wheeze bubbled from her lips.

  Irreor froze. His fingers tingled. His eyes no longer stung as the sounds of the battle faded. Crest—the man who had killed his father, the man who had destroyed their city, the man who now towered over Kipra—hacked a wicked laugh.

  "Your sister always knew her place," Crest growled. "It's a shame you never did."

  No, no, no!

  -They all must lose something to gain what I'll give them. My instrument will lose his wife. My general will lose a love he's never experienced. They all must lose. I don't want this, but I must have it. They must have it. My general will lead.-

  You're damned right I'll lead.

  Irreor shot forward, hoping to block the giant's strike.

  Crest, with face taught, eyes blazing, and shoulders bunched for the final blow, swung his blade down in a rapid arc, but Irreor deflected it into the cobblestones.

  Sparks shimmered.

  Crest unleashed a hateful chuckle. "I've watched you for so long. This warehouse, this army of yours—I knew it would happen. You thought you could hide from me? You disappoint me, boy."

  Kipra toppled to the ground. She groaned as her fingers twitched over her sword's hilt, covered in a gritty mixture of blood and sand. Again she groaned, and it burrowed deep within Irreor.

  "You were a fool," Crest said. "With your training and your inept spies. You didn't think I'd hear of it? You didn't think I'd see it? This is my city. Kinslek holds no power here. It was mine the entire time."

  Irreor's arm throbbed as he circled away from Kipra, hoping to draw Crest. "Do you know what I did to Rellik? I'll make certain worse happens to you."

  Crest dragged his sword against the cobblestones as he stalked the younger man. "I always wished I could've watched your father die. He was a small stepping stone. But did he beg? I've always imagined he did."

  Crest hefted his sword to strike as Irreor shot forward and drilled his blade's point toward the massive man's chest. Crest attempted to parry, but his heavier weapon lurched. A dark stain spread across his chest.

  Irreor leapt back, but the other man windmilled his arms and stomped after him.

  Behind Crest, Kipra twitched as if to grip her sword. Her eyes fluttered open, and she clenched her teeth as she struggled to stand. Her knees wobbled, but she gasped and stumbled forward.

  Stay back, you fool woman!

  The bastard sword lifted and arced downward.

  -One single distraction will drive him to his knees. But the second... ah, with that second, he'll lose his love. Then both general and instrument will understand sorrow. They'll rise above it to forge an empire.-

  Crest's attack blasted down, forcing Irreor to his knees. The giant roared and rained blows. Irreor's arms numbed beneath the assault, but he angled his parries to drive the bastard sword into the ground. His shoulder ached. He reeked of blood and dirt and sweat.

  'Lift that blade!' his father had always snapped.

  So Irreor did.

  But Kylen Crest simply roared with laughter, attacking as the warehouse burned. Ash and dust and smoke drifted into the sky, mocking Irreor's failure. His men didn't deserve this, hadn't anticipated this.

  Four of Crest's men met two of Pernik's. The old officer's soldiers rushed forward wildly, screaming, and collided against the enemy with the force of a boulder against a cliff. They were blasted from their feet. The first took a bloodied dagger to the throat, and the second was rended from neck to hip by a wide-bladed axe.

  They screamed as they died.

  Unstoppable.

  Irreor rolled to the side as the giant's blade swept down, and his face smacked the cobblestones. Sparks showered from where he'd once knelt. Kipra still stood a dozen paces from them, blood streaming from her chin, but she lifted her blade to strike. She stumbled closer.

  Ten paces.

  Concentrate!

  His father had once said, 'One single mistake can put you in a horrible spot. A distraction, perhaps just bad luck, but it will happen. In that moment, you must accept the pain.' At that, his father had ruffled his hair. 'And then, my son, you strike.'

  Five paces.

  Spittle rained as Crest cackled and whipped his blade down.

  Strike!

  Irreor rolled. The bastard sword flayed flesh from his shin. Its edge skipped off bone. Pain exploded like a festival's fireworks, but Irreor gritted his teeth against it and whipped his Synien across Crest's forearms.

  The giant howled and recoiled. Redness streamed past his hands and dripped from his fingertips. His weapon fell to the stones.

  Irreor slumped to the ground. His leg burned as if he'd plunged it into a fire, but he attempted to ignore it. Kipra lived, even if just barely, and that was all that mattered. If only he could reach her. If only he could....

  The warehouse blazed and smoke drifted high into the sky. Grunts and the sounds of battle drew his attention to a small knot of his men still standing against a circle of Crest's.

  Thirty paces away. Only five men left.

  Everyone else had died, cut down by a horde of Crest's guards. Bran, Pernik, and three of his father's veterans had backed up to the blazing warehouse. Its heat warmed Irreor even from this distance. For his men and his friends, so close to the conflagration, it must have....

  Got to help them. Got to save—

  Kipra screamed, "Ark
!"

  Warm, sticky hands wrapped around Irreor's throat. A thousand invisible needles pricked his face, and he struggled to draw a breath through the stabbing pain. Crest lifted him a full pace above the stones. And then...

  ...the giant ran with him, holding his body like a shield.

  Something—a brick wall, a wooden plank—shattered Irreor's ribs.

  Air hissed from his lungs. Something thick and wet trickled down the back of his head. He kicked at the man, but his boot bounced from Crest's thigh like grass against a heavy post.

  -No! I wanted to claw free from that basement. I wanted to love them, and I wanted them to love me. Oh, how I wanted them to love me. But they never did. Never did.-

  I... don't... care!

  The voice unleashed a wail—wordless, furious, terrified.

  Irreor kicked at Crest, but again it lacked force.

  Everything dimmed, and yet the street expanded. Cloudless, pale blue sky stretched to the horizon, but it seemed as if the sun had retreated into some shadowed hollow. Irreor's body twisted. Bones snapped, cracked and thundered.

  He attempted to scream, but Crest's gory fingers pressed tighter. Darkness descended, deeper and deeper, blanketing the blazing warehouse, obscuring the sun, until it covered Farren.

  -This isn't what I'd planned! This isn't what.... No!-

  Blackness.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Kipra struggled to stand, but her muscles felt as if a thick mud had invaded them. Her head felt as if she'd just awakened from a dream, and she squinted to clear the swirling. She gasped a breath.

  Another.

  Kylen Crest had been too strong, too immense. Ark was faster, more skilled, but the strength behind the giant's sword would've blasted anyone from their feet, even Bran.

  No!

  Crest once again slammed Ark into a wall of dingy bricks, and even from this distance, above the flames and the screams of the dying, she heard her friend's ribs crack. She couldn't stand, couldn't help. They were too far away. The giant's strikes had ground the strength from her limbs.