In the bedlam that followed, the king’s men quickly took control of the room while Queen Elsorina held the empty vial to her mouth and tried desperately and almost obscenely to suck out any of the antidote that might have remained in it. The bishop fell to his knees and began to pray aloud, and the merchant princes stood and stared at the king in horror.
“You arranged this.” The duke said finally, staring at the king. “This is your doing.”
“Of course not.” The king replied curtly. “Don’t ruin your final moments in baseless accusations. You should follow the example of the priest and make peace with Lio.”
Thyram would have gone for his sword, but a king’s man held him fast from behind. “You are a bastard, Maldiver. I will put a blood curse on you for this.”
“Thyram, I am very sorry for what this woman has done.” The king said in a voice that was far too calm. “I assure you, justice will be done to her. I will make sure that Dunwater is taken care of as well.”
“So that’s it.” Thyram nodded, comprehending. “You don’t want me in Dunwater. Everything Treivin said about you was true. You’d do anything to get your way. You have no soul.”
“Please cousin, you need to rest. The poison has addled your mind. Keep your dignity and let us make you comfortable.” The king began to move forward, as if to comfort his cousin, but suddenly he grasped at his left arm and stood stock still. Behind him Leetham sat down suddenly, his face pale, with his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was holding his jaw as if it pained him.
The king and his man both then seemed to go through the same motions, grabbing at their jaws and chests, and the king began to cough uncontrollably. He fell to his knees, then he seemed to hunch in on himself, bringing his elbows in close to his guts. By this time Denjar Leetham was lying flat on the ground amid the broken crockery. Denjar thrashed his legs about for a moment, then stopped moving. The room filled with the undeniable smell of his bowels loosening in death.
The king stared at his bodyguard for a moment in horror before he too fell to the floor and died. Then the queen grabbed at her jaw as if it hurt. “I feel unwell.” She said to the room in general. “If you will please excuse me.”
She made to grasp at the table, but her arm would not support her weight, and she staggered and fell, landing gracefully among the green ruffles of her elegant dress. To Benni she seemed to fold into herself, like a flower pulling in its petals at night, and he noticed that she was wearing a silver necklace with diamonds on it. She died beautifully amid the chaos of running and shouting men, and in her final moment it seemed that a peace came upon her face, wiping away all of the nervousness and fear he had seen in her.
What a song he was going to make!
Berla O’Hiol might have gone down in the history of Mortentia as just another assassin in a long line of such in the competition between houses of influence but for her rescue the day after she killed the king and queen of Mortentia. Daring riders from Diminios waylaid the men of Dunwater as they carried her in irons toward their home city for judgment. Her wagon was broken open and she disappeared, never to be heard from again, and her name passed into legend among those dedicated to the overthrow of King Maldiver D’Cadmouth.
A dozen knights of both Elderest and Dunwater were found dead in the roadway from whence she was spirited. It was a severe blow to the prestige of House D’Cadmouth.
On the long road toward Walcox three travelers encountered a fourth, and since all four were travelling in the same direction, they joined together, despite the obvious enmity they had for each other. They were riding mediocre horses.
“By the seven saints, Abinar. You’ve shaved your beard. Got tired of the lice, did you?”
“Shut your gob, you pop-eyed dog-faced lunatic. I’ll have you know I’m in disguise.”
“Washing the pig stink off of you might have done you better, sheepstealer. I’ll say this, though. ‘Tis little wonder you lot wear beards. Your faces could scare the ravens off of the dead.”
“Bah, you say that and you’ve the nerve to wear your own face in public. You need a damned leash, Yender.”
The old woman spoke. “Where do you be going, Yender O’root? There’s naught to steal this a’way.”
“Same as you I reckon, mama hag.” The bulldog-faced man spat into the snow at the side of the road. “Going to look after young Aelfric. I heard the king was poisoned. That sounds bloody familiar.”
“Aye.” Abinar interjected. “We done for the false king as promised. I reckon that moves the Roots up past you O’roots now.”
“And sure I am he ate a damned pie. The queen, too?”
Hagne drew up her chin, offended. “The apple is a noble fruit, Yender. I would never poison an apple pie.” But Abinar snorted derisively, and all of the men chuckled. “It’s true, boys. There never was a lick of poison in the pie. T’was in the antidote. I never believed Denjar Leetham would turn on his master.”
“A shame about the queen, though.” Yender rejoined. “I heard she was a decent sort.”
“Comes of living in bad company, I say.” Hagne sniffed, then she reined in her pony and took the lead, heading north on the long road toward Walcox.
Chapter 98: Southern Mortentia, on the Dunwater River Road
Yeg squinted against the cold wind and watched the brightly lit windows set high in the wall of the Elderest keep as the wagon rolled by in the night. His hands on the reins were stiff and cold, despite the heavy fur-lined leather gloves he was wearing. He was bundled up thickly, and a heavy scarf shielded his nose and mouth from the cold, but his eyes felt the cold and bitter wind, and water ran in little frozen streams down his cheeks. Derry was in the wagon with Jecha and the foreigners, and all in all, Yeg preferred being where he was. It looked like they were having a fine supper in there, but the wagon pushed through the night, oblivious. They had a long way to go, changing teams where they could find them, the foreigner’s gold paying any difference in price as they swapped out horses. They would be enriching teamsters all the way from Jagle Bay to the Whitewood on this trip.
Inside the wagon Jecha sighed and wished they could go faster. Derry sat beside her, seemingly asleep, but she did not think that he truly was. The twins hardly ever seemed to need sleep, and she knew he kept constantly alert to his surroundings.
They had a small stove going, a neat little Entreddi invention that Jecha had insisted be added when they purchased the wagon and team in Mortentia City for this trip. The bearded Araqueshi, Derbas-Al-Dhulma, seemed to have an endless supply of gold and would have paid twice what the wagon was worth had not Jecha been there to prevent it. She had lived a life of hard bargaining, and was insulted at the notion of paying asking for anything, whether you had the gold or not. It was a matter of principle.
All three of them were bundled thickly against the cold despite the small stove, which gave off nice heat and was cleverly vented so that smoke did not sting their eyes. In truth she was quite comfortable, for she’d ridden in wagons her entire life. She would have slept herself, but the Araqueshi was unfamiliar with Mortentia, and wagons, and snow and half a hundred other things she took for granted, and his unfamiliarity manifested itself in nervous chatter. The bald priest Rashad was equally well-wrapped, and occasionally a sound that was suspiciously like snoring came from his corner of the wagon’s interior.
The wagon itself was a boxlike affair, stoutly planked against the cold and lined with fabric to keep out the worst of it. When they reached the city of Silba, fully a hundred leagues to their north, the road would be likely be deep under the snow. Fortunately the wagon was made for winter traveling, and the high axles sat above a pair of broad runners, so that when the snow was too deep for the wheels, the wagon would double as a sleigh. Derry and Yeg both maintained that they could drive any kind of vehicle, so long as the horses were strong enough, and Derbas’ gold ensured that they would find the horses they needed.
When she had met with these two Araqueshi in Mortentia City t
hey had told her their story, and her need to see Eskeriel, or Tuchek or whatever name he was using, became immediate. Derbas was still explaining why, in his overly gregarious way, and it was perhaps for this reason that Derry was feigning sleep beside her, to avoid appearing interested.
“You see,” the Araqueshi was saying, “we did not really understand until later what it was that plagued us. Around the Sea of Sand there are many caravan trails, and travelers come from many distant lands to trade there, on what we call the Crescent of Silver. We have Hulmini and Tolrissan traders, as well as merchants from the Hinterland and the Wild Lands and as far away as Nakkan and Siddhai.
“Naturally, being at the hub of so many different lands, with so many different ways of doing things and different kinds of magic, we attract wizards seeking knowledge, and perhaps that is the City of Magic’s greatest lure. It is not the power that people seek, but the wisdom. There are kept in the libraries in Rammas so many stories of the days of old and distant lands that none could possibly know them all.
“We have our own stories.” Jecha replied curtly to this, miffed at the idea that a collection of scrolls could rival the rich culture of the Entreddi.
“Of course.” Derbas nodded agreeable. “As do all peoples. The last time we came to Mortentia I heard such tales from the common folk as are heard in no other lands. When we went among the Cthochi I heard yet more stories, many of them concerning the people of the hundred kingdoms; stories that those folk themselves had forgotten.”
“I have heard those stories too.” Jecha said.
“It may surprise you, but some of those stories have traveled very far indeed. It was in the library in Rammas that I first read an account of the Sorcerer-King Marten, a hero from a far north land who once was the king of all free folk. I read of his wars against the wizards of the north, and how he fashioned a device to destroy the magic in this land. This story coincided with travelers’ tales about Mortentia, a primitive place without magic, where the eldritch elements are out of reach for all. I heard those stories and thought them an idle curiosity, putting them on shelf in my mind until such time as I needed them again.
“And then came the terrible scourge.”
“The scourge?”
“Yes. An incurable disease of mind and body that could rot the flesh of living men while at the same time driving them to dreadful works of evil. The persons afflicted with this disease were all men of the caravans at first, and their people brought them to the temple of Hidor for healing, if such a thing should be possible. It was not, sadly.”
“Rashad came to you with this problem.”
“Yes. He is a high priest of Hidor, as he told you, and it was within his authority to heal such things, but he could not. No one could. The afflicted became sick, but they also became dangerous, and this illness, if such one can call it, it spread. Many died and many more became afflicted, and it spared neither the wealthy nor the clean. Upon hearing the story it seemed to me that this thing had a particular path, going from place to place, almost as if it were following someone, and I determined to find out who that was.”
“And who was it?”
“It was an insignificant person, a nobody, a merchant out of Charnoth of low birth. By the time I discovered who he was, it was too late for him. The disease had broken him, and destroyed his mind. But all of the men and women who were afflicted whose actions could be traced by friends and family, all of them confirmed that they had visited the caravan of Eben Damharra, and once we spoke to Damharra, he made it clear that they had each of them spoken to the Charnothi. It was among his things that we found the sword.”
“Describe this thing to me.” Jecha asked.
“It was black. The metal was black. But not flat black, nor yet shiny black. It was as if the blade itself was darkness, and no light shone upon it would reveal the consistency of it. Even being in the same tent with the thing I felt uncomfortable, slightly ill, even. Perhaps it was just knowing what it did to people, or perhaps it was at work on me, I don’t know. I dreaded to touch it, and in fact I never did. Rashad was with me, and together we wrapped the thing in oil soaked linens and placed it in a chest we had made just to hold it. On the chest we engraved runes … I cannot describe them, except to say that they were made to block the most powerful of magics, and yet still we could feel the thing in our minds, like a dark worm crawling in a coffin.”
“And what did that feel like?” Jecha asked, for she was always curious about such things.
“It felt like lust. Or maybe greed or hunger. Our minds told us that this thing was vile, and that it had killed, one way or another, all who touched it. But our spirits told us differently. Once I was in a whorehouse … And once only, I might add, and not for the usual purpose. I had business there. Anyway, I was approached by a woman you would call fallen, perhaps. It was plain that she knew how to pleasure a man in ways that … Well, I was young, and I resisted, but only just. The sword was like that. A temptation ever eating at the mind.”
“You never touched it.”
“I never did. But I felt the evil of it. I felt that it was not made for human hands to hold. Rashad eventually discovered its origin, but already we knew that it was demonic, a relic from the early Age of Sorrows. How it came to the Charnothi, I cannot say. From the deeps of the oceans, certainly. It is known that there are divers who swim the Sunlit Seas, where once stood the towers and citadels of fallen Hrantalas, and sometimes they unearth treasures. Certainly if it is what I think it is, that is where it came from.”
“From the fall of Hrantalas? I know little of that story.”
“There is little known, and only the briefest outline is recorded. They were a mighty people and very skilled in all arts, both of magic and of craft. It was they who fashioned the first engines for the killing of dragons, and indeed it was these engines that ended the realm of Hazrax the Black.
“But like many powerful nations, and most especially those who dabble in magic, they fell into evil practices. Men there discovered that the discipline and long study required for the responsible use of magic could be bypassed, you might say, if a man were willing to make certain compromises, certain concessions, and to open certain doors.”
“You are talking about demonology. Pacts with the damned.”
“The damned make no pacts. The damned are damned. It is their jailers in the Abyss with whom one might make bargains. The demons and devils of Sheol, as the Araqueshi name it. Certain doors to dark places can be opened in such ways, and the men of Hrantalas, bold in all that they did, did not hesitate to open such doors. But a door operates in both ways, you see, and the Abyss was already in tumult. I suppose it must always be, but there was war there, and factions. The sword belonged to a demon prince of one such faction.”
“But how did it end up here? Nothing can come from there to here.”
“A firm rule, but there are always exceptions, no? It is a long story, but to tell it quickly, there was an unholy union between a woman and a devil, and the son of this union was called Sunu-Jinsit. He was born in hell, and raised in hell, but he was halfway human, and so he could dwell here in the world without being called or summoned, and he did not have to return to the abyss did he not desire it. It is said that he was the son of the lord of darkness himself.”
“A son of Tarchana.”
“Aye, that was how the story was recorded in the library in Araquesh City. Both a crown and a sword Sunu Jinsit forged in hell, and no true devil nor man could touch these things, but only one such as him, half man and half devil. He took these things and made war against Tarchana, seeking to wrest dominion of the abyss from him. Many demons took his side and many fought against him, until finally Tarchana agreed to treat with him, to make a pact and peace.”
“And what were the terms of this peace?” Jecha was surprised and pleased to hear a story that she had not heard before, for given her many years as a seer and storyteller, there were not many.
“That Sunu-Jinsit should
have dominion over all of the living lands of our world in exchange for leaving the Abyss. But it was a cheat, of course, for is he not also the lord of all deceptions? Upon the world Sunu Jinsit became mortal and was subject to the laws of death. Also there were at that time knights of the Order of Ulmerith who had their own terrible weapons made just for killing such as he, for they had been tasked with killing the minions of the Abyss. Sunu-Jinsit soon found that his promised dominion was nothing but a trick and a trap to slay him, and in various battles and wars fought all in the land of Hrantalas, the knights defeated him at every turn. The knights made alliances with priests and wizards and many masters of dreams from many places to prevail against Sunu-Jinsit and his demonic followers.
“Finally defeated, Sunu-Jinsit sought to return to the abyss and restore his strength, for there were powerful knights with mighty weapons at his heel, but he found that all of the bridges but one were cast down, and there he met the god of Justice. Not all of the minions of the abyss could pass that grim guardian, and one after another he forever slew them, until at last Sunu-Jinsit faced him alone. He fell there, defeated by the gods and slain, and from that great height he fell back to the world, and such was the force of his fall and his ruin that he smote the land of Hrantalas, driving the land beneath the waves. The cataclysm rocked the world it is said, and fires burned and smoke rose in many lands. Cities were drowned along the coast of Thorrissa and Rhum, and whole peoples perished. It was at the dawn of the Age of Sorrows, and indeed was one of the greatest sorrows of that age.”
Jecha smiled, despite the grim nature of the story. “And this sword you found. You think it is the sword of Sunu-Jinsit?”
“Yes. We believe it now, given where it came from. Also because it still retained almost all of its magical capabilities until we took it to Marten’s fist.”
“And now you tread on the legends of my people, Derbas.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 131