The Silver Claw

by Erik Williamson

The grubby little waif was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  The sting of a hundred tiny punctures all over his body brought Ben back to the moment. He needed to get away from this cursed place as fast as he could, yet he took the time to cut off the little girl’s gag and bonds—one less reminder of how cruelly she’d been handled. He jammed his feet into his boots and with a swift, angry kick, propelled the coffin upside-down into the water.

  Ben clutched the child to his chest and crashed down the path away from the lake.

  II - Drennich, Longarvale

  Early morning sunlight streamed through the east-facing window of the stone hut. Through the dust particles lazily dancing through the sunrays, Brie gaped into their tinny mirror at a reflection she hardly recognized as her own. She blinked at the long strands of brown hair enmeshed in the worn wooden brush stilled mid-stroke in her hand. For a lightning-sharp moment, she could’ve sworn her rich chestnut hair had gone yellow, her dark eyes grey.

  How would that change her life?

  “Ah, Briesana.” Brie flinched as her mother walked in the little bedroom and pinned rose petals on her green dress. “Look at you. An advocate, and only 26. Such a natural. You’ve always had such an affinity with children.”

  Brie set down her brush with measured movements. Children. . . She’d carried her son for seven months, her daughter for five. Mere weeks after her second miscarriage, her husband was killed in a mill accident. That was all four years past now, but Brie’s ache at the flurry of loss was as fresh as the smell of raw meat after an autumn slaughter.

  “I best get going,” Brie said in a hushed voice, glancing at her hair tangled in the brush. Thoroughly shaken, she scrambled out of their ramshackle home, eager for solitude.

  Yet in the market she was haled and congratulated by everyone she knew, and by not a few she did not. Festivity prep was in full swing: garlands going up along the freshly swept walkways, girls giggling and singing, merchants enjoying the generosity of their celebrating customers. Engagement Day was a rare day of joyous festivity in staid Drennich.

  Today was a keenly important day for Brie as well. She was being installed as an advocate, entrusted with dispensing counsel and wisdom, and with making marriage matches. She would not only provide the town with ones of its few joys, but also bear the responsibility of trying to keep her people alive. Brie fingered the petals clasped to her dress, trying to find some tranquility on what promised to be a whirlwind of a day.

  Drennich was the largest town in Longarvale’s northeast quadrant and sat fortuitously at a busy-ish intersection on the east-west main road leading to the capital city of Longardin. While neither truly prosperous nor progressive, Drennich had a sprinkling of each and possessed a healthy civic pride. The dirt roads were always clear and well-maintained. The old buildings—weathered as they were—were treated with care. And the townspeople looked out for one another. For the most part, that is. In a cautious and withdrawn society, the definition of who ‘one another’ was shrank along with what connoted ‘prosperity’ and ‘progress.’

  As much as Brie wished to soak in the town’s uncommon levity, she needed time to absorb the weight of the day. She walked briskly along the Longar River’s southern bank, to the bend in the river where the soil had eroded, leaving exposed the roots of an old, spreading willow. Her own private haven.

  Brie grappled with her long hair, trying to tie it down in back to avoid looking sloppy and windblown when all eyes in Drennich would shortly be on her. She paused, considering her hair—rich and dark as could be—hanging over her shoulders. It was the same deep brown as her mother and her grandmother’s. She had the same dark brown eyes and slightly olive-toned skin. All her neighbors had some variation of those same brown eyes, the same tan of skin, with hair ranging from a chocolaty mahogany to the brownish-red of an autumn maple leaf, with all shades in between.

  “How can a town so generous and warm be so standoffish to anyone a little different?”

  Brie slapped her hand over her mouth. It wasn’t a question she intended to pose to some random passerby. She truly loved her people, knew Drennich was much more open to making change and taking chances, then the average Longarvale village. She repeated back the response her mentor Meggriela gave to her frustration on countless occasions: “It’s worth something that we are a step further along than most in our society. We must work from where we are.”

  Warm and friendly. Yet petty and narrow.

  “We’ll see, today. . .” Blaring horns startled Brie from her ruminating. Glancing skyward, the sun was much higher than she expected. Brie broke into what she hoped was a dignified trot. “Oh no, I can’t be late.”

  Sitting on the honored Advocate’s Bench for the first time, Brie smoothed down the folds of her olive-green skirt. It was hardly rumpled or unpresentable, but she needed to keep her shaking hands busy in front of all the observant eyes. The attention of all Drennich—neighbors and friends, merchants and farmers, field hands and housewives—seemed fixed on her.

  From the opposite bench, Meggriela squinted through the morning sunlight at her apprentice. Her smile stretched every wrinkle on her kind, old face. She’d worked hard to convince Brie to ignore the disapproving tongues clucking that, at 26 (not to mention widowed and childless), Brie was too young, too inexperienced, (and too cursed), for such a core position in the community. Meggriela herself had no doubt. During her two years of apprenticeship, Brie had ably confirmed Megg’s confidence in her without fail.

  Brie closed her eyes, clinging to Megg’s appraisal in her mind: Drennich needed a young counselor. Garold was a good man but at 52 he was beginning to miss even not-so-subtle character hints in the younger generation. Megg was 65. Though 65 seemed far too young to represent the end of life—especially for someone as hearty and important as Megg—facts were facts; few in Longarvale lived past 60.

  “How’s she holding up?” Brie heard Garold ask in his raspy voice.

  “Today isn’t about her. No one will remember any errors she makes. She’ll be fine.”

  That only made Brie more skittish. Garold and Megg’s sorry attempt at a hushed tone made Brie surmise they thought she couldn’t hear them. Maybe they were getting too old. . .

  “Arriola, from the southern district, was quite in a dither about one so young becoming an advocate.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Megg responded sourly.

  Drennich drew the ire of those in other districts by employing three advocates rather than one or two, always ensuring a male and female presence, and, most egregiously, by acting more as negotiators with families, rather than peddlers or lawyers. The goal being to leave as little room as possible for one person to manipulate the lives of so many.

  “Said we’d bring Longarvale back to the Great Divide itself.”

  Megg merely tut-tutted. The peoples of the Westerlunds had practiced arranged marriages to varying degrees for centuries, but after the Great Divide and its alarming effects on the population, the practice was institutionalized as a means of keeping their society from dying.

  “I chose to avoid telling her about Caleck and Aielle,” Garold said with a cough.

  “Aye. She’d certainly disapprove.”

  “Well, of course! Aielle isn’t even Longar. Has that wild northern look: wheat-head hair, stone-dead eyes.”

  Taken aback, Brie peeked at the two older advocates. Garold’s tone betrayed deeper feelings he had not expressed during the courting process.

  “You think we should hold them a year?” Megg asked.

  “Both families agree, kids both agree. That’s when we say yes, isn’t it?” Garold shrugged and scratched his side. “If this is what they want, well, then. . .”

  Brie’s fingers practically dug into her skirts and she let out a long exhale. He’d only acquiesced to the arrangement, then. All the while holding the same sorry prejudices and stereotypes and not seeing Aielle for the kindly, demure girl she was. And Garold was considered a good, open-minded
man in Drennich.

  “Work from where we are,” Megg muttered as she shuffled past Brie. “Always keep hoping.”

  As Megg took her place atop the lectern, the crowd’s loud buzz quieted. People pushed forward. Jostled each other for a better look. Pressed near the back of the mass of people, four-year-old Rennwinn sat atop his father Urwen’s shoulders, absorbing all the sights and sounds from above the crowd.

  He waved wildly to Brie up front, but of course she couldn’t see him. He could hear old Meggriela speaking, but her speech wasn’t half as interesting as watching the sea of mahogany, auburn, chestnut, and beige heads churning around him. He extended his hands to either side—imagining himself to be bobbing along a big chocolate lake, on top of the world. His giddiness rose when he heard a new voice next to them.

  “All here for the big show?” the new arrival asked

  “Dreggar?” Renn’s mom, Jes, replied. “Don’t you have business out of town?”

  “Business?” Dreggar snorted and motioned to the crowd. “Who could be waylaid by business with this spectacle going on?”

  Renn grinned and whacked him on the head, jolting his dad’s body into Uncle Dreggar’s. Dreggar returned the smile, and the whack.

  “You’re never one to miss the chance to slap hands,” Urwen said. Struggling to keep his balance in the packed crowd, he was not finding their greeting quite as enjoyable. “But engagements have never been your thing.”

  Jes groaned at her husband’s retort. She wished she could disappear. Dreggar was a maverick, curious with wanderlust—traits not encouraged in Drennich—and single. He travelled throughout the nearby Valelands, into the Khuul, and sometimes even further south, working out trade agreements and tending to Drennich’s shaky economic well-being. What with being on the road so much each year, his decision to remain unmarried was understandable.

  But that wasn’t it.

  As goat-herders with modest croplands on the side, their family lived a rung down the social ladder. Urwen, the first-born, inherited the farm. Dreggar inherited the uncertain future of a second brother in a Longar farm family. Few Vale couples ever had more than two children. Feeding more than two kids was difficult and having children after the age of thirty was always taking a heady risk. Prevailing wisdom deemed a third child a curse.

  When Dreggar came of age, Urwen—already married with one son and another child on the way (and Renn nothing but a distant ‘oops’, years off)—offered to take only the herds and turn the croplands over to his brother. Dreggar declined so Urwen would have an adequate inheritance to pass on, should he have two sons of his own. Around town, though, the gossip was that Urwen had selfishly deprived his brother.

  “You know I have nothing against marriage.” Dreggar kept his eyes straight ahead. “I’m quite certain Jes is the best thing to happen to our family.”

  “No argument there,” Urwen agreed.

  “Well, thanks guys.” Jes ate up the flattery as a balm against the onrushing argument.

  “And I live to see my favorite nephew every time I’m home.” Dreggar beamed up at Renn, who returned a grubby-faced smile.

  “There were plenty of girls who’d have had you.” Urwen shifted his weight as Renn wiggled on his shoulders. “I could name names, you know.”

  “I’m sure,” Dreggar replied curtly.

  “I wouldn’t mind having a favorite nephew of my own. Jes would be fine with some competition for best thing to happen to our family.” He glanced at his scowling wife. Misinterpreting her disapproval, he quickly added, “Not that there could be any competition.”

  “Some girl might’ve been willing. But her family? Nobody wanted a third-class goater.”

  “What’s wrong with goating?”

  “Boys.” Jes gripped her husband’s arm and spoke through a clenched smile. “This is a celebration. Supposed to be a happy day. . .”

  “Nothing is wrong with goating, Urwen. That’s just it. In the eyes of this town, I was deemed third-class.”

  “You misjudge this place, Dreg.”

  “Judging. Couldn’t have chosen a truer word.” Dreggar’s posture hardened to match his brother’s. Renn watched in fascination as Uncle Dreg got riled up. “There’s a happy Longar norm. So long as you fit that, all’s well. Deviate, though? No, sir.” Dreggar gestured towards the platform with his chin. “I hear there’s a girl getting engaged. . . yellow hair, grey eyes. Bandu blood, obviously. You ask that girl about judging. You think today will be only a happy day for her, for her fiancé, for his family?”

  “Speaking of engagements.” Jes glanced nervously at the stares their argument was attracting. “Megg’s talking. . .”

  Urwen opened his mouth, but Dreggar’s was a rhetorical question.

  “Most here are disgusted by her mere presence. It won’t take more than a couple drinks before someone starts in on her because she’s different, not one of us. And not one word, Urwen! You’re the first born, you don’t know different. Now, what about Renn, what’s going to happen for him?”

  Renn’s mouth dropped open at hearing his own name.

  “Leave Renn out of this,” Urwen growled.

  It had never occurred to Renn that he was different. Or that different was so terrible. He wasn’t sure how he was different, but he began sweating as though a hundred angry eyes were on him.

  “Three boys. Drenwell will get the goats and Berglin the farm, but what of Renn?” Dreggar raised his hands, palms up, knowing he’d broached a sore point. “You’ll do your best for all your sons, I know. You tried for me. But, be honest with yourselves, what sort of life will Renn have? What job? What family will marry their daughter to a third son of a goatherder; no land, no resources, no inheritance? This town won’t give Renn a chance.”

  Urwen opened his mouth, but no words came.

  “Drennich is fine so long as you fit the mold. If not?” Dreggar shook his head. “I know it. I guarantee that poor blonde girl knows it. And I despise knowing my nephew is going to find it out all too soon.”

  For the first time of the three, Jes glanced at Renn, saw the hurt and confusion in her son’s eyes, grasping to figure out what he’d done wrong. Jes forced a reassuring smile, squeezed his hand. After all, what four-year-old would comprehend this? Renn, though, was a painfully sensitive child. The conversation was already searing into his mind like a brand.

  The crowd erupted in applause. The three adults jolted back into the moment.

  “Our next engagement." Megg beamed. “A fine young man, Caleck. . .”

  Renn heard the old woman making her announcement. Saw the boy’s face open into a smitten grin. The yellow-haired girl seemed to smile confidently, but her wide eyes darted around the crowd ogling her. Renn wondered what the pretty grey-eyed girl saw as she scanned across his bobbing sea of chocolate browns. He knew what he saw now. Renn felt cast adrift on the waves of an angry ocean that could turn on him any moment.

  III - The Lone Mountain

  Haddurah paced restlessly along the slim catwalk of the Keep’s spindly turret, the highest point atop the Lone Mountain. Her eyes scanned across the miles of expanse spreading out from all sides of the aptly named edifice that jutted out unnaturally from the northern Westerlunds plain.

  She despised this turret and all it had come to symbolize for her. Yet she came here as though making a pilgrimage following each small victory, to a shrine of her greatest failure, offering up a penance to right that wrong.

  She had no sacrifice to offer this day. Only impatience. She gazed to the southwest, towards the Lobridium, home of her former kinfolk. Her great-grandfather Aegeric had broken with the Lobrid dynasty there—HIS kingdom—centuries ago during the idyllic golden years of the Westerlunds. She ran her fingers along the bronzework railings of the Keep, bronze stripped from the Lobrid temples when she’d marched her armies through their capital.

  “Soon enough. . .” she whispered to the wind.

  When the old king spurned the Lobridium, he’d set up a
renegade kingdom at the Mountain. Despite the scorn and derision cast upon him, King Aegeric the Abdicator’s new nation flourished with a darkness, a power, a destiny, that few understood. Queen Haddurah had understood that power better than anyone. For she was the one who released the Abdicator’s fury on the west. Until she was stopped, ice-cold.

  The war had not played out according to Haddurah’s plans, and even more gallingly, to what she had foreseen. She’d thrown her entire army against her old kin in the Lobridium. All she needed was more troops and the Lobrids would be overwhelmed.

  But those reinforcements never materialized. And the mettle of the Westerlunds nations proved surprisingly strong. They’d rallied to the defense of their Lobrid allies. Barred the way to the peoples from the southern City-States who she had beguiled to her side with the carrot of sharing in the spoils of war. Forced her to juggle her army between two fronts.

  Her enemies—the disorganized alliance of Valemen and Lobrids, Khuulies and Paccans, Basin-dwellers and Old Order monks—had not behaved as she had foreseen. . .

  A trivial matter, that. Even now, nearly 300 years later, alone atop the Keep, Haddurah still believed that through sheer willpower, military tact, or—if need be—sorcery, she would’ve overcome.

  But, no.

  As Haddurah’s army prepared to lay waste the pinned-down Lobrids and woefully overmatched Valemen, the tipping point of the war blew down from the north like an icy blast. She’d gone to great lengths to sow betrayal and bribery amongst the fierce northern Bandu, the only true threat to her carving out her empire. Her interference in their affairs should’ve rendered them impotent; a nonfactor ‘led’ by a hopelessly overmatched and inept young queen.

  But Haddurah sorely miscalculated the depth of this new monarch. Yes, she knew that now. But at the time. . . unforeseen.

  With surprising resolve, this girl, Chastien, had weeded out the meticulously placed spies from within her own kingdom, rallied her people under her banner, and then plunged her entire army southwest towards the Mountain. Queen Chastien’s cavalry, after a tireless two-day ride through the Lamberden Pass, burst forth unexpected at daybreak, the infantry close at their heels.