“She muttered something about a shadow. I think your brother has been telling her lich tales.”
Dormael snorted. “The girl has seen a few lich tales herself. I don’t think stories would scare her like that.”
“Maybe it’s the Garthorin. Maybe it’s just everything building up. She’s had a tough go.”
“Maybe.” Dormael looked to the little girl, feeling a spike of worry. “Maybe.”
“What about you? You were laughing in your sleep.”
“Laughing?”
“Aye. Not the fun kind, either. It sounded vengeful.”
Dormael let out a long breath and leaned back on his elbows. “It’s the armlet. It’s sending me dreams again.”
“The same dreams as before?”
“No, these are different. It’s sending a clearer message now—together we can burn the world. That sort of thing.”
“Gods, Dormael. I thought when it went quiet, the dreams would stop.”
“I thought the same,” Dormael said. “I can’t get it out of my mind, D’Jenn.”
“I knew there would be repercussions for using that thing.” D’Jenn took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. “Maybe I should carry it for awhile. I don’t know if it will have an effect, but perhaps we can share the burden. Strengthen one another.”
“Thanks, D’Jenn.”
“Of course. We have to look out for one another, after all. Trust is important out here.”
Dormael heard the subtle barb in D’Jenn’s words. Guilt twisted in Dormael’s stomach, and he let it out with a long breath. He deserved that one, so he took it in silence.
Dormael cleared his throat. “I know you’ve been revisiting those runes we saw today. Have any revelations while I was sleeping?”
“I couldn’t picture them clearly,” D’Jenn grumbled. “Usually I can recall most details about anything, but those runes were so complex that they fade into obscurity. I can see some key elements when I close my eyes, but without the entire picture, they’re senseless to me.”
Dormael nodded and looked to the sky. “I wish we could’ve followed that ancient road to its termination. I wonder what secrets lie at its end.”
“Aye. It seems to be going in the same direction we are. Maybe we’ll end up in the same place.”
“You don’t think it’s at least worth checking out?”
“I think we’re in a dangerous area,” D’Jenn said. “I think we have a job to do, and our lead is thin at best. Confusing things with ancient roads only muddies the waters further. I want to know all there is to know about this place, but we can’t afford to take side-trips out here. Not with every hollow and thicket being infested with Mountain Madmen.”
Dormael sighed. “You have a point. Still, whatever lies at the end must be big. Perhaps we’ll see it in passing, or from a distance.”
“I hope so.”
“Who has the next watch?”
“Your brother,” D’Jenn said. “I’m still in the earliest part of mine. You’ve hours yet to sleep.”
“Good. Let’s share a pipe before I head back to sleep.”
Smiling, D’Jenn packed a pipe, lit the bowl, and passed it over. Dormael laid back and stared at the stars while he inhaled, trying to recall the panorama from his dream. Were those sights—those bands of color and twisting orbs—things that existed in the Void?
“What do you think is out there?” Dormael said. “In the sky, I mean. Through the Void.”
“Only the gods know. Maybe not even them.”
“I don’t remember anything from the Song of Creation about the Void itself. I wish I knew where it came from.”
“Would you believe an explanation from a religious text?”
Dormael snickered. “Probably not. I can’t bring myself to accept that ancient poets knew the secrets of existence.”
D’Jenn cleared his throat and affected a dramatic tone. “Before the world was, the aether was formless, without sight or sound. There was only the Void—black, deep, and unknowable. For cycle upon cycle, infinite in number, the darkness remained.”
“You still remember that?”
“I’ve always had a good memory.”
“Go on, then,” Dormael said. “Tell the rest and put me to sleep. Grandmother always put me to sleep when she talked about the gods. The Song this, the Song that—the Song taught me to nap sitting upright. How’s that for a life lesson?”
D’Jenn fixed him with a smile. “You must’ve applied that skill at the Conclave. It’s why you’re a terrible wizard.”
“Terrible wizard?”
D’Jenn smiled.
Dormael waited until D’Jenn took a pull from the pipe and whispered out with his Kai. The tobacco in the bowl burned in a flash, leaving nothing but a cloud of dark smoke. D’Jenn hacked for a moment, giving Dormael an evil look.
“How’s that for terrible wizardry?” Dormael shot his cousin an insult in the Hunter’s Tongue and pulled the pipe from D’Jenn’s hand with his Kai. He sat up and reached into his pack, re-packing the bowl with his own supply of tobacco. When he was done, he handed the pipe back to D’Jenn.
D’Jenn smiled as he took it back. “You realize you’re about to go to sleep. I could fill your blankets with frogs.”
“Where will you find the frogs? Everything is dead up here.”
“Briars, then. Plenty of briars around. I could wrap your bedroll in thorns.”
Dormael snickered. “I’ll sleep through that.”
The two of them shared a laugh and settled into silence. D’Jenn kept his eyes on the surroundings, while Dormael couldn’t tear his gaze from the sky. The Void stretched above him, its mysteries beckoning.
“What’s the next line?” Dormael asked.
“Next line?”
“Of the Song of Creation, I mean.”
“Oh.” D’Jenn took a moment to clear his throat. “There came a time that the great god Light grew restless and called his wife, Shadow, to his side. They danced through the emptiness and Light took her into the great expanse.”
Dormael added the next line. “He filled her with uncountable children, and Shadow gave birth to the stars, each one a child of their union, each with its own name.”
“The stars were many,” D’Jenn said. “And unknowable.”
Dormael waved away the last hit of the pipe and laid his head against his makeshift pillow. He pondered the sky from his dream, pondered the myriad things that filled its black expanse. The imagery from the vision hadn’t come from his own mind—he’d never seen, nor heard, anything like it. Was it simple fancy, or the result of knowledge possessed by the ancient weapon?
So much of what the woman showed him was twisted, or symbolic. What was worse, Dormael knew the Nar’doroc meant to tempt him. Even now, as his eyes drifted shut, he feared finding her in the depths of his consciousness.
Is she waiting for me under that alien sky?
Quick to Anger, Quicker to Revenge
Rain hammered the cobblestone streets, making a constant hiss of noise. Downpours could happen out of nowhere in Shundov, and they turned the old city’s avenues into ankle-deep canals. The storms gathered strength over the swamplands and rolled over the gray stonework of Shundov’s walls with thundering indifference.
One would think that a city as old as the former capital of Shundovia would have devised a way to deal with drainage, but no—half the city flooded during the warm seasons. They were, of course, the poorer parts of town. The nobility had claimed the high ground in generations past, and the long years had done little to pry them loose.
Maarkov had always liked Shundov. It was old, unchanging in a way that few things were. No matter how many years he persisted in breathing, Maarkov could count on the fact that Shundov would remain as it ever was.
Even if it’s a wet, insect-ridden shithole.
Maarkov watched the Rashardian spice merchant from a distance. The man wasn’t having the best time with the rain. Sudden downpours had no love
for expensive fabric, and Maarkov smiled to see him plucking at his cloak—a thin, embroidered thing that had been made for summer breezes rather than springtime downpours. Irhan-il-Farhad couldn’t have been more out of place in the rain-clogged streets of Shundov.
Rashardians were a rare sight outside their homeland. Irhan and his two guards drew every eye as they battled through the narrow streets of Dither Point. Wearing such finery in one of the poorest districts of Shundov wasn’t smart, but the scowls of Irhan’s guards kept the pickpockets and muggers at bay. They carried short swords at their belts and steel in their eyes. The men weren’t local thugs—both had the tanned, olive skin of native Rashardians. Golden rings decorated the middle of their noses, striking against brown of their skin.
They put tow-rings through their slaves like cattle.
Maarkov had lived long enough to see slavery of all types, perpetrated by many different peoples. No one did it with as much style as the Rashardians. Slaves were such an everyday part of life in Rashardia that they’d specialized. There were brothels in Rashardia with the reputation of having trained expert pleasure slaves for generations. Maarkov knew of an ancient priestly order of eunuchs in Sul’Shuram who had been bought from their mothers and cut before they could walk. The order maintained that the absence of penises gave the slave-priests the ability to see the future. The Vendama’ari sold prophecies for coin—the larger the price, the more accurate the prophecy, of course. The dick-less old swindlers were rich beyond measure. Their order lived in complete luxury.
They were stolen from their mothers and mutilated. Nothing wrong with a little back-handed revenge.
The spice merchant turned a busy corner, prompting Maarkov to trot through the water to catch up. People moved through the streets despite the downpour, and Maarkov didn’t have the luxury of armed guards to keep the crowd at bay. He slapped the hand of a young pickpocket, who cursed at him as he disappeared into the rain-choked alleys. Maarkov scowled at the boy’s back and returned to following the merchant.
He hated having to meet with people. It had never been his wish to interface with the various agents his brother employed. Maarkov had always been in the background, a ready blade should anyone need killing. Since Maaz had pulled him out of the hole in the Sevenlands, things had changed.
He’s changed. The thought came unbidden to his mind. Maarkov tried to ignore it.
Irhan’s guards stomped out of the flooded street and up the stairs of a pub called the Wayward Mule. A single man sat on a stool by the doorway, clutching a cudgel in his meaty fingers. The doorman gave the guards a nod and gestured everyone inside. Irhan moved forward and pressed something into the fat man’s off-hand, clapping him on the shoulder like an old friend. The tough gave the spice merchant an astonished look and glanced at what Irhan had given him. The doorman smiled, nodded, and led Irhan inside.
Moments later, angry patrons were pushed into the street. An old man was shoved onto his backside when he threw a punch at the fat doorman, but the water cooled his attitude. Two others were tossed bodily into the rain, and were pulled from the flooded street by the other ousted patrons. Maarkov sighed in irritation and gave the street time to clear of the displaced drunks.
This is going well already.
The whole point of meeting in Dither Point was secrecy. The spice merchant was making a spectacle and Maarkov hated back-alley dealings. People would talk. The Rashardian appeared to have no concern for subtlety.
He wouldn’t, though, would he? The Rashardian spice trade was the most lucrative market in the known world. Every spice merchant Maarkov had ever seen had been swimming in finery. Irhan-il-Farhad was no exception to that rule. He owned a compound in Shundov more luxurious than the Royal Villas. He hosted lavish parties and invited the city’s to enjoy the fruits of his trade. Maarkov suspected much of it was political bribery.
It was said that Irhan-il-Farhad owned a battalion of slaves. Slavery had been outlawed in Shundovia when it was annexed by the Galanian Empire, but the Imperial functionaries in town turned a blind eye to Irhan’s activities. Irhan-il-Farhad brought enough money into the port to let him ignore petty things like Imperial edicts.
Irhan was infamous. His appearance in one of the poorer parts of town would be set tongues to wagging all over the city. Wild theories would run through the gentry of Shundov like pox through a brothel.
Maarkov tugged the hood of his cloak down and tromped toward the Wayward Mule. The meaty doorman scowled as he mounted the steps, but his expression softened when Maarkov rested an idle hand on the hilt of his sword. The doorman cleared his throat but Maarkov spoke first.
“I’m here to see the Rashardian.”
The doorman eyed his sword for a moment. “No blood.”
“No blood.”
The thug stepped aside and gestured him through the door.
It was warm inside the pub. Woodchips were scattered across the floor, though they did little to soak up the muddy bootprints dotting its surface. The smell of piss assaulted Maarkov’s nose. Banks of half-melted candles burned with gloomy, orange tones. Most of the furniture had been pushed to the edges of the common room, leaving a single table with a pair of chairs in the center. In the chair facing the doorway sat Irhan-il-Farhad, now bereft of his fine cloak.
The Rashardian gave Maarkov a cold smile as their eyes met. Maarkov had expected an oily attitude from the merchant, but there was steel in Irhan-il-Farhad’s eyes. He wore a fine Rashardian doublet of sunset-colored silk with black, swirling embroidery. A long, thin dagger lay on the table in front of him. The knife was well-made but unadorned with finery.
“I see you have arrived,” Irhan said. “I feared a long wait, but here you are. Almost as if you were following me, no?”
Maarkov’s eyes went to the pair of guards, who had retreated to opposing corners of the room. They stood in silence, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The air in the room thickened with tension.
Rashardians are bloody strange. Quick to anger, quicker to revenge.
“Some might consider it a sign of respect. One doesn’t take precautions with a fool.”
Irhan smiled and spread his hands. “Spoken like a true diplomat.”
“I'm no bloody diplomat. Not even close.”
Irhan’s smile widened as he gestured over Maarkov’s shoulder. Maarkov turned to see two more men entering the tavern, dressed in a similar fashion to the guards who were already there. They gave Irhan a nod and took their places in the vacant corners of the room. Maarkov turned and fixed Irhan with a scowl.
Not as smart as I think I am. I hate this kind of work.
“A sign of respect, indeed,” Irhan said. “Shall we speak of business?”
Maarkov nodded and removed his wet cloak. He draped it over the back of a nearby chair and unbuckled his sword belt. Sitting across the table from Irhan, he placed the sword opposite the Rashardian’s dagger.
Irhan peered at Maarkov’s face as he sat. Maarkov was used to getting looks from people. The scars over his face gave him a ghoulish appearance. In the beginning, Maarkov had been self-conscious about the markings. In the long years since his cutting, though, his embarrassment had faded.
Maarkov cleared his throat. “You know why I’m here?”
Irhan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Though I would like to know where you got your information. Few outside Rashardia know the Shenda’ari. Fewer still would dare speak of them.”
“My brother would dare.”
“You play a delicate game.” Irhan fingered the hilt of his dagger. “Many have died simply for knowing the name Shenda’ari.”
I don't need to worry about that. Irhan opened his mouth as if to say more, but went quiet when a boy approached the table with a pair of mugs. The boy plunked the drinks on the table and backed away, bowing to Irhan as he retreated. Maarkov looked into his mug—wine rather than ale—and grimaced across the table at Irhan.
Irhan answered his glower with a smile. “Ale does terrible
things to my stomach. I do not understand how you schect tolerate such swill bubbling in your bellies.” He picked up his mug and swirled the liquid beneath his nose, grimacing at the smell. “This doesn’t smell any better. I suppose I shouldn’t expect much in a place like this.”
Maarkov resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“My brother wants the services of your Shadowmen. He can offer you things you won’t find elsewhere.”
“There is little in this world which I cannot procure for myself. Those are bold promises to make to a man like me.”
“Even so,” Maarkov said. “Name your price.”
Irhan snorted and took a sip from the mug in front of him. He winced at the taste and sat the mug down before regarding Maarkov with a piercing gaze. Placing his elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers beneath his nose.
“You are high in the power structure of the Galanian Empire, correct? Not the official structure, you understand, but the real power. Whispers say you are close with the Emperor.”
“Whispers lie.”
Irhan’s eyes tightened as he smiled behind his hands. “You are not the only one capable of finding information. Rumors are told about you and your brother—distasteful rumors.”
Maarkov kept his expression empty. How much could Irhan know? Everyone knew that he and his brother shared a link with the Galanian Emperor, but nothing more. Neither Maaz nor Maarkov had an official Imperial rank, but the knowledge of their closeness to the Emperor bought them autonomy.
Anyone who learned the entire truth died soon after. Irhan may have accused Maarkov of playing a delicate game, but the merchant would run for the hills if he knew anything worthwhile. Maarkov let the man continue.
“It is said that servants go to the depths of Shundov Castle and never return. People say there is screaming at night.”
Maarkov kept his gaze steady. “Sounds like a lich tale to me.”
“There have been disappearances. For some reason, even the Imperial Regent is too frightened to speak of it. I find that quite strange. Many would find it so.”
Maarkov shrugged. “Perhaps.”
The City Under the Mountain Page 4