What Remains of Heroes (23 page)

“I have come to accept many aspects of your faith,” said Fane, “However, I am by nature a skeptical man. Certainly you appreciate that men often require assurances of more… substance? Understand that once we move forward with this, I have everything to lose should you and your colleagues fail in your task.”

The hissing voice sounded again. “The blood does not lie. It is just as our master has foretold.”

There was a thud, the sound of a fist striking a table. “I’ve heard quite enough of this wizard’s talk,” growled Fane. “I am the only man in Rune who can accomplish what you’ve requested. If you wish to count upon my services, then my prize must be delivered. Now. And only thereafter will your demands be met. Certainly you realize my station affords me many advantages, and my loyalty cannot be purchased with mere promises.”

Again the hissing voice. “One of my brothers journeys to Riverweave as we speak. He carries with him the Auruch, and you will have it before your army marches. We will have then honored our promise, and we will be watching to make certain you honor yours.”

An Auruch?
Bale knew the word—it was a word in the elder tongue for an item of great and dangerous power, something left by the Elder God before he gifted dominion of the world to his children. The Sanctum had accounted for some, but not all, of the objects.
Our task grows ever more
perilous
.

“Very well,” said Fane. “Remember, though, this game must be played with subtlety, lest the High King’s council take action. I hold much sway, but great losses will breed impatience and distrust. There will need to be diversions.”

The other voice spoke. “We have a…
friend
on the council. You will be granted a lengthy leash.”

Bale took a step back and examined the door. It had been damaged, likely when Fane and his Scarlet Swords removed the governor and his staff. It rested cockeyed on its frame, and near its bottom was a gap from which light spilled. Bale dropped to a crouch, ignoring the complaints of his knees, and pressed his face close.

Within the opulent room—a well-stocked library—sat General Fane. Facing him, with its back to the door, was a figure robed in black, the back of its bald head crisscrossed with stitches.

Bale froze and his jaw fell agape, realizing his suspicions were true indeed.
Dead gods, it is a Necrist!

“Be assured, General Fane, that what is told in the blood of the dead will come to pass. When the High King dies—and he
will
die—there will be none left of his line to protect the Godswell. That gate will be open to us, and we will pry from it the power of our dead master. And when we do, you will be rewarded beyond measure.”

Their master? Yrghul?
Bale’s hands trembled and there came a clunk. He’d dropped the knife on the floor. Gnashing his teeth, he scrambled and retrieved it and then nervously returned his gaze to the library.

Fane was peering over the black-robed figure, eyes trained to the door. He shifted in his chair and moved to stand.

Just then there came the thuds of boots from the nearby staircase. Bale’s head wheeled but quickly he gathered himself and stood, tucking the knife up his sleeve and bolting down the hallway with footfalls as quiet as he could manage.

He pulled his door shut and turned the lock, his hands shaking. He slipped into bed and pulled his blanket to his chin, clutching close the knife and praying the Sanctum’s most secret, most powerful prayers to Illienne to plead for safety until dawn.

They set off at sunrise, navigating cramped streets and bridges strangled by fog and filth. It seemed every rustic and rogue from the Sullen Sea to the Southwalls had sought refuge in Riverweave, their few possessions lashed to their backs or heaped upon their withered animals. The door of every home and inn was barred, so they lay strewn along the roads or stuffed in the alleyways, ghostly shapes haunting the haze.

Bale was uneasy on horseback. The beast, a white stallion better suited to bearing great heroes rather than old spookers, obeyed none of his commands but adhered to Keln’s every grunt and gesture. It was an uncomfortable, lurching ride, and did nothing to settle his already queasy stomach. He swallowed thick spit and did his best to keep down his breakfast.

His nerves were still rattled from the previous night’s events, most particularly General Fane’s visitor. His head whirled with thought, wondering how deeply the Sanctum’s ancient enemy had infected Rune. He thought of the scullery maid and her note, which now seemed so very long ago.
General Fane and Chamberlain Alamis, perhaps the two most powerful men in Rune, in league with our black foe. Fane soon to be in possession of an Auruch. A plot to draw Yrghul’s power from the Godswell
.

These are indeed the darkest of times
.

His horse lurched suddenly around a corner, threatening to toss him into a narrow canal that smelled distinctly of rot. Bale regained his balance and pulled his focus back to the task of remaining upright.

Keln rode ahead of him, his hair pulled back in a tight knot and matching in color the crimson cloak draped over his shoulders. He was a taciturn companion, which was a small measure of relief. He kept his eyes forward with the exception of the occasional backward glance to make certain Bale still followed. Their gazes locked more than once, and Keln’s stern glower conveyed a clear message: “
To the letter
.”

It was a long ride through the sprawling city and they arrived at the wall just as the belfries announced seven o’clock in the morning. The wall was a moss-covered jumble of old stones just taller than a man, and it seemed to Bale it would offer little protection if the Arranese horde made it this far north.

But then, who is the real
enemy?

Two soldiers wordlessly unbarred the gate as they approached, throwing it wide to reveal a flat, misty expanse to the city’s south. Upon the wet plain beyond the wall was the encampment of the High King’s army, a collection of white tents so numerous it escaped calculation. There was the smoke of a thousand fires, the ring of blacksmiths’ hammers, and countless soldiers milling about in the mist, tending to armor and weapons and making ready to make war. Bale sensed the High King’s soldiers would be waging a devastating battle very soon, and reckoned there was a reasonable chance his journey would leave him caught in the battle’s throes.

This will be the death of
me
.

“Where to, spooker?” asked Keln gruffly.

Bale was quiet, the scope of the scene before him causing him to tremble. His heart thumped heavily in his chest and throat and he swallowed hard.

Keln turned about in his saddle to regard Bale, his jaw shifting as though chewing a gristly piece of meat. “I asked you a question, and I’ll not have you waste any more of my time than is necessary.”

“I-” Bale stammered. “I- I am sorry. South by southwest, several days at least.” As he put this distance into words it occurred to him again just how long and unpleasant his journey would be, and how very far away he was from home. He breathed deeply and tried to slow the rapid beats of his heart as they set out south upon a wide swath of road.

Prefect Gamghast awoke in the dead of night to a rapping on his door. He fumbled about for a moment before orienting himself and rising from bed. He grabbed a candlestick and breathed a word of power, one of the secrets given to the Sanctum by the Sentinel Castor, and a flame sprung to life upon the wick. He unlatched his door and cracked it open.

“Hullo, Prefect,” said the man at the door. It was Wit, a gangly simpleton to whom they’d given shelter and assigned more menial tasks including the night watch. “You, ah, have a visitor.”

“Who would call upon me at such an hour, Wit?” Gamghast asked. Every resident of the Abbey had been anxious since the Lector’s death, and nighttime visits from acolytes seeking counsel were not uncommon. An outsider, though, was.

Wit bowed his shaggy head. “S-sorry. I didn’t get a name.”

“No?” Gamghast pressed a hand to his brow.
Alamis? Has the chamberlain decided to make good his threat?
“A soldier? One of the High King’s guards? A tall man with pale eyes, perhaps?” he asked with urgency.

“Ah, no. A woman.”

“And she asked for
me
?”

“By name, sir. She’s waiting in the vestibule.”

Gamghast cursed as he drew his robes over his shoulder and grabbed his staff. “The next time there’s a visitor at the gates, identify them before throwing wide our door. These are troubled times, boy.”

“She smelled nice, Prefect. Like noble folk. I don’t think she means you harm.”

“So you are able to identify danger by smell alone? Imagine that. Perhaps your considerable talents are being wasted and we should advance your studies in spellcraft!” Gamghast huffed, shouldered Wit aside and trudged into the hallway.

“She didn’t seem like trouble, Prefect,” said Wit, walking close behind Gamghast.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “In peaceful times I would be comfortable with your instincts, Wit. But these are not peaceful times. Rune is besieged, both from without and within, and our enemies do not always choose to reveal themselves as such. Doubt your every instinct, and question all who claim to be your friend.”

The halls of the Abbey were quiet this time of night, though Gamghast noticed a number of doors with cracks aglow, betraying candlelight in the rooms beyond them.
Few find sleep easily in these times
. He’d told Prefects Borel and Kreer of the threats made by Alamis, and suspected Borel in particular had difficulty keeping the news to himself.

He shook his head and smoothed his robes, wondering at the identity of his caller. Ever since the news had reached Ironmoor of the Arranese crossing the Southwalls, the Sanctum had been beset by requests for prayers and exorcisms. Many claimed to see demons or hear the howls of haunting ghosts.

They arrived at last at the Abbey’s vestibule, a wide area of simple chairs and solemn statutes and artifacts, a place meant to convey the Sanctum’s longevity and reverence to all who entered its doors.

Seated in one of the chairs was, indeed, a woman. She was dressed in simple robes, but her proud bearing suggested she was accustomed to something more elegant. Her blue eyes rested above high cheekbones, all framed by long, flaxen hair just beginning to give way to gray. It took a moment, but Gamghast recognized her, and as he did he nearly swooned. He fell awkwardly to one knee and heard Wit doing likewise behind him.

“My queen!” he said, bowing his head low.

“Get up,” she said, her voice smooth and commanding. “Get up, you old fool! I’ll not have the whole of Ironmoor knowing I’m here!”

“B-But…” Gamghast stammered, “w-what may I do for you?” His head spun, wondering what would compel this woman to seek his company. He had been present at her wedding to High King Deragol, as had all the Sanctum fifteen years prior, but that was the only time he could recall being in her presence.
What could she want of
me?

She rose from her seat, again gesturing for him to rise. “Is there a place we might speak?” She gestured to Wit. “Somewhere private?”

Gamghast struggled upward, pressing upon his creaking knee for leverage and doing his best not to groan in discomfort. “Of course, of course. There is a sanctuary just over there. If you will but allow me to lead the way? Or, considering your station, is it proper for you to lead?”

She looked at him coolly.

“Very well,” Gamghast said, gesturing for her to follow. “This way.”

Thirty or so feet away he found the door to one of the Abbey’s many sanctuaries, quiet rooms reserved for prayer or study. There were chairs set at the room’s corners, and tapestries lining the walls. The room was lit, as always, by a fire in a stone cylinder at the room’s center, a symbol of the Bastion’s Godswell. He held the door open for Queen Reyis and then shut it quietly behind her.

Here, in her presence, Gamghast became aware of his disheveled appearance. He licked his hand and frantically tried to smooth the wild wisps of his beard. He smacked at the wrinkles of his robe but the exercise was futile. “I apologize, my queen. I am an old, simple man, unused to visitors of your stature. To what do I owe this most unexpected honor?”