by David Benem
The loft remained quiet, the jovial sounds rising from the floor below a discomforting contrast. All the old soldiers—every one—wore expressions that shifted somewhere between fear and disbelief.
“They…” said Ulder Prane. “They’re real? Those demons?”
Arleigh spat. “Dammit, Ulder! We saw what we saw!”
Ulder pressed a hand through the red mess of his hair. “May the dead gods save us all.”
The company appeared dour and depressed, heads no doubt doubly troubled. Lannick thought of his dear friend, determined to keep his thoughts on the man’s many fine qualities rather than his terrible end. He drew in a deep breath and looked upon the men, wondering what words Brugan would have for them. His heart lifted at that, and after a moment he pulled himself away from the wall and toward Arleigh and Cudgen.
“Hope,” he said, his voice strong and clear. “Brugan gave all of us—perhaps me most of all—the hope that we could do this thing, the hope that we could conquer all those things set before us and set aright all the hardships behind. That hope didn’t die with Brugan. Instead it’s the part of him that lives on for so long as we hold it within us. Don’t fear what foes stand ahead. With hope we will overcome them all. We will not allow Brugan’s life, or his hope, to have been in vain. Rather we will make all those things he hoped for come to pass.” He hoisted his tankard high. “Once more, to Brugan!”
The men sat silently for a moment, but soon boots stomped and hands clapped. “To Brugan!” they hollered. “To Brugan!”
Lannick joined their shouting, blinking back tears. “To Brugan!”
How I miss you, my friend.
Lannick sank onto a stool at the bar of The Unclaimed Crowns, the rest of the men still occupying the loft upstairs. The evening had grown late and the crowd on the main floor consisted of only a few townsfolk grumbling over slow trade, slim crops and a war raging not nearly far enough away.
The barkeep—Ulder’s skinny cousin—was merely a third Brugan’s size, though Lannick soon gathered he possessed almost as restless a tongue. “Ale?” the man said. “I brew it myself, of course, and folk come from miles around to drink it. In more peaceful times, a fair number of other tavern owners and innkeeps buy casks to pour in their own establishments. Best in the midlands, they say, one and all. But with all the rumors of Arranese war bands afoot there’s likely no having the stuff outside these walls, least for a while.”
Lannick nodded, looking past the man’s thin frame to the array of libations behind him. Beside the casks of ale there stood several varieties of wines and whiskeys, each of them appearing more tempting and delicious than the last.
My dear friends. At last we meet again.
“So, ale it is?” the barkeep persisted.
“Ah, no,” Lannick said through a grimace.
“What’ll it be? Ulder says you boys have been riding for days. I got just about anything to cure a thirst. You have your pick.”
Lannick chewed at his lip, savoring the word and eager to taste what it’d bring. “Whiskey,” he said.
The man cocked his brow. “Whiskey it is. Any preference? I’ve a rare bottle from near the Waters of World’s End, another from Pyrene. They’re a tad pricey and full of peat, though gentlemen of discriminating taste usually fancy that sort of thing.”
Lannick chuckled. “Gentlemen? I’m hardly one of those. Your cheapest will do just fine.”
“Nah,” the barkeep said, snatching a dusty bottle and pouring its honey-brown liquid into a metal cup. “You’re no refined merchant or such. But Ulder’s told me about you fellows, about where you’re headed and what you intend. It’s a brave and bold thing, and I’m hoping you succeed. This one’s on me.”
Lannick smiled. “Thank you kindly,” he said, placing his elbows on the bar and letting his head droop. He took a sniff of the whiskey and savored its stinging scent, a smell that conjured memories of his time spent at The Wanton Vicar. As much as he regretted that time lost to despair, it was time spent with his best friend nonetheless. He thought of Brugan’s lumpy face pressed near and speaking words of comfort or caution. He closed his eyes and exhaled, realizing he’d never heeded the latter and only rarely listened to the former.
He lifted the cup and took a small sip, catching the flavor on his tongue. He held it there before swallowing, recalling—vaguely recalling in some cases—those many times Brugan had tried to set him straight.
There was a sadness there, and Lannick regretted it much. He so wished Brugan could have lived to see him become a better man, to see him seize some measure of redemption. He wished Brugan could have lived to see that his hopes weren’t all in vain.
I’ll not let you down again, he thought, then set down the cup and pushed it away.
“You don’t care for it?” asked the barkeep.
“Quite the contrary. I rather enjoy the stuff too much, if I’m being honest.”
The barkeep’s mouth bent with a knowing smile. “I used to drink too much myself as well. After a time, though, I learned to start dealing with my troubles instead of running from them.”
Lannick nodded. “I reckon I’m finally doing the same.”
“That’s good to hear, because from what I gather you have enough trouble ahead of you. No need to drag along more of your own. Ah,” he said, eyes looking past Lannick. “It seems another of your band has arrived.”
“Who—” Lannick said, twisting about to see the door behind him.
A thick figure stood in the doorframe, lost in shadow but for the outline of a green, knee-length cloak. The newcomer brushed raindrops from the shoulders of the cloak, a garment identical to Lannick’s own. He took a long stride into the tavern’s golden candlelight, revealing a squint-eyed face squatting atop a nearly non-existent neck.
“Lannick,” the thickly-built Variden said in a low, hoarse voice. He moved with quiet steps to Lannick’s side.
“Uh…” Lannick said with utter surprise. His hand moved to his sword, worried the man had come to exact punishment for the perceived betrayal. “Ogrund?”
The man nodded, studying Lannick with eyes that seemed almost closed.
“A drink, friend?” asked the barkeep.
“No,” Ogrund said firmly. “Just a private word with my… old comrade.”
“Very well,” the barkeep said, darting away to attend to others.
“Hmm,” Ogrund grumbled. “A new coat of armor, a new sword, and, from what I understand, a small army. Yet here you are, sitting on a stool at a bar with a cup of whiskey before you. It seems you’ve not changed at all.”
Lannick felt heat upon his cheeks. He wound his hand about the hilt of his weapon. “It’s not what it appears, Ogrund.”
“Is it not? I see no Coda upon your wrist, and we’ve heard nothing from you aside from a brief moment in Ironmoor and another in Rellic. On both occasions you used Valis’s great gift, his sacrifice, to protect yourself. Do you not remember your oath? Your Coda is meant to be used to protect the whole of Rune, not to serve the purpose of a single man. Perhaps it should have found another more worthy of its divine blessing?”
Lannick stood, meeting Ogrund’s narrow stare. “Yet it didn’t. Just why do you think that is? It’s because I serve a greater purpose than myself, in spite of what you and the others presume. And the whiskey? A last toast to a man I watched die at the hands of a Necrist just two nights ago. He was a dear friend, and deserved a far better death.”
“Alas,” the Variden said, “such are the wages of this war. In spite of all our efforts, many more will die. Only by holding true to our eternal cause can we hope to light the darkness.”
Lannick looked to the man and his thick, impassive features, and wondered if there burned the scantest ember of emotion within him. He knew Ogrund to be a fearless guardian of Rune, though every word he uttered seemed a practiced, hollow platitude. “You should leave, Ogrund,” Lannick grated, squeezing the hilt of his sword.
“I cannot, Lannick. Not until we
have seen this through.”
“Seen what, exactly?”
Ogrund made a swift movement, twisting as his hands sought something within the shadows of his cloak. Lannick started to pull his sword free of its scabbard but soon stopped short.
Ogrund bowed stiffly, a shining blade resting upon his upraised palms. Lannick knew the sword—his old prize. The trophy presented to him by High King Deragol himself after Pryam’s Bay. The sword marking him Protector of Ironmoor.
The very sword Fane stole from me after his bastards beat me down.
“Your old sword,” Ogrund said in his gravelly voice. “Wil remembered you said that General Fane took it, so he burgled his way into the general’s manor at Ironmoor to regain it. I thought it both unscrupulous and unnecessary, but he insisted. It is at his request I deliver it to you here.”
“Wil?” Lannick asked incredulously as he studied the weapon. The longsword shone as it ever did, honed to a deadly precision. Runic marks ran down the center space between the twin edges, ancient words reading ‘Protector of Ironmoor.’ The crossguard, a shiny brass that contrasted the blade’s silver hue, was etched with the image of a dragon with wings extended outward to the guard’s ends.
“He believed in you,” Ogrund said, his expression flat. “He believed in you, even when others doubted, even when you broke your oath and left the order. Perhaps… Perhaps that is why he seemed the most bitter after we rescued you.”
Lannick took the sword, a long breath escaping his lips. “Send him my thanks, Ogrund.”
Ogrund eyed the sword. “There is no need. You’ll be able to thank him yourself. Once he’s accomplished his present mission he intends to accompany us to war.”
“Us? You have no place among these men. Nor does he. You told me I was set upon some misguided revenge, that I was a prideful fool, that—”
Ogrund raised a hand. “We were mistaken. You foresaw evils we did not. We will help you destroy General Fane, and after that you will help us win the war against Arranan’s Spider King.”
Lannick fought off a smile as unexpected joy swelled within him. “I will, Ogrund. I swear to you I will.”
11
ONLY MEN
Zandrachus Bale trudged onward, shuffling footsteps dragging across the slate of hard earth. The sun tilted just past midday but exhaustion had already set heavily upon him. He burned as though he baked in his brown robes and his face was slicked with a curtain of sweat.
He squinted, seeing naught but a bleak canvas of yellow dotted by stones that seemed like bleached bones poking from a shallow grave. Shimmering heat rose from the surface of everything, a spiteful illusion of water. Bale fumbled with the cap of his wineskin then sucked in a sip of warm water that did no more than taunt his swollen tongue.
There were no features to mark their location, no quaint signs telling distance as there were in many parts of Rune. Only Alisa’s assurance they were getting nearer to Zyn. That, and the firm point of the seeking stone held in his hand.
“Keep up,” Alisa barked from a dozen yards ahead. “There are eyes on the horizon.” She gestured with a nod. “We must find cover.”
Bale shaded his gaze and stared across the featureless landscape. He saw nothing but an endless waste. “Where?” he croaked through dry lips.
“There,” said Lorra from beside him as she jabbed a finger, pointing to something Bale’s eyes failed to perceive. “A village, and a group of riders leaving it. Six or seven of them.”
“Seven,” Alisa said firmly. “Seven is a sacred number to the Arranese. It is a war band, seven riders strong. They are moving quickly.”
Bale strained his eyes in the direction of still-indiscernible riders. Waves of heat, yellow dirt, outcroppings of jagged rocks, some scrubby brush, and… And then he spotted them. Small, dark motes shifting in the heat and marring the barren plain, creeping across the steppe like insects. Panic swept over him. “Are they coming this way?” he said, words tumbling over themselves.
“In this direction generally,” Alisa said, “though not precisely toward us. I don’t think they’ve seen us, but if they have keen eyes they most certainly will soon. There. Make for those rocks. I can conceal us there.”
Bale’s heart thumped and he quickened his pace, keeping low just as Alisa did ahead of them. Stinging sweat dripped from his brow and blurred his vision. He rubbed madly at his eyes and tumbled, falling hard against the earth.
I am too weak an instrument!
Lorra dropped to a knee beside him and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “They are still far away,” she said gently. “We’ll be safe.”
Bale lay still for a moment, blinking, worried he’d sustained injury. He quickly realized there was nothing beyond his usual arthritic aches. He took Lorra’s hand and shuffled upward, then rushed ahead on clumsy legs.
Alisa crouched behind a formation of white rock just taller than her huddled form. She had her green cloak wrapped about her and gestured them over, a stern look upon her face.
Bale and Lorra closed the distance quickly then stumbled to a stop beside Alisa. They drew close together, collapsing in a tight knot behind the rock, holding hands and bowing their heads. Bale trembled, and as he did Lorra rubbed him with rough encouragement.
“Shh, Bale,” Lorra whispered. “I am your courage.”
Bale cowered near her, shuddering. His overlarge nose caught the stink she carried from many days of travel. He breathed deeply and took comfort in it, knowing it was hers.
They waited long minutes pressed against the rock, Bale quivering and Lorra soothing him. Alisa seemed eerily calm, caressing the strange bracelet of dull iron clasped about her wrist.
“You are not worried?” Bale asked, his voice shrill.
Alisa looked to him, a cryptic look in her wide, brown eyes. “My order has secrets, Bale, as does yours. These appear to be mere men riding upon the plain, none possessing any understanding of arcana. We will remain hidden to their eyes. Be still, and you will look no more than a stone to them.”
Bale shook his head. He heard the drumming of approaching horses and shook, squeezing against Lorra’s bony frame.
“Be still…” Alisa said softly.
Bale drew a deep breath and held it. He shut his eyes, listening as the sound of hooves on hard earth grew steadily louder. His heart was a staggering hammer in his chest, the sound of its uneven beats a dreadful echo of the horses. Seconds seem to draw into minutes and the horses’ gallop became a thunderclap in his ears.
He eased an eyelid open, his vision hazy from the sun’s glare. Giant shapes of black moved before him and the ground shook. Bale’s vision adjusted, and he saw seven Arranese warriors riding away on massive horses. They were draped in oiled leather and from the horses beneath them many weapons—long bows and longer spears—dangled and clacked.
The Arranese seemed lean and hard and fearsome, but they did not look back. Indeed, they took no notice at all of Bale and his companions, instead riding onward upon the steppe. Soon they were nearly a hundred yards distant and showed no signs of slowing.
Bale drew a relieved breath and then another, trying to calm his stuttering heart. He found his wineskin and took a long drink. His breathing eased a bit, his head finding reassurance in the fact that these Arranese, though known to be fierce warriors, were only men made of the same flesh and bone as he. They were not undead horrors like the chattering hobblers in Cirak, nor practitioners of the foulest arts of the dark like the Necrists. They were men, suffering from the same limitations as any other, perhaps capable of feeling the same fear and uncertainty.
He took comfort in this notion and sighed.
Only men.
Bale slouched wearily aside the fire, watching Lorra cook in the waning sunlight. She sat stirring a steaming pot of beaten metal, sprinkling into it various crumbs that would seem no more than dirt had Bale not tasted her concoctions before. His face lifted to a wan smile and his slouch deepened.
He saw Alisa sitting far from
the fire on a slight rise. She seemed to have her eyes closed and her hand was wrapped about the iron bracelet she wore—a “Coda” he thought it was called. He heard the sound of whispered words slipping from her mouth.
He shifted and upon doing so felt a sharp pain in his feet, the sting from the bends in his boots and a good distance walked. He winced and removed his boots and threadbare socks, then rubbed feet that had always seemed to him too skinny with toes too long. He found the swell of new blisters and the painful patches where others had popped and the skin had rubbed away.
He retrieved his traveling pack and fished from it his sleeve of reagents. He undid the clasp and unfurled the sleeve, eyes darting across the many pockets in the faltering light. He found it quickly, the herb he needed, and snatched a few pinches of the dried leaves from the pocket.
He held the crumbled leaves, dripped some water from his wineskin across them, then rubbed his hands together until he felt a thick liquid form. He applied the balm to his feet, in between his toes and over the blisters. The substance cooled the skin and the wounds felt mended soon after contact.
He breathed deeply and wiggled his toes. “Much better. All ready for another stroll at sunrise!”
Lorra regarded him with a disdainful squint. “Your feet stink. Keep them away from the food.”
Bale nodded meekly and pulled his socks back on. “Sorry.”
She grunted and set about stirring the pot’s contents. “I don’t know what kind of rat your new friend Alisa caught, but it smells less foul than your feet. It’ll make a decent stew.”
Bale sighed and settled back, heaving his traveling pack behind him and lying against it. The heat had abated, with the sun almost beneath the far horizon and the sky a deepening purple. He gathered his robes about his thin form and allowed his gaze to wander.
The steppe seemed a barren land of dust and scrub, darkened by long shadows stretched by the sinking sun. Faint pinpricks of yellow colored a distant rise, no doubt an Arranese village with fires to chase away the coming night. It was miles away, and, after troubling over the distance a moment, Bale decided there was no cause to worry.