EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (179 page)

“Take care of these,” he said and gave them a longing pat. “Dragonforged, they are. Northern steel.” He glared up at the recruits. “If you scratch em, I’ll stick em into your guts.”

“Well, why don’t you just take them to bed with you?” Erry said with another roll of her eyes. When she lifted a sword, those eyes widened, and her lips peeled back into a grin. “Bloody stars, now this is a sword.”

The scrawny, dockside orphan drew her blade and swung it, forcing Tilla and Mae to leap back.

“Be careful!” Mae said. She reached for her own sword hesitantly, as if reaching for a venomous snake, and her lips wobbled again.

Tilla lifted the third sword and hefted it. The blade was sheathed in a black, leather scabbard attached to a belt. She slung the belt around her waist, tightened it, and let the sword hang against her left hip. It felt light—lighter than she had expected—but just heavy enough for comfort. She closed her hand around the hilt, squeezing and releasing, but did not draw the blade.

My own sword,
she thought.

Since leaving Cadport, Tilla had felt afraid, naked, and alone. But gripping this hilt comforted her. She had a weapon now. She was armed. She was a soldier. For the first time, Tilla felt that maybe the Legions were not a nightmare world. Surely, this was a violent place, and a dangerous one, but there were rules to it. If Tilla played by these rules, she could grow strong here.

Maybe someday I can be strong like Nairi
, she thought,
and wear an officer’s insignia upon my shoulders. I could command with justice, not cruelty, with pride rather than malice.

Nairi was shouting again and herding recruits outside. Tilla hurried back out into the sunset. The rest of her phalanx crowded around her, all clad in leather armor and bearing swords.

“Form ranks!” Nairi shouted.

Perhaps it was the pride of armor and blade; this time, the recruits took formation faster than ever. Three lines formed. Boots slammed together.

“Hail the red spiral!” Nairi cried, and hundreds of fists slammed against hundreds of breastplates.

Tilla stood, chin held high. The sun was finally peeking through the clouds. She dared to feel a sliver of hope.

RUNE

T
HEY
ENTERED
THE
WIDE
,
SHADOWY
hall of Valien’s crumbling palace.

Limestone pillars rose in palisades, supporting a vaulted ceiling. Dust, grooves, and holes covered the tiled floor and brick walls. Two lines of braziers crackled, forming a corridor of light. At the end of this corridor, a man sat in a chair, his head lowered and his face shadowed. A sword lay upon his lap; the man stared at it, not looking up.

A silent, dark majesty filled the hall, Rune thought. The kings of Osanna had once ruled from this place, presiding over courts of light and life. This man ahead, Rune thought, seemed a different sort of king—a king of death and darkness. He had no golden throne, only an old wooden chair. He wore no armor, only the garb of a forester. And yet Rune thought: He exudes his own regality, as strong as those true kings who had once sat here.

Rune looked at Kaelyn. She stood at his side, still and silent, but a light seemed to fill her eyes—a light of comfort and hope, hearth light shining at the windows for a weary traveler returning home.

She looked at Rune and a smile touched her lips. She held his hand and guided him forward. They walked across the hall, moving down the palisade of braziers and columns, and approached the shadowy man.

“Valien,” Kaelyn said softly. “I’ve returned.”

The man did not look up. He was polishing his sword, Rune saw, moving an oiled rag back and forth along the blade. Rune had a feeling that blade had been polished to perfection hours ago. His own father, when troubled, would polish the Old Wheel’s bar over and over for hours, lost in thought. This man was polishing his blade with the same weariness.

Rune could still not see Valien’s face, but what he saw of the man spoke of haunting memory, of pain, of a weight too great to bear. Valien’s hair was long and untamed, hanging loose about his face; it must have once been a great black mane, but now white streaked it. The man’s shoulders, though wide and strong, slumped as if bearing an invisible yoke. Valien’s clothes had once been fine, Rune thought; they were made of thick wool and tanned leather. Yet years of age had worn them; the fabrics were now faded into mere memories of lost glory.

Seeing this man, Rune did not know how to feel. Many in Cadport, including his father, would whisper that Valien was a hero, the only man brave enough to stand up to the Cadigus family. Others said that Valien was a ruthless killer, that he had slain many soldiers from Cadport, including Tilla’s brother. Standing here today, Rune did not know whether to feel awe, hatred, or fear.

“Lord Valien Eleison,” he said softly. “The lost knight of Requiem.”

Valien’s hands stilled upon the blade. His body tensed. He still did not look up. After what seemed an eternity of silence, Valien snorted.

“Lord Valien Eleison?” he spoke in shadow, and Rune started, for that voice was rough and worn like beaten leather. “I haven’t been a lord in many years, boy. And the House Eleison has fallen; I am its last survivor. You may call me Valien now; titles are nothing but a memory of light in darkness.”

Rune wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The Regime called this man a demon; others call him a hero. Standing here, Rune saw neither. He saw only a tired, broken man, the ghost of somebody who might once have been great.

“Valien,” he said. “Just Valien then. And I’m just Rune.”

For the first time, Valien looked up... and Rune nearly lost his breath.

He had seen hard faces before. Frey Cadigus, in paintings and statues, bore a face that Rune thought could wilt flowers. Tilla’s face, when she was angry, was hard as granite. But this man...

Valien’s face seemed carved of beaten leather stretched over iron. Grizzled stubble covered his cheeks. Grooves framed his mouth. But worst of all were his eyes. Those eyes were dark, deep, and haunted as windows in temples of ghosts. They sang of old pain and battles as clearly as tales in books or poems. He couldn’t have been much older than forty, Rune thought, but his eyes seemed more ancient than those of old men.

“Just Rune,” Valien rasped. “Is that so? Do you think you were brought before me because you are
just Rune
?”

Again, Rune was struck by that gruff voice. Valien spoke like a man being strangled. His voice was but a hiss, a scratch, a deathly gasp.

“Some might think me more than that,” Rune said. “I’ve heard what Kaelyn believes. I come here to tell you: She is wrong.” He shook his head. “I’m not the one you seek.”

Valien snorted again. “Aren’t you now?” He coughed and hissed like a man hanging from a noose. “I smuggled Relesar Aeternum out of the burning palace of his father, slaying Cadigus men as I held the babe. I brought the child, last heir of the dynasty, to an old tavern in an older port. I gave him a new name. I know you better than you know yourself,
Rune Brewer
. I’ve known you all your life, and so has Kaelyn.”

The young woman, hearing her name, walked over to Valien and placed a hand on his shoulder. She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and whispered soft blessings.

When she straightened, she said, “Valien, I barely saved the boy in time. Shari arrived in Lynport the same day. I fought her. I wounded her. I smuggled Rune out moments before her men stormed the tavern.” Kaelyn lowered her head. “She burned that tavern down, and she killed its keeper. I’m sorry, Valien; I did not mean for any blood to spill. I flew too slowly.” She raised her head again, and her eyes shone with tears. “But he is here now. The heir to the throne. He will rally the people against Cadigus; he will bring us hope.”

A lump filled Rune’s throat. His eyes burned. Thinking about the Old Wheel still pained him so much he could barely breathe.

“Wait a moment!” he said, his voice too loud; it echoed in the chamber. “I will not be some figurehead for your Resistance. I hate Frey Cadigus too, but... I’m only a brewer. I’m not who you think I am. I—“

“You,” Valien said, “were kept safe. We made damn sure of that. I’ve been protecting you all your life, Relesar, though you never knew it. I was in the Old Wheel many times, in shadow, watching you grow from a babe, to a boy, to a man. I made sure you never knew your true parentage; not until you were old enough. You were safe in the Old Wheel.” He sighed. “At least, safe until you went ahead and started looking like your father.”

“Wil Brewer is my father—“ Rune began.

“Your father was the last King Aeternum,” Valien said. “I should know; I fought for him. And you, Rune, look exactly like him, damn you. The Regime noticed. And so... now you are here. You can no longer hide. The time has come, Rune, for you to accept your true heritage... and to take arms against the man who slew your family.” Valien reached out and clutched Rune’s arm, digging his fingers like an iron vise. “The throne of Requiem is yours. With your help, we will slay the tyrant and place you upon that throne.”

Rune laughed.

He turned away.

He could not stop laughing. His laughter echoed through the hall, and tears stung his eyes, and he clutched his belly but could not stop. Valien and Kaelyn were looking at each other grimly, but that only made Rune laugh harder.

Tilla, his best friend, the woman who had kissed him—gone into the Legions. His father—dead. His tavern—burned. His life—torn apart. And now this! Now this ragged shell of man who ruled over ruins and bones—this disgraced knight—called him the heir of Aeternum. Rune paced the hall, tears streaming down his face as he laughed. As his world burned, as all hope for life faded, as everything he’d ever known crumbled around him, what else could he do but laugh?

“Rune,” Kaelyn said slowly. “Rune, I know this is a lot to take in.”

He tossed back his head, only laughing harder.

“Do you think so, Kaelyn?” he said. “I only just waded through skeletons to meet your grizzled old friend here—who looks barely better—and was told you want me to dethrone Frey Cadigus. Did I miss anything?”

Kaelyn stepped toward him and took his hands. “You don’t have to dethrone him yourself, Rune. It needn’t be your hand that slays him. But yes, you will sit upon his throne once we kill him.”

He wiped tears from his eyes, chest still shaking with laughter. “Well, there’s a relief. And tell me, even if I am this... heir of Aeternum... even if my true father was the king... who cares? Kaelyn, you’re Frey’s daughter. Kill the bastard and you take the throne.” He pointed a shaky finger at Valien. “Or you, old knight. You’re supposedly a great warrior. If one soldier could start a new dynasty, why not another? Why not you—“

Valien rose to his feet and roared.

Rune’s laughter and voice died.

He had not imagined this weathered man, a wreck who coughed and talked in a wheeze, could roar. And yet Valien now howled, and the cry—the cry of an enraged beast—filled the hall, echoed, and pounded in Rune’s ears.

“Silence!”

Valien stomped forward so violently that Rune stepped back, but the man reached him and grabbed his collar. The fallen knight thrust his face close and snarled.

“I’ve not carried you through fire and blood to hear you mock me,” Valien said, voice gruff as old leather cracking under stones. “You know so little. All your life has been sheltered. I made sure of that. You speak of things you do not understand.”

Rune’s laughter was gone now. Instead he found rage pounding through him, an inferno rising from his belly to sting his throat and eyes. He raged for Tilla leaving, for his father dying, for being taken to this place. He glared back at Valien with burning eyes.

“Is that my fault? You claim to have been watching me all my life. You kept me in the dark! And now you want to use me in your war as some... some figurehead? Look around you, Valien!” He swept his hands around the hall. “Look at this place. A shattered hall. Look at the city you dwell in! A ruin of skeletons. Look at your men! A few hungry souls with chipped swords and no armor. You speak of killing Frey Cadigus? Your war is hopeless.”

“Then it is hopeless!” Valien howled. He shoved Rune back, and his eyes burned. “Then we will die! Then we will die like the rest of them—like your parents, like your siblings, like the knights of my order, like my—“

Valien froze.

His face paled.

His lip trembled.

The gruff man stepped back, whispering and staring at Rune.

Then, with a hiss, he spun around and marched into the shadows. He disappeared into the back of the hall, a door slammed shut, and Valien was gone.

Rune’s heart pounded, his fingers shook, and his breath rattled his ribs. He turned toward Kaelyn. She stood by the empty chair, eyes sad like birds left to die in an abandoned cage.

“What was that all about?” Rune demanded. “Why did he just... leave like he saw a ghost?”

Kaelyn heaved a sigh. She looked over to the shadows where Valien had vanished.

“Because he did see a ghost,” she whispered. “He saw
her
again.”

Rune too looked toward those shadows, but Valien was gone and did not return. The room seemed to grow colder, and Rune hugged himself. He had just met the leader of the Resistance, the supposed hope of Requiem, the only man who had ever stood up to Frey Cadigus, raised his head, and said to him: This land is not yours.