Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Lastrahn turned in his saddle. “You can sell that piece you grabbed from the vault for a stack of coins.”

  Ryle figured that was as much of an apology as he’d give.

  Drailey shrugged. “I hope so.”

  To the north, a steam belching matik-drive the size of a wagon, exited a rough wooden building and crawled to the front of the wagon train. Its iron feet trod the earth like a team of a dozen oxen. A pair of men wearing goggles and leather aprons over canvas coats sat in the wooden box at the rear of the machine manipulating levers and twisting knobs.

  Ryle stared, impressed. Business in Shelling must really be profitable to support the cost of such oldcraft, especially a device that large.

  Men came forward to attach the drive to the front of the wagon train, and half a dozen guards on horseback rode up alongside it.

  “You heading the same way?” Drailey asked. “I know a few people who’d paid well for that. I could help broker a deal.” She sounded hopeful, but Lastrahn didn’t respond. She shrugged. “You could at least stop in and see Jules. She hasn’t seen you since Helador.”

  Lastrahn’s eyes hardened.

  Drailey looked stricken over what she’d said. Her lips snapped shut. She squeezed the strap of her satchel. “Sorry,” she said a moment later. “I heard what happened. We all did.”

  “Didn’t do much about it, did you,” Lastrahn said.

  Everyone knew of the disaster Vastroth had caused, word had spread like a flash flood, though Ryle still couldn’t picture it, not really. The stories made no sense. Ice everywhere, not falling from the sky, but rising from the earth. Icy death leaping from building to building, from person to person. An entire town, swallowed in an instant. Men, women, and children consumed before they knew what was happening. And Vastroth at the center of it all. Like some insane god riding high on that blasted wyvern of his. Proving his power to the world and not caring one whit who paid for it with their lives.

  Did she know what had happened to Lastrahn, why he had disappeared, where he had gone? He hoped Drailey would say more, reveal a clue, but she didn’t.

  “Lastrahn—” Drailey started, but the champion flicked his reins and his charger tossed its head. Drailey had to step clear.

  “Travel safe,” Lastrahn said.

  The young woman looked like she wanted to apologize. Instead she looked north where the matik-drive was pulling the wagon train out onto the road. “You too,” she said.

  When Lastrahn made no further comments. Drailey hitched her satchel strap higher on her shoulder, and walked out to the road. As the train approached, she raised one hand. The nearest guard, a stout fellow carrying a thick axe, waved her on.

  He and Drailey exchanged a few words and then the man jerked a thumb for the second wagon in line. When that wagon arrived, Drailey clambered up into the empty passenger seat, and raised a hand in farewell.

  Lastrahn didn’t wave back. Drailey shook her head and plopped down in her seat. If she made another gesture after that, Ryle didn’t see it.

  Lastrahn waited until all ten wagons of the train took the eastward swing in the road, and disappeared behind the ruins of a low building, before he urged his horse forward. He ignored both paths and rode west. Ryle heeled Grey forward to follow.

  Beyond the towers, a tangle of twisted irregular shapes filled the land. Some were small, sagging mounds covered in the reddish grass that coated the plain. Others rose sharply, their lines almost geometric but softened by dirt and time.

  After a while, Ryle realized these were the graves of houses. Leagues of them, stretching away from Shelling, with the tiny valleys of streets between their lost forms. All had fallen so long ago that the plain had nearly reclaimed them. He wondered what else might lie beneath the grasses. What other graves.

  The tall, spinning trees, standing above it all, continued sliding past. As if marching east to leave the land behind. He couldn’t guess where Lastrahn led them. He hoped they were on Kilgren’s trail, but to his knowledge, only settlers and farms lay out here. Those seemed like unlikely destinations.

  Silence emanated from the champion, growing thicker with every passing league. Ryle’s thoughts chased themselves through futile loops. How badly had he screwed up the champion’s plans?

  Their horses’ hooves consumed the distance, and this feeling only grew. By the afternoon, the sun beat down on his face, filling him with an uneasy drowsiness. He itched to know Lastrahn’s thoughts, but he dreaded the axe that might fall if he spoke.

  Whether Lastrahn slowed, or Ryle’s anxiety increased his pace, an hour before sunset he found himself riding beside the champion.

  “Tell me why your ass is here,” the champion said, breaking the silence.

  No, thanks for your help back there, no explanation of the events in Shelling. Just more of the same. Ryle wanted to feel bitter but couldn’t help but wonder if this was just another test, so he went with the answer that was expected of him, the one that had saved him from many beatings. “To do as you say, Sir.”

  Their horses’ hooves kept falling, another structure moved past. Lastrahn’s cowl was back, but dark road goggles concealed his eyes. Ryle thought maybe they masked a bit of surprise now.

  “You make things too damn complicated. Your stunt in the tavern proved it, and I bet good old Mero loved that sort of thing.” He snorted a half laugh. “But I’m glad you can cut the shit when you need to.”

  It sounded like praise, or close to it. After his morning, Ryle would take anything he could get. “Yes, Sir.” He tried not let the pleasure of this small validation show on his face.

  “You’ve got the idea by the balls now, so damn well hang onto it. Swordsman or not, you’re here to follow orders. That’s it. If I don’t ask for your opinion, I don’t want it. You’re here to do what I need done when I need it, and when I say.”

  He’d come close to costing Lastrahn something dear by infuriating Noffa, maybe vital to his mission. He didn’t want to think just how close. He knew blast well he’d think twice before doing anything like that again. Whatever he’d grown up thinking of the champion, Lastrahn was now his only chance at a future.

  “Yes, Sir,” Ryle said.

  “We’re both grown men, not mewling babes so I expect we’ll act like it. Some like their squires falling hand over foot for them. I don’t. You’re not here to spoon feed me, wipe my ass, or protect me.”

  Ryle uttered another acknowledgement as a wind swept up from the west, carrying scents of ash, iron, and moldering earth. It smelled like death.

  “You wanted a shot, you’ve damn well got it. But don’t think you’re getting special treatment because of that little mark on your hand. You pack our bags, and tend to the horses, but never touch my arms or armor without permission or your ass will become intimately acquainted with my boot.”

  The words had a worn cadence to them. This was a speech he’d given before. Ryle guessed Renault had once heard it, and the man before him. Lastrahn wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying, only to how Ryle reacted to it. He held his head up and kept looking back at his new master. He’d weathered the Professor’s speeches and storms. He’d learned how to stay focused and keep his mouth shut. “Yes, Sir.”

  Lastrahn watched him for a long moment through his goggles. His lips parted a fraction, then closed. He turned away. “Let’s move. There are leagues ahead today.”

  With the sun burning the horizon ahead, Lastrahn brought them to a halt in clear area among the ancient buildings. Around them the outlines of rust colored foundations and fallen walls continued unabated. Once the horses were tethered and given feedbags Ryle started on a fire. He’d forgotten how terribly the red grass burned. It stank and produced an oily black smoke that burned his eyes. After much scrounging, he found enough wood, mostly twigs, to get a small fire crackling and made dinner from a sack of supplies Lastrahn tossed him.

  His instructions were, “No nutmeg, no squab, no radishes.” Then he plopped down against a displ
aced cornerstone, and took a pull from a flask he produced from within his coat.

  They wound up with rehydrated beef flavored with a minty herb Ryle had never tasted before, and a small loaf of soft bread. The meat came out stringy, but Lastrahn scraped his plate clean. Ryle considered it a success.

  “I’m thinking, Northern,” Lastrahn said.

  “Sir?”

  “Drailey wasn’t sure, called you a contradiction, but I think you’re from the north. Your complexion says Southern, but your accent disagrees.”

  Ryle’s eyes felt as gritty as the crumbling walls. He blinked through it, flicked herb from his plate, and wiped it clean. Overhead the red sky had turned to purple and stars were igniting.

  “We moved around a lot, Sir.” Always one step ahead of some lawman. “But I’m from here in the north, a couple hundred leagues from here.”

  Lastrahn’s lips formed a self-satisfied grin. “You’re a war transplant then. A refugee from the River War.”

  Ryle shook his head. “Since I was a boy.”

  The grin faded. “Takes all types I suppose.” His flask made another appearance, and he took another drink. “In that case, let me guess. Grew up on a farm. A small out of the way place. Seems that’s always the way for some reason.”

  Ryle’s stomach shifted around the meal he’d just eaten. Every question danced around those few answers he couldn’t give. He didn’t want to lie to Lastrahn, but he couldn’t ruin this opportunity with the truth.

  Ryle finished wiping his plate and stowed it. “We moved around a lot like I said. Work camps, small towns, villages, but there was a farm, for a while. A few days ride west of Valley Deep.” Ratty blankets. Cold meals. Strange men . . . Glowing black eyes.

  “The old valley. I grew up there myself.”

  The squirming inside pushed closer toward Ryle’s face. He wrung the cloth tightly in his hands.

  Lastrahn’s origins were clear. If his pale skin and eyes didn’t give him away, he’d made a name for himself during the First Northern War. Ryle had read about it many times, but hadn’t known the man hailed from near one of his former homes.

  Of all the places, why did I pick that one?

  “I didn’t know that, Sir. Where in the Valley?”

  “The other side. Eastern edge, a place called Grantoll.” He almost smiled.

  It didn’t ring a bell. Ryle said so.

  “Probably gone now. Never was more than a speck on the side of the road.” A wistful look crossed his face and then vanished. “Ah, well.”

  He took another swig from his flask. “For all your talk of rebuilding, doesn’t sound like you have ties after all. Nothing to rebuild yourself.”

  Ryle’s face felt hot. “No, not really,” he managed. “There’s nothing left up there. For me.”

  “I guess Kilgren saw to that.”

  Hot pain welled up, gripping his throat and eyes with unexpected intensity. Maybe it was the red grass around him. He almost reached for his center, but settled for clenching his jaw hard to fight down the dark emotions.

  Lastrahn watched him over his flask.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Lastrahn took another drink. “He is the reason you carry that Southern blade then.” He gestured to the dagger on Ryle’s hip. “I was right.”

  The knife burned like a hot anvil. Ryle dared not look at it. He didn’t trust the mask he locked across his face. He moved his hand further away from it. “What do you mean?”

  “Back in that shit show of a claim, you didn’t take it with you. That was a place for blood-sucking dagger work if I’d ever seen it. Same in the bar last night when you were about to get your ass kicked. That tells me it’s either for decoration, or you’re saving it, maybe for someone special.” He stared hard over another swig.

  Ryle’s left hand pulsed, the memory of pain echoing from the depths of the pale scar. The cold shock as the metal punched through. The hard thuds of agony joining the fire already in his chest. But even worse, the pain he felt as his soul died while his mother bled out before his eyes.

  Ryle tried to take a cleansing breath but failed. A hot pain filled his head. He looked to the camp fire. He wouldn’t lie to about this. Not when it was about her.

  “It’s the dagger that killed my mother,” Ryle said as flatly as he could.

  For a long moment, Lastrahn didn’t answer, and in the silence, Ryle thought he felt understanding. He risked a look up.

  The champion’s eyes were on the fire, but they didn’t see it. “We only know darkness when we awaken and find it not without, but within.”

  The cryptic words washed across Ryle, their meaning as empty as his chest. “Sir?”

  “It’s something she said the first night I met her. I didn’t know what she was talking about until after.”

  This was a glimpse inside, but it didn’t last long. Lastrahn’s eyes found him over the fire, and hardened. “Forget it.” The champion stretched out his long legs, and pulled his cowl down over his face.

  Ryle’s hands were squeezed tight, his throat constricted. He took a moment to collect himself.

  “Should we set watch, Sir?” he asked.

  “Why not. I’ll check in at dawn,” Lastrahn said, and fell silent.

  Ryle was left alone, confused, face hot, mind gnashing itself to pieces with only the long dark for company.

  At some point, desperate for some new images to fill the black theater around him, he found Casyne’s pendant inside his shirt and latched onto it. For once it didn’t help. Her face wouldn’t come to him. Not amongst his resurrected nightmares. He held on anyway, until the ache in his hand matched the one in his chest.

  CHAPTER 9

  Outside, smoke and fire licked the side of the farmhouse. Its windows were already shattered, its eaves blackening. Bodies lay in the dirt.

  Someone was screaming.

  Blood blossomed like an ugly rose across his mother’s chest. Crimson bright around the dagger standing from the material over her breast.

  Ryle might’ve been screaming. His throat burned. His chest was on fire.

  What had he done?

  Kilgren stood behind his mother, one forearm wrapped about her throat. His eyes wide, his mouth an enormous ‘O’ of surprise. “My, my, my.” He threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  Tears stained her cheeks. She tried to lift a hand but found it too difficult. Her mouth opened and blood poured from between her lips.

  Desperate and terrified, Ryle took a limping step forward.

  Kilgren looked from Ryle to the bleeding woman in his arms. She made a noise, tried to form words.

  “What’s that?” Kilgren grabbed her face and turned it up toward him.

  She thrashed weakly, trying to pull free, but he shoved his mouth upon hers. She shuddered, gasped.

  Rage found life in Ryle’s chest. He stumbled forward.

  Kilgren looked up. His wife’s blood smeared his face. “Were you invited? Useless brat. Take this back and go.” With a bloody spray, Kilgren tore the dagger from her chest and flicked it at him.

  Ryle screamed, and put his hand out to stop it, but the blade never slowed. Metal punch, sharp and cold through his palm and he was flung back into the wall of the barn.

  His mother went limp. His hand was pure, immobile agony. He strained uselessly against it, howled with pain and despair. The knife wouldn’t budge. It stayed deep in the wood, pinning him in place.

  Kilgren kissed her until the last breath leaked out from between her lips. Only then did he let her body slide to the ground.

  Ryle’s soul fell with her, and the world he cared about fell in upon his head.

  CHAPTER 10

  Thin clouds drifted along the horizon ahead, and the mid-morning sun, warming their backs, lit them crisp in an otherwise empty sky.

  Following a cold breakfast, they’d ridden west all morning. The bland biscuits and jerky had done little to rouse Ryle from his catatonic state following his hours-long watch, and minutes-long
, painful sleep.

  At least he hadn’t been late when Lastrahn awoke.

  They’d left the ancient city behind, and now rode on a flat plain covered in that same familiar and useless red grass. Except for a few specks on the horizon that might’ve been his fatigue smeared vision playing tricks on him, Ryle hadn’t seen a soul since they left Shelling.

  “There’s a village ahead,” Lastrahn said, interrupting his thoughts. “Called Patton once.”

  He provided no further explanation, and they rode on.

  Lastrahn’s label of a “village” was generous. Ryle had seen his share of small towns, and out of the way stops, but this was something else. Grey snorted and rolled her head, and he patted her neck telling himself it was to calm her and not loosen the knots in his stomach.

  The shacks were canted, rundown, sagging. Smoke drifted from a few cracked chimneys and more rose from open fires dotted here and there along the side of the road. Scrawny chickens and a bony pig picked through refuse scattered around them.

  The main “street” was little more than a muddy path where the grass had stopped trying. Judging from the smell, mud might’ve been an optimistic assessment. The few people Ryle saw looked as neglected as their surroundings. Rags and bare feet were the standard. A group of children clustered together, naked beneath their coatings of filth.

  Most didn’t look up as they passed.

  Ryle wrinkled his nose at the emptiness of the place. “What happened here?” Ryle asked.

  “War,” the champion said simply, and Ryle frowned. “These people were stragglers, camp followers, left behinds from the last time Murden and Xaviel got into a pissing contest. Most were sick or dying even then. When the troops disbanded they had nowhere to go."

  They passed another shack to find two old men squabbling over a rat carcass. Without a word, one punched the other in the head. He fell hard then crawled away. The victor snatched up his prize, and scuttled into a dirty shanty, slamming the door.

  Ceaseless are the tragedies man inflicts upon himself. The passage from Quinten had never rung so true to Ryle. The sight carved out his guts.