Chapter 15…Fear and Dissent
Birds warbled, winter's midday light glistened on the gently flowing river and the wind rustled and rattled through the dry reeds along the bank like it whispered of death. My beetle Bodo had disappeared into the snarled undergrowth by the river and would stay there until we returned from West Harbor, successful or…not. My mood, which had been rotten ever since Ammon's little talk, plummeted further as I studied the rubble that had once been a lovely statue of Angharradh. More importantly, it had held part of the power of the Ritual of Purification. My horse moved restlessly but whether because of my agitation or because he sensed lingering traces of the creatures of shadow that had destroyed the ritual statue, I did not know.
Or maybe he smelled orcs. The decapitated bugbear that had been nailed in an obscene and gruesome pose on a post at the river crossing marked our entrance into the Corpsewalker Clan's territory. I imagined that charming display of orcish humor was a prime example of the kind of treatment of one's enemies that Sir Grayson had lectured me against when I became his squire.
I looked over at Ammon. Typically for him, he showed little expression but his lips were set in a thin line. There, broken on the ground, was the end of any last irrational hope he may have held that he could complete the Ritual himself. We had known we would see this but there is still a difference when the proof lies shattered before you. To me, anyway—perhaps for Zhjaeve knowing and seeing were the same. No matter how many times she had spoken to me of her home plane, the Harborman within me just could not completely accept her assertion that thought alone could shape reality. Yet when I stepped through the Song Portal and returned to West Harbor, that was exactly what I was expected to do. I was expected to recreate the mythic Blade of Gith with a handful of scrap metal and the strength of my will.
It was impossible. We were mad to have come here.
"Could they have destroyed the Song Portal as well?" I asked in sudden anxiety. Actually, nothing would make more sense than for the King of Shadows to destroy the only (theoretically) safe way we had for entering the Claimed Lands.
"No," Zhjaeve said calmly. "It is an artifact of Illefarn and he who was the Guardian would not destroy it." I gave her a doubtful look since the evidence was piled before us that not everything wrought by his people was sacred to the King of Shadows. The statues had been added later, after the Guardian's creation and specifically to un-make him, but still…
"We must pass through the portal with no delay," Ammon said.
I glared at him. We had just arrived at the ruins and had yet to even dismount our horses, let alone select a campsite or make a plan of attack. The Greycloaks would remain here, guarding the portal until we returned from the Mere and I needed to make sure they were safely settled in. Besides, I was hungry, thirsty and saddle-sore. The pushy damned warlock, on the other hand, was clearly champing at the bit and ready to plunge into who knew what kind of danger. Did the man never get tired? Come to think of it, the only time I had ever seen him display weariness was in his Haven, after Shandra had freed the demons and devils that empowered him—and after he had killed her for doing so. I wondered if such unnatural stamina was a byproduct of the infernal blood that made Ammon a warlock. Or maybe it was a result of one of his contracts with the denizens of the Lower Planes. Perhaps he had traded sexual favors for increased vigor, I wondered sourly.
Maybe I should have saved my virginity.
"We have other tasks to attend to first," I said. He opened his mouth to argue. I gave him my back. I must have jerked at the reins, judging by my horse's startled reaction, but the gods knew I was sick to death of Ammon's constant criticism, couched as advice. "Casavir, let's have the men set up camp near the portal." My thinking was that the Greycloaks would guard our retreat, should we find ourselves driven out of the Claimed Lands. I did not want to bring any of the soldiers through the portal, since we planned to move quickly and silently to West Harbor.
Casavir nodded but murmured, "Perhaps we should water the horses first."
We had ridden hard all morning and were right by the river, so that was a good suggestion. We all refilled our water skins as well.
"May we go now?" Ammon asked impatiently. I frowned and shook my head at him. Casavir, apparently reading my mind, had already located the pack that contained the gifts we had brought for Uthanck, the leader of the Corpsewalkers. I hoped a token of friendliness now would keep the orcs from harassing my Greycloaks while they camped here awaiting our return from West Harbor. I wished I could take credit for the idea but it was Casavir's. He had killed Uthanck's brother, Logram Eyegouger, in his stronghold near Old Owl Well and the orcs here were tremendously impressed with him. We had left them on good terms my first trip here but with orcs, it never paid to make too many assumptions. The last thing we needed now was an attack on the camp due to some misunderstanding.
I had thought that Casavir and I would take a quick ride over to the orc village while the others set up camp but Ammon joined us without an invitation. Ever since his chat about avoiding attachments, I had felt constraint in his presence. Weirdly enough, Ammon, having pushed me away emotionally, now stuck to me closer than ever physically. He was trying to head off any youthful and lack-witted folly on my part, no doubt. What if, so close to our goal, I dropped the shards down a well or fell off my horse and broke my neck? How could I be expected to survive without him to keep my immaturity in check? Maybe he even thought I wanted his protection. Possibly it had never occurred to him that any of his words could have hurt me.
When it came to women, his judgment seemed to have some serious gaps.
For I was angry and hurt and the worst of it, of course, was that it was my own damned fault. In his blunt way he had warned me and I hadn't believed him. He had been more honest with me than I had been with myself. Ammon had never pretended he saw me as anything more than a necessary tool. A weapon, as he said. Ammon had never led me on with sweet words or false promises. I had told him myself that I wasn't looking for a relationship and that I just wanted to experience sex before I died. If he took me at my word, whose fault was that? He had given me what I said I wanted.
If I expected more, whose fault was that?
And although it wasn't fair to resent him for feeling no more than he did, I did resent him. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. It wasn't fair that I was given one impossible task after another. It wasn't fair that I was supposed to—somehow—use my mind and my heart to forge a blade that had already been broken once. And then I was supposed to attack the King of Shadows with the damned thing—a creature who had brought down the Illefarn empire in all its glory, an ancient dragon, and thousands of the finest githyanki warriors. But little Jess Farlong, the swamp farmer from West Harbor, was going to best him because—why? For that matter, why, exactly, did we think the sword was going to work this time when it had already failed once? It wasn't, wasn't, wasn't fair!
And if I was going to die (and really, how could I not?) was it too damned much to ask for one person to care about me, if only for a little while? Not the Kalach-Cha, not the Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep, not the latest conscript of Nasher's Nine, but just plain old Jess Farlong. Was that really too much to ask?
Apparently it was.
As if I didn't have enough to brood about, being in Arvahn brought back memories of my previous visit, when I first heard the tragic story of how the Guardian had been created, and how he—or it, as he had been a man no longer—had been corrupted into the creature we knew as the King of Shadows. Hearing the tale from the mouths of those who had lived it—and died as a result—had given the tragedy an immediacy and impact no history book could convey. My flesh had crept in horror at the elf girl's story of the nameless hero's sacrifice and torture. I had been so angry at the sheer waste of it all. The spirit Annaeus' smug belief that he had done the right thing and would do it all again without regret had irritated me almost past bearing.
Now my feelings were a little different. After all, what were ten ten-days of agony and the very unmaking of one's self in comparison to the punishment that awaited Ammon when the debts he accrued in the Lower Planes finally came due? Sure, Ammon had made those bargains of his own free will, but so had the nameless Illefarn hero. And sure, Ammon should have known that no good could come of dealing with devils and demons—just as that nameless hero should have known that no good could come of turning to the Shadow Weave. They had both acted out of desperation—and the desperate yet arrogant belief that the fate of the land they wished to protect depended upon them and them alone.
And wasn't that the Guardian's first and most pivotal error: thinking that Illefarn would die if he failed? Had he so little faith in his people's ability to defend themselves if he was not there? For that matter, did he think them incapable of creating another Guardian, if he fell? Was the prospect of his own failure so unthinkable that he would do anything—anything, no matter how wrong—to avert it?
And didn't that sound a whole lot like someone else I knew?
Was it possible that the priest Annaeus had been right all along? As mortals, we can't foresee the consequences of the actions we take. We just can't. Yet we are required to make choices without that knowledge. Did we really have any option but to make the best decisions we could based on the principles we had been taught, and leave the rest to the gods? Instead of whining, perhaps I should be praying. Ammon, of course, had no more faith in the gods than he did in his fellow man. Perhaps the nameless hero had been faithless as well. Given his willingness to sacrifice his very soul to protect his empire and his people, he probably had been.
For me, what did this mean? The Guardian had turned himself into a ruthless, unquestioning weapon. If I were to 'become' the Blade of Gith, was this the path I was expected to take? What would be required to forge the blade anew? Would I, like the Guardian, be expected to give up my very self? Ammon's words seemed to imply something of the sort. Was I willing to make such a sacrifice?
Or had the sword and the gods chosen me for a different reason? I had to believe that it wasn't mere chance that had sent the shard through my chest and I had to believe that the gods had a hand in my continued survival because mere chance was just too—chancy. But if the sword had chosen me, it certainly wasn't because I was the strongest, smartest, bravest or most capable of mortals. What I did seem to have was the ability to draw strong, smart, brave and capable people to my cause. And perhaps this was due to some magic from the shard within me and not mere chance. Although that wasn't exactly a comforting thought, it was more comforting than the possibility that I was meant to hammer and hone myself into a pale rendering of Gith or the Guardian or…Ammon Jerro, perhaps.
Ack.
The orc village was not far. The gifts—ten fine axes from the keep's smithy and some gold and silver jewelry (looted from the bandits who used to plague our road)—were well received. Uthanck greeted Casavir as a peer and his warriors showed him the deference due a visiting warlord. As far as I could tell, orc society was intensely patriarchal. I was politely leered at as 'Casavir's woman' and otherwise ignored, except by the women, several of whom gathered around me to finger my clothes and my hair and to ask embarrassingly personal questions. I kept my answers vague while eavesdropping on the men's conversation, which had turned to the shadow reaver who had destroyed the ritual statues.
The intrusion of the King of Shadow's minions had been seen as a personal challenge by Uthanck but luckily for him he had heeded the advice of Ilrah Broken-Ribs, his shaman, and had not attacked but had stayed hidden and watched.
"That was wise. The shadow reavers can only be destroyed through a special ritual," Casavir said. Uthanck nodded his understanding.
"Gruumsh One-Eye warned us not to fight," Ilrah said. "In a dream, he told me that to stand against the shades now would mean the end of the Corpsewalker Clan. He told us to strike when their strength had waned, not now while it still waxed."
"We have learned how to weaken the shadow reavers," Casavir said. "Now we go to find the weapon that will weaken their master. We ask you to let us pass through your lands so we can do this."
"Of course," Uthanck said. Then he pressed us to join him in a meal. The women beside me, who had been listening as avidly as I, quivered in a mix of excitement and dismay. I guessed they were ill-prepared to throw together a feast on no notice.
"No," Ammon said harshly. "We must set off at once. We have wasted enough time as it is." He gave me a stern look. "Come, Jess." He all but snapped his fingers at me. I seethed with angry mortification.
Uthanck frowned and turned to Casavir, who said a few diplomatic words I couldn't quite hear. The orc leader didn't seem to know what to make of Ammon, with his glowing tattoos and his glowering expression. I held my breath for we had enough on our platter without heaping on a fight with the orcs. But the moment passed and Uthanck did not appear to take offense. One of the orc women, noticing my clenched fists, chuckled.
"Do not fear," she said in a hoarse whisper. "Your father's words will not make Uthanck think ill of your husband. He too has a difficult father-in-law, a constant thorn in his side. Tough as an old bone too. Uthanck fears he will live forever." My father—Ammon? When I choked, she gave me a friendly whack on the back.
"Don't you ever call me to heel like a dog again," I hissed at Ammon as we rode back to the others. "If your impatience had set the orcs against us, we could be in a tight spot. Would you pit a handful of my Greycloaks against an entire tribe of orcs, ones who know this area intimately?"
"They are no challenge to us. You waste your time appeasing orcs," he fired back. "There is no honor in their brutish minds. An agreement made today will be forgotten tomorrow."
Casavir, riding on my other side, didn't say anything but I saw his jaw tighten.
"Do you have any other pointless tasks? Would you like to set up camp with your own hands? Perhaps you wish to dig the privies and cook a meal for your Greycloaks? Or can we finally do what we came to do?" Ammon asked. "I am certain the King of Shadows will not mind waiting upon your pleasure."
"I'm glad you think so because after I cook supper I thought I'd change my outfit and maybe do my hair," I said. I knew I was being stupid and annoying but he started it. "I'd like to look nice for the king and his reavers. Does that sound good to you?"
I found his sudden flush of angry color rather satisfying, especially since I actually had planned to change before we entered the portal. Grobnar, who among his many other talents was skilled with a needle, had helped me make a new robe. It was made of heavy brown silk from Kara-Tur and was slit up the sides and hemmed to my knees for ease of movement. (Brown was such a useful color for hiding bloodstains, Grobnar had chirped helpfully.) Sand had sniffed when he saw it and dropped several pithy comments to the effect that wizards who thought they were fighters were not much of either. My skills, such as they were, made it hard to rebut this argument. Despite his disapproval, he had enchanted my robe to turn a spell as well as a blade. I now had the protection of chain mail without the weight or the annoying jingle-jangle when I walked.
The soldiers had already set up the pickets and were getting the horses settled. Zhjaeve took my reins while I slid ungracefully off my horse and pulled my saddle bags loose. Her gaze flicked from me to Ammon and she gave me a look of mild inquiry. I just rolled my eyes in response. Her brows drew down in concern and I felt a little surge of resentment. If she admonished me with yet another of Zerthimon's incomprehensible pronouncements, I would probably scream.
"Know that I am in a foul mood," I snapped before she could say anything.
All the gear from the packhorses was lying in an untidy mound but Casavir located his armor and asked one of the Greycloaks to help him into it. It bothered me that he was the only one of us in heavy armor. He was not solely responsible for our safety but I feared he would think he was. I could see by the calmness of his eyes and the happy little curve of his lips that he had given himself over to Tyr's will. He gave me a reassuring smile as he shrugged into his arming coat but I was not reassured. I had seen that look before. The orcs had called him the Katalmach, and being considered battle-mad by orc standards was no small thing.
It didn't take me long to slough off my tunic, throw on my new robe, sling my weapon belt around my waist and the pouch of shards over my shoulder. But every time I looked up, I caught Ammon's burning gaze. So to punish and irritate him further, I pulled out my comb. My hair wasn't in desperate need of re-braiding and normally I could do it quicker than Casavir could put on one pauldron. Instead of letting my fingers fly, I languidly pulled the tie out of my hair and began to work the comb through with dreamy slowness.
That did it. Ammon snapped. He strode to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.
"If you choose to provoke me, you will reap the consequences. I will not suffer this childish behavior," he said and he gave me a shake to punctuate his words.
"You will not dictate to me," I said hotly. "You are not my lord and I have had more than enough of your condescending attempts to mold and control me. I am not some horse for you to master or some demon for you to enslave. If you cannot follow my direction, you may wait here with the Greycloaks for my return. I'm beginning to think I'd be better off if you did so."
"I will not be told what to do by a chit of a girl with no experience of what we are up against."
His face was furious and I'm sure mine was too. My hair began to lift from a surge of unshaped spell energy as I unconsciously drew upon the Weave.
"That is enough from both of you!" Zhjaeve's voice, cold and compelling as an avalanche, froze us both in place. The last time I'd heard that tone from her, she'd been rebuking a shadow reaver. "Know that our strength lies in unity of purpose. Fear and dissent are weapons of the King of Shadows and you have allowed him to strike a blow at us here and now."
Ammon and Zhjaeve continued to argue back and forth but I was hardly listening. I struggled to free the energy I'd accidentally called before it released itself in an unfortunate way. Like a big fireball. And worse, I struggled with the tears welling in my eyes. I couldn't remember crying out of anger since my seventh summer when Amie punched me in the face for calling Bevil stupid. But I was about to do so now and I wasn't even sure why.
I was fairly certain everyone in the camp would prefer the fireball to seeing their Knight-Captain weep like a child. Instead of immolating myself, I turned without a word and strode down the path to the river. I didn't make it though. Half-blinded by tears, I sat on one of the large stones that had once made up part of the broken statue's robe. I pressed my hands against my eyes but the tears still flowed. I hadn't even begun to get myself under control when I heard a familiar step.
"Go away," I muttered without looking up.
"I can't do that, Jess. I need you. We all do." Ammon took my arm. It seemed slightly more dignified to let him pull me to my feet than to struggle but I refused to face him or look at him. "I did not mean to harass you," he said. "The githzerai has reminded me that it is your will that must guide us now."
"My will." I made some sound between a sob and a laugh. "That's what we are relying upon? Discouraging, isn't it?" Despite my efforts to sound calm, my voice broke. I wished the gods would strike me dead.
"No," he said. "I am not discouraged. You have accomplished much already." I blinked furiously and willed my voice to be steady.
"If you've come to remind me that the fate of the Sword Coast rests upon me, don't bother. I remember."
"If I could spare you this burden, I would."
"I am well aware that you would rather do this all yourself. Your competence puts us all to shame."
"I am…unaccustomed to relying upon others." I snorted at this massive understatement. "Jess, I have meant to aid you, not to add to your burdens."
"Constant carping is not the aid I need," I said bitterly. "I already know my many shortcomings."
He pulled on my shoulder to get me to turn towards him. I could feel the warmth of his hand through the silk of my robe.
"Then tell me what you need."
I looked up at his face, acutely conscious of my wet cheeks. I mutely turned my head. But I guess that one pitiful look was enough, for his arms closed around me. For a moment I was stiff, and then I gave in with a tearful shudder and put my arms around his waist. We stood like that a long moment, with the weak winter sun on my back and the more intense warmth of his body pressed against my front.
"I know you are fearless but I am not." My face was buried against his shoulder and my words came out muffled. "I'm afraid, Ammon. I don't want to go to West Harbor. I don't want to see…what remains." He held me a while longer.
"There is a thing I must say to you," he murmured into my hair. I lifted my head to look at his face. His eyes were still and thoughtful.
"I know," I sighed. "I must not be distracted. I must not fail."
"No," he said. "I was wrong to lay that expectation on you. Failure need not be final, as you know from my own example. If failure cannot be avoided then it must be accepted." His arms tightened around me. "It is your survival that is important, Jess. If you fail and yet live, then you can return to the fight. But if you fail and die, then your fight is at an end. You must live, Jess, even if that requires the sacrifice of others, of those you…care about."
I made some sound of protest.
"Why do you think I have warned you to avoid attachments? I knew this would be difficult for you to accept. As much as we need Crossroad Keep, it angers me that Nasher knighted you and put it in your sole charge. You are too young for such responsibility." I started to pull away but he would not turn me loose. "I mean no criticism of your leadership," he said at my look. "You have done a fine job with the keep. It is not your capability I doubt but your sense of self-preservation. You care too much. What are you going to do when these Greycloaks you've trained and nurtured must face the army of the King of Shadows? Soldiers die, Jess. That is the very nature of war. Do you truly understand that? I can assure you that your Lord Nasher does. You are just another soldier to him, as are we all."
"I know about war. I have survived the slaughter of my village—twice now, in fact."
"Yes. You have. And look at you, Jess." He raised a hand to wipe the tears from my face. I jerked my head away.
"What are you saying? Do you think my fear will keep me from acting when I should?" He shook his head.
"No. I am afraid that you will act rashly. I fear you are idealistic enough to be swayed towards choosing a glorious death over an ignominious survival. I fear the paladin's influence on you."
"You think Casavir is a bad influence on me?" That was kind of funny but not as funny as him accusing me of rashness.
"I would not have you emulate him."
"I don't think you need to worry about that." Judging by his face, he was not reassured. "I promise I will do my best to avoid a glorious death. I will pray for an ignominious survival," I told him. "Does that satisfy you?"
He took my hand and pressed it, not gently like a lover but hard, like he wanted to hurt me.
"See that you do."