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

by David Benem

  “Whore!” Alamis screamed. “This is not the High King’s child—I was Deragol’s closest confidant. He knew of your licentiousness and he despised you for it. Guards! Throw this rabble in chains and kill them if they resist!”

  Alamis’s men moved forward and the queen’s entourage drew their blades. Tannin moved to the fore, longsword brandished. “You’ll stop there or blood will be spilled,” Tannin warned. “Many of you know me, and know full well I don’t trifle with false talk.”

  Silence.

  “Throw down your arms, brothers,” Tannin said. “Throw them down so you might take them up again.”

  “Take them, I said!” howled Alamis.

  “Onward!” commanded one of Alamis’s guardsmen. “You’ve heard the sovereign! At them now!”

  Weapons rattled and Alamis’s men rushed forward, swords and halberds at the ready. Shouts and the clash of steel. A cacophony of violence filled the hall.

  Gamghast gripped the vial of quicksilver in a fist. “Do I have no choice?” he muttered to himself. He squeezed shut his eyes for a moment and prayed for guidance, but there came no answer.

  He focused upon the silvery substance, the words and the Old Faith. Then he drew his arm back and hurled the vial toward the floor near Alamis. The glass shattered and the fluid shimmered upon the tiles like a misshapen mirror. “Illienne abralide y ganode ferum!” he growled. “Kallude axuma sacridum!”

  Illienne awaken and grant me fury! Destroy our enemies with your sacred power!

  Thunder rolled. The chamber’s vaulted ceiling trembled and debris drifted downward in a slow, wayward shower.

  A pause, a breathless pause in which the fighting stopped.

  And then came the heavens.

  Bright, brilliant light crashed though the hall, forks of lightning searing the eyes. Concussions shook the chamber’s stonework. Chunks of rock fell from the roof, smashing through wooden pews and thudding against the tiles. Soldiers lowered blades and fled about, their fight forgotten.

  Lightning struck again and again. Blinding spears rained from the sky, stabbing across the chamber. Soldiers fell in twitching heaps, armor and weapons sparking with the light’s glow.

  Only after a long moment did it stop, the chamber left deadly quiet.

  Gamghast turned to Alamis.

  The so-called sovereign lay there, motionless. His perfect, blue tunic was spoiled by a smoldering hole in the center of his chest. His pale eyes and thin mouth were agape.

  I did it, Gamghast thought. I did it. His shoulders drooped with a relieved sigh.

  A groan came from the bench. The three examiners slumped upon it amidst scattered stones, each listing about and clutching apparent wounds. Below them, against the bench’s wooden front, slouched the bailiff and Wit. They, too, seemed wounded but alive, Wit fumbling with his chains.

  Then someone screamed.

  “See to the queen!” came Tannin’s voice. “Queen Reyis!”

  Gamghast turned to the sound and stumbled ahead, trying to peer through the haze of dust and smoke. He could see Alamis and most of his men were dead, torn through and burned by lightning, but he could see nothing of the queen. He snatched his staff and picked his way through the mess of smoldering bodies.

  “Careful, my queen!” came another, desperate voice.

  Dread weighed upon Gamghast and he quickened his pace, stumbling and nearly falling. Debris still rained from the ceiling, falling to the tiles with a hiss and obscuring his already blurred vision. “Queen Reyis?” he asked, his voice drained of strength.

  He pressed onward, dragging himself along with his staff as though it were an oar. The heaps of bodies made for slow going but soon he neared the tight circle of soldiers kneeling around Queen Reyis. She lay upon the floor, face clenched in obvious pain. Much blood spread from a wound on her forehead and another on her thigh.

  “My queen,” Gamghast heaved, clutching his staff. “How—”

  “The roof’s stones rained upon us,” said Tannin, pressing a bloodied cloth against the queen’s brow. He turned to Gamghast. “She should make it, though. These wounds look worse than they are.”

  “And the child?”

  Queen Reyis’s eyes fluttered and she looked to him. “I hope… It seems my child is unharmed, Prefect. I… I saw Alamis fall.”

  Gamghast nodded. “He’s dead. He and his men.”

  She struggled upward to sit, Tannin aiding her. Her bloodied face was solemn. “Death is never a desired outcome, even with the worst of men.” She inhaled deeply. “Yet, Prefect, whatever you did saved us, and perhaps the entire kingdom.”

  Gamghast bent his head low, uncertain how to respond to any appraisal of the carnage.

  “My queen,” said Tannin. “We should leave this place if you are able. Who knows how long this roof will hold. And Alamis has many allies.”

  Gamghast rapped the butt of his staff against the tiles. “Acolytes! Prefect Borel! Help us bring this rightful queen and this rightful heir to the Abbey!”

  “Wait,” Queen Reyis said, moving to stand on unsteady feet. Tannin and the other soldiers braced her. “Wait,” she said again. “We’ll go to your Abbey for a time, Prefect, but we’ll not tarry there for long. We must soon return to the Bastion. The people of Rune deserve to know the usurper is dead. They deserve to know the High King’s line survives.”

  22

  THE SANDS OF FOREVER

  Zandrachus Bale sat at the fire’s edge, still dumbfounded at the sight before him. Not one but two Sentinels sat before him, sharing Lorra’s stew of smelly roots and turnips. It seemed surreal, beyond understanding. Here he was, a misanthropic acolyte who’d always preferred the company of books. Now he dined with demigods.

  Kressan, her golden, hairless body healed and grown to the size of an adult human, studied her wooden bowl impassively in the dying light of day. She tasted the concoction then stirred it with her spoon. Her twin Sienne—also fully grown but silvery-skinned—disregarded the stew and stared north with white eyes devoid of pupils, gaze seemingly fixed to the faraway Southwalls.

  “Lyan awaits us,” Kressan said, her narrow face showing little emotion. “Never would I have expected to be asked to return to Rune, though Thaydorne’s actions demand it.”

  Bale swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Thaydorne?”

  Kressan looked to him, her gaze penetrating. “Our brother. Thaydorne the Sentinel. The strongest among us. He is Arranan’s so-called ‘Spider King,’ and the force driving the invasion of Rune.”

  Bale’s hands slackened and he just managed to catch his bowl before spilling it into the fire. “He betrays Rune? He betrays the Old Faith and the whole of the kingdom? A Sentinel turned against us,” he said, voice little more than a whisper. His thoughts turned to the Spell of Recounting, when he learned of Lector Erlorn’s summons and his warning. “So it is Thaydorne who aids the Necrists? It is he who endeavors to pull Yrghul’s power from the Godswell?”

  “It is,” said Kressan, rubbing a slim hand against the nape of her neck. “I discovered his treason. I sensed Thaydorne’s thoughts, his intentions. Just as I do those of others, for it is my divine gift. I… I knew, and I told my sister Sienne of his betrayal. We entered his tower together and we confronted him. But he was too strong when partnered with the sorcerous works of his Necrist allies. We were tortured and nailed to those spikes to provide endless blood for his hideous associations. We were impaled upon those things for months.” She shuddered and looked away toward the waning sun.

  Bale pulled a hand from his bowl and rubbed away a dribble of snot. “But you could not die? You are immortal, and could not die?”

  “Imagine an hourglass,” said Kressan, her thin hands mimicking the shape. “The top of yours—of any mortal’s—is filled with but a limited amount of sand. Ours, though, are filled and refilled again endlessly, with the sands of forever. It… It makes the flow of grains meaningless, and there are times I struggle to recall when people I knew—people I loved long ago
—died. When those I cared about evidenced their mortality with their endings. The endless flow of new sand replaces that which falls away.” She looked downward. “There is a sadness to that, though it has become a sadness I can no longer attach to others. Everyone dies. Everyone but us.”

  “You bled for months…”

  She nodded. “Months of agony. We—we Sentinels—feel pain, just as we did before our choosing. I could feel the life draining from me every moment of every awful day, though my vitality would never diminish completely. It is said only the complete destruction and desecration of our bodies could accomplish such a thing, and nothing like that has ever happened to one of our number. But now it seems we must consider taking such measures with Thaydorne.”

  Bale scooted closer to the fire. “So you will come to Rune’s aid?”

  Both Sentinels held quiet.

  “You will help Rune, won’t you?” Bale pleaded.

  Kressan’s eyes, and those of Sienne, flashed to Bale. “We feel emotions we’ve not had in many years. Centuries, even. We feel anger, and we feel wronged by the worst of betrayals. We will speak with Lyan and decide upon a just course. I would hope that course entails revenge upon Thaydorne for his actions. I regard those actions as treasonous, but those Sentinels who remain must act as one in such matters.”

  “You’ve not decided, then?” Bale asked.

  “We are indebted to you, Zandrachus Bale, and we do not regard debts lightly. But the decision to defy the banishment and take up arms against one of our own is not something we regard lightly, either. We must seek Lyan’s counsel for this.”

  “You just said Thaydorne’s actions were treasonous but you will not stop him?”

  Kressan’s eyes locked his, her gaze piercing and discomforting. “You have known of your own Sentinel’s—Castor’s—presence for mere months, and of Thaydorne’s for mere moments. Yet you presume to counsel us? We, who have known these things for a millennium? We, who have contemplated our banishment for a millennium? When the High King cast us from the kingdom our bond with Rune—and with each other—was broken and each of us charted our own course. Those bonds will not be reforged simply because war is waged upon Rune, even if that war is brought by the hands of one of our own.”

  Bale’s eyes widened, watching the dirt and scrub of the Arranese steppe blur beneath his stride. He felt as though he walked upon the same creaky knees and clumsy feet but the ground moved so swiftly as to defy comprehension. He turned his head about—Lorra beside him and grasping his hand—and marveled at how the landscape swept by. It seemed he rode upon a galloping steed, faster even, though only his legs propelled him.

  His legs, and the presence of the Sentinel Sienne.

  The silvery-skinned Sienne moved at the front of the group, her power appearing to shimmer from her skin like the sun’s heat from the dusty waste about them. In the wake of that power it seemed they were all able to travel at both a tremendous and tireless speed.

  He looked to Lorra again. She walked onward though her eyes were squeezed shut. Bale spotted the drip of a tear beside her nose.

  “We’re safe, Lorra,” he said, the sound of his voice unaffected by their rapid travel. He held her hand more tightly. “We’re safe.”

  She glanced to him, opening her eyes but briefly. “Of all the mad things I’ve seen at your side, Bale, this is the maddest. It’s unnatural.”

  “It is unnerving,” he said, though it’d been in the heart of the Spider King’s tower and when they’d been chased by hobblers in Cirak that his heart had quaked most. He looked to her and it seemed fear tightened her features. “We’re safe,” he said again.

  “I believe you, Bale,” she said, tightening her grasp.

  Comforting her gave him courage. He found it filled what he knew to be his own shallow reserve of the stuff. He smiled at her, though she’d closed her eyes again.

  His thoughts turned to what awaited them, to the forthcoming meeting with Lyan the Just and, now, other Sentinels. He wondered what counsel these immortals would share, what eternal truths would inform their conclusions. He wondered also how these eternal beings would regard the likes of him and Lorra. How would they countenance mortals from the very kingdom that had banished them?

  He drew in a deep breath. I must not cower, he thought, scolding himself. Not this time. The stakes are too great.

  Kressan’s gaze darted back to him then she slowed to stride beside him, her gold skin reflecting the shifting, sunlit panorama. “Zandrachus Bale,” she said. “Sienne and I have conferred and have arrived upon a decision. When we reach the Sacred Place in Cirak we will demand all Sentinels allow you to speak on Castor’s behalf. You will give voice to his judgment among those chosen. I sense your thoughts on this matter, and they will be heard.”

  Bale gulped. “Th-thank you.”

  She cocked her head and stared to him. “You are the one owed gratitude, Zandrachus Bale. You will speak for your Sentinel, and your word shall be as binding as that of any other. You needn’t fear how the Sentinels will regard you. I promise you that.”

  Bale lay upon the rocky ground and stared northward as dawn painted the sky. The Southwalls loomed like a wall of shadows in the distance. He guessed at a normal pace they’d be a week from Cirak—and the Sacred Place beneath it—though with Sienne’s power he knew it’d be much less.

  He knew not whether to be eager about the coming meeting or regard it with dread. It was such a gravely important thing, the fate of the very world seeming to rest upon the decision to be made. He hoped he had the strength within him to persuade immortal beings to put aside grudges held for centuries.

  He sighed and turned his gaze to Lorra, now setting about making breakfast. She’d slept beside him, or at least near him, and the thought of it warmed him.

  She shot sparks across kindling with a strike of her flint and steel. “Where do you think they are?”

  “I don’t know. I awoke before dawn and found no sign of them. I’m not sure they sleep, though.” He shifted up to his elbows. “After we bedded down they seemed to enter some sort of trance, eyes open but bodies still. I suspect now they may be off speaking with each other or perhaps with the other Sentinels, somehow. Regardless, I’m sure they’ve not deserted us.”

  Lorra poured water into a pot she’d placed atop her small fire. “I’d not complain if they had. I worry about them, Bale. With the way they’ve spoken to us, there’s no telling whether they’re on our side.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps that’s true of Lyan, though I’d hope what happened to Kressan and Sienne in Zyn will ultimately sway their feelings. They’ve seen one of their own turn. They saw Thaydorne turn not only against Rune but against them as well.”

  “Thaydorne. Another one of these Sentinels.”

  “Said to be the strongest among them, blessed with the might of the goddess Illienne.” Bale pulled himself upward to sit then tucked a stray strand of hair behind an ear. “It was Thaydorne who dealt the final blow to Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares, thus allowing Illienne to drag the dark god into oblivion where he remains confined to this day. And now Thaydorne moves to…” He fell quiet, head awash in worry as he troubled over the implications of Thaydorne’s intent.

  Silence fell upon them. After a few moments Lorra produced a handful of eggs and began placing them into the pot of now-steaming water.

  Bale looked to the eggs, their shells a greenish hue, and thought of Alisa. When they’d met she’d brought eggs much like these, and now, somewhere in the depths of Thaydorne’s tower, her corpse decayed. Bale grimaced, knowing the Necrists were certain to have set about defiling the body, likely peeling away the skin and chopping up bones and sinews to use in making their gnarled dwarfs and lumbering giants.

  The thought sickened him.

  He drew away from the fire and fell back to his bedroll, pulling his blanket overhead.

  “Bale? I’ll prepare a bowl for you.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t eat just now.”


  Sienne and Kressan returned just before midday, metallic bodies agleam in the sun’s splendor. They appeared weary but unharmed, and between them they dragged something, a sack holding what seemed a heavy load.

  Bale shoved himself upward to sit, tossing aside the blanket he’d wrapped himself in despite the growing heat. “You’ve… You’ve returned?”

  Lorra shifted nearby, tossing water upon her small fire with a hiss. She grumbled something and held a suspicious glare in her eyes.

  “We ventured ahead in the night,” Sienne said. She gestured toward the load. “Kressan sensed a presence.”

  Bale looked to the thing they pulled, a burden wrapped in a swath of brown cloth with a billow of yellow dust slowly settling behind it. “A presence?”

  “Necrists,” said Kressan, nodding toward the heap.

  Bale drew back. “And you’ve brought them here?”

  Sienne set about untying the knot holding shut the sack. “Any life they had has left them. Any evil Yrghul could work though their forms has been extinguished.”

  Kressan nodded. “Three Necrists and a number of their creations. They were searching for us several leagues north. We found them before they could descend into their shadowpaths, though they and their minions proved powerful in the darkness. Your gifts would have been useful, Acolyte.”

  The sack fell open and three bodies fell limply to the dirt. Black stitching crisscrossed their bald, pallid heads, and their robes were ripped and wet with wounds in many places. Steam or smoke seemed to rise from the dead flesh as the sunlight blazed upon it.

  “Yrghul’s power survives in them, somehow,” Kressan whispered, coming close. “Necrists served always as his disciples. However, they’ve gained new potency in recent years, assisted certainly by Thaydorne’s betrayal. Sienne worries he’s helped them worm through the dark to extend their shadowpaths near oblivion, near the very place in which Yrghul is confined. If they’ve found such a path, Yrghul could escape even with the Godswell sealed. If that happens he’ll be the doom of the kingdom.”