I watched as my winded opponent retched onto the floor. His falchion lay before him and he clutched his ribs with his right hand, his left arm still strapped with the shield. Delivering the final blow would have been redundant; it was clear who had won. Some healers pushed through the crowd to tend to him.
I would have checked to see he was alright, but it was customary not to acknowledge an opponent’s defeat until they had done so themselves. And clearly he was in no position to do so, bent over as he was.
The crowd parted to allow me through. No one but healers would touch me until I had gone to bathe in the lowest chambers of Ashrahaz. Our code of cleanliness was important here, in the tunnels of the Hallowed Mount; when one perspires, one must wash; when one bleeds, one must be cleaned.
The rest of my myrmidon followed along. We placed our weapons and shields and whatever armour we had upon the long racks that lined the fighting hall. Although our names were nowhere to be found, each of us in Ashrahaz had a particular place to stow our gear for practice, just as we had a bed to sleep in.
I watched as the others put away their armour. It was mostly gauntlets and pauldrons, though a few wore more. I never wore any. I dressed in silk, and when I absolutely had to, a padded shirt. I thought of myself as a duelist above anything else. Blade and shield was all I needed. The others could use nets and spears, daggers and bows, chains and armour; I chose not to.
When we were first introduced to martial training we were evaluated on our aptitudes, on our strengths, on our will. It didn’t take long for any of us to choose what style we wanted to cultivate. The moment I laid eyes on the thin, whip-like shotel, I knew I wanted it. It was elegant, exotic, deadly; all the things I was not. Not back then, at least.
Now, however, I was different; I was changed, transformed. I was all three. Elegant through careful conditioning and my mother’s looks. Exotic by the mystery of my profession. Deadly from these years of relentless training.
I was the shotel. And the shotel was me. And everyone in Ashrahaz knew it.
And now, so did this newcomer.
It took longer for me to abandon the traditional shield that was used alongside it, a tall, elliptical thing, in favor of my steel buckler. Only after witnessing a duel between two highly esteemed sword-players in the fighting hall did I consider it a viable option. Now I couldn’t imagine any other way; it was small, versatile, light, and allowed my off hand to be both a defense and a threat.
I reveled in my mastery of combat. I reveled in my physical prowess. And, with quite some guilt, I even took pleasure in my height, my beauty. I knew it was vain, but I couldn’t help myself. After long years of being treated like filth it was good to be respected, good to be highly esteemed. All beneath the Hallowed Mount recognized that I, Shi’iran-daz-ithrav, mage-seeker, huntress, hidden hand of the Empress, could not be trifled with.
Not in single combat, at least. I bested the men-folk just as easily as I bested the women-folk; I bested the slaves of every clime and every colour, every one who ever rose to challenge me.
It hadn’t always been this way, of course. It was a long and arduous struggle to reach this point. Every inductee in Ashrahaz had endured countless cruelties and debasements at the hands of their seniors, their tutors, even at the hands of Gol-Gorom himself. It was part of the training, part of the formation. Hard conditions breed tough and able servants, and the Empire needed such servants.
I had been beaten many times in duels, and I continued to be beaten every now and again. But for every defeat at the hands of a fellow, I could proudly say I had beaten that individual at least once before. Single combat and physical prowess were my strengths; here I was secure and confident. My other skills as a huntress were… moderate to poor, frankly. The subtlety of magick all but escaped me. Tracking was difficult. Survival in the wilderness was marginal. My capacity for intrigue and planning was unimpressive. Sometimes I wondered if Vash-turel was right – I was just the elephant. Strong but not crafty. Not like her. Not like a weasel.
Not that I cared… I would rather be an elephant.
The other girls and I hurried to the lower chambers. We were the first females to arrive; the men-folk would have to wait, as was customary. Fresh recruits were busy stoking the flames beneath the baths; I could smell the acrid smoke from below, mixing curiously with the cleansing oils. I remembered that awful, sooty work; shovelling heavy, dusty fuel for hours at a time. Now I was enjoying the fruits of such labour.
We didn’t even strip down for our first soak. It was simpler and faster to wash our loose, gauzy training clothes while it was still on our bodies. We could dry them outside in the afternoon sun.
After soaking in the first pool, filled with cold water, we passed into the next cavern and slid into the second pool. Here the air was warmer, and so was the water. The atmosphere was fragrant. Being so deep in the belly of Ashrahaz, no light save for alchemical lanterns was available. Those small orbs glowed a variety of colours in the second cavern, casting kaleidoscopic shadows upon the mottled walls.
“Real show you put on, Daz,” said Avna’a, slapping the tattoo on the back of my shaved head with a wet hand. “That new fool didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.”
Some of the other girls nodded and cooed their agreement.
“I always feel bad laying the new ones out. He seemed well trained. Not a raw recruit,” I replied and stood up out of the water, letting the lukewarm droplets run off in rivulets.
They trickled off my shoulders, down my arms, off my fingertips.
“Ah, don’t feel bad,” said Govni. “Had to learn eventually how things are in Ashrahaz. This is no satrap’s lair. Competition is tougher amongst the Empress’ chosen.”
She was a long-limbed unman from the far south, skin dark almost like coal. She was leaning against the rim of the pool, rotating her neck to loosen it. She had always been nice to me; she and Avna’a were outside of Vash-turel’s clique.
I recalled the day, only two years ago, when our myrmidons had been merged. That was when Vash-turel and her gang were added in, too. The only times myrmidons and cohorts were changed was when there were casualties or promotions. I had heard rumours of why Vash-turel and her clique were remustered – and they were nasty rumours.
The only other times that myrmidons were reorganized was when failures occurred, persistent or catastrophic failures. Then there were executions, or worse, we were given as gifts to some harem and commanded to let our hair grow.
Sometimes I wondered if, in such circumstances, I would rather be a male. Males were simply killed outright. I could stand that, I think. I could stand it better than the alternative.
The best alternative, though, was to simply never fail.
In syncopated time we all withdrew from the second pool and headed down the wide steps to the third, lowest pool. All three of these pools were immense basins, perhaps twenty arm-spans across, and each with uneven floors. In some places the smooth, undulating floors caused the water to only reach one’s hips; in others, it was quite possible to completely submerge oneself. After years of use we all knew where it was shallow, where it was deep.
Before entering the third and final pool we stripped off our soaked clothes in the dim orange light of the lowest cavern. Here the air was thick and muggy; a pall of steam hung over the warm water. It smelt strongly of rich incense here, completely masking the smoke from below the basins. A thin coat of oil floated upon the water’s surface.
I slid into the pool, submersing myself entirely. The water was pleasant on my skin, on my face, even to the tips of my fingers. I held my breath for a long time and imagined I was encased in the womb of the Hallowed Mount of Ashrahaz.
I surfaced. The thin coat of perfumed oil coated my face. My entire body, every joint and muscle, was relaxed.
Wiping away the film from my eyes I took a moment to take in my surroundings as I soaked in the sweet waters. Around me were the girls of my my
rmidon, their heads seeming to bob like vessels on a crimson sea, the back of each shaved skull tattooed with the mark of our master.
They weren’t really girls; not anymore. They were warriors. Warriors all. Consecrated servants of the Empress’ divine will, agents of the great plan. Disciples of the Void. United in purpose with so many others, each functionally unique. A single limb on a mightier beast.
Yet down there, even in the deepest, most blessed cavern of Ashrahaz, something within me ached.
It wasn’t a muscle; it wasn’t a joint. It was something else, something beneath my heart. I noticed it as one might notice a whisper; quiet, indistinct, undeniable.
I don’t know exactly what it was, or what caused it. But it was the same sort of ache that accompanied the guarded, guilty memories I conjured of my mother in the quiet hours of the night. Memories I should have shunned. I was not supposed to have a mother; I was not supposed to have a family. All I was, all I was ever supposed to be now was a slave. An esteemed slave, perhaps; a useful slave; a slave who was a master with shotel and buckler, one who could ride for days to collect souls for harvest.
But a slave nonetheless.
I dunked my head back under the water to try and drown the negative thoughts, drown the strange ache that lingered beneath my heart. I stayed under water for a long time, ignoring those who entered and left this dim-lit womb, lost myself in the hazy orange glow beneath…
Someone grabbed my arm. I jerked up and gulped air, spitting out oil as I did.
Wiping my eyes clean I looked to see Govni beside me, her hand still gripping my arm.
“Daz! Daz, there’s someone here to speak with you…” she said, concern on her face.
At the pool’s edge lurked a figure in dark robes with silver epaulettes. It was one of the high magi, a Priestess of the Void. Her eyes were pale from overexposure to magick, which only added to her spectral demeanor.
“Shi’iran-daz-ithrav. Master Gol-Gorom beckons,” she said flatly, pronouncing my full name with purpose. “Dress now, and come with me.”
An ominous shiver ran through me at the mention of Gol-Gorom. A hundred things ran through my mind, a hundred awful possibilities at what he could possibly want with me, with me alone.
“Don’t worry, Daz,” Govni whispered as I stood up out of the pool.
Her tone was too grim to have any encouraging effect.
The Priestess waited silently as I groped in the half-light for dry clothes. I tried to keep from trembling as I put them on.
There was never a time in any life of any assassin or hunter or guard who ever walked the halls of Ashrahaz when the name of Gol-Gorom lost its aura of terror. Master of Hidden Daggers, the sole ruler of the Hallowed Mount, who could whisper in the Empress’ ear at will, who could lay waste to one life or hundreds with a single command.
“Myrmidon Astush. Prepare to meet in the High Hall,” the Priestess ordered to the rest of my myrmidon.
There was a flurry of action as they leapt out of the pool. Before they could even get dressed I was already walking away.
The air grew cooler as we passed through the second and first chambers. My skin was still slick with the translucent oil, having had no chance to wipe it off. Now it made my flesh cold.
Together we climbed up, up through the innards of the Hallowed Mount, passing through cavern after cavern until we reached the High Hall itself. At the far eastern end was a plain, dark door. Beyond that was the Master’s Sanctum. Beyond that was Gol-Gorom.
We stopped at the black door. Its surface was unmarked and smooth. I noticed, for the first time, that there was no handle. Of course, I had never really studied this door; just looking at it from across the spacious High Hall gave anyone shivers of fear, of morbid curiosity.
The Priestess extended a pale hand and traced an arcane symbol upon the featureless surface. Then, as if turning to liquid, the door began to ripple outward. A mephitic, inky vapor swam in tight tendrils at the door’s edge.
“Go,” commanded the Priestess.
“Go?” I asked. “Go where?”
“Through the door.”
I closed my eyes and walked through the black, swirling doorway.
On the other side I opened my eyes again and took a breath, not realizing I had been holding it. I gazed upon the simple walls of the Master’s Sanctum.
There was very little here; it was much smaller than I had imagined. There were some purple velvet drapes hanging from the ceiling to cover the chiseled rock walls. There was a sizable window, too, hewn from the stone and shielded with smoky glass. I could see far out into the eastern wastes of the Ashen Plain.
“Shi’iran-daz-ithrav of Myrmidon Astush… though we have not exchanged pleasantries, I know you very well…” purred a whispery voice from a corner of the room.
I stood frozen in place, uncertain of how to react. Should I press my forehead to the earth? Should I return his greeting?
A drifting shadow revealed itself from behind a velvet screen. Gol-Gorom stalked forward, eyes whiter than his own teeth. A single tattoo crested beneath his left eye, long and thin to his jaw like a solitary tear. His skull was smooth and beige and bore a random assortment of small, ivory scars upon its otherwise smooth surface.
“Please, should you be weary, sit,” he intoned, gesturing with a graceful turn of his hand to the collection of divans nearby.
“I am not weary, Master. I shall stand,” I replied in a steady, even voice.
I was doing my best not to seem anxious.
“Good, good… of course such a tenacious athlete would have sufficient vigour to remain standing…” he said, padding toward me, stealthy as a cat.
Not even his robes seemed to make a sound upon the floor. He was quiet as a passing cloud. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he walked around the room.
“I am told you are an irresistible warrior, Shi’iran-daz-ithrav… I have seen it with my own eyes… supple as a panther, no? A panther with twice the vitality and a single, long claw…”
He stepped out in full view. He was silhouetted against the tall window. A feline smile spread over his face. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
This was a true assassin. A true murderer. I could suddenly sense his predatory nature, so well masked until he wanted it to be felt.
He looked out the window into the wide yonder. He tapped a finger slowly, rhythmically on the glass, as if deep in thought. It resonated through the sanctum.
“Myrmidon Astush is one of the finest teams of mage-hunters in all of Un… Perhaps in the whole Empire, almost certainly so…” he drawled, gazing out the window.
His finger tap, tap, tapped upon the glass, creating a drum-like warble.
“Thus it is with great reluctance I must break it apart… I must lose its finest warrior, its panther…” he said, turning back to me. “I do not wish to relinquish you. I have seen you grow from a lanky, awkward girl, to this…”
He spread his hands toward me, as if presenting me to a crowd. In a few smooth strides he appeared a hand’s breadth away from me. He was a head shorter, if that. The top of his cranium barely reached my shoulder. Yet, despite my greater size, his presence was far larger – far more intimidating. It was a visceral uneasiness, like seeing a serpent slither away into some dark corner of your home.
He brushed my cheek tenderly with the back of his hand. He put a finger to my neck and wiped away a droplet of the perfumed oil.
“Where am I going?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“I cannot say,” he whispered in return. “I should not say… but I shall.”
My head was spinning with this news. Was it really possible? Was I being promoted?
“It seems you have proven to be just as irresistible a warrior as you are in…other ways,” he purred, and he slid his hand over my hip. “One of the Imperators, whose name I shall not divulge, has requested you by name as a… personal bodyguard. I doubt it�
�s for your reputation with a blade, however…”
A wave of revulsion washed over me. The nape of my neck bristled.
As if anticipating my thoughts, Gol-Golorom continued.
“His request was sent with a seal of Imperial approval… it is a request that not even I can evade…”
I was sick to my stomach. This was beyond terrible. This was horrific.
“Such a shame, such a shame,” Gol-Gorom said, voice trailing off. “Such a promising huntress, reduced to naught but an armed whore… indeed, that is what you will become, Shi’iran-daz-ithrav, simply another member of his harem…”
Was this all I was worth? After all the training, all the hard work, all the successful hunts… all that just to be a ‘personal bodyguard’, a toy for some Imperator.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. For the first time in years, I felt my face burn and my eyes well up with tears. But I held it back. What could I do, in the face of an Imperator’s will?
Gol-Gorom turned back to me suddenly. That feline smile crept onto his face, revealing his sharp teeth.
“But of course, would Gol-Gorom be Gol-Gorom if some grasping Imperator outwitted him?” he grinned. “I have devised a way for you to escape such insulting whoredom. I have a task for Myrmidon Astush, a special hunt that will take you far beyond our borders. The Empress herself is keen to see it fruitful…”
My spirit rallied. Was there really hope?
“If you and your myrmidon depart by sundown, I can say you were already gone before I received the request. And should you succeed, there is a chance you may avoid his vulgar demands altogether,” he purred, drawing near to me once again.
“I will, Master,” I said, voice trembling. “Just tell me where to go, and I will go.”
I dropped to my knees, arms outstretched, and placed my forehead upon the cold stone. This was my only chance. I had to take it.
“Good, good… as I know you will…” he said, then lowered his voice. “But just know, should you fail… no good will come of it.”
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 9