Chapter 28: Justice

Deep down, he was glad Cairn was dead.

No, he didn’t wish that pain on Soria. Of course not. Obviously, the best outcome would have been that the war had never started, and her brother had never been taken prisoner by the Empire. Cairn would have been alive, and Soria would have been home with her family now, singing and working in the rice fields of Derimar.

But that wasn’t what had happened, and now her brother was dead. That was the reality they had to deal with.

And emotions aside, her brother’s death did make Pelam’s own mission easier.

Even though they had both been heading for Terynia, the truth was that he had more or less inserted himself into her quest. Their destination had been the same, yes, but their goals had been different—hers, to rescue her brother, and his, to bring vengeance to the temples of the gods. They had both sworn oaths to fulfill their respective missions, but those promises meant that once they reached the capital, they would have to go their separate ways.

Now, fate had aligned their paths. This Dina, who had taken Cairn’s life in Terynia, was a Dark Flame, a servant of Patera, just like the priestesses in the god’s temple. The same temple he was heading to Terynia to destroy.

The gods, for obvious reasons, could not be hurt by mortal men, but their servants could still be slaughtered. As vengeance went, that would have to do.

Then, of course, there was Larean.

Pelam didn’t know what the guy’s mission was, if he even had one. Apparently, the Nimean had wandered into Derimar aimlessly and, by pure chance, run into Soria. Twelve seconds later, the man had tossed out whatever plans he might have had and decided to tag along with her in the opposite direction instead.

If the thief had any mission of his own, Pelam thought it was only to ensure his survival while putting in as little effort as possible. Now he was walking behind them, moping and generally being useless to their cause.

“I’m so very sorry,” Larean said, his voice heavy with what Pelam assumed was feigned sympathy. “I wish we had gotten to your brother sooner. I feel like it’s my fault for slowing you down.”

Soria didn’t seem to notice the con man’s act. She had always had a soft spot for the guy.

“Thank you, Larean,” she replied. “But it’s really not. Pelam and I have set the pace, and you’ve followed along and supported us. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s the Emperor’s.”

“I just wish I could have done more.”

He sighed. “What’s our plan, anyway?”

Pelam turned around to look at him. “Revenge,” he said.

“I get that,” Larean replied. “But how will we find this Dark Flame once we get to Terynia? All we have is her first name.”

“I don’t know,” Soria admitted in a low voice. Then she straightened, defiant. “But even if I have to go door to door to find her, I will!”

“And once we’ve killed her, we’ll continue to the temples of Patera and Mardocar,” Pelam explained. “We’ll sneak in, block off the exits, and slice the throats of anyone worshiping there. Their followers will get to feel what the gods did to my family.”

The thief didn’t reply, but the look on his face told Pelam all he needed to know. At best, Larean disapproved of their plan. At worst, he was a liability who couldn’t be trusted, especially considering how cozy he’d been with the old hermit.

And speaking of Joas…

“I guess the old man was wrong about the Soul Sick,” Pelam said. “Nothing bad happened to us in Omanavar, after all.”

“They could’ve been busy elsewhere,” Larean replied. “Maybe we just missed them? It was a big place. Not that I mind if we did.”

He wasn’t wrong, Pelam thought. They’d left the center of the ruined city several hours ago, but they still came across the occasional foundation or half-destroyed road here on the outskirts. Still, with every step they took, the landscape grew more open and natural, less cluttered with decaying debris.

Ahead of them, the barren rocks gave way to fields of heather and, finally, to grass, green and yellow, billowing in the wind. The scent of dry dust was slowly replaced by the fragrances of summer flowers, and as they continued, the hills to their left grew lower and lower until they finally disappeared, and the main road came into view, emerging from the valley in the distance.

In front of them, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in amber hues. From the north, a bank of heavy clouds was approaching, covering the horizon in oppressive darkness. Lightning flashed far away, and they could only hope to reach the safety of an inn before the sky burst open and drenched them in a warm but violent summer rain.

When the first drops eventually began to fall, their hurried steps turned into a mad dash to reach the comfort of a roof over their heads. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they saw the first glimmer of torchlight coming from the small town of Dawnlight in the distance.

As settlements went, it was not very impressive. But like most hamlets in the heartlands, it had a couple of taverns, a small guardhouse for the Imperial garrison stationed there, a square that would likely be bustling with activity in the morning, a blacksmith, a stable, and the usual assortment of small shops and businesses.

It was strange, Pelam thought. When he had first embarked on his journey of vengeance against the gods, he had been so afraid he hadn’t even dared travel by road, choosing instead to sleep in makeshift shelters deep in the forest. Now, with no trace of dread, he looked forward to spending the night in the warm, cozy bed of an inn. Funny how your sensitivities changed over time, how you adapted to your circumstances. And to be honest, this far from home, no one would ever recognize him.

Not wanting to go door to door in search of a place that still had a vacant room this late in the evening, they chose the largest of the inns and hoped for the best. The old wooden door creaked as the three of them stepped into the Drunken Cat, soaked to the bone.

If this was the best the village had to offer, Pelam thought darkly, he didn’t want to see the other places. But at least it was dry.

While Soria went to speak with the innkeeper and pay for their stay, Pelam took in the clientele making use of the inn’s hospitality.

To the right of the door, a farmer, his wife, and their two children were enjoying an evening out, for once not having to cook their own dinner. Behind them, seated in a dark corner, a Knight Eternal and his entourage were resting on their way through.

What concerned Pelam most, though, were the loud voices coming from his left. At a long table, a group of young—and obviously very drunk—men were emphatically arguing about something that was clearly of great importance to them, but almost certainly irrelevant to everyone else. He just hoped they wouldn’t choose to involve the other patrons in their disagreement.

“They only had one room left,” Soria said as she came back from talking to the innkeeper. “It’s not large, but it’s all they had. I took it. I ordered porridge for us, too.”

Pelam nodded. “Good. We need to rest. It’s been a long day.”

They sat down at the only empty table left in the establishment. Unfortunately, it was right next to the rowdy group of men, making it hard to hold a conversation without having to shout.

While they waited for their food to arrive, Pelam noticed a woman with red, curly hair at the other end of the room watching him. She appeared to be part of the Knight Eternal’s entourage. Though she looked a few years older than him, he still smiled at her. The woman, seemingly embarrassed by his attention, quickly looked away.

Moments later, a serving girl brought out their bowls of porridge. Pelam lifted a spoonful of the milky white stew, filled with yellow pieces of corn. They seemed a bit undercooked, he thought. Carefully, he put the spoon into his mouth to taste it.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The corn was a bit hard, yes, but its sweetness mixed well with the saltiness of the stew. Hungry from a full day’s walk through the wilderness, he eagerly devoured his meal.

The men sitting—if you could call their swaggering, restless movements that—at the table next to them were starting to annoy him. At first, it was just a mild irritation, but eventually Pelam decided to lean over and speak to them, trying to calm them down.

“Excuse me,” he said loudly, catching their attention. “Could you please—”

One of the young men interrupted him with a curse. “Hey, moron!”

“You’re fancy-boy’s servant?” he continued, pointing an unsteady finger at Larean. “Tell your master the Compact should stay in the Burn. We don’t want your kind here.”

Master? Larean? Of all the...

From the abyss at the back of his mind, he could feel a sudden rage rising. The nerve, to suggest he was subservient to that useless thief!

Pelam rose from his chair and picked up his sword, filled with righteous fury and ready to face the five drunken men at the table. Holding the sharp blade in his hand made him feel important and dangerous, as if it somehow told any onlookers he had killed with it before.

Then he thought better of it. The strength he felt in his arm when holding the weapon both filled him with power and scared him. He wanted to teach the drunken men a lesson, not kill them. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he put the sword down again.

Still, Pelam needed something more than his bare hands if the confrontation came to blows. On the table, next to his bowl, stood his empty mead tankard. It was made of heavy wood and reinforced with bronze hoops. It certainly wasn’t meant for fighting, but under the circumstances, it would have to do.

The largest of the men rose to face him. He was in his mid-twenties, with a long beard and black hair woven into two thick braids, one on each side of his head.

Pelam lifted his hand, a curse escaping his lips. “Let me tell you something, simpleton. I’d rather be caught dead than serve some rich Nimean. I’m no mongrel. Look at my hair. I’m Agerian, just like you.”

The anger he felt collected at the back of his mind, burning and twisting. Unable to contain it any longer, he suddenly struck the man with the underside of his tankard. The impact made a hollow, sickening sound as it hit the drunk’s skull, drawing blood.

He should have expected the man’s companions not to take the assault sitting down, but for some reason, the realization still came as a surprise when they, as one, rose to defend their friend.

“Larean!” Pelam shouted. “Get your fire here!”

The Nimean con man rose from his chair and lifted his hands in the general direction of the altercation. Attempting to focus, he tried to help Pelam, but he seemed to have difficulties concentrating amid the commotion. Sensing things were about to get out of hand, Soria stepped up and extended a shield to protect them both.

At the other end of the room, Pelam could see the Knight Eternal and his companions standing up, too, apparently ready to step in and defuse the situation, if needed. Knowing he didn’t have long, he kicked the drunk man in the groin. Delighting in the pain, he smacked the man’s head a second time with the tankard before his friends had time to reach him.

Not many seconds later, the tables had turned, and Pelam found himself lying on the floor, with four drunk Agerians standing over him, kicking him in the stomach, back, and head with their boots. The pain, white and searing, threatened to overwhelm him for a moment.

From behind, he suddenly heard a scream. To Pelam’s ears, it sounded like something between a lion’s roar and the war cry of a wild man. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Larean come flying through the air toward them.

Apparently, the thief had given up trying to get his fire magic to work and had instead climbed their table, opting to defend Pelam with his fists instead. From his new raised position, he jumped into the fray, screaming like a madman.

The Nimean slammed into the group of men standing over Pelam with the force of thunder, throwing three of them to the floor. At the same time, the hunter managed to kick the foot of his remaining attacker, momentarily causing him to lose his balance.

But just as he thought they were gaining the advantage in the fight, he heard a new voice above the shouts and curses of the brawlers—confident and filled with steel.

“Stop this in the name of the Lion!”

At first, Pelam thought it was the Knight Eternal who had had enough of the fight, but when he looked up, he saw a man in a red-and-white uniform standing there, his russet hair neatly groomed and his fancy mustache shaped into a distinguished handlebar.

The imperial guards had arrived.

“You and your two associates,” the guard captain told him with a firm voice, “are under Imperial arrest.”

Motioning his men forward, the captain held his sword to Pelam’s throat to ensure he didn’t resist while they bound his hands, before leading him away.

Under the guard of the imperial soldiers, and with defeat weighing heavy on their backs, Pelam, Larean and Soria were slowly marched to the jail at the imperial garrison.

It had been a good run. But in the end, the Empire had finally caught up with them.

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