Prologue: Monsters and Heroes

“What letter is this?”

The boy squinted. In the dim light of a single candle, he could barely make out the parchment much less the letter printed there. He leaned forward.

“B?” he offered after a moment’s examination.

“Correct!”

The genuine triumph in his master’s voice pleased the young boy.

“And what sound does a ’B’ make?”

“Buh,” the boy replied instantly. That part was easy, the master had been drilling him tirelessly on the sounds.

“Correct again! Now what is this letter?”

The candle light flickered as the boy followed the line of the master’s pointing finger. The letter he found at the end was familiar to him, but he could not think of the name.

He lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

The letter was composed of four lines, one vertical and three horizontal.

What was it called?

“It’s an ‘E’!” the master bellowed in disgust. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the letter ’E’?”

The muscles in the master’s face tightened. He sat in silence for a moment before tossing out a follow up question. “What kind of letter is it?”

The boy felt a little flustered at his master’s anger, but inspiration came to him in a rush.

“It’s a vowel,” he replied.

“Yes,” the master said, somewhat appeased. “And what sound does it make?”

“Eh,” said the boy, the spell of forgetfulness had passed and the answers were coming to him once again.

The master said nothing, but the boy knew him well enough to recognize his satisfaction had returned.

The master’s approval pleased the boy. Although the boy’s mind sometimes played tricks on him, for the most part his memory produced the correct answer when called upon. The boy had always been able to see things and then recall them later—even inconsequential things like foolish squiggles on pieces of parchment.

At least, that’s how he had thought of them at first. Time had led the boy to realize that the squiggles weren’t so innocent. In fact, he had come to think that they might be the most dangerous markings in the world.

“Master,” the boy said, emboldened by his teacher’s sudden complacent demeanor.

“Yes.”

“You’re teaching me how to read aren’t you?”

The words disturbed the equilibrium of their silent meeting and cast a darkness like the shadow of a predator.

The master settled back in his chair and thought for a long moment before responding.

“Have you spoken of this to anyone?”

The boy caught a new urgency in the master’s voice and responded instantly, “No.”

In an abrupt move, the master leaned forward so that the flickering light of the candle illuminated his features from below in a way that was startling to behold.

“Do you remember when I told you that you must not, under any circumstances, speak to anyone of these lessons?”

“Yes,” the boy replied, he was shaking now. All at once he was painfully aware of the discomfort of his environment. The damp stone walls emitted a frightful chill that seemed to reach with skeletal fingers straight to the child’s bones. The room was a crypt, buried within the bowels of the earth. The boy swallowed hard and tasted the acid taste of copper as his saliva slid like sand paper down his throat.

“Then why do you ask me this?” the master said. “What do you know of reading?”

In times of intense questioning, the master’s eyes were too terrible to meet. The boy looked past his mentor, focusing his gaze on the weeping wall. The light of the candle caused the moisture to glisten on the stone in the darkness.

“I know that reading is forbidden.”

“What makes you think this is reading?”

The boy swallowed air heavily and cast his eyes downward. The cautious side of him demanded that he be silent, but the curious side urged him to speak. As always, he followed the curious urgings. After all, it had been his intelligence that had drawn the master to him in the first place. If curiosity could pacify the master now, that would be to the boy’s advantage.

“Because you keep it secret,” the boy whispered, “and command me to do the same.”

The boy readied himself for the coming blow. He shifted his weight slightly on the wooden stool and worked his heel into a nook on the floor. When the strike came, he would have leverage to push his body back from the impact and lesson the pain of the impact.

He waited.

No blow fell.

When he dared to look up again, the master was regarding him with a reflective expression. The elderly man sat motionless for an uncomfortable amount of time, before finally leaning back into his chair with an exhalation of air.

Seconds ticked by.

The boy began to fidget. The candle came to his attention and he found himself focusing on it with an uncanny intensity. Suddenly the flickering light began to slow. The edges of the flame came into sharp focus and the boy found himself lost in the depths of an infinite illumination. Terrified, he shook his head and the spell was broken.

“Master,” he whispered, recovering himself, “these lessons—are you teaching me how to read?”

This time the master answered almost instantly, but he did not look at the boy and his voice was a thin whisper.

“Yes.”

The confirmation of the boy’s suspicions thundered down. It felt as if a terrible weight had been placed upon the boy’s shoulders. The boy briefly lost his breath and found himself gasping for air. He coughed and the sound echoed in the darkness.

“The acolytes say that reading is a wicked and monstrous thing,” the boy said when he had recovered.

“Yes they do,” the master replied, again failing to meet the boy’s eyes.

Somehow, the master’s tone scared the boy more than the words. The master’s voice should be a thing of strength, both in congratulation when it was earned and derision when it was deserved. The weakness he showed now was unnerving.

“Then why do you teach this to me?”

Again there was a long pause before the master replied, and when he did finally speak, the boy found the master’s words to be more of a cryptic exhalation than an answer to his question. It was almost as if some other force had taken control of the old man’s body, and was using his corporeal form as a vessel to make a statement that related to a larger purpose that only the heavens understood.

“Beneath the rule of tyrants, monsters may become heroes.”

The words hung in the air, burning themselves into the young boy’s mind, to linger there until the end of his days.

Suddenly everything was different.

The master waited, and the boy realized the power had shifted.

The master was waiting for his judgment.

They were no longer teacher and student. Now they were co-conspirators.

It was more responsibility than the boy wanted, so he sought out the only escape that presented itself.

He would remain the student.

“Yes I will learn to read,” he said bowing his head once more.

Silence descended.

Slowly, quietly, the master reached out and patted the boy’s hair.

The lessons continued, but the master’s voice had lost its edge.

Never again did he scold the boy with derision.

For some, fearlessness and audacity merit respect.

Chapter 1: DEMONSTRATION OF OBEDIENCE

“You’re going to ruin that animal if you keep feeding him so much,” the market master of Acheron said. He was standing behind a crude desk tallying up the weights and prices for Duncan’s harvest on a piece of rough parchment. The hierarchy of Erafor had outlawed reading and writing decades ago, but rudimentary iconography was allowed for records keeping.

Duncan Kerr looked up at the speaker and narrowed his eyes. The usual master of the provincial weigh station was absent, and his replacement was a young man who seemed rather inexperienced and cocky.

“That slave,” the young man said clarifying the pejorative term ‘animal’ and pointing at Kikkan, “he’s got too much meat on his bones.”

“He needs the meat,” Duncan said, returning his eyes to the desk where he could keep track of the coins being pushed around. “He needs it for the work I demand of him.”

“Well,” the young man said, “it’s dangerous to let him get so big. Slaves should be kept weakened and brainless like the zombies of Oshia. Too big and they get dangerous.”

Across from Duncan, the young man’s eyes flicked up from the table to regard the elder farmer’s face. Duncan kept his gaze on the coin, but his fingers clenched around one of the small leather bags until his knuckles began to whiten.

The young master quieted. But the show of deference did not appease Duncan Kerr. When he spoke his words were low and full of menace.

“Are you saying I’m not man enough to manage my own property?”

With those words Duncan lifted his steely gray eyes. His glare shone out beneath the shadow of his hat and the gray bristles of his beard.

The boy said nothing.

But it wasn’t enough.

Similar whispered criticisms had tormented Duncan for years. Folks of the township were eternally critical for his chosen treatment of his beasts.

“You’re going to spoil that slave,” they said.

“He’s overfed and growing muscle.”

“It’s dangerous to let him get too powerful.”

“A slave with a mind of his own, ain’t no good for working.”

What did they know anyway?

They with their skeletal drones kept docile with heavy dosages of Bliss. They only got ten years work out of them at best before their brains finally rotted and they were shipped off to Oshia for a fraction of their original purchase price.

Kikkan could do twice as much work as a brain rotted zombie, and he’d last twice as long.

But if it was obedience that they questioned, perhaps a demonstration was in order. Duncan knew that anything the market master witnessed would be known throughout the township in a matter of days.

Without taking his eyes off the arrogant young man, Duncan addressed his property.

“On your knees.”

*

As was customary, Kikkan stood behind Duncan never encroaching upon his master’s personal space. He was of average height and build, though his body was taut with corded muscle from ceaseless hours of labor. His fair skin was tanned in some places and burned red in others from too much sun. At the sound of his master’s voice, he knew better than to hesitate.

Kikkan dropped to the ground. The hard stones poked into his knees and scratched his skin.

It was true that Duncan fed him more than most of his brethren received.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Kikkan kept his gaze down, and slumped his shoulders as he knew was expected of him.

He groveled in a show of weakness—compliance. He groveled in the dirt in a show of half-humanity and waited for the humiliation to be over.

But Duncan wasn’t done.

“My boots have been dirtied by the road,” the old farmer snapped, his gaze still boring a hole into the young market master who had dared to question his authority. “Clean them.”

Kikkan immediately understood the subtle nuances of the command. He slumped forward and propped himself up on his forearms.

He dropped his head to Duncan’s boot.

The road smell was upon it. The dirt and the filth of miles of walking. The sweat of man and animal imbibed the leather. The scent of urine and fecal matter, all the trappings of a farm.

Kikkan’s command was to clean the boot. But it was not enough to clean it. It had to be cleaned absolutely. Kikkan extended his tongue. The work began.

For long minutes, Kikkan continued his toil. Working diligently on one boot and then the other. When he had finished the second boot, he was about to return to the first since he knew it was prohibited to cease his labors unless ordered. But thankfully, the order came.

“That’s enough, stand.”

Kikkan stood.

Duncan held the young market master’s gaze a moment longer before regarding the coins he had received for his harvest. He lifted a quill and scribbled his glyph upon a page before turning on his heel and retiring to his cart.

Kikkan followed, a fifty pound bag of seed upon each shoulder. Duncan smiled at the sight of his burdenend animal.

The load was more than the zombies could carry, more than the skeletal dead that the other merchants made of their property could handle.

Duncan knew this, and he seethed that he should be questioned.

Yes, he was a generous master.

Yes, he kept his beast healthy and in good working order.

Who were any of them to question his decisions?

Duncan stepped forward, shaking his head and sputtering with pent up rage.

Kikkan followed, his strong back bent beneath the weight of his burden.

Although he didn’t show it, didn’t even so much as whisper a hint of it, Kikkan’s fury boiled over as well.

Chapter 2: ONE CHANCE IN TEN

Quillion sat next to a campfire and aimlessly stirred the contents of a wrought iron pot. He was part of a small troop of soldiers patrolling the southern border of the district of Nirdeen just north of Acheron. Their initial count had been thirteen swords, but they were down to seven now due to the inept leadership of their captain and the low quality of the men that had comprised the group. Hardly a morning went by when one or two more of the cutthroats and mercenaries Quillion distastefully labeled comrade didn’t seize an opportunity to desert.

Truth be told, on more than one occasion Quillion had been inclined to do the same. Their Captain was an incompetent blowhard named Elvet, and Quillion was certain that submitting to Elvet’s decisions on a long term basis would amount to little more than a premature death.

They’d been idle for about a week, but there were strong indications that was about to change. Word had come from the south that an outlaw had taken up residence in the dark forests of Acheron and it was only a matter of time until the swords of Nirdeen were called upon to help their brothers to combat the menace. The rumors were of special interest to Quillion since they stated the outlaw of Acheron was audacious enough to spread word he was teaching people to read. That in itself indicated the rogue was either ambitious or stupid—though Quillion was practical enough to concede the whole scenario might be a fabrication.

Time would tell.

“What-ho Quillion,” a familiar voice said, rousing the swordsman from his contemplations. Quillion looked up, grateful to see the approaching speaker was his friend Cole. Cole was the only man in the group that Quillion knew he could trust. The Northerner was a lean fighter, slightly smaller than Quillion, but Quillion had battled beside him countless times during the course of their slow migration south, and he knew Cole to be a superior swordsman.

“Well,” Quillion said with a smile, “what odious task has our inept commander released you from? Good to see it didn’t get you killed at least.”

Cole laughed, but he was prudent enough not to offer a response. Quillion was apt to start ranting, and Cole knew from experience that Quillion’s tongue could be sharper than his blade. Instead, he tossed Quillion a warning glance before sitting down to reach over to the pot that was beginning to boil in the brilliant red and yellow flame.

“It’s not ready yet,” Quillion said inclining his head toward the pot. Cole withdrew his hand without protest. There was a moment of silence

Quillion broke it: “I’m getting a sore ass from so much sitting.”

Cole smirked at the words, “Might want to find a remedy for that.”

“Yes we might.”

Cole nodded silently at the more serious notion implied with the inflection, and Quillion could tell the lean swordsman was with him. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the silent communication he was able to share with Cole. Words of desertion were better left unspoken.

“When?” Cole replied, his voice dropping in volume.

“How about within the next half hour?”

“Sounds G –”

Cole’s agreement was interrupted by the sudden and unwelcome arrival of Captain Elvet. The bruiser sauntered up with a suspicious glow in his eyes. In itself the suspicious glow didn’t mean anything — he looked at everyone that way. Quillion’s guess was that it fooled the dullard into believing he was getting the better of those around him. There was no doubt that Elvet was in constant awareness of his own delusion of superiority, and challenges to his status were met with ferocity. Most of the time Quillion found Elvet was easier to placate than correct.

“Don’t stop speaking on my account,” Elvet said, sitting himself down without waiting for an invitation. “What’s the topic of conversation?”

“Oh, just campfire philosophy,” Quillion replied knowing more or less how Elvet would respond. The boorish captain didn’t disappoint.

”Ha! A couple of lowborn swamp rats like yourselves are discussing philosophy eh? Pray tell me your conclusions.”

“It was just street chatter like you surmised,” Quillion mumbled, “please enlighten us as to whatever is currently occupying your thoughts.”

Elvet smiled at the invitation and poked at Quillion’s pot with the end of his sword. Liquid spilled over the rim and sizzled on the glowing logs. Quillion was annoyed, but he said nothing nor did he show any response to Elvet’s overt act. Any admonishment to stop would have only provoked Elvet into pushing the whole receptacle over.

“It amuses me to contemplate men like yourselves sitting here speaking above your station,” Elvet said. He settled himself comfortably next to the fire and reclined back to stare at it in a way that seemed somehow oddly inappropriate.

Quillion shook his head.

The guy could instigate.

Quillion glanced over at Cole who was smart enough to keep his gaze down in submission. Glancing back at Elvet, Quillion noticed the sergeant was giving him a disapproving look.

“How far does your schooling go Quillion?” Elvet asked.

Quillion looked at Elvet for a long while before responding. Elvet was a big boy, of that there was no doubt. He easily had twenty pounds on Quillion and probably forty on Cole, and he liked his size to be acknowledged.

Quillion looked back at the fire before responding,

“Never had much use for schooling,” he lied.

”Ha!” The sergeant shook with the barked laugh. “My education is why you could never match me in battle.”

Elvet’s teeth flashed in the firelight.

“I suspect not,” Quillion said, but this time he couldn’t hide the contempt he felt. If Elvet had truly possessed any education, he might have been of some use to Quillion. Everywhere Quillion had traveled, the word “reader” was synonymous with “outlaw,” but that had never stopped Quillion from pursuing the ancient art. He’d be willing to put up with anything, even Elvet’s intolerable attitude, if he could glean a few spelling or pronunciation clues. But it was clear Elvet knew nothing of the subject, and in that moment the traces of Quillion’s annoyance were so apparent that even Elvet picked up the signs.

“Oh, so you doubt me do you?” the brutish captain said, vastly misinterpreting Quillion’s expression. He leaned forward. “You think you could best me little man?”

Elvet’s eyes flickered in bemused joy.

Quillion said nothing. He was half-hopeful Elvet would prove him wrong and demonstrate some sort of knowledge, maybe even slip up and start spouting poetry. That would change things. But Elvet was too stupid to hide a skill like the ability to read. The brutish captain would give himself away simply to impress a new recruit.

Quillion poked at the pot with his stick. After a moment, Elvet eased himself back to his reclining position.

“I can judge strength by looking you know,” the Captain continued, “and trust me, neither of you would give me much of a challenge.”

Elvet laughed, low and guttural.

The sound caused the hairs to rise on the back of Quillion’s neck.

“You’re protected on all fronts are you?” Quillion said, and Cole, who had been sipping on a water canteen, coughed loudly, choking in surprise at the aggression in Quillion’s tone.

Elvet went dangerously silent, then he smiled. It was the cunning look of a fisherman who felt a strike upon his hook.

“Look at me,” Elvet grinned flexing his arms. He squeezed his biceps with his fingers to show off their firmness. But Quillion wasn’t cowed.

“You’re a muscular man, that is obvious,” Quillion said. “But I’m asking whether or not you have any weaknesses?”

Elvet scoffed.

“Rest assured that there is no angle of approach from which you would find me lacking.”

“So if we were to engage in conflict,” Quillion said, “you’re saying that you would win?”

This time Elvet’s face hardened, “Obviously,” he said with a warning growl in his voice.

“How many times out of ten?”

“What?” Elvet replied, and this time there was the threat of violence clearly building in his voice.

“We’re still speaking hypothetically are we not?” Quillion returned, casting about as if appealing to a non-existent jury. “Isn’t this idle chatter to amuse ourselves on a dreary night?”

Elvet said nothing. The murder in his eyes had not eased. “What’s your question?”

“How many times out of ten would you beat me in a fight?” Quillion asked again.

“Ten,” Elvet said flatly.

“Ten?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“You’re absolutely sure.”

At this, Elvet’s stare was so threatening that Quillion thought he should explain himself.

“What I mean to say is that in war, nothing is ever certain now is it? I mean you could always slip on a patch of mud, fall to the ground and knock yourself silly on a rock, couldn’t you? If such a thing happened during battle, your opponent could simply trot up and slit your throat now, couldn’t he?”

“Your point?”

“Oh, my point is,” Quillion smiled, “that you’re obviously bigger than I am, and that implies that you are probably stronger than I am.” At this Elvet seemed to take issue with the word ’implies,’ but Quillion lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine, let’s just assume that you are stronger than me, and furthermore let’s assume that you’ve had more training in weapon’s play and furthermore in…philosophy.”

“I have.”

“I agree that you have,” Quillion continued. “But still, all that being the case, isn’t it even possible that if we were to fight ten times, there is the slightest chance that in one of those fights, you might slip in the mud, thus allowing me to slit your throat?”

“I think you’d have a hard time beating me even if I had slipped in the mud.” Elvet replied.

“You’re missing the point my friend. What I’m saying is that even if we assume that you are superior to me on every possible level, can you really know that the fight would always go your way?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, and I think you’re fooling yourself by thinking that it is.”

Elvet’s jaw tightened. The brute was the greatest bully that Quillion had ever met. Quillion had known even before he’d started speaking that Elvet wouldn’t leave them until he’d proven his dominance in one way or another. If a beating was inevitable, Quillion preferred to earn it.

“And this is without even considering the other chinks in your armor,” Quillion continued, “you sleep don’t you? You have to eat, you have to vacate yourself in the morning. Aren’t any of those moments instances where you are vulnerable? And even if I determined that the grand and powerful Elvet was too much of a force to challenge even in his times of weakness, might I still not find a way to strike you? A loved one perhaps? A woman? Couldn’t I cut your very heart out from afar by hacking down the foundation of your life? Wouldn’t that destroy you? Aren’t all men weak and vulnerable somewhere?”

With a lightning move, Elvet leaped across the fire. With a grip that had been drilled into him by a dozen drill sergeants, he grabbed Quillion by the throat and threw him down to the dirt so hard that the large warrior bounced. Following the momentum of the throw, Elvet saddled Quillion and ground his face against the rocks as he threatened Cole with a clenched fist.

“You! Don’t move!”

The order was so sharp and stern that Cole didn’t even blink. Satisfied that the onlooker would give him no trouble, Elvet turned his attention back to Quillion.

“You’ve got quite a tongue for a simple fellow don’t you son?” Elvet said, wriggling as he spoke. He crushed his thighs and genitalia against Quillion’s chest as his fingers continued to push into the side of Quillion’s face.

“Let me answer your queries! Yes, I am more man than you when I am sleeping. I am more man than you when I’m taking my morning dump. My children newly born and blind are more man than you! On this earth, beneath the moon, sun, and stars there is no way, do you hear me? No way that you could ever delude yourself into believing that you could best me. Is that clear?”

He stared at Quillion with a murderous fire in his eyes, awaiting a response.

“Is… that… clear?”

With that his meat fist tightened ever further until Quillion finally coughed a single word through the dirt and gravel that surrounded his lips.

“…clear…”

Elvet held his grip for a moment longer, and then lifted himself off the prone fighter. Quillion lay in the dirt coughing, for the Captain’s weight had crushed the air from his body.

“Who is the better man?” Elvet asked with a superior smirk on his face.

“You are,” Quillion said, “you are without doubt.”

Only then did the tension that had been crowding the fire seem to evaporate. With a sharp move, Elvet jumped to his feet and stood towering over Quillion, the ghastly illumination of the fire behind him set his silhouette aglow as if he had sprung fully formed from the underworld.

“And don’t ever forget it,” Elvet said. With that, his boot lashed out and connected with Quillion’s beaten face. The blow sent the lean warrior crumpling into a wad.

For a moment, Elvet lingered by the fire seeming to revel in his own power. He glanced down at the pot Quillion had been stirring, and, in one final act of brutish oppression, he reached down and scooped up the pot by its long handle.

“Smells good,” Elvet said with a smile. “Thanks, Quillion, perhaps I’ll let you cook for me the rest of this campaign.” He tilted the pot to his lips and sipped at the contents before laughing and trotting off. “Common peasants who think they are philosophers,” he cackled, his voice finding them at regular intervals even as it faded into the night.

When he was a fair distance away, Cole bent down to his battered friend.

“He sure took it out of you. Why’d you have to provoke him like that?”

Quillion started to laugh, but the act caused him to wince in agony.

“Looks like we’ll have to set our ideas in motion another day,” Cole muttered referring to their planned desertion.

“No, we go now,” Quillion mumbled.

“Look, Quillion, I know your pride’s bruised a bit, but splitting now makes no sense. That brute’s bound to be expecting something like that from you after the beating he just handed out. He’s going to be watching for it.”

“He isn’t going to be watching anything.”

At this, Cole tilted his head, not understanding.

“He’s dead,” Quillion explained, “He’s been dead for thirty seconds by now, I’d guess.”

“But…”

Quillion got gingerly to his feet and began setting about preparing his travel pack. Cole was staring at his friend as if concerned that the blow to the head had relieved him of all his senses. Catching the look, Quillion smiled. The smile was grizzly since his face was swollen and dirty and his teeth were covered in blood, but there was a twinkle in his eye that was an all too clear indication of sanity.

“The pot,” Quillion explained. “That was no meal I was preparing; it was stewed venom root. I found a patch of them earlier today when I was looking for tubers and I hatched this whole idea.”

“You mean, getting your face kicked in was part of your plan?”

“Well, it’s like I told Elvet, I think he would beat me nine times out of ten in a regular fight. It’s just that, unlike Elvet, I’m the kind of guy who makes sure that our battle plays out like the tenth option.”

“If you ask me, your odds were even lower than that,” Cole muttered.

“Well, then that just makes my perfect execution of this scheme all the more impressive. But we better continue this discussion on the road. I’d rather be long gone before that body gets discovered.”

“Do you think they’ll come after us?”

Quillion snorted.

“For killing Elvet? Their only objective would be to thank us for saving them the trouble. Plus, I don’t believe we have to fear testimony from any of the thieves that are left in this troop. Most of them will see a hangman’s noose or feel a sword in their back before anyone thinks to ask them what we looked like.”

Cole had to concede the truth in Quillion’s assessment.

The two friends gathered up their packs and escaped the dimming light of the fire. It was only when they were safely surrounded by darkness that Cole asked where they were heading.

“Acheron,” Quillion replied. “It’s on the way to Edentown and I’ve heard that there might be a person of interest to be found in the dark forest.”

Cole shrugged, shifted his pack, and resigned himself to yet another long walk.