What Remains of Heroes (30 page)

He pressed onward again and then sensed a moment. He slowed his thoughts, ignoring the increasingly mushy texture of the physical link he held in his hand and sharpening his attention to this particular time.
This is the
moment
.

He shifted the substance from his right hand to his left, carefully transferring the liquid remnants as well as the slight, solid remains. He pressed his right hand forward, closer to the cool flame, and waited.

His hand twitched. At first it moved slightly, but then it jerked with more pronounced force. It snarled into an almost painful contortion and began moving. The motions were halting at first, but soon his hand assumed a rhythm.
The motions of
writing
.

Bale attuned all his thoughts to his hand as it moved to form unseen symbols. He bent all his concentration upon the delicate gestures, at first unable to decipher meaning. Not only were the symbols being traced in the hand of another, but in an unusual language as well. A drip of fluid bled through the fingers of his left hand.
Quickly, now!

After a time, he adapted to Erlorn’s idiosyncrasies and his mind sifted through the languages he’d studied. He beheld the gestures of his hand as though watching a quill pressed to parchment. He yielded to the motions and could see the words etched upon the air. He had missed much, but the hand was moving still.
Some answers yet remain
.

“
And, thus,
Lyan, I summon you. I implore you to honor once more your most sacred vow. I will come to the Sacred Place at Cirak, and together we must return to Rune before the Necrists pull His power from the Godswell
.
I have sent summonses to the others. The very fate of the world is in jeopardy, and only we can save
it.
”

And then the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. His hand still trembled, but it was no longer from the echo of the Lector’s spirit. Bale breathed deeply and sat in thought.
‘His?’ Yrghul’s?

He drew a shuddering breath and sat for a long moment.
Terrible things are afoot, and my task grows ever more
difficult
.

Bale opened his eyes and in time oriented himself to his surroundings. Night had fallen and the camp was illuminated by a half-moon overhead. An owl hooted nearby, and there was the drone of frogs calling to their mates. Bale rubbed his eyes and set about collecting his tools, clumsily at first, but soon feeling returned to his limbs.

He rubbed his aching knees and studied the camp. Before him the fire had dwindled to a low glow. Beyond, Keln leaned against the fallen tree, his sword across his lap, and by all indications he was deeply asleep.

Bale thought of General Fane’s orders, of his insistence that Bale return directly to him and report his findings. He knew Keln would not grant him additional latitude to search for more answers, or to spend any more time at the site than the soldier deemed absolutely necessary. Bale would be yanked away by his collar at dawn and marched to the front before Fane. And when his answers did not satisfy the general, he would be slain.

This cannot happen
. Bale rolled his sleeve of reagents, stuffed it in his pack, and rose. He paused, then found the handle of his knife and took a step toward Keln. The soldier slept soundly, his chest rising and falling with deep, regular breaths. His hands had fallen to his sides, away from his sword, and his head was tilted back against the fallen tree, his throat exposed.

As he caressed the weapon’s handle Bale thought of riding off with the horses and abandoning Keln at the camp. But he was no horseman and the beasts would never yield to his command. He thought also of fleeing on foot, but knew the Scarlet Swordsman would hunt him and would never relent. The man was a skilled tracker and quite at ease in the wild, whereas Bale was helpless in this rugged land.

The taking of life was against every precept held dear by the Sanctum. They were practitioners of faith, seekers of wisdom, and healers of men. They were not murderers. But, then, how could an action be condemned if no other choice remained? Staying here would mean losing the scant answers he’d secured from the Lector. It would mean delivering his precious information to a man who consorted with Necrists, the Sanctum’s most ancient enemy.

Bale thought of the soldiers they’d encountered earlier. He thought of their grief, of their pain in recounting the battle, and of Fane’s grim commands.
He means to lose this war, and to sacrifice everything to our enemies. The Lector knew
this
.

Bale set his mind to the task and did his best to dispel any trepidation.
I have no choice
. He withdrew the knife, shouldered his pack, and crept toward Keln. He walked as quietly as he could manage, pressing his feet softly upon the grass. Keln did not stir.

He walked alongside the fallen tree, deciding it would be best to be on the opposite side of the trunk in the event something went awry. Keln would have no trouble clearing old tree, but it would keep Bale out of reach of the soldier’s arms and weapon for at least a few dear moments. He moved carefully to the spot just behind Keln, such that the top of the soldier’s head was within easy reach. Bale studied him for an instant, noting the man’s eyes were shut and his mouth agape. Below his chin was his defenseless throat.

He felt a flutter in his chest and a tremble in his hands, but at the same time felt moved by a greater purpose. He looked at the knife, wondering for the first time whether it was sharp enough to penetrate skin. It was a kitchen knife, and a well-used one at that, but its point seemed deadly enough. He pressed it against his palm and decided that when compelled by enough force the blade would suffice. He leaned forward over the trunk and held the knife with both hands above Keln’s throat.

He breathed deeply again, trying to calm his nerves, but soon realized it was of no use.
I am too weak an instrument!
He took a step back. Doubt flooded his head.
How long will it take for Keln to die? Will he still have the strength to hack at me with his sword?
Bale felt as though his knees would buckle, and a whimper escaped his lips.

Then he thought again of General Fane. Of his cruelty, of his mad ambition.
I cannot allow Rune to fall to this man
. He knew he needed to do this quickly or not at all. He knew also he was not a courageous man, but hoped he could act like one for just an instant.

He swallowed hard and lurched forward, plunging the knife downward, his eyes squeezed shut. The knife jolted suddenly, as though it’d struck against something solid, and then his hands were awash with warm liquid. There was a twist and the knife jerked free of his hands.

He opened his eyes to see Keln flailing dumbly about, slapping at the blade protruding from his collar as though it were a bothersome insect. He groaned and with it came a wet, wheezing gurgle. Bale looked on in horror as Keln grabbed the blade’s handle and appeared ready to pull it loose. He struggled upward and stood, wobbling and stumbling as he did. Blood was everywhere.

Dead gods!
Bale squealed and turned and ran, nearly stumbling as fear drove his feet. He dashed headlong into the forest and did not dare look back.
Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal servant!

20

Bad Business

F
encress Fallcrow kicked
her black stallion in the flanks, and at last the beast clambered up the rocky slope to hill’s crest. The horse was a magnificent animal, a generous gift from Old Crook, but it’d grown awfully skittish once they’d gotten a sniff of the fighting. “Don’t worry, boy,” she said, scratching the horse’s neck. “None of us is fearless. Some are just better at pretending.”

The heavy forests of southern Rune had given way to hills and wide, winding fields between them. She figured the landscape below would otherwise be a quaint scene of tiny hamlets and herds of sheep and well-tended crops, but for the fact it was presently overrun by thousands upon thousands of men, most of them dead, the rest of them in the last throes of desperate combat. Farmhouses smoldered, fields were left trampled, and all sorts of folk lay about with their guts spilled.

The lads’ loyalties were easily discerned, as the soldiers of Rune were outfitted smartly in silver mail and red sashes and the Arranese looked like charming rustics in hides and leathers. Fencress thought the entire notion of uniforms an odd one, reckoning it would be far more difficult to knife a man if your clothes told him you intended to do it.

There is so little room for subtlety in war. How very typical of men.

“Madness!” said Drenj, beside her.

Fencress tugged her cowl overhead. “It’s a damned shame what men will do for love of country, eh, Khaldisian?” She smirked. “Money, of course, is a different matter, entirely. But even the very best of these fools may kill five or even ten men, and not see a fraction of the coin we do for killing just one. Now that’s just bad business.”

“Rune is losing this fight,” Paddyn said from ahead of them, his eyes darting about as though trying to count the soldiers left standing. “The Arranese will reach Riverweave within a week, at this rate. What will we do if they win?”

“Does it matter? My guess is whoever wins this war will find value in our…
talents
. There isn’t a corner in the world where killing can’t be turned to coin. There will always be work for the likes of us, my friends.”

Merek maneuvered his horse ahead of them, his green cloak snapping in the wind. His expression was grave, almost scolding in its severity. “It most certainly matters who prevails. There are such things as good and evil in this world.”

Fencress suppressed a chuckle. She knew she needed Merek’s help with Karnag, but found the man’s self-righteousness to be something of an annoyance. “Truly? Is that what your order teaches? I’m guessing your position is that we, seeing as we are
we
and not
they
, are the good ones? And they,” she said, gesturing toward the Arranese army, “are evil precisely because they are
they
.”

Merek ran a hand through his greasy hair. “You’re right about who is on which side of things, but haven’t the faintest notion of the reason why.”

“Listen, friend,” Fencress said. “When you’ve done as much dark work as we have, you learn just what an awful lot we all are. Every one of us. I could give two shits about who sits on what throne and what flag rises from Rune’s towers. Whoever it is I have to kneel to is always going to be some vicious swindler who climbed into that throne on the backs of the poor, the broken and the dead. Folks like us are wise to stay out of the way.”

Merek glared at her, his brow knotted. “I assure you, Fencress, if you ride with me long enough you will learn to think otherwise. There are forces out there,” he said, indicating the battlefield below, “powerful forces at work. They have remained hidden for centuries, waging a secret struggle, but now they are ready to move openly. It has not happened yet, but it will happen soon. You’ll be reminded why it is you keep that symbol strung around your neck. You’ll learn why our forebears built monuments to the goddess Illienne and to the Sentinels, and why those who remain true to the Old Faith are still reluctant to speak the name of Yrghul, the Lord of Nightmares, and still pray he never returns.”

Fencress spat and returned her attention to the battlefield. The Arranese were very clearly prevailing, and judging from the soldiers both standing and dead it seemed they’d entered the battle with far superior numbers. They were skilled horsemen and wielded their long bows and curved blades with ease as they rode. Rune’s forces, by contrast, seemed slow-footed and tight, their meticulously organized formations a clumsy hindrance. The Arranese harassed their flanks, carving away at the red-sashed soldiers standing along the edges and smoothly working to separate them into smaller and smaller groups.

“Those soldiers won’t last long,” said Paddyn, standing in his stirrups. “The field is lost. Why don’t they sound the retreat?”

Fencress’s horse stamped nervously and she patted its neck. “I don’t know much of military tactics, but it would seem a bad gamble to pick a fight with an enemy who outnumbers you three to one.”

“Where are the reinforcements?” Paddyn asked. “How could this happen? Rune’s armies are the finest in all the world. More soldiers, better training, better weapons. Arranan was always said to be a nation of savage horse thieves.”

Merek dismounted his horse and studied the battlefield. His voice was quiet. “This doesn’t look like a battle Rune’s commanders intended to win. But why? Why sacrifice so many men? A ruse, perhaps?” He clenched his hands into fists and cursed. “I fear for Riverweave.”

Fencress sneered. “Just as I said. Evil bastards on both sides of this thing.”

Merek shot her a black look but said nothing.

“Now tell me,” said Drenj, “how it is you think we’ll find Karnag amidst all this chaos?”

Merek returned to his horse and climbed into the saddle, his face sagging. “He will seek violence. It is his nature. If we shadow the Arranese armies long enough, we will find your friend.”

“And when we find him?” asked Paddyn, his tone fearful.

Fencress turned to Merek and smiled. “We pray, right?”

They decided to keep at least half a league between them and the Arranese, figuring the space would offer a measure of safety. They held to higher, harder ground, navigating the steep hills lining the plain below. The ground rose and fell with sheer crests and sharp ravines and the horses struggled for footing. Nevertheless, they kept pace with the Arranese army, and were able to behold the massive gathering of soldiers and supply wagons whenever their path brought them across the faces of the hills.

Fencress kept to the rear of the group, figuring it best to keep an eye on Merek. She wasn’t the sort to trust another quickly—her time spent playing deadman’s dice had taught her lies could be concealed behind the most earnest expressions. Although she suspected Merek intended to help rescue Karnag from whatever plagued him, she knew the man had an agenda of his own. He hadn’t disclosed his secrets yet, and didn’t seem inclined to do so.

Fencress reached into one of the pouches stitched in the lining of her black cloak and withdrew Merek’s bracelet, his
Coda
as he’d called it. It was an odd thing, strangely heavy for its size and crafted from a dull metal which seemed to reflect no light. It was etched with countless angular symbols, some ancient language with which Fencress was entirely unfamiliar. Merek had asked for the thing on several occasions, but Fencress sensed that as long as she kept it from the man she held an advantage.

Her horse stumbled on a patch of gravel and Fencress looked upward, finding Merek’s gaze upon her. The fellow’s eyes followed the Coda as Fencress tucked it inside her cloak. “You want that thing, eh?” Fencress asked.

Merek slowed his horse and waited for Fencress to pull even with him. “I can be of far more use to you with it.”

Fencress studied the man. He was a nasty looking sort, his face full of stubble and his eyes set too deep in his square head. He appeared much the same as the strong-armed brutes who frequented
The Dead Messenger
but for the look in his eyes. There was an intelligence there, a power.
There is a great deal he hasn’t told me
.

She tugged her cowl overhead, shading her eyes from the sun. “Time for some answers, friend.”

Merek rubbed at his flat nose. Fencress suspected he was recalling the beating he’d taken from Old Crook’s lads before they’d first traded questions. “I will tell you what I can,” he said in an even tone.

Fencress rested her hand on the pommel of one of her twin swords.
Folk speak more frankly when there’s the implication of violence
. “We’ll start with simple introductions, Merek. You’ve told me your name, you’ve mentioned your ‘order.’ Now you will tell me details. The important ones, that is.”

Merek stared skyward for a few moments. “You know of the Sentinels?”

Fencress regarded him skeptically. She held many doubts about the Old Faith, but what she’d seen in Karnag compelled her to at least play along. “I’ve heard the stories. Lullabies cooed to babies. The occasional drunken bard singing in a tavern. I’ve even stumbled upon an old shrine or two. Relics of a time long gone.”

“No,” Merek said flatly. “Not relics. These forces persist, and they are eternal.” He pulled back his sleeve to reveal a mark near the crease of his elbow, a watchtower. “My order is the Variden, which means ‘Vigilant’ in the old tongue. We are the disciples of the Sentinel Valis, and we serve as watchful guardians of Rune. We honor the oath Valis took when the goddess Illienne descended to oblivion. We serve to protect Rune.”

Fencress cocked a brow, suspicious. “Protect from what, exactly? The likes of me?”

“Hardly. We guard against the dark forces, the disciples of the Lord of Nightmares. He is sealed in oblivion, yes, but his followers still do his bidding.”

“Ah,” Fencress said, trying to conceal her sarcasm. “The secret war you’ve mentioned. But don’t the old tales say the Sentinels were banished?”

Merek nodded. “They were. Some of the Sentinels abide the banishment, but others do not. Those who don’t decided the oath they’d sworn to Illienne was more binding than a decree from the High King.”

“So what of your Sentinel? Did Valis obey the High King?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He gifted his powers to his disciples, and he faded from this realm. That object you keep from me, my Coda, contains a fraction of those powers. Which is why you must return it.”

Fencress caught Merek’s gaze. “I will not be handing over your magic bauble anytime soon. You must forgive me, friend, but I can’t yet trust you enough to surrender any of my advantages.”

“I will require it if I am to be of any help to your friend.”

“We’ve not found Karnag yet.”

“Perhaps I can use it to help find him, then. And after, it will keep our purpose hidden from him.”

Fencress waggled a finger. “When we find him, perhaps I’ll let you have your trinket.” She leaned back in her saddle as his horse navigated a downward slope. “Now, speaking of Karnag, what has happened to him and why do you think you can help him?”

“The man you killed, the Lector, was a Sentinel as well. The Sentinel Castor.”

Fencress nearly laughed aloud but suppressed it. “A Sentinel? One of Rune’s seven legendary heroes? The man bled and died just as any other. Ridiculous.”

Merek shook his head. “A great part of me hopes my suspicions are unfounded, but the teachings of my order instruct that Castor’s spirit is capable of moving to another body upon the death of his own. He is immortal in that way. What I have seen of your friend implies that those ancient powers reside now in him. We must consider the possibility that he has assumed the spirit of a Sentinel.”

Fencress would have branded this chap a lunatic had she not seen what Karnag did in Hargrave. She tugged at her cowl. “Then why isn’t Karnag all wise and just and merciful? All of those godly things we’re told to believe? That bastard is a killer, and the very worst of them all.”

“I don’t know. My order suggests a Sentinel’s spirit is as water, able to assume the shape of the vessel into which it is poured. One of my order’s charges has been to monitor the passage of those eternal souls. A thing such as this has never before occurred, and it seems a great balance has been disrupted. I fear all of Rune is in danger.”