What Remains of Heroes

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are divined from the author’s imagination or are being used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, places or events is entirely coincidental.

What Remains of Heroes

A Requiem for Heroes, Book One

© 2015 David Benem. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9961939-1-7

Cover and formatting by Damonza.com

Acknowledgements

Though writing is a personal endeavor, it can’t be done in seclusion. This book would never have grown to its present form without the welcome encouragement and thoughtful critiques of others. For that, I am deeply indebted to my loving wife, my dear family, and my excellent friends. Many thanks to those who took the time to dig through this project even when it was an ugly, half-formed thing. Thanks to those who read it and offered inspiring words, meaningful changes, or just spent time at the pub listening to me blather on about it. You know who you are, you mean much to me, and I thank you.

A special thanks also to my son Ben. Your unending enthusiasm made your dad feel “cool” about writing. Your books are next, Best.

1

Mistakes

T
he rafters rattled
and the floorboards hummed at
The Wanton Vicar
. Sword-wearing scoundrels of every sort crowded the tables, howling for ale and baiting the serving girls with bawdy talk. A fiddle squealed from the tavern’s far end, and folk either stomped with heavy boots to the melody or hurled insults and worse at the minstrel.

Any respectable person would have avoided the place, but then Lannick was anything but respectable.

Not anymore, anyway
, he thought with a crooked grimace.
Not after what happened to my family
.

He hunkered against the bar in his usual spot, the place where he reckoned he’d spent much of the past nine years. It was the barstool farthest from the door and deepest in the shadows. The place where he could spend time with his last friends in all the great city of Ironmoor: the barkeep and the drinks the man served.

He raised his cup of wine to his family’s memory, then tipped the chewed wood to his lips. After a hearty gulp he slammed the cup against the bar and signaled the barkeep for a refill with a belch and a nod. Soon, perhaps with another cup or two, his melancholy would fade and he’d feel right once more.

“You are going to
pay
for this one, right?” grumbled the burly barkeep standing guard before a wall of sweating casks and stoppered bottles. His round face looked much like a bowl of lumpy porridge, and his apron was spattered with greasy stains. His mouth tilted with a weary smile, then he splashed a bottle’s dregs into Lannick’s cup.

“Don’t you remember who I am, Brugan?” Lannick said, puffing his chest. He snatched the cup from the bar before the barkeep could protest and took a pull.

The big barkeep’s smile wavered as he scratched his close-cropped hair with thick fingers. That hair had retreated much from his face in recent years, like it feared the face’s nubby ugliness. “Lannick,” he grunted, “I’m only this kind to you because I remember who you
were
. But my charity has its limits, even for an old friend. You do have means of paying, don’t you?”

“Isn’t my charming wit worth at least its weight in coin?” Lannick said, flashing a grin before realizing the comment made no sense. Of course he had no means of paying, but he swore to himself he’d make things right with his old friend. He’d make things right with a lot of folk, someday.

Brugan muttered some kind of curse and lumbered toward another customer. Lannick’s gaze followed the man, and came to rest upon a woman. But not just any woman, and certainly not one of the tired, painted harlots stalking the tavern. This was a breathtaking beauty, with a delicate face framed by a cascade of auburn curls. Her silk dress was purple, like she was noble or at least wealthy or important, and about that dress swelled soft curves that whispered of treasures beneath.

Lannick winked and saluted her with his cup. She didn’t notice him, but then hardly anyone did, anymore.

He turned back to his drink, shoulders slumped.
If only I were younger, handsome, rich, and a bit less of a drunken wretch.
He plucked a hair from his head and studied it in the tavern’s orange flicker. Gray, like most of the others in the salt-and-pepper mop on his head and the stubble on his scarred face. His blue shirt was faded and threadbare, the coarse fabric of his trousers was the sort for beggars and barnyards, and the short sword tucked in his cheap scabbard was beginning to rust. He sighed.
If only I were something closer to my old
self.

He looked longingly again at the young woman. Even though he hadn’t a faint chance at winning her company, he couldn’t help staring. Her features and mannerisms seemed familiar, somehow. Something about her told him he should know her, but after a moment he shook his head. Such a desperate lout would never have known a woman of such refinement. He looked back to the bar and assumed his usual pose, elbows on the sticky planks and shoulders hunched high.

“My friend has caught your eye?” came a voice. A hand rubbed his arm.

Lannick nearly jumped from his stool. “Who—” he spat, sloshing a few sips of wine upon the bar as he turned to see another woman. She was older than the other, with hair cut short and her earthy-colored clothing practical. Though not as striking as the woman in purple, she was far more attractive than the old slatterns usually willing to endure his company. “What?”

“My friend,” she said, nodding toward the other woman. “She
is
fetching, yes?”

Me? She’s asking these questions of me?
He felt blood color his cheeks, but whether from the wine or the women he could not be sure. “Uh, why yes,” he said, draining his cup in a single swallow. He grinned awkwardly, and chanced his wink again. “I suppose most fellows would think so.”

“You’re not with anyone, are you? You’re alone?”

His spirits rose. His life was such a lonely hell, and here was a terribly rare offer of companionship. “Well,” he ventured, “you happen to have caught me on an uncommon evening alone.”

“Really,” she said flatly. But then a playful smirk danced across her full lips. “Why don’t you join us?”

Can this be happening?
Lannick sat with mouth agape while the woman stared back expectantly. He rose to stand on long, unsteady legs, and as he teetered over the woman he realized he’d had too much wine to be graceful. He forced his mouth shut and braced himself against the bar. “Brugan?” he announced, emboldened. “A bottle of your finest for me and my new friends.”

The barkeep rushed over and pulled Lannick close. “Not a wise decision, my friend. Tread carefully. You have no idea who—”

“Bah,” Lannick said, prying the barkeep’s hand from his shoulder. “I said your finest.”

“Not unless you have the coin,” Brugan said, folding beefy arms across a broad chest.

“You needn’t worry about that,” the short-haired woman said, digging into her green jerkin and producing a handful of silver crowns. She shoved them toward the barkeep and looked to Lannick with mischievous eyes. “Come. Join us.”

Brugan huffed and barged through the swinging door into the tavern’s kitchen. Lannick ambled toward a stool between the two ladies, a dumb grin splattered across his face. The young lass in purple appeared even more elegant as he approached. His head buzzed giddily. It had been so very long since he’d been in the company of a beautiful woman, and he wondered what he’d done to have the dead gods bless him so.

He tried easing himself atop the stool but stumbled off when his rump missed half its surface. “Damned thing,” he cursed, pointing to the sword slung against his thigh. “Tangles me up all the time.” After a couple of attempts, he managed to balance himself upon the seat. He smiled at the ladies before snapping shut his mouth and licking his teeth, certain they were dyed from the wine.

The younger woman turned to him, her garnet-green eyes wide. She blinked slowly, as though entranced. “Hello,” she breathed, her tongue sounding as clumsy from drink as Lannick’s own.

He felt a hand upon his thigh. His heart raced.
Could there be some of that old glimmer within me?
“Well, then!” He knew he’d said it too loudly, but they didn’t seem to care. The hand on his thigh moved upward, closer to his…

Brugan slammed a dusty bottle on the bar before them, his face curdling to a scowl. He seized Lannick by the collar and pulled him close. “You’re making an awful mistake, my friend,” he hissed. “You have no idea who that is. I’m begging you, Lannick, don’t do this!”

“We’ll take this outside,” the short-haired woman said sharply as she grabbed the bottle from the bar. She wrapped a hand under Lannick’s arm and yanked him from the stool. “Let’s go. Your friend here doesn’t seem to want us to have our fun.”

Lannick staggered, mouth hanging open as he studied the girl in purple, the undulation of her hips and buttocks as she walked toward the door. He followed along in a daze.

“Lannick!” cried Brugan over the din of the crowd. “This is a mistake!”

Lannick allowed the short-haired woman to lead him through the crowd. He then ducked his tall form through the doorframe and into the cool spring night.

“Lannick!” shouted Brugan again from the bar. “That’s—”

The woman slammed shut the door behind them, cutting off the words.

No matter
, Lannick thought. He looked upon the ladies. The soft shape and ravishing beauty of the younger one, the playful eyes and devious smirk of the other. Things like this didn’t happen to the likes of what he’d become.
I don’t care who they are
.

“To my m-manor,” the girl stammered. “Father’s off in the country playing with his little soldiers.”

Lannick thought again he should know the girl, but his head swam and his body tingled. Thinking about anything other than what he hoped was before him was futile. “Lead the way, my ladies,” he said with a bow and stumble. “I am at your humble service.”

Ironmoor’s many belfries tolled midnight, their echoes dull against a thick blanket of fog. The city’s rain-slicked cobblestones were all but empty at this late hour, and the full moon above seemed no more than a milky smear in the sky.

The three of them walked arm-in-arm, passing the wine between them and taking long draws from the bottle. They laughed, but Lannick hardly heard their words anymore to know whether there was anything worth laughing about. Yet, like anything else at this moment, it mattered not at all. His body was warm with wine and expectation, and he felt happy for the first time in years.

They walked along streets crowded by ramshackle homes shouldered against seedy taverns, then through the old city’s merchant district with its storefronts shuttered for the night. Down another street, beneath the gilded shingles of artisans’ shops. They tottered through the shadows of walls surrounding the Nearer Ward and the High King’s castle, and saluted the pacing guardsmen with a tip of their bottle.

They moved through respectable places Lannick had avoided for nearly a decade, places he used to wander with pride but could no longer. He took another deep draw of wine, hoping to press such thoughts from his head.

After a time they turned again, and climbed a street lined by palatial homes and gated gardens. They’d walked quite far and the bottle was nearly drained, but the ladies seemed to grow more excited with every step.

“Are we close?” Lannick asked hopefully.

“There,” the younger woman said, sipping from the bottle and then handing it to Lannick.

After staring at the girl’s breasts for far too long for even less-than-polite company, Lannick brought the bottle to his lips and found it almost empty. He sucked down what he could, tossed it into a nearby garden, and heard it shatter. He shrugged and the ladies snickered, and together they blundered across the street.

Lannick rolled his head as he was pulled along, and saw before him the blurred image of an imposing estate. A massive home of charcoal-gray stone crouched behind stout pillars, all of it surrounded by a fence of twisted iron. It seemed the girl was quite wealthy, indeed. Lannick chuckled at his sudden turn of fortune.

The girl produced a key and opened the gate leading to the manor’s grounds. They tumbled through, trampling over flowerbeds and toward the side of the home. Soon they reached a narrow door, which the girl in purple said would be untended by the servants. Lannick wondered for an instant whether there was cause to worry, but dismissed such notions after another glance at her buttocks.

She produced another key and they entered the home. They staggered down a hallway and into a kitchen lit by low-burning candles and a dwindling fire in its brick oven. The short-haired woman rummaged through a pantry and found another bottle of wine. She watched as Lannick and the girl drank deeply from it.

Lannick’s head was a mess, but he was determined to see this through. “So,” he blurted, trying to present his most dashing smile, “I’m Lannick.”

“Alisa,” said the short-haired woman. “And that’s Nara. But enough talk. You’d like to head upstairs with us? To the bedchamber?”

Lannick blinked, dumbfounded.
How can this be?
This must be some kind of mistake!
He took another drink and handed the bottle to Nara.