Excerpt: THE LAST VIGILANT by Mark A. Latham
In a world where magic is forgotten, monsters lurk in the dark woods, and honorable soldiers are few, this utterly gripping epic fantasy tells the story of an out-of-practice wizard and a hot-headed sargent who are thrust into the heart of a mystery that threatens to unravel their kingdom’s fragile peace.
Read an excerpt from The Last Vigilant (US), on sale June 24, below!
PART ONE
BEFORE THE DAWN
I am the seeker after the truth.
I am the voice of the meek.
I am the sword of justice.
I am the healer of the cursed.
I am the watcher against the darkness.
I am everywhere and nowhere.
I am everyone and no one.
The gods made me, the gods protect me,
and the gods will one day take me.
—Taken from the Vigilant Oath
CHAPTER 1
Lithadaeg, 23rd Day of Sollomand
187th Year of Redemption
Holt Hawley hunched over the reins, the wagon jolting slowly down the track. Sleet stung his face, settling oily and cold on his dark lashes and patchy beard.
The whistling wind had at least drowned out the grumbling of his men, who sat shivering in the back of the wagon. Their glares still burrowed into the back of his head.
It mattered not that Hawley was their sargent. The men blamed him for all their ills, and by the gods they’d had more than their fair share on this expedition. Twice the wagon had mired in thick mud. On the mountain road, three days’ rations had spoiled inexplicably. Now their best horse had thrown a shoe, and limped behind the wagon, slowing their progress to a crawl. They couldn’t afford to leave the beast behind, but risked laming it by pressing on. Whatever solution Sargent Hawley came up with was met with complaint. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
Tarbert rode back up the track, cutting a scarecrow silhouette against the deluge. He reined in close to the driver’s board, face glum, still mooning over the hobbling horse that was his favourite of the team.
“V-village ahead, Sarge,” Tarbert said, buckteeth chattering. “Godsrest, I th-think.”
“You see the blacksmith?” Hawley asked.
“Didn’t s-see nobody, Sarge.”
“Did you ask for him?”
“Not a soul about.”
“What about a tavern?” That was Nedley. It was only just dawn and already he was thinking of drink.
“No tavern, neither.”
“Shit on it!” Nedley grumbled.
“That’s enough,” Hawley warned. He pulled the reins to slow the horses as the wagon began to descend a steeper slope.
“Typical,” Beacher complained.
Hawley turned on the three men in the back. Beacher was glaring right at Hawley, face red from the cold, beady eyes full of reproach.
“What is?” Hawley said.
“Three days with neither hide nor hair of a living soul, then we find a deserted village. Typical of our luck, isn’t it, Sargent?”
Ianto sniggered. He was an odd fish, the new recruit. A stringy man, barely out of youth, yet his gristly arms were covered in faded tattoos, symbols of his faith. His hair showed signs of once being tonsured like that of a monk, the top and rear of his scalp stubbled, fringe snipped straight just above the brow. He’d proved able enough on the training ground, but would speak little of his past, save that he’d once served as a militiaman in Maserfelth, poorest of the seven mearcas of Aelderland. He’d bear watching; as would they all.
Hawley turned back to the road, lest he say something he would regret.
“Awearg,” someone muttered.
Hawley felt his colour rise at the familiar slight. Again he held his tongue.
The men mistrusted Hawley. Hated him, even. Bad enough he was not one of “the Blood” like most of them, but even Ianto was treated better than Hawley, and he was a raw recruit. For Hawley, the resentment went deeper than blood lineage. For his great “transgression” a year ago, most men of the Third agreed it would’ve been better if Hawley had died that day. They rarely passed up an opportunity to remind him of it.
These four ne’er-do-wells would call themselves soldiers should any common man be present, but to Hawley they were the scrapings from the swill bucket. Hawley’s days of fighting in the elite battalions were over. Now his assignments were the most trivial, menial, and demeaning, like most men not of the Blood. Beacher, Nedley, and Tarbert served under Hawley in the reserves only temporarily—it was akin to punishment duty for their many failings as soldiers, but their family names ensured they’d be restored to the roll of honour once they’d paid their dues. For those three, this was the worst they could expect. For Hawley and Ianto, it was the best they could hope for. Command of these dregs was another in a long list of insults heaped on Hawley of late. But command them he would, if for no other reason than a promise made to an old man.
The words of old Commander Morgard sprang into Hawley’s mind, as though they’d blown down from the distant mountains.
What you must do, Hawley, is set an example; show those men how to behave. Show them what duty truly means. But most of all, show them what compassion means. When I’m gone, I need you to lead. Not as an officer, but as a man of principle. Can you do that?
Hawley had not thought of Morgard for some time. He reminded himself that the old man had rarely said a word in anger to the soldiers under his command. He had trusted Hawley to continue that tradition when he’d passed.
He’d expected too much.
From the corner of his eye, Hawley saw Tarbert cast an idiotic grin towards Beacher. Then Tarbert spurred his horse and trotted off down the slope.
The dull glow of lamps pierced the grey deluge ahead. Not deserted, then.
They’d travelled two weeks on their fool’s errand, as Beacher liked to call it. And at last they’d found the village they searched for.
Godsrest.
* * *
“Godsrest” sounded like a name to conjure with, but in reality was a cheerless hamlet of eight humble dwellings, a few tumbledown huts, and one large barn that lay down a sloping path towards a grey river. The houses balanced unsteadily on their cobbled tofts, ill protected by poorly repaired thatch.
Two women summoned their children to them and hurried indoors. That much was normal at least. As Hawley knew from bitter experience on both sides of the shield, soldiers brought trouble to rural communities more often than not. There was no one else to be seen, but though the sun had barely found its way to the village square, it was still morning, and most of the men would be out in the fields. There was no planting to be done at this time of year, especially not in this weather. But it was good country for sheep and goats, for those hardy enough to traipse the hilly trails after the flock. In many ways, Hawley thought soldiering offered an easier life than toiling in the fields. A serf’s lot was not a comfortable one, not out here. Here, they would work, or they would starve.
Hawley cracked the thin layer of ice from a water trough so the horses might drink. Tarbert unhitched the hobbling gelding from the back of the wagon and led it to the trough first.
Beacher spat over the side of the wagon. “I can smell a brewhouse.” He looked to Nedley, hopefully, who only snored.
The yeasty scent of fermenting grain carried on the wind. A late batch of ale, using the last of the barley, Hawley guessed. It’d be sure to pique Nedley’s interest if the man woke up long enough to smell it.
“We’re not here to drink,” Hawley said.
“Why are we here? There’s nothing worth piss in this wretched land. You know as well as I there’s no Vigilant in those woods. Not the kind we need.”
“If they’ve got his ring, stands to reason he exists.”
“Pah! Dead and gone, long before any of us were born. More likely the merchant found an old ring and was planning to sell it, but when he lost his consignment, he invented this fairy story to save his neck. Face it, he had no business being this far north. The only people who use the old roads are outlaws and smugglers. Mark my words, we’re chasing shadows. There’s no True Vigilant anywhere.”
Hawley had been ready for this since they’d left the fort, but it made him no less angry.
“So what if there isn’t?” Hawley snarled. “You reckon that frees you from your duty?”
“My duty is to protect the good people of Aelderland, not travel half the country looking for faeries.”
Ianto leaned against the wagon, watching the argument grow. Nedley stirred at last, peering at them from the back of the wagon through half-closed eyes.
Maybe Beacher had a point, but this wasn’t the time to admit it. Hawley took a confident stride forward, summoning his blackest look. Beacher shuffled away from his advance.
“If there’s a True Vigilant, he’ll be able to find them bairns. It’s them you should be thinking about.”
“There’s only one child Lord Scarsdale cares about—that Sylven whelp—and only then because his bitch mother wants to start a war over him. That’s what you get, putting a woman in charge of an army.”
Hawley waved the protest away tiredly. He’d heard it all before.
“Besides,” Beacher went on, growing into his tirade, “even you can’t believe they still live.”
Even you. Beacher’s lack of respect was astounding. He’d barely known Hawley at the time of the sargent’s great transgression. His animosity was secondhand, but seething nonetheless. Men like Beacher needed something to hate, and in times of peace, that something might as well be one of their own. Sargent Holt Hawley, the Butcher of Herigsburg, bringer of misfortune: “awearg.”
“Then we’ll find the bodies, and take ’em home,” Hawley snapped. “If you can’t follow orders, Beacher, you’re no use to me. Leave if you like. Explain to Commander Hobb why you abandoned your mission.”
Beacher looked like he might explode. His face turned a shade of crimson to match his uniform. His hand tensed, hovering over the pommel of his regulation shortsword.
Do it, you bastard, Hawley thought. The sargent had taken plenty of abuse this last year, maybe too much. Some of the men mistook his tolerance for cowardice instead of what it really was: penance. It made them think he would shy from a fight. It made them overreach themselves.
“They say a True Vigilant can commune with the gods.” The voice was Ianto’s, and it was so unexpected, the tone so bright, that it robbed the moment of tension.
Hawley and Beacher both turned to look at the recruit, who still leaned nonchalantly against the wagon, arms folded across his chest.
“Commune with the dead, too. And read minds, they say. That’s how they know if you’re guilty of a crime as soon as they look at you. Such a man is a rarity in these times. Such a man would be… valuable.”
“Speak plain,” Beacher spat.
Ianto pushed himself from the wagon. His fingers rubbed at a little carved bone reliquary that hung about his neck, some trapping of his former calling. “Just that the archduke sent us, as the sargent said. The Archduke Leoric, Lord Scarsdale, High Lord of Wulfshael. Man with that many titles has plenty of money. Plenty of trouble, too—we all know it. The Sylvens could cross the river any time now, right into the Marches. Might even attack the First, then it’s war for sure.”
“The First can handle a bunch of Sylvens,” Beacher said.
“Maybe.” Ianto smiled. “But maybe there’s a handsome reward waiting for the men who find the True Vigilant and avert such a war. I don’t know about you, brother, but I think it would be not unpleasant to have a noble lord in my debt.”
“And what say you, Sargent?”
Hawley almost did not want to persuade Beacher to his cause at all. Part of him thought it would be better to throw the rotten apple from the barrel now, and be done with it. There was a saying among the soldiers “of the Blood”—something about cutting a diseased limb from a tree. But for all his faults, Beacher was liked by the others. Hawley was not. That would make harsh discipline difficult to enforce.
“I say if by some miracle we turn up a true, honest-to-gods Vigilant after all this time,” Hawley said at last, “they’ll be singing our names in every tavern from here to bloody Helmspire. But if you don’t follow your orders, we’ll never know, will we?” Hawley added the last part with menace.
“And if… when… we don’t find the Vigilant?” Beacher narrowed his eyes.
“Then we return to the fort, and be thankful we’ve missed a week of Hobb’s drills.” Hawley held Beacher’s contemptuous glare again.
In the silence, there came the ringing of steel on steel, drifting up the hill from the barn.
Hawley and Beacher looked at Tarbert as one.
“No blacksmith?” Hawley said.
Tarbert laughed nervously.
“There you go,” Ianto said. He came to Beacher’s side and patted the big man on the shoulder. “Our luck’s changing already.”
Beacher finally allowed himself to be led away, still grumbling.
The sargent stretched out his knotted back, feeling muscles pop and joints crack as he straightened fully. Only Tarbert matched Hawley for height, but he was an arid strip of land who barely filled his uniform, with a jaw so slack he was like to catch flies in his mouth while riding vanguard. By contrast, Hawley was six feet of sinewy muscle, forged by hard labour and tempered in battle. He shook rain from his dark hair, and only then did he remember he was not alone.
Nedley was still on the wagon, watching. For once, he didn’t look drunk. Indeed, there was something unnerving in the look he gave Hawley.
Hawley shouldered his knapsack, and hefted up Godspeaker—a large, impractical Felder bastard sword. Non-regulation: an affectation, a prize—a symbol of authority. The men hated that about him, but Hawley could barely care to add it to the tally.
“Make yourself useful, Nedley,” Hawley said, strapping the sword to his back. “Find some supplies. And bloody pay for them. Show the locals that we mean well.”
Hawley snatched the reins from Tarbert, who still looked forlorn. He cared more for the gelding than for most people. Baelsine, named for the blaze of silver grey that zigzagged up its black muzzle. He talked to it like a brother soldier.
“Help Nedley. I’ll go see the smith.”
* * *
A small forge blazed orange. A stocky, soot-faced man with a great beard and thick arms tapped away at a glowing axe-head.
“A moment, stranger,” the man said, without looking up from his work.
Hawley basked in the welcome warmth of the bloomery, indifferent to the acidic tang of molten iron on the thick air.
The smith gave the axe-head a few more raps, before plunging it into a water trough, creating a plume of steam with a satisfying hiss. Only then did he look up at his visitor. Only then did he see the crimson uniform. “My apologies. I… I didn’t know.”
Hawley waved away the apology. “We need your services.”
The smith squinted past Hawley. “How many soldiers?” he asked, suspicion edging into his voice.
“Five.”
“Expectin’ trouble?”
“No more than the ordinary.” It had become standard wisdom that five men of the High Companies were worth more than twenty militia, and no outlaw of the forests would dare confront them. Fewer than five, and there’d be insufficient men to perform sentry and scouting duties. More importantly, there would not be enough to adopt the fighting formation favoured by the companies. The wall of steel. In full armour, every High Companies soldier clad their left arm in pauldron, gardbrace, and vambrace of strong Felder steel, adorned with an ingenious system of five interlocking crescent-shaped plates. When the arm was locked, a spring-loaded mechanism within the soldier’s gauntlet would push the plates outwards, forming a rough circle of steel petals, almost like a shield; but when the arm was straightened, the plates retracted, leaving the arm free of any burden. Some men of the High Companies even had the skill and speed to trap an enemy’s blade within the plates, snapping it in twain with a deft movement. In the press of battle, the soldiers would stand with their armoured left arm facing the foe, right hand wielding the short, thrusting blade, attacking in pairs with one man free to protect the rear and pick off the stragglers. That man was usually Hawley, whose heavy Felder sword needed room to do its grim work.
“This horse threw a shoe a few miles back.” Hawley pointed to Baelsine, tethered near the barn.
The smith squeezed past his anvil to the horse. He lifted the hoof, and sucked at his teeth.
“Won’t be fit for ridin’ today. I’ll shoe him. He can go in the paddock with my dray.”
“Our own drays need feed and water.”
“Ye planning on staying long?”
“Not if we can help it.” Hawley didn’t need consent to bunk in the village, but didn’t like to flaunt his authority. “Perhaps we can be on our way today… with your help.”
“I’m no miracle-worker, sir. That horse’ll go lame if—”
“We can travel on foot from here. But I need you to point the way.”
The smith’s expression grew guarded. Hawley wondered if the man had cause to be suspicious of soldiers, or whether it was the custom of such isolated folk to be wary of strangers.
“Don’t know what help I can be,” the man said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Nor anyone else here, neither. We’re simple folk. We keep to our own.”
“Three weeks ago, perhaps more, an ore merchant passed through Godsrest. He’d been set upon. Beaten, nearly killed. You remember?”
“Aye, I remember.”
“Men from this village helped him fetch his belongings. And among those belongings was a silver ring. You remember that?”
“Something of the like.”
“Someone saved that merchant’s life. We think it was the same man who owned the ring. We need to find him.”
“Don’t know nothing about that. Some o’ the lads brung him to the village. I mended his wagon, he stayed a couple o’ days while he recovered his strength, then he left.”
“Fair enough.” Hawley took out his map and unfolded it. “You can show me where he was found?”
The smith squinted at the map. “Old map,” he said. “Them roads aren’t there any more. Forest claimed ’em, and nobody in their right mind would travel ’em. Exceptin’ your merchant, o’course.”
“Show me, as best as you can.”
The smith pointed at a spot in the woods, near to a road that supposedly was no longer there.
Hawley circled the spot with his charcoal, and frowned.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“How’d you mean, sir?” Was that nervousness? A quaver of the voice; a twist of the lip?
“You said you brought him here. But how’d you know to look for him?” Hawley studied the map. “No shepherd of any sense would graze his flock north of the river, let alone enter that forest. Unless he’s particularly fond of wolves—or bandits.”
“Had a bad season. Some o’ the younger lads were out hunting the game trails. Heard the commotion. When they got there, they found an injured man and an empty wagon.”
“Poaching in your lord’s woods?” Hawley said.
“Nobody lays claim to the Elderwood, sir. Not our lord, not nobody else. Them woods is cursed, they say. Them woods is… haunted.”
“But your hunters aren’t afraid of ghosts?”
“They’ve the good sense not to stray too far.” The smith eyed Hawley carefully. “You’re not a soldier born,” he said at last.
Hawley glowered.
“I mean no disrespect. All us folk of Godsrest abide by the king’s law, and serve the king’s men when required. It’s just that… well… you try to speak proper, sir, is what I mean. But your roots are clear. It’s like working a bloom that don’t contain enough iron, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m a sargent of the Third Company, that’s all that matters.”
Footsteps squelched loudly along the muddy path. Ianto appeared, that thin smirk upon his lips. He looked at the smith with keen eyes—mean eyes, Hawley thought.
“I told you to stay with the wagon,” Hawley said sharply.
“I thought you’d want to know there’s some… trouble.”
There was something almost lascivious about Ianto’s manner, and it sent a cold, warning creep up Hawley’s spine.
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that gives soldiers a bad name.”
* * *
Hawley followed the sounds of shrieking, pleading. The odd obscenity. The pained bleating of some animal. Hawley rounded the cob wall of a cottage to see three women of middle age remonstrating with Nedley. The soldier was stood near the largest hut, foot resting on a keg, sloshing ale down his throat from a flagon. Two more kegs lay on the track nearby. One had cracked open, dark ale foaming into the dirt. Behind Nedley, Beacher played tug-of-war with a red-headed boy, over the rope around the neck of a nanny-goat swollen with kid. The beast bleated pitifully as the noose tightened about its neck. Tarbert stood near, clapping his hands in joy at the unfolding chaos.
The woman doing most of the shouting rushed to Nedley, shrugging aside the half-hearted attempts of the others to hold her back. She pounded her fists against Nedley’s chest. The soldier belched in her face, and shoved her away roughly. She spun into the arms of her companions as Nedley drained his flagon.
“Nedley!”
At Hawley’s shout, Nedley narrowed his eyes in an insolent glare, the likes of which Hawley had never seen from the man. He wiped ale foam from his beard, but he did not answer.
As Hawley drew near, Nedley’s hand moved just an inch towards the pommel of his sword.
That was everything Hawley needed to know. He lowered his head like an angered bull, and didn’t so much as check his stride. Nedley thought better of drawing steel. Hawley shoved Nedley away from the hut. The drunkard shot Hawley another glare, but did nothing.
The boy cried out. The three women wailed and cursed.
The boy was in the mud now, holding his face, sobbing. Beacher had slapped him to the ground. But the boy cried not from pain but from sorrow. The goat was dead, blood spilling onto dirty straw from an ugly wound in its throat. Beacher had his sword in his hand, a grin on his blood-flecked face. Tarbert laughed like an imbecile. His laughter died on his lips when he saw Hawley.
Hawley kicked open the gate of the animal pen.
Beacher hadn’t even noticed Hawley. At the interruption he said only, “Nedley, I told you—”
Hawley grabbed Beacher by the ear, twisted hard, and pulled him away from the goat with all his strength. Beacher squealed like a stuck pig as Hawley dragged him to the gate. Hawley spun the man around, and gave him a kick up the arse that sent him face-first into the dirt, his shortsword skittering from his hand.
Tarbert had taken a step forward, slack-jawed face more agawp than usual. Hawley slapped him hard across the side of the head for his trouble. Tarbert cowered like a kicked dog.
Hawley took one look back at the weeping boy and the dead goat. The animal was worth far more alive than dead to these people. The family’s meagre fortunes may well have depended upon the creature. And now they would struggle, for the simple greed of a soldier. Hawley stepped onto the track, Beacher in his sights.
Nedley had picked up his flagon again, more concerned with saving the last undamaged ale keg than helping his brother soldier. The villagers could scarce spare the ale either, Hawley thought. But one thing at a time.
One of the women pushed past Hawley to see to the boy. The other two, realising Nedley was no longer standing in their way, came to scream at Beacher.
Ianto reappeared. He stood over by the cottage, leaning against the wall, watching. Grinning.
Now the smith appeared, hammer in hand. That was the danger. Hawley had to deal with Beacher before any villager got involved. Otherwise, he’d be hard-pressed to stop even this band of good-for-nothings taking vengeance on the peasants.
Beacher rolled over, scrambling away on his elbows. “Don’t you touch me!” he snarled, blinking away mud from his eyes. His hand found the pommel of his shortsword in the dirt. His fingers curled around the hilt, and his expression changed at once. He clambered to his feet and spat, “You filthy mongrel!”
Mongrel. Not one of “the Blood,” who could trace their family back through five or more generations of military service. Looking at the state of the men around him, Hawley couldn’t take it as much of an insult.
Hawley advanced another step. “Sheathe that sword,” he said quietly, almost in a growl. “Sheathe it, or I’ll kill you.” He held Beacher’s gaze, saw the man’s eyes falter. Beacher believed him. He was right to.
Beacher pleaded with his brother soldiers left and right for support. Hawley heard Tarbert behind him, but the dullard was of little concern. Nedley… now there was an unknown quantity. Up until now, Hawley hadn’t taken the drunkard seriously. That could have been a mistake. Nedley was staring at Hawley with utter detachment, like a butcher appraising which cut of meat to take next. But he didn’t make a move. When Beacher looked to Ianto, the recruit gave only the merest shrug of his shoulders, as if to say, “This is not my fight.” He may not have been a friend to Hawley, but nor was he one of the Blood. He’d wait and see which way the wind blew before committing himself.
Beacher stood alone, and he knew it. He took a moment to weigh up his chances against Hawley, and found them lacking. He sheathed the blade and spread his palms.
Hawley marched to Beacher, loomed over him, pressed his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. Beacher averted his eyes, like a wild dog that had just lost a pack challenge. Hawley reached to Beacher’s belt and took the man’s sword away with no resistance.
Other villagers arrived now. Seven or eight men and youths tramped up the hill, pointing, chattering. Their approach was cautious. There weren’t enough men in this village to cause the soldiers real problems, but enough that they might try. And die.
Any sense of decorum was lost. Any chance Hawley’s reserves had of looking like proper soldiers was gone.
“Ianto, Nedley. Get him away,” Hawley said. “To the bridge. Wait for me there.”
Neither man moved. Nedley gazed at the flagon, weighing up the order.
“I said get him away. Now.”
Ianto exchanged looks with Nedley and shrugged again. Nedley finished his dregs, tossed the flagon aside, and weighed in. Together they led Beacher away from the gathering villagers, down towards the river.
Tarbert staggered from the pen at last, nursing his sore ear. Hawley jerked his head in the direction of the others. Without a word, Tarbert followed.
Rightly or wrongly, Hawley had done the men an insult—one that might yet come back to bite him on the arse. As king’s men, they had the right to claim whatever they wanted from a serf, and by denying them their perceived due, Hawley had only deepened their loathing of him. He might even face more punishment back at the barracks, once Beacher had made his inevitable complaint. Hawley was past caring. What he needed to do right now was make amends with the villagers.
“Master Smith—” Hawley ventured.
“Godsrest is a peaceful place,” the smith interrupted. “Apt named, for we honour the gods here and invite no trouble. You’ve brought trouble to our door.”
The other men drew nearer. Hawley weighed up his chances of regaining the smith’s trust before they took exception to his presence.
“They’re soldiers… not good ones, I admit. But you’ll have no more trouble.”
“No?”
“No. Look, Master Smith—”
“Gereth. My name is Gereth. And that boy over there is my son.”
Hawley turned to see the dishevelled lad on his feet at last, being comforted by a woman. From the mane of red hair that tumbled from her bonnet, Hawley guessed she was his mother—Gereth’s wife. She held her son close, and glared accusingly at Hawley, who cursed Beacher’s name under his breath.
“Gereth, then. You know the law. You know the power of the High Companies. I would choose not to exercise that power. Let’s come to an arrangement instead. See to our horses as agreed, and I’ll pay you fairly.”
“That much I’ll do, sir, as duty to manor and king dictates.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ My name’s Hawley. Holt Hawley. You were right before, I am a common man, from a place much like this. I chose this life ’cause I was tired of seeing common folk—people like us—downtrodden and uncared for.”
“Then you chose poorly, Holt Hawley.”
“Maybe. But there’s no leaving the companies once your bunk is made, unless it be on a pyre, an enemy’s blade, or the end of a noose. So I do what I can, and I’ll at least talk straight with you.”
The others gathered around. Hawley didn’t know how much they’d overheard, and it didn’t matter. As a craftsman, Gereth was of a higher station than they. Gereth was the one he needed to convince.
“You had little reason to trust me before,” Hawley went on, “and even less now. But I’ll tell you why we’re here. This past year, six bairns have been taken from their homes. Six—that we know of. One of them is a lad of wealth, a foreigner. You’ve no reason to care for such a boy, why would you? But the others… they’re from villages like this, poorer than this. Boys and girls of Aelderland. Boys younger than your own. They’re lost, and nobody can find them. Not the high lords, not the companies, and certainly not the bloody Vigilants. But it’s said that there’s somebody in these parts who could help. A True Vigilant, of the old order. If it’s true, then maybe he can find those children, where others have failed.”
Gereth shook his head. “Fairy stories, Holt Hawley. There’s nobody alive who’s ever seen such a man. Not many who’ve even heard of one, neither.”
“That merchant,” Hawley persisted, “said he was helped by a mysterious stranger. Didn’t get a good look at him, but he did find his ring. A Vigilant’s ring.”
Gereth waved a dismissive hand. “As I’ve said, there’s nowt in them woods but trouble. If you want to go chasing shadows, that’s your affair. All we can offer you is food and water for yer horses and a dry place for yer wagon.”
Hawley sighed. He reached to his scrip and took out a few silver pieces. “For your trouble.”
“Keep it.”
“Come on… you’ve lost livestock, supplies. Let me compensate you.”
Gereth looked Hawley square in the eye. “Keep it, and go in peace.”
The villagers stared at Hawley. Women had come out of their homes to scowl at him. Hawley put the money back in his scrip and nodded ruefully.
He went to the wagon and retrieved two packs, heaving them one on each shoulder. “I’ll come back for the rest,” he said.
“No, we’ll bring ’em,” Gereth replied. He didn’t want the soldiers in the village a moment longer than necessary, and Hawley couldn’t blame him.
Hawley walked past the assembled villagers, down the hill to the bridge where his men idled, doubtless cursing his name still.
Gereth followed, a couple of young lads in tow, with the rest of the packs. They weathered the sullen glares of the reserves just as well as Hawley. Hawley was impressed, but then he’d always thought the northerners were a tough breed.
As the villagers piled the supplies at Hawley’s feet, Gereth leaned in.
“Just don’t stray far from the trails,” he said. “The Elderwood has no end, and it’s easy to get turned around. You’re like to get lost… or worse. Cross the bridge, then head north. You’ll pass a trapper’s shack after a few hours, so you’ll know you’re on the right path. It’s near enough a day’s walk to the old trade road.”
“You really don’t know any more?” Hawley tried once more to plead with the man. He still felt like the smith knew more than he was letting on.
“All I know is, you’re more likely to find a witch in them woods than a Vigilant.”
With that, Gereth and the youths returned up the hill, leaving Hawley to weather the glares of his men, and their whispered accusations of giving up the secrets of their mission to a commoner.
CHAPTER 2
The great, dark Elderwood was the largest expanse of virgin woodland in the north. It felt like a foreign place to Hawley. Back home, most of the forests had been stripped to flush out outlaws. Those patches of woodland that remained were now skeletal and sparse, their foliage not yet replenished from the ravages of winter. Here, the trees were tall and evergreen, towering firs, canopies conical and black, full of scurrying animals and the screeching of unfamiliar birds.
With aching limbs and sweat-soaked uniforms, the soldiers had finally found a break in the trees, where at last the Third Company reserves could breathe free air and catch a glimpse of the moon and stars above. Tarbert took point, carrying his torch ahead.
They’d found the old trade road sure enough. Once providing passage east to west, skirting the mountainous border with Reikenfeld, it had long since been left to ruin.
A wagon lay wrecked on a rough, wide dirt road lined irregularly with crumbled stone long broken by twisted roots. Its front axle was split, and two wheels were splintered. Why a merchant would venture on this ill-used road in the first place was a mystery—presumably someone had questioned the man on the matter, but the details hadn’t been conveyed to Hawley. Most likely Beacher was right. Maybe the merchant had been skimming off the profits, taking excess ore from the mines to sell to the Felders. Whoever had attacked him had taken his consignment with them.
“It’s this way,” Tarbert called.
Hawley realised he’d been caught in his thoughts. The others were already gathered around Tarbert. Beacher wore an expression of impatience.
“Signs of a fight, Sarge,” Tarbert explained as Hawley joined them. “And something got carted off this way.” He pointed east.
“How many men?” Hawley asked.
“Tracks is too old, Sarge. An overloaded wagon and at least four horses, but everything else has been washed away. Road’s overgrown down there. You can see how it’s been trampled.”
Hawley just nodded. Tarbert was an idiot, true enough—it was repeated incompetence and forgetfulness that led to his stint in the reserves—but he was a good tracker. It was the one thing Hawley trusted the man for.
“No sign of any rings, Tarbert?” Beacher asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Rings? Like, jewellery? No, not seen any rings.”
“No? How about staffs, or grey robes, or medallions emblazoned with the Eye of Litha? No?” Beacher smirked as Tarbert shook his head. “Well, there’s a fine thing, Sarge. Not so much as a note showing us where this hundred-year-old Vigilant vanished to. What are we to do?”
Hawley tried his best not to react. He repeated Morgard’s words in his head like a mantra.
“The only lead we have is these bandits, or whoever they were,” Hawley said. “If the merchant really was rescued by a Vigilant, then maybe the bandits saw where he went. If we track ’em down, then…”
“For pity’s sake!” Beacher snapped. His anger was real, but the snarl on his face was immediately checked by fear—the memory of his earlier beating, perhaps. He lowered his tone just a shade, but not enough for Hawley’s liking. “Whoever they were—bandits, raiders, rival merchants—they’re long gone. They could be over the mountains to Reikenfeld by now.”
“You knew what you were signing up for,” Hawley said. “Finding the wagon was only the start. From here, we have to work out where this bloody Vigilant might have gone.”
“Come on, Sargent,” Beacher said, for once using Hawley’s rank, though not respectfully. “It’s a tall tale from a desperate man. The Vigilant never existed.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Ianto chimed. “Who knows the ways of the old Vigilants? Maybe he can appear and disappear at will. Like a ghost.”
“Don’t say that!” Tarbert said. “Don’t say… ghost.” He’d been on edge ever since he’d heard the village whispers about ghosts and witches.
“Look,” Beacher said, trying and failing to sound reasonable, “nobody really expects us to find him. And as you say, we don’t have any leads other than some old tracks and a couple of empty carts. If you were hoping for some miracle to point the way, it hasn’t come. Let’s just make camp, rest up, then go back. Maybe we take a few extra days, to make it look good, y’know?”
Everyone looked at Hawley hopefully. Except maybe Ianto, whose thin, knowing smirk was one lip-twitch away from baiting Hawley’s temper again. Hawley puffed out his cheeks.
“Meet you halfway,” he said. “We make camp, and in the morning we follow that trail for one day, and one day only. If nothing turns up, we can leave.”
“Waste of time…” Beacher grumbled.
“One day, Beacher,” Hawley said more firmly. “At least we can make a show of doing our duty.”
Hawley pushed past Beacher and walked a few yards along the road. He was acutely aware of Nedley staring at him, silently, as he had back at Godsrest. He shook his head in frustration.
“Spread out,” he called back. “Check the area, make sure nobody can get the drop on—”
Hawley almost tripped as his boot hit a half-buried stone in the dark. A pitted and moss-covered marker, of a kind he had seen many times on the mining tracks of Hintervael as a youth. It pointed northeast.
Hawley stopped, and rubbed his scrappy beard thoughtfully, staring into the dark woods.
It was Ianto who was first to approach.
“What is it, Sargent?” he asked. Although Hawley had little time for the man, it was the first thing anyone had said to him all day that wasn’t laced with either disrespect or outright malice.
“I think… there’s another trail, down there.” Hawley nodded into the shadows.
Ianto squinted. The others approached, Tarbert stepping forward with his torch, cautiously scanning the ground in the direction Hawley was looking.
“What now?” Beacher said, coming to join them.
They were interrupted by a sudden “oof” from Tarbert, and the jerk of his torchlight in the dark.
“I’m all right!” Tarbert called. “Nearly went down a ditch. There’s a sunken trail here. A holloway.”
Hawley went to look. Sure enough, a narrow road, even more ancient than the trade road, wound off to the northeast, right where the marker was pointing.
“That’s not a road,” Beacher said. “A beast trail, at best. You can’t surely be thinking…”
Hawley nodded to Tarbert, who clambered down the bank, lighting the way for the others to see. It was a road all right, now a deep, V-shaped trench in the earth, concealed by arching branches that gave it the appearance of a tunnel. Called holl wægs in the old tongue, holloways were well-worn paths, some said to be a thousand years old, sunken by the constant tread of long-ago traffic, and now forgotten. But it wasn’t merely the holloway that had piqued Hawley’s interest.
“That stone marker,” Hawley said. “It’s not a waymarker like the others. It’s a sanctuary marker, from long before the last war. They point to the next safe haven in the wilds. A watchtower, a keep, a fortified inn…”
“An inn?” Beacher scoffed. “If only that were true, Nedley could blaze us a trail in no time.”
“I’ve seen its like many times,” Hawley said. “Those abandoned outposts are often used as shelter by outlaws. Or… desperate folk. If the marker’s here, the haven can’t be far, and it’d be a good place for our quarry to hole up.” Something in Hawley’s memories almost made his throat dry up and his voice crack just a little, but he fought to keep his composure. He was right about this; he knew it in his gut.
“The tracks lead east… Sargent.” There was the barb Hawley had come to expect from Beacher.
“Aye. But our path leads north.”
Beacher flapped his arms in exasperation.
“Make camp,” Hawley said. “Tarbert, scout the area. Nedley, you’re on first watch. We head out at dawn.”
* * *
Feorndaeg, 24th Day of Sollomand
The men had been quiet since breaking their fast, and in Hawley’s experience that usually spelled trouble. They laboured through uneven terrain, into a part of the Elderwood that seemed impossibly ancient. There was a chill in the air. Drizzle pattered on dark leaves. Otherwise, there was silence but for the breaths of the soldiers and the snapping of twigs beneath their mail-shod boots.
It came as some relief when they saw light ahead, where the holloway broadened and the forest opened up into a clearing. The relief was short-lived.
Here, the character of the woods seemed to change. The air felt colder still, the light weaker, somehow grey, as though the colour was drained from the world. Dead, skeletal trees leaned in overhead, trailing off alongside the clearing to create a broad, shadowed avenue. And at the end of that avenue, just as Hawley had predicted, was a tower.
Ancient structures such as this lay scattered across the land, a reminder of long-ago days when the seven mearcas of Aelderland were each kingdoms in their own right, who warred with each other relentlessly. So much so that they were too weak individually to fight the much larger kingdoms of Reikenfeld to the north, Sylverain to the south, and Tördengard beyond the western mountains. Centuries of war laid waste to palaces and bartons, cities and monuments, which some elders claimed were finer than any standing today.
Hawley did not think the tower before him could ever have been very fine. The upper portion was mostly fallen away. If ever it had maintained battlements, they were long gone. Ivy clung to its south face, as though holding together the weak stonework. The tower was probably older than the forest itself, built at a time when the north was said to be home to vile creatures, and the men who lived here were held in thrall to witchcraft. It seemed unthinkable that anyone could live here, so far removed from fellowship. But someone did: Wispy smoke drifted idly from the open roof.
He took half a dozen steps before he realised the men were not following. He turned to see them staring at the tower warily. Tarbert in particular had the look of a spooked horse about him, his wide eyes and long face compensating for the absence of a steed. Their arrival at the tower should have vindicated Hawley’s decision to march this trail, but it seemed only to unsettle the motley reserves. Hawley pulled his roughspun cloak more tightly about his shoulders, and beckoned the soldiers on.
“I don’t like the look of this place,” Beacher grumbled.
Hawley found himself in agreement with Beacher for the first time on the journey. “For good or ill, this is the end of it. If the Vigilant isn’t here, I don’t know where else to look.”
As if in reply, a black cloud passed overhead, enveloping the clearing almost entirely in darkness. Tarbert whimpered softly.
“Tarbert, light a torch,” Hawley said, as much to give the simpleton something to do as to provide some light. Tarbert pulled off his leather gauntlets and fumbled in his knapsack for a tinder. Hawley noticed the man had cut himself, his left hand bound clumsily. Another mishap to blame on Hawley, no doubt.
With the torchlight making the minutest improvement to the forest’s oppressive atmosphere, Hawley led the way to the tower’s ironbound door. Hawley weighed up the risks, considering carefully that the tower was more likely occupied by outlaws than by a True Vigilant. Gereth could well have sent them into a trap, which was as much as this band of miscreants deserved.
Hawley felt the restless shifting of the men at his back. So, decisively, he pounded thrice upon the door. The raps echoed within the tower. Hawley shuffled away from the door, possessed abruptly by a strong sense that his presence here was unwanted. Forbidden.
At first there was a deathly silence over the clearing. Then came the drawing of a metal bolt, rasping and squealing. Then the turning of a key in a large, old lock. The door inched open with a creak, revealing dancing shadows and the reddish hues of flickering firelight within the tower.
From the darkness beyond the door, a face emerged. Not the face of a powerful man who could read thoughts and commune with gods. Not the face of a man at all.
An old woman squinted at Hawley through eyes framed with wrinkles. All Hawley could see of her was that she was slight, and wore a grey bonnet, from beneath which snow-white locks of hair protruded. Small, gnarled fingers wrapped around the door, preventing it opening further. Her eyes, narrow slits in a well-worn face, darted from man to man, each appraisal increasing the suspicion in the elder’s features.
“I…” Hawley began, his apprehension replaced by the slow drip of disappointment. “I’m Sargent Hawley of the Third. Is your master home?”
There was an awkward silence. Finally, the woman replied, “Third what?”
“What? I… The Third Company.” Silence. “Of… the High Companies. What else?”
“Very grand, I’m sure.”
Hawley glanced over his shoulder at the men. Tarbert smiled like a fool; Nedley was expressionless as ever; Beacher glowered, both at Hawley and the woman. Ianto offered his familiar shrug. With a sigh, Hawley turned back to the woman.
“Is your master home?” he tried again.
“Master?” The woman gave a small chuckle. “There’s been no master here for many a long year.”
“Mistress then,” he ventured.
“This is my home,” she said again. Then scowled at the soldiers. “You’re not here to throw me out, are you?”
“Throw you out? Why would we?”
“They always said, ‘That place be too grand for you, Nell. Get ideas above your station, you will. King Ealwarth will throw you out on your ear if he finds you.’”
“Ealwarth?”
Hawley heard one of the men behind him snort with laughter. King Ealwarth had died before Hawley was born. He had been the Usurper, who overthrew his cousin, Athelwyn, during the War of Silver and Gold, and was widely credited with ushering in the Age of Peace. His great-grandson, Eadred, the Boy King, now sat on the throne. Hardly a boy, in truth, but barely in manhood either.
Hawley looked at the woman’s blank expression. All of this history of kings would doubtless come as news to her. He thought hard; his frustration was making it difficult to keep a clear head.
“Do you live here alone?”
“Eh?” she said loudly.
Deaf as well as daft, Hawley thought. “I said: Do you live alone?”
“Alone? No, I got Bartholomew for company.”
“Ah.” Hawley almost laughed with relief. “And where is Bartholomew now?”
“In ’ere.” She turned her head into the gloom and called out, “Tell ’im, Barty. You tell ’im.”
There came an avian squawk, followed by a screeching utterance.
“Tell ’im! Tell ’im! Barty-Barty-Barty!”
Hawley pinched at his furrowed brow and took a deep breath. “And besides… ‘Barty’… does anyone else live here? Or nearby?”
“Oo… no. I ain’t seen a living soul since… What day is it?”
“Feorndaeg,” Hawley answered, although he was not entirely sure himself.
The woman counted on her bony fingers, then replied, “No, I forget when.”
“Some Vigilant…” Beacher scoffed.
The woman’s eyes fixed on Beacher, then one by one examined the soldiers again.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, looking at Tarbert.
Tarbert winced as if noticing for the first time. The binding around his hand was stained with fresh blood. He hid his hand behind his back and looked shiftily at Hawley.
“I can give you a poultice,” the woman said. “Many herbs and remedies here. The forest provides for Old Nell.”
Hawley felt Beacher draw close to his ear, the man’s breath on his skin. “She’s a bloody witch,” he whispered.
“Witch?” the woman said, her hearing apparently much keener than they’d thought. “I’m a respec’ble woman! I knows my way around a forest, an’ I know what’ll kill or cure, but I’m no witch.”
An idea occurred to Hawley. “Your remedies… you peddle them at Godsrest?”
“I stay away from people as much as possible. Nowt but trouble, they are. But Old Nell makes herself useful when she can. Like to see you young ’uns do as well when you get to my age.”
Hawley could not conceive of any soldier reaching this woman’s venerable age. Even Commander Morgard had succumbed before his sixty-first winter, and he had looked not so old as her.
“Do you remember a merchant wagon passing through the forest some weeks ago?” Hawley persisted. “An ore merchant, attacked on the old forest road.”
“We don’t see many strangers, Barty and me… Remember him, I does. Saw ’im, we did, but he didn’t see Old Nell, oh no.”
“You saw who ambushed him?”
“Who? Or what? Long way from home, he was. Brung trouble on himself. There’s things that dwell hereabouts. Dark things. You must’ve heard ’em, or seen ’em. Or… felt ’em?”
Hawley suppressed a shudder.
“What are you saying, woman?” Ianto interrupted. “We’ve seen no ‘dark things.’” He sounded stern, but rubbed the reliquary about his neck nervously.
The old woman fixed Ianto with a steely glare. “Seen a lot of things in my time here,” she said. “But I never seen a monk dressed like a soldier.”
“He’s no monk,” Beacher scoffed. “He’s from Maserfelth. Touched in the head he is.”
Ianto’s smirk dissipated for the first time since Hawley had known him. He shot Beacher a look of annoyance, then said, “Careful, woman. This here is the Butcher of Herigsburg. Maybe he will throw you out of this tower and reclaim it in the name of the king.”
Hawley gave Ianto a look that could turn back a mountain stream.
“You know what that merchant was carrying?” the woman asked. If Ianto’s callous threat was meant to frighten her, it appeared not to have succeeded.
“Iron ore,” Hawley replied, though now he felt less certain.
“Ha! Iron ain’t worth fightin’ over. No. Whoever set on him was after blackrock.”
Almost in unison, the soldiers stepped away from the door, as though the woman had put a curse on them all. Ianto touched his upright forefinger to his brow—the sign of the Saint’s Sword, to ward off evil. Nedley spat into the dirt.
“Blackrock,” Hawley muttered. A rare ore, of immense value. Its only use, as far as anyone knew, was in sorcery, long outlawed in Aelderland. It was mined in small quantities and sold to other kingdoms—its dark properties did not deter the king from profiting from its sale. And the old woman’s implication was clear. Everyone knew dark forces were drawn to the blackrock.
“You’re saying those men were attacked by… by…” Beacher stuttered, “Riftborn?”
Hawley resisted the urge to clout Beacher around the ear. The Riftborn—what some men called demons—were creatures of myth and legend. Veterans of the War of Silver and Gold claimed to have fought against them, during great battles where immortals and men allied against evil. But these were nothing more than the fancies of old soldiers who had suffered much. And yet those stories held great sway in the High Companies, where tradition—and superstition—were valued more highly than common sense.
The old woman chuckled. “Maybe. Weren’t no bodies left behind, were there? Maybe they got spirited off to the pits of Uffærn.”
Hawley thought he could hear Tarbert’s knees knocking at the naming of the hellish underworld. He wanted nothing more than to be away from the old woman himself, but she was the only soul they’d encountered in the woods, and if she knew a single thing of use, he had to coax it out of her.
“There was something else found nearby. A ring.”
“A ring, sir?”
“Yes. A silver ring. One that once belonged to a Vigilant.”
“A vig’lant? Well, I never!” the woman gasped. “And you have it, do you, this ring?”
“No, it’s in the possession of Lord Scarsdale.”
“Who?”
Hawley sighed. “Never mind. No, I haven’t got the ring.”
“But you seen it?”
“No, I—”
“Well then!” the woman said resolutely. “Seein’ is believin’, ain’t it?”
“She has a point, Sargent,” Ianto said quietly. “Think about it. What if the ring was just a trick by… them?”
“Clever one, he is,” the woman said. “Aye, the Riftborn know all the tricks. Maybe they sent the ring so’s you soldiers would come runnin’. If I were you, I’d wonder why they wanted you here, in these dark woods, so far from home.”
“It’s not us they bloody want,” Beacher snarled.
“Awearg…” Tarbert whispered, taking another step back. Hawley turned crossly. Tarbert gave him the most fearful look.
“Pull yourselves together!” Hawley snapped. He addressed the woman one more time. “If you don’t know about the Vigilant, maybe you know where the local outlaws make camp? You’re out here all alone—it’d be safer for you if we brought them to justice.”
Nell shrugged. “If I were you, good sirs, I’d worry more about yourselves. Dark forces are at work here. Very dark.” She widened her eyes to eme her point. They were of a deep sea green, lively as cresting waves—Hawley found them unsettlingly youthful-looking in one so old.
“I don’t believe in Riftborn, or curses…” Hawley said.
Beacher grumbled something unintelligible. Hawley could guess what it was.
“But there’s no point staying here longer than we have to,” he finished.
The woman seemed to be looking past Hawley, scrutinising the other men quite keenly. Then she nodded, and said simply, “Good day, sirs.”
She closed the door before Hawley could utter another word. And that, he supposed, was that.
Magic is forgotten.
Honor is no more.
From the Darkness, a Legend will return.
The Last Vigilant is an utterly gripping epic fantasy where an out-of-practice wizard and an outcast soldier are thrust into the heart of a mystery that threatens to unravel their kingdom’s fragile peace.
“A wonderful tale set within a well-drawn fantastical world. I loved it.” — John Gwynne, New York Times bestselling author
“A page-turning mix of mystery and epic fantasy.” — Anthony Ryan, New York Times bestselling author
“Latham is an adept at creating sympathetic characters and reinventing fantasy in a way that will have influence on many books after The Last Vigilant.”―Booklist (starred review)
War between once-peaceful nations is on the horizon, and the child of a powerful ally is missing. Now Holt Hawley, an outcast soldier, has been sent to find a myth: a Vigilant, one of the last survivors of an ancient and powerful order whose magic could be key to finding the child. But the Vigilants disappeared long ago. No one truly expects him to succeed.
Then, in a fabled forest, he stumbles upon a woman who claims to be the last Vigilant. Enelda Drake is wizened and out of practice, and she seems a far cry from the heroes of legend. But they will need her powers, and each other, to survive. For nothing in their kingdom is as it seems. Corrupt soldiers and calculating politicians thwart their efforts at every turn.
And there are dark whispers on the wind, threatening the arrival of a primordial and powerful enemy. The Vigilant is not the only myth returning from the dead.
The Last Vigilant begins an epic fantasy trilogy where legends are forged and reforged, where the line between ally and enemy is razor thin, and where the only people holding the darkness of monsters and men at bay are the few who choose to stand fast.
