A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  “You! Kalthar Tariq!” The speaker was clearly the head of the M’rgaerdjinn detachment, judging from the amulet and coronet he sported. “You have been summoned. Get you hence.”

  I slammed my cutlery down on the table and stood up. The entire white guard rose with me. “You are interrupting my breakfast and that of the White Guard. Explain yourself.”

  The priest snorted and turned to one of his aides. “Ul basri galthan!” he said eliciting sniggers from both the priests and the militia.

  “The mongrel barks,” Markos translated.

  “Thank you, Prince Markos, I have learned sufficient Morlan to comprehend that.”

  Faedron shifted from foot to foot and leaned towards the priest who had first spoken. “It is never a good sign when the Ez’n starts using titles,” he said in a hushed, confiding tone. “You should think about coming back later—or perhaps not at all. Not at all is a much better choice!”

  I moved slowly around the table. “You have no authority to summon any member of my guard on any pretext, priest.

  “I am M’rgaerdjinn.” The priest snarled, “My authority comes from Morgul Himself.”

  “Indeed?” I leaned casually on Tariq’s broad back placing my hand on his shoulder and guiding back down on to the bench even as he began to rise again. “I see no evidence of that, merely a man’s claim that it is so. What sign can your god give me that I should subjugate my command to his?”

  “That I am here at the behest of this Kalthar’s father is sign enough for the M’rgaerdjinn. The kalthar—archer,” the priest translated fully aware that he had no need, “stands accused of indulging in the forbidden.”

  “Oh. I see. And so his accuser is not your god, but the archer’s father?”

  “As you say, Meriq.” The priest confirmed.

  “You will address me by my title, priest.” I snarled. “Presume to use my name again and I will have your tongue cut out.”

  As if to lend power to my words every White Guard’s hand moved to his dagger. Clearly there would be no shortage of volunteers for the task. The priest shuffled uncomfortably and took a step back from me.

  My patience, strained at the outset was now at its limit.

  “So now, let me see if I have this correct. You are here at the request of a parent and therefore a man who has no authority in my ranks, and not of a god. So you are doing the will of a mortal—not of a god.”

  “I-I . . .” the priest’s tongue stumbled into silence.

  I drew my ceremonial wand to disguise my true actions, flexed my mind and lifted the man off his feet, smiling as he struggled against the invisible hands that held him. “I suggest you take your hounds and get out of my sight, priest of no god.” I flicked the wand, twitching my thoughts and sending the man into his troop with enough force to wind him and knock a couple of the hoplites off their feet as he crashed into them. I stalked over to the man grabbing him by the hair as he struggled to his feet. “Some words of counsel, priest. NEVER interrupt my meal again. NEVER presume to command one of my Guard again, and NEVER cross my path again. If I see you within a quarter cord of me or my Guard you will be serving your god in his Celestial realm.”

  “You presume to threaten me?” The priest demanded shrugging free of my grip and climbing to his feet.

  I gave the man a feral smile. “That was no threat, priest. It was my oath.”

  As I turned to walk away a shouted warning from one of the Morlans at a neighbouring table brought me around just in time to see the priest lunging at me with a dagger. He had scarcely moved when a black shurikan and a gold dart with red flight ribbons whistled past me taking the man in the shoulders.

  Kylos and Orrin were on the man before he had even hit the ground Kylos grabbing the man by the hair holding him as Orrin took off his knife hand with his kris.

  The Zetans and Morlans who remained in the tent were on their feet to a man crowding around the hoplites and remaining priests as if daring them to make any move at all.

  “What is your will, t’pahq?” Kylos asked as he pulled his dagger from the scabbard on his chest. He jammed the glittering gold blade under the priest’s jaw. “By rights he should be killed here and now. None may take a man at his back.”

  “Take him to King Keelan. He is your king’s subject not mine.”

  Keelan and Janir sat in grave silence as the priest and his entourage gave their versions of the incident in the mess tent. Those Morlans who dared come forward as witnesses against the priests did so at grave personal risk. The “morality police” as some called the M’rgaerdjinn priesthood were greatly and rightly feared for they could have any man put to death at the mere hint that he might be involved romantically with another.

  When once the testimonies had been heard Keelan rose. It was clear to him, if to no-one else, he said, that there were two issues. The first was the clearest and that was that priest or not, no man may take another at his back. The penalty for his was clear and the priest was to be put to death immediately. There would be no further discussion on this.

  The second issue was the fact that Tariq was still wearing Morlan colours. He had not adopted the uniform of the White Guard and neither had his brothers. The titans, therefore, were officially under the rule of Morla and Tariq must answer the accusation.

  To that end Keelan had sent an eagle to his capital summoning the current Aergin to bring the Qor-hadthin since trial could only be conducted in the presence of the eternal charter. The Morlan herald eagles were extremely swift and Keelan’s would reach Doria in a matter of days. The Aergin would, in all probability leave at once with his entourage and ride with haste using relay horses from the stations we had established along our march.

  “But, Your Majesty, the kalthar must be sent to Doria . . .” It was the condemned priest’s First who spoke but Keelan froze him with a glance.

  “Are you presuming to instruct me in the application of catechism, Priest? It was your Order that brought this charge. You wish to invoke the Law of the Qor-hadthin then you will abide by the Law or join your mentor on the block. The Charter will be brought here in accordance with The Law.”

  When the court was dismissed Keelan called Zarin to remain behind. The monarch gave the man a dark, foreboding look as he approached.

  “You do your son a great disservice with this, Zarin.”

  “I will not have our ways brought down by lust, Keelan. You may be content to allow Kylos to degrade himself with a petach basri, I will not allow Tariq to do likewise.”

  “The Provost Aenar is a good and honourable man, He is no barbarian mongrel. He is a man I am proud to call vitharin. He is my blood now—so I counsel you, old friend, be careful with your words. You think Prince Jae’nt to be less worthy when he fights with such honour and ferocity beside his lord and t’pahq—and your own sons?”

  “The very fact that our men give out our titles of respect so lightly to basrim insults our ancestors.”

  Keelan scowled. “Do you think this is truly wise, Zarin? Can you not see how this demeans us all?”

  “It is proper.” Zarin snapped back. “and it is The Law.”

  Keelan spat at the man’s feet making it more than clear of what he thought of “proper.”

  Keelan, though on the surface as staunch supporter of the traditional, had probably forgotten more about proper Morlan traditions that his commander actually knew. He was well aware of how the titles had been bestowed on me and my men and wasted no words acquainting his general with the facts. Zarin took a step back and bowed his head; a clear sign that he was now surrendering at least this part of the argument to the will of his king. Nevertheless, it was more than clear to any witnessing the exchange that he was not about to back down over the accusation that Tariq had become debauched either through turpitude or seduction—and it was equally clear which of the options he favoured.

  “Jae’nt should have been more discreet.” Janir said as the kings and I settled it the withdrawing area.

  Dthor g
ave a short laugh. “Your pardon, majesty, but I do not think Jae’nt knows how to be discreet.”

  Keelan allowed himself a small chuckle and then disguised it with a growl. “I know of no young bloods who truly understand such things. Still,” the monarch continued, “I think Tariq should have known better than to allow such intimacy to be witnessed in public.”

  “Oh, for Zoar’s sake!” Faedron let out an exasperated groan. “This is madness! He was lacing the man’s bracers not ploughing his furrow across a saddle rack in the middle of the camp.”

  “He might as well have been,” Markos responded taking a hefty swig from Faedron’s offered cup. “The act is perceived as extremely significant and provocative when conducted between men who have not been accepted as battle-joined shoqim.”

  Faedron growled impatiently. “We didn’t have this much trouble with Kylos and Aenar! Well, if you discount Aenar breaking a man’s neck that is.”

  Markos chuckled. “Of course we did not! Only the company, the Kyr-Garrin, were involved. We all knew how the game was unfolding. We are not all the fear-ridden prudes you believe us to be, Faedron. But laws are laws and some simply cannot be even slightly bent let alone broken.”

  “Well, I think it incredibly romantic and courageous.”

  “Well you would,” Maegor observed.

  There was a brief lull in the conversations at surrounding tables as Jae’nt and Tariq appeared and came to join us.

  “So,” Faedron said with his characteristic disregard of propriety. “You and Jae’nt . . .”

  Tariq glanced at the prince who merely shrugged. “What about us?”

  “Well, tell—did you just rush up and sweep him off his feet? I’m assuming you did the sweeping—Jae’nt is so much shorter that you. It would have been . . . problematic.”

  Tariq laughed out loud. “I will tell you only this, shovaqi,” the archer smiled, “we have no need of brooms.”

  I grinned. Faedron huffed, clearly disappointed that the romantic in his soul would remain unsatisfied and that he would be gaining no insights into the couple’s involvement—romantic or otherwise.

  “So, Tariq,” I asked quietly while the other were away collecting the rations. “What will happen now?”

  Now, it seemed, he would stand trial under the Qor-hadthin. Keelan had summoned the Aergin, the High Priest of the M’rgaerdjinn. It would normally be several settans before the Cleric managed to catch up with the army, we were already well into the march on Medravia. It was well known the M’rgaerdjinn did not hurry themselves, even when called by the kings.

  “Much like wizards,” Tariq observed, “they are not easily commanded. I suspect, on this occasion however, they will make great haste and, as the king as intimated will use the relay stations. I imagine they will be keen to castrate me and fill me with molten gold. There has not been such a trial as this for many generations.”

  “And of course,” Lythor offered, “after such a long time they are probably in the market for new jewellery.”

  “That is how they execute a man for sleeping with another?” Jae’nt looked aghast.

  Tariq nodded. Apparently removing the genitals and filling the man’s back passage with gold ensured he would be purified for his entry into the afterlife. The gold extracted from the man’s guts at the end of the ritual execution was then melted down and the priests either wore it as jewellery or had chalices made from it so that they could then drink the blood of the victims to complete the purification.

  “Good reason to fear them, then,” Dthor observed as he took a basket of bread from Tyrel.

  The titan nodded. “Indeed,” he said, “but, as Tariq says, it could be two or three of your settans before the whoresons arrive.”

  †

  CHAPTER 32

  BEAUTIFUL AND DARK—AND DEADLY

  IAWOKE just before dawn on the following morning to the sounds the camp being struck. The sustained break in the weather and, I suspected, the summoning of the M’rgaerdjinn had spurred the monarchs into action. I suspected, too, that Keelan was not about to make it easy for either Zarin or the priesthood the king clearly despised to have their day easily. Equally certain was I that the generals had been discretely exerting pressure on the kings outside of the War council to get the men marching again so that the momentum of the campaign would not be further stymied and the keenness of the men to engage the enemy would remain undiminished. Either way, the juggernaut of soldiers would be on the move well before noon.

  By the time I had washed, dressed and left my pavilion most of the men’s bivouacs had been struck and were already being loaded on to the wagons by the ancillary squads. The infantry were already assembled rank on rank as were the Morlan Hoplites and most of the archers.

  The generals had determined that the soldiers would leave the camp which would be struck and then brought up as we marched. It seemed a slightly chaotic way of doing things to me, but it would mean that the march started quickly but that the men would have to rely on their field rations as they marched—eating on the run, so to speak.

  “I hate field rations,” Faedron complained as he rode alongside me. “They taste of straw and shit.”

  “I’ll take your word for that,” Markos chuckled as he joined us.

  The army moved steadily across the veldt and by the time the sun had reached noon we had covered a good deal of ground. A brief rest stop by one of the many streams that threaded the plains after the rain gave us ample opportunity to water the horses and the men and provided a brief respite from the march as the men sprawled out, lighting fires hand placing kettles over the flames in an attempt to make the field rations more palatable. In all probability, the only way to manage that would be to burn them and inhale the smoke. Soaking the meat in hot water often made it easier to chew, but it did nothing to improve flavour.

  The militia moved in a long, slow tide across the plains, cresting the gentle rolling hills of red and gold like lava and white and blue like a foaming wave. Time seemed to drift gently along with us like the gentle caress of the breeze.

  I was almost dozing in my saddle under the soporific warmth of the late spring morning when I caught the soft sweet scent of berries and fresh green shoots. The aroma was something I remembered of my childhood. Something beautiful and dark—and deadly. I sat bolt upright.

  “Stop the march, Dthor! Stop the men!”

  Dthor spun around in his saddle. “What? Why? What is it?”

  “Just sound the alarm and stop them now!”

  My Consort shrugged and signalled to Polo who raised his bugle and sounded a long, high harsh note. The signal was picked up by the other signalmen and gradually the march ground to a halt.

  The kings and the generals were at my side moments later with their honour guards in attendance.

  Keelan looked annoyed. “I trust you have good reason for halting us when we are making such good time, Meriq.”

  I gave a brief deferential nod, indicating that the monarchs should follow me. As we crested the low hill we had been marching up a vast stretch of veldt spread out before us but no more than an arm’s length away from the crest, hidden by the declivity a massive tangle of briar-like plants tumbled down the hillock stretching almost as far as the eye could see.

  The vines were thick and tuberous with fleshy leaves and long treacherous-looking thorns. Dark green flowers hung heavy on the flower spikes while other spikes glowed heavy with bright ruby red fruits that shone translucent in the sun.

  Keelan frowned. “What in the God’s name is that?”

  “It is Bane Briar, King Keelan. One of the deadliest plants we have in Mederlana. I confess, though, I have never seen it growing in quite such profusion.”

  One of Keelan’s guards slid out of his saddle and drew his sword. “We can cut through this in no time.”

  Before I even had time to draw breath to shout a warning the man drew his sword and hacked at the nearest knot of tendrils. The stems gave with a loud crack releasing a dark bl
ue spray of sap, leaves and berries exploded covering the man in green and red juice. The man stood for a moment, his gasp of surprise frozen on in his throat as the acrid gas from the stems seared his throat and lungs. Within moments his skin was blistering and melting from the juice. He fell silently twitching out his life in mute agony.

  Janir turned to me. “Can we burn through it?”

  “Only if we can be sure of that the wind will not turn on us. This plant is truly deadly. Were we to burn it and the wind changed we would all be gassed in moments. We have no real choice but to march around it if we are to continue today.”

  Balten had joined us at the crest, and having witnessed the fall of the guardsman suggested that we order the men to make a proper camp while we consulted the charts of the plains. He gave me an easy smile. “I am certain that our trusted Ez’n will be able to suggest a suitable alternative march route.”

  Would that I felt as confident as the Crown Prince! I had not been to Mederlana since I was taken in battle. All I had to fall back on were a few childhood memories that might or might not be reliable.

  The kings and war council gathered in a clear flat area not far from the obstructing Bane Briar. Blankets and charts were spread around on the damp grass. From what I could tell, the charts were well crafted and were, in all likelihood, as accurate as they could be.

  “What is this area here?” Keelan asked, pointing towards something that looked like scree.

  I took a deep breath. I could not be certain, but I thought that the area was what my father always called the Massouqi. It was a narrow stretch of land about five cords in width; not too deep a valley but it stretched across the veldt almost to where the Bane Briar blocked our path. There were hundreds of local legends about the area. Some claimed it was cursed by the gods since men died within moments of entering the area. They would be walking normally one moment and the next they would simply drop. Anyone attempting to rescue the stricken men would share the same fate; except, it seemed at high noon on the hottest of days when a man might successfully cross the area unscathed.