Wings Over Talera

by Charles Allen Gramlich

  Outside the tavern there was commotion. I heard running feet. And six men burst through the door into the room, weapons drawn, eyes on fire with the threat of violence. They were looking for me, and that meant at least twelve killers had been used to set this trap. Probably more. I didn’t know how many heads Valyan had taken when he’d secured the second floor.

  Another arrow flashed from the balcony and one newcomer went down kicking. I heard someone shout, “Get him!” and three of that crowd rushed the stairs after Valyan. I wished him the best and parried a sword coming in from my right. Two others among the original assassins tried to charge me. I cut them both and leaped away.

  Then the Nokarran came roaring in, axe twinkling, striking down. I dodged and the heavy weapon splintered an oaken table into fragments. He was fast and the axe licked up and to the side, quick as a snake’s strike. I felt the brush of it against my leather jerkin as I dodged again. Snarling, I slashed at him, felt the shock of his strength as he blocked with the axe’s bone-reinforced haft. He twisted the weapon, trying to drag my blade down and break it.

  “You’re meat,” he growled.

  “Not yours,” I said, and I disengaged with a spin, coming around with the spiked heel of my boot snapping high.

  I was going for the beast’s throat but got his shoulder and upper chest instead, tearing raw furrows through fur and skin. He howled, fell back, and I ended the spin with a drop to one knee, lunging with saber held straight and flat toward the Klar, who was coming hard from the side. He impaled himself, the tip lancing from his back in a spray of red froth. In the next instant I was back on my feet, the sword coming free of the Klar’s body with a wet, grating sound.

  At the bar, the two remaining newcomers prepared to rush me, to finish the fight. They never got the chance. The bartender knocked them cold from behind with the drunk-persuader that is usually to be found in such taverns. Then, Diken Graye tossed aside his club and his disguise and vaulted the bar with a laugh and a readied sword.

  Of the six assassins in the Rattling Saber when I arrived, only three were left—two humans and the Nokarran axe-wielder. The men turned to face Diken. The Nokarran’s eyes locked with mine, filled with a feral light. And from above on the balcony we all heard attack turn to rout, as the three men who had gone after Valyan found Kreeg slipping from a supposedly empty room to take them from behind.

  With the dice rolling now in my favor, I stepped back and offered the Nokarran a mocking salute with my sword. He growled, and rushed. I should have leaped aside; I could have avoided him. But there are those who say that in battle I am devil-possessed, and perhaps they are right. As the being side-armed his axe toward me, whipping it across his body to split me apart, I leaped in.

  The axe-head missed me; his arm struck my side. I barely felt that blow as I dropped my sword and punched with a shoulder into the beast’s rib cage. He grunted and I grabbed one of his legs and a hip. And I picked him up and threw him into the wall behind us. The room shook when he hit, and again when he crashed to the floor, and before he could get to his feet I whirled and palmed a dagger and hurled it. That foot of steel buried itself to the quillions in his throat, and his axe fell from useless fingers as he died.

  Valyan dropped soft-footed from the balcony to the floor, and Kreeg rushed down the stairs with a bloody axe of his own. The remaining two assassins licked dry lips and backed away from where they had been pressing their attack against Diken Graye. Outnumbered and surrounded, they tossed their swords aside. The battle was over.

  * * * * * * *

  “All mercenaries,” Valyan said in disgust as he looked over our slain foes and the four survivors bound against the bar. Two of the latter were still unconscious from Diken Graye’s clubbing.

  “All except this one,” I muttered, bending over the Nokarran. He no longer smelled like cloves. Already, corruption was seeping in. I pulled my dagger from his throat, wiped it clean against his fur, and sheathed it. Then I bent further to examine the odd tattoo that etched the center of his chest.

  A bystander, more curious than wise, peeked into the tavern, then ducked quickly out as Kreeg glared at him. I ignored the distraction, studying the tattoo, and again that sense of familiarity struck me. Two spheres? One inside the other? And lightning bolts connecting them?

  For the first time I noticed some smaller details of the symbol. Above the solid central sphere, but inside the outer one, a small...orb was inked. This was quartered in fours, each a different color—blue, green, gold, red. On the opposite side of the central sphere, placed close together, were four more orbs. These were evenly spaced, but from left to right each was bigger than the one before. They also were colored, and a chill flashed along my spine.

  “Blue, green, gold, red,” I murmured to myself. I bent closer. “Yes!” Two dots, no larger than freckles, straddled the third orb of the four. And I knew.

  “Why don’t you think that one is a mercenary?” Valyan asked over my shoulder.

  I did not answer him, but said: “Someone who covets, or who carries a grudge, is launching the attacks on Nyshphal. Who? And what do Bryce and I have to do with it?”

  “The target must be Nyshphal,” Graye said. “You and your brother are only pieces on the board.”

  “Likely,” I agreed. “But again I ask who?”

  “I think Ubai,” Kreeg said.

  Valyan glanced at him. “The Pangalan Empire! Why?”

  “I do not like them,” Kreeg replied.

  Diken Graye chuckled and Kreeg frowned. I let my eyes rest on Graye’s for a moment. He flushed, then looked away.

  “I don’t think it could be Ubai,” Valyan continued. “They’re too new at empiring. Got their hands full with the Thorn Nomads to their east. With Delnad and Revenor to the north. They’d be fools to attack a power like Nyshphal.”

  “Then who do you name?” Kreeg snapped.

  Valyan shrugged.

  “What if we’re thinking too recently?” I asked.

  The others looked at me blankly.

  “Thirty, Thirty-five, years ago,” I said, “most of central and eastern Nyshphal was conquered territory. Half a dozen factions were involved. Hurnan Jystral beat them all. Ran them out. What if today’s attacks have old roots? Revenge. Or simply a renewal of plans deferred.”

  Valyan raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye,” Kreeg spat. “It must be!”

  “Possible,” Diken Graye agreed. But which faction?

  “There were six,” I said, speaking from the reading I’d done in Nyshphalian history. My thoughts softened and ached. It had once seemed wise to learn as much as I could about my adopted country. My almost adopted country.

  “Delnad and Revenor were two of the six,” Valyan offered.

  “Yes,” I agreed, pulling myself back to the moment. “And Menes-Menehse. The Demalion Alliance at Trazull and Quetta. The Northern League....”

  “The Northern League,” Graye mused. “Jarn Thevasa’s attempt to unify the Waithian clans. But that collapsed right after Jarn’s death and the clans have been killing each other ever since. They’re not unified enough to pose a threat now.”

  “Nor is the Demalion Alliance,” I said. “The pirate alliance as it was called. These raids might seem their style but it’s been thirty years since that coalition self-destructed.”

  “Menes-Menehse was swallowed by Ubai,” Valyan added. “And I don’t see how Delnad or Revenor would have the wherewithal. Not with Ubai just waiting for its digestion to clear before it eats them next.”

  “You mentioned six factions,” Diken Graye said, looking at me. “I’ve only heard five named.”

  “The sixth was different,” I said. “It was a religion. The Priest-Cult of Rampuur.”

  “Sorcerers, weren’t they?” Graye asked.

  “So it was rumored. Worshippers of a goddess named Vohanna.”

/>   Valyan snarled and I glanced at him in surprise. His lips were thin; his cheek twitched. Then his eyes cooled. “Sorry. It’s only that I haven’t heard that name in a very long time. And I don’t care for it.”

  Diken Graye beat me to, “why?”

  Valyan considered, spoke: “Vo...hanna was one of the twelve First Gods. Those who made the world.”

  “The Asadhie,” I blurted, my thoughts suddenly shocked with recognition. I’d heard Vohanna’s name before (see Swords of Talera) and knew she was one of the so called “First Gods.” But now.... I glanced at the dead Nokarran’s tattoo, and back to Valyan.

  “Yes,” Valyan said, nodding. “They are sometimes named that. The...Asadhie created chosen races to serve them, the Llurns, the Koro, and others. My people, the Nakscherii, were given form by the goddess Ivrail, who was loving and kind.”

  From what I had heard of the Asadhie, I had my doubts about the kindness of any of them. I didn’t interrupt Valyan’s story, however.

  “Ivrail was one of only two goddesses among the Twelve. The other, her mortal enemy, was Vohanna. Out of jealousy and spite, Vohanna attacked Ivrail. Their followers joined them in the war, and eventually all of the Twelve became involved.”

  He glanced at us. “I know you’ve all heard of the God War, the destruction from which swept three-quarters of Talera into ruins. That was thousands of years ago. Afterward, the First Gods left Talera.” He motioned about, his gesture clearly indicating more than just this tavern. “I was always told that Vohanna’s earthly empire covered this sector of Talera. Perhaps that is why parts of Trazull seem so ancient and so much finer than one would expect pirates and outlaws to build.”

  “And why, in the northern plains of Nyshphal, there is a ruined city called Vohan,” I added.

  “It was supposedly the capital,” Valyan said.

  I considered what Valyan had told us. There were, I thought, inaccuracies. But no more than one would expect of religious traditions. The Asadhie had surely existed. But they had never been gods, merely scientifically advanced beings who delighted in manipulating more primitive societies. I knew this from Jedik Ver Lha Yed, a friend who was dead now but who had, himself, been born of a scientific people.

  And though there had been a “God War” as Valyan mentioned, it had been only hundreds, not thousands of years ago, and it was not clear at all that the Asadhie had left Talera. Jedik had been convinced that they still shaped this world, though with greatly diminished powers.

  I glanced once more at the tattooed symbol inking the Nokarran assassin’s chest. Thoughts that had been stirring coalesced. A few moments earlier I had recognized the tattoo for what it was, a perfect representation of Talera, complete with sun, moons, and atmospheric shield. Now, while not exactly a secret, the true nature of Talera as an artificially constructed world is not generally known. None of my companions knew it. And I was aware of no maps that showed the connection between the atmospheric shield and the Taleran surface. Except one. This tattoo.

  So who had designed the tattoo? It had to be someone who knew the truth of Talera. Someone like an Asadhie. My mind took the leap that it wanted to take.

  I walked over to our prisoners. Three of them looked up at me, fear in their eyes. The fourth was still unconscious.

  “Where would a man go if he wanted to worship Vohanna?” I asked them.

  Two of them quickly shook their heads to deny any knowledge. I believed them. The third man turned pale and stiffened before he, too, shook his head in denial. I squatted before that one.

  “Tell me,” I whispered, and Valyan later said that my voice sounded like the purr of steel shredding silk. “Tell me, and you’ll live.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  KELLET’S BAY

  The brush around us dripped with night fog; the grass clung wet to our boots. Kreeg, Valyan, Diken Graye, and I stood at the edge of a marsh and looked out upon the small settlement named Kellet’s Bay, which lies southwest of Trazull near the craggy tip of the Rosjavik Peninsula. It seemed a typical fishing village. There were no pirate ships anchored here, only skiffs and a few bigger boats. Already the lights were out or dim, though it was barely the sixteenth dhaur, when the drinking would just be starting in Trazull. But these were working people, with hands callused by fishing lines and the handles of scaling knives rather than the hilts of swords. They went to bed early, and rose before dawn.

  Yet, there was also a temple to the Goddess Vohanna in this village, at least according to a would-be assassin from a tavern in Trazull. “Tell me and you’ll live,” I’d said to him. And he had. He’d been afraid to tell. But he had. I wondered what he was so afraid of.

  We started forward, the four of us spread out slightly, hands on weapon hilts. Fog swirled around us, patting our faces with slick fingers. The long, rawhide coats—which we’d acquired in Trazull and which were habitually worn by bird riders—flapped tails around us in an occasional leaden gust of salt-tainted wind. The sabruns, we’d left in the marsh, in a small clearing where they were tied loosely enough to work their way free eventually. In case we didn’t come back.

  The temple seemed to crawl out of the fog toward us. We stopped. To the left, where fish were scaled, gutted and packed, there stood a row of stalls. Even the wood of them stank, the very grain impregnated with fish oils and blood. To the right were small shacks where fishermen and their families lived. The temple sat between, on an artificial rise, and it had not always been a temple. It was low and squat, and old, built to last, of solid oak and walnut. I figured it originally for a council lodge of some sort. Nothing moved in our fields of vision, though somewhere a sail flapped.

  I strode up the stone steps of the temple and pushed at the brass-banded doors, which opened quietly enough to show that the hinges were oiled regularly. The others followed, eyes warily scanning the too-empty night. I stepped inside, where cressets smoked gently. An open skylight let in mist that made a faint golden haze. The room was empty except for light and shadows, and at the far end an altar of peeled tlatel wood. I motioned with a finger and Kreeg stepped into the shadows to keep watch.

  Whatever burned in the cressets had been impregnated with rundal oil. I could smell it sweetly curling in my nostrils. And though rundal oil is relatively cheap, poor people such as these fishermen would not casually waste it.

  “Why keep it lighted?” Graye asked, echoing my thoughts.

  “Perhaps Vohanna fears the dark,” I said, shrugging as I started forward through the empty temple toward the altar. Or perhaps, I thought, someone here was expecting visitors tonight.

  I considered then my reasons for being in this place. Some connection in my head had argued that the worship of Vohanna was at the heart of both the attacks on Nyshphal and the mystery of my brother’s whereabouts. That connection was built out of historical oddities and strange tattoos that were more than they appeared. It linked extinct cults with the present day hiring of mercenaries, and mixed them all with a twisted feeling of dread in my own mind. And there was the strange way that Vohanna’s name kept popping up in my experience. To free the Klar slaves we’d had to fight a cult who worshiped Vessoth, Vohanna’s supposed husband among the gods.* Now, here was Vohanna again. I knew I could be wrong, but what else did I have to go on if I wanted to find Bryce? I stepped behind the low altar and bent to peer at the shelves beneath. Copper bells were there, and a slender dagger, censers, an aspergillum, and other tools of the priestly trade. I shifted a pile of parchments and felt a chill flash through my chest. My hand found a reddish, horseshoe-sized oval of stone and drew it out to set on the altar. It was smooth, about four inches thick, and flat on top except for a dozen empty depressions where something rounded would fit. I recognized it as a matrix for holding toir’in-or stones, a tool of sorcery.

  [*See Swords of Talera.]

  “What is it?” Valyan asked over my shoulder.

  I started
to explain, but a voice interrupted.

  “What do you here?” a man called from the doorway.

  He was an old man. He quavered. He quavered even more when Kreeg slipped corded arms around his neck from behind to press a dagger to his throat. A button of blood appeared on the sun-wrinkled skin and I motioned Kreeg to stillness. None of us except Kreeg had heard the door open, and Diken Graye stepped forward to close it again and drop the thick lock-board across it. He leaned there so no one else could come in. Not easily anyway.

  “We don’t want to hurt you,” I said to the man, my voice echoing in the open space. “But we need information. Are you the priest of this temple?”

  The old man shook his head slightly but stopped as Kreeg’s dagger pricked. “No...no,” he said. “I’m only the caretaker. I saw...movement. I thought it was....”

  “Thought it was what?” I asked, stepping around the altar and walking slowly toward him.

  “Thought it was them,” the man said, his body shaking, his voice barely a whisper. “They would...need.”

  “Them who?” I asked. “And what would they need?”

  The door against which Diken Graye leaned boomed loudly as something massive hit it from the other side. Brass nails squealed; hinges rattled; the wood creaked and cracked. Graye jumped back, eyes dark and wild. Valyan muttered an explosive oath. I half crouched, the sword leaping to my hand with a whicker. Something slithered like wet leather along the outside wall. And the wall bulged.

  “Them!” the old man suddenly screamed. He tore loose from Kreeg’s grip with frenzied strength and ran toward the altar. Kreeg hardly noticed, his mouth open and startled as he spun to face the door.