by Doug Beyer
“Master Hazid,” said one of Hazid’s men, to get his attention.
A knight of sigiled caste was making rounds through the caravan. The knight wore blue linen over his chain-mail, with a broad white bird blazoned across the tabard, identifying him as a Knight of the Bright Dove. It was a minor order, but well—respected, often charged with keeping the peace at border crossings.
Hazid gauged that the knight was assigned to inspect the caravan. If he were like others of his order, he would be passably smart and difficult to bribe, but would also travel alone. He would check the wagons in the caravan, looking for any merchandise that shouldn’t be there. And unless Hazid did something, the knight would find what he sought. Hazid needed to be quick, before the gentleman of the Bright Dove had time to examine the first wagon. It was time for the beautiful little dagger to do its thing.
And he knew just who should hold it. “Ghedi, come here,” called Hazid.
One of Hazid’s larger, stronger merchant underlings plodded over to him. Ghedi was a simple man, broad of shoulder but not of mind. He had aspirations to be a thief, but had the grace of an ox. “Yes, Master Hazid?”
Hazid put his hand on Ghedi’s shoulder and looked around circumspectly as he spoke. “Ghedi, I need to know that you’re a man I can trust, a man I can use. You want to be useful to me, don’t you?”
Ghedi’s grin was the perfect response. He was not a talkative man. Hazid clapped him on the shoulder.
“I want you to take this,” said Hazid, “and do something useful with it.” He slipped the dagger into Ghedi’s hand and glanced over at the knight significantly. “Be careful.”
Ghedi grinned as he moved away, holding the dagger against his thigh.
Hazid turned to the representative of the Bright Dove. “Good sir!” Hazid said magnanimously, striding over to the knight. “I bid you welcome, yes indeed!”
“Good day,” said the knight. “Can I see a manifest for this caravan, please?”
Ghedi was walking in a wide circle around to the knight’s blind side.
“Of course, of course,” said Hazid, and produced one. “Here you are.”
The knight took the scroll and unfurled it, reading intently.
“Mostly farming implements, as you can see,” said Hazid. “A bit of this and that, as always—we’ve been as far as Jhess this month. Anything in which I could interest you? Perhaps something for the children … Wooden toys from Valeron?”
“No children,” murmured the knight. “This manifest has an out-of-date stamp. If you and your merchants could step to the side for a moment, please, I have to check the contents.”
Ghedi approached from behind. His man was doing well, and so was he, thought Hazid. The fly was almost in the web.
“Ah, well then,” said Hazid. “Something for the spouse. We have earthen vases from Eos. They’re absolutely lovely.”
“Sir, please step aside,” said the knight. “I’m going to have to inspect the wagons—now.”
“Of course, of course,” said Hazid. “Please, take all the time you need.”
Ghedi was circling. Closer, closer. Any moment …
“Sir, look out!” cried Hazid.
The knight spun around to see Ghedi coming at him with the assassin’s dagger held high. The knight was admirably quick as he put one hand to Ghedi’s weapon arm, drew his sword with his other hand, and hit Ghedi hard in the gut with the pommel.
Ghedi folded in two, the breath knocked from his lungs, and the dagger knocked from his hands. His face was a comical mask of confusion as he fell to the ground.
The knight was over Ghedi in the blink of an eye. He took the dagger from the ground, then shouted an arrest spell over Ghedi’s hands and neck, pinning him. Ghedi’s eyes were bewildered, only turning to a state of ruefulness as the knight led the would-be assassin away to his mount at swordpoint.
That’s what you get for stealing from my inventory, Ghedi, you weak-brained bastard, thought Hazid.
“Thank you for the warning,” said the knight, returning to Hazid once he had fastened Ghedi’s bonds to the mount. “But this attack was a serious breach of the law, and the attacker was under your authority. The fact remains, I still have to inspect these wagons.”
Hazid sighed. He had already done Ghedi a favor today, granting him the destiny he had asked for with his eager fingers. And the poor checkpoint guard was going to ask for his own favor? Hazid had a mission to accomplish, a quest of such utmost importance that the angels themselves wouldn’t—couldn’t stand in his way. It was a burden dispensing fate to so many.
“Drummer! Strike up the caravan drum again, please!” he called. The sound of a deep, reverberating drum answered him.
“Sir,” said the knight. “I’m going to have to ask you to—”
The knight slumped over holding his stomach, falling away from Hazid’s swiftly-thrust dagger. As the knight fell, Hazid plucked the caravan manifest from his hand.
“Get the body into one of the wagons,” Hazid said with a sigh. “Oh, and get his little stamp for the manifest.”
An underling of Hazid’s collected the knight’s stamp and handed it to Hazid. Hazid mashed the stamp into the manifest satisfyingly.
Hazid climbed back onto his wagon and nodded to the driver, before wiping off his own personal dagger with his hanky. “Remind me to tell you of the time I traded with a blacksmith in Eos,” he said to the driver.
The caravan went on its way toward Giltspire Castle, in the heart of Akrasa. Ghedi looked on forlornly, abandoned.
JUND
Until a year ago, Rakka Mar had never considered herself a “mere human.” The phrase would never have occurred to her. The shaman had been entirely her own master, delighting in her savage elementalism, summoning manifestations of fire and rage to use as scourges of those who tried to rule or devour her. But when the sky had opened up and deposited the majestic form of Nicol Bolas before her, she had recognized her insignificance.
The dragon had offered her a choice. He could teach her to summon new kinds of fiery elementals of death, and she could use that power to accomplish a task on Jund for him. Or she could die. She had found him a cogent negotiator. That had been one year ago.
That night, Rakka found herself speaking before the warrior clan Antaga. It was the same speech she had given her own clan—but that hadn’t worked out. She made sure to conjure the same fire for her words that she put into her magic. “Our world yearns to reach out to heaven above us, and hell below,” she intoned. “And heaven and hell yearn to reach out to us as well. They beckon us—to rule them.”
Rakka knew the clan would hang on her every word, even though she had never been its Tol, its leader. She was a taut, sinewy woman, ancient for a human of Jund at fifty years, but still as tough as gristle. Her arms and face were tattooed with swirling symbols of elemental forces. The goblin bones and viashino-skin trophies tied into in her hair rattled as she spoke. Her teeth were filed sharp and stained black with the dark sap of the tukatongue tree, as those of Jund’s most devoted shamans were.
Let them eat it up, she thought. And come tomorrow, we’ll see who’s eating whom.
The Tol of their clan, a dreadlocked, bare-chested brute of a man called Kresh, grunted in agreement. Kresh was more than twenty years her junior, but he had earned her grudging respect since she joined his clan. Like all Tol leaders on Jund, Kresh had violently seized control of his clan in single combat. Rakka had known the old Tol, as dirty a fighter as they came. But this braid-headed youth Kresh had crushed her handily in the blood challenge. And his hunting prowess was second to none. He was a true predator of Jund, and the other warriors were unquestioningly devoted to him. That fact would help her cause in the task to come.
“We are the warriors primordial,” Rakka continued, drawing mystical lines in the air with hands that glowed like oozing lava. “When heaven and hell reach out and embrace us, we must continue our Hunt to other lands. Only through our conquest of the worlds abov
e and below will we fulfill our destinies to rule at the apex of life. The Hunt is our true path, the path that leads us to triumph, and we must follow it always, even into the maw of death.” She smiled, and her black teeth shone.
Another chorus of assenting grunts followed.
She eased into the task at hand, her true mission for Kresh’s clan. “Until we are called to the Hunt in the path beyond, we must continue the Hunt here, in the dark places of our own world. Jund devours all those who show weakness. We must stalk and slay those who would seize our destinies from us, and anoint our hair with their blood, to show our world that we are the strong. We must take our prey by the throat, and squeeze it into submission, and feast on its spirit. Only then will we be warriors fit to survive the reckoning to come.”
“Thank you, Shaman Rakka,” said Kresh, standing up. He took her side at the fire and addressed the clan himself.
“Hold Rakka’s words close to your heart tonight, warriors. Tomorrow we will test your dedication to them. Tomorrow we continue the Hunt to the lair of—”
“Malactoth,” prompted Rakka.
“Yes, Malactoth. The dragon. Malactoth is the mightiest dragon we’ve ever hunted. His is the roar that shakes Mount Jhal. Why do we hunt such a potent beast? Because his claws crave our flesh, and his teeth ache for our blood. Rakka says he has fed on goblin warrens and viashino thrashes much farther down Mount Jhal than he ever has before. That means he’s getting closer to our territory. Do you know what he thinks he is?”
The warriors shouted in ragged unison.
“That’s right. He thinks he’s our predator.”
Shouts of protest.
“He thinks he’s up the chain from us, a beast worthy of feeding on our young like a snake snatching eggs from a nest.”
Howls of rage.
Kresh put his hand out, palm down, and the warriors quieted. He finished his speech with his voice low, barely audible over the fire’s crackle.
“Tomorrow we raid his nest.”
The warriors roared in good cheer. Kresh grinned, and Rakka couldn’t help but admire his enjoyment of the moment. It was a good night. Rakka took a swig of stingwine from the skin at her hip and smacked her lips. Tomorrow would go well, and she was tired from the feasting and stories and speeches. But there was no hitting her hammock yet—there were still plenty of preparations to be made. She was going to have to summon a lot of elementals before the sun rose behind the ash of Mount Jhal.
BANT
The face of Rafiq of the Many was wobbly in the silvered glass, but the razor was sharp and precise. He shaved away the stubble from his cheeks and neck, leaving his trademark beard—the same beard depicted on a sigil of patronage used in his home country of Eos. He splashed clean water across his famous face. The shaved skin stung, but Rafiq liked it that way—it let him know he was scraped perfectly clean.
A young page girl handed him his towel, and Rafiq nodded in thanks, dripping. The girl was of Mortar caste—of low rank, but clever and dutiful—one of the many pages, squires, aides, and valets Rafiq had met during his travels throughout Bant.
“What’s your name?” Rafiq asked. He made a point of learning all their names; he thought it was only right. Although she was of a lower caste, it was the patronage of honest people such as the page girl, and the sigils bestowed in their honor, that gave him his own rank and renown. Some treated the caste system as an excuse for scorn and pride. Rafiq knew that the archangel Asha would have wanted it otherwise.
“Tholka, sir,” answered the girl quietly. She returned to shining his sigils, the vast pile of medallions of patronage that weighed down Rafiq’s armor.
“Thank you, Tholka,” said Rafiq, dabbing his face and neck with the towel. “That’s the Sigil of the Salted Wind,” he said, observing Tholka polish one of his sigils carefully.
Her eyes were wide. “All the way from Jhess?”
Rafiq nodded. “It was for resolving a dispute between the ship patrols and the island aven,” he said.
“Resolving … with combat,” she said, a small smile in her voice.
“Of course,” he said. “Heroic combat, in the honor of the arena. Their champion was a brute of a rhox, silent but mean as a wild leotau when he wanted to be. His skill and shrewdness were so great that I invited him to my knightly order.”
“You mean … Mubin? The famous knight? You met him in the arena?”
“Yes,” said Rafiq. He laughed. “The old rhox was just a poor monk and scholar, but you wouldn’t know it from his strength that day. He fought for the rights of the aven as bravely as if he were fighting for his own life. In the end, we compromised. Both sides got what they wanted, and we both got a sigil. His first.”
The girl finished her polishing. She bowed. “Your armor is ready, sir,” she said.
“Thank you, Tholka,” said Rafiq. “May Asha watch over you.”
“And you, sir,” she said. “Good travels.”
NAYA
As Ajani fell through the air toward the behemoth, he gripped the splintered axe handle in both hands, just to cling to something solid. The beast beneath him opened its toothy jaws to catch him in its mouth. As Ajani landed on the behemoth’s face, he didn’t have time to contemplate his angle or swivel the axe’s head around toward the beast—he moved on instinct, plunging the wicked point of the axe handle deep between its eyes.
Ajani fell onto the jungle floor in a heap. Fortunately, so did the behemoth, flattening a few fat trees as it fell to the ground. It thrashed once or twice before releasing its death rattle.
Ajani didn’t move from the ground for a long time. He lay there, listening, feeling his heartbeat slow from a frenetic slamming to an excited thumping to a regular rhythm. As he listened, he felt the blood of the plane of Naya pumping through the ground below him. It was as if there was an awakened spirit, a drumming pulse deep below the earth that only he could hear. It made him feel connected to everything around him, as if he were a plant with its roots reaching deep down into the layers of the world. He felt he had a role to play in nature, which made him as important as birdsong, or the elves of the far woods, or the gargantuan that lay beside him.
As he listened to the rhythm, he realized he was hearing only footsteps. Padding footsteps, coming closer. Other nacatl were approaching.
Ajani sat up to see the fangy grins of Tenoch and his gang, a mangy bunch of fellow nacatl leonin from Ajani’s pride. Tenoch was one of the nacatl who had left him to die when the humans were hunting him that day.
“White-Fur, you disgraceful freak,” said Tenoch. Tenoch was tall and golden-furred, the son of the pride’s most revered elder. His laugh was a derisive staccato wheeze through snaggly teeth, which caused a little rain of spittle to arc onto Ajani’s fur. “This is our patrol. What are you doing here?” Tenoch took it all in. “What … What have you done?”
Ajani had no breath to answer.
Tenoch’s gang looked around at the scene. The dead behemoth. Ajani’s splintered axe handle sunk up to the blade in the beast’s forehead. The broken trees and trampled forest floor. The blood spatter on Ajani’s fur.
“He’s killed a gargantuan?” whispered one of the nacatl.
“By himself?” hissed another.
They were not the brave warriors that most nacatl prided themselves in being. Tenoch’s gang members were the idiot-toughs of Ajani’s pride. Individually, each one was a coward, but together they could mean grave danger. They were exactly the element of his pride that Ajani had hoped to win over with his feat, but also the worst to anger if they weren’t impressed.
Tenoch scanned the faces of his gang behind him. Their mouths were slack with poorly hidden awe. For the moment, their leader was forgotten.
Tenoch snapped back to Ajani, and his eyes narrowed.
“This is fine meat, White-Fur,” said Tenoch evenly. “What did you plan to do with all of it? Were you going to sit here and gorge on it yourself?”
Ajani spoke, recovering his breath. �
�It’s … for the pride. For the Festival of Marisi. I’m … glad you found me, Tenoch. You can help me field dress it and carry the good cuts back to the den.”
Tenoch padded closer to Ajani, so close that their whiskers almost touched. The gang pressed in around Ajani, like a closing fist. Tenoch hissed a laugh through his teeth. “No,” he said. “I’m glad you found us. I’m glad you came upon us just in time to witness our great triumph over this frenzied behemoth.”
Tenoch’s gang didn’t get it at first. But then grins spread across their faces.
Ajani’s eyes blazed.
“The pride will be so proud of us,” continued Tenoch, “when we return to the den with our prize. And once again, the shameful brother of the kha will pull up the rear, useless as usual. In fact, just like when those no-furs chased us, I think you needed saving yet again.”
Tenoch’s gang snickered.
“This is my kill,” snarled Ajani, standing up to his full height. The fur stood on end along his neck and arms. “This is my offering. You’re not taking credit for it at the festival.”
“You think they’ll believe you killed this thing?” Tenoch shouted into Ajani’s face. Then, more calmly, he said, “We’ll see. I think you won’t even tell them we took it from you. I think the honor of the kha means too much to you—nobody wants to be the brother of a snitch. You want to be part of our pride, don’t you? So you won’t squeal to the others, either. This will be our little secret. But don’t worry—I’ll invite you to have a taste of our generous feast after Jazal’s speech. Take him.”
Tenoch stepped quickly aside. Ajani didn’t have time to grab Tenoch’s throat or to reach for the axe that was plunged into the beast. Someone shoved Ajani from behind, toppling him into the dirt face first. He tried to push up onto his hands, but the gang held him down. All he could see was clawed feet.
“It should have been me in charge of the pride,” said Tenoch’s voice somewhere above him. “Not some family cursed by the likes of you. You’ll bring bad luck to the pride, so it’s only right that we bring you a little misfortune. Roll him onto his back.”