He approached and rubbed his hand along one of Daasek's arms. The cloth was stretched so taut that he could actually feel the pulse beneath. His patient was speaking truly. The man would die if he could not be freed. He took a deep breath and slowly slit across the clothing. It parted reluctantly, and blood quickly filled the gap. He pulled at the cloth. It pealed back slowly, as if it were part of Daasek, and took hair and skin with it. The doctor looked up and saw his patient gazing fixedly at him. There was pain in the eyes, but something else as well. He turned his gaze quickly. “Wait.” He placed a blindfold over his patient. “You needn't see this.” And I dare not look again at those eyes, he added mentally.
* * * *
During brief periods of consciousness, Daasek remembered the powerful and evil man in blue who had come from a dying forest in another land. Who had imprisoned his village, then captured him unawares. Who had stolen his soul? An old, evil man who commanded him by dreams and other powers to slay for unknown reasons. A man whose name Daasek was not allowed to remember.
In those moments he vowed revenge on Krujj, on his master, most of all on the beings who watched from somewhere and laughed. But when Daasek awoke two weeks later, after his body had become a mass of bandages and blood, he recalled nothing.
* * * *
“It will require a year.”
“Six months.”
The healer shook his head. His patient lay before him, covered in poultices and magic herbs and a few well-placed leeches. Daasek's face, hands and feet remained unscathed. The rest of him would become scar tissue. If he survived. “A year. You need at least that long to heal.”
“Six months. Krujj must not forget. I want to see fear in his eyes when he recognizes me.”
“You will never stand the pain.”
Daasek laughed. “Yes I will. You've given me plenty of practice.”
* * * *
The bearded man ignored the stares and whispers of the townspeople. They in turn couldn't ignore the squat barbarian whose half-naked body was so pitifully, totally scarred. Even the innkeeper, accustomed to strangers from many climes, caught his breath when the man approached. “I desire a room.”
After a long insulting silence, the man nodded. “Three gold crous for the night.”
“Your rates have gone up.”
The innkeeper looked at him thoughtfully. He could not forget a man like this. “You have never been here,” he stated after a pause.
“Perhaps. That will do. One night.” Coins were exchanged.
The man checked them carefully, then nodded. “Up the stairs, take...”
“No, something on the ground floor.”
“Only slaves live there.”
“Let one stay in my room. I paid for it.”
The innkeeper acquiesced. It would be better for his guests’ dispositions if the stranger was kept from them anyway. He gestured at a wrinkled bent man. “Follow him,” he said after a whispered conversation with his property.
Daasek was led down a narrow hallway to an equally narrow room. Light from a small window revealed a tiny pile of filthy straw, nothing else. He ushered the slave from the room and quickly shut the door.
Daasek had noted during his first visit to Ta'Bel that inns lacked windows beyond the first floor, presumably to discourage early exits. The stench of the room didn't trouble him because he had no intention of remaining. Instead, he removed his false beard and donned more revealing clothing. Soldiers broke into the room less than ten minutes later, but by then he had fled.
* * * *
“You want it this dark?”
“Please.”
The whore shrugged and closed the shutters. He had been very quiet, this man, almost shy perhaps, but richly dressed. He had needed little persuasion to accompany her. Now she had doubts. But he had paid without debate and in advance. “Do you want any help?” she asked coyly and reached for him.
“No,” and she was startled by his intensity. “I want you to wear this.” He handed her a strip of cloth.
She forced a laugh. “Where?”
“Across your eyes. I don't want you to see me.”
She pondered. A rich merchant or traveling royalty, fearing reprisal from this peccadillo? Or someone with darker intent? But he had paid well, and she had help—and eyes—in the tavern next to her. And a sharp knife she always kept nearby. She had used both in the past.
He noted her hesitancy. “I am not going to hurt you. It's just that ... I had an accident. I am afraid you will not find me attractive.”
“I'm sure that won't happen,” she smiled invitingly and reached for him again. But he quickly pulled away. Prolonging the inevitable would just prevent her from earning more that day, she decided. So she put on the blindfold and settled on the bed.
He was on her in seeming seconds, hungry and scared and naive and caring all at once, and she forgot her concern in the mad union of their bodies. It was only after his orgasm that she realized he was crying.
* * * *
There were no moons that evening, which suited Daasek. The sport with the whore had been an enjoyable way to spend the afternoon, but, more importantly, it had kept him hidden from Krujj's spies. Now he stood outside the magician's home and fingered the hilt of his sword. Surely Krujj knew he was here, or at least some enemy was. The only question was how he would attack.
Daasek found the answer when he turned into the alley. He was studying the balustrade, judging the height, when he heard footsteps. He turned and saw three armed men appear at the passage.
“The coward sends slaves this time,” Daasek laughed. “Which one of you wishes to die first?”
They made no answer. The alley was narrow, only two could enter at once. Daasek noted carefully the one who held back. He would be the better fighter, Daasek decided. The other two advanced. He pulled his dagger almost carelessly from its sheath and casually flicked it underhand at the stocky man on his right.
It was a casual flip, but deadly accurate. The blade was not of metal, and thinner, stronger—and sharper—than any forged by man. The attacker gasped, then collapsed unmoving as the weapon buried itself into his chest.
The second man didn't hesitate, yet the third continued to hold back. Daasek was faintly surprised as he parried the first blow. Caution, cowardice, or a sense of honor? He wondered. He leaped as the blade flashed towards his knees, then brought his own flat on the man's left arm. The man grunted and spun back.
Daasek only smiled. “I could have taken your arm,” he said reasonably. “Is Krujj paying you enough to die?”
The man swore and lunged again, forcing Daasek back farther into the alley. It was no cleaner than any city street, and garbage underfoot threatened his balance. He ducked as a thrust went over his head and into the wall, then brought his sword up hilt-first into the man's stomach. The man doubled over and almost dropped his weapon. Daasek grabbed him by the hair and drove his face into the wall once, twice, three times. When he let go, the man dropped to the alley, dark red blood streaming from his mouth and ears.
Daasek turned to the final man and saluted. “Now we can enjoy ourselves.”
The latter made a mocking bow and drew his own blade. “Thank you. Now I won't have to share my reward for slaying you.”
“You will earn no reward this evening.”
“On the contrary. I will earn two. Money for me and your soul for Hys. I admit you fought my fellows well. But I am much better than they were. Besides,” he added as he feinted, “you're too ugly to live.”
Even as Daasek moved to block, the blade flicked as fast as a fly down and away, and a ribbon of red suddenly appeared on his side.
“I have plenty of time,” the man continued as he moved his sword in ever tightening circles. “I was ordered to make your death painful. And I do what I'm told.”
Daasek sidled away as the blade flashed towards him again. He was no match for the latter's skill, and, unfortunately, they both knew it. He cursed as he stumbled and the s
word slid across his right arm. If only he still had his dagger.
But his knife was in a dead man at the far end of the alley and his opponent wasn't letting him by. Instead, he pressed forward, forcing Daasek towards the far wall. If swords wouldn't do, there had to be something else, Daasek decided.
He needed the opportunity. As long as the man thrust straight or at his legs, he was nearly helpless. He was already bleeding from a dozen new cuts and slashes, and if he let the battle continue, he would be unable to face Krujj even if he survived. It had to end soon.
The other man smiled as Daasek gasped for breath. “You will get your rest soon enough. The eternal rest of the damned.” He swung at Daasek's head.
It was what Daasek had waited for. He deflected the blow slightly, then dropped his own sword. With both hands he grabbed the other's arm. The man shrieked as Daasek turned back his wrist, shattering it within seconds. Daasek retrieved the weapon while the last attacker lay nearly in shock in the alley. He approached the man slowly. “Krujj will be disappointed in you.”
“Even if you kill me,” the man taunted between clenched teeth, “it only prolongs the inevitable. You will soon join me.”
Daasek shrugged. “Perhaps, but I still outlived you.” He buried the sword in his foeman's heart.
He extracted his dagger, then wiped both blades clean. Krujj would be curious now, he knew. Krujj would want to face him.
He leapt and grabbed the ornate balustrade. He felt muscle and skin tear, and blood appeared from a hundred new wounds. The first rush of fire nearly caused him to scream, but he remained silent as he hoisted himself to the small porch above. He would have time to recover later. Right now Krujj was waiting.
He broke the window with his sword, then walked inside. From the single candle resting on a small table he could see he was in a library. “Down the hall and to your left,” a strange voice called out softly. Daasek looked. On the far wall a stag's head stared down sightlessly at him. Its dead eyes glowed.
“Thank you,” he bowed.
“Down the hall and to your left,” the stag continued. Daasek went down the hall and to his left.
He recalled the room instantly. The mage was standing next to the fireplace, goblet in hand, just as he had so many months before. He smiled as Daasek entered, sword at ready. “The door was open. The window was unnecessary.”
“So were your guards. I hope they left no widows.”
“Meaningless lives. Just as meaningless as yours.”
“Perhaps you can still give meaning to mine. As you suggested once before.”
A frown touched the gray man briefly. “The last time?”
“This may help.” Daasek reached inside his belt and threw a shred of red velvet to Krujj. “I regret your suit is much the worse for wear.”
Krujj examined the cloth and the bits of skin and hair adhering to it. Then he laughed. “You did survive. My compliments. I apologize for not recognizing you earlier, but your appearance has changed much since we last met. I do prefer you this way.”
Daasek forced his voice to remain even. “You have information I need. Give it to me now.”
Krujj drank deeply. “I told you before, barbarian. You have everything you need to know within you. I cannot make it reappear. I will only make it unnecessary.”
“I ask only once.”
“And I say this,” Krujj responded and hurled his goblet.
Daasek ducked easily, but the magician's real attack came from below. The rug at his feet suddenly surged, and he was swept off-balance. It was then he realized why everything in the room seemed made of red velvet. Every piece of cloth was under Krujj's control.
Krujj remained at the fireside, rubbing his ring and crooning softly. Curtains flailed out at Daasek, striking him across the face and wrapping around his sword. He tried to hold it with both hands, but they were wrapped too tightly as they easily ripped the weapon from him. He reached down and pulled out his dagger just as another curtain launched itself at him. It encircled his chest like a constrictor and Daasek remembered horribly the suit of velvet that had so dearly cost him as it began to tighten.
He had only one chance now. Fortunately, his right arm, his throwing arm, was still free. He allowed himself to fall so he would not be distracted by the bucking carpet. Krujj stood still, eyes closed as he worked his magic. Daasek would get only one chance. Without reason, without question, he knew what his target must be.
He had always been good with a dagger. The weapon caught Krujj in the right hand, the unringed hand, pinning it to the wall. Krujj roared in pain and instantly the curtains ceased their pressure.
Daasek fought out of the velvet cocoon in seconds. The magician was stunned and struggling to free the knife deeply embedded into the wall when Daasek reached him. Without thought, Daasek seized the man's free hand. There was only one object he needed. He nearly broke the magician's finger off as he ripped the arcane ring free. He stepped back. “Now we can talk.”
Greenish ochre streamed from Krujj's wound but he ignored it. Instead, he focused on the ring Daasek brandished before him. “You must give it to me. You don't understand.”
“This?” He held the ring lightly. “Tell me what you know.”
The magician clenched his teeth. He tried to pull his hand free but the knife was embedded too firmly and he could not hold the haft with his other. “It will do you no good. I need my ring!”
“You were such a gracious host, I can only repay in kind.” He approached and with a swift pull removed his dagger from the wall and the magician. The man dropped to his knees, cradling his wounded hand. “You want this ring? Then take it,” and he turned and threw it into the fire.
“No!” The magician lunged after it. He stuck in his hands, shrieked, pulled them back, stuck them in again. Flames shot up his arm and quickly engulfed him.
Now that the ring and stone had been destroyed by the fire, one final task remained. Daasek retrieved his sword and approached slowly. He brought his weapon down, decapitating Krujj.
But as he did so Krujj reached out and grabbed his left arm. Daasek yelped at the burning touch and quickly shook himself free. He stepped back. The carpet was already beginning to burn. The rest of the house would soon follow. As he left, he looked at his left arm. The burns from Krujj's touch left an oddly familiar design on his scarred skin. But, as usual, just a flash of recognition was all he was permitted.
* * * *
He spent the evening in a tavern by the bay. From the doorway, he could see the lights of the flames engulfing the magician's home. But he didn't feel avenged, or satisfied, or even relieved. As he drank his wine, he could already feel the emptiness changing to the cursed urge, the urge to travel and to kill. He was sure that by morning it would be full upon him. And he could only obey.
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Chapter Two: Prelude: The Great Sail
It was the season for the moon of Phann. Herald of the new planting, the high tides. The time for the young men of the city to take their rite of passage and prove their worth as seamen for the great fishing fleets of Myniah.
Under a tall tree, facing the harbor, three young men sat sharing a bottle of wine and discussing their dreams, the young ladies, and their upcoming ordeal ... in no particular order, although the second received particular attention. Borof, son of a shopkeeper yet caught in the weave of the fisherman's net, was under the heaviest influence of the strong drink. His voice rose and fell like the waves offshore. “One month, no more,” he swore and pounded his chest. “You shall see. I will be the first ashore with the head of my warback.”
Fygre, the youngest of the three (although by months only), laughed. “The way you sail, it will take you that long to breach harbor.”
Borof flared. He would always resent the fact that his two comrades were born to the Guild while he had to beg his father and a son-less fisherman to second his apprenticeship. He formed a fist reflexively. “You are going only because you were born with
a silver hook in your mouth. Who has proven the fastest with the sail, or farthest with the net?”
Fygre looked to Daasek and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Truth be known, it was the latter only who could boast such skills.
Daasek ignored the challenge. This evening he was enjoying himself too greatly to mount an argument, one that at another time he would gladly have enjoined. “That matters little when searching for warbacks,” he observed. “It took my father three months to find his warback and return. This is not a race. All that matters is that you succeed.” Borof glared at him, then nodded. “Well spoken.” He suddenly smiled and lifted his glass for the dozenth time. “Success for all of us. To each a strong boat and to each a warback. And a celebration with plenty of wine and beautiful women when we all return.”
Fygre drank thoughtfully, then looked at Daasek. “When your father recaptured his, he lost an arm. Don't you ever worry, Daasek?”
Of course I worry, Daasek thought and clutched his right arm reflexively, the one that his father had lost during his own Great Sail. Only a fool wouldn't worry.
The warbacks were the kings of the Horean Sea. A man might grow to four kines in height. Full-grown warbacks were over eighty kines long, with sharp pointed spikes along their wide backs and mouths strong enough to snap a mature tree with one bite. A fully grown warback was easily more than a match for even the fastest warships. The ships the fishermen sailed, by contrast, were less than a quarter their size and not nearly as swift. Throughout most of the year the warbacks stayed within the deepest currents of the Horean Sea, much farther than even the bravest Myniah fisherman would dare ply his trade. The moon of Phann brought higher tides, however, and that signaled the warback's spawning time. Then they made their long journeys back to the shallower coastal waters, which they normally couldn't enter. There they mated, depositing their silt and eggs and bringing commerce of the seacoast towns to a virtual standstill.
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