Azaran's vision turned red. That nattering, mocking voice, the most hateful thing in the world. He raised the sword again, ready to cut down bastard where he stood, even if he does in the process...
Anger makes you weak. It clouds your mind. It was Tarazal's lesson, but the silent passenger spoke it. Control yourself...
He looked up, saw the arrows drawn back, a dozen killing shots waiting to be loosed. He lowered the sword, forcing away the rage, the grief. A cold calmness replaced them. "Makes no difference," he said. "My friend is dead and I hold you to blame."
Nerazag sighed wearily. "As you wish. Your blame means nothing to me. But let no man say Nerazag is unwilling to leave the scales unbalanced. I have an offer for you, Azaran."
"I spit on your offers."
"You'll want to hear this one." Nerazag raised both hands, fists clenched, to the level of his chest. "Two paths open before Azaran who is not longer of the Green Banner. Down one," he opened his left hand," you take that sword and cut me down. I will not resist, I will not run. I will let you end my life with a smile. My escorts will not kill in turn, they will let you leave unharmed." He glanced up at the warriors on the bluffs. One of them nodded briefly by way of acknowledgment.
"But hear me well, Azaran! Take that choice if you will, but once my blood has dried on your blade and my bones picked clean by the vultures, you will face a lifetime of unanswered questions. You past will be a mystery. You will go to your grave ignorant as the day they pulled you from the sea. Your friend, who you want so much to avenge, he swore an oath to help you find your past. Cut me down and he will have died for nothing."
Azaran thought on it. "And the down the other path?"
Nerazah opened his right hand. "You come with us. Go into the presence of the Master. He will open the locked doors in your head. He will give you the answers you seek..."
"And then he will kill me," Azaran finished.
"Perhaps. I would not presume to speak for a superior being. But ask yourself this, Azaran; does it really matter if you live or die? Is mere existence all that you crave? Lesser men would say yes, but you were of the Osa'shaq. You should know better than anyone that death is nothing. That lesson you must remember."
Azaran wanted to curse the man for how right he was. Death was truly irrelevant to him now. But revenge...that was something else. He could take the first offer, kill the smug bastard and walk away. Grieve for his friend in the way that seemed best, then make what he could of this world...
And every day would be filled with doubt and regret. The gaps in his mind would only grow more prominent as the years went by. No matter what future he made for himself, it would be meaningless without know of his past. He wished Segovac was here, the Rhennari's wisdom was sorely needed at this juncture. He wondered what his friend would say.
But Segovac was gone, dead for his oath. Only Azaran remained...and there was only one answer he could give.
He reversed the sword and slipped it back into the sheath over his shoulder. Nerazag exhaled, betraying the slightest hint of relief. "Well chosen," he said.
The warriors came down from the bluffs. Several of them took guard positions about Azaran, while others brought a string of horses from a nearby gully where they'd been tethered. The warriors said nothing, watching him with cold eyes filled with contempt. The shoulders of their armor were marked with green stripes - men of the Green Banner. He recalled wearing such armor himself. "What is your name?" he asked one of the warriors.
The man glared at him and said nothing.
"You don't know these men," Nerazag called over. "They joined the Master's retinue only two weeks ago. But they know all about you, Azaran. Don't waste your breath on conversation, if they did talk back it would be to curse your name."
The men mounted their horses. Bows were racked in holsters on the saddles. One of the men pointed at Azaran. "What of this one's sword?" he asked. "He should surrender it."
"Will you be the one who takes it?" Azaran retorted.
All the men tensed. One of them reached for his bow.
"Enough of that!" Nerazag snapped. "Azaran will not harm me. He needs me, otherwise he loses his answers. Isn't that right Azaran?"
"As you say," Azaran replied.
The warriors did not look pleased at the prospect, but said nothing. Nevertheless, when they rode away from the place, two of them made sure to take position behind him.
They headed east, passing through the bluffs, along a narrow track down a slope was somewhat steep at first, then gradually leveled out. The sere bluffs and brown hills that had surrounded Azaran the past few days dwindled and disappeared behind as they entered a barren plain baked hard as iron under the sun. Cracks ran through the ground like spiderwebs. What vegetation remained was little more than tufts of half-dead grass turning to dust in the drought. The hooves of the horses kicked up a cloud of the same and soon enough the group changed to a line abreast formation, riding side by side, stopping every few hours to water the horses from skins held in their saddlebags,
A day passed, then another. The hills vanished to the west. To the east, north and south the barren plain extended, far as the eye could see. How Nerazag knew where they were going was a mystery, there were no landmarks to be seen and not once did he pull out a map or any instrument of navigation. But he led the way confidently, absolutely sure of the path.
On the third day came the first break in the monotony of flatness, a small hump rising in the middle of the emptiness. As they came closer, Azaran saw it was a man-made, a pile of stone carefully fitted together into the rough shape of a dome. Running down the northern face was shallow channel that emptied into a basin dug in the ground. A wooden pillar rose up from the top, bleached while from the sun, from which hung a leather rope.
One of the men dismounted and climbed up the mound. He pulled on the rope. Sloshing could heard, then came out a bucket the size of a horses head, which he emptied in the channel. Water sloshed down, filling the basin below. Two more buckets were pulled up from the well, by which point the basin began to overflow.
The men led their horses in to drink. Azaran followed after, forced to wait until the end. He examined the stones while waiting. They looked to be fragments from another structure, carefully shaped by hammer and chisel, not what he would expect in this rude place. At the bottom of the mound was large piece the size of his thigh that showed a finely carved eye and the top half of a nose. It must have been part of a statue at some point, a large one judging from the size of the fragment. Where these stones came from was mystery, there nothing in this barren place that hinted at civilization past or present. Or of anything else for that matter.
"Water your mount," said one of the warriors, saying the words like a curse.
There was little left in the basin, but it was enough to satisfy his horse. The others were tethering their mounts to the mound, some feeding the beasts handfuls of grain from their saddlebags.
"Not long now," said Nerazag, glancing up at the sun. "Sunset in a few hours. We wait."
"For what?" Azaran asked.
Nerazag only smiled.
Time passed by. The mound cast a bit of shade that moved along with the sun. Nerazag took shelter in it, as did several of the warriors. The glares in their eyes told Azaran that no space would be made for him.
He watched the great blue sky, marred only by a few hairline wisps of clouds. The face of the Mansion was pale here, driven into the background by the sun and heat. Far to the north, in Eburean and beyond, people would have sensed a fall chill in the air, harbinger of the winter to come. Here the sun beat down like a hammer on an anvil, with men twisting in the heat. He drank water and watched the sky.
In time the sun dipped towards the west and a red glow appeared along the horizon. Nerazag stirred from his perch in the shadow, pulling a orb made from some gray stone from the bag slung over his shoulder. "Set it," he told one of the Osa'shaq, handing it to the man.
The warrior mounted a horse and
rode away eastwards from the mound. He kept going, until he was little more than a speck in the distance. Just when it looked like he was about to disappearing in the growing dusk, he reined in and dropped the stone on the ground, then turned around and came back. By the time he returned, the sun was dipping below the horizon and the east was already in darkness.
More minutes passed. The sun disappeared, the final fingers of the day fading with it. The moon was full this night, and the Mansion shone brightly bathing the barrens in a pale blue luminescence. To the east, the spot where the warrior had dropped the orb suddenly flashed. A faint shiver ran through the ground, along with a sense of tingling along the backs of their necks. A glowing ring of light appeared on the ground, surrounding the orb, followed a moment later by another ring, around the first ring, then another around that, one concentric ring after another, the last ending fifty feet away from the mound.
Nerazag and the warriors look up to the sky. Azaran did the same, following their gaze. The first stars were appearing, one in particular shining directly overhead. After a moment, Azaran realized it was growing brighter and seemed to be moving.
The object floated down, growing larger with passing minute. The moon and Mansion-light reflected off the polished stony sides. Soon he could see it clearly, his heart pounding at the sight. It looked like a great citadel of stone that decided to fly. Tall dark gray walls, easily a hundred feet high, the sides decorated with tall inhuman faces that sported chins far too large and noses far too wide, the eyes glaring out at the world approaching below. Running through the walls, he could see thin lines of gold and silver, pulsating with power. Rising above them were four domes of crystal, surrounding in turn an even larger dome that was easily twice the size of the palace-pyramid of Kedaj. Flashing colors raced through the domes, lightening-crackles of energy snapping between them, dancing along the crystal sides with a life of their own.
A ship, Azaran realized.
A loud rumbling sound filled the air and a great wind blew, whipping up the dust and dirt of the barrens. The horses panicked and bolted, galloping away from the mound. Azaran shouted out a warning, but the others paid them no mind, keeping their eyes fixed on the ship. It slowed down as it neared the ground, closing the final distance and settled down on the area marked by the glowing rings, the circumference of the walls matching that of the outer ring perfectly. It touched down on the ground, kicking up a final gust of wind and dust.
The rumbling sounded faded, as did the windstorm caused by the landing. Nerazag and the warriors walked towards the ship. They moved along the edge of the long shadow it cast on the barrens, headed to a spot on the wall that lay between two scowling faces that was comprised of bare stone. Azaran followed after, looking up at the tall citadel-ship rising above him, a sense of dread filling his being. The sight of it spoke of power unchecked, the will that drove it knowing no restraint or equal. His heart beat in his chest, each thump growing louder with each step.
Glowing lines appeared in the bare patch of wall, shooting through the stone, dividing it into long, lengthwise sections. With a grinding hiss the sections turned, rotating from vertical to horizontal, then slide into the wall, moving left, the right, creating a large opening in the wall. Beyond there was darkness.
A long moment passed. Then out marched a company of warriors in dark armor, one hundred strong, holding long pikes of gray metal, their heads encased in flared helms shaped like the faces of snarling beasts. They took flanking positions, fifty on either side, leaving open a path into the ship.
Then came fifty men of Nerazag's type, dividing in half and taking position behind the warriors. They wore only loincloths, their pale chests glowing with runes, their heads shaved bald. They also kept a path clear from the ship. At some unheard signal they knelt, heads bowed, as did the warriors before them.
Azaran glanced at Nerazag and his men, saw they too knelt, fists on the ground and heads bowed. Azaran found himself doing the same, seemingly out of habit, and halted himself. He bowed before no man.
A great dark shape filled the portal into the ship. Glowing eyes looked out on the world. It moved forward, shambling and inhuman, seemingly moving on three legs...no. On fists and feet. It looked to be ten feet tall at the the shoulder, through that would easily be fifteen if it rose on its hind legs. Those legs seemed small in comparison the massive body that rode above and before it, expanding to massive set of shoulders and arms. One of them was bunched into a fist and moved along the ground, the creature moving on its knuckles like they were feet. The other clutched the handle of a gigantic mace that rested against the shoulder, the boulder-sized head made from some dark bronze-like metal that was encrusted with glowing runes. Every inch of the body was sheathed in woven armor like that of the warriors, but thicker and heavier and colored red and gold, decorated with swirling vine patterns that twisted between runes of power.
The head turned, fixing on Azaran. A great golden helm encased it, flaring on either side so that it was nearly as wide as the shoulders. In the center was a mask shaped in the same style as the stone faces on the ship, two glowing eyes dominating it. The face, the whole body in fact, was like that of an ape brought up from the jungles of the south to be sold in the markets of the Hadaraji cities...but this was no beast. The power that radiated with each movement, the way the men on either side groveled as it passed by, declared that this being was as far above common humanity the way they were above monkeys dancing on the end of a chain, or the ants they crushed beneath their boots.
It moved down the path between the kneeling men. The mask looked at Nerazag, then turned back to Azaran. The mace rose off the shoulder and slammed down on the ground three feet away from Azaran's feet. The ground cracked from the impact, and he felt it rise up his legs and into his gut. Without realizing it, Azaran took a step back. Fear filled him as he looked up into those glowing eyes. But he dd not avert his gaze. Not after coming this far.
DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? The words were not spoken, but heard within his head, bouncing off the insides of his skull.
"Yes," Azaran answered, the words coming out of their own accord. "You are the Master." He knew this to be true even as he spoke.
DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?
And Azaran did, the answer appearing in head along with the question. "Zal'zarrin," he said.
Nerazag twitched at that, glaring at Azaran from the side. Mere mortals could not address one of the Masters by name.
Yet the Master did not strike Azaran down. Indeed, he seemed amused by the disrespect. YOU HAVE CAUSED ME SOME MEASURE OF INCONVENIENCE. FOR THAT YOU SHOULD BE DEAD.
"Yet here I stand," said Azaran. The kneeling warriors and henchmen glared at him with outrage. Yet not a one moved to strike him down for such impiety.
Might as well go further. "Show me your face," he demanded. "I will not speak to a mask."
The Master pondered this for a moment. Glowing lines ran through the mask, marking sections that slid upwards and sideways into the helm. The face revealed matched that of the mask, ape-like...yet no ape had a jaw made of glowing silver or a circlet of rune-metal embedded around the top of its head. Two eyes looked down on him. The left was a glowing orb of metal, golden red and filling with swirling energy. The other was the one he had been born with, ancient in age and knowledge beyond the understanding of men, devoid of compassion or mercy, filled with a terrible resolve that no force in the universe could withstand.
Azaran looked into that eye. After a moment he turned away, unable to hold his gaze. "Who am I?" he asked.
A TRAITOR.
"Why? What did I betray?" Here there could be no dissimulation. Azaran look up again, asking for the thing he desired most, more than revenge or a moments peace. "Give me back my memories. If I am to die, then let me know the reason why!"
That inhuman face looked down at him. The false eye blazed for a moment with fury...or was it amusement? VERY WELL.
Zal'zarrin raised the mace back towards his shoulder. As it moved, th
e head suddenly collapsed, its flanges receding, shrinking down and disappearing into a central round base, which them retracted into the handle. What remained in Zal'zarrins hand was a rod perhaps twice the length of his hand. A slot opened in the back of his armor, into which the rod went, closing up after.
Another slot opened on his left forearm. Out of it came a slender ivory wand, floating out on its own. The tip flared out slightly and engraved on it was a single glowing rune.
REMEMBER, the Master commanded. The wand shot forward, striking Azaran on the forehead. He gasped, as all the closed doors in his mind opened at once. Memories rushed out in a flood, overwhelming his consciousness. Everything that was lost came back, what he was, what he done...all of it.
Horror beyond horror, and he screamed as the past enveloped him. Past and future. All mingled together, an entire universe in his skull. Hundreds of doors formerly closed, now wide open, and through them came...everything.
Standing with a row of twenty other boys,. not a one over the age of six. "You are nothing," a man was saying. "We anticipate that some day you will be something worthwhile, each of you has that potential, otherwise you would not be standing here. But until you prove it, you will remain nothing. Your lives will be a series of tests, to determine your worth. The first begins now."
Soon as the last word was spoken, the whips fell, lashing the boys to the ground. They all cried out, any child would. Someone took note of those who cried out the least, who did their best to resist. Soon enough it ended, the wounds were treated, assessments made.
Within three months, fourteen of the boys in the room would be gone
He knew who he was. A slave, a servant, a man insofar as it was useful to those he served. Clay to be shaped, metal to be sharpened. A weapon to be shaped to a violent purpose.
Each world smelled different, at least in the beginning. Nostrils accustomed to the metallic smell of the Boundless Empyrean or the cool stony sterility of the ships could be overwhelmed at first. Just one more thing to test a body.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 22