Belly of the Beast

by Warren Thomas

“He is also gray-haired,” Raven said. “Elves don’t get wrinkles and gray hair like humans, either. and he’s starting to get a very human paunch, though he hides it well.” She paused a moment, staring into space. “I’ve never heard of a balding elf, either. But who know?”

  Tane thought on that a moment.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tane said. “He’s our comrade, and my friend. Just like you are, and I’ll not stand around speaking ill of him. He’s a good man, and we all know it.”

  They all looked at him with surprise. Then, shame-faced, Raven turned away to begin her clean up duties. Joelle and Armin frowned a moment, then wandered off whispering to each other. Tane watched them go, but felt good about their reaction.

  They had all spoken ill of everyone else at one time or another, but this was the first time any had shown any sign of regret afterwards. Perhaps they would make a team after all. Perhaps they could all be friends.

  The next week went much like the previous day, except everyone was issued heavy scale mail coats with double-thick iron shoulder plates and iron helmets to drill with. Tane was disgusted to learn the armor would only be for practice, and they would have to fight in whatever personal armor they owned. If someone, like himself, didn’t own any armor, too bad. He couldn’t understand the military mind that would provide protection against wooden swords, but took it away when edged steel was threatened.

  Broken bones weren’t acceptable, but the army had no problem with bloody death.

  Chapter 18

  Nizar al-Sayyid sat his spirited gray stallion with feigned ease. The mob of refugees that shared the muddy road with him gave Nizar and his horses plenty of space, and more than a few wary looks. But Nizar gave them little notice, for the sun had already dropped below the surrounding forest and another night in that damnable, dank forest was at hand if he failed.

  The gate he intended to enter Kestsax through sat off to his right, called the Stone Dragon Gate, across the well-trampled fields where the army was preparing for the coming war. The various units had begun to assemble and enter the city for the night, unhampered by refugees since gate guards kept them away. It was time to make his move.

  Nizar urged his stallion off the road and toward the distant gatehouse. Careful to skirt the few remaining units well beyond hailing distance, he rode as quickly as his protesting rump would allow. A single gate guard moved to post himself far enough out to intercept Nizar before he could block the road with his mount and cause problems. Nizar had anticipated the move, so stiffened his spine and gather a superior aura about himself.

  He had never owned a horse before, and rarely rode anywhere if he could avoid it, despite his mother being born a desert nomad. At the moment, the hard ride from Treversax to Kestsax had jarred him so badly he felt as if every joint in his body had been jolted loose and his rear end smashed to pulp. But despite that, he luxuriated in the knowledge that he looked like the prince he was born to be.

  Dakar had provided him with clothes and accouterments for his disguise as a prince of the Qakara Desert. His turban and veil were the crimson of desert royalty, as was his woolen cloak. Unfortunately, the turban and veil were the extent of desert apparel to be found in Treversax, so he was forced to make do with local styles and hoped no one questioned him on it. He did not anticipate any trouble, for his experience showed the Lelts and local Jarlanders knew little or nothing of his homeland. So Nizar arrived at Kestsax with dark blue trousers tucked into tall black boots, and a shirt of the softest, whitest silk he had ever encountered under a wine red brocade vest. Nizar rode unarmored, but well-armed with two throwing daggers, a belt knife, and a splendid sword. His sumpter carried two full suits of armor, one of chain mail and one of steel plate, which he wasn’t comfortable inside, but no true prince would be caught without armor.

  The sword was called a “steppe sword” by everyone save the Steppe nomads who first created them. Slightly curved, single-edged, with a disk guard and two-handed hilt, it was the preferred weapon of the fierce steppe nomads between the Desert Kingdoms and the Tyr Mountains. His sword had a bright crimson scabbard and leather wrapped hilt of dark red. It had been the personal sword of King Aballion of Treversax, said to be a battle trophy taken off a great mercenary general.

  “Halt! Declare yourself,” the young gate guard demanded.

  Nizar let his lips peel back in an arrogant sneer at the soldier. He had chosen his egress point well. The small side gate was closed to all save military traffic, so would allow him to bypass the forced inductions at the main gates Dakar’s spies had warned him about. And the look of consternation that clouded the heavily armed fellow’s face showed Nizar he had guessed correctly about the manner of man left to guard the gate as well. Common-born, the soldier possessed an inbred wariness of the high born. If nothing else, Nizar was sure the youth would see the splendid, well-mounted figure before him as noble, if not royal. Who else but a noble would dare try gain entrance through that gate?

  “I am Prince Nizar al-Sayyid of Tamera,” Nizar said, mimicking the sneering haughtiness of his half-brothers whenever they had encountered him. “Stand aside, soldier. I have business within the city.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry, milord,” he said, refusing to step aside and beginning to look around for support. “But I’m afraid I have to ask you to dismount and hand over those reins.”

  “What!”

  The soldier blanched, but remained resolute, saying, “I am sorry, milord, but by order of Borric III, King of Kestsax, all mounts are to be...uh...turned over to the army for the duration of the war. I’m real sorry, milord, but I have my orders.”

  Nizar’s smile was icy. “How amusing. But I am not your “lord,” but a prince. You will address me as ‘your majesty’ from now on. Understand?”

  “Aye, mi...your majesty,” he said. “But I still – ”

  “But nothing, cur! I am a prince and emissary of the Sultan of Tamera!” Nizar snarled, reaching for his hilt. He was careful not to draw the blade, for Nizar was sure the soldier would see through his disguise by the way he handled the sword. “Try and steal my horses, and you’ll lose your thick skull!”

  “What is going on here?!” a harsh voice called.

  A burly Lelt in strange red facial tattoos stalked out of the deep gatehouse shadows. His shoulder epaulets proclaimed him a junior captain of the City Guard. The red tattoos said the man wasn’t from a local tribe, so probably didn’t gain his position through family connections, but with hard work and proven competence. Smoldering blue eyes said the captain wasn’t in the mood for a quarrel.

  “Captain,” Nizar said, bowing slightly. “I am Prince Nizar of Tamera, an emissary of my father, the Sultan Asufu, here in your lands to assess the threat. But now I find the threat isn’t just from some unwashed horde, but from the very forces arrayed against it.”

  “I am Captain Fhilib, lord Prince,” the officer said, eyeing Nizar speculatively. “How may I be of service?”

  “Your low-born man here seeks to steal my mount,” Nizar said. He let his dark eyes flash with the very real anger he felt. “That, good sir, would be an act of war! My father, and my people, would not hesitate to respond accordingly.”

  Captain Fhilib smiled tightly, though Nizar could see the strain in doing so was almost too much to bear. Push the officer too far, and Nizar might find himself being dragged before the king. It wouldn’t be at all surprising if he found himself interred in royal splendor while an emissary of King Borric’s was sent to Tamera. It wouldn’t be unheard of for the king to demand a ransom, to compensate the people of Kestsax for the “insult” given them by Tamera’s prince. It was a common practice among the kings of the Jarlands and Leltic Lands, though was not done so much as it was a century back. Nizar didn’t care to consider what his fate would be when word returned that there was no such person as “Prince” Nizar. But then, Dakar and His host would’ve arrived in Kestsax long before any emissary could even reach distant Tamera.

  “I have to be w
ondering, Prince Nizar, about your lack of an escort,” Captain Fhilib said. He looked around, then back at Nizar. “Care to explain, your Highness?”

  Nizar was prepared.

  “Dead, Captain,” Nizar said, frowning as if it really annoyed him, but no more than that. “While scouting out the threat near Treversax, we ran straight into the zombies. I’m the sole survivor, Captain.”

  The captain considered that a long moment. Nizar fought off a smile. There wasn’t any way for the captain to prove or disprove Nizar’s story. And if the foreigner was telling the truth, he would come to considerable grief if he offered any offense. So Nizar watched with extreme satisfaction when he sighed with resignation.

  “Prince Nizar, as you are an emissary taking word of the insidious horde threatening us, and the whole world, with oblivion, then far be it for us to slow or hamper your way,” Captain Fhilib said. “Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience caused, and I pray you enjoy your stay in our city.”

  A hand signal moved all the guards out of Nizar’s path. Nizar curtly accepted the captain’s apology and urged his gray stallion through the gate, sumpter tagging along behind. He wasn’t totally sure he had done it until the inner gate opened and let him pass into the city.

  Kestsax was a riot of noise and motion. Nizar smiled behind his veil to see, hear, and smell the hectic life of the city. It wasn’t unlike his home of Tamera on market day, with only the cool autumn air spoiling the experience. Within the city walls the disgusting stench of wet, rotting vegetation of the forest was cut by human waste, wood smoke, and cooking foods. He even found the closeness of packed humanity preferable to the suffocating darkness and quiet of the forest.

  Once Dakar grants me my boon, which will be dominion over the whole Qakara, I’ll never again set foot in this Godsforsaken land of humid rot, Nizar thought with a thin smile, steering his now skittish mount toward the nearest street leading off the square.

  “Ho, milord!” a red-headed youth shouted. She couldn’t have been more than ten, and short for her age. A boy looking even younger followed, with the same facial features and dirty red hair. Brother and sister. Stopping by his side, she looked up with big green eyes, saying, “We’ll look after yar horses, fer a crown copper each. We’ll take right good care of da pair, too. Promise.”

  I’ll bet you would, he thought, taking in their threadbare clothes, bare feet, and grimy faces. Within the hour you’ll either have sold them to others, or delivered them to your parents to butcher. Probably get good coin for so much fresh meat.

  Aloud he said, “I’ll don’t need to worry about that, little lady. Since I intend to leave by ship, I’d rather you guide me to the man willing to pay the most for the pair.”

  A frown creased her brow a moment. Her little brother watched her intently.

  “Same price, and ya gots a deal,” she finally said, jaw set defiantly.

  “Do you have names?” he asked, amused despite himself.

  He almost felt bad about what he intended to do to them. But his first consideration had to be finding the swordsmith called Tane Kyleson. And street urchins, especially such hustlers as this pair, would make the perfect scouts.

  “Name’s Sindy and he’s Uthor,” she said, jabbing a finger at her grinning brother. “An’ we ain’t got no time to be a socializin’ if’n you want to sell yar beasts afore nightfall. If’n it takes till the morrow, it’ll cost ya another crown copper, each.”

  Nizar smiled behind his veil. At her age, he had been just such a hustler himself. Anything for a coin, and woe to the unwary. The price was reasonable, since he would gain ten times the true value of the animals under the reigning conditions within the city. And it did his heart good to know that the arrogant stallion that had so battered his rear would likely be carved up and sold by the sizzling fistful.

  “You have a deal, little lady,” he said, swinging out of the saddle. He took care not to show any sign of pain or discomfort. Desert royalty rode, were as much born to the saddle as steppe nomads. “But before I sell my horses, I’d like you to lead me to a good inn to drop off my clothes and supplies. There will be a meal, and another crown copper in it for you both.”

  The children’s faces lit up at mention of a free meal. Nizar inwardly cringed at their open, gap-toothed smiles. Such an immodest display! By the Gods, he could see their teeth and tongues!

  “Follow me!” the girl said, setting off down a side street little wider than his sumpter’s wicker packs. “Ole man Hywel’s gots da cleanest rooms in da Pictis District. An’ da safest against thieves.”

  Hywel’s place, the Forest Haven Inn, was a sprawling affair of stone and thatch, with more gables than Nizar could count and at least a dozen smoking chimneys. The golden glow of the windows was as welcoming as the aroma of roasting pork emanating from the establishment. Nizar thought it a shame the place would likely be burned to the ground by the coming battle and siege, and its proprietor enslaved or killed.

  The innkeeper proved to be a whip thin man with just a fringe of steel gray hair circling his shiny pate and a permanent scowl. His wife and three daughters were all pleasantly plump and cheerful. His one son, not much older that Nizar’s lead guide, was as plump as his mother and older sisters, but surly as his father.

  “Innkeep, please provide my little friends with hot food while my belongings are being carried to my room,” Nizar said after paying for a week in advance. That was ten days in the local calendar. Dakar’s army would be there by then, two weeks at the most, so he needed to find the swordsmith well before that.

  “Pork,” Sindy said.

  “An’ taters!” Uthor chimed in. “Lotsa taters.”

  Nizar personally supervised the transport of his baggage to the small room at the head of the stairs. After the innkeeper and son had departed, grumbling about prickly foreigners, Nizar took out a piece of enchanted chalk. He drew the symbols of power the High Priest had taught him around the window and door. Only after his room and belongings were thus protected from thieves and curious staff did Nizar return to the common room.

  As expected, the urchins had already devoured their meal and were demanding more.

  “If I get a good price for my horses, then I might consider feeding you again,” he said.

  The look in Sindy’s bright eyes said she looked forward to that meal.

  Sindy and Uthor led Nizar three streets over to another inn. He was introduced to a dark, heavyset woman in a greasy apron by the name of Riska. She smiled hungrily at his horses.

  While the two youths stood by quietly, Nizar and Riska haggled heatedly over price. In the end, Nizar got four times the peace time price for good horses, but had to throw in their tack as well. Not as profitable as he had hoped.

  Grumbling, Nizar stalked away. He was a good twenty paces away when he noticed the urchins weren’t with him. A glance back showed the pair each receiving a coin from a reluctant Riska. That cheered him up a bit. Those coins would soon be in his purse, along with the others he’d already given them.

  The sudden ringing of a hammer on steel reminded him of his mission. When the urchins caught up, he took them just inside a dark alley and pointed at the smithy across the street.

  “I’m looking for a man in Kestsax. He’s a smith, a swordsmith,” Nizar said. The urchins were staying just out of reach. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, to draw them in closer. “His name is Tane Kyleson. Have you heard of him?”

  They grew intent, stepping closer to hear.

  “Na,” Sindy said, getting a crafty look about her as she considered. “But I kin find him fer ya. Fer a price.”

  “Naturally,” Nizar said, opening his purse.

  They children eased closer, eyes bright.

  He took out two shiny copper coins. They held out their hands.

  A coin in each hand, Nizar reached out.

  As soon as skin touched skin, he had them.

  Without a word, his foul magic was cast through that contact. Uthor stiffened,
while Sindy managed a startled gasp before the life drained from her eyes. In less than a heartbeat his cunning guides became his mindless slaves.

  While he riffled through their tattered clothes, stealing all their hard-earned coin, Nizar said, “Now, children, you will not rest until you have found Tane Kyleson, or anyone even remotely looking like him.”

  He muttered a prayer, conjuring up a chaotic swarm of pinpricks of colored lights. Tane’s likeness soon coalesced before them. There was no sign either child was awed by the magical likeness, but they were quite intent on the image.

  “Go and find him, and find him fast,” Nizar said. “Report back to me at the inn at least twice a day.”

  They turned and raced away in opposite directions without a word.

  Chapter 19

  Nizar sat in the Forest Haven’s common room, waiting. It was late afternoon, and time for his spy to report her findings. Sindy arrived right on time. Nizar grinned, for if nothing else the zombie slave was prompt.

  The child scrambled into the chair opposite Nizar and waited obediently. She was a slave, and dared not speak unless bid to do so. It was Nizar’s will. He smiled, for soon it would be his arrogant half-brothers attending him so slavishly.

  He glanced at the empty chair beside Sindy. Uthor hadn’t been seen since the second day. It was of little concern to Nizar, and not unexpected. The city was a dangerous enough place for children under the best of circumstances, but with so many refugees of every stripe crowded in, it became double dangerous for everyone. When she was freed of her enchantment, if ever, Sindy would undoubtedly be grief-stricken.

  Nizar pushed the bowl of stew to Sindy and motioned for her to eat. She was even skinnier and dirtier than when he enslaved her a week back. Five days ago he began making her report to him three times a day, in part to ensure she ate enough to maintain her strength.

  “Do you have anything to report?” he said, bracing himself for another disappointment.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, barely pausing as she shoveled thin vegetable soup into her mouth.