What Remains of Heroes (44 page)

Karnag Mak Ragg pressed hard against his chains, almost upright. The bolts anchoring the chains creaked and the bricks about them splintered. The highlander’s body was terribly wounded. Fresh blood streamed from countless striations and dripped from his nostrils and eyes. Old scars seemed to bleed anew and his body twitched with waves of obvious pain.

Yet, he stood. It seemed to Gamghast there was an indefatigable purpose driving the man, an indomitable spirit refusing to yield to the Dictorian’s demands.
Can this be
Castor?

Dictorian Theal continued his incantations, now chanting an ancient blood rite intended for the most difficult exorcisms, those in which the body was not meant to be spared. Divine light flashed from Theal’s hands and his voice soared. Gamghast had seen bodies ripped apart like parchment with such words, yet the highlander remained standing.

“The old curses are futile,” Karnag said, his tone unnerving in its calm assuredness. “Dictorian, I will ask you this only once. Abandon this deed. Set me free, mortal, or I spill your brains from your head.”

Theal threw his hands down in frustration, shaking his arms. “He refuses to surrender the spirit!” He turned toward Merek, his eyes mad and his lips shaking. “We must kill him!”

I can be silent no longer
. Gamghast cleared his throat, loudly and with meaning. “Dictorian! I cannot suffer this! We cannot claim to know Castor’s will, nor can we stand in the way of our Sentinel’s intent! Surely you see there is a
reason
the incantations do not work!”

Theal leapt toward Gamghast, his mouth drooling and his eyes blinking. He shoved Gamghast with frightful strength, sending him toppling across the crypt’s floor.

Gamghast tumbled across the bricks, striking his head, his arthritic knees, his gnarled hands. He came to rest near the crypt’s door, and then pain screamed at him from every joint in his old body. His head swooned and his eyes struggled for focus.

“Be thankful!” screamed Theal. “Be thankful I don’t order your death, Prefect! Or should I say Acolyte Gamghast? Yes, that has a much better ring to it. Leave us, Acolyte!”

Gamghast coughed and tasted the coppery taint of blood on his tongue. He rolled to his elbows, and with no small degree of concentration brought his vision into focus. Theal had returned to Karnag and had seized the highlander by his black braids.

“Merek!” Theal screamed, pulling Karnag into the column of white light. “Your blade!”

Gamghast tried to shout his protest but his body would not comply. He coughed again and blood sputtered from his lips. He struggled to stand but knew several of his bones were broken. “Theal…” he wheezed. “Do not do this…”

Theal wrenched Karnag’s head backward, exposing his throat. “Merek! Strike now!”

Merek yanked his blade from its scabbard with a ringing sound and brought the weapon before Karnag. He adjusted the green cloak about his shoulders and then pressed a hand against his Coda. He pulled a deep breath and nodded to Theal. “It is the will of Illienne.”

Gamghast struggled again but his limbs hardly answered him. His spine was wrenched at an awkward angle and didn’t seem willing to move. He slumped back against the door, and his head came to rest against the wood.

He heard then a commotion on the door’s other side, the sounds of violence.
What is this?
A trusted acolyte had been left to guard the door, but…

“It is her will!” screamed Theal, his voice screeching. “Kill him!”

Gamghast heard the dull sound of a latch being turned on the door’s other side and then felt his body forced uncomfortably aside by the door’s opening. He gasped, feeling a searing pain lace his form, then watched as three darkly clad figures stepped indifferently over him and into the crypt. Gamghast tried to voice an alarm, but his lungs would only wheeze.

“Kill him!” Theal shrieked again.

Merek brandished his sword and reared back, preparing to strike at Karnag’s throat. But just then there came the twang of a bow, followed by a dull
thunk
. Merek stumbled backward, clutching an arrow protruding from his chest. His sword fell from his hands and clattered against the bricks.

“What!” Theal yelled, whirling about.

Karnag roared then, and screamed and shook, and there came a terrible sound like the roll of thunder. Karnag threw his hands skyward and the chains shattered and fell from him. He lunged and caught the Dictorian by his shoulders and pulled him close.

“No!” cried the Dictorian. “Someone help!”

Karnag squeezed the man to his breast and grasped his skull between thick hands. He flexed and crushed the Dictorian’s head as though it were a child’s bauble, spattering blood and brain matter across the floor. The Dictorian fell to the stones, limp and lifeless.

“I will bathe in the blood of my brother,” said Karnag grimly, “and that of many more. The spirit is mine alone to wield.” He stepped over the body at his feet and staggered forward.

Gamghast’s eyes drifted toward the crypt’s far end, where stood a black cloaked figure over Merek. “Remember me?” said a woman in black. “Remember your betrayal? No one, and I mean
no one
, wrongs me or my friend. You should never tangle with the most dangerous beast. That was your undoing.”

Merek struggled for a moment with the arrow protruding from his chest as the woman brandished two identical swords. She displayed them only briefly before shoving them into Merek’s eyes. The Variden convulsed and then fell still.

“Boys?” the woman said. “Shall we?”

The three intruders turned and followed Karnag from the shaft of sunlight and toward the door.

The woman paused and looked toward the cringing forms of Borel and Kreer. “You spookers will pray for us. Pray we stay safe, and pray we don’t come back. Because if we do, we’re bringing Karnag with us, and he’ll be the death of you. Every last fucking one of you.”

27

Old Regrets and Bad Memories

L
annick walked down
Temple Street, trudging through the leaden mist of a rainy afternoon. The rain drummed against the hood of his cloak and made slick the street’s cobbles, and the air carried the scent of dead fish. Between the rain and the fishy stench it seemed a familiar day in Ironmoor, and Lannick reckoned he wouldn’t miss it much.

He saw the shingle of
The Wanton Vicar
ahead and caught a hint of lamb stew in the air. He smiled, guessing Brugan couldn’t bear to leave the place without fixing one last meal.

He arrived at the door and found himself just as nervous to turn the knob as he’d been in the many years before. In those times he’d dreaded the turn because it meant sinking deeper into that same rancid hole, that dark place filled only with old regrets and bad memories. Now, his apprehension came not from the familiar but from the unknown.
Can I do these things? Can I have courage again?

He studied the dimpled brass knob and thought for a moment of turning around, of running away never to return. He thought of booking passage aboard a merchant’s ship, of sailing the endless sea under sparkling starlight, of finding a faraway port where he could make a new life for himself. He thought of how starting over seemed in so many ways better than trying to right his mess of a past.

No. Not better. Just easier
. He turned the knob, pulled open the door and slipped inside.

It was a good crowd, something Brugan surely enjoyed. A peg-legged fellow played a screeching fiddle at the room’s far end, singing a lewd lyric in a hoarse voice. The serving girl danced a jig beside him and a number of folks crowded nearby, laughing and whooping and taking long draws from tall mugs. Farther away were several greedy-eyed fellows hunched over a game of deadman’s dice, and a few more desperate sorts slouched hopelessly against the bar.

Lannick’s expression wilted when he noticed one man sitting in what had been his usual spot, only months before. He thought of the anguish he’d experienced since then, but knew if it hadn’t been for that he’d still be there, drowning in cheap wine and despair.

He heard the squeak of the kitchen door and turned to see Brugan emerge, toweling off his burly arms with a stained rag. The barkeep grinned widely and gave Lannick a nod. “Glad you came, Captain. Come, have a word with me.”

Lannick smiled and followed the big man into the kitchen. The room was filled with a steam rising from a cauldron over the fire and smelled heavily of lamb and rosemary.

“Hungry?” Brugan asked, ladling a scoop of stew into a mug. “Not many fine meals where we’re heading, so enjoy it while you can. The lamb cost me a small fortune, but I reckon that’s only right. Farewells always take something from you.”

Lannick accepted the mug and dug a spoon into it. He’d not eaten well these last few weeks and knew he’d need his strength. He chewed and nodded, reckoning the stew to be one of Brugan’s finer efforts. “Thank you,” he said around the mouthful.

“One of my favorites. I’ll miss it.”

“So will your patrons. Are you closing the place?”

“Dead gods, no. I’ll need the coin when we come back. My serving girl Lacy will run things. She’s an honest sort and a good sight prettier than me, anyhow. I just hope the walls of Ironmoor are still standing by the time this is through.”

Lannick took another hearty spoonful. “You think they will be?”

Brugan laughed. “I figured you’d be more worried about us making it back here in the first place!”

“I am, Brugan. Fane is a ruthless sort, and if he catches wind of our efforts he’ll march to fight us and leave Riverweave to the Arranese. And if we defeat him on the field? Then we’ll have tens of thousands of well-rested Arranese to battle. I’m not sure I like our chances.”

Brugan placed a hand on Lannick’s shoulder. “Everything you say is likely true, Lannick. Yet, in spite of all that, I have faith in you.”

Lannick sighed. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s said that. I’ll try not to let you down, old friend. It’s just… I’m not sure I can…”

“I know.” Brugan blinked and waved a hand dismissively. “Now. Get some of that brash humor and bravado back in your head and remember you’re still the Scourge of Tallorrath, the Protector of Ironmoor. Or at least you look an awful lot like that fellow.” He laughed and moved back to the cauldron to stir the stew.

“About our business, then,” Brugan continued. “Kevlin has a farm about thirty leagues southwest of here, near Thane Vandyl’s hold of Rellic. He took a few cartloads of old weapons and rusty armor to the place last week, and has arranged for horses for us a league or so outside Ironmoor. We figured it best to keep such things out of the city, just in case the High King’s soldiers start sniffing around for more supplies. You and I leave tomorrow morning. Some of the rest have already gone ahead, and the others won’t be far behind.”

Lannick grinned crookedly. “A bunch of old soldiers mounting one last charge. Let’s hope it turns out better than it sounds like it should.”

Brugan slapped Lannick’s shoulder. “Not just old soldiers, Captain. Old heroes. Now grab a chair in the common room. Let me finish this stew and then I’ll fetch us both an ale. The good stuff.”

Lannick found a table not too far from the peg-legged fiddler but far enough from the crowd about him. He eased into a chair, the wound from Silas’s sword still bothering him.

The fiddler was between songs and took time to crack his knuckles and turn the pegs on his instrument. He plucked at the strings with his thumb and after a few adjustments seemed satisfied with the tuning. He gestured for the small crowd to be seated. “This one’s not for clapping or carrying on,” he said gruffly.

Lannick didn’t much care for the fiddle. Its wail sounded like a cat being flayed, but the fellow’s voice was engaging. There was an earnestness to it, an authenticity of having endured true pain.

The sailors brave, on knees they
prayed

Chosen first to
fight

The sailors brave, their souls they
gave

To Illienne the
Light

The Siren’s Call set sail at
dawn

Her brave young sailors
strong

The Siren’s Call she’d never
fall

With the likes o’ them
along

On churning seas her masts broke
free

The storm would take their
lives

The Sullen Sea would not be
breached

Even faithful men must
die

The sailors brave fell to wat’ry
grave

In deep, dark depths
below

The sailors brave their souls they
gave

To dead gods far
below

These sailors doomed, by sea
consumed

Sailors brave want not this
end

The gods I curse with ev’ry
verse

And will ne’er pray to them
again.

The peg-legged fiddler stood and limped toward the bar, and there came a muted clapping from the crowd. Lannick clapped also, remembering well the tale of
The Siren’s Call
. She’d been the first ship sent to scout the seas near Tallorrath after war was declared, ordered to sail amidst a terrible storm a dozen years before.

Brugan joined Lannick at the table, placing between them two tankards capped with foam. “He was on that ship, you know,” Brugan said, tilting his mug toward the fiddler. “The only survivor of
The Siren’s Call
. The fellow doesn’t talk much, but one night he had a bit too much whiskey. Told me he floated on a barrel for weeks after the ship sank, and that sharks gnawed off his leg before he could fight them off.” He shook his head. “What a damned foolhardy thing that was. Those boys died for no reason at all.”

Lannick eyed his friend suspiciously. “You remember who ordered them to sail into the storm, don’t you?”

Brugan grinned. “I knew you’d catch that, Lannick. Fane was a bastard back then, and is an even worse one, now. I thought it’d be a nice touch, a way to stir those coals inside your belly and get you ready for this.”

“I
am
ready,” Lannick said, taking a swallow of the ale. He’d always preferred wine or the stronger stuff, which was probably why Brugan had offered him this instead. It had a bitter flavor, but a better aftertaste.

“Oh, I know you
think
you are, but I still see uncertainty in your eyes. Part of you is still afraid you’ll let us down, somehow. Afraid you’re unworthy of our trust. That same look you’d wear just before you slumped over my bar for days at a time.”

“I can’t just pretend the last nine years didn’t happen, Brugan. The men
don’t
trust me anymore, and what’s worse is some blame me.”

“They hate Fane more than they hate you.”

“That’s not exactly a comfort, Brugan.”

The big man shrugged and sighed. “It’ll take a little time, sure, but they’ll come around once they see the changes I’ve noticed in you. Just keep thinking of your dead family.”

Lannick eyed Brugan darkly. “Don’t speak of them.”

“But that’s what this is about, Lannick! Nothing you do will ever bring them back. They’re gone. Yet, you can honor them instead of letting them drag you into the grave with them. You can honor them by bringing justice to the man who took them from you. Their deaths aren’t on your hands. They’re on his. Now, you’ve gotten better at realizing that most of the time, but not
all
of the time.” He drained his tankard in a massive gulp and slammed it on the table. “You need to set your mind to this thing, and never allow it to waver. Not for an instant. Not until this is done.”

Lannick took a deep breath.
Brugan’s right
.

Brugan’s look softened. “You can’t let the lads down, Lannick. Even if you tried. You’ve given them hope just by deciding to do it, by agreeing to take a stab at this harebrained quest for redemption. You’ve inspired them already. And as for you, that old strength is in you, my friend. If there are times you feel it lacking, just remember you have me and many others to lean upon. We can do this, Lannick. We can set right those old wrongs.”

Lannick nodded and took another drink, draining his mug. The fiddler had started a new song, this one much livelier than the last.

“Now,” Brugan said, “I have the guestroom arranged for you upstairs. Get some sleep. You’re going to need the rest.”

They arose before dawn and quietly gathered their things and some satchels of food Brugan had assembled. “Just dried meats and hard cheeses,” Brugan said. “Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep. And who knows what that old sheepherder Kevlin thinks grown men should eat.”