What Remains of Heroes by David Benem Page A

swaying gently in a hammock below deck.
    As he surveyed the harbor he counted a number of military vessels, sails emblazoned with the gold dragon of Rune. Most were moored to the docks, met by lines of red-sashed soldiers. Indeed, he noticed the docks swarmed with soldiers, thousands of them, hastily making their way aboard the ships. Even confined in his cell, Lannick envied them not at all. He’d seen quite enough of war.
    A knock shook the cell’s thick door, and a shallow bowl of boiled oats skittered beneath. Lannick called out, and an instant later a pockmarked face filled the door’s barred portal. “You’d better not be asking me for that whiskey again,” the guard said.
    “Why of course not, good Horus,” Lannick replied, as though the accusation were utterly ridiculous. “Just an honest question, soldier to soldier.” He’d noticed that Horus, though humpbacked and lazy-eyed, relished any implication that he was a fighting man rather than a prison attendant. “Why all of the commotion on the docks? It looks like an entire Column is setting sail. Will you be disembarking as well?”
    Horus seemed perplexed by the question, and it took him a moment to straighten up and fix his good eye on Lannick. “Well, no. They don’t need me. Not just yet, anyways. But some of the thanes aren’t answering the call to war, so I guess you never know…”
    “Some of the thanes?”
    “Brandiss the Thane of Stormfall, for one. There’s talk he won’t commit his oath-bound. Claims he’s under threat of invasion from those sheep-herding highlanders and won’t risk it. And there’s others, too. Thane Meledin of Farwatch won’t send a single soul to the front, saying he fears an incursion from the sea. And—”
    “The Sea Lord himself?” said Lannick, mostly to himself. He was surprised to hear Thane Meledin, such an old friend of the High King, would withhold his support of the Crown in wartime. Lannick’s head hadn’t swirled with politics in years and he wondered how much things had changed while he’d been slumped over a bar. “Well, if you’re called to war, Horus, you’ll have to regale me with stories of your heroics when you return. Some grand tales those will be, I’m certain.”
    Horus grinned slightly, his good eye glazing over momentarily. “Yes. Yes, you’re probably right.”
    “So it’s really war, then? Looks like a lot of men moving about.”
    Horus glanced back and forth, making like he was scanning the hall for eavesdroppers. “Word is things aren’t faring well. Not well at all. We took custody of a man last evening. Said the Arranese killed the commander of the Gray Gates and sent his head right to Riverweave. What’s more, they’ve slaughtered nearly every garrison in the Southwalls and are crossing the mountain passes, if he’s to be believed. General Fane’s ordered the whole Third Column to Riverweave. He hopes to crush the invasion before the Arranese can head north, but there’s many men who’re certain to die before he gets there.”
    “Well, let us both hope our dear general is triumphant. I’d pity the Spider King of Arranan if the general saw need to unleash your fury.”
    Horus grinned again, and he cupped the side of his mouth as though to shield his words from others. “We keep a stash of wine and some harder stuff in the mess. If you can promise me it’s just between us, I’ll bring you a bottle.”

    Lannick belched loudly. It was the sort of long, guttural belch that could only be summoned from a fully sated belly. Horus had exceeded his promises admirably. Half a well-seasoned, roasted chicken and a wedge of sharp cheese. The meal paired well with the bottle of spiced Khaldisian wine Horus had brought. Uncorked, even! Lannick had guzzled the first half, but intended a more leisurely conquest of the rest.
    The reminders of his confinement were everywhere, yet the wine liberated him. Dark thoughts vanished, the pain of his wounds was readily ignored, and