The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2)

by Matt Gilbert

  Sandilianus looked at him with suspicion. “How could you know such a thing from looking?”

  Ahmed chuckled, and considered letting the elder soldier think him possessed of uncanny power, but it would be disrespectful. “I have seen them before. The barbarians in Aviar capture them and sell them as slaves.”

  “Truly? And they do not fight?”

  Ahmed shrugged, still scanning the town. “Some do. Most don’t, though. We should be able to intimidate them well enough, which is good. I want no killing unless we must. Now, as to whether they have anything worth taking…”

  He panned over the town. It was situated at a small harbor, and boats dotted the shore. Most were small, but there was one larger vessel that might do. Ahmed passed the spyglass to Sandilianus to get his opinion.

  Sandilianus grunted in surprise. “That is a Gruppenwalder ship!”

  “The Gruppenwalder dogs are trading in slaves?”

  Sandilianus continued looking through the spyglass. “The Gruppenwalders trade in everything, including ships. There is nothing to say the people who own it are from Gruppenwald.” He continued watching for a bit, then sighed, his face grim. “There is no one fighting, and the men on deck are the same as the men in the streets.”

  “Perhaps they bought the ship.”

  “You are good of heart, Ahmed, but you are young and foolish.”

  Ahmed flinched, wounded to be spoken to in such a way. “I thought we were friends.”

  Sandilianus lowered the spyglass and handed it back to Ahmed with a grin. “We are, which is why I call you a fool, as opposed to allowing you to remain one, eh?”

  Ahmed scowled, but the logic was good. “What am I missing?”

  Sandilianus shook his head. “Maybe nothing. We’ll know soon enough.”

  Ahmed growled and waved a fist at Sandilianus. “Damn old men, always talking in riddles! Why will you not just tell me?”

  Sandilianus offered him a sly smile. “I will tell you why. It is because it makes me seem very clever. That makes my men confident and loyal.” He clapped a hand on Ahmed’s shoulder and squeezed. “If I predict and I am wrong, I look a fool. But if there is anything amiss, even though it may be other than what I thought, then I will simply smile and let others draw their own conclusions.”

  Ahmed chuckled in amazement. “A fine lesson in leadership! Let us get the men and have this ship, then.”

  It was so easy, it was improper to call it an ‘attack’. Under cover of darkness, they had entered the sleeping town and made their way to the wharves. They had met all of three men, single foot patrols, guards looking for thieves, not soldiers. Not a one had offered resistance. One had even volunteered his own rope so he could be tied instead of knocked out or killed. They had obliged him, once they finally understood his words. The accent here was different than in Nihlos, the words even harder to understand until the ear grew accustomed to them.

  Ahmed looked down the pier at their target, then cast Sandilianus a questioning glance. Sandilianus nodded. “It will do.”

  Ahmed was about to give the order to take the ship when he felt his focus shift to his left, as if an invisible hand were literally turning his head toward something it wanted him to see.

  Sandilianus noticed the change. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  Ahmed peered into the dark to his left, trying to answer that very question. “I don’t know. Something….” He trailed off, letting the hand in his mind guide him. He felt connection as a clicking sound in his mind. What was pitch black moments before was given form, black on black, dark, hooded figures skulking through the night. He pointed at them. After a moment of squinting, Sandilianus nodded. He could see them as well. They were carrying something that looked for all the world like a corpse, but it was too dark to be certain. He spoke what he felt as a command in his soul: “I must go.”

  Sandilianus shot him a withering glare. “Now?”

  Ahmed did not even see the expression on the other man’s face. He continued to peer into the darkness, his eyes tracking the nearly invisible group. There were three of them, and they were without doubt evil men. He could taste the wrongness of them on his tongue like spoiled milk. The thugs turned down an alley and faded into deeper darkness.

  “Ilaweh calls. Can you take the ship without me?”

  Sandilianus rolled his eyes and chuckled at this. “We’ll manage somehow,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

  “Then do it. I will investigate. If I am not back in ten minutes, leave without me.”

  “That’s time enough to kill a man, I suppose.”

  “Or three. Or be killed myself.”

  Sandilianus clapped him on the back. “Good luck.”

  “And you.” Ahmed laid his right hand on his sword pommel and set off in the direction of the hooded figures as Sandilianus issued hand signals for the men to advance on the ship. The men raised shields, formed a phalanx, and began to advance down the pier.

  Ahmed ran quickly toward the alley. As he lost sight of his men, he mused to himself that they were quiet about their warfare when they needed to be. He could hear nothing of their progress. Surely, it would be a simple thing, then.

  He, too, would be stealthy. He moved as quickly as possible, but low and close to the wall, listening. It was always better to surprise the enemy than be surprised by him. He smiled as his prudence was rewarded by the sound of voices.

  “We do it here,” a deep, gravely voice insisted. A moan, distinctly female, followed this pronouncement. Not a corpse, then. A captive! Ahmed ground his teeth in rage, but stayed his hand. Successful warfare requires intelligence.

  He moved forward as silently as possible. At the corner of the wall, he stopped and peered around. Three hooded figures, one large and with a great belly, two smaller, stood facing each other. On the ground between them was a bound and gagged woman. The larger man was shoving a torch at the bound woman’s face, chuckling as she cringed away.

  “Fool!” one of the smaller men said, his voice higher-pitched and nervous, perhaps even reluctant. “What will you do if a guard comes upon us?”

  The third man sneered. “Then he will meet the same fate!” his words slurred as if he were drunk or injured.

  “It’s madness!” Cautious complained. “We risk exposing the whole murder!”

  The fat man slammed a meaty fist into Cautious’s face, and the smaller man fell to the ground with a cry.

  Slur gave a nasty chuckle. “Elgar does not reward cowards!”

  Ahmed felt as if he had been struck by lightning at the sound of that name. The Dead God was the very definition of unspeakable evil, and his followers depraved madmen! If these men served him, they must surely die, and quickly, before they could carry out whatever vile plan they had hatched.

  Ahmed heard someone cry out in the distance, “’Ware boarders!” Sandilianus had engaged the ship, then. Time was short.

  With his left hand, Ahmed reached to his back and hooked his fingers into his shield grip. His right gripped Brutus’s sword. My sword, now, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath. Ilaweh be with me.

  Ahmed sprang from behind the corner, sword and shield slipping from their places and locking into battle positions as easily as a man might point his fingers. With a cry of fury, he charged them.

  Fatso, wielding a torch, charged to meet him and got a sword through the throat for his stupidity. The torch fell to the ground and spun, sending shadows scurrying over the alley walls like a flock of crows. Slur jerked a dagger from his belt and came as well. Ahmed boggled at such stupidity, but went along with it. He slashed Slur’s hand off at the wrist. It spiraled off into the darkness, still clutching the dagger, as Slur’s face contorted in agony. Ahmed smashed the edge of his shield into Slur’s ugly face for good measure. Blood and teeth flew as Slur slumped to the ground, unconscious.

  Cautious stood blinking at him, his face a mask of confusion and shock. Ahmed cocked his head and stared at him in sheer amazement. “Shall I kill
you, too, fool?”

  Cautious turned and bolted. Ahmed watched him until he was out of sight, wary of treachery, but the man seemed well and truly fled. Who could blame him?

  Ahmed bent to the gagged and bound woman. She was frenzied, struggling against her bonds, her eyes fixed upon him and filled with raw terror. “You are safe now,” he said softly, and took her hand to untie it.

  Rather than calming, the woman redoubled her efforts to escape. She tore her hand free and began trying to snake away, at last settling for rolling.

  “Fool! Hold still!” Ahmed grabbed her and forced her against the ground as he cut the rope binding her wrist. He immediately regretted it. The woman lashed out at him as he reached to remove her gag, raking his face with her nails.

  He gave her a sharp slap to the face, trying to break her from her panic. “You are safe now!”

  The woman stared at him in silence for a moment, then screamed, loud and long. “Demons! Black skinned demons!”

  Ahmed leapt to his feet, shame and fury boiling within him, and struck her with a furious backhand. “Barbarian bitch!” She fell over backward, blood flying from her lips, sobbing. Ahmed immediately felt guilty, even as he felt justified, but it mattered little. Sandilianus would even now be boarding the ship. Between the sounds of battle and this idiot’s screams, the guards would surely descend en masse any moment.

  “Demons!” the woman moaned as he rifled the corpses. One had a few coins, but they were otherwise paupers. Ahmed ground his teeth. Ilaweh wanted her saved. Fine, she was saved. There was nothing in the bargain about liking each other, or gratitude. Still, just a bit would have been nice.

  “You can find your own way home. I’d hurry before Cautious finds his balls and comes back to finish his business!” He spat on the ground beside her as he put away sword and shield, then turned and sprinted for the ship.

  He was heartened to see that his men were indeed in command of the vessel, and it appeared there had been precious little bloodshed. A number of crewmen were being persuaded at sword-point to get on with the business of casting off. Ahmed saw only two bodies, and for all he knew, they may have simply been unconscious. All was good after all.

  Shouts from behind him quickly shattered this illusion. He cast a look over his shoulder to see a large group of men heading toward him, at least fifty. Sandilianus ran to the bow and shouted “Ware archers!”

  As if queued, arrows zipped past Ahmed, whizzing like bees, one coming close enough to graze his already injured cheek. Aboard the ship, his men brought their shields up and formed a wall, reserving their blades for the seamen. Ropes flew from bollards and sails billowed from their resting spots as curses and threats rang through the night.

  Ahmed began to zig-zag as erratically as possible as he sprinted toward the gangplank. It would do little against massed fire, but it could certainly spoil any shots aimed specifically at him. He was more of an ‘extra points’ target for most of his run, but getting up the gangplank would take him into real danger. At that point, it would be in Ilaweh’s hands.

  He was ten yards from safety! The ship was moving now, the gap between the hull and the pier widening with every passing second. Ahmed gritted his teeth as the gangplank fell away into the water. It was too far. He would never make it! Another arrow whizzed past him and left a crease in his left shoulder. He had to try.

  There was no time even for a small prayer. He would just have to hope it was part of the plan. He reached the edge of the pier and leapt, hoping against hope, but it was as he had known all along: too far to jump. His boot missed the deck by two feet, and he plummeted toward the dark water. He would surely die this time, either drowned or punctured by arrows. Ah, well. The mission would continue without him. He had done his part.

  Sandilianus moved quickly. He hurled a rope toward Ahmed. The line was weighted for throwing, and Sandilianus was a marksman. Ahmed literally caught it in his chest, a hammer blow that knocked the breath from him, but he managed to grasp it, and he held on for dear life.

  Arrows sunk into the wooden hull as Sandilianus hauled him up. Another thudded into the shield he wore on his back. He was a tempting target now, indeed, helpless and hanging from a line, swinging just enough to add sport to shooting him in the head like a dog. Moments later, several of his men lowered their shields over him as well. Ahmed sighed in relief as he heard the arrows thunk against the shield frames. His death had once again been forestalled, by the grace of Ilaweh.

  Sandilianus took his hand and hauled him over the railing. Ahmed sank to his knees, gasping with exhaustion. He waited there, just breathing, until they were beyond arrow range, then stood and called out, “We are victorious!”

  The men raised a great cheer and pounded their swords against their shields in celebration, all the while keeping a wary eye on their captive crew.

  Ahmed nodded and smiled. It was enough for now.

  Chapter 5: Repercussions

  In the great hall of House Noril, Nerelki was slowly losing the battle to retain her sanity. She might have surrendered to the strong urge to literally clamp her hands to her head and scream, save that every noble of consequence in Nihlos would see her doing it. They're all here, all of the elders, packed into Davron's bloody arena.

  It was a hard place, full of echoes from the many conversations going on in tones ranging from banal humor to abject panic. The tiles on the floor were hard, dull slate. The chairs were hard wood, without cushions. The walls were hard granite, and where they had any decoration at all, they were adorned with weapons. No one is intended to be comfortable here. That's the point, obviously.

  A small, raised platform stood at the end of the room for speakers. Davron, flanked by Polus and Maklin, was explaining the details of “the recent crisis”. Both Polus and Davron were armed, armored, and streaked with gore from black-booted feet to gray temples.

  The details were nearly as crazy as the rumors. The dead rising and killing, and some invulnerable figure assaulting the empress? Madness! She looked toward Maranath, who stood with Ariano. Both seemed to be taking things very seriously, their faces grave and angry. She looked about for Prandil, at last spying him leaning against a wall, alone, his expression blank. She knew him well enough to understand what that meant: he was disturbed and brooding, and wanted no conversation.

  Prandil looked up suddenly, making eye contact, sorrow in his gaze. He shook his head as if in sympathy, but for what she had no idea.

  Enlightenment came quickly, however, from Davron. “According to Caelwen, the man who attacked them was Aiul Amrath.”

  Narelki whipped her head around to face the podium. “Impossible!”

  Davron scowled at her. “Possible. And worse, the trail of gore leads directly back to my own prison, here.”

  “It's impossible!” Narelki nearly shrieked. “He's in the hospital right now! He hasn't left since he was a guest in your prison the last time! He hasn't been able to!”

  The hall grew silent. Davron ground his teeth, searching for his next words, while Polus fidgeted with a buckle on his armor.

  It was Maklin who spoke first. “It was Aiul, Narelki. We're certain.”

  Narelki opened her mouth to argue more, when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We've been deceived,” Maranath said softly.”Let's talk.”

  Narelki glared at Davron a moment longer, the truth of things slowly seeping into her consciousness, as Lucreta called out, “What about the ghouls? I hear they might be contagious!”

  Maklin coughed briefly, waving a hand while he caught his breath. ”Ridiculous. They were no such thing. Reanimated flesh, yes, but automatons, not ghouls. Nothing to fear there.”

  Lucreta stamped a foot on the ground. “Don't dismiss me like that, you old windbag! How do you know?”

  “Because they were stabbing people with swords, not biting them! Who's the sorcerer here, you or me, hmm?”

  Maranath guided Narelki to the rear of the crowd and into a quiet corner. “Wait a bit. Let them
chatter until they get bored with the flashy parts. Then we'll see justice done.”

  Narelki nodded, grinding her teeth to control the rage that filled her. Across the room, she saw Ariano glaring back at her, a sufficiently chilling thing to cool her anger a bit. She nodded toward the old sorceress. “Will it ever pass?”

  Maranath pursed his lips, then shook his head with a sigh. “I think not. She calls you a traitor.”

  Narelki nodded at this, suppressing a shudder. “I thought as much. She's already dealt with Sadrina and Maralena. I suppose I'm next on the list.”

  Maranath grunted at this. “You're under my protection, and I've made that clear to her. And you're only half right, you know. She went after Sadrina.” He shook his head and pulled at his beard, as if considering his words very carefully. “Maralena was an entirely different matter.”

  Narelki didn't bother to hide her contempt for an obvious lie. “Please! I may no longer be a Meite, but I recognize the work!”

  Maranath nodded slowly, and raised his hands in mock defense. “Now, now, I'm not lying, just leaving out some details that don't concern you.”

  Narelki gasped as she made the connection. “You?”

  Maranath's face lit with genuine mirth at this. “Me? Oh, my dear, I'd not have left as nearly so much intact as that, had I committed the deed.”

  “Who, then? You could at least tell me that much! Prandil?”

  Maranath sighed and held up his hands again, this time in surrender. “It was Sadrik. That's all you'll hear from me on the matter, and that's only to convince you Ariano isn't running through the council looking for revenge.”

  Narelki shook her head in amazement, for the moment forgetting even the problem that had brought her here. “Sadrik? Mei, I would never have thought – ”

  “Nor I.” Maranath folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with a stern look. “That's all you get.”

  “Fair enough. It's some comfort, at least.” She looked down at the floor, ashamed of what she was about to ask, but seeing no choice. “So Ariano calls me a traitor now. And you?”