Palius sighed as he turned his face back to his fire. He really had no desire whatsoever to leave his chair and the warmth of his chambers, but it seemed that his duty intruded. It was not uncommon for someone to have a message for he and he alone, but an undesirable as the guard captain put it was something new. Palius sighed again and pushed himself up from his chair. The brown robe was somewhat undignified for a man of his position, so he chose to discard it slovenly over the back of the chair. Palius looked down in surprise at his official white robes, soaked and clinging to his aged and unhealthy body. He pinched at the cloth idly with a thumb and forefinger, pulling it away from his skin before releasing it to hang limply.
“I will need a moment,” Palius said, and the captain excused himself.
After changing, Palius strode quickly through the palace corridors toward the main hall. He thought it was it unforgivably cold, even with clean dry clothes, but he ignored it and in fact allowed the air to invigorate him. It actually felt good to be out of his chambers and moving around. He almost didn’t notice the rumble in his chest and the regular, low cough. The old man had spent so much time in his chambers lately that he had really lost all sense of it; the hour was obviously late as few people were about, excluding the occasional servant and the usual guards.
Upon reaching the main hall, Palius turned left to cross plush carpets toward the antechamber that lead outside. He briefly glanced at Queen Erella’s throne upon its raised dais, finding it empty. No doubt she had simply retired to her own chambers for the night to likely handle certain mundane matters of state, but the sight of the vacant throne disturbed him for some reason. Palius wondered, then wishing he were more involved with the priesthood, who would be selected to rule when Queen Erella’s reign came to an end. As he left the throne behind him, his footsteps again echoing through the hall as the carpet ended, Palius realized grimly that it likely wouldn’t matter as far as he was concerned.
Pushing open one of the heavy doors leading into the antechamber, he found several palace guards, one of whom had blood running down his face from a nose that was mashed to one side. The man’s armor lay on the floor next to him, and his right arm was twisted unnaturally. Palius did not even break stride as he crossed the room and pushed open the set of doors leading into the cold night. A half dozen guards stood here in a semicircle, blocking any access to the doors leading inside, their breath coming in large white puffs in the frigid air, and at the bottom of the steps stood a man that made Palius’ brow furrow. He was a Westerner with black hair and large brown eyes, and he wore plain brown trousers and a white cotton shirt. It was the man’s stance, his lean form that seemed as if it could disappear while standing right in front of a crowd, that caused Palius eyes to widen in surprise. Palius hoped his reaction would go unnoticed by those present.
“I am told you have an urgent message for me?” Palius asked.
“I do milord,” Marek answered. “It is most important. I couldn’t entrust it to anyone.”
“Most wise of you, good sir. Please if I may?” Palius held out his hand. Marek approached, a sealed scroll in hand, and the guards parted to allow him to place it in Palius’ outstretched palm. Palius replaced it with a gold coin.
“Thank you, milord,” Marek said with a quick slight bow of his head.
Palius watched as the rogue that he had found so useful stepped easily down the well lit broadway. Within moments, the man had completely vanished into the night, despite the light thrown by torches and lanterns in close proximity to one another. Palius returned directly to his chambers.
The old man sat in his chair, much in the same position he was in before the guard captain informed him of the man with the message, though this time without a heavy cloak about him. He sat in quiet consideration of the scroll in his right hand; it was made of new parchment and as yet not discolored from age. There could be little doubt of the source of the message based on who delivered it, and his hands shook slightly as he considered the implications. Palius rarely used Larnd, for rarely did he have need of Larnd’s special skills and network of cutthroats. Larnd had never failed him before, and Palius thought it possible the man had never failed. He was a consummate professional, and certainly Larnd had never felt a need to contact a customer to convey success.
Palius carefully and deliberately broke the black wax seal on the scroll and unrolled the cylinder of parchment. He found nothing, no words, no marks and no message. He sighed deeply as he slumped further in his chair, the blank scroll in his hand slipping to the edge of his fingertips, threatening to slide into his lap and fall to the floor. The messenger was the message; Larnd sent his own brother, the man Palius used as his contact with the lord of Byrverus’ underbelly, to convey failure. The scroll was incidental, a decoy. With a flick of his wrist, Palius discarded the piece of parchment into the fire and watched it disappear as if it had never been.
If only he had murdered Dahken Cor as a child. So many accidents could have befallen someone so young.
Palius knew that the power of the Shining West depended on him, that he stamped out this fire before it raged too hotly. It was time to try a different approach - what Palius now needed was an ally not a hireling, someone who would help him destroy Lord Dahken Cor and his people for the good of the empire. If he could only distract the Dahken with something substantial, a large force perhaps, he could strike at them from within. Some good men at Fort Haldon may die, one way or the other, but their sacrifice would secure Aquis’ future.
Palius stood and half carried, half dragged his chair over to his heavy desk. He then walked to one side of his office to stand before several of his large chests as he considered what he sought. Producing a key that he had taken from his desk, he knelt down and unlocked the chest furthest to the left, throwing back its heavy lid. Palius stared at its innards, many diverse and odd items that he had collected from various persons over the years for various purposes. He knew that many of them had their places in dark rituals for evil gods and some had powers he dare not consider. Queen Erella and the priesthood would not approve of him holding these objects, but he had always thought they one day may come in handy.
Palius found the particular thing for which he looked and disengaged it from the rest, taking care to touch as few as possible. After closing and locking the chest, he carried the item by one end by pinching it between his thumb and middle finger as if loath to touch it. He gently placed it face down upon his desk. The thing was a mirror, round and about eight inches across with a curved handle that extended roughly six inches. The mirror glass itself was set into a very slightly translucent stone that reminded him of the jade from Dulkur, though it was hues of purple instead of green.
Over twenty years ago, Palius had taken this mirror from a spy, a shit of the lowest order who used it to contact his master, conveying all he saw or heard. Palius watched this man for a long time before he was sure of the treachery, and he finally caught the man in the act of using the vile mirror in a broom closet. The spy’s remains still lie on an iron table far below the palace in a dungeon the existence of which Palius was sure not even the queen was aware, his joints stretched and pulled out of place. As the spy was castrated and his guts ripped asunder, he screamed that he only did it for his family - some nonsense of how the emperor himself would mate with his wife and daughter if he were successful. The men Palius used for the deed were promoted, made wealthy and moved to separate boring garrisons throughout Aquis, excluding one whom Palius kept close to him for other needs.
Palius wasn’t sure how to use the thing; he only hoped that if he held the mirror with its glass facing him, eventually someone would take notice.
10.
Sovereign Nadav was bored, and now he realized just how boring life had been before the death of Taraq’nok at the hands of a Dahken. With a little investigation, everything became clear to the Loszian. Apparently, Taraq’nok had been collecting Dahken as he came across them, rather than eliminating them outright as had been
the edict in Losz for hundreds of years. For some reason, he had a particular interest in a young Dahken named Cor Pelson, a Westerner by birth. Perhaps it was because the boy already knew how to use his powers, or he had hopes that the boy would lead him to other more powerful Dahken. It seemed Taraq’nok intended to use the Dahken to overthrow Nadav, take control of all Losz and invade the Shining West. Taraq’nok may have been disloyal and arrogant to the point of blindness, but the half breed (not truly accurate, but seven eighths breed didn’t roll of the tongue as well) was nothing if not superfluously ambitious.
Eventually Dahken Cor sought Taraq’nok out and killed him, with little resistance on the Loszian’s part. With the sorcerer’s magic broken, Sovereign Nadav could not simply transport himself into the dead Loszian’s castle. It upset him to no end that he actually had to travel by horseback from Ghal, perhaps one of the most disgusting and uncomfortable experiences of his life. By the time he arrived to find Taraq’nok dead, the Dahken, his nursery and a fire breathing bitch from Dulkur had already fought their way through Lord Menak’s outpost near the Spine, the very place the boy had originally come through to find Taraq’nok. Menak’s men nearly stopped their escape if not for sudden help from Westerners with longbows, and Nadav still scratched his head over how the men from Aquis’ Fort Haldon knew to be there at that precise moment. They could not have been there waiting, watching; Lord Menak was adamant that his spies and scouts checked the pass daily.
All of this Sovereign Nadav gleaned from long, frank discussions with both Taraq’nok’s steward and Lord Menak. He had no reason to doubt either’s veracity, as they both bore the scars of Nadav’s rather insistent questioning. The steward convinced Nadav of his truthfulness after the glowing hot poker pierced and melted his right eye and threatened to enter a particular orifice. Menak on the other hand had never been a liar, but Nadav kept that other hand as a souvenir just to be sure. He suggested that perhaps a gleaming steel hook or even a serrated knife blade would make Menak substantially more dashing than he was with two rather boring hands.
Nadav never understood why none of his subjects seemed to have a sense of humor. He thought he was rather clever, even if his statements were full of puns, irony or crude humor.
After months of riding smelly beasts, Sovereign Nadav returned to Ghal with relish. He had found no other place in Rumedia as beautiful with its massive black and purple walls and spires, the Emperor’s of course being the tallest of them all. A handful of lords also made their home in Ghal, and these were careful to never outshine their Sovereign who was certainly the most powerful sorcerer in Losz. He loved the smells of the city as well as the sights - the blood and sweat of slaves and the risen doing their master’s bidding, excrement and detritus rotting in the streets and alleys. It was home, the center of Sovereign Nadav’s power.
Only days after returning to his palace and sinking with a sigh into the plushness of his bed and slaves did he realize just how uninteresting was his life. Nadav spent the last thirty or forty years never leaving the comforts of Ghal and his palace, indulging in all of his desires, trying to become one with the universe through various intoxicants. He spent more time drunk or drugged than he did lucid and sober, and most of his lords had become just as lazy and decadent as he. Despite the hardships of riding, the smell of the animals, the dust in his nose and throat and exposure to the outdoors, the adventure of it all awakened something inside Nadav. He was home only briefly before he longed for activity, intrigue, violence and death. The entire affair was, for lack of a better word, fun.
On the southern wall of Nadav’s bedroom, twelve foot tall curtains of blood red silk waved slightly in a breeze. Nadav wandered over to these, pushing one aside to step out onto a balcony. The balcony was over eight feet long and only about three feet from the entrance to the edge; there was no rail of any kind to prevent one from plummeting to a sure death far below. Nadav’s chambers were of course at the top of the tallest tower in Ghal, at least several hundred feet in the air, though he did not know the exact height.
The night air was warm, and the black city seemed rather peaceful from this far above it. Facing the southern side of the city, Nadav could see three other towers, all of which belonged to lords and sorcerers of course, and even hundreds of feet away from the closest, he could see light spilling from their windows and balconies. The temples were far below, the tallest no more than a quarter the height of Nadav’s tower. The Loszian necromancers worshipped their gods privately, and the temples were mainly for their lessers. The dark purple towers and temples reflected moonlight in a variety of dark hues to be oddly absorbed by the common black basalt used in the common buildings. Large fires spotted the city here and there, and Nadav was certain debauchery most foul was afoot in many places hidden from even his view.
A slight sense of vertigo, coupled with a cold but powerful gust of wind convinced Nadav to leave the balcony. Letting the curtain close behind him, he leisurely crossed the room to stand at a full length mirror, admiring his naked body, well built and strong. He was tall, even for a Loszian, standing over seven feet tall with shoulders only about two feet across; these would be narrow even on a lowly Westerner of average height. The joints of Nadav’s arms, hands and fingers were more elongated than many Loszians, accentuating his pure blood, making it so that the tips of his fingers dangled at his kneecaps even when he stood fully erect. His forehead, the widest part of Nadav’s skull, was not quite six inches across, and his face narrowed consistently down angular features to the wicked point of his chin, a mere inch across. Despite his age of over a century, Nadav’s skin stayed completely flawless over the years, retaining its pale white color that showed the networks of blue veins across his body underneath, and like most trueblood Loszians, he was completely and totally devoid of hair. Staring at his reflection with violet eyes, Nadav knew he was the picture of pure Loszian beauty and power.
Nadav decided it was time to end the Loszian decadence; for too long his lords plotted against each other or even him to expand their power. For too long, the Loszians sat in studies or trances to heighten the strength of their magic, and Nadav himself was to blame for this as well. All of the strength, power and wealth the Loszians could want was right in front of them, ready for the taking if they were but bold enough to claim it.
The Shining West was no better than they; a decrepit old hag ruled their most powerful kingdom, and surely her power paled when compared to his. They arrogantly guarded their borders with nothing but men and longbows. Few of their garrisons even had sorcerers, Priests of Garod by their label, to help combat any invasion. Regardless, Nadav refused to believe the complacent Westerners stood a chance against a well planned, overwhelming invasion.
Nadav needed to think it out a bit, but he couldn’t concentrate as the feeling of vertigo returned, this time with a tingle in the back of his brain. It grew insistent, infuriating the emperor until he realized the source of the sensation. It was something he hadn’t felt in years, and Nadav was fairly certain this particular slave died at the hands of Westerners long ago. He turned from the mirror, crossed his chamber and passed through a portal that led to his laboratory.
Nadav fumbled through a variety of alchemical devices before selecting a plain bowl carved of pure ebony, which he filled with water. With a muttered word, he watched his reflection in the water change to one that was wholly unsettling. An old man, a Westerner stared back at him, and surprise momentarily registered in his aged eyes before turning back to a cold stare. He was ancient by Nadav’s reckoning with thinning white hair that he kept closely cropped and a heavily lined face with sagging white bearded jowls. The man looked exhausted, swollen purple pouches lining his lower eyelids.
“Who are you, old man?” Sovereign Nadav asked venomously; the Westerner’s disgusting appearance turned his stomach.
“I am Palius, counselor to Queen Erella of Aquis,” said the face, rippling in the water as it spoke. “I presume you are a Loszian of import to have had a sp
y in my queen’s palace.”
Nadav screamed in fury, “Some import? I am Sovereign Nadav, Emperor of all Losz, you steaming pile of horseshit! How dare you address me as such!”
“Please accept my sincere apologies Sovereign Nadav,” Palius replied with a long nod of his head, his voice completely calm and even. “I humbly request to speak to you about a danger to both of our civilizations, a Dahken by the name of Cor Pelson. I believe we can help each other, eliminate him and secure our empires’ mutual future.”
Nadav’s eyes narrowed as the man spoke, and he took a long moment to respond. “Very well. Let us speak.”
* * *
When Sovereign Nadav made the call to council, he had given his lords two weeks to make whatever preparations they felt necessary before coming. Over three hundred were called, many of them lesser lords owing fealty to others of greater power, but all of them answering to the emperor in the end. Knowing that many would transport to Ghal almost immediately, some out of a sense of duty or others out of a need to ingratiate themselves to the emperor, Nadav had prepared the city for their arrival. The first lord to transport himself did so in only a few hours, and over half of them arrived over the first week. Some without the ability to use magic rode horses and chariots into Ghal, and most of these pushed to the time limit. The last few days of his wait chaffed Nadav as impatience worked its fingers into his brain, heart and joints.
To say he called forth a council was not entirely accurate. The simple fact was that Nadav was Emperor of Losz and answered to no one, be it one of the lords or all of them together. Not to say he could ignore the combined strength of all of the lords, but fortunately Nadav directly controlled over half of them. And the rest of them were too fragmented, too divided to mount any form of resistance against him. The council would force the lords to unite as one.
The Cor Chronicles: Volume 02 - Fire and Steel Page 10