by Richard Nell
Their host waited until Chang sat, then took something from a pouch on his hip and clutched it hard in his palm. He chanted and shook, then dropped it into the fire, sending a hiss of green flame from what looked like a small piece of metal. The scent was familiar—like the thing Chang had thought was a strong drink clinging to the captain.
"You will know each other's words," he spoke in the same disjointed, echoing voice he had first greeted them with. The other men too seemed amazed by the feat and sound before Pacal gestured to them. "These men are chiefs of large tribes who hate the men of the great lakes. They have come at my request." He turned and gestured to the captain and Chang, his eyes and those of the others now roaming the iron mail and plates on Chang's forearms and shins. "These are the foreigners I spoke of, who say they have crossed the Eastern ocean."
The chiefs exchanged neutral glances as the captain bowed in respect.
"The wise Pacal asks, and so we come," answered one of the chiefs in the same echoing words. "Now tell us why."
"The city of Copanoch prepares their holy festival," said Pacal. "I assume it is not just the mistmen who have lost kin, dragged from river or coast by valleymen for their devourer god." No one spoke, and it was clear the answer was 'yes'. "You will all know the myths." He pointed to the East. "Yacotal foretold long ago the valley of the gods was not meant to last as it is. He said men would come from the sea, men who followed no laws, nor feared any wounds." Eyes flicked again to Chang's iron armor, and many of the chiefs shifted in clear discomfort, or whispered amongst themselves. "I believe they have come."
"There are many myths, Pacal," spoke an older man, his voice humming with the strange power. "I would risk the lives of my tribe on very few of them."
"And yet," Pacal pointed at Chang. "Have you ever seen such men? Such armor? The mist tribes have seen their ships, moored now off the Eastern coast. They say they have come from far-away lands, beyond our world. And the mountain would tell me if they were lying."
"Even if they speak the truth," said the same older man. "How many men do they have? How many warriors?"
Here Pacal's confidence dimmed, but he still spoke plainly.
"Ten."
The old chief just managed to hide his scoff, many others seeming close to rising from their seats to leave.
"There are more," the captain's voice rippled through the air like a rock in water with the same power. "My king rules many islands, and men beyond count. More of us will come. We will need allies, we will need friends."
The men looked unconvinced but at least stopped rising to leave. The old chief shrugged. "What do you want from us?"
"For now, little enough. These…valleymen have taken two of ours. One is a holy man, much like Pacal, the other a woman. All I wish is their return."
"I'm sorry," the old man shook his head with contempt. "But if they are taken, then like my wife and father, your friends are dead, sacrificed to the Devourer."
"That may be. But I will see for myself."
"I have spies trying to bring me word of their comrades," said Pacal. "That isn't why I brought you here. My friends, we have a rare opportunity." The old shaman nodded and stared into the fire before he looked to the gathering. "Do you not tire of the great city? I do. I feel its existence like a sickness in my blood, as if some snake bit me as a young man, and every day I die slowly of its venom, wishing only it would speed its journey to my heart. I feel I cannot wait much longer, cannot survive much longer." He looked at the men. "Our tribes share many things. Gods. Rituals. Kin. All know of the legend of the travelers from the East. Their coming is a symbol." He raised his voice. "Chief Janab, all know of your history of war, and your great knowledge. How many thousands of enemies do the valleymen have if those enemies were to band together?
"Countless," the old chief answered, his voice tinged with hate.
"In Copanoch, they soon celebrate a festival of the stars, coinciding with the ancient devotions. They will be consumed with their own rituals for weeks, even their armies brought back to celebrate with their kin, and demonstrate their piety."
"How do you know this?" a young chief asked, and Pacal smiled.
"The mountain whispers a great many things." He whistled, and several nearby animals growled from the trees. "The world itself demands the death of Centnaz and his horrors." He looked again to the fire. "In a few months time, the city of Copanoch will bring her warriors inside her walls, and wash its altars in blood. Their people, from peasant to prince, will soak their throats and minds with drink and plant-smoke. That gives us time to prepare. And a day and a long night to attack."
The older man seemed lost in thought but said nothing, but the younger snorted. "Copanoch has a wall as high as these trees. It is known that evil spirits guard the stone-that they throw men back who try to climb, that any who pass it are doomed. And, they have an army of many thousands. We could never rally enough of the tribes. If you've forgotten, they hate each other almost as much as they hate Copanoch."
"Our new friends have promised to help us with the wall." Pacal gestured to Eka, who nodded. "Once inside, the wood buildings will burn. We will light fires and loose them for the winds, letting the fire kill as many as we can. With their armies unassembled and scattered, we will make them pay for their deeds, and not on the battlefield as they wish. We will burn the unholy Copanoch to the ground, and destroy the House of Mar."
"And their allies," asked the older man, still lost in reverie, no trace of contempt now in his voice. "What of the other cities? Will they not come for revenge?"
"No, Chief Janab. With Copanoch destroyed, they will turn on each other. It is the balance of the three that keeps them at peace, and nothing more. When the great city falls, the faithful of the devourer won't care about revenge, only grasping power for themselves."
The men sat in silence now, many lost in thought.
"Help us rescue our man," Eka spoke again. "And he can help you. He made this armor." He gestured to Chang. "He can make more, as well as weapons from the same metal, strong enough to stop anything your enemies would wield."
"How much more?" The shaman asked, clearly as surprised as the others to hear this.
"Enough to arm your greatest warriors. He can use the gifts of the mountain, like you, Pacal. Perhaps you can learn from each other."
The shaman's smile was no longer that of a spiritual man who desired wisdom, but a greedy king who wanted to own all the world. He smothered it quickly, and looked to the chiefs.
"I will not ask my people to live in fear any longer. I will not watch them suffer the corruption of the valleymen's tax collectors, soldiers, and gods. I will not sit and wait while the venom in my veins does its work and kills what life I have left. I will fight, and ask them to fight, for the memory of their kin."
The old chief, Janab, blinked and rose, looking at the gathering as his face and eyes hardened. "Pacal is right, and his words honorable. I will go to my brothers and sons with his message, and before their festival, a hundred tribes will gather. We will show these murderers and thieves the price of their tyranny. What you do is your own business."
Without waiting, the old warrior turned and his men followed. Others came and offered respect to Pacal and made their own assurances before departing. Chang met Eka's eyes, wondering what the hell exactly they were doing and if it was all just to save two crew, or if there was some other game at play. Nothing the assassin-turned-captain did would surprise him, and frankly he didn't care. It was all the tiring games of landsmen, and all he knew is he wanted to be safely back on his ship, far out to sea. But a good pirate had to be realistic.
When no one was looking, he swiped a bottle of the red-root alcohol from a stone table, and turned back to his men.
Chapter 18
"General!"
Yacat winced and stopped in the narrow corridor. He had been avoiding the court scholars for weeks now but they seemed to have trapped him on two sides. The man and his assistants huffed from catching
Yacat's stride, their ridiculous hats nearly falling as they bowed. "General. War-Prince…Yacat, I'm glad I found you. We have been…instructing the prisoners, as ordered, and truly, truly, with the male in particular, the progress is…simply, remarkable. Unnatural, it is clear. You must see the results for yourself."
Yacat did not care about the results. He had been summoned before the king and expected both chastisement and fresh orders. Not only had he yet again fought with the Devourer's priests, there were reports of fresh rebellion in the riverlands, and several bandit raids on merchants on the Eastern roads. As a rule, Yacat also had no patience with scholars and their tedious arrogance, an opinion he'd developed before they'd finished teaching him to write.
"My apologies, Scholar Tonac, I don't have time. Perhaps when I've returned from my meeting with the king…"
"Young prince." The older man tried his tutor's voice, reddening only slightly as Yacat quirked a brow at his boldness. "Please. Your father…your father and High Priest Nahua have already agreed the prisoners are spirits trapped in human flesh. The female therefore would have been best sacrificed on the half moon according to…" the man must have caught sight of Yacat's eyes, and stopped to lick his lips. "Since that was…undesirable, to your lordship, and now considerable time has been lost, we have only three more days to decide if she will again be conserved for a more auspicious date, or if…"
"The prisoners are mine, not High Priest Nahua's. I merely haven't had the time…my father…" Yacat stopped and put a hand to his forehead. It would be better to see for himself before facing Etzil. "Just take me to the damn prisoner."
"Of course, my prince. Thank you. Your valuable time is most appreciated. Please follow me."
Yacat obeyed, clenching a hand to smother his restlessness. Scholars were of course learned men with much to teach, but Yacat had no respect for those who did nothing but talk, immune to the consequences of their words. Over the years, Yacat had seen a great many scholars and priests offer terrible advice, even on practical matters like tax collection, land use, irrigation and weather patterns. Not once had he seen one starve.
Men of words alone also grew cowardly, treacherous hearts. Whatever way the wind blew they flit upon the breeze, no values save to spare their hides. After the god-cursed servants of Centnaz had tried to sneak the female prisoner to their altar like thieves in the night, Yacat knew he could not rely on the scholars to protect her. He had moved her to the harem's servant's quarters where he controlled the guards. By all accounts she was doing well enough, but it wasn't her that interested and concerned the palace elite. Yacat had already heard the whispers.
Palace guard said the golden-eyed giant was terrifying everyone. They said he was an evil spirit trapped in human skin, a demon of Kisinc—the reeking god of bad death—sent to the world to eat men's souls. It would be nonsense, of course, but if not the prospect didn't much frighten Yacat. With a soul like his, it was best some demon ate it before he went on for judgment.
The scholars led him down into the dungeons, past the cells currently packed with criminals and slaves to be sacrificed, beyond to the well-kept rooms reserved for noble prisoners. Yacat slowed when he saw the entrance had no door.
"The creature…smashed it, my prince, when he was locked in without food as punishment." The scholar shrugged. "He has several times removed his shackles or any ropes as well, but he never tries to escape. He says he does not wish to be bound, but has nowhere to go."
"You've spoken to him?" Yacat said, surprised.
The scholar snorted. "Oh yes. He already reads books, my prince, and seems to remember everything. Please." He gestured inside, and Yacat checked to make sure his sword was free and ready.
The two guards in attendance nodded in respect. The barbarian sat at a table covered in old tomes, their pages crumbling and yellowed. He had a quill in one hand and traced letters idly, even as he flipped through sheafs of ancient papyrus with the other. His room was in disarray—the bedding, cushions, and wall decorations pulled apart as if inspected. Scholar Tonac gestured at him and shook his head as if to say, 'do you see?'
"We thought it best not to waste anything of worth," he explained. "We've given him interpretations of old religions, records from kings of centuries past. Nothing of particular value."
Yacat ignored this, though he thought the past is more valuable than you think.
"Good afternoon, slave." He stepped forward and the man or spirit turned, golden eyes assessing, judging, in cold silence. Yacat inspected his writing and saw the scripts were traced with impressive detail. Copanoch had several spoken languages used by the different classes, but only one official written system based on image sets, typically simple shapes arranged in patterns. It took many years to learn them all, and only the most educated achieved it.
"So, you speak our language now?"
"I speak enough." The man's voice was deep and powerful, filling the room with ease. "Your scholarship is flawed but thorough. My people used a system of writing much the same."
Yacat blinked, staring. The accent was strange and thick but the words were perfectly understandable and correct. Again Scholar Tonac shrugged as if to say 'I told you'.
"My priests believe you are an evil spirit," Yacat said, trying to stay composed. "How else could a man learn a language so quickly? Unless, of course, you are a liar."
"I am a man, if different than you. I do not speak lies."
"Then you are a spirit, for all men lie." Yacat paced across the room, inspecting the view of the great lake from the single, barred window. "Where are you from, spirit-man? Where are your people?"
"You do not know them. They live far across the sea to the East, and call themselves the men of ash."
Yacat exchanged a look with Tonac. There were many myths in the valley of the gods. Some came from ancient religions, others from stories passed down from parent to child in evening tales from sources and eras none knew. One that had lingered and spread from Copanoch to the many coasts was that one day men would come from the Eastern ocean, and change the world.
"There are no lands in the Eastern ocean," Yacat said with a disinterested tone. The giant just stared, as if he expected nothing, and did not care if he was believed.
"Why are you here?" Yacat tried. "What do you want?"
"We are explorers, nothing more. My companion, the woman named Zaya—let her return to the Eastern coast and re-join our ship. That is all I ask. Do this and I will answer any question, do anything you wish. I am no threat to you, and certainly an asset."
Your existence is a threat to me, Yacat thought, but without great concern. Whoever these people were made little difference. He had his own problems and no time to bargain with nor chase down legends and spirits. And his father would never free them.
"Your companion is under my protection," he said. "She is perfectly safe, so long as you behave. We will speak more, you and I. But not now."
With that Yacat left the padded prison and took Tonac aside. "Ensure he is cared for. He might be useful to the king." Here Yacat stopped and stared Tonac in the eye, stepping forward until they stood uncomfortably close in the narrow corridor. "And scholar, do not assume that because you were my boyhood tutor, I will show you mercy. I know the priests have their hands in your order's pockets. If High Priest Nahua or any of his creatures comes claiming this prisoner, you and all your brothers will prevent it, or I will bury you in an unmarked grave. Is that understood?"
The old man paled and nodded, and Yacat hoped he wasn't forced to demonstrate his sincerity. He strode back through the dungeons hardly noticing the doomed men in their crowded misery. It was just one more horror in a long list, and instead he prepared his patience for an afternoon of verbal punishment with the king.
* * *
Not for the first time, Zaya sang for her jailers.
Once every four or five days it had become a kind of custom for the palace women to demand Zaya's presence. They would provide water with some kind of citrus
, or trays of sweets Zaya couldn't begin to identify. Thus plied with favor she would sit and sing her foreign words while they smiled, and their children laughed and played.
Today was the fourth such 'invitation'. Zaya now sat freshly bathed and dressed in fine blue cloth in her appointed chair, the foreigner's version of a lyre in her lap. It had more strings than she was used to, but over the past month she had gained at least an adequate skill. Zaya quieted her audience of women and children with a long, dramatic look to the sun, which peeked from the wide opening in the room. She took on a playing pose and sung softly of Galdra—the Prophet of Nanot, Goddess of law—mixing in her growing list of new-world words. This was difficult while singing, but the women loved it, clapping along as the children danced. Zaya had discovered these people were very musical, with nearly all women trained to sing, and that they favored such talents. That an exotic prisoner had been capable of learning their words and engaging in a favorite pastime amused them endlessly.
A male voice broke the spell, barking from the entrance and warping the expression on every woman in the room. Happy smiles replaced with anxious scowls as the women fled to their rooms, dragging children and carrying bits of their lunch. Zaya stood and stopped playing, unsure what else to do.
Several armed warriors entered at the flanks of a trio of noblemen. Zaya could already tell most of her captors apart from their dress, and knew by their feather armbands these were warriors. Slaves had rings dangling from pierced ears, lips or noses; nobles—like the three men that entered now surrounded by guards—wore fine dyed cloths, as much jewelry as a rich woman of ash, and carried wooden swords at all times.