by Rob Bayliss
“Then I am happy to be of service to my city and to shine the light of the Fire God into dark places,” Braebec said.
“Did any see you enter the alley? Any, who may have served these vermin?” the Grand Mage asked nervously.
“Without any doubt, my entry to the alley was noted; I was being watched until I was accosted by the Alley Rats. Only our friend Mytrali here knew I was the Headsman. Prior to that, and after, I wore the mask of the lost gentleman,” Braebec said thoughtfully. “I am sure of it.”
“All the same, it is well that you leave Taleel on the morning tide. There are those who will seek revenge against the one with the silver streak in his hair,” the Grand Mage replied.
Braebec laughed. “I fear not attention from vermin such as this, my Lord Mage. However, I fear I may have upset some noble families in my treatment of some of their pampered sons at Fort Anvil, in favour of helping the soldiers of the 14th.”
The Grand Mage looked at Braebec questioningly and then sighed, turning back to view the head. “I’m sure you had good justification, but you don’t make things easy for me, you know. Ah I see eye movement. This one awakes.”
Morcan looked on in fascination as Braebec stepped forward to the disembodied head. Why were they doing this? Animating decapitated heads? He still shivered from what he had seen, but still he wished to learn more of this shadowcraft.
The mouth spluttered and coughed and then the heavy lids of Skellem Mytrali slowly opened. There were no dark shadows colouring the eyes black this time. The eyes slowly adjusted, focusing on the surroundings and alighting on the three figures in strange hoods that regarded him. Mytrali’s eyes showed panic and then confusion, looking wildly around and down. His mouth opened and closed, spewing blood and jelly, until he found the ability to form words.
“Where am I? Why can’t I move? I was in a dark dream, then I wake here. No! He killed me! He killed me!” Mytrali shouted, on the verge of panic. He would have wept had he the tears.
The Grand Mage came forward. He spoke commandingly and wove strange symbols in the air with a bony finger. “Skellem Mytrali, be peaceful. Before the images fade, tell me of your dark dream. What do you remember, what did you see?” Whatever magic the Grand Mage wove, the panic started to fade from the cutthroat’s eyes.
“I was dropped into a black sea when the world went black. There were others, too, they wept in despair. I dissolved into black waves of shadow that had a voice … it shimmered but was deepest black. It screamed, yet all was silent. It drank of me, yet I knew.” Mytrali’s lips quivered as he remembered. “The corpse bird … he was feeding … I …” he trailed off.
The Grand Mage and Braebec looked at one another. “What was this corpse bird? What was it preparing to do?” the Grand Mage asked in soft, reassuring tones.
“No … I don’t want to remember,” Mytrali said. “Please let me go. Release me from my bonds. I will leave Taleeli, I will never trouble this city again, please!”
“Speak, Mytrali,” the Grand Mage commanded. “Tell me of this corpse bird.”
“It was to be born again. It screamed to be bathed in souls. It bore an open wound in its chest, the cut of an obsidian blade … a cut …. My legs, I can’t feel my legs! My hands? I cannot lift them.” The head seemed to have trouble speaking. It started to gurgle. “The torches, they hurt me … put them out! Put them out!” he growled, as his heavy lids tried to close and protect his eyes.
Morcan saw that the eyes were yellowing by the second.
Then the eyes shot open again, the mouth spitting vitriol. “Let me go, release me. Fuck you all, hiding behind your masks. I will kill you slowly; I will strip the skin off you piece by piece, and feed you your own flesh.”
The Grand Mage looked at the inquisitor and nodded. Braebec Conziva stepped forward. The eyes in the head of Skellem Mytrali would have killed him stone dead if they had the power. The mouth screamed obscenities and hate at the inquisitor. Braebec’s eyes held the head in a cold stare behind his glass lenses. “Know that you are dead Skellem Mytrali. I killed you in that alley and removed your head. Your soul is lost, drowned in the blackest of seas. Return to the shadows.” The inquisitor closed the taps feeding the tray.
Suddenly Mytrali realised what the inquisitor said. “No!” The head screamed. “Not back to the shadows, not to the corpse bird! Please ….”
The voice died as its artificial sustenance was withdrawn. The yellowing eyes glazed, as the artificial life the device had fed it ceased. The Grand Mage switched the device’s lever and turned off more taps here and there. The bellows came to a stop. All appeared still.
The inquisitor moved towards the head and then stopped. “Shade spores!” he yelled in warning.
The Grand Mage turned to Morcan. “Get back, Tavili, make sure your hood drawstring is tight!”
Morcan did as he was instructed. Meanwhile the Grand Mage and the inquisitor began chanting, their voices slowly rising in volume as they both drew symbols and shapes in the air with their hands. Morcan looked in horror at the head behind the glass.
Its black eyes bulged outwards, and twisting, dark tendrils grew out from the nose and mouth. The flesh on the head seemed to be consumed and shrank, desiccated by the strange corpse fruit that drew sustenance from it. The evil-looking tentacles reached toward the glass, eager to break free, as though roots seeking water. Morcan was sure the strange thing would break the glass. The black eyes bulged outward ever the more.
The Grand Mage and inquisitor reached a crescendo with their chant, commanding the strange thing to stop. As if obeying, the strange roots lost their momentum and began to shrink and wither as quickly as they had grown. In one final desperate effort, the black eyes in the head exploded, issuing forth a black powder that filled the glass jar. Of the fleshy remains, there was no sign.
The inquisitor was about to summon a cleansing fire when the Grand Mage stopped him.
“Cease, Braebec. I will await the spores to dry and settle and harvest them. You know the price of the shadow spores more than any. Come, we will leave this room. Tavili, keep your hood on until we exit this chamber.”
Only once they had emerged from the throat of the sabre cat and the wall had sealed, did they remove the heavy and uncomfortable hoods. Morcan snatched his off, the sweat dripping down his cheeks. He breathed deeply, happy to be free of the suffocating thing, yet full of questions.
“What have I seen and heard, my lords?” Morcan asked, hearing his voice quivering, but no longer caring.
The Grand Mage turned to him. “You have seen dead heads reanimated by alchemy and magic. You have heard voices from beyond the veil. One was the unnamed one our order keeps at bay with the light of our fires. We have had things confirmed for us. The Messiah of Shadows was indeed wounded, as per General Broud’s report.”
“Aye,” Braebec interjected. “Kaziviere’s blade has brought us some time, but the Messiah repairs himself and will be born again soon, aborted from the shadowed lands into an unhappy world. We need to deny him a foothold in this world. He can still yet cause our forces utter defeat in the coming war. Tavili, you must sleep, we have an early rise and a tide to catch for Northport.”
Sleep? mused Morcan. He was unsure whether he would ever sleep again. The Grand Mage had spoken the truth; there was indeed magic in the world. Yet now his prior ignorance of it seemed a precious thing, a thing he wished he had never lost.
Chapter 5
Tuan and his companions found themselves standing before a long bench, along with selected mariners from the Raven. Before them was a long trestle table, at which they and a large gathering of Cheamanites awaited leave from the Khan to sit. They were in the long, windowless hall of the Khan’s Tower. The room was lit entirely by the flames of the torches and a large fire situated at one end. The flames played on the woven tapestries that bedecked the walls of whitewashed lime plaster, depicting scenes of hunting and war. They stood to the left of the high table, separated from where Khan Keeshal
Chenkish, his wife, and daughter were to sit by a group of Chemanite officers. The high table was decorated with an expensive tapestry draped over the front. On it were symbols of the Khanate, vines heavy with grapes entwined around a woman, her body a frame on which the vines clung, barely covering her nakedness as she reached for the golden orb of the sun.
The Khan took his place and sat in his chair; his wife and daughter followed, flanking him to left and right. He bid his guests and retinue to sit. Once everyone was seated, he clapped his hands and a small, yet raucous group of musicians began playing. At once servants appeared, bringing in meats, pies, cheeses and flagons of wine.
Tuan looked at his companions. Tamzine sat to his left and beyond her, Klesh and Bronic. The mute giant wore a beaming smile in anticipation of the impending feast. His present good humour was in stark contrast to his earlier ill-tempered reluctance to surrender weapons at the doors of the Great Hall. Tamzine had led by example, yielding her twin falcatas to the sentries, which in turn had encouraged Bronic to do likewise with his beloved axe.
Klesh had caused somewhat of a stir; his Flint Father features brought forth gasps and stares from the men and women gathered in the hall. Full-bloods were seldom seen south of the Hailthorns, and one in the company of Imperial agents was completely unheard of. Being a Summerlands nation, the folk of Keanasa felt blessed by his presence. The tales of the Summerlands before the coming of the Empire were still popular, and many still followed their old beliefs away from the jealous eyes of the Empire’s Fire God. People smiled at Klesh, expressing sympathy over his scars and missing fingers.
“There you are then, Klesh,” Tuan remarked, “No more skulking in the shadows, stealing food for you. Unknown to his Imperial Highness on his throne in Taleel, the Emperor feeds you.”
“Klesh will never be a slave to that man!” Klesh Startooth growled, his anger rising at being reminded that he was now in Imperial employ. “He will forever be an enemy to my people. We will not forget.”
Tamzine interceded quickly, as a servant approached with a large flagon of wine. “We hear you, Klesh, but hold your tongue whilst we are in Imperial lands. Stop teasing him, Tuan.” She scolded the sandy-haired young Gewicha, before turning back to the Flint Father. “I know you are with us because you are honourable Klesh, and I am grateful to you,” she said sadly, flicking a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes.
Klesh looked at Tamzine, his anger gradually receding. He forced a smile and nodded. “Klesh will lead you to him, sword girl, yes he will,” he said, as his mutilated hand clasped Tamzine’s and squeezed. She returned his grasp, grateful for his words.
The servant filled their wine cups and then attempted to walk away to serve other tables. His escape was abruptly stopped by Bronic’s huge frame rising up and blocking his progress, and a large fist enclosed his wrist. The servant looked up in fear at the towering, silent Turanesci. Bronic smiled and gently took the flagon from the servant.
“Pardon my friend,” Tuan said. “He is thirstier than most men. You would be better off getting a new flagon of wine for the next table.” The servant readily agreed and hurried off to fetch another.
If the next table wished to complain, they must have thought better of it. Their eyes narrowed in irritation at Bronic, but they chose to wait for the servant’s return with a fresh wine flagon.
On the head table, the Khan seemed to dwarf his intricately carved High Chair. He had exchanged his armour for fine silks and a cloak of fur that hung over his shoulders. On his brow was a circlet of bright gold, which sat atop his long, dark hair. Gold and silver rings decorated his greying, plaited beard. Their lustre matched that of the rings that adorned his fingers, which were tightly gripping a jewel-festooned wine cup. At his right hand sat his wife, Queen Shareen. She was ten years younger than he, elfin yet shapely, with long dark-red hair in a thick plait. Princess Karla, his daughter, sat to his left. She had thick, red hair like her mother, clasped with a circlet of gold and emeralds. Her dress was low cut and tight, leaving little of her youthful but womanly curves to the imagination. Both women were elegant and beautiful, their clothing tailored from expensive gold-hemmed silks of purple and green. Like the Khan, they were decorated with precious metals and gems.
Tuan subtlety watched their hosts and mused on the situation. It was obvious that the Khanate of the Chemanite Coast did well under the suzerainty of the Empire of Taleel. From the ritual when the Raven first docked in Keanasa and the deference shown to the Khan by Captain Sendel, it was clear that the Khanate enjoyed a high degree of autonomy, much more than that of the other tribes in the Empire’s Northern Holdings. Strangely, the Khan’s warriors carried muskets, not modern Imperial arms, but they had black powder weapons all the same. The other tribes in the Summerlands were prohibited from possessing such weaponry; to them, the black powder alchemy remained a closely guarded secret. There were no Imperial military outposts in Keanasa, temporary or otherwise. It remained to be seen what Imperial presence there was in the hinterland of the Khanate, if any. They had passes to allow safe passage through Imperial territories, but would they hold sway throughout the Khanate?
If Tuan thought he was the only observer that night, he was very much mistaken. The Watcher was an expert on the reading of men, from long years successfully occupying the High Chair of the Khanate and keeping the Emperor at arm’s length as much as possible. The Cheamanites were a practical people. Long they had traded their famous wines, and controlled landward trade routes to the shadowed east. As well as the other tribes and peoples in the Summerlands, they had traded with the city-states of Cyria, before Taleel united them in its steel clad fist. However, unlike the other tribes, they learned from the power play conducted across the sea to the south. They divined the winds that blew across the Cheama and saw that the Fire God of Taleel was burning brightly. They warned the tribes and clans to the north and west, but they were over-confident; for centuries they had resisted incursion from the city-states of Cyria, and the Summerlands remained free. The ancient city of Ranuk, which would become Northport, still stood fast at the west of the Cheama Sea. They would fight as they always had against any would-be invader.
When the Taleeli Empire came with its black powder alchemy, the Khanate reluctantly stood with their Summerland brothers, watching, as their trade shrank away and the well of Taleeli gold ran dry. The Empire fell upon the Chemanite coast first. It won two hard-fought and bloody victories against the Khanate before the Summerlands were able to unite and move against the common foe. Unable to offer further, practical resistance, the Chemanite coast yielded to Taleel, lest its cities be reduced to ash. Eager to secure supply lines and a way into the heart of the Summerlands, while bypassing the natural barrier of the Great Marsh, the Empire accepted surrender, tribute, homage and hostages from the Khanate. All seemed lost, but the Khanate’s future would not be that of a mere province of the growing Empire of Taleel.
The mighty trade guilds of Cyria, the bankrollers of the Taleeli Empire, were loath to lose their monopoly in trading with the Khanate and a hand in the trade to the east; long they had fostered links and forged alliances along the Chemanite coast. They were reluctant to see their own lucrative businesses fall under the sway of the Emperor alone. But they held influence, their webs extending through the Senate and to the great houses of Cyria.
Thus, the Khanate became a vassal state of Taleel, an ally without choice, yet no mere province. Being a practical people, their merchants and traders renewed relationships with the markets of Cyria, markets that had been lost during the brief state of war. Beyond commandeering some fishing villages as ports, the Empire was able to campaign further north without having to tie down precious resources of men and equipment in occupying the Khanate. Besides, it was prudent to keep it strong. The Khanate was strategically placed to act as a buffer state to possible predation from lands to the east, as it yielded a percentage from the caravan routes to the eastern lands.
The Watcher had done as his
sires had before him. He had been a dutiful ally to his liege lord in Taleel. The Khanate had grown rich with the regular comings and goings of traders, plying the Cheama between Taleel and Keanasa. In the Emperor’s name the Khanate had pushed its boundaries and influence beyond the Wolf River, up to the source of the Crimson Creek where the Skycrags marked the eastern edge of the Summerlands. To accomplish its task of sentry, the Khanate was the only place amid the nations and tribes of the Summerlands where weapons of black powder alchemy were held.
The Khan had been an obedient vassal throughout his reign. He had yielded recruits to the Emperor at each muster, although the Khanate did receive special dispensation due to its position in the Empire. He had supplied taxes, in coin and food levies, upon each Imperial census. It had taken all his guile, however, to resist the legalised predations of the last dominar, the despised Sligo, as much as he had. The despot had threatened to strip his treasury and storehouses more efficiently than any seaborne pirate or steppe brigand. He had demanded troop levies for the muster, as if he meant to strip the Northern Holdings of all its young men. Old understandings between the Khanate and previous dominars were swept away. The Khan had argued bitterly against each man mustered; yet, still many a young warrior had been sent south to the army camps of Cyria. They would have served the Khanate, and the Empire, much better if they had remained, as well as guarding his expanded borders he could have aided General Broud against the Acarross incursion.