by Mike Shel
“The dream again?” asked the big man, though he plainly knew the answer.
Auric ran his hands through his graying hair, covered his face for a moment. “Aye. Sorry if my nightmares keep you awake as well.”
“You could do no more.”
“What?”
“You couldn’t have saved them. You take the blame, but you were barely able to save yourself. You told us all the story. They found you wandering in the wilderness, talking to your friend’s head, half mad. And I’ve heard the rest of the tale in bits and pieces each night as you toss and turn.”
“I led them down into that place. I was pushing the group to accept expedition offers from the Citadel, one after another, without enough time for respite. We were all off our game. We needed rest, recuperation. We would have been more cautious if we hadn’t—”
“Were they children, Auric?” Belech interrupted. “They were grown men and women, with their own wills and judgment. You weren’t their sovereign, commanding them to do this or that without their accord.”
Auric pulled his knees up to his chest, looked down at the blanket covering him, the gesture like that of a small boy. Belech chewed a piece of bread he had saved from their supper, respecting Auric’s silence.
“I defied Hraea, directed Sira to heal those sorcerers against his express orders.”
Belech appeared unfazed by the abrupt shift in conversation. “And praise Belu you did. They saved us. Or at least the aquamancer did. Hraea’s order was absurd, especially given the circumstances.”
“And which of my orders have been absurd? What have I directed my people to do over the years that cost them their lives, or worse?”
Belech sighed, set down the remaining crust of bread on the night table beside him. “You don’t see the difference? I was a soldier, Auric. I’ve served under idiots before. Bold idiots, brave idiots, yes. You are no idiot, who acts on a whim, some hollow platitude, or thirst for glory. Hraea’s order was a stubborn affectation, his idea of proper Royal Navy discipline, much of it driven by his distaste for sorcerers. A prejudice masquerading as a code, if you ask me, and it would have cost all of us our lives. You give orders based on your best judgment at the time, yes? In the time I’ve spent with you, Auric, you have never struck me as spiteful or so enamored with your own genius to discount the input of others. You’ve made mistakes. And in this business, mistakes can be deadly. But I think you’ve made efforts to learn from them, tried to be wise.”
“You don’t speak like a ranker soldier, friend Belech,” Auric said, looking up at the man with renewed appreciation.
Belech rubbed his freshly shaven scalp. “Ah. Years with Lady Hannah have sanded off my rough edges, even polished some of them. I’ve even lost my peasant slang and accent. You know she insists all of her servants read and write, and have a course of study they pursue outside of their duties?”
“Baroness Schoolmarm! It’s true.”
Belech laughed. “Just so! Lady Hannah is like you in a way. She sees value in us all, beyond the circumstances of our births, and pushes us to grow. That’s quite rare in the nobility, don’t you agree?”
“Aye.”
“Lady Hannah is a rare woman, a pearl to be prized.”
Auric looked down again at the blanket, hearing Belech’s message loud and clear.
In the common room, Auric’s companions were already breaking their fast at a long table when he and Belech arrived. Eubrin Massey was with them, sharing a wild tale involving a talking pink badger stealing his supper. Gouric and Messine, however, weren’t present. Del saw Auric and Belech emerge and called out.
“Join the morning, friends! I’m afraid Eubrin has a sad story for you.”
The man’s smile stiffened to a frown. “Aye,” Eubrin said. “It appears Gouric and Messine have flown the coop, so to speak.”
Auric worked to keep the irritation out of his voice. “What’s this?”
“Well, turns out all three of us were lodging at The Stale Crust, on the other side of town. We were gathered round the hearth last night, chattin’ about the expedition, when a pair of seedy fellas joined us by the fire. The two fellas start yammerin’ on about what they heard happened to a Syraeic party that lit out for the Teeth of the Djao about three months ago, and how the League was giving up on the Barrowlands, so we mercs would be needin’ to find a new place to ply our trade. Well, Gouric points out that he and us was just hired by you for the expedition leavin’ today. Suddenly, these two get all quiet-like and squirrely, like they know somethin’. Messine don’t like the way they clam up, so she ‘encourages’ ‘em to talk, if you get my meaning. At last, they spill some stuff about portents and warnings from the Temple of Timilis.”
A cold chill climbed Auric’s spine at the mention of the trickster god. Eubrin spat into the hearth behind them.
“Temple?” said Sira. “It was only a shrine when I was last here.”
“Oh, things have changed, they have. The priesthoods of Pember and Tolwe—their shrines flanked Timilis—they gifted their properties to the priests of Timilis about a year ago and abandoned Serekirk. The shrines to all three gods were torn down and a temple to Timilis was raised in their place. Gaudy thing. Bangles and jewels hangin’ from the rafters, temptin’ down-on-their-luck mercs, who then get hung for theft and blasphemy when they’re caught. And they’re always caught.”
“Did you ask the seedy fellows about these portents?” asked Del.
“No, I didn’t. I can’t stand those priestly bastards—not you, Miss Sira, Belu bless you, I mean them that’s dedicated to Timilis. Anyway, I tell the one that’s passin’ on tales of prophecy to shove that nonsense up his arse and that portents from the mouth of Timilis are worth less than a fart in the wind. And I go to bed. When I get up this mornin’, expecting to join Gouric and Messine for the trek to Pennyman’s, well, their beds is empty and the innkeep says they checked out late last night after I turned in. Got berths on the Erinsea Lad, carrack that sailed out at dawn, headed for Harkeny.”
“Harkeny?” marveled Belech.
“Word is the Duke o’ Harkeny and the counts that control the forts and towns’re hirin’ for the frontier,” responded Eubrin, “to fight the Korsa hordes. They’re apparently rumblin’ again.”
“Messine and her brother hardly seemed the type to quail at hearthside spook stories or apocalyptic warnings from priests,” offered Lumari.
“I agree,” said Auric. “Lumari, take Gnaeus and Del with you to The Stale Crust and investigate the story a bit deeper. Belech, Sira, and Eubrin can get our mounts and gear from the Duke Yaryx and check with the harbormaster to see if Gouric and Messine were actually aboard that ship when it sailed.”
“And you, Sir Auric?” asked Gnaeus. “Perhaps getting a massage while waiting for us?”
“After my massage,” Auric answered drily, “I’ll be at the Counting House, retrieving my sword and the Golden Egg. We can meet back here in an hour and a half.”
The group finished breakfast quickly, then departed to complete their respective tasks. Auric walked toward the Counting House, certain that there had to be more to the story than Eubrin knew.
“Hanasi Welka is convalescing, Sir Auric,” said the sour-faced man at the Counting House desk when he arrived. “It appears she’s come down with some sort of mild ague.”
“Ague?”
“Yes,” he responded, screwing up his face and itching around the tiger eye gem set in his forehead. “We have the items you declared. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll retrieve them for you.”
“Is she the only one afflicted?”
“Afflicted? Sweet Belu, Sir Auric, it’s only a mild fever.”
“Does anyone else have a ‘mild fever’ or the like?”
“I don’t run the infirmary, sir, but I know of no one else who is ill. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
&nbs
p; The punctilious man walked to a wall that sprouted a door and passed through it. He returned with the Djao sword, followed by a young lad, an apprentice apparently, holding the Egg in both hands. They set them down on the desk before Auric without comment, the boy disappearing through another door that vanished with him.
“Will there be anything else?” said the sour-faced man in an officious tone, returning to his seat.
“A report,” snapped Auric. “The blade was to have received scrutiny.”
“Ah, about that,” said the man. He reached in his robes, pulled out a scroll tied with a black ribbon, and held it out for Auric, far enough away so that he had to lean in to retrieve it.
“Taken ill,” he continued, “Miss Welka was unable to complete the task. However, she requested a novice draw up this summary from the archives about the blade. There’ll be no charge for the service.”
“No charge for the service that wasn’t provided?” growled Auric. “How kind of you.” He snatched the scroll from the man’s hand and sheathed the Djao blade in his scabbard, belted to his waist empty this morning after he rose. He then placed the Egg in the satchel he carried, doing his best to limit the time his flesh spent in contact with the unnaturally cold brass. The man put a hand over the gem in his forehead as he recoiled, as though shielding it from Auric’s pique.
“Such rudeness is not tolerated in the Counting House, sir,” whined the man, rubbing his hands together briskly as though cleansing himself of Auric’s discourtesy.
Auric readied a retort, but decided to waste no further energy on the man, turning for the exit and walking out into the morning streets. Traffic was thin, far sparser than when Auric was last in Serekirk. He walked a few yards before finding a bench near a storefront not yet opened for business. Setting down the satchel that contained the Egg, he unfurled the scroll, which turned out to be two sheets rather than one. The first was a note written in scarlet ink by an elegant, feminine hand, using Gutter Djao, the tongue created by Syraeic scholars to hide information from the uninitiated.
Sir Auric.
I beg your forgiveness for not completing the scrutiny of Bane God’s Whim, but I have come down with a bit of a fever. As you may know, any ill-health clouds the vision of diviners and I could find no one else whose skill I trusted with the task.
Before I took to my sickbed, however, I did allow myself a brief reading of the blade. Understand that with my vision obscured, my impressions could be mistaken, but I think you have a very interesting Djao artifact in your possession. I sense a very faint, very ancient aura imbuing it that suggests all manner of possibilities. I suspect the blade still has potent enchantments upon it, and with all things Djao, it is likely no small matter. This family heirloom the duke gifted you with cannot be accurately valued: it is beyond price. However, its true power, whatever that may be, awaits your discovery.
I put a clever lad named Olsyn to work searching the archives for whatever information there is on the weapon and hopefully this summary is ready for you when you come to collect the blade and the other item in the morning.
Perhaps when you return from your foray into the Barrowlands you might come again to the Counting House so that I may properly scrutinize this fascinating artifact now in your possession. May all good gods speed you in your endeavors and bring you safely back again. And may all good gods bless our beloved League.
I am your most obedient servant,
Hanasi Welka
Auric put a hand to the sword’s pommel, sheathed at his side. Priceless, indeed, he thought. Did the mad duke have any idea what it was he was handing over to me?
Auric had come across ensorcelled Djao weapons before, but never a sword. The Djao favored bows, axes, polearms, spears. Rarely was a blade like this found in their ruins. He had tried himself with an enchanted Djao ax for a time, a weapon he had recovered from an expedition into a minor site in the far north, but found he missed the elegance and versatility of a long sword. Better to rely on steel forged outside the Barrowlands that didn’t have the Djao taint, he thought at the time. There were always rumors that such artifacts exacted a price at some point and it was best they hang in a museum rather than one’s scabbard. But the blade sheathed at his side now felt as though it belonged there, as though he had always owned it.
Auric drew it from its scabbard and inspected its keen edge, the graceful etchings and symbols, the faceted emeralds set in its pommel and crossguard. Rather than a gleaming silver sheen, the metal was a shining dusky gray, though the elegant glyphs carved in the length of the blade, two parallel columns mirroring one another, shone with an almost luminescent contrast. He didn’t recognize the symbols, flowing, stylized curls and swoops that casual inspection might name merely decorative. But somehow, he felt meaning emanate from those etched ciphers, mysterious, potent, and ancient. For a moment, he almost expected the thing to speak to him: an intimate, secret whisper. Feeling suddenly foolish, he returned the longsword to its sheath and went to the other scroll. It was a series of workmanlike notes rather than a narrative summary.
Djao blade called “Szaa’da’shaela” – translates as “Bane God’s Whim,” perhaps “The Will of God’s Bane”??
Recovered by Ulberta Montcalme of Kelse, year 224
Discovered at Oul’gat’ai’ah, no loss of life, Syraeic League expedition 224 – 77c
Discovered at Aem’ai’al’esh, three agents dead, one wounded, Syraeic League expedition 224 – 77d ???
Could find no record of past diviner scrutiny in the ledgers; checked years 223 – 225 to be certain there wasn’t a filing error
Smuggled??
Auric sat back hard, his mind reeling. It appeared there were two records of its recovery by this Ulberta Montcalme in 224, logged in two separate missions, one of them to the now-forbidden pantheon at Aem’ai’al’esh. No record of the diviners reading the blade—meaning that the thing was somehow smuggled out of Serekirk under the noses of the sorcerers at the Counting House. But then why was it recorded at all, let alone twice?
The goddamned mystery deepens, he thought, his free hand rubbing the blade’s jeweled pommel.
Lumari, Del and Gnaeus returned to Pennyman’s Respite an hour after Auric himself had gotten back to the inn. They reported that Gouric and Messine had left a note for the innkeeper at The Stale Crust, payment for their room enclosed, the note announcing they were quitting Serekirk on the ship Eubrin had named. When Belech and the others returned with their mounts and gear, they had confirmation from the harbormaster: both Gouric and Messine had booked passage on the Erinsea Lad, traveling in the ship’s hold.
“Rather uncomfortable accommodations,” observed Lumari.
“But cheap,” retorted Auric. “At least the most cheaply priced means of fleeing the city if one wants out. It’s how light-pursed mercenaries leave Serekirk.”
“Do we want to know what those portents were?” asked Gnaeus, fiddling with the fancy guard of his blade. “From the Timilis cult?”
“I would hesitate to walk down that path,” offered Sira. “It’s likely laid with snares.”
“Yes,” said Auric. “The cult isn’t known for its well-intentioned aid. Nonsense riddles, misleading prophecies that end up coloring one’s actions in ways that can prove…unfortunate. That’s what they offer.”
“Is there no truth in their words?” queried Gnaeus.
“What truth they contain is hidden or twisted,” said Sira. “In the end, the god and his servants have a joke on those who heed them. Irony and jests are an essential part of the cult’s sacraments.”
“Whatever you decide, Sir Auric,” said Eubrin, “we’ll pass by the temple on our way to the Northward Gate. It’s a stone’s throw from the gate’s shadow.”
Auric instructed the party to inspect their mounts and recheck their gear, making certain they would want for nothing on their journey through the hills to the
Priory of St. Besh. Eubrin had his own mount, a horse with a coat speckled brown and white. The crew of the Yaryx had taken good care of Glutton, Belech’s Lugo, and the others’ horses, and the blacksmith aboard had put fresh shoes on them all. Belech took care of the bill at Pennyman’s Respite and they were off.
Auric was again struck by how deserted the streets of Serekirk were, so strange given his memories of a weird but lively place. Normally the city teemed with a possibility of discovery that shone on the faces of its temporary inhabitants. Its permanent residents were all keen to make coin from eager adventurers, loose with their money as a rule. But the streets were quiet, those whom they did pass giving them no more than a churlish glance as they headed for the Northward Gate.
Shortly before arriving at the only way out of Serekirk into the wilderness beyond, they came upon the Temple of Timilis. The structure technically violated Serekirk’s ordinance that no building be taller than a single story, with eight narrow spires rising at strange angles from its roof, covered by deep red tile and hung with gilded chains. The façade of the temple was painted with comic murals of rich color and gilt: a knight mounted backward on his horse, his lance drooping like a flaccid penis; a jester sitting on a throne, a king crouched down on the floor to serve as his footstool.
Two priests stood out front, clad in capacious dark burgundy robes that exaggerated their sizes to almost comic effect, hoods like tilted pyramids crowning their heads, beaded braids depending from the hoods’ corners. Tattooed on their cheeks was the symbol of Timilis: a golden wheel with eight arcing spokes radiating from its central hub. One of the priests opened the front of his robe and pulled out his manhood, letting loose a stream of urine onto the cobblestones before the temple. It splashed into the thoroughfare as a second cleric stepped forward at the Syraeics’ approach, an overstated smile on her pale, freckled face.
“A blessed morning to you, citizens of the empire,” she cooed in a high-pitched voice. “Would you come sacrifice at the altar of the Great God Timilis before your journey, to ensure surprises and wonders in the days ahead?”