"Now that is a shame. You were the perfect companion for the moment...a man I could tell anything too in the sure knowledge that you would not remember any of it." She raised her hand towards the base of her throat.
"Most glorious princess!"
Zeyaana bit back a curse, then turned to the new arrival, a smile on her face. "My lord," she explained, bowing slightly, just enough so that the tops of her breasts were visible for a moment.
"Princess Zeyaana." Lugalzaeer bowed before her, arms spread wide. "The sun at dawn is but a pale imitation of your wondrous presence. The birds of the sky sing praises to your name, while the Mansion itself..."
"Careful, my lord. Such praise is welcome, but might tempt the jealously of the gods themselves."
"Why, I would say the exact opposite, my lady. The gods should be thanked, for in creating you they have brought a blessing unto Kedaj. Our citizens may take pride in the fact that such beauty has been bestowed on our streets..."
Will you both shut up! the functioning part of Azaran's mind wanted to scream. Instead he stood there, stared blankly as Zeyaana and Lugalzaeer went around and a corner, then swiftly ducked into a room. At the last moment she grabbed Azaran's arm and yanked him after.
Zeyaana shut the door, then turned about, glaring at Lugalzaeer. "Have you gone mad?" she snapped. "What were you thinking, approaching me like that?"
"Forgive me, my lady, but I could not resist. You were so...alluring this morning. Every man was paying you compliments, I thought mine would not be noticed..."
"My brother would notice! Half the guards we passed are in his pay and right now one of them is running to that jackal tell him a pretty tale of Lugalzaeer approaching his sister..."
"Along with every other man in that hall. Let the little pig find out about it. What will he do?"
"Something unexpected..."
Zeyaana's voice trailed off slightly as Lugalzaeer closed in, slipping a hand around her back and sliding down to cup a buttock. "To the Hells with your brother," he said. "Your Father, the whole court and city. I can't sleep, can't think of anything but you. I see your face when I close my eyes, see your body when they open..."
"Find a woman of your household," Zeyaana whispered. "Imagine she is me and taste a hint of he delights that await you, my lord." Her hand slipped down between his legs, causing him to grunt.
"Why wait. Perhaps I should have a taste now..."
"We are not alone." she said, glancing back at Azaran.
Lugalzaeer sighed. "So? Let him watch. It will be an education for the barbarian. Unless..he's already gone where Lugalzaeer has not. Has he?"
"My love." Zeyaana touched the base of her throat. The air in the room suddenly grew thick, or so it seemed. The anger that was welling up in Lugalzaeer disappeared even more quickly, any sense of jealously vanishing like smoke in a stiff breeze. "He is a tool. Nothing more. What I do to him has no meaning. But you...you hold my heart." Zeyaana clasped Lugalzaeer's hand and placed it on her breast. "Among other things."
A tool...a weapon. You are a weapon...you have a choice, there is always a choice... "I...am a free man," Azaran said slowly. stepping back. The pink fog receded from his mind, his thinking became clear...this was wrong. "What are you doing to me..."
"Damn it all." Zeyaana faced, pressing her fingers firmly against the base of her throat. The glow reappeared stronger this time, turning the flesh near crimson. The air became thick as syrup, he struggled against it, but every attempt only pulled him deeper into a web, his mind losing control, falling apart, unable to hold together a single thought...
The sword held in his hand, held high and hesitating. A pair of eyes looking up at him, head tilted slightly to expose the throat. Eyes without a hint of fear, without hate. Only pity. Terrible pity...
...there is always a choice...
When he came back to his senses, the ground was level with his eyes. Lugalzaeer and Zeyaana looked down at him with confusion.
"What witchcraft is this?" asked Lugalzaeer.
"Don't ask such questions," Zeyaana replied. She was pale-faced and a tremor was affecting one of her hands.
"Is...he dead?"
"No. He will be fine. Leave us."
"But..."
"Go!" she all but shouted. "And do not approach me again in public!"
Lugalzaeer reddened with anger, but did not protest. "As you wish." He left the room, closing the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Zeyaana fell to knees and began coughing furiously. Shoulders heaved with each hack. She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and pressed it to her mouth, muffling the sound slightly. After a minute it subsided and she bent over, breathing heavily and hoarse, skin flushed and sweaty, face twisted in pain.
The handkerchief fell from her fingers and landed near Azaran's face, close enough for him to see the pots of blood staining the white cloth.
"The master is expecting you."
Again the servants led the Segovac and Telascar into the house of Shapurashi. The Master of the house was waiting for them in the same place as before. No harp player this time but there were three cups of red liquor waiting for them.
"Well done," Shapurashi said, raising his cup high. "You're prediction was accurate. Lugalzaeer's ships were caught in a sudden storm that drove them onto the reef's four days sail from here. Water filled their holds and completely ruined their cargoes. By the mercy of the gods the crews survived and were able to make to shore. As I speak they are walking back towards the city. One of my men met them on the road and heard the tale and rode through the night to bring me the news. It will be another day at least before news reaches the rest of the city and by then my factor will have bought up the remaining stocks of tashgul in Kedaj. You have made me a considerable amount of money, Segovac of Eburrea."
Segovac crossed his arms. "So, I have proven my value?"
"You have."
"Time to hold up your end of the bargain then."
Shapurashi raised an eyebrow. "Was there a bargain? I recall us making no pledge."
"Segovac meant no disrespect..." Telascar began to say, then fell silent as both men glared at him.
"Wealth means nothing to me," Segovac said. "Other men may lust for gold and silver, but to me they are metals less useful than plain iron. But friendship...that is a treasure. Saerec teaches that men who place riches before kith and kin will lose the respect of the later and in time possession of the former."
"So my offer in a share in the profits of this transaction would be more of an insult that a gift? Even though it would make you a very wealthy man."
"Telascar is the merchant," was Segovac reply, a hint of irritation entering his voice. "If you wish to share the wealth, share it with him. He will find a better use for it than I. What I want of you is help in freeing my friend from his current predicament."
Shapurashi said nothing for a moment. Then he waived his hand at the cups. "Will you at least have a drink?"
Segovac shrugged. "Of course." He picked up a cup of tashgul and sipped it. His mouth exploded in a riot of fruity sweetness so cloying it nearly made him gag. Coughing, he set the cup back down. "Strong," he said after a moment.
"An acquired taste. Shapurashi set his cup down. "I did not expect you to take the money. If you had, you would not have been the man I thought you to be. I will give it to Telascar instead, I am sure he would welcome the fresh infusion to his coffers." He nodded to the other merchant.
Telascar bowed with gratitude. "Thank you, my lord. Again you favor my house."
Shapurashi nodded in acknowledgment. "As for you, Segovac," he said, "I swear by Sagosh the Thunderer I will do what I can to help you in the matter of your friend Azaran. May he strike me down where I stand if I lie. May my line end in sorrow and shame if I lie."
Segovac bowed. "May Saerec the One bless your endeavors. May you know health, wealth and a lifetime of prosperity."
"Indeed. Now that the formalities have be completed..." Shapurashi raised
the cup to his lips again, then sighed and set it aside. "Over indulgence has been the ruin of this city. As I said before, I can arrange for your friend to escape from the palace. But it will come at great cost and great risk. Not just for me, but many others as well. Such an act would be rightly considered as an attack against rule of Enmer-Galila. The only ones who would consider it are those with cause to hate that snake in human form, to the point that they would risk their lives and fortunes."
"You are such a man," said Segovac.
"I am. But even my resources will not be enough. You...we will need help. There are others in this city who feel the way I do about the current state of affairs. Who see the decline of our city into tyranny and decadence as something to resist."
"And what will they want from me?" asked Segovac, sensing where this was headed.
"The future," came the reply."Or at least as much as you are able to see of it. But from now on, the questions you will be asked will not be about commerce or profit, but life and death. And if you are wrong, many stand to lose their lives. Can you accept that, Segovac of Eburrea?"
"Yes," came the answer, without a moments hesitation.
Shapurashi studied him for a moment, again weighing and measuring. "Very well. The Temple of Sagosh, two nights from now. Go to the eastern entrance one hour after sunset. Ask for Acolyte Hamsaab. And make sure you are not followed."
"I will be there."
"Good. And prepare yourself, my friend. Once you step through that door, your life will be in peril, and there is no going back."
Telascar did not say much on the journey back to his house, which suited Segovac's mood just fine. Once indoors the merchant went off to his own chambers, while the porters and guards who escorted them sought what sleep they could find given the late hour. But Segovac remained awake. He made his way through the house, lost in his thoughts, before headed out to the back garden.
It was a darker night than last, the face of the Mansion partly obscured by clouds. Some hoped that would bring rain, but wiser heads knew they would disappear once the strong light of day returned. It suited his mood for the moment. Segovac squatted down, picked up the stick he'd been using and closed his eyes, beginning the chant, reaching out to his god through doors of perception that swung all the more easily through persistent use.
The darkness flees from your illumination...
But now there was only darkness. He stood on a pale white mound, with barely enough light to see the space around. Moans, shrieks and groans came out from the gloom, drenched in sorrow and dismay. Running through it was an undercurrent of anger, stern, unyielding and without mercy. A promise of retribution, a purging of sin.
A strong wind rose, howling with fury. The darkness disappeared, torn to wisps and vanishing. He looked about, for there were corpses in all directions, so many dead they did not only cover the land, they were the land, as far as the eye could see. Dead, rotting, flesh blacking and turning to dust until all that was left were bones bleached white under a merciless sun that would not set.
Segovac looked down at the mound upon which he stood...not a mound. A skull and he stood on the top, the rest buried beneath an ocean of bones. He raised his arms and saw his own skin withering and falling away, saw his own bones appear as he flesh turned to dust. His knees fell away, he body fell apart in a clatter of pieces, his skull bouncing its way down to join the others. As he fell, he felt more than heard the words. Prepare yourself...
His eyes flew open. As usual he looked down at the spiral drawn in the dirt. Only this time it was marred and broken, for the stick had cracked under the pressure and fallen across the grooves. He let go of the broken stump and bowed his head. A bad omen, that. It could only mean one thing. He whispered it softly, as if afraid to hear the word spoken.
"Death..."
Chapter Six
He stood alone, naked, save for a breech cloth around his privates. A fresh line of runes marked his flesh, circling about his torso and ended three inches from his spine. His head was shaved bald, and held in both hands a sword. Blue skies were above, and the sun shone softly down on him. He was fifteen years old.
The flesh around the new runes was still red and sore from the branding. He put it out of his mind. Pain was nothing to him now. An illusion, as all weakness was. Only his duty was real. The body was nothing without the will. The runes only added to what was already there.
He looked up. Tarazal stood on a high platform, flanked by two other grizzled veterans. He looked to the left and right and saw more men in the stands. Silent as statues. Men honored by years of service, what he aspired to become.
"Azaran!" Tarazal called down. "You have shown yourself worthy of the second marking. The runes of strength and understanding now mark your flesh. Now, your brothers-to-be will judge whether or not you are worthy of entry to the ranks of Banners. Fight with honor! Prove my faith in you was not mistaken!"
He raises the sword high. "I obey!" Azaran shouted in his youthful voice. "Only the strong shall serve...and I am one of the strongest!"
"We shall see," said one of the veterans standing beside Tarazal. He raised a hand high, then snapped it down hard.
Steel gates opened along the walls of the pit. Men emerged from them, singly and small groups, blinking as they entered the brightly sunlight. Most wore armor of one kind or another, taken from a thousand battlefields across a thousand lands on a hundred worlds. They held swords, spears, axes and some weapons that defied description...and they held them with skill and experience. These were were not mere slaves with swords thrust in their hands but skilled warriors, prisoners taken on one campaign or another. To each the same offer was made - slay Azaran and freedom would be theirs. Now they looked on the boy in disbelief. Surely this wasn't who their captors meant, a stripling with his mothers milk still wet on his lips? Some smiled at the prospect of an easy kill. Others with more wisdom looked at the stone-like ranks rising above and wondered.
Several of the warriors rushed at Azaran, weapons raised high. Azaran took a deep breath and exhaled. He met his enemies head on. Within moments three men were down, two with slashed throats, the third screaming in pain at a deep gash in his leg that had severed an artery and left him bleeding to death. More men rushed in and they all died. Azaran danced through them, using their attacks against them, the confusion of so many men attacking at once without coordination. They shouted at him in different languages and even as he fought the Runes of Understanding did their work, turning the savage gibberish into something he could understand. At the moment it was mainly battle cries, followed by cries for mercy.
Then it was over. He stood along, surrounded by an expanse of bodies and body parts, the ground soaked in blood that it turned to a reddish mud. He was red from head to toe. He bled from a handful of cuts on his arms and legs. The runes of healing were yet to be bestowed, so the blood would flow from them until the surgeons came to do their work.
But he lived. All the others were dead. Well...not all.
One man crawled away, clutching a wound in the side. Blood trickled through his fingers, but if it was fatal, he had yet to succumb. Azaran frowned at the sight. Perfection in all things, especially when it came to killing. To leave one alive and dying slow was the mark of a novice. He had to do better.
Azaran walked over. He reversed the sword, ready to thrust down into the warriors throat. Then he heard the voice. Wait. His arms froze, and for a moment he could not move.
The warrior rolled over. He looked up at Azaran, blue eyes filled with fear. His lips moved, uttering a single word. "Mercy...mercy..."
Mercy is the mark of the strong, said the voice, a silent passenger in his mind. It was most annoying and not a bit worrying. He wondered if it was a side effect of the runes. Should he ask Tarazal about it? He decided it was better not too, the trainers were watching him closely for any sign of weakness. Better to handle this on his own.
"Mercy..." burbled the man lying on the ground.
Spare hi
s life, said the silent passenger.
"You are an illusion," Azaran muttered. He thrust the sword down. At the last moment the warrior tried to dodge and instead of going into his throat it went into his side, scraping below the ribs, the blade penetrating deeply into his guts. The warrior screamed...he screamed so loudly, a cry of pain and despair that rose to the blue uncaring sky...
Azaran awoke. The scream that echoed in his mind was matched by the one that came out of his mouth. Servants and guards rushed in, shouting at him, words he did not hear. He saw - he heard - the warrior, his face contorting in pain, the life leaving his body. And with it something else...something had not felt before. Shame...sorrow....
"Shut him up!" one of the guards snapped.
His mouth was opened. Something was thrust through his teeth. His mouth filled with a sickly sweet liquid, his nostrils suddenly filled with the scent of the poppy. Men piled on, holding him down while the drug worked its way through his body....
He looked up. Tarazal frowned at him. "Acceptable," he said, "but showy. No need to make a spectacle like that before your brothers, Azaran. We are not savages. Nevertheless, you have met the mark. What say you, brothers?"
One by one, the men in the stands rose, placing clenched fists on their chests in salute. Welcoming him to their ranks.
"Welcome to the Banners," said Tarazal. "You are worthy."
Azaran raised the sword high. Then he bowed deeply, enough so that none could see the tears cutting paths through the blood on his face. Shame...sorrow...guilt. Horrible, awful guilt...
What have I done?
His eyes closed. He fell back into to the darkness and this time it was mercifully free of dreams and memories...
"Drink this." A cup was thrust into his hands.
Azaran raised the drink to his lips. Water, flavored with...something. He wondered if it was poison and if it was how much it would hurt. And if he would remember to kill the ones responsible afterward. He had trouble in that regard these days.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 11