What Remains of Heroes (16 page)

What would draw the Lector so very far south? What was it he sought? He was a Sentinel.
He pulled a lock of gray hair away from his eyes and tucked it behind his ear.
What would a Sentinel have sought so near to Arranan, a nation with whom we may soon be at war?
There would be few answers among the corpses, but perhaps there would be something. A note, a map, perhaps one of Erlorn’s banned books.
Something…

The sound of boots trudging up the small ladder to the forecastle disrupted Bale’s contemplation. He swallowed the last thick bits of bread and turned. A short fellow ascended and then smoothed his smart surcoat. His gaze fell immediately to Bale.

“Aha!” the man said in a harsh, high-pitched voice. “Our very own stowaway spooker! I knew I’d find you at the place farthest from my men.”

Bale made no effort to rise or greet the man in proper fashion. He returned his attention to the sea.

“I’m sorry,” the man continued, “but I’ve failed to introduce myself.” He thrust forward a gloved hand. “I am General Thalius Fane, commander of all the armies of Rune.”

If the voyage hadn’t been unpleasant already, it certainly was once Bale met General Fane. The general was an intimidating sort, not in the roughhousing, mocking manner of the soldiers, but in the way he seemed to coolly appraise every remark and subtly assert authority. He was also hideous, with most of his face covered by burn scars that looked much like dried drips of wax from a candle. Bale could not help but study the striations and swells, which invariably led to a weighty pause in discussion and a distasteful glare from Fane.

The day after Fane had found Bale on the forecastle the general insisted Bale meet with him at daybreak. The general had evicted the captain from his traditional quarters at the rear of the ship, so their time was spent talking over a stout table in the well-appointed, windowed room. Aside from the company, it was far more comfortable than his hammock in the berth.

Breakfast consisted of toasted bread, boiled quail eggs, and sliced tomatoes—none of which Bale particularly enjoyed—and innumerable questions concerning the purpose of Bale’s journey. Bale quickly discerned the general knew a great deal of the Sanctum and its history, and had already received the news of the Lector’s death.
He will be a difficult man to deceive, and a vengeful one if he catches me trying to do
so
.

“It’s a dangerous time for a man such as you,” Fane said, cracking a speckled egg on his silver plate. He looked at Bale with black eyes. “To travel south, I mean.”

“The Lector was a most holy man,” Bale said, speaking too quickly. He tried to slow himself, regarding his breakfast with his best portrayal of a casual demeanor. He plucked an egg from a silver bowl in the table’s center and began rolling it about the rim of his plate with a fingertip. “There are sacred rituals which must be observed.”

“Of course, Acolyte. But a solitary man, particularly one so
unprepared
for violence as yourself, venturing into the very teeth of war? Certainly prayers are heard with equal clarity whether they are uttered in the Abbey or at a gravesite?”

“He was a revered member of the Sanctum. He deserves honor in death. Such is our way.”

General Fane took a bite of his egg. The yolk spilled across his lips and dribbled through the neatly trimmed hair adorning his chin. “I’ll soon have tens of thousands of soldiers standing in the shadows of the Southwalls. As a gesture of my sympathy for the Sanctum’s dear loss, I could have them deliver the Lector’s body to your very hands. You need only find a room at one of the many inns crowding the harbor of Riverweave and wait for my promise to be fulfilled. Such would surely be a task more suited to one of your… substance.” His lips curled to a thin smile, his scars stretching and becoming pale.

Bale studied the scars with some fascination but then detached his eyes from the disfiguration.
What to tell such a man? It is said a small string of truth can mislead more than an entire fabric of falsity
. He rubbed at his chin, pretending to address an itch. “My mission entails more than merely ensuring the Lector’s corpse is not picked clean by crows. Sacred rites, er, oils for the body, and such things. The body could become corrupted with movement.”

“Your
mission
? That seems an odd word for an acolyte, but certainly something understandable to a man of my vocation. Is there something you hope to find amidst those mutilated bodies?”

Bale kept his eyes on his plate, maneuvering the egg around a slice of toasted bread. He was quiet for a moment before answering. “I know not.”

“Such bravado!” General Fane said, his shrill voice sarcastic. “To venture so
boldly
into the vast unknown, with only a faint feeling of purpose! Perhaps I should thrust a weapon in your hand and have you fight alongside my Scarlet Swords!” He rapped his knuckles on the table, and Bale met his stern gaze. Fane’s smile turned to a scowl. “You have been permitted passage on
my
ship, allowed to travel among the soldiers of
my
army. Let us dispense with any notions of evasion and smallish talk, shall we?”

Bale’s finger trembled for an instant. The egg rolled free and settled against the bread. “You have my gratitude, General Fane. Indeed, the gratitude of all the Sanctum. I assure you, I spoke honestly. I do not know what I will find.”

“That is not an answer to my question, spooker. I asked you what it was you
hoped
to find.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, hastily and indelicately. “Put another way, what is the
question
you intend to have answered with your mission?”

“I am simply an acolyte, General Fane. In many regards I simply follow the instructions of others.”

Fane slammed the napkin in a fist against the table. The wood shook and the plates jumped. He leveled a finger at Bale and his breath shuddered. “Perhaps my reputation has not yet penetrated the cloister of delusion that is the Abbey. I am not one to anger, Acolyte. That fact should be considered most of all by those I could so easily destroy.”

Bale pulled a strand of hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. His hand was shaking.
I am too weak an instrument!
He rubbed at his eyes, as though they were irritating him even though they were not. “We must know who killed the Lector. It is that, and that alone.”

Fane’s black eyes glittered. His grin returned, and he retrieved his napkin and draped it gently upon his lap. “Does the Sanctum believe a corpse can disclose its killer? If so, then perhaps the powers of your kind have been understated.” He set about cracking another speckled egg. “Rune has so very many enemies. The Arranese are but one, an obvious one surely, but there are other knives at our back. There are other powers more… ancient.” The egg broke upon the plate, the yolk spreading in a pool of yellow. “You know of whom I speak, don’t you?”

General Fane must not know my suspicions
. “If it is the Necrists you speak of, you’d be better served reading fairy tales and speaking with fishwives. Their ‘myth’ has followers, certainly, but they are hardly the powerful necromancers of old. I would not identify them as a true threat.”

“Are they not?” General Fane arched a scarred brow. “Perhaps you are right. But there are others yet, aren’t there?” He picked the bits of broken shell away from the slimy eggs on his plate. “Certainly the Sanctum has not burned every book that posited an unpopular position?”

He knows much. But how?
Bale found he could not help himself. “Do you speak of the Sentinels?”

“I have traveled to the farthest reaches of Rune, and beyond. I have seen much and heard many things. Rumors of things long thought dead, of things forgotten entirely. What do you believe became of the Sentinels, after they were banished those many years ago? Where is it they went? To whom did they tell their secrets? And might there be secrets that preceded even them?” He pinched a bit of egg white between his fingers and studied it briefly before eating.

Bale stared at the general in silence.

“I am an ambitious man, Acolyte. There are powers in this world beyond the understanding of mortals, held in ancient relics and in the blood of rare beings. If we could but decipher those secrets, we could possess those powers. A man with such powers could make the entire world anew, and bend the fates to his will.”

Dead gods, get me free of this man
. “Such ambition can be dangerous, General. There are paths mortals should not tread.”

Fane’s black eyes twitched erratically. “Are there, indeed? Or are we simply too afraid to dare those paths? I have learned the Spider King of Arranan may have discovered such secrets. Should we surrender these advantages to our enemy?”

Who is it, General, who is truly our
enemy?

11

Violence

K
arnag Mak Ragg
threw open the door to
The Dead Messenger
. He was weary from the road and his troubling dreams. The words he’d heard since passing through the gates of Raven’s Roost rankled him.
“Tream was here just days ago, and said you were dead!”
Karnag reckoned he knew what had happened and a hot anger welled inside him.

“Dead gods!” shouted Handsome, the barkeep. He rushed to the door and nearly tumbled over a chair in his haste. “You live!”

Fencress moved to stand at Karnag’s side. “Tream told you otherwise, did he?” she said. There was none of the usual levity in her tone.

“Aye,” said Handsome, gesturing toward a table. “Ale?”

Karnag spat at the table. “Did he take the money? Did he betray us?” He spoke loudly, and those in the tavern fell silent.

“I-I believe so. He told me he killed your mark, that you and the rest were cut down, that he was the sole survivor. It seemed a unlikely story, but I had no cause to question the lad.” He shook his head. “A foul thing to do, that. I’m sorry.”

Karnag felt as though fire burned in his veins, spreading out from his chest and coursing through his limbs.
The feeling returns
. Ever since he’d slain the Lector, it seemed as though something had possessed him. He’d battled with his dreams, where words haunted him, and his waking hours were uneasy. He gritted his teeth to the point of nearly cracking them and squeezed his hands into fists. With sudden fury, he brought a fist down upon the table, smashing the wood to splinters.

Handsome’s eyes darted about and his lips trembled. “Karnag, there is no need for violence here! Dead gods, you know me! I didn’t think I could question Tream. You’d worked with him several times, so I reckoned he had your trust.”

Karnag fingered the hilts of his blades, each in turn. “Where is he?”

“I have no idea, I swear to you. Your patron sent him a note, asked him to meet at Old Gallows Rock. That’s the last I saw of him. I only arranged the meeting because I thought you were dead. You have to understand that, Karnag! I would never betray you!”

Karnag grabbed Handsome by the throat and slammed him against the tavern’s sandstone wall. His eyes darkened and he gave him a fierce look. “You should never believe news of my death unless you bear witness to it yourself, and then you should question your eyes. Where is he?”

Handsome flailed and fumbled with Karnag’s iron grip. “H-Hargrave,” he gasped.

Karnag eased his grip, allowing Handsome’s feet to touch the floor.

“Hargrave,” the barkeep said through wheezing breaths. “He told me once his brother had a farm near Hargrave.” Karnag withdrew his hand and Handsome sucked in air. “There’s a chance he’d head there,” he said. “I’ve built my business on keeping people’s secrets, but you’ve been wronged. I’ll break his trust if it means regaining yours.”

Fencress placed a hand on Karnag’s shoulder. “If a man is on the run, he runs most often to family, they say.”

The narrow streets of Raven’s Roost were choked with refugees fleeing the threat of war. Karnag pressed through the throngs of bedraggled folk and their mangy animals, his company in tow.

“Dead gods!” called Fencress, shouting over a braying donkey, “I thought this place smelled like shit before. What do you reckon it smells like now? What smells worse than shit?”

Karnag said nothing. He no longer had humor within him. He kept moving through the crowd, forging a path through the rabble with an icy glare and powerful movements. An old man stumbled into his path, and Karnag shoved him hard against an overladen cart.

“Death,” said Drenj from behind, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd. “Death smells worse.”

“You are a veritable poet, my young Khaldisian friend! Oh, the songs we’ll write once we’ve settled in some seedy tavern to count our coin!”

After a moment Karnag felt the black-clad woman’s eyes upon him. “What is it?” he grumbled.

“New horses?” she asked. “Hargrave is a good two days’ ride southeast, perhaps three.”

Karnag grunted and continued his march, turning a corner and heading toward the town’s stockyards and smithies.

Fencress edged to Karnag’s side. “We’re spilling a lot of blood for the coin we’ve been paid. What’s more, Tream may not be as dimwitted as we suspect. He could prove a hard man to find.”

Karnag regarded her. Fencress had for years now been a trustworthy companion, his only friend even, but work such as this tested everyone. “I’ll ride to the world’s ending to find him,” said Karnag. “I leave no score unsettled.”

Fencress nodded in reply. “I’m at your side, of course.” She glanced over her shoulder at Drenj and Paddyn. “But what of them?”

Karnag chuckled grimly. “Neither of them will want to be sitting behind these walls when war arrives. The Khaldisian’s greed will keep him loyal, at least until the crowns are in his hands. Paddyn is young and scared, but he’s more frightened of crossing me than helping me.”

“Such are the ties that bind,” said Fencress, smirking.

The crowds thinned near the city’s gates. In the shadow of the wall they found a horse trader, his stall holding a sad collection of steeds. Six bony beasts, each more emaciated than the last. Their merchant sat with legs raised upon a table near the street, lounging in the shade of the stall. He had a fat belly and smiled smugly as he looked up from the bowl of olives balanced on his yellow shirt.

Drenj passed wordlessly by the man and moved to the horses, checking their teeth and hooves. After a moment he turned back to Karnag and nodded.

“How much for the lot of them?” asked Karnag.

The merchant stood and his smile broadened. “War is on the way,” he said, stroking a long mustache. “They say folk should be fleeing north.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “A healthy horse is the fastest method of travel. But, they are hard to come by now, and highly valued.”

“Your price, merchant,” said Karnag. “We have no time to tarry.”

“Three hundred silver crowns.” His eyes drifted across each of the company, as though appraising opponents in combat.

“Three hundred?” demanded Drenj, arms flailing. “That is many times a fair price!”

“These are hard days, gentlemen!” said the merchant, rolling his eyes as though bothered by the insolence of children. “I have but six horses to sell, and that is my price. The Arranese may soon be at our gates. What would be the value of such horses, then? Trust me, my price now is a bargain compared to what it could be in just a few days.”

“We have a deal,” said Karnag, dropping three heavy purses on the table.

“Madness!” yelped Drenj, his dark-lined eyes wide with shock. “Think of the coin, you ingrate!”

“I appreciate a customer who knows value,” said the merchant, drawing open the purse strings and fingering the coins with a smile. “The horses are yours. And, as a gesture of my good faith, I’ll throw in their tack.”

Drenj stormed across the hay-covered ground to stand before Karnag. “Are you mad? You’ve just spent the bulk of our advance for a slim chance to recover the rest! You realize if we don’t find Tream we’ll be left with next to nothing for our troubles? He has wronged us all equally, Karnag. Vengeance would be a fine thing, but this is business.”

Karnag regarded the Khaldisian stoically. “I’ve told you,” he said in a level voice, “I do not do these things for the coin.”

“But I do! And you’ve just squandered nearly all the money we had in hand!” He paced about the stall. “I’ve been away from my family for weeks, I’ve undoubtedly missed other opportunities for easier, more reliable work, and now I’m being asked to ride south again, toward an invading army, on the meager hope Tream is picking his rotting teeth on his brother’s farm?”

“I know he’s there.”
I can see it.
He shut his eyes for an instant, and heard the sound of Tream begging for his life.
It will happen thus
.

“Ah yes,” Drenj said, “Karnag Mak Ragg, the great slayer of men. Tell me, do you smell his blood? Can you taste his fear? Tell me just how is it you
know
? Tell me you haven’t just cast aside our coin on nothing more than a hint from that hare-lipped barkeep?”

Karnag tapped the hilt of his short sword. “You are free to go, Khaldisian. Just as Tream was.”

“Not without my share,” he said, squaring to Karnag.

“Gentlemen!” said the merchant, moving between the two and placing his hands upon their chests. “Please, if you must quarrel, do it elsewhere!”

“Out of my way,” Karnag growled.

The merchant spat, offended. “I’ll not be treated this way by scum such as you!”

Karnag slapped the man across the face. “Out of my way.”

The merchant stood in shock for a moment, rubbing a flushed cheek. He then withdrew a bejeweled dagger from his belt. “I rescind our bargain! Best of luck finding healthy horses within five leagues of this city!”

Karnag struck the merchant square upon the jaw, sending him sprawling onto his table with a shower of silver coins. The merchant tumbled backward and off, into a pile of hay. Karnag gave Drenj a dangerous look and then strode to stand over the merchant.

“Guards!” the man screamed, staggering away from Karnag while sweeping straws of hay from his shirt. “Guards!”

Karnag lunged forward, driving the merchant into one of the stall’s wooden posts. The post snapped and the two men crashed to the ground near the horses.

Karnag pressed himself upward and drove a knee into the merchant’s chest. Bones snapped and the man gasped in shock. He struggled beneath Karnag but to no avail.

Karnag grabbed the merchant’s head in his hands. “No man commands me,” he said through gritted teeth, “and none dares betray me.”

Fencress screamed from somewhere and there was a clamor of shouts and steel.

Karnag roared and he squeezed tightly. The merchant gurgled and his eyes bulged and he squirmed desperately. Karnag felt hands pulling at his shoulders but he would not be moved.
I yield to no
man
.

He roared again, and a feeling rose within him. A feeling from deep inside, from a place beyond thought and instinct, from his very essence. It rose and swelled, filling him completely. A spirit, a power, an invulnerability.

His hands flexed and dug into the merchant’s sweaty skin. Then, Karnag shouted a word he did not know, in a tongue not his own. A loud crack sounded, and the man fell still.

Karnag stumbled back and stood. He regarded the corpse, split asunder from the crown of the head to the center of the gut. Blood and brains spilled from his skull, and broken ribs pierced his chest and poked through the yellow linen of his shirt.

He regarded the carcass and realized a wide grin had split his face.
I can slay by will
alone
.

Hands tugged at him and heard his name called as though from far away. Over the span of several heartbeats the sounds grew louder. Someone came into his field of vision, a face frozen in a rictus of horror.

“Karnag!” It was Fencress, her face spattered with blood. “Dead gods, man! What have you done?”