by Tim Waggoner
“How fares Osten?” He spoke without turning to face them, his voice soft.
“His wound is healed,” Ksana said. “He’s resting now.”
“I’m glad. Osten’s a brave lad, and I’d hate to lose him.”
Lirra noted that Ksana refrained from mentioning her concerns about the state of Osten’s mind, most likely because she didn’t wish to say anything to Vaddon until Osten woke and she’d had a chance to examine him more thoroughly. Ksana and Vaddon had been friends for many years, and while the cleric didn’t keep information from the general, she often delivered it at a time of her own choosing—especially if she thought it was information that would only worry Vaddon unnecessarily.
The general glanced over his shoulder at them. “Sit down, please. I don’t want to begin until my brother—”
As if Vaddon’s words had summoned him, the door opened and Elidyr walked into the den.
“Sorry to keep you all waiting, but I had to make sure Osten’s symbiont was returned safely to its cage.” He paused. “Well, to be technical, I suppose it isn’t Osten’s anymore, is it? Still, you’ll all be happy to know that the tentacle whip sustained no serious injury as a result of today’s test.”
Vaddon turned away from the fireplace and faced them, as if goaded by his brother’s words. “I’m sure Osten will take that as a great comfort.”
“Perhaps,” Elidyr replied, “but I doubt it will be as much of a comfort to him as knowing that he’s going to get to keep the arm you tried to lop off.”
Vaddon scowled, but otherwise didn’t respond.
Every time Lirra saw her father and uncle together, she was struck by the stark differences in their appearance. They were clearly brothers—same thick hair, blue eyes, and sturdy chin, and their voices sounded so similar that if you closed your eyes, you might have trouble telling which one spoke at any given moment. But Elidyr’s body was scarecrow slender, in contrast to Vaddon’s more muscular frame, and while Vaddon’s mien was normally serious to the point of being dour, Elidyr smiled often. In terms of temperament, they couldn’t have been more different. Vaddon was a soldier through and through, and he lived his life by core principles of honor, duty, and sacrifice. Orders were given, and orders should be carried out. End of discussion. But despite serving his mandatory two years in Karrnath’s military, Elidyr was a scholar who’d studied the craft of artificing at Morgrave University in Sharn, and he believed that everything should be questioned—authority included—otherwise, how could true learning take place?
Needless to say, the two didn’t always see eye to eye.
“So why did you summon the four of us, Brother?” Elidyr said. “I’m sure you have an extremely good reason for pulling us away from our work.”
Vaddon walked toward a large cherrywood desk in the corner of the den, picked up a document from its otherwise empty surface and carried it over to Elidyr.
“This arrived this morning, carried by a rider from the garrison at Geirrid,” Vaddon said. “It’s from Bergerron. He had it delivered to the garrison from his keep by an Orien courier.”
Lirra was surprised. Delivering a message using a teleporter from House Orien was an extravagant expense, especially considering that Bergerron couldn’t have the courier teleport directly to the lodge, given the secretive nature of the work taking place there. Though Bergerron was their patron and funded their experiments, the warlord left them alone to do their work as they saw fit. He hadn’t contacted them once during the months the lodge had been operating. So why start now, Lirra wondered, and why pay so much money to have a message delivered so swiftly? It had to be bad news.
Vaddon handed the letter to Lirra, and she immediately began reading the missive.
“What does my uncle have to say?” Rhedyn asked.
Lirra looked up from the letter and looked at Rhedyn with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “Basically, he says, ‘Stop.’ Bergerron wants us to shut down the project, erase all signs of its existence, and depart the lodge within a day. See for yourself.”
Lirra gave the letter to Rhedyn who quickly scanned it.
“Bergerron can’t do this!” Elidyr said. “He’s supported us from the beginning.”
The Last War might have been over, but not everyone in Khorvaire was optimistic enough to believe it truly would be the last. The cessation of hostilities in Khorvaire was due in no small part to the nation’s ruler, Kaius ir’Wynarn III, who pressed for peace toward the end of the Last War and helped establish the Treaty of Thronehold. At the time, many of the Karrnathi warlords believed their king mad, but the nobles had since come to believe that Kaius’s desire for peace was a ruse, that the king truly wished for hostilities to cease only long enough so that Karrnath might rebuild its strength and once again seek an advantage against the other nations. But some warlords—Bergerron among them—believed Kaius was soft, and they viewed the Treaty of Thronehold as a symbol of his weakness. Refusing to support a weak king, these warlords began seeking ways to return Karrnath to its former glory. To that end, the rebel warlords had set a number of schemes in motion, and one of Bergerron’s was the Outguard’s experimentation with symbionts.
“Bergerron is a warlord,” Lirra said, “which means at heart he’s as much politician as soldier. My guess is some other warlord has gotten wind of our project—perhaps someone loyal to Kaius—and Bergerron wants to erase all signs of our work as swiftly as possible, before the king is informed and sends someone to investigate.”
“Those were my thoughts as well,” Vaddon said.
“It would explain my uncle’s haste to get the message to us,” Rhedyn said.
“Whatever his reason, the man’s a fool,” Elidyr said, voice tight with barely controlled fury.
“Perhaps the truth of the matter is entirely opposite,” Ksana said, “and Bergerron has found a measure of wisdom.”
Elidyr turned to glare at the half-elf. “What do you mean by that, cleric?” he snapped.
Lirra knew her uncle could be sharp-tongued at times, especially when he was dealing with people he viewed as his intellectual inferiors, but she’d never known him to get this upset before. She understood why he was so passionate about the project though. Exploring the use of symbionts as potential weapons of warfare had been Elidyr’s idea originally. As a scholar, he’d always believed that knowledge was a far greater weapon than any object forged of steel, no matter how sharp its edge. During the course of his studies, he’d become fascinated with Xoriat and the daelkyr, and he’d learned about those called impure princes, warriors who chose to accept the corrupting embrace of a symbiont in order to use its power to hunt down and destroy the aberrations of the world. Fight kind for kind, blow for blow, was an old saying in Karrnath, and it seemed a philosophy well suited for impure princes. But Elidyr had realized that symbionts could be used for purposes other than fighting those malformed monstrosities created by the daelkyr and loosed upon the world; they could serve as weapons of war.
And—thanks to Vaddon’s efforts to persuade him—Bergerron had come to believe that too. At least, that’s what the warlord had believed. It seemed he’d had a change of heart.
Ksana arched an eyebrow in surprise at Elidyr’s tone, but her own voice remained calm as she answered, “Perhaps Bergerron has finally come to realize that not only are the creatures we’ve been working with unnatural, they are ultimately uncontrollable as well.”
“Ridiculous,” Elidyr spat. “Everything can be controlled. It’s simply a matter of discovering the most effective way to do it.”
Lirra had a sudden realization, and she turned to her father. “This is the reason you attended Osten’s test today. You were hoping to witness a success that you could report to Bergerron, something that might give you the leverage to argue that the project should be allowed to continue.”
Vaddon sighed as he nodded. “In the months since this project began, we’ve had numerous failures and precious few successes. You being a prime example of the latter,
Rhedyn.” He paused. “Our only example, really. Of the four soldiers who managed to bond with a symbiont and not be immediately dominated by the creature’s corrupting influence—including Osten—only you have remained free of the creature’s taint.”
Rhedyn inclined his head to acknowledge the general’s recognition of his accomplishment.
Like Osten, the other two soldiers eventually had needed to have their symbionts forcibly removed, and one had died in the process. Not exactly a stellar record in anyone’s book, Lirra thought.
“Whatever pressures Bergerron may or may not be feeling to end our work here, I’d hoped that if we had some small measure of success to show him, that he might reconsider and allow our efforts to continue,” Vaddon said. “Unfortunately, not only wasn’t Osten’s test successful, he came very close to killing you, Lirra.”
“As second in command and the one who recommended Osten in the first place, I take full responsibility for how his test turned out,” Lirra said.
Vaddon waved her words away with a gesture. “It’s not your fault. The foundation for these experiments is fundamentally flawed.” He gave Elidyr a look. “Symbionts simply cannot be controlled.”
Elidyr walked over to Vaddon and stopped less than a foot away from his brother. “When I first came to you with the idea of using symbionts as living weapons for Karrnathi soldiers, I told you that it would take some time. You stressed this point when you presented the idea to Bergerron. Or was the warlord too addled by one too many blows to the head during his fighting days?”
“Calm yourself, Brother.” Vaddon said. “Bergerron has given us ample time to test your theories regarding the use of symbionts in warfare, and he’s been more than generous when it came to funding. I remember something you told me once, back when I was in command of a regiment of undead. Since the dead do not tire, it occurred to me to try using them to perform menial duties as well as martial ones: setting up camp, digging latrines, preparing meals, doing laundry.… And while they could perform all these tasks to a certain degree of effectiveness—though I admit using them as cooks was a bad idea all the way around—they proved too slow and their attention to detail was sorely lacking. They were really only good for one thing: killing the enemy. During one of your visits home from the university, I told you of my experiment. Do you remember what you said to me?”
Elidyr glared at Vaddon and didn’t answer, so Vaddon went on.
“You told me that the majority of experiments end in failure, that the more times we’re wrong, the closer we come to being right. Our experiment here is a failure, Brother. Accept it.”
Elidyr continued to glare at Vaddon for a long moment, and then he slowly smiled, but there was no mirth in the expression. “How clever of you to use my own words against me. I didn’t know you were that smart.”
“There’s no point in arguing,” Lirra said before Vaddon could reply. “The simple fact remains that Bergerron has ordered us to shut down the project and vacate the lodge, and no amount of bickering will change that.”
The two brothers continued glaring at each other, and Lirra thought neither would give in, but finally Vaddon sighed and nodded.
Lirra looked at Elidyr. “Our duty is clear, and that’s what we should be focusing on, whether we like it or not. Don’t you agree, Uncle?”
“I suppose,” he muttered. He paused then, looking suddenly thoughtful. “You say that bickering won’t change Bergerron’s mind about shutting down our project, but I just thought of something that might do the job—if you’re all willing to hear me out.”
“Bergerron has made his wishes quite clear,” Vaddon said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “I doubt there’s anything—”
“What harm is there in listening, Father?” Lirra said. “Remember what you taught me: ‘Good ideas win battles as often as sharp steel.’ ”
Vaddon frowned at her, but one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “I hate it when you quote me like that.” He turned to Elidyr. “Very well. Let’s hear what you have to say, Brother.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Lirra made her way to the great room of the lodge. A good-sized fire blazed in the large stone fireplace, as the dreary cool summer set in, and the cheery warmth of a fire was always welcome. Thick wooden beams crossed the length of the high-ceilinged room, and the walls were adorned with the stuffed, mounted heads of beasts that Bergerron and his ancestors had run to ground and killed: stags with huge antlers, fierce dire wolves, massive bears, razor-tusked boar, and sleek forest panthers.
Located in the hills on the southeastern edge of the Nightwood, the lodge was well away from main routes of travel but still close enough to the town of Geirrid, where the lightning rail could easily bring supplies. Plus Geirrid had its own garrison, which Bergerron made certain was well funded and well staffed, just in case he should have need of a military force when in residence at the lodge. And while the lodge’s hidden levels had proven perfect for the symbiont experiments, the creature comforts of its aboveground levels had made it a most pleasant place to bunk during the Outguard’s time there.
Chief among those comforts was the great room. Men and women sat in chairs or reclined on couches, talking and laughing while sharing after-dinner ale or playing a game of Conqueror. Over in a far corner of the room, a soldier with a bit of musical talent—a very small bit, judging by his playing—strummed a lute and led a merry group in song. Despite the would-be musician’s meager skills, his friends received his playing with happy enthusiasm, clapping along in time to the tune.
Tonight Lirra had come in search of one soldier in particular, and she spotted him resting on a couch by the fireplace. She walked over to Osten and sat in the empty chair next to him. The others in the great room grew quiet and looked in their direction, more than a little curious. A quick glance from Lirra reminded them to mind their own business, and they resumed their conversations and merrymaking, though perhaps at a softer volume than before.
“Hello, Osten,” she said.
He lay propped up on the couch, a blanket over his legs drawn up to his waist, two pillows supporting his back. He stared into the fire, its flickering orange-yellow light reflected in his brown eyes. At first he didn’t react. She was about to repeat the greeting when he finally spoke.
“Hello, Captain.” His voice was soft, the tone almost completely devoid of emotion. Lirra didn’t like the sound of it.
“Ksana tells me you’re going to make a full recovery,” she said.
“I’m sorry I let you down today, Captain. Sorry that I …” He paused, swallowed, and when he resumed his voice held an undercurrent of sorrow. “That I hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I took far rougher hits than anything you can dish out when my father first taught me how to handle a sword.”
Osten’s lips formed a small smile, but he didn’t take his gaze from the flames. “Knowing the general, I can believe it.” His smile vanished then. He took in a deep breath, let it out. “It’s a lot harder than I thought.”
“What is?”
“Bonding with a symbiont. Your uncle tried to prepare me, as did Ksana. I practiced the meditation techniques the cleric taught me, ran their advice over and over in my mind. And when the day arrived, I thought I was ready.”
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “I was a fool. Nothing can prepare for you for the reality of the experience. Even before the symbiont latches on to you and pierces your flesh, you can feel it beginning to assault your mind. There’s a … a pressure, as if phantom hands have gripped your skull and are squeezing it. And then there’s a whispering in your ears. No, deeper than that. Inside your mind. Words spoken in a soft, sly voice—words that always seem just on the verge of being understandable, but no matter how closely you listen, you can’t make them out. It’s maddening. And then, when the symbiont actually bonds with your flesh …”
He trailed off and shuddered from head to toe. After a moment, he continued speaking, his v
oice so soft she could barely hear it over the gentle pop and crackle of the fire.
“The whispering in your mind becomes shouting loud as thunder, but you still can’t understand what’s being said. The ghost hands gripping your head squeeze so tight you feel your skull will shatter and collapse inward like a rotten melon. Your blood seems to boil in your veins, and if you could, you’d grab a dagger and slice open your wrists to drain the molten fire out of you, but you can’t move. You can’t even draw in a breath. The symbiont is on the verge of claiming your body as its own and you have to fight, and fight hard, or be lost. It was a near thing for me, Captain, my fight to retain control of my own body, and to be honest, I feared I would lose. But in the end I won. Or at least, I thought I had.”
Osten tore his gaze from the fire and turned to her with a look of haunted desperation in his eyes.
“They’re intelligent. And if they don’t manage to gain control of your body when you first bond, they bide their time and wait for another opportunity. See, they never stop trying to take you over. Never! The voice quiets after a time, the pressure lessens, and the fire in your blood cools somewhat, but the sensations are always there. Sometimes worse than others, but you’re never free of them. It … it wears you down. I thought I was strong. I grew up on a dairy farm not far from Geirrid, the youngest of seven children. Not only did I work hard at my chores, I had to be tough to hold my own against my brothers and sisters when we played, and we played rough. When it came time for me to serve in the military, I chose to apply to the garrison at Geirrid. It was close to home, and my parents were getting older and …”
His gaze went blank and he frowned, as if he were in danger of losing his line of thinking.