“Was there anything else?” she asked and the others shook their heads. “Get some rest.”
As they started to file out of the room Graegor finally came back to the present, but she gestured for him to stay. She waited until they were alone before speaking.
“A few nights ago you sought me out. You asked a lot of questions about Balfruss.”
Graegor looked up, finally meeting her gaze. His eye was troubled, but she didn’t know if it was guilt, grief or something else. “I had suspicions, but I didn’t admit the truth, not even to myself. He was part of a different life I left behind a long time ago.”
“Was your life so unpleasant in those days?”
Graegor heaved a long shuddering breath that somehow seemed to diminish the big man. “No, it was everything I thought I’d always wanted. A quiet life away from cities with a woman who loved me. Then the village had a bad year, crops were blighted and there was a collapse at the quarry. We were running out of money, so I enlisted in the King’s army. It was hard at first, being away from home so often, but we managed. I had no choice and needed to provide for my family. For a time, being apart made the moments together that much sweeter. But something was happening to me. I discovered I wasn’t just good at being a warrior, I enjoyed it.”
“There’s no shame in that.”
Graegor shook his shaggy head. “No, but after a while I started to resent my time at home, and we argued. When my son was born I stayed in the village for a few months, tried to be a good husband and father. I left the army and worked in the quarry, but it wasn’t like the old days. I’d changed.”
Talandra squeezed one of Graegor’s hands in both of hers, but he didn’t seem to notice. “After six months I returned to the army. I sent money home, so they were never without, and I visited every six months. But whenever I went back I felt out of place. They were coping without me. I didn’t add anything to their lives when I was there. After a few years the visits became once a year, then I stopped visiting and just sent letters with the money. The last time I saw my son I think he was seven years old. It was so long ago I can barely remember his face.”
Talandra withdrew her hands and this time Graegor noticed as she leaned back in her chair. He offered her a pained smile, one that said he was fully aware of what he’d done. Although he’d broken no law the scars of his actions were still visible today. Both he and Balfruss bore them, and only now was she beginning to understand the grizzled General. The rage that had driven him for all of these years was fuelled by guilt.
“Then the war broke out,” said Graegor, holding up his maimed hand and tapping his eye patch as a reminder of what he’d done and what it had cost him. Talandra shivered, remembering the story her father had told her, against his better judgement. The nightmares had worn thin over the years, but occasionally they still had the power to wake her covered in a cold sweat.
“Three years had passed before I realised. I’d sent letters home when I could, but it wasn’t often. The King insisted I take some time to recover from my injuries so I went back to the village. When I arrived all that remained were scattered piles of rubble. A local farmer told me the village had been attacked by raiders and most of the locals slaughtered. Those who survived didn’t want to start over in the ruins and went elsewhere. I tried to find out if my family had survived, but no one knew.”
Talandra wanted to say something, to offer some small comfort, but her mind was reeling as she tried to contemplate the burden Graegor had been carrying all these years.
“I returned to Charas and buried my past. A few years later I heard a rumour about my wife and went to investigate.” Tears ran down Graegor’s face unnoticed. “An old neighbour told me she’d survived the attack and left to build a new life, but he didn’t know where. No one had any news of my son, so I assumed he was dead. When I finally tracked down my wife it was too late. She’d died a year earlier from the pox.”
Graegor sat back on his chair and stared into the distance, into the past. When he next spoke Talandra didn’t know who he was speaking to.
“I’ve never been a spiritual man. Everyone says theirs is the one true God, but new ones appear all the time. Those Lantern fuckers think we’re all born for a reason.” Graegor laughed bitterly and shook his head. “As if it were that simple. That easy. As if a child run down by a cart was always meant to die that way. It’s all horse shit. We’re not made for one purpose.”
“Then why are we here?” asked Talandra.
Graegor shrugged. “I don’t know, but I know what I can do and what’s beyond my abilities. I wasn’t a very good husband or father. It’s just not in me, but I am good at killing. I’m good at training and leading warriors. I’m good at winning wars. That’s who I am.”
“I think you’re wrong,” said Talandra with a faint smile. “I wasn’t just raised by my father. You’ve always been there for me and my brothers.”
“That’s kind, but it’s not the same,” said Graegor with a smile that quickly slid off his face. He sighed again and scratched at the scars on his maimed hand as if the ghosts of his fingers were still haunting him. “I wouldn’t know what to say to Balfruss. I can’t even try to explain, and there’s no reason he should listen. It’s better if we don’t speak.”
“Better, or easier?”
Graegor’s grin seemed out of place until he spoke. “You’re so much like her.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Don’t you want to know about your mother? About how she could take a man apart with words, far better than I can with a blade. How she used to laugh so hard sometimes she’d snort like a pig. And by the Maker, she had a dirty sense of humour. Sometimes she’d put me to shame.”
Graegor wiped away a tear and Talandra frowned. “You know the war isn’t over yet,” she said, but Graegor didn’t react. “Tomorrow your son must face the Warlock. Alone. It’s likely he will die.” It was only with the last word that she managed to get a reaction as a nerve twitched in the side of his face. “Talk to him, while there’s still time.”
The tavern was a riot of noise with people singing, clapping and dancing to the slightly off-key musicians. The atmosphere was one of celebration, as many thought the war was over and they’d already won. Balfruss knew differently, but said nothing to quell their merriment. The dawn would sober them all.
The music and joy of the others didn’t touch him, or the two men sat opposite. A collection of empty tankards and a row of shot glasses covered the table. Black Tom was already asleep, snoring quietly with his face in a pool of ale. Vargus was still conscious, but his eyes were glazed and he seemed lost in thought, wandering the hallways of the past. His expression looked haunted, and Balfruss knew he would see the same in his eyes if he stared in a mirror.
Counting the glasses, Balfruss was amazed he was still conscious, never mind able to speak. But the terrible ache in his heart kept him awake and far from the comforting oblivion of sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw them falling from the wall, burning on the inside and out. Being consumed by the Warlock’s unnatural fire of the mind. He could see every grisly detail. Smell the burning hair, see their flesh crisping up and turning black as they screamed.
Grabbing the nearest tankard Balfruss tipped its contents down his throat, gulping down the frothy ale until it was gone. He quickly followed it with a shot of rum but barely felt it. When he slammed the glass down he noticed his hand was remarkably steady, if a little blurry.
Almost everyone he’d ever loved was dead. Ecko, Darius, Thule and Finn. Eloise was still alive, if it could be called living, but the blackened wheezing husk that tenaciously held on to this world would soon let go. Whatever torments Balfruss thought he was enduring, her agony was far worse. She had lost her husband, the love of her life, only to be consumed by fire, but it had not snuffed out her life as it had done with Thule’s. At least he wasn’t in pain any more. When he’d last visited her, Balfruss had made several attempts to end her life with a
quick stroke of a blade, but his nerve had failed.
“I just couldn’t do it,” he muttered. “I’m a coward.”
“Coward?” slurred Vargus, coming out of his own stupor. “Why’d you say that?”
“I should have faced the Warlock by myself. He warned me. He said he’d do this. Kill everyone and take everything from me. If I’d faced him earlier, then the others would still be alive.”
Vargus looked around the room at the revellers, his head wobbling alarmingly, before resting his forearms on the table and leaning forward. He beckoned Balfruss to lean closer and the old warrior’s expression hardened.
“I’m going to kill everyone in this room,” he whispered. At first Balfruss thought he was making a joke, until he saw what lay behind Vargus’s eyes. Balfruss leaned back in shock and a moment later the terrible hunger he’d seen was gone. “Just because I say something, doesn’t mean I can do it, or that it will come true. There’s no way to know what would’ve happened. Let’s say you had faced him alone, and he’d killed you. Where would we be now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t,” said Vargus, stabbing a finger towards him. “You don’t know. That’s the fucking point. The truth of it. The future isn’t set because it hasn’t been written. The Warlock might be powerful, but everyone can be beaten. He’s a child.” Vargus dismissed the Warlock with a wave of his hand, as if he were nothing more than a minor irritation.
Balfruss grunted. “We agree on that at least.”
“A child playing with fire,” said Vargus, “and he will get burned. It could be you that snuffs him out, but if not, there’ll be someone else. Nothing and no one stays in power forever. Time robs us all of everything. I’ve seen brutal kings and tyrants turned into withered husks that can’t stop shitting themselves. I’ve seen Sorcerers lose their minds and cut their own throats, because they couldn’t cope with the awful truths they uncovered. I’ve seen honoured warriors cry like children for their victims, while people sing about their heroism.”
“Sorcerers?” The word struck Balfruss as peculiar. No one had used that name for magic users in centuries. “You’ve met Sorcerers?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. All of my memories are jumbled up and back to front. I must have read it somewhere.” Vargus burped and then sat back trying to gather his thoughts. “What was I saying?”
“Sorcerers.”
“Sorcerers were truly powerful magic users. They knew more than any Battlemage. A Sorcerer was a servant of the people who could do terrible and amazing things. A Battlemage is nothing more than a tool made for war. The mysteries the Sorcerers uncovered make the Warlock’s tricks look like sleight of hand.”
“I’d give anything to know just a few of those mysteries,” said Balfruss, clenching his fists in frustration. Unbidden he summoned blue fire and it danced along his arms to settle on the back of his hands. “I have all of this power, but all I can do with it is destroy. I can summon storms, shatter mountains and kill hundreds of men in a heartbeat. And yet Eloise is dying and I can’t do a thing to help her.”
His voice broke and Balfruss choked back a sob. He cast around for another drink but all of the glasses were empty. He tried to catch the attention of a flustered barmaid battling her way through the crowd, but she didn’t notice.
Vargus was quiet for a moment, reflecting on what he’d said, or perhaps lost in his memories again. Balfruss twisted around on his seat and gestured at another barmaid passing his table. She nodded briefly in his direction. “Have you tried?” said Vargus.
“What?” said Balfruss, swinging around.
“Have you tried to heal her?”
Balfruss noticed the fire on the back of his hands and immediately severed his link to the Source, snuffing out the flames. The fire made bile rise in the back of his throat. “I tried for hours. I spoke to the King’s surgeon and picked apart what Ecko had told me. I scoured the palace library and went over every conversation I had with the Grey Council during my training. I even channelled power from the Source into her and sat like that for hours, trying to will it to help her in some way. Nothing happened. She’s still dying and I can’t help her.”
“What about Taikon? I heard he can heal himself.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Balfruss with a bitter laugh. “But I don’t think he’d be willing to share.”
“It’s true then?”
“The Queen told me he’s swallowed some artefact and any wound heals instantly. I think it was another of the Warlock’s discoveries that he gave to the Mad King.”
Balfruss was too busy staring at the barmaid to notice the furious expression that flickered across Vargus’s features.
“So what else do you know about Sorcerers?” asked Balfruss, as the barmaid set down three tankards of ale. She stared at the collection of empties on their table but said nothing and quickly hurried away.
“Not much. It was an old book. Mostly stories about how Sorcerers used to serve the old religions, the Great Maker, Nethun and the Watcher. This was long before they built the Red Tower.”
“I’ve not heard of the Watcher.”
Vargus dismissed it with a wave of his hand, nearly spilling his ale. “This was hundreds of years ago. Most of the old religions died out over the centuries, apart from that of the Maker. One day the new faiths, like the Lord of Light—”
“Lantern fucker,” cursed Black Tom, before dozing off again.
“They’ll be nothing but stories told by a few old men and something else will have taken their place.”
Balfruss mulled it over for a while before asking, “If everything is eroded over time, why do anything?”
Vargus sighed. “Everything changes. You need to think about the day after the war. One way or another, it will end. Who do you want to be when it’s over? What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?”
Balfruss tried to come up with some answers, but his mind was too muddled. Since the war had begun, all of his thoughts and effort had been focused on the next day, the next battle. He’d never once looked to the horizon and thought about what he would do after it was over. Leaving the desert and coming home to fight had felt like the end of his story, not another chapter. Now he wasn’t so sure any more. There were still reasons to stay, but also so many painful memories were now attached to the city. Perhaps it would better be if he did leave, assuming he lived through the war.
After helping Vargus carry Black Tom to the barracks and putting him to bed, Balfruss made his way to the palace. By the time he lay down, his mind was whirling with a host of questions with no answers. When sleep finally claimed him the nightmares came, but beneath the guilt and the pain of his loss, something else stirred. A feeling that despite everything that he’d seen and achieved, he was still hungry for more.
CHAPTER 42
For the first time in two years Gunder felt alive. The padded suit, felt cap, wig and garish clothes were hung up for his eventual return, but for the next few hours he was free of the fat merchant.
The specialist tailor had done an excellent job. Staring at himself in the mirror he couldn’t tell the difference between his uniform, and that of the real Watch. He was pleased to see three blue bars sewn onto the jacket’s shoulders and over his heart, giving him the rank of Captain. The only continuation from his previous persona was the white make-up, liberally applied to his face and hands, giving him the same skin tone as a local. It was unlikely in the forthcoming chaos that anyone would notice the colour, but tonight he would not take any chances. There would be plenty of risks outside of his control. It seemed foolish to push his luck further than necessary.
As well as the uniform Gunder paid special attention to everything he carried on his person. He’d made sure the sword was plain and without decoration, so as not to draw attention, as befitting his rank. The blade itself was good Seveldrom steel and he’d spent hours sharpening it, as well as the daggers concealed about his person. Daggers were not suitable
weapons for a Captain of the Watch. They were weapons only employed by thieves, cut-throats and other members of the criminal underworld. Gunder had a feeling they would be needed and that very few of his forthcoming actions would be deemed appropriate.
Even though he didn’t need to read it again, Gunder looked at the latest missive from his agents in the palace. The Crown Prince had finally come out of his chambers with a thirst for revenge. More than that, he’d gone straight to his mother with a plan, partly of his own making. It was all that they’d hoped for and more.
Officially the status quo in the city was the same as yesterday, with Taikon acting as Regent of Yerskania. Unofficially the Queen had retaken control of the palace and was preparing to remove the stain of the Chosen from her city. When Gunder had passed information to one of her agents about their plan she had been delighted. Receiving the Queen’s royal seal of approval had eliminated any doubts among the rebels.
Gunder placed the coded letter on the fire, waiting until it had burned to ash before leaving the house through the back door.
He stuck to narrow alleyways and quiet streets, sometimes pausing until one of the few people abroad had moved on before proceeding. Those with any common sense were already locked indoors. Only the insane and the ignorant were abroad on the streets, totally unaware of what was about to happen. That included many units of Chosen, who were ambling about, staring at the deserted roads with gormless expressions.
When he was a few streets away from home Gunder moved onto the main roads and boldly walked towards the Rotamph quarter in the south-eastern part of the city. On the way there he passed several squads of the Watch, and they all gave him a nod or salute, which he crisply returned. One or two touched the hilt of their swords or cleavers and he mimicked the gesture, but didn’t stop to talk. Everyone had somewhere very specific to be and time was short. It took him another thirty minutes to get into position, but there was still a little time to play with.
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