Shundov’s proximity to the swamps came with a few problems. Most people complained about the insects, but insects didn’t bother Maarkov. The worst of them couldn’t abide the taste of his blood, so they left him alone. The biggest problem in Shundov was the Chest Rattles—a breathing sickness notorious for its relationship to the city. It killed some, sickened more, but everyone knew someone who’d had the Chest Rattles.
Those with the least always got the lion’s share of tragedy, even when it came to the Chest Rattles. The desperate souls who crawled into Shundov’s Gutters were the first to get sick and the last to get help. Hand-drawn carts trundled through the Gutters after every flood, collecting the bodies that choked the drainage paths.
Maarkov turned a blind eye and kept moving.
He passed a few sneak-thieves, who scuttled down alleyways when he came near. A longsword was a rare sight in the Gutters, and no one wanted to tangle with a swordsman when they were trying to pull off a burglary. At one point, Maarkov thought he was being followed, but the dark form shadowing him disappeared before he could confront it.
Maarkov kept to the main channels. It was best not to get turned around in the Gutters. The twists and turns of the labyrinthine alleys could hide any manner of danger.
Emerging from the Gutters was like exiting a cave.
The upper parts of Shundov were characterized by gray stone and sharp angles. Sometime in the city’s past, its residents had undergone a surge of religious fervor. The city was full of decorative stone work depicting the scowling faces of the gods. The various priestly orders of the Church Victorious all had chapterhouses in Shundov, every one of them an ancient, looming structure carved with gargoyles and friezes. Maarkov scowled back at one of them as he trudged past, feeling the same sense of betrayal he always felt when he pondered the gods.
What good are they, anyway? Maarkov had seen countless abominations, none of which had prompted divine intervention. The gods cared nothing for the adoration of mankind. Taking the time to worship them wasn’t worth the trouble.
Shundov Castle loomed on the highest point. It was one of the oldest castles in Alderak, constructed of black and gray stone with wooden hoardings around its inner walls and towers. A moat encircled the outer wall, fed by the sea. Its walls were covered with moss and weeping with the rain.
The day was late by the time Maarkov tromped across the drawbridge. Two guardsmen wearing black and yellow surcoats stood beneath the gatehouse, staring out at the rain. They didn’t bother to acknowledge Maarkov as he walked past, nor did they offer a challenge.
The interior of Shundov Castle had a subdued feel. The people who lived and worked within went about their tasks with bent shoulders, eyes locked to the ground. They tried to ignore Maarkov unless they were forced to deal with him, which was fine by Maarkov. The Shundovians had no love for the Imperials in their midst, but Maarkov may as well have been a ghost to them.
They know it’s best to stay away from me. How could they not, given what lies in the dungeons?
Maarkov squished his way down side passages, ignoring the servants who tried to avoid his gaze. The corridors were bereft of decoration in this part of the castle, and there were no rugs to absorb the water he tracked across the stone. Iron sconces on the walls held candles, filling the hallways with dim, flickering light. It smelled of old stone and mold in the servants’ halls, and the air barely moved.
Maarkov walked to a staircase leading into the depths of the castle and stomped into the darkness. It was quiet in the twisting corridor and the candles were scarce. As he got deeper, the candles disappeared altogether, and he had to feel his way along the wall with careful steps.
The air grew heavy and wet. Maarkov could smell the rusty odor of old blood, the sharp tang of rotting meat. When he stepped onto the landing below the staircase, there was a subtle change to the energy around him. Dripping water echoed in the darkness.
Maarkov made his way forward with care, straining his eyes for the light that should be leaking from his brother’s door. He reached out and brushed a wet iron bar with his fingers, using the touch to orient himself by memory. Maarkov continued forward, using his outstretched hand to guide him.
The dungeons beneath Shundov Castle weren’t extensive, even though the castle itself was sprawling. Ten cells lined a single pathway leading to a large, heavy door. Beyond the door was the largest torture chamber Maarkov had ever seen. Whoever had built it had even seen fit to put a drain in place for any blood that might spill to the stone. When Maaz had discovered it during the invasion, he had taken up residence like a snake in a hole.
Maarkov’s eyes caught the faint rim of light and he walked toward the heavy door. He was slow to push it open, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light before stepping inside. As the door swung wide, Maarkov’s nose was assaulted with the smell of fresh blood.
“Brother,” Maaz said. “Come. Sit.”
Maaz sat with his back to the door, stripped to the waist. His pale skin was covered with a webwork of scars—ancient magical runes that granted him power. Even the bald pate of Maaz’s head was covered with dense scarification. He appeared to be working on something in his lap, but Maarkov couldn’t see what it was.
Maarkov stepped into the room, keeping his distance from his brother. A low, orange light hovered in midair, painting the room in muted tones. There was a desk on the left side of the room, covered with documents and other various implements.
Near the opposite wall sat a huge stone altar. It was an ugly, ancient thing, with runes carved along its sides. There was a rounded indentation in the top, with drainage holes that emptied into the various symbols. Maaz had found the dreadful thing in the mountains of northern Alderak. It had cost a fortune to have it transported to Shundov Castle.
The girl who lay atop the altar was the source of the bloody smell.
Maarkov grimaced, turning his eyes away, and moved to sit at the desk. He leaned back in the chair and cleared his throat. Maaz ignored him. Moments passed while Maarkov watched his brother, who carved at his own forearm with a short knife.
When Maaz spoke, it made Maarkov jump.
“What of Irhan-il-Farhad? What was his price?”
“Nothing easy. He wants favors from the Empire.”
Maaz put the knife down. “What favors?”
“He wants to start a revolution in Rashardia and make a bid for the Holy Throne. Wants Imperial support to do it.”
“And he thinks I can secure him an army?” Maaz scowled at the wall. “Such arrogance.”
“He opened with a demand for an entire company. I talked him down to a corps of officers.”
“How diplomatic of you, brother.”
Maarkov sniffed. “In return, he offers the service of a single Shadowman.”
Maaz turned and glared at Maarkov. His gaze was unsettling—now more than ever. Maarkov didn’t know what had happened to his brother after the battle at Orm, but ever since he’d pulled Maarkov from the ground, his eyes had been shiny, black, and opaque.
“He offered a single assassin?”
“Just one.”
“And did you object?”
Maarkov scowled at his brother. “I did. He wouldn’t budge.”
Maarkov expected his brother to smash something, but Maaz only growled and went back to his work. Maarkov let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His eyes went to the girl on the altar. Her arm hung from the side, fingers limp and pale.
“It is said the Shenda’ari can kill wizards,” Maaz said, still staring down at his knife as he carved into his own skin. “They are famous for it. Did you tell him why we wanted the assassin?”
“No. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It doesn’t.” Maaz continued his cutting. “So, he wants officers and an Imperial endorsement.”
“That’s what he said.”
Maaz made a contemplative sound. “Perhaps it can be arranged. This presents an opportunity for something I’ve been putt
ing off.”
Maarkov was stunned. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to his compound and start carving up his servants?”
Maaz ceased his cutting, a thoughtful expression flashing over his face.
“I cannot afford to draw the Emperor’s attention just yet. I need time to continue my preparations.”
“You’re actually considering Irhan’s offer?”
“We need this Shenda’ari to further my plans. Irhan is our only link to obtaining one.”
“Shendi,” Maarkov said. “When there’s just one, it’s Shendi. Shenda’ari is plural.”
Maaz turned a cold gaze on him. “Would that Colonel Grant hadn’t gotten himself killed. A contingent of Red Swords would prove a valuable asset at the moment.”
“There were survivors,” Maarkov said. “You ordered them killed.”
Maaz’s face deepened to a scowl. “Yes. It was the correct decision at the time.”
“Doesn't seem so now.”
Maaz kept his eyes on his brother for a dangerous moment. His expression never changed, but Maarkov could feel the tension in the air. Those black, empty eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
Are you even still in there?
Maaz raised his left hand, causing Maarkov to flinch. He cursed himself for his instant of fear, but Maaz hadn’t noticed. Documents rustled on the desk, organizing themselves under Maaz’s power. An inkpot sitting on the corner of the desk spat its cork into the air, and ink began to lift from the container with graceful, dancing motions. Letters were painted over the surface of one of the papers. When the spell ran its course, a message was written in neat, swirling characters.
“Look in the drawer,” Maaz said. “You’ll find a replica of the Regent’s seal. Take that to the garrison’s quartermaster and Irhan-il-Farhad shall have his officers in due course.”
“Wouldn’t you rather I marched up there and threatened him?”
Maaz smiled, but the expression didn’t spread to his empty eyes. “Some things are easier, brother. Prepare yourself. We will have much to do in the coming days.”
With that, Maaz turned back to his work.
“And what of the legitimacy Irhan wants? Do you mean to speak with the Emperor? If you go behind his back and there’s no Imperial support for this alliance, Irhan will abandon the bargain. It will be easy for him to discover the endorsement is a lie.”
Maaz spoke without looking up from his task. “I care nothing for some racial uprising in Rashardia. Once the assassin is on task, Irhan will be of no use to me.”
“And if the Emperor finds out?”
“The Emperor will soon have his own problems. Inera will see to that.”
What are you planning?
Maarkov felt cold as he reached down and plucked the letter from the top of the desk. He grabbed a bit of sand from the bowl next to the inkpot and sprinkled it over the paper, shaking it off with as much noise as possible. If Maaz noticed Maarkov trying to irritate him, he didn’t acknowledge it.
Maarkov grabbed the seal and moved for the exit. His eyes went to the girl lying on the table. Her body was ravaged like a predator’s forgotten meal. She had been pretty, before the altar.
Will I see her again, dancing to the tune of my brother’s power?
“Do not mourn for these people, brother mine.”
Maarkov tore his eyes from the girl and looked at his brother.
“Part with your attachment to them. This city is wheat before the scythe. One day soon, you will see.”
Maarkov spun toward the door. The smell of rotting flesh assaulted his nose as he entered the darkness. Maarkov heard what he thought were digging sounds coming from one of the cells. The thought of strega moving around him in the darkness sent a chill down his spine.
Fleeing up the stairs, Maarkov shut the door behind him and left the castle.
A Distant Song
Dormael flapped his wings to stay on course as wind tore into his feathers.
A storm was brewing to the north, bringing cold air from the frozen tundra beyond the mountains. Spreading his wings, Dormael let the wild currents of air push him higher, and fought to stay in the pockets between the peaks. His shoulders burned with the effort.
He flew through a saddle and glided into warmer air currents over a lush river valley. Dormael circled wide, dipping his wings to get a good look at the dense tree cover below. The valley stretched from east to west, disappearing into the misty horizon on either side. To the north loomed another stretch of mountains, with jagged peaks hidden in misty clouds.
Dormael looked back to the trail where his friends would come through the pass and tried to judge the terrain over which they would travel. He flew low over the trail and judged the footing sufficient—as best he could, from his aerial perspective. The footing was thick with underbrush, and they would have to pick their way over patches of loose scree, but it was the best route that Dormael could see in the vicinity.
Another strong gust of wind pushed against his back, forcing him to turn away and climb, lest he be slammed to the ground. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Dormael fought to stay in the air, pushed steadily off course.
The wind tried to buffet him into the mountain range on the southern end of the valley. Dormael flapped with all his strength. The last thing he wanted was to face another group of Garthorin on his own. He was able to stay off the rocks by turning his nose to the west and riding the gusts higher over the valley. He fought the wind for what felt like an eternity.
When the gusts subsided, Dormael let the warm air over the valley support his flight. He breathed with the effort of staying aloft, and his tiny bird-heart tapped against his ribs. The storm had forced him off course, so Dormael dipped into a wide turn to the east.
How far off the path have I flown?
The valley was a wide, twisting lowland overgrown with ancient trees. It stretched from the eastern horizon to the west, like a green scar across the ground. The river was revealed through breaks in the canopy as Dormael passed over its path. Even with the superior eyes of the gyrfalcon, he had trouble piercing the carpet of green. There was an eerie feel to this place, a heavy pall of silence generations old.
Feels like an old, forgotten graveyard. Perhaps it is, in some sense.
Mist rose through the treetops along the path of the river, reaching for the sky like spirits seeking the Void. The morning sun was bright, and probably would have burned the mist away, save for the cold air being pushed by the storm. The air grew turbulent again, and Dormael pulled himself higher to avoid being forced into the treetops.
The change in altitude made things worse. Dormael was forced to spread his wings and pray to the gods that the wind wouldn’t send him hurtling to the ground. He kept his body upright with practiced efforts of wing and tail, but the violent wind pushed him farther in the wrong direction.
Just as he got his heading under control, a mountain appeared through the mists hugging the lowlands. It was massive, but shorter than the peaks to either side because its summit was missing. Dormael at first thought it was a dormant volcano, but something about it tickled his mind.
Hamarin’s flat-topped mountain! Could this be the one?
Dormael was supposed to be scouting a safe path, looking for signs of Garthorin, but his eyes were drawn to the mountain as he flew past. Something itched in his chest, like the echo of a buzz against his Kai. The air grew colder.
That’s curious. Dormael’s shoulders were shaking with fatigue. The day’s flight had been more difficult than he’d anticipated and his body was paying the price. I need to rest. May as well have a look while I’m at it.
He tucked his wings and descended toward the mountain’s summit, slipping through angry wind currents on the way down. Mist swirled around the peak, concealing the flat portion where Dormael wanted to land. A vicious headwind rose as he came over the landing site, and he had to dive rather than be blown past the edge. The ground rushed toward him.
H
e passed the summit and an icy sensation flooded over him, like he had punched through the surface of a frozen pond.
His talons scraped against hard rock as he met the ground, and he had to flap to keep from tumbling, dancing over the stone as he came to a stop. He’d come damn close to shattering his bones in the landing. It was easy to forget the inherent fragility that came with taking bird form.
Let’s slip into something more comfortable.
Dormael closed his eyes and reversed the transformation.
The air was frosty on his human skin. It howled from the north, picking up dust and blowing it across the stone. Dormael shook his head and rolled his shoulders, drawing his cloak around him as he stood.
Now that he was back in his own skin, his Kai registered a constant hum in the ether. Dormael looked around the summit, but the mists hid the area in ghostly white and swirling gray. Closing his eyes, Dormael pushed outward with his magical senses.
There was a buzz to the air, as if an angry beehive hovered nearby. Dormael sought the source of the noise, but found it difficult to focus. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, blurring Dormael’s senses.
It feels like the mountain itself is vibrating.
Dormael stepped toward the center of the mountain’s summit. Dust scattered across the ground as the wind picked up, clearing some of the mist. The footing was smooth, sand-colored stone. Ragged grasses sprouted through cracks in its surface, but there were joints in the stone that were too straight to be natural.
Someone built this.
Symbols decorated the stone, each carved with supernatural precision. Dormael felt the glyphs tug on his Kai as he passed near them, but like the symbols at the marker stone, he could discern nothing of their intended purpose. Pillars materialized through the mist, smooth and cylindrical, each decorated with more of the strange magical script. Dormael walked between a pair of them, measuring the distance and angle between them.
The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4) Page 6