Polas started toward the back of the wagon, but the man darted in front of him.
"Oh, I’ll handle that part," he said with a gummy smile. "Have just the thing for it. Mind moving the wheel into place?"
Polas shrugged. He rolled the discarded wheel over and leaned it against the wagon’s side. A few moments later, the man poked his head around from the back of the cart and gave a wave.
"Alright," Polas said. "Back them up."
The woman, still unwilling to lift her head, gently coaxed the massive bulls back. The yoke caught and the bracing lifted. Polas slid the wheel into place and pushed it back over the axel. A broken rod sat in a hole at the end of the round beam, snapped from strain.
"Looks like you lost a peg," he said. "You have anything else that will manage?"
The man dug around for a bit in the wagon then returned with a long metal bolt.
"This work?"
"Should do fine," Polas said as he knocked the remains of the broken peg out of the shaft and slid the bolt into place. He picked up a rock from the roadside and used it to bend the bolt on both ends so that it would not rattle loose. "That should do it. You'll need to get proper repairs when you get to the next town, but this should hold until then."
"Well, thank you kindly, sir," said the man. "I almost feel bad about doing this."
"About doing what?"
Polas turned as the man unleashed a jolt of electricity from his palms. The air crackled and split with a thunderous boom as the arc connected with Polas’s chest. As quickly as the bolt came, it fizzled out.
He looked down at the small burn mark on his shirt and back up to the man.
The man’s mouth hung open, and his blistered tongue rolled about trying to find a word to shout, but all that came was a long, grated breath. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled a dagger from his belt and lunged.
Polas stepped inside the attack and deflected the man’s arm out wide. He punched him once in the ribs then spun him around and knocked him to the ground.
"What is this?" Polas asked. "Are you a failed sorcerer plying your trade as a cloaked drakken?"
He walked to the woman at the front of the cart and gently lifted her chin. Her eyes were bruised and her lips broken and scabbed.
"There’s more," she whispered. "In the wagon."
Polas took her by the hand and walked around to the back. Inside were eleven beings, all chained together at the feet. Most were Peltins, though a young Ampen and a Cairtol family with two young children huddled together in the rickety wagon. They all had burn marks, bruises, and a metal collar around their necks. Polas stepped up into the wagon.
"No!" The man cried out. "They’re mine! They belong to me!" He scrambled to the back of the wagon and grabbed the end of the long chain that connected all of his slaves. His eyes glazed blue, and a pulse of electricity shot through the chain. The slaves screamed, whimpered, and convulsed until Polas reached down and grabbed the chain, short of the greasy man’s grip.
The electric current stopped at the ancient general’s balled fist. He jerked the chain out of the man’s grip and kicked him in the chin. The man tumbled backward and fell to the roadside. Polas jumped down after him and pinned his arms out wide. He pummeled the man, striking him in the face.
"You’re no sorcerer," he said between blows. "I know those eyes. You’re one of the One-Forty-Four. This is how you choose to use your Gift? Enslaving those whom you should be protecting!"
He finished with one more blow to the temple, which knocked the man unconscious. He jerked a key ring off the man’s belt and stomped his way back toward the wagon.
After releasing everyone from their chains and making sure no one possessed injuries that would be life threatening, he gave the woman the rations he had left and half of his coins. "Stick together and don't ride the wagon too hard. Will that be enough to buy all of you a night at an inn and maybe a hot meal?"
The woman bowed. "Yes, good sir. More than enough. Thank you for your generosity."
"Just be careful."
Polas turned back toward the unconscious man, but the woman stopped him with a gentle touch to his shoulder.
"May I have your name, sir?"
The others had gathered around. The Cairtol family shared a long embrace, and a few of the Peltins extended their hands to thank him.
"I am Polas Kas Dorian."
One of the Cairtol children squealed and hid behind her father.
"Surely not," a Peltin man said. "The Iron Butcher?"
"In my time I was simply Polas, but since then it seems I have gained many names."
"Master Kas Dorian, then," said the woman, "we will thank Leindul for you and pray for your safe travel.
"Save your prayers or spend them elsewhere. I can no longer stomach them."
Polas finished shaking hands with those others who still had the nerve to thank him. He watched them climb back into the wagon, now free men and women, and waited until they were out of sight before retrieving his horse and returning to the slaver.
When the man finally awoke, Polas stood over him.
"Now, I’m going to leave you here. Hopefully you’ll be able to protect yourself with that power of yours, and perhaps you’ll start to understand that your Gift was meant to guard and not to abuse."
Polas mounted and started riding north once again, leaving the man alone on the road. He had always been overly trusting, and it had gotten him into more scraps than he could remember, but the old man’s ruse made him sick. The One-Forty-Four were given great Gifts of power from the Naluni; power that sorcerers and mages spent lifetimes learning how to replicate. To see that power used for such evil made Polas glad that he was a Kas Dorian and incapable of controlling or even feeling the effects of such arcane powers. Power like that was not meant for mortals to possess.
CHAPTER NINE
Shirmattaa was a practical man. He dressed sharply, ate as often as he was hungry – which was quite often – and did not waste time worrying about things he could not control. He had a knack for knowing when an opportunity was too good to pass up, and he had always known when to steer clear. Unfortunately, his current situation did not allow for the latter. He had worked hard to get to the top of this organization, and he did not like when powerful men exerted their influence to sway him into action.
He found himself sitting in his office in the upper level of the Sun House hall across from a blonde haired man in black armor. Calec Kas Dorian, the guardian of Exandercrast himself, was here to barter an arrangement with the Thieves’ Guild. Of course, no true trade was actually being offered. The deal felt awfully one-sided to the leader of the House of Suns, and he knew a thing or two about one-sided deals. He had authored many to get where he was today.
Shirmattaa took a slow sip of mead, aged three months, from a jeweled chalice. He did not like the boy. This guardian was a terrible guest and had hardly said more than five words since his arrival. He refused Shirmattaa’s extraordinary hospitality; turning down drink, lansen wafers, and even the finest tam-grass in all Maduria. However, Calec’s silent stare was intimidating. Shirmattaa even thought that perhaps he should consider talking less to see if he could use it as an edge, but immediately dismissed the idea. He loved to talk. Shirmattaa prided himself on his loquacious tongue, among many other fine attributes he possessed. In fact, he often found himself so charming that he secretly wondered if he might be one of the One-Forty-Four with the Gift of divine charisma.
He brought his mind back to the task at hand and the document before him. He had finished reading it for the third time, but he was still reluctant to sign. He did not treasure the idea of signing a contract with a Nalunis - or was it Nalunas? He never remembered the difference - especially not Exandercrast. Of course, he thought the idea that Naluni were gods was completely ridiculous. Clearly, they were nothing more than an ancient race of near-immortals with vast arcane powers. It just so happened that Exandercrast was the effective master of all his kind.
As far as men wen
t, they did not come much more powerful than that.
Two vicious Ibor stood behind Calec, acting as his honor guard. Shirmattaa did not want to know the limits to which they could push a man. So he simply sat, re-reading the proposal, nodding and pointing at certain phrases, and doing all he could to keep from wetting his pants. This agreement had the potential to be very costly. He did not know anything about this Iron Butcher fellow outside of the old children's tales, but the fact that Exandercrast sought him and was calling in reserves to help, meant the man likely possessed immeasurable power. Shirmattaa’s Thieves’ Guild was to pay the bulk of the cost with their own blood. No matter. Thieves were replaceable. As long as Shirmattaa held on to his position and, more importantly, his life, he was certain that he could find a way to spin the reason for the agreement later.
Was it not Exandercrast’s rule that made organizations like this possible? This venture was simply an investment to continue their way of doing business. Being owed a favor by the self-proclaimed God of Fear could not hurt either. Shirmattaa would need to set things in motion immediately. He already had a few names in mind of Guild members he would call into action. Perhaps it would play out into a very entertaining game.
He smiled a broad, toothy smile that certainly proved how genuine his thoughts and actions were as he signed the parchment and extended his hand.
"Calec," he said, "tell your master that it’s an honor working with him. I will ready our agents immediately."
CHAPTER TEN
The Faldred scholar did his best to keep up with his young student, but he was much older and was heavy laden. He stopped and rested his hands on his knees. His brown tunic was wrapped loosely around his wide frame so that he did not chafe. On his back, he carried a large pack brimming with books, scrolls, a frying pan, a lantern, and a cacophony of rattling miscellany. His skin was ashen grey and spotted by dark black circles. His forehead was large and round, and a leather cap covered his bald head.
"I’m not one to complain, my dear, but I think it is about time we took another rest."
He loosened the straps on his pack and breathed a sigh of relief as it fell to the ground. He promptly sat atop it, stretched his thick legs out, and rocked back on his rump.
His pupil wore a similar brown robe with its hood pulled up concealing her face and her athletic figure. She was a Peltin girl roughly sixteen years of age, and she carried a quarterstaff a few inches taller than her slight stature. She turned toward her teacher and removed her hood revealing brilliant, fiery red hair pulled back in a tight braid that disappeared into the back of her robes. Her skin was pale and smooth, and her eyes shone like peridot gems.
"Master, we stopped just a short while ago. And we are almost there. I should think you would be even more excited than I am to be this close."
The road ahead of them was clear as far as the eye could see. A few tall boulders lined the path, and the northern reaches of the Rhamewash Forest provided a border on its western side. It was dinnertime by Madurian standards, and most travelers would be nearing their destinations or beginning preparations to camp for the night.
"Oh I am, my dear, I am," he replied. "But I am also weary. I am carrying the majority of our load, after all."
"That’s because it’s your load, Master. I told you not to bring so many books."
The two shared a brief moment of laughter as a bandaged rider passed them on the road to Odes’Kan.
"Horses. What we need are horses," said the Faldred. "Now horses would make carrying this load much easier."
"If you’ll remember," his student said, "I suggested procuring mounts before we left, but you said that we had plenty of time and that we would appreciate the journey more on foot."
The Faldred shrugged. "Child, that was a month ago, and these packs seem to weigh more heavily on me with each day. It may be that I am finally getting too old for this much travel."
"Maybe if you’d stop collecting rocks from every landmark we reach."
"Perhaps. But then, what token would you suggest? I can’t very well take each signpost we cross or spend all our coin on trinkets."
"We might’n be helpin’ ya wit dat coin," snarled a sinister voice behind them.
A fierce lupine being emerged from his hiding place amongst a pile of boulders. He had the body of a wiry man, though covered in thick hair, and the head of a wolf. His fur was black, and his face was scarred. His knees bent back like a quadruped's hind legs, though he stood upright like a man. In his clawed hand, he carried a serrated blade that matched his jagged-toothed grin.
The Faldred stood and smiled. "My friend, we are but humble pilgrims on a great quest."
Two more creatures emerged from their hiding places along the road to surround the Faldred and his pupil.
"Shut yer noise." The larger had the form of a bipedal boar; hideous tusks jutted from his lower jaw and were stained black with decay. He waved a massive club at the Faldred scholar, and a sneer spread across his face that contorted his features so that his eyes resembled dark buttons.
The last of the trio was a humanoid jackal. He nervously swayed from side to side, his lithe frame coiled in anticipation. His snout was pointy and ended in a blotchy pink and black nose. His fists held two rusty knives in a reverse grip.
The girl took a step back toward her teacher. "Master, are these the Fallen?"
"My dear, Fallen is a racially derogatory name. These gentle-beings are Dorokti, and I take from their lack of a sophisticated dialect that they are of the Tesakti clan." The Faldred turned toward the wolf creature. "This is my pupil, Xandra, and I am Flint, a scholar from the Hollow Mountains. Perhaps we can discuss things in a more civil manner lest any blood be needlessly shed."
"You talk too much," said the boar Dorokti. "Just drop yer gear."
Flint looked down at his pack, which was already on the ground, then back up at the boar, narrowed his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak.
"First takes on the heat," the jackal Dorokti screamed and sprang into action.
He lunged at Xandra. Her quarterstaff met him on the chin with a blow that sent him sprawling.
Xandra stood her staff on end and whirled, discarded her outer robe along the roadside, and grabbed her staff again before it could fall. Beneath her robe, she wore a tight fitting hide bodysuit of the purest white. Her ruby braid danced around her like a bright ribbon, swirling down to her knees.
The remaining two Dorokti pounced, weapons and teeth bared. The boar tackled Flint, and the wolf slashed at Xandra with his jagged scimitar.
Xandra sidestepped the blow and cracked him on the back of the head as he passed. He staggered forward while she wove a circular, defensive pattern with the staff, readying for his next attack. The strike came high. She swung her staff up to meet him and caught the feral aggressor between the legs. He collapsed, dropping his scimitar to the ground. Xandra kicked it off the road and turned to assist Flint.
The boar Dorokti was on top of Flint, throttling him. Flint’s hands tried to pry the boar away, but the creature was too strong. He could not talk, and his eyes were starting to loll back in his head.
Xandra swung her staff like a child playing stickball. She hit the boar directly in the snout, snapping one of his tusks with the blow. He reared back with black blood spewing from his porcine nose. She followed with a series of blows to his stomach and sent him over backwards with a kick beneath his chin.
Flint blinked his large eyes and reached his hand up for an assist from Xandra. She bent down to help her master regain his feet.
A shrill cry made her turn in time to see the jackal leaping toward her with twin daggers aimed for her heart. She did not have time to think. She simply extended both her hands forward, palms toward the frenzied Dorokti, and closed her eyes.
A blast of white light took the jackal in the chest and left a gaping hole in his back. The creature fell to the hard road, dead where he lay.
"Xandra, that was too much. You need to conserve your Gift f
or only the direst of situations. You don’t yet have the strength to harness it properly."
Xandra bowed her head, "Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master."
Flint picked up her robe and handed it to her. "But you did well, dear. I’m proud of you."
Xandra grinned as she put her robe back on.
After helping to bind the boar and the wolf Dorokti, Xandra watched as Flint stopped to say a short prayer over the fallen jackal. He bent down and closed the creature's eyes before gathering up their assailants’ weapons and stuffing them into his pack.
"Shall we continue then?" he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Polas arrived in Odes’Kan before dusk. The city had certainly changed since his last visit. It was massive. What was once a humble trading post on the way to the port of Tovarsh was now the capitol of Maduria. It had expanded greatly, and massive walls encircled the city to protect its inhabitants. What Polas remembered of the city was now Cheapside where the dregs went to eke out a living on the scraps of those more fortunate.
The main road that ran through the center of the town was lined with shops and storefronts and was dotted with artful fountains and statuary gardens. Odd ovals perched atop metal polls lined the road on both sides, and Polas puzzled over their purpose. He could only assume that they were new arcane conjurations to replace the oil lanterns that hung roadside in his day. At the end of the road, in the very middle of town, a magnificent cerulean castle stood. Polas had only once seen a structure created by men that rivaled its beauty: the Spire of Leindul in Odoror.
He made his way through the city streets doing his best to go unnoticed. It was relatively easy in the bustling city. Vendors barked their deals to passing customers. Dairbun artisans showed their wares to a group of admiring Coranthens. Cairtol gypsies performed parlor tricks in an open alley for Peltin children. Wagons, pack animals, and carts crowded the causeway and kept less courageous people on the sidewalks near the shops.
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