“Does the Silver Flame’s light not reach into this damned land?” Sallah asked as she stepped into the fray, swinging her sword left and right.
“Blasphemy, daughter!” Deothen said, staring at the flames dancing on his sword. “I can feel the Flame’s power coursing through me and my blade.”
Kandler kicked one of the creatures off of Brendis, then decapitated the other with a single, well-placed blow.
The severed cranium sailed through the air and bounced off Levritt’s head, knocking him back to the ground and conveniently out of the way of a slashing sword. As he scrambled to his feet again, he looked down at the thing’s face. It was made of cast metal bolted to a skull, and all over it was carved intricate runes, the color of which faded from red to black as he watched. The thing’s jaw flapped loosely from a pair of rivets as its leathery tongue lolled out of its mouth. Its blank, obsidian eyes stared back at the young knight like those of a statue, with as little life left in them.
“By the Silver Flame!” Levritt squealed. “What is that?” The knight stumbled backward away from the skull, waving his sword recklessly before him.
Kandler stepped in front of the downed Brendis. As he did, another of the creatures stepped up to face him. Its body looked more like that of a living statue than a man. Plates of metal and disks of stone overlaid muscular fibers flexing beneath. The creature stood as tall as a man, had the same shape, but it fought with the tireless fury of the undead.
Kandler recognized what the creature was. He’d fought against some of them in the Last War, both in Breland and abroad. “Warforged!” Kandler shouted. He continued to hack away at the creatures, peeling their armored skin from them with his blade, then taking them apart a piece at a time. “They fight like animals but die like men! Keep at them!”
The warforged were the monstrous creations of wizards who served kings that were running out of warm bodies to place into a soldier’s garb in the final decades of the Last War. They were constructs somehow gifted with humanoid sentience, creatures like the unliving golems that served in many a wizard’s tower, but imbued with the power to reason, as well as what could only be called a soul.
Deothen stepped into the fray, standing back to back with Sallah as the creatures surrounded them. As each of the warforged stepped forward to brave an attack, the knights made them pay. Soon, the ground around them lay covered in pieces of these strange constructs.
Using his clawed hands and feet, Burch scaled the obelisk and stood atop its broken shaft. From the safety of this vantage, he rained bolt after bolt down on the creatures. Many fell with the shifter’s steel-tipped missiles jutting from the spaces between their metallic plates.
Brendis struggled to his feet and stood with his back to Kandler. His left arm was hurt, and he held it close to his side as he blocked blow after blow from the warforged. The justicar rolled around to the knight’s left side to protect the young man from attacks from that direction.
With Kandler’s flank protected, he lay into the warforged who came at him, weaving a steely net of death with his blade. They fell before him, one by one, and it was not long before only three of the creatures were left.
Sallah knocked the warforged in front of her flat with her pommel, then stabbed it through the chest with her blade. The creature screamed as it expired, and in spite of herself Sallah whispered, “May the Silver Light guide your final journey.”
Levritt found himself facing one of the last warforged. It circled around him, putting his body between itself and Burch. The young knight lunged at the creature with his sword, but it parried the blow. Its riposte tore open a gash in Levritt’s cheek.
The young knight fell over in pain and shock, clutching his face. As he tipped over, he left the warforged standing over him exposed. A bolt from Burch’s crossbow punched through the creature’s obsidian eye and buried itself in its fibrous brain.
“Cursed breathers!” a warforged fighting Kandler said. “The Lord of Blades rules this realm. Leave or be killed!”
Kandler removed the warforged’s sword hand at the wrist. He’d heard rumors of the Lord of Blades from the infrequent visitors to Mardakine, people passing through on their way out of the Mournland or in. The most revered of the warforged, this creature hoped to establish a homeland for its kind in this most desolate land.
Few but the orphaned offspring of Cyre would envy the Lord of Blades’ choice. The unforgiving Mournland suited the warforged, who could go without food, water, or even sleep. Most people were happy to leave the creatures to their own devices in this blasted land. Others, though, feared what the Lord of Blades might do with an army of dispossessed ex-soldiers who were literally created to kill.
At that moment, none of that mattered to Kandler. These creatures were just another obstacle standing between himself and his adopted daughter. Standing here on the site of his wife’s grave, Kandler’s recalled what Esprina had said to him the last time he’d seen her. She said the same thing every time they parted.
“Take care of Esprë,” Esprina whispered as she caressed the curve of his face. “She had nothing else in the world but me.”
“And me,” Kandler said, just like always.
Esprina smiled, and the sight caused Kandler’s breath to catch in his chest. “You are more of a father to her than any other has been,” she said.
“And I always will be,” Kandler said, taking her hands in his. “I promise.”
“I know, my love.” Her smile turned wistful here, as if she somehow knew the fate that would befall her soon after. “I know.”
Brendis collapsed against Kandler, nearly knocking the justicar from his feet. He had to leap forward to avoid falling. As he did, the warforged before him lashed out with its remaining hand and caught Kandler around the throat. It pounded him in the face with the severed stump at the end of its other arm.
Kandler tried to pull the warforged’s grasp from his throat, but the creature’s thick three fingers held him like a vise. He brought up his knee into the warforged’s groin but only bruised his knee on thing’s metal codpiece.
“Your time on this world is over, breather!” the warforged said as it squeezed Kandler’s throat. The justicar felt his world begin to go black.
Chapter
20
Seeing Kandler’s plight, Deothen forced his aging muscles into action. He had not seen this much action since the final days of the Last War, and his body had grown soft in the intervening years. He ignored its pleas to sit, to rest, to slow down. There was no time for such things now.
The knight leaped forward and slashed across the back of the warforged’s knees with his flaming sword, slicing through the fibers there. Unable to support its own weight, the creature fell to its knees, dragging Kandler down with him it.
Deothen shoved his sword through the warforged’s back. Dark fluid flowed from the wound, and the shock of seeing it almost made Deothen lose his grip on his hilt. He pushed the blade in harder, and it jammed against the inside of the creature’s chestplate.
Deothen twisted the sword furiously, trying to slash through something vital inside. He didn’t know if the war-forged had organs like a man, but if it did he was determined to find them. The sweat running down his brow stung his icy eyes and he fought with the creature for its life. After a moment, the creature let go of Kandler’s throat and fell forward onto its face, wrenching Deothen’s blade from his hands as it went.
Kandler rubbed his throat and croaked out a word of thanks to Deothen. The knight nodded a response at the justicar as he scanned the battlefield for more of the warforged. All of the ambushers lay dead or downed around them. No one besides the hunters stirred.
Burch clambered down from atop the broken monument and dashed to one of the warforged with a bolt in its neck. He turned the creature over, and it snarled. “Thought so,” the shifter said. He smacked the warforged with an open hand. “This one’s still alive, boss!”
Kandler strode over to Burch and leaned ove
r the fallen warforged. Deothen followed close behind. The warforged that lay before them growled and snapped its head about like a mad dog as it tried to bite them, but it couldn’t seem to move anything below its neck.
“Stinking breathers!” the warforged said. “One day, the Lord of Blades will turn you all into meat.”
“I thought your kind didn’t eat,” said Kandler.
“We’ll feed you to animals. Your time is over!”
Burch kicked the creature in the ear. It snapped back at him, but its teeth found only air. “Did someone else come this way?” the shifter asked. Burch was still sweating from the exertion of the battle, and to Deothen’s nose he smelled like a wet dog. The knight did his best to ignore it.
“Do you plan to kill them?” the warforged asked. The hopeful tone made Deothen uncomfortable.
Kandler looked at Deothen, and the knight nodded. As a matter of honor, he didn’t care to lie to the creature, but he was ready to let Kandler say whatever he liked.
“They have my daughter,” Kandler said through gritted teeth. Deothen admired the depth of the justicar’s emotion for a child not even of his own blood.
The warforged pulled the edges of its mouth apart in what Deothen could only guess was a smile. “Two breathers on a horse came through earlier today.”
“Did you hurt them?” Kandler asked.
“They galloped straight through.”
“Which way?”
“ If I tell you, will you kill me?”
Before Kandler could respond, Deothen spoke up. “I sense no evil in this one’s soul,” he said, pointing down at the war-forged, “although he is clearly misguided.”
“Does he have a soul?” Kandler chucked the warforged under its jaw with his boot. “Do you have a soul?”
“More precious than yours.”
Kandler shrugged. “Soul or not, makes no difference to me. Which way did the others go?”
The warforged narrowed its obsidian eyes at Kandler. It surprised Deothen to see such a human expression on the creature’s face as it sized up Kandler’s intent. “North,” it finally said.
Burch reached down and picked up a nearby helmet. “Thanks, and good night,” the shifter said. He jammed the helmet down backward on the warforged’s head and strapped it on tight. The creature cursed as loudly as it could, but the helmet muffled the words enough to make them unintelligible.
“Do you have to do that?” Deothen asked the shifter.
Burch shrugged. “You’d rather have him screaming for help? Take the helmet off yourself then—once we’re gone.”
Kandler, Burch, and Deothen walked over to where Sallah and Levritt were looking after Brendis. “How are you?” the senior knight asked the injured young man.
“It hurts, sir,” Brendis said, “but I’ll live.” Deothen could see that the knight was putting on a game face for his leader, and he appreciated the effort.
“And young Gweir?” Deothen turned to look at the other knight’s form where it had collapsed nearby.
Sallah and Levritt looked up at Deothen. Their eyes were puffy, and the streaks of tears mixed with the rivulets from the sweat of battle on their faces. Levritt’s skin burned with shame as well.
“Ah,” said Deothen as his heart fell into his polished, armored boots. He looked at Kandler and Burch. “Please pardon me.”
The elder knight walked over to Gweir’s body. With reverent care, he closed the dead knight’s eyes, then laid him flat on his back and folded his hands over his heart.
When the five knights had left Flamekeep, Deothen had promised the parents of each of his younger fellows that he would treat them each as his own children. He’d seen plenty of death in the Last War, but those days now seemed long behind him. He’d grown close to each of his young charges throughout the journey, and Gweir’s death shook him harder than he cared to admit.
Deothen muttered the last rites of the Silver Flame over Gweir’s body. As he spoke, he pushed back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He kept his voice low for fear that it might crack at any moment—and he along with it. The others needed him to be strong now, to lead them, and he refused to let them down as he had Gweir’s family.
While Deothen tended to Gweir and composed himself, he listened to Sallah lend comfort to Brendis.
“Levritt and I have done all we can,” she said. “Once Sir Deothen completes his duties, he’ll take care of you.”
“I don’t mind the pain,” Brendis said. “I deserve it.”
“How do you figure that?” Kandler asked.
Deothen glanced over. Brendis started to point toward Gweir, but the pain was too much. He jerked his head in that direction instead. “Gweir and I entered training together. We’ve always watched each other’s back.” The young knight bowed his head. “When he needed me most, I failed him.”
Sallah patted Brendis on his back. “None of us saw it coming,” she said. “Not even our vaunted tracker.”
Anger filled Kandler’s voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Kandler said.
Deothen turned from his duties to watch the justicar glare down at Sallah.
Sallah glared right back. “You two are our guides here. You’re supposed to know the land.”
“You’re supposed to have your own special god on your side. Why didn’t it say anything to you?”
Sallah stood up, her emerald eyes blazing. “How dare you blaspheme to me?”
Deothen could see where this was headed. He stood and walked back to the others, ready to intervene.
A full head taller than Sallah, Kandler leaned over the lady knight. Neither backed down an inch. “I didn’t put that blade in that boy’s guts,” he said.
“Your hand wasn’t on the grip,” said Sallah, “but you failed him.”
“We all did,” Deothen said before Kandler could respond. He placed a hand on Sallah’s shoulder to comfort her and hold her back. “I understand your anger here, daughter, but it is misplaced. We are Knights of the Silver Flame, and we cannot expect any to protect us but ourselves. If there is anyone here to blame, it is us.”
“Or him,” Burch said, pointing a thumb at the paralyzed warforged still shouting wordlessly into the helmet bound across his face.
“He is no threat to us now,” Deothen said. Although he did not approve of having to muffle the creature’s shouts, he understood Burch’s reasons. “I applaud your mercy.”
Burch flashed a cold smile that bared his sharp, wolfish teeth. “That thing could live there forever like that, blind and trapped. I don’t call that mercy.”
“Killing the helpless is an evil act,” Deothen said. “You avoided that path.”
“Barely,” Burch said, fingering his crossbow.
“We need to get going,” said Kandler. “Do what you can to get Brendis fixed up.”
Deothen shook his head. “We need to bury our dead.”
“That will take too long. This fight slowed us down enough.”
Deothen remained clam and steadfast. This was not an issue on which he was prepared to negotiate. “Our traditions demand that we dig our fellow knight a proper grave. Under better circumstances, I would insist that we bring his body back to Thrane to find its home in his family crypt. We need to press forward, true, but not before we administer the final rites in full.”
“If we don’t get moving now, my daughter may soon need the same ceremony.” Kandler stared at the knights in disbelief. “The man is dead. There is nothing else to do for him, and a girl’s life hangs in the balance.”
“We have our duty,” Deothen said. He understood the justicar’s anxiety, but the traditions surrounding dead fellows were long established. The knight feared to fail to respect them in such a horrid land.
“Aren’t you so-called knights sworn to uphold the greater good?” Kandler asked, his rage evident in his voice. “Or does your ‘good’ only cover what’s good for you?”
Sallah took two steps forward and slapped Kandler in the face. “
You will not speak to Sir Deothen like that!”
Kandler rubbed his jaw. Deothen put his hand on the hilt of his sword, afraid that he might have to step in to defend Sallah from the justicar’s fury. He was happily surprised to see Kandler speak reasonably instead. “You just lost a friend,” the justicar said, “so I’ll let that temporary lapse into insanity slide”
Sallah tried to slap Kandler again, but he caught her wrist. “You only get one,” the justicar said.
This only angered Sallah more. Deothen put his hand on her shoulder. At his touch, she seemed to remember her station and her duties—and neither involved fighting the justicar. She flushed with embarrassment, then pulled her hand from Kandler’s grasp and walked back to look after Brendis.
“Trail’s getting cold, boss,” said Burch. The shifter moved to his shaggy horse.
“We must adhere to our traditions,” Deothen said in a tone he hoped brooked no argument. “Gweir deserves a proper burial, don’t you think? Didn’t you bury your wife?”
Kandler screwed up his face and spit on Deothen’s polished steel boots. The senior knight refused to acknowledge the act, waiting for the justicar to speak.
“My wife lay here for nearly three years before I could come back for her,” Kandler said, growling out each word like a sword on a grindstone. “The whole of the Mournland is an open grave.”
“Not for Gweir.”
“I didn’t realize the Silver Flame was a cult that cared more about the dead than the living.”
“Without our traditions—our religion—our lives are worthless.”
Deothen said a silent prayer that the justicar might somehow understand. When Kandler turned and strode away, Deothen knew the effort had been in vain.
Kandler mounted his horse. He sneered down at the knights before he left. “You’re already worthless to me. Bury the dead, if you like. But you’re on your own.”
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