Disinter

“You don’t want to be the best sword on Calernia, kids. That’s the one everyone’s always trying to kill. No, if you want to make a career of this aim to be the fifth finest sword – high enough they pay you well, low enough no one would really gain by offing you. Maybe it’s not the dream, kids, but unlike the dream it’s a living.”

- Transcribed lecture of the duellist Saint Armand the Old to the School of Swallows

The first rule about going into the Brocelian Forest was to trust no one and Ishaq was no fool. Before it all began, he met a man and gave him a ring.

“And yours?” the man said, sliding it down his finger.

“Here,” Ishaq said, before doing the same.

--

In truth, though, it had begun three months earlier when Ishaq went to the Sudden Death to sell the innkeep bundles of firewood. Old Dina bought them at higher a price than most of the inns on the outskirts of Tartessos wood, a concession to their years of knowing each other. She was, she said, willing to pay more for a reliable man. As was his habit, Ishaq took her up on the offer to sit in the common room with an ale afterwards. He’d learned that pricking his ear as he sipped his drink could yield coin for a halfway clever man, which he liked to think he was. Like most cheap inns, the Sudden Death was thick with would-be Brocelian bands and all of them needed something. Sometimes it was even a good axe hand they were looking for, something he was willing to provide for a cut of the goods.

That night, though, he found himself staring at a sad drunk instead.

A woman, older than him by a decade and deep enough into a bottle of liquor she no longer noticed that she spat out spittle as she talked – though others did and gave her a wide berth. It was the colours painted on her cheek that first drew his eye, swirls of blue and brown with a single stroke cutting through. He knew that paint, had been told of it by his late and unlamented father: it belonged to the Spear’s Blood. The woman was far from home, since their line was said to be sworn to the Champion’s Blood in faraway Alava. Ishaq finished his ale, shelled out coppers to order another two and sat across the sad drunk.

“Who the fuck ‘re you?” she belligerently said, staring down her crooked nose.

“The man who just bought you a drink,” Ishaq said, pushing the ale her way.

He’d just made a friend, at least until the drink ran out. Samira of the Fearless Spear’s Blood was all too eager to spill out her life so long as her cup was full, telling him of her woes. Her uncle, the head of her Blood, had sent her on the road.

“Sent all of us out,” Samira sneered. “Even his kids and grandkids. All of us on the road, because he thinks he’s going to get a Bestowed out of it.”

The Spear’s Blood was a laughingstock, having only ever raised two Bestowed since the founding of Levant, and so Esmail of the Spear’s Blood was resorting to drastic measures to make another. A widower, he had wed a beautiful but wicked woman and allowed her to mistreat his children but lost patience when the tale of their first Fearless Spear did not come to life again. Uncle Esmail, Samira told him, had then decided to send his kin into deathly peril until glory ensued. It seemed a waste of time and coppers to indulge her talk – Samira did give him the eye after a while, but Ishaq had a lover already and the drunk stank to the Dark and back – but there was something to this that’d drawn his eye so he kept the ale pouring. Altogether too much drink later, he finally wheedled out of her why she had gone to Tartessos of all places.

“Sure, I got some old story about a treasure deep in the Brocelian but how am I supposed to get it?” Samira mourned. “No band will take me.”

Because taking on a drunk in the forest is suicide, Ishaq thought, but instead of showing his thought he instead smiled at Samira through his beard.

“My friend,” Ishaq said, leaning closer, “I believe we can help each other.”

--

Zaray fiddled with the bronze bracelets on her wrist, which told him she was nervous even though her face might as well have been carved out of stone. The dark-haired beauty wore a green short-sleeved tunic that showed off her muscled arms, though in concession to the threat of the people they were to meet she had brought her hooked sword. Ishaq tended to find the tell endearing, but it was obvious enough he would prefer his lover settled before the others arrived.

“You have concerns,” he said, tone even.

She grimaced at him.

“Several of them will be veterans,” Zaray said. “They will know you are not one of them.”

It was his turn to grimace. It was true that Ishaq could not truly be called an adventurer, for it was not venturing into the Brocelian that kept a roof over his head but woodcutting. He had gone out with bands for kills or treasure, but it was not the occupation of all his days.

“It is in hand,” Ishaq assured her.

She touched his arm fondly, but did not seem reassured.

“Maram has led bands before and has a good reputation,” Zaray told him. “I worry that he might try to become captain of this band in your stead.”

He likely would, Ishaq knew, but his good reputation had brought in some of the others so it had been worth the risk.

“I tell you,” Ishaq said, returning the gesture, “it is in hand.”

Zaray still seemed unconvinced, but she stopped toying with her bracelets. His lover was an adventurer, a veteran of bands skilled in the use of hooked sword and spear, and like most of her trade she tended to underestimate those who did not dedicate their life to expeditions. It was the first time he had been on the wrong end of the that doubt in their year together, though, and Ishaq found he misliked it. Before he could linger on the thought, however, the others began to arrive. There would be eight of them. He and Zaray, and of course Samira of the Spear’s Blood. These were certain. After that, Ishaq had recruited by need.

First came Maram Brightblade, an adventurer of good repute known for his use of the sword and axe. His enchanted blade had earned the sobriquet He was a darkly handsome man with a scar on his cheek to whom smiles came easy and boasts even easier. He had been needed so that Ishaq could talk some of the others into the venture. As a woodsman they had a one-handed man of middle age called Rasul, a former slayer who knew paths deep into the woods. For magic they had the ragged young woman Thana the Limper, a binder washout from Malaga, and for… particular needs they had a couple. Those two were the last to arrive, ferret-faced Faris in his dark robes immediately eclipsed by his gorgeous wife Alisanne – fair of hair and blue of eye.

A round of drinks was had and bread broken, but as soon as plates were clear the challenge Ishaq had expected came.

“I’ve never head of you as a captain,” Thana the Limper bluntly said. “And if this is as great an artefact as Samira’s said, this should not be led by a greenhorn.”

Samira, though she had relied on him to arrange all this, spoke not a word. As a rule, he had found she was about as loyal as she was sober. That was noticed, particularly by Maram and Faris.

“You were invited,” Ishaq replied equally as bluntly, “but you are not needed. If you have objections, the door is behind you.”

Thana snorted, rising to her feet to call what she obviously thought to be a bluff. She did not find the support she might have expected, though. Rasul laid his wrist stump on the table and sneered at her.

“Keep moving, girl,” he said, “or shut the fuck up.”

Embarrassed, the young failed binder stepped away out of pride before admitting to herself that no one seemed inclined to follow. She bent her pride and sat back down, looking at everywhere but Ishaq. Rasul’s word counted for much, at the moment: he was an experienced woodsman and would be difficult to replace.

“We gather tomorrow at dawn,” Ishaq told them. “Be punctual or you will be left behind.”

There was some idle talk, but no second round of drinks was ordered and they band broke up. Thana was the first to leave. After Ishaq waved away Zaray, telling her to leave ahead of him as he finished his drink, she returned to the room. The mage stood before him, then cocked an eyebrow silently. Grinning, Ishaq flipped her a silver and she snatched it out of the air.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Thana the Limper grinned back.

Ishaq might not have won a fight with Maram when it came to leadership, as his lover had worried. So he’d paid for another, which he could.

--

The Brocelian Forest was beautiful, at least until it got you killed. Within an hour of stepping past the first tree, Ishaq’s band had been twice attacked by barrow wolves and once by a snake king. Maram Brightblade unsheathed that pretty sword of his for the latter fight, slashing at the knot of furious snakes and after a flash of light carving a burning wound through the creature’s heart without having ever touched it. He fell in at Ishaq’s side after even as Zaray took the lead, spear in hand.

“We are making good pace,” Maram idly said, sheathing the blade.

“So we are,” Ishaq idly replied, hand on the handle of his axe.

The handsome killer smiled at him, which pulled appealingly at his scarred cheek.

“I get the impression,” Maram said, “that you might be wary of me, Ishaq.”

“You’re a dangerous man, Maram,” Ishaq smiled. “Why would I not be?”

“Flatterer,” the other warrior chuckled. “But there is nothing to be wary of. You are leading well, though I’ll confess curiosity.”

“About?”

“I know of Faris,” Maram admitted. “He is said to have many artefacts.”

Ishaq inclined his head to the side, inviting the clean-shaven man to continue.

“But why bring in his wife?” Maram asked. “She gets a cut, same as the rest of us, but I do not see her bearing a weapon.”

“He doesn’t join bands without her,” Ishaq replied.

The other man hummed, seemingly unconvinced even though that was the truth. They made small talk for a while more until Maram drifted away, Ishaq recognizing the conversation for what it was: the first battle line being drawn. All of them were to have equal shares of the coin when the artefact was brought back and sold to the Lord of Tartessos, but as often the way with bands of strangers already those part of it were looking to fill their pockets a little more. And what better, simpler way than to cut through a few of the people owed a cut? The first rule of going into the Brocelian was to trust no one. Rasul led them near a river which they followed until noon, when they paused to eat and drink.

Samira dropped, sweating and exhausted, and he had to ask Zaray to make sure she’d be able to march when their break ended. As he sated himself with water, ferret-faced Faris approached in his now sweaty dark robes. The other man, older and thin, wore gaudy makeshift jewelry whose centerpiece was broken stones. Shards of wardstones, Ishaq had guessed.

“The Spear’s Blood will slow us down,” Faris quietly said. “It isn’t water she’s been sneaking sips of all day.”

“Only she knows the story and the map,” Ishaq mildly replied.

“Knowledge is never as safe as one thinks,” Faris nastily smiled. “Should you give me leave, I have a little box that will-”

“I do not give you leave,” Ishaq said.

The other man was taken aback, like it was unthinkable they should not plot to murder Samira after ripping anything of use out of her memories.

“Another might,” Faris warned.

Ishaq leaned forward, hand coming to rest on handle of his axe.

“Are you sure,” he asked, “that you want to play this game?”

Faris swallowed.

“I meant nothing by it,” the ferret-faced man hastily said.

Ishaq only smiled and Faris could not leave quickly enough. In his wake, his beautiful wife – whose practical leather tunic somehow seemed to be pretty as a tailored dress – arrived, offering a smile.

“You refused him,” Alisanne smiled. “I hoped you might. I’m glad that you are the man I thought-”

Ishaq raised a finger and her words halted.

“No,” he said.

She blinked, those big blue eyes betraying confusion.

“Pardon?”

“No,” Ishaq repeated. “We won’t be playing this game either. Walk way.”

She looked more than a little offended, but their conversation had drawn eyes and she seemed disinclined to make a scene. She flounced away, and though Ishaq’s gaze remained on her it was not to dip down at her swaying hips. Calmly, he wondered whether he should kill her now. She hadn’t done enough to earn it, he knew, but by the time she had she’d be difficult to get to. Reluctantly, he had to admit that he’d be turned against should he strike and abandon the thought. He tore his eyes away, finding Zaray wiping her sleeve free of Samira’s vomit as she shot him a dark glance. The nod he gave her was apologetic, but no more than that.

He could not show weakness, not in front of this pack of wolves.

--

Their journey was to take nine days to get there and another nine to return. Ishaq had never been so deep into the Brocelian before, but he knew the greatest of treasures were even further. The four of the Thirteen Cities that had been in what was now the Brocelian Forest were deep within the perilous land, their remains the death of nearly all who beheld those ancient walls. Gigantes had dwelled in those places along with men and the shadow of their might still lingered, less than fond of looters. Their own journey was to a lesser shrine, not as dangerous, but then the journey itself was to walk with death. And yet, Ishaq found that he was not disturbed.

Not when a flock wyverns pursued them for half a day, letting up only when Thara faked their deaths with an illusion. Not when a flicker-beast nearly killed Faris, ripping through some sort of yellow mist to almost close its mandibles around his neck until Alisanne stabbed it with a slender knife, or even when a large field of mushrooms turned into a pack of gibbering small creatures whose bite Maram told them was certain death. It made men rot from the inside, Brightblade told them as they fled east and crossed water to lose the relentless little shits. Ishaq had expected to have to master fear, but there was little of that. It felt more like a chore, like the labour of cutting wood. Over the three days it took them to get to the marker, Faris took to approaching him at meals.

“Are you sure we can trust Rasul?” the weasel-faced man asked.

When Ishaq laughed him off, he tried the same trick about Maram instead. The artefact-wielder went around their camp trying the same trick. Zaray, in their shared tent on the third night, lay her head on his chest and whispered a confession.

“He has a point about Samira,” she said. “She is slowing us down, and to be slow in the Brocelian is to be dead.”

“I would rather the knowledge be in Samira’s head,” Ishaq replied, “than in Faris’ hands.”

“We might not have a choice,” Zaray murmured. “I’ve seen him talking with Maram when they think no one else is looking.”

“We still need him,” the bearded man replied.

“Who?”

Ishaq did not say, and she did not ask again.

--

On the fourth day they reached the marker, and as they stood over the stele of stone covered in writings none of them knew Faris swaggered forward.

“As agreed,” the weasel pompously said, “you may now have my services.”

He put on a broken bit of glass set in a leather strap over his eye, then pawed at the writing and hummed as he brought out a bronze table. There was a bend in the middle of the second artefact, and Faris then produced two little pointed stones – one white and one black – that he carefully pressed against specific glyphs on the stele before putting them in the bronze bend. When they began to move and Faris grinned, Ishaq let out a noise of understanding. It was a compass. Maram seemed impressed, leaning over the other man’s shoulder.

“So now you use it to get us to the second marker?” Brightblade asked.

“Of course,” Faris said. “Child’s play, for a man of my talents. Our pet binder will have to earn her keep there, but until then-”

The movement was so smooth, so easy, that Ishaq did not realized what was happening before Faris’ throat was open and the man was gurgling on his knees. Maram lightly took the compass from him, and pointed his blade as Alisanne – who’d moved even faster, silvery knife in hand and halfway to the adventurer’s throat.

“Will we have a problem, Alisanne?” Maram Brightblade asked with a smile.

Blue eyes moved to Faris, who breathed his last and slumped headfirst into the grass. Red spread around him.

“I was sold into marriage,” beautiful Alisanne finally said. “I will survive – and I can use his artefacts.”

“Anyone can,” Maram countered. “He was not a mage, I made well sure of that.”

“You also killed one of our band,” Ishaq coldly said.

The handsome killer offered him an insolent smile.

“Is there anyone here the bastard did not approach to arrange a betrayal of the others?” Maram asked.

The answering silence was telling. Ishaq’s jaw tightened. If it came to a challenge now-

“I do not claim captaincy of our band, Ishaq,” Maram easily said. “I simply ended a threat before it could be turned on us.”

He did not like it, but a look around told him he would not win if he pushed the matter. Faris had made no friends and several enemies.

“His artefacts go to Alisanne, as his widow,” Ishaq said. “Save for the compass. I will handle it.”

Maram cast a look around of his own, then offered that damned smile again.

“As you say,” the killer conceded.

They left before the body was cool. Afterwards, Rasul came to his side.

“He is trying to take captaincy,” the woodsman bluntly said.

Ishaq hummed. That was not, in truth, his read of the situation. Maram wanted coin and he wanted a voice, but to lead? No, Ishaq did not believe he was after that. The man wanted to his second, to have a voice without the responsibilities. He wanted another thing as well, Ishaq was fairly sure, but that was a different sort of want.

“I know,” he lied. “It will be handled.”

Rasul nodded once, satisfied, and to the second marker they went. Faris’ compass served as well as the man himself would have.

--

It went wrong an hour before they got to the second marker. Two days of gruelling journey had gotten them there, but in avoiding a nest of hunter-wasps they crossed into the hunting grounds of a manticore. Several of them had fought the like before, but halfway through the fight Rasul took a swipe to the face and was sent tumbling into the brush. Without his spear to keep the manticore grounded it flew up, snapping her Thana in its jaws as it fled deeper into the woods. The failed binder screamed twice, but then where was harsh crack and she screamed no more. Ishaq’s eyes were not on her, though, when it all ended. They were on Rasul, who should not have been struck by that swipe.

Ah, Ishaq thought, eyes moving to another. So that’s how it is. He went though his pack and found the packets of salt from the Titan’s Pond. There should be enough.

“What now?” Ziray asked. “Thana was to unleash the second marker for us. Is the hunt lost?”

“There might be another way,” Alisanne told them. “But it would require the breaking of an artefact.”

Her eyes moved to the compass in Ishaq’s hands. The eyes of the others were on him, expectant.

“Whatever gets us there,” he agreeably replied.

When they got to the second stele, Alisanne ended up breaking three artefacts before the glyphs lit up – to her visible irritation. She then cut herself with a shard of bronze, laid it against a glyph and turned to them with a smile.

“So long as we are headed the way of the shrine, it will pull slightly at my fingers,” Alisanne told them with an angelic smile. “The journey continues.”

They made it to the ninth day. They were close now, all could feel it in their bones. And the urgency manifested itself in many ways, when camp was made and they retreated for the night. Rasul and Alisanne both disappeared, though a turn of the wind carrying noise made it clear what the pair was up to. Zaray glared in the direction, to Ishaq’s cocked eyebrow.

“Our two guides in bed?” she said. “Bad for us, lover.”

She went to bed early, in a dark mood. Samira was already snoring, exhausted by her drink as much as the day’s march, and so Ishaq went to sit with Maram Brightblade. The man was polishing his enchanted sword, sitting in a corner with his back to a stone.

“I would have thought you inclined to follow our friend Rasul’s lead in recreation,” Maram lightly said.

“Who says I’m not?” Ishq said, leaning back against the stone.

“Your lover went to bed scowling,” the handsome killer snorted. “If you can turn that around, I will offer a bow.”

“Wasn’t Zaray I was speaking of,” Ishaq idly said, meeting the other man’s eyes.

Maram stilled.

“Your looks are subtle,” he said, “but not that subtle.”

The other man slowly relaxed, then smiled than insolent smile again.

“It is the beard,” Maram confessed. “I have a weakness.”

“Then indulge yourself,” Ishaq smiled, and turned to straddle the other.

They did.

--

The shrine was broken when they got there.

It had been a circle of stones atop a hill once, but half were collapsed and the altar at the heart of the circle lay shattered. They went around, careful not to touch the stones, and found only grass and rock. Nothing of value.

“The story says it is here,” Samira of the Spear’s Blood whined. “It does, I swear.”

Angry eyes were turned on her, but Ishaq was not one of them. He had figured it out already, and suspected others had. They were keeping silent for the same reason as he was: this was about to end. He dropped his bag on the grass and, as Zaray began to argue with Samira, used the distraction to take out the satchel of salt and slide it into his pocket.

“Two of us died getting here,” Rasul growled. “If there is no treasure-”

“I’ll not be talked down to by a cripple,” Samira sneered, reaching for her spear, and there was no taking that back.

The fight was quick, and its end unexpected. Rasul was a skilled fighter, for all that he had lost a hand, but drunk and stinking Samira still slapped him down as if disciplining a dog. The Spear’s Blood expected excellence of its own. It did not save her from Zaray ramming her sword through the other woman’s back. Ishaq breathed out, grieved for a moment, but all things passed. His was not a land for sentiment. So he stepped forwards as his lover ripped out her sword, eyes still wild, and took Samira’s corpse by its greasy hair. He threw it on the broken altar, blood dripping all over the stone, and a heartbeat later all of them felt a shiver in the air.

The altar was whole again, a blood-red gem resting on it surrounded by leaves a gold. Further back, at the edge of the raised stones, a pit had opened. Ishaq glimpsed bone as the bottom and hummed. As he’d suspected, the place had been built over a barrow.

“A sanguine stone,” Maram breathed out. “The drunk wasn’t lying.”

“Enough for all of us to live comfortably,” Ishaq agreed, smiling as he went around the altar.

He pushed off Samira’s corpse, leaving a bloody trail on the stone, and as he did discreetly palmed the salt satchel. Hidden by the altar, he began to trace a trail on the grass and pricked his ear. Silence hung in the air between all of them, heavy with tension, and it was Maram Brightblade who broke it.

“Four cuts,” he idly said. “Enough for profit.”

Zaray looked uneasy, standing on the other side of the altar with a Rasul who’d gotten back to his feet with a groan – his face battered but otherwise not particularly for the worse – as Maram moved nearer to a raised stone to the left and Alisanne stayed back. Silent and unmoving. Ishaq had been waiting for the sound, and so he caught in in time. Taking a hasty step back, he threw the last of the salt on the back even as an angry scream sounded. Blue-eye, beautiful Alisanne appeared at his side. She glowed with anger and something altogether more eldritch, hitting at an invisible wall.

“A circle of salt on barrow grounds will keep a fae imprisoned,” Ishaq mildly said. “Not forever, but long enough to be rid of you I’d think.”

Zaray let out a bark of laughter, circling the altar to stand to his left.

“Knew she was fishy,” Zaray sneered. “No one has hair that nice after nine days in the woods.”

Ishaq had known it was coming since last night, planned for it, but part of him was still surprised when she tried to knife him. He caught her wrist, and a wide-eyed Maram struck to part her head from her neck. What he got, instead, was Rasul’s axe in the back of the head. Maram Brightblade slowly fell to his knees, and a heartbeat later died baffled. Rasul left the axe in there and took out his knife.

“I wish it didn’t have to be me,” Zaray told him. “I amfond of you, Ishaq. But I am already wed.”

“You picked me because of how much I overhear at the Sudden Death,” he mused.

“And because you’re so fucking clever,” she smiled. “I always knew you’d find something good one day.”

“Well,” he mused, “at least you were good in bed.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re too calm,” she said.

“The first rule of going into the Brocelian,” Ishaq said, “is to trust no one. But Rasul won’t betray me, your husband or not. He can’t.”

The bearded man raised his free hand, drawing her eye to the ring he wore on it.

“No more than I can betray him,” he said. “We wear oath rings.”

Zaray paled.

“Goodbye,” Ishaq said, reaching for the knife at his hip.

It opened her throat and he stepped back, looking away as she fell. He did not spare her a second look.A noise then drew his attention. A soft sound, with a soft clang. On the altar besides him a finger had been dropped. It still bore an oath ring on it.

“I thank you for the fae wife and arranging my divorce,” Rasul said from behind him. “But you should have sprung for a necklace.”

And then all Ishaq knew was darkness.

--

Ishaq woke up in the dark, bleeding out from half a dozen wounds and surrounded by death. He was dying on a pile of skulls, a fresher corpse at his side. Samira, he dimply realized. They threw the both of us in the barrow pit. Gasping, he crawled forward. There might be a way up, a way for him to do anything but fucking bleed out in a hole not having been as clever as he thought he was. Bones were digging at him, at his wounds, but he let out a ragged gasp when suddenly his hands were on stone. There was a room down here. A circle of stone on the ground surrounded by masses of dead. Already half-blind, Ishaq felt bronze under his fingers and realized there was a fresco set in the stone.

A story.

A giant raising a city, people kneeling to it. Another giant with an army, and they were worth with each other. The giants sat together at a table and beneath them a pair champions fought. They parted in peace. More of that, champions, winning, but the giant that made the city… mourned? His champion had died and the one that followed was slain. So the giant… made something. A sword, armour. And the champion began to win again, until he lost. But when he did, Ishaq felt out with a gasp, he got back up. From death. Desperately, Ishaq clawed at the bronze and stone. There was another piece ahead of him, a circle set in the stone, and he bled all over it.

Breathing ragged, he got the bronze circle out. Below, he felt out what he’d been looking for: more bronze. A sword and armour. Bleeding, dying, Ishaq clutched at the sword.

“Please,” he rasped. “Please, you whoreson. I’ll do anything.”

The sword shivered in his hand, like a cat waking up. Curiosity. There was something inside of it, Ishaq felt. Power, but an ugly kind. Just a little bit left, and as the sword drank of his blood it gave him something. His breath steadied, his wounds stopped bleeding. His senses came back. It was night, he realized, and moonlight fell through the mouth of the pit. There was a fire above and two voices speaking.

“You can’t do more?” he asked.

The sword sang it sadly.

“How?” he said. “How can you heal me whole?”

A whisper of an image. A man being cut, the sword drinking of something deep in him. His soul, Ishaq realized. And then he saw wounds closing.

“You’re not treasure,” he softly laughed. “You’re a barrow curse.”

Ishaq slowly got to his feet, the bronze sword in hand, and listened to the voices above. Rasul should have made sure he was dead, he thought as he began to put on the armour.

Ishaq would be certain not to make that mistake.