by J. W. Webb
On sacred days the temple was open to all. During such times the meanest peddler could rub shoulders with lords of the city. But this wasn’t a sacred day—worse, it was night time.
After dark the temple was frequented by the devout chosen. Wealthy and ambitious, they came to share secrets, plotting murder amid prayers in the secluded cloisters, and courting favour amongst their, even wealthier paeans. Such were the way of things in High Syrannos.
Barakani (guised as one such highborn) often came here to pay homage to the God. While he chanted prayer the old fox would listen to the whispers coming from the candlelit recesses lining the sides of the temple. Silon was new to the temple but his ally had left precise directions.
Silon passed beneath the huge chamber; above him a thousand candles flickered and winked beneath the arching, lofty, ivory and mahogany vaulted ceiling. This was gilded both inside and out, braced by elaborately carved pillars parading the chamber. The pillars—six in all—were covered in intricate paintings depicting Telcanna of the Skies.
A tall priest glanced up to challenge Silon as he walked by, his head bowed in prayer.
“All praise to the bright one,” Silon whispered, “I am here from Cappel on divine business.” Silon handed the parchment over from the fold in his cloak where he’d kept it stowed. Barakani’s forgery was good.
The priest’s eyes remained hostile, but he returned the docket and resumed his mantra, cupping skinny hands to his bald head, walking forward and ignoring the merchant. Silon let out a long slow breath. He didn’t like being here.
It was approaching midnight. Ahead by the concaves the priests of Telcanna were gathering for their hourly rituals. They knelt in front of the altar, gripping coloured beads and uttering words of humble prayer. All were clad in simple ochre robes held together by a scarlet tassel.
Silon walked on ignoring their monotonous chants until he reached the far wall. To his right the wide altar glistened with trickling water and carved statues of the gods watched him in silence. All were honoured here, though Telcanna ruled supreme, being lord of the desert skies.
Silon saw Elanion’s green cowled features amongst them and uttered a small prayer to his own goddess, though Her eyes seldom looked this far south.
Silon glanced into the gloom, discerned the small entrance to the cloister he had been seeking. Third on the right before last column—the nook he sought came into view. Hood pulled over his head, Silon stepped within, quietly pulling the scarlet velvet curtain across to hide him from prying eyes.
The room was musty, damp smelling and cramped but it had served Barakani well in the past, being a place where he and cohorts could communicate at will.
It was also empty.
Silon frowned; he had expected the desert lord to be waiting for him and was taken aback by his absence. This wasn’t good. Barakani was nothing if not reliable. Silon took a slow breath—must remain calm, evaluate situation.
Moments passed in silence. Ten minutes, perhaps twenty? Nothing.
Despite his iron control Silon became restless. Barakani was never late. It had been the warlord who had proposed this clandestine meeting stating it urgent.
Something untoward must have happened. Silon seated himself quietly on a stone stool, one of three residing in the room. He waited, feeling increasingly agitated.
Much depended on their meeting this night—he had news for Barakani too.
Still no one came. Silon got up to stretch and then noticed the folded parchment half hidden beneath a copper urn.
A note—but left by whom? It had to be Barakani.
Silon reached over and freed it, opening the folded parchment in haste to pore over the contents. The merchant held a candle close to study the manuscript. At once he recognised the clear hand of Barakani. The words were in archaic Permian, unreadable by most but Silon could decipher them easily. The merchant was a master of many tongues, in this business you needed to be. The note was short—succinct.
Silon, greeting,
Be warned the sultan has got word. I suspect from Caswallon. His slave galley has left Sedinadola bound hither, with a squad of his elite crimson guard on board.
It is no longer safe in the city; seek out my camp on the Strand.
The time is almost here. Telcanna guard you.
Barakani.
Silon shoved the parchment up his sleeve and turned to go.
Too late. Footsteps coming his way! Voices, soldiers by their tone. Silon closed his eyes, he was trapped in a noose and the rope was tightening fast. The thud of feet was closer now.
Boots scraped the corridor outside. Someone swore, the soldiers were coming this way. Refusing to panic Silon glanced above, noticed the low beams framed a hidden attic, its small door unbarred.
A chance—I’ve still got a chance.
With the aid of a stool Silon’s fingers could just brush the ceiling. He stretched out precariously on tiptoe, the stool rocking beneath him, at last grabbing the hatch handle and pulling it toward him. The hatch swung open and Silon heaved his body up through the tight aperture, rolling out of view and silently closing the hatch just as three crimson guard entered below. His ear to the attic floor, Silon lay deathly still and listened to their words.
“The rebel leader is somewhere in the city, we may be sure of it,” growled a deep voice laden with authority. “We’ll scour the streets until we have him and his followers in our grasp.”
“I think we’re too late,” whispered another voice, cruel sounding with a lisp. “That Barakani’s a slippery fucker; he’s probably got word by now and sneaked out into the desert.”
“How will he have got word, Gamesh?” asked a third voice, younger.
“Same way we did,” muttered the lisping Gamesh. “Spies. Whole sodding deserts full of ’em.”
“Hold that tongue lest I cut it out!” (The leader again—the first voice).
“Soon they’ll all be crow bait,” he growled. “Skin flayed off their backs and their limbs removed. It’s the only way to deal with spies and traitors.”
“You got to catch ’em first,” hissed Gamesh, undeterred by the other’s threat. “If our royal bloater hadn’t insisted in joining us with his cursed eunuchs we’d have been here earlier and sprung the trap.”
“You really should watch your tongue, Gamesh!” warned the first voice. “One day soon the sultan will have it on a plate.”
“Only if you tell him, Migen,” responded Gamesh with a sneer.
“And who’s to say I won’t—weasel that you are.”
“We had best search this place all the same,” whispered the younger voice, which seemed more nervous than the other two.”
“No point, he’s slipped the net,” growled Migen. “Gamesh is right about that much. Still, Barakani’s running out of hiding places in the city and that foul spy creature informed our master of his camp’s whereabouts close to the sea.”
“Aye, we’re to send a hundred men there at first light,” laughed Gamesh. “By noon the rebel’s camp will be reduced to cinders. Barakani’s pathetic insurrection will prove shortlived indeed.”
“Then what?” enquired the young voice.
“We go south,” growled Migen.
“Why south?”
“Because the sultan wants us to, you twat.” Gamesh’s unpleasant voice sounded alarmingly close. Silon tried not to breathe as painful cramp seized his leg. He willed it away.
“His Nibs got word of intruders in the desert,” said Migen. “Fools were spotted by Sulimo who said they were bound for Agmandeur. But I know where their real destination is. The Crystal Mountains.”
“Are they mad? How do you know this?” Gamesh and the youngster asked in unison.
“I listen when my betters talk,” responded Migen with a superior snort. “That goblin creature—the spy—entered the royal palace last week when I was on watch.
“Gave me the creeps it did. But it held audience with his Ugliness. Told him about these villains—a nasty bunch
apparently, especially the one with a bow. Seems they are wanted by its master, some warlock in the north.”
“Warlock…?” The young one sounded worried.
“Yes, warlock—they’re all fucking witches up there. What else is there to do in the freezing dark? It’s always winter up there, so they say.”
“But the Crystal Mountains lie close to the realm of the Ty-Tander! Hundreds of leagues across the desert!” snorted Gamesh. “Only lunacy would send them there!”
“Well, you had best prepare yourselves. For once we have tidied up this business with the rebels; it’s into the desert we go, my brave lads!” Migen’s gruff voice sounded smug as he spoke.
“Anyway, enough of this idle speculation. We had best be moving on, the big boss wants the whole city searched by dawn. If we don’t apprehend the impostor we’ll be on fatigues for a month. Pots and pans with naught but sand to clean them. And latrine duty to boot. Come on!”
The sound of heels scraping stone and boot treads walking away. They’d gone—at least for the moment.
Silon mouthed a curse. Barakani’s camp lay several miles outside Syrannos, hidden by rocks above the beach. He’d never make it before dawn. By then the area would be crawling with the sultan’s crimson guard.
Has to be a way to warn him—else we lose everything today.
He sat thinking for a moment, slowly stretching and easing the cramp from his thigh.
Silon lowered the hatch and squeezed his body out. Dropping silent to the floor, he let out a long slow breath, straightened his aching leg and rubbed his tired eyes. What to do?
He was caught like a bug in a jar, trapped in Syrannos while Barakani waited for him, unsuspecting down on the Silver Strand. Unaware his camp was about to be raided by the sultan’s elite.
And what of the crown? How could Migen (clearly an officer) know about that? It seemed Caswallon’s reach had grown longer than they’d suspected. If the sultan knew of the lost prince and broken crown, what chance would Corin and the others have?
One thing certain, Silon could not stay here a minute longer.
He pulled back the drapes. No sign of the soldiers but several priests were still roaming about. Silon smiled. There was only one guise that would enable him to pass through Syrannos unchallenged. And that was readily available.
“Telcanna forgive me!” Silon whispered as he struck the nearest priest from behind, and then dragged the prone body into the cloister out of sight.
Silon hurriedly threw the yellow robe other his head. The priest had been bigger than him and the garment easily covered his other clothes. He tied the scarlet sash tight and straightened the robe. The bottom of his scimitar’s hilt was just noticeable beneath it, but there was little he could do about that.
Grasping the coloured beads the priest had been shaking, Silon distanced himself from the high altar and cloisters. A priest turned his way but paid him no heed. Silon walked on, beads turning in his fingers and mouth wording chants.
Reaching the far doors he eased one open, glanced about. All quiet outside. Silon summoned calm and stepped warily out into the night. He took to the main street again but this time walking boldly. Telcanna’s priests were above suspicion normally.
Two purple-robed city guard watched him with cold distrusting eyes as he approached the gates to the lower quarter. They seemed on edge—no doubt having the superior sultan’s elite in town had put their noses out of joint.
Silon ignored their hostile glances. He strode by chanting and hugging his beads, his heart thumping like a door knocker against his chest.
He reached the gates and motioned he wanted out. The lone sentry looked tired. He let Silon through without a word and closed the gates behind him.
Clear of the gatehouse and back in the slums, Silon stole a horse from a nearby stable. He saddled the beast quickly and rode past the harbour and out from the city under the cover of darkness. He noted The Starlight Wanderer had gone and thanked Elanion for that when he saw the huge vessel moored close by. The sultan’s slaver, no doubt.
Tight-faced, Silon spurred his stolen steed west along the Silver Strand. As the horse galloped the sparkling breakers of the western ocean lapped around its sploshing hooves.
The sky lightened behind him. Morning dawned ominous and red. Beyond the city a storm mustered out to sea, its outriders swept shoreward like hungry smoky fingers. They pursued Silon as he urged his mount ever faster.
Elanion, please let me get there in time…
Chapter 20
The Faen
Barin’s blue gaze moodily studied the wooded shoreline scarce a hundred yards to starboard. He didn’t like this place and grumbled incessantly as his men hurried to repair the great rents in the sails of The Starlight Wanderer. They had already lost four days because of the storm. With winter’s fast approach the seas would only get rougher, making their trip north more difficult.
Barin dared not hug the coasts of Raleen and Kelwyn. The Assassin’s sharks would be prowling those waters intent on revenge. It was a confounded nuisance, but there was nothing for it. They would have to take their chances with the open sea in winter. The new crewmembers would have to learn fast. But they should shape up quickly. Taic and Sveyn, though lazy, knew sail craft and had served as experienced crew from time to time, when they weren’t wenching and larking about.
The two outlanders, Wogun and Norman (Barin still had trouble with their names and where they came from), were hardworking and steady. And even better, experienced sailors. Haikon (the surviving fisherman from Syrannos), was tough and keen to learn, particularly after losing his friend in the storm. That left the girl. Barin didn’t know what to think about her.
Time would tell. At least they were safe for the time being and it would not be long now before they could set sail again. That moment could not come soon enough in Barin’s opinion.
This coastline had an odd feel about it. It was witchy and queer. Some of the crew (mainly Wogun and Norman who were more familiar with Golt than anyone else on board), whispered that they’d spotted tall horned shapes watching them at night from within the darkness of the knotted tangle of woods encroaching the shore. Trolls, witches and wood ogres, Wogun muttered under his breath until Fassof told him to shut up.
But even Barin had heard rumours about Golt. None were good. This misty land was veiled in dark mystery; tales of weird fiends haunting brackish pools and stalking these far-flung beguiling forests still terrified children in his homeland. But the truth was no one knew much about Golt. The lands west and south of Permio were wild and uncharted—at least by sailors from the Four Kingdoms, though the Permians were rumoured to fare that way. What those mariners saw they kept to themselves, thus Golt’s mystery grew.
Barin lounged at the prow. He watched Shallan assist her father through the deck hatch as gloom settled in the forests ahead. Duke Tomais looked very pale and thin; his health having deteriorated in the humid air that clung to skin and clothes like spiders’ webs—another thing Barin hated about this infernal coast.
The duke’s daughter had a determined look as she aided her father onto the deck. Barin liked the girl. Shallan had shown remarkable courage during the storm despite being ill, and had since helped Fassof and Ruagon with dressing wounds and cheering those forlorn with pain.
Shallan was an unusual girl. Kept her own counsel most the time and when on deck watched the shore in thoughtful silence. A beauty, uncommonly graceful and slender. That said, it wasn’t just her looks but her manner too. Proud, a bit stiff sometimes but when she laughed it was impossible not to like her. Barin noted how she often wore a dreamy look, seeming far away. Tall, willowy, yet strong and lithe. Thoughtful, intelligent and kindly of nature. Such was Barin’s opinion of the girl.
Barin heaved up the gangplank as the last crewman clambered on board. They’d been hewing logs and were all exhausted. Barin’s blue gaze surveyed the rocky coast flanking their anchorage. Those woods gave him the creeps too though he kept that q
uiet. Even as Barin watched, the familiar evening mist rolled in on silent wheels, clinging to and masking the mass of tangled growth. Weird howls and distant grunts sounded from deep inside the forest. Barin watched for several moments then shook his head in disgust and retired below deck.
“The sooner we’re away from here the happier I’ll be,” Barin admitted to Shallan after the duke had returned to his cabin to rest. “How is your father?”
“I’m worried about him, Barin,” she answered. “His eyes carry shadows and he is always so tired. I think he has lost faith in our world.”
“This dammed heat doesn’t help. Playing havoc with our ale supplies. I’m shedding pounds whilst slurping gallons. Still, we’ll be under sail at first light. The repairs are completed bar those timbers Cogga’s lads heaved up earlier. Cogga’s ship’s carpenter—he’ll work through the night with my nephew and the other idiot.” Shallan hadn’t had a chance to talk to Barin’s nephew though she’d heard a deal about him from Ruagon the cook (who didn’t approve). Taic had winked at her once, he seemed cheerful and sunny despite his reputation.
Barin rubbed his chin and farted. He apologised and Shallan raised a brow. So different from the fawning nobles back home. “With a bit of luck we’ll encounter a helpful wind that will carry us far away from this miserable coast.”
“It is strange here,” nodded Shallan, watching the mist gather apace. “I feel an odd temptation to go ashore and enter those woods. I cannot think why, Barin. It’s almost like someone is calling me.”
“Just your imagination,” Barin rubbed his beard. “This place stinks of enchantment. Who knows what might become of you among those fly and mosquito-infested trees? This land gives me the willies; I’ll not deny it.” Barin poured himself an ale before continuing. Shallan sipped water and listened.
“The crew are muttering amongst themselves and giving me black looks. They haven’t been happy since we left Port Sarfe. And now we have this new lot. I vowed never to employ foreigners. My old lads miss their homes and kin, Shallan, and their dead comrades. This run of bad luck has hit them hard.”