by Jim Melvin
As if in a trance, Torg took a moment to answer. “It’s the moon,” he finally said. “It affects me in odd ways.”
“The moon is barely a sliver,” Rathburt said. “What does it have to do with anything?”
“It’s always in my dreams.”
“Do the dreams have anything to do with a Brounetto?” Ugga said.
Torg managed a chuckle. “Am I that obvious? Well to be honest, she’s a Blondie. At least, I think she is.” He turned to Bard. “If we ever encounter her, you had better leave her to me.”
They all laughed.
“I has seen the way ya fight,” Bard said. “I is not about to argue with ya over the first pick of the women.”
“Fair enough,” Torg said, smiling. “Thank you, my friends. As always, you lighten my heart.” Then he stood and stretched out his long, muscular frame. “Now that night has arrived, it’s time to wander over to the tavern for more beer. The stories we hear might be enlightening.”
The innkeeper’s assistant, a scrawny man with a pointed nose, entered the room, tossing their cloaks and underclothes onto one of the beds. He left the room without saying a word but quickly returned with a small rolling cart.
“I did the best I could,” he said, huffing and puffing, “but everything was so filthy I had to throw some of your clothes away. I hope you’re not offended. I offer you these fine garments at a fair price.”
They were not at all offended, gratefully examining the clothing. For another gold coin, they bought loose-fitting breeches with stirrup bottoms; tunics with dagged edges; tall boots made of black leather; and fur-lined cloaks with drawstring hoods. Undergarments were included at no extra charge. An outfit designed for a young boy fit Elu perfectly. Torg also purchased a black scabbard that matched his sword surprisingly well.
“Don’t we look like a bevy of dandies,” Rathburt proclaimed.
When they stepped outside, the briskness in the air surprised them, especially considering how warm it had been earlier in the day. Torg strapped the Silver Sword to his back, covered it with his cloak, and then pulled his hood over his face. The others carried only daggers. The streets swarmed with people, all of them shouting, laughing or arguing. Torg strode hurriedly to the tavern.
A cave troll guarded the smoky doorway. The beast stood two cubits taller than Torg and Ugga and was far thicker in the chest and legs than even the crossbreed. It stared at the newcomers suspiciously, but its partner—a squint-eyed man with sunken cheeks—waved them in, as if the whole affair bored him.
They entered the common room, which already bustled with activity though it still was early in the evening. The long tables and benches were almost filled, and most of the sofas along the walls also were occupied. A log fire provided the only light, which suited Torg just fine. They found empty seats at the end of a table in the darkest part of the room. So far, so good.
A server greeted them. She had pretty eyes and an impressive cleavage. But her greasy hair and malodorous underarms overpowered her other assets, at least in Torg’s opinion.
“What you be having tonight?” she shouted above the din.
“Double pints of your best dark,” Ugga shouted back.
The server returned with a tray of pewter mugs weighing half a stone apiece. Torg was amazed the girl could carry them all at once. She thrust them down on the table and rushed off to other patrons, snatching several silver coins from Bard before she left. Rathburt, already inebriated from the beer he had drunk at the inn, lifted his mug and offered a toast.
“To my friends—Elu, Ugga, Bard and Tor- . . . er, Hana. May the Blondies and Brounettos spread their legs wide and scream in delight when you present yourselves for their perusal.”
Ugga guffawed and drained the contents of his mug in just a few gulps. Elu stood up on the bench and peered into the empty mug, amazed.
“I has seen Ugga drink twenty of these in one night and still perform his duties with the Brounettos,” Bard said.
“More!” the crossbreed shouted, when the girl passed his way.
Torg paid little attention to his companions. Instead, he scanned the murky room, studying the other patrons. He saw village folk from the Gray Plains, fishermen from the Ogha River, a pair of boat dwellers as small as Elu from Lake Ti-ratana, and white-robed noblemen from Avici. He also saw a sleazy bunch who appeared to be pirates from Duccarita in poor disguise, and even a flirty, pasty-skinned woman whom Torg recognized as a vampire. Who would be tonight’s victim, he wondered?
A fancy gentleman with a thin mustache sat alone on one of the sofas and delicately sipped spiced wine from a pewter cup. Torg had seen his sort before—a wealthy merchant, probably from Senasana, who would risk the journey to Kamupadana only if it involved lucrative dealings. This man would have news from the south, but he would be tight-lipped.
“I need to speak to someone,” Torg said to his friends, but they were on their second mugs of beer (Ugga his third) and didn’t hear him. Torg slipped across the room, blending with the surroundings as he moved. He sat down next to the merchant and waited to be noticed. When the man turned and saw him, he spilled some of his wine.
“This seat is taken,” the merchant said, regaining his composure.
“Yes, it is,” Torg said.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’ve wandered long in the north and would learn what’s happening in the rest of the world.”
“I’m unaccustomed to conversing with strangers who hide their faces and poke about in the darkness. Leave now . . . or I’ll call for protection.”
“You’d be dead before it arrived.”
The merchant’s eyes sprang open, but it was obvious he believed Torg wasn’t bluffing. “What . . . what is it you want?”
“News is all. I’m not a murderer or thief, only a lonely traveler who desires friendly conversation. I mean you no harm.”
The merchant relaxed, but only slightly.
Torg placed his hand on the man’s knee. An imperceptible glow flowed from his fingertips through the fabric of the merchant’s houppelande into his flesh. “How goes it in Senasana?” Torg said.
The man’s body went limp, and he answered in a monotone whisper. “Since the golden soldiers departed last summer, all appears as before. But fewer outsiders come to our city, and business is not what it used to be. The Tugars have returned and wander about in plain sight, but they are angry with us for not helping the Death-Knower. They treat us like enemies.”
“Are you not?”
“We’re not warriors. We obey whoever does not kill us.”
Torg nodded. “How goes it in Jivita?”
“I’ve heard naught from the White City and care little for what occurs west of the mountains.”
“I see . . . and Nissaya?”
The merchant fidgeted. Torg increased the energy flow to compensate.
“I haven’t been to the fortress in several summers, but it’s said Nissaya prepares for war, storing food and supplies and beseeching aid from allies. The black knights fear Avici, it seems.”
“Have you been to Avici?”
The merchant squirmed and tried to stand. The strength of his will impressed Torg, who commanded more energy to flow from his fingertips into the man’s flesh. The merchant sagged.
“I . . . have been there,” he said.
“And?”
“I saw a great city . . . and a great army. Too great. Not even the Tugars can defeat it. They are too many and the Tugars too few.”
“Will Nissaya be attacked?”
“I’m only a merchant. How could I know such a thing?”
Torg nodded again. Then he said, “Why are you in Kamupadana, merchant?”
The man quivered and pressed his hands to his chest. “Please . . . do not force me to answer.”
Torg doubled the flow of energy. The man could not survive much more.
“Your secrets are safe. I will not betray you. Tell me.”
The merchant p
aused . . . and then: “It’s the witches. They brew a special potion—barrels and barrels of it—and they’ve offered to pay me to bring it back in my caravan to Senasana and dump it into the river about a league north of the city.”
“What kind of potion?”
“I don’t know . . . but I’m worried. Tens of thousands in Senasana depend on the river for their drinking water. And thousands more live along Ogha’s banks as it bends toward Lake Keo.”
“Why you? Why not take it there themselves?”
“I’m known in those parts and would not seem suspicious to prowling eyes.” Then the man whimpered. “They offer chests of golds. With that much wealth, I can follow the ancient road, disappear into the southern infernos, and live like a king. It is that choice—or death.”
“Death is better than betraying innocents.”
The merchant’s voice, though still under Torg’s hypnotic spell, became defensive. “Am I betraying them? I don’t know what the potion is supposed to do. Maybe it’s a good thing.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“No . . . the truth is, I’m a coward.”
“You are one of many, so don’t hate yourself too much.”
“What should I do?”
“For your own sake, you must not perform this deed. An act of bravery performed now will greatly enhance your future—if not here, then elsewhere.”
“An act of bravery? I don’t understand. What can a simple man hope to accomplish against such evil?”
“Bravery comes in many forms.”
“I know none of them.”
Torg chuckled. “Have you seen the barrels?”
“No. But I believe they’re somewhere in the ziggurat where the witches perform their wicked magic. I am to receive them two mornings from now.”
Torg nodded. “You’ve said enough. I’ll release you now, but I want you to return to your room, wherever it might be.”
“Yes.”
“There is one more thing. You bear a weapon. I can sense it.”
“How did you know?” The man looked like he might cry. “I carry a Tugarian dagger, purchased at great expense from a golden soldier who claimed to have slain an Asēkha at the base of Uccheda. The blade is scratched, but it still gleams so bright it hurts my eyes.”
“The soldier was a liar, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed. Give the dagger to me. It belonged to a person I once knew.”
“Yes.”
The man gently placed Sōbhana’s dagger in Torg’s hand. Then he stood and wandered from the room. A hag spy, by far the most beautiful woman in the tavern, stood and followed. She had been watching Torg and the merchant with great interest. But Torg had noticed her too. As she walked toward the door in pursuit of the merchant, the dagger struck her in the back. It took a considerable amount of time for anyone to even notice she was dead. Finally a large man stumbled over her, laughing.
“Get up, you drunken bitch!” he said, nudging her ribs with the toes of his boot. When she didn’t move, he called one of the servers. There was a yelp. Someone screamed, “Blood!” And then the troll and the squint-eyed man were leaning over her.
Torg returned to his friends, who hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
“What’s going on over there?” Bard said to Ugga.
“I doesn’t care,” Ugga said. “I wants more of the beer.”
Torg leaned down and whispered in Elu’s ear. “I have a gift for you.”
He slid Sōbhana’s dagger into Elu’s boot. “Keep it safe. It’s quite valuable.”
Despite his drunkenness, the Svakaran smiled. “As you say, great one.”
Ziggurat
28
When midnight arrived, the tavern was bursting with drunken fools, including Ugga, Bard, Elu and Rathburt. Torg imagined the four of them standing by the log fire, their arms draped around each other at various heights, singing like loons. In a short while they would most likely head for the brothels within the seventh wall.
By this time, Torg was gone. He sat alone in his room at the inn, attempting to meditate. But he was unable to clear his mind, continually replaying his conversation with the merchant. Whatever the barrels contained, it couldn’t be good. But why would the witches want or need to poison an entire city, especially one as prosperous and militarily neutral as Senasana? Torg had missed something, but he couldn’t determine what.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he needed to find out what was in the barrels. And the only way to do that was to open them himself. He cursed the starlight, which provided too much illumination on such a clear night. But he was a Death-Knower, Asēkha and Tugar wrapped into one. His abilities would suffice.
As would be expected of an Asēkha, Torg had earlier chosen a belted black tunic and breeches from the batch of new clothes. His hooded cloak also was black, but it was too cumbersome for his intended mission, despite the chill in the night air. He went to a pewter basin in the latrine that was filled with clean water. Then he dumped the water down a small drain and stuffed the now-empty basin with towels. With a burst of flame from his fingertips, he reduced them to ash. It happened so quickly, there was very little smoke. Torg ground the ash in his hands and rubbed it on his face.
With the Silver Sword strapped to his back in its new scabbard, Torg exited the room through the window. His stealth was such that the warder in the turret saw no unusual movements.
The gaps between the stone blocks provided adequate grips. Torg wound his way around the back of the building and dropped into a narrow alley between the inn and the seventh wall. He knelt there and examined his surroundings. A hundred paces to his left, a door opened and someone emptied a bucket of garbage onto the pavement. Torg saw a dozen fist-sized shapes converge on it, tearing into the discarded food.
Torg crept along the base of the seventh wall, examining its texture with his fingertips. It was made of the same slippery stone as the ninth wall but otherwise was far less grand, smaller even than the eighth. Torg crouched on his haunches and leapt upward, landing like a cat on the top of the wall. From his vantage point, he could see the brothels, which swarmed with late-night business. Behind dark windows, men, women and even monsters engaged in every conceivable form of sexual activity. Few paid any attention to what was going on in the streets. With little effort, Torg passed by unseen.
The sixth wall also was small and undefended. Torg leapt over it and dropped onto a walkway of tiny white pebbles. The crunch of his soft landing was the first discernible sound he had made since climbing out the window of the inn.
Torg crept around the side of a white building that was raised off the ground on squat pillars. He knelt down and peered into a crawl space, studying a sunken area containing several wood furnaces stoked by male attendants. Heat rose up through hollowed spaces in the walls. Torg stood and then slid the toe of his boot into a crevice in one of the pillars, clambering up to a small window. He looked inside a well-lighted chamber that contained a pool of heated water. A dozen naked women lounged around the steamy pool, while several more were submerged past their shoulders. The ones he could see were tall, muscular and small-breasted, with short-cropped hair.
Torg recognized them as Sāykans, the famed female soldiers of Kamupadana. The Warlish witches had been masters of the Whore City for ten thousand years, but a never-ending line of Sāykans had served as its guardians for millennia beyond count. With the rise of Avici removing any serious threat of attack, the Sāykans now were used primarily as a police force. But they remained capable of holding the walls against great armies. In the corner of the bath, Torg could see their weapons arranged in open cabinets. Several female attendants stood nearby.
The Sāykans’ taut bodies were extremely pleasant to observe. They reminded Torg of Sōbhana, and he lingered by the window longer than was wise. The Sāykans were not as skilled as Tugars, but they were well-trained and clever. Then, one of the soldiers noticed something.
“W
e are watched!” she said.
Instantly they were on alert, racing toward their weapons and shouting orders to the attendants to sound an alarm. Torg cursed himself for his lapse of concentration and fled down a narrow space between the concrete buildings. He needed to get as far from the commotion as possible before attempting to scale the fifth wall, which he knew was the most heavily guarded of all.
The alley opened into a manicured courtyard. Several Sāykans, wearing studded leather tunics and leggings, stood near a bubbling fountain. As of yet they seemed unaware of any disturbance. A building adjacent to the bathhouse had a low balcony facing the courtyard. Torg pulled himself onto the balcony and crept along the flat stone on his stomach like a centipede.
A scourge of shouting followed, and a dozen half-dressed soldiers poured out of the bathhouse, calling to their sisters by the fountain. In response, several raced into the alley to investigate.
Torg waited until they returned. He was close enough to hear their report. They had found nothing. He waited until they dispersed.
Again Torg cursed himself for his stupidity before dropping off the balcony and slipping along the borders of the courtyard. He passed a second bathhouse, slithered through a narrow alley and raced along a lonely street for half a mile without encountering anyone. When he passed between another pair of buildings, he saw the fifth wall. It wasn’t as enormous as the ninth, but it was easily the second largest of all, almost fifty cubits tall and surmounted by walks with machicolated parapets. A deep moat, swarming with small but deadly eels capable of stripping the flesh off a person in moments, surrounded its base. One massive drawbridge spanned the moat, but it was not visible from where Torg stood. In the starlight, he could see dozens of soldiers patrolling the walks. Even late at night and with little threat of direct attack, they remained on alert.
Torg wondered if the mysterious barrels in the ziggurat had anything to do with heightened security.
Crouching in the dirt, he gauged his situation. The fifth wall was more than four hundred paces from where he stood. Beyond the moat was an empty expanse of hard-pressed clay, with scattered patches of gnarled grass. The archers on top of the wall had plenty of visibility. Torg wondered if it might be impossible—even for him—to advance much farther without being seen.