by Nat Russo
When the last flake of idol and hand disappeared, the void collapsed and Mujahid set Donal on the ground clasping his bloody stump.
The mindless hellwraith returned to Mujahid, but it was dormant. Powerless. Just as it was after he’d first transformed during the battle at the Pinnacle. Any long-distance traveling Mujahid did now would have to be done the old fashioned way.
“Lord Mukhtaar,” Donal said. His voice was raspy.
“Try not to speak,” Mujahid said. “You’re badly injured and I need to tend to it.”
“When I asked you to take my hand and follow me to Arin’s watch, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Sounds like you’ll live.”
“Is that your opinion as a necromancer?”
“It’s my opinion as a man.”
Donal grinned.
“But, as a necromancer, I’d just bring you back anyway.”
Donal lost his grin.
Mujahid chuckled. “The gods know you’d finally start making good decisions.”
“I’d be forced to obey you.”
“That’s what I said. Now stop talking and let me do something about this mess of a wound.”
It didn’t take long for Mujahid to cauterize Donal’s wrist with ambient necropotency. That stump wasn’t going to be pretty, but Donal’s appearance was the least of their concerns right now. An army of Barathosians occupied southern Tildem and pressed north to Arin’s Watch, drawing closer with every passing minute.
The more Mujahid thought about that statue of Malvol, the more it troubled him. A similar one had tried to take control of his mind back at the Pinnacle, and this one had succeeded with Donal.
It was demonic possession. And whichever demon had crawled out of the pit and into Donal’s body had no fear of the Abaddonian power stones.
The Abaddonian stones were among several divine artifacts binding all in the seventh hell to the will of the Mukhtaar Lords. If the stones failed, it wouldn’t be evil the world would have to fear. It would be chaos. Chaos in its purest form. No, the stones couldn’t have failed. That couldn’t happen.
Ever.
Mujahid needed more information.
“Majesty,” Mujahid said. “How long did you have that idol?”
“Two days. Perhaps three.”
It was unlikely Mujahid had seen the only two figurines in the Three Kingdoms. Whoever that entity was within the portal, he or she was responsible for sending those infernal things into the world. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen to someone who held one longer than three days.
May the gods grant that no one finds another.
Donal tried to sit up, but Mujahid laid him back down.
“None of that, now,” Mujahid said. “You’ve lost too much blood to be a sitting king. You’ll have to rule from your back for a few days.”
“I have to keep the group moving toward Arin’s Watch.”
“As much as I know you don’t want to hear this, Majesty, I’m going to say it anyway. Tildem is lost. The best thing you can do for the Three Kingdoms is move what little force you have north into the Shandarian Union and make a combined stand there.”
Donal glared. “My duty is to Tildem.”
“There is no Tildem. Not anymore.”
“As long as I live there is Tildem!”
Mujahid looked up as several shadows fell across the ground between him and Donal. Jaelin and her group of necromancers had arrived. Garon knelt at the King’s side.
“General,” Donal said. “I owe you an apology.”
“Nonsense,” Garon said. “From what I gather, it wasn’t you doing the talking anyway.”
“I can’t follow you to Arin’s Watch,” Mujahid said. “It pains me to say this, but I should be where I can make a difference.” He faced Jaelin. “I’ll not force you and the others to join me. But there’s something you should know before you make your decision. When the Barathosians anchor off the coast of Arin’s Watch, they’ll turn the city into a charnal house.”
“Well that settles it, then,” Jaelin said.
Mujahid nodded. He figured she’d do the sensible thing.
“We’re going to be needed most in Arin’s Watch,” Jaelin said.
“What?” Mujahid asked. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard clearly, Lord Mujahid,” Jaelin said. “Who will purify the dead if not us? You should go, though. You’re far more important to the Three Kingdoms than we are.”
The realization was like a punch in the chest. Had he strayed so far from his vocation that he placed other concerns above the purification of the dead? Had he spent so long leading the clan that he’d forgotten what it meant to be a member of the clan?
Vocation or not, what Jaelin said was true. It saddened him, but it was true. He wasn’t a simple necromancer anymore.
Mujahid nodded and stood.
“His wound will heal,” Mujahid said. “But keep him still for a few days.”
“Where will you go, Lord Mukhtaar?” Donal asked.
“The Shandarian Union. I’ll find passage to Agera in Three Banks. It’s time I found my brother. I’ll do my best to send aid. General, can you spare an adda?”
“Aye,” Goran said.
Mujahid headed toward the hastily erected stable area, uncertain if he’d ever see King Donal alive again.
For the second day in a row, Zorian Osa sat outside the emperor’s audience hall waiting to be called. He wasn’t upset. Merely waiting. Waiting for the emperor to come to his senses and hand over the archmage.
It took a lot to upset Zorian. More than an impotent emperor whose only weapon was lack of cooperation.
He didn’t get upset when the Imperial Guard dragged Lucian naked from his quarters after the attempted rape of the emperor’s daughter. He didn’t get upset when an assassin tried to kill him in his bed chamber not long after. He didn’t get upset when, despite Zorian’s warning, the emperor didn’t call on him the next morning.
And he didn’t get upset when he had to order the complete annihilation of Dyr Rahal as a result of the emperor’s insolence.
It’s not that Zorian was a warmongering man. Quite the opposite, which is why he’d resigned his naval commission to begin with. But choices had consequences, and Emperor Relig had chosen poorly.
No, he wasn’t upset. It would take more than brutality, attempted murder, and genocide to shake Zorian.
A drum-like tap of shoes against the marble floor came from the intersection near the giant portrait of Emperor Relig.
A page in red and white palace livery approached at a full run and stopped at the guard outside the audience chamber. The page raised a sealed envelope before him, and the guard opened the chamber to allow the running, sweating servant to enter.
Of course Zorian wasn’t upset. How could he be? He didn’t need to see inside that envelope to know the message it contained. Emperor Relig was about to give him the audience he’d been waiting for. He was about to finally bring his futile resistance to an end and fetch the archmage.
Several minutes passed in silence until the chamber doors opened. Saleem Abdul Bishara, in a different blue robe this time, stepped out and stood before Zorian.
“Zorian Osa,” Saleem said. “The emperor will see you now.”
Saleem walked back into the chamber.
Zorian followed, and his gaze set upon a cage at the foot of the dais on which the emperor’s throne sat. For a moment he thought the emperor intended to arrest him, but as he drew closer to the cage he saw a man inside. Some poor, tortured soul was impaled against a standing frame in the cage. The spikes drove through flesh in his arms and legs. It kept him immobile, but also alive. Blood pooled at his feet from the vicious beating someone had given him. His face was swollen to the point of forcing his eyes shut, and patches of scalp hung from his head. His arms were flayed from shoulder to elbow, the skin and flesh carved away and hanging to the floor. Whoever had tortured him had tried to stop the bleeding with fir
e, because his wounds were charred as if burned by a torch. The man moaned incessantly, but something in his mouth muffled the sound.
The smell of burned flesh made Zorian want to cover his face, but he couldn’t allow the emperor to see that weakness.
As Zorian rounded the cage to stand at the foot of the dais, he took one last glance into the cage. The caged man’s genitals had been torn from his body, stuffed into his mouth, and seared in place with flame.
A golden glint reflected off a bracelet on the man’s right wrist.
“As you can see,” Emperor Relig said, “your compatriot and my daughter had a misunderstanding. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing things up.”
Saleem stopped next to the cage.
“Yes,” Zorian said, facing the emperor. “You and I had a misunderstanding of our own, two days ago. I’ve cleared that up as well.”
“You destroyed a city!”
“Dyr Rahal was it?” Zorian made a waving gesture as if the name were inconsequential. “If I understand your language well enough, it was a small city. Not a great loss.”
“Thousands of my subjects are dead,” Emperor Relig said.
Zorian stepped onto the dais and Emperor Relig brought his hand up to his chest. Guards moved to stop Zorian, but the emperor waved them away.
“Yes,” Zorian said. “And consider this, Emperor. We annihilated that city with two ships placed off shore. Two ships. Two thousand such ships fill the Bay of Relig as we speak. There is enough combined firepower to erase Dar Rodon as a scribe erases an errant droplet of ink. I’d tell you Dar Rodon would be reduced to rubble, but it will be far worse than that.”
Emperor Relig stepped back as Zorian reached the top of the platform.
“Why do you want the archmage so badly?” Emperor Relig asked.
“The murder of Yotto isn’t sufficient?”
“That was forty years ago. You think me stupid? You think I’ll accept vengeance is all you seek?”
“Your honor might last a mere forty years, but I assure you ours is eternal.” Zorian took a step closer. “I’ll not have this conversation with you again, Emperor. You know what I want. And you know the price of failure.”
Emperor Relig swallowed and his gaze darted toward Lucian. “Give me more time and I’ll end his life quickly.”
Zorian chuckled. “Lucian? Take your time with him. It’s me for whom you should act with haste.”
“He’s your countryman,” Saleem said.
“Imagine how much consideration I give those who aren’t.”
“Long live the Glorious One,” Emperor Relig said.
“Emperor, no,” Saleem said.
“Draft the message,” Zorian said. “Today. I’ll not hold you accountable for the speed at which Kagan arrives. But I will hold you accountable for everything within your control.”
Lucian moaned as Zorian walked past him toward the chamber door.
But that didn’t upset Zorian either.
CHAPTER TWELVE
If anyone should encounter the Mukhtaar Estate, they should turn in the opposite direction and proceed as far away as possible. For only the Mukhtaar Lords know its secrets, and only the Mukhtaar Lords may pass through its doors unharmed.
- Coteon of the Steppes, “The Mukhtaar Chronicles: Coteonic Commentaries” (circa 680 BCE)
If the people of Erindor knew how little we know of the estate’s secrets…
- M
Let’s not ruin a good thing, now.
- Nuuan
Mujahid’s journey up river from Three Banks was far less stressful now that quakes were a thing of the past. But approaching Agera set him on edge.
Last time, he’d been chased through the streets, come face-to-face with a sworn enemy, and forced to escape during one of the worst quakes he’d ever lived through.
There were more important matters to consider, however. Nuuan had been missing for more than six months, for starters. But there was one person beneath Agera—in the necromantic coven of Catiatum—who might be able to shed some light on things.
William. There might not be a prophecy that could shed light on this situation, but William was one of the wisest necromancers Mujahid knew. And right now, Mujahid needed wisdom.
But the Catiatum coven held grudges older than Mujahid’s grandfather. What if William had failed at the task Mujahid had given him—to merge his coven with the old Catiatum coven? What if the Catiatum coven had fallen into schism again and sought to depose Mujahid and Nuuan? Mujahid could be walking into a trap.
The dull thud of the gangway striking the pier brought Mujahid out of his thoughts. Deckhands ran this way and that to secure the river boat. One of them trotted up to Mujahid.
“Sir,” the deckhand said. “This is for you.” He flipped through a handful of small cards and gave one to Mujahid. “For your adda.”
Mujahid stared at the card in confusion.
“They won’t let you take it into the city. Some new law or something. But you can turn the card in at the trade office for another.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
The deckhand shrugged. “Something about foreign livestock being cursed. I don’t make the rules.”
“That livestock was given to me by the King of Tildem himself, boy.”
The deckhand shrugged. “You want the card or not?”
Mujahid scowled, took the card and turned it over. There was nothing more than a number and a signature on the other side. What could have happened to make Agera restrict the passage of animals?
“This is an outrage!” a man shouted from behind Mujahid.
A brown-turbaned man with thick muttonchops shoved past Mujahid and threw a stack of cards in the deckhand’s face. The man dressed like a Religarian, but his desert robes were dark. Religarians favored white robes to reflect the sun’s oppressive heat. And his accent was muddled, as if he were putting it on.
“Do you have any idea how long they’ve been on this boat?” the man shouted, waving his arms about. “A week! Adda on a boat for a week!”
“The Commerce Office will offer replacements for your—”
“These are my adda! Do you know what happens to adda when they can’t roam freely? I’ve already paid the caravansary fees!”
Something was odd about the man. He kept slipping out of a Religarian accent into something akin to a western Shandarian drawl.
“What’s the problem here?” the ship’s captain said. Mujahid hadn’t seen him approach.
The Captain’s long, angular goatee was gathered with a tie of some sort, and the end bounced as he spoke.
The turbaned man pointed at the deckhand. “This festering—”
“You insult my crew one more time and you’ll find yourself on the pier without the courtesy of a gangway,” the Captain said. “Do I make myself clear?”
The turbaned man nodded.
“Good,” the Captain said. “Now what’s the problem? And I expect your answer to be so pleasant, the Chancellor’s wife herself would want you over for tea.”
The turbaned man’s face had turned crimson, but he obliged.
“Captain,” the turbaned man said. “The length of this trip has pushed my adda to their limits. I have to get them on dry land and tend to them.”
“They’re not staying on the boat, if that’s what you’re worried about. They’ll be taken to the stockyards and held for two weeks. If you’re in a hurry, I suggest you pick up those cards and trade them for a new team.”
“But those are my adda! They are the ones I must take to Caspardis!”
The Captain shrugged. “Then hang on to those cards and come back in two weeks.”
“They must be delivered within the week! My customer was insistent on that regard.”
“Then you have a business problem which is of no concern to me,” the Captain said. “I make the rules on this boat, not the festering city of Agera.”
“Captain, please—”
“Take your cards and make a d
ecision. Either way, I’d better not hear you’re causing trouble for my crew.”
The Captain strode back toward the wheelhouse.
“Any idea what this is about?” Mujahid asked the turbaned man.
“I wish I knew.”
“You chose a poor color for Religarian desert garb.”
The man stroked his muttonchops.
“A word of advice,” Mujahid said. “Let your men do the talking. The nomad accent is proving too difficult for you.”
Mujahid faced his cabin, but a hand on his arm stopped him. When he turned back, the muttonchopped man’s expression was inscrutable.
“Not many would speak to me as you do,” the man said. His accent had vanished, and the tenor of his voice had changed to a deep baritone. He stared at Mujahid’s robe for a moment. “Brave, even for these times.”
“Businessmen have never worried me much.”
“Not that. Your choice of clothing.”
“My style of dress is a sign of bravery here?”
“Perhaps everywhere. You expect forty years of hatred to vanish by decree?”
The man had a point. Maybe wearing the midnight blue hadn’t been a good decision.
“Vanni Yarwen,” the man said, extending his hand.
Mujahid paused for a moment before taking it.
“Samael,” Mujahid said. He stumbled over the alias he hadn’t used for a while. “I take it those adda of yours are more than meets the eye?”
Vanni shrugged and signaled one of the men traveling with him, who ran over and collected the Commerce Office cards scattered at Vanni’s feet.
There was no mistaking the sign language concealed in Vanni’s hand signal. The Thieves’ Cant of Hiboran, from the west coast of the Shandarian Union, used by a group of people so deadly most feared to name them; the Azure Dawn. The gesture would have been nothing more than a hand wave to anyone else. But Mujahid had spent enough time in the underbelly of the Three Kingdoms to recognize the subtle finger movements.
“Perhaps you could use your priestly influence to sway the Commerce Office in our favor?” Vanni asked.
“You expect forty years of hatred to vanish by decree?”