Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  Irreor sighed.

  For some reason, all of his scouts had reported that Abennak was waiting in Renek, though none could explain why. His pause had gifted Farren's army a few more days to prepare, and each man vowed to train until he collapsed from exhaustion. They neared it now, and many would kiss dirt before nightfall, but none complained.

  The Prophet chuckled.

  Their efforts amuseyou?

  -Can't I enjoy watching them stumble after one another? It's not malicious, more like a parent with a toddler. They never walk on their first attempt. None of us do. Ironic, don't you think?-

  "No," Irreor muttered, and raised his voice to shout, "Pernik! Gather the men at the base of the oak. Distribute the weapons and light the torches. None of us will sleep tonight."

  The old officer nodded, and shouts spread across the makeshift yard.

  Irreor peered at the city.

  Kipra and Bran were negotiating with the council. The day before, they'd suggested dispatching scouts to poison the water between Farren and Renek. Stupid, like most of their ideas. Families still depended on that water, but at least the council was beginning to think.

  They wracked their minds, groping to find a solution.

  Irreor pivoted to stride between his men.

  Three thousand recruits gathered beneath an ancient, massive oak, pressed together until many couldn't hear the leaves rustle above their ragged panting. It was a massive force, ten times what he'd started with, but the oak's branches were better nourished than these men. Its brown veins held more moisture.

  -They're still starving.-

  Because of your failure.

  -Not ours, but our son's. Gar Tsi's meat was crafted with gentahl, and we can feel Fier's touch on it, like a glance, or a whisper. He stretched himself too far, and he doesn't understand exactly what nourishes a man. The meat is real, but it's tarnished, a mere specter of itself.-

  I thought you couldn't remember how to use—

  -Fragments. Only fragments.-

  Then teach me!

  -And release the third part of ourselves? We think not.-

  An iron will reinforced the Prophet's next words:

  -Understand this, General. Our third piece would tear this entire world apart. Not just this island, not just the Inner Empire. Everything. Down to the last speck of dust and last drop of moisture.-

  Irreor gulped.

  -It's not worth it.-

  It might be.

  A massive cauldron stood beside the tree, with a fire beneath it to boil a bland mixture of roots and horseflesh. Irreor's men had slaughtered the beast two days earlier, and they'd dug up the roots a week before that. A bundle of wilted carrots, the bones of a stray cat, a handful of rat tails—they added to the stew with each new dusk, allowing the soldiers to give their families the food Gar Tsi had found.

  It was their sacrifice, and dozens of their men died from starvation with each dawn.

  Irreor snatched a low branch, heaved himself up it, and leaned against the oak's trunk. Despite his men's exhaustion, lurching steps, and flailing swords, they pressed onward until their hearts stopped or hunger devoured them.

  Eenan Ark had once said, 'A man must have a clear reason to stand straight. We see those reasons in many things—the laughter of our children, the smile of our wives. Once we've torn them down and then built them up, they'll streak to their goal like an arrow to its target.'

  So Irreor worked his army until their fists bled, until their eyes burned. He tore them down until they'd begged to quit. He didn’t let them, and they loved him for it. He drove them farther, faster, harder.

  Now they needed a target.

  "I'm not sure how to describe the concept of pride," Irreor shouted. "It's this burning in my chest, or this sense of accomplishment that pumps in my veins. Yekkin, where is your brother, Glynn?"

  The recruit, now a respected veteran amongst these soldiers, shuffled forward. He scrubbed at his eyes with filthy fingers. "Dead, my general. Hunger took him with today's dawn."

  Each man knew this sorrow, the loss of a son, a daughter, a cousin or a father or a mother. They sighed. Mumbles drifted. Heads shook.

  Irreor offered a sad smile. "Yet you're still here."

  "Aye, General, I'm still here. I can't think of another place worth being. I've still a daughter to feed, a son to watch grow. Instead of quitting, I think I'll do that."

  "Where will you be when dawn strikes this bark?"

  Yekkin lifted his face. "Here, my general."

  Men grinned. Mumbles drifted. Heads bobbed.

  "Indeed, here." Irreor lifted his voice. "Where will you be when Abennak claws our walls?"

  "Here, my general!"

  Swords rattled. Shields shook. All cheered.

  -They're not ready.-

  They are!

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Demon-damned Ark!

  The council watched as Kipra paced.

  Shouts of Parched Ones filtered through the chamber's thick walls. Wagons rumbled past, and a sickly goat screamed as it was slaughtered. The smell of grassy soup, a recipe that Bran's mother had suggested, wafted through the alleys and streets. The city was more prepared than she could've ever imagined. and yet....

  "They're not ready," Kipra said. "I don't care how much work Ark puts into it, or how many soldiers die while they train. Don't let misplaced pride make your choices. Two weeks isn't enough. They're not ready."

  She scowled at Yaron Kenn.

  The High Seat leaned back in his chair, acted as if he were about to speak, but snapped his mouth closed. He returned her scowl. "Our general said they're ready, and so we believe—"

  "Ark is a fool. He's done wonders for the city, but he's still a fool."

  Bran leaned forward. "We know the problems, Kipra, but without an actual suggestion, you're blowing smoke in the wind. I think we've enough smoke, don't you?"

  Kipra turned her back to them. "Retreat to Alkar. Its walls are higher than we could ever build, and Kinslek should have more of an army than we. Farren is a lost cause."

  Silence.

  She let them stew in it.

  The city had indeed come far. Its walls stood higher than two men, they'd organized a crude method to feed the people with Gar Tsi's meat, and they'd reinforced the gates with logs from the sturdiest homes. Fletchers had produced countless barrels of arrows, and blacksmiths had melted all available metal into crude weapons—not the quality of Bran's, but enough to slice through flesh.

  She closed her eyes, imagining the makeshift practice yard to the city's west.

  The army excelled beyond all expectation. Farren's soldiers could form ranks and slap their swords against one another. They could lurch through the motions. Their discipline beneath Ark was indeed impressive.

  But it's only been two void-forsaken weeks!

  Ark had trained her and Bran. After that, they'd practiced on their own, until blades felt like lovers in their hands—cool, understanding, infallible. Parched Ones couldn't match that with their shambling gaits, gangly arms and legs, or uncertain motions.

  It was impossible.

  "I didn't think you'd take Fier's side," Bran said.

  She spun back to him. "He can burn, for all I care. The Kilnsmen would certainly be a help, however, especially if they're as good as Ark. No, no. I never should've trusted Fier."

  "But you did."

  "Void take me, you saw his book. He claimed it would provide answers, but it simply prompted more questions. Tell me, Bran, do you truly believe this island was crafted by his father's hand?"

  "I don't know."

  She snorted.

  Yaron Kenn slammed his fist against the table. "I'll not turn my people over to Kinslek."

  Around the table, councilmen and women bobbed their heads, their eyes vacant, their expressions slackened, their skin flaking. These imbeciles had followed Kylen Crest, which hardly spoke of discernment.

  Kipra arched an eyebrow. "Kenn, I doubt we'll stop Abe
nnak with a bunch of incompetents. This army that we've raised isn't enough. We're starv—"

  "They're not incompetent." He surged to his feet. "They're my people, and I'll not sit here and listen while you insult them."

  "Sit down Kenn." She twitched a finger over her shortsword, waiting until he plopped into his chair, then smirked at Bran. "Without an actual suggestion, he's just blowing smoke in the wind, isn't that right?"

  "And you have one?" Kenn snapped.

  "We need a demonstration."

  ***

  Kipra stomped through the gates, and dust swirled around her feet.

  Bran marched at her side, worry gleaming in his eyes, but he held his tongue, and onward they strode.

  All twenty members of the council followed.

  Fier watched from the far side of the hill, but she ignored him. The man had used her to get closer to Ark—how foolish she'd been!—and he still provided no reason to trust him.

  His book was less than worthless, his reasons just as weak.

  He claimed his father had forged the Parched Ones, that the man had painted every charcoal eye and crafted every limb, down to their flaking skin. If that was true, then his father could fix it.

  My problem is the approaching army, not a child's story.

  Whitened figures leapt and pivoted as she drew closer to the yard, moonlight splashing against their skin. Clangs and grunts and curses filled the air. A few of the Parched Men watched her. Their eyes devoured each step, each swing of her arms, each sway of her hips.

  Ark jerked his head in her direction, and he rested a hand on the pommel of his longsword. These last weeks had been difficult. Preparations required their full attention but, like a light from a dark chasm she'd rather not explore, her thoughts always returned to him.

  "You think it's a good idea to bring the council here?" he said. "I—"

  "They need to see this." She shoved past him to stand before Pernik. "Pick six of your best men. I don't care who."

  "I do what my general commands, lass, nothing more." He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

  So be it.

  Kipra swept a glare across the Parched Men, then lifted her voice to reach them. "This is an imitation of what an army should be. A good one, but an imitation nonetheless. Do you want to die?"

  "They're ready," Ark said.

  "Abennak's soldiers will come with fire in their veins and murder in their hearts. For the love of everything you hold dear, either recruit the Kilnsmen or retreat to Alkar."

  "They're ready," Irreor insisted, tilting his head as if listening to a voice on the wind. "We'll let them prove it. Pernik, do as she asks."

  The old officer barked out six names, and the soldiers approached. The rest of the army stuttered to a halt, and they opened a wide space, packing together in a circle to watch.

  Kipra strode to their center, unsheathed her blades, and glared at Irreor. "How often am I wrong?"

  He cast his gaze to the dirt. "In this, I hope you are. We'd rather not think of the alternative."

  The council bobbed their heads, shuffled their feet, and tucked their hands into their robes. None of them could've truly understood what was about to happen. They were content to allow Yaron and Kipra and Irreor decide their fate.

  "I'm not here to kill you," she told the selected men. "But you're here to kill me. I'm the enemy, the woman who wants you to abandon your homes. I'm the woman who says you're not good enough."

  They peered at her, and she forced the itch from her skin, the scowl from her lips. Like the council, they couldn't understand their fate. They simply leered and followed. They let other men decide their future.

  And yet, they truly believed they were ready.

  Fools.

  Bran murmured, "This is foolish."

  "Don't listen to the blacksmith," she snapped. "This isn't an army, it's a gathering of idiots. You play with your swords like you understand them, but you can't learn these things in a week, or two weeks, or two years."

  They passed their gazes over her, from toes to scalp, grinning and wrenching their belts as if they imagined removing them. She'd come so far in denying her demon, yet these men and their leers and their....

  "Why do I work so hard to save you?" she growled. "You're pathetic!"

  "That's enough," Pernik said, and he spat to the ground. "Morale is a fragile thing, and I won't watch you shatter it. Make your point and be done with it."

  She pointed at the selected men. "Attack. Now."

  Irreor nodded. "Do as she says."

  They did.

  Three leapt to her left, three to her right. They moved well for Parched Men, their steps light, their blades almost correctly angled, a gleam in their eyes that she'd never noticed before.

  Two clangs filled the air.

  Three. Four.

  Kipra dove beneath a wild swing, rammed her fist into the back of a man's knee, and rapped her hilt across his skull.

  He unleashed a crackling moan and slumped to the ground.

  She whipped her blades wide to parry two incoming slashes and spun to catch two others. Sparks rained. From the corner of her eye, Ark frowned. Pernik hawked and spat. Bran shook his head.

  The Parched Men closed in.

  Ark, you demon-damned fool. They're Parched Ones. You never could see it. They're lethargic and weak. Stupid. They haven't trained with you long enough. They're not ready!

  She lashed her fists out. Twice. Three times.

  She swept her knee up to connect with a groin. Within seconds, four more bodies fell to the ground, limp and drooling. Kipra drew a deep, steadying breath, and swung to face the final man. Silent, motionless, he stared at his friends for several seconds. He must’ve realized he held no chance, not after she'd felled five men without a scratch.

  He circled.

  "There's no need to continue," she told him. "This is now pointless."

  He angled his blade and sprang at her.

  She deflected it and rammed her hilt into his face. He should've crashed to the ground, but he stumbled back to touch his nose—now bleeding—with a whitened hand.

  He snarled, leapt forward again.

  She smashed him back.

  "You're beaten," she growled. "Go to your friends. Pick them up and have a drink of water. So what if you're not ready? You tried your best today and you'll do it again tomorrow. Don't let shame kill you."

  The Parched Man lanced his blade at her chest, her legs, her arms. When it swept toward her face, she stepped inside the attack and snatched his hand.

  Void-forsaken fools.

  She ducked and twisted to dislocate his shoulder.

  "That's enough," Pernik shouted.

  She stepped back.

  The Parched Man groaned, yet he clenched his teeth to halt it. With his other hand, he yanked a dagger free from its sheath. He lunged for her neck.

  Her blade found his chest.

  Blood spurted.

  As he slumped against her, he whispered, "I wanted to feel sorrow. My brother died today, but I couldn't feel it. That's strange, isn't it? I should have. I just wanted to know what it felt like."

  Silence.

  Ark stalked from the field.

  ***

  Kipra found Ark in the courtyard surrounding Farren's Spire, beneath the skeletal arms of a dead oak. The sun had just sunk beneath the horizon, and a lazy trail of red stained the clouds, stretching halfway to the Spire.

  Ark sat cross-legged as he rewrapped the leather on his dagger's hilt. He faced the trunk, away from the path, but the crackle of leaves and snap of sticks must've alerted him to her presence.

  He ignored her.

  She sank down to his left, elbows to knees, and lifted her face to witness the sky against a silhouette of branches. The oak's arms swayed, gnarled and twisted and lifeless, and the clouds created the illusion that those branches would pluck her from her perch and lift her into the air.

  She pried her eyes from the spectacle, dizzied and disoriented. When sh
e found the breath to speak, she did so with softness. "I didn't mean to kill him, but he didn't leave me much choice."

  Ark grunted.

  He cinched the leather tight on his dagger, and flipped the weapon in his palm, gazing down at it as if remembering. The clouds in his eyes were more fearsome than the crimson splashed across the sky.

  "Damn you," she muttered. "You spent all this time drawing my demon out, feeding it, yet you choose this moment to stay silent? Why let me—"

  "I know you didn't mean to kill him."

  "What then?"

  He placed his blade on the dirt. "When I traveled with Gar Tsi, we ran across a storyteller in an ale house on the southern side of Alkar. It was a dingy place, hardly fit for anyone, but the bartender allowed the man to tell a few tales in exchange for a night in the loft."

  "What does this have to do with your man?"

  "Nothing. Everything." Ark snorted, then his expression softened. "Sometimes, we feed our demons to draw them out. Only then can we slay them. You've come to understand that, haven't you?"

  She bit her lip

  "His first story was about an ancient culture that lived in a land far across the Ripple Sea, what we now consider the Inner Empire. He focused on a grizzled hero. There's always one of those, isn't there? It's absurd." He sighed. "Sometimes he's a miller and other times a general. The details change, but the stories are always the same."

  "Sojourns from the Inner Empire?" she asked, referring to her favorite childhood book. It described exactly what Ark spoke of, with a miller and a general who vaulted to the pinnacle of the Inner Empire.

  He shrugged.

  "Ark?" She rested her fingers on his knee, ignoring the brief tingle. It felt right. "Sometimes it's best to ignore your demon. We're not always ready to face it. It took me a long time to realize that, and I still forget it from time to time."

  He wrapped his hand around hers, but he didn't look down at it, didn't caress it as she'd always imagined a lover should. He clamped down, clenching her fingers as if they were buoys in a churning ocean.

  She let him.

  "In that fellow's story, people worshipped a thing that showered them with joy and sadness. All the things they experienced, it crafted. Their existence revolved around this figure, like the gods the Inner Empire believes in."