Shroud of Eternity
Page 26
Brock blurted out, “Maybe we should try a different dacha this time, Amos. There are plenty of silk yaxen in the city. Don’t you get tired of the same one?”
“The women are bred to be perfect. Why would I tire of perfection? Besides, Melody understands me.” His lips quirked in a sarcastic smile. “As much as the stupid girl understands anything.”
Bannon followed them past the crackling blue streetlights and through the labyrinth of cul-de-sacs and blooming orchards. The hum of crickets provided a low, soothing background. Night moths flitted around, circling the glow of the streetlights.
Amos’s steps grew more jaunty as they approached his favorite dacha. The same doorman regarded them from his stool. His pot of coins was more than half full. Without a word, he extended the pot so that Amos, Jed, and Brock could each drop a gold coin with a clink into the pile. Bannon fumbled for his money, but the doorman lifted a hand. “No charge for you, lad.”
Amos sniffed. “You turn away paying customers?”
“I’m not turning him away. I just know this one won’t do anything that requires payment.”
Bannon looked awkwardly from the doorman to Amos. “I don’t want an argument.”
Amos chuckled. “He thinks so little of you.”
They pushed their way inside, while Bannon hung back. “Why did you do that?”
The doorman scratched his unkempt beard. “The ladies get paid when customers do things that no one else would want to do. You don’t seem the type, young man, but if you spend much more time with those three, I’ll have to charge you soon enough.” His words sounded sour and disappointed.
Wrestling with his knotted stomach, Bannon ducked and went inside. The glowing scarlet lanterns and orange braziers made the place look ominous rather than romantic. His gaze moved past the divans, the laughing customers, and the fawning but oddly silent women.
He saw a hideous scarred face. Two of the Norukai stretched out on the divans, pawing at their chosen women, tearing their garments and grabbing breasts without bothering to find a private chamber. They drank from goblets of bloodwine. The women, the victims, made low noncommittal noises that the scarred slavers seemed to interpret as moans of pleasure.
Bannon recognized Yorik. “You like that?” the slaver asked the dull-eyed woman, squeezing the breast hard, then tweaked the nipple viciously. The girl whimpered, but her face wore a frozen smile. Yorik turned to one side and spat. “You don’t even know what you like.”
Amos strolled forward with a solicitous smile. “I see you found one of my favorites. This dacha has the best women, just as I told you on your first night.”
“They’re adequate,” said the big Norukai. He emptied his goblet and instead of refilling it, simply took the bottle and poured the rest of the wine down his throat. “They don’t fight enough. I like some exercise with my sex. These silk yaxen are so docile, it’s like servicing myself with a corpse.”
The comment elicited a round of laughter, though Bannon found nothing funny about it. Lars, the other Norukai, sneered at him. “Look, it’s the little cheeping bird who complains about the innocent and the weak.”
Bannon tensed, ready to fight. He wished he had brought Sturdy, because he would have decapitated these two in a single sweep. Before Bannon could burst out an angry retort, Amos interjected. “And where’s Melody, my favorite?” he called to the other dull-eyed silk yaxen, who were busy with their customers.
One curly-haired brunette sidled up to Bannon, clinging to him like a kitten seeking affection, and he felt a chill.
“She’s with Captain Kor in a private alcove,” said Yorik. “You can have her when he’s done.”
Lars laughed. “But you might have a long wait. Unlike the people of Ildakar, we Norukai don’t finish so quickly.”
Kor heard his name through the curtain blocking off one of the bedroom alcoves. “Stupid, clumsy whore!” he roared. “Enough, leave me alone.” Bannon heard a slap of flesh against flesh, a scream, then a whimper. The curtains crashed aside, and beautiful Melody, Amos’s favorite, tumbled out and sprawled on the floor. She tried to catch herself, but landed roughly against a table, knocking goblets over. The other customers scattered.
Kor marched out of the privacy alcove, ripping down the hanging curtains. He had left his clothes behind, and he was naked and limp, but didn’t seem to mind being exposed. His body looked like knotted wood, lined with white scars. Melody scrambled away from him on her hands and knees, but the Norukai captain was coming for her.
“Here now, Kor,” Amos said, hesitant.
The Norukai reached down and grabbed Melody by the throat, lifting her up. She bit off a scream and fought, struggling, squirming. “That’s more like it … but not good enough,” Kor said. “Like pleasuring myself with a cow.”
“A yaxen,” Amos said, “but prettier.”
The burly slaver struck Melody across the face, spraying blood from her lips and probably knocking teeth loose.
“Stop that!” Bannon cried, but his shout was drowned out by the roar of cheers and catcalls.
Kor dropped her roughly onto the table, casting her aside. “Waste of money and time.” He ducked back into the alcove, grabbed his garments, and strode naked out of the brothel.
The other two Norukai looked at the docile women they were fondling. Lars slapped his female companion for good measure, before he and Yorik followed their captain out.
Bannon rushed to Melody, bending down next to her. She was shuddering and sobbing. “Are you all right?” He touched her face, which was puffy, covered with blood. She would be a mass of bruises, and her throat was an angry red from Kor’s stranglehold. Her filmy dress was torn. “It’s all right. Nothing more will happen to you.”
She looked up at him, but her eyes were flat, holding no recognition. When she spotted Amos, though, she lit up, slid off the table, and crawled toward him. She let out a wordless moan, begging him to comfort her, but Amos just stood there. He looked down, planted his foot against her shoulder, and kicked her away with a disgusted sound. “Now you’re all bruised! Next time I want you, it better be very dark in here, so I can’t see how ugly you are.”
Jed and Brock looked disappointed. “There are other silk yaxen. We’ll find different ones. Come on, Amos, stay here,” Brock said. “Keeper’s crotch, we don’t want to waste our evening, too.”
Shaking with anger and hatred, Bannon stood. He had Melody’s blood on his hands, and he flexed his fingers, appalled by what he had seen, not just from the disgusting Norukai, but from his supposed friends as well. Bile rose in his throat, and tears stung his eyes. Melody didn’t seem to care.
For years his own father had abused both him and his mother, had stolen the money Bannon had saved so he could escape from Chiriya Island. That man had drowned helpless kittens just to hurt his son, and had beaten Bannon’s mother to death.
Those memories nearly blinded Bannon as he staggered outside past the doorman and lurched into the darkened streets. He had heard tales of the ruthless Emperor Jagang, and Sulachan, and Darken Rahl. In his mind, all abusers were hateful and evil, just to varying degrees.
CHAPTER 37
The beasts came in a variety of forms, a full range of killing machines. Chief Handler Ivan admired the creatures even as he twisted them, tortured them … trained them.
Wearing his jerkin made from the pelt of a sand panther he had been forced to kill during a session five years earlier, he inhaled the rich musky smell of the pens. All of Ivan’s animals were kept near the training pits in barred cave alcoves or exterior cages. In one breath, he could smell their fur and their hatred.
One large swamp lizard spotted him, its golden eyes slitted, and a forked black tongue flicked in and out of its fanged jaws. As Ivan stopped to stare at it, the lizard released a pool of urine across the bottom of its cage. Reaching out with his gift, Ivan felt the hateful intent there, the spite this creature held for him.
Good. Such things could be developed, nurtured. R
eleasing a barbed stinger of magic, he slashed pain into the reptile’s tiny brain, making the thing snarl and writhe. It released even more urine, involuntarily this time. Ivan smiled at the reaction. That was what his gift as chief handler was meant to do. These beasts had to be kept under control—his control—but their violence and anger needed to be banked and kept hot, like the fire in a blacksmith’s forge. Ivan was good at that, better than any of his three apprentices.
He pulled his bloody cart through the wide tunnel between the cages and barred pens. The wheels creaked and wobbled, slightly out of round, jostling the contents so that the fresh smell of torn meat and dripping blood wafted into the air. He grabbed a strip of raw, red muscle peeled from a rib cage and tossed it to the brutish swamp lizard. Forgetting about the pain Ivan had just inflicted upon it, the reptile scuttled forward and snapped up the morsel.
Feeding time was legitimately the work of his lowliest apprentices, but Ivan enjoyed the routine. He used it as an important method of provocation, reward, and deprivation. Every act was reinforced by a bolt of pain from his gift, a prodding jab that pushed against their sensitive nerves to make them understand who was their master.
He pulled the rendering cart to the next cage, gauging how much meat he still had to distribute. He had left the preparation work to slaves. They had stripped the garments from High Captain Avery’s body and returned the armor to the guard headquarters so the blood could be scrubbed off the metal scales and leather, before the armor was given to some other recruit.
Then the renderers had chopped up the man’s body, using axes and cleavers to break the limbs from the joints, to cut off hands and feet, legs, arms, head. They had piled the internal organs into separate buckets, which Ivan would use as special treats for the pets that impressed him most.
With a rumbling growl, a huge black-furred beast slammed into the cage in front of him with such force that the bars rattled and the hinges groaned. Raising itself ten feet tall, a combat bear rose up, reaching a paw through the bars. The beast had a square face with close-set obsidian eyes. It opened its jaws, and ribbons of silvery drool poured out. Parts of its body wore armor shells grafted on to protect its vital organs. The combat bear’s enhanced claws scraped down the bars of its cage, striking sparks.
Ivan stood within inches of the beast’s grasp and laughed. “You’re daring. You hate me, don’t you?” He moved just within reach.
The bear snarled, its eyes focused on him like sparks in a forge.
“I’m right here.” Ivan stepped even closer. Just as the bear lunged toward him, he released his gift, sent a shock wave down the monster’s spine. The combat bear roared and retracted its arms, reeling backward. Surprisingly, it fought the pain and slammed into the bars, again swiping at him.
Ivan had to dance out of the way. “Good, good!” As a special reward, he removed Avery’s liver and tossed the purplish-red handful at the bear. With one last glower at its tormentor, the beast devoured the bloody organ.
Ivan went to the other cages, selecting portions of the dead guard captain: a thigh, an arm. He tossed the head into a cage where five starving spiny wolves fought over the handsome man’s head, ripping it to pieces.
Ivan enjoyed the days when he could give his pets treats to prepare them for the combat arena. It insured that they all had a taste for human flesh, which would make them better attackers in front of a cheering audience.
Last, saving some of the choicest meat and the heart, Ivan stopped in front of the pen that contained his troka of spell-bonded panthers. The three female cats did not approach the bars, but kept their distance and watched him from the back of the lair. The low growls sounded almost like purrs in their throats. Their tails thrashed. They looked at him with clear malice in their eyes.
These panthers were still sore from the fight against Ulrich, he could tell. When they fought the partially petrified warrior, they had been injured, but worse, they had been defeated for all to see. Ivan was disappointed in them, and he had punished them afterward by jabbing their brains with his gift, finding and pressing their pain centers.
Somehow, though, the more he used his power in an attempt to hurt them, shape them, control them, the more the troka seemed to resist. The three spell-bonded panthers had a link that made them feel one another’s pain, share one another’s thoughts. When he poked one with a burst of pain, all three felt it … but the troka found a way to distribute the agony to allow them to endure more. They could share their strength.
Ivan was troubled. He could not allow this to spread. He did not want his gift to fade away like that of the impotent wizard who had come from the outside.
He could smell their hatred, their anger. But no fear. Even after all the pain he had inflicted, the cats did not cringe when they saw him. Instead, they sat defiant, refusing to come closer, despite the smell of the fresh meat. They were wary, but not intimidated. Ivan was worried, but could not let it show.
He lifted the last pieces of High Captain Avery, the haunch and the red copper-smelling heart. “Regain your strength. You’ll need to fight soon.”
He tossed the offerings into the cage, but all three panthers remained at the rear, not moving. Ivan frowned. He had never seen such behavior before. “Eat!” he roared, and the panthers roared back at him, sending a chill down his spine.
He took a step backward, staring at them, and they stared back. He felt the gift whipping and twisting inside him like a night crawler exposed after a downpour.
The cats didn’t move toward the meat. Ivan stepped close to the bars. “If you don’t want it, then you can starve. I’ll take it back.” When he reached for the lock on the cage door, he saw all three sand panthers coil slightly, tense and ready. Their golden eyes flashed, fixed on him, and he froze.
Was this their plan? Did they mean to trick him into opening the cage door, so they could tear him apart the moment he entered?
Ivan had always controlled them before … but considering the way they resisted him, maybe they would not be deterred this time. Maybe they would resist his control just long enough to drive him to the ground, rake their claws across his throat, dig their curved fangs into his gut, and tear him open.
He stood at the bars for a long moment, not moving, assessing. The sand panthers kept staring, and Ivan slowly backed away. “Not this time,” he said. “I am your master. Don’t you forget it.”
He stalked away, pulling the empty rendering cart with its squeaky wooden wheels behind him.
CHAPTER 38
Anxious for answers, Nathan followed the fleshmancer, wanting to be done with his weakness, ready to do anything so he could have his gift back, if only to fight alongside Nicci in rebuilding lldakar. Failing that, at least he would have achieved his reason for coming here. To be made whole again …
And Andre seemed to be his best source for solving the problem.
Originally, the fleshmancer had been intrigued by the loss of Nathan’s gift, yet he was easily distractible and left many things half finished. Now, instead of heading to his laboratory studio, the fleshmancer led him through the beautiful garden streets toward the towering pyramid at the top of the plateau.
“We are going to join the sovrena and the wizard commander in their preparations,” Andre said. “It is almost time to raise the shroud again.”
Nathan felt queasy as he walked along. As usual, he wore the copper-trimmed green robes Ildakar had given him, though he might have felt more comfortable in his travel clothes—tight black breeches, ruffled shirt, and a cape thrown across his shoulders so that he cut a dashing figure.
Reaching the base of the pyramid, Andre climbed the stone stairs with a jaunty step, one level after another, calling back to Nathan, “Better hurry. Thora and Maxim tend to be impatient, hmmm?”
One level below the top, the platform held a new fenced area, flimsy barricades of metal crossbars. “That looks like a corral,” Nathan remarked. “For wild beasts or livestock?” Sacrificial animals, he assumed.
“I don’t know,” Nathan said, then muttered, “Dear spirits, I may not wish to know.”
The wizard commander and the sovrena toiled together under the bright morning sunlight. Perfect prisms stood erect on silver poles, shattering sunlight into rainbows. Maxim adjusted the crystals, rotating them so that the multicolored rays fell upon a huge mirrored bowl turned toward the sky.
Thora glanced up at them as they arrived. Her face was drawn, her eyes shadowed with grief after the recent murder of High Captain Avery. Maxim seemed cheery, though. “Much work to do! We could use your help.”
“We are here,” Andre said. “Simply guide us.”
“What is this blood magic about?” Nathan asked. “I am willing to help protect Ildakar, but what is the cost, and how can I help you accomplish it?”
The sovrena’s face turned brittle. “You have no gift, Nathan Rahl. You cannot help us in any way.”
“Now, now, I want him to observe what we do,” Andre said. “He was once a great wizard. It can be an intellectual exercise for him, hmmm? If nothing else, he can assist in the manual labor.”
“I suppose we could use a slave or two,” Maxim said, “and our real slaves refuse to do it, because they know what the bloodworking entails.”
Nathan knew he had to walk a fine line. He couldn’t offend these people if he expected them to help him regain the heart of a wizard … unless the way to make himself whole again was through another means. Maybe the witch woman’s declaration meant that he had to fight to defend the innocent and downtrodden here in Ildakar, as Nicci suggested. But first he had to be sure.
“Tell me more about the process,” Nathan said. “How do you raise the shroud?”
“It is blood magic.” Thora sounded exasperated. “How can you claim to be a wizard and not know about blood magic?”