"No matter. He is dead and you are alive. So much for honor. Make of that what you will. I do hope I am there when your memories return, to see the look on your face when you realize the best friend you ever had died at your hands." Nerazag leaned in close. "Yes, you heard me correctly. I believe you, Azaran. You truly do not remember anything about your past, though I imagine bits and pieces have been coming back. It's to be expected for a man in your condition."
"What condition? What...happened to me?"
Nerazag smiled. "I will not tell you."
"Why not?" Azaran whispered. The strength seemed to leak from him. All this...for nothing. The prize yanked away just as he was about to touch it...
"It brings me pleasure to deny you. I see the anguish it causes and I am happy for it." The smile vanished as quickly as it came. But the cold hate that replaced it did not leave, revealed itself as a true face beneath the mask. It was a frightening thing to see. "You are a traitor...an abomination. What you did, it is an offense against the rightful order of things!"
"I don't remember what I did? What is my crime? You have me here, I am not going anywhere. Tell me...please..."
A knife appeared in Nerazag's hand. He pressed the tip into the flesh of Azaran's cheek. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he said, "then to spend the next few months in this room, carving you apart piece by piece, inch by inch." A trickle of blood pooled under the knife, dribbling down Azaran's jawline. "Fingers, eyes, toes, your genitals and nose...then your skin. Stopping so the runes could heal you, the runes given you by the grace of the Masters so you could better serve your purpose. Your tongue I would leave untouched, so every time I began to cut, you could ask the same questions, 'what is my crime? What did I do?' And I would leave your ears undamaged as well, so you hear my answer, 'I will not tell you.' Because no matter what pain I inflict on your body, it is nothing compared to the continued ignorance in your mind! That you are suffering for something you do not remember, for answers I will not give."
Nerazag sighed and put the knife away. "But such a thing would an indulgence on my part," he said with regret. "And it would beyond my authority to inflict. No Azaran, only one being in all the Universe has the right to judge you...our Master. He is coming for you, I will bring you to him. Maybe he will tell you, maybe he will not. But no matter what punishment he has in mind, it will nothing more or less than what you deserve!"
Nerazag turned away, leaving Azaran's sight. The door to the cell swung open, letting in a blast of foul air. Nerazag spoke to someone outside. "...once every day. Broth...nothing more, no matter what he says."
"Going somewhere?" Azaran croaked. "We were having such fine words. You really are a pleasant fellow, I don't have to remember that..."
Nerazag came back over. "Here is one memory for you," he said. "The runes burned into your flesh make you stronger and faster, they give you the ability to understand any tongue after hearing it spoken for a moment...but you know all this. But nothing comes without a price. Every time you call upon your abilities, it draws on your strength and energy. And the runes are always being called upon, especially the ones that have to do with healing. All these chains..." he tapped one, "are taking a toll on your body. The runes are healing you as we speak. Soon you will be hungry, you will need to restore your reserves, put more food back in the cupboard, as it were. Before long you will be mad from starvation. The wardens will give you just enough to keep you alive, but nothing more."
"Another sadistic fantasy?"
"If only." Nerazag shook his head. "I must leave this city for a while. When I return, it will be to take you to our Master. I will lay out at his feet. I would prefer you to be weak as a newborn kitten when that happens. You've caused enough trouble at full strength."
Nerazag without another word. The door slammed shut, cutting of what little was coming in and leaving him in pitch darkness.
Time passed. Azaran tried not to move, tried to keep his breaths as shallow as possible, anything that would require effort on his part. It didn't work. Several hundred pounds of iron chain were wrapped about his body, enough to crush the breath from his body. Every time he inhaled he had to struggle against the weight. The runes provided the strength for this to happen, they healed the damage caused by the stress. Soon enough it had an effect...a gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He needed sustenance. Azaran tried to ignore it, but the hunger was insistent. Its voice would grow over time, as his will to resist grew weaker.
A cruel penalty...to use the very things that made him strong against him. Azaran could only marvel at the brutal simplicity. He'd carved his way through whole armies, overcome odds most others thought inevitable. There wasn't a man alive for a thousand miles who could stand against him for longer than the amount of time it took to draw three breaths. And here he was...locked in room, while his body devoured itself and unable to do a single thing about it. Diabolical....
Eventually the door opened. Two of the wardens came in. One stuffed a brass funnel in his mouth, the other poured a small cup of broth down it. Azaran swallowed it eagerly. "More," he said.
The wardens turned away silently. "More!" shouted as the door slammed shut. "More, damn your eyes!"
Then he cursed himself. Begging for broth...such weakness. The will is everything. Tarazal's voice, another lesson returned. The body is merely the house for the will. When the will is strong, it can overcome anything. But when it is weak, then you are useless....
"Weakness," he growled, rage curdling in him, knowing that it could only get worse.
Azaran had no idea how long he stayed there in that cell - there was no sight of the sun or any other way of tracking time. He tried to keep track of his heartbeats and use that as basis, but then he fell asleep, which negated the whole purpose. The wardens came back with another small measure of broth, and this time he did not beg. But it was only a matter of time before he broke. Azaran knew this deep down. Knew that he was weak. Every man broke in the end. He was no different.
The door opened. He looked up, his belly gnawing on his back bone. But the wardens weren't there. Instead an older man stood in the doorway. He was dressed plainly, but the cloth was of fine quality, suggesting he was someone of means and status. About his neck was a silver medallion bearing the symbol of a dagger thrust through a scroll.
"Come to stare?" Azaran said in a hoarse whisper. He was thirsty beyond all sense, hungry enough to each his own arm could be but get to it.
The man placed his arms behind his back. "You are not what I expected. The stories they tell of you, I thought I'd see a god made flesh. Thunderbolts shooting from your eyes, that sort of thing. Instead I see a man in dire need of a meal...not to mention a bath."
"Sorry to disappoint. Maybe you have the wrong fellow. Try one of the other cells."
The man cocked his head to one side, giving him the appearance of an elderly owl. "You are the one called Azaran, yes? Who led the revolt against Enkilash of Tereg, and slaughtered uncounted numbers of Corsairs? Who killed King Ganascorec of Eburrea in single combat and fed his corpse to a demon bear summoned from the underworld?"
"It was a dire bear from the north and it did the killing. I never met the man."
"But it is true about the Corsairs, yes?"
Azaran shrugged, or at least tried, given the layers of ironmongery pressing down on his shoulders. "I lost count after the first twenty. What difference does it make?"
"A great deal, if you are Hadaraji and have suffered at the hands of Teregi scum."
"What do you want?" Azaran asked. "Who are you? And are you going to feed me?"
"All honest questions. To answer in order of relevance - I am Ithkaan uba Ithkuul, who wields the staff and rod, who speaks the words of power, for the Lord of the Nine Directions, the Son of Earth and Sky and Master of the Nineteen Waves, Who Commands the Sun to Rise and the Mansion to Protect...and many other titles. The King of Kedaj."
Azaran frowned. "You are the King?"
"No. I am his Vo
ice, his Will, his..." Ithkaan sighed. "I am his first adviser, his Vizier. Does that help?"
"A bit."
"As to the other questions...I want nothing from you. It is the King who commands me to come here. And I will feed you...provided you answer questions of my own."
"Ask them."
"Are you a man of honor?"
Azaran laughed at that. "What do you think?"
Ithkaan sighed again. "Master Azaran, I am a busy man. Every moment of my day is spoken for. I do not have time to play word games and I suspect you have little desire for them as well, given your current predicament. Were it my decision, you would remain in this cell until the end of time and beyond. But I am commanded to being you before the my master and I am in all things a faithful servant. Because he is the King, I would have you come before him bathed, clothed and fed. Outside this door are servants bearing a very large meal come straight from the palace kitchens, along with wardens who will remove those chains from your body. What I must know is this; do I have your word of honor that once the chains are removed, you will not attack the wardens, the servants, the palace guards or myself? I have no doubt that a man of your reputation could kill every man on this floor as easily as he breathes. More guards would be summoned. You would fall in the end, but a great many men would die in the process, men with no other desire than to return to their families at the end of the day. If you give your word of honor that this will not happen, will it have any meaning?"
Azaran looked at the man, looked him in the eye and saw no sign of guile or falsehood. Which meant nothing, of course. But he was dreadfully hungry...
"I give you my promise," he said. "I will not harm anyone in this place, unless they seek to harm me."
Ithkaan thought in this. "It will have to do." He turned and barked out orders through the door. Wardens came in bearing rings loaded with keys. The cell echoed with the sound of locks opened, or in come cases hammered with chisels until they broke. One by one the chains were removed, lightening the load on his body and making it easier to breath. The process took a while, wardens staggering out under armloads of iron. When the last was was gone, Azaran fell to the ground, mouth in a silent scream as blood flowed back into his limbs. His head swam and he passed out for a moment. When he came back, the wardens were gone, replaced by servants wearing the blue livery of the palace. One of them set up a small table in the center of the cell, another placed a chair before it. A third lay down a wooden platter loaded with flat bread, fresh fruit, a bowl of some off-white cream and what looked liked chunks of mutton seared over an open flame. A pitcher of cool clear water stood beside it.
Azaran hauled himself into the chair. He ate as though his life depended on it, which was not far from the truth. Each bite, each blessed swallow, returned strength to his body. Weakness disappeared. His vision grew sharper, his reflexes quicker. The runes grew in power, filling him with energy. Soon enough the platter was clear of even the smallest crumb. The hunger remained, but not as great as before, and he was able to think clearly now.
Ithkaan remained standing, watching all this with a detached air. Azaran got the sense that nothing would surprise this man, that the sky could come crashing down in fire and ruin and it would bring nothing more than a raised brow in response.
"Thank you," Azaran said.
Ithkaan nodded once. "As you say. Follow me."
They left the cell, Ithkaan leading the way, Azaran following, the servants and two guards following after. The narrow corridors of the dungeons were dimly lit only by a pair of guttering oil lamps. They went up one set of narrow stairs, then another, the air growing markedly less fetid with each ascent. Then it was through a final door and the surroundings changed completely.
Azaran entered a long airy corridor, lined on one side with open windows through which sweet morning air was blowing. The wall behind him was painted with a frieze of women dancing to the tune of a pair of pipers, while a bearded man lay on a couch lifting a cup to his lips. Guards stood along the wall every twenty feet and stood at attention as Ithkaan appeared.
"This way," said the vizier, indicating towards the left. They went down a walls turned once to the left then to the right, then through another set of doors that led to another staircase headed down, this time into a humid steamy room. A large pool of water sat in the middle, steam rising in swirls above it. Two attendants stood off to the side.
"You will bathe," said Ithkaan, gesturing at the water.
Azaran hesitated. "Perhaps some privacy?"
An eyebrow raised at that. "Do you have something to hide?"
"Of course not..."
Ithkaan sighed and made a gesture at the guards, who turned and left. "They will wait outside," he said. "The attendants are eunuchs, sworn to silence, and born mute as well. As for me, I will not see anything beyond that possessed by my three sons. Now bathe, Master Azaran. Your stench is appalling and I do not wish to insult the Great Kings nostrils."
Azaran did not argue. He stripped off his rags, which were swiftly gathered up by the attendants and carried away. He stepped into the water. A rough wooden stick was handed to him, one of the attendants indicating he should scrub it on his skin.
"They can come into the water and aid you, if it would help," said Ithkaan, who had pulled out a small wax tablet from a pocket and was scribbling something on it with a stylus.
"No, that's quite all right." Azaran scrubbed all areas of his body that he could reach with the stick. When it was worn smooth another was handed to him. An extraordinary amount of filth came off his body. One of the attendants than motioned for him to come over and dumped a pot of some gray powder on his head. It caused his scalp to sting and he ducked under the water, rubbing at his head and causing considerable lather to rise up. When he finally emerged, many dead hairs were washed free, and his hair felt cleaner than it had been in a long time.
He emerged from the water, dried himself off with a towel and was led to a rack on which clothing in the local style hung. He pulled on a knee length brown tunic, belted about the waist with a length of cord, the attendants wrapping it twice about and tying the knot so it hung off his hip. A pair of sandals slid onto his feet.
Ithkaan noted his appearance and nodded once. "Better. You will not shame me before the court. Now come."
They left the bath, the guards falling in behind. More passages, left and right, taking them deeper into the pyramid. Guards appeared in greater abundance, as did servants, officials and courtiers, all of whom paused in their ceaseless plotting to watch Ithkaan and his charge pass by. A few called out greetings to the vizier, which he acknowledged with a nod or a brief smile, depending on the status of the speaker.
They approached a wide set of doors faced with bronze, cast to display two gods on either side, both of whom faced the walls as they were flung open. Beyond was the throne room, currently filled with men of high rank, filling the place with the murmur of conversation. Light came in from the single window set above the throne, sending down a brilliant shaft onto man currently seated upon it, on whom all eyes were turned.
Ithkaan led Azaran through the chamber, a path clearing before the vizier as he went. Azaran could not see the throne through the throng, but he could hear the argument taking place before it. Ithkaan heard it as well and came to a halt by one of the massive pillars holding up the ceiling. "Wait here," he told Azaran, then continued on alone.
Azaran shifted about slightly, finding a gap in the crowd through which he could see the proceedings. Two men stood before the throne, looking down on a third who sat in his knees, his hands raised high in supplication towards the man on the throne.
The King of Kedaj was somewhere in his sixth decade, his hair and beard a solid iron gray. his eyes deep set and dark-circled. He had the body of a once powerful man now running swiftly to fat, his belly swelling greatly over his belt. He gave no hint that was paying attention to the matter below him, seemingly entranced by the small silver cup in his hand, which he held up to cat
ch the light.
"My lands have suffered from this cursed drought." The supplicant looked to be a well fed sort, but wore ragged clothes better suited to a poor farmer, hoping to play on the courts sympathy. It did not seem to be working. "I have drained my coffers with offerings to the gods, hoping that they may bless us with rain. But the land turns to stone, the crops wither in their furrows. My peasants scratch at dust and shrivel as well from hunger. I cannot even pay my workers their fairly earned wages..."
"You look rather fat for a man dying of starvation!" One of the two men standing by the landowner poked his belly with a boot. His name, Azaran would later learn, was Ithoshaara, the Kings eldest surviving son and his heir. A young man in his late twenties, his prominent nose gave him the look of a particularly cruel hawk about to fall on helpless pray.
The man cringed, whimpering like a beaten dog. "Mercy!" he bawled again. "Another season, I beg of you! I will have the taxes, with interest! I swear by Sagosh, may he strike me dead if I fail..."
"Another season?" snarled the other man standing before the throne, a lean fellow with a short beard and a head shaved bald save for a strip running down the center, which was grown long and braided with gold and silver wire. His name was Lugalzaeer, a scion of an ancient house and one of the wealthiest men in the city. "Do you forget, wretch, that I am promised a third of your income as repayment for the loans my family has extended you? Shall I wait another season for what is rightly owed my house?"
"My lord, I...shall offer surety! My own life, to stand against my debt. Please..." He turned back to the throne. "My family have been loyal to the Royal House for generations! We have served with honor in war and peace and commerce! Why, my own grandfather was vizier for a time to your uncle of blessed memory..."
"That is the past," Ithoshaara said. He shoved the man, knocking him over. The king did not seem to notice this, holding out the goblet for a servant to fill with a fragrant wine.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 6