20. Renard
Renard
Despite riding Magnar harder than I have in years, it’s clear by the path of decay ahead of me that we’re late—too late to prevent something horrible from happening.
Magnar’s sides heave, foam flecking his bit as I dismount. Nibblebones gives a concerned trill and bounds down from my shoulder, dashing off through the fields sprawled before us—likely in search of her mistress.
The scene before me is worse than any nightmare I’ve endured. Piles of bones from the Blight Mother’s skeletal army litter the ground, the stalks of wheat still glossy and unblemished, swaying in the breeze.
What has happened here—and where is Vireth?
None of her decay mars the soil, the trail of it stopping suddenly at the edge of the tree line along the road. She cannot be dead—surely, I would sense it. Perhaps she has been taken?
“I’m afraid this next part calls for stealth, old friend,” I say to Magnar. “And I’m afraid our journey together might come to an end today.”
With trembling hands, I unbuckle his harness and lift his saddle off his back. He doesn’t shake his mane like he usually does when I unharness him—merely stares and me and lets out a low nicker.
“If I don’t return,” I begin, for once unashamed of the emotion lodging in my throat.
“Find yourself a fine mare. Live free, unbound by the burdens of men. Thank you for your loyalty, my friend—for bearing me into every battle, and settling into a life you were always far above. I did not deserve your companionship and your strength, but I am grateful for it all the same. Ride on, Magnar, and perhaps we’ll meet each other in the spirit realm. ”
Each word feels wrenched from my chest, punctuated by hitches in my voice.
Tears begin to fall down my cheeks as I lean in to give him one final scratch on his withers.
He nickers again, nudging my cheek with his velvety nose.
I’ve suffered great losses in my life—family, friends, my brothers-in-arms, yet not since the death of my wife and children has anything felt so unmooring as this.
Leaving the tack stashed behind a nearby rock, I shoulder mine and Vireth’s packs and make my way down the sloping path that cuts between the wheat fields and leads toward the city gate.
From behind me, I hear Magnar shift, uneasy, but I do not turn—I cannot.
If I see his steady dark eyes and glossy black coat, I may lose my nerve to do what’s certainly right.
With Nibblebones away, Magnar behind me, and Vireth somewhere within, I haven’t felt quite so alone in a very long time.
Doubts begin to prick at my ages-old injuries, healed but for the phantom pains that pulse every now and then, reminding me that this life isn’t merely just behind me anymore—it stretches in front of me, as well.
Sinking into my exile only served to delay the inevitable for me.
Each step feels harder than the last, until I find myself edging past the main gate and dropping round to the one weakness of the fort—a drainage grate atop a now dry creek bed, which funnels the city’s filth away from the streets when the spring rains arrive.
The grate isn’t much to look at now. Rust has gnawed along the bottom edge and one corner has pulled free from the stone where the mortar has cracked and crumbled. The perfect place for a clandestine entry.
I crouch among the dead reeds and set down Vireth’s pack, my knees cracking with a sound I can’t help but wince at, given my present need for stealth.
The grate’s iron pins are rusted through, and with a violent wrenching sound, I yank the grate to the side and let it tumble down into the dusty culvert.
I wait to see if anyone will come rushing out, weapon drawn, but am met with silence.
For a moment, I look back. The fields beyond the road are dimming in the late light, wheat nodding in soft gold currents as if nothing has happened here.
Farther beyond, the rise of the hill hides the place where I left Magnar.
I tell myself he is already gone. I tell myself he has found the road, followed some scent of wild clover and wind, and put me out of his loyal mind.
I know better, of course. The old fool is likely still standing near that rock, waiting patiently for me to return, dig an apple out of my pocket, and praise him for being the best horse a man could ask for.
“Go on,” I whisper to the empty air. Then, I take one final breath to steel my nerves, and lower myself into Valehar’s underbelly.
I’m greeted with the thick stench of sour waste and fetid water—worse, even, than Hollowmire’s bog. It’s sticky with rancid warmth, and the sides of the tunnel are barely wide enough for me to crouch. Pale roots have forced their way between blocks, dangling in thin ropes from the ceiling.
I lift the hood of my cloak over my hair and start forward.
After what feels like endless hours of plodding progress, the tunnel forks ahead—the right path narrowing into an even smaller black tunnel that reeks of stagnant water. The left slopes upward, likely heading toward the castle, since I imagine the waste would run downhill away from it.
It’s not long before my left knee begins to throb—the worst it’s ached since my crossing through the Verge.
I stop beneath a drip of water and drink sparingly from my skin, then tear a strip from the hem of my shirt and bind my knee tight enough to bite.
I grunt with the pain of it—likely the first of much suffering if I’m here to truly atone for all my sins.
No sewer is a paradise, but I recognize signs of the city’s decline even down here.
Bricks fallen from neglected arches, slow channels clogged with grease and ash.
Rats scatter at my approach, but—while I’m grateful for it—there aren’t as many as there should be.
Even the vermin are thin, with patchy fur stretched over bony bodies.
Dread—my constant companion since Vireth left—kicks up into a flurry.
Faint blue light seeps through a narrow grate just ahead of me, so with an abundance of caution, I lift my head just enough to peer out.
The lower city lies beyond.
In the time that I’ve tramped through the sewer, night has fallen.
It looks darker than I ever remember, since the city used to keep its lamps burning well past midnight, and now it looks like a ruin that has been carved from rotting shadows.
Only a few lanterns glow in the streets of the upper city, and here there are but a few lamps burning behind shuttered windows.
The old fountain at the center of the lower market stands dry, its carved lions chipped, their open mouths holding nothing but greasy black soot and dead leaves.
Grand houses along the avenue have gone gray with neglect.
Paint peels from shutters. Banners hang in limp rags.
A statue of King Morcar has lost half its face and much of its dignity to a staggering amount of bird shit.
I wince at the sight, feeling a hot wash of shame anew for abandoning my kingdom to its worst.
It is, however, nothing compared to the devastation of its people. My people.
There are few about now, and not even the taverns echo with merriment.
Most of them have been shuttered. A woman crosses the main square, clutching at the arm of a man who might be thirty or eighty.
His cheeks have hollowed out so much that beneath the scant lanternlight, his head looks like a skull topped with dirty hair.
Two soldiers pass them by, mail dulled with poor care, and I think of the group of boys Arden sent to retrieve me.
Gods, what has happened to my city? To my people?
I have thought of Valehar every day of my exile.
I have cursed it, grieved it, resented it, missed it, feared for it.
I have fed the ones who came to my door and told myself I was doing what I could.
I have poured seed into earth and sweat into furrows and coin into every hand desperate enough to accept charity from the likes of a disgraced exile.
It was never enough. Gods above, it was never enough because I should have done more to begin with.
The grief comes so suddenly that it nearly takes my legs out from under me—visions of Millie counting oatcakes to children who never should have had to beg for food.
I think of Magnar, still as a statue as I hitched him up to a plow because it was simply necessary and never beneath him.
I think of Elena, who loved this city when it was bright and beautiful.
I think of my sons, who should have grown to inherit a kingdom better than this.
Then I think of Vireth beneath the castle, alone in Arden’s grasp—and my grief hardens into anger and purpose.
“I will make this right,” I swear. “Or I will die attempting it.”
Getting from the drainage channel to the castle proper requires no small amount of luck for an old knight who’s already used up more than his fair share.
The tunnel beneath the market runs toward the west retaining wall and spills out near the lower courtyard, close to the laundry and scullery steps.
The passage was used by kitchen boys, lamp lighters, rat catchers, and once by a much younger version of myself, stealing away to pepper his childhood sweetheart with kisses and pilfered treats from the kitchens.
I’m cautious as I make my way through the end of the tunnel, pausing every few feet to ensure the skittering stones beneath me aren’t heard by the guard above.
By the time I find the service passage, my shoulders burn from crawling, my knee is pulsing with a sick rhythm, and my patience has thinned to the width of a knife’s edge.
Another rusted grate bars this exit as well, but it opens inward on hinges that were kept greased for generations before neglect claimed them.
Now one hinge has seized and the other screams softly when I push.
I wince, waiting for boots above—nothing.