Chapter 41

  Day 25

  Lord Fierce and Rasmus arrived late to the defense of Port Abrathat, and they each dispatched a battalion of Darkworlders before the foe scattered in disarray. It was a question of much speculation about the city, in the aftermath, whether the mighty blade of Lord Fierce or the equally glorious fists of the Hero of Storms wrought more destruction upon their unfortunate foes. Rumor had it that the Hero of Storms, who carried a god in his fists, had with a single blow cavitated the skull of a titanic scriven beast whose body now lay like a beached mountain on the shore. But then, rumor also said that Lord Fierce, whose sword swung with the momentum of a planet in motion, had cleaved an armored assault supertank directly in twain.

  Other rumors blazed like a wildfire through the societal circles of the stricken-and-rescued Port Abrathat: that Lord Foe had been proved a traitor; that it had been not Lord Fierce but Lord Foul who had struck him down from the heights at the end of a climactic battle; that his tower had crumbled from the soaring ramparts of Skywater Citadel at the moment of his demise. This was fresh and thrilling news, yet with the ill-fated Darkworlders had come an even more enticing rumor: that the Dark Ruler had been slain; that the dark key had been stolen; that both of these acts had been perpetrated by the one called Abraham Black.

  In the immediate aftermath of the conflict, Rasmus helped to clear rubble while Lord Fierce exhorted the troops through inspirational poetry. They met at a local pub, hours later, for they had become fast friends through the inevitable bonding of shared peril and mutual succor in the fires of combat. Locals cheered when they arrived, and the two paid for none of their drinks. They sat outside on a decorative granite embankment overlooking the painted sunset bay and the evening lights of the harbor, for Lord Fierce, in his vast lamellar armor, could not fit through the main door of the pub. They watched the ships at sea and the air traffic spiraling up and down through the golden clouds and starcraft hurrying to and fro in the starry wilderness of space far above. Rasmus saw his own moon up there among the others: the Quiet Moon, a purple-brown marble swirled with grey and speckled with gold. He was not fond of his moon. Couldn’t hear a damn thing.

  They drank fine Ardian beer, the best in Abrathat—or anywhere in the Western Reach, according to locals. Lord Fierce downed pints by the gulp, bringing the polished wooden mugs up underneath the visor of his helm and wiping away the amber froth with a gauntleted hand. Lord Fierce never took off any piece of his armor except for, occasionally, the gauntlets—quite the opposite of Rasmus himself, who seldom donned anything else. The skin of Lord Fierce’s hands was as grey and weathered as ancient sun-bleached leather, but Rasmus knew no more of his true appearance than that. This did not bother Rasmus. He knew well the deeds of Lord Fierce, and to him they were all that mattered.

  Abrathatians gawked and whispered from the lengthening shadows, but they kept their distance, for this had the look of a private meeting between Lord and Hero.

  It seems, says Lord Fierce, his voice small and plain, that trouble has come to our story again—for Abraham Black has taken the key. My heart misgives what things may yet be.

  “I am sure,” Rasmus rumbled in response, “that the Hero of Fire has had much to do with it. She is close to Black.”

  Lord Fierce nods slowly; he had thought as much. Does Rasmus trust her, though she be a liar? She ought to be used to playing with fire.

  “Trust her?” Rasmus mused. “I trust her to act according to her nature.”

  A dangerous thing, as Lord Fierce knows. He asks the Hero of Storms: and so?

  Rasmus shook his head. “And so I know not. I am clever with metal, not with the ways of others.”

  Lord Fierce laughs, for he himself is clever with little but his blade, in this way much like the burning hero.

  “But what a blade!” declared Rasmus. He turned to observe the sword of Lord Fierce, which stood monolithic from the earth nearby. An eyeless white tiger slept adjacent, its twitching tail curled partly around the blade. “It reminds me of a tale,” he said.

  Lord Fierce is honored to have befriended such a raconteur as the Hero of Storms, for stories are dear to the Fierce’s heart. He begs the hero spin his tale.

  “Very well,” said Rasmus. And he told his tale, which was of heroes and mysteries and adventure, and of the forging of blades and bonds alike, and of valor and defiance, and of the quiet darkness of twilight, and of the softness of sorrow at the coming of death, which no valor nor might can forever stall.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Rasmus thought of Anthea in telling this tale, and he spoke to her later in the night, alone, while pacing in the quiet backyard of a local smithy. A new shoulder plate for Lord Fierce’s armor, easily crafted thanks to a surplus of aged skytanium at the launch harbor, cooled to full strength in a vat of gallium nearby. The lights of stars and skycraft moved overhead. A small child watched him, eyes wide with awe, from the lit upper floor of a nearby townhouse. When he had replaced the tools, doused himself with water, and trod a rut from his pacing in the grass behind the smithy, he at last called her.

  “Anthea,” he said, striving to keep his voice low. He was in a residential area, after all.

  She answered at once. She seldom slept these days.

  “Why did you call, Rasmus?” He heard exhaustion in her voice. “A text message would suffice.”

  “I want to hear your voice,” he replied.

  “You know what it sounds like. And right now, I’d rather no one heard it.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “More than usual?”

  Rasmus frowned down at his comm device. “Now is no time for an unhelpful bout of self-pity,” he grumbled at it. “Have you heard about Black?”

  “About Akkama conning him into getting the dark key, and his improbable success? I heard.”

  “It may be,” said Rasmus, “that she has done what we could not.”

  “The key will soon be ours. Is that what you’re thinking?” Her voice slurred. “It won’t happen. I know. It’s too late. Already too late.”

  “Are you unwell, Anthea?”

  “You really can stop calling me. You don’t have to. It’s fine.” Her words were more slurred than ever. She paused for a long moment, and then a wracking sob came through. The sound of it struck Rasmus like a cold knife in the heart. She said something else, but he could not quite hear it.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Rasmus.”

  “Untrue. It may be that I have never needed your aid as others have. You did not appear to aid me in my darkest hour as you have done for Rosma, for Emmius, for Zayana, or for Akkama. Yet from you I received purpose, and an understanding of my destiny. And this is no less valuable.”

  Silence from the other end, unless his feeble ears detected lingering strains of sorrow.

  “I will come to you,” he said.

  “Don’t. I’m sorry. Just…stay. Keep doing what you’re…nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want.”

  “Fool,” he said. “I have never done otherwise.” For the first time since entering the Narrative, Rasmus hung up on Anthea. He realized, after a moment, that he had been rather loud there at the end. A scattering of onlookers watched him from rooftops and windows nearby.

  “My apologies for disturbing you,” he said. “Rest easy now, and rest well. You are safe; we have won. But tomorrow will be a long day, and times may yet be difficult.” He turned back to the smithy. First, the armor to Lord Fierce. Then, Anthea.