by Nat Russo
“What do you mean as well?”
“I was speaking of the invasion from the west. Shandar has fallen. An unknown army moves east to Caspardis as we speak! They may have already taken it!”
Mujahid’s face grew cold.
“Tell me what you know of this invasion,” Mujahid said. “Every detail you have!”
“The stories defy credibility, yet Shandarian Rangers swear they’re true. The strangest ship appeared off the coast of Shandar. They described it as a floating ziggurat, like an ancient builder temple. It materialized on the water, as if placed there by the gods themselves. But before anyone could approach it, fire rained from the sky. They say not one stone remains standing upon another in Shandar.”
Mujahid stopped and steadied himself against a wall.
“And there’s more,” Aufidius said. “There’s a…strangeness happening here in Agera. Something with the adda. Some have simply appeared outside the city walls, while others have vanished. Some that appeared didn’t look like adda at all. They were several times the normal size, with four giant horns. People are saying the adda are cursed. That maybe they’re the mounts of the ghost soldiers.”
“You should know better.”
Aufidius waved his hand. “Of course. But I can understand why the uneducated would call them such. Soldiers have been appearing and disappearing outside the city walls. I haven’t witnessed the phenomenon myself, but people I trust have reported it.”
Mujahid placed a hand on Aufidius’s shoulder.
“How many of you are there now?” Mujahid asked.
“Total?”
“Priests.”
“Exactly thirteen.”
Mujahid balled his other hand into a fist.
“Damn Kagan!” Mujahid said. “Damn him straight to the hells!”
“Something we can agree on.”
“Go now. There’s no time. Collect everyone and everything you hold dear and leave this place to its fate.”
“My lord?”
“The invasion force you spoke of is the Barathosian army.”
“But that was forty years ago.”
“When they sweep through Agera, it will fare no better than Shandar or Rotham. And there is nothing you or the other priests will be able to do. Take the coven east. Make for the Pinnacle.”
“What will you do?”
Mujahid had gone over every scenario, but he was left with only two choices. He could travel to Caspardis in the hope of warning William before it was too late, or he could make all haste north and secure the Mukhtaar Estate.
The Three Kingdoms was surrounded. The bulk of the armada sat off the coast of Dar Rodon, and there was no telling how long that city would survive. Tildem was already under Barathosian control. Donal could slow the advance, but in the end the Barathosians would win. And now Shandar, the biggest, most powerful city in the Shandarian Union lay in rubble.
William, I’m sorry. But I must secure the estate. I can’t take the chance of it falling into Barathosian hands.
The estate was more than just property. It was, quite possibly, the oldest structure known to humankind. It was the single largest repository of objects of power in the world. It was a conduit of divine power. It was the entrance to the Rite of Testing, and so many other…places. If a malevolent force ever took control of it…
Mujahid couldn’t bear to finish the thought. He had to move the portal to the Mukhtaar Estate out of the Algidian mountains. Out of the Shandarian Union.
But to where? He’d have to figure that out along the way.
“I travel north,” Mujahid said. “There is something I must do before the Barathosians arrive. Go now. Do what you must to save the coven.”
“But the temple!”
“It’s just a building. It won’t do you much good when you’re dead. Kagan killed enough of us. Now we must survive. Go. If they’ve taken Caspardis already, they could be approaching the city gate as we speak.”
Aufidius gave an unenthusiastic bow and continued down the street.
Mujahid retrieved the card from his pocket and flipped it over in his hand.
“It’s time I took the Commerce Office up on their offer.”
He swore as he headed back down toward the docks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the days of the Reestablishment of the Lords, when the Mukhtaar line had failed, Mujahid Halabi stepped over the threshold, becoming Mujahid Lord Mukhtaar Halabi. The people rejoiced to the heavens, proclaiming “The Mukhtaar line has not failed. For Zubuxo has provided another.”
- The Mukhtaar Chronicles, attributed to the prophet Habakku
Reestablishment of the Lords 7:12-14
While some scholars take the “failure” of the Mukhtaar line to mean the end of the blood line itself, it is more likely referencing failure of a socio-political nature. What cannot be denied, however, is that a priest outside of the sacred Mukhtaar blood line ascended and was henceforth known as a Mukhtaar Lord.
Of interest here, however, is that Lord Halabi is never referred to as “Lord Mukhtaar” in subsequent texts. Only “Lord Halabi” or “Lord Mujahid”. This is likely the origin of the dual attributions of Mukhtaar Lords. Those who descend, by blood, from the ancient Mukhtaar line (in other words, a “blood Mukhtaar”) are properly referred to as Lord Mukhtaar. Those who do not descend from that line retain their surname.
- Coteon of the Steppes, “The Mukhtaar Chronicles: Coteonic Commentaries” (circa 680 BCE)
Nicolas stepped onto dry ground as the transport bubble evaporated on the shore somewhere west of Caspardis. Kaitlyn, Toridyn, Toby, and dead Kagan followed him up a small hill away from the beach.
Gentle waves lapped the shore of the vast lake, but they weren’t so gentle as to make Nicolas forget where he was.
The city of Caspardis was out there, like an uncomfortable conversation waiting to be had. That place had left Nicolas with nightmares. It came to symbolize a hatred, bigotry, and violence beyond anything he’d witnessed back on Earth.
He gazed out across the lake, trying to take his mind off bad memories. But it was as impossible to shake those thoughts as it was to see the opposite shore. If it weren’t for the unimpressive waves and lack of saltwater in the air, he’d think he was staring out across an ocean. And somewhere on that body of water was the platform where he’d been chained, weighted down, and tossed into the lake to drown.
No, it was impossible to be anywhere near this place and not think about what they’d done to him. What they’d done to many in the guise of justice and orthodoxy, all because of his birth father.
“You’re somewhere else again,” Kaitlyn said. “What is it?”
She’d never let him get away without talking about it. Strange thing is that he both wanted and didn’t want to talk about it. More like he needed to talk about it, but didn’t want to.
“I can tell her,” Toridyn said.
“No,” Nicolas said. “This is my story to tell.”
Nicolas started walking inland, and the others followed.
“There’s evil in this world,” Nicolas said.
“Is it that much worse than back home?” Kaitlyn asked. “You promised you’d tell me everything, remember?”
He told her everything then, and each word threatened to consume him. The only way he could do it was to detach himself from everything—from who he was, from the woman he once yearned for, and from the man standing next to him who was responsible for it all; Kagan. It was as if he weren’t talking to Kaitlyn but the air around her instead. Erindor itself needed to hear the story. He held nothing back. The shriller. The crag spider. The earthquakes. He even told her about the four-legged turkey. And yes, he told her about Caspardis. He told her how they’d arrested and tortured him. How he’d prayed another man would die so he’d have power to escape. How they’d stripped the flesh from his back with a scourge and threw salt in the open wounds. How they’d so disfigured him because of Kagan’s law that if it weren’t for cichlo
s magic, the mere sight of him would make her puke.
And he told her about the cichlos. About when he finally thought he was safe, they’d arrested him, beat him, and disfigured him once more. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he was forced to become a killer himself.
All because of Kagan.
“You killed all those people,” Kaitlyn said, “and you blame your father? You didn’t have any say in it?”
“Kait—”
“This is a lot to take in,” Kaitlyn said.
“I just wanted to be honest with you.”
“I appreciate that. And I’m happy you opened up to me. But you’ve had a year to process all of this. I’ve had ten seconds.”
A cold breeze swept up off the lake. Kaitlyn hugged herself and looked down. When the breeze subsided, she unfolded her arms and wrapped them around him.
“I can’t imagine how hard it was to live through those things,” Kaitlyn said. “And if I know you as well as I think, it was even harder to talk about. We’ll get through this. All of it.” She stepped back until they were looking into each other’s eyes. “Just don’t think this is the only time you’ll need to talk about it.”
“You going to use that psychology degree on me?”
Kaitlyn smiled. “I’m here. Whenever you need to talk. Just me. No psychology. And, technically, neither of us have degrees yet, remember? This a pretty elaborate way to avoid graduation, by the way. I’m not saying it’s avoidant personality disorder exactly…but I’m keeping my eye on you.”
Nicolas pulled her close and rested his cheek against hers, absorbing her warmth.
After what seemed like not enough time, he took her hand and started walking up the hill again.
Several hundred yards from the lake shore, Nicolas spotted an adda-drawn wagon stopped on the road. It reminded him of an old west stagecoach; symmetrical in design, like a bowl resting on an axle assembly. A closed carriage for passengers, a rack for luggage on top, and a driver’s seat outside, toward the front of the roof. It was pulling a trailer of some sort, but there wasn’t any activity around it. Maybe the driver had pulled over and was napping inside. The adda—snouts and hooves like a cow, manes like lions—looked from side to side periodically, but other than that, they were calm.
Nicolas would never get used to them having extra legs.
Cows should not have six legs!
When he took another step, a strong wave of necropotency washed over him and trickled into his well.
“Maybe you should stay here a minute,” Nicolas said.
“It’s just a—oh my god,” Kaitlyn said. Her face paled as she glanced toward the rear of the wagon. “Nick, stay back. You don’t want to see this.”
That’s right. She thinks I’m still afraid of dead things.
Nicolas stepped ahead of her.
Several bodies were sprawled in the mud at the rear of the wagon.
Yeah. Figured as much.
He sent a command through the necromantic link for Kagan to check things out. Taking chances wasn’t something he was willing to do at this point.
Better to be safe…
“Tor,” Nicolas said. “Grab a penitent and get ready for the worst.”
“You’re not freaking out?” Kaitlyn said. “You have changed.”
Nicolas smiled. “I’ve seen things.”
A moment later an undead cichlos stood next to Toridyn. The flexible bones of its chest heaved as if from the breathing of invisible lungs.
When Kagan sent the “all clear”, Nicolas led the others toward the wagon.
“Kagan says there are eight of them,” Nicolas said. “All dead.”
“Sure he’s telling the truth?” Kaitlyn asked. It was a legitimate question for a non-necromancer.
“He can’t lie unless I order him to.”
There was something about the four bodies at the back of the wagon—the way they were laid out, as if they were kneeling and had fallen forward—that reminded Nicolas of every bad mafia movie he’d ever seen.
These men, whoever they were, had been executed. But that didn’t upset Nicolas as much as the realization of how they’d been executed.
Each of the four men had a large wound at the back of his head.
“This isn’t possible,” Nicolas said. “They’ve been shot.”
He wasn’t a detective, but he didn’t need to be to see charring around the wounds.
“Kagan,” Nicolas said. “What do you think could do something like this to a person?”
“Necropotency can be woven into projectiles,” Kagan said.
Nicolas had plenty of experience with that little trick.
“No,” Nicolas said. “That would punch a hole straight through, and it wouldn’t burn.”
“Then I know not what sort of magic could achieve this.”
“Why is this a problem?” Kaitlyn asked.
As much as Nicolas hated the idea of handling a corpse, he needed to be sure. He knelt next to a body and lifted the head to get a look at the face.
Whoever this was, his face wasn’t injured. It was a little dirty, and his eyes were open. But there was no exit wound. The back of his head was a mess of hair matted with blood and charred skin surrounding a hole the size of a large marble. It was like someone had struck an overripe cantaloupe with a hammer. The rest was more gruesome than Nicolas had been expecting. Whatever brain tissue hadn’t sprayed back toward the shooter was pressed up against the other side of the man’s skull.
Kaitlyn approached from around the wagon and stood next to him, covering her mouth.
Nicolas shook his head. “There’s no gunpowder in the Three Kingdoms, Kait, much less guns. Whoever did this…I can’t begin to imagine. But I’ll tell you this much. They’re not from around here. What is it?”
Kaitlyn was staring at a corpse on the ground next to the wagon.
“I don’t think that one was shot,” Kaitlyn said.
Three more corpses lay next to the wagon on the opposite side from where they’d approached. One in particular had his face smashed in, and another had an obviously broken neck.
“Tor,” Nicolas said.
Toridyn wandered around from the front of the wagon, his penitent in tow.
“There’s another one up here,” Toridyn said. “Doesn’t look like a soldier, though. Looks more like the wagon driver. We could raise them and find out what happened?”
Nicolas considered it. But the extreme toll the namocea would take on him now wasn’t worth it.
“At the risk of sounding uncharitable,” Nicolas said, “we’re not really here for this. We can’t afford to be fatigued if and when the Barathosians show up. We need to get to Caspardis as soon as possible, if we’re going to make any difference.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Toridyn said. “We can always—”
A tall figure approached from the roadside. Nicolas hadn’t seen anyone standing nearby, and there was no place for this person to have hidden.
The person—he or she, Nicolas couldn’t tell—was wearing a black cloak with a voluminous hood, pulled low to hide his or her face.
The person lifted their hand, and Nicolas expected to see a gun. Instead, they pulled their hood back.
The man was about as tall as Nicolas, with brown hair. And if Nicolas had to guess, he’d say the man was older than him, though not by much. It was the way he moved that was unnerving. Feline. Graceful with a side helping of whoop ass.
Nicolas stood and sent a command to Kagan to be ready for anything.
Toby growled and backed away, and Toridyn walked over to calm him down.
“Poor dog,” the man said. “Missing some legs. How in the hells does he keep himself up like that without breaking his own back?”
His voice wasn’t gruff, as Nicolas had been expecting. There was something almost noble about it, and there wasn’t anything malicious or sarcastic in his tone.
“There’s nothing wrong with my—” Nicolas stopped hims
elf. Turkey with four legs. Cow with six legs. By Erindor standards, Toby was missing two legs.
The man raised his hands and Toby growled louder. “Didn’t mean to offend.”
“Just stay where you are,” Nicolas said.
“I don’t mean you any harm,” the man said. He took another step forward and Toridyn’s penitent seized him.
“The man said freeze, punk,” Toridyn said. He stepped toward the man. “One more move and you’ll make my day.”
“Easy, there, Five-O,” Nicolas said. “We don’t know anything yet.”
“I found them like this,” the man said.
“Which is exactly what I’d say if I killed a bunch of people and got caught a few minutes later,” Kaitlyn said.
“It’s a little too close to Blackwood to get robbed,” Toridyn said.
Nicolas stood and faced the man. Toridyn had a good point.
“There’s a few too many valuables left for it to be a robbery,” the man said.
“You understand him?” Nicolas said.
“I’ve had cichlos acquaintances,” the man said.
Nicolas looked down at the dead men, and for the first time he noticed their coin purses were still there. Curious, he pulled the tarp back from the top of the trailer.
Cooking supplies and bedding. And no room for anything else.
Whoever this guy was, he was right. Nothing had been taken. At least nothing obvious.
“There’s an army headed this way,” the man said, “and I don’t think they’re planning on taking prisoners. You’re a Council Magus. You must know something about that.”
It took Nicolas a moment to remember he was dressed in Council robes.
“Suppose I am,” Nicolas said. “And you know more than you’re telling me.”
“I’m trying to help. We can’t stay here. We have to get to Caspardis.”
Nicolas nodded at Toridyn, and the undead cichlos released the man. “Keep an eye on him, Tor.”
Nicolas drew more ambient necropotency into his well, just to be safe.
The man lowered his eyes and walked closer. An odd expression passed over his face, as if he were arguing with himself—he ground his teeth and pursed his lips. He pulled a small object out of his pocket and looked at it in disgust. He was anxious about something.