Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1)

by Zackery Arbela

  "I saw him." Azaran shook his head. "Not a good way to live."

  "And in time, a bad way to die."

  "Is there a good way to die?"

  "I suppose...though in truth I have little desire to find out."

  Azaran thought on this. "How do you know all this?"

  "What, about Enkilash? 'Tis common enough knowledge in every bar and quay on this island."

  "No...you are different. The men who were here yesterday were common things. Peasants turned savage. But you speak differently, like a man of rank."

  "In a former life," came the reply from Segovac, "I was a Rhennari. And now you will ask what that is."

  "My memories do not extend beyond a week at most."

  Segovac seemed reluctant to tell of it. "Well...it's sort of like a priest. But also at times a physician, a keeper of history, a diviner of the future...a few other roles as well."

  "How did you end up here?"

  Again Segovac seemed reluctant to answer, his usual calm demeanor pensive. "It's a long story. Suffice it to say...Enkilash isn't the only one exiled from all he knows and loves."

  Azaran took the hint. Neither spoke for a while. They were alive, for now. There was no telling how long that would last.

  "You lost your memories," Segovac said. "It's not an act on your part."

  "It is not."

  Segovac nodded. "You and I will likely be dead in two days, three at most. When they haul our bodies away, no one on this speck of an island will remember us. But until then, I will help you to regain what you have lost. If you are willing to make the effort."

  Azaran considered this. "Seems a waste of time, if you think we will be dead so soon."

  "A man should strive to put an lifetime of good deeds into a single day. At the moment my options are limited. I do not know what we might accomplish, but it would be better than sitting here contemplating what horrors await in the pit."

  Azaran smiled. It was the first time he could recall every having done so and the sensation felt quite strange. "I will make this wager, friend Segovac. Two days from now, we will not be dead. Three days from now we will still be among the living. Thirty days from now, we will be walking free under the sun."

  Segovac looked at him as though he'd taken leave of his senses. "Enkilash will have his share of blood from your body and will likely spill mine as well."

  "Enkilash is but a man. And in the week I have been alive - for lack of a better term - I've found there is no wall or door a man cannot open if he truly has a mind to."

  Segovac rattled the chain holding him to the wall.

  "It means nothing," Azaran said.

  "So, you plan to escape. Men have tried...all have died. But I will take your wager. And when Enkilash calls us to our deaths, I will not gloat. In the meantime, let's see about your memories. At least when you die, it will be with some idea of who you are."

  Chapter Five

  Enkilash's day began much the same as most others did when he was on shore.

  He woke alone, lying naked on a rumpled bed. This was not unusual, indeed the opposite would have been cause for comment among those who knew him. On those nights when he felt the need for intimate company, the chosen playmate would be sent back to the woman's quarters when the business was done. The stated reason was that the lord and master of Tereg preferred his privacy, though most guessed that he was more concerned about having his throat cut in his sleep. It was not an unreasonable expectation, given the way most of his concubines were brought to the Isle.

  He woke to the scent of a simple breakfast placed on a nearby table. Two servants waited nearby as he made use of a chamber pot, washed himself down from a basin of water provided for the purpose, then helped him dress in the days chosen finery. By this point the meal might already be cold, but to Enkilash it didn't matter. Food was mere fuel for the body. A cup of wine washed it down, the first of many consumed over the day.

  People had learned the hard way that for the first hour or so after he woke, none should speak to Enkilash unless they had a severe wish for sudden and immediate death (the blood stain on the wall next to the table was left unwashed as a warning.) But eventually the food would be in his belly and the wine done its work and he would rise and stroll towards the throne room, refilled cup in hand. Brooding eyes glared at any who fell in his line of sight. On this morning there were still traces in the air from a banquet given the night before for the senior captains, which had as usual devolved in raucous debauchery near the end. Someone mentioned that a brawl had broken out, though no word as to whether or not it caused a death. If it had, that might bring a smile to his lips.

  For in truth, Enkilash found little joy in the pleasures other men indulged in. Women were a distraction, one more form of conquest quickly cast aside. The wine he drank in ever increasingly amounts only served to numb the bitter edges of his existence. When he closed his eyes at night, the screams came...his wife, his children, all given to the fire. The fall from the highest heights to the lowest degradation, the bitter climb back up. Other fires...burning ships, burning cities. The screams of the dying, the mad pleas for mercy cut off so quickly.

  He was at war with the world. Enkilash looked on this palace, and fantasized burning it down, as he might burn down the town of Otossa. Put every fat-bellied merchant, every perfume-drenched whore, every parasite who infested this place to the sword. Burn down those flea pits, burn the forests beyond it as well. Burn it all. Sail away with the flames at his back, bring those flames to every scrap of shore he could reach, until the sky was black with smoke. Butcher the scum, make them watch as their homes were burned, their loved ones violated. Burn it all.

  But it would never happen. The men who followed him loved the gold they stole, loved spending it on drink and other sensual pleasures. All rot and dross to Enkilash. Better it was hurled into the sea. Leave them hungry and mean. But that would never happen. Yet one day he might see the entire world burn, consuming every living them in a final moment of extermination, ending when he himself embraced the flames like a lover, ending his life the only way it could. The only way it should.

  Burn it all. Then he would know peace.

  But for now he had to walk through stone halls, pretending to care as men spoke to him on one matter or another, hold back his urge to tear out their eyes with his bare hands. The wine helped in that regard, at least. Except when it didn't.

  On this day he was feeling less murderous than usual. He strode into the throne room, draining the third cup of the day. He let it fall to the floor and shatter, striding to the throne, walking straight as a razor...then stopped. "What the hell are you doing?"

  The man sitting on the throne perked up. "You're here!"

  Enkilash reached to the dagger thrust through his belt sash. "The last man who sat on that chair that wasn't me," he said, "took three days to die."

  "I have no plans on dying." The stranger stepped off the throne. He was Hadaraji by appearance, which for anyone else would have meant instant death. His beard was short and trimmed, his eyes brown. He wore a tunic that ended below the knees and sandals with laces wrapped about the ankle in an intricate knot, the tying of which was considered an art in that land.

  "You are late," Enkilash snapped. "I expected your arrival weeks ago. We have only days until the solstice!"

  "Forgive me, great lord. A matter came up, of great import to my master. I was forced to delay my arrival on Tereg until it was resolved. But I am here now and we have more than enough time to see the matter through."

  Enkilash glared at him. "You should have warned me, Nerazag." It wasn't a Hadaraji name. Enkilash had no idea what land it came from. The man claimed to be a native of some small town in the western part of the land and spoke with the correct accent. He also had a knack of deflecting questions about his past without people noticing.

  "My humble apologies, great lord. It will not happen again." Nerazag bowed. "But I am here now and most respectfully ask to see the shipment."
<
br />   "What...now?"

  "My master is most eager to receive the items. I must make sure they are of the proper quality before they are shipped."

  Nerazag rubbed his forehead, feeling an headache coming on. For a moment he fantasized knocking this cretin down and choking the life from his smiling face. He put that thought away with some regret. "Wine!" he ordered irritably.

  A servant scurried over, holding a pitcher and freshly filled cup. Enkilash drained the contents in a single gulp. Taking away the bitter edge. "You don't trust me?"

  "Would you?" came Nerazag's reply.

  Enkilash chuckled at that. "Fine. Follow me."

  "Nineteen. Is that all?"

  "You're lucky it wasn't nine." Enkilash glared at Nerazag in the gloom. "These were hard to come by and every one came with a high price."

  They were in the lowest level of the cellars below the house, dug deep in the hill. The air was musty and somewhat clammy to the skin, the only light from a pair of guttering lamps set in the walls. A lone slave stood by the door holding a pitcher of wine. The guards standing outside kept their eyes forward and their ears closed.

  Nerazag walked along along two rows of bodies laid out on the floor, men and women both, drawn from at least a dozen lands. They lay on their sides, mouths slightly open in case they vomited, eyes glazed or half-closed. Occasionally one would mumble something unintelligible. They all wore the soiled remnants of native finery - leopard skins blackened by filth, silk rotted by damp until it was more holes than cloth, brilliantly woven cloth turned gray or brown by dust and grime. Their faces were emaciated from months of skimpy meals, the better to keep them drugged. Just one of them waking up would caused a lifetime of hurt to every inhabitant in the house.

  He knelt down, grabbed the face of a dark-skinned fellow and turned it left and right, as if inspecting a beast at market. "Where did you get this one?" he asked, frowning at the ragged feather necklace still about his neck. He touched it, then pulled his hand back as a tingle ran up his fingertips.

  "Some place in the far south you won't have heard of. The locals will trade jungle herbs and ivory at certain beaches with ships that pull up during the day. When they're in the mood."

  "And when they are not?"

  "They burn the ships on the sand, along with the crewmen. One of my crews took a long-distance trader out of Ejjeja with a hold full of ivory and gold dust. They went to the beach, followed the tracks inland and came across this fellow, along with fifty warriors guarding him. I lost seventy men taking him down...would have been twice that if they didn't take the lot unawares. The captain said this witch doctor was tossing fireballs left and right like a boy tossing pebbles in a pond."

  "But they took him, regardless."

  "I kept my end of the bargain. And pirates are easily replaced. The rest...some were taken quietly, others put up a fight that cost many lives. I had to kill a couple of my captains as well, when they began asking questions."

  "Secrecy is paramount." Nerazag pulled out an oval-shaped crystal mounted in bronze from his pocket. He went along both rows, holding the stone above each witch, wizard and shaman lying on the floor, until it glowed with a faint silver light. "These will do," he said. "Have them brought to my ship. They will leave immediately. I will stay behind and deal with the other matter. Have you the bodies we will need for the Refocusing?"

  "Why do you call it that? All these years, I never understood why."

  "It would take far too long to explain. Do you have the bodies?"

  Enkilash nodded. "Did you see a large-bellied merchantmen docked on the eastern pier? Big ship, with green sails and a snarling wolf on the prow?"

  "Saw it...and smelled it."

  "Put a hundred and fifty souls in a small hold and they will stink. They will debark in two days and sent up the night before the solstice. I trust that will be enough time?"

  "More than enough."

  "Then I'm done here." Enkilash turned away, holding out his cup to the slave for his seventh drink of the day.

  "Not just yet," said Nerazag. "What are you plans, once the Refocusing is complete?"

  The slave filled the cup. Enkilash took a big gulp, swallowing the drink with obvious relief, before answering. "South, I think. Gusannagar...or perhaps north to the lands of the Eburreans. They pay tribute...but this King of theirs grows strong, and I would bring him low."

  "North or south, both will have to wait. After the solstice, you will take your ships to raid the eastern shores."

  Enkilash laughed. "Say that again? You're giving me orders?"

  "It is my Master's wish that you sail east and raid the shores bordering the steppelands."

  "Does Enkilash take orders then?" He turned on Nerazag, hand drifting to his dagger. "Do not forget who speaks with you!"

  "I know full well who speaks. The man who would be nothing without the Wind Stones provided by my Master. The same Wind Stones that will useless after the solstice...unless I renew their power. The man who made a bargain to do as my Master asks in return for the stones, to which he swore a blood oath upon taking possession..."

  Then Nerazag fell silent, as the dagger slowly rose from Enkilash's sheath. "Killing me," he said in a calm voice, "would be a mistake."

  Enkilash got his rage under some semblance of control. The knife slid back down. "The eastern shore is desolate. The only towns there are fishing villages. If my ships haven't raided them, then the nomads have stripped them bare. What are we supposed to do...burn down their huts and steal their fish bones?"

  "If necessary." Nerazag stood his ground. "My Master desires that you raid this coast. If it helps, you can proceed north afterward and raid Aulercam. That should provide you with enough profit to keep your ruffians quiet."

  To the Pit with profit, Enkilash wanted to scream. I want to see it all burn...burn...burn it all... "Let no man say Enkilash is not a man of his word...at least to those who matter. My men will wage war on the stones and grass of the east, if that is what you wish. But I want something more for my efforts."

  "Such as?"

  "The Wind Stones have made me the master of the seas. But I sense your Master has toys even more powerful...which would give me equal advantage on the land." Set the forests and fields ablaze, slaughter the strong and weak alike.

  "You want more artifacts. My...toys, as you call them."

  "Those who live in sight of the sea fear my name. I would have those who never see it know the same." Drown this wretched world in blood...

  Nerazag pursed his lips, thinking it over. "Very well," he said. "When you return from the east, I will come to Otossa with more...toys. You will be the greatest warlord this world has ever known. All men will kneel before you."

  Before I kill them all... "Good." Enkiilash drained the cup. "Is there anything else you need?"

  "Not at the moment. I will return to my ship. Have the prisoners sent there this afternoon."

  "I offer you the hospitality of my palace until it returns."

  "You have my gratitude," Nerazag said with a bow.

  Enkilash drained the cup and staggered away, the wine finally having some effect.

  The gate through the palisade opened. Nerazag walked through. He continued on without looking back, headed into the town, keeping to those patches of ground which were relatively dry. The rickety wooden buildings rose up around him. A pack of children scampered past, chasing after a bouncing barrel hoop. He stepped to the side as a cart laden down with barrels rumbled past, then went across the street towards one of the many brothels in the town. A few of the girls were sunning themselves on a second story balcony, though this early in the day trade was slow.

  Nerazag walked past the doors of the place and went down an alley to the right. Sunlight disappeared, replaced by fetid, piss-stained shadows. He continued around to the back, where a pile of abandoned crates staked head-high blocked off any view of the street and went behind them. Looking around, making sure no one was watching.

  Nerazag co
ncentrated. His skin rippled, like water disturbed by a stone. The beard faded, the sharp features of a Hadaraji merchant softening, the beak-like nose receding in length and size. His skin paled, the hair on his head vanished. A moment later what stood there was a pale-skinned man, bald and beardless, his face oval-shaped and smooth like a child's, the eyes cold and calculating. He stripped off the robes, revealing a lean body marked with rows of rune-like brands, still glowing faintly.

  He reached behind the crates and pulled out a long cloth bag, opening it and pulling on a checkered kilt that fit loosely around his waist and a studded leather vest. He removed the sandals and replaced them with leather shoes that went halfway up his calves. A sheathed sword was slung across his shoulders and chest, the Hadaraji garb replacing it in the bag.

  Nerazag took a breath and concentrated. Again his skin rippled, his flesh shifting, the runes glowing in the gloom before disappearing under a muscled torso. Now he had the form of a young warrior from the north, a mercenary in the service of Enkilash in case anyone asked. He adjusted the kilt about his waist slightly. It now fit perfectly.

  He walked out of the alleyway, swaggering the way such warriors did. No one looked at him twice, this town was full of fighting men. He headed towards the harbor, slinging the bag on his back next to the sword.

  "Close your eyes.” Segovac spoke calmly, almost soothingly like a mother to a fretful child. “Purge your mind of all thought. There is no tomorrow, there is no yesterday, there is only today. Nothing else but this moment. Hear my voice. Hear your heartbeat. Hear the breath in your nostrils."