Obedience is the highest virtue...
He paused a moment. Was it she who said that? No...another voice. He blinked.
Obedience is the highest virtue...
Kill Ithkaan...
You must decide. In the end you always have a choice.
That last slowed him again. The silent passenger. "She wants me to do it..." he said
Why does she deserve your allegiance?
"Because..." he paused, unable to answer that. No matter. He kept walking.
Always question. Reason is a gift, through it one can understand the world...and how to live in it...
Kill Ithkaan!
Obedience...
For a moment he wasn't in the hallway. His body continued to walk, but his mind was someplace else...a boy chained to a pillar, trying his best not to cry out as a lash whipped through the air to gouge his back. "Master the mind," said a voice. "Master the body. The body is the servant of the mind. You feel the pain, but you will know it for the nothingness that it is. Feel the pain! Rise through it!
He cried out in pain at last, tears falling down his face.
"Weakness will not be tolerated," said the voice. "Twenty more lashes..."
A dead man lay sprawled on the floor. Blood pooled out from the gash on his neck. Azaran stepped in the stuff, leaving red prints in his wake, unnoticed as he continued...
He stood naked, arms raised. Men of the Green Banner sat in tiers of seats ascending above him. With them were men of the Nam'shaq, the highest of servants. And above them, wreathed in darkness, a Master.
"You are worthy," said a voice. "Receive now the final brands and join your brothers."
Glowing hunks of metal rose up of their own accord, floating in the air and circling about Azaran. Each held a unique mystic shape, the red of the heated steel mingled with the blue fire of the Aethyr. At an unheard signal they moved in, pressing in to his flesh, adding a final line of runes to his torso below two other lines above. There was pain, but it was dwarfed by the rush of power filling body, giving him strength, agility beyond those of other men, even as his mind opened to new understandings...
Azaran blinked, returning to the present. He stood before a wooden door. He pushed against it and head the bump of a wooden bar on the other side. It was a barrier for other men. But not for him. He kicked the door, runes flaring on his chest. The bar splintered and the door flew open, almost flying off the hinges from the impact.
The interior of the room was sparsely decorated, at least by the standards of the Palace. A pair of windows at one end, one sealed against the night by a pair of wooden shutters, the other open to a spectacular view of the city. Curtains hung from the walls, woven in between the wooden support beams that that ran through the pyramid palace like bones through a body, blackened by time and hard as iron. A door to one side led to a small bedchamber that looked unslept in. The center of the main chamber held a lone table on which sat a simple meal of bread and cheese and a pitcher of cool water. Ithkaan sat there, a hunk of bread halfway to his lips. The gold chain and medallion that was the sign of his office hung off the side of his chair.
He looked up at Azaran, his eyes drifting to the sword in his hand. "I was wondering who they would send. I hoped Lugalzaeer would at least have the courtesy to murder me by his own hands, but that was too much to hope for. Or that you would at least allow me to finish my dinner."
He signed and stood, smoothing down the front of his shirt. "So," he said. "Let's get this over with." He craned his head to the side, exposing the side of his neck. "Go on. Strike."
Azaran raised the sword, ready to stab. But he then he hesitated.
Ithkaan raised an eyebrow. "Don't drag this out! Kill me or don't."
But Azaran did not hear him. He stepped back into the past, to another city, another place...
The sword was red with the blood of the slain. Eleven bodies lay on the ground. He'd started with the old King and worked his way back, leaving them to bleed out on the flagstones of the city square. Men women, children...all dead. He pulled the sword free from the last body, not knowing if it was man or woman, adult of child. Just meat for the killing. Savages...they did not count. Killing them was like stamping on vermin.
So why did he feel sick? Why did every bit of his being resist this? He had to force himself to strike...if Tarazal wasn't watching he might have wept.
Only one man left. An old fellow, ragged and thin, his thinning strands of white hair wrapped in rags that had once been colorful, but were now the color of soot, like everything else in this city. He was on his knees, but did not cringe, but watched Azaran approach with a calmness that was unnerving. Azaran looked at the fellow, his dark face creased with age, a short beard fringing his jawline. He glanced at the sword in Azaran's hand, then looked up at his face. There was no fear in him, no hate or anger...just pity, a terrible pity that rendered judgment on his murderer. I die a man, it said to him in silent words that cut deep. You are the savage.
Azaran hesitated. He willed the sword to strike, but it would not move. The man sighed. He turned his head slightly to the side, exposing his neck. But still, Azaran could not strike...
"Azaran!" Tarazal's voice cracked like a whip. "Kill him and be done! The ship for Athega leaves in an hour!"
The habit of obedience took over. He struck down. Blood flowed, another life ended...
"Shall I make it easy for you?" Ithkaan knelt down. "Does this ease your task?"
But Azaran lowered the sword. The pink fog was gone, the lies were gone, his mind was clear for the first time in what seemed an age. He was not a animal. He was a man. He chose when to strike. When to obey.
Tears flowed down his cheeks. "I..." He took a breath to steady his nerve and pull himself back to a calm place. "I am not a savage."
"I don't understand..."
"I'm not going to kill you." Azaran stepped back, sweat pooling in the small of his back. His mind was a cacophony of conflicting thoughts and emotions and yet in some strange perverse way he felt calm, clearheaded. "Get up. I will get you out of here."
Ithkaan stood up slowly. "How?" he asked. "Hatugali's men control the palace. If they see me with you, they will kill us both."
"Then they will die," Azaran said with absolute certainty. "There is no man in this city who can stand in my way."
Ithkaan raised an eyebrow. "No...I suppose not. Let us go then. I know the fastest way out..."
The dagger whipped past Azaran and struck Ithkaan in the throat. The vizier grunted, eyes wide with shock. He fell back, dead before he hit the floor.
"Trust a barbarian, see what happens!" Hatugali spoke from the doorway. "I knew you'd disappoint."
"You killed him." Azaran turned about.
"Because you wouldn't." Hatugali shook his head. "Still, dead is dead. And as far as the world is concerned, you are the one who did the deed." He raised the gray sword and drew it from the scabbard, the strange metal glittering in the lamplight. "Who will say otherwise, when follow him to Hell?"
Rage boiled in Azaran. But he forced it back, returning to that place of calm, where a warrior stood. He knew that sword, knew other swords like it. A fearsome weapon, sharper, lighter and stronger than common iron or steel, beyond the skill of any smith in this world. But a sword was only as good as the hand that held it. Hatugali was good...but not good enough.
Azaran tossed his blade to the side. In this fight it would be a hindrance. "Come at me," he said.
Hatugali grinned. "Too easy," he said with a laugh, rushing forward, holding the blade in a two-handed grip, raising it high, point forward, swinging down in a fast cut that would have laid Azaran open from neck to navel...except it cut through empty air. Azaran drifted to the side, ducking his head under the cut as though he was dodging an errant tree branch One hand slid along Hatugali's right side, his fingers grasping his wrist, his thumb pressing into the space between Hatugali's thumb and index finger.
A shooting pain ran up Hatugali's arm. He tried t
o twist free, but Azaran matched his movement and turned it to his advantage, twisting the wrist back with almost no effort. The sword fell from Hatugali's fingers to the floor. Hatugali shrieked as something broke in his wrist.
Azaran twisted the wrist again, forcing it against Hatugali's back. He reached up with his left arm and wrapped it about Hatugali's throat, placing it in a chokehold. His right hand let go of the ruined wrist and reached around to grab the left side of Hatugali's temple, fingers digging deep into the flesh, ignoring the man's futile struggles.
"Too easy," he whispered into Hatugali's ear. Then Azaran broken the man's neck with a single twist. He let go, the body dropping to the floor.
Azaran stood there for a moment, a craftsman appreciating a job well done. It had been an age since he'd felt such a thing. He went over to Ithkaan's body, knelt down beside for a moment. He pulled the dagger out of the man's neck, then closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, to Ithkaan, to that other old man. So many dead...so much blood on his hands. I am a weapon. It was a bitter truth.
He stood, went over to the gray sword and picked it up. Light and sharp, perfectly balanced...as he remembered. A tool for killing, but an uncommonly fine one. He also picked up the scabbard, for he knew it was needed. The blades of these swords required special scabbards, he knew, they would cut through anything made from wood or leather. After a moment's pause, he cut down one of the curtains in the room, twisting the cloth and sliding it through the scabbards loops, then tying it about his body so that the weapon was slung over his back, the hilt rising above his shoulder. How it was supposed to be rigged, he remembered that as well, kept the scabbard away from his legs, where it might trip a man up...
The calm ended. The anger returned. He remembered everything. A pair of big brown eyes, that weird glow at the base of her throat. All of it. She'd used him, a tool for murder, kept in reserve until the chosen moment. Sent to do the killing...
There was a debt to settle there. Sins that must be called to account. He left the apartment and headed back into the chaotic palace, his mind free of all delusions. His thoughts focused, clear...and angry. Very angry.
At some point Segovac had passed out, the stench of cat piss overwhelming him to the point that unconsciousness seemed the better option. When he woke up the paralysis was gone and he whipped the burlap sack away with a curse and hurled as far as he could.
Segovac stood, wincing at the fierce aches and pains in his lips. He patted himself down, making sure there were no wounds or broken bones. He looked up and saw it was night. To the east he heard commotion and stepped out of the alleyway.
A pair of men ran past, both carrying boxes filled with stolen goods. More were gathered about a nearby warehouse whose doors had been forced open, the contents being pilfered. There were supposed to be men guarding this district, but none were present now. More thieves ran past, one glaring at Segovac. In the dark he looked less human and more like a beast, a rat on two legs. He hissed at Segovac and scurried off into the dark.
There was commotion elsewhere. He turned towards the palace and saw that part of the city was lit up. Without really thinking, he moved towards it, making his way through the streets. All doors were closed, all windows barred and he saw frightened eyes looked out at him from cracks and slats. In many cases it was not enough, for the scavengers had moved in. Tear Drinkers from the slums, mixed in with ordinary criminals come to get their share of the feast. Doors were broken into, and he could hear shouts and screams coming from within, men cursing and women wailing. Terrible things happened, but he averted his eyes and kept going. With the guards away, the people of Kedaj fed on one another, which begged the question why the guards had left in the first place.
He reached the temple square. The doors were closed and few lights were burning on the walls. A contingent of men were moving past. The green bands tied about their arms showed they were sworn to Shapurashi.
"Hey!" he called out approaching them. "Where is everybody?"
One of the men pulled a sword. "Back to your hole, rat! We'll deal with you scum when it is done!"
"Do I look like a thief?"
"You stink like a beggar," said one of the men.
"I am sworn to Shapurashi," Segovac replied, holding back his irritation. "The priests of the temple know me..."
"There where is your band, outlander?" asked one of the men. They had the look of mercenaries, likely in the pay of a merchant prince supporting the rebellion.
"I was attacked, near the docks." It was true enough, and he didn't have time for complicated explanations. "They took my band and the few coins I had left. I woke and found all the fighters gone, and criminals running free..."
"Shapurashi has called all men to the Palace Quarter," said one of the fighters. "That Eburrean he-witch of his said we must attack the gates tonight."
"I...he did?"
"What the word is, passed on down from high. Says his god promised him victory in a vision or some nonsense like that."
"Better be right," said another of the fighters. "Else he'll be the first to lose his head."
The leader of the small band pulled a green rag out of a pocket and tossed it to Segovac. "Tie that on, if you be true to Shapurashi, then come with us."
Segovac tied the strip about his arm. "I have no weapon," he said.
The men laughed. "No worries there," one answered. "Once the arrows start flying, you'll have your pick."
They pressed, joining other groups of men headed towards the Palace Quarter. Marines from the fleet, street toughs, hired blades and ordinary citizens armed with whatever weapons they could get their hands on. None recognized Segovac as the "Eburrean he-witch," which wasn't surprising - he'd only really spoken with Shapurashi and the other rebel leaders. The suspicion in the voices of those further down the ranks was disheartening, but not totally unexpected. Had the situation been reversed, he might have reacted the same way.
Then the palace came into sight. The band which Segovac had joined up with was placed on the far northern end of the wide plaza facing the gates. Segovac waited until their backs were turned, then began to make his way south, threading through the ranks and doing his best to avoid stepping on toes. He'd heard enough to deduce what had come next. Nerazag had taken on his appearance and convinced Shapurashi to go on the attack. Which made it a mistake anyway he looked at it - if Nerazag wanted this done, it wouldn't be to anyone's advantage by his own.
He spotted the gleam of brass ahead. The elite marines from the fleet, who were doing duty as Shapurashi's bodyguard. He approached their ranks. "Let me though," he said. "I must speak with Shapurashi."
"Get back to your rank," said a marine. "No time for this nonsense!"
"Please, this is a mistake, I didn't tell him to attack. I am Segovac, the Eburrean who is advising him! I must speak with Lord Shapurashi!"
The marine snorted. "Sure. Or you might be a hired knife sent out by the whoremonger in the palace."
"I am telling the truth! Look, get Sargonaddon, he knows who I am! Do it!"
The marine scratched his chin. "Shuura!" he called out to one of his comrades. "Fetch the admiral."
"Too late for that." The other marine pointed towards the gates. "They're headed out now."
And indeed they were Shapurashi, Sargonaddon and Gaumashta, accompanied by a squad of soldiers with large shields. Flying above the gate was a yellow flag with a red horizontal bar painted across the middle, the flag of truce. Standing beside it was Lord Lugalzaeer.
"Shapurashi," he called down.
"Lugalzaeer," came Shapurashi's response. "So, you still run Enmer-Galila's errands? You were always his dog!"
Lugalzaeer laughed, voice carrying across the square, further than it should have. Segovac squinted. Something wasn't right...there was a haze about the man. The air seemed distorted. No one else seemed to notice it, but it was there to his eyes. A haze, a shimmering...the appearance of Lugalzaeer seemed to fade for a half a heartbeat, revea
ling Nerazag's bald head underneath. Another illusion...
"No," he said, taking in a deep breath to shout the warning...
"I am a loyal dog," Lugalzaeer shouted down. "And I give you a gift from Enmer-Galila, the true King!" Moving so quickly it was almost a blur, he raised a bow and loosed an arrow. The shaft shot down with such speed that the guards barely had time to blink before it struck Shapurashi in the eye, punching through bone and brain, the tip coming out the back of his head.
Shapurashi fell back. Gaumashta and Sargonaddon caught him. A gasp ran through the army assembled in the square, the murder happening so fast that it seemed unreal.
Shapurashi's head lolled back, his body shuddering once as the life left it. Sargonaddon rose up, drawing the sword at his side. Tears rolled down both cheeks, glistening in his beard. "DIE!" he roared, pointing at the gate.
"DIE!" bellowed the army, rage and grief giving them strength. Murdered under a flag of truce! There was no greater dishonor!
"Wait! It's a trap..." Segovac tried to say, but then he had no choice but to run forward with the rest or risk being trampled. He looked up at the wall again, trying to catch a glimpse of Nerazag. But he was gone. Segovac didn't see him leave the parapet, headed past the handful of surprised guardsmen manning it. Didn't see him change his appearance as he came back down, emerging from the gatehouse looking like a guardsman. Didn't see him turn to the gate and slap a round orange disk to one of the two iron-reinforced bars locked across the doors. Didn't see the disk flare with energy, sending lines of red-orange fire twisting through the bars, then into the gate, down the four great beams bracing the gates against the ground and even a foot into the surrounding wall before finally petering out, even as the wood began to crack, the iron shatter and the stone crumble to powder.
What he did see was the mass of men rush up to the wall, many flinging spears and stones, or shooting arrows at those men who were on the top. Some of those standing watch at the top loosed arrows at the oncoming horde. But most saw it was futile and abandoned their posts, fleeing the gatehouse and headed for the Palace.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 19