Screaming and blood – much more blood than he had expected. Then the empty, staring eyes as he rounded the corner to retrieve his weapons. He’d done something wrong, hadn’t he? The first bolt to fly around a blind angle had shocked him even though the basic idea was quite sensible from the other side’s perspective. Then Cassian had sent his own daggers around the corner, blindly slamming into something there.
Screaming and blood – that was the result. Usually it was a bad one. Cassian absently reached down and ran a thumb along his belt. He realized with a start he was missing his daggers.
“I grabbed them on my way back.”
Cassian started as the unexpected voice broke into his thoughts. He’d lost track of where he was for a moment. They’d moved to a little sheltered area of the island while they waited for the evening tide to roll out. The small, walled nook the others had chosen offered shelter from the wind and good sightlines on most of the island’s interior. Adalai had made a large pile of assorted gear and was sorting through it.
Cassian shook himself, trying to get away from the sound ringing in his ears. “What’s that?”
“Your daggers,” Adalai replied, still on whatever thing he’d been talking about before. “I grabbed them on my way back here.” To prove his point he set down the crankbow he’d been examining, pulled two knives out of his belt and offered them to Cassian.
He swallowed hard, staring at the daggers, a nagging feeling as the back of his mind. “Those aren’t mine.”
“Yes, they are. I just cleaned the blood off of them.”
“Oh, I see.” Cassian gingerly took the weapons back, a slight shudder passing through him as he touched the hilts. “What are you doing?”
“Looking over the bandit’s weapons. Did anything about them strike you as strange?”
“Well I’ve never been attacked by bandits before but, other than that, I can’t say the experience was unusual per se.” He glanced over the crankbow once. “That doesn’t look like an unusual bow, either. Were any of their weapons Artifacts or something similar?”
“No, they were all normal, mundane weapons. The problem I’ve run into is that they’re practically identical, the crankbows in particular.” Adalai set all three of the projectile weapons on the ground at his feet. “Look at them. The gears on the primary lever assemily in particular. These were all made at the same place.”
Cassian frowned, not sure what, exactly, he should be looking for. “I’ll take your word for it, Signore Arminger. If that’s so then what does it tell us?”
“Unfortunately it doesn’t say much for certain. That’s the problem with situations like these, where all we have are hints and suggestions. But consider the nature of the men as well.” Adalai ticked things off on his fingers. “First we encountered a Leaper, someone with a gift that makes scouting, particularly over water, much easier. Then there’s a Bladebearer, someone uniquely deadly at close range. Finally, a man with the Gift of Impulse, which is one of the ideal gifts for attacking at a long distance. Now what does that suggest to you?”
Cassian shrugged helplessly. “They were intelligent? Tactically speaking that sounds like the ideal composition for a three man group. None of those gifts are rare, though Bladebearers are not exactly commonplace. If we had such a group I would be perfectly happy with it.”
“Your analysis seems flawless to me.” Then Adalai held up one of the swords the bandits had carried. It’s blade shone like a mirror in the early afternoon light. “Now let me ask you this. You meet three men, with the perfect set of skills for skirmishing, carrying identical weapons with little to no wear and tear on them. They were camped between two large, wealthy cities. However they were not on the route large caravans or wealthy merchants would take but on a route favored by couriers and spies, or anyone else with a need to move quickly. Does that sound like bandits to you?”
Cassian began to see what Adalai was getting at. “No, bandits don’t have weapons this nice or enough people to make such a perfect scouting group. They’d send whatever people they have with whatever weapons are on hand. This looks more like an army group, or at least scouts for a large mercenary group.”
“That was my guess as well.” Adalai set the sword down and sighed. “Unfortunately they hadn’t owned their gear for very long, there wasn’t any kind of useable impressions to read from it. Verina mentioned you worked in a smithy. Do you recognize anything about this stuff?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. If the smith who forged it had some kind of maker’s mark it was filed off or otherwise removed after it was bought. But not everyone has something like that. I know I don’t.” Cassian picked up one of the crankbows and looked at the mechanism Adalai had pointed out earlier. “I’m not a machinist though. There may be some hint in these gears that I don’t have the know how to pick up on.”
“Does it matter?” Marta asked. “Forgive my ignorance but in Hessex they say every man in Nerona is out to find some advantage for themselves. If those weren’t bandits we fought, so what? Some mercenary or minor lord was lying in wait on some business of their own and wound up ambushing us by mistake. Is it that important who they were or why they were here? We already survived their attack.”
“True,” Adalai said. “But it would be nice to at least know if there will be more of them to come or if we made an enemy by killing them.”
“The latter is almost certainly true,” Verina said. “If their group was more than we saw here the rest will resent us for killing them. That is the way of the world.”
A brief sense of dread washed over Cassian at Verina’s words. Almost as soon as it rose it was swallowed up by anger that he had any sympathy for people who attacked him in the first place. It took only a few seconds for the warring emotions to settle. In spite of the brevity of his introspection Cassian caught Adalai watching it with a strangely approving look on his face.
“I suppose the question of whether there will be more of them is worth thinking about,” Marta said, the silent aside lost on her. “Perhaps we can outpace them? If we can get ahead of their faction we can easily avoid further conflict.”
“It’s not clear they’re from Fionni,” Adalai said. “They had enough provisions missing from their bags they could have come from Renicie and camped here for a few days. There were no seals or heraldry with them so it’s impossible to tell where they came from.”
“They certainly were trying hard to stay a mystery.” Verina casually sat down next to Adalai, studying the sword he was holding by leaning in close to him.
“Clearly,” Cassian said, voice flat, “We are dealing with someone of great subtlety.”
“A master of the craft,” Marta agreed, sounding much more amused than he was.
Adalai resheathed the weapon, seemingly oblivious to Verina’s antics. “Can we change routes?”
“Unfortunately we can’t, not if we want to move quickly.” Cassian unfolded his map and pointed to three lines through the Drownway. “These are the paths known to the man who sold me this map. As you can see none of them are terribly direct.” Cassian tapped the southern line. “This is the path we’re on right now. There’s no way to switch from here to one of the other routes without charting a new path on our own, which could take days. Picking out our own route the whole way would be worse.”
“And you are in a hurry,” Marta murmured.
“I am.”
“Then there’s nothing we can do but press on,” Verina said with a sigh. “The tides don’t go out again for another eight hours. I’ll take first watch. The rest of you should get some rest.”
She got up and paced along the rock wall until she reached the corner and perched herself on it. The air around her began to shimmer slightly. Cassian idly wondered whether it was her or the Linnorm that would do most of the watching. Marta snorted and started unpacking her bedroll.
“Something wrong?” Adalai asked.
“From push to pull,” Marta replied, “a masterful display.”
Cassian shook his head and got up to stretch his legs, pacing away from the campsite down to the shoreline. For a few moments he just stared out at the ocean, enjoying the sound of the waves and studying the islands in their temporary archipelago. He’d always known a large chunk of the Drownway were ruins of old Nerona. As a youth that had seemed grand and mysterious. Now that he was there it just felt melancholy.
“Are you feeling more clearheaded?”
Cassian looked up to find Adalai coming down the slope to him. “How so?”
“You killed your first man today, didn’t you? It has an effect.”
A hot flush crept up Cassian’s neck. “You could tell?”
“Certainly. I wasn’t that different from you the first time I took a life.”
“I never heard about it from my brother.”
“It’s not something people like to talk about, doubly so to someone who hasn’t lived through the thing themselves.” Adalai joined him at the waterline and stared at the waves as well. “Look, I’m no expert. I had to live through it. I’ve watched one other person live through it as well. Based on that extensive group of people I’d say you’re handling things rather well. Although it’s probably a wise choice not to try and sleep this afternoon.”
Cassian grimmaced. “I figured as much. I can’t go this entire trip without sleeping, though.”
“No, no, just don’t try it right now. Maybe you can break down the weapons we picked up and do something with them? I’ve heard Ironhands don’t need a forge to work metal.”
“Well you’ve been listening to fairy tales, then,” Cassian said with a laugh. “There may have been one or two Ironhands capable of something like that in history but I’m not one of them. I don’t think there’s one living in all Nerona, Isenlund or Hessex with that kind of power.”
“My mistake.” Adalai shrugged and said, “In that case you can park yourself between me and the yaga once she’s done on watch.”
“I was beginning to think you weren’t interested in women, my friend,” Cassian said with a laugh. “She was clearly inviting you to pay her a visit just now. Instead you came to talk to me! I’m not sure the Highplains honor can take the slight.”
“It’s not the Highplains that bothers me,” Adalai said. “It’s the Linnorm.”
“You’ve never seen an Invoker with a nature spirit before?”
“I have.” Adalai’s gaze focused on something in the far distance. Beyond even the windswept horizon. “But that dragon reminds me of something I’d rather keep as far away as possible. It’s nothing personal.”
Cassian grunted. “My friend, when it comes to a woman it cannot be anything but personal.”
Adalai drew his weapons for the second time that day as he listened to Cassian’s reply. “There’s three of them with crankbows and possibly swords but it’s hard to see clearly,” he whispered. “They’re spreading out to scout the area.”
“What’s our move?”
“We have numbers, might as well keep together and make the most of them.” His tin sheet flew back into his belt pouch. Then, with a flick of his fingers, Cassian sent three daggers and his arming sword floating up out of his belt. “I’ll watch the rear and make sure they don’t get the jump on us. Verina, can the Linnorm watch two ways at once?”
“It can.”
“Then you will watch the flanks. But carefully,” he admonished, wagging a finger in her direction. “That creature can topple a building on us as easily as that lot can kill us.”
“You aren’t in a smithy any more, Signore, we have a little more room here than that.”
Cassian ignored her. “Marta, to the front. Keep that shield at the ready and Adalai will handle the rest.”
“I will?”
“You can’t?”
“I just expected you to want to handle it yourself.” Adalai moved towards the smoke rising in the distance, his senses straining to catch any sign of the approaching men. Marta stuck beside him, her shield already lit with a dim golden glow.
While he didn’t know much about the Shieldbearer’s gift he did know that Gifts with “bearer” in their name somehow enhanced the function of a named item. So presumably Marta’s shield was somehow superior to the norm. At least so he hoped. While Adalai had advocated they bring her along he really didn’t want to see the woman get hurt.
Before he could follow that trail of thought any further his ears caught the quiet scrape of leather boots on gravel. He pointed Marta towards the sound with his dagger and leveled his arming sword in a low guard. A moment later a head popped out from around a pile of rubble and disappeared just as quickly.
“Zalt,” he whispered and darted forward. A split second later the man who had just peeked around the rubble Leapt into the air a good twenty feet, loosing the bolt from his crankbow. The shot was remarkably good, rushing towards Adalai as if drawn by a string.
A pulse of light came out from Marta’s shield, forming a dome around them. The bolt struck the dome and shattered. A few steps later Adalai slammed into the dome as well.
“Sorry!” Marta called, the dome vanishing.
Adalai didn’t bother with a reply, instead dashing forward to intercept the Leaper, hoping to catch him before he could recover from his jump. It was not to be. The Leaper was nimble enough to draw his blade midair and kept his feet under him on landing. By the time Adalai reached him the man was already on guard. He assumed a low, forward leaning stance common in sword methods that emphasized the point like were common in Renicie. Adalai assumed the stance favored by duelists that fought with sword and dagger. Body upright, both weapons in front of his torso.
Judging by eye Adalai guessed the other man’s sword was a good two to four inches longer than his own which, on top of the man’s stance, gave him a significant advantage in reach. He was going to have to end the duel as quickly as possible. Sliding his front foot forward a half step he stretched his sword out in a probing motion, trying to provoke a response. The other man refused to rise to the bait, just circling his point about slowly, waiting. Keenly aware that there were other crankbows moving to take their shots somewhere in the ruins Adalai realized he was going to have to force the matter.
He opened with a low thrust, dagger guarding high. His opponent parried and struck in riposte, aiming for Adalai’s face – the natural target on a man who might have armor under his doublet. Turning that blow with his poinard, Adalai stepped in, trying to keep his measure. But the man had the advantage over Adalai and he knew it. He gave ground, feet passing each other, to try and keep himself just out of reach. For a split second it seemed the strange impass would hold, the one giving ground and the other pursuing, until they both wandered into the ocean.
Then the glowing dome popped into place again and the bandit crashed into it. Adalai swooped in, slashing his sword at the man’s throat. The bandit parried but Adalai’s follow-up dagger thrust landed solidly in the man’s ribs, drawing a grunt but failing to burst any rings in the mail under the bandit’s doublet. Then the dome vanised again and both men collapsed in a heap on the ground.
They wrestled for a moment, four hands suddenly grasping for a single dagger, the only weapon of use at such close quarters. Then, just as the bandit was pushing away from Adalai, it was over. Marta’s mace slammed into the man’s head and he fell limp. Adalai scrambled to his feet in time to see another bolt flying towards them from the Gulf side of the island. Fortunately the bandit in that direction was not as good a shot as his comrade and the bolt flew by far overhead.
A head of the Linnorm appeard above them, its nose pointed towards a mostly intact building thirty yards away. Marta raised her shield and charged towards it, Adalai just behind her. The building had an open doorway but no windows, just small gaps in the walls where some stones had come loose. It was from one of those gaps where the second shot came. Once again Marta snapped a glowing barrier in place to stop it, though now Adalai could clearly see it was taking a growing toll on her. It vanished as soon as the bolt glanced off of it. Her shoulders slumped, her pace slowed and Adalai began to overtake her. For a moment he considered slowing to match her pace but he wasn’t sure she could use that trick again. So instead he turned up his speed and prayed.
He dove into the building and spun, thrusting blindly in the direction the bolt had come from. A gleaming golden sword sliced through his own blade effortlessly. A Bladebearer. Lovely.
Adalai instantly threw the useless remains of his sword at his opponent and charged, taking advantage of the other man’s flinching to close distance and ram his dagger into the man’s sword hand. The dangerous tool clattered to the ground and Adalai slammed into the bandit, stabbing upwards with his dagger. Blood gushed from the wound under the man’s jaw and he collapsed in a heap. Adalai shook himself off and backed away, scooping up the bandit’s fallen sword and using it to put the man out of his misery.
Marta met him at the entrance to the building, looked him over to make sure the blood wasn’t his, and said, “One more.”
The Great Linnorm’s reptilian head once again pointed them in the right direction, this time appearing over top of a low hill of loose stone. It waved back and forth in a lazy fashion, which Adalai took as a beckoning gesture. The two of them started in that direction, still on guard, but as they rounded the hill they discovered Cassian sitting there, two of his daggers sitting at his feet, covered in blood. Verina stood a short distance off, watching their nominal employer with some curiosity. Adalai allowed himself to relax just a bit. “You got the third, then?”
Cassian just nodded. Breaking into a wide grin Adalai reached down and hauled him to his feet. “No need to skulk about, then! That went just as well as we could hope. Excellent strategem, Maestro Ironhand!”
It was only as Cassian was staggering to find his balance that Adalai caught a faint wiff of vomit. The Ironhand was white as a sheet. “Thank you,” the other man managed, “I’m glad you and Marta aren’t hurt.”
Frowning, Adalai looked him over again, asking, “What was your bandit’s Gift?”
“Mine?”
“The bandit you fought.”
“Oh, Impulse, he had the gift of Impulse.”
Adalai’s frown grew deeper but he kept his thoughts to himself. There was a more pressing matter to look after. In the years since the Kings at the Corners sent him to Nerona he’d grown used to thinking of the people there as far more used to violence than he had ever been before. But Verina had mentioned a smithy. Just one of many places that could very well keep a man far from lethal violence their entire lives.
Killing the first time was never easy. Though Cassian’s cause was good and the men had attacked first Adalai couldn’t blame the man for reacting the way he had. That still left them with plenty that needed doing.
“Marta, take Cassian and Verina and go look for a place to camp until the tides go out again. Have the Linnorm pop his head up every five minutes or so until I get back to you. He can watch for trouble while he’s at it.”
The Hexton woman nodded. “Should we just use their camp?”
Cassian visibly flinched at that suggestion and Adalai shook his head. “No, probably best we didn’t. They were camped near the center of the island anyway. Get as close to the next stage in the path as you comfortably can.” He gave Cassian a gentle shake. “Where did you leave him, Maestro?”
Wordlessly, Cassian raised an arm and pointed towards the ocean’s side of the island.
“What will you be doing?” Verina’s question was more idle curiosity than demand.
“I think I should have a look at our dearly departed friends.”
With nothing more than a pointed finger to go by locating the bandit Cassian had killed took longer than he would have liked. Eventually he found the third corpse at a blind corner, a crankbow at his feet. Around the corner some distance on were several bolts. If he had the Gift of Impulse he could have been firing them and using it to steer them around the corner, effectively attacking Cassian blindly. The bandit had numerous stab wounds on his face, arms and neck, as well as numerous gashes in his doublet that had exposed the mail beneath.
It was an amateurish kill but it had worked. Adalai found himself wondering if Cassian had used his Gift to deliver all the slashes or if he had landed the deathblow himself. There wasn’t much besides the weapons and a small pouch of coins on the dead man. Adalai took them and moved on. The trip back to the other two bodies felt much longer than it had a moment ago, when the press of battle was hot upon him. As he walked through the quiet stones of a forgotten town Adalai found himself wondering what the Kings he’d met said to the bandits when they collected their souls. Did everyone get the full song and dance routine he had? Or was that a special case?
Did they know he’d been involved in another death? Did they care? His life in Nerona hadn’t been peaceful by any stretch of the imagination. Hopefully if he was on the wrong track they’d let him know.
Then again, they hadn’t told him he was on the right track until it had basically killed him.
Such joyful thoughts filled his mind as he trudged through the island, prodding at corpses and ransacking the campsite. The dead men had shown the foresight to leave a pail of sand by their campfire and Adalai thought it wise to use it. Most of the island was stone but it never hurt to be careful. There were several empty water skins in the camp, along with three full ones that he took. There were quite a lot of provisions, too. Planks and sticks of driftwood lay against a few large rocks, drying in preparation for the fire. The men had been there for a fair bit it seemed.
Once he was sure he’d taken anything that might be useful Adalai left the dead men’s camp and tracked down the others. They’d set up at the corner of two intersecting walls, too run down to determine if they’d once been a building or just some property boundary. The water was less than forty yards away but the partial shelter of the walls broke the wind and was really rather snug. He joined them there and began to sort through what he’d found.
The massive, two headed form of the Great Linnorm heaved itself out of the sea and straddled the Drownway, water running down its sides in sheets. Within the pale, shimmering green spirit was a slim, feminine form. Cassian groaned. Clearly Verina Highplains hadn’t taken no for an answer.
“Calm down,” he said to the others, “I don’t think that one’s out to get us. Well, maybe me after what I said yesterday but she’ll probably give you two a pass.”
“She?” Adalai’s question had a decidedly pointed tone.
“Yes, she.” Cassian gently pulled Marta back, motioning for Adalai to lower his weapons with his other hand.
The Great Linnorm surged forward, a pair of leathery bat-like wings unfurling from its back, and it lept over the waves to land in front of Cassian with a titanic splash. Unlike Verina, who was protected by the body of the spirit she had Invoked, Cassian wound up drenched by the spray. Almost as soon as it appeared the body of the Linnorm vanished and left Verina on the shore, a massive serpentine gap in the water behind her slamming closed with a crash of rushing water.
“Signorina Verina,” Cassian said with a polite bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you again so soon.”
“Is it?” She directed a skeptical look in Marta’s direction. “Perhaps it is. Your opinion on things has changed a great deal over the past night.”
“Others have made a compelling case for a different approach,” Cassian replied. “I admit I am a little surprised to see you here today, although given the way things have been going so far perhaps I should have been expecting it.”
Verina’s mood markedly changed when her gaze stopped on Adalai. She stood motionless and a little wide eyed for a moment when their eyes met then she took hold of her skirts, curtsied, and said, “Greetings, stranger. My name is Verina Highplains, a daughter of the People of the Steppes, a yaga of the Lost Slavs.”
It was evident from his expression that Adalai didn’t understand what she had said. Whether that was because Verina’s accent combined with Adalai’s poor grasp of Neronan kept him from comprehension or the man just didn’t know what the terms meant Cassian couldn’t tell.
At least he wasn’t rude about it. He bowed saying, “My name is Adalai Carpathea, a bravo from far away.”
“Far away?” She leaned forward to peer at him, her expression unreadable. “How far? I do not recognize the sound of your speech.”
“I’d rather not say.” Adalai turned and gestured to Marta. “The Lady Towers is of Hexton lands and serves at the pleasure of their king.”
Verina inclined her head towards the other woman but didn’t acknowledge her otherwise. Instead she looked over to Cassian and said, “What made the difference? Has your luck taken a turn?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” he grumbled. “Perhaps I never had any to begin with. Before you ask, yes, if the Linnorm still insists on partaking in this disaster in the making I suppose you can come along. Provided your brother has given his permission. The last thing I need to happen is for the whole of the Highplains cavalry to follow us out onto the Drownway. Especially when they’re under levy.”
A blinding smile transformed Verina’s face, changing her dour Slavic features into a beacon of delight. “Many thanks, Signore Cassian. My brother and I are once again in your debt.”
“You and your Linnorm, too. I just want you to understand that you’re to be very careful how you Invoke that thing.” Cassian gestured out at the land bridge gradually poking its way out of the waves. “That’s not the place to carelessly flail about with a spirit of that size, understand?”
“It’s the privilege of the Linnorm to act as it needs and the duty of the yaga to assist it as we can.”
“If it can’t see a way to act that doesn’t throw us into the ocean then it stays here, understand?” Cassian didn’t wait for an answer. The tide was moving out and, barring the Linnorm flailing about, the waves were pretty calm. It was best to get a head start. As he’d said to Marta, they only had a few hours of low tide to travel in.
Cassian picked his way across a rocky outcrop towards the submerged portion of the Drownway, the slick stone sending the soles of his boots slipping and squeaking as if the ground itself was conspiring against him. “Did you bring provisions suited to the situation?”
“Certainly,” Verina assured him. “The Highplains are no strangers to long campaigns. I have brought jerky and hardtack sufficient for two weeks along with a mercurial glass to judge the weather, though I see that you have one of your own.”
Cassian nodded his grudging approval. “It never hurts to have a spare of any tool made of glass.”
“Then she will be coming with us?” Marta asked.
“She will,” Cassian confirmed.
“Can the spirit just carry us over the water?” Adalai was studying Verina with a keen eye and she returned his scrutiny with equal intensity.
“I’m afraid not.” She held up one hand to display the faintly glowing tattoo there. “Without the marks of a yaga a person cannot safely touch the body of the Great Linnorm, or any other ancestral spirit of the Slavic lands.”
Marta eyed the woman suspiciously. “For the best, I think. Two of us are seeking to discover the fates of family or friends who have traveled this path. If we were wrapped in the coils of such a large spirit we might overlook signs they have left behind.”
“That reminds me,” Cassian said, crouching down by the water, “do you have any idea where the Baron you are looking for went missing?”
“None, sir.”
“How about you?” Adalai asked. “You had that wheel axel, do you know where that came from?”
“A courier crossing in the other direction discovered it and marked the location with a flag.” Cassian sent his tin mirror out over the waves again as he spoke. “He planted it only a few days ago so there is a good chance the flag is still in place now.”
“Then we should make all haste,” Marta replied, poking at barely submerged stone with the toe of her boot.
“Wait,” Cassian said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back. “There’s sharks in the water out there, see the fins?”
She squinted and stared out at the waves. “Surely the water is too shallow for them to reach us.”
“The animals know the patterns of nature far better than we do,” Verina said. “If they are lurking around here then there is a chance that they could eat. Respect that.”
Marta sighed and stepped back until she was again standing on solid ground. “If you insist.”
“Water in your boots is just as bad,” Adalai said. “Don’t underestimate how nasty a case of trench foot can be if you never get your feet dry again.”
“You think of such lovely things,” Marta said dryly.
“I do try, especially at moments like this.”
In a mere five minutes the water receded enough that they were able to start hopping across the dryish portions of the path, keeping their balance as best they could. In truth Cassian understood Marta’s sense of urgency. Every moment they lost was another chance for Cazador to lose his life. However every craftsman knew the fastest way to work was slow enough to avoid mishaps and, from the stories he’d heard from customers, it was much the same for bravos. So he did his best to keep the group’s progress as steady and deliberate as possible.
Unfortunately things did not go as smoothly as he might wish. It was little things at first. Verina hadn’t seen a map of the Drownway, nor did she know the route, so the small island she’d waited on wasn’t on the path. That wouldn’t have caused a delay except she’d left her pack and provisions there and they’d been forced to go out of their way to retrieve it. Only a five minute delay but Cassian bristled at it none the less.
Then, as the tides began to roll back in, Cassian called a halt at the beginning of a high, narrow ridge that crossed the gap between two larger land masses. At one point a previous expedition had strung a rope as a handhold between two posts driven into the rocks but, from the frayed end of the bits that remained, Cassian concluded that something had caused it to break. The ridge was narrow and uneven. That wouldn’t have been a problem if there hadn’t also been a strong westerly wind blowing.
By all accounts danger was part of the bravo’s calling. Foolhardiness was not. So they hunkered down on the side of the ridge for nearly half an hour until the wind died down. Then Cassian carefully picked his way across the expanse, using his Gift to grab ahold of his armor and push himself more firmly towards the ground. He made the trip with a coil of rope around his waist. Once it was firmly tied to the post on the far side the rest of the group made the trip with no issue.
Unfortunately the prolonged pause left them far enough behind schedule that the tides had turned. They had just enough time to scramble through a final low point in the path before the waves closed over it. The small island that left them on was the first of its kind they’d seen.
Marta stared around at the old, crumbling buildings that dotted the low hill and said, “I thought this place was cut off from the mainland most of the day. How did someone get all this stone out here? Did they carry it over that ridge?”
“There’s other routes through the Drownway,” Cassian replied. “They’re used by caravans like the one we’re looking for but the path is a good five miles longer. This is the fastest route through the Drownway and the one your Baron probably took if he was trying to move quickly. It merges with the caravan route later on. Since I have an idea of where Cazador’s group went missing I plan to head there first and spiral out from that location rather than retrace the caravan route and lose a day to the tides.”
“That doesn’t explain how they got the stone out here,” Verina said.
“They got it from right here.” Cassian gestured to the Gulf. “There was a time before Lum drowned half of Nerona, when these lands were joyful and prosperous rather than hidden by waves. This was probably a fishing village once. There is wreckage from Nerona’s lost cities washed up along the path as well. These buildings are still on their foundations so I presume this is where they were built.”
Adalai had climbed up the remains of a nearby wall, which had crumbled into a stair step shape. Now he suddenly jumped down. “There’s smoke rising from the far side of the island.”
Cassian frowned. “Well, it’s not a bad place to hunker down til low tide. The ruins give some shelter after all.”
“How common is it for people to travel this way?” Marta asked.
“Not that rare,” Cassian said. “But hardly commonplace either.”
“Should we go have a look?” Adalai asked.
“Let’s.”
The island wasn’t very large. If they’d been moving at a full march, aiming to make another crossing before the tides came back in, they could have made it across in eight to ten minutes. Cassian chose to move much slower, using his reflective tin to help them carefully scout the way, checking behind each wall and inside each ruin they passed. As a consequence it took then almost half an hour to get from one side of the island to the other.
Once there Cassian carefully slid his tin around a wall to get a glimpse of the source of the smoke. Tin didn’t make for the best mirror in the world but it showed enough that Cassian could make out three men crouched around a campfire with crankbows leaned against nearby rocks. That, in and of itself, was not unusual. Only fools would travel Nerona’s wilds unarmed.
However one of the men suddenly sat up, quietly motioned to his companions and pointed towards the piece of tin. He must have seen the sun reflecting off of it. Whatever clued him in, his reaction didn’t bode well. He and his friends immediately reached for their weapons, worked the levers and slipped bolts into place.
“Bandits,” Cassian hissed. “Make ready for battle.”
“My name is Marta Towers, of Hessex, and I am what you in Nerona would call a shieldbearer.” The woman hefted her shield in one hand. “My clan serves the King directly. Sir Adalai has paid my debts and I wish to go with him as he crosses the Drownway.”
Cassian turned his wrathful glare to Adalai. “Is that a fact?”
He did his best not to wilt under the other man’s icy stare. “You said you were still looking for bravos to go with you and Marta has her own reasons to make the trip so I figured it was a natural match.”
“Clearly you haven’t spent much time among Nerona’s bravos.” Cassian spared a glance at Marta. His annoyance relented just a bit, as if he did find some sympathy for her in his heart. “It may be different where you are from. It certainly is among the Hextons, where the families do everything from traveling to fighting as a unit.”
Adalai shot Marta a glance out of the corner of his eyes. That must have been what Bellini meant when he said she was part of a traveling clan. “Are you saying you don’t want more people?”
“I don’t want bad luck. The chances that my brother is still alive are bad enough as it is, mixing women and bravos won’t make them any better and may even make the odds we get to him worse.” Cassian folded his arms in thought for a moment. Then he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Adalai, it was not a bad thought to sign for a bondservant to fill out the expedition but I cannot justify it. Even if the stakes were not so high there is the question of the lady’s life. What kind of monsters would we be if we deprived a family of their daughter while struggling to retrieve a few carts of goods for a handful of lira?”
“Respectfully, sir, that would not be why misfortune befalls me should I travel with you.” Marta glanced around the tavern common room, mostly empty in the early morning, and lowered her voice. “I told you my clan was – is in service to the King of Hessex.”
“All the more reason you should not risk your life needlessly, signorina.”
“I am trying to explain it is not needless, sir.” Marta took a deep breath and let it out slowly, clearly struggling with annoyance. Adalai couldn’t really blame her for it. “Nearly one year ago a cousin of the King, the Baron Braxton, traveled here on his own on a task of some secrecy. His last letter said he planned to try to cross the bay from Fionni to Renicie. No one has heard from him since.”
“The bay?” Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard someone call the Gulf of Lum a bay before.”
Adalai rolled his eyes. “The point is that she is interested in doing the same thing you are, finding someone who went missing while crossing the Drownway. That’s why I brought her along. I was hoping you might have a little sympathy for her situation given the similarities of your circumstances. The two of you are in much the same spot.”
Cassian rested his elbow on the table between them, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumbs. “Wanting similar things is a far cry from the same circumstances, signore, but I take your point.”
In the twenty hours or so since he’d met Marta Adalai had found the woman to be quite stoic. She’d explained the task her clan was given quite dispassionately and accepted Adalai’s decisions about lodging without question. Frankly it bothered him. Other than insisting she needed to follow him across the Drownway she’d been mostly passive since they’d met. Now there were cracks forming in that persona.
“Please, sir, it is very important. Water is no danger to Braxton but there were forces in Nerona itself that were threatening him else he would not have chosen such a desperate route to escape. My clan was charged to find him and bring him home. When I met Sir Adalai and heard his intentions I knew the meeting was kismet.”
Cassian’s head came up out if his hands. “Kismet?”
“Inevitable. Predestined. Something which comes about because it is the only suitable result of the circumstances.” Marta picked up her shield and showed Cassian the design there. “The Towers clan once lived on a mountain where we studied the stars until the lord of the clan predicted the mountain would shake and the towers fall. So we abandoned them and became vassals of the King. The next year the King ordered the Towers clan to fight in the Battle of Eboncourts, when Hessex turned back the army of the Dragonrider, and our lord slew his General of Arrows. That was kismet. This is no different and, were I to ignore it, I would be as foolish as those who stayed in the towers while the earth shook.”
Cassian spared a disbelieving look for Adalai. So Adalai drove the knife in. “Don’t the people of Nerona believe the Kings at the Corners of Eternity send omens warning of the day of their deaths? How is kismet any different?”
“Omens are warnings, not inevitabilities. Don’t you believe in the Kings at the Corners?”
Adalai shrugged. “They’re real enough, I’d say, but omens and kismet? I’ll believe they’re real when I see them pay off with my own eyes. Even if they are real, I’d say such things fall outside the purview of the Four Kings. Some other creature handles such matters.”
“Well, you are the one who studied with the Heralds I suppose.” Cassian got to his feet before Adalai could protest. “I suppose if it’s inevitable there’s nothing I can do about it. Are you provisioned? It’s typically five days to cross the Drownway on foot, I’m bringing provisions for ten.”
“We have a week of food each,” Adalai replied. “I’ve fished in the Gulf on a regular basis to good effect and there will be plenty of time for it between low tides.”
“Very well, then. Low tide is in two and a half hours, we should head towards Verune Bay now. I’ll join you there once I gather my gear.” Cassian took his hat off the back of his chair, sketched a slight bow towards Marta and departed.
Adalai sighed. That proved harder than expected. He’d expected a slight pushback like Bellini had given but Cassian approached the question from a very different angle that was just as strange. More proof that he still hasn’t figured Neronan culture out yet.
“I hope I haven’t damaged your friendship with Sir Cassian,” Marta said.
“We just met yesterday. I’m not sure we’re even acquainted yet. I’ve spent more time with you than him at this point.”
She glanced down for a moment then gathered her things and got to her feet. “I am grateful regardless. I will repay you for what you’ve done one day, Sir Adalai.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just make sure you get to the bay on time.”
The bay was a sheltered stretch of coast just over a mile outside of Fionni’s walls. A narrow path ran down through a limestone bluff to a sandy beach a few hundred feet wide that looked out into the Gulf to the north and the Adriatic to the south. By the time Adalai and Marta got there the water had receded to the point where the land stretching east was mostly visible.
Lumps of black and brown stone poked out of the water. The dark shadow of the submerged path was clearly visible as well, though Adalai suspected the wave action would wash away most people who tried to cross before the tide reached is lowest point.
Marta walked down to a point just above where the waves were cresting and studied the passage. “How long is this place above water? An hour? Two? Can you really make the crossing in five days?”
Cassian looked up from the glass container full of a shimmering liquid he was holding in one hand. “Parts of the Drownway remain above water all the time. Those are where we will camp. There are several miles of the path we can cross outside of low tide. That said, there are two low tides every day and we will have to travel during both of them to cross in five days. I hope you’re ready for late nights.”
“How is the weather looking?” Adalai asked, gesturing to the other man’s instrument.
“The air is steady and the time of year isn’t right for sudden storms. Still, nothing is certain. Did you bring an oilcloth for the rain?”
Adalai patted his pack. “I am well prepared.”
Cassian studied him critically. “Are you? Forgive me for prying but I am an Ironhand and I don’t sense the presence of armor on you. This isn’t a safe route by any means.”
Cassian himself had suited his actions to words. In the time since Adalai had last seen him he’d added a breastplate under his doublet, visible under the collar, and a pair of gauntlets. Marta also wore a chain shirt in addition to her shield. It made sense that Cassian would conclude he was the weakest link.
“Not to worry, signore.” Adalai unwound the neckerchief from around his collar to reveal the heavy, reddish leather jerkin under his own doublet. “Salamander leather. Not as strong as mail but much lighter and more comfortable in the heat. Well suited to the journey we are going on, don’t you think?”
Cassian nodded in assent then pulled a folded parchment and a polished piece of tin out of a pouch on his belt. The parchment he handed to Adalai. “That is an copy of my map to the known part of the Drownway. I thought there should be at least two or them on hand in case something were to happen to one. But try not to lose it. The man I borrowed it from will not be happy if it is lost.”
“I understand.” Adalai gestured to the tin sheet. “Is that to keep water and damp from it?”
Cassian grinned. “No, this is to help us see what is ahead of us.”
He balanced the tin sheet on his own palm and then it levitated into the air under the influence of Cassian’s Gift. Adalai did not have the broad knowledge of Gifts that the average Neronan did, ye hadn’t grown up around them after all. But even he knew about Ironhands. The power to move metal without the need to touch it was really impressive and in high demand in most parts of Neronan society. Adalai had never considered using it in this way, however.
The mirrored sheet flew up and forward, shifting angles to show them the waves and gradually appearing islands of the Drownway from above. Adalai found himself grinning as well. “Impressive.”
Marta pointed up at one corner of the reflective sheet whet a vaguely humanoid shadow sat on the Gulf side of one of the rock outcroppings. “Is that a person? Was someone else waiting for you, Sir Cassian?”
Before Cassian could answer there was a sudden crash of water from ahead, salt spray spouting up from the largest visible piece of stone. Two massive shapes reared up, water cascading down around them in sheets. Adalai drew steel faster than thought, shocked that their trip through the Drownway could have met with violence so quickly. Marta brought her shield forward, its painted surface disappearing under a layer of golden light. Cassian’s tin sheet zipped down into his hand.
The two objects turned towards them and Adalai realized he could make out eyes staring at them. They were the heads of some kind of sea serpents.
“Zalt,” Adalai murmured. “What is that?”
To his surprise Cassian answered, with a deep, long suffering sigh, “That’s kismet.”
“Did you train both the Conde and his cousin, Maestro Fiore?” Adalai weighed a long, triangular bladed rapier in one hand, the question almost an afterthought.
“I did,” the swordsmaster replied. “Both were fine students, at least for men who never went to war, but not particularly remarkable in the grand scheme of things.”
That matched what Captain Bellini told him. Adalai took a few experimental lunges with the blade, diving into the weapon with his Gift. A sense of singleminded purpose washed over him. Adalai let the Purpose of the sword drive him through a series of moves, thrusting, disengaging, parrying and slashing as he fought an imaginary enemy. His empty off hand twitched on occasion.
Fiore tutted and shook his head. “You’re quite gifted, signore,” the swordsmaster said, tugging on his graying beard in a thoughtful manner. “Even with one of my manuals you could not learn the movements so well. If I didn’t know better I’d say I trained you myself. However I still don’t believe this weapon could have been used by Signore Teodoro to kill the Conde.”
“It was found stabbed into his chest, Maestro,” the Captain pointed out from his place on the side of the practice yard.
“Oh, I believe you, Captain,” Fiore hastened to say. “It is not a question of the weapon but rather the wielder.”
“Signore Teodoro stood to inherit the Conde’s title if he died,” Adalai pointed out. “That’s certainly enough motive for murder, don’t you think?”
“Motive,” the swordsmaster agreed. “But not capability. As you yourself may have noticed, the method I teach is a mixed form suited to both cut and thrust. However the sword used to kill the Conde was forged exclusively for the thrust. It has no edge to speak of. Without an edge on his blade Signore Teodoro could not have made full use of his training and thus he could not have beaten his cousin in a duel, perhaps not even with the advantage of surprise. The two of them were very evenly matched.”
“But you just said that it looked like I had learned the method from you directly,” Adalai said. “I have never studied your methods, Maestro. Not from you and not from any of the Maestroes you have approved to teach in your name. I only gained an understanding of it from this blade, as is my Gift.”
Fiore’s eyebrows bobbed up in surprise, practically disappearing under the brim of his cap. “That is odd, I admit. There is no reason for one of my students to use a triangular blade.”
“Unless the goal is to look like the killer was something other than one of your students,” Captain Bellini said. “Then it is an admirable choice.”
“Perhaps.” Fiore drew his own sword and gestured for Adalai to meet him. As their blades crossed he began explaining. “The problem is that this is not just any sword, it is the weapon used to kill the Conde de Vermillion. The Conde was found with his own sword in hand was he not?”
“He was,” Adalai confirmed. The slow winding and binding of blades triggered faint impressions from the murder weapon. He allowed them to guide his arm through a series of beats, disengages and feints. To his surprise he found the movements rather difficult.
“Thus he must have crossed blades with his killer,” Fiore said, effortlessly manipulating the other man’s weapon. “As you can see, the nature of a triangular blade puts me at an advantage. The edges and surfaces are easier to manipulate in the bind, a skill which my methodology places a strong emphasis on.”
“You could beat any swordsmaster who fought you using such a weapon?” Bellini asked.
“If they dueled me using my own method. There are other methods that make better uses of such a blade that would be difficult for even one such as I to deal with. But that is not a skill the Conde or his cousin have studied.” To emphasize his point Fiore twisted his blade into a looping flourish that wrenched Adalai’s blade around out of his hand.
Just before the blade left his hand a powerful urge drove Adalai to lunge forward into Fiore’s space, his off hand darting forward to slam into the swordsmaster’s side, just under the ribs. Exactly where the Conde had been stabbed.
For a moment the tableau held. Then the two combatants broke apart, Fiore rubbing absently at his side. “That was interesting,” Bellini said. “What does it mean?”
The swordsmaster studied Adalai with new interest. “As I already said, the Conde and his cousin were quite evenly matched. They even had the same weakness. They tended to overexpose their flanks during certain movements, one of which is the binding flourish I just used. It is a good moment to exploit if you have a dagger.”
“How was it you were caught by this move, Maestro?” The Captain asked.
“Signoire Carpathea was not using a dagger so I was not expecting such an attack.”
“But the Conde was not killed using a dagger,” Adalai said.
“No, but a steady hand could drive the heavier blade into the dagger wound after the deed was done to disguise how the killing blow was struck.” Bellini heaved a sigh and crossed to Adalai, taking the sword from him. “We have enough, I think. It is a matter of succession to the Conde’s seat so it will have to go before the Prince’s pactmaker in the weeks. We will raise the issue then.”
Adalai sighed and shook his arms out. It was always a bit unsettling to dive so deep into an object he could mimic the skills of its original owner. Fiore watched him warily. “How many methods of fighting do you think you could learn, Signore Carpathea?”
“No more than most people,” Adalai replied. “I can pull some skills from a well used weapon, sure, but I forget them quickly if I don’t put in the usual amount of practice and regular drilling to maintain them.”
The swordsmaster grunted. “A pity. You have a great deal of physical talent. If you could retain what you just demonstrated and expand your combat methods in the same way you could become fulminatos.”
One thing that had caused Adalai no end of grief in the last three years was the fact that the Gift he’d taken from the King of Dreams didn’t help him with languages at all. “I’m sorry, Maestro, what was that?”
He shot Adalai an apologetic look. “Forgive me, I forget you are not from here. It is a term we use for those uniquely gifted in the ways of war, particularly those who’s influence goes beyond their lifetimes.”
Adalai felt himself shrink back a little bit, the praise making him uncomfortable. “You flatter me, Maestro.”
“Perhaps. I would be willing to take you as a student if you wished to find out how much I am flattering you. I have lost one student recently and it seems I may lose another so there is a place for you if you want it.” He offered Adalai a polite bow, then gave a slightly more deferential one to the Captain. “I will take my leave, signores.”
“Your presence was of great help,” Bellini replied.
Once the swordsmaster was gone Adalai let himself slump a bit. Nerona’s martial personalities set his nerves jangling for reasons he hadn’t figured out yet. Perhaps it was a side effect of the Arminger’s Gift. More likely it was just because he’d never been around people so acclimated to violence in his previous life. Whatever it was it made him very tired.
Bellini slapped him on the back. “Ready to call it a day?”
“I told you, I’m leaving town for a few days, possibly forever. I’m not leaving until I’ve looked over everything you’ve got here.”
The Captain pulled a disapproving face. “You know, Fionni was able to arrest and punish criminals long before we had the services of a deep Arminger. If you are setting out on a dangerous journey perhaps you should spend the rest of your day making preparations.”
“I’m half bravo, Bellini, I’m always ready to travel.”
The Captain huffed out an exasperated sigh and set off towards the entrance to the nearby gatehouse. “That’s your problem, Adalai. Men who are only half of something are ill suited to the level of focus you put on things. You say you cannot learn a method of fighting unless you drill it. I’m telling you that you cannot be half bravo and half city guard for the same reason – no one has enough time to devote themselves to both.”
It was Adalai’s turn to look sour. “Perhaps not, but I just do what I can. The people of Fionni were good to me when I arrived with no clothes, no food and no understanding of the language.”
“Except for the ones who wanted to execute you,” Bellini muttered.
Adalai choose to ignore him. “I just want to pay it back.”
“If you feel you must.” The Captain led him in to the armory and began unlocking the arming chest where the Guard kept weapons of a suspicious nature, be they magical or criminal. He returned the Conde’s murder weapon to storage there.
Adalai peeked around his shoulder. In fairness to Bellini the kind of crime that he was useful in solving was pretty rare. It needed a murder weapon or some tool used in a theft left at the scene and that was pretty rare. So he was surprised to see a large, scale shaped shield and flanged mace had been added since the last time he had visited six days ago. “Captain…”
“Those aren’t criminal weapons,” Bellini said as he wound a chain around the sword hilt and locked it in place.
“Artifacts of unknown function?”
“They were seized from a Hexton who had entered the city through a canal, avoiding the gate tax. They’ll be returned if she can find a bondsman who will sign for her.”
That caught his attention. Adalai didn’t know much about Hessex, save for the fact that it was a nation somewhere far to the northwest. But it was quite unheard of for women of any nation around Nerona to travel alone. Even Neronan women didn’t do it. As far as he knew only the women of Thebes had a reputation for such endeavors and even then it was rare. “Is it certain her arms are not Artifacts?”
Bellini paused, one hand on the lid of the chest. “They haven’t been examined or appraised. Do you have a reason to believe they are?”
Adalai scrutinized the shield, which was carefully painted with a green valley and a trio of stone towers against a blue sky. “It just seems quite well made. She must be a woman of some importance yet she came here alone.”
“Not quite.” Bellini gestured to the shield. “That is the coat of arms of one of those Hexton traveling clans. She said bandits wiped out most of them a week ago. They were supposed to meet in Fionni if anything went wrong so here she is, hopefully not for long.”
Adalai brushed his fingers across the shield absently, not expecting much. The Hexton’s were not big fans of Artifice. However as soon as his fingers made contact with the steel he felt himself whisked away. He found himself standing under the dome at the Corners of Eternity for a brief moment. The Kings were absent but he felt the presence of Karoushi looming behind him with her dreadful certainty. Then Bellini snatched his hand away from the shield and he was back in the gatehouse.
“What happened?” The Captain demanded. “You just froze for a moment. I have never seen you react to anything like that before. What is it?”
For a brief moment Adalai stared at the shield in confusion. Was it a message of some kind? The Kings at the Corners were well known in Nerona but whatever Karoushi was no one on the twin peninsulas had heard of her. At least not by that name. It was the first time he had seen any indication of that particular supernatural force since he came to Nerona. “I’m not sure, Bellini, but I think it was an omen. How much does she owe for the gate tax?”
“Twenty lira.”
“Take it from my pay. I will stand as bondsman.”
“I did not take you for such a man!” The Captain practically snarled.
“What?”
“I know you are not Neronan, my friend, but certainly it is not looked on well when a strange man buys the freedom of a woman he is not related to in any nation?”
When Bellini put it that way Adalai realized it did make him look like some kind of slaver or pimp. “That’s not my intention! I just think she shouldn’t be locked away while she waits for her family.”
“She may be safer in the woman’s cells than alone in common lodgings.” Bellini chewed on his bottom lip. “You will speak to her and, if she agrees, then you may stand as bondsman. But otherwise she must remain here.”
It was a fair enough of a requirement and, to be perfectly honest, he wanted to meet this Hexton woman himself. If Karoushi was invested in her somehow perhaps he needed to be involved. At least if he wanted to go home. So the two of them trudged to the Meridian gatehouse, where the women’s cells were, and paid a visit to Marta Towers.
Like the handful of Hexton women Adalai had seen in Fionni she was fair haired and athletic. She wore a simple dress with a floral patterned cloth over her hair. Two braids hung down to below her waist. She studied Adalai with piercing blue eyes as Bellini introduced him. Once he was done she asked, in slow, accented but intelligible Neronan, “What would you have me do if you become my bondsman?”
“Do?” Adalai was a bit thrown off by the question. “How do you mean?”
“You intend for me to do something until you recoup your cost or my family comes and pays back the money, do you not? Will you keep me as your nightly servant?”
It made him uncomfortable how quickly everyone went to that kind of assumption. “No. I was shown great charity when I first came to Fionni and I wanted to show the same to others. I cannot even expect to keep you near me because I am leaving the city tomorrow and you must remain here to meet your family.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You are leaving soon? Where will you go?”
“I am joining an expedition that will make passage through a dangerous route called the Drownway to the city of Renicie.”
“Kismet,” she whispered. “Then I must go with you.”
Adalai blinked once, looked over at an equally baffled Bellini, then back to Marta. “What?”
“The Ironhand is here, Fyodor.” The huge Slavic man gestured to Cassian with a deferential tilt of the head. “He says he wishes to discuss a matter of business.”
Fyodor Highplains stopped oiling his tack and saddle for a moment, studying Cassian with his good eye. “Rare for you to be out of your forge so late, Cassian. Is the need for steel work so little that you have to drum up business on your own?”
“Hardly,” Cassian said with a laugh. “The need is as great as ever. To tell you the truth the forgemaster nearly turned purple when I told him I was leaving his shop. The business I want to discuss involves me hiring you this time.”
Fyodor slowly folded his oil cloth and set it aside then dismissed the man who had escorted Cassian to the stable yard with the wave of a hand. “Is that so? Can I ask what the commission would be?”
“I need two or three other people willing to go on a retrieval mission along the Drownway with me.”
“What would we be retrieving?”
“A caravan with three wagons worth of cargo, plus any survivors from the merchants and guards.” Cassian hesitated for a moment, debating whether he should mention Cazador being among the caravan or not. Ultimately he figured candor was the best policy. After all, Carpathea had figured it out easily enough. Hopefully the Arminger would be along for the ride as well in which case even if there was a good reason to hide the fact it was unlikely to work for very long. “My older brother is also one of the guards.”
“Ah.” Fyodor looked upset when he heard that. “I had wondered. You never expressed interest in the life of a bravo or condottieri before but men will do such things for family. Unfortunately I cannot help you.”
“There is a sizeable reward if we can retrieve the cargo.”
Fyodor sighed and grabbed his oil cloth and started in on the saddle again, scowling into the gleaming leather rather than meeting Cassian’s eyes. “The new Prince of Torrence has demanded the Marquis de Fionni come to Torrence. No one knows why. The Marquis has refused, because he has dreams of sitting on the throne in Lome himself. So the Prince is raising an army to drag the Marquis to Torrence whether he wishes to go or not. In short, it is war.”
This was all news to Cassian. But then again he’d been frantically trying to discover Cazador’s fate for the last ten days. He was out of touch with the news. For the Highplains clan it was a good chance to earn some coin and it explained why he’d seen so many of them scrambling to get their mounts and barding ready. “I only need two or three -“
“The Marquis has demanded a levy. The Slav quarter must furnish five hundred men or face the Reckoners.”
Cassian sucked in a breath. Five hundred men was the number of troops a Count was expected to furnish. He wasn’t sure there were even two thousand Slavs in all Fionni, much less five hundred of fighting age. “Will there be enough to meet the demand?”
“The Highplains Company are a hundred strong,” Fyodor said. “We will take as many as we can find in the Quarter then empty our coffers to hire the rest. My kin are not rich but we can afford a few score men if we must.”
The Marquis was getting a steal, then. Not only were the Highplains the best mounted troops for hire in Nerona but they were likely to bring in another mercenary company at their own expense. For Nerona’s Slavic population the options were service or expulsion. With no homeland of their own to return to and a reputation of betraying Neronan hospitality so established they were unlikely to find another territory willing to take them in if they were exiled from Fionni. Thus they had no choice but to serve when called upon. “I see. I hadn’t realized your position was so difficult, my friend, or I would have turned elsewhere for help.”
“How could you know? The Marquis only called for levies yesterday and you have other things on your mind.” Fyodor sighed and threw his cloth down in disgust. “But I regret there is nothing I can do to help you. Just as your worries are for your family; so are mine for my people.”
Cassian nodded. “I understand, my friend, and I’ll trouble you about it no more. I have one promising lead. I’m just sorry I won’t be able to help you get ready.”
The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Fyodor’s mouth. “We will miss your skill with metal, Cassian, but the decrees of fate show no partiality. If it is for you to find your brother you will.”
“He did have the scent of inevitability about him.” The voice was deep yet feminine and uncomfortably close to his right ear.
Cassian frowned and turned his head a few degrees, catching the speaker in the corner of his eye. “Your pardon, signorina, I do not take your meaning. You are?”
Fyodor’s expression matched Cassian’s. “This is my sister, Verina.” He set his saddle aside and got to his feet. “Rina, what brings you here?”
“Your friend.” She leaned in closer to Cassian and breathed deeply. “The Great Linnorm says he is touched by fate. Has he come to help us?”
The woman’s proximity was obnoxious. Cassian took two deliberate steps away from her, debating whether he should address her or her brother, but stopped short of speaking when a flicker of movement caught the edge of his perception. There was nothing there when he turned to look.
“He sought our help, sister,” Fyodor said, his frown deepening. “His business is his own. I hope Great Linnorm does not demand his aid; it is not my place to ask for it.”
“No, brother. It is something of the opposite.” Verina took a single step around in front of Cassian, studying him intently. Now that she was more in view Cassian had a opportunity to return the favor.
The first thing he noticed was her size. She was only an inch or two shorter than his own six foot height, well formed and lively. The second thing that stood out was her light brown hair, which was chopped savagely short in the back. It wasn’t very fashionable by Neronan standards. However it did reveal the very graceful line of the woman’s neck. Verina’s strangest feature by far was the black tattoos running down her arms and ending in a strange arrowhead shape on each hand.
Whatever she saw as she studied him she kept to herself. “What is your name, signore?”
“Cassian Ironhand.”
“Have you seen an omen from a Herald recently, Cassian Ironhand?”
He blinked at what felt like a very abrupt change in topic. “No. Well, not as such, although I did pay a visit to a man who’s connected to them somehow…” Cassian considered the question a bit more. Everyone knew Adalai Carpathea was connected to the Heralds of Eternity but none of the stories agreed on the nature of their connection. “Is that important?”
She sighed and turned to her brother, revealing an odd, winglike design on her back connecting the two lines that ran down her arms. “He had a touch of the inevitable on him, brother. Someone has to help him.”
He scowled and set his saddle aside with an emphatic thump. “Who, sister? I have no one to spare!”
“Yet the Great Linnorm demands the Slavs not abandoned this man.” Verina spun around, staring at Cassian with her unsettling blue eyes. “The price we pay for abandoning him will be far greater than what it costs to aid him.”
“Sorry, what price would that be?” Cassian asked. That was almost the last thing on his mind but he wasn’t sure what exactly the two of them were talking about so he figured he should just start asking questions and work things out as he got answers.
“Who can say?” She prodded a finger at his doublet, testing the mail hidden underneath. “Perhaps we’d lose the only blacksmith who doesn’t charge us a premium simply because we are Slavs. Perhaps it would be much worse. Most people do not see the ends of their own actions. Or inactions.”
“Call it action or inaction,” Fyodor growled, “but I have no men to spare to help him. If the Great Linnorm wishes to help him he must do so himself.”
Verina smiled. “I agree, brother.”
From the horrified look on Fyodor’s face Cassian got the feeling something had just gone over his head. “Fyodor, I don’t know anything about this Linnorm fellow but I don’t want you or him putting your people out for me. There are other fair minded smiths in the city. Tell him I can find some way to sort this out on my own.”
He caught another flicker of motion in the corner of his eye but this time, as he turned his attention back to the matter at hand he caught Verina looking towards the same spot. Then, to his surprise, she raised both hands to chest height, palms up. Her tattoos flickered with a dull green light. Then, as if conjured out of the air itself, two enormous reptilian heads appeared, staring at him with their narrow pupils.
Cassian had never seen a dragon head before but he knew, with supernatural certainty, that he was looking at two of them now. Each had a pair of graceful, curving horns poking out of its skull just over its eyes. The body of the creature glowed faintly but Cassian could still make out scales and wrinkles in the creature’s skin and the outline of the stable walls through it’s partly transparent body.
“We do not make decisions for the Great Linnorm,” Verina said, her voice deep and melodious. “He is one of the benefactors of the Slavic people, without whom we would no longer exist. The spirits of the land defended us from calamity once. If we do not have the strength to fend off misfortune now they will intervene for us again, whether we will it or not.”
“No, sister,” Fyodor said. “I will not allow you to undertake this task with Cassian. He is an honorable man and worthy of help, no doubt, but you cannot put yourself in danger like that. You are the only Yaga in Fionni, perhaps the only one in Nerona capable of hosting the Great Linnorm. This says nothing of the disgrace of allowing you to travel alone with a man not of your kin!”
The Linnorm’s heads swung about to glare at him, the malice clear in spite of the creature’s alien features. Once again Verina spoke on their behalf. “Are you suggesting that a Yaga, blessed by the Great Linnorm, is ever alone, brother?”
Fyodor visibly flinched, although Cassian couldn’t tell if that was because the Linnorm’s scrutiny frightened him or because of his sister’s question. “Verina. It is a question of your honor.”
“How can a Yaga ignore their spirit and still claim to have honor? Are we not Slavs?”
“I’m not,” Cassian put in. Four heads swiveled to stare at him. Something about the way the two Linnorm heads moved set his nerves on edge. It was deeply unnatural. The siblings were less synchronized but the added scrutiny didn’t help. “With due respect to you and your sister, Fyodor, and to the Great Linnorm, I’m a Neronan man. Your people and their traditions have no bearing on me. I’ve heard that Yagas are like our Heralds, messengers who speak on behalf of Eternity to warn you of things to come, but their power is rooted in your homeland, correct?”
“It’s as you say,” Verina answered. “But the fact that the roots are in one place doesn’t mean the branches don’t reach here.”
Cassian flicked a glance up to the two heads of the Linnorm. “Clearly. But their power is for the Slavs, not the Neronans, nor is there any proof that the spirit’s insight is as clear about me as it would be for a Slav. Does the Great Linnorm know in what way fate rests upon me? Will I die if nothing is done? Will I merely fail my task? Or is there some other, greater doom that I will not understand if no child of the Slavic people travels with me?”
For a long moment Verina and the Linnorm sat in silent congress. The heads of the dragon looked between each other while Verina stared straightforward, her eyes focused in the middle distance. Finally she said, “He doesn’t know.”
“Then let me tell you what I know. When a bravo mixes their work with the ways of men and women it is an ill omen. Always, signorina, regardless of nation or spirit.” Cassian offered them a bow from the waist. “You honor me by seeking to aid me in my cause and, believe me, I am grateful for it. But if the only aid you can offer me is to send one of your Yagas with me then I must decline. It will make your position worse and it’s likely to bring bad fortune to me.”
As he straightened up he caught a look of relief and gratitude on Fyodor’s face. Clearly he was happy to have someone else deal with his sister for once. Verina just looked surprised. The Linnorm’s heads were as unreadable as always, one head watching Cassian and the other focusing on the siblings. Then the head pointed at Cassian twitched towards the exit to the stable yard. It was enough of a dismissal for him.
“I hope we’ll see each other again when our tasks are done,” he said before pivoting on his heel and making a swift retreat. Hopefully Carpathea would be able to free himself from his own entanglements. Two people was not a lot to cross the Drownway but Cassian would prefer that to trying to deal with Verina and the Linnorm the whole way…
The main square outside Citadel Fionni was always a busy place, crammed to the brim with sailors off ships on the Gulf of Lum and the Adriatic Ocean, merchants restocking their wares from ship holds and tradesmen hawking their services to any who would listen. There was no sign of the typical denizens of court squares. Things like produce or livestock rarely found a place in the primary market of Nerona’s southernmost city. Farmers or peddlers hawked their goods in other, less prominent places in Fionni.
The main square was for the best of the best, things like exotic goods just imported or olive oil and rare marble bound for the far corners of the earth. Only the most valuable goods and rarest skills were worth trying to sell in the main square.
Although he was no stranger to town squares Cassian Ironhand found the Citadel’s too bustling for his taste. However there was only one man in southern Nerona who could do what he needed and that man was last seen selling his services in Fionni.
There weren’t many bravos plying their trade in town squares. Most clustered around gate houses or in the potter’s fields just outside city walls. These were the places that prompted the average merchant or traveler to think about hiring men of arms to protect their lives and livelihoods in the unsettled parts of Nerona.
However Adalai Carpathea was not strictly a bravo. When people first started mentioning his name a few years ago it was as a Herald, although the man himself supposedly hated that term. Regardless, he had a rare Gift, and that was what Cassian needed.
And so the young man picked his way through the carts and the cargo and the merchants and the sailors, looking for a man in dark colors with a single ostrich feather in his hat. It took a surprisingly long time to find him. Adalai must have had great confidence in his reputation, or he really didn’t feel a strong desire to take on work, because he had tucked himself into a far corner of the market, sitting on a dull red rug with a shield embroidered on it.
He peered up at Cassian from under the broad brim of his wine red hat, mild curiosity on his face. “Good morning, friend,” he said, voice thick with a strange, foreign accent. “What brings you to the largest market in Fionni on this fine morning?”
Cassian frowned as he looked Carpathea over. He had to admit he found Adalai’s dress and attitude a bit curious. The man wore a black cloak that hung to his waist in the front but tapered down to knee length in the back. It didn’t look particularly warm. Nor was it in fashion or serving to conceal armor or weapons. In fact he had set his two swords on the blanket beside him so as to sit at his ease so concealment was clearly not a priority to the man. Yet his pantaloons and dublet were unremarkable so displaying his sense of fashion wasn’t a concern either.
In short he was not dressed like a bravo. He wasn’t flamboyant or flashy enough to be promoting himself nor was he really armed or armored in the way you might expect if he was working. Best to make sure this was the right man. Cassian braced his hands on his hips and said, “My name is Cassian Ironhand. I’m looking for Adalai Carpathea, the Arminger. Are you him?”
“Yes. You came here to the market rather than tracking me to my inn and waiting there so I presume you want my services to commune with something rather than as a mercenary?” He asked Cassian the question with the detached attitude of the casual observer rather than someone trying to assess a prospective employer. At least that was Cassian’s impression. His accent made his mood as hard to understand as his words.
“You’re correct,” Cassian said. “Although depending on what you learn I may need to put together some bravos to mount a rescue. Would you be interested?”
His sour look suggested he was not but Carpathea did not immediately answer the question. Instead he started tugging off one of his gloves, saying, “We’ll see. Just to be clear, when I commune with an object the impressions I get are based on the residual thoughts, emotions and sensations left on the object by it’s owner or owners. For example, if you need to learn where your crazy uncle buried his gold you better have brought his shovel with you. Or at least something he always carried with him. The facts I can glean from communing with something are not infinite.”
“I understand,” Cassian said, although in truth he did not. However complete understanding of another person’s Gift was rare and he didn’t concern himself with it. Instead Cassian dug a piece of the axel of a large wagon out of his heavy leather shoulder bag. It was an iron hub cap, some splintered spokes and about two feet of axel. Cassian set it down on the blanket in front of Adalai. “This is from a wagon in a caravan that went missing crossing the Drownway. I was hoping you could tell me more about what happened.”
The other man took the piece of wood gingerly in his gloved hand then poked it with one finger of the other. His eyebrows shifted upward a barely perceptable amount. “Well there’s definitely something there, which is surprising given that it’s a wheel. Not to beat a dead horse but I don’t know how much of use it will be to you. Thirty lira.”
That was nearly two days wages for a laborer. Cassian tried to control his surprise at Adalai’s blunt demand. “That’s a lot to ask for in exchange for a service you insist may not do me any good.”
“My Gift has limits just like anyone’s, Cassian. I don’t expect you to know what they are anymore than I know what the specifics of an Ironhand are.” Adalai offered a dissolute shrug. “It’s up to you to decide if it’s worth it or not.”
Cassian grit his teeth, realizing Carpathea had the strong hand over him and he knew it. “Would it serve as a preliminary retainer for your services as a bravo as well?”
There was that sour look again. “No. I can’t commit to such a step just yet, there are… other obligations that I would have to check in on before committing to leaving Fionni. Who else have you recruited for your cause? Do you have the lira for a large party?”
“Not as such,” Cassian admitted. “However the merchant who owned the caravan’s cargo has offered a reward of two thousand lira if we can retrieve it, an extra five hundred if we can see it all the way to Renicie. I am offering equal shares to anyone who helps me retrieve it.”
“That… that isn’t terrible,” Carpathea admitted. “Still, I can’t say whether I can join you yet. Will you pay for the reading?”
Cassian sighed and dug a handful of coins of of his belt pouch. “Very well, Signore Carpathea, thirty lira for the reading. What can you learn?”
Adalai pulled his other glove off and gasped the axel in both hands. “Whoever owned this cart took very good care of it,” he muttered, concentration furrowing his brow. “It’s extremely rare for something that primarily sits on the ground to have any impressions at all.”
“Wouldn’t there be some from the craftsman who made it at least?”
“Not unless it was very new, the traces fade quickly unless they’ve been reinforced for years.” Adalai’s face scrunched up as he concentrated. “Damp. Something very impatient and very moist. Jostling, dragging and blood? I think there was excitement mixed in with a sense of satisfaction but the emotional overtones are very fragmented.”
“Excitement and satisfaction?” Cassian frowned. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense. No one looks forward to crossing the Drownway and a broken wagon wheel would be more a cause for heartache than excitement.”
“Not if you were planning to drag the wagon underwater,” Adalai said, shifting the chunk of wood over into just his right hand. “I don’t think that impression was left by the men of the caravan. It doesn’t feel like the kind of impression a human leaves behind, the thoughts were jumbled and alien, especially the sensations, which are usually the clearest thing. My guess is the caravan got snatched by the Benthic. The wheel got caught as they dragged it into the water and they left these impressions as they tried to free it.”
Cassian was shaking his head now. “It makes no sense. What do the Benthic want with a caravan of air breather goods? A few days in salt water makes most of it useless.”
“I don’t know, signore, but I know that wheel was last touched by something inhuman. I’ve never handled something belonging to the Benthic before but I have seen things from the Fair Folk and they’re just as inscrutable as that wheel axel. Just with a different flavor, if you follow me.”
Cassian didn’t. However he didn’t have much choice other than to take Adalai at his word. Armingers weren’t exactly rare in Nerona but there were perhaps half a dozen in the whole continent of Iberia who could use it to glean impressions the way Carpathea did. Finding anyone who could check the accuracy of his conclusions was virtually impossible. “The Benthic,” Cassian muttered. “Really?”
Adalai handed him the chunk of wood back. “I’m afraid so. Do you know what the cargo was? If it was something like marble or jewels it might survive.”
“Signore Marelli did not say, nor did he seem eager to explain himself.” Which Cassian really couldn’t blame him for, given that the Marelli family was the city’s best known cat’s paw for the Borgias. Crossing Nerona’s most ruthless merchant leader wasn’t a good way to live but it was a fast way to die.
“What about the rescue you mentioned?” Carpathea asked. “Was that Signore Marelli’s goal? Or yours?”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
The other man offered a shrug far easier to understand than his normal speech. “Call it a hunch.”
“Well if you must know it was mine. My brother is a bravo who was hired to guard the caravan. They’re only two weeks overdue and I still hold hope to find him alive.”
Adalai’s face fell. “I’m sorry about your brother but unless he had a Gift that helped him breath under water he’s probably dead. Outside of the Benthic dragging him under the waves with them I can’t think of any reason he’d be gone so long.”
“Cazador is a clayheart. He can turn completely to earth and stone in a pinch and once he does he didn’t need to eat or breath. He just can’t move either.” Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose. “The problem is the cargo.”
For a moment Adalai looked confused. Then understanding dawned. “No reward money if the ocean has destroyed it.”
“None.”
For a moment Cassian just stood there brooding, trying to figure out how he was going to raise a rescue team with no promise of reward to entice them. He’d just determined he’d have to go alone when Adalai said, “Come by the Quarrelsome Widow tomorrow morning. That’s where I’m staying right now. I should know if my other… patrons are willing to spare me for a few days by then.”
Cassian stare blankly at him. “You do realize the chances I can pay you are paltry to nonexistent, yes?”
“Be there by midmorning bells, signore, or I’ll assume you changed your mind about your rescue mission.” Adalai sat back down on his blanket. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to try to earn some coin today. The next few days could be quite slow on that front.”
A grin slowly spread across Cassian’s face. Perhaps he still had a chance to make this work after all. “Thank you, Signore Carpathea. I will see you in the morning.”
He hurried out of the square with a new spring in his step. There was still a chance to find Cazador. He was always the toughest of their parent’s sons, even when they were young, and if anyone could survive under the ocean for weeks it was him. That was why he’d been the one to take up the life of a bravo in the first place. Cassian really only knew about the life from the stories he heard from Cazador and his customers at the smithy.
Still, those stories had gotten him Adalai’s name and from there a start on finding his brother.
Yes, getting dragged into the ocean by the Benthic wasn’t great as such things went. But bravos had survived worse things in the past and this wasn’t just any bravo. It was his brother. He’d just have to hope Cazador could hold out until Cassian could put something together and come save him.
Cassian knew he’d need more manpower to do that, though. It might have been difficult to find that manpower in any place other than Fionni but the Citadel was one of the largest ports on the Adriatic. There were plenty of desperate men willing to gamble their lives for a share of a few thousand lira. Fortunately he had a hunch where he should start. Cassian turned his feet towards the Slavic quarter and hurried there as fast as he could go.
Adalai shifted back and forth, trying to look around the legs of the kid standing on his shoulders. “Use a sleeve to brush -” A fit of coughing interrupted him. “Use a sleeve to brush the glass off the side of the frame and grab onto that.”
A series of oddly musical sounds accompanied a shower of uncomfortable glass slivers raining down on him. Adalai flinched away from them but kept his balance. The weight of the twelve year old kid shifted back and forth, briefly pushed down extra hard then vanished. Adalai craned his neck back and reached up to push the kid until he could plant his feet on the jacket covering the jagged lip of the broken widow.
The kid was right about the jacket being slippery. His feet shot out from under him almost immediately and the main reason he didn’t take a nasty fall was because he still had that grip on the window’s edges.
“Careful,” Adalai yelled, choking on another cough. “Is the ground clear?”
After a quick, panicky look down over one shoulder he answered, “Yeah, I think so.”
“Then turn around and drop yourself down.”
“It’s kinda far, mister,” the kid said, his nerves clearly getting worse. “Can’t I wait until the firemen can come and help?”
Adalai glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door, where smoke was already creeping around the edges in frightening quantities. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, buddy. Besides, how am I gonna get up to the widow if you’re still in it?”
“Oh, right.” Suitably admonished the kid carefully twisted himself around in the frame, took a deep breath then dropped with a loud scream. Probably unnecessary but hopefully cathartic. It ended with a hard thump then the kid called, “I’m okay! You can come out, mister!”
And that brought Adalai to the elephant in the room. If he reached up to full extension he could get a grip on the lower edge of the windowsill but he wasn’t any good in gym class so the odds he could pull himself up and out that way were pretty slim even if he hadn’t thrown his windbreaker over it. With the slick fabric there he could forget it entirely. So instead he grabbed the wooden push broom they’d used to break the window in the first place.
His first idea, to wedge the head of the broom in the corner on the window, didn’t work. The angles weren’t quite right and he couldn’t make it catch. So instead he hooked it over the sill and tried to pull himself up that way. That did work.
For about eight seconds, until the head broke off the handle and sent Adalai crashing back to the floor. He tried to catch himself but there was nothing to grab onto and he rolled backwards and crashed head first into a sink.
For a moment his vision swam.
Then Adalai found himself sitting on one side of a large, square glass table in a domed room about the size of a three car garage. Confused, he looked around. Then he froze in place, realizing there was a twelve foot tall man made of deep blue light standing there.
A panicked thought that he’d been abducted by aliens flitted through his mind.
“Not abducted.” The voice was unusually deep and echoed in the room a little more than you’d expect but otherwise didn’t seem a good fit for the creature that stood next to him. “What kind of voice were you expecting?”
Adalai shifted uncomfortably as he realized the thing had read his mind. Probably shouldn’t have surprised him. “I guess -“
A deep, rasping cough cut him off. At first he expected things to clear out right away but, after the third rib shaking explosion tore out of him, Adalai started to worry they would never stop. A hand touched his shoulder and his muscles froze up. Something in his chest shifted and a stream of damp ash trickled out of his lips. That probably only took a second or two, though it felt like an hour, and once it was done the cold vanished and he could breath again. Adalai straightened up and realized the blue presence was what had touched him. Furthermore, the silhouette had small points of light glistening deep within it, like it was a living field of stars.
“Next time make sure he’s ready to speak before bantering with him.” This was a new voice and Adalai quickly concluded that this voice belonged to the starfield, not the first one. The first had been sharp and precise. This one was strong yet unhurried, like a lazy river that concealed surprising depths. The silhouette turned is attention fully towards him. “Welcome, Adalai Carpathea.”
“Thanks,” he rasped. “Where am I?”
“The Corners of Eternity,” the first voice replied. Adalai took a harder look at his surroundings, which included very little beyond the table where he sat. The smooth dome overhead looked like it was made of marble or some other light colored stone that had four doorways in it equidistant from each other. He presumed these were the corners the voice mentioned as the dome itself was round. A figure wrapped in green light stood in front of one of the doors and Adalai had the clear impression it was the source of the first voice.
“That’s right, Adalai.” The verdant figure gestured to itself. “I am the King of Dreams. You were brought here by the King of Stars, who now stands beside you. This is the King of Scars.”
As if speaking the name caused it to appear a third silhouette snapped into existence in front of the door to his left. This one radiated a soft, brown light that reminded Adalai of an autumn afternoon. “We’re all here,” the new figure said, its voice a rich, rolling sound. “Is this the one?”
“He is,” Stars replied, drawing itself up to it’s full height. “I suppose it is time to propose the question, Adalai Carpathea. Do you wish to live?”
Up until that point the bizarreness of the situation had distracted Adalai from the fact that it was also quite terrifying. “W-what do you mean?”
The King of Stars left his side and moved to the door in front of him. “You stand on the doorstep of Eternity, Adalai,” it said. “If you wish to cross the threshold to that blessed place you may do so and we would not hold it against you.”
“In many ways your death would be a noble one,” the King of Scars added. “Not everyone would have the presence of mind save another when confronted with the end of their own life. If you live longer who knows if the rest of your life will be as worthwhile? “
Adalai rubbed nervously at his throat, remembering the acidic taste of smoke. “Sorry, I’m a little lost. I know I was in the museum bathroom and the building was on fire… does that make one of you Charon? Because this doesn’t look like the Styx.”
“That’s something I’ve been called,” the King of Dreams replied. “The River is close, and you will see it when the time is right, but first you must make your choice.”
“That doesn’t make things much clearer,” Adalai admitted. “What am I choosing?” The King of Stars raised up its hand and a constellation formed there from the light of it’s body. “We are the keepers of Eternity’s rolls. Today Eternity called out to you but you are offered a rare gift – you may choose how you answer. You may pass through these doors and into the timeless realm or you may cross the gulf between mortal realms and face the trials and cares of human life once more.”
“Eternity?” He stared at the door behind Stars. “What is that like?”
A rumbling sound shook the room and it took Adalai a moment to realize it was the King of Scars laughing. The creature’s silhouette rippled as the sound echoed. “It may sound odd,” it said when it’s amusement subsided, “but we haven’t been there. Our duties are on this side of the River. If you choose to remain in the mortal realm then your duties will be there as well.”
His eyes narrowed. “My duties? What are those?”
“The same as they were before,” Dreams replied, “only of greater significance.”
“That sounds awfully vague,” Adalai said. “If you are who you say then you’re supposed to be the Ferryman who conveys souls to the afterlife. There has to be some reason you’re not doing that with me. People don’t just come back from the dead at random, if they did everyone would be talking about it.”
The laughter of the King of Dreams sounded like a rushing wind, battering the dome overhead. “Didn’t you know one of my names when you first got here?”
Adalai’s mouth hung open for a long moment as he tried to think of a good response but, in truth, he didn’t have one. “Okay. I either cross into Eternity or I cross to a… what, another world?”
“You will cross the horizon,” Dreams replied. “The world is your own, but given to a different people with different ways.”
“But can I go back to my own world? Or, I guess can I go back across the horizon?”
“Such a thing is possible,” the King of Scars said. “It does not even require power beyond what a human being can acquire in the realm you’re going to. However it requires a great deal of time and effort, Adalai. I can’t guarantee you’d accomplish it, even if you spent your whole life.”
He could. The voice boomed out from behind him like a thunderclap. If his duties are fulfilled, he could.
Terrified, Adalai spun in his chair, trying to find the source of the voice. Before he could turn a quarter of the way the King of Stars was beside him, holding him in place. “Show some restraint, Karoushi. His mind won’t survive seeing you like that.”
Now that he knows this he will not look upon me. Is it not so, Adalai Carpathea?
He fixed his full attention on the table in front of him. “Yes.”
It is well. Now that he was a little calmer he realized the voice had a slight feminine lilt to it.You must know further things than these, Adalai Carpathea. These Kings of the Doors have only the authority to judge a man’s death. However I am Karoushi, Who Knows the End. My purpose is to uphold the path, from the first step to the last, for all who tread the mortal coils. I can see that if you uphold your purpose in the place you are sent one day my sister, Who Spans the Horizon, will return you to the place you began.
Then Adalai felt there was really only one choice to make. “In that case I want to live. Send me to whatever this place beyond the horizon is.”
He must have a Gift.
“A what?”
The King of Scars shifted as if folding its arms. “We don’t give Gifts, Karoushi, unless you consider turning people back from Eternity a gift.”
Do you not take them from those who depart? My sister, Who Brings the Harvest, takes them from you and plants them in new lives. This once you must offer them yourselves.
Some kind of communication passed between the three Kings. It wasn’t words or motions but Adalai could still sense that they were skeptical enough about this idea they were debating it. Then the three doors behind them opened.
Adalai caught a brief glimpse of a man choking on blood as he lay on a muddy battlefield, a child lost and starving in a forrest and a man crushed under the wall of a house he was building. Then the doors slammed shut.
The King of Scars held a dim bronze colored spark of light. “The Gift of Impulse,” it said. “With it you may move whatever you last held whether you are touching it or not.”
The King of Stars held a smudge of silver mist. “The Gift of Clouds. With it all mist or fog that you touch will be as a part of yourself.”
The King of Dreams held a box of bright white light. “The Gift of Arms. With it you will discover the purpose imbued into whatever you touch.”
You must choose one. However, once you do the decision is made know that you cannot go back. You must suffer through the fates of mortals until Eternity calls you once more.
For a long moment Adalai hesitated. There was something tempting about the great unknown that Eternity represented. On the other hand there was all the friends he’d left behind, to say nothing of his parents and little brother. It getting back to them meant doing something over some horizon he’d do that.
“Wait.” He pause in the process of pushing his chair away from the table. “How do I know my purpose in this new place?”
The same way you knew it when you saved that child. That is all mankind has ever needed to know their purpose.
He could see the truth in that but it couldn’t hurt to have something to help him work things out. Adalai got up, approached the King of Dreams and took the Gift from his hands.
There was a flash of light and he found himself standing just inside a massive stone gate, surrounded by a bustling crowd of people babbling in a strange language he’d never heard in his life.
That was how Adalai Carpathea first came to Citadel Fionni.
This work also appears on Substack and Royal Road under the user name HorizonTalker
Aelfred and Gwendolyn return for another glimpse into the dangerous life of a Neronan bravo.
Cool mist rolled down off the southern mountains of Isenlund into Selene Valley, covering the trees and road in shadows and secrets. The Valley ran right down the heart of the country to the Gulf of Lum but this far north it was anyone’s guess whether they were in the lands of the Isenkoenig or the territories of Nerona. By Aelfred’s reckoning the only point north of where they were that was in Neronan hands was Casa Verdemonde. But the green mountain was a safe and prosperous land. In contrast the northern Valley was wild and full of danger from man and nature.
It was hardly the first time Aelfred had passed through the Valley with his wife and hopefully it wouldn’t be the last. However he’d never once passed through without incident. So when their caravan wound down out of the mountains and stumbled on a company of men at arms Aelfred regarded them with some trepidation. The troops were led by a flag with a green mountain on a red field. Verdemonde’s colors. Which didn’t necessarily mean Verdemonde’s men.
It wouldn’t be the first time villains had hidden themselves in trustworthy heraldry. After a quick discussion with the caravan leader Aelfred went to speak with the company’s captain. Gwendolyn came along with him, both because a man and wife were less threatening than a man alone and because she would never let him hear the end of it if he didn’t.
To Aelfred’s surprise the captain also had a woman beside him as he approached. Where Gwendolyn was dressed simply, in clothes tailored to hide the armor underneath, this woman was dressed in rich brocade with velvet gloves and long, layered skirts. The only practical thing she wore was her sword belt. That and the long, deadly montante buckled to it hinted that there was more to the woman than fine clothes and good manners.
“Good morning, Captain,” Aelfred said. “What brings you on the road to Lome on this fine day? Are there brigands about we should be aware of?”
The captain lightly spurred his horse and it stepped forward. “None I know of, unless you count yourself among them. We ride to Lome, and from there to Torrence on the business of the Marquis de Verdemonde.”
“How fortunate! Lome is our destination as well.” Aelfred gestured back towards the caravan behind them. “Your servants are a small band of traders from Isenlund and their escorts, seeking to trade our humble wares in Lome. Perhaps we may join with you on our shared journey. Or if you prefer we will clear the road that you may be on your way, for you will doubtless outpace our lumbering wagons.”
He felt the hair of his beard prickling as he waited for the captain to answer. Either option he had just suggested would be fine with him, since a merchant’s wagon train was safer with an armed group than without. If the troops were bandits in disguise it would be easy to tell after marching with them for a few minutes. If they chose to march on ahead then at least it was a sign they had no ill intent, since you didn’t rob wagons by walking away from them. On the other hand, bandits would ask them to stay ahead of them, in their line of sight. What a bandit leader wouldn’t typically do is lean down and whisper with the well dressed woman on foot beside him.
“What do you think?” Gwendolyn whispered, pressing close to him as well.
“There’s a carriage in the back,” he replied, “perhaps they’re taking some emissary or personage to Lome.”
“I was wondering if they were married.”
Aelfred snorted. “Then she’d be on the horse with him, not walking beside him.”
“Do you have your pass from the Southern Keep in Isenlund?” The captain called. The head merchant had given it to him before they came to parlay so Aelfred just had to hold it up, with the seal of der Isenkoenig clearly displayed on the wooden block. “Very well, let us march with you. Our business is not pressing and we will be safer together.”
The well dressed woman was already making her way back through the body of troops as the captain spoke. Aelfred watched her go, only vaguely acknowledging the captain’s words. As he and his wife returned to report their successful negotiation to their employer he wondered who she was. Hopefully it wouldn’t matter. But in a place like the Selene Valley you could never know.
“What was it this time? Woodcutters? A wagon with a broken axle? Or has Captain Enrico finally found an assassin after all this time?”
Noemi sighed as she slung her sword back on top of the carriage and strapped it down. “None of the above, Bi. It was just a group of traders down from Isenlund on their way to Lome.”
“Oh? Do you think they brought any of their griffon feather cloaks with them? It would be nice to have something to help keep warm in the winter and they say griffon feathers are just the thing for it.”
The carriage creaked as Noemi folded herself down inside it, sliding past her charge and onto the bench facing her. “Bi, you’re most likely going to be living in Torrence from now on. They don’t have winter there. It’s not just the fact that you’re out of the mountains, you’re going to be down by the Adriatic Ocean. It doesn’t get cold there.”
Bianca de la Torrence sighed and looked out the window, watching as the soldiers started forming up again. “That’s what they say, Emi. My brother will certainly want to keep me in his court even though neither one of us have ever met or even lived in Torrence before.”
Noemi straightened her skirts and arranged her heavy, booted feet so they didn’t rest on Bianca’s daintier velvet shoes. The lady was better dressed than her guardian but the loose skirt, tightly laced corset and flowing collar and sleeves also made her look ephemeral. Noemi was constantly worried a light jostling would send her floating away in the wind. “Who wouldn’t want you around, Bi? Your sunny personality endears you to everyone you meet!”
Her friend gave her a sideways look, annoyance simmering in the dark blue irises of her eyes. “Don’t you start, too. No one in Verdemonde cared about me until it turned out the last Prince of Torrence died without an heir and all the cousins, step children and bastard lines had to bicker over who would inherit. No one in Torrence will care about me unless they hope to marry their way onto the throne.”
“Bi.” Noemi took Bianca’s hands in her own. “I will always be there for you, no matter what. No one in Verdemonde wants to marry into the Marquis’ branch family that watches the vineyards, after all, much less marry a handmaid born with the Bladebearer’s Gift.”
For the first time in a long time Bianca favored her with a wan smile. “Very well. Stay with me no matter what, then.”
“Something’s wrong, Aelfred,” Erasmus said, falling into step beside the bravo and his wife.
The couple shared an amused look. The tall, wire thin man found three things out of place before breakfast every morning. It was part of what made him such an excellent guard. He’d signed on with the caravan on the trip north from Nerona, long before Aelfred and Gwendolyn did, and the merchants put a lot of weight on his hunches.
“I don’t suppose you know what it is?” Gwendolyn asked. “We can hardly go and tell Signor Gerardo that there is a wrong without an idea to right it, can we?”
“I don’t know yet.” His head hadn’t stopped swinging about on the end of his neck like a fishing bobber the whole time they spoke. His eyes were studying the line of the forest with a brooding expression. “I just wanted you to be aware. You Herakleians are the only other bravos in this troupe worth swearing by and if you’re on your toes as well we might be able to do something before we’re all dead.”
It took an effort of supreme will on Aelfred’s part not to roll his eyes. Gwendolyn babied Erasmus like a frightened child but he found the constant worrying grating. The fact that Aelfred was sharing those nerves with him this time made it worse, not better.
“Good omens!” Erasmus called, his attention now behind them on the newcomers, one hand raised in greeting. The couple beside him followed his gaze to see who he addressed.
Approaching from the Verdemond company was a man who didn’t wear green and red but rather a rich brown robes with muted orange hems and a similarly colored cloth wrapped around his head and tied in the rear. A white tabard with a pattern of red slashes on it protected his front and announced his profession. He was a Herald for the King of Scars.
“Dawn greets us,” the Herald said, replying to Erasmus.
“It does indeed.” Erasmus made some kind of hand gesture to go along with it which told Aelfred it was some kind of ritual exchange. Neronans couldn’t be sensible and just worship the sun so their religion got complicated quickly. Gwendolyn had picked up a lot of it but he only picked up enough to recognize the four Kings of Eternity and their Heralds so he wasn’t sure what the gesture meant.
“Our friend is nervous about our prospects, Omen Reader,” Aelfred called. “I have few pleasant memories of the Selene Valley myself. What say you? Have any portents made themselves known?”
“The King of Scars does not show us the future in the way the King of Dreams might,” the Herald replied, falling in next to Erasmus. Now that he was closer Aelfred could see the Herald was larger than he first appeared. He was only an inch or two shorter than Aelfred himself and just as broad through the shoulders with a strength in the chest and arm mostly hidden by his loose robes. If Aelfred’s scrutiny bothered the Herald it wasn’t enough to make him stop speaking. “We do not receive visions of the future or dreams of our impending death but rather have an understanding of who will die of what wounds and which crops will grow until harvest. Powerful portents, to be sure, but not as useful in predicting the future as some omens.”
“We still appreciate your presence on behalf of He Who Takes the Souls of the Slain,” Erasmus replied. “Let’s hope you do not see his hand stretched out for any of us today.”
A brief shadow passed over the Herald’s expression. It cleared as Gwendolyn said, “Do you Heralds have names or should we simply call you Omen Reader?”
“Ignacio Scarbearer,” he replied with a gracious smile. Like most Neronan men he turned charming whenever addressing a woman. It didn’t distract Aelfred from his name. Scarbearer wasn’t a name taken from his role as a Herald but rather a name derived from his Gift, as most Neronan names were. It explained his robust appearance and presence with the Verdemonde troops. “May I ask yours, Dame…?”
“Gwendolyn of Vernon, although my husband and I are called the Herakleians in Nerona for reasons that are strange to me.”
Ignacio glanced at Aelfred before turning his attention back to his wife. “I can see the resemblance. It’s not an entirely flattering comparison but… I could tell the story when we’re camped, if you really want to know.”
“I suppose it’s not that important,” Gwendolyn mused.
“Good omens!” One of the merchant apprentices hustled past on some errand waving to the Herald in greeting.
He raised his hand to wave in response, his mouth open to reply, when his eyes widened slightly and he stumbled before catching himself. He let his hand fall to his side, his words unspoken. Erasmus, who hadn’t once stopped scanning the horizon as they spoke to the Herald, finally turned his gaze to Ignacio and said, “Something is wrong.”
“Yes.” Ignacio met his gaze. “That man will be killed today unless something changes. So will half of our company. I came to take your measure, see if you were villains in disguise, but you don’t have the look of it. Death hangs over just as many of you.”
Aelfred drew himself up, his own gaze going to the tree line now. “Erasmus, go and tell the lead wagon to stop. If there’s danger afoot we’d better dig in and make ready for it rather than get caught running with our guard down. Propose to your captain he do the same, Omen Reader.”
“I will suggest it but I doubt he’ll agree.” His words weren’t encouraging but the Herald still turned and hurried back towards his company.
There was a banging on the carriage door and Noemi pulled the curtains aside to find Captain Enrico cantering alongside them. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” He gestured to a tall, broad man in the heraldry of Scars. “Omen Ignacio tells me he sees death pursuing us as well as the caravan we met. He proposes we circle up and prepare for an attack and I can see the wisdom in this. However I think it could be better for us to try and outpace the danger, instead. Wagons are poor fortifications and their owners will be underfoot.”
“And I am most likely the reason we will be attacked in the first place.” Bianca added, the implications of the situation not lost on her. She sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly, a stricken look on her face.
Noemi could tell her friend was at a loss so she spoke up. “Do you know what the nature of the threat is, Omen Reader?”
“My liege’s portents do not work that way,” Ignacio replied. “I only know many here will perish in fire or of being pierced through today. Respectfully, Your Highness, there is no way to know they will perish on your account, either, but there may be something we can do to prevent it happening at all. I don’t believe running is the thing to help us or the caravan.”
“We don’t have an obligation to them,” the captain hastened to add. “On the other hand I have an obligation to see you safely to Torrence and your brother wouldn’t wish for you to die before you have the chance to meet.”
“He wouldn’t want to look weak before he takes the throne, you mean,” Bianca snapped, acid on her tongue. Her voice deepened a step and her Gift pushed at the men. “Find a source of water and circle the wagons there; you decided to travel with this group, Captain Enrico, we’re not going to abandoned them now.”
The two men bowed slightly to Bianca and split away from the carriage to carry out her Command. Noemi doubted it would have much effect on either one. Although powerful in the moment her friend’s Gift of Command rarely lasted more than a breath or two and Enrico, in particular, would be resistant to it as he had the same Gift. But he was a loyal man, as well, and would carry out the order regardless. Bianca’s mood, on the other hand, had quickly shifted from haughty and demanding to glum once again. “I shouldn’t have done that.”’
“Why not?”
“With the exception of you, Emi, no one in your family thinks of me when they say to keep me safe. They worry about offending the Prince of Torrence, whoever that is at the time.” Bianca sighed and sank back into the carriage cushions. “That only goes so far, though. I’m sure if I get an entire company of men killed over some foreign merchants even your father will run out of patience.”
“He may,” Noemi said gently, “but I won’t. The Marquis always sent me away, to learn medicine, to learn the sword, to watch the foster girl. What have you always said?”
A wan smile touched her lips. “Stay with me, Noemi.”
Looking back on it, the Verdemonde troops being bandits in disguise would have been so much simpler than the actual danger lurking in the Valley. Or rather, just above it.
Erasmus brought word that the Verdemonde were planning to find a river or lake to camp beside about ten minutes after the Herald left to talk to his captain. One of their scouts had the Gift of Leaping and started hopping up over the treeline to see what was out there. He’d made three jumps when a blast of fire came out of the sky and struck him. The scout tumbled out of the sky, screaming, but never made it all the way to the ground as the dragon swooped past overhead and snatched him up. Just like that, everything went out the window.
“Abandon the wagons!” Aelfred bellowed, reaching up and dragging one of the merchants off his seat then shoving him towards the treeline. “Get under cover, quickly!”
There were generally two reasons dragons strayed into human lands – hunger and greed. The mountains were full of goats, rocs and other animals that could easily sate the hunger of even the largest dragons which meant the dragon most likely sought gold and gems. Perhaps it caught the scent of coins from the wagons. It was the only thing that made sense, unless it had somehow concluded it could ransom a bunch of soldiers back to Marquis Verdemonde.
In spite of his order the chief merchant whipped up his wagon and started down the road. “Where are you going?” Aelfred demanded, waving frantically to him. “Get down from there!”
“All the coins and talismans are here!” He yelled back. “It will chase me first! Keep my son with you!”
Cursing under his breath Aelfred cast his eyes about until he saw the younger man, scrambling to unhitch a horse from a wagon to chase after his father. He pointed and snapped, “Gwendolyn, bring him!”
“Randolf!” She snapped, because of course she knew his name. “Come here!”
The Command latched into the boy and he took three steps away from the wagon before he could make himself stop. It was enough that Reinaldo Grip, one of the other guards, got hold of the boy and dragged him towards cover. Immediate concerns dealt with, Aelfred took stock.
The Verdemonde were breaking apart their formation so it couldn’t be wiped out with a single exhalation and they were abandoning the carriage so they could take cover under the trees. That was when Aelfred felt his heart drop. A young girl, perhaps sixteen years old, was climbing down with the help of the well dressed swordswoman from earlier. He didn’t recognize her but he knew the type. With her light and airy appearance and the utter deference from the swordswoman, captain and Herald all showed her in spite of the circumstances it was obvious this girl was important. Someone, somewhere would pay a fortune to have her back. That had to be what the dragon wanted.
A burst of light, a whoosh of flame and a short, abrupt scream came from the opposite direction, where the caravan leader had gone, and Aelfred’s attention was dragged back that way. He backpedaled towards the treeline himself, trying to work out the best defense now. Abandoning the wagons to the dragon made sense when they were the only thing that the creature might want. But if it wanted to take the girl then it wasn’t going to help them that much.
Flashes and screams flickered out of the woods. The dragon was hunting down anyone who ran, herding them back into a single location to ensure its prey would not escape.
Erasmus appeared by his elbow. “What now? It’s in the trees and if we fall back we’ll just make a larger target grouped together with the soldiers.”
“Fall back,” Gwendolyn said. “It’s not impossible to kill a dragon with a company of men and it doesn’t look like we’re going to escape it.”
“Agreed,” Aelfred said. His stomach rumbled, even though breakfast was only a few hours behind them. “On the double, it’s getting close again.”
“Clayhearts forward!” Captain Enrico ordered, spurring his horse along the rapidly forming skirmish line. Six men marched forward, shields in hand, as their bodies transformed into living earth. Noemi found herself musing that if anyone was going to survive this battle it was them. The ground did no burn, after all. “We can buy you time to escape, Highness. Lady Verdemonde knows this road and can see you safely back to the mountain. The Marquis can send you home at a later time.”
“No, captain,” Bianca replied, drawing herself up to her full five feet of height. “Dragons are meticulous. It will hunt you down and devour you all to cut us off from help and sow fear. Ultimately any noblewoman of Nerona knows they cannot escape when a dragon sets its sight on them. I must either surrender to it or make a stand. You are men of Verdemonde, not Torrence. I can’t ask you to die for me but I don’t wish to be set on a pile of treasure in some dragon’s cave and wait to see if a distant brother I have never met will ransom me. If you wish to run, please leave me your dagger.”
“Not necessary, Your Highness,” Enrico replied. “If you wish to make a stand then Verdemonde is proud to stand with you.” He glanced at Noemi. “Is it not so?”
“I cannot speak for my father or the Prince of Torrence,” she replied. “But I will always stand with you Bi, dragon or no.”
Enrico nodded and looked back to his men. “Conjurers! Begin fortifying.” Two men in lighter armor began summoning foot high stones from thin air, allowing them to fall in place and make a low wall. Noemi wasn’t sure it would do much against a dragon but it kept the men busy. The captain’s stomach growled fiercely and he scowled. “Can’t imagine what’s wrong with me.”
“It’s the dragon,” Noemi replied. “They are hunger incarnate and their power far overshadows any human Gift. As it draws near it’s nature will corrupt our own.”
“Wonderful.” He looked back to his men. “Impulse line, spread out!”
Aelfred took the time to free the horses and ensure the merchants were out of the wagons, running back and forth to check each of the five remaining wagons while Gwendolyn encouraged the stragglers on to shelter in the woods or behind Verdemonde’s lines. Erasmus and Reinaldo remained at the edge of the caravan on the lookout. They had just finished with the wagons when Aelfred saw Erasmus’ eyes widen and Gwendolyn screamed, “Run, Aelfred!”
He knew better than to look so he just took off in a dead sprint. Even with the power of his wife’s Command spurring him onward he still felt the heat of the flames that burst over the wagons licking at his heels. An invisible force grabbed him as Reinaldo’s Gift pulled him forward, off his feet and out of the blast zone. Erasmus caught him and kept him on his feet then the four of them took off at full tilt towards the Verdemonde company, the flames casting long shadows before them. A shield wall of living earth marched out to meet them, brandishing spears. A second wave of fire chased them but the transformed Clayhearts intercepted the attack without flinching, the flames washing harmlessly over their steel shields. Aelfred skidded to a stop behind them and spun, raising his ax up for a throw, hoping to at least briefly delay the monster that pursued them.
The heat of the dragon’s breath had burned off the mist but now a thick smoke took its place. It hung over the remains of their caravan like a thundercloud, a huge form looming over it. A crown of horns rested on a head shaped like a spade with a hooked beak and glaring reptilian eyes. It’s scales were the color of coal and it’s teeth shone like silver. It braced its serpentine body upright on two long legs that were as thick or thicker than its chest and its throat shone with a dull, red light. Gossamer insect wings as wide as the sky sprouted from its back lazily beating the smokey air.
Aelfred had seen many horrifying creatures in his life and even he felt his heart quail at the sight. Practice and discipline drove his arm forward and his hand to release his ax but his mind was distracted. His Gift lost it’s hold on the weapon. He could not use it to tap the weapon onto the best course or add its extra Impulse of power. So his trusty ax drifted off course and bounced of the scales of the dragon’s arm, causing no visible damage but provoking it to an enraged roar. Aelfred saw the men in front of him cringe and his own heart wavered.
Then the dragon charged.
The skirmishing line was brushed aside like paper by the heaving bulk of the wyrm’s body that coiled and writhed like a whip. From the glimpse Aelfred got of it, the creature had only two legs. The rest of its body was free to churn and strike all about and it used its serpentine coils to throw the men of earth about, their weapons flying from their hands. Aelfred scrambled, grabbing a dropped spear in each hand then immediately throwing one at the dragon.
This time he kept his Gift trained on it and guided it towards the dragon’s head. The wily serpent opened its mouth and belched a stream of fire that turned the weapon to ash. The wave of heat hit him like a slap. Then Erasmus shoved him out of the way just before the torrent of flame washed over them both. The other bravo’s body disappeared.
A titanic clap of thunder shook the ground. The dragon’s fire turned from bright red to shocking blue as a bolt of lightning ran up the fire and into the dragon’s head. It jerked upwards, shrieking in pain. The crackling electricity pulled back together into Erasmus, who perched precariously atop the dragon’s head for a moment. He scrambled to try and gain purchase on the creature’s horns. Then the dragon bent like a bow and launched itself into the sky again, sending Erasmus tumbling to the ground. Reinaldo caught him before the landing smashed all the bones in his body.
Aelfred let himself flop flat on the ground once he saw his friend was safe, at least for the moment. The shock of the dragon’s presence and the impact of the thunderclap had left him rattled and he needed a moment to rally. Perhaps more than a moment. By the time he rolled over to his front and pushed himself up things were quite different. The Verdemonde men were scattered and only a handful were still visible among the smoke and flames, huddled around the wreckage of the carriage. Hands grabbed Aelfred’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “Up with you, Aelfred,” Gwendolyn hissed from her place on his right. “It’s time to make the throw of your life. You saw that old snake’s evil little eyes, didn’t you?”
“What of it?” He gasped, swaying on his feet.
“You have a spear in hand, don’t you?” She was right, he was still holding that spear in his hand. “It’s time to throw it.”
“And don’t pull back your arm,” Erasmus added.
That was when he understood what they were planning. As he shifted the spear into his right hand and pulled it back to throw Gwendolyn backed away, saying, “Your arm is strong and your aim is true, Aelfred, and your body forged to stand against the storm!”
“Loose arrows!” Enrico had dismounted his horse and let it flee, now he worked a crossbow himself as he called commands. Alas, the arrows went wild as the wind from the dragon’s wings battered them. The situation had turned grim very quickly once the captain’s line of skirmishers were knocked aside. The conjured wall did little to stop the dragon’s breath and now a dozen men lay scattered across the road, covered in burns.
The monster swept past them, uncaring, belching fire at a trio of soldiers who fled back into the treeline. They threw bolts of fire and thunder from their hands in retaliation. The fire did little to deter the dragon but the lightning pained it and it crashed to the ground again, spewing flame and smashing trees in its fury as it sought to pry its antagonists out of the forest and devour them. “Steady!” Enrico bellowed. “Reload!”
But half the company was dead or injured at this point and Noemi could see that the survivors were beginning to loose their nerve. The creature’s very presence was horrifying and they had few soldiers with powerful Gifts left. She hefted her montante onto one shoulder and said, “Bi, this isn’t going to work. It’s time you left.”
Her ward gave her a shocked look. “I cannot, Emi. I asked them to make a stand!”
“She’s right, Highness,” Enrico replied. “We’ll hold here as long as we can but it was madness to think a mere fifty men could stand against a dragon of that size. Verdemonde swore you would reach Torrence safely. Don’t let me be a liar as well as a dead man.”
For a moment Bianca looked stricken. Then she slipped a hand through Noemi’s elbow and said, “I won’t allow either, Captain Enrico.” Her voice carried over the battlefield with supernatural clarity. “By trick of birth I am called Torrence but the place where I found my home was not that city in the west or the orchards of the Gulf. The place that called me its own was Verdemonde in the north. The green pines of the mountain sheltered me, the fruit of its vineyards sweetened my life and the red soil of its valleys is still on my shoes! Verdemonde reached out and took my hand once. I’ll not leave its people to die for me now. Show courage, men of Verdemonde! We will win this yet!”
Noemi swallowed once, watching the men rally at her words. This was the true magic of Bianca’s gift. Orders were not her forte, rather the power to stir the hearts of others to rally around her. Her father insisted the push of Bianca’s Gift was like no other Command he’d ever heard. For her part, Noemi couldn’t say if that was true. She’d never once felt any kind of unusual push from her ward. Perhaps that was because of the trust between them, perhaps she’d just been so warped by Bianca’s words over the years she couldn’t imagine life without the force of them in her mind.
Perhaps the fact that the only thing Bianca asked of her was something she was perfectly happy to do had something to do with it. Noemi wasn’t sure. Would she still have taken the hand of that five year old girl by the river if she’d known that eleven years later it would drive her to face death in the Selene Valley under the shadow of a dragon’s wings? She wasn’t sure about that either. It wasn’t exactly the time to work it out.
In the distance the dragon lifted into the air again, blood dripping from its jaws. Enrico watched it and sighed. “If that is how it’s to be, what am I to say? You honor us, Highness.”
“She does more than that,” Ignacio rasped, his voice taught with pain. Noemi spun to see him limping back from the destroyed wall draped over the arms of two soldiers. Four others limped along behind him. A moment ago they had been covered in burns and soot, now their skin looked perfectly healthy in spite of the ash that caked it. In exchange the Herald’s face was a mass of charred flesh, cracked and oozing blood and puss. Foul smelling liquids soak through his robes from wounds beneath. Only his eyes were intact, bright points of wild energy. “She’s showing you the way to victory!”
Bianca sucked in a breath. “Ignacio? How are you alive?!”
“No scar I bear can slay me, de la Torrence!” He spat the words around his pain with a ferocity that frightened even the hardened soldiers that carried him. “Bring that dragon close enough for me to touch and we’ll see if the same is true for him!”
“He’s not wrong but he is clearly mad.” The captain pointed towards the back and the carriage. “Get him to the rear, if we live we can take him to a Mender in Lome to speed his healing process. Archers, ready! The rest of you, make your stand by the princess as you see fit!”
The dragon swooped towards them again.
“Stand strong!” Bianca called. For better or worse this was what they had to do so Noemi took a half step forward in front of her friend and raised her blade over her head, feeling her Gift charge it with the familiar glow of power as she waited for the impact to come.
The arrows from the soldiers had no more effect on the dragon the second time around. It was focused on Bianca, its eyes bright with malice, as its two long, clawed legs reached down towards her greedily. It didn’t breath fire this time. Somehow Noemi could see that it didn’t want to kill its prize. The rest of them were inconsequential in its eyes.
Then a spear crashed into one eye, replacing it with a spray of green blood. The dragon roared and flailed through the air, bucking drunkenly as it writhed in pain. For a brief moment Noemi saw some bravo from the caravan guards, one hand outstretched in a picture perfect throw with another one of the guards bracing a hand on the thrower’s shoulder. Then the second guard turned to a flash of light. The lightning bolt arced through the thrower, setting his hair and beard on end, out of his fingertips, through the air and into the spear.
The dragon’s skull flashed brighter than the noon sun, jerking wildly as it rushed towards them. Noemi stepped forward to meet it and spun her sword around in an overhead flourish, the blade biting into the dragon’s flailing arm, deflecting it fully away from them in a spray of green blood. A strange scent, like cut wheat, filled the air and she was suddenly ravenously hungry.
The dragon spiraled away overhead, screeching in pain, its body pinwheeling through the air as its wings beat the sky furiously. The passage of its enormous body blasted the ground with wind and the humans beneath were blown to the ground in disarray. The dragon snatched up the carriage as it righted itself and threw it in fury. It bounced along the ground, smashing into pieces, and the largest of them careened towards Ignacio and the men who had carried him. Noemi scrambled to her feet but she could already tell that she wasn’t going to make it to them in time.
Bianca did. She threw herself over the Herald just before the wreckage slammed down on top of them. Noemi screamed in wordless panic and ran, her pulse pounding in her ears, reaching the wreckage of the carriage in the blink of an eye. One of the soldiers must have been between Bianca, the Herald and the carriage. His lifeless body lay under the wreckage on top of her and Ignacio. Immediately Noemi grabbed the splintered wood and tried to life it off them but it was too heavy.
The Hearld’s eyes focused on hers and he wheezed out, “Let me touch it. Let me touch the dragon.”
“It’s still too far away.” Noemi wedged her sword under the wreckage and tried to lever it off of them. “Can you take her wounds on you?”
Ignacio flopped one arm over, touched Bi’s forehead and his eyes turned cloudy. There was a sound like snapping bone then Bianca’s eyes snapped open and she whimpered. The Herald’s eyes focused again. “Your leg is healed. Now push, or we’ll die under here.”
Noemi put her shoulder into the pommel of her sword and leaned into it while Bianca got her elbows dug into the ground and pushed. The wreckage surged up for a moment. Then something shifted, the heavy wood slid to a few inches to the side and Noemi’s sword broke under the strain. With no resistance she staggered forward, bounced off the side of the wreckage and slammed onto the ground. With a shake of her head she found herself staring up at the dragon as it shook its head in pain, spraying blood from its wounded eye everywhere. To her shock she found herself drooling.
Smacking herself once, shoving aside the bottomless pit opening in her stomach, she reached for what was left of her sword. Instead she found a hand that grasped her own. She turned to look into Bianca’s eyes. She was smiling as she said, “It’s okay, Emi. Thank you for staying.” Then her eyes turned sad. “Noemi Verdemonde. It is time for you to leave me. Go and be safe.”
For the first time she felt the power of Bianca’s gift as it closed in over her, forcing her to her feet and walking her away from her ward. From her friend. One step, then two steps away from the girl she’d found crying by a river and decided to protect no matter what the cost. Noemi felt the touch of Command now and knew it had never been a part of their friendship. Nor would she allow it to be the end of their friendship.
Noemi felt her own Gift surge within her, the blade she bore in her heart shredding the strings that dragged her away from Bianca and surging forth with dreadful purpose. She spun back to face the dragon and raised her hands to strike once more. A blade of light surged from them and carved downwards, striking the wings from one side of the wyrm’s body, cleaving down through the wreckage of the carriage and into the dirt beneath.
The serpent crashed to the ground, sliding towards them with terrible momentum. As it landed Noemi saw that a wiry man was still clinging to the spear sticking from the dragon’s eye but the impact sent him flying airborne again, flailing. The pieces of the carriage, carved into smaller bits now, bounced and clattered as the ground shook under the dragon’s impact and Bianca quickly scrambled out from under them, dragging Ignacio with her. With a pang Noemi realized she’d cut his left arm off by accident. She grabbed him by the waist and pulled him away as the dragon slid through the wreckage, still howling in pain.
The Herald wrenched himself free from them as they tried to flee, instead staggering forward to slap his body against that of the dragon as it slid by. The result was gruesome. The dragon’s scales cracked and burst, claw marks opened along its flanks and the entire left leg of the beast came away from its body. A moment later Ignacio pushed away from the creature, once again unmarked by the wounds he had carried. Yet it didn’t seem to matter to the dragon.
The creature’s remaining limb slammed into the ground and began to push it upright once more. Noemi tried to call up the blade in her soul again but found that she could not. Then the caravan guard came dropping out of the sky, one hand reaching as his body flashed into lightning once more. The bolt leapt forward and struck the spear again, slamming the dragon’s head back down to the ground. The guard returned to a solid form landing in a heap on the ground beside the lizard.
The wyrm heaved air through its nostrils as if gathering itself for another roar. But the glow had left its throat. It’s body remained at rest. The dragon’s last breath rattled out between its jaws and it came to its final rest. For a long moment the four of them that had survived the final onslaught just sat there and stared at it. Then Noemi raised up a hand and wiped the drool from her chin.
“Gather up anyone left, Reinaldo,” Aelfred rasped, watching the dragon nervously, as if it was about to surge to life again. “Get them on the wagons and get out of here.”
“What about Erasmus?” The other bravo asked. “And we should check to see if any of the Verdemonde men survived?”
“I’ll do it,” Aelfred snapped. “You just get the rest of them out of here. Understand?”
Reinaldo nodded and left. Gwendolyn started to follow him then turned back and grabbed Aelfred’s arm, looking him square in the eye. “Do not taste the body, Aelfred. Do you understand me? Not even a taste.”
He nodded and headed towards the dragon’s corpse. The bodies of Verdemonde’s men were scattered everywhere but Aelfred didn’t have to stop and look to tell they were all dead. As he got closer a scent like freshly baked bread wafted towards him on the breeze. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his arm. For some reason the wyrm’s body was starting to look like a huge loaf of bread. He was so, so hungry. After a long, hard battle it couldn’t hurt to stop for just a bite to eat.
But he couldn’t. He was just there to check for survivors. The horns of the dragon towered over him as he made his way around the serpent’s head. Strange sounds reached his ears. A sound like crunching stone, moisture squelching and smacking flesh.
On the other side of the head he found four people tearing into the dragon’s body, gnawing on the scales, flesh and horns of the corpse and gulping it down. The sight brought him to a sudden stop. One of them, a girl in a dress caked with blood that plastered the cloth to her body, turned and regarded him with reptilian eyes for just a moment. Then she turned back to tearing into the dragon’s throat, shoving handfuls of flesh into her mouth with reckless speed. For a moment Aelfred watched them eat, his own stomach rumbling in his ears.
Then he turned around without even a taste and trudged back to the wagons. Reinaldo met him. “Did anyone survive?”
For a moment Aelfred stared at him blankly. Then the question made it through the cloud of hunger to his brain and he answered, “No.”
Ten minutes later the caravan’s survivors were gone. An hour later so was the dragon’s corpse. Four bloated, wild eyed figures staggered out of the valley, their enemy devoured.
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This story originally appeared in Anvil Magazine #2, and is the first appearance of Aelfred and Gwendolyn Herakleian, two of the many Bravos of Nerona.
“Down you go,” Aelfred grunted, wrapping his hands around his wife’s waist as he hoisted her over the fence and into the canal. The hard plates of metal hidden under her clothes clanked softly as he adjusted his grip. Gwendolyn rested a hand on his forearm as she swung her feet daintily over the wooden railing and let him carry her down the slope to the bottom of the trench. Her worn leather boots skipped lightly over the muck at the bottom of Saffron Canal as he set her down. Her graceful movements were a stark contrast to the dreary surroundings of the wide channel running through Citadel Fionni. She smoothed the front of her skirt and looked up at him with a critical eye.
“Keep a sharp eye out now, Aelfred,” she said, checking the fit of his helmet and gorget then fluffing out the loose, bushy hair of his beard so it stood out prominently. “You’re fierce and strong so this will be another simple job.”
“Of course it will,” he said, brushing a loose thread of hair back under her brigitta cap. Her swirling dress and loose sleeves flattered her figure but it was the hair that always caught his attention the most, gleaming like spun fire in the late morning sun. “All our work on this wretched peninsula has been simple, straightforward and well paying.”
Gwendolyn’s pale, peach colored lips curved down in a disapproving frown. “Now husband, weren’t you the one who thought coming south would serve us better than remaining in Hessex? And we’ve done well enough in Nerona.”
“Nerona might try doing well enough by us once in a while,” Aelfred grumbled, reaching up and dragging his ax off the lip of the canal then slinging it over his shoulder. He looked out over the canal, taking in the brown water and browner dirt, his vision clear and sharp just as Commanded. In spite of his sour mood he felt his limbs surge with power and a fire stoke itself in his belly as he stomped forward along the muddy banks of the waterway. “Look at this place. Can you believe there was ever saffron growing here?”
His wife tutted at his obvious sour mood. “Fionni is the epitome of the Neronan city, my dear, optimized to cram people together as closely as possible rather than giving each of them their own patch of greenery. It’s what makes them so good at working with each other. And let’s be honest, without such places where would the wealthy merchants who pay us come from?”
Aelfred harrumphed and continued along the canal, although his footsteps grew lighter as his mood grew less dark. At least this wasn’t a sewer channel. The Saffron Canal and many other passages like it crossed the Easter Peninsula between the Gulf of Lum and the Adriatic Ocean, allowing larger ships that couldn’t safely cross the rubble strewed entrance of the Gulf a way back and forth between Nerona’s gulfside and oceanic ports. Those canals, along with the Eastpoint Beacon in the city’s Citadel proper, were a great part of why Fionni was such a wealthy and important city to begin with.
Of course when strange happenings made the locals too scared to use one of those canals something had to be done about it. Those somethings happened to be Aelfred and Gwendolyn.
“What do you think it is?” Aelfred asked, running a hand along the stone wall that held up the embankment along the canal. “Rogue Invoker? A Dwimor of the Fair Folk? Or perhaps someone truly has summoned a demon from the dark beyond?”
“Well the last is impossible,” Gwendolyn murmured, carefully keeping pace with him, positioned two steps behind him and one to his right. “All the reports say no one has died. Those from beyond are many things but peaceful creatures who fear bloodshed? Not hardly. I think the Fair Folk are by far the most likely. An Invoker is possible but a distant second. After all, what spirit of nature could they find down here to Invoke? Perhaps they could reach something out in the sea that would answer their call but otherwise these places are built to crush the soul of man and nature alike.”
He was tempted to remind her they were doing well enough in Nerona and maybe she should be kinder to the place. However he knew that she was not talking about the city broadly but rather the canal specifically, with its featureless stone embankment and dreary gray water combining to make a place even a sleepwalker would grow tired of quickly. Besides, he always lost those kinds of word games when he played them with his wife. “A fitting place for a creature calling itself a dark lord.”
“That is the one thing that confuses me,” Gwendolyn said. “The Fair Folk call their heretics and villains Cheats, they don’t associate evil with light or dark, black or white. For them there’s only fair and unfair. So why would one of them describe themselves as a dark lord?”
“That is out of the ordinary for them, true,” Aelfred said, “but remember these are stories from Neronans, not Sextons. The Fair Folk are quite rare in these parts, not like at home. They may have misremembered, misheard or exaggerated what was said since they haven’t heard stories from childhood about the importance of the Folk’s exact words.”
“So true, husband.” In the distance the first bridge after the sea lock grew near. Aelfred shifted his shoulders to keep them perfectly ready and lowered his ax off his shoulder into the ready position. All the stories agreed that the creature terrorizing the canal appeared in shadows. As the sun grew high in the sky the bridges and occasional drainage ditch were the only places where shadows existed in the canal. His wife leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Sharp eyes, Aelfred. Sharp eyes and ready hands.”
Aelfred swept his gaze back and forth across the canal repeatedly, searching for anything out of place in the tall wooden structure. The canal bridge was a marvel of Neronan construction. A dozen wooden support legs reached down into the canal, all linked to the bridge proper by a series of hinges and pulleys that allowed the bridge to be raised and lowered in halves by drawbridge mechanisms on either side. Towering a good eight feet over the water in the canal, the bridge was impressive in complexity and size.
At the moment the bridge was down, which was typical. They passed underneath it without incident and, no matter how he looked, Aelfred saw no sign of anything out of place beneath it. He was briefly tempted to try climbing out of the canal, crossing the thirty foot bridge to the opposite side and climbing back down to take a closer look under that side of things but eventually decided that would be overkill. The stories agreed the self styled dark lord accosted people on either side of the river. If it was under the bridge it should have made itself known by now.
“One bridge down,” he muttered, “one to go.”
“Plus the three drainage ditches and the place where the beacon tower casts a shadow over the canal in the afternoon.”
“Yes, and those.” Although no one had reported encountering the creature in the shadow of the beacon or by a drainage ditch. It was pretty much always under one of the canal’s two bridges.
They trudged down the waterway for another ten minutes, sweating under the noonday sun. Saffron Canal was short for one of Fionni’s waterways but it was still almost a mile and a half of muddy, uneven ground and crossing it took time. The first drainage ditch was just as unremarkable as the first bridge and they paused by it to share a drink of water from their water skin. Aelfred removed his helmet long enough to splash some of that water on his head. Then they proceeded on, Gwendolyn reminding him to be strong and vigilant.
Two minutes later they were approaching the second bridge when Aelfred caught the change, a barely perceptible shift in the brightness of the sun. It was like a thin cloud had passed overhead. He stopped immediately, motioning for his wife to do the same. She raised her voice and called out, “If there is anyone watching us, call out!”
Her voice rang with her Gift, compelling all who heard it to obey. Even for Aelfred, who knew he wasn’t being addressed and was used to hearing his wife’s Commands, there was a brief desire to comply. A true demon would have the will to easily resist. However for mortals, even those as powerful as the Fair Folk, the chances that anyone had the power to resist when they were off guard were very small. That didn’t make it impossible, and Commands could also be up for interpretation by the hearer, but an unprepared mortal resisting an unexpected Command was quite rare.
A high pitched voice with a strange raspiness to it drifted out from the bridge, asking, “What business have you with the Dark Lord Saffron?”
“We come on behalf of the Mayor of Fionni and the Commandant of the Citadel Garrison,” Aelfred replied. “They demand you leave their canal at once.”
“The Mayor and Commandant?” The voice laughed, an odd sound halfway between coughing and choking, clearly intended to convey mirth yet utterly devoid of that emotion. “Do they think this retaliation for sending my servant, the Blacklight, among them? Go back and tell them their suffering will grow a thousand times worse if they continue to displease me.”
Aelfred pivoted on his front foot foot so he could speak to his wife while keeping an eye on the bridge. “Who or what is the Blacklight?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” she said, her voice pitched low enough that it shouldn’t carry to the speaker under the bridge. “But this is Nerona. The Folk are rare here but instead they seem to have a dozen new, strange creatures and petty local legends vying to take their place every day. It could be any one of them.”
He turned back to the bridge. “Before you can torment the august leaders of Fionni you’ll first deal with us, Saffron. Your champion, this Blacklight, is unknown to me but perhaps our reputation is not as strange to you. I am Aelfred, called Herakleian by the people of Renicie and Lome, and this is my wife, Gwendolyn. We have come here from Hessex, far to the north beyond Isenlund. Five years ago we crossed into Nerona during the Griffon Rider’s Invasion and-”
Shadows from the bridge suddenly shifted and leapt forward in defiance of the sun, changing from a dark, slanted reflection of the bridge to reaching, flailing hands that careened drunkenly along the ground towards them. All the stories agreed that was the dark lord’s primary ability. It was still hard to accept it was actually happening now that he was looking at it. Aelfred felt his wife give him a push in the back and he charged forward, brandishing his ax in both hands. Behind him, Gwendolyn called, “Jump, Aelfred, jump!”
Most people distrusted those with the Commander’s Gift, fearing they would be forced to do something they didn’t wish to. That was certainly possible, but not where the Gift truly shone. The real power in the Gift lay in their way their orders pushed those that already trusted them to carry out those orders with a skill beyond what they normally possessed. As soon as he heard Gwendolyn’s order Aelfred leapt forward and across the twenty foot canal. The shadows from the bridge wavered for a moment, at first continuing to reach for his wife then turning to cross towards Aelfred as he continued to charge forward. Still born on by the power of his wife’s command Aelfred jumped again, this time focusing on going up, clearing the fence above and landing outside the canal on the streets of Fionni.
For the brief moment he was out of the canal he saw their yelling was attracting a nervous crowd. The natives were wary of getting too close to the canal and the mysterious creature within but whatever self destructive impulse drove people to stare at danger was slowly wearing down their caution. Aelfred ignored them and dashed along the canal towards the crank to raise the bridge. When they’d originally formulated the plan Aelfred hadn’t liked the roles they took but Gwendolyn insisted she would be safe. It was her belief the creature would ignore her to stop him raising the bridge.
That hope was disappointed. As he dashed along the top of the canal Aelfred could clearly see the shadow limbs turning back towards Gwendolyn, merging together into a single lumbering shadow of a creature with bulging, misshapen limbs and no discernible head. His wife quickly began backpedaling. “Show yourself, Dark Lord Saffron,” she called. “You’ve no business lurking under bridges. Step out into the light!”
“What part of Dark Lord was unclear to you?” The disembodied voice replied. Although defiant there was a rasping edge to Saffron’s tone that suggested whoever or whatever it was strained to resist the order. “Begone, strangers. I’ve no score to settle with you.”
For a moment Aelfred considered sticking to the plan and cranking the bridge up to expose whatever it was that lurked beneath it. But the shadow thing kept lurching towards Gwendolyn and all thought of ignoring that quickly left him. Aelfred leapt back over the fence and slid down the side of the canal to the bottom. His wife was still on the opposite side of the canal and the extra push of her Command was mostly faded but Aelfred figured the struts of the bridge were close enough together he could use them to cross the canal if he had to.
Five long strides took Aelfred beneath the bridge itself and he struck his ax on the nearest strut with a loud thud. “If you missed it we’re here to settle with you, your scores don’t matter to us” he snapped. “Time you showed yourself.”
“The great and terrible Dark Lord Saffron shows himself when he chooses and not before!” The shadow figure on the ground spun and swept back toward the bridge with surprising speed. The shadows under the bridge, which hadn’t been as dark as Aelfred expected, quickly darkened back to normal and then grew even thicker.
Aelfred stepped forward to meet the strange giant, slowly swinging his ax in a looping pattern to build momentum. The toes of one boot slipped into the water of the canal as he spread out and lowered his stance. “Anything you want to see today, dear?”
“I always look forward to seeing you at your best, Aelfred, just don’t let him lay a hand on you.” Although her tone was light he could see concern in the purse of her lips. She had unlooped her sling from her belt but hadn’t loaded it yet, instead addressing the shadows under the bridge again. “Come out from under that bridge, Saffron.”
The darkness on the far side of the canal shifted for a moment and the shadow brute that was lurching back towards the structure wavered like a mirage before it steadied again. Whoever was under this bridge, Aelfred was certain he or she wasn’t actually named Saffron. A correct name made a Command much stronger, as did repeated and insistent Commands, and Gwendolyn was a pretty skilled Commander. Yet Saffron was rejecting her Commands very quickly.
Aelfred figured that meant he’d have to do things his way. As the shadow giant raised a flailing arm and swung it towards him under the bridge Aelfred drew back his arm and threw his ax, the three foot ashwood handle tumbling end over end towards the space where the body casting the shadow would be. However the weapon passed right through the space without slowing. With practiced skill he tapped the ax with his Gift, the Impulse shoving the axhead so it popped up in the air and back towards him in a lazy arc. A second Impulse directed the handle neatly back into his hand. The whole process took barely two heartbeats but it was enough time for the shadow to reach him. Bracing his ax with one hand Aelfred held it down, toward the ground, to block the creature’s attack because he assumed the shadow itself must be the threat if there was no invisible creature casting it.
Instead the shadow reached under the bridge and the world around him turned black. He couldn’t see anything, not even when he held his hand up in front of his face and waved it back and forth a few times. The air wasn’t cold, a few trial swings of his ax told him there wasn’t anything solid nearby. He just couldn’t see.
“Aelfred?” A tinge of worry in his wife’s voice. “Aelfred, are you alright?”
“I feel fine, I just can’t see anything. Can you?”
“Everything but you. I-”
“Enough!” Something like a whine worked its way into Saffron’s voice. “I am the great and terrible Dark Lord Saffron and I will not suffer you presence any longer! Get out of here before I do something lasting to you!”
“Can you see anything here besides shadow?” Aelfred asked, deciding to ignore the creature in the shadows with him.
“No, just the dark.” Gwendolyn’s voice suddenly pitched up a tad and got much louder, the tone of Command in it. “You there! Yes, you! Raise the drawbridge on your side.”
Aelfred reached out with his ax handle until it clunked against a support. Then he stuck the weapon’s handle in his belt. Although the dark hampered him he was able to clamber up one of the beams and go from timber to timber until he felt them begin to move under his hands. Then he just hung on as the bridge raised. The shadows and sunlight underneath shifted as it did and Aelfred found he was beginning to see the world around him again.
“Stop that!” Saffron yelled. The note in his voice was stronger now and Aelfred realized it wasn’t whining – it was desperation. “Stop that, I insist! I am the Dark Lord Saffron, I sent my servant the Blacklight to thwart the Commandant of the Citadel, I have claimed this place and I will not stand for you to meddle any longer. Leave me in peace! I am the great and terrible Dark Lord-”
His wife interrupted, saying, “Come out from there, Saffron!”
This time Saffron didn’t recover quickly. The drawbridge reached it’s raised position with a creaking thud and the shadows quickly dissolved into the noonday sun. Only a few dense patches remained in the furthest recesses under the bridge by the banks of the canal. Aelfred found himself hanging onto one of the struts only a few feet above the ground on Gwendolyn’s side of the waterway. He dropped himself down to the ground and dusted himself off.
“You heard the lady,” Aelfred said as he started towards the densest patch of darkness still present under that side of the bridge. “Come on out!”
For good measure he kicked at a stone with his boot, sending it skipping into the shadows and forming just enough of a connection with it that he could add a second shove with his Gift, causing it to jump up to head height suddenly as it flew into the unnatural darkness. There was a yelp of surprise, rather than pain, then silence. Gwendolyn hurried up behind him, calling out, “Come out, Saffron. We know you’re not a dark lord, let this ridiculous sham rest and stop frightening the townsfolk.”
“I am!” Saffron’s voice was getting more and more unstable, its already high pitch wavering and cracking with the effort of fighting the Command. Aelfred stopped a few feet away from the unnatural darkness and listened. His ears, still sharpened from Gwendolyn’s admonition to be vigilant, caught the sound of a footstep, very light and coming towards them, followed by a strange dragging sound. “I am the dark lord Saffron!”
The voice lacked the resolve to convince a small child. His wife took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, in a tone that broke no refusal from man or child, she barked, “I said come out from there, Saffron!”
“I won’t!” The voice wailed, even as another step told Aelfred it was doing exactly what she’d ordered. Another dragging sound and a lumpy, misshapen outline appeared in the shadows. “I am the terr-”
A hiccup interrupted the word, followed by a cough. “The terrib-
The darkened shape was about three and a half feet tall, twisted backwards, inky blackness surrounding its hands as it clutched at the shadows. Some kind of human Gift, to be sure, but not one Aelfred knew. “The terri-”
The cause of the dragging sound became clear when the figure took another step forward, its left leg bent slightly at an unnatural angle that made it difficult to use. He’d seen many similar things in the past, bones that had broken and healed poorly. With the last step forward whatever power connected the shadows to the person holding them strained to breaking and the darkness leaked out of his hands, vanishing in the light of the noonday sun. Strained beyond endurance, a boy of no more than ten dropped to the ground in a heap and began to sob. “Terrible, terrible,” he wailed, tears cutting paths through a layer of grime and filth on his face. Dark circles lurked under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow with hunger. He threw himself facedown on the ground, sobbing as he babbled. “Terrible, I’m so sorry, please, I’m terrible, so sorry…”
He threw his hands over his head as he cried in a pose anyone who’d seen a beaten dog or tortured child could understand. Gwendolyn rushed past her husband and swooped down to try and cradle the child in her lap. Aelfred’s stomach tied itself into knots watching the way the boy cringed away from her touch, unable to comprehend something as simple as a comforting embrace.
For a moment he let his mind flee from the scene before him, wondering how the boy found enough to eat down there. Perhaps he was catching fish out of the canal. Whatever the Blacklight he mentioned was, if it even existed, the child clearly had no connection to it. There were only a few rags propped on a stick under the bridge to shelter the boy. Why hadn’t he gone to the Heralds of the Kings? They had an orphanage in Fionni. What in the name of Eternity was wrong with the people of Nerona that they hadn’t seen fit to help a boy so badly abused he played at evil to find peace?
Aelfred sat down beside his wife with a grunt. As loath as he was to admit it, that last bit was as true in Hessex as anywhere else. He sighed and shook his head. “Stars and scars, what are we supposed to do now?”
“Please…” the boy coughed again and peeked at Aelfred around his wife’s side. “Just leave me here. Or drag me off to the debtors jail if the Mayor and Commandant want money for the trouble I’ve caused. Just… don’t give me back to my brother.”
“Your brother?” Confusion vanished and cold certainty took its place. “No, we won’t do that. But, just to be certain we don’t make a mistake, tell me his name…”
Nevio staggered through the front door of his house, leaning on the wall as he finished the bottle and threw it in the general direction of the stove. The clay vessel hit the bricks and shattered but he ignored it. “Zalt, Nico, leaving me a dark house to come home to.”
He pushed off the wall, swaying to keep his balance, then turned to the door to close it behind him. As he reached out the door slammed closed in his face. Stunned, Nevio flopped back on his rear end. After a moment to gather his wits he lurched upwards, leaned against the door and pulled himself up to his feet. Then he shoved the door open and staggered out into the street. No one was there. It wasn’t very windy, either.
Maybe a dog or something was out there, running through the streets, and hit the door. Nodding to himself, Nevio pulled himself back into the house and slammed the door again leaving himself in the dark house. He pulled his cloak off, wadded it up and threw it on the stool by the door then headed towards the stove to find his oil lamp. He was fairly sure he’d left it there.
The house was cluttered and messy, slowly falling apart since their mother had died. For a time Nevio’s brother had tried to keep house but the incompetent fool failed at every turn. Nevio suspected he’d kept going down to the canals to play and fallen in one day, just one more member of his zalted family to die and leave him alone. So Nevio would just have to make do. He reached the stove and started groping around, the shadows of the room swimming past his eyes, when a deep, feminine voice said, “Nevio. Take a seat.”
For some reason he took three long steps across the room to a table he could barely see in the dark, pulled a chair out from it and sat down there. The chair on the other side was pulled far back into the corner by the window. Someone was sitting in it but she was positioned so that the moonlight spilling in the shutters beside her blinded him and made it impossible to see more than the outline of her figure and her hard, baleful green eyes. Nevio felt acid welling up in his throat and swallowed, hard. “Who are you?”
“I?” She laughed, a sound as sharp and beautiful as shards of glass in the air. “No one of importance. I come here on behalf of the Dark Lord Saffron, Nevio. Do you know why?”
“No. Who-” The door opened behind him and Nevio started to turn.
“Look at me, Nevio.” Like an iron hook the words took him by the ears and turned him back around to stare at the woman in the corner. A glint of red swept past her eyes, like a hint of demon’s fire. “You’ve wronged Saffron and we’re here to even the score. Roll up your pant leg, Nevio.”
“My what?” Even as he asked he was doing exactly as instructed, his fingers fumbling but still carrying out the task. Once he finished rough hands grabbed him under the arms, dragged him to his feet and threw him face down on the table.
The woman got up out of the chair and stepped forward, the moonlight behind her ringing her figure in an unearthly halo. She leaned down until her face, hidden behind a black veil, was only inches away. Wisps of red hair burned around her eyes like fire. “You sent Saffron a child maimed in body and mind and expected him to accept that? Shame, Nevio, shame.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Nevio babbled, feeling shame well up in him in bitter waves. “I didn’t know. Nico was always a stupid child but-”
“Silence,” she hissed. “We’re not here for your excuses. Taking full repayment for all you’ve done would take far too long so we’ll just take a tithe of it for the moment. You’d best behave yourself after, Nevio, or we’ll come and collect the rest. Now hold still.”
The woman rose to her full height, her green eyes staring down at him without remorse or pity. He heard whoever or whatever was behind him shifting. There was a grunt and a wet crack then his leg exploded in pain.
Aelfred and Gwendolyn left him screaming in his house, their vengeance done. All they could do now was make sure Nico never needed the Dark Lord Saffron again.
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