by Matt Gilbert
Satisfied that he did indeed cut quite a sinister figure, his need and belief in the mirror faded, and the mirror followed, dulling, becoming wooden, imperfections rising out of the flat surface until it was once again a heavy door. Sadrik smiled and slammed his palm against the wood. It burst from its hinges and imploded inward in a rain of shards.
Sadrik raised an eyebrow in admiration of the room beyond. The taste, the cost, the sheer arrogance on display was remarkable. The entire outer wall was a single piece of curved glass, the curtains drawn back to reveal all of Nihlos dreaming under orange clouds, silent, majestic, impossible to ignore. Numerous white throw rugs were placed as walkways over the marble tiled floor. A score or more candles reflected from mirrors and the wall glass, filling the room with a warm glow. Lilac scented smoke wafted gently into the air from censors along the counters. In the center, sunken into the floor, was a huge bath more along the lines of a swimming pool. Steam rose from its surface, only to be whisked away by some unseen wind, leaving thevista of Nihlos unmarred.
Maralena Prosin, naked in her bath, gasped in shock, scrambling to cover herself out of reflex.
Sadrik took his time with his entrance. Swagger was important, after all. It was warm in here. Scorching. Something is on fire. Wisps of flame rose from the throw rugs where his boots touched, leaving a trail of charred footprints. Smoke curled from the debris of the door as he passed, and the towels hung from numerous rods began to smolder. “Good evening, Maralena. Are you surprised to see me?”
Maralena recovered quickly from her shock. She lowered her arms, giving him a full view of her age-worn body. “I hadn’t thought it would be so soon.”
Sadrik raised an eyebrow and made a tisk-tisk sound. “Should I have made an appointment?”
Maralena hauled herself to her feet and stood naked, defiant. “Have your kind ever concerned yourselves with the desires of we lesser beings?”
Sadrik gestured, and a towel rose from its rack and floated across the room to her. “No need to rob you of your dignity.”
Maralena took the towel and wrapped it around herself. “I thank you for that. So tell me, is this negotiable? I have a lot to offer.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Maralena clenched her jaw and nodded. “Not fire, please. Have some mercy.”
Sadrik swept his arm at her in fury, and the curtains burst into flame. “Mercy?” he shouted. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word!”
Maralena squeezed water from her hair with a sour expression. “You people toss it about often enough. I don’t have the luxury.”
Sadrik steepled his fingers and touched his nose for a moment, giving her what he hoped was a stern, merciless scowl while he considered. “What will you offer me, then? In exchange?”
“Truth.”
“Ah, now that is something of value.” He held a moment, letting her stew a second longer. “Give me the truth, and I’ll not use fire.” He stroked at his beard as he waited for whatever lie she chose to tell him. “But have a care. I know more than you think.”
Maralena stared at the floor, seemingly resigned to her fate. Grim faced, she said in a dull voice, “It was Narelki who started it all. She sent the men to kill Lara. Will you be visiting her as well?”
Sadrik shook his head, unamused. “You know full well she is a special case. You’re not helping yourself here, meddling in things that don’t concern you.”
“I’ve concerns aplenty. I just have no power to address them.”
Sadrid ground his teeth. Pathetic mewling bitch! “That is what makes you a lesser creature.”
Maralena stiffened as if she had it in her mind to strike at Sadrik, then seemed to think the better of it. That, too. If you had the stomach to fight me, this would go easier on you, coward.
“It was her fault Marissa died,” she said in acid tones. “I struck back at her child.” She cast Sadrik a hateful glare, pride clear on her face. “There was a time when you people would have called revenge fair play.”
Sadrik chuckled at this. “Oh, you misunderstand why I am here. It was fair enough.” He shook his head, pasting on a look of mock-sadness. “No, it’s all of the rest that brought you to this place. It was very sloppy, that business with the letters. I would have expected better of you.”
Maralena took a deep breath, then let it out with a slight shudder. “Yes. I did too.”
“Is there anything else? Any last words, perhaps, you would have me deliver?”
“I regret nothing.”
She still counts it as a victory. Perhaps it was worth it to her. “Very well. Prepare yourself.” Sadrik raised his arms dramatically and waved them about in slow, meaningless gestures.
Maralena’s eyes widened, but she maintained her composure. “Not fire.”
Sadrik flashed her the wicked smile again and shivered. Cold. I’ve never been so cold!
The dozen or so smoldering spots in the room snuffed out like pinched wicks, and the candle flames wavered in their sconces as the chill gripped the room and seeped in like water filling a sinking boat. The temperature dropped fifty degrees in seconds as Maralena gaped, uncomprehending, and the clear vista window grew opaque with frost.
Sadrik waved a hand at her, a casual gesture, and Maralena staggered, then fell back into the bath. Another fifty degrees fell away in an instant, and another. As Maralena’s body dipped beneath the surface, the water grew thick, less translucent. Maralena’s eyes sprung wide in horror as she realized Sadrik’s intent, but it was too late.
Sadrik’s teeth began to chatter, and his breath jetted from his nostrils in visible clouds as he stepped onto the sheet of ice that now covered the bath. Ridiculous! I am immune to the cold! It was a sudden realization, one he had really always known, but had never actually considered until now. Of course the cold could not touch him. How could it be otherwise? That wouldn’t make any sense at all.
Warmth swept through him, and his teeth calmed. Sadrik looked looked down at Maralena with a cruel smile as she pushed at the wall of ice to no avail. He watched with detached amusement as she struggled against the inevitable, her lips moving silently, her eyes wide with terror. Begging for mercy, likely. Sadrik cupped a hand to his ear, then shrugged and smiled back. What’s what? Sorry! Can’t hear what you’re saying, you rotten old cunt!
He pointed his finger at the ice and gestured. Trenches formed on the surface as if they were chiseled there. He did it slowly, not wanting to make a mistake. Writing ‘Tasinalta sends her regards’ backwards took some concentration, and it would hardly do to get some of the letters wrong. That would make him look quite foolish, which could have severe consequences.
At last, her breath burst from her lips in a great bubble, and her body convulsed in death throes. Sadrik gave it a few more minutes, just to be certain, then stepped down to the floor again. He took a deep breath, realizing that it was, in fact, a lovely temperature here. The great window slowly began to clear, and the sheet of ice in the bath began to melt, slowly at first, then accelerating. Within a few moments, Maralena’s corpse bobbed to the surface, her eyes still bulging.
Sadrik spat into the water. “Not fire,” he said with a nod.
END BOOK 1
A Word From the Author
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the tale. If you did, please take a moment and tell others with a review on Amazon. Word of mouth is absolutely vital for those of us in indie publishing. Even a one liner “I really liked this!” makes a big difference.
The story continues in “The Mad God's Muse”. Here's a sample chapter to whet your appetite!
Preview: Commandos
Ahmed finds himself in charge of a small group of men, marooned on a desolate shore, penniless, with no supplies to speak of. An ocean stands between them and home.
First, I must take stock of what I have. Ahmed counted the faces. Nineteen men, plus himself, an army of twenty. How many were Brutus’s men, and how many were sailors? It doesn’t matter. They are all Xanthians.
>
“Our goals are simple. We must survive, and we must find a way home. We have neither supplies nor a ship. We have no money, and so we cannot pay. We have no friends, and so we cannot borrow. How many are armed?”
It was so easy, it was improper to even consider it ‘combat’. Under cover of darkness, they had entered the sleeping town and made their way to the wharves. They had met all of three men, single foot patrols, guards looking for thieves, not soldiers. Not a one had offered resistance. One had even volunteered his own rope so he could be tied instead of knocked out or killed. They had obliged him, once they finally understood his words. The accent here was different than in Nihlos, the words even harder to understand until the ear grew accustomed to them.
Ahmed looked down the pier at the ship, then cast Sandilianus a glance. Sandilianus nodded. “It will do.”
Ahmed was about to give the order to take the ship when he felt his focus shift to his left, as if an invisible hand were literally turning his head toward something it wanted him to see.
Sandilianus noticed the change. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.
Ahmed peered into the dark to his left, trying to answer that very question. “I don’t know. Something…” He trailed off, letting the hand in his mind guide him. He felt connection as a clicking sound in his mind. What was pitch black moments before was given form, black on black, dark, hooded figures skulking through the night. He pointed at them. After a moment of squinting, Sandilianus nodded. He could see them as well. They were carrying something that looked for all the world like a corpse, but it was too dark to be certain. He spoke what he felt as a command in his soul: “I must go.”
Sandilianus shot him a withering glare. “Now?”
Ahmed did not even see the expression on the other man’s face. He continued to peer into the darkness, his eyes tracking the nearly invisible group. There were three of them, and they were without doubt evil men. He could taste the wrongness of them on his tongue like spoiled milk. The thugs turned down an alley and faded into deeper darkness.
“Ilaweh calls. Can you take the ship without me?”
Sandilianus raised an eyebrow and grinned. “We’ll manage somehow.”
“Then do it. I will investigate. If I am not back in ten minutes, leave without me.”
Sandilianus chuckled softly. “That’s time enough to kill a man, I suppose.”
“Or three. Or be killed myself.”
Sandilianus clapped him on the back. “Good luck.”
“And you.” Ahmed laid his right hand on his sword pommel and set off in the direction of the hooded figures as Sandilianus issued hand signals for the men to advance on the ship. The men raised shields, formed a phalanx, and began to advance down the pier.
Ahmed ran quickly toward the alley. As he lost sight of his men, he mused to himself that they were quiet about their warfare when they needed to be. He could hear nothing of their progress. Surely, it would be a simple thing, then.
He, too, would be stealthy. He moved as quickly as possible, but low and close to the wall, listening. It was always better to surprise the enemy than be surprised by him. He smiled as his prudence was rewarded by the sound of voices.
“We do it here,” a deep, gravely voice insisted. A moan, distinctly female, followed this pronouncement. Not a corpse, then. A captive! Ahmed ground his teeth in rage, but stayed his hand. Successful warfare requires intelligence.
He moved forward as silently as possible. At the corner of the wall, he stopped and peered around. Three hooded figures, one large and with a great belly, two smaller, stood facing each other. On the ground between them was a bound and gagged woman. The larger man was shoving a torch at the bound woman’s face, chuckling as she cringed away.
“Fool!” one of the smaller men said, his voice higher-pitched and nervous, perhaps even reluctant. “What will you do if a guard comes upon us?”
The third man sneered. “The he will meet the same fate!” his words slurred as if he were drunk or injured.
“It’s madness!” Cautious complained. “We risk exposing the whole murder!”
The fat man slammed a meaty fist into Cautious’s face, and the smaller man fell to the ground with a small cry.
Slur gave a nasty chuckle. “Elgar does not reward cowards!”
Ahmed felt as if he had been struck by lightning at the sound of that name. The Dead God was the very definition of unspeakable evil, and his followers depraved madmen! If these men served him, they must surely die, and quickly, before they could carry out whatever vile plan they had hatched.
Ahmed heard someone cry out in the distance, “’Ware boarders!” Sandilianus had engaged the ship, then. Time was short.
With his left hand, Ahmed reached to his back and hooked his fingers into his shield grip. His right gripped Brutus’s sword. My sword, now, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath. Ilaweh be with me.
Ahmed sprang from behind the corner, sword and shield slipping from their places and locking into battle positions as easily as a man might point his fingers. With a cry of fury, he charged them.
Fatso, wielding a torch, charged to meet him and got a sword through the throat for his stupidity. The torch fell to the ground and spun, sending shadows scurrying over the alley walls like a flock of crows. Slur jerked a dagger from his belt and came as well. Ahmed boggled at such stupidity, but went along with it. He slashed Slur’s hand off at the wrist. It’s spiraled off into the darkness, still clutching the dagger, as Slur’s face contorted in agony. Ahmed smashed the edge of his shield into Slur’s ugly face for good measure. Blood and teeth flew as Slur slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Cautious stood blinking at him. Ahmed cocked his head and stared at him in sheer amazement. “Shall I kill you, too, fool?”
Cautious turned and bolted. Ahmed watched him until he was out of sight, wary of treachery, but the man seemed well and truly fled. Who could blame him?
Ahmed bent to the gagged and bound woman. She was frenzied, struggling against her bonds, her eyes fixed upon him and filled with raw terror. “You are safe now,” he said softly, and took her hand to untie it.
Rather than calming, the woman redoubled her efforts to escape. She tore her hand free and began trying to snake away, at last settling for rolling.
“Fool! Hold still!” Ahmed grabbed her and forced her against the ground as he cut the rope binding her wrists. He immediately regretted it. The woman lashed out at him as he reached to remove her gag, raking his face with her nails.
He slapped her sharply in the face, trying to break her from her panic. “You are safe now!”
The woman stared at him in silence for a moment, then screamed, loud and long. “Demons! Black skinned demons!”
Ahmed leapt to his feet, shame and fury boiling within him, and struck her with a furious backhand. “Barbarian bitch!” She fell over backward, blood flying from her lips, sobbing. Ahmed immediately felt guilty, even as he felt justified, but it mattered little. Sandilianus would even now be boarding the ship. Between the sounds of battle and this idiot’s screams, the guards would surely descend en masse any moment.
“Demons!” the woman moaned as he rifled the corpses. One had a few coins, but they were otherwise paupers. Ahmed ground his teeth. Ilaweh wanted her saved. Fine, she was saved. There was nothing in the bargain about liking each other, or gratitude. Still, just a bit would have been nice.
“You can find your own way home. I’d hurry before Cautious finds his balls and comes back to finish his business!” He spat on the ground beside her as he put away sword and shield, then turned and sprinted for the ship.
He was heartened to see that his men were indeed in command of the vessel, and it appeared there had been precious little bloodshed. A number of crewmen were being persuaded at sword-point to get on with the business of casting off. Ahmed saw only two bodies, and for all he knew, they may have simply been unconscious. All was good after all.
Shouts from behind him quickly shattered th
is illusion. He cast a look over his shoulder to see a large group of men heading toward him, at least fifty. Sandilianus ran to the bow and, shifting his voice an octave higher than normal, shouted “Ware archers!”
As if queued, arrows zipped past Ahmed, whizzing like bees, one coming close enough to graze his already injured cheek. Onboard the ship, his men brought their shields up and formed a wall, reserving their blades for the seamen. Ropes flew from bollards and sails billowed from their resting spots as curses and threats rang through the night.
Ahmed began to zig-zag as erratically as possible as he sprinted toward the gangplank. It would do little against massed fire, but it could certainly spoil any shots aimed specifically at him. He was more of an ‘extra points’ target for most of his run, but getting up the gangplank would take him into real danger. At that point, it would be in Ilaweh’s hands.
He was ten yards from safety! The ship was moving now, and the gap between the hull and the pier was widening. Ahmed gritted his teeth as the gangplank fell away into the water. It was too far. He would never make it! Another arrow whizzed past him and left a crease in his left shoulder. He had to try.
There was no time even for a small prayer. He would just have to hope it was part of the plan. He reached the edge of the pier and leapt, hoping against hope, but it was as he had known all along: too far to jump. His boot missed the deck by two feet, and he plummeted toward the dark water. He would surely die this time, either drowned or punctured by arrows. Ah, well. The mission would continue without him. He had done his part.
Sandilianus moved quickly. He hurled a rope toward Ahmed. The line was weighted for throwing, and Sandilianus was a marksman. Ahmed literally caught it in his chest, a hammer blow that knocked the breath from him, but he managed to grasp it, and he held on for dear life.
Arrows sunk into the wooden hull as Sandilianus hauled him up. Another thudded into the shield he wore on his back. He was a tempting target now, indeed, helpless and hanging from a line, swinging just enough to add sport to shooting him in the head like a dog. Moments later, several of his men lowered their shields over him as well. Ahmed sighed in relief as he heard the arrows thunk against the shield frames. His death had once again been forestalled, by the grace of Ilaweh.