There was some damage to your sacred marks… His eyes flew open. He rolled over, all thoughts of the woman gone. He reached behind, ignoring the protests from his bruises and still-healing bones, placing his hand on his lower back. The runemarks ran beneath his fingers...he remembered the day they went in, the Aethyric brands flying through the air, pressing into his flesh under the eyes of the Masters. Not so much burnt as carved in, the way a sculptor might chisel letters into stone. He felt their reassuring shapes, felt the soft heat of the Aethyric workings contained within, giving him greater strength and speed, sight and endurance...increasing his natural advantages while reducing his weaknesses…
HIs fingers froze as they ran across a round scar halfway up his back, just to the right of his spine. He remembered the tarpak goring him there, the razor-sharp metal cone on its horn punching through the armor to the flesh beneath...a hard enough hit that it overwhelmed the runes inbuilt defenses. The scar was nearly circular, just wide enough to obliterate the rune that had been there while leaving its neighbors untouched...the healing runes had closed up the cut before the damaged rune had a chance to repair itself.
The Rune of Restraint. The rune that freed the Osa’shaq from the fetters of sexual desire, from the bestial lusts that weakened the savages. That took away love of women and children from their souls, leaving a space filled by unthinking, unyielding obedience to the will of the Masters. Gone from his flesh...he closed his eyes, willing the unwelcome intrusions of lust and yearning from him, hardening his mind while softening his flesh…
Of their own accord, his eyes opened, seeking out Annia. She was across the room, provided food and water to another Osa’shaq, who treated her with the same distracted indifference Kazovar would have shown only a few days before.
She looked over her shoulder, met his gaze Again she smiled, and in that moment all fear vanished from his thoughts, like smoke before a strong wind…
He looked away, before the other warriors in the room would notice. He had no idea what they might say to him, but only trouble would follow. For him...and for the woman.
Yet...this sort of thing must have happened before. Runes were tough, and it took a lot to damage a mark once it was set in the body...but the Osashaq were men of war, and severe injuries were a matter of course. And there were other men, other Osa’shaq who had taken rune damage, though few would speak of such weakness openly.
Perhaps even the Rune of Restraint. He looked around the room, taking note of the other Osa’shaq, nothing the way they interacted with the women bringing in food and water. All acted with the usual indifference…wait. At the far end. He saw a man lying there. Not Osa’shaq….Arragaz, Serezaam’s assistant, one of the few Nam’shaq still with the army. He also stared at one of the women, mouth slightly open as in a drug haze, before closing his eyes and striking the side of his head with his palm.
Arragaz opened his eyes and looked away, seeing a place where there were no women. He saw Kazovar, saw the look on his face and the shock in his eyes, mirroring his own…
Now.
“The Warlord awaits you.”
The servant opened the door and held out his hand. Donarec stepped past, entering the private solar of Orazaak, emerging from the dim light of the passageway to a place filled with light.
The round chamber sat atop one of the fortress towers. Its walls were pierced with tall windows that let in the morning light, with the ones to the east blocked by curtains to cut the worst of the Sun. Bookshelves stood in the alcoves between the windows. The ceiling above was paneled with slabs of quartz that gave off their own glow.
A table against one of the walls, piled high with papyrus scrolls, wax tablets and various other implements of writing. Next to it was a plain wooden stool, and on this sat the Warlord of Beremi. A drawn steel sword lay against his leg, down which he ran a whetstone. He did not look up as Donarec entered, but instead remained focused on the task at hand, the metallic scrape echoing off the walls.
This continued one for a while. Dnarec clasped his hands behind his back, not saying a word. This was a test, the Warlord taking his measure.
The whetstone scraped one last time Orazaak placed it on the table and gently tested the edge with his thumb. Satisfied at the result, he let the sword lean against the wall, then stood. He was dressed simply, in loose trousers bound at the calves with cords, and a plain linen shirt. He stood barefoot on the floor. An odd appearance for a great lord to greet a guest, but Donarec figured the man had his reasons. It was just a matter of knowing what they were...and if they were to his benefit.
“So,” said Orazaak, “you are the descendant of Kazovar.”
Donarec frowned at that, not recognizing the name. “I do not understand.”
“The founder of your house. Kazovar. He was my friend.”
Donarec was confused. “Lord, I am of the Kasovaron family, a noble house of Eburrea. The founder of my line was Kasovarec, a warrior of great renown in the time of King Inarvadec, who was enobled for his service...”
“Is that the name he took?” Orazaak chuckled at that.
Not wished to give offense, Donarec paused a moment before continuing. “He was a man of foreign origins, who came to Eburrean from Tereg, whose fighting skills were unparalleled. Inarvadec charged him with training the Eburreans in his methods of combat, and leading our armies into battle against the Cavaragi...for this he and his descendants are reckoned among the great men of our people to this day. But...lord, you said he was your friend.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Donarec of Eburrea, descendant of Kazovar?”
“Of course not, lord. But I am confused...Kasovarec died over a hundred years ago. There is no one alive today who could have known him.”
“You are almost correct, my young friend. There is almost no one alive today who knew him. Except for me. I knew him, your ancestor. A good friend he was, and the only time in my life that I ever wept was the day he left us.”
Donarec found himself smiling, and couldn’t stop it. “Lord, this is a fine joke…”
“You think I jest?” A hint of menace entered Orazaak’s voice.
Donarec did not let himself be intimidated. “I have seen many things in my life, lord, that seemed unbelievable. But a man who claimed he knew the founder of my house, who himself looks to be somewhere in his fourth decade...that is something unbelievable. You would have to at least…” DOnarec paused a moment, “at least a hundred and fifty years in age!”
“If only I was a hundred and fifty.” Orazaak let out a sigh. “It seems I must convince you. See now, Eburrean, you are about to witness something few have seen, even among the Irzemyai!”
The Warlord took hold of his shirt and stripped it off his body, pulling the garment over his head and tossing it aside. He turned around, and Donarec saw the lines of runes embedded in his back, glowing faintly with that blue witchlight.
Orazaak went to the table and reached under the pile of reports and letters to grasp a small, sharp knife. He pressed the edge of the blade against the meaty part of his palm and opened a cut perhaps two inches across. Back still turned towards Donarec, he held up his bleeding palm turned outwards so Donarec could see.
Several of the runes flared, glowing more brightly for a moment. Before Donarec’s astonished eyes the cut on the Warlords hand sealed of its own accord, the blood ceasing to flow. Orazaak picked up a scrap of cloth and wiped his palm clean, then turned around to show DOnarec the unbroken flesh, with only the faintest scar as evidence of any injury
“What…” Donarec lost his voice for a moment. What magic is this? What kind of man are you?”
“Ah,” said the Warlord, “now that is a story.” He crossed the solar and gave a tug on a thick rope hanging out of a hole in the wall. A distant bell ring came through the stone, and a moment later the door opened to admit servant.
“Bring in a chair for my young friend,” said Orazaak. “And some wine. We are going to be here for a while.”
; “You are a long way from home.”
Wine sloshed into a cup before Jaag. His nostrils caught a whiff of the aroma, and he barely hid his surprise as it was placed in his hand.
“Yes,” said Matuzal Iolo at Jaag’s unasked question. “It is a Gusannagari vintage. Acquired at no small cost from a caravan come up from the south. I am told the vineyards of Gusannagar are the oldest in the world, that some in your valleys claim to be the first to ever press wine from grapes...though the Hadaraji make the same claims! Tell me, does it dance across your tongue? Is it a worthy addition to my wine vault? Or have I spent a small fortune on dross?”
Jaag took a sip, the tart sweetness filling his mouth, and filling his mind with memories. Of summer days spent among the vines with his uncle, a winemaster of some note, who doted on his nephews and nieces as the children he never had…
In truth the wine was mediocre at best. But Jaag welcomed it and set the cup down. “It is a fair vintage. Your wine vault will be honored with its presence.”
Iolo filled his own up, but did not drink. The preliminaries were over. Now they might get down to business. Even as Donarec was being called away for his audience with the Warlord, a messenger came to Jaag with a message that Matuzal Iolo wanted a word. It was the kind of request that did not allow for refusal. And in truth Jaag was bored, and saw no reason to say no. Donarec wasn’t the only man with qualities, after all…
They were in a stretch of gardens that lay between the western edge of the fortress and the walls surrounding it. Iolo retainers kept the area clear, allowing their lord to speak with the outlander without any fear of being overheard. Jaag could sense the plots and intrigues running through the place, the rivalries hidden beneath the surface, ancestral grudges mingling with the ambitions of the moment, the alliances of convenience and the blood hatreds waiting for their chance to kill…
Not that different from his homeland. And for a moment he felt a twinge of homesickness...and a reminder of why he left.
“Your friend Donarec is a man of renown.” Iolo left his wine untouched. “A skilled warrior even before he came to these lands. His family is a prominent one among his people.”
Step carefully… “He doesn't talk much about his past,” Jaag said.
“I am not surprised. There is a price on his head, and a death sentence if he should return to Eburrea. Such measures are not taken for the sons of farmers and shepherds. It is by the quality of his enemies that you can take the measure of a man, as much as his achievements. So your friend Donarec is a man to be reckoned with, for why else would the Warlord summon him to a private audience? But the same could be said of you, Jaagardeg Uthhoro, once alchemist to the Prince of the Iron Flower Valley. Oh yes, your reputation carries as well. As well as the name and rank of your enemies.”
Step very carefully… “I am a man of peace,” Jaag responded. “A man of learning, nothing more. I call no man my enemy, and would forgive any wrong if it means a life of peace and honor.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Jaag managed with some difficulty to hide his discomfort. “Well...sometimes, in order to maintain a peaceful life, a man must make a difficult choice in a situation where not all the facts have yet come to light. I made such a choice...a mistake as it turned out. And now I have exchanged a life devoted to the pursuit of knowledge for that of a wanderer, cast into foreign lands.”
“And what if that were to change?” asked Iolo. “What if you could find for yourself that peaceful life again, and what’s more, bring it to Beremi as well? Gusannagar may have cast you out. But you would be a hero to this place.”
And then Iolo stood and started to pace. “My house is an ancient one,”he said, “At least as we reckon such things. Iolo the Tall, the first of my line, was an ancient student of our Warlord, back in the days of the Fateful March, when Sehrem the Mighty swept up the detritus of the world and forged of them a new people. The Irzemyai he placed at the head, warriors who defended their cities against all enemies, both without and within. But my family has long understood that the greatest enemy are not raiders coming over the horizon to steal cattle and women, but the sins and vices that lie within. That is our purpose, the reason for the Irzemyai, to defend the people with their blades...and with the example of their moral virtue! The privilege of power comes entwined with the responsibility to use it well, to maintain the social order, so that every man knows his place and is content. That is the purpose of my house.”
“A most noble purpose,” Jaag agreed, draining the cup and taking the opportunity to pour himself another.
Iolo continued on his rant. “Long have I attempted to sway the Warlord to our point of view. But he steadfastly refuses to take sides. As it was in the time of my father, and my grandfather as well! The other great families of Beremi do not share our view on such matters...the Yozara’s would go against the will of Sehrem and give the merchants and tradesmen among the Mayazuul a say on how this city is governed! To think, men who know nothing except the counting of their coins or the working of cloth or leather, standing on the same footing as Ironmarked families bred from birth for leadership! They would even mingle their blood with that of the Mayazuul, debasing their glory of their ancestors!”
“Shocking indeed!” exclaimed Jaag (whose father was a stonemason, married to a farmer’s daughter.)
“And as for the Vaien’s...oh, there are stories I could tell about their debaucheries that would turn your stomach! They are a pack of wolves in the shape of men, who believe the world is a hunting ground for the fulfillment of their base desires! You were a guest in the house of Lord Kitaar, however briefly...those Ashirzaai sluts he maintains are an example of what he would do to this city, if power was in his hand! He would make every house a brothel, every woman a whore and every boy…” Iolo stopped talking, his face red with outrage.
“That is where you can help,” he said, turning back to Jaag. “The Warlord is dying. He has ruled in Beremi from the beginning, and none of us could think of a day when he might no longer be here, yet that day is coming. And when it does, it is imperative that the descendants of Iolo the Tall take up the Scepter of Rule, else Beremi will fall into chaos! Your friend Donarec is close to the Warlord...use this to turn the Warlord towards my house as his chosen successor! Let him state before the Court that I, Matuzaal Iolo, will be his rightful heir!”
He picked up the wine jug and poured Jaag a third cup. “And in return,” he said, “I will see to it that you are declared the first Master Alchemist of Beremi, with all the wealth and resources you need to resume your studies. You will regain all that you lost, and more besides! And Beremi will be stronger for it. Now, what say you, outlander? Yea...or nay?”
“We all have to pick sides.”
The sound of horses whickering and stamping their feet filled the area, along with the pungent aroma of dung and other equine byproducts. Tudai wasn't bothered by the smell, and neither, it appeared, was Yod Yozara. The lackeys who’d escorted her to his ‘requested’ meeting went past the gardens and their pavilions to the large complex of stables east of the fortress, where upwards of a thousand mounts might be held at any given time. A small army of Ashirzaai workers labored from dawn to dusk keeping them fed, water, brushed, exercised, as well as shoveling out the endless amount of dung left behind.
A line of lancora trees separated the stables from the rest of the area, the aromatic leaves giving off a musky smell that partially hid the stench of ordure. It also caused Tudai’s eyes to water, and she was dabbing at them with a rag as they entered the stables.
“There is no middle ground anymore.” Yod Yozara continued on, oblivious to his guests discomfort. Tudai blinked several times, inhaling deeply of the smell of horse as a final cleansing of her nostrils, a welcome relief from the perfume permeating the air outside. “The Warlord is dying,” Yozara continued. “Oh, nothing is said directly, and in public he appears hale and healthy as always, as he was in my father’s time and my grandfather’s
, and so on. But the time of the Sword Fathers is over. Akozaar of Ganascala died ten years ago. Shinza of Avaiea breathed his last two years past. Only Orazaak remains...once he is gone, then it is the Ironmarked, the Irzemyai, who will inherit this city in full. The question remains though, how that inheritance will be shaped...is something wrong with your eyes?”
“Those bloody trees,” said Tudai. She could feel her left eye beginhing to swell.
Yozara snapped a finger. A moment later an Ashirzaai groom approached with a jug of clear water and a clean cloth. Yozara waited calmly until she was done washing her face. The swelling went down slightly, though she continued to sniffle.
“I hear what you are saying,” she said in between wheezes and stifled sneezes. “But...how does..achoo! How does that affect me? I am a stranger to this city, and know nothing of your squabbles.”
“You are deeply involved. Your friend Donarec is favored by the Warlord, within days of his arrival! It is a mystery to me…”
“And I. Donarec rarely speaks of his past.”
“Eburrea is an unsettled place these days, though I doubt the politics of the place have anything to do with our lord’s interest in your friend. But interested he is, which means he is a player in this game, as are you. All that matters now is which side you join.” And before Tudai could tell the man where he could stick his game, they halted before a trio of stalls, where three magnificent chargers were stabled.
“You call tell much about a man’s character by his favorite horse,” said Yozara. “This here,” he pointed to the horse in the left-most paddock, “is my mount, Sanzar. His dam was a plow horse, his sire a war stallion of of the most ancient bloodstock. Two things that may seem apart, but when mingled create something stronger.”
Then to the horse in the middle stall. “And this is Burzag, the mount of that stiff-necked fool, Matuzaal Iolo. An inbred monstrosity, born of parents who were themselves cousins, all to produce a mount riddled with infirmities, and likely to drop dead within the year!”
Donarec and the Warlord Page 9