The Wrath of Heroes (A Requiem for Heroes Book 2)

by David Benem

  They remained cautious, the shock of the day’s horrors still full upon them. Yet they did not flee when Fencress approached.

  “You know this child?”

  They nodded, the smear of tears shining on faces still red from blubbering.

  “Take her,” Fencress said, holding the baby outward. “Take her and take care of her. She is your sister now. Grab whatever food and clothing you can find, take a couple of good horses and leave this place.”

  The taller of the two girls took the baby in a nervous embrace and began bawling. “Where do we go?” she stammered.

  “Do you have any relations? An aunt or cousins or something?”

  “All were here,” she whined, “and all are dead.”

  Fencress dug in her purse, grabbed a dozen silver crowns, and handed them over. It seemed a paltry sum compared to what chance had taken from the two sisters and the baby, so she seized another handful and gave it to them. “That’s enough coin to feed and shelter you for a good long while, months if you’re smart about it.”

  “But we have nowhere to go…”

  Fencress paused, realizing she didn’t have much to tell them that wouldn’t lead them to dark deeds and likely even greater despair. “Head north or west and get clear of the war that’s coming. Find your way to a large town,” she said, trying to sound comforting. “Find someone kind and charitable, like a healer or an acolyte of the Sanctum or something. See if they’ll take you in, even pay them if you must. Offer to work, to help them. Don’t get in with people like us. You’ll find your way. Just be brave, and know life has more for you than these nightmares.”

  She turned and walked away, wondering if there could be any truth at all in what she’d said.

  10

  A SLIVER OF HOPE

  Lannick swayed glumly atop his chestnut stallion, his mail hauberk heavy on his shoulders and his heart heavy in his chest. He stared to the meandering mass of mail-clad men about him, their armor cast a sullen gray. There rode Thane Vandyl’s twenty oath-bound, sullen-eyed veterans with brown and red cloaks and weapons drawn. At his flank were Cudgen and Arleigh, speaking together in hushed tones. Just ahead was Kevlin deKray, eyes fixed dead on the ground just as they’d been since the moment they departed Rellic.

  They rode slowly, horses spurred to barely more than a walk across rolling hills painted a dark hue by stretches of shadow. Above, the late afternoon sun struggled behind swollen clouds and thunder rolled in the distance.

  It seemed to Lannick that somber thoughts weighed upon them all, an apprehension of what stood ahead and a shock and sadness over what lay behind. He tugged in a breath then heaved it out with a sigh.

  He missed his friend. He desperately, dearly missed his friend.

  His head filled with memories of Brugan, each causing that pang of sorrow to sharpen all the more. He thought of the old barkeep’s good humor, loud laughter, and big, kind heart. He thought too of the man’s dogged friendship, even when concealed behind tough words meant to drag Lannick from the hole he’d occupied.

  Lannick wondered if he’d have left behind his sordid life in Ironmoor if not for his friend. If he’d have ultimately succumbed to old weaknesses if Brugan hadn’t insisted on this mad venture. If he’d be sitting now upon that all-too-comfortable stool in the darkest corner of The Wanton Vicar if Brugan hadn’t possessed that hope that Lannick could be a better man.

  Lannick turned that word over in his head.

  Hope.

  Brugan had seemed so very full of hope whenever he’d spoken of this endeavor. He’d wistfully recalled their old triumphs to the point he gave little regard to those terrible obstacles before them. He so hoped for that sense of redemption he was sure could be their prize, and seemed so certain they could make it so.

  It was a sense of hope Lannick hadn’t possessed during those many long years after the slaughter of his family. It seemed to him he’d lost all sense of that notion—of hope—while wallowing in wine and regret.

  Except a hope for death, perhaps.

  But things were different, now. Through all the self-doubt that still nagged him, Lannick had allowed Brugan’s hope to convince him. He’d found himself believing there was a chance this task could be accomplished despite all the enemies and evils set before them. Even with all the horrors he’d seen at Vandyl’s keep, even with the terrible losses he’d suffered, there was now some part of him that refused to allow that newfound sense of hope to slip away.

  He thought of it as something Brugan had gifted to him, some part of the man that remained alive in spite of his passing.

  Hope.

  Lannick looked again to the men ahead, faces dour and gazes twitching about. Most eyes raked across the shadows rather than looked toward the coming storm, and brave men who’d known war and its dear costs seemed as nervous as new recruits. An oppressive silence hung upon them all.

  Lannick knew their world had changed. He remembered how he’d long scoffed at the notion of dead gods and old powers and demons in the night. How he’d dismissed rumors of things lurking in the deepest dark.

  And how all those old tales had become a stark and harrowing reality the moment his Coda had been lashed upon his wrist.

  He rubbed his arm where the Coda had been. He’d removed it—again—just after they’d departed Thane Vandyl’s keep. As much as he valued its protections against the enemy, he’d not fancied hearing the thoughts of others in his head nor others sensing some of his own. It was yet another rejection of his old oath, he knew, but he knew all the more that any victory required vengeance upon Fane first of all.

  He shifted his crooked jaw. The task ahead seemed more fraught with peril than ever, and even with an army marching with him there’d be no assurance of victory. Only a thin sliver of hope. Their prospects were far less than promising, and those small hopes were all they had.

  Yet hope I have.

  “Captain.” The voice sounded like stones scraping together. “May I have a word?”

  Lannick stirred and saw Randyn—the pock-faced and thin-haired sergeant who served as the leader of Vandyl’s oath-bound—alongside him. “Of course, Sergeant.”

  “I remember you,” he said.

  Lannick frowned, worried the man meant to level some sort of accusation. Lannick certainly had no memory of him, and there were plenty of unsavory things he’d done over the previous decade he only faintly recalled.

  “I remember you,” Randyn said again. “I fought at Pryam’s Bay, part of Rune’s Second Column. My company got hemmed in on a frozen salt marsh by Tallorrathian raiders. We watched as General Fane and his men rode right past us. Left us for dead. We fought on through the day and lost more than half our number.”

  “Too many good men were lost that day,” Lannick said.

  He shook his head. “I thought for sure we’d be cut down to the last. Then you led your charge and set fire to the enemy ships. The raiders who’d trapped us were forced to flee back to the shore and we were saved. You saved us, Captain. I wanted to thank you.”

  Lannick blinked. “You… You are most welcome.”

  Randyn thrust out his hand. “Thank you. Thane Vandyl knew of this, and that’s why he allowed me to ride with you. It’s an honor.”

  Lannick shook Randyn’s hand and smiled. “The honor’s mine, Sergeant.”

  Randyn bowed his head. “Sir.” He spurred his horse and rode back to a group of his men.

  Lannick watched him, his heart warmed by old glories and new hope.

  Just then a wind whipped, wailing a long, low howl, sounding much like the Necrists at Thane Vandyl’s keep. Much like their vile words offering the promise of the dark, their horrid wails as they burned, and the piercing shrieks of the foul creature that killed Brugan.

  Lannick’s smile drooped. There were many more deaths certain to come. There were a thousand hardships still to face.

  Yet there remained that sliver of hope. As bleak as the path ahead seemed, that sense of hope clung to him.
>
  His hands found the hilt of his sword and the shape of his Coda.

  And I cling to it.

  They came upon the village of Fool’s Leap by early evening, just after the winds rose and the clouds opened to hurl a hard rain upon them. The town—a few dozen buildings of stout wood with peaked, shingled roofs—stood on either side of a swollen creek crossed by a bridge of stone. A tangle of horses had been tied about several carts beneath a thicket at the town’s edge.

  “The men are sure to be at the tavern, Captain,” rolled Kevlin’s deep voice from Lannick’s side. “Ulder Prane said there’s a tavern near the town’s center, just beside the bridge. Owned by some relation of his.”

  Lannick nodded and tugged tight his cloak. “We’ll get inside and wait out the rain at least. How much farther is the deserters’ encampment?”

  “Another day of riding. Two or more if this weather holds.”

  “We shouldn’t tarry long. We need to make that camp.”

  “Lannick,” said Cudgen Ashworn, swiping raindrops from his sunken cheeks, “I’m no coward, but an evening spent in a tavern might be a good thing. A good thing for us all. The night’s a little darker these days. Some ale in the belly and a fire in the hearth would help lift the spirits.”

  Lannick looked to Cudgen and caught a whisper of fear on his thin face. He could see Arleigh Lay just behind the man and he appeared no bolder. “Alright, then,” Lannick said. “We’ll stay the night but depart first thing in the morning.”

  Arleigh wiped his brow with the shiny stump that used to be his left hand. “There won’t be too many wenches where we’re headed,” he said, voice swelling with what struck Lannick as false bravado. “I’d sure as hell have a night with one of them instead of the lot of you. To the tavern, boys!” he shouted, turning to the rest of the men. “One last night of women and ale before we head to war!”

  A weak cheer came from the rest of the company. Even Thane Vandyl’s oath-bound seemed cowed by the coming of night and their faces slackened in apparent relief at Arleigh’s words.

  “Thank you, Lannick,” Cudgen said quietly. “I’d never have thought all those things you said were true. It’s a mad thing, that.”

  Lannick nodded. “An awful thing, and no one wishes those old tales were false more than I. A world where the only wickedness is what’s in the hearts of men is a world wicked enough.”

  “Now that’s the damned truth. A good thing we’re heading off to kill the wickedest of them all.”

  Lannick grimaced and spurred his horse onward. He took the company’s lead and soon they entered the village proper. They crunched across gravel roads crowded by well-built homes and shops and smithies. Most of the structures were shuttered, though candlelight still shone from some.

  “Just there,” rumbled Kevlin, pointing. “The Unclaimed Crowns is the tavern Ulder spoke of. Said a cousin of his owns the place.”

  The tavern bore a shingle adorned with the image of five gold coins. Yellow light and the din of loud voices poured from the round windows lining its two stories. Through them Lannick spied many patrons, a fair number of them familiar.

  He fastened the reins of his horse to a tie post at the tavern’s side and made his way to the door, pausing once he reached it. Loud laughter rolled from within. Lannick knew the mood would change once the men heard of Brugan’s demise, and he dreaded delivering the news.

  He squeezed the knob, swallowed hard and pressed open the door.

  The interior of The Unclaimed Crowns roiled with a chorus of voices and the heavy smell of pipe smoke. It was an impressive space aglow with candles, a great two-storied room of dark walnut with a stout bar at its center. Behind the bar a thin rail of a man darted about, filling tankard after tankard and handing them to the patrons crowded about him. A good number of those gathered were strangers, though mingled amongst them were the old soldiers of Pryam’s Bay.

  Lannick shook the rain from his cloak, drawing several gazes from the old soldiers. Their eyes narrowed with seeming skepticism, but widened as soon as Thane Vandyl’s oath-bound began tramping their way inside. Those eyes then returned to Lannick and grew all the wider.

  Lannick reckoned he’d have otherwise felt a swell of pride at the gazes but dread dragged at his heart.

  A clutch of old soldiers pulled away from the bar and tumbled toward him. “It worked?” asked Hanner Hale, pressing his burly form forward. “Your plan worked?”

  “Told you so!” said the skinny, red-haired Ulder Prane through a smug smile. “Never thought Vandyl’d send along some of his oath-bound, though. You must’ve done some clever talking, Captain.”

  “Upstairs,” Lannick said, spying empty tables along the railing of the second floor.

  Ulder threw out his hands. “Nonsense! We’re closer to the ale here and there are many toasts to be made!”

  “Upstairs,” grumbled Arleigh Lay, coming to stand near Lannick. “We need a word.”

  Hanner scratched his salt-and-pepper beard and looked about. “Alright, but we should wait for Brugan at least. He’s the one who brought this whole thing together.”

  Arleigh grunted. “You’ll be waiting a long fucking time for that.”

  “Upstairs,” Lannick said, disregarding the remark. “Now.”

  “Well enough,” said Ulder with an irritated tone. “Cousin!” he howled toward the bar. “Some ale up top? Seems our captain has ordered us to head there for now.”

  The barkeep gave a long look then an exasperated nod in reply. He huffed and summoned a serving girl with a thin finger.

  “Up the stairs, soldiers,” Arleigh said flatly. “We’ve many things to tell, and not a one of them good.”

  The loft of The Unclaimed Crowns stank with the smoke of many pipes and much spilled ale. The old soldiers of Pryam’s Bay and Vandyl’s oath-bound had filled the circular tables and now sat fingering tankards and shifting in their chairs. Their chatter had dimmed to a whisper and a good number of them glanced to Lannick with furrowed brows.

  Lannick leaned against the rail surrounding the opening to the floor below, a pit in his guts and his tongue thick in his mouth. There was a part of him that had always felt out of place among these men, even before all that happened after Pryam’s Bay. He was no speechmaker nor did he possess that sort of easy camaraderie often shared among brothers-in-arms. Brugan had been the bridge between him and the men, and now the big barkeep was gone forever.

  Bile crept up his throat. He seized his tankard from the table before him and took a long draw and then another and another still.

  “Easy,” grated Arleigh beside him.

  Lannick gave him a sidelong glance and put down the tankard. He looked out to the mass of dubious eyes, his stomach churning.

  Things are bound to be a good deal harder without you, my old friend.

  “Well?” yelped Ulder. “What is it? And where’s Brugan?”

  Lannick gritted his teeth, vainly hoping that doing so could stifle the word in his mouth and make it less true. He hung his head and took a weak step forward. “Dead,” he said at last, the word feeling heavy as a hammer as it fell from his tongue. “Brugan is dead.”

  “Dead?” someone shouted.

  Lannick nodded and shuddered inside.

  The old soldiers sat in silence, mouths agape. After a long moment the news seemed to seep through them. Many slammed fists or spat curses. A few choked back sobs. Slowly there rose a din of laments.

  “To Brugan!” someone shouted, raising his mug. “May he find his way to the heavens of the Elder God!”

  “To Brugan!” the men roared in unison, knocking their tankards together.

  Lannick lifted his tankard from the table. “To Brugan,” he said quietly, then took a sip.

  The men swallowed back their ale and raised their mugs to those about them. They chewed at their lips and nodded at remembrances told.

  Hanner Hale stood from a table near the room’s rear. “How?” he asked. “How’d he die?” Others echoed
him.

  Lannick’s eyes fell to the floor. “At the hands of the vilest of creatures,” he said, voice low. “We came upon the ancient enemies of Rune, the Necrists. We took them down, but they managed to slay several good men before we could. Brugan died fighting.”

  The men whispered and heads shook.

  “Necrists?” asked Ulder Prane, his tone incredulous. “But those things are for stories! That couldn’t—”

  “They exist,” Lannick said, his voice softer than he’d have liked. “They exist, and they wield the darkness facing us all.”

  “That can’t be!” said Hanner. “Don’t tell us that, Captain. What really—”

  Arleigh Lay pressed ahead of Lannick, pushing him back with the stump of his left arm. “They tore Brugan’s brains out!” he shouted. “Ripped them right out through his fucking mouth! We were there to see it, and any man who doubts our words can go straight to the old hells. Fuck you if you don’t believe me!”

  The gathered men fell dead quiet, almost as though Brugan’s corpse had been dropped on one of their tables.

  Lannick winced at the image of his friend’s awful end. He staggered back, bracing against the railing once more. He reached for his tankard and held it, trying to find some shred of comfort. There was none, and the silence seemed crushing.

  The floorboards sighed as Cudgen Ashworn moved to stand beside Arleigh. “It’s true,” he said. “No one’s doubted Captain Lannick and his tales as much as Arleigh and I. But it’s fact. A sad, terrible fact. We’ve a rough task ahead, even rougher than we thought.”

  “We saw it too,” came a harsh voice from the loft’s opposite end. It was Randyn, the pock-faced sergeant of Thane Vandyl’s oath-bound. He stood, his chainmail hauberk giving a faint hiss. He paced with loud steps amongst the men. “We saw it too, and those devils took three of my friends and left another in the throes of madness.”