EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (358 page)

The hills banked down to the roaring mountain-fed river and they followed its narrow gorge through the mountains. The snow was wet and heavy, but no more than a couple inches deep. The river flowed down to meet the wide calm waters of the Chanset and they descended into bony trees studded with the green buds of fresh growth. The horses churned the mud of the thaw and the wind-tossed rain showers.

Perhaps Blays had it right. Let the world turn on its own for a while. It had done so before they were born and it would do so after they were gone. For whatever ills it caused, the ambition of the men within it was no less natural then the nether itself. Whatever it was that drove them to do harm was the same need that compelled them to build sky-scratching cathedrals and castle walls twice as thick as a man was tall, to tramp down the roads that spoked through a thousand miles of farmland and wilderness, to gather in villages and towns and cities in the planet-hugging reach of conquest and commerce; the same need that made them grow mile on mile of wind-ruffled wheat, that made men fill libraries with books and books with words, that made them fill their lungs with air and their stomachs with beer; that peopled a poor woman’s home with bright-eyed, soot-streaked children who would one day travel from one coast to another, or launch across the shuddering waves far from sight of land, or die before they knew what surrounded them, or rob an ancient temple in the dead of night and pry its secrets from the rubbly stone.

Trees thrust up around Dante, blotting out the sun. Grass sighed at his ankles and thighs whenever he stepped off the road. Hundreds of pounds of horse rose and fell beneath him. Crows spat at each other in the boughs and were chased away by nattering squirrels. In the undergrowth, mice and rabbits and wolves stirred ankle-deep leaves. Spooked deer caught the boys’ scent and crashed away through the brambles. And above them, by day or by night, the wind breathed in the trees. If there had ever been gods in this place, they’d been driven out by the crush of their own creations a long time ago. Arawn, he knew, had not been at the Tree. The
Cycle of Arawn
had led him through unknown years of man’s knowledge. He had thought it would show him its very roots. Instead, in following it to its end, to the endless snowfield beneath the White Tree where he believed he would find a god—an order and a meaning and a hold on this world—he had found himself simply trapped among mad people doing mad things, had killed one friend and been betrayed by another, one more mote in a blind storm of ash, alone except for Blays, vulnerable except the wrath he’d found in the nether. His silence deepened. Possibly, that was enough.

After weeks of travel the smoke of Whetton mingled with the dusky sky. Red clouds piled up to the west. The road forked, one branch east toward town, another to the south and Bressel. Dante led his horse east.

“Where are you going?” Blays said, jerking his head at the other path.

“Whetton.”

“We’re only a couple days out from Bressel.”

“There’s no hurry,” Dante said. “I want to see what’s become of the city.”

Blays bit the skin around his thumbnail. “What if they recognize what’s become of us? You do remember our last visit? The local hospitality of rope and high branches?”

“Last time we were here you looked like a rag wrapped around a stick,” Dante said. “Look at you now in your fancy clothes, your hair cut straight.”

Blays eyed him. “There were an awful lot of people in that field. Thousands, if I recall.”

“If anyone gives us any trouble,” Dante said, nudging his horse forward, “we’ll just point them at our badges. They’ll be in no rush to invite more trouble from the north. If that doesn’t do it, we’ll tell them about how, at great personal risk, we saved their stupid town from war.”

“This will end badly,” Blays declared, then rallied to catch up.

They headed down the road where months ago thousands of citizens had fled fire and battle. Today a shepherd was driving his flock to market and the pair skirted around the grungy blobs of walking wool. The outskirts of the city were hewn in fresh blond wood, offset here and there by the charred-out husks of what remained. The streets were thick with sodden ash and charcoal. The rap of hammers smacked on all sides. Masons and carpenters shouted from scaffolds wrapped around the sharp corners of damaged temples and half-constructed manors, squeezing out a few last minutes of work in the waning daylight. Men and women hurried home from market or the docks, or left the quiet warmth of their hearths for the clamor and company of a public house. Blays’ mouth twitched at the signs above the pubs, the painted heads of stags or owls or an anchor tilted on its side.

“Pint?” Dante said, gazing down the street.

“As long as we’re here,” Blays grinned. They found a public stable and parted with some silver as their horses were led away to be groomed and fed. Blays elbowed Dante in the ribs and raced ahead through the damp chill of the early night. A fat turtle was printed above the doors of the first place he chose.

Blays flagged down a servant and they were brought mugs and ale. Dante drank slowly, pleasantly surprised to find he liked the taste. Perhaps he was getting older. When Blays wandered off to the latrine, Dante made a round of the room, holding a few brief conversations with any man or woman who looked at home.

“Drink up,” he said when Blays got back.

“Suddenly there’s a hurry again?”

“I have a terrible urge to go see if the inn where they arrested you was burnt down.”

“If it hasn’t, mind if we finish the job?”

“Let’s see where the night takes us,” Dante said. Blays drained his ale and they hit the street again. The laughter of men echoed through the alleys. They wandered the city, half-remembering streets they’d last seen half a year ago, their direction sense aided by a couple pints apiece. Dante kept an eye out for the boys who’d helped them then—he couldn’t remember their names—but didn’t see either. Probably, they hadn’t made it through the upheaval; they’d had nothing to protect them even in times of peace. But they had had their wits. Maybe they lived yet, hiding under the docks, peering down from the roofs on the men who owned the streets, waiting to descend till they could take a piece for themselves.

Finally Dante and Blays came to the corner near the north end of town where they’d slept a single night. The building was gone, torn down, replaced by a few tents and a small shack. Blays spat on the dirt.

“Too bad buildings don’t have tombstones,” he said, giving the grounds the finger. “I have a sudden urge to urinate.”

Dante peered down the street, knowing the pub the man in the Fat Turtle had directed him to had to be near. Blays finished his business and Dante headed down a cross street. Just when he thought he’d gone too far his eyes seized on the image of a four-fingered hand painted above a pub door.

“This looks as good as any,” Dante said, swinging through the door. He glanced through the room, then sighed and took a seat. After an hour and two pints for him and four for Blays he was ready to try their luck somewhere else. Blays was rambling on about how they should try to get arrested again just to see if the watch had the guts when the door banged open.

“Be right back,” Dante said, threading past tables and outstretched legs to intercept the man who’d just entered. He stood behind the brown-bearded figure and tapped him on the shoulder. “Time to meet your maker, you villain.”

Robert Hobble turned and punched blindly for Dante’s head. Dante sidestepped the blow, then jumped forward and grabbed the man’s collar. Robert screwed up his face, eyes leaping between Dante’s.

“Lyle’s soiled drawers,” he said with beer-thick breath. “You made it? Did you really do it?”

“It’s done.” Dante heard bootsteps behind him. He stepped aside.

“No thanks to you, you cowardly son of a bitch,” Blays said. He brushed past Dante to face the old friend Dante’d been hunting since they stepped foot in Whetton.

“You’ll understand some day, you filth-mouthed pup,” Robert said, lips and eyes creased with a smile. He staggered forward and crushed Blays up in a hug. Blays’ chin rested on the man’s shoulder and he gave Dante a strange, knowing look he’d remember years after Blays had gone but would never be able to understand. At times he thought he saw gratitude in that look, but at others it could have been betrayal. Sometimes he saw nothing in it but a confusion so faint it was barely there at all, like the face of a man who’s forgotten how it had ever felt to be young.

Robert unclinched, laughing and clapping his hands. “This calls for a round. Many rounds. Rounds until they get the picture and roll the keg right up to our table.”

Dante hunted down a servant and let her know she had some lively stepping in her future. When he returned to the table Robert was already yammering on at Blays.

“So much has happened, boys,” he said, draping one hand over the back of a chair and pointing at them with the other. “Came back and the place was a battlefield. I rallied a few of the fellows I knew to help retake the town and what do you know, they made me a captain!” He flicked a tri-colored badge on his chest. “How long are you here? Got time to hear a few of my stories before you start boring me with your own?”

“I think I know how all of yours start,” Blays said. “’There I was, rum-soaked as the bottom of the barrel, when all of a sudden—‘”

“It’s like you were there!” Robert said, reaching across the table and giving him a knock on the shoulder.

“We’ll be here for a while,” Dante said. “For the moment there’s nothing more.”

They settled in to the warm smoke of the hearth, the earthy smell of simmering stew, the stinging taste of bitter ale. Around them men came and went and argued and joked. Dante bent down to his pack and made sure the book was still there. He was a young man in a strange world. Some day he would take his place among the black, but for now the book was his. Just as much, Robert would be there whenever he took the time to find him; for Blays, he couldn’t imagine what could drive them apart. Dante leaned back on the solid wood of his chair, listening to the raucous calls of the crowd, to Robert’s beery words and Blays’ guarded laughter. His ears soared with the sounds of all those who still lived.

THE END

Afterword

D
ANTE
'
S
JOURNEY
CONTINUES
IN
T
HE
Great Rift
, Book #2 of the
Cycle of Arawn
trilogy.

A USA TODAY bestselling author, Edward W. Robertson writes whatever he gets a kick out of. Mostly, that involves robots, magic, and the end of the world.

His works include the post-apocalyptic Breakers series and the epic fantasy trilogy the
Cycle of Arawn
. A graduate of NYU's fiction program, his short stories have appeared in a couple dozen magazines. He has lived places and owned pets.

If you'd like to hear about Ed's new books, you can sign up for his mailing list here:
http://eepurl.com/oTR6j

Don't worry, it will be an entirely spam-free experience. Unless there really is an apocalypse. Then Spam may just save our lives.

Or alternatively, visit his website at:
http://edwardwrobertson.com/

T
HE
J
EWEL
OF
D
ANENOS
: A L
EE
S
TARFINDER
A
DVENTURE

Brian D. Anderson & Jonathan Anderson

Story

L
EE
S
TARFINDER
SAT
ASTRIDE
HIS
massive
black
stallion,
head
high and
back
straight.
His
fur-lined
suede
coat
covered
the
silver
silk shirt
that
he
had
received
as
tribute
from
the
Miners’
Guild.
His black
hair
was
oiled
and
pushed
back
in
Baltrian
fashion,
which had
become
the
style
in
Hazrah.
His
black
trousers
and
polished boots
were
decorated
with
tiny
silver
beads
set
in
a
crisscrossing pattern
that
glittered
in
the
noonday
sun.
His
long,
slender
blade hung
carelessly
at
his
side.
Though
he
preferred
to
attach
it
to his
saddle,
this
gave
him
an
even
greater
air
of
superiority, important
for
a
man
of
his
standing
and
position.
A
true
noble lord
by
all
accounts.

The
streets
of
Hazrah
were
bustling
with
activity.
The
sounds of
peddlers
shouting
their
wares
and
the
songs
of
wandering minstrels
echoed
off
the
stone
walls
of
the
buildings.
Hazrah was
a
solidly
built
city
constructed
mostly
from
a
dark
gray granite
common
in
the
Razor
Edge
Mountains.
This
ensured
that its
structures
would
stand
the
test
of
time,
not
to
mention
any assault.
Some
houses
and
shops
were
as
tall
as
three
stories, and
though
impressive
to
look
at,
they
did
funnel
the
harsh
wind through
the
markets
in
winter.
But
thankfully,
it
was
now
early spring.

The
seed
and
hay
merchants
had
begun
to
arrive,
along
with the
copper
and
jewel
traders
up
from
the
southlands.
Lee
owned six
mines,
and
the
sight
of
trade
meant
more
gold
for
his
coffers. Not
that
he
didn’t
have
enough
wealth
already.
Only
the
king boasted
more.
Still,
more
was
better.
Gold
kept
his
house powerful
and
his
interests
secure.

The
scent
of
pack
animals
and
the
unwashed
bodies
of laborers
mingled
with
the
perfumes
of
the
wealthy
traders
and nobles, which gave the air an unwholesome smell that Lee detested.
It
was
why
he
rarely
came
to
the
market
himself.
His friends
would
tease
him
that
he
was
abandoning
his
humble beginnings
in
favor
of
a
lordly
life.
He
knew
they
weren’t wrong,
but
also
that
they
were
little
better.
By
all
accounts,
they lived
as
if
they
were
wealthier
than
he
(though
they
clearly
were not).
When
not
training
or
studying
warfare,
he
spent
time
at
the private
baths
reserved
for
landed
nobility,
or
at
lavish
parties that
took
place
almost
every
night.
It
was
there
he
would
cause tongues
to
wag.
His
self-confident
swagger,
good
looks
and carefree
disposition
caused
the
noble
ladies
to
swoon,
and
Lee made
no
secret
of
the
fact
that
he
enjoyed
their
company.
More than
once
he
had
faced
down
a
jealous
suitor
or
angry
father. But,
as
his
prowess
with
a
blade
was
well
known,
he
rarely
had to
do
more
than
apologize
and
give
an
expensive
gift
to
quell their
fury.