by Rob Bayliss
Captain Sendel walked slowly down the gangplank, advancing towards the Khan. “Admiral Carnak is lord of the Cheama once more, Great Khan, and General Broud has destroyed the enemy in a great battle at the Holms. Your coasts are safe once more. We have all suffered the last few months, my Lord.”
Captain Sendel came to a halt facing the Khan. Although no midget himself, he was dwarfed by the Khan, a great bear of a man who towered over his fellows.
“Yes, yes,” the Khan said impatiently, “but how will my people recover their losses of trade?”
“The Cheama is an open whale road once more Great Khan … trade can now return, and in the meantime if it will help, my crew were paid on the day we set sail. The wines of the Cheamanite coast are beyond compare, they say, and they are thirsty,” Captain Sendel said, a smile forming on his lips.
Khan Chenkish’s stern expression faded, and a grin slowly emerged. “Then why did you not say so? It is good to see you again Sendel! You and your men are welcome to come ashore in Keanasa.” He grabbed hold of the captain, pulling him into a crushing bear hug. Then, releasing the captain, he turned to the townsfolk gathered around the harbour. “The Cheama is open, unbolt your tavern doors, trade is returned!”
The people cheered. The threat of slavers and blockade was lifted; traders would return to haggle and drink in the streets of Keanasa. They chanted the Khan’s name as he waved, acknowledging their adulation.
“I am sorry that you lost your warehouses, Great Khan. The coasts around Northport felt the predation of the enemy, too,” Captain Sendel said, softly.
“Ha! They had plagued my people all along the coast, from the marsh to the south, beyond here. I chased up and down with my men, but it was cowardly ghosts who attacked my fishing villages by the light of the stars, then disappeared back to the sea come daybreak. I am the Watcher; I tired of their game, and I knew the temptation of Keanasa would prove too great for them. And so I gathered my forces here in secret and lay in wait. They came ashore for wine and slaves; we caught and killed many. I now have a fine collection of tarred heads to show you. It is a good thing I ordered the wine stocks moved from the warehouses to caves up in the valley, yes?” the Khan said, laughing, slapping Captain Sendel on the back. “You and your officers, come eat with me and bring those strange companions. I have seen them. The Giant, the Flinter, if I’m not mistaken, the warrior maid, who is easy on my eyes, and the other one … I am unsure yet as to what he is, but he leads them I think? They are not your crew, of that I am certain. What is their story, I wonder?”
Captain Sendel smiled to himself. There was never any point attempting to deceive Khan Chenkish. “He is a bush priest and they are on a special mission on the orders of Gener … the dominar,” Sendel said, correcting himself. “Beware of the maid, Great Khan, not for nothing is she is known as the Razoress.”
“Are they now, and is she?” the Khan said looking straight at Tuan and his companions. “I will heed your warning, but you know the effect I have upon women—ask my wife and …” he whispered, “… mistresses.” The Khan laughed again. “I look forward to hearing more. Come ashore, we all have tales to tell, food to eat and wines to drink. My people will welcome your crew with open arms.”
Chapter 4
Braebec Conziva approached the walls of Taleel as the sun swung low behind the Dragon’s Back, the central mountains of Cyria. Already, the moon had risen and was two hours into its night-time voyage, as it wheeled across the sky. It was a waxing, gibbous moon; in two days it would be full. Above, the Sungate torches were burning in anticipation of the night’s onset, lighting the stream of humanity passing through. There were crowds of folk tonight, including many of the off-duty soldiery, making their way into the city. Many were singing, in a joyous mood, some already well on the way into intoxication with rapidly emptying bottles in their hands. Braebec was waved through by the guardsmen at the entrance, eager to cope with the backlog of people entering Taleel.
Passing through the Sungate, the streets of Taleel were thronged with people in celebratory disposition. Hawkers were selling sweet meats and delicacies, attempting to shout over each other and the general hubbub of the milling throng. People were shouting the name of Broud alongside that of the Emperor Stalivoc, almost as if they were words from a holy chant of power. In the background, curses were thrown at Acaross and threats voiced against the houses of Sligo and Kreven. Braebec knew that all too soon the rabble might seek violence against the traitors’ kin, as the flames of passion were fed with strong wine and ale.
He needed to get to the seminary and report to the Grand Mage. It would be hours before the dust of suggestion wore off those unfortunates back at Camp Anvil, and they made it back to the city, but who would notice their insanity amid the celebrations in the streets this night anyway? Braebec chuckled to himself. He would do well to make himself scarce from the city tomorrow to be sure. However, powerful families might seek revenge by other than legal means through the Imperial courts and Senate. He needed to prepare for the long journey ahead; the sooner he was at the seminary the better. Braebec suddenly had a thought: he was off into the world again, he needed training and knew just the place. He had heard the whispered warnings and fears from the costermongers who lived on the streets; there was a gang operating around here.
Braebec urged his mount off the main thoroughfare and into a near-empty side alley. Through the shadowed side streets the buildings closed around him as the shadows grew. The sound of Flare’s hooves striking the cobbles as he slowly walked, echoed and bounced around the walls that formed a dark and dank tunnel. In the centre of the alley ran a foul stream. Every so often a face would appear in a dark window ahead, or a figure would disappear into a shadowed doorway, swiftly followed by the sound of a slamming door or shutter. Soon he was alone. Avoid the dark alleyways haunted by cutthroats and thieves. Such advice was always passed on to newly recruited acolytes as they went to find distraction from their studies in the fleshpots of Taleel. Such shadowy places held no terrors for him; Braebec had been in far darker places than these. He drew his hood over his head so that only his bright eyes shone, looking this way and that, scanning for potential threats. He loosened his wheelock in its holster under his cloak, but that was the least of the weapons in his arsenal. Here, he was the true predator. Without his horse he would have slipped through the darkness as a shadow, barely noticed, his face indiscernible. But as it was ….
“Are you lost, my Lord?” The voice shattered the silence suddenly.
Braebec smiled to himself but, hiding behind a mask of nonchalance, he brought his mount to a stop. A gentle pull on the reins and a whispered command, and Flare instantly understood, his ears pricked in response.
From out of the deepening dark ahead emerged the man, clad in black with a mace in his hand as he barred the way. His eyes were full of menace.
“No, I’m not lost. I know my way,” Braebec said in a calm voice.
“Nay, my Lord,” the lurker in the gloom replied, his voice betraying the irritation at his prey’s calm demeanour. “A fine gentleman such as yourself doesn’t know the way, or you would know of the toll hereabouts.”
“A toll in the back streets of Taleel, oh I know of it,” Braebec said, his eyes cutting through the darkness and espying the cutthroat’s two comrades, who were sidling up behind him. Behind the gang all was darkness; the alchemist realised he was silhouetted against the early evening light of the main thoroughfare behind him.
“He knows of it, he says!” the gang leader guffawed, causing cruel mirth in his two short-sword wielding comrades. He advanced upon Braebec.
“We’ll have that horse and all you are carrying, and then you‘ll keep your life,” he said, eyeing the saddlebags greedily and reaching for Flare’s reins.
“Sondat ar keeri,” Braebec said, dropping the reins he held. Flare whinnied, rearing up onto his back legs, his front hooves pawing the air in front of the cutthroat’s face, forcing him back. There was a sudden e
xplosion and flash of intense green light from where Braebec sat. It lit the alley brighter than the midday sun for just a moment, before the eerie green glow dripped from the air and down onto the cobbles, like wax. It sizzled in the foul stream and then all was dark once more.
The cutthroats were left blinking, dazzled by the bright light. Their leader recovered first; he had covered his face, shying from the horse’s hooves.
“Parlour tricks, mere parlour tricks! You will pay with your life now; the toll has risen,” he said, hefting his mace.
But where once their prey had sat was now an empty saddle.
“My toll is your head, night soil,” Braebec said.
The cutthroats span around; how did their prey get behind them? The two with short swords advanced into the dark towards the hooded outline of the man. Still blinking, they tried to rid their eyes of the ghost of the bright green light that had lit the alley brighter than the sun.
Braebec’s right hand reached under his cloak. In one smooth movement, the wheelock pistol left the holster to be brought to bear at his assailant on the right. There was a clicking noise followed by a hiss and a muted explosion that lit the alley once again. The lead ball smacked into the assailant’s chest, carving a hole in his torso. Coughing blood, the man fell to the floor, his sword clattering on the ground.
With an oath, the other swordsman ran at Braebec, who turned to face him. The man’s sword rose, his face twisted in triumph. “Only one shot, bastard!” he jeered.
Braebec let his wheelock slide from his fingers, to land on the cobbles behind him. In a fast movement he caught the man’s right wrist in his left hand, stopping the downward stroke of the sword. His right hand shot forward, the flat of his palm smacking against the man’s chest before being withdrawn again. Braebec spun away to land facing his attacker, crouching like a cat prepared to pounce. The assailant’s face changed from aggression to shock, surprise and fear, and looking at Braebec in mute disbelief, he began to scream. Braebec relaxed from his position and backed away slowly. He turned away and retrieved his wheelock from the damp cobbles, carefully replacing it in his holster.
The man dropped his sword as his hands grasped and tore at his tunic. There was a hissing noise, and a smell like burning pork began to fill the evening air. Under his skin a bright red light glowed in the centre of his chest. Suddenly the red fire burst through his skin, to extinguish as quickly as it had begun, leaving a smouldering, cauterised void in his chest where his heart had once been.
The cutthroat looked on in horror. He grabbed his comrade’s fallen weapon, and was now armed with mace and sword. “Who are you?” he asked, in a trembling voice.
Braebec threw back his hood, revealing the distinctive white streak in his otherwise dark hair. “Who am I? I am your death,” Braebec said sadly, his face a mask of sorrow and regret.
The cutthroat saw Braebec’s hair. He remembered tales told among the denizens that haunted the city’s underbelly, of death dealt years ago, whole gangs killed by one such as this. He always took their heads. His eyes widened in recognition and fear.
“The Headsman! They said you had gone,” the cutthroat said, backing away.
“You have written your fate by your actions. I cannot let you go,” Braebec said sorrowfully. He held out his arms, his open palms showing. “See? I am unarmed, and my hands possess no magic, as you would call it. I give you a chance to strike me down. I give you my word that your death will be swift and painless, unlike the pain you have meted out, indulging your cruelty on the innocent.”
“Bastard! I will make you yearn for death before I’m through with you!” the cutthroat roared, hurling himself at Braebec, swinging mace in hand.
In a blur Braebec tumbled to his right, the mace whistling past him to find only air. Desperately, the cutthroat stabbed down with the sword he held in his left hand, as the blurring shape shot past him. The sword passed through the figure’s cloak. The cutthroat sensed victory, but his triumph died in his eyes when he saw that his blade had only caught the corner of Braebec’s cloak. Strong hands clasped around his head from behind and there was a loud crack. He fell to the floor dead, his neck broken.
Braebec clicked his tongue and his horse idly walked towards him. Braebec examined the tear in his cloak. Slow, too slow; for far too long he had indulged his mind and soul in contemplation. His lost agility required honing on the impending voyage. Reaching into his saddlebag ke took out a sack and approached the bodies of the fallen. He picked up one of his assailants’ swords, testing the blade: not overly sharp, but it would suffice. It was time to collect his toll.
***
Morcan Tavili, the young alchemist, waited patiently in the corridor. He sat on a bench outside the Grand Mage’s chambers, as he had been instructed to. He had packed away his alchemist’s robes and wore a simple tunic and breeches for tomorrow’s voyage. It was a cool and pleasant evening. His fellow students had been given time off to enjoy the spontaneous carnival that was developing in the city outside the seminary walls. Alas, he was unable to join his fellows in their revelry. His day - and destiny it seemed - had changed in the late morning.
The Grand Mage had personally sought him out during his studies on metallurgy earlier that day. The iron tutor had taken the Mage to the forge, where the student was situated. The foundry chamber was full of red glowing forges, the air heavy with heat and pungent with the sweat of the students, who were working bellows and hammering steel on anvil.
The Grand Mage found the student alchemist busily at work, making showers of sparks as his hammer repeatedly struck the glowing hot metal. His sweat made rivulets through the charcoal dust that clung to his bare torso under a heavy leather apron, peppered with tiny burns from fiery metal sparks. He wore thick leather breeches and gauntlets up to his elbows. His hair was tied back and under a leather skullcap, his eyes covered by goggles of bronze and blue glass, his face black with dust.
“You, Tavili!” growled the iron tutor, his voice forever hoarse from dust and smoke. He was a great bear of a man. He would have been as hairy as a bear, too, were it not for the constant singeing he experienced in his work. Around his thickly muscled arms he wore rings of gold and silver, tarnished but ornately intertwined, indicating his skill with metals. He wore the burns on his flesh like another would tattoos, his fingers forever ingrained with the dust of charcoal, ash and metal.
Morcan ceased his hammering and turned to see the iron tutor and Grand Mage behind him. He put down his hammer and raised his goggles onto his forehead, showing white circles that were free of dust around his eyes.
“My lords?” he said, concerned about why the Grand Mage was interested in him.
“Don’t worry, Tavili. The Grand Mage wishes to speak with you. You are excused,” the iron tutor barked. “You, Kreba!” pointing to another student nearby, “Pick up the hammer and continue where Tavili has left off, but get it hot and to the same colour as he did before you proceed!”
“Morcan Tavili, walk with me, to somewhere where we can talk,” the Grand Mage said, turning towards the door of the foundry.
They crossed the courtyard, which was bathed in the bright winter sun. Tavili squinted as his eyes adjusted from the charcoal-lit twilight world of the foundry and dutifully followed the Grand Mage. Neither of them spoke as the hammering and ringing behind them was absorbed by the thick, stone foundry walls.
They came to a drinking fountain. The Grand Mage picked up the cup chained to it and scooped up some water, proffering it to the young alchemist. “Here, drink; you need to replace the water you have lost in the heat of that room.”
Morcan gratefully accepted the water, drinking deeply before letting the cup hang once more under the drinking fountain.
“Grand Mage, what is amiss? Have I displeased the brethren in any way?” Tavili asked, bowing slightly in deference. His voice betrayed his concern.
The Grand Mage stroked his long beard and smiled. “What is wrong? Many things; much is amiss in this le
ss-than-perfect world. But do not worry, you have not displeased the brethren in any way; indeed your name was brought to my attention by Inquisitor Conziva. I have since spoken with several of your tutors. Are you adept at making black powder?”
“Yes, Grand Mage,” the young alchemist answered, removing his skullcap and goggles to reveal sandy-coloured hair that covered his ears. “I have been well instructed in black powder and explosive alchemy by Inquisitor Conziva himself. I know the metallurgy of steel and bronze, although I am yet to be fully learned in the ways of precious metals. I have some knowledge of spring engines, geology, astronomy, minerals and ores, but there is still much for me to learn.”
The Grand Mage nodded sagely. “Indeed you have, young Morcan. In fact we all have; learning never ceases. But what would you learn?”
Morcan’s face frowned with concern. “Grand Mage, I am grateful to the seminary for my scholarship and the knowledge I now have. Many of my peers in my hometown have only rudimentary letters. I can now read books and manuscripts in old Cyrian, three other languages of the Empire and beyond, and yet ….” The young alchemist hesitated, unsure about continuing.
“Speak freely, young Morcan,” the Grand Mage said. “I will not take offence.”
“Grand Mage,” Morcan said, reassured. “Growing up, I thought alchemists to be magicians. I must confess that now I know spell craft is really the application of science, the world loses some of its wonder. When wandering pyromancers gave divination, were they merely making fools of the gullible? Is all their guidance a fraud?”