Embrace of the Medusi (The Overlords Trilogy Book 2)

by Toby Andersen

  But what secrets lay inside? How the Order started? That would be very interesting considering he was the one who had started the Premiers to counter them over four hundred years ago. And who or what was Noctiluca? The answer he craved and feared the most.

  He spotted a low circular wall ahead. A well? He rushed over to discover it was not just a mirage playing with his mind after two days without water – it really was a well. There was a rope and bucket, though it was full of sand. He lowered it inside. Overlords, please let there be water. He was more aware than ever of the futility of evoking the Overlords, but old habits…

  The bucket hit something at the bottom, and Naus swirled the rope around before pulling it back up. It wasn’t empty, but his prize was more sand. A barren well. He should have expected it, everything was barren for miles around.

  He slumped down against the wall…

  And saw the first horseman entering the ruins astride a red gelding. Padding beside him was a large grey-flecked wolf. As he watched, it licked its sharp fangs. Naus scrambled to his feet, kicking up dust. Was he imagining it? It was easy to become delirious with so little to drink. The terracotta horse was silent, the rider atop it pointing at him as they approached. Was the wolf really there?

  Then he saw the second and third riders coming in from each side, in a pincer movement. Both wore similar clothes, but these two were much younger. Was he going to have to fight them in his condition, two days without food or water? He was exhausted.

  He waited to see what they would do, left his sword sheathed.

  The lead rider barked something to his fellows in the guttural language of the steppe. His fellows came up close, one brandishing a fearsome scimitar-like blade and the other training an arrow on him from a large bow. The first dismounted and strode up to Naus. He was a large muscular man with a mane of thick black hair, sun-darkened skin and a trim black beard, bare chested except for a boiled leather rerebrace on one shoulder. The wolf stood by his side, its yellow eyes trained on Naus.

  ‘I have tracked you for two weeks,’ he said. His words were rough, but Naus understood. ‘When you fled into the cursed thrall town I thought we had lost you. Trails run dry in there. We no longer venture inside, too dangerous.’ If the horse lords thought Medaquen was dangerous, he was lucky to have got back out. Or was he? ‘We waited. You had to come out eventually. And here we are, the trail begun anew. Fiska here tracked you down. She knows your scent.’ He indicated the silent wolf.

  He wasn’t surprised to learn he had a scent after the amount of time he’d spent on the road. ‘Why were you tracking me?’

  ‘We didn’t know it was you until now. I didn’t know we would find a frail old man. But you killed three of my riders on the plains a long way from here.’

  So they aren’t looking for a story, he thought. ‘Is it vengeance you seek?’ Naus asked.

  The rider looked at him with those pale sun-bleached eyes, and nodded slowly.

  Naus didn’t wait for them to attack, he pounced, leaping forward and unsheathing his sword in the same movement. He could tell he was slower than usual, his blade met by the rider with a clash of metal. Naus whirled, trying to put the man between him and the outriders. But he wasn’t fast enough. Two arrows thudded into his chest, only an inch apart, both from the same bow. Did he fire them at the same time? Naus thought as he grimaced in pain and collapsed into the dust.

  The lead rider placed a blade to his throat. When Naus blinked up into the sunlight, the man was a silhouette. ‘Nice try, old man. But not this time.’

  The last thing he knew was the handle of the man’s sword hitting his temple.

  *

  When Naus came to, he found himself tied to the back of a horse. His wounds were pressed into the sweaty flank of the beast and pained him each time it stepped. He could feel a great bruise blossoming across his chest.

  His mouth was dry, arid. As he blinked the dust from his eyes, he could see the train of three horses crossing the barren scrubland single file.

  The sun was low, just dipping behind the distant mountains; either it had been only a matter of minutes, or a whole day had gone by.

  ‘Water,’ he croaked. It came out barely a whisper. ‘Water.’ He coughed to make them hear him.

  The rider in the saddle in front of him turned. It was the leader with the black beard. He smiled, shouting something to his men. Naus took it to mean we stop here, because both men dismounted and began tending to their beasts. The leader took a waterskin from his saddle that had rested right next to Naus’ face. He helped Naus to drink, turning his face and pouring the water in. It was foul, mixed with something that made it dark, possibly horse blood, but he managed to keep it down.

  ‘We stop here tonight,’ he said.

  He left Naus trussed on the horse’s rump, while he and the others made a small camp next to a bleached white tree. They used the remains of a previous camp, a few logs and square of burnt earth. When they’d finished they took him down from the horse and propped him against the tree trunk. Naus could see his wound had been dressed. It pained him when he breathed; if he was actually lung-shot, he wasn’t going to last long out here. He had to hope it was just bruising.

  If they had dressed his wound, they didn’t want him dead. Or at least not yet?

  ‘Tell me your name,’ said the lead rider. ‘I don’t want to refer to you as old man. We need to talk.’

  Naus thought for a second. There was no reason to lie, no Medusi around to hear him. He need not hide from this man and honesty was fair lubricant in conversation. ‘Nausithorn.’

  The rider nodded, like it was the answer to a much more interesting question than the one he’d posed.

  ‘Though you may know my alter-ego Arcturus, storyteller extraordinaire?’ Nothing. ‘And yours?’ Naus asked.

  ‘Brinyr, of the Wat-tsuk clan.’ Naus barely knew the modern horse lord clans, but the name rang a vague bell.

  ‘Why do we need to talk, Brinyr?’

  ‘Many reasons it seems.’ He sighed, sat across from Naus on one of the logs. He drew out a pipe, lit and inhaled a tobacco variant the clans were fond of called Hyshan. A muscle relaxant, it was a calming drug, helped users sleep. The considered way Brinyr used the pipe was at odds with his clothing, his horse, his world. An intelligent man, in a culture of bravado and status. The two younger outriders clearly looked up to him.

  He offered the pipe to Naus. ‘It’ll help with the pain.’ Truth be told Naus had been through far worse before. He refused the drug. He wanted his mind clear for what he felt might be a discussion on which his life hung. ‘Suit yourself.’ He leant back, observing Naus like he was trying to remember something. ‘I am supposed to find you, kill you if necessary, but preferably bring to you back to our new king, Suliman. No one kills his riders and lives to brag about it.’

  ‘I’m not the bragging type,’ Naus tried.

  ‘No. I can see that. You’re the strong silent type. You’re the hidden depths type.’

  ‘Most old men are. A long-life grants one many secrets.’

  ‘Not many so long as yours though.’ He took another deep intake from his pipe, leaving Naus to ponder that last comment. What had he stumbled into?

  ‘Where’s the wolf?’ he asked. If Brinyr had a type, it was the taking-his-sweet-time-to-get-to-the-point type. ‘Fiska, wasn’t it?’

  ‘She will be back, Nausithorn. You can count on that. She is hunting.’

  ‘She will need to range far out here.’

  Brinyr nodded again. He didn’t say anything if he didn’t have to.

  ‘You have three wounds on your back. Suspicious wounds. Would you tell me about them?’

  Naus frowned. ‘You searched me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Three wounds…’

  He sighed. The man wasn’t one to be nudged off subject. Again, he felt it made most sense to be honest. As honest as he could be. ‘All three came from Medusi. When t
hey leave a host, they leave a mark.’

  ‘You were, how they say, thralled?’

  Naus’ turn to nod.

  Brinyr scratched his beard. ‘To be taken is the worst thing that can happen to a clansman,’ he said. ‘We believe that the taken cannot enter the eternal plains. The Medusi acts as a tether, forever stopping a soul from leaving this world. The larger the Medusi, the more denied souls it carries with it.’

  ‘Isingr didn’t think that,’ said Naus. ‘His son was a Cephean. He led your people to fight for the Medusi queen.’

  Brinyr didn’t like that, it was clear on his face. When he breathed, his breath was smoke, and when he spoke, his words were calm. ‘Isingr no longer speaks for the clans. His son and all the others who were thralled in Theris, were betrayed by him.’

  ‘And you serve a new king now?’

  ‘Yes, Suliman. We share a view, Suliman and I. The clans were crippled by the Medousa. Her Order corrupted Isingr with power. Our people were deceived. We will never again fight another’s war.’

  Naus could think of nothing to say. He agreed with the sentiment, but only so far. Sometimes a war was everyone’s war. Hadn’t he shared a similar perspective with Marlena back in Theris?

  ‘To be thralled is to die, is it not?’ asked Brinyr.

  Naus, the strong silent type, didn’t answer.

  ‘It is too late for silence now, Nausithorn. What happened to your soul?’

  What happened to my soul? Naus had never thought of it like that. It was broken long ago. ‘I died three times to rid myself of their taint,’ he said. The words were sour. He reached for the waterskin and took another swallow of the foul mixture. Brinyr didn’t seem to mind. Is he still indulging a dead man? ‘Each time was worse than the time before. Each time I lost more of myself.’ Brinyr raised his eyebrows. ‘I lost my memories, not my soul.’

  ‘Some might say they were the same thing.’

  ‘First, I lost the memories of when and where I was born, memories of my parents. The next time I lost the memories of my childhood and adolescence. The third time was truly the worst. I forgot where I had come from, my sense of self.’ Naus laughed through his nose. ‘Ironically, the memories I wish had been taken, remained. I became a shell of my former self for a long time, wandering the deserts, barely even trying to rebuild a life that had been destroyed. I don’t know if I ever succeeded.’

  Brinyr considered. ‘If a wanderer were ever to find his destination, he would cease to be a wanderer. The fulfilment is in the journey itself. You are broken, Nausithorn. As broken as a man can be. But you hide a kindness behind sarcasm and violence.’ He was silent for a moment, then added, ‘You have not yet reached your destination.’

  ‘What is my destination?’ Naus found talking with Brinyr was like talking to Velella again, that sage-like wisdom. He had needed it then and he needed it now. Even the eldest man in existence needed guidance. If he looked back through the life he could remember, he needed it more than most. And the guidance he received wasn’t always right, Eleutheria’s had been toxic. He’d followed it anyway.

  ‘Destiny and destination are the same thing,’ said Brinyr. ‘You will know it when you find it.’

  The man’s words struck Naus silent again. He did not know his destiny, but somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness he could feel it.

  Brinyr reverted back to a previous subject.

  ‘The Medusi may keep our dead here on Arceth, but when you kill one, especially the large ones, those souls are freed.’ He reached into a small pouch and brought out a fist. He poured from the fist into his open hand; ten, maybe twenty, tiny Medusi crystals. He looked at Naus.

  They were the crystals he’d been collecting since Theris.

  ‘The only good Medusi is a dead Medusi,’ Naus answered the unspoken question.

  The rider smiled. ‘I will tell you a story now, though I’m sure I am not the master bard you are. There is an old legend among the clans. Many hundreds of years ago, a man ventured out hunting after seeing a strange blue creature he had never seen before. The trail led him far from home. While he was away, an evil witch came to his homestead. She killed his family. The moment they died, the blue creature disappeared. When he finally returned home, he found his dead family and mourned, crying out for a day and a night. The witch returned and spoke to him. You flit through life, she said, always looking for the next thing, never appreciating what you have. You followed that apparition and your family died. Only now do you appreciate what they meant to you, when it is too late. She cursed him then. You will wander forever, with no place to call your own, always seeking a place to belong, and never finding it.’ He looked at Naus. ‘The Immortal Nomad, we call it.’

  Naus just looked back at him.

  ‘Now maybe the man didn’t deserve the curse,’ said Brinyr. ‘Maybe he did. That’s not the point, its just a folktale, probably long warped from its origins. But all folktales start with something, Nausithorn. Some kernel of truth. I can see it in your eyes. You hear that story and you recognise a few pieces of yourself, long warped with age and distance.’

  ‘What makes you thi-?’

  ‘I know you,’ said Brinyr emphatically, pointing at Naus. ‘Though you may not know me. When I was a boy, years before Isingr united the clans, a travelling storyteller came through our camp. He knew the clans moved constantly and was roaming each and every one, telling stories for a little coin, a little food and a pallet to sleep on. The storyteller was an old man even then, forty years ago. He looked, well, he looked exactly like you, Nausithorn. And do you know what name he used?’

  Naus sighed. ‘I’ll take a flying stab in the dark it was Arcturus.’ He really had to stop using that name. First the Abbess in Dinsk had recognised him from her childhood, and now this Brinyr of the horse clans.

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ said the rider. ‘The very same. But more than that, you are the Immortal Nomad, as well.’

  What could he say?

  ‘Aren’t you?’ said Brinyr. I could just deny it, he thought. What harm in that? Just tell the man he was delusional. ‘Answer me. Or I’ll sell you to the slavers going west.’

  ‘Yes, fine. I am the Immortal Nomad. Though half that legend is bile.’

  ‘And the storyteller from when I was a boy?’

  ‘Yes, him too.’

  Brinyr barked something in their guttural language to his two outriders, neither of which seemed that impressed. One spat in the dust. The other shouted something back. ‘Ah, they don’t know what they’re talking about. They say you’re just telling me what I want to hear.’

  ‘After all that?’ said Naus. ‘It’s the truth!’

  ‘How old are you, Nausithorn?’

  ‘I told you I have lost my earliest memories. But I can remember at least eleven centuries.’

  The wolf, Fiska, loped casually into the camp, brushing past Brinyr, and came to a stop in front of Naus. She stared at him with unusually soft canine eyes. He’d never been afraid of wolves, more than once relying on a temporary alliance with one for survival. He sensed his freedom hinged on this moment with the wolf, that Brinyr had simply been keeping him talking until Fiska returned.

  She leant in with a wet nose and licked his cheek. He smelt blood on her breath.

  Brinyr bounded over and cut his bonds, helping Naus to his feet. ‘Please allow me to apologise. Here, have some food.’ He handed Naus dried meat from his pack, and another waterskin. ‘I will earn shit for this when we return. But they will have to believe me. I will not take a legend back to Suliman, bound like a common murderer. You are free.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘You asked about other things we found.’ The rider pulled out the book and Naus’ borrowed sword. ‘Not much of a blade for a legend.’

  ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘And this book, I cannot read. I was going to sell it. But even I know you must have taken it from the Temple. You are an ally to the clans, Nausithorn.’ He smiled. ‘Your pockets
are full of crystals, you steal books from the Order’s libraries. You have lived and died by the Medusi, and been punished for your transgressions. Now you fight on the side of humanity, against the Medusi, to bring them down. Even if I didn’t believe you were the Immortal Nomad, I would call you a friend. A friend of the Wat-tsuk clan can be forgiven of a crime in extenuating circumstances.’

  ‘You mean the riders.’

  ‘Yes. They did not know you, they did not try to know you, and that is on them. They impeded your important work. I will not do the same.’

  ‘But your king?’

  ‘Yes, I will have to explain this to Suliman.’

  Naus suddenly had an idea. ‘Go back to your people, Brinyr. Speak to this Suliman, arrange an audience. Tell him I will come to see him. And when I do it will be to ask his favour. You said your people would never fight another’s war again. But perhaps, they could fight one in vengeance against those who so decimated your people. I will offer your people, Suliman’s people, a chance to be on the right side of history.’

  Brinyr nodded, as was his habit. Then stood and embraced Nausithorn abruptly.

  In the morning, he did the same again. The other two riders were atop one horse, and Brinyr showed Naus to the now rider-less mare. Saddlebags filled with supplies and water, even a bed roll.

  ‘This is yours, nomad,’ said Brinyr.

  ‘Thank you, Brinyr. Friend.’ Naus wheezed around his arrow wound.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘For now, I head west,’ said Naus. He didn’t know any more than that. ‘Who knows where my final destination lies.’

  *

  Still heading west three nights later, Naus could no longer put off the book. He could have died when Brinyr and his outriders attacked, he had been too slow. He could have died without the answers.