Heir of Muzien?
Haern looked to his father, curious as to what that meant, and it seemed Thren wasn’t too keen on the title, either. Haern caught his brief flash of disgust before he smoothly smiled it away.
“Let’s find out,” Thren said. “What do you know of the Stronghold?”
It was the second time for Maneth to laugh in surprise.
“The Stronghold? I know you don’t mess with it, Thren. That’s the dark paladins’ home. Unless you want to walk in bowing your head and carrying a bagful of gold in offering, I’d stay far away.”
“We have no plans to do either,” Haern said. “There’s a man inside we need to kill.”
Maneth glared at him.
“Thren, tell your lackey to stay out of our business,” he said.
Haern’s hands were moving for his swords when Thren reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
“Now’s not the time for a temper,” he said.
Haern let go of the hilts, did his best to ignore Maneth’s ugly grin. As he stood there seething, he felt Delysia’s hands slip into his, and she leaned up to his ear so she could whisper.
“That’s right; behave, lackey, or no dessert for you.”
He heard her choke down a laugh, and Haern found himself unable to remain angry, not with her so close.
“Listen,” Maneth said, turning his attention back to Thren. “We don’t mess with servants of Karak, and they don’t mess with us. It’s a nice agreement we’ve reached in Mordeina, and thankfully, it’s made its way down here to little old Trass. If you’re thinking of infiltrating their home, you’ve come to the wrong guy.”
“You know I’m not buying that,” Thren said. “Muzien has a plan for anything and everything, and taking out the dark paladins in their home will certainly be one he’s prepared for.”
Maneth shrugged.
“If he has, he sure as shit hasn’t told me. You’re on your own with this.”
Haern could see his father’s displeasure, but at the same time, neither did he look surprised. Apparently, contacting a member of the Sun Guild had been at best a reach.
“Thank you for your help, however little it was,” Thren said. He turned to Haern and Delysia. “Let’s go.”
“Hey,” Maneth said, taking a step after them. “Just because I don’t know how you’d get into that damn place doesn’t mean I’m empty of ideas.”
Thren looked back over his shoulder.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“About ten miles south of here along the river is a town called Leen. There’s a paladin of Karak who preaches to the people. I’ve met him a few times; his name’s Jorakai. If you were hoping to find out any weaknesses or vulnerabilities of the Stronghold, well…” He shrugged. “Perhaps you can have a nice, long, painful chat with Jorakai.”
Thren nodded but said nothing. As the three left the commons, Haern moved in step beside Thren.
“What next?” he asked.
“Next, we refill our supplies,” Thren said. “And after that, we head south.”
They’d traveled only a few miles before night fell and they were forced to make camp. Haern and Delysia prepared a fire, cooked some of the fresh meat they’d purchased prior to leaving Trass, then ate in silence. Thren, as had been his custom over the past week, let them be, always saying he preferred solitude whenever asked. Haern was never sure if he lingered about, watching, or if he truly did want to be away from them.
Delysia tossed aside the bones from the leg of a chicken, the remnants of her meal. That done, she slid closer to both Haern and the fire, both of which were in the center of the matted grass that served as the seldom-traveled road.
“This plan is reckless,” she said, stirring him from his thoughts. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Haern took another bite, tossed a bone into the fire.
“Of course it is,” he said. “The whole idea is reckless, but what else could possibly work? One nice thing about insanity is that no one can predict it.”
“You’re going to torture a man for information, a man who’ll be trained to withstand it. This won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. Is that something you can do? Something you want to do?”
“What do you want from me, Delysia?” Haern asked. He kept his irritation out of his voice, but she no doubt sensed it anyway. “No, I don’t want to, but this is a paladin of Karak we’re talking about here. They aren’t good men. They aren’t noble. They’re killers of a mad god, and if Luther’s using them as his own personal bodyguards, then we need to find out what they know. We have to discover any secrets, any weaknesses, and yes, that means we’ll have to shed blood.”
She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled her arms around them.
“Hours,” she said. “It’s going to take hours.”
“I’m better than that, Delysia. He’ll talk, no matter his training. I learned from the best, remember?”
Her face darkened.
“And that is something to be proud of?” she asked him.
To that he had no answer. Was he proud of it? It was a skill, one he’d rarely used but learned nonetheless. Part of him wanted to be proud, to brag of how no punishment could break him, yet all would break to him if given the time. He was the son of Thren Felhorn, and he’d learned many things from his father and his cavalcade of tutors.
“And when you’re done,” she asked, “after you’ve tortured and beaten this man, what then will you do?”
Haern lifted his hands in surrender.
“We cannot have him warn the Stronghold of our approach,” he said. “Which means I’ll do what needs to be done.”
Delysia stood, went to her blanket, and wrapped herself tight atop her bedroll.
“Good night, Haern,” she said. Her back was to him, and he knew it was intentional. Haern watched her, let out a sigh, then tossed the rest of his own meal.
“Maybe you should have stayed home,” he whispered.
Haern stood and wandered north, following the road. He wanted a moment to himself, to think without anyone’s presence. He’d been a loner all his life, needing times of solitude even when a child. Patrolling the rooftops of Veldaren used to give him all he could possibly want of quiet and isolation, but traveling with Thren, and now Delysia, had worn on him over the weeks. So, upon the path he walked, short grass crunching beneath his feet, as he gazed up at the stars.
“I do this for hundreds of thousands,” he said to the sky, imagining Ashhur up there among them, gazing down. It made his presence feel more real, made it seem as if his questions were heard, even if he expected no answer. “Hundreds of thousands, and all I have to do is kill a few evil men, men who worship your brother. Will you judge me for this?”
“Ashhur might,” said Thren from behind him. Haern felt his neck flush, and he turned to see his father approaching from farther down the road. Embarrassed at having such a private moment overheard, he didn’t know what to say, only kept walking as his father quickened his pace to catch up.
“You have no reason to feel guilty for what we are to do,” Thren said. “Especially not because of what you think some god in the stars might say.”
“You know nothing of my beliefs,” Haern said. “And I will not listen to you mock them.”
Thren looked his way, his face lit by the moonlight. As he often did, he looked disappointed.
“I do not mock, but neither am I ignorant of what you believe, not if you confess Ashhur as your god. Though you must forgive me for my surprise. Much of what you do seems contrary to his teachings, so it seems odd to me that you might question him now.”
Talking of gods with his father stirred dozens of buried memories, each one making him grow angrier. He thought of Robert Haern, executed for teaching little Aaron Felhorn of Ashhur. He thought of Delius Eschaton, stabbed in the chest for daring to speak out against the thief guilds and demand a better way. Worst, though, was of that single arrow piercing Delysia’s chest in a moment of prayer.
“You would never understand,” Haern told him. “You’re everything Ashhur hates.”