What Remains of Heroes by David Benem

opening verses rather than digesting the poems whole. After a time he admitted that, in spite of its quaintness, Arythail’s poetry was impressive for the sheer breadth of its subject matter. The poet mused on love and hate, charity and vengeance, and the travails of both paupers and kings. There were verses of pure fancy, and others recounting the events of history with surprising insight. One, A Dirge for Erkelon , caught his eye. He read it through, down to its final stanzas:
     
    The beasts besiege with hearts of black
    Whilst tears wander a well-worn track
    Set by the smiles of long ago.
     
    “If” calls the herald of remorse
    Never daring a righteous course
    From tower’s height he falls to death below.
     
    He’d read of Erkelon, the last lord of the Gray Gates. It was said he’d permitted the hordes of Yrghul to pass through the Southwall Mountains in the War of Fates, a thousand years before. Although Erkelon knew the cause of Illienne to be righteous, he wavered, fearing much the retribution that would come from the Lord of Nightmares. He allowed Yrghul’s men to march unchallenged through the mountain passes. Once through they sacked Erkelon’s fortress and slaughtered its people. Erkelon, overcome with grief, leapt to his death as his fortress burned.
    Bale closed the tome slowly and rested his hands upon its worn cover. Is such the fate of those who abide the advance of evil?
    He sat, contemplating. After a time he stood and smoothed his robes, only to catch his hand against the outline of the folded parchment tucked within them.
    Not the distraction I needed .
    He straightened his weary back and withdrew into the shadows of the Abbey.
     

5
    Better than Death

    L an nick reckoned he’d been in places far worse. The cell seemed only half as filthy as his quarters, the room’s arrow-loop window permitted a picturesque view of Ironmoor’s bustling harbor, and prison food was a sight better than rumored. At the very least, it ’s better than death .
    In the two weeks he’d been in the brig, his wounds had mended some. The shivering sweats he’d endured in the first week had also dissipated, although Lannick still craved a drink more than the air he breathed. He’d begged the guards for a cup of wine or even a flask of rotgut, but was rebuffed nicely the first time and not so nicely the second. He hadn’t yet mustered the courage for a third request, worried as he was they’d make worse the pain that still lingered in his ribs from General Fane’s boot.
    Despite denying him libations, the soldiers were positively gentlemanly as far as prison guards were concerned. Lannick supposed it had something to do with the place being a military prison. He figured his captors were of the mind that the inmates they held were a more civilized lot than the murderers and cutpurses rotting in a common jail. His chest swelled a bit at the notion, but then upon further thought he chuckled and winced.
    He sat at the edge of his bed, eying the door for a long, nervous moment. Morning was the least pleasant thing about the place. He awoke every day with a cold pit in his guts, certain the day would be his last. However, General Fane had yet to pay a visit, as had his Scarlet Swords. He’d heard the guards mumble that the situation with Arranan was not going well, which Lannick trusted was keeping the general and his brutes occupied. His sense of dread had diminished slightly with every new morning’s sunrise, and he was almost beginning to allow himself to hope.
    Perhaps I will survive even this.
    This day seemed a particularly fine one. Lannick arose and pressed his face against the arrow-loop to catch the sun’s warmth. To the east, half a league distant, a myriad of colorful, broad-sailed ships filled the harbor’s blue waters. Trading ships from every corner of the world. He sighed wistfully, remembering his plan to escape Ironmoor aboard such a vessel. He imagined he’d be drunk on sailor’s rum about now,