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

by David Benem

  He looked skyward and watched as the stars blinked to life. It was a sight he’d not often seen in the many years he’d spent sequestered in the Abbey, where most of his evening hours had been spent poring over a candlelit book in the deep bowels of the library. The Arranese sky seemed tremendous when compared to the sliver he’d peeked at from the Abbey’s windows, a vast and daunting gulf of nothing that surrounded the whole of the world and was unbothered by the tiny stars flickering within it. It seemed an ominous darkness, a great shadow surrounding all things.

  Bale thought on this, but then recalled the gentler tales. He remembered the ancient writings of the Old Faith, those that told of the creation of the world and the sky above. The tales claimed the stars were the torchlights of guardians of the gates the Elder God’s heavens. He imagined the guardians to be kind-eyed, looking down upon him from innumerable, unassailable towers about the heavens. He eased against his traveling pack and curled upon the hardpan dirt, suddenly thinking he could find it almost as comfortable as his lumpy bed at the Abbey.

  Lorra shoved a steaming bowl toward him. “Eat.”

  “Thank you,” Bale said, rising on an elbow. He looked at the shallow bowl and sniffed at it with his overlarge nose, smelling strange but appetizing scents mingling with what smelled vaguely like rabbit. He trolled his spoon through the thin stew of stringy meat and lumpy vegetables, then took a bite. It seemed as delicious as anything he’d eaten since leaving Ironmoor those many weeks before.

  Lorra looked to him, her gaze expectant as he ate. “I enjoy cooking for you, Bale.”

  Bale smiled. “Thank you, again.” He dragged his spoon about the bottom of the bowl then paused as he noticed an odd look in Lorra’s eyes. He settled his spoon against the bowl’s rim. “But why?” he asked.

  She averted her gaze and was quiet for a time, her face sad and for a brief instant enraged. “Because…” she said, her tone carrying an edge. She tugged in a breath and her features slowly eased. “Because.”

  “Oh. Well, your efforts are much appreciated. I suppose I’d be a good deal thinner now if it weren’t for your talents. I know incantations that can draw water from even the scrawniest desert bush, and I have reagents that can prevent starvation for a time, but—”

  “Because,” she interrupted. “Because the only men I’d known before you were all vicious, selfish bastards.” She paused, her thin lips trembling. She spat and seemed to compose herself. “You’re all the things they were not. You are weak and frightened and unsure of yourself.”

  Bale’s waxing smile drooped, finding the words far from the compliment he’d expected. “No, perhaps not physically strong, but I like to think—”

  “You are weak and scared and yet you are here. What’s more, you are kind and caring and… Bale, I am with you because you give me hope. You give me hope that there is some good that refuses to be crushed beneath all the bad things in life.”

  His smile returned, wide and toothy. “Lorra, I’m finding you make me feel much the same. I’m glad you’re with me.”

  The slightest of blushes colored her face and a tiny grin played on her lips. “Eat,” she said firmly.

  He dug into his stew with gusto.

  Alisa roused them before dawn, the sky overhead a brightening purple and the eastern horizon warmed with only a faint hint of orange.

  Bale rose haltingly on creaky knees, then rubbed at a back that seemed unable to accustom itself to sleeping on a bed of hard earth. “Why so early?” he groaned.

  Alisa looked eastward. “A caravan approaches, no doubt bound for Zyn. We’re less likely to encounter trouble when entering the city if we’re in the company of others, particularly merchants with an honest purpose there.”

  “You mean to join a caravan of merchants?”

  Alisa nodded as she adjusted her scabbard. “We’ll blend in, and won’t be viewed with suspicion by the city guards.”

  “Are these merchants Arranese? Won’t they have suspicions of their own?”

  “My guess is they’re Khaldisian, judging from the looks of them and the build of their wagons. Regardless, they are merchants, driven by profit. Any suspicions they hold will be assuaged by coin.” She jingled a small purse that drooped from her belt.

  Lorra grunted, rubbing away the sleep from her eyes. “More strangers?”

  Bale looked to her and nodded. “I fear Alisa’s right. The guards at the city gates are certainly used to merchant caravans entering the city, but likely not visitors from Rune.”

  Lorra grumbled and began gathering her things. Bale knelt near her and did the same, trying to offer a reassuring look as he did. “We should trust her,” he said softly.

  “You’re the only person I trust, Bale. Everyone has some wickedness inside, some much more than others. There’s good reason not to trust strangers.”

  Bale tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear and sighed, guessing there was little he could say to sway Lorra’s feelings. He double-checked his satchel for his wineskin and sleeve of reagents, drew his robes tighter and tugged on his boots.

  “Let’s move,” Alisa said. “The caravan is drawing near.”

  They arose and followed Alisa as she set off east. They clambered over shattered ground, the land tilting upward in a long and uneven slope. Bale trailed behind Lorra and Alisa, finding the gravel and stone made for poor footing. He stumbled often, and used his hands nearly as much as his feet to ascend the rise.

  At last the ground leveled to a wide plateau of flat rock. Bale rested hands upon his knees and drew heavy breaths. He was relieved to see Lorra waiting for him nearby, and Alisa not far beyond.

  “Just there,” Alisa said, gesturing, “beyond this hill. A road cuts its way across the steppe, all the way to Zyn.”

  They strolled across the plateau to its far slope. Soon, the sun broke the horizon and yellow stretches of light painted the landscape before them. All seemed bleak and barren, a canvas of dirt and rock. But there was movement upon it, a train of horse-drawn wagons trundling across the steppe just a hundred yards ahead. The wagons were piled with sacks and crates and cloths of many colors, and driven by men and women wearing robes of bright fabric that shone in the sunlight.

  “Follow me,” Alisa said, beginning the descent. “They’ll mistake us for bandits in this place and at this hour, so let me handle the talking.”

  They scrambled down the hillside, the loose gravel fleeing their boots in tiny, hissing cascades. The riders of the caravan seemed quick to take notice, and Bale could see them shouting and whipping the reins with urgency.

  Alisa ran to the road ahead of the caravan. She dropped to her knees and kept her hands in her lap, caressing her bracelet of dull iron. Bale rubbed at his eyes, seeing that she appeared different, somehow. Meek and less capable, her rich green cloak now a simple garment of rough cloth.

  This is no mere trick of the light.

  “Please!” she shouted, her voice a hoarse wail. “We are not thieves!”

  The lead wagon closed the distance. The man perched on the bench—a lean Khaldisian with eyes lined with heavy charcoal—pulled the horses to a stop just before they could trample Alisa’s crouched form.

  “Make way,” the man said, hefting a curved sword. “We have no food for beggars.”

  Alisa bowed low to the ground. “Kind sir, we are not beggars. We are mere pilgrims, traveling this land in hopes of seeing the glories of the Spider King at Zyn. But our journey has been beset by peril and I worry we will not reach our destination. May we travel with you, so that we are safe? We will pay good coin for passage.”

  The man turned to his companions, a collection of ten or so Khaldisians seated atop four dusty wagons. Their olive faces, bearing similar dark linings about the eyes, were implacable.

  The man looked to Bale for a moment in seeming appraisal, then to Lorra and at last back to Alisa. He lowered his sword.

  Alisa raised her head from the earth and returned the man’s gaze expectantly.

&nb
sp; He cocked his dark brow. “How much coin?”

  Prefect Gamghast sat alone in the Abbey’s vast dining hall, the hour well past midnight but still well before dawn. He picked apart what was left of a skinny half-chicken in the dim candlelight, collected a clump of greasy meat, then dipped it in the puddle of gravy on his plate. He dribbled half the gravy or more across his white beard as he drew the morsel to his mouth with a trembling hand.

  He cursed, knowing the shakes came from more than just old age and injury. He brushed away the larger dollops that’d fallen into his beard, chewed the dry, overcooked chicken and swallowed hard.

  He sighed and his shoulders slumped. The bare bones and slack skin of the chicken suddenly seemed a wreck of a thing, a carcass sucked of the life that once animated it. His thoughts turned to the Necrists he’d seen at the Godswell, their hideous faces patched with the flesh of the newly dead.

  The thought sickened him.

  And it angered him. Nearly as much as did his feeling of impotency in the face of such power.

  He struggled upright, tired eyes drifting to the rafters. The wooden beams were distinguishable only by virtue of being painted a slightly lighter hue than the shadows surrounding them. He thought then of that horrid swirl of darkness—of Yrghul—defiling the holiest place in all of Rune.

  He patted his beard, mind whirling for some way to confront this evil.

  He could think of nothing particularly promising.

  We are only men. How can we overcome such evil?

  He pondered this for a long moment. The enemy’s victory would be assured if those capable of action remained paralyzed by fear, lost in worry. Old and broken as he felt, he knew he could still serve to defend Rune, and there were others yet loyal to the cause, as well. Victory seemed a scant hope, but a hope it was.

  He grunted, grabbing the table’s lone candlestick with one hand and his walking staff with the other. He shuffled along the darkened aisle between the dining hall’s long tables and toward the door.

  He spotted a tall figure at the door and he stopped, a sudden fright seizing him. He thrust his candlestick forward, though the light failed far short of the doorway and the figure remained cloaked in darkness. “Who comes?” he demanded, the strength of his voice lost in the empty space of the chamber.

  “My apologies, Prefect,” came a calm yet firm voice—a woman’s. “You seemed preoccupied and I thought it best not to disturb.”

  “Queen Reyis?” he asked uncertainly, eyes straining to make sense of the woman’s features in the dark.

  “That title seems a bitter taste of irony after being forced to flee my castle, Prefect. But yes, it is I. May we speak privately?”

  Gamghast managed a swift, stiff bow in spite of the queen’s previous admonitions against formalities. “My queen! Your presence here is still a secret and you must not be seen in these halls! This is not safe, even at this late hour!”

  Queen Reyis waved a hand dismissively. “My attendants scouted ahead for me for precisely the reasons you mention. But again, my question. May we speak privately?”

  Gamghast straightened. “To my quarters? There we may speak far from the ears of others.”

  “Lead the way, Prefect.”

  Gamghast nodded and shuffled past into the tight, winding hallway beyond. The candlelight struggled against the dark, though Gamghast reckoned after so many years in this place he needed the light not at all.

  “You’re finding sleep a rare thing as well, my queen?” he asked.

  She breathed deeply. “Of course I am. It is all crumbling about us, Prefect. The whole of our world.”

  He turned his neck—painfully—to Queen Reyis walking near his shoulder. She looked frail in the light’s flicker, her face drawn and her flaxen hair revealing many strands of gray. She walked haltingly, her belly swollen with child. She held a hand against the swell and a wince squeezed her delicate features.

  “All of it,” she continued. “All seems destined for ruin.”

  “This way,” Gamghast said flatly, turning down another dark hallway.

  They walked for long moments, the Abbey’s corridors quiet but for the rustle of their robes and the clack of Gamghast’s walking staff upon the stone tiles. Shifting candlelight crept timidly from beneath occasional doors they passed, no doubt that of acolytes unnerved by recent events.

  They arrived at his quarters. He turned the knob and pressed the head of his staff to move the door open, then bowed stiffly and gestured for the queen to enter.

  His quarters were the same as ever, with his simple bed, simple desk, and simple chairs. Practical, he thought. However, with Queen Reyis, the queen of all of Rune, standing in the room’s center, the place seemed embarrassingly paltry.

  “My apologies, Queen Reyis,” Gamghast said, rushing to light the stout candle on his table with the one in his hand. “I’ve never had occasion to entertain a visitor of such stature, and I realize this place must seem—”

  “Nonsense,” she said, silencing him with an upraised hand. “You need apologize for nothing, Prefect. Your quarters seem a stateroom to me, and your Abbey has been a most welcome and comfortable refuge.” She held her belly and eased into a seat, then fixed him with an odd look. “I spent much of my youth in poverty. You didn’t know that, did you? Only two men in Ironmoor did, and they’re both dead. My husband, and his father before him… One who comes from poverty never forgets that struggle, and never feels fully at ease amidst luxury.”

  Gamghast smiled. I like this queen. He folded himself painfully into the chair opposite her, rubbing his still-aching back.

  Queen Reyis looked to the room’s small window and the darkness beyond. “Of course, we needn’t worry over the comforts of possessions, certainly not at this dire hour. The poor and the wealthy seem destined for the same ending now, do they not?”

  Gamghast grunted. “Aren’t they ever destined for that same ending, my queen? Death comes to us all, every one.”

  She nodded with a smile that seemed at once elegant and humble. “That is as I’ve always thought, despite the bold proclamations one often hears in the company of nobility. Though,” she said, her smile faltering, “this ending seems terribly imminent, and terribly certain. No matter the wealth or influence or power one has, death seems certain to arrive at the door as quickly as to the doors of all others. Tannin told me what you witnessed at the Godswell, Prefect. Is this the end of all things?”

  Gamghast drew a shaky hand across the wisps of his white beard, smearing a droplet of gravy as he did. He pulled in a deep breath. His thoughts turned suddenly to Acolyte Bale, wondering whether he was close to home and whether he’d been able to learn anything that might help their cause.

  Or if he’s perished along the way…

  “Prefect? I ask my question in earnest.”

  “I’m sorry, my queen. At times my head struggles with the weight of these concerns. You know of the old histories? The War of Fates? Illienne and Yrghul and the Sentinels?”

  “I did not spend my days in the Bastion simply fretting over pomp and finery, Prefect.”

  Gamghast waved his hands in protest. “Of course not, my queen. Again, I apologize and meant no offense. It is just that we in the Abbey spend so much time tucked within these halls of quiet stone, noses drooped over dusty books. When we do venture without it seems those we encounter give no mind to the antiquities we study, and no longer heed the tenets of our faith.”

  “No offense taken. Life in the Bastion can be equally secluding. But my answer is yes, I know of Illienne’s division and the demise of Yrghul. Tannin described the fearsome creature you saw. Is that what emerged from the Godswell? Yrghul?”

  He looked to the night sky outside his window. “I fear so, my queen. Yrghul, or at least some reflection of his power.”

  “How can that be? He is bound in oblivion, and only a High King can touch the well’s waters.”

  “I do not know. Yrghul has followers, dark sorcerers known as Necrists. They�
�ve lurked in the shadowy places of the world since the War of Fates, but recently seem to have grown bolder and more powerful. They were present at the Godswell that night—in the company of the chamberlain—and were able to draw something of their vile master into this world. The Necrists poured blood into the well, my queen, and it seemed to work as a sort of key. I worry the blood was that of your husband.”

  Queen Reyis stiffened in her chair, her expression stoic. “These things dare defile his body?”

  “That is nothing when measured against what they intend.”

  “And what is that? What are they?”

  “I cannot fathom their ultimate aim, though it seems certain whatever that is will entail the death of days, the end of light. Their lord Yrghul gave himself over to darkness more than a thousand years ago, when his kingdom was ruined and became the Bowl of Fire. It was ruined by a fallen star and became the most desolate place in all the world. The departed souls of his land sought the heavens of the Elder God, and Yrghul tried in vain to cling to them, to drag them back. When they refused, he grew mad, choosing as his new realm the black of night, the horror of nightmares, the creep of decay. The old texts say he scoured their corpses for whatever was left and eventually found something there, some dark residue of life that could be shaped to a foul purpose. With that, he empowered new followers. They became his pupils, his acolytes. They are our enemy. They are the Necrists.”

  “And now they are the companions of the chamberlain, laying claim to the Bastion.”

  Gamghast nodded, feeling a somber resolve settle upon his heart. “They must be cast out, my queen. They must be excised, along with Chamberlain Alamis. The risk of confronting him—and them—is far outweighed by the risk of failing to do so. Allowing them to fester here unchallenged will only allow them to grow stronger.”

  Queen Reyis looked to Gamghast with inquisitive eyes. “And how can this be done? How can I help this cause?”