What Remains of Heroes (41 page)

Lyan tensed, but after a moment she lowered her sword and the menace faded from her gold face. “This one has some fire within her. Very well, pupil. I will allow you to speak your words, but only as gratitude for serving my brother Castor. Be brief, and be forewarned that I will not again allow insults to pass unpunished.”

Bale placed a hand upon Lorra’s shoulder and eased her away from the Sentinel. He smoothed his robes and looked once more into Lyan’s black eyes. “Forgive us, Sentinel, for we mean no disrespect. It’s just that we have endured much and cannot bear to see our task fail now. I cannot speak as Castor would, and know not the details of the message he hoped to convey. However, I do know Rune is under siege, both from without and within. Arranan and its Spider King wage war against us. What’s more, the High King’s chamberlain is in league with Necrists, as is the commander of Rune’s armies.”

Lyan’s gold face was an impassive mask, her eyes merciless.

Bale breathed deeply and held her gaze, undeterred. “There are worse things, too, Sentinel. Castor warned Yrghul’s power could be pulled from the Godswell, and I can attest his agents are preparing to do just that.”

Lyan smiled coldly. “Then perhaps Rune is receiving justice at last. We should never have been cast out, and now Rune and its king will learn the price of arrogance.”

“Then you will break your oath? You will allow Rune and its High King to fall to Yrghul’s minions?”

Lyan’s face darkened. “My oath, pupil, was broken long ago, but not by my choosing. My obligations to Rune and her people were forfeit the day High King Derganfel declared us traitors and cast us into exile. The day his greed and lust for power above all things blinded him to what was right and just. The day he was corrupted by his petty jealousy, his mad lust to command the adulation we enjoyed from Rune’s people. We were
gods
among you, mortal, and your forebears chose to defile our names rather than pray for our favor! Now you come to me and pray for my
help
, for my
forgiveness
?”

“But Castor honored his oath still!” Bale pleaded. “Can you deny his wisdom?”

“Castor is wise, but he is weak. Without us at his side he was nothing. Tell me, of what use is wisdom if it is not followed by justice?”

Bale felt the strength of conviction and took a step toward Lyan, coming to within only a few feet of her towering form. “And what, Sentinel, is justice if it is not
preceded
by wisdom? You speak only of revenge, a misguided desire for vengeance upon people buried centuries ago. You talk of your eternal nature, yet your loyalty is long dead. Illienne demanded these things of you, Sentinel!”

Lyan’s hands drew forward as though she intended to wrap them about Bale’s throat and she held them just before him. “You dare presume tell me what our Mother demanded? We honored Her with our mercy, pupil. We could have ripped your little kingdom apart. We could have torn your paltry castles to the ground and cast your kind to the old hells left by the Elder God. We could have wiped the land clean of your image, but instead we were merciful.”

“If you fail to act now you will accomplish those very things. And when we are defeated and Yrghul’s full power is wielded by our foes, do you think
they
will grant you mercy?”

Lyan took a step back. “Yrghul is sealed in oblivion. Even if your kingdom falls, such a thing could not come to pass.”

“The Necrists believe the High King will die without an heir,” Bale replied, recalling the discussion between General Fane and the Necrist in Riverweave, many nights before. “They say when he does, the Godswell will be open to them. They say it is written in the blood of the dead.”

“Yrghul speaks to the Necrists through such means, just as Illienne speaks to us through… other ways.” She paused. “Yrghul is a deceiver, though, and lies flow from his mouth as often as breath. Only one blessed by our Mother could open the portal to oblivion, and that would be a terrific undertaking. His servants, even if they’ve gained new power, cannot accomplish such a thing.”

Bale’s head filled with many worrisome possibilities.
Where is Castor’s spirit? Could it have been captured? If the Sentinels carry such anger, is it so unlikely one of their number could betray us all?
“Unless,” he ventured, “a Sentinel has been taken. Or turned.”

“Never,” she said. “Never…”

“Think of your own anger, Lyan. Think again of Castor’s murder, and of our inability to find his spirit.”

Lyan looked upward for a long moment, searching the cavern’s heights as though the answers were written upon the stone. Then, after a deep breath, she returned her black eyes to Bale. “I will consider these things, pupil. While I do so, you will travel to Zyn, in Arranan, and there you will find my sister Kressan. You will return here with her and we will speak further of these things. Do not tarry.”

Bale’s eyes fell to the white marble floor and his shoulders slumped. He felt at once relieved and encumbered. The weight of his task had grown even heavier. “But how will I find her? Arranan is a hard country, and Zyn is a large and…” he swallowed, “dangerous city.”

“Castor taught you his ways and wisdom, yes? Divination? The seeking stones?”

“Uh, why yes,” Bale said, his hand finding the sleeve of reagents he carried.

“Let me touch the stone. My essence will allow you to find Kressan, and the others.”

Bale did as Lyan asked, all the while wondering how an instrument such as he could possibly complete the task before him. How could he ever survive this?

Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal
servant
.

26

The Most Dangerous Beast

F
encress Fallcrow scratched
her horse’s neck, knowing the animal was faring little better than she. They’d spent weeks tracking Merek toward Ironmoor and hadn’t seen a decent meal or a reasonable stretch of rest, so she worried another gallop right now might be the mare’s last. She reckoned the only option she had—other than hoping to stumble upon a group of road-weary travelers with fresher horses—was to bet the long odds. Maybe Merek hadn’t yet slaughtered Karnag with the help of the Sanctum at their Abbey.

Maybe
.

She thought of the past several weeks. How she’d hauled herself and her companions across a field of the dead and the dying, and how they’d dragged themselves over ragged hillsides, through prickly bogs, and across vast stretches of desolate land. How they’d nearly starved, and how they’d barely escaped a patrol mistaking them for Arranese spies. Fencress ripped away the cap of her flask with her teeth and took a long pull of whiskey she’d stolen from a merchant’s wagon. Weaker folk would’ve died, but she’d not allow such a thing.

She gazed at Karnag’s gigantic sword,
Gravemaker
he’d called it, slung along the side of her horse. She’d found it near Karnag’s pile of human parts, still wet with blood and crusted with gore. Perhaps her friend would survive long enough to use it once more.
But to what end?
She gulped down the burning whiskey and grimaced.

The road ahead was paved with flagstones and lined with pennants snapping smartly in the warm afternoon breeze. About them rose low hills covered with heather and sedge, and the air had a brackish taint to it. They were close to the sea, and that meant they weren’t far from Ironmoor and its Abbey.

“How far, Paddyn?” Fencress asked, looking askance at the young archer. The lad’s grubby cheeks were sunken and his torn clothes were wrapped about him like a leper’s bandages. She looked at her own threadbare shirt and knew she looked nearly as wretched.
Alas, dapper looks and daring deeds are rarely partnered
.

“Five leagues or less,” Paddyn croaked, his voice raspy. “We should arrive shortly after nightfall.”

“If we last that long,” said Drenj from behind him. “Remind me again, Fencress, what exactly you hope to gain from this deranged venture? Why are we doing this?”

“Because Karnag is my friend,” Fencress said, the force of her voice surprising. “Because Karnag is my friend, and because we were betrayed. I’ll not rest until my knives have known the red center of Merek’s heart, and neither should you. No one wrongs us and lives to boast about it, friend. No one.”

“This is madness,” huffed Drenj. “You’re sounding like
him
, Fencress. We should be somewhere safe. Spending our gold while this war ruins those foolish enough to fight it. Karnag chose his course, but that shouldn’t mean we’re bound to it.”

Fencress tugged at her gloves, tightening them against her hands. “Long ago, in my glorious youth, I was an acrobat with a traveling circus. For a time we had in our company an old Khaldisian animal trainer, Alil, who worked with all manner of beast, from falcons to dogs to horses. We even had a white tiger from Arranan. Every now and again Alil would have too much ale and entertain the audience by goading the animals, tugging their ears or pulling at their tails. In his final show, he thought to tease the tiger, slapping its nose and belching in its face. The tiger endured this for a short while, but then ripped free of its chains and tore Alil’s head clean off, showering the screaming crowd with blood.”

Drenj sniffed. “Is there some meaning to this charming tale?”

Fencress pulled at the rim of her cowl. “Never provoke the most dangerous beast.”

Prefect Gamghast looked at his window, the rain tapping against the bleary glass with only a haze of gray beyond. The sun was no more than a smear in the leaden sky.
Dare we shelter hope in such times?

“It’s been a long while, Prefect,” said Merek from across the table. “A long while indeed since we’ve found the need to work together. I’d guess it’s been nearly a decade since you and I have spoken. I’d say I’m happy to see you, Gamghast, but the fact that we
need
each other again is a most ominous sign.”

Gamghast tugged at the white wisps of his beard. “You know nothing of an acolyte from the Abbey? Nothing of Acolyte Bale? I’d dispatched him south to seek answers to the questions posed by Lector Erlorn’s death.”

Merek shook his head of greasy hair. “Nothing, Prefect, but then I did not make it as far as the site of the murder. It’s possible your acolyte is still searching the south, or even journeying homeward. But, then, all battles leave dead soldiers, I’m afraid.”

Gamghast sighed.
Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal servant
Bale
.

“If it is an answer you seek, Prefect,” Merek continued, “I believe we have found it.”

Gamghast breathed deeply, hoping Bale remained alive. He shifted his thoughts to the practical, to those problems that could be addressed. “Yes, yes. The highlander. You’re certain he did all of these things? You’re certain he committed these atrocities?”

Merek rubbed his Coda. “He did. Before I captured him I saw these things with my own eyes. It was wanton violence, a lust for blood the likes of which would be known only to a madman. That’s precisely why you must pry the spirit from the flesh and allow it to find a nobler vessel. When it was spoken, your Lector’s confession could be heard only by the sadistic man who killed him, and that man has twisted the spirit’s power to awful ends. This beast must be relieved of Castor’s spirit or we risk one of our greatest protectors becoming one of our gravest foes.”

“It’s just…” Gamghast paused.

“You hold reservations? Surely you see the same need for this as I?”

Gamghast frowned. “It is said Castor chooses his vessel upon death. There is always a design, always a purpose behind his choice. Some talent possessed by the person whose body he decides to inhabit, some characteristic enabling him to rise to the challenge of the times. What if this beast, as you call him, was best suited to Castor’s purpose? We could be thwarting a divine plan at the most critical of moments.”

Merek snorted. “He had no choice this time, Prefect. He possessed this murderer because there was no one else in his own company left alive. Castor’s soul is imprisoned by this man, and only by setting him free will he be able to help us fight our enemy.”

Gamghast was quiet for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain.
If only I knew your will, Castor
.
But we are merely men, and can do no more than our best
. He pushed away from the table. “We will begin at first light tomorrow. It’s said Illienne’s power is strongest then, just as the sun breaks the night. Perhaps her wisdom will shine more brightly upon us, then.”

“You needn’t doubt me, Prefect. My order has gifts as well, and I know this man’s deeds have not been those of Castor. We must relieve him of the spirit, but it will not be an easy thing. There are others to assist us, yes?”

“Yes, those who know the truth of the Lector’s identity. Prefects Borel and Kreer, and of course the Dictorian. They’re already researching the Rites of Excision. We’ll meet you at dawn.”

Merek looked at him grimly. “I’ll bring my sword.” With a sweep of his green cloak he left the room, and the door rattled shut behind him.

Gamghast turned again to the bleak, featureless sky.
Such little light shines upon us in such days
.

Gamghast tiptoed down the narrow stairs, hoping somewhere there were answers. The stairway led to an antechamber, at the far end of which stood an ironbound door fastened with many locks. Beside the door was a desk, where sat Prefect Borel studying a yellowed tome. The rotund prefect looked up as Gamghast approached, his jowls seeming to threaten to pull his face back into the book at any moment.

“He hasn’t stirred,” said Borel, his voice tremulous. “I haven’t gone in there, though. He seems… unsafe.”

Gamghast nodded. “Then you believe Merek?”

“This man is likely not a medium Castor would have chosen. Thus, it does seem the spirit was stolen.” He tapped the page of his book. “This is a register of every Lector of the Sanctum since our order was founded eight hundred and twenty six years ago. There is not a single hint of misdeed, malice or murder. Every Lector was a model of the peaceful pursuit of wisdom, a subtle and secret rudder for the High King.”

“Were their times as dire as those we now face? Could it be Castor never before saw a need to become something more… visceral?”

“That’s desperate logic, Gamghast. You know what kind of man Lector Erlorn was, what kind of soul was Castor. This
thing
Merek has brought us is nothing like that. Think this through. If we do nothing, and assume this was all part of Castor’s plan, we risk a war against our most terrible foes without the crucial aid of our Sentinel. And if we take action and remove the spirit from this man, and it turns out we are wrong? Is it not reasonable to assume Castor would find another host? One among our number?”

“Such a thing has never been done, Borel. We know not the consequences of displacing the spirit.”

“But you can imagine the consequences if Merek is right, and we fail to take action?”

“Perhaps,” Gamghast said, looking toward the ironbound door. “Yet I cannot help but doubt.”

Borel closed his book with a thump, sending forth a cascade of dust. “Such is the curse of every mortal.”

Gamghast tugged at his beard and made his decision. “Open the door.”

Borel raised his brow. “You don’t mean to speak with him? To test the spirit yourself? It’s unwise for us to be in this man’s presence without all the support we can muster. We should wait until morning.”

“Open it.”

Borel huffed and fumbled with a ring of long keys. The locks scraped and squealed as they turned, sounding as though it’d been ages since they were last used. At last all that remained was a great bar of iron across the door’s middle. Borel tapped a crank at the bar’s center. “You’re certain of this?”

“No one, not even a Variden, will instruct us in the ways of our master. If we are to intervene it will be by our own choosing, not at the urging of another.”

“Very well, but I’ll not dare go with you.” Borel paused before placing his hands on the crank. He struggled to turn it, but finally it moved with a dull clank and the door creaked open. “May Illienne guide our hands.”

Gamghast pressed through the door and entered the Abbey’s ancient crypt. It was a vast chamber, its gloom yielding little to the candles lit along its walls and its stagnant air smelling of death. He flinched as the door clanged shut behind him.

He remained still, peering toward the room’s sunken center. The breath caught in his throat as his vision adjusted and the scene before him became clear.

There, bound against the brick floor by heavy chains, was the man Merek had captured, the man who carried the spirit of Castor. Karnag Mak Ragg. A highlander. A warrior. A murderer.

Gamghast crept alongside the old stones of the wall, feeling it best to keep his distance. His hand brushed along the wall’s many hollows containing the bones of revered members of the Sanctum long dead. There were among them many Lectors, or rather former bodies of Castor. All of the Lectors had been pious figures who’d guided the Sanctum toward a deeper understanding, a deeper wisdom.
All so different from this
man
.