The One Who Stayed His Hand

Deacon knew the ruined village was occupied before he saw anything move.

The warning had nothing to do with spirits.

That helped.

They had been traveling north for most of the morning, descending gradually from the forgotten shrine through country that had once been settled. The remains of an old road appeared beneath the forest often enough to keep them moving in the same direction, while pieces of worked stone along the slopes suggested homes, walls and fields long since swallowed by vegetation.

Then the trees opened.

A river cut across their path.

It was not broad, perhaps forty feet from bank to bank, but spring runoff had filled it enough that the current moved quickly between dark rocks. An old bridge crossed above it, narrow and badly damaged, with several sections of decking missing entirely. What remained of the rail sagged between stone posts.

Beyond the bridge stood another village.

Or the bones of one.

Half a dozen structures clustered near the water, their roofs either collapsed or sagging beneath moss. A wider road continued north between them and disappeared into the forest again.

No smoke.

No animals.

No movement.

Deacon raised one hand.

The party stopped behind him.

Zook crouched immediately.

“What?”

Deacon pointed across the river.

“Someone's there.”

Jandar peered past him.

“I don't see anyone.”

“You're standing in the open.”

Jandar took one step backward.

“That is unrelated.”

Mills moved behind a tree without being asked.

Improvement.

Vegon studied the bridge rather than the village. “That will not support all of us at once.”

“No,” Deacon said.

Jandar examined the sagging rail.

“It only needs to support me once.”

Deacon looked at him.

“Don't.”

Jandar smiled.

That meant he was already planning something.

Zook moved farther down the bank, studying the mud and vegetation.

“Tracks.”

Deacon joined him.

The prints were not human.

Three long toes, each ending in a narrow point, pressed into the soft ground near the river. Another set crossed over them.

Several creatures.

Perhaps many.

“Across too,” Zook said.

He pointed toward the village.

Deacon finally saw movement.

A shape passed between two ruined buildings.

Tall.

Thin.

Armored in something that caught the light strangely.

Then another stepped into the old road.

It stopped.

Deacon had never seen its kind before.

The creature stood on two legs but looked as though someone had tried to make a man from pieces of an insect. Dark plates covered its torso and limbs. The head narrowed toward a mouth built from hard moving parts rather than lips, and long antennae swept backward over its skull. A bow rested in its hands.

For several seconds, creature and party simply stared at one another.

Jandar whispered, “Friendly?”

The creature raised its bow.

“No,” Deacon said.

The first arrow crossed the river.

The bridge turned the fight into a problem.

Deacon preferred problems.

Problems had dimensions.

Distance.

Cover.

Angles.

The insect warriors had numbers and prepared positions inside the village, but they had made the mistake of showing themselves before the Hand committed to the crossing. Deacon dropped behind a broken stone post near the bridge and began firing.

His first bolt struck one of the creatures high in the chest.

It staggered.

The second shot forced another behind a wall.

Then arrows began answering.

One struck the stone near Deacon's head.

Two more crossed toward Jandar.

The swashbuckler had remained in the road longer than anyone with sense would have.

One arrow missed.

Another clipped his shoulder.

The third struck squarely against his chest and turned him halfway around.

Jandar stumbled.

Still standing.

“Bridge,” Deacon said.

Jandar looked back at him.

“What?”

“Cross it or get out of the road.”

Jandar looked toward the damaged bridge.

Then at the bowmen.

“Those are my choices?”

“Yes.”

He grinned.

“Excellent.”

He ran.

Not over the bridge.

Along the rail.

Deacon watched in disbelief as Jandar stepped onto the narrow rope and ruined timber at the side of the span, arms spread for balance, boots barely touching before moving again. An arrow passed beneath him.

Another struck the wood where his foot had been.

Jandar reached the gap in the decking, jumped, turned once in the air for no reason Deacon could identify and landed on the far side.

He drew a small crossbow before the creature nearest him had recovered from the sight.

The bolt missed.

Jandar looked at the weapon.

“Unfortunate.”

Then he ran behind a wall.

Deacon shook his head.

“Idiot.”

Zook had already started across properly, moving fast enough that the damaged boards barely had time to object. He crouched at the far end, drew his bow and began returning fire into windows and broken doorways.

Xil moved next.

The drow disliked the daylight, but the forest canopy and gathering clouds had dulled it enough to make the crossing possible. He stayed low, shield raised while arrows struck the bridge around him.

Vegon remained beside Deacon.

“I dislike this.”

“The bridge?”

“The entire arrangement.”

“Useful.”

Vegon ignored him and touched the enchanted boots he had taken from Orozon's hoard.

His body rose several inches.

Deacon looked at him.

Vegon looked back.

“The bridge cannot collapse beneath me if I place no weight upon it.”

“Can you fly?”

“No.”

“Then how are you getting across?”

Vegon reached for the surviving rail and began pulling himself along.

Deacon stared.

The high elf floated stiffly beside the bridge like an exceptionally dignified piece of luggage.

Despite himself, Deacon laughed.

Vegon looked offended.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Then stop.”

An arrow struck the railing beside him.

Vegon pulled faster.

Mills appeared at Deacon's shoulder.

“Am I supposed to do that?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Deacon handed him a light crossbow.

“Stay here.”

Mills looked at the weapon.

“I know which end points outward.”

“That's enough.”

“Reassuring.”

Deacon returned to the fight.

The creatures were spreading through the village.

Not stupid.

They had recognized the bridge as the obvious choke point and abandoned it once Jandar and Zook reached the far side. Several disappeared between buildings while others climbed into broken windows.

Flanking.

“Zook!”

The gnome looked back.

Deacon pointed toward the left-hand structures.

Zook saw it immediately and moved.

He vanished behind a low stone wall.

A moment later one of the hidden archers jerked sideways as an arrow struck it.

Good.

Deacon entered the river.

Cold water reached his waist almost immediately.

The current pulled harder than he expected, but the riverbed remained firm enough beneath his boots. He kept the crossbow above the water and moved downstream from the bridge, using the bank to break sight from the archers.

Mills called after him.

“Where are you going?”

“Across.”

“That is what the bridge is for.”

Deacon kept moving.

He heard Jandar laugh from somewhere inside the village.

Apparently he had survived long enough to find the exchange amusing.

By the time Deacon climbed the far bank, the fight had changed.

The distance was gone.

That favored them.

Jandar had drawn the moon-touched rapier and was moving between two ruined houses where the insect warriors could no longer use their bows freely. Zook worked the opposite side of the road, driving enemies out of hiding rather than chasing them inside.

Xil had crossed the bridge and taken shelter behind a wall.

Vegon finally reached solid ground, dismissed the levitation and immediately began shaping a spell.

Deacon saw dark clouds gather above the village.

Not natural clouds.

Magic.

Vegon lifted one hand.

Lightning struck.

The bolt slammed down between the houses with enough force to shake dust from broken roofs. One of the insect warriors disappeared beneath the flash.

Vegon's expression brightened.

Then pain crossed it.

The taint.

The spell had worked.

It had still hurt.

Deacon did not have time to worry about that.

A creature emerged from the house in front of him carrying a spear.

It was larger than the archers.

Its chitin had a wet sheen, and something pale moved within its mouth.

Deacon raised the crossbow.

The creature's hand began to glow.

He fired first.

The bolt struck its shoulder.

The creature barely reacted.

Bad.

It reached toward him.

Deacon stepped aside.

Pale energy snapped through the place where he had been standing, cold enough that frost formed briefly across the stone behind him.

Deacon fired again.

Missed.

The thing advanced.

Jandar appeared from the side.

His rapier entered beneath one of the creature's arm plates.

The moonlit blade went deep.

The insect warrior twisted with a shriek.

Jandar pulled free and moved before the spear could reach him.

“I helped.”

Deacon reloaded.

“You're very proud.”

“I crossed a bridge on a rope.”

“I saw.”

“It was magnificent.”

“It was stupid.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Deacon shot the creature through the chest.

It collapsed.

“Also magnificent,” Jandar said.

They kept moving.

The creatures had been prepared for travelers.

They had not been prepared for the Hand.

That realization came to Deacon slowly, between shots.

Months ago, an ambush like this would have divided them. Jandar would have charged too far ahead. Vegon would have tried to solve the entire problem with one spell. Xil would have been forced to decide which fool to heal first while Zook disappeared somewhere only he understood.

Now the recklessness remained.

So did the arguments.

But the gaps had closed.

Jandar knew when Deacon needed a target turned.

Zook knew when a line of fire was about to open.

Xil moved before anyone called for him.

Vegon placed his lightning where it forced enemies into the others rather than simply where it would destroy the largest number.

They were not disciplined.

Deacon refused to grant them that word.

They were becoming familiar.

Sometimes that was better.

The last of the archers retreated into a ruined house.

Zook moved toward one opening.

Jandar toward the other.

Deacon stopped them both.

“No.”

Jandar looked at him.

“Why?”

“Fire.”

Vegon heard.

“I can do that.”

“Of course you can,” Jandar said.

Vegon sent flame through the doorway.

The creature came out immediately.

Zook killed it before Jandar reached it.

Jandar looked disappointed.

“That was mine.”

Zook cleaned his blade.

“You were slow.”

“I was allowing you an opportunity.”

“Thank you.”

Deacon walked past both of them.

The village fell silent.

No more arrows.

No movement between buildings.

Only the crackle of the small fire Vegon had started and the distant rush of the river behind them.

Mills crossed the bridge after the fighting ended.

He walked rather than attempting Jandar's method.

More evidence of good judgment.

He reached the village carrying his lute on his back and Deacon's crossbow in both hands.

“I fired twice.”

Deacon looked at him.

“Hit anything?”

“No.”

“Then we have established a baseline.”

Mills handed the weapon back.

“Improvement from here.”

Jandar wiped blood from his coat.

“That is how I approach most skills.”

“No one doubts that,” Vegon said.

They searched the village.

There was little worth taking.

The insect creatures carried serviceable weapons and enough food to suggest they had been living among the ruins for some time, but nothing explained why they were there.

No maps.

No written orders.

No mark Deacon recognized.

Xil examined one of the bodies.

“Not undead.”

“Encouraging,” Jandar said.

“No.”

Jandar looked at him.

“You have a very strict definition of encouraging.”

Zook had moved to the northern edge of the village.

Deacon joined him.

The forest continued beyond the buildings.

Tracks led north.

Many of them.

“More?”

Deacon asked.

Zook shook his head.

“Older.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Deacon looked toward the trees.

The spirits had gone quiet again during the battle.

Now they returned.

Not words.

Pressure.

Fear.

The same sensation he had felt at the shrine.

Except stronger.

Deacon raised one hand.

The others noticed.

Xil approached first.

“What?”

“They're back.”

Jandar looked around.

“Do they have anything useful to say?”

Deacon almost answered.

Then the world changed.

No sound announced it.

No spell flared.

One moment the road north was empty.

The next, someone stood in it.

The figure was tall and impossibly thin beneath dark robes that seemed to hang without wind. His face had the beauty of something constructed to resemble a man rather than born as one, every feature precise enough to become unsettling. Shadows gathered too deeply around his eyes.

Deacon's crossbow came up.

The stranger smiled.

“So.”

His voice was soft.

That made it worse.

“The new heroes.”

No one moved.

Deacon heard the spirits screaming.

Not speaking.

Screaming.

He fired.

The stranger lifted one hand.

The bolt stopped.

Not against a shield.

In the air.

A foot from his face.

He looked at it.

Then at Deacon.

“Interesting.”

Jandar drew his rapier.

Xil raised his holy symbol.

Vegon began a spell.

The stranger's gaze moved across them.

He looked almost pleased.

Then the air around him twisted.

Deacon felt the pressure of magic build before he understood what was happening.

“Down!”

Too late.

Power crossed the road.

It struck Jandar first.

The swashbuckler froze.

The moon-touched rapier slipped from his fingers.

Deacon had seen Jandar frightened.

Injured.

Exhausted.

Drunk.

He had never seen his face empty.

Jandar looked down at the sword as though he no longer understood what it was.

“Jandar?”

Zook moved toward him.

The human stared at him without recognition.

Something inside Deacon went cold.

The stranger smiled again.

“There.”

Vegon's spell erupted.

Arcane force struck the figure directly.

Nothing happened.

Not nothing.

The robes moved.

Barely.

The stranger looked toward Vegon.

“You carry something old.”

Vegon stopped.

Deacon fired again.

This bolt struck.

He saw it.

The shaft entered the stranger's shoulder.

For the first time, surprise crossed the man's face.

Deacon fired another.

Then another.

The stranger turned toward him.

“You.”

The spirits surged around Deacon.

He felt them without seeing them.

Aaron.

Others.

Waiting.

Deacon did not understand what they wanted.

So he did the only thing he understood.

He kept shooting.

The stranger moved.

Not quickly.

Simply from one place to another.

One moment he stood thirty feet away.

The next he was beside Deacon.

A hand closed around Deacon's throat.

The strength behind it was enormous.

Deacon struck with the crossbow itself.

The stranger took the blow without flinching.

“Persistent.”

Deacon tried to breathe.

Something bright crossed the stranger's face.

Jandar.

The moon-touched rapier struck clumsily from the side.

Not a proper attack.

Not even close.

Jandar held it in both hands like a man who had been shown a sword for the first time and understood only that the sharp end belonged elsewhere.

The blade still cut.

The stranger released Deacon.

Jandar made a confused sound and attacked again.

His face remained empty.

No cunning.

No humor.

No recognition.

Only the simplest possible certainty that the stranger was dangerous.

Deacon had never been happier to see him.

The creature—Scourge Lord, Deacon thought, though the word felt too large—turned toward Jandar.

Anger replaced amusement.

Magic gathered in one hand.

Xil shouted.

Divine power struck the road between them.

The Scourge Lord barely looked away.

“Do not.”

Another voice spoke.

Not Xil.

Not any of them.

The first Scourge Lord froze.

A second figure stood near the ruined houses.

Deacon had not seen him arrive.

This one seemed older.

Not in appearance.

In weight.

The air around him carried the pressure of deep water, something vast held beneath a calm surface. Dark clothing fell from broad shoulders, and his face was marked by a stillness entirely unlike the first one's cruelty.

The spirits went silent.

Every one of them.

The first Scourge Lord turned.

“What are you doing here?”

The newcomer looked at Jandar.

Then at Deacon.

Then across the rest of the Hand.

His gaze lingered.

Recognition.

Deacon felt certain of it.

“You were told.”

The first lord's expression tightened.

“They are nothing.”

“That is not your decision.”

“They attacked me.”

The newcomer looked toward the bolts embedded in his companion.

“Yes.”

For the first time, something almost like humor touched his face.

“I noticed.”

The first Scourge Lord raised one hand.

“They should not be here.”

“Our master forbade this.”

The words changed everything.

Vegon's spell died in his hands.

Xil stopped moving.

Even Zook looked uncertain.

Deacon stared at the second figure.

Master.

The Scourge Lords had served Fyros.

Four hundred years ago.

Fyros was dead.

Everyone knew that.

The stranger's eyes shifted to him.

For one impossible second Deacon felt as though the man had heard the thought.

The first lord hissed something in a language Deacon did not know.

The newcomer answered in Common.

“No.”

The other took one step toward him.

The second Scourge Lord raised a hand.

The world folded.

The first disappeared.

No flash.

No explosion.

He was simply gone.

Silence settled over the village.

Jandar wandered several steps into the road.

He had dropped the rapier again.

Mills ran toward him.

“Jandar?”

The swashbuckler looked at Mills with mild confusion.

“Pretty,” he said.

Mills stopped.

“Oh, that's bad.”

Deacon almost laughed.

The second Scourge Lord watched them.

No one lowered a weapon.

He did not appear concerned.

Xil spoke first.

“Who are you?”

The stranger looked toward him.

“A reasonable question.”

“Answer it.”

His gaze lingered on Xil's face.

The drow had not bothered with a disguise on the island.

Something about that seemed to interest the stranger.

Then he looked toward Vegon.

The high elf had gone pale.

He knew.

Deacon saw it.

“You recognize him.”

Vegon swallowed.

“No.”

“That was convincing,” Jandar said.

Everyone looked at him.

Jandar smiled vaguely.

Then began examining his own hand.

Mills took the rapier away from him.

Probably wise.

Vegon forced his attention back to the stranger.

“I recognize what you are.”

The man inclined his head.

“A better answer.”

“Scourge Lord.”

Mills stopped moving.

Zook's bow rose another inch.

The stranger did not deny it.

Vegon continued.

“Which one?”

The Scourge Lord studied him.

“Chul' Tor.”

The name meant nothing to Deacon.

It meant something to Vegon.

Not recognition.

History.

The wizard's expression shifted the way it did when a half-remembered passage from a book suddenly became useful.

“One of the missing five.”

Chul' Tor smiled.

“Missing.”

Deacon's stomach tightened.

The histories said four Scourge Lords had fallen with Fyros.

Five had vanished.

Not died.

Vanished.

He had always heard the distinction as a failure of record keeping.

Now one of them stood twenty feet away.

“You stopped him from killing us,” Zook said.

Chul' Tor turned.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you.”

“Your master.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Chul' Tor's smile widened slightly.

“No.”

Jandar had begun trying to put one of Mills's gloves on backward.

Mills gently removed it from him.

Deacon looked at Xil.

The cleric's expression was controlled.

Barely.

Vegon took one step forward.

“Fyros is dead.”

The temperature seemed to fall.

Chul' Tor looked at him.

Not angry.

Not amused.

Simply attentive.

“That is what you were taught.”

No one spoke.

Deacon heard his own breathing.

Vegon's face lost color.

“Is he alive?”

Chul' Tor looked toward the forest.

“You ask questions long before you are ready for their answers.”

Jandar nodded seriously.

“I do that.”

Chul' Tor glanced at him.

For the first time his composure cracked.

Only slightly.

Confusion.

Jandar smiled.

“Hello.”

Mills touched his shoulder.

“Maybe don't antagonize the ancient Scourge Lord.”

Jandar looked at him.

“Why?”

Mills closed his eyes.

“Because I would like to live.”

“That seems fair.”

Chul' Tor watched the exchange.

“What was done to him?”

Xil's voice hardened.

“You know.”

“I did not cast the spell.”

“Can you undo it?”

Deacon looked at Xil.

So did everyone else.

Asking the enemy for help.

Xil did not seem bothered by the contradiction.

Chul' Tor considered Jandar.

“No.”

Xil's face tightened.

“Or will not?”

“Both answers are useful to you.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“It is the only one you will receive.”

Jandar sat down in the road.

He began arranging stones.

Deacon wanted to shoot Chul' Tor again.

The spirits remained silent.

That stopped him.

Not because he believed they were protecting the Scourge Lord.

Because they were afraid.

Aaron Silverhand had fought in the last war.

Whatever else the dead had forgotten, they remembered this man.

Chul' Tor looked toward Deacon.

“You hear them.”

The statement struck harder than any threat.

Deacon raised the crossbow.

“How do you know that?”

The Scourge Lord's expression became unreadable.

“They have always been noisy.”

Deacon's finger tightened near the trigger.

Aaron's presence flared inside him.

Not a voice.

A warning.

Chul' Tor noticed.

“Yes.”

He looked almost pleased.

“So one found you.”

“Who is Aaron Silverhand?”

The question came before Deacon could stop it.

Chul' Tor's eyes sharpened.

Then he laughed.

Not loudly.

Not cruelly.

Almost fondly.

“That old soldier.”

Deacon hated the familiarity.

“You knew him.”

“I fought him.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

A pause.

“I tried.”

Deacon understood then how ridiculous the situation had become.

He was standing in an abandoned village on an island sailors feared to approach, speaking with a four-hundred-year-old enemy from stories he had learned as a child while Jandar stacked rocks nearby because another Scourge Lord had destroyed most of his mind.

And this was not even the strangest month of Deacon's life.

Chul' Tor looked toward the mountains.

“You should leave the island.”

Vegon found his voice.

“Why?”

“You have learned enough.”

“We have learned almost nothing.”

“That is often the safer amount.”

“What happened to Oron?”

The Scourge Lord said nothing.

“What created the mist?”

Nothing.

“Why are you here?”

Chul' Tor looked back at him.

“I was not here for you.”

That answer bothered Deacon more than the others.

“Then who?”

“No one you know.”

Zook lowered his bow slightly.

“Why are we supposed to stay alive?”

Chul' Tor's attention shifted to him.

The question had landed.

Deacon saw it.

For the first time, the Scourge Lord considered his answer before giving it.

“Because you have work ahead of you.”

Vegon frowned.

“For whom?”

Chul' Tor smiled.

“That is a much better question.”

Then he vanished.

Not with the violent folding he had used on the other Scourge Lord.

This time darkness simply gathered around him.

For a heartbeat his shape became shadow.

Then the road was empty.

Deacon fired anyway.

The bolt passed through the place where Chul' Tor had stood and buried itself in a tree.

Jandar applauded.

Slowly.

“Good shot.”

Deacon lowered the crossbow.

Mills looked toward him.

“Does he know what happened?”

Jandar was now inspecting one boot.

“No.”

Xil knelt in front of him.

“Jandar.”

The swashbuckler looked up.

“Who am I?”

Jandar smiled.

“Dark.”

Xil closed his eyes.

“That is not encouraging.”

Zook crouched beside them.

“Can you fix him?”

“I don't know.”

Vegon approached.

“He was hit with powerful enchantment.”

“You know what kind?” Deacon asked.

Vegon looked at Jandar.

“Yes.”

Something in his voice made Deacon dislike the answer.

“What?”

“His mind has been suppressed.”

“Suppressed?”

Vegon struggled for a better word.

“Broken is too strong. Removed is inaccurate. The knowledge may still exist, but he cannot access it. Intelligence. Judgment. Much of his personality.”

Jandar held up a stone.

“Round.”

Mills sat beside him.

“Yes.”

Jandar handed it to him.

Mills accepted it.

“Thank you.”

Deacon looked away.

The rage surprised him.

Not because Jandar had been hurt.

They were hurt constantly.

This was different.

The first Scourge Lord had taken the thing that made Jandar unbearable and somehow revealed how much Deacon had come to rely on it.

The jokes.

The bad decisions.

The sudden insight hidden beneath both.

The man who would run across a collapsing bridge rail because walking across it properly was apparently beneath him.

Gone.

Perhaps temporarily.

Perhaps not.

Xil tried magic.

The first prayer did nothing.

The second made Jandar blink but changed nothing else.

Xil sat back.

“I need stronger magic.”

“Where?” Deacon asked.

“Windmarch.”

Vegon nodded.

“Eticus may know.”

The island still extended north.

The spirits had warned them.

Chul' Tor had told them to leave.

That alone made Deacon want to continue.

He looked toward the forest.

Aaron remained close now.

Faint.

Waiting.

Deacon thought of Chul' Tor saying the old soldier's name.

That old soldier.

Four hundred years collapsed inside four words.

“What do the dead say?” Xil asked.

Deacon listened.

At first, nothing.

Then Aaron's voice came.

Not clearly.

A whisper carried across impossible distance.

Go.

Deacon frowned.

“Go where?”

The spirit did not answer.

Jandar held another stone toward him.

“Square.”

Deacon took it.

It was not.

“Close.”

Jandar smiled.

Deacon looked at the others.

“We're leaving.”

Vegon blinked.

“That easily?”

“The spirits agree with Chul' Tor.”

Jandar laughed for no apparent reason.

Mills helped him stand.

Zook looked north once more before turning toward the bridge.

No one argued.

They crossed the village slowly.

The dead insect warriors lay where they had fallen. Smoke still curled from one roof. The river moved beneath the bridge exactly as it had before two Scourge Lords stepped out of history and into their path.

Deacon went last.

At the bridge he stopped.

For several seconds he looked back at the empty road.

Chul' Tor had spared them.

Not mercy.

Not honor.

Orders.

Their master wanted the Hand alive.

The thought followed Deacon onto the bridge.

He had spent most of his life understanding enemies through what they wanted destroyed.

This was worse.

Somewhere beyond the stories they knew, something ancient had decided they were more useful alive.