by Rob Bayliss
Last night he had fed on salamander. What once would have turned his stomach was all now that kept him clinging to existence, in this world of light and dark. It was sustenance of a kind; his shell had demanded it as it had remade itself, but it was cold and repugnant. He craved the hot, rich, metallic taste, that which once had been his own. Every time he fed on the cold marsh beasts the more of a beast he became. He struggled to recall the lifetime before; he had been a whole man then, lusting for wealth, pleasure and glory, as all mortals do in their allotted hours. He had been in possession of a name. He had been famous amongst his people. He had commanded his own retinue, devoted to his house, skilled in the arts of war. He had wealth from the plunder of the conquered and the levies from his subjects. He had known pleasure, experiencing the sensuality of flesh against flesh, and the dark thrill of cruelly inflicted pain on the bodies of others. But memories of such things were fading each time he fed on these same beasts.
They were slow and sluggish in their winter torpor; he could dive to the bottoms of the pools and channels and catch the juveniles. Senseless, and slow to wake, he could drag them to the surface. He could rend their flesh and drink of their blood before the beasts were truly aware of their peril. He would leave the corpses drained, to find shade from the brightness of the sun, under mossy tree stumps and slimy tussocks. He would watch as marsh jackals fed on the bodies he had left. He could hear their hearts beating strongly, smell their hot mammalian blood; he could almost taste its richness as it coursed through their arteries and veins. He yearned to catch one, but they were too fast and wary of the new denizen of the marsh.
Once he would have crafted weapons and set traps; once he had been a man wrought of flesh with a keen mind. Now he was a vessel of shadows, his eyes bestial and the creature behind them driven by instinct alone.
Was it this instinct or a deep-rooted memory that drew him back to the island in the delta? He swam across the fast-flowing river, propelling himself with a strange, beast-like, swaying movement. He came to the island where once ships had been moored. The wharfs were damaged by the deluge of winter floods that had surged through the marshes. His hands grabbed the slimy posts for leverage, his elongated claws gripping them tightly. He looked at his hands, grey and splayed wide, the webbing between the fingers apparent. Against the current he hauled himself ashore, hands slapping in the muddy shallows. A memory stirred in the recesses of his mind. Slowly, and with much effort, he raised himself painfully to stand upright on his rear legs. He shuffled forward. His legs seemed shorter, yet his body was longer. Such locomotion was beginning to feel alien and unnatural to his altered frame. He climbed the shallow rise to where the blackened and burned stumps of the palisade stood.
Once, this had been a home of sorts, of that he was sure. It no longer smelled of death and smoke; the winter rains had washed it down and cleansed the blood that had pooled from the slaughter that took place here.
Walking through to where the gate had barred the entrance, he saw where the paths split into three. The path to the right led to a huge pile of burned wood and bones. Even now, charred ribcages and blackened skulls could still be discerned in the shambolic pile. When he had finally been remade, his parts drawn together, vomited from the black acidic pits of the beasts in the swamp, knitted together and reformed, undoing the barbarian’s butchery, he had sought sustenance in that pile. So desperate was he for a trace of blood, and the fleshy remains of men to feed his undead corpse. What little remained unburned, however corrupted by rottenness, he had devoured greedily in his weakened state.
He had realised the curse of his immortality then. The exchange had left him bereft of his black soul, the exchange he had sought to escape the onset of the mistress of death, as she had begun to clasp him to her in an ever-tighter embrace. He had rejected her, instead yielding himself to the shadows and their lord. Now death rejected him, and however much he willed it upon himself, that spurned lover would never grant him her kiss now.
So he walked the world still, but his master had gone. He shuffled to his lord’s house, its stones blackened, not by sweet enveloping shadows that once had played upon its walls, but by long-extinguished cleansing fires. The pyramid roof had collapsed; they had blown it apart with black powder. Yet still he hauled himself over the shattered blocks and into the ruined house of his god, as if to capture some essence of what once had been.
But no trace of the Messiah of Shadows remained there. He crawled over the stones, his nostrils flared for any hint of the mystical aura: the aroma of the Lord of Corpses. He found the dais where once his lord had stepped into this corner of the world, but it was mere stone; no magic remained, no trace of the portal that once the Messiah had used to cross his empire of shadows.
The one his god had wanted, the wielder of old magic, had been thorough; his power had scoured this house, cut all of the Corpse Lord’s presence with more finality than any surgeon’s blade cutting away infection. The old magic’s light had blasted the stones, bleached the earth, even cauterised the very sky this sacred place had occupied. How had his lord been defeated? He had killed many before this place, feeding their souls to his master, drawing the one towards his lord as bait. He remembered three: the barbarian butcher, the crystal wielder, and the guilty one seeking redemption. That one had appeared as a mirror image to his own cruelty-strewn life … when he had been a man and possessed a soul.
Nothing. There was nothing here, only the mere memories that were now fading from his primeval mind. A swamp denizen he would become, a dark lord of salamanders on the edge of the world, trapped here in an eternal existence he would no longer question, removed from the world of men.
His nostrils suddenly caught a scent amid the aromas of marsh and nearby sea. Man. He smelled man. Keeping low, he slithered over the ruined stones and blocks, following the trail that hung heavy and rich in the air. He smelled sweat from toil and sensed blood, iron-rich and hot.
In the half-light of dawn, as the late winter sun readied to breach the horizon and climb into the sky, he saw them. They were in the shadow of the island, in a boat protected from the flow of the river. They were fishermen, casting nets into the slower waters there, hoping to find fish feeding in the calmer shallows. Two of them worked, hauling in their trawl. Silently, he slipped into the water with barely a splash, the churning flow of the surrounding river delta masking all sound.
Under the sediment-laden waters he swam, his body twisting from side to side, following the net as it trawled the muddy bottom, drawn back to the anchored boat. He paused under the net and clung to it, the fish wriggling inside, his weight slowing its movement as the men tried to land it. He heard them talking in their foreign man-tongue; they cursed and swore with the effort.
He waited, a patient hunter, as he gathered his strength for the ambush, edging a little closer with every passing moment. Tiring of the strain of it, one of the men reached down to grab the net from below, his arm reaching into the waters.
He struck. Powering out of the water, his webbed claw caught the man around the throat. The man screamed in despair and fear; how sweet it sounded, like torture inflicted and enjoyed in a different life. The man’s companion cried in terror, letting go of the net so it fell to bottom, releasing the catch. The fish shot this way and that, eager to escape in a cloud of bubbles and mud.
Back into the water he went with his prey, the screams muffled as the muddy river closed over them. He ensured he didn’t drown it completely; he wished for live food and the man’s fear would flavour its blood sweetly.
Reaching the shallows, his hunger overcame him. He had to feed; he had to feed now! The man was conscious, although half drowned. He coughed and spluttered, then saw the nightmare was real; no mere foul dream. His scream became a gurgling as his throat was rent open, and the foul mouth of the creature closed around the wound to drink the hot, sweet blood deeply.
Ignoring all he gulped, he felt the blood fill the black pit of his stomach, felt it surge through his da
rk and shadowed veins. It glowed, a pulsing red in the network of capillaries that lay in his grey skin. His prey shrivelled as he consumed its life. How jealous of his prey he now was, released as it was from its existence. If only his master had been at hand to consume his soul into oblivion.
Finished and sated, he looked up. The other fisherman had cut his anchor line, and weeping and screaming, he pulled at his oars in panic, the boat moving into the flow of the river. Gathering speed he fled from the delta; already he had made distance between them.
The blood of man at last. So long he had waited! The man’s life force surged through his immortal veins, nourishing, replenishing, and repairing his once human-like frame. He remembered now: this base, the marsh, and the attack on the wayfort, his wounding, his slave the bloodhound, and the fear of death he once had. He remembered his master’s gift … and his name. Sheerak; his name was Sheerak. Lord Sheerak he had been, a hero of his people, a ruthless warlord, with lands and titles. One whom others had looked up to.
The sun rose, climbing over the horizon, and shone on the waters. Between his legs the water calmed, as the memory of his prey’s struggle was forgotten by time and tide. He saw something strange in the water. He looked more carefully and saw his reflection. He saw his inhuman face. He saw what he had become.
The oars splashed in the water as the fisherman sobbed and pulled. What was that man-thing? A living nightmare born of hell! A were-beast of the swamps! An inhuman scream of despair and anguish carried across the delta. It grabbed at his heart with icy fingers. He redoubled his efforts in getting out to sea and away from this haunted marsh.
***
First Mate Culdur effortlessly slid down the steps, landing catlike below decks, his agility belying his advancing years and the weight of his weather-beaten armour that he wore. His eyes looked this way and that, scanning the crew, who hurriedly donned helms and armour, whilst strapping daggers and cutlasses to their sword belts.
“Hurry it up there you men, the captain wants you on deck in five minutes. If you want a bellyful of wine tonight and a wench to squeeze you had best make a good impression!” barked the first mate, in between oaths of impatience at the tardiness of some of the men.
The first mate marched down the length of the quarters, urging the crew to haste, his withering stare more effective than any cat’o’nine tails at impelling them to action. Presently, he came upon Tuan and his companions: the Razoress, the Giant and the Flinter. They would be put ashore here at Keanasa. As nice as it was to have a shapely woman aboard, it would be good for the crew if she was not. He had heard tell of the fight the previous evening and seen the bruised members of his crew. It was telling that the only signs of combat the giant wore were on his bloodied knuckles.
“Trooper Blackstone?” Culdur said, addressing Tuan formally. “You, the Razoress, and your two friends here, please gather your belongings and join the captain on deck. Have your weapons on display. We will be moored in minutes.” His message relayed, the first mate made to return the upper deck.
Tuan was puzzled. “Keanasa is part of the Empire; why do all the crew need to arm for war in this way?”
Culdur stopped, turning back to the Gewichas. “It is a mark of respect to the Khan of the Cheamanites. The captain saw his standard flying on his tower, which means he is resident in Keanasa. As well as helping you on your journey, this voyage is also a diplomatic mission on behalf of General Broud. The Khan is a fabled warrior and Sligo, darkness rot his soul, insulted him greatly during last year’s muster. The Khan respects bravery, strength and the victorious. He should be predisposed to General Broud, the acting dominar, after the defeat of the enemy at the Holms. However, we must still approach him as if ready for war. It is like a game of cards; we show him our hand or he will up the ante, and he is a dangerous and impatient player. Not for nothing is he called the Watcher by his folk; he takes a keen interest in all who enter his lands, so the captain himself will present you to him. You will require his assistance to travel freely through the Khanate, despite the passes General Broud gave you. Pray, have your Flint Father wear a hood to hide his features from prying eyes when ashore,” Culdur said, indicating Klesh, “lest spies of that slug Sligo are still active in the Northern Holdings.”
Collecting their weapons and belongings, the four companions made their way above deck, joining the gathering throng. Behind the Raven the sun hung low in the west, as if pausing, reluctant to yield the sky to the moon and stars. The westerly storm had finally blown itself out and the waves on the Cheama now lapped and rolled gently into the distance, mirroring the gold and the red from the sinking sun, like shimmering treasures on a far horizon.
Captain Sendel edged his beloved sloop into the harbour of Keanasa. As predicted, they had reached the high Chemanite coast earlier that day and had followed its rocky cliffs to reach the port. Keanasa occupied a broad break in the high rocky cliffs. Behind it, the river-cut valley rose back up, winding its way into the steep uplands beyond. With precise skill Sendel lowered his sails, letting the momentum of the Raven ride the high tide into her moorings. Her crew cast ropes to the waiting hands at the wharf. Ropes were tied to capstans and the ship was slowly hauled into the waiting berth. The dockhands laughed and shouted good-natured insults at the crew of the Raven, happy to see the return of the Imperial Navy and the absence of slavers and pirates.
Gathered on the deck waiting to disembark, stood the four companions: Tuan, Bronic, Tamzine and Klesh, behind Captain Sendel. Tuan looked at the town beyond the harbour. No Northport this; Keanasa looked like a Summerlands town. The buildings were built predominately of wood, built on stone footings.
Tuan saw the ruination of war close to the wharf; a group of warehouses had been burnt to the ground. The natives of Keanasa were in the process of rebuilding these structures. It was said that the Cheamanites thrived on the trade of their famous wines.
A blast of a horn spliced the air. Tuan and his companions turned to where the sound emanated from, as the echo resounded between the high cliffs. It came from one of the few stone buildings in Keanasa: the Khan’s Tower. It was a broad fortress, at least one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, built of thick flint walls. The stones in the walls shone blue grey as the sinking sun caught the tower in its glare. Atop its castellation sat bronze cannon, guarding the harbour and the road, from the moorings to the town up into the valley beyond. The tower’s strong, reinforced gates slowly opened and Khan Keeshal Chenkich and his retinue emerged.
The Khan sat astride a jet-black horse, surrounded by his walking retainers. He wore silver scale mail, while his men around him were clad in ring mail. They carried a mixture of harquebuses and bardiches. Their helmets were steel caps with nose guards. The Khan wore a polished spangenhelm with cheek and nose guards, and mail that hung down over his neck and shoulders, similar to those worn by the commanders of Acaross. His greying black beard was long and braided, entwined with rings of silver and gold. The Khan and his men marched purposely toward the moored Raven, torches burning in their hands as the sun began to sink into the sea.
Aboard the Raven stood Captain Sendel, wearing polished armour with his cutlass by his side. He barked commands at his crewmen to ensure that they looked presentable. Those who possessed them had donned leather armour and put on steel helmets. All the crew were armed and lined up facing the moorings, looking straight ahead, waiting for the Khan’s arrival. The feeling of tension was palpable. This was the first official docking of a navy ship at Keanasa since the Battle of the Holms, two months before. Captain Sendel bore sealed documentation and messages for the Khan from General Broud, acting dominar of Northport. The gangplank was dropped, forming a bridge between the sloop and harbour. Captain Sendel stood at its head and waited. Townsfolk started to gather around the harbour, eager for news from afar.
Tuan observed his companions as they stood beside him. They all seemed wary of the Khan’s approach. Klesh drew his hood over his head, masking his Flint folk features, onl
y his keen eyes discernible in the gathering gloom as he tightly grasped his boar spear. Tamzine stood still, but tensed for action. Tuan saw that she had taken off her haversack and had loosened the blades strapped to her back, for swift access if required. Only Bronic seemed unconcerned, arms folded, sword in its scabbard by his side, and axe and musket slung on his back. Tuan noticed with amusement that his friend was looking enviously at the warriors carrying the bardiches. Tuan felt the Sun Shard vibrate slightly under his tunic. He had barely been aware that his hand had been upon it. He withdrew his hand, placed it on the pommel of his sword and awaited the Khan’s arrival with the others.
On the stone cobbles the tramp of the Khan’s guard and the clip clop of their horses’ hooves could be heard. His retinue fanned out and stood to attention along the mooring. Those armed with harquebuses held torches high, as the dusk quickly settled. The warriors carrying the fearsome-looking bardiches presented their weapons, with both hands out in front of them. Tuan noticed that many were notched from recent use. The horse snorted and the tinkling sound of its bridle mixed with the gentle lapping of the sea as the Khan swung off his mount. He moved through his retinue to stand at the gangplank, his foot on it and his hand resting on his sword.
The Khan took off his helmet, revealing long black hair streaked with grey, like his beard. His bright eyes scanned the crewmen one after another, and alighted on Tuan and his companions. His gaze lingered there awhile, before he granted Captain Sendel his full attention. His face was stern, as if carved in stone. “Captain?” he said, in a voice like a landslide of gravel. If he was insulted or impressed by the war-preparedness of the Raven’s crew, he showed neither.
“Great Khan,” Captain Sendel said respectfully. “I bring news and papers from Northport and bear the greetings of General Broud, acting dominar of the Northern Holdings. Can this ship’s captain come ashore?”
Khan Chenkish grunted but didn’t move, aside from crossing his arms. “I know you, Captain Sendel, of the Raven. So now you come. We have fought battles here in Keanasa against slavers and raiders. Where was the Taleeli fleet to protect our coasts and traders? I thought Admiral Carnak was lord of the Cheama? Look at my warehouses! They are nought now but ash and blackened stone! I expect you and your crew want to drink wine and whore in my town, despite all our woes?”