Read Online What Remains of Heroes by David Benem - Free Book Online Page A

frayed and he bore bruises hinting at a spill from horseback. He sat with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth moved in a murmur of prayer.
    Beside him squatted a manservant, head cocked in constant regard of the Lector. Behind them were several dark-robed men with the reverent bearing of clerics, likely acolytes of the Ancient Sanctum. They seemed contemplative sorts, speaking infrequently as they read in the firelight or gazed at the night sky. They would prove no trouble in combat.
    Five loudmouthed louts wore coin purses and rusty weapons on their belts. Karnag reckoned they were hired strongmen. They were big men, but unscarred and fat-handed. Tavern brawlers, enough to scare off brigands but little match for trained killers. Karnag thought it odd the Lector of the Sanctum would not travel with royal soldiers, but he wasted no thought on politics.
    Finally, there was a square-jawed man far from the fire, a green cloak pulled tightly about him. He did not laugh at the men’s jokes nor did he partake of the wine offered to him. Karnag detected the outline of a weapon beneath the cloak, and reckoned the man knew how to use it.
    “Paddyn,” he whispered, “if things go amiss, I want an arrow through that man’s heart.”
    The young archer nodded firmly, making a decent show of steady nerves.
    Karnag turned his eyes back to the camp. He fingered the hilts of his blades, each one in turn. His moment was coming.
    Soon.

    It was not long before the Lector retired to his tent. Shortly after, a rhythmic snoring sounded. The manservant slept on a bedroll adjacent to the tent, the clerics in their own tents, and the strongmen passed out around the fire. The cloaked man did not move.
    “Is he standing watch?” Drenj whispered.
    Karnag found a stone and flung it to the far side of the camp, producing a minor racket. The cloaked man’s hand moved to his weapon and he turned his head. “He’ll have to sleep at some point,” Karnag said. “We’ll wait.”
    Two hours passed. The campfire dimmed to a smolder. At last the cloaked man stood, but only to retrieve an armful of firewood from the clearing’s far edge.
    “When will he sleep?” Drenj said. “Should we rush him?”
    Karnag shook his head. The thought had occurred to him, but the confusion certain to result was not likely to produce good results. Chaos, by definition, was the bearer of the unexpected, and any good killing required a plan.
    More time passed. Karnag was reluctant to have his company position themselves, worried the cloaked man would detect their movements. Instead, they waited as the sliver of the moon crept across the sky.
    Finally, the cloaked man arose again and strode toward the sleeping strongmen. He prodded one awake, and the big dullard grumbled as he staggered upright. The oaf grabbed a half-emptied bottle and plopped upon a fallen tree. The cloaked man disappeared in the darkness on the far side of the encampment. Karnag didn’t like that he couldn’t see the man, but then murder was rarely an easy thing.
    Within minutes the strongman was swaying in his seat. Karnag motioned for Paddyn to move along the edge of the encampment to find a clear shot at the cloaked man. He gestured to Fencress to position herself at the opposite side of the camp. Drenj, however, was succumbing to sleep. “Stay here,” Karnag said, figuring the Khaldisian was better asleep than half awake.

    Karnag focused on the fire’s dance. His heart slowed and his body stilled. His mind drifted, and he recalled the day in his youth when he was forced to flee his northern highlands. His father had dishonored their clan in battle. “Coward,” the chieftain had proclaimed, spitting on the funeral pyre as the body burned. His mother and sisters were raped and slaughtered, as was custom, and he and his brothers were cast from the highlands.
    Karnag had defined himself that day. He would never suffer the same fate. He would become the deadliest slayer the world had ever