Adaris nodded again. “I assume you mean to relieve pressure here so we can deal a blow to the Tordetani.”
Oolan looked him in the eye for a few seconds, pinning him in place. “I want the appearance of a coordinated blow against the Vattonses, but yes, I intend to divert forces to crush the Tordetani. After the removal of the incessant threat, we can turn everything against the Vattonses. But this must be kept secret.”
“Playing such a scheme against our allies will not be viewed as very--”
“The stalemate must be broken. If we can get the Callacans to pressure Vattonses, it will help them in the longrun.”
“But, my lord, the Callacans already have a peaceful border with Vattonses--”
“They are still at war, though. A mutual period of peace because they face other threats does not negate their enmity. I want you to stick a thorn in that peace.”
He bowed. “Am I to leave now then?”
“With all speed. The Callacans will soon be worrying about what the Asturjans will be sending their way.”
Adaris bowed again, but he did not favor the task he had been given.
CHAPTER 2
Melaki struggled to get away, or to plead. Tila the woman held him, trying to plunge her sword into his gut. “No, Tila...”
He twisted away from the sword, away from her, and away from the dream and awoke. He rubbed at his face in weariness. “I really hate dreaming.”
Rishtu regarded him from his perch on the windowsill. His large black head twisted this way and that. Then he half fluttered his wings.
“Don't squawk at me. You are too loud.”
“Talking to your bird again, master?” Galli's voice drifted through the closed door.
“I am. Are you trying to clean my study again?”
“I should dare say such a task is impossible--”
“Then leave it alone.”
“I came to say your bath is prepared.” Galli sounded irritated.
“And did you just happen to bring a duster with you?” Melaki heard a grunt of indignation. He opened the door.
Galli stood there, duster in hand, though he tried to hide it behind his back before the wizard saw. His assistant was a short man, bald and clean shaven, his skin oiled with olive oil. His fierce eyes above his hawk-like nose and strong jaw spoke of an intensity that rose far above his small stature. His brilliant blue shirt and breeches added to his intensity.
Melaki gave him an eyebrow. “I apologize about last night. I knew you could have given that man at least a dozen new orifices before he got to my window.”
Galli suddenly smiled and looked down. “Oh, well. I do not know about a dozen, but at least ten.”
He clapped his assistant on the shoulder. “Your skills are astounding. But I wanted to have a word with him first.”
His assistant raised both eyebrows in startlement. “Oh, yes, of course. I did not think--”
“No worries. I will bathe and we'll eat.”
“I have the cart loaded. Just need to hitch Sala.”
Melaki gave a nod. They were riding into town today to receive his payment for lighthouse services. The payment was not much, but Galli supplemented their income by arranging laborers to come and tend the potato fields. The income from potatoes and from his services met their needs. They would be carting several bushels of potatoes and bringing back a cart full of other supplies.
Galli also tended their chickens and his skills at running a small farm fed them well.
Melaki liked the lighthouse. A good tower, strong, and private, though the Altanleans knew where he was. How they figured it out he knew not, but asking questions about a black-robed wizard with scars on his cheek probably fed them all the answers they needed to locate him.
He had considered moving deeper, perhaps even passing the mountains and into the lands of the Jubalites. Anywhere he went he would be subject to suspicion because of his robe. He had thought once of changing it to the colors of the Iberians or others, but he had earned his robe and he would wear it. He was obviously not Altanlean with their fairer hair and features. He had come from the southern coasts of the Meseditt Empire with dark looks on pale skin. Brooding eyes, hawk noses, bold chins – and so he had heard Altanleans describe him when he had been snatched from his home and trained in the Altanlean Ruhka as a wizard.
He might not be able to find a place that accepted a wizard who used giant magic, but he might be able to run far enough to get away from the Altanlean attempts at assassination.
Me? Run? He sneered. I will not run.
After breakfast he hefted his satchel of parchments and records, necessary for those who would need them, and walked out into the light of day. He looked up at the waters above, shimmering high in the sky, sending light refracting everywhere below. He thought of his dream then, and the people who had been looking at the foundation ruins of his lighthouse. A burning ball had hung there. Was it up there now?
Tila the horse nickered.
“Good morning to you, too, Tila.” He patted her nose.
Sala, his donkey, waggled its ears.
“Yes, yes, you, too.” He scratched the animal behind its ears. He had brought both of the animals with him from the Northlands, having summoned them there from where they had run free, their former masters dead.
Mounted, Galli in the cart and Melaki on his horse, they rode down the muddy path towards the road that led into town.
“What do you know of the light?” Melaki pointed up.
Galli gave him a look. “One of those discussions, eh?” His manner was always pertinent and to the point. He often did not opine or muse over things like Melaki did.
“I had a vision about this place and everything was in ruin. There were no waters above us.”
His assistant looked thoughtful, glancing down at the mud. It was tangible, and he could see it. “The stories say there was no water up there before.”
“I saw a burning disc--”
“Oh gods, are you one of those sun-heretics?”
“I saw it.”
“The giants tell of the sun. It is heresy to believe--”
Melaki cut him off. “The giants also showed us metallurgy and medicine. Are those things heresy?”
“But their beliefs--”
“Mettalurgy and medicine were also their beliefs.”
Galli scratched his bald head and grunted. “I suppose you are right.”
“So then?”
His assistant gave him a baleful look as if being pressed into something he didn't want to admit. “The light could be a sun as the giants describe. It could also be a burning chariot sent by the gods--”
Melaki silenced him with a glare. “Which has to be the stupidest idea--”
“Master. You asked.”
They stared at each other for a moment and then Galli nodded as if settling the issue.
Melaki sighed. “You are right. I asked. What do you think of the chariot belief?”
“I try not to think about such silliness.”
He chuckled. His assistant was never obtuse. “Well, then.”
“You said you had a vision?”
He grunted. “After one of the drowning ones, yes.”
Galli looked up. “There are those who have written that north of here, in the islands, the waters used to show a blob of light, moving.”
“A blob?”
“The waters showed it, distorted as water would anything seen through it.”
Melaki frowned. “When I was in the Altanlean Empire, training, I recall seeing no blob moving--”
“This was long ago, master.”
“Ah, I see. As if the waters were once shallower up above?”
“Yes, that is what I had assumed.”
“Interesting. And our waters are thickening?”
Galli shrugged. He disliked opining on things of which he had no direct knowledge.
Could the waters above be thickening? Accumulating due to something in the weather above the waters
? The giant stories told of rainstorms and snow and winds. Such things seemed unusual to him. Was the water above protecting them from those elements? What would the world be like without that protective covering? Wild? Unlivable? He shook his head. “I wish I knew more.”
“Dangerous words, master.”
“My visions seem to indicate things I do not know.”
Galli grunted. “The light appears to be getting dimmer as the years go by.”
Melaki looked at him in surprise. “You have noticed that, too? I thought perhaps my eyes were going bad.”
His assistant laughed. “Your eyes are too young to go bad.”
He was right. Melaki was all of twenty-six years old. His eyes might not dim for another five hundred years. Most men, if the sword passed them by, lived to be seven or eight hundred years old. Some were even in their nine-hundreds. But wars and violence were good cures for living into old age.
Galli had already seen a hundred and thirty years. He looked quite healthy with no sign of wrinkles or sagging. His eyes were very sharp.
Melaki frowned and gave him a sideways look. “I might be young, but I would be surprised to live so long that my eyes grow dim from age.”
“And so it would surprise all of us. War escapes no one.”
He grunted. “Is the brutality necessary? Is there not a place for peace?”
Galli snorted. “Peace would attract violence like a carcass attracts the carrion bird.”
“Lovely imagery.”
“You asked, master.”
“Maybe an island somewhere--”
“And bloodthirsty savages would build a fleet to bring you death.” The set of his eyes said he believed every word he said.
“Cheerful, today, are you not?”
Galli shrugged. “No point in ignoring the reality.”
“Why war? Why always death?”
His assistant was quiet for a moment. “To cull our numbers. To bring change.”
“Change? And if we do not like the change? The constant war?”
“Our leaders have their purpose. Their change means more death. It has always been. I have learned that when a king talks about change, it is best to go hide.”
“Ah, I see you have been cheerful your whole life.”
“Practical, master. Always practical.”
Melaki could not argue with that.
* * *
Eliam had wandered, traveling up the coast of the kingdom. He did not know what he was looking for. He did not care. But he knew in the corner of his mind he was coming closer to the border between the kingdom and the Asturjani.
Was he traveling to the places he had fought? Why? To die in a lone attempt against that foe he had previously survived? As anger against Callacan's broken promise?
What would that prove?
He had no answers.
Ahead were the tall towers of Roka. Spiraling high and white, they towered dozens of paces over the streets. It was a modern town, with sewage and a supply of water to each dwelling. It was not as grand as Cilenn, but for a town to have a running water pump and supply was a comfort to see.
He could see the pump house up the hill a ways from town, and the ceramic piping that fed water to the large cistern in the central plaza. The water could have been diverted using gravity alone, but would have required an aqueduct rather than a pipeline.
Roka was small, spanning several dozen acres of coastline. Back up toward the hills were arrayed farms and fields for crops and animals. Merchant wagons came and went along the road he traveled south of town, but to the east, following the coastline, few ventured.
The town was the last of the larger settlements before reaching the border of the Asturjani Tribes.
Not that they respect our borders.
He hated the Asturjani. Originally he had been confused. Of the same racial stock, they warred with the Callacans constantly. He had not understood why. The Altanleans had colonized a portion of the mountains farther to the east beyond the Asturjani. Some called them Atlanteans, depending on the dialect. The Asturjani had fought against them briefly and then returned to warring against the Callacans.
Were we weaker? The land more attractive?
For whatever reason, the Asturjani had allowed the Altanleans to carve out a colony. The invaders then reinforced it with waves of colonists and troops. From their initial primary settlement, Vascon, they had spread like a rot – pushing, expanding, taking.
The only benefit to the invasion and colonization had been that they occupied the attention of the vile Vattonses. Wicked, cruel, and shameless, the Vattonses had warred with everyone, growing, expanding, swallowing and only stopped by the invasion from the north.
And what did those pressed by the Vattonses do? Instead of piling onto the vile empire and hacking it to death, they had shrugged and went to war with each other.
Further weakening us all.
Despite his profession, Eliam despised war. It wrought death and the destruction of families, culture, progress, and promise.
He entered town, the metal gates standing open, the guards nodding at him in respect. His subcommander leathers would garner immediate respect on any who carried a sword for country.
His bag slung over his shoulder, he walked ahead for a tavern he knew. Maybe I will ask of the owner what work might be around for an old soldier. He considered himself old, and he certainly was old as a soldier. But as a man, he was not even middleaged. Though all men had the capacity to reach seven hundred, few did. Some died to illness. Most died as a result of war. Very, very few lived into their nine-hundreds.
War seemed the answer to everything. I still despise it.
He booted open the door to his destination. It was a lively little place that sported a goblet held in the air, balanced on the horn of a unicorn. The door slammed back inside against the wall. He bellowed, “Taran, you old fool, I want a jug of your best, and not the swill you slosh to your regulars!”
Laughter from inside.
Taran was not behind the counter. Standing in Taran's spot was a stocky blonde woman reminiscent of some of the Altanleans he had seen. “I am not Taran, I am Hellea and if you treat my door like that again I will serve you my best cracked up against the side of your head.”
Eliam stood there, agape.
“Are you going to stand there like a clobbered ox, or are you going to shut the door?” Her look was as stern as any veteran he had seen in war.
“Where is Taran?” He looked around.
“He is gone. Sold this tavern to me last month. Shut the door. In or out with you, I care not, but shut the door.”
“Oh, yes,” Eliam said and gently shut the door. “My apologies for the rude entrance; it was something of a laugh between Taran and myself.”
“I gather.”
The interior was as cramped and crowded as he remembered, and also as clean. Snickers and chuckles emanated from the patrons, some of whom recognized him. Many faces were new.
“You say you want my best?” said Hellea.
Eliam nodded. “Of course, lady. If you will.”
“I doubt you can afford a cup of it. When was the last year you made any money?”
He stood tall.
People snickered.
“I will have you know--”
She dismissed him with a wave. “Yes, I can see. You are fresh out of schooling and desire a place to throw a blanket. You can wipe the floors here behind the bar and I will let you sleep in the mop closet.”
His mouth gaped open and then shut. He huffed for a second and saw the sparkle in her eye, just above the stern set of her mouth. He started laughing.
She gave him a small smile. “Come in, subcommander and I shall pour you your drink.”
He wiped at his face and shook his head. “I am glad to see Taran chose his buyer well.”
“Indeed? Then I shall accept that as a compliment.”
He seated himself on a stool at the bar. “I am also pleased to see the atmosphere and o
rderly cleanliness is still in practice.”
She gave him an eye. “Flattery will not get you a free cup.”
He held up his hands. “I always pay.”
She nodded as if already knowing what he would say and set down a wooden mug before him. “Have you just joined the army? But your blouse says you are not in the army?” She looked confused.
“I have just served a full term.” He plucked at the billowing sleeve of his blouse as she called it. “I am now a citizen again.”
“A term? A year? And so old?” She looked at his hair.
“A full term.” A full term was a hundred years.
Hellea's eyebrows climbed high.
A patron he had never seen before guffawed in derision. He was a ruffian-looking man with a mean set to his eyes.
Eliam turned, saying nothing, and leaned toward the man, fixing him with his eyes.
The ruffian, who had been coming towards Eliam, stopped as if he had hit a wall. He closed his mouth and his face went blank. He turned away.
“Wish I could do that,” Hellea said. “Bendrah there likes to push his fierceness around. Bully some of the patrons.”
He turned back to her. “You have no doorman?”
“Taran didn't need one and I did not think originally to start having one. But Bendrah is a new patron this past week.”
“I see. Might hire one out for a time to see him off.”
“You offering?”
“Not even thinking about it. I have fought enough Asturjani to last me a lifetime.”
She looked over the counter at his sword and raised her eyebrows. “Then why still the sword? Or are you on your way to a monastery of the spirits? Going to trade it in for monk's robes?”
He almost choked on the amber liquid as he was drinking. When he finally swallowed, he let out a suppressed chuckle. “No, but I do not want to find trouble.”
She smiled, the wisps of her blonde hair escaping from her bun and drifting across her forehead. She touched his hand, briefly. “I see you are one of Taran's good customers. Enjoy your drink.”
He watched her move to bring a jug over to a table. He missed Taran, he of the twisted tooth, but Hellea looked to be a fine replacement. He raised his cup to her back and took a drink.
The Melaki Chronicle Volume II Page 2