Realms of War

Dev hooked the bow on the slanted saddle horn. He'd never been skilled enough to wield a sword, but his fists would serve. He was about to vault over the horse when he felt the vibration.

He wasn't able to identify the source at first. But then the white mist came again, this time emanating from the dead horse's mouth.

Atrophied muscles contracted, and the beast's bent legs jerked weirdly back into their proper alignment. Dev fell back on his elbows, too frightened to put up a defense against the advancing monsters. His mouth hung open, horrified at the sight of the dead horse rising up before him, dragging her limp rider across her back.

The animal got to its feet in time to block the final advance of an ogre and its kobold minions. The creatures hesitated, as stunned as Dev by the animated horse. The beast's black mane was pressed to its back by dried blood. A long sword slash cut across its neck, exposing musculature and white bone.

Shaking itself, the horse reared. It turned on the closest kobold, spewing white vapor and with its dead rider in tow. Rotting hooves came down, trampling the creature before it could run. Horse screams joined the dying kobold's pitiful wailing.

The remaining kobold and ogre fled. Dev could hear the priest casting another spell. He turned in time to see a cluster of black shadows hanging in midair. The lifeless forms shaped into the outline of some kind of mallet or hammer.

Dev watched it spin through the air, slamming into and through the back of the retreating ogre's skull. Shadows and blood exploded in the air, and a second hammer followed the first. Dev waited for it to find the skull of the fleeing, screaming kobold, wondering if the creature would feel the same numbing chill Dev had tasted when the priest's magic touched him.

Then the shadows were spinning toward him, blocking out the moon. Dev didn't realize the hammer was meant for his skull until it was almost too late. He ducked, but the spectral weapon clipped him on the side of the head.

Dev thought he felt his eardrum shatter. He fell sideways, one arm crushed under him, his body hitting the ground like a limp doll's—or a dead horse, he thought. He appreciated the irony for a breath until he lost consciousness.

* * * * *

I know what yer thinking, and it's absolutely right. He could have killed us at any time. He had something a little more painful in mind.

—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

'Don't worry,' Gerond said, 'your friend won't be in pain much longer. The poison will soon run its course.'

For an interminable amount of time since he'd regained consciousness, Dev had been watching Resch squirm and convulse on the ground. Every muscle in his body stretched taut, it looked like the man would rip himself apart before it was over. Sweat poured down Resch's face, but he never made a sound. The silence was the worst part. Dev thought he could have handled it better if the dying man had been screaming obscenities.

'The spell is an interesting twist on traditional invigora­tion magic,' Gerond explained, as if Dev was curious. 'For a brief time, it strengthens the target immeasurably, but at the cost of disintegrating many of the vital functions of the body. That part of the process takes a bit more time.'

'Cyric preach that one to all his followers, or just the fat ones?' Dev asked. His head throbbed, and his muscles were stiff where the priest had tied his arms. Taunts were the only weapons he had left.

'To think I almost killed you while you were sleep­ing,' Gerond said. He knelt next to Dev and twisted his head around by the hair. 'Lucky for you, I wanted one last conversation.'

Pain flooded Dev's skull, and he whimpered involuntarily at the sight of the shadowy hammer floating in midair above the Cyricist's shoulder. He forced a laugh, though his jaw was locked with pain.

'No wonder your herbs reeked,' he murmured. 'And they call me the blasphemer.'

Gerond smiled faintly. 'You don't know what a relief it is not to have to play the charade any longer. Or do you? Do you ever grow tired of being the deceiver, Devlen?'

Dev would have shrugged, if the pain of it hadn't threatened to put him out again. 'All I know,' he said, his eyes straying to the dead kobolds lying nearby, 'is you killed your companions.'

'True, but like you, they're not very reliable.' Gerond leaned forward, flipping Dev onto his stomach with a casual hand.

He's stronger than I thought, Dev realized sickly. His breath quickened, thinking the priest was going to cave in his skull after all, but instead he felt the priest clasp one of his bound hands.

'Why are you out here, fighting for Amn?' Gerond asked. 'What is between you and the commander? I might be able to use it later, but either way, it will satisfy my curiosity.'

Dev didn't answer. The pain was swirling in his head. He wondered if the sensation was blood, filling up his skull. If he were truly lucky, he would die before the bastard had a chance to be done with him.

'Suddenly you're not all mouth,' the priest murmured. 'But I hope you can still appreciate a good jest.'

Dev heard the clink of steel as Gerond drew a knife from his belt. Still holding Dev's hands, the priest peeled one of his thumbs back. Dev felt the blade against his skin.

'What is between you and Morla?' Gerond repeated the question calmly. When Dev still didn't answer, he pressed the blade into Dev's thumb, neatly severing it below the nail.

Dev howled, curling automatically into a fetal position. The priest held onto his hands, slick now with blood. He thrashed and screamed over and over, the cries turning finally to frenzied laughter. He couldn't seem to stop, even when the Cyricist's dark prayers sealed over his wound, leaving an empty stump that was cleaner than any magician's trick.

The watching gods are going to slay me with irony. Dev beat his head against the hard-packed earth until his vision swam. Darkness cheerfully claimed him, but he knew that when he awoke he would still be maimed, and he would have to tell the priest everything.

* * * * *

When you're a soldier, there's nothing more valuable than the trust of the man— or woman—fighting next to you. If that trust is broken, the whole army suffers. To be a good soldier, or a good commander, you have to understand this. Even if it ruins a life.

—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

'I was in the militia, Esmeltaran,' Dev said. 'This was years before your friends came to drive us out.'

Dev was dimly aware of the priest, standing somewhere behind him, probably watching for more patrols. He could hear Resch farther away, in the last throes of the poison. If sound was any indication, the man was throwing up blood and gods knew what else.

The animated horse trudged the field in slow circles, a spell-locked trance from which it couldn't escape. Dev remembered a time in his home village, when he'd seen a lame foal shuffling around its paddock, just before a farmer put a knife across its throat.

'Step and drag... step and drag you here to me... hush you little pony... hush you goodnight,' the farmer sang.

'Go on,' the priest said. 'Did you know Morla then?'

'We were on the wall together,' Dev said. 'Morla and I had the best eyes. Esmeltaran's militia is small. We all knew each other.'

'You were friends,' Gerond said, surprised. 'I hear it in your voice. What happened?'

'One night, I saw something from the wall, something Morla didn't see.' Dev stopped speaking, but he knew it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the priest.