What Remains of Heroes (45 page)

Lannick shouldered a satchel and looked out one of the tavern’s clouded windows. The cobblestoned streets were wet with rain and the sky was just shifting from black to purple. He pressed his face close to the glass and watched the rain fall. Just then, he thought he spotted a black figure standing across the wide street. The lights in the common room reflected against the glass, though, and he found it difficult to see clearly.

But then he saw it again.

He pulled away from the window. “Blow out the candles and dim the lanterns,” he said. “There’s something watching us.”

“It’s early, Lannick. Before the sun comes the shadows play tricks on the eyes. Besides, it’d be a trouble to—”

“Do it!” Lannick hissed.

“As you command, Captain,” said Brugan, his voice thick with irritation. Soon, the common room was dimmed to near-darkness and Brugan sniffed impatiently.

Lannick crept toward the window and again found the figure. It was tall, thin, and draped in black robes. Its face was hidden within the depths of a cowl. A chill crept up his spine.

“Probably just some drunk in a stupor,” said Brugan from beside another window. “With all the seedy joints on Temple Street, that’d be nothing unusual.”

“I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, Lannick. All those troubles in your head have you seeing things. Now let’s… What in the old hells is that?”

Lannick saw it too, the stunted thing ambling along the sidewalk toward the tall figure’s side, pausing occasionally to prod and poke at the shadows nearby. A Shodafayn, one of those twisted beings that served as navigators of the shadowpaths. “Brugan, light all the candles again and brighten the lanterns. And keep them
moving
. Don’t let the shadows inside this room remain in place for more than an instant. Do you understand?”

Brugan’s mouth fell open. “You just had me blow them all out.”

“Do you understand!”

The barkeep huffed but set about his task. Within moments he’d brightened the place considerably, and turned in the room’s center while swaying two lanterns about. He paused and looked at Lannick, clearly befuddled. “Why am I doing this?”

“To keep us safe while I think.” Lannick tapped a finger against his chin and was surprised to notice his other hand was in his purse, wrapped about the cool metal of his Coda.
Dare I enter that world, even for a moment? If I return only to leave again, the Variden will never forgive
me
.

“
Lannick my love
,” came a whisper.

He looked out the window and saw the Shodafayn digging at the shadows near the tall figure. Lannick knew the faces they wore, the horrors they intended to wreak upon him. He fingered the Coda and knew he had no choice.

He yanked the Coda free and slammed it upon his wrist. It locked into place with a dull click and for an instant glowed with a greenish hue.

His head was struck by a cascade of images. Not
his
visions, but those of others, of other Variden. Visions from his green-cloaked companions in places far away. Creeping across hills overlooking a vast encampment of Arranese warriors. Stalking a desert city full of soaring towers, trying to stay on the trail of a dozen black-robed figures. Lurking in the shadows of a great underground complex, avoiding the eyes of any who might see. There were many others, as well. They were the collective experience of the ever-watchful Variden, all of them joined by their Codas.

There were warnings, too. Warnings of profound danger. Fear that the Sentinel Castor was being help captive by a vicious mortal. Fear that the Spider King of Arranan possessed fell power. And a suspicion he and the Necrists were working in concert toward some wicked end.

And there were voices reaching out to him, also.
“Lannick, are you with us at last?”
came Alisa’s voice.
“Brother, you have finally found the strength to fight with us!
” said Ogrund.
“Have you dug out of your wretched hole for a moment?”
asked Wil.

And finally there was
purpose
, the divine guidance imposed upon all Variden by the Sentinel Valis. A pressing need to find the enemy, to protect Rune. To wipe the land clean of the agents of Yrghul. To do all this but remain hidden, to keep safe the High King but never allow anyone to know of the order’s existence.

It was a great deal to bear, and it was overwhelming. But Lannick remembered the mental exercises he’d learned when he was schooled in the order’s ways, so many years before. He bent his mind to a sharp focus, and after a few moments the flood subsided to a trickle.

He adjusted his cloak on his shoulders and drew his sword. “Bring the lanterns near the door.”

Brugan stopped his clumsy dance and blinked. “What is it we’re doing?”

“I’m going after those things and you’re going to help me. When I open the door, throw the lanterns across the street. Right at them. They hate fire. The shadows shift too much for them so the flames will distract them. Then,” he grimaced, “stand clear.”

Brugan nodded. “Whatever you say, Lannick. So long as you’re certain.”

Lannick twirled his sword about, first in one direction and then the other. The steel felt good in his hand. It felt right. He would cut down these demons and give his family their final rest. He stepped to the door, inhaled sharply and looked to Brugan. “Ready.”

Brugan pulled the lanterns close to his chest. Lannick threw open the door and reared back, making way for Brugan and his lanterns. The big man shouldered past him and heaved the lanterns toward the street’s opposite side. The glass shattered, spraying oil and flame across the cobblestones and the abominations.

A horrid shriek came from them, and their bodies jerked spastically about as they tried to shake and slap away the fire. They seemed confused and surprised, their heads turning this way and that.

Lannick raised his sword and lunged across the street. Words formed in his head. Ancient words, divine words. He felt the power of his Coda, the power of purpose, and he fell upon them with a mighty force. A green fire leapt from his blade and he struck with a strength and swiftness unknown to mortal men. He struck at their flailing limbs and the beasts reeled before him.

The Shodafayn dwarf and Necrist witch fell backward, their black robes torn with wounds and smoldering from fire. Lannick stood over them with his sword aglow. “I will bury you now,” he said. “Forever.”

The Necrist shook aside her cowl to reveal the face of Lannick’s dead wife. Though split by a black stitch the face remained hauntingly beautiful. “Lannick, my love,” she said in a voice that sounded so much like his wife’s.

Lannick paused.
How many times did my wife say those words to me?

The Shodafayn nuzzled against her and it, too, pulled back its hood. The face of Lannick’s elder son gazed at him, burbling through a mouth wet with slobber. It whimpered as though pleading for mercy. “Dada!” it cried, its wide eyes staring through stitched skin.

My
son
.

“My love,” said the Necrist, writhing on the ground and caressing her breasts.

My wife
.

“No,” said Lannick, but his voice lacked conviction. He brandished the blade but had not the heart to strike again. He staggered back, away from them. Away from their faces.

The Necrist seemed to sense his hesitation. She struggled upward and took a step toward him. She held her arms toward him and shadows pooled about her hands. “My love,” she said again.

The Shodafayn toddled to her side, mumbling its childlike babble.

“Lannick!”
It was Wil’s voice, rising from the murmur of thoughts.
“Don’t fall victim to your weaknesses! Strike down the
enemy!”

“No,” Lannick said, but was unsure whether he’d meant the word for the Variden or the Necrist.

The Necrist took another step forward. The shadows were swirling now, reaching toward him and curling about his form. They were cold, the feel of them causing his small hairs to rise. But there was a strange comfort to them, a suggestion his pain would subside if only he succumbed.

He dropped his arms, staring deep into the Necrist’s eyes. They were black, far darker than his wife’s had been, but there was something of that same life within them…

“Strike, Lannick! You must!”
It was Alisa’s voice.

The Necrist came closer still, closing her eyes and opening her mouth, inviting a kiss. Lannick felt the tug of the Shodafayn’s small hands upon his legs and he heard its giggling.

“No,” Lannick said again. “No.” He closed his eyes and knew the terrible path he had to take. He tightened his grip on his sword and he struck, cutting first at the shadows encircling him and then at the enemy.

Again and again he struck. He hacked at them mercilessly, bringing his blade upon their bones with countless, vicious swings.

They fell, gravely wounded, and still he struck. He cleaved at the faces most of all, and tears fell from him as he cut eyes and cheeks and lips.

Soon there was only blood and splintered bone. But hacked he did, hearing the ring of his blade as it found the cobblestones beneath the bodies. He struck until his hand went numb and he could no longer grip his blade.

There was a hand upon his shoulder. “Captain,” said Brugan, “they’re dead.”

Lannick stood still for a moment and looked upon the decimated forms before him. His hands trembled and his sword clattered to the ground. He reeled and spilled the sour contents of his stomach on the cobblestones. He swooned but Brugan steadied him.

“It’s alright, lad,” Brugan said.

Lannick sank to his knees and his whole body shook. His muscles burned and his arms fell slack.
They’
re dead. At last they are dead
.

“Lannick!”
came an unwelcome voice within his head. It was Alisa.
“You’re safe! Now, join us! Find me in Arranan where I track the Necrists. Honor your
oath!”

Lannick did not reply but instead looked wearily upon his Coda, the dull iron inlaid with countless lines of strange script. The words formed the spells that empowered his order, the ancient secrets that granted them the strength to fight the old evils of the world. The same spells that chained his mind to the others of the order and confused the purpose in his heart.

“No,”
Lannick thought, directing his words to the Variden.
“I cannot. Not now. My task is not yet done, and my purpose is not yet
yours.”

“Your purpose?”
Alisa answered.
“What, some misguided revenge for your family? Think of your selfishness, your hubris! We are facing the very end of the world if we fail! And you? You are consumed with setting right a wrong that can never be undone. Your family is dead. Nothing you can do will make your family live and breathe again. Nothing!”

“You are a prideful fool, Lannick!”
screamed Wil.
“Honor your oath!”

Lannick fumbled about for his sword, grasped it with tingling hands, and guided the point to the thin gap where the Coda latched to his wrist.

“
Lannick!
” screamed many voices in his head.
“You cannot abandon us again! Not at such a
moment!”

He twisted the blade and the Coda snapped open. A burning sensation swept through him as it slipped from his wrist, the pain of departing power. Voices wailed in his head, making his skull feel as though it would split. But soon the pain left him and the voices fell silent.

Lannick sighed heavily, knowing this latest act would not be taken lightly. Any Variden who abandoned the order was regarded as a traitor of the worst kind. And now he’d just done it a second time. He retrieved the Coda and placed it in its box, just beside the flask of whiskey in his purse. He frowned and shook his head.

Brugan’s hand fell upon his shoulder. “I’ll not ask what happened here for a long time, Captain. But when I do, I want the truth. You owe me that much, at least.”

Lannick nodded and pulled himself up. “When you ask, I’ll tell you what I can.”

“What should we do with the bodies?” He wiped a tear from his eye with a thick thumb. “Unless my eyes are lying, those were your family’s faces.”

“No,” Lannick said, sheathing his sword. “My wife and children rest safely in their graves. The rats and crows will finish what’s left of these things.”

“Well enough,” he said. “Let’s get clear of this place. To Rellic and the rest of the lads. We have a war to wage.”

Lannick found again the outline of his Coda in his purse. “Perhaps more than one.”

28

Remains

Z
andrachus Bale tucked
his hair behind his ears and shielded his eyes from the setting sun. Lyan the Just had revealed to them secret passages through the hearts of the mountains, and that meant stumbling through shadows for days. Now, at last, there was sunlight, but his squinted eyes could barely discern the features of the broken landscape from its shadows.

“I don’t miss that lady one bit,” spat Lorra.

Bale nodded. Lyan’s presence had been unsettling and he was glad to be rid of her. But now they were set upon a journey to a most dangerous place. Zyn, Arranan’s capital city, would be a place most unwelcoming of an Acolyte of Rune’s Sanctum.

Just ahead of them stood the Gray Gates, the ancient towers said to mark the end of Rune and the beginning of the godless lands. They were tall spires of carved stone, perhaps sixty feet in height, etched with weathered images of Illienne and her Seven Sentinels. Beyond the towers lay Arranan.

As they walked between the spires Bale rested a hand upon one, recalling the poem he’d read before leaving the Sanctum.
A Dirge for Erkelon
, it was called.

The beasts besiege with hearts of
black

Whilst tears wander a well-worn
track

Set by the smiles of long
ago.

“If” calls the herald of remorse

Never daring a righteous
course

From tower’s height he falls to death
below.

The poem concerned an old lord of this place who’d allowed Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares to pass between these very structures, so fearful was he of the black god’s anger. Once through the gates, Yrghul broke his promise to pass peacefully and laid waste to the lord’s fortress and people. Bale shook his head.
Can there be such a thing as courage in the face of such evil?

It struck Bale that Erkelon had chosen a course he’d thought to be righteous, one that would spare his people. Yet, it had resulted only in death. Bale wondered if his task would meet a similar doom. He wondered if he’d better serve his order by traveling back to Rune, by warning Gamghast and the others that General Fane had bargained with the Necrists for an object of awful power, an Auruch. Or would he do the better thing by completing the Lector’s last endeavor?

There were no assurances. Only perils.

He looked across the darkening landscape before him, an empty place of rocks and dust and stunted trees. He lowered his head. He was about to set foot in the land of Rune’s enemy, and was so very far from home.

“Let’s hurry,” said Lorra. “There’s a stream bed between those hills there. That’d be a good place to camp for the night.”

He followed along, finding the warm ground treacherous in the dimming light. He nearly tripped over something—a boot. He paused, and as he scanned the low hills about him he spied countless bones and burned-out husks encased in blackened armor. In horror he realized these were the soldiers of Rune who’d been the first to confront the invading army of Arranan. He watched as a hot wind whipped about and caused the skull of a nearby corpse to crumble into a whiff of dust.

Is this what remains of heroes?

He shuddered and hurried to catch Lorra. They hastily made camp in the lengthening shadows, the words between them few.

Soon the sun sank beneath the far horizon, and all was cast in darkness.

Prefect Gamghast shifted about on the bench, his body complaining with every move and posture. There came a sharp pain down his leg and he groaned. The sound echoed loudly through the quiet space of the Abbey’s dining hall, empty at this late hour save for the three prefects.

“Are you well?” asked Prefect Borel, eyes glossed with tears.

Gamghast rubbed at his aching back with an aching wrist. He’d used the Sanctum’s most potent ministrations but was still reminded at every moment of his wounds. He nodded and sighed. “My pain is a trivial thing when weighed against our real concerns. The highlander uttered words to me, words that could only have been Castor’s confession. They were words in the elder tongue, words he could not have possibly known otherwise. He said—”

“The confession!” Prefect Kreer croaked. “The highlander recited what might have been Castor’s last confession and you decided to withhold this from us? From the Dictorian? What right have you, Gamghast?”

“What matter is it?” Gamghast growled. “What matter that I kept it to myself? The Dictorian was bound to drag Castor’s spirit from the highlander. Knowing that the man heard the confession would only have fueled his lust for power.”

“And just what did he say?” Kreer said. “What were the words?”

Gamghast massaged his wrist and grimaced. “He spoke of our old enemy. He said the Necrists are trying to summon Yrghul’s power back to this world, and have found a potent ally. He said the Sentinels needed to be summoned.”

“The Necrists?” Borel whimpered.

Kreer raised his chin and peered down the length of his long nose. “How dare you, Gamghast. Perhaps if you’d remained truly faithful the Dictorian’s efforts would have succeeded.”

“On this we agree, Kreer. Perhaps if the Dictorian knew of the confession’s utterance he’d have been more ruthless in trying to thwart Castor’s plan. Perhaps he would have simply beheaded the highlander before trying to pry the spirit from him.”

Kreer leveled a bony finger at Gamghast. “And perhaps thereby he would have saved the Sanctum by transferring the spirit to one deserving of it. Perhaps a more appropriate vessel could have wielded the spirit to defeat our enemy. You have doomed us.”

Gamghast pressed against the table, ignoring the painful twinge in his back. “You witnessed the same events as I. Castor would not be displaced. Remember one of our most basic tenets: Castor chooses his vessel. I cannot fathom his motives, but there was a reason for the choice. Theal should have known that. Never confuse faith in the divine with the arrogance of men.”

Kreer sniffed smugly. “It is you who is the arrogant one, Gamghast. It was you alone who dared question what both Merek and Dictorian Theal knew to be true. It was you alone who doubted the righteousness of their task.”

Gamghast slapped his good hand against the table. “And it is I alone who was right!” He had no patience for this talk. Not anymore. He scowled at Kreer. “And now it is you who stands in their stead, you who knows the will of the gods? You’re a fool!”

“Gentlemen!” urged Borel, his voice screeching. “We must stand together through these troubles. Argument serves only to divide us.”

Kreer glared at the man. “If calling this something other than argument comforts you, then call this an inquisition. I say if there is a doubter among us, he only weakens our ability to counter the enemies warned of in the confession!”

“And,” said Gamghast, feeling his blood rush to his cheeks, “if there is one so blinded by misguided faith, then we are consigned to repeat the Dictorian’s mistakes and end up piled in the crypt beside him.”

Kreer’s purple lips twisted to a sneer. “You do remember the Dictorian’s last act before he died, don’t you? He stripped you of the title of prefect. I for one think we should abide Theal’s wishes.”

“Gentlemen!” screeched Borel again.

Gamghast laughed humorlessly. “Those words were born of madness. Dead gods, the entire endeavor was madness!”

Kreer rose to stand. “I will not have you question the Dictorian’s righteousness, not in the mere days following his death. Nor will I simply allow us to abandon his efforts. I intend to carry on his task, and retrieve Castor’s spirit. Certainly there are those among the Variden who remain committed to this, as well. I will call upon their assistance, and set aright the placement of Castor’s spirit.”

“You truly intend to continue Theal’s march toward certain doom? You will mindlessly seek to possess Castor’s spirit for yourself, rather than deal with the forces marshaling against us?” Gamghast grabbed the staff leaning against the table beside him and pulled his creaking body upward to stand. “If this is your course, Kreer, then I would gladly relinquish my post in order to disassociate myself from you!”

Kreer glowered at Gamghast. Moments passed. Kreer’s face tremored with anger but he said nothing. Then, without warning, he stormed from the table.

Gamghast watched Kreer trudge toward the double door that led from the chamber, and noticed Wit standing timidly beside it. Kreer moved brusquely past the lanky simpleton and slammed the door shut behind him.

“P-Prefect Gamghast?” called Wit, approaching.

“What is it?” he said, his voice still stained with anger. He breathed deeply and smoothed the wisps of his white beard. “I’m sorry, Wit. What is it you require?”

Wit chewed at the nail of his thumb for a moment before speaking, nerves creasing his brow. “You have a v-visitor.”

“It’s past ten o’clock,” said Gamghast. “Who is it?”

“At least a f-few people. I think one might be that nice smelling lady who came here a while ago. I think.”

The queen?
Gamghast pressed away from the table and walked as quickly as his painful ankle would allow. “Lead on, Wit.”

“Gamghast?” called Borel after him. “You’re just going to let Kreer leave? You’re going to let him pursue the highlander without us?”

Gamghast huffed. “I’m through standing between that man and what he thinks his prayers tell him. Castor’s spirit is the highlander’s to wield, and it’s not for me to question why. If Kreer wants to die because he insists otherwise, then so be it.”

Gamghast spied the Abbey’s vestibule ahead and counted no fewer than six cloaked figures, their faces hidden within the shadows of their hoods. He slowed, concerned at the sight of so many strangers at so late an hour. There was a time when the Abbey had opened its doors to all, gladly accepting the sick and the troubled. But such could no longer be the case. He leaned against his staff and sighed.
It seems from now on our doors will ever be guarded by fear and
suspicion
.

“That’s her,” mumbled Wit, gesturing ahead. “In the middle. There’s a few other nice smelling ladies with her and two rough looking men.”

Gamghast squinted, trying to discern details in the flickering light of the corridor. Indeed, one of the figures had a swell in the midsection, a fullness of pregnancy. By Gamghast’s count Queen Reyis was nearly seven months pregnant, and complications at such a stage were not uncommon. “Get a room ready, Wit. One with a comfortable bed. Then I’ll need you to run to the apothecary. Get nightclover, hagsweed, and powdered tinder root. Be quick about it.”

Wit nodded and headed back down the hall. Gamghast paused and then continued his limping march forward.

The figure in the center of the vestibule pressed thin hands against its hood, revealing a face of elegant features framed by a cascade of flaxen hair.
Queen Reyis
.

“My queen!” Gamghast called. He rushed into the vestibule and braced his hands against his staff, sinking as close to a kneel as his injured body would allow. “The Sanctum is honored by your presence.” He struggled upright and studied the woman, noticing her eyes were red and surrounded by dark rings. Her hands trembled. A tall figure moved close to her.