by Rob Bayliss
“Yes, my Lord Khan, and thank you,” Captain Sendel said, rising from his seat and bowing low.
The Khan, his wife and daughter stood to leave the hall and retire to their chambers. The Khan turned to the captain. “Ensure that you bring those four companions you have delivered along with you. I would know more of those wishing to cross my lands during this time of war. I will receive you an hour before noon tomorrow.”
The captain nodded in assent and kept his head bowed as the Khan and Queen Shareen turned to leave, hand in hand. A fingertip lightly brushed across his lips. He looked up in confusion.
“Goodnight and sweet dreams, Captain.” Princess Karla giggled as she turned to follow her parents from the hall.
Try as hard as he might, Captain Sendel’s eyes could not help but follow the smooth movement of Princess Karla’s hips and buttocks under her tightly fitting dress as she left the room.
Chapter 6
“Bronic! Wake up!” Tuan said loudly, shaking the shoulder of the sleeping mute giant. He was slumped against the tapestry-covered wall of the Khan’s Great Hall. Stirred from his wine induced slumbers, the ruddy haired Turanesci opened a bleary eye, then sat up suddenly, his mind momentarily confused by the foggy memory that was borne of a night of drinking wine.
Tuan laughed. “Come on, you great ox, here I’ll help you up.” He offered his arm and hauled the Turanesci warrior to his feet. Bronic’s tongueless mouth formed a silent tirade of abuse and insults aimed at his friend. This only made Tuan laugh more. “Well what did you expect, if you insist on stealing wine flagons from other tables?”
Bronic grinned at that, and stretched his arms. He noticed the aching when he moved and bruises on his upper arms. He looked at them in a puzzled manner and then, thinking nothing more of it, followed Tuan back to sit at the bench where he and his companions had feasted the night before.
All around the Great Hall, guests who had spent the night in celebration were also waking, some lifting their heads amid platters of food, while all around servants attempted to re-instil some semblance of order to the post-feast chaos. The remaining platters piled with bones and scraps (those had not been stolen by the Khan’s hunting dogs) were being cleared away by some. Others swept up the rushes on the floor and replaced them with fresh, where man and beast had deposited vomit, or worse. The torches and main fire were replaced and rebuilt so as to supply light to the windowless hall.
The un-drunk wine was cleared and replaced with pitchers of fresh water. Fresh bread and cheese was supplied to augment what edible meat remained. The doors had been swung open to facilitate the coming and goings of the servants. Guests staggered out, seeking the latrines to relieve themselves. The grey morning light that came flooding through the doors was blindingly bright to the bleary eyes of the bestirred revellers inside. It also supplied a flow of much-needed fresh air to clear the reek of meat, smoke, man and dog.
Bronic poured some much-needed water into a mug and drank deeply. He wiped his hand across his growing moustache and beard in satisfaction and reached for a knife and the remains of a leg of ham on the table.
Instantly a large lurcher jumped on its hind legs, front paws on the table, licking its lips in anticipation of an opportunity to share, or preferably steal, the Turanesci’s breakfast. Bronic just stared deep into the hound’s eyes. The beast recognised an intractable soul in the mute giant’s eyes and jumped down to seek better fortune and easier pickings elsewhere. Bronic cut himself a slab of ham and listened in to his comrades’ conversation.
“I will be happy once we leave this town. I am no clan priest; I’m a warrior and hunter, no more. Yet last night I was asked to grant blessings,” Klesh said.
“A Flinter permitted to travel through Imperial lands, though, Klesh?” Tamzine replied. “This is a rare thing. Indeed you may be the first to ever have Imperial sanction to move through their lands.”
“So you say, but sounds scribed on paper mean nothing to me,” Klesh said dismissively. “We walked these lands freely before the Empire, and even before your forebears came to divide the plains and forests into tribal lands. The songs tell us that we followed the herds of mammoth, deer and horse when the world was ice, and you could walk from Keanasa to Northport over the frozen Cheama.”
Tuan looked thoughtfully at the Flint Father, the brother of his deceased friend and tutor Kress Startooth, whose legacy he wore constantly, hidden under his tunic. “Indeed, you are of the Summerlands, Klesh, even though you were born north of the Hailthorns. You can read the ancestral pathways as a man reads the lines of his palm. Your folk named the world and described it for thousands of years before our ancestors came here. I carry your blood; your brother guided me along the memory paths. You are as much of the Summerlands as the rocks, the mountains, the streams and forests. And people of the Summerlands recognise that whether Turanesci, Gewichas or Cheamanite, you are a living link to the lost world we all shared. Hopefully we will continue our journey soon enough, but I beg you: be patient with us and our hosts a while longer, Klesh. The Khan and his Queen themselves want to meet us.”
“Is that what Captain Sendel came to speak with you about before he left Tuan?” Tamzine enquired. “He and the Khan seemed in animated conversation at one point; he didn’t stay at the feast long after the Khan left the Great Hall.”
“Yes, he said that we’ve been summoned for an audience with the Khan at eleven bells this morning. We had better smarten ourselves up. Despite our Imperial passes, we need the Khan’s blessings to pass through his lands. He may even offer us help.” Tuan paused as a smile formed on his lips. “Oh and Sendel and his officers left to visit the pleasure houses of Keanasa. I think he would take some work; he seemed quite drunk as I recall!”
Tamzine laughed. “Yes, someone will be better off this morning, if she charged by the hour!”
Klesh slapped his thigh and guffawed. “But at least it won’t be only Captain Sendel’s coin bags which are the lighter this morning!”
Tamzine, Tuan and Klesh all laughed loudly, but Bronic didn’t. He looked accusingly at Tuan, slamming his mug of water down on the table in disgust.
Tamzine’s blonde head turned to look at her giant mute comrade. “What’s the matter, Bronic? I didn’t know you were on such good terms with Captain Sendel.”
“Oh it’s not that, Tamzine,” Tuan said, his eyes full of laughter looking at his friend. “Our Bronic is annoyed that we didn’t tell him where Captain Sendel and his officers were going, I think.”
“What? You would have visited the pleasure houses, too?” Tamzine said in mock horror. “But what about the sweet Blissa you left in Northport? It’s not that long ago you kissed her goodbye, while she sat on your knee in The Plough and Furrow. She cried as you strolled away from the tavern!”
Bronic shrugged his shoulders and tore a hunk of bread off the loaf on the table.
“Your stomach, fists and cock; that’s all you think with, Turanesci!” she said, laughing, and slapped his upper arm.
Bronic laughed, but felt the Razoress’s slap on his arm all the same; it stung and made him wince slightly. Surprised, he rolled up his sleeve and saw the dark bruising there that Tamzine had inadvertently struck. The giant looked at it, puzzled.
“And that, my friend,” Tuan began, “is the reason why you missed a night of whoring with the crew of the Raven. Honestly, challenging the captain of the tower guard to a wrestling match; what were you thinking?”
Bronic looked even more confused and rubbed his aching forehead. He grabbed a pitcher of water, drank deeply of it and upended the rest over his head in an attempt to wash the fog of wine from his mind.
There was a commotion at the doorway. The four comrades looked up. A squad of the Khan’s troops were marching into the centre of the Great Hall. They were clad in ringmail, their wicked-looking bardiches slung over their shoulders and their faces obscured by nasal guards of their helmets. They looked around the room, scanning the occupants. One pair of eyes came to
rest on the four comrades.
“There, Captain. There’s the Turanesci!” the voice behind the eyes exclaimed.
All the faces of the warriors now turned towards where the comrades were sat. Their captain emerged from amid his colleagues and marched towards their table. He brought his bardiche down from his shoulder, his right hand on its hilt, his left hand cradling the haft where the huge axe blade was.
“You can’t go picking fights with the captain of the tower guard and not expect consequences. Look lively, soldier!” Tuan warned.
Bronic swallowed hard. He ran his hands over his shaggy mane to wipe the excess water off it and tidy it up, then jumped up and stood to attention as the captain marched purposely toward him, his eyes seemingly full of menace under the rim of his helm. He drew up right in front of Bronic, the table between them.
“Trooper Bronic, of the 1st Cheamas?” the captain asked.
Bronic nodded his head in assent and brought his right fist and forearm across his chest in an Imperial salute.
“No-one can ever accuse Captain Kerosca of dishonour. I honour our wager thus,” the tower captain said. He held out the bardiche in front of him, offering it to Bronic, who hesitantly took it from him.
“We will meet again, Turanesci,” the captain said, “and the result will be different, I can assure you. I will have that pretty musket of yours.”
With that, the captain turned on his heels and led his men from the Great Hall and out into the corridor, the servants hastily making way for them. Bronic’s companions gathered around him to look at his prize. The wooden shaft was five feet long with a huge, ornately scrolled steel blade at one end that extended beyond the end of the shaft by almost half its length. The scrolling depicted the symbols of the Khanate, like the tapestry that hung from the High Table: a naked woman reaching for the sun, grapevines entwined and growing over her body.
“Consequences, you see, Bronic,” Tuan said smiling.
“You wouldn’t have got that in a pleasure house,” Tamzine chimed in.
Klesh laughed. “He would be boasting of the size of his weapon either way. Maybe he can call his axe after this Blissa?”
They all roared with laughter at that, to the discomfort of other revellers nursing sore heads, before settling back down for their breakfast. Bronic felt the weight of the bardiche in his hands before reluctantly leaning it against the table, as if he dare not let his precious new prize leave his sight. His smile was as broad as the Cheama Sea.
After breakfast, the four companions made their way out into the open air, free of the oppressive air in the Great Hall of the Khan’s Tower. They all breathed deeply of the clean sea air that swept up from the Cheama, and gathered around a fountain near to the tower’s entrance. Here they washed the grime, smoke and sleep from their eyes and attempted to make themselves presentable for the Khan and his Queen.
After their ablutions they sat down to await Captain Sendel’s arrival. Bronic cradled his Blissa and lovingly drew a whetstone along its blade.
Klesh patted his belly. “Never have I eaten like I did last night; this is a land of plenty, its people strong and well fed.”
“And yet they are bonded to the Empire like all the tribes and peoples of the Summerlands for all that. Their independence is an illusion,” Tamzine said thoughtfully.
Tuan rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That may have been the case in the past. The Khanate has trodden a fine line to avoid the fate of our peoples, and especially that of the ancient land of Kernac on the west coast of the Cheama. Who remembers it now? We are still Gewichas and Turanesci, but Kernac has gone utterly, its nobility exterminated centuries past, its old lands under direct Imperial control. Its once near-impregnable fortress, Ranuk, which stood in defiance for centuries, is now the Master’s Keep, capital of the Imperial Northern Holdings, and Northport and its haven built around it. At least the folk of the Khanate are still Cheamanite, Keanasa still their own. But things are changing for the Summerlands as a whole. Our hard-won victory last year on the Cheama under General Broud has set fates in motion, I feel it.”
Tuan’s hand tapped his chest, where underneath his tunic the Sun Shard hung. “I made a promise to Kress and I will fulfil it. We will shape the world for all people by our actions, and Commander Kaziviere is crucial to our success. He is our bridge to Taleel. Without the military might of Taleel, all will be lost. I have looked into the mind of ….” Tuan’s words stumbled a little and he shivered, as grey clouds crossed the rising sun and his mind wandered to remembering events in the Great Marsh, a few short months before. “There are darker things,” he said quietly, “that are older than time itself, that held sway before the stars were born. Long they slumbered in their shadowed contentment, but they are stirring and they look to expand their dominion over the world of the living.”
The four companions sat quietly in their thoughts; even Bronic stopped the rhythmic whetting of Blissa. Tuan, Bronic and Klesh sat remembering the crippling fear in the stonehouse on the Talons, how Tuan was lost to the shadows, the light of the Sun Shard extinguished. Only one managed to break that shadowed spell that day, using a magic that is capable of uniting all souls in this life and those behind the veil of death.
Tamzine remembered her lover’s caresses. I will find you, Rendroc Kaziviere. I will find you. She looked up. The grey clouds that had clung to the cliffs and hills behind Keanasa were blown inland by the winds off the Cheama, and the sun emerged, bright and warming. The world was turning, the seasons changing, as winter yielded to spring. She turned her face in gratitude westward towards the Cheama, from where the winds came. She looked down towards the harbour and saw a pair of familiar figures approaching.
“Here come Captain Sendel and First Mate Culdur,” she remarked, and all the companions turned to see the sailors marching towards them.
The two sea dogs had raided their sea chests for their finest clothes and silks, and certainly looked impressive. With their cutlasses hanging from their belts at their sides they looked like privateer lords. The captain had a satchel full of papers and rolled parchments. The pair saw the four companions and waved a greeting as they approached.
“Good morning! I trust you enjoyed the Khan’s hospitality last night?” the captain said, a broad smile on his face.
“Indeed we did. Look, Bronic has a new lover to caress,” Tamzine replied, indicating the Turanesci and his newly-won weapon. “I presume you did, too, Captain?”
Captain Sendel laughed. “Yes I did. I ploughed a good, long furrow last night!” Bronic looked up, interested.
“Spare us the details, Captain!” Tamzine said in mock indignation.
Bronic scowled; he would have enjoyed listening to the details.
“Shall we go and meet the Lord Khan then?” Captain Sendel enquired.
The companions stood up and gathered their bags and weapons and followed the captain and first mate. Bringing up the rear was Bronic. He put away his whetstone in his bag. He attached his axe to his belt alongside his sword and slung his musket, in its canvas bag, over his shoulder. He carried Blissa at his side in his right hand. He was still getting to know his new weapon and enjoying the feel of her. He hurried to catch up with his comrades as they approached the gates of the Khan’s tower.
Captain Sendel met with the tower warden just inside the open gates. The warden was an aged man who had served the Khan’s father before the ascent of Keeshal to the throne of the Khanate. His head was completely bald, covered in a purple skullcap of silk. His beard was white and long but elaborately parted into three. It was long in the centre while on either side the whiskers were stiffened and curved inward like mammoth tusks.
“Follow me,” he said simply, in a croaking voice that betrayed his years. He set off without looking behind him or uttering another word, surprisingly quickly for a man of such venerable age.
He led them along the ground level of the tower, turning this way and that and finally descending some stairs into a long subterranean
corridor, torches casting shadows all around. They came to a broad flight of stairs carved in bedrock. Upon climbing, they emerged in a well-lit entrance chamber, where light flooded in through thick glass windows set deeply into solid walls. They were in a stone-built building set behind the Khan’s Tower, hidden from view from the sea. Opposite them were two solid oak doors. On either side, lining the walls as they approached the doors were ten of the Khan’s guard, silent and unknowable behind the nose guards that half hid their faces. Each held a bardiche in front of them, their hands resting on the handles, ready to snatch them up to swing at a moment’s notice.
As the party approached, the doors appeared to swing open of their open accord; those opening them ensuring that they remained out of sight. The hall inside had whitewashed, plastered walls. High up in the roof, windows cast sunlight into the long room, in slanting beams that caught the airborne dust in their glare. After the gloom of the tunnel, it was dazzling to the eyes of Tuan and his companions.
The deep growling voice of the Khan reverberated from beyond the glaring light, which rendered the speaker invisible. “Ah ,Captain Sendel, pray approach. You and your companions.”
The tower warden urged them forward before him. “Do not keep the Khan waiting,” he said in his ancient croaking voice.
Captain Sendel blinked to acclimatise his eyes. Sucking in some breath, he steeled himself and marched forward, endeavouring to appear as confident as he could. Tuan and his companions followed, looking to either side of them as they went. Flanking them were more guardsmen, as silent and intimidating as those in the entrance hall. Behind them, life-size white statues of the Khan’s ancestors stood on plinths, gazing down through blind eyes of stone, in disdain at those who dared enter their presence.