39. Waking the Lion
15 th Day of the Blood Moon
Berona – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
One unforeseen benefit of the Blood Moon was that it was far brighter than its pale, cold counterpart. Which meant that even after the sun had set, on a clear night like this one, Rist could sit and read without any need for a candle. He’d spent the day channelling the Spark with Garramon, and all he wanted to do now was sit in the nook near the top of the barracks’ western watchtower and lose himself in a book.
The book in question was one he had recently procured from the dark depths of the Circle’s Library. The Origins of Runecraft , by Ursula Klimmon. Runes fascinated Rist. Their capabilities, their limitations, and the fact that they were both entirely separate and infinitely capable of symbiotic use with the Spark.
Though it felt strange to him to be reading a book on Jotnar runecraft not written by a Jotnar. But censorship, he had found, was commonplace within the imperial libraries. And he did not suspect any books written by a Jotnar hand would have survived to adorn the shelves. Though, he had a sneaking suspicion that some scholars rewrote certain books in their own words, passing off the work as their own before burning the original. It was a sad thing, but it meant that if Rist was lucky, the information on the pages might actually be useful.
He sat there, unmoving, perched on the window ledge, his back against the stone, reading of glamours and keys, and bindings, and augmentations, and all manner of applications for runecraft. But after a while, one thing became painfully obvious: the book had not been stolen and transcribed. It was Ursula Klimmon’s original work. And that would have been a good thing if Ursula Klimmon had even the slightest understanding of how Jotnar runes actually functioned. As it was, the woman just rambled and rambled for pages, discussing the different applications of runecraft without actually diving into any tangible information on how or why runes functioned.
Disappointed, Rist tossed the book on the ground beside his satchel, frowning at the thump it made. He loved books. And no, love was not an exaggeration. Books were a thing of insurmountable beauty and power. Be they immense repositories of knowledge, transcendent works of philosophical quandaries, or transportational tales, they were a thing to be cherished and adored. But there were some that were a waste of the precious paper on which they were printed. Some that would have been better off as trees. And a common factor amongst those particular books, he found, was a lack of passion and a lack of purpose. Sometimes one, often both.
The Origins of Runecraft , by Ursula Klimmon, was both.
As he sat there, distraught at his disappointment, he pulled out a folded letter from his pocket, opened it, and placed it down on the sill before him.
He’d not received word from his parents in quite a while. Months. He’d sent one before first reaching Berona and had received no response. Garramon could tell him nothing except that reports from the South had been few and far between.
Rist had considered slipping away in the night. He could take Trusil and ride to Antiquar. From there he was reasonably sure he could talk his way onto a ship heading south. His robes would likely be enough. He was a full Brother now, and he’d seen the power Battlemages had over other men. If all went to plan, it would take him just over a month, perhaps a bit longer, to reach The Glade.
But even then, he could hear his dad whispering in his ear, warning him of the folly in relying on everything going to plan.
Up to this point, the thought of leaving had not really been one worth entertaining. He would never have survived the journey across Loria, never have been able to afford passage on a ship from North to South, and likely would have been caught in the act either way. And even if those things hadn’t been as they were, he would have been too weak to protect his parents or anyone else for that matter. But he was stronger now, harder. He was a Battlemage. He’d fought elves and Uraks, seen dragons, watched thousands burn alive. He still had so much to learn, but he wasn’t that frail, helpless boy he remembered. Not anymore.
Rist leaned back and watched his breath steam in the cold air. If he was to leave, he would need to expect failed plans and plan for those failures in turn.
He lowered his head and read over the letter he’d written the night before last.
Mam and Dad,
It’s been a while. I wrote you some months back, and again more recently, but have heard nothing. I hope those letters were lost along the way, that they never found home, or that the same could be said of your reply.
I hope you’re all right. I hope you’re reading this. We all know I’ve never been one for the gods, but I hope Varyn is watching over you.
An ink stain marked the page just below that line, where a tear had dropped while Rist had been writing. As he looked at it, he realised he’d used the word ‘hope’ far too frequently.
I met someone. A woman. Her name is Neera. She’s as sarcastic as Dann but much prettier. You’d like her, Mam. She’s kind, though she hides it sometimes. She watches over me, and I her. I’ll bring her with me when I come home.
I am coming home. No matter what it takes, I’m coming home. I promise.
Please stay safe.
Your son,
Rist
Reading that letter over caused Rist’s throat to tighten and his stomach to feel like a tight ball of lead. What if they were dead? What if his mam and dad were already gone?
The thought terrified him to his core. He had never known the world without them. They had always been his compass, his map, his stars. How was he to find his way in the world without his stars to guide him?
They couldn’t be dead. Because if they were dead… if they were dead, then he no longer understood the world. People like Lasch and Elia Havel were meant to die old and fat in their beds. Their hair was meant to turn grey, their faces lined from laughter, while Rist brought them dinner and passed them their grandchildren to hold. That was how it was meant to be. Good people were rewarded with a happy life and an old death. Because if that wasn’t true, then what in the void was the point of everything?
He refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket, staring out over the city. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, but he held them back.
His thoughts moved to Calen. Vars and Freis had been good people, some of the kindest and most loving Rist had ever known. They had not died fat and old. They had died in the street, murdered.
Murdered by soldiers of the same empire Rist now fought to protect. The thought was not one that avoided him. But he’d reasoned out the logic. If an entire group of people should be condemned for the actions of a few, then all of Pirn should have been slaughtered after Jonas Urn killed Iain Timbal of Erith over two cows. And even more directly, The Glade should have been burned after Calen and Dann killed those soldiers outside The Two Barges.
The soldiers who’d killed Calen’s parents were nothing like those Rist had met. They were not Magnus, or Anila, or Neera, or Garramon. He was under no illusion that there were no evil souls within the armies of the Lorian Empire, but the same was true in every corner of the world. At least where he was, he had the power to make a difference. If he’d never left The Glade, never learned what it was to touch the Spark, what would he even be? Nothing. He’d be pouring mead behind the bar of The Gilded Dragon, reading and eating until he grew fat and old. Which, if he was being honest with himself, didn’t sound half bad. But he would still have been weak and helpless in the face of Uraks.
Even still, he’d spent no insignificant amount of time pondering Ella’s words after she’d attacked him in the tent after Steeple.
“How could you fight for them? You’re meant to be his closest friend. How could you turn on him, Rist?”
At first, he’d thought she’d been referring to what had happened to Vars and Freis. That would have made sense.
But that wasn’t it.
Ella had not been there when Vars and Freis had been killed. But more so, she had specifically said ‘how could you turn on him ’. On Calen, not her.
Rist pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop his mind from racing, from cycling through every possible permutation of every situation. He tried the trick Garramon had taught him to focus when the thrum of the Spark grew too overwhelming, reading pages of A Study of Control in his mind, the words settling him.
“Thought I might find you up here.”
Rist started at the sound of Magnus’s voice, almost falling from the window ledge. That would not have been a pleasant way to die. He shivered at the thought.
“Catch.” Magnus threw the waterskin before the words had left his lips. It soared through the air, past Rist’s face, and out the window. Three heartbeats were followed by a wet splat and the roars of an irate guard.
Magnus gave Rist a look of sheer and utter disappointment. His lips moved, but no sound came. He just stood there and stared.
“You threw it at my head? How was I meant to catch that?”
“With your fucking hands, lad.” He pressed his palm to his face. “I only have one, and I’d have caught that. Has anyone ever told you that you have the coordination of a drunk Varsundi donkey with one eye?”
“They’ve not been that specific, no.”
Magnus let out a long sigh, swinging a satchel around to his front and pulling another skin from within.
“You’re lucky I always come prepared,” he said, making to hand the skin to Rist but drawing it back at the last moment. “You sure you’ve got it?”
“I’m sure.”
“Want me to warn you before I pass it to you? Count back from three?”
“What is it?” Rist snatched the skin from Magnus’s hand, examining the cork stopper before pulling it free. The sweet scent of honey mead drifted to his nostrils.
“I thought you could use a taste of home. It’s mead you said your father brews?”
And just like that, Rist was warm again, memories of home flooding him. “It is.”
“I’m sure it’s not as good as your father’s, but I’d wager the second mouthful will taste better than the first.”
“Thank you.” When Rist had first met Magnus at the camp outside of Al’Nasla, the last thing he’d expected from the bearded mountain of a man was the kindness of an old friend. But Magnus had continued to prove that assumption wrong time and time again.
“Don’t thank me till you’ve tried it. Berona’s known for many things, lad. Good mead’s not one of them. Come to think of it, I’ve not seen bees in quite some time. It might not even be mead.”
Rist took another sniff over the mouth of the skin. It did smell a bit sharper than his dad’s mead, the scent of honey a bit more pungent. He took a deep draught.
That was a mistake.
The first taste on Rist’s lips was an overly sweet slap of honey, followed by a sour burn the likes of which Rist had never experienced. He spluttered, spraying the mead in all directions.
Magnus jerked backwards to avoid the mist of spit and mead, sweeping his arms out of the way. “Ah, for fuck’s sake, lad. Do you need a fucking bib?”
“Sorry,” Rist choked, pressing his hand with the skin to his stomach and holding the other over his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting that. That’s like honeyed spirit.” He puffed out his cheeks, relieved the shock was slowly ebbing from his body. “Shit. Magnus, are you trying to kill me?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Magnus made a motion to push Rist from the ledge. He was joking, of course, but something about Magnus made Rist think the man was only ever one intrusive thought away from following through with something stupid. “Now, come on. You’re joining me on patrol.”
“Ah, leave me be. I’m happy here with my book and my… mead?” He held up the skin tentatively. “It’s not my night anyway, and Garramon’s not let me breathe all day.”
Magnus leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window. “Rist, when I say patrol, I mean walk about the city getting drunk. I’m not asking Brother Havel, Imperial Battlemage. I’m asking Rist, uncoordinated, one-eyed Varsundi donkey.”
“You know, when you want something, you’re supposed to be nice to the person you want it from.”
“Agree to disagree. Now, put that book away and let’s see how quickly this piss gets us walking like a one-legged tree.”
Rist didn’t bother to point out that trees didn’t have legs, one or otherwise. He gave Magnus the benefit of the doubt that the man already knew that. But it still took all his self-control not to do so.
Rist discovered that the answer to Magnus’s question of how quickly the mead would have them walking like one-legged trees was just less than an hour.
“You know,” Magnus said, snatching the skin from Rist – the second one he had produced from his satchel. Third if they were counting the skin he’d thrown out the window, which Rist wasn’t. “This shit isn’t that bad.”
He took a swig from the skin and shrugged. “I mean, I’ve had a lot worse. Did you ever taste Anila’s ale? The one she tried brewing in a big wooden barrel? By The Saviour, that genuinely tasted of cat piss – and don’t ask how I know what cat piss tastes like.”
Rist took back the skin. “When did she do that? When did she even find the time?”
“Agh.” Magnus threw his arms in the air in what Rist supposed was meant to pass for another shrug. “I can’t remember the specif… spicefic… spocifisipic…” He stopped in his tracks, taking a long, exaggerated breath. “Specific. Damn, I hate that word. Always trips me up. Although, might also be the mead. I can’t remember the specific time, but it was just before the Valtaran rebellion. The first one, I’m pretty sure.”
“Magnus, the first Valtaran Rebellion ended eighty-five years ago.”
“Well done, Rist. I always knew you could count.”
Rist pursed his lips, taking another sip from the skin. It didn’t burn anymore. “Magnus. I wasn’t born then.”
“And?”
“How could I have tasted Anila’s ale if it was brewed sixty-five years before I was born?”
“Ah… I suppose you couldn’t. Didn’t quite think of that.” He pursed his lips and scrunched his nose, snatching the skin back from Rist. “I forget you’re only a toddler.”
Rist shook his head, looking at the stars that were tinged pink by the light of the moon. “In Ilnaen, Emperor Mortem said that Efialtír wished to walk among us.”
“If we are so lucky, lad. If we are so lucky.”
“How would that even be possible?”
“Fuck if I know. That’s why Fane’s Fane and I’m me.” Magnus grabbed Rist by the shoulder, pulling his attention down from the stars. “We’ve already discussed your coordination being similar to a donkey’s – and now you’re drunk. It’s probably for the best if you walk with your head facing what’s in front of you. As funny as I think it’d be to see you fall down a set of steps, I don’t much fancy having to carry you back up them.”
They walked for a while, drinking and talking – mostly nonsense, but it was nice. It was probably the first time in a long time Rist’s mind had just drifted to nowhere in particular, and he felt at ease. That was, of course, until he realised he was at ease and his mind promptly refocused on whether or not his parents were dead.
Even with the sun below the horizon, the streets were far from empty. Men and women pushed past, finishing out their day as the pedlars and hawkers on the side streets set down their stalls and patrols marched past. Groups huddled around the doors of taverns and inns, clouds of tabbac shrouding them, the sounds of music drifting from within.
“You would think there wasn’t a war,” Rist said as they passed a couple kissing against a wall, both still holding a cup in one hand.
“Life doesn’t stop, Rist. What do you want them to do? Sit in their homes and weep?”
“No… I just… I guess I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
“That’s part of the dichotomy of war – and before you say it, yes, that is a fancy word, and no, I didn’t read it in a book. Anila liked to use it. I always find I use fancier words when I’m drunk anyway. Where was I? Yes. That’s part of the dichotomy of war. While we’re out there dying, they’re in here drinking. Because that’s what we’re fighting for – their freedom to get drunk and smoke tabbac while fondling each other against the wall of a butcher shop.”
Rist snorted laughing, then choked as mead spurted from his nostrils. “I don’t think we’re fighting for that specifically.”
“I am,” Magnus said with yet another shrug.
Rist pulled Magnus to the side of the street as a cart rolled past, bouncing on the cobbles, drawn by a single black horse. Somewhere off in the city, a dog barked, answered by another, and then another, until it sounded as though all Berona was singing.
“Garramon’s been working you pretty hard then?”
Rist nodded, his shoulders and legs still aching from earlier that day, his body enduringly weary from the drain of drawing so heavily on the Spark. “We’ve been channelling.”
“Ah, that shit hurts. Pulling as much of the Spark into your body as you can without tearing yourself to pieces – all just for what? To see how much you can hold? To make yourself that little bit stronger? No. Seems impractical to me. I gather he’s testing to see if you could be an Arcarian?”
Rist stopped dead. “How did you know?”
“The Arcarians aren’t a secret, lad. Most of them are just dead, killed each other in the war – the Great War. Garramon went through the same training when he was preparing. I contemplated it but never bothered in the end. Risk killing myself or burning the Spark from my veins just so I have the right to get an obnoxiously large tattoo on my back and call myself an Arcarian like some twat? Sorry, you’re not a twat – much. And Garramon’s back and forth depending on the day. But no, thank you, I’m happy where I am. I’m an Exarch of the Imperial Battlemages. I defend my people, I drink what I want, I eat what I want, and there’s only a handful of people in this world who can tell me what to do. Honestly, I don’t know what they were thinking giving me so much freedom. Actually, hold on.” Magnus rooted through his satchel and produced a half loaf of bread, split in the middle and stuffed with thick cheese and chunks of ham. “Garramon asked me to give this to you. Told me to make sure you eat it. Makes sense why now.”
Rist’s stomach turned a little at the thought of more food. But then something occurred to him. “Did he give you half a loaf or a full loaf?”
“Full loaf.” Magnus gave a broad smile, teeth visible through his thick black beard. He knew full well what Rist was asking.
Rist narrowed his eyes.
“Taxes, lad, they’ll be death of us all.”
It wasn’t the joke that made Rist laugh, it was how straight Magnus kept his face while telling it. He took the bread from Magnus, shaking his head, then stuffed it into his mouth and took a bite worthy of a bear. “That’s not bad at all, actually,” he said, choking the mouthful down. “A bit dry but?—”
An enormous explosion cut Rist short, booming like a clap of thunder, and the night erupted in an orange blaze.
The light receded and was followed by shrieks and screams and the ringing of bells.
“What the fuck was that?” Magnus looked up at the sky, where a column of smoke billowed.
Before Rist could answer, a second explosion sounded, closer than the first. Rist could tell by the tremble in the ground beneath his feet and the shiver of the Spark that ran down his spine.
“Did you feel that?” Rist stared off in the direction of the second explosion, still feeling the lingering touch of the Spark.
“Feel what? The shaking?” Magnus turned and grabbed a sprinting soldier by the chest. “What’s happened?”
The man looked as though he were going to launch Magnus to the ground until his eyes fell on the silver trim of Magnus’s black cloak, widening in realisation. “Exarch,” he said, visibly standing straighter and trying to control his panting. “I don’t know. I was patrolling the plaza when I heard the explosion. The southeast wall is on fire. So too the southwest and?—”
A third explosion roared, further away, the sky now tinged with blazing oranges and reds.