"A wise choice," Nerazag called down as two men grasped Azaran's arms and pulled them behind his back. Two more took hold of Segovac, leading them towards the left. More soldiers approached, holding armloads of heavy chains, clearly struggling under the weight. "Is that meant for me?" Azaran asked out loud to no one in particular. The men approached and dropped the chains on the ground with obvious relief.
Azaran shifted his balance, kicking a soldier in the leg. He twisted about, his arms breaking free of the soldiers holding them with almost contemptuous ease. Fists flew, feet kicked out and soldiers went sprawling into the ground, knocked out cold or clutching broken noses and broken limbs.
He knocked down the men holding Segovac. “Run!" he shouted. His friend hesitated, then did as asked. Segovac turned about and ran into the city, sprinting down an alley.
Several men started to give chase. Azaran scooped up one of the chairs dropped on the ground and swung it about like a whip, the heavy weight nothing in his hands. Two men went down as the chain struck them in the head, while a third tripped as the length tangled up in his legs. Azaran let go, grabbed another one and swung it left and right like a particularly jangly club. Swords were drawn and easily blocked. He wrapped the chain about the hands of one fellow raising a blade, yanking to the ground and into the path of two more men coming in, knocking them down as well. He jumped over their bodies and charged at a squad of soldiers ahead, cowering behind their shields and wondering what hell-pit this demon had come out of.
"That's enough!" Nerazag reached into his bag, pulled out a clay bottle and tossed it off the roof. The bottle smashed on the ground and yellow-brown fluid inside splashed out, quickly turning into a gas of the same color when it came into contact with the air. Two more bottles followed after. Nerazag pulled a scented cloth from the bag and pressed it to his face, taking steps back to avoid wisps of gas coming up from the street. Blurry figures thrashed about in the cloud and a chorus of coughs, hacks and wheezes sounded off the walls, quickly subsiding into an ominous silence.
Time passed, and the gas faded away. The streets were covered by fallen soldiers, some lying still, others shivering uncontrollably. One fellow lay in a puddle of blood-flecked vomit, moaning incoherently.
Azaran was on his knees, gasping for air. His skin was pale and sweat ran down his body. He looked up with bloodshot eyes as the soldiers approached, holding chains in one hand and damp cloths to their faces with the other. They halted as he staggered to his feet, face twisted into a grimace, drawing on some unknown reserve of strength. He raised his hands, clenched them into fists, ready to fight on.
Then his eyes closed and he fell with a sigh, dropping face down in the street. The soldiers waited a moment, in case he rose again. Then they closed in, wrapping Azaran with one chain after another, weighing down his limbs and chest. When they were done, he resembled an iron knitting ball, covered in so many chains and fetters than any other man would have suffocated from the sheer weight.
"Take him to the palace!" Nerazag commanded.
The soldiers took hold of the chains and with great effort dragged Azaran through the streets.
Segovac ran until his sides felt like they would burst. Left right, left right, one turn after another until he was unsure of the path behind, only following the path before. Men shouted behind him in the strange guttural twittering that was the tongue of this place, their armor clanking as they went, spears and swords banging against walls. Falling behind, for he had always been a fast runner and they were encumbered by wood and iron.
The alleyways were narrow, the streets crusted with filth. He came to a stop at an intersection, where one narrow lane crossed diagonally with a much larger street. A pile of empty crates lay stacked against one wall. No windows could be seen - the houses of this place were small walled compounds, almost like little villages of their own, their doors thick and barred and, at this time of night, firmly shut. He bent down, leaning against a wall, breathing heavily. Too bloody old, he thought to himself. Past his fortieth summer this year, by rights he should be back home in the green fields and forests, home among his brothers. Not here, in this hot and dusty land, being chased through these filthy streets by foreigners. Friendship only went so far...
"Quick your whining," he said to himself. It was the will of the One. He was a Rhennari. The matter ended there. He looked up, taking stock of his surroundings, of the terrain. This was a city, not a forest, but it was the same, he supposed. Trees or houses, game trails or alleys. Paths to walk, ways to be memorized, predators to avoid. He was an Eburrean and knew of cities only what traveler's tales had spoken of the, most of which had not bothered to mention the smell. No sign of the soldiers, they had given up the chase by the sounds of it.
A pair of huddled bodies lay against a wall, wrapped in filthy ragged cloaks. Men, women, it was impossible to tell, though both looked impossibly thin. The hand of one lay on the ground, inches away from a spilled cup. Segovac bent down and picked it up. A few dregs were still pooled at the bottom, smelling of spoiled wine...and something else. That weird sickly sweet smell, from the plants grown on that farm outside the city. One whiff was enough to make his head swim...
"Tebah!" The owner of the cup woke. He saw Segovac standing above him, holding the cup. "Tebah! Yaas jeh'jain di!"
"What was that?" Segovac took a step as the man stood. He looked barely out of boyhood and was painfully thin, his ribs showing beneath the ruins of what had one been a fine shirt. "I don't want trouble..."
The man jabbered something in the local lingo, pointing at cup, his eyes wild with desperation.
"This is your cup? Segovac asked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean any offense..."
"Tebah!" The man lunged at him, skeletal fingers reaching for his throat. Segovac easily avoided him, wincing at the smell coming from the fellow. The man tried to grab his arm.
"Get off!" Segovac gave him a hard shove, sending the vagrant back to the ground.
The man scrambled back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest, protecting his head under his arms, as if expecting blows to follow. Then he began to weep. Tears ran down his grimy face. He rocked back and forth, twisted into an expression of misery as words babbled out like a stream, incomprehensible even to someone who spoke his language.
Segovac felt a surge of pity, mingled with a sense of shame. This man was no threat to anyone but himself. "Here," he said, placing the cup on the ground and stepping away.
The man grabbed the cup and clutched it to his chest. He continued weep, rocking from side to side. The person lying beside him never even stirred.
Segovac turned away, walking as fast as he could. He turned down another alley, stepping over a pile of rubbish and squatting down on a patch of dirt nearby that looked relatively clean. He looked up towards the sky, saw the clouds staring to clear, the face of the Mansion looking down on the world. "Why am I here?" he asked out loud. The Mansion did not answer.
Guidance was needed. He picked up a small pot shard lying on on the ground nearby. Segovac took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes and silently began the Great Chant.
Saerec! Lord of Heaven!
You bring order to this world!
The darkness flees from your illumination!
Saerec ! Shaper of Fate!
Your sons place their trust in you!
For you make all paths straight!
Saerec! Father of the Righteous!
Teach us the truth of all things!
Your servant awaits your command!
Until all broken things are mended!
Until the corrupt is made pure!
Until the end of all things!
Saerec! Lord of Heaven...
The chant repeated over and again in his head. All sense of the outside world disappeared. Any who who saw him at this point would have noted the pot sherd drawing in the dirt a perfect spiral outward. But Segovac only had ears for another voice.
Command me. Why am I here?
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Stars wheeled over head and below his feet. Men were born, living and died in the time it took for him to draw breath. The Sun's flared to life, burned bright, then dwindled to specks and flamed out, only to blaze new again, the cycle repeating over and over. Beauty and ugliness, purity and corruption, the righteous path and fallen-away...he saw it only for a brief moment. But that was enough, mortal minds could not accept such understanding. Even a glimpse was almost more than his mind could bear.
Segovac. His name. Uttered by a voice that spoke directly to his soul. A voice heard only rarely. When it spoke there was no question of turning away.
Command me.
A blur of images filled his mind. He tried to make sense of them, then stepped back, knowing that when it was over all would be made clear.
Then it all winked. His eyes flew open. Instinctively he looked down at the ground and saw the perfect spiral drawn there, the pot shard still pressed into the dirt at the end of the time. From the jumble of images and words, something made itself clear.
"Telascar," he said.
Segovac stood, wincing at the ache in his back and knees. He tossed the pot shard aside, stepped over the spiral and leaving it behind to confuse the locals in the morning. He went down a ways, then turned left, the right, then left again. Each time knowledge revealed itself in his head, the path known, the maze of streets as clear to him now as the forests of his childhood, where every path was known. He kept going for a while, crossing through a part of the city that he would later learn was avoided by honest men, where those who went about alone were fair game for wolves in human form, thieves, murderers and worse. But on this night Segovac passed unbothered. seemingly invisible to those predators. Such was the will of Saerec.
He crossed a wide boulevard. The streets on the other wide were considerably cleaner than the ones he left behind. Houses were bigger, the walls well-maintained and not covered with graffiti and offensive drawings. He walked past one, then another. Then he turned left and halted before a third, painted red, its face decorated with iron studs. A large iron knocker hung in the center. He pulled it back and slammed down hard, send out a loud boom. After a moment he swung it two more times. Then he waited.
Doors opened and closed inside the walls. Footsteps pounded. A small hatch opened in the door to the left of the knocker. A man's face looked out, glaring at him blearily. Hadaraji words were spoken, which meant nothing to Segovac.
"Is this house of Telescar?" Segovack responded.
The door porter rubbed his chin. "Eburrean?" he asked. In his accent it sounded like Aburayan.
"Yes."
The man muttered something under his breath that sounded much like a curse. "Whaiit herre," he said in Eburrean, the words obviously memorized. The hatch slammed shut and Segovac heard steps headed back to the house. Time passed. Then the hatch opened again and a new face peered out, bearded and balding. "I am Telascar," he said in Eburrean. "Who knocks at my door?"
"I am Segovac..."
"What is your clan?" Telascar cut him sharply.
"I was of the Colamnacs..."
"Then throw yourself into the ocean! I'll burn the house down before I let Colamnac swine beneath my roof!"
"Now I serve the Spiral," Segovac finished calmly.
Telascar stared at him. The hatch slammed shut. A moment later the door flew open. "Ten thousand apologies, as the Kedaji say!" Telascar ushered him through the door, bowing several times, face red with embarrassment. "Of course, you are welcome in my house! I had no idea a Rhennari was in this city...though in my defense I never expected one to knock on my door at this hour of the night..."
"No apologies necessary, Master Telascar. I came to this city under unusual circumstances..."
"Please, come in! Be welcome! Refreshments will be brought! What honor that you should grace my roof." Telascar barked several orders at the porter in Hadaraji, then ushered Segovac across a stone courtyard towards a goodly sized house. Doors opened as their approached, sleepy-looking servants summoned. They inside and towards a central atrium with the rood open to the night sky. Lamps were lit, a pitcher of water and a carafe of wine laid out on a table, along with a platter of cheese and bread.
"Forgive this humble fare," said Telascar. "If you wish, I will have my cooks prepare something more suitable..."
"This will be fine. It is more than a humble traveler deserves." Segovac sat down, one of the servants pouring him a cup of water.
Telascar sat down across the table. "A Rhennari in Kedaj," he said with wonder. "There are so few of your brotherhood left, who'd have thought one would be found this side of the Green Sea!"
"Saerec's will is a strange thing," Segovac responded. "Indeed, who would have thought a son of Eburrea, who honored the old ways, would be found here as well? And living in prosperity no less."
"This? I have had some fortune, 'tis true, but compared to my neighbors it is almost embarrassing in its meanness."
"But more than you had when you arrived, I am guessing?"
Telascar nodded. "Perceptible, holy sir. I forgot about that."
"Who is your clan?"
At that question Telascars face darkened for a moment. "I am...I was of the Belandirs, sworn to the Lessanirs."
"I know of it." They were a small clan, whose land had butted up against territory held by sworn vassals of the Colamnacs. In the past, when the two sides had warred, they were the battlefield more often than not, which explained his initial greeting.
"Then you know what happened." And before Segovac could answer one way to another, Telascar told the tale. "When Ganascorec launched his first invasion of Cavarag, he placed a heavy levy of men on the western clans, more than we were willing or able to give. So many than there wouldn't have been enough men left to work the harvest. Our chieftain was among those who refused. The Lessanir's stood with us, which should have been enough to end the matter. But instead Ganacorec decided to make an example of my clan, and turned loose his mercenaries on us. They attacked swiftly, falling on the Belandirs before we knew they were coming. Our men were slaughtered, our women dishonored, our children murdered. The Ghelenai ran wild with their black knives. Our stronghold was burned, our chieftain..." His voice trailed off at that.
"I know the tale," Segovac said gently. There were few in Eburrea who did not. The Fall of the Belandir Clan had sent fear across the land and ended any number of incipient rebellions among the other clans.
"I was among the few who escaped. There was a price on the heads of all surviving Belandir's and after what happened no other clan would take me in, for they would have shared in the punishment. So I left Eburrea, crossed the Middle Sea with other exiles from Eburrea and ended up here. We signed up as mercenaries. Unlike my comrades, I saved my pay, invested it wisely and became a merchant. Made a new life for myself."
"And you have done well, by the looks of it," Segovac said. "Have you considered returning? Ganascorec is dead. Gwindec rules now and he is a better man than his uncle. The exiled sons of the Belandirs would be welcome in Bellovac."
"I've thought on it," Telascar replied. "But long years have passed. My life is here now, though these days how much longer that will remain true, only Saerec knows. And you, Segovac Rhennari? What brings you to Kedaj?"
Segovac picked up the water cup and drank from it. "Well," he said, "I came here at the behest of a friend. He had some business here, of great import. And I am sworn to aid him in this matter."
"But you came to my door alone. What happened to your friend?"
"Ah, that is where is gets...complicated. We were attacked upon entering the city by warriors in red cloaks..."
"Red cloaks?" Telascar looked at him sharply. "Are you certain? Only the Palace guards wear such within these walls. Why would they attack you?"
Segovac thought hard on how to respond. The One had led him to this place. Telascar seemed an honorable man. He had prospered in this strange land...which meant he had much to lose as well. Caution was called for. "I
do not know," he replied. "But we had heard foreigners were being arrested here. Perhaps they mistook him for someone else?"
Telascar looked him in the eye. "Did your friend survive?"
"I assume so. He has a knack for it."
"So they took him prisoner?"
"Most likely."
"Then he is lost to you." Telascar bowed his head. "They would have taken him to the cells below the palace. And no one escapes from there. He is as good as dead."
"Tarazal wanted a swift death for you." Nerazag's voice echoed off the walls of the stone cell. "He was quite insistent on that fact. Kept going on and on about honor and duty and what warriors owed to one another. I must confess my eyes started to glaze over after the second sentence. I find such things most tiresome..."
"I could say the same about your voice," Azaran croaked out. He tried to turn about so he could see Nerazag, but the layers of chains about his body rose up against his neck his well, pressing tight against his jawbone and locking his head in place. It took an enormous amount of effort on his part just to breath, let alone talk.
Nerazag laughed at that. "I can't imagine why. I am such an amusing fellow. Blessed with charm and humor, able to make friends in all places. Every one likes me. Why, you told me so yourself not to long ago. Don't you remember?"
"You know I don't."
"Ah...right. Your memories." Nerazag circled about, coming into Azaran's line of vision. "It's a strange thing...when you started telling Tarazal about their sudden absence, his attitude towards you changed. He still wanted to kill you, make no mistake about that. But that rot about an honorable death vanished like smoke in a strong breeze. Maybe he figured that if you couldn't remember being a warrior, then in some way you really weren't a warrior. Or maybe he thought it was a bad lie. Either way, you saw how he cared about honor. Three hot pokers in your guts! Or was it two? He was a bit hazy on that last detail..."
"I lost count..." Azaran said. The chains weighed heavily on him and he wanted nothing more than to pass out. But the sky would set itself ablaze before he gave this bastard the satisfaction.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 5