Eulogy Read online

  Irreor nodded, unable to argue.

  "Loosen your shoulder and ready the muscles to thrust," Eenan said. "Aim for the neck and hold it."

  Irreor did, but a voice—raspy, introspective—murmured within his head. It had spoken to him his entire life, rarely far from his thoughts. The voice never answered, never provided a reason for its words.

  It simply was.

  -He'll hold the stance. Ah, how my general will love his father. How he'll respect him and wish to be like him. Not even his punishment will halt that, and those memories will drive him onward. They'll cuddle him at night.-

  Fifteen years earlier, Farren’s city council had promoted Eenan Ark to captain their western guard, and he had done it superbly. He oversaw the training, discipline, and organization of two hundred men in a town of over forty thousand.

  For the past year, Irreor had also worked in the guard, for the voice had been right. What better man could he become, than one like his father? What better living than as a guardsman?

  Protect the city. Save the damsel. Or something like that.

  -Can I do that to my general? Can I plunge him into such despair? I'll try. Oh, how I'll try.-

  Irreor held the stance, struggling to ignore the voice. Sometimes the words helped. Other times, like now—with his father so close, with that critical eye pinned to him, with his dagger shattered on the ground—it simply distracted him.

  His father skirted around him to examine his form, and something tickled the top of Irreor's shoulders, the nape of his neck, as if the voice tugged an invisible thread over the tiny hairs of his skin. He'd learned to somewhat ignore the sensation over the years, but it wasn't always so easy.

  -Plans and plans. Doors and keys, but which will be which?-

  His sword wavered.

  Sweat beaded on Irreor’s chin, but he gritted his teeth and steadied the weapon. Once, he'd attempted to tell his father about the voice, but the older man had simply laughed. So now he held it close, a puzzle he attempted to solve without the pieces, a darkened maze he wandered without a light. It was his secret, an obscure thing that appeared and vanished like an untimely storm.

  "Release," Eenan said. "Void take me, Son, you'll need to control yourself better than that. A skilled swordsman would tear you to pieces."

  Irreor swept his longsword into its sheath and shook his hands to relieve the stiffness. His father was right, but how to admit it? He smirked. "A skilled man's arms actually move, unlike mine after a day of this."

  Eenan chuckled, no stranger to their lighthearted banter. "It's good for you."

  Irreor snorted. "Indeed."

  Two guards entered as Eenan's laughter boomed through the courtyard. His father sheathed his blades and clapped Irreor on the shoulder. The closeness felt good, warm, reassuring. Not even defeat could overcome it.

  -Ah, and how he'll remember that.-

  An old officer named Pernik Sylis said, "He got you again, eh boy?"

  Irreor rolled his eyes. True, he was one of Farren's youngest guards, but he was also one of their best—despite his inability to best his father. It was impossible to defeat a true Kilnsman, so no one could look down on him for that. The other guardsman respected him in their own way, which often resulted in a gentle quip.

  He could take it.

  Pernik nodded at him. "You've got to give him a hard time for the rest of us. He’ll work us to the bone if we try."

  "I’ll do that anyways," Eenan said.

  Pernik shook his head. "See? We’ve no hope."

  "None. A Kilnsman of eighty is worth more than you ninnies."

  Irreor's smile faded.

  His father was a Kilnsman, a blademaster from a village far to the north, but Irreor had never visited the place. Would Kiln be like he'd always imagined it—men like his father, women like his mother? At least, like the mother he never knew, the one he'd always wanted to know.

  Maybe.

  Eenan Ark had brought him to Farren after his mother died, and Irreor remembered only fragments of those times—the briefest scent of lavender, the hazy image of her face.

  "Irreor, go to Stonehand’s," Eenan said. "He promised me a dozen blades today, and I’ll skin the bastard if he doesn’t cough them up."

  Stonehand’s Forging, owned and operated by Krayr Stonehand, enjoyed a reputation as one of the best smithies on the island. Only Synien steel was better. Irreor’s father had befriended Krayr years ago, and thus Irreor and the blacksmith’s son, Bran, had also grown close.

  "And Irreor," his father said, holding out a handful of coins. "Here's your pay for the month, and a little something extra. Call it a birthday present. Buy yourself a new dagger, since it seems yours fell to bad times." He winked. "Just don't let Kipra tear your head off."

  Kipra.

  She was.... How to describe her? Spitfire. Gentleness. Anger and happiness and fear.

  Her father owned a weapons stall in the market, and she helped him sell the pieces. She and Irreor and Bran had grown up together. Through the years, Irreor had trained her, taught her everything his father taught him, and she was nearly as skilled as he with a blade.

  Yet there was more to it than that.

  She was a fingertip to a parted lip—silence that should've been said, yet words never spoken. He cared for her. Deeper than the deepest pool, he cared for her. Yet she'd never let him say it.

  And so he'd held his tongue.

  Pernik chuckled. "One of the boys patrolled the market earlier, said the last Synien’s still there. Not that you can afford it, but at least you can see it. You're lucky."

  Irreor tensed at the thought, perfectly willing to stop thinking of Kipra. The Synien Isle stood just off the western shore, and they produced the best weapons and armor. Every few months, they sent their products across a narrow channel, to the much larger island where Farren resided, and they returned with the supplies to craft more. Not even Krayr Stonehand could compete with a Synien blade, nor could the other smithies in the city, nor any of the smithies of the Inner Empire.

  Of course, like Pernik had said, he couldn't afford it. He'd end up with a dagger of far lesser quality. Yet it was a nice thought, something to brighten the morning.

  "Get out of here and enjoy your day," Eenan said. "But return before the sun sets. You’ll not get that much special treatment." He pulled his son closer to whisper, "Despite your mistakes, you did well today. I'm proud of you. Always remember that."

  As if something terrible would happen. As if the world would crash to the grave.

  Irreor flashed his father a smile and strode from the courtyard, took the path leading over Flower Hill, and meandered down into the Valley of Craftsmen. Few people mingled in the avenues so early, but those who did glanced at him. Everyone knew the son of Eenan Ark, and a guardsman in his own right.

  The voice's thread tickled his skin:

  -I’ll split the city of Farren into three pieces—a small block for the nobles and wealthy merchants, a sizeable market and craft district, and a massive residential area. They need dingy taverns, rickety stores.-

  To his right, jutting from the side of a tavern, a sign swung in the breeze. It advertised a lumber warehouse near the center of the city, 'a place to buy the finest spruce and poplar and oak.' The hinges squealed, but the voice's words drowned it out.

  -Will they understand what I've given them? Perhaps not at the beginning. In the end, they'll understand it. They'll recognize what I've sacrificed for them, the plans I've laid, all to see them rise above their peers. And their sorrow, I mustn't forget their sorrow. Through that, I'll forge an empire.-

  Thanks for that.

  The voice had once prattled at him for five hours without pause, detailing notes and plans for both island and city. It had nearly driven him mad. Nothing made sense, though he'd often tried to find an explanation. None existed, and with every pause, every inhalation, the voice had repeated one word.

  Empire.

  I don't need it right now!

/>   The city’s life and energy invaded his senses: the sour stench of Farren’s poor district, the sweetened scent of a perfumer’s stand, an ale merchant’s throaty hawking, and the commotion of a city filled beyond the point of bursting.

  Irreor slid through it with little difficulty.

  The smithy’s pillars rose from packed sand and clay. It contained only one stone wall, designed to allow for air flow in hot summers, with a massive forge built into its added support. Steady clangs sounded as Krayr dropped his hammer in a firm rhythm. Bran pumped the bellows.

  Irreor planted himself before the stocky blacksmith. "My father needs his blades."

  Krayr grunted. "He’ll get them when I’m damn well ready."

  "He said he’d flay the fat from your bones if he doesn’t get them today."

  None could name Krayr Stonehand fat, especially if they possessed a good eye and relative reason. The man bore bull shoulders that merged with corded arms and a thick neck. Tendons and sinew wormed beneath his skin with every move, and he pinned a hard, blue-eyed gaze on Irreor.

  Bran grinned, but managed to withhold a chuckle.

  Krayr took a threatening step forward. "He said that, did he?"

  "Er... well… not really the fat bit."

  "What bit did he say?"

  "Something about skinning the bastard."

  Krayr crossed his arms. "Then you made up the rest?"

  "Yep."

  "Insolent whelp!"

  Irreor laughed. "Strange, that’s exactly what he'd say."

  "He’s a smart man." Krayr glanced to his son, and then back to Irreor. "You men off to that worthless merchant’s tent?"

  Bran nodded. "Master Steel received a shipment of Synien longswords three days ago."

  "I know," Krayr said. "You don't have to tell me again."

  "He sold two to noblemen on the hill, but there’s still one—"

  "I know! Tell the fool to sell a piece or two of mine. Those Syniens are too bloody expensive, more than five of these!" He shook a length of jagged steel. "The silly noblemen don't know a hilt from a counterweight, and a weapon like that should symbolize something amazing. Those idiots ruin it."

  "They are good quality," Irreor said.

  "Aye, they’re good quality." The older blacksmith dropped steel to anvil. "Bran, your mother has a fowl for tonight, so bring yourself back early or you’ll see none of it. You’re welcome to tag along, Ark."

  "I may."

  Krayr shrugged. "Watch yourself out there. Crest's been eyeing the area, and there's not many who want to tell him to shove off. Only your father. Don't get caught up in the middle of it, and let your father tend to the brunt of it."

  Kylen Crest, an underlord from the city's northern district, had crept into the eastern and western districts over these past months. Added to that, many of the newer guardsmen were his—he owned them, one way or the other. He was one of the reasons Irreor had chosen the guard, to help shift the balance in his father's favor. Little more than a bully, Crest extorted the merchants, harassed the guardsmen, and ever-so-slowly expanded his influence.

  "My father doesn't need to take the brunt of it," Irreor said with a growl. "I can—"

  "Watch yourself, and that's not a request." Krayr lifted his hammer to smash it down—once, hard. "Trust me, and trust your father."

  "Fine," Irreor said flatly.

  Krayr waved. "Off with you."

  Irreor and Bran fled the forge’s heat, squinting into the midmorning sun. The city had grown busier since Irreor had left the barracks, and he pushed through the crowded streets. Many people glanced at his guardsman's tunic and stepped to the side. Bran, however, received no such treatment. Not as dexterous as his slimmer friend, he used his formidable shoulders to part the masses.

  "He's right, you know," Bran shouted. "Do what you can, but Crest is a larger problem than you can solve alone. Let the council do their jobs, and he'll return to the north soon."

  Irreor grunted. "I don't want to talk about it, Bran."

  "Fair enough." Bran's face brightened. "You think Master Steel will still have the Synien?"

  "One of the men was at the market earlier. It’s still there."

  "Think we’ll actually get to see it?"

  The possibility had never occurred to Irreor. "Of course. Other than a few soldiers or noblemen, who really cares? No one can afford it."

  "But what if it is gone? Your man saw it hours ago."

  "Trust me."

  Streets funneled into the main courtyard, which then opened into a circular expanse, flooded with vendors and merchants. Roads and alleys emptied into it as rivers into a lake, a continuous flow of humanity.

  Haral Steel’s store stood in the center of the market, within a large, tented stall that he’d quartered into even sections. Weapons and armor of every style hung upon tent poles and coarse wooden planks. Broad tables carried lean daggers, heavy blades, spiked balls, thick cudgels and slender rapiers.

  Irreor lost himself.

  He waded through the sea of metal, examining each with the practiced eye of a guard captain’s son, but careful to touch none. Bran followed at his heels, and they chuckled at one another in hushed tones. These weapons held a mystique that neither could articulate, but the near-magical qualities flooded their veins and minds. Their lives revolved around them—with Irreor’s constant training, his duties with the guard, and Bran’s work in his father’s forge.

  A pair of guardsmen marched past, lifting their hands to Irreor, their heavy armor clinking against the cobblestones. Both Irreor and his father preferred lighter armor—studded leather tunic, thin greaves, supple boots and gloves—but many of the other guards preferred heavier. On some days they needed it; the city wasn't fully safe, despite their best efforts, and Crest inched farther south with every passing hour. On other days... well, a pound or two of steel only made a man stronger.

  Haral Steel paced a slow circle, offering a curt nod before returning to his rounds. Irreor barely noticed the gesture, but managed a nod in return. Bran nudged him and pointed, and he followed his friend’s hand to a dark-haired woman who tended a table at the far side.

  Kipra.

  Irreor nodded, torn between looking at the blades or Kipra. Her raven hair hung to a curved waist, and she watched the wares with sharp green eyes. She’d inherited high cheekbones and angular features, though she wore them with a definite feminine grace. Two shortswords, the weapons she and Irreor had decided best suited her, hung at her belt, and she rested one hand to a hilt.

  She hadn't noticed Irreor, scowling instead as two men entered.

  They walked with straightened backs, sneering with a cruelty only power could breed, and ignored—or simply didn't see—Irreor. They focused on Master Steel, and the other patrons scattered. The shorter of Crest's men snickered, but the taller, who towered a full two inches over even Bran, crossed his arms.

  "Crest wants the last Synien," he told the merchant.

  "It’s already spoken for, Remn. I’ll be glad to sell him another with the next shipment."

  "How long?" Remn fingered a long dagger at his belt.

  The store had emptied except for Irreor, Bran, Haral and his daughter. Irreor inched behind the two newcomers, but his friend grabbed his arm. He tugged free. This was why he'd joined the guard, why he'd trained for so long, but Bran had trouble understanding that.

  "I’ll get five more in six months," Haral said. "I don't know—"

  "Six months! King’s cock, I could get to the Isle in a quarter of that. No, no, no, that won't do." Remn tilted his head to the side. "Spoken for by whom?"

  "Lord Yaron Kenn."

  Remn kicked a table's leg, and the dowel snapped. It teetered, teetered, until the steel's weight toppled it. Blades and axes spilled to the floor. The second man, with a wide, piglike nose, followed Remn's example and drove a plain steel dagger into another table. It shuddered as he released it.

  Kipra's lips were pressed tight, her fingers curled around the
hilts of her shortswords. She possessed a temper, heavier and stronger than Irreor's own, and she wouldn't let these men bully her father.

  But how to stop it?

  -Some things can't be stopped.-

  Haral wrung his hands.

  Remn snatched the merchant's collar and yanked him close. He slid his tongue over dry, cracked lips. "Kenn won’t kill you for that blade, merchant. Kylen Crest will."

  Irreor again stepped forward, but halted as Kipra shot around her father. Demon-damn! He opened his mouth to shout at her, order her to stop, but she angled her shortsword at Remn with a fierce growl.

  Remn backhanded her.

  She crashed into the damaged table, cracked the sturdy plank, and slid down it. Her eyelids twitched. Silence fell across the marketplace, though all faces had turned to them.

  No one offered to help. No one wanted to cross Kylen Crest.

  "Void’s tit!" Remn said. "You’ve already got one whore for a daughter. What’s to become of this one if she keeps on?"

  Irreor began to draw, but Bran’s fingers clamped the blade in place.

  "It's not your problem," Bran hissed.

  "Void take the problem! It's my job." He cast his friend a withering glare. "And I should've acted before."

  Haral Steel worked his mouth. A single tear bled to his cheek as he stared at Kipra’s motionless body. Everyone guessed he’d fathered two daughters with his wife, though no one knew exactly when. The girls had simply appeared. One now bled at his feet, and the other had fallen to shame. His eldest, Kleni, served in a brothel at Farren’s northern fringe—Crest’s brothel. Kipra had tried, oh-so-desperately, to hide her sister's existence, but Irreor knew.

  They all knew.

  "We’ll take her instead of the sword, eh?" Remn said. "Crest can’t be too angry about that." He drew his gaze over Kipra's body. "King’s cock, she’s already got the tits for it."

  Haral moaned. He sold weapons; he didn’t use them. If these men took his daughter, he’d be helpless to halt them.

  Again, Remn jerked the smaller man’s collar. "Give me the sword, or I’ll take the bitch."

  Irreor trembled as anger flared hot and bright. He'd watched the woman he cared for struck down. Crest's men crept farther south, and no one stopped them. Not even his father. Ah, and his father had taught him never to allow a cruel man to subject a weaker, but the lessons had always fallen flat. He’d trained his entire life, but never grasped the true reason for those lessons, never ruled it, never understood it.