What Remains of Heroes (18 page)

And then through it.

Lannick blinked. He was outside, somewhere. Above him was the early dawn sky, still sprinkled with stars but brightened with a lavender hue. Beneath him he felt cool cobblestones. He shifted his head and saw a small collection of multicolored tents and wagons laden with crates and sacks. There came the sound of chickens clucking.

I know this place. Ironmoor’s Old
Market
.

He tried to force himself upward to sit but was pressed back to the stones by a silken boot. Above him stood the Necrist, the black veil of her clothing hiding all but her pale hands.
Thank the dead gods I need not look at her
face
.

“Our journey has not yet ended,” she said, turning her head about as though looking for something. After a moment she returned her attention to Lannick. “Oh, the things we have planned for you,” she said through the cover of her veil. “It is a rare gift to find a Variden without the protection of his Coda. We will rip apart your flesh and your mind, my love.”

There sounded a sharp chirp of a bird from a nearby rooftop. Another answered. The dawn sun brightened the sky.

The Necrist hissed something, a curse perhaps.

She’s nervous
.

Lannick turned his head as subtly as he was able, mindful of the Necrist’s presence. A dozen or so feet away, one of the misshapen Shodafayn crawled on hands and knees along the edge of a tent, sniffing at the mud-clotted cobbles with a nose that once belonged to Lannick’s eldest son.

Dead gods, kill me
.

He shuddered and put a hand to his brow. He knew what his circumstances required, but he was weak, stiff, and drained of nearly all life. He felt as though no blood flowed within him and no life filled his limbs, as much a corpse as a man. He wished so much he could summon something, some inner reserve of strength to fight or flee, but there was no hope for such dramatics in his present state.

He pulled his head just off the stones, but could manage no more. His eyes strayed again to the hound-like Shodafayn, smelling at cracked rocks and frayed cloths, searching for something.

Lannick remembered it then. The shadowpaths were passages through the netherworld, but were mirrored in the world above by contiguous shadows—shadows cast by the roof of a house, melding into another cast by a cobble, to another cast by a discarded broom, and so forth. As shadows shifted in the world above, depending upon the position of the moon, stars, and objects, so did the shadowpaths. The disciples of Yrghul could travel unseen for as long as shadows joined others, but a break in the line of shadows left them to travel in the world of men.

It was clear the Necrist had not expected this interruption in their passage, and had accused the Shodafayn navigators of making a mistake.

Perhaps their path amidst the shadows has been purposefully
altered
.

Suddenly something squealed like a pig being slaughtered. Lannick turned and saw one of the other Shodafayn fumbling at an arrow stuck in its throat, trying vainly to stop the spout of black blood from the wound.

“Don’t move!” the Necrist hissed at Lannick. She mumbled a string of broken-sounding words and made intricate gestures with her hands.

Sorcery.
Lannick struggled upward but realized his arms would not move. He looked down to see the shadows bleeding from between the cobblestones to form bindings upon his wrists. They bit at his flesh like ice.

There was a commotion off to his side, and Lannick saw another of the Shodafayn pinned against a wagon wheel by two arrows lodged in its chest.

The Necrist remained near him, scanning the market’s wide square and the rooftops at its far boundaries. She shouted at the last of the Shodafayn, which continued sniffing along the flap of a tent. The Shodafayn croaked in answer, and began scratching at the ground as though digging a hole.

“Good,” said the Necrist, “you’ve found it.” She turned back to Lannick. “Come!”

Lannick felt the bonds at his wrists dissolve, and pressed upward with the waning, desperate remains of his strength. Too late. The Necrist seized him by his matted mop of hair and pulled hard. He groaned in pain, and found he could do nothing but scramble backward in the Necrist’s tow.

An arrow whistled by and clattered against the stone cobbles inches from Lannick’s bare foot. Then another.

The Necrist barked another urgent command, her tone frantic. Lannick tried to turn to see ahead of her but the movement made his scalp feel as though it were ripping apart. He felt a trickle of blood upon his forehead.

Another cry sounded and the Necrist halted abruptly. Lannick felt her hand pull free of his skull, and he lunged away as quickly as his beaten body would allow. He came to rest at the broken wheel of a wagon and turned timidly about.

From behind the nearby traders’ tents emerged several figures, all wearing green cloaks and brandishing weapons tinged by flickering flames.

Variden
.

The Necrist faced them, her pale hands outstretched and gathering the shadows surrounding her. Just beyond, the Shodafayn tore open a rift of swirling shadow with its stunted arms, and in an instant the rift jerked and expanded to several feet across.

“Hold fast, you fiend!” one of the Variden shouted. The Variden were close now, close enough for Lannick to recognize some of their once-familiar faces.

The Necrist cursed in the foul tongue of its kind, and whipped about to regard Lannick. She seized an edge of the veil covering her face and pulled it aside, revealing again the face of his dead wife, knitted together with a black stitch.

“Another time, my love,” she said with a sickly sweetness, her face contorting to a wicked grin. She then turned and dove headlong into the shadowy rift, disappearing into the blackness with the Shodafayn following closely behind.

The air about the breach shimmered and shook, and then the hole collapsed upon itself, leaving only the gently swaying tent flap brushing the cobblestones.

“Lannick!” cried a voice. It was Alisa, her large brown eyes catching the first beams of the morning sun. Behind her stalked two more Variden, grimly regarding the two corpses of the Shodafayn and the perversions upon their faces.

The faces of Lannick’s infant twins.

Lannick collapsed against the cobblestones and wept.

13

The Last King

P
refect Gamghast strode
through the Bastion’s cavernous hallways, his boots and heavy staff drumming a rhythmic
click-click-clack
upon the marble tiles and echoing throughout the vaulted sprawl. He peered out from the sagging hood of his brown robe, eyeing the musty tapestries, the exaggerated sculptures, and the vast gulfs of unnecessary space.
It is a shameful, corrupting thing when the powerful rule amidst such excess
.

The Bastion had stood for centuries. It had been expanded to serve the Rune’s pride, it had been burned to the ground by enemies, it had been built anew, it had been gutted when one High King desired to eradicate the memories of a predecessor. The countless alterations had left the place with innumerable secret passages, uneven halls, and dead ends. It was a place difficult for Gamghast to traverse with any air of purpose or certainty, and he feared his confusion showed.

The Bastion’s hooded, scurrying functionaries regarded him with cocked brows and narrowed eyes, displaying varying degrees of suspicion and derision. Gamghast quickly lost count of the number of times the word “spooker” was whispered in his wake. Nevertheless, as he’d hoped, none of them confronted him or questioned his presence in the hallowed halls of the High King’s castle, and his exchange with the veiled guards outside had been brief.

He hadn’t seen High King Deragol in quite some time, but was familiar with the rumors of his condition. The High King was no longer a young man, and had not yet produced an heir. It was said his wife had suffered many miscarriages, and his mind was tortured by grief. Gossipmongers mockingly referred to him as “The Last King,” anticipating he’d prove to be the last of his line.

Gamghast paused in the center of the yawning chamber at the juncture of several hallways and gazed upward at nothing in particular. He’d gathered information on Chamberlain Alamis and he’d followed the man for several days outside the castle, but he’d learned nothing. Gamghast realized he had no gift for snooping, so today he’d try a different tack. He’d rely upon old customs to secure an audience with the Last King himself.

A murdered Sentinel. An heirless King. Such are the trials of our times
.

He heaved a sigh and continued his trudge through the great halls of stone.

Gamghast rounded a corner and immediately caught sight of the tall figure standing between two gaudy vases at the end of the hallway, dressed in opulent, blue silk. His head was uncovered, in blatant defiance of tradition. His pale eyes held Gamghast’s firmly as he approached, his look one of genuine contempt only slightly offset by a thin smile.

Chamberlain Alamis, Rune’s most venomous
serpent
.

“Prefect Gamghast,” said the man in a voice that carried in spite of its seemingly quiet quality. “What an unexpected surprise. I understand you’ve come for an audience with the High King? Let me assure you, His Majesty is in no condition for visitors, particularly the unannounced kind. If your visit concerns the well-being of Rune,” he said with a wave to a nearby door, “then I’d suggest you and I speak in the sitting room.”

Gamghast smoothed the wisps of his white beard.
Tread carefully
. “Chamberlain Alamis,” he said, bowing slightly. “As you know, our dear Lector was taken from us just weeks ago. He met regularly with His Majesty, in fulfillment of the Sanctum’s mission. Our charge is to ensure the welfare of the kingdom of Rune, and the person who sits upon its throne. It is my task to continue the Lector’s service to our King.”

“Truly?” the chamberlain asked, his smile tightening. “Let me see,” he said, tapping his pointed chin with a forefinger. “Ah, yes. I do recall your Lector meeting with His Majesty a few months ago, and, if memory serves, this was an annual event. A meeting at the Godswell, correct? To perform whatever charlatanry your kind practices. Are you here to engage in such nonsense? If so, then another time would be preferred.”

“The Faith is still sacrosanct within these walls, Chamberlain. It is through the Faith that the High King’s power—and yours—is granted.”

The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed, his smile one of bemusement. “Do you recite these platitudes for my benefit, or for your own?” He clucked his tongue, chiding. “It must be a difficult thing, clinging to old beliefs no one else shares, knowing your kind is widely regarded as doddering old fools.” He drew closer, and his voice dipped to little more than a whisper. “There are times, Prefect, when old branches must be pruned, so that newer ones can thrive.
Now
is such a time.”

Gamghast straightened his spine, bringing his eyes level with the chamberlain’s. “Mine is a sacred calling.” He dug into his robe and produced a sealed scroll and shook it before him in a fist, nearly smacking it against the chamberlain’s smoothly shaven cheek. “This is my warrant, signed by High King Deragol himself on the very day he ascended to the throne. I need not your permission to call upon him!”

The chamberlain was a picture of calm and the thin smile did not leave his face. He breathed deeply before speaking. “You can dispense with the histrionics, Prefect. I, for one, believe your Sanctum meddles in dark magics behind a convenient veneer of religion. I can think of no greater hypocrisy than yours.” He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves and his shoulders sagged. “That said, who am I, a mere steward, to deny your task?” He bowed, gesturing to the hallway to his right. “This way, my dear Prefect.”

The throne room of the High King was as impressive a thing as Gamghast had ever beheld. It was a massive, circular expanse, at least a hundred feet in diameter, with great buttresses ringing the round of the wall and meeting somewhere far above to form a domed ceiling. The granite floor was leaden in hue and cast with a map of inlaid gold portraying the whole of the known world, with the kingdom of Rune at its center. The gold inlay glowed, reflecting the light of innumerable, aromatic candles lining the chamber’s edge. There were no windows to be seen, and there was the smoke of incense hanging in a low haze. The heavy scent caused a catch in the back of Gamghast’s throat and he coughed.

At the room’s far end stood a dais, at least six feet in height and perhaps four times that wide, atop which was the throne. It was a tall chair of ivory, and the Old Faith instructed it was formed from shards of bone pulled from the mortal shell of the dead goddess Illienne the Light Eternal. The throne sat empty now, yet the power of the Crown was palpable in its place.

“This is your first time here?” Chamberlain Alamis asked, thumbing the cleft of his chin. “Ah. Of course it is. I apologize. I forget you are only a prefect, accustomed as I am to dealing with people of more… significance.”

Gamghast let the comment pass.
Engaging him now serves no purpose, and only augments the dangers of my task
. He avoided the chamberlain’s pale eyes, focusing instead on the room’s wall. Ancient relics and treasures of great value adorned the wall, just beyond the ring of candlelight. Antiquities from as far back as the War of Fates, when the gods Illienne and Yrghul descended to oblivion and left the world to men. Swords, shields, and articles of clothing from great and powerful figures.

Alamis paused as though to allow the room’s grandeur to weigh upon the prefect. He fiddled with a button at his collar before setting off toward the throne with long strides. “This way is the throne, Prefect.”

Gamghast followed, gathering his robes from his ankles in a fist as he struggled to match the tall man’s pace. As he walked he could not help but study the inlaid map decorating the granite floor. He moved northward according to the map’s orientation, from the vast desert wastes at the world’s ending, through the uncharted jungles of Rimgald to its pirate-infested coast, across the narrow stretch of the Ebony Sea, through the Bowl of Fire, into exotic Khaldisia along its border with fierce Arranan, near Arranan’s ancient city of Zyn, home of its secretive Spider King. In a few more strides he was crossing the peaks of the Southwall Mountains, and as he did he reckoned countless Arranese warriors were doing the same at that place in the world. Then he was within Rune, across her old forests and into the holds of the thanes. Through the southern holds he crossed, then to Ironmoor and north to the hold of Farwatch. He glanced to the map’s east and saw the island kingdom of Tallorrath and farther still the glint of proud Harkane, its honor-bound people ever at war. Onward he walked, through the high countries and mist-covered Stormfall, hold of Thane Brandiss, then to Rune’s vague border with the untamed highlands, then at last the Waters of World’s End.

At the head of it all, upon the crown of the world, was the foot of the great dais and the throne of the High King.

The chamberlain came to a stop a few feet away from the first stair of the dais. “The throne of Rune’s High King,” he said, his voice rising to fill the great hall, “The seat of the entire world’s dominion for a thousand years. Imagine,” he said, his tone longing, “all the kings and warlords and thanes who’ve bent their knees before this chair to lick the boots of the High King. Think of all the great powers emasculated in the shadow of this seat.”

“Or,” Gamghast said, eyeing the throne, “from another perspective, all of the ways in which Illienne’s blessing has manifested, and the righteousness it has worked through imperfect instruments.”

Alamis moved closer to the dais, and then ascended several steps. “That is what your faith instructs, is it? That a dead god blessed a line of kings, and it is by virtue of that they continue to rule? How quaint. How convenient.” He shook his head and smirked before taking another few steps upward, more than halfway to the throne. “A fine story for children, perhaps, but I prefer to believe things are thus only through the art of
taking
. Whether by force or compact or swindle, Rune has taken. It has taken and thus it has reigned.” He ascended the final steps and stood next to the throne, stroking the ivory armrest. “Who is to say Rune cannot have power taken from it?”

“Those are perilous words, Chamberlain,” Gamghast said, clearing his throat of the tickle of incense.

Alamis smiled and eased into the seat of the throne, tapping the armrests. “Are they? Perhaps they are, but it is not
my
ambition I imply. It is yours.”

“Nonsense,” Gamghast said, clearing his throat again. He looked about the chamber and noted they were entirely alone. “Chamberlain, I am here by sacred warrant to speak with High King Deragol. I have no time to waste in parley with you.”

“Oh, I disagree, Prefect. I think you will find we have need for much discussion, and those discussions have only begun. With things being such, I would urge you to speak honestly. The matter of your treason could be more gently regarded with an earnest confession.”

“Treason?” Gamghast coughed and pounded the butt of his staff against the floor, causing it to shiver in his hand. “That is an odd charge coming from you, Chamberlain.”

The chamberlain leaned forward in the throne. “I am a shrewd man, but I would not have guessed you’d be so bold as to come charging into the Bastion, brandishing that wrinkled old scroll. I had thought to level these accusations in a more formal manner, but your brash request to see the High King compels me to act.”