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

by Zackery Arbela

  "If I want poetry," Ugallar finally allowed, "I'll find a poet and stick my sword in his gut. He'll be squawking soon enough. 'Course if she be a lady poet, I'll stick her with something else, she'll give me a long happy epic."

  Enkilash sighed. "Thank you, Ugallar, for ruining the moment." He turned away from the sun and towards the cave mouth. Twenty feet across and ten feet high. Warm moist air blew out from within the mountain. Torch light guttered from inside, illuminating the line of chained prisoners being herded in at spear point. Men and women, high born and low, now they were just meat for the cutting. A hundred in all, along with forty guards to watch over them. Enkilash wrinkled his nose at the stench of unwashed bodies, carrying along by the warm breeze.

  "Next year," he said, "remind me to wash them first." He reached for the wine flask and took a deep pull. The demons edged back into their holes, the voices numbed for a while. Waiting in anticipation of the slaughter to come.

  Enkilash went into the cave. He heard Ugallar order a few of the men to stand watch at the entrance, but kept his eyes forward. The cave mouth narrowed into a stone passage bored into the mountain. On his right the prisoners shuffled along, feet bound by manacles. Iron brackets embedded in the wall to his left held rough pine torches, crackling and popping in the damp air, the smoke adding to the steamy miasma. Water clung to the walls and floor - within moments he was soaked to the skin, sweat running down the back of his neck. He didn't care.

  The passage went on for perhaps fifty feet before opening into a wide circular chamber. Ancient glyphs were carved into the walls at intervals, written in a language long lost, by a people forgotten even to scholars. A third of the space was taken up by a pool of steaming water than stank faintly of rotten eggs. Beside it was a rough stone altar, ancient even by the recollection of the old timers in the town, who first showed him this place when Enkilash came to Tereg years go. No one knew who built it or why, though the usual lurid tales about sorcerers and virgin sacrifices grew around it.

  Now it served a practical purpose. The prisoners were being herded to a spot near by, made to kneel down, blows from fists or lashes halting any hint of dissent. Two of the guards were manhandling a large iron bowl by the latter, while another set up a wooden stand. Two more stood guard by the box containing his Eyes.

  "Not long now." Nerazag stood by the altar, his Hadaraji face seemingly unfazed by the heat and damp. Behind him were the strange devices that came with him every year. Three pillars of clear quartz, a wand with a glass orb at the top, a box filled with glass vials containing substances whose colors were exotic and names unknown. "How many did you lose on the way up?"

  "Five or six. We still have a hundred left."

  "More than enough." He placed the knife on the altar, than placed the wand beside it. His fingers gently stroked along the glass orb along the top and it began to glow with a pink light that slowly but steadily turned a deeper red. "No long now," Nerazag repeated.

  Enkilash watched him work. "You will have to teach me how to do this," he said.

  "Perhaps," Nerazag said, in a tone that clearly said not a chance.

  “Do you want to come back to this island year after year?"

  "I enjoy the weather." Nerazag picked up the wand and touched it to each of the quartz pillars. Blue lightening flashed each time and the pillars glowed with a shimmery light that made the eyes water if one stared at them too long. On the other side of the chamber the prisoners moaned in fear at the sight.

  Nerazag held out the wand, pointing the bottom end slightly away. He pressed his thumb against a spot just below the orb. A metal shaft shot out from the bottom end, far too long to have been contained within it, striking the ground with a loud crack and penetrating deep within the rock. He let go and the shaft remained upright, the orb glowing a dark crimson like some hellish lamp. Behind him the water pool began to boil fiercely.

  He nodded with approval, then turned to the box filled with vials, picking one up after another and emptying the contents into the iron bowl. A sickly sweet smell cut through the air, competing with the sulfur stink from the pool.

  "That should do it," he said, pouring the last one in. He cracked his knuckles and picked up the obsidian knife. "Bring me the first one."

  Enkilash and Ugallar went to the mass of cringing prisoners and grabbed a man, hauling him up and away. He babbled in some savage tongue, praying to his gods, begging them for mercy, it made no difference. They forced him over the bowl, Enkilash jerking his head back by the hair. Nerazag leaned in and slashed the slave's throat. Blood flowed out, the man gurgling once, his body shuddering, then falling still. The other slaves screamed in terror.

  They held the body there until the blood flow diminished, then hurled it into the pool. Blood flecked Enkilash's arms and hands.

  "Bring the next one," commanded Nerazag.

  Night marches were dangerous as a rule. Marches up a rocky mountainside without so much as a small lamp to guide one's way took that danger and raised it higher.

  Azaran paused a moment, clambering atop a long flat rock and waiting for the rest of the men to follow. He heard them long before they came into his sight, their skin flushed and glistening by the light of moon and Mansion. Twelve men picked by Tavarus as being his best, plus Tavarus himself. All armed with the best weapons they could find, which wasn't much under the circumstances,. All moving far too slowly for his liking. He glanced up at the sky again, noting the passage of the moon as well as the great face of the Mansion. An hour to midnight, if he had to guess. They didn't have much time.

  "We must pick up the pace," he said as Tavarus stumbled towards him.

  "Going...as fast...as we can...." Tavarus flopped down on the flat rock, pulling out his canteen and taking a long swig.

  "It's a hour to midnight. Six hours to sunrise. Two hours after that and Enkilash will be headed back to Otossa..."

  "Azaran." Tavarus glared at him. "I know that. We must rest."

  "No time..."

  "We won't be much use if half the men drop down from exhaustion along the way."

  Azaran decided not to press the matter. "Fine. A short rest. But when I say we go..."

  "Yes, fine. Gods and demons, why did we pick this route?"

  "You know why." Azaran watched as the rest of the men caught up. "This was the best way to reach the cave. If we went along the lower slopes the enemy would know our presence by now..."

  "I wasn't actually looking for an answer."

  They were climbing over a knob on the northeastern slope of the mountain, a large hump of slate and boulders free of the pine trees that clustered up the rest of the mountain. The footing was treacherous, the path a difficult one. Certainly no man would go this way when there were a multitude of game trails on the lower slopes less punishing to the legs, leading to the cave mouth on the western side.

  But Segovac's divination said this was the way to go. Upon breaking his trance he laid out the brutal facts - Enkilash would have men guarding the lower approaches, and they would hear Azaran, Tavarus and the rest thrashing their way through the underbrush long before they arrived. The advantage of surprise would be lost and with it any hope for victory. But no one would expect an attack from the northeast, especially at night. Even the wild goats that called the mountain slopes home avoided the knob when the sun went down. They had better sense than men.

  The men sat down, gulping down mouthfuls of water, too tired to complain at the moment. They wore dark clothes, and a few even painted ash stripes across their cheeks or arms to better hide in the shadows, which sweat turned into grayish smudges. A few took the opportunity to check their weapons. Despite the circumstances, none of them complained when Azaran ordered them back to their feet. They knew the stakes.

  They suffered the first casualty of the night soon after. The group reached the top of the knob, a great hump of bare rock jutting out from the side of the mountain like a boil. Azaran carefully picked his way over and then down, sliding along his backside
until his feet touched ground again. Tavarus followed after, the rest of the men moving behind them the same way, except one who misjudged his step in the dark. With a sudden curse he fell, tumbling down the side of the hump and into some brush at the base.

  Azaran scrambled over. The man lay beneath a bare-branched bush, clutching his leg and biting back cries of pain. Azaran bent under the bush, wincing as thorns pricked his arm.

  "Ankle's buggered up," the man hissed through clenched teeth.

  "I have to move you," Azaran said, glancing at the inch-long thorns on the bush. "Don't scream."

  He took hold of the man under the shoulders and carefully dragged him out. The man grunted, face pale and sweating, but said nothing else.

  Tavarus and the others clustered about as Azaran knelt by the man and checked his injury. "Broken?" Tavarus asked.

  "No..." Azaran probed the ankle with his fingers, the knowledge popping into his head as he worked. "Can you move it?" he asked.

  The man raised his leg and managed to wiggle the foot.

  "No bones grinding," Azaran said. "Looks like a sprain."

  The man nodded. "Help me up." Azaran took his arm and helped the man stand. The fellow placed his weight on the foot, cursed and sat back down. "Blood of Tirza!" he gasped.

  "A bad sprain." Azaran shook his head. "You can't go on like this."

  "We can't leave him behind," said one of the men.

  "He'll slow us down." Azaran stood, thinking on this. He point at two of the men. "You and you. Help him down the mountain. Find a spot to wait until dawn, then head back to the camp. Get a healer to look at the ankle."

  "That will leave us short three men," Tavarus pointed out.

  "Don't argue with me. " He pointed at the injured man. "Get it done."

  The men did as ordered, helping their comrade up, both supporting him under the arms. They went down the mountainside carefully, disappearing into the pines.

  Tavarus rounded on Azaran. "Are you cracked in the head? You just put us down by three men!"

  "Doesn't matter," Azaran replied. "If we succeed, the men we have will be enough. If we fail three more won't have made a difference. You do what you can with the tools you have."

  "But..."

  "We don't have time to argue." Azaran turned his face westward. The slate field ended a short distance away, replaced by the spindly trees climbing up the mountain. "We keep going."

  The woman kicked out once as Nerazag slashed her throat. "Hold her still!" he snapped, misjudging the cut. Blood spurted out, missing the bowl and splashing on the ground beside it. Enkilash and Ugallar twisted her about, pouring what was left into the bowl, then hurling the corpse into the pool, joining the twenty others floating in it. The water was now a pale bubbling pink and the stench of blood mingled with that of sulfur.

  "I need a moment to catch my breath." Enkilash plucked the flask from his belt and took another pull. He didn't share it with Ugallar, who rolled his eyes but otherwise said nothing. "Powers below, I must be getting old! Time was I could kill twenty men and still feel fresh."

  "You're not killing them," Nerazag pointed out. "And a rest is warranted. We are ready for the first infusion."

  "Good." Enkilash stepped away. His arms were red to the elbows. The wine wet his mouth, but for once he didn't need the drink to keep himself at some measure of stability. The killing did more than a barrel of the strongest wine. He was tired, yet also full of energy, full of strength. A man who had nothing left in his life but the promise of violence, it filled the holes that once were home to love, faith, family, all those things that ordinary men called upon to smooth the rough edges of their existence...

  "Hey, don't back away..." Ugallar's voice caught his attention. The burly pirate had his arm about one of the captives, a young woman, thin and covered in grime. "A man has needs! Give Ugallar a good time!" The woman whimpered in some savage tongue, cringing at his touch.

  "Ugallar."

  "My lord. " The pirate hauled the girl up. "Seeing as she's dead anyway..."

  "Plenty of whores back in town."

  "But my itch need's scratching now. She's dead one way or another..."

  "No raping!" Nerazag snapped at them both from by the iron bowl. "Makes too much noise and I need to concentrate! Put that woman down and control yourself!"

  Ugallar looked ready to spit. "As you wish," he growled, shoving the woman back to the ground. "Waste of perfectly fine quim, if you ask me..."

  "No one asked you anything," said Nerazag, staring into the bowl. "No one cares what you think. You'll oblige me by keeping your mouth shut."

  "You filthy..."

  "Ugallar!" Enkilash glared at his underling. "Shut your mouth, or I'll cut out your tongue."

  Ugallar was red with anger, but obeyed, bowing his head and saying no more.

  Nerazag paid no attention to either. He opened the case containing the Wind Stones and picked one up, holding it above the bowl. A buzzing sound filled the cave, blue lightening crackled out from the orb at the tip of the wand and from the crystal pillars, striking the Stone. Nerazag let go and stepped away, the globe remaining where it was, suspended above the bowl half-filled with blood. The buzzing sound grew louder and for a moment the Stone shone like a miniature sun, causing all to avert their gaze.

  Then the lightening disappeared. The Stone dropped down into the bowl. Blood splashed over the rim as it hit, sending drops spattering out. Many struck Nerazag, adding to the already thick level of gore covering him from the chest down. Sweet-smelling steam rose up from the bowl as the Wind Stone sank, half-submerged in the remaining blood.

  "The first infusion is complete," Nerazag declared. "We shall continue. Bring me the next one!"

  Enkilash grabbed one of the slaves. Ugallar came over to help. The woman he'd menaced cowered as went past, her face a mask of fear.

  They hauled their weeping victim over to the bowl, where Nerazag waited with the obsidian knife.

  Midnight, or close to it. Azaran glanced at the sky again, nothing the position of the moon. The trees blocked part of it, the Mansion almost completely hidden by one especially large pine. He knelt by the tree, closing his eyes and opening his ears. The wind shifted slightly and he heard the voices carried on them.

  Footsteps tramped behind him. "All caught up," said Tavarus. "Give the men a moment to catch their breath..."

  Azaran held up his hand. "Quiet," he murmured. "We're not too far away." His eyes opened. "Come with me. Move quietly."

  Tavarus signaled back to the others, telling them to stay where they were. Both men then moved forward, heads down, mouths shut and eyes open. They stepped softly on the ground, quiet as mice in the undergrowth.

  A moment later the voices were clear. Two men talking to each other...top far away to make out the words, but close enough to hear. Azaran dropped down, as did Tavarus. They crept forward on hands and knees, edging their way closer to the tree line.

  The cave mouth was ahead, visible through the streets. Torches burned in iron sconces set beside it, illuminating the surrounding area but ruining the night vision of the two men standing guard before it. One of them slurped from a goatskin flask, then passed it over to his comrade. Neither were keeping an eye on the surrounding woods.

  Tavarus tapped Azaran's shoulder and gestured off to the right. Azaran shifted his gaze and saw four more men seated a short distance from the cave. One of them held his hand hand above his head, shaking it back and forth, then hurling a pair of dice to the ground. Loud mutterings and a few curses came from the men.

  Azaran shuffled back. Tavarus followed, and they crept back into the woods. "Bloody useless as guards," Tavarus muttered once they were safely out of earshot.

  "They don't expect attack," said Azaran. "Likely brought along to handle the slaves, not to keep watch."

  They rejoined the others. Tavarus passed on what they found in a few terse whispers. The men drew their weapons and waited for orders.

  Azaran spoke. "This is the
point of no return. Once we go into that cave, we don't stop until Enkilash is dead. Any man who wants to turn back, this is your moment."

  The men looked at each other, then at Tavarus. He pulled the sword from his belt. "To the bitter end," he said.

  Azaran nodded. "Give me a hundred count, then follow after. Once you hear the signal, come in running."

  "What's the signal?" asked one of the men.

  "You'll know it." Azaran turned away and jogged into the woods, heads back to the cave. A running count began in his head. Hundred....ninety-nine...ninety-eight...

  He emerged from the woods, striding across the open space before the cave mouth. The dice player looked up from their game, then stood.

  "Evening, friends," Azaran said. Seventy-six...seventy-five... "A fine night, isn't it?"

  "Who the hell you are you?" said one of the gamblers.

  "Just a humble traveler, passing through."

  The guards by the cave came over. "What's this nonsense?" asked one, dropping the flask to the ground and pulling his sword.

  Sixty-five...sixty-four... "My name," said Azaran, "is Azaran. You may have heard of me."

  "Hey, he's the one with the reward on his head..."

  "And I'm giving you fellows one chance to throw down your swords and surrender."

  One of the men laughed at that. "Bugger's gone mad!"

  "Take him down," said another. "We'll pass him over to Enkilash in the morning. He'll like that!"

  The pirates drew their swords. Azaran shrugged. "Have it your way, fellows." He drew his weapon and raised it to the guard position. "Have at it then!"

  The pirates charged in with a roar. Moments later they cried in pain, as their blows met only open air, Azaran dancing through them, cutting down three men in rapid succession. The last fell with his sword caught in his ribs. Azaran let go of the weapon, stepped inside the swing of another trying to cut off his head and used the man's momentum to spin him about, sending his blade into the neck of another pirate instead. He let go and slammed his fist into the back of the man's skull, runes flaring on his chest, giving the blow extra force.