Deathsworn Vol. II

Epilogue

The words died before he could set them free. All of them. They had been beautiful things, nursed from infancy and nourished over several moons until they were hardened and tenacious, backed by a rage that frightened even their own creator. They died still, routed without a fight, reduced to a scattering of ashes the moment Brother Sorrow turned from the window.

The priest's face was scarcely visible in the light of the waning tallow candle, his hood pulled high and his robes wreathed in dark shadow. Bard could see his mouth though, could make out the blistered remnants of his lips contorted in a grin that looked to have been cut into his face. Leave. Run. You should not be alone with this man.

"Ulworth," Brother Sorrow rasped, spittle dripping to the floor, "you have returned ... all of you."

Bard summoned the courage to speak, though he dared not take his eyes from the table in the center of the chamber. "It is done. He is dead."

Brother Sorrow's response was a cackle that deteriorated into a mad bout of coughing. He stepped forward into the light, forcing Bard to acknowledge him. "Who is dead?" he snapped.

"Kurzon. Son of Shar Uggo of the Ooamanee."

"And do you have what we expect? I should be terribly disappointed if not."

"Kurzon was dead when we arrived. His father had killed him." As you knew to expect.

The priest turned and walked back to the window, his every move rigid and stiff, as though beneath his robes he were as congealed as the candle. "A pity. You went so very far, and faced such danger, I am sure. Tell me, Ulworth, did anyone die by your hand?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"I do not remember." Too many.

"You disappoint me, Ulworth. Indeed, you do. Your life is your list, your list is your life. How many names have you now?"

"Two. Two for me, two for Taaj and two for Toyne."

"Two," Brother Sorrow repeated, his back to Bard as he looked out into the night. "Just so ..."

A shiver attacked Bard's body and his fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms. "Bodkin has four. Weasel has six."

"The boy is going to die," Brother Sorrow said, plainly as though he had been remarking on the moon's lucent glow.

"He ... no ... liar."

"The boy will die. You cannot save him, Ulworth."

Bard was cold. So very cold. His mouth was dry, his chest tight. In that moment he knew how to warm himself, knew what it was he had to do. His hand reached back to the shaft of his axe, his fingers asking, yearning to wrap about it, as they had a thousand times before.

Brother Sorrow's head turned but a fraction. Bard let go and the cold was gone, the warmth of the candle light once again bathing his face. "The future is promised to no man," he said, teeth gritted, recalling his uncle's words as he heard them through a child's ears, "but neither is it denied."

"I can give you a promise, Ulworth. You will have no more second chances. There are forces at work, both great and terrible. The wheel is in motion, and it will come to shape or destroy everything we have ever known. Follow the list, and the list alone, or the consequences will be severe. That is my promise."

Bard said nothing. He longed to rip his gaze from the floor, but found he lacked the will to do it.

"Now go," the priest spat, "you will wait in the courtyard for Brother Grief. He has a name for you."

Bard shuffled back, found the ring to the chamber door and pulled hard.

"And Ulworth," Brother Sorrow called after him, "should you ever have that thought again ... you will die."

He stepped from the chamber without another word, the oaken door closing shut with a yawning scream. One of us will, he thought.

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