What Remains of Heroes (47 page)

The slightly-less-portly merchant to the fatter man’s side had turned his cup upward immediately upon hearing the bet, signaling surrender. His three dice showed nothing of importance: a three, a five and a six—not a single pair and no ones. A matched pair would equal a one, and the lowest pair would win if no player’s cup held a one. This fellow didn’t have anything but the community die, and hadn’t had the nerve to bluff.

Fencress looked again to the fatter merchant, his round head crowned by a stupid, floppy hat complete with a peacock’s feather. His jowly face was splotchy and ugly. And the man’s thick, wet lips twisted about like two slugs coupling.

“The wager is yours, little girl,” the man said, his tongue thick in his mouth. “You going to match, or give up the ghost?”

“Giving up the ghost” meant surrendering what coin Fencress already had on the table, and it too was a term parleyed about by regular players. Such talk suggested this man knew the game, yet this bold a bluff was uncommon among seasoned participants.

Again, Fencress looked to the eyes. Beady, shifty and wine-sodden. Just above them, on the man’s tanned brow, sweat was beginning to form. They were liar’s eyes. The merchant was lying, and of that she was dead certain.

Chance has to turn in our favor, considering what we’ve endured
. She drew open her purse, counted out thirty silver crowns, and slammed the fistful on the table. “I’m raising you ten silver crowns, fat man.”

“Ha!” the merchant said, clumsily counting out ten more crowns from his silk purse. “Then the final roll is to you.”

Fencress took the second and final community die from the table’s edge, warmed it in her gloved hands, then tossed it across the table with a practiced flick of his wrist. The die bounced off the merchant’s pile of coins, spun about, and settled with a three facing upward. A four would have helped her, giving her enough to match the racks, but this was a meaningless toss.

The merchant looked to her and then spilled another ten crowns into his pile. “A pity. I was hoping to make the gallows. I guess I’ll have to settle for the racks.”

There came a sound from outside the tavern, a clanging of bells and shouting. The merchant looked to the window briefly, but soon stared smugly at Fencress once more.

“Three pips under that cup, eh?” Fencress said. She snatched another ten silver crowns from her purse and placed them on the table to match the bet. “Fat man, you strike me as a swindler, haggler, and keen-eyed appraiser of goods and quite possibly young boys. But a gambler you are not. You have too many tics, too much bluster, and far too little patience. The silver is mine.” She lifted her cup with a dramatic flourish, revealing her roll-in-the-hole of two ones and a four.

The merchant sat quietly for a moment, rubbing bloodshot eyes with thick hands crowded with gold rings. He then peeked under his cup and began to chuckle. He took a deep draw of his wine and his chuckle turned into a belly-shaking laugh. He slapped the table. “The stocks don’t best the racks, little girl!” he boasted, and yanked his cup upward. Sure enough, under it were three dice, each showing a single pip on the face.

Liar!
Fencress sat slack-jawed. She could always spot a bluff, always sniff out a lie. She looked hard at the man’s dice. Were they a touch cleaner, a bit less pocked and stained?
Have I been
cheated?

The merchant threw out his arms and began drawing all the coins toward his side of the table, laughing as he did. “Little girls should know better than to play a man’s game.”

I’ve been robbed
. Fencress stood from the table and her hands found the hilts of her blades.

Just then the tavern’s door was thrown open, smacking against the wall and bringing with it a rush of warm air that threatened the candles’ flames. A guardsman staggered through, clad in a chainmail tunic and a red coat bearing Rune’s golden dragon.

Fencress looked desperately to the innkeeper at the room’s opposite end and froze.
Have we been betrayed? Has the innkeeper turned us in to the
Crown?

The guard looked not to Fencress or the innkeeper. Instead, he lurched to the common room’s center and braced himself against a table. His breathing was labored. After a moment, he straightened and prepared to address the room.

Fencress looked about, searching for a place she could hide or escape from the inn.
Betrayed! Chance can’t be so poor for so
long!

Then the guard spoke. “Citizens of Rune,” he began dramatically, “our High King, the great High King Deragol, who reigned over a land largely at peace for many decades, has passed.”

The merchants leaped from the table, their backs to Fencress.

“What!” the fatter one said. “Our contract!” he exclaimed. “It was with the Crown! Does this mean it’s no good?”

The other folk in the room displayed similar emotion, though most over the High King’s failure to produce an heir. “What will become of us?” one older man kept repeating.

Fencress grinned and eased toward the table. She sank low and pulled as many silver crowns as she could, filling her purse to the point of bursting. She also eyed the merchant’s dice, noticing again their paler hue. She snatched them in her palm, and felt they had an odd heft to them. Then she tossed them on the table. All ones, all with the awkward tumble of loaded dice.

If she weren’t in such a rush, Fencress reckoned she’d kill the man. She looked to the fat merchant again, studying his face and committing it to memory.
Just in case we ever cross paths again, friend
.

The patrons were crowding about the guardsman, shouting questions and gesturing wildly. Fencress slipped away, sneaking among the room’s shadows and staying low. She neared the innkeeper and shoved a handful of silver crowns in his hands. “That wagon best be ready, friend.”

“It is,” the innkeeper said breathlessly, eyes wide as he looked upon the silver crowns. “Out back. Try the North Gate—it’s always the least watched.”

Fencress nodded and darted upstairs to summon her friends. She reckoned they’d be able to sneak away in the confusion so long as they didn’t tarry. With any luck, there would be an uproar at the gates, and exiting the city would be an easy thing.

Chance, it seems, has finally turned in our
favor
.

He drifted along a dreamlike horizon, floating upon a division between light and dark. Beneath him was a breathtaking expanse, a great topography stretching to the limits of his comprehension. This was not a physical landscape, though, but one of future events. It was a vast atlas of fate, a foretelling of the destinies of all things.

Karnag beheld this. His thoughts followed the fates of men and women, watching as cruel events took them from prosperity to ruin. He saw women exult in the promise of pregnancy and then shake with anguish as they held stillborn babes. He saw families feud over scraps of food as their harvests withered. He saw proud heroes rise and then be brought to their knees by calamity, and observed great kings shiver and die alone.

He calmed himself and focused upon these many varied endings. People clawing at their skin while withering from plague. Weeping as their entrails bled from dysentery. Fumbling with gnarled hands over skin knotted with lesions, decaying like lepers.

And he saw, too, men perish at the hands of others. He saw generals plot and scheme, planning deception and disarray. He saw vast armies charging across fields wet with blood. He saw blades clash and shields shatter, and saw warriors gnash their teeth as their flesh was ripped asunder. He heard howling cries of victory and the lamentations of defeat, and watched as a once-great kingdom crumbled.

And upon all these events was cast a shadow. The shadow of a great blade, a blade before which men fell like wheat before the scythe.

Karnag knew this blade, for it had a name.

Ealyr Rigellus.
Heaven’s Reaper.

And Karnag knew, too, its wielder, for it was his kinsman.

It was Thaydorne. Thaydorne the Sentinel, said to bear Illienne’s strength.

Brother
.

Karnag beheld this god-among-men. Watched as he wreaked tragedy upon Rune and its children. Watched as Thaydorne slaughtered the very people he was oath-bound to protect. Watched as he took vengeance for a millennium-long exile and worked to pry the power of the Lord of Nightmares from oblivion. Watched as a world cowered before horrors unimaginable.

There was no such thing as chance, only a grim march toward an inevitable ending.

This is the fate of all
things
.

Then Karnag withdrew, and searched for his own place amidst this destiny.

He saw his hands slicked with blood, grasping a sword humming from bones it had broken. He beheld corpses piled before him, soldiers and beasts alike heaped like precious riches before a king. He beheld hundreds of men die at his feet, and others flee his countenance in terror.

He watched as his rage shook this landscape of fate, and changed events already foretold. Those who were dead arose, and those who were living fell to their graves. He watched as he reshaped destiny, and became the slayer men most feared. Watched as he became the storm of destruction that would change the world.

No. The glory of death would not be Thaydorne’s to possess.

This fate is mine alone to make
.

He withdrew again, this time into his physical body. It had healed now, nearly enough to fulfill his purpose. He opened his mouth and sucked in a warm, salty air. It filled his lungs and fed his limbs. His fingers twitched, seeking weapons.

His eyes snapped open.

I come for you, my
brother
.

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Next in the
Sequence:

The Wrath of Heroes

A Requiem for Heroes, Book Two

Coming soon.