Brendis’s duty was clear, though: to bring the girl back to Flamekeep to meet Jaela Daran, the Keeper of the Silver Flame. As the voice of the Silver Flame, the youthful Daran would certainly see the proper path for Esprë’s life, and Brendis had no doubt it would be good and just.
The young knight walked around the ship one last time, gazing up at it before ducking into the stables nearby. Dozens of skeletons swarmed over the thing, making repairs as they went, shoring up cracks, patching holes, and replacing the large sections of the airship’s hull that a pair of twenty-foot-tall warforged titans had ripped away during the battle in Construct.
Brendis breathed a prayer of thanks to the Silver Flame. It had been a miracle that any of them had survived.
The ship looked better already, having been in the care of the Karrn for only a matter of days. The skeletal soldiers worked over it without flagging, despite the fact, Brendis suspected, they’d been at it for days without rest. What was rest to an animated set of remains? In this, at least, Brendis saw how evil could be set to a good purpose.
It had all seemed much simpler when he’d been a child himself during the Last War. The people of Thrane—the followers of the Silver Flame—were good, as were their allies. Those who stood against them were evil. Now, in these strange days of so-called peace, the rules had changed. Alliances forged and shattered overnight. Friendships often only lasted until the job was done, and evil could serve good.
Not for the first time, Brendis wondered if good could not also serve evil.
The horses in the stables whickered as Brendis entered the tall wooden building that served as a home for the dozen or so beasts housed there. He murmured to soothe them, and they calmed down. He suspected the creatures did not leave the gates of the fort too often. Perhaps the skeletons made them nervous, as they did most animals. He would not have been surprised to learn the horses were used to living with such creatures by now, though.
No lights burned in the stable, and the far end of it stood shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the few lances of light that made their way through random gaps in the walls’ wooden boards. Brendis looked around for the gear but didn’t spot it anywhere near the doorway. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness after walking outside, unsheltered from the sun.
Brendis had never cared much for direct sunlight. It tended to scorch his fair skin. In the Mournland, though, he had despaired of ever enjoying such bright light again. The thought that Gweir, Levritt, and Deothen—his fellow knights who had perished there—would never have the chance to do so made it somehow seem that much more precious. While riding that glidewing on their insane trip here through the sky, he’d basked in the sun’s blazing rays, letting their warmth penetrate him all the way through. He could still feel the burn on the back of his neck as he peered into the shadows here, and the sensation made him smile.
The young knight felt something tickling at the back of his brain. It reminded him of when he’d been in training to become a knight. He always felt that way if he’d forgotten something but couldn’t remember what. He’d learned to trust that feeling over the years, his hidden mind trying to tell him something that he couldn’t yet put into words. Still, he couldn’t understand what nagged at him like that. Perhaps he was confusing it with guilt over surviving when his friends had died.
Gweir had been Brendis’s best friend since they’d been squires together, serving the Knights of the Silver Flame in the desperate hope they would someday be called to join their illustrious ranks. To see him die on that corpse-strewn field, a hidden warforged driving a length of steel straight through him, blood coughing up red and warm from his mouth, then his eyes glazing over as the burning flame of his soul left him—something had died in Brendis that day too.
Perhaps staying to give him a proper burial had been a waste of time, especially when Esprë was still in mortal peril, but he couldn’t find it in him to leave his friend to lie there under the dead-gray Mournland sky. The traditions of his order forbade it.
A pain stuck in Brendis’s heart as he thought of poor Levritt, who’d not been so fortunate. They’d been forced to leave his headless body behind in that warforged camp. Brendis shivered as he remembered the sick, wet sound of the rookie knight’s head leaving his neck by means of another warforged’s sword.
At that point, Brendis thought he could have been forgiven for thinking of all warforged as soulless beasts, evil creatures no better than the skeletons wandering around the fort. Perhaps they were even worse, for they knew what they were doing. These walking sets of bones only followed orders—and none too well, it seemed.
Xalt put the lie to all that. It would have been all too easy to hate all the warforged, but the artificer had shown them more than kindness. He’d risked his own life to save them from his fellows and had lost one of the three fingers on his hand for his troubles. Brendis flexed his fist at the thought of it.
Then there was Deothen, his leader, his mentor, his friend. Brendis had looked up to the elder knight since his days as a squire. He’d never seen anyone else so—so knightly. He was everything that Brendis aspired to be. When he’d been assigned to Deothen’s squad, he’d been thrilled. His parents and sisters had been so proud.
He hadn’t seen Deothen die. He thought maybe he’d heard the man’s last roars as Bastard ordered the city of Construct to lower itself on him, crushing him to death under only the Flame knew how much wood and steel, but that had probably been his imagination. He’d been only half-conscious, if that, after ramming the airship into the arena’s stands. If it hadn’t been for Esprë and Xalt, the changeling would have killed him for sure.
Brendis couldn’t wait for all this to be over so that he could get back to Flamekeep. Of the five knights who’d left on this mission at the behest of the child-aged Keeper of the Flame, only two of them were left: Sallah and him.
Had it all been worth it? Three good men dead to rescue a dragonmarked elf? He had only his faith to help him answer that question. It said an emphatic “Yes,” but the word echoed hollow in his ears.
That shook the young knight more than he cared to admit. He’d grown up in the Church of the Silver Flame. His mother had been a knight too, his father a priest in the church’s hierarchy. He had never questioned the wisdom of the Silver Flame, and he wasn’t going to start now.
Still, as his father used to tell him, “There are times, my son, that test anyone’s faith. If your convictions can weather these moments, then you can take comfort in the strength of your faith and know that it will sustain you throughout your days.”
As Brendis made his way to the back of the stable, he spotted the packs he was looking for. While he stooped to shoulder them, he affirmed his faith with a silent prayer to the Silver Flame, petitioning it to help him stay strong.
He felt the leather reins fall around his neck and draw tight as a sharp knee shoved him in the back and knocked him to the ground. The weight of his attacker and his packs kept him down. His tried to bring his arms up to pull the reins away, but they caught in the straps of the packs instead.
Brendis tried to draw in a breath to scream for help, but with the reins twisted tight around his neck he could only cough out a meek protest. His attacker ignored the noise and pulled the reins tighter.