Even so, there were those who stood stunned in the aftermath, looking down at their handiwork, amazed at how terrible it was. The reaction was decidedly mixed. There were tears shed. There were muttered oaths and soft prayers asking forgiveness. There were wild excuses and insistences on the necessity of it all. There were boasts and sneers. A mixed pack, but mixed, all the same.
Usurient walked through the carnage wordlessly, his hard face expressionless, taking it all in. He was pleased at how well it had gone, but irritated that his troops did not seem to have found the sorcerer. Desset had seemed so certain he was there, yet there was no sign of him. A canvas of his squad leaders did not reveal Arcannen’s fate, and that meant, in all likelihood, that the sorcerer had managed to escape.
“Bring the men out,” he ordered. “We’re done here. A fine day’s work by all of you. The men get an extra ration tonight of any libation they desire, spirits or otherwise. Let them know.”
He stood outside the walls as his men filed out, noting the mix of expressions on their faces, noting those who would not look at him and those who stared boldly; noting how they behaved with the battle behind them and the killing done. All sorts of responses, yet every soldier had done his or her duty and that was what mattered. The horror of the moment would fade; the memory of the dying would soften. In the not so distant future, no one would even think on it.
When the heavy armor appeared, he sent them back in with portable flash rips to burn everything that was left, bodies included. “Leave no trace of any of it,” he ordered.
He waited until he saw the fires spring up and smelled the stench of burning flesh permeating the sea air before turning and starting back with the others. The remains of this day’s work would disappear with the first strong storm off the Tiderace. After that, only blackened stones and shattered walls would mark the ruins of what had once been Arbrox.
The sun rose from behind the Tiderace in a haze of gray and silver, chasing the marine layer and brightening the blackened ruins of Arbrox. Trailers of smoke rose from those ruins in slender threads that were quickly snatched away and dispersed by the sea winds. Gulls and cormorants and other seabirds began to wing their way in from distant haunts, settling down to feast on the remains of the dead, uncaring of the loss represented, caught up in the appeal of easy food and an uninterrupted meal.
West, the Federation warships and transport were just disappearing into what remained of the fading night, winging their way toward the city of Sterne.
The man in the black robes stood outside what remained of Arbrox and its dead, watching. His gaze shifted between the fortress and the warships, living and dead, thinking thoughts so dark that if it were possible to touch them it would be as touching shards of fire.
A single question dominated his thoughts.
How could they do this?
Yes, Arbrox was a pirate fortress, and its people were pirates and the families of pirates. Yes, they had raided Federation shipping as a means of subsistence even though they knew that retaliation was likely and that it would put their lives at risk each time they set out on a hunt. Yes, they lived on the edge of the sword and point of the spear.
But to kill off every last man, woman, and child? To destroy an entire population and raze a village back into the earth as if it had never existed? His fury was all-consuming. This was a mark of such darkness that it must be avenged. Though the hunt had not been for him—or at least not exclusively for him—it felt personal in the extreme. The people of Arbrox had taken him in when everyone in the rest of the Four Lands had been intent on hunting him down. These people had fed and cared for him, they had treated him as one of their own. They had given him back his life, and they had asked nothing in return.
They did not deserve to die as they had. They did not deserve to be wiped out like vermin.
He would have died with them if he had not chosen this night to sleep apart in the coastal shore watchtower he favored when his darkness most consumed him. He would not be seeing this sunrise if he did not know when it was time to step away and remain apart until the blackness passed and his good humor returned.
Pure chance that he was still alive. And fate, perhaps?
He pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders and looked down one final time on Arbrox and his friends. Someone had betrayed them. Someone had known of their lair and given them away to the Federation. The Slash could not have found them otherwise.
Time enough to settle that score—to settle with betrayer and killers both. But a way must be found that would catch them all up at once and feed them into a chamber of horrors equal to that which had consumed the people of Arbrox.
And who better than himself to find such a way?
Who better than Arcannen Rai?
FOUR
SIX WEEKS LATER, ON A RAINY NIGHT MADE CONSIDERABLY less pleasant by a sudden drop in the temperature just before dusk, Reyn Frosch walked into the Boar’s Head Tavern in the village of Portlow shortly before performance time. Shivering with the damp and cold in spite of his heavy all-weather cloak, he stood in the tavern doorway and brushed himself off, shedding raindrops and discomfort while he scanned the faces of the patrons gathered in the great room.
More than a hundred, he guessed. Many more, in fact. They were three-deep at the serving bar, and the tables were filled. Well, almost filled. He noticed one at the back of the room where a man in a black cloak and hood hunkered down over his drink in splendid solitude, the rest of the room choosing to give him a wide berth. No one had mustered the courage to ask for the two chairs that sat empty in front of him, even though other patrons were standing everywhere about the room, most of them finding places to help hold up the walls.
He let his gaze drift until he found the Fortren brothers and felt a sudden weight settle on his shoulders. He had hoped they would not be here. He had hoped they would find another tavern and another musician to taunt. But apparently they either lacked the initiative or had decided it would be more fun to continue tormenting him. Yancel glanced up unexpectedly, saw him looking, and grinned. Borry turned and offered a tip of his battered hat. Both waited for a response, but he ignored them. What else could you do with people like these?
Shrugging the strap of the case that protected his elleryn higher onto his shoulder, he moved over to the serving counter and stepped around its end to reach the kitchen. He gave Gammon a wave as he passed through the door, not bothering to slow. The room beyond was filled with casks of ale, dry foodstuffs, packages of meats and bins of vegetables, table settings and implements, candles and lamps, a pair of stoves, and a cook standing over a griddle working diligently on preparing food for customers.
“Reyn, lad,” the old grease-dog offered, one hand lifting in an attempt at a jaunty salute.
Smoke rose and steam spat from the griddle and food smells filled the room, the mix venting poorly through screened openings in the walls. In spite of the vents, the room was stifling. Reyn waved back and walked over to the coatrack to shrug off his instrument and cloak and hang both over the wooden pegs.
Gammon came through the door. “Big crowd for you tonight, Reyn. Hope you’ve got your nimble fingers and angelic voice finely tuned and strongly flavored!”
He always said that, but Reyn grinned anyway. “Maybe you could keep an eye on the Fortren brothers for me?”
Gammon laughed. “Them? No need. I talked to them already. Told them one more incident, one more bit of trouble, and they were out of here for good. I don’t care who fathered them or how many more of them are out plowing fields and mucking pigsties. I told them that, I did.”