David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Maneth shrugged.

“If he has, he sure as shit hasn’t told me. You’re on your own with this.”

Haern could see his father’s displeasure, but at the same time, neither did he look surprised. Apparently, contacting a member of the Sun Guild had been at best a reach.

“Thank you for your help, however little it was,” Thren said. He turned to Haern and Delysia. “Let’s go.”

“Hey,” Maneth said, taking a step after them. “Just because I don’t know how you’d get into that damn place doesn’t mean I’m empty of ideas.”

Thren looked back over his shoulder.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“About ten miles south of here along the river is a town called Leen. There’s a paladin of Karak who preaches to the people. I’ve met him a few times; his name’s Jorakai. If you were hoping to find out any weaknesses or vulnerabilities of the Stronghold, well…” He shrugged. “Perhaps you can have a nice, long, painful chat with Jorakai.”

Thren nodded but said nothing. As the three left the commons, Haern moved in step beside Thren.

“What next?” he asked.

“Next, we refill our supplies,” Thren said. “And after that, we head south.”

They’d traveled only a few miles before night fell and they were forced to make camp. Haern and Delysia prepared a fire, cooked some of the fresh meat they’d purchased prior to leaving Trass, then ate in silence. Thren, as had been his custom over the past week, let them be, always saying he preferred solitude whenever asked. Haern was never sure if he lingered about, watching, or if he truly did want to be away from them.

Delysia tossed aside the bones from the leg of a chicken, the remnants of her meal. That done, she slid closer to both Haern and the fire, both of which were in the center of the matted grass that served as the seldom-traveled road.

“This plan is reckless,” she said, stirring him from his thoughts. “You do know that, don’t you?”

Haern took another bite, tossed a bone into the fire.

“Of course it is,” he said. “The whole idea is reckless, but what else could possibly work? One nice thing about insanity is that no one can predict it.”

“You’re going to torture a man for information, a man who’ll be trained to withstand it. This won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. Is that something you can do? Something you want to do?”

“What do you want from me, Delysia?” Haern asked. He kept his irritation out of his voice, but she no doubt sensed it anyway. “No, I don’t want to, but this is a paladin of Karak we’re talking about here. They aren’t good men. They aren’t noble. They’re killers of a mad god, and if Luther’s using them as his own personal bodyguards, then we need to find out what they know. We have to discover any secrets, any weaknesses, and yes, that means we’ll have to shed blood.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled her arms around them.

“Hours,” she said. “It’s going to take hours.”

“I’m better than that, Delysia. He’ll talk, no matter his training. I learned from the best, remember?”

Her face darkened.

“And that is something to be proud of?” she asked him.

To that he had no answer. Was he proud of it? It was a skill, one he’d rarely used but learned nonetheless. Part of him wanted to be proud, to brag of how no punishment could break him, yet all would break to him if given the time. He was the son of Thren Felhorn, and he’d learned many things from his father and his cavalcade of tutors.

“And when you’re done,” she asked, “after you’ve tortured and beaten this man, what then will you do?”

Haern lifted his hands in surrender.

“We cannot have him warn the Stronghold of our approach,” he said. “Which means I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Delysia stood, went to her blanket, and wrapped herself tight atop her bedroll.

“Good night, Haern,” she said. Her back was to him, and he knew it was intentional. Haern watched her, let out a sigh, then tossed the rest of his own meal.

“Maybe you should have stayed home,” he whispered.

Haern stood and wandered north, following the road. He wanted a moment to himself, to think without anyone’s presence. He’d been a loner all his life, needing times of solitude even when a child. Patrolling the rooftops of Veldaren used to give him all he could possibly want of quiet and isolation, but traveling with Thren, and now Delysia, had worn on him over the weeks. So, upon the path he walked, short grass crunching beneath his feet, as he gazed up at the stars.

“I do this for hundreds of thousands,” he said to the sky, imagining Ashhur up there among them, gazing down. It made his presence feel more real, made it seem as if his questions were heard, even if he expected no answer. “Hundreds of thousands, and all I have to do is kill a few evil men, men who worship your brother. Will you judge me for this?”

“Ashhur might,” said Thren from behind him. Haern felt his neck flush, and he turned to see his father approaching from farther down the road. Embarrassed at having such a private moment overheard, he didn’t know what to say, only kept walking as his father quickened his pace to catch up.

“You have no reason to feel guilty for what we are to do,” Thren said. “Especially not because of what you think some god in the stars might say.”

“You know nothing of my beliefs,” Haern said. “And I will not listen to you mock them.”

Thren looked his way, his face lit by the moonlight. As he often did, he looked disappointed.

“I do not mock, but neither am I ignorant of what you believe, not if you confess Ashhur as your god. Though you must forgive me for my surprise. Much of what you do seems contrary to his teachings, so it seems odd to me that you might question him now.”

Talking of gods with his father stirred dozens of buried memories, each one making him grow angrier. He thought of Robert Haern, executed for teaching little Aaron Felhorn of Ashhur. He thought of Delius Eschaton, stabbed in the chest for daring to speak out against the thief guilds and demand a better way. Worst, though, was of that single arrow piercing Delysia’s chest in a moment of prayer.

“You would never understand,” Haern told him. “You’re everything Ashhur hates.”

At this, Thren laughed.

“Perhaps, but you insult me by pretending I know so little. I know plenty, Watcher. I know of his forced forgiveness, of his belief that even the lowliest man or woman is equal to the greatest of kings. Delusions, lies, fairy tales, call them what you want, but they don’t fit the real world. The scum you kill, the scum that serve me, would you put them as your equal?”

“No, but that’s not what Ashhur…”

“That’s exactly what Ashhur means,” Thren said, refusing to let him finish. “The soul of a man who murders children and fucks their corpses is just as precious as the little children who that man kills. Equal, Ashhur says, equal in need of forgiveness, equal in value in the eyes of a weak, blind god. But this world has monsters, Haern. It has people like me, and if you think I’ll be defeated by a righteous man who bends his knee instead of striking back, then you’re just as delusional as Ashhur.”

Haern felt his hands curling into fists, and great as his anger was, he still felt helpless.

“You don’t see it,” Haern said. “The absolute beauty in witnessing something this whole world views as wretched and worthless be lifted up, loved, and made valuable again.”

“What you see as beauty, I see as travesty,” said Thren. “Let a man reap what he sows from his actions, not be spared it by a moment of weakness and a few words on his tongue. The gods are a blight on our world, all three of them, and the sooner we excise their presence, the better.”