Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

“What are you saying?”

“Arista,” the wizard said, “sharks don’t eat seafood because they like it, but because chickens don’t swim. We all do the best we can with the tools we have, but at some point you have to ask yourself where the tools came from.”

She stared at him. “You knew they would kill my father. You counted on it. You even knew they would eventually kill me and Alric, and yet you pretended to be my friend, my teacher.” Her face hardened. “School’s over.” She turned her back on him and walked away.

When Royce reached the edge of the burnt forest, he spotted a series of colorful tents set up around the old village common. The tents displayed pennants of the Nyphron Church, and he could see several priests as well as imperial guards. Other figures moved slowly over the hill near the old castle grounds, but nowhere did he see anyone he knew.

He kept to the cover of the trees when he caught the sound of a snapping twig not too far off. Slipping around, he quickly spotted Magnus crouched in the underbrush.

The dwarf jumped in alarm and fell backward at his approach.

“Relax,” Royce whispered sitting down next to where the dwarf now lay, nervously watching the thief.

Glancing down the slope Royce realized that the dwarf had found an excellent position to watch the camp. They were on a rise behind a series of burnt trees where some of the underbrush had survived. Below they had a perfect view of each of the tent openings, the makeshift horse corral and the latrine. Royce guessed there were about thirty of them.

“What are you still doing here?” Royce asked.

“I was breaking a sword for your partner. But I’m leaving now.”

“What happened?”

“Huh? Oh, Theron and Fanen were killed.”

Royce nodded showing no outward sign of surprise or grief.

“Hadrian? Is he alive?”

The dwarf nodded, and went on to explain the events that transpired that evening.

“After it was dead, or dispelled, or whatever, Tomas and I checked on Hadrian. He was unconscious, but alive. We made him comfortable, covered him in a blanket and put a lean-to over him, the Pickering kid, and that Melengarian soldier. Before dawn, Bishop Saldur and his crew returned, dragging two wagons with them. The way I figure it, either Guy reported what happened and he was coming back with help, or they heard it when the beasty died. They pulled in and fast as rabbits, had these tents up and breakfast cooking. I spotted the sentinel in their ranks, so I hid up here. They moved Hadrian, Hilfred, and Mauvin into that white tent and soon after they put a guard on it.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, they sent a detail out to bury the dead. Most they buried on the hill up there near the castle, including Fanen, but Tomas made some big stink and they took Theron down the road to that last farm near the river and they buried him there.”

“Perhaps you forgot to mention how you found my dagger?”

“The Alverstone? I thought you had it.”

“I do,” Royce said.

Magnus reached for his boot and cursed.

“When you investigated my background, you must have stumbled across the fact that I survived my youth by picking pockets.”

“I remember something about that,” the dwarf growled.

Royce pulled Alverstone from its sheath as he glared at the dwarf.

“Look, I’m sorry about killing that damn king. It was just a job I was hired to do, okay? I wouldn’t have taken the job if it hadn’t required a uniquely challenging masonry effort. I’m not an assassin. I’m not even good enough to be considered a pathetic fighter. I’m an artisan. Truth be told, I specialize in weapons. That’s my first love, but all dwarves can cut stone so I was hired to do the tower work, then the job got changed and after half a year’s work I was going to be stiffed if I didn’t knife the old man. In hindsight, I can see I should have refused, but I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about him. Maybe he was a bad king; maybe he deserved to die; Braga certainly thought so and he was the king’s brother-in-law. I try not to involve myself in human affairs, but I was caught up in this one. It’s not something I wanted; it’s not something I looked for; it just happened. And it’s not like someone else wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t.”

“What makes you think I’m upset you killed Amrath? I’m not even mad that you trapped the tower. Closing the door on me was the mistake you made.”

Magnus inched away.

“Killing you would be as easy as-no easier than, slaughtering a fatted pig. The challenge would lie in causing the maximum amount of pain before inflicting the death.”

Magnus’ mouth opened, but no words came out.

“But you are a very lucky dwarf, because there’s a man still alive in that tent who wouldn’t like it-a man you covered in a blanket and put a lean-to over.”

Down below he spotted Arista as she entered the camp. She talked to a guard who pointed toward the white tent. She rushed to it.

Royce looked back at the dwarf and spoke clearly and evenly. “If you ever touch Alverstone again without my permission, I’ll kill you.”

Magnus looked at him bitterly then his expression changed and he raised an eyebrow. “Without your permission? So there’s a chance you’ll let me study it?”

Royce rolled his eyes. “I’m going to get Hadrian out of there. You are going to steal two of the archbishop’s horses and walk them over to the white tent without being spotted.”

“And then we can talk about the permission thing?”

Royce sighed, “Did I mention I hate dwarves?”

“But your grace-” Deacon Tomas protested as he stood in the large striped tent before Bishop Saldur and Luis Guy. The pudgy cleric made a poor showing of himself in his frock caked with dirt and ash, his face smudged, his fingers black.

“Look at you Tomas,” Bishop Saldur said. “You’re so exhausted you look as if you will fall down any minute. You’ve had a long two days, and you’ve been under tremendous stress for months now. It is only natural that you might see things in the dark. No one is blaming you. And we don’t think you are lying. We know that right now you believe you saw this village girl destroy the Gilarabrywn, but I think if you just take a nap and rest, when you get up you’ll find that you were mistaken about a great many things.”

“I don’t need a nap!” Tomas shouted.

“Calm down, deacon,” Saldur snapped, rising abruptly to his feet. “Remember whose presence you are standing in.”

The deacon cowed and Saldur sighed. His face softened to his grandfatherly visage and he put an arm around the man’s shoulders, patting him gently, “Go to a tent and rest.”

Tomas hesitated, turned and left Saldur and Luis Guy alone.

The bishop threw himself down in the little cushioned chair beside a bowl of red berries some industrious servant managed to gather for him. He popped two in his mouth and chewed. They were bitter and he grimaced. Despite the early hour, Saldur was desperate for a glass of brandy, but none had survived the flight from the castle. Only the grace of Maribor could account for the survival of the camping gear and provisions, all of which they had lazily left in the wagons when they first arrived at the manor. In the turmoil of their exodus, they had given little thought to provisions.

That he lived at all was a miracle. He could not recall how he crossed the courtyard, or how he reached the gate. He must have run down the hill, but had no recollection of it. His memory was like a dream, vague and fading. He did remember ordering the coachman to whip the horses. The fool wanted to wait for the archbishop. The old man could barely walk and the moment the flames hit, his servants deserted him. He had as much chance of survival as Rufus.