Perhaps that’s what it is. Perhaps the Great Work is ridding the world of unproductive souls—the inept, the weak, the inferior people that plague us. My master must be an incarnation of Zuïa.
I said he surrounds himself with extraordinary men, and he does, though I should clarify that not all of these men are my friends, nor do I approve of them all. Two that are particularly contemptible are his war chiefs.
The first remains a stranger to me, except for his bizarre letters. His scribblings are circular and unpredictable; they make me question his sanity. The second war chief I have no doubts about. He is a brute above all else, with a skull as thick as an oak tree and empty as Aluen’s tomb.
His full name is Gors’a’min Lu Wallos, but everyone calls him Gor, or, when his back is turned, Gor the Gentle. Not because he ever showed tenderness, but because he so thoroughly enjoys torture.
Gor is the biggest human I have ever seen. He is larger than the Arque who broke Dyree’s nose in the Small Palace, and much stronger too. I saw him defeat three horses, which were being whipped bloody, in a match of tug-of-war. After he had pulled them ten steps, the beasts collapsed, their exhausted bodies tangling together in a pile of hooves and manes.
I can’t stand his stupidity, his drunkenness, his frequent rages. More than anything else, I hate the disrespect he shows me. I admit he can make any soldier obey his command—they’re made out of the same mud, after all—but his arrogance plagues me unrelentingly.
Dyree will soon join us. My assistant is the only novice to have ever escaped the arenas of Lus’an with twelve hati. Not content only to protect his own blade, he killed the other boys to take their trophies. He might have collected them all had I not intervened. I was overseeing the rite, and eventually ended the carnage Dyree was inflicting. He is the best warrior I have ever seen. Even without a hati, he might be able to beat Gor the Gentle.
Unfortunately, my assistant can’t be bothered to become a full messenger, to become Zadyree. I doubt his faith in Zuïa. Even so, his place at my side makes him a messenger among messengers, the tracker of traitors. It is a difficult task, and one that he deeply enjoys. He likes the dangerous prey, he likes to best another, he likes to kill. He will be with us soon.
Upon his arrival, I will put Dyree in charge of the slaves, who are far too numerous to be managed by a single captain. I still have no idea what my master plans to do with them. I doubt he wants to sell them, given his immense wealth. Maybe he wants them to work? But for what project? What new stone will he have them place for the Great Work?
Up until now, the only task given to the slaves is to pray. They have no choice, but this simple faith is all they have left, so they take to it with the passion that only the hopeless can muster.
My master ordained a certain Emaz Chebree as the grand priestess of the god Somber. I don’t know if this name, Somber, is a real one or not, or if its constant use has overwhelmed the original. I have never heard of such a god, but it is the name that Chebree shouts, invokes, prays to, and makes her subjects fear and adore. Somber, the god chosen by my master.
Many of our warriors have converted to this new cult. Somber has become He Who Vanquishes, and this idea pleases the warriors greatly. My master is quite satisfied with the rapid expansion of his new religion.
Of course, I am still loyal to Zuïa, despite Chebree, who can be quite convincing. As far as being an Emaz, I would be surprised if she had ever even seen the Holy City of Ith. But she is a passionate and calculating woman who has earned my respect. She is also ambitious, and along with my esteem comes suspicion.
The last of the priests is none other than my master’s son. At least, we think he is the master’s son, and neither of them corrects us. He is a large, well-built young man, but he doesn’t have any of the Goranese traits that one would expect.
I don’t know what his talents are. He sleeps a lot, and remains motionless most other times. He seems to not see or hear us. Only my master can wake him from his listless state.
His eyes. I can’t stand his gaze. An empty, haunting gaze. A somber gaze.
BOOK V: THE OLD COUNTRY
The tavern door swung open, letting in the wind and rain, and, worst of all, two unusual characters. Worja Standing-Drinker had been a barkeep for thirty-five years, and he had owned the shoddy tavern in Three-Banks, at the mouth of the river Rochane, for the last ten years. As he leveled his gaze on the two figures in the entryway, all of his experience told him two things. The first was that the new customers weren’t Rominian, and the second was that they weren’t in his bar to drink or eat. He glanced under the counter to make sure that his dagger was in reach.
The taller stranger was unquestionably an Arque, although his skin was noticeably darker than that of an average northerner. But the color of his skin was a minor detail, one that Worja noticed only after he was able to take in the sheer size of the giant. The stranger was as hairy as a bear and looked to be at least twice as strong. A mace dangled ominously from his side.
The origins of the smaller stranger were harder to guess; he might have been Lorelien, or Kaulien. Like his companion, he carried a weapon. Not a mace, but a rapier instead, and it clanked against his thigh as he walked. Both men wore fresh wounds and sullen expressions, and from his post behind the bar, Worja could see the strangers were nothing but trouble.
The two strangers approached the bar with heavy footsteps, and as they walked, the innkeeper’s eyes silently pleaded to his patrons for help. To his dismay, he saw that his five possible rescuers kept their noses firmly in their goblets. Rominians didn’t like strangers, especially armed and surly ones.
“We’re looking for a healer,” the Lorelien announced, his voice weary. “We were told that you know one.”
Worja cursed the idiot who had directed these strangers to his door. It must have been a Presdanian. May the god Phiras bring wrath upon the Presdanians, he thought.
“Whoever told you that is a liar, good sirs. There is no one in all of Three-Banks who could claim to be a healer. I’m afraid you’ll have to continue on to Mestèbe,” Worja answered quietly.
The Lorelien translated the exchange for the Arque, who shook his head, his eyes wide with emotion. The answer seemed not to suit the strangers. Worja should have guessed as much.
The Lorelien didn’t let up. “Unfortunately, we’re short on time, barkeep. Who cares for your wounded in Three-Banks? Surely there must be someone in this town capable of providing basic care. Do I have to bribe his name out of you?”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. Like I already said, there’s no one here who can help you. I suggest that you go on your way immediately, if you’re in such a hurry.”
When will these strangers get the hint that they aren’t wanted here, Worja wondered as he tightened his grip on the dagger, his hands trembling.
The Lorelien sighed and leaned his back against the counter, looking resigned. Suddenly, in one fluid movement, he spun around and hopped over to the opposite side of the bar. A moment later the barkeep had his hands in the air and a blade at his throat.
“Right, then!” the stranger announced. “I guess my friend and I haven’t made ourselves clear. We didn’t come here to burn this place down, although personally I’m starting to feel the temptation. We’re just looking for a healer, and if we don’t receive this simple bit of information by the end of the night, I can tell you one thing: we will not be the only ones in need of the healer’s services!”
Not a single one of the Rominians, bewildered and stunned by the sudden outburst of violence, moved a muscle. The Lorelien continued his menacing tirade, his hands tightly holding Worja, whose legs were quivering.
“My friend Bowbaq here sank an entire pirate ship this past dékade. Don’t you think it might not be such a good idea to upset him?” They all looked at Bowbaq fearfully.
“Look mean, Bowbaq,” Rey ordered, and though the giant hadn’t understood a single word of the actor’s speech in Rominian, this he und
erstood.
The giant bared his teeth and contorted his face to look like Mir the lion. Then, feeling ridiculous, he decided to simply cross his arms and stand in front of the door. Rey tried hard not to laugh, though the giant’s expression produced the desired effect.
“What business do you want with a healer?” piped up one of the hostages, finally.
“Hmm, I don’t know, we want to buy a fishing net? By all the gods and their whores, what do you think we want? We have a friend who needs a healer as soon as possible. I’ll give a golden terce to anyone who gives us a chance to save him.”
“Lorelien money is worthless here,” the drunkard grumbled.
“It’s a golden terce or a private meeting with my friend Bowbaq. I can guarantee it will be a real lively meeting. Now, do I have any volunteers?”
After a moment of tense silence, a Rominian stepped forward. “The healer is my brother, Vi’at,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’ll take you there for a golden terce. But I can’t make any promises that he’ll agree to help you. He’s a thoroughbred Hélanian like me. He refuses to talk to Presdanians, much less strangers.”
“I can be quite convincing,” responded Rey with a sneer as he released the innkeeper. “My arguments aren’t the kind you can easily deny.”
The Othenor danced slowly on the clear water at the mouth of the Rochane, its wooden beams groaning slightly as if it were resting after the thousands of leagues covered since the last moon. The boat mirrored the state of its passengers: exhausted, empty, and despondent.
Yan had been watching over Grigán since they had reached Three-Banks, giving Corenn a chance to rest. Yan had sailed the Othenor to the continent at exceptional speed: their incursion onto the Sacred Island of the Guoris had been just the night before, and the young man had not slept since then.
Maz Lana stopped praying briefly to observe the young Kaulien. Yan had seen Usul. He had spoken with a god, and after, he had not said more than ten words. Grigán’s wound tortured him, as it did all of them, but was there something else? What did Yan know? What had he kept hidden from them?
Grace called for Lana to worry first about the warrior, before thinking about their quest, but Lana still prayed to Eurydis to relieve Yan from his pains. A young man shouldn’t have to bear such torments.
The captain’s cabin door opened and Léti stepped in. She had cried most of the voyage, but had no tears left. Her face was without expression, or rather, it looked the same as always: furrowed brow, pursed lips, and searching gaze. Scorning the injustice and indignant at her powerlessness.
“They’re coming,” she said in a weary voice. “They found someone.”
Lana left to wake Corenn, which was easy enough, since the Mother hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Bowbaq, Rey, and a small, plump Rominian soon joined them next to Grigán, who was laid out on the floor.
“What happened to your face?” Corenn asked the stranger. “Rey, did you hit him?”
“He fell,” Rey assured her. “Right, Vi’at, my friend?”
“It’s true,” the man mumbled as he rubbed his chin. “I took a false step and fell.”
The Mother shot a disapproving glare at Rey, who acted like he hadn’t seen it. Then she shifted her gaze to Bowbaq, who blushed from ear to ear. She promised herself she would figure out what had happened soon, but for now there were more pressing matters.
After the healer took a glance at Grigán, he asked simply, “What bit him?”
“Rats,” Corenn responded, seeing no reason to lie. “Dozens of them.”
“Like the ones you find on the islands of the Guoris, maybe?”
Rey interjected, “Don’t take another false step, Vi’at, my friend.”
“Nothing to worry about. Your story isn’t mine. Guoris or Loreliens, you are all foreigners. What matters is the ten golden terces you promised me. I want to see them.”
The Rominian, emboldened by Corenn’s presence, was gaining confidence. Léti approached him to protest, but the Mother counted out ten coins onto the healer’s outstretched hand.
“I will give you another ten if you can save him, Master Vi’at,” said Corenn as she left the room. And if he didn’t?
“I don’t want anyone stepping on my toes,” the man practically shouted. “Everyone leave. I only need one person to help.”
“Me,” Yan said in a choked voice.
The others turned toward him. He hadn’t spoken for several decidays. After such a long silence, no one wanted to oppose him.
“Good, then the others can leave,” said the healer.
After a long look at their prostrate friend, the heirs left the cabin one by one. They were leaving Grigán’s fate up to a stranger, but they had no other choice.
Before leaving, Léti leaned over to the Rominian and whispered in a thick voice, “If he dies, it will be your fault.”
The man closed the door behind her and swallowed noisily. As he turned to face his patient, he pushed the laconic Kaulienne’s strange, vaguely menacing expression out of his mind.
Then he got to work, shivering and cursing these strangers and their . . . strangeness.
Corenn tried hard to keep her mind off of what was happening below deck, so she concentrated on something else: the only other thing that could preoccupy any of them.
Yan hadn’t said a word about his meeting with the god, with Usul. He had revealed a name, nothing more. The name of the Accuser. The name of the man who had sent the Züu killers after the heirs. The name of their enemy. Saat. His Excellency Saat the Treasurer, wise emissary representing the Grand Empire of Goran.
Saat had never returned from the fated voyage to the island of Ji, 118 years ago. He wasn’t one of the survivors, or so they had thought. But how could he—already an old man at the time—possibly be alive a century later?
Perhaps Ssa-Vez and Vanamel, among the supposed dead, survived as well. Perhaps even Nol the Strange. The Mother thought back to the three-century-old manuscript they had found in Zarbone’s library: it had mentioned another man named Nol. Was it the same Nol who had dragged their ancestors into this adventure? It had to be, she thought. Was he immortal? Was Saat?
Where did Ji’s portal lead? The questions swirled in her mind.
Corenn hoped that Yan would be able to answer at least a few of the countless questions that haunted her. Then she remembered Grigán’s miserable state, and her face hardened.
They hadn’t made much progress. Corenn had guessed that their enemy was one of their own, an heir, and she’d been almost correct. Yet though she held troves of information on the current generation of heirs, she had no idea where Saat might be hiding. She had no idea how to foil his plans, and, in truth, had no idea what his plans might be. Assuming that he hadn’t died on the other side of the portal, and that he had found his way back to this world, why had he attacked the heirs? Revenge? Protecting a secret? Fear? And where did his powers come from?
Corenn shuddered, remembering the possessed soothsayer declaring threats at the assembly of barons in the Small Kingdoms. And even more chilling, the demon’s attack on the Broken Castle, and Séhane’s murder. The Mother had never heard of such powerful magic. Were these events acts of divine intervention? Had the heirs provoked the wrath of the gods?
Yan warily observed the Rominian at work. Up to this point, Vi’at had seemed corrupt, contemptuous, and intolerant, but as Yan watched him conscientiously examine Grigán’s wounds, the young man started to hope that he might also be competent.
The Kaulien didn’t know Rominian dress or custom, but Vi’at’s clothes were certainly unique. Atop his head he wore a small, flat hat, a simple piece of fabric folded in half and stitched together, which stayed on his head with the help of a thin cord tied under his chin. The cap didn’t protect him from the rain, since he was drenched. The healer untied it and set it on a bench, along with his outer green robe, embroidered with a rose pattern.
Yan was surprised to see that the rest of his clothes were covered
in the same rose pattern. Apparently Rominians cultivated an eccentric fashion. Questions bubbled up from his curious mind to his lips, but the questions died in his mouth. None of that was important now. Yan wanted only one thing from Vi’at: to save Grigán.
“How long has he been unconscious?” the healer asked.
“Since last night,” Yan responded, his voice catching in his throat. “He stirred in his sleep a few times, but never for long. It has been several decidays since the last stirring.”
“I see.”
The healer examined the warrior’s bandages, which he hadn’t yet touched. In fact, he hadn’t touched anything in the heavy bag he had dragged to the Othenor. Yan’s hope drained as time passed and the healer continued to merely observe.
“Do you think it’s serious?” he finally asked.
“That depends,” the healer responded, with no effort to be tactful. “I have heard of the Guoris’ rats. They are the rats of Farik. They come from the other side of the Curtain. It’s said that some of these animals bear a strange sickness. For some moons, the disease turns the beasts into savage, bloodthirsty creatures, which allows them to dominate their brethren. Because of this savagery, they gain control of the colony’s food, females, and anything else of worth. In the end, though, the disease always kills them.”
Yan waited patiently for the rest of the story, but it never came. Vi’at had already dived back into studying Grigán’s exposed wounds, his disgust apparent. Still the healer hadn’t dared to touch Grigán, and Yan grew impatient.
“So?” Yan asked. “Do you think the rats can transmit this disease to humans?”
“Oh! They can, yes. But as far as figuring out if it’s deadly, that’s what I don’t know. I’ve never healed anything like it. Cleaning his wounds, dimming his pain, lightening his sleep, those are my powers. For the rest, hmmph!” he finished with a scornful expression.
Shadow of the Ancients Page 2