A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  I stepped firmly between the pair. “Tradition can wait for another time, my prince, this cannot.”

  Tariq grinned as he began tightening the laces on his bracers. “Off with you, shovaqi! Do the bidding of our T’pahq. I will join you shortly and you can supply me with some of that Zetan horse piss that passes for liquor.”

  “Consider it done.” Jae’nt grinned. He turned to me. “Well, what did you think of the match, Meriq? I think I did well to last so long. And I’m still as pretty now as when I went in to the ring.”

  “Yes, indeed you are, Jae’nt.” I answered stonily, watching as the bruises faded from his face and arms even as we spoke. “And here is the person I wanted you to meet.” I gestured behind the prince, directing his attention to where Dthor was sitting. His face was bruised, his upper lip cut and swollen.

  “Oh my stars and moons, Dthor! What in Zoar’s name happened to you?”

  “I was just wondering the same thing,” Markos muttered darkly. He shot me a look that told me beyond doubt that he was demanding an explanation.

  “Your fight happened, Jae’nt.” I snapped angrily, shoving the prince on to the bench opposite my consort. “It is not just protection in battle!”

  “I-I did not realise.” The prince looked sincerely bereft. He reached over and gently ran his hands over the bruises on Dthor’s face and the rope burns and deck grazes on his shoulders and arms.

  “And now you do!” I snapped angrily. “Perhaps you will be a little more circumspect in your activities in the future.”

  “Why did you not stop me? You must have known this was going to happen! How could you let it happen?”

  “Dthor forbade me to interfere. He thought you might learn something from the situation. And have you?”

  “Be still, my little dragon,” Dthor lisped as he placed a cold cloth against the bruise on his cheek, “The prince understands now and this is a price I pay gladly with that knowledge.”

  Jae’nt looked shamefaced and distressed. “Dthor I . . .”

  “Hush, Your Highness. All is well.” Dthor said. “But if you would excuse me I shall retire.” The soldier placed a restraining hand on my shoulder as I made to rise with him, “Stay, my love. I will be fine.”

  “By the gods, my Lord Consort, what have you been doing?” Tariq asked as he reached our table and sat down next to Jae’nt.”

  “A fall from his horse.” Markos, Jae’nt and I all spoke at once.

  “A little more water with the porter methinks,” Tariq said genially as he watched the captain leave. “Well, saying that, I have porter and tiles. Dar khirahn anyone?”

  The rains persisted for several days, the intensity changing little. The campsite became mire as the tundra was trampled flat and finally wore away under the pressure of the camp traffic.

  The kings, though frustrated by the delay, accepted that none could fight the force of nature and instead ordered timber to be set down in the stabling area and the thresh was formed bedding for the men should be laid over it to prevent the horses from getting hoof rot.

  The army, unlike the kings, seemed more than content with the respite from marching and fighting, and I could quite understand the relief; if we could not march because of the weather, then neither could the Black Legion. And so, for the time we were stymied by the tempest the men carried on with their wrestling, sparring and gaming just was if it was another day in the barracks.

  Dthor’s bruises healed quickly thanks largely to Karyn’s skill with herbs and though Markos still eyed the resolving injuries with suspicion, he made no attempt to elicit an explanation from me—until we arrived in the central tent and he spotted Tariq and Jae’nt sparring.

  “Shall I forbid Tariq from engaging the prince thus?” he asked as we settled at a nearby table. “Mind you, they have been doing that ever since their fight.” The prince filled his goblet and took a mouthful, peering at the sparring men over the rim. “I think they might become war brothers. But I will speak to Tariq if you wish, Ez’n.”

  Dthor placed his hand on my arm as I went to answer. “No, Markos. Say nothing. Do nothing. Jae’nt understands now.”

  “I see. Very well, Lord Consort.” Markos turned his eyes to me. “Well, Meriq? Are you going to explain to me what I witnessed?”

  “What you witnessed? And what was that?”

  “Oh, let me see now . . . Oh yes! Talking to the Lord Consort who had not a mark on his body and then returning after the Prince Royal’s bout with Tariq to find him beaten and bloody while Jae’nt bore scarcely a mark.” Markos glowered at me. “I think that would be an excellent place to start with the explanation. Do you not agree?”

  “No.” I answered flatly.

  Markos banged his fist on the table causing heads to turn and conversation to falter at nearby tables. “You impossible . . . .” and his tongue seemed to trip over itself as he struggled to find a suitable epithet, “. . . shovaqi!” he growled at me.

  “Welcome to my world, Markos.” Dthor laughed.

  “Can you, will you explain this whole thing to me?” Markos asked, his frustration at his ignorance very clearly etched into his tone.”

  “Ech thi’va ga’mat.” Dthor answered. He jerked his head in my direction, “Never without his permission.” He picked up Markos’ goblet and took a sip. “By the way, what’s a shovaqi?”

  “It means ‘little demon’,” the prince replied. “For some strange and entirely Morlan reason it is considered a term of endearment among men. Fathers often refer to their sons as shovaqi.”

  “Very Morlan.” Dthor observed.

  “We are a unique culture.” Markos offered.

  “To say the very least,” I agreed.

  As Markos set to filling our cups Tariq arrived. “Do you have room for one more?” the archer asked.

  Markos shifted along the bench and gestured for the pair to join us and in response to Jae’nt’s hail a Companion set down a pannier of bread, fruit and cheese and some cured meat.

  The basket had barely settled on the table before Tariq’s brothers appeared, as it seemed from the ether, and pulled up another table and some benches to join us. Another basket of breads and fruit appeared along with several pitchers of ale and porter.

  “And what could be better than good company, reasonably good ale, and a game of Dar khirahn?” Tyrel asked as he produced his tiles from the satchel that hung on his quiver strap.

  “Quality time with a wench, perhaps?” Jae’nt offered.

  “Hah! Well said,” Tal laughed.

  After the third hand Jae’nt excused himself to go on watch. Tariq and the other titans left shortly thereafter and it was not long before Dthor, Markos and I followed suit.

  The rain had let up for the moment but there was still no break in the clouds, and despite the numerous torches that guttered and flared around the camp it was still difficult to see a way through the site. Yet as we approached our tent Dthor’s battle-trained eyes picked out a figure in the flickering shadows cast by a brazier. He caught my arm.

  “Isn’t that Tariq? What is he doing?”

  I moved closer to Dthor’s side and squinted into the shadows. The young archer was half hidden by the trunk of a bell-tree, one of the few trees to be found in the veldt. I stared further into the darkness towards a guard post where Jae’nt was standing the watch.

  “I believe he is keeping an eye on Jae’nt.”

  Dthor gave a shrug. “I’ll never understand Morlans,” he complained, “Only a Morlan would develop a friendship with the man who nearly throttled him and gave him more bruises than a street-sleeper has lice.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know, ‘b’zaddi. You fell in love with a boy who nearly broke your jaw and then got you incarcerated, flogged and beaten.”

  “Ah but I was already lost to love long before that! He stooped and kissed me on the forehead. “And furthermore,” he added, pulling me close to his side, “you have always been a man to me. I have never looked at you and seen a boy. A
nd with that said, little dragon, I have a sudden urgent need for such a man.”

  As we turned to go Tariq suddenly leapt away from the shadows and sprinted towards the guard post. Dthor and I glanced at each other and then to where Jae’nt stood.

  The prince had turned towards the brazier while his watch-mate took point looking out towards a post further along the perimeter. It was no more than a couple of breaths when we saw glimmers of yellow in the darkness. As I opened my mouth to shout a warning Tariq bellowed “K’val shovaqi!”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Jae’nt’s watch mate let out a scream and burst into flames. Dthor and I rushed forward. Jae’nt turned and slipped in the slime that had been his companion. Tariq bellowed again, this time something truly obscene in Morlan and launched himself hurling a dart at the man illuminated by the soldier’s burning body. The dart took the assailant in the heart and the man fell with a moist, gurgling cough. The second assassin, realising that he, too, was discovered, determined that he should complete his mission and hurled himself towards the fallen prince.

  My mind flexed, but my anxiety impaired my aim and all I accomplished was the shattering of the brazier and scattering the coals. Tariq, on the other hand, rolled as he fell regaining his feet in one fluid movement and threw himself between Jae’nt and the second man.

  The crystal blade took him across the ribs and slashed into his forearm. The Morlan scarcely seemed to notice the wound and grabbing the man’s knife arm he twisted it with such force that the bones of his elbow broke through the flesh. He lifted the man by the throat.

  “You shit-eating son of sewer rat! I will tear you limb from limb.” Tariq snarled. So saying he dashed the assassin to the ground and standing on the injured arm, tore it off at the facture and began beating the man around the head and shoulders with it.

  The screams of both the dying soldier and the beleaguered assassin brought men running from all directions.

  “Tariq! Stop! I shouted, “We need him alive.”

  The archer threw the man’s arm into his face. “Be thankful my T’pahq is here to save your worthless sister-fucking hide you maggot!” He turned to me and saluted. “Your prisoner, t’pahq.” He turned to Jae’nt and pulled him to his feet. “I seem to be helping you up a great deal of late, shovaqi.”

  Jae’nt laughed, his smile turning to sudden alarm as his hand slipped in the slime oozing from Tariq’s arm. “Oh gods, Tariq, you’re bleeding a-and sliming!”

  The archer ran an exploratory hand around his chest surprised etching itself on his face as he stared at the slime and blood on his hand. “So it would . . . seem . . . little . . . demon,”

  The Morlan went very pale suddenly and swayed like a wind swatted tree. His eyes rolled wildly and his legs began to buckle. Jae’nt grabbed him stepping under his arm pit to support him.

  “I—must not—fall. I—cannot—fall, shovaqi.” The young man gasped.

  Jae’nt staggered under the archer’s bulk. “I promise, Tariq, I promise I will not let you fall.” The prince stumbled a couple of steps towards me. “I won’t let you fall, but by Zoar you Morlan ox I am having trouble holding you up!”

  Dthor stepped up and made to take Tariq’s good arm.

  “No!” Jae’nt shouted at him. “No! Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare touch him.”

  Dthor jumped back as if he had been burned.

  Jae’nt struggled on. “I promised him I would not let him fall, and he will not. A Morlan only falls when he is dead.” He added speaking more, I suspected, to Tariq than to the captain. “Now come on you stinking sack of crystal slime, walk! And stop leaking—you are staining a perfectly good tunic.”

  Dthor turned to me and smiled. “I believe we almost have a king in the ranks of the Kyr-Garrin.”

  “And one with a very colourful turn of phrase,” I observed.

  “Aye, lad. Though Tariq also does pretty well in the cursing camp!” He stared after the prince who was still struggling towards the hospital tent fending off any attempts to help him. “I suspect those two will make interesting war brothers eventually.”

  I glanced after them and groaned. As if we needed any more scandal than we already had.

  “Ez’n?” It was Faedron who spoke. “What shall we do with him?” He pointed to the injured assassin.

  “Take him to the healers.”

  “And this?” Maegor asked brandishing the severed arm.

  “Fix the dagger to it and hang it somewhere prominent outside the camp. This one,” I continued, kicking the dead man, “gibbet him. Let the carrion feast. It has been a hard winter, and it will act as a warning to others who may come while we are bivouacked.”

  When the guard post had been secured I sent Dthor to alert Keelan and Janir while I made my way to check on Tariq.

  News had travelled remarkably fast and the archer’s brothers were already waiting at the infirmary when I arrived. Tyrel approached me as I entered. “May we see him?”

  “I will talk to the healers,” I replied, “and see what they say.”

  “No, no, t’pahq. You misunderstand. We wish to see Tariq’s shovaqi. We know Tariq will be well for he did not fall.”

  I frowned, mystified. “I will tell Jae’nt you are here.”

  “If he does not wish to leave Tariq, we will understand, and we will wait.” Lythor said as I turned to go.

  I nodded, completely at a loss as to what reply might be appropriate. The more time I spent with the Morlans the stranger and more perplexing I seemed to find them.

  In the infirmary Jae’nt knelt beside the stricken archer wiping his brow with a cold cloth. The young man was sweating profusely and was hot to the touch as if he had suddenly contracted a fever.

  Jae’nt went to rise as I approached but I motioned him to remain still. “Meriq, he won’t wake up. What is wrong? The wounds are closed but he won’t awaken.”

  I leaned close and scented the archer’s breath cautiously. There was a bitter-sweet aroma on it, faint but detectable. So! It seemed that the assassins did not entirely trust their blades now. They had poisoned them.

  “Poison?” Jae’nt echoed. “Why in Zoar’s name would they poison something already deadly?”

  Clearly the leaders of the Black Legion had learned that we now knew how to close the wounds and heal the injured. Quite how they came by such intelligence was a mystery, though I suspected I knew the source. That I would deal with much later. For now I had a moribund Morlan to deal with and I needed more that my limited knowledge of toxins to do so; and in order to confirm my suspicions about the poison I needed a healer much more skilled than I, and I needed a kayet. I needed Karyn and I needed Orrin.

  “Do you know what it is? Can you cure it?” Jae’nt was almost beside himself.

  “I can try, Jae’nt. I can try.”

  “Please, Meriq. Please. He saved my life. He should not die this way.”

  “I will try,” I said again and rose to seek out Karyn whom I guessed would be somewhere around; she could never stay away from the sick.

  Jae’nt grabbed my hand. “Meriq—I—I can’t lose him. I won’t. You understand?

  If I did not before, the look on Jae’nt’s face brought the understanding clearly to the fore.

  “I promised him, Meriq. I promised I would not let him fall.”

  I took the prince’s hand in mine, “Then, my prince, if it is in my power to prevent it, he will not fall.” I glanced briefly and the entrance. “Tariq’s brothers are outside. They wish to see you.”

  “Why? What for?” The prince looked suddenly alarmed.

  “I cannot tell, Jae’nt. They are being very—Morlan.”

  “Oh!”

  “Exactly.”

  Jae’nt glanced uncertainly towards the door and then took Tariq’s hand once again.

  “Go and comfort his brothers,” I said, “if that is indeed what they are seeking. I will remain here until you return.”

  Jae’nt left then, returning a short
while later carrying a Morlan silver cloak pin bearing Tariq’s sigil and decorated with fine black braids—obviously made from the brothers’ hair—and hung in place from the lower curve of the retainer by copper and silver wire.

  “They want me to wear it. What do you think it means?”

  I had no idea. Morlan customs were a complete mystery to me because I had harboured an obsessive indifference to the race for much of my life and thus avoided studying anything to do with the society and social customs of Morla. There was also the fact that Morlan conduct was frequently self-contradictive. Besides, I could not afford to devote time to interpreting the meaning behind such a gift while Tariq lay dying—I needed to find Karyn.

  Much as I expected Karyn was ensconced in the dispensary poring over some scrolls which looked to be at least fifty cycles old. She greeted me without really looking up—a Morlan habit I had almost grown accustomed to since as a race they were not strong on formality.

  “I know,” she said before I could speak, “I am trying to find something in the scrolls that matches the symptoms but nothing does. Oh slythe it!” she snapped and hurled the scroll across the room.

  “That will help.” I observed.

  “I know that I know the poison, I cannot place it.”

  “It’s a composite, Karyn.”

  “What?”

  I explained quickly that I believed the substance was an amalgam of two poisons, Bitter Sage, from the bitter-sweet aroma on the archer’s breath and Travellers’ Bane, a deadly plant that grew in profusion all over the veldt. Karyn frowned, obviously annoyed by the fact that she did not know The Bane. Of course, there was no reason why she should know it. It was a Medran toxin, little known or used outside of Mederlana. I would have been astounded if she had known about it, let alone been familiar with the odour of it. I only knew it because my brother worked for our local apothecary and Andri taught me about the treachery of the enticing red berries when I was very young.

  The Bane had claimed the lives of many an unwary traveller unfamiliar with the fruits and such of the Medran plains. Traveller’s Bane was a deceitful poison not entirely dissimilar to Bitter Sage. The berries were sweet and the bush on which they grew was highly aromatic and inviting. Furthermore, the berries tasted pleasant. The toxin put the victim into a deep sleep and slowly paralyzed the breathing so that the victim would suffocate.