7

MAGORAN

That night, I slept poorly. I tossed and turned in my unmade bed, windows shut against the relentless wind, yet unable to mute its roaring. The gods voiced their rage in the form of thunder which shook the city, and my room was periodically lit up by flashes of lighting which briefly revealed to me the impossibly deep shadows pooling in the corners.

Yes, I was shaken. I saw in my mind that pile of bones, so delicately stacked. I saw Kitan’s remains, taken apart in a manner that rendered him utterly unrecognizable. It would’ve been impossible to even tell that the mess belonged to a human if it weren’t for how intact the bones had still been.

Then there was the mucus, and the teeth.

It was hard to see how a person could’ve done that to Kitan. With enough time, it was physically possible to take someone apart like that, but Kitan had been seen just the day before. And there was no explaining the black substance, which I could not believe was really any kind of toxin— if it was, why use it on Kitan? And anyway, what sort of toxin caused teeth to grow out a man’s flesh, that gave birth to new eyes?

I believed in the gods. Not as devoutly as I had in the past, and I rarely prayed these days, but I had faith in the divine, in Renhar, and in The Screaming Tree. I had seen Gavath. I had spent so much time out in the woods, alone and far away from civilization, and more times than I could even recall, I had felt the presence of something lurking in the blackness. I was no stranger to the notion that there were evil entities which dwelled at the edges of the known world, supernatural beings beyond human reckoning.

Now, though, I was confronted with the sense that the distant horrors that haunted the borders of my existence had suddenly taken a more active role in my life. The more I thought about it, the more confident I became that something inhuman had killed Emrik and then Kitan. Aside from the obvious terrifying danger this presented, it occurred to me that it had terrible implications for my ability to save Islana. Proving that a monster was on the loose would surely be more difficult than revealing that the murderer had simply been a man.

And, if whatever was out there had killed Kitan because it wished to stay hidden, how long did I have until it came for me?

I dreamt of demons, of vampyres, of wolves chasing me through impenetrable and black forests. I dreamt of the Screaming Tree, from which hung the howling heads of the damned, left to dangle in hellish winds for an eternity.

I woke up to a headache, to the suffocating reality of an inability to breathe through my nose, which had been broken too many times, and to the aches and pains of a body that had been pushed to its very limit. I grunted and groaned as I dragged myself out of the sheets, standing naked in the frigid air. It wasn’t raining, but snow was still falling outside. When I looked out the window, the world was white.

Husir, my dog, was curled up at the end of my bed. There was wolf in her blood, either a parent or grandparent, her eyes yellow and watchful as I searched for food. As a pup, she’d wandered into my camp years ago when I was out hunting. She’d followed me home and had been by my side ever since.

Salmon, bread and ale to soothe my aching stomach. I had some fish left over for Husir, though not enough judging by the way she was looking at me. I slipped into a tunic, splashed my face with cold water, and buckled my sword to my belt.

I departed for the Howling Hall, Husir trailing just behind me. I wanted to tell someone about what had happened to Kitan, and what I now suspected. Cruel of me, since such knowledge wouldn’t do anyone any good. I’d speak to Leotin, I decided, and to Keterlyn. But first, I needed to present myself to Lukan.

With only four days until Islana was executed, guarding the boy-king was the last thing I wanted to do. Yet his antics yesterday left me feeling as though he was interested in replacing me, either because he felt I was too old, or because he had some other agenda. If I gave him an excuse to dismiss me, I could expect a knife in the back. First Blade’s never retired— king’s seldom liked for their primary bodyguards to unchain themselves from the throne and venture out into the night. After all, what if a former First Blade decided to sell themselves to the highest bidder? There were a lot of petty kings out there who would pay good money for someone like me. Considering my expertise, and the secrets I possessed, I did not expect to ever survive the job.

I arrived at the Howling Hall to find a long line of men and women waiting for an audience. One lady, shaking violently, her hands clasped together, was currently in the middle of explaining her situation to Lukan. I caught only a few words of it, something about sickness, a dead child, and immediately knew it was beyond Lukan’s ability to reckon with.

I took my place by Lukan’s side. The new king was sitting upright in his chair, an attempt at a noble pose. His eyes were narrowed, and he was nodding along with the lady, seemingly engrossed in her tale. I glanced across at Avokis, standing on the other side of the throne, and the dark-haired man shot me a vicious smile. That fucker had wanted me dead for years. During Emrik’s reign, Avokis had always tried to be the voice in his ear, a typically sycophantic advisor. I’d pushed back against the man often. He’d even tried to duel me once, and I’d beaten him senseless. The only reason I hadn’t killed him then was because I’d figured letting him live would be more humiliating. I regretted that choice often.

“Excuse me,” Lukan said politely to the lady, “allow me a second.” And he twisted in his chair to look at me. In a whisper, he hissed, “You’re late.”

I bowed my head. “My apologies, my king.”

“Well? What’s your excuse?”

I was up all night, I thought, investigating your father’s death. I said, “I have none. I apologize sincerely.”

“You’re old,” the boy said bluntly, “and you’re failing to live up to your title.” He looked past me, at Husir, who was curled up around my feet. “And you brought your dog with you. Is this a joke?”

“Not a joke, my king,” I said levelly. “My job is to protect you. I can assure you, Husir dramatically amplifies my ability to do that.”

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He stared at the dog, who at that moment raised her head to look at him, and then turned back to the waiting woman with a scowl. “Continue.”

While the lady completed her story and Lukan decided her fate, it occurred to me that, standing next to the young king, our faces side-by-side, the similarities between our features would be highlighted to the audience. I turned my head at an angle, hoping it’d make the comparison more difficult. It wouldn’t take much for someone to consider it— I just hoped they wouldn’t have the balls to voice the thought out loud.

“Come forward!” Lukan called out, pointing to the next man in line.

I half-listened to the proposals, then listened more attentively to the king. Lukan impressed me with his maturity and his attention to detail. He asked clever questions, interrogated each person until he felt he had a good sense of exactly what was being said. He nodded along with a thoughtful expression, his eyes focussed solely on whoever was standing in front of him. Just a child, but it struck me that he might already be a better king than his father, which I supposed wasn’t necessarily saying much. I felt something like pride blossoming up inside of me, but of course that was foolish, he wasn’t mine, I couldn’t allow myself to think that, and even if he was, he wasn’t really, because I hadn’t raised him and had zero bearing over the man he was becoming. My blood, perhaps, but how much was that worth on its own?

Men came and went, replaced by the next in line. Lukan approved three raids in total, more than had been approved in the last year and a half. That made me somewhat uneasy. Things had changed since the days when raids were plentiful, when we could sail across the sea and take what he wanted with no repercussions. The coastal cities had grown in power since then, were more wealthy and better connected. How would they react to such aggression? Lukan may have given off an aura of confidence and competence but that didn’t mean he fully understood what effect his decisions would have.

But then, it made little difference to me. I was old, my future uncertain. Increasingly, political and military affairs interested me less and less. My gaze slid across to Magoran, cowled and leaning on his staff, his shadowy eyes flickering around ceaselessly, as though unable to ever settle. He looked older than ever, more shrunken, flesh tighter and thinner across his grinning skull. Yet there was a feverish energy about him, rather than the usual witheredness of the elderly.

Soon enough the last man in line had made his case to Lukan, and was denied. Lukan stood from his throne, yawned, and stretched his arms overhead.

“An announcement,” Lukan said. “No man will leave this city to embark upon a raid without making a blood offering.”

One of the warriors called out, “And to which god shall this offering be made to, my lord?”

“No god at all,” Lukan said, voice cold and certain. “It shall be made to The Vald.”

To The Vald, those skin-wearing devils who lurked amongst the snow and the woods, who ate children in the night, who stalked lone huntsmen and maidens and anyone else unwise enough to stray too far away from civilization. Those monsters which had risen out of the mudslide alongside humanity, our preying companions right from the very beginning, always there in our own shadow, waiting. They had learned to imitate us so that we could not even trust ourselves, and so we made offerings to The Vald so that they would leave us alone.

Only, the Vald had become nothing more than a scary story to tell children. They existed, of course, no one would dare deny it, but they had been largely hunted into extinction centuries ago, had been driven ever eastwards. No one in living memory had seen one, and most no longer took the threat of them particularly seriously.

To The Vald, Lukan had said. And I watched Magoran very closely, and he chose that moment to turn his own eyes upon me. One milky, the other bright. Neither of us flinched or looked away. His idea, of course. Certainly there was no way Lukan had thought of it, because why would he?

For that matter, though, why would Magoran?

I finally looked away, damn me, I never had been comfortable in that living skeleton’s presence.

“The Vald?” asked another warrior. “Why, my lord? Forgive the question—”

“We ought to uphold old traditions,” Lukan said without hesitation. “We’ve become too comfortable. Too complacent. The gods frown down upon such things. And the monsters take advantage of it.”

Doubtless those assembled in the Howling Hall had more questions, but they kept them to themselves, and when Lukan sat back down on the ashen throne and waved a hand lazily toward the doors, they exited silently, probably just happy to have raids to plan, towns to plunder, riches to amass.

“First Blade,” Magoran said, “a word, if you please.”

I looked to Lukan, searching for approval, and he just gave a single curt nod. I bowed my head and followed Magoran off to the side, into the shadows at the edge of the hall, which at that moment wasn’t howling at all, was instead silent and still and dead.

“Sigmund,” Magoran murmured, “Sigmund, my boy, what are you doing?”

I arched my brows. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“You seem…restless.” Magoran puckered his cracked lips. “You were late today. I’m aware that yesterday you were at the barracks asking questions. Asking after people. And when I look at you, Sigmund, you do not seem yourself. You seem…how shall I put it? You seem bothered. And I wonder…I do wonder, Sigmund, if perhaps recent…events have disturbed you.”

I narrowed my eyes. A reference to Islana? I should punch him in the throat, I should kick his teeth in, kill him on the spot and get myself out of the city.

Fantasies, of course. I knew I wouldn’t do any of those things. For Islana, I would bite down on my tongue and endure. What I would do once she was free, however, was a different story.

“It’s winter,” I said, “and my bones have started to ache. Memories pile up, as does the snow. If I seem bothered by anything, perhaps I’m just becoming more sentimental as I age.”

“Are you unfit to serve, First Blade?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You are old,” he continued, “and you’ve served for a long time. It might be time, wouldn’t you say, to allow someone more spritely to take your place.”

“Such as Tunir?”

Magoran’s smile was thin. “You’re sure, utterly sure, that an aching body is your only problem?”

“Quite sure.”

The old man leaned in close, breath stale, purple veins webbed underneath white flesh, “Why do you think she did it?”

“What?” The Howling Hall was so cold, then, that I was desperate for the heat of Magoran’s blood.

“The queen, of course, beautiful Islana. Why did she do it?” he came even closer, a rather dangerous move, he was testing my self-control. “She loved him, didn’t she?”

And to be saying these things with the king so close. Whispering, yes, but even still. Magoran was more petty than I’d suspected. “How am I supposed to know?” I asked. “Who can say what compels a person to commit a crime like that?”

“I just thought,” Magoran murmured, “that you might have some insight. Since…”

“Since what?” my own voice a whisper, a threat.

Magoran shrugged and backed away. “Forget about it. Perhaps she lost her mind. Who could say? We will have her head, and then her head will hang from the Screaming Tree, and that will be too good for her.”

“Yes,” I said. “May she scream forever.”

“Will you be there, Sigmund, at the execution?”

“If the king is there,” I said, “then I will be there also, at his side.”

“Good dog,” Magoran sneered, and limped away with his staff, leaving me there in the shadows.