Hannal hurried to her side to hiss: ‘Bow before our goddess!’
The beggarwoman merely turned her hooded head to cast her the briefest of glances. Hannal caught nothing of what lay within that hood.
‘Thank you for answering my call.’ The Enchantress addressed the figure. ‘And thank you for tolerating such shameful disguise. The time for it has passed – you may cast it aside.’
The figure seemed to merely shrug and the heavy travel-stained cloak fell away revealing a sturdy woman in travelling leathers, twin narrow swords at her sides. But what drove Hannal back one step was the nearly plain white mask at the woman’s face.
Nearly plain! My goddess! I know what that means!
‘Now we can go. Ina, you may lead the way. We must go straight to the harbour.’ She directed what appeared to be an amused smile at Hannal. ‘As they say – my ship is about to come in.’
The Seguleh woman immediately turned to the doors. Hannal jumped from her path. ‘And I? Shall I come?’
The Enchantress waved a hand, unconcerned. ‘You may arrange an escort, if you must.’
Despite her light leather armour, her weapons, the Seguleh champion crossed the polished stone floor soundlessly to pull open both leaves of the portal. Priestesses and acolytes who had been pressed up against the doors listening fell in a tumble at her leather-wrapped feet. The entire jammed crowd of the vestibule gaped at this sudden masked apparition, until, in a rush of feet, they frantically scrambled to either side.
Ina advanced and the veiled and robed figure of the Queen of Dreams emerged.
For a moment the assembled priestesses and staff of the monastery stared, taking in this new arrival, then thoughts turned to the awakened portal within, for it was known to all that no other entrance existed, and one by one, then the rest in unison, they knelt and bowed their heads.
Abbess Hannal emerged last. She grasped the sleeve of the nearest priestess, hissed, ‘Assemble the guards, get torches, surround them! Let none approach!’ She swallowed her panic, caught sight of the folds of the thin slip she wore. ‘And get me some damned clothes!’
That night what appeared to be a bizarre religious procession tramped through the streets of Tali. Those few citizens awake during the third hour before sunrise, these being the night watch, city bakers and their apprentices, wandering drunks, and some few others whose business brought them out at such an hour – the nature of such business precluding them from ever admitting to being abroad at that time – later swore to hearing and catching glimpses of a torchlit convoy that wound its way down out of the temple district and on towards the waterfront. The mother of a family that slept on the street near the broad arched gate to the temple district, ever hopeful for alms, swore that the coin she used to pay for a room in a tenement house came from a priestess in that very procession. It was her opinion that they were of the hidden temple of the Shattered God escorting a human sacrifice to her doom.
At the waterfront the cordon of guards and priestesses spread out surrounding Hannal, Ina and the Queen of Dreams. By this time Hannal was frantic. Did her Queen expect her to have contracted a ship? What was her intention? No one was even up – how could she negotiate for a vessel? She was considering sending runners to all the nearby ships to bash on the decks or sides when she felt at her side the presence of her goddess. She bowed.
‘Do not worry, Hannal. Transport has been arranged.’
‘Of course, my Queen. Which one?’
‘None of these. I’ve … negotiated … to borrow a very special vessel.’
Hannal could not help but cast a quick glance to the quiet harbour. ‘And it will be arriving soon?’
The goddess smiled behind her veil. ‘Very soon. I merely have to call it …’ She advanced towards a section of empty wharf and Hannal waved to clear the priestesses and guards from her path. At the timbers’ jagged ends the Queen gestured out over the water below then crossed her arms. She looked to be waiting. Hannal dared to step up next to her. She peered down. The murky darkness of the harbour waters beneath the wharf appeared unchanged. She glanced to the Seguleh woman, Ina: she was looking behind them, back across the wharf front, ignoring anything that might be happening on the water. Of course, any threat would rush them from the streets, wouldn’t it?
A flickering from under the wharf snapped her gaze down. A silvery light rippled from the water beneath the floating sticks and refuse. The rotting timbers of the wharf juddered under her feet as if kicked. The surface of the harbour waters swelled.
The escort of priestesses and guards backed away from the edge of the wharf leaving Hannal, Ina and the Queen alone.
The swelling domed like an enormous bubble. From within this bulge a vessel’s bow arose to breach the surface in a great hissing and slither of water. What appeared to be the most alien ship Hannal had ever seen emerged. As long as a war galley it was, with a series of oar ports, dark and empty, lining its side. Yet it was completely closed across its top as if sealed to all access. A tall stern rudder was the last of it to heave into sight and the bow eased down into the water with a gentle sigh. No colours or sigil marked the dark polished planks of its sides and stern.
‘Who,’ Hannal stammered in wonder, ‘whose vessel is this?’
‘Mine, temporarily. It has been lost in the Shoals since the magus who built it died – slipped in a bathhouse and cracked his skull, rather ironically. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.’
Hannal’s mouth had dried. The Shoals? Isn’t that some sort of gyre of trapped ships? Some say Mael’s own purgatory for lost sailors … She cleared her throat. ‘And who … who is the captain?’ Hood himself?
The Queen regarded her, amused. ‘No captain. No crew. You could say the ship is – enchanted.’ She headed for a wooden ladder down from the wharf to the pier that the nameless vessel rubbed against. Ina quickly stepped ahead to lead the way, which she did smoothly, landing like a cat.
Hannal gripped the rough wood of the top rung. ‘Where are you headed, my goddess?’
The Queen of Dreams raised her veiled face from the dark where she stood on the wave-splashed floating pier. ‘For a chat. A long-delayed chat with an old acquaintance.’
No gangway or opening was in evidence along the side of the vessel. Yet the Seguleh swordswoman somehow vaulted atop the planking of the flat deck. Kneeling, she extended an arm. The Queen took it, and in this rather awkward and undignified manner scrambled her way up the slick side and on to the deck.
Old acquaintance? Hannal was thinking. Who …? For the life of her, she had no idea who that might be. Something for the cult archivists and researchers to sink their teeth into … And we, of course, out of all our rivals, possess the best of these.
Her last sight of the goddess and her champion was of two small figures painted in the sickly green tinge of the Visitor standing atop the long sweep of the vessel as it made its grave and stately way out of the harbour. Driven by no means discernible to her.
* * *
… and farther along the river we did come upon numerous populated urban centres whose inhabitants were unrelenting in their hostility and antagonism to our advance … Golan rubbed his gritty eyes and adjusted the sheet of plant fibre in the light of his single candle. Unfriendly indigenes, yes. No surprise there. Why should they welcome an invading army? And why should this Bakar, a ragged survivor – a deserter no doubt – claim otherwise?
Golan scanned further down the parchment … of the manifold monstrosities that assaulted us, the man-leopard was the worst. Countless soldiers fell in the river of red that was his rabid hunger. Yet this is not to diminish the daily predations of the snake-women, or the carnivorous bird-women … Bird-women? Golan pinched his eyes. False gods! Please let there be one useful scintilla of information he could sift from this ridiculous fabrication.
Inland from the river, at a distance of some leagues, we did perceive large structures tall above the canopy of forest and we remaining few were cheered for we believed we had a
t last arrived at the fabled Jakal Viharn itself and would soon walk its golden pavements and claim the gossamer magics that infuse its streets, and capture its ruling deathless great Queen herself. A floating reception of some four thousands of natives met us, occupying some hundreds of war canoes. The inhabitants wore brilliant feather cloaks – or so we thought at first. Only the ferocity of Master Rust’s theurgist response allowed us to escape their attack. From the resultant great conflagration I alone did emerge …
Golan let the account fall to the table and sat back, sighing. Four thousand warriors? Hundreds of war canoes? This deserter ought to have been more modest in his invention; this strained credulity beyond reason. And Jakal Viharn as a great city in the jungle? Please! It’s jungle! Raw primitive nature could in no way support such a large population. Only agriculture is capable of that. These indigenes – if any at all – must certainly number no more than a few scattered hundreds squatting in leaf huts, digging grubs and scratching their flea-bitten bare behinds.
He sipped his wine and stared at the blank canvas wall of the tent. Already mould and damp stained its weave. Beyond, monkeys howled to the risen moon and a roar sounded from the distance, some sort of hunting cat. The truth behind this man-leopard, perhaps? And yet … earlier Masters admit that some few survivors of their first experiments did escape. And of these, some may have made their way to the jungles and there survived. This no doubt is the real truth behind these accounts of bird-headed men and snake-women, and other such monstrosities glimpsed in the night and embellished in the imagination.
And speaking of monstrosities …
Golan tapped his baton to the table and the flap was lifted. ‘Yes, Lord Thaumaturg?’ U-Pre enquired.
‘What news of our Isturé?’
‘They say their commander has not yet returned from pursuing one of the night creatures.’
‘And how many of them are unaccounted for?’
‘Just the four, Master.’
Golan stirred the wine glass. ‘Very good. Keep a close eye on our guests. Let me know immediately if any more “disappear”.’
‘Yes, Master.’
Bowing, the second in command let the flap fall. Golan now frowned at the fibre paper and its handwritten account. Produced under duress – mustn’t forget that. Still, our outlander Skinner and his Isturé seem assured that what they deal with here is known to them – these D’ivers and Soletaken. Perhaps. Perhaps the truth is a mixture of all. In any case, such genealogy is no interest of ours. It suffices only that Skinner deal with them, allowing his forces to subjugate Ardata and her ragged-arse people. Surely that is not asking too much.
Then Skinner can squat in these woods, if he likes.
For a time.
Golan partook of a modest meal of vegetable stew and bread baked of a coarsely cracked grain. He was about to return to his reading when his rod of office, set within its iron stand, developed a frosty blue glow. He immediately stood, snuffed the candle, then crossed to the tent entrance. Pulling aside the heavy cloth he ordered the yakshaka guard: ‘Let none enter.’
The guard bowed wordlessly. Golan let the cloth fall then found to his distaste that he had to wipe his hands of its slimy damp. Rotting already?
He arranged his robes and stood at attention before the baton. ‘I am here, Masters.’
‘There are troubling disturbances among the lines of power, Golan,’ came the wavering faint voice of Master Surin.
‘Disturbances, Master?’
‘How goes the advance? Any … complications as yet?’
‘None – as yet. We advance as scheduled.’
‘Very good, Golan. And the estimate of arrival at Jakal Viharn?’
‘No more than one moon.’
‘Very good. Continue your advance. We are already moving along your route. It would not do for us to have to step over you, would it?’
Golan bowed, touching his forehead to the ground. ‘No, Masters.’
The watery blue light flickered then disappeared as if snatched away. Golan was plunged into utter dark, as no light whatsoever could penetrate the heavy cloth of the tent. He cursed in the tar-like night. After crashing into the table and hearing the candle drop to the ground he was forced to summon a glow in order to locate it. A humiliatingly trivial use of his Thaumaturg training. To make up for the lapse he resolved to use mundane methods to relight the candle.
It was some time before the warm yellow glow of the candle reasserted itself. Golan sat back, snapping shut the tinderbox and flexing his hand, cramped as it was from clutching the flint. There! Well, success at last. Too bad it is now time to get some sleep … He reached out to snuff the wick.
‘Commander!’ U-Pre called from without.
Golan let his hand fall. ‘Yes!’ he snapped impatiently.
‘You are needed!’
Normally he would tell the man to wait until the morning but there was an unseemly urgency in his second in command’s voice – and Golan also knew he would not dare disturb him unless the matter were truly important. He picked up the candle to guide himself to the entrance then shook it out. ‘Coming,’ he sighed.
U-Pre guided him through the camp. A light rain fell and the ground was soft with it, oddly yielding, as if at any moment it would slide out from under Golan’s sandals. His yakshaka bodyguards had fallen in behind. ‘A soldier attacked his fellows,’ U-Pre was explaining. ‘He was on guard, and when he returned from the pickets he fell upon his phalam. He was killed during the resultant fight.’
One of Golan’s servants ran up from the dark. Bowing, the man offered a rolled parasol that Golan took and shook out to raise above his head – not only would it protect him from the unhealthy warm rain, but a parasol was also as much a marker of his rank as the baton itself. ‘And why, U-Pre, does such a pedestrian matter demand my immediate and personal attention?’
His second bowed as he led him along between puddles and fields of churned mud. ‘True, it may be the mere question of a personal grudge or hatred. But the soldiers are talking … already there are rumours …’
‘Such as?’
‘Possession. The work of the Demon-Queen. An insanity carried by the unhealthy vapours of the rains and the land. That the water-terror madness now walks among us. Or that the ghosts of the jungle had driven him amok. The mazes of Himatan. A fate that awaits us all …’
‘Enough, U-Pre. I believe I see the pattern. All the worst possibilities.’ Ahead, a cordon of officers held back a crowd of curious soldiers. Golan waved a hand over his shoulder. ‘Disperse these gawkers.’
Two of his yakshaka bodyguards lumbered forward. The soldiers melted before them. The minor field officers bowed, moving aside. Golan moved up to examine the scene of the fight. He stepped daintily over the wet fresh corpses where they lay sprawled. Grievous injuries! The soldier must have been wielding the largest of weapons – perhaps a two-handed yataghan. He bent to study the multiple slashes across one man’s torso. Frenzied, these cuts – artless.
Without raising his head he asked: ‘And the attacker?’
U-Pre found the carcass, pointed with his rattan stick of office. The rain pattered lightly on Golan’s parasol as he bent to his haunches next to the body. He scanned the man’s multiple wounds. ‘Many of these are severely debilitating,’ he said aloud, musing.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Yet he appears to have ignored them all to continue his attack.’ Golan found a broken stick, which he used to edge the man’s head over; he found bloody pink foam at the lips and chin. ‘Ergo the rumours, good U-Pre.’ The fellow’s face was also frozen in a grotesque mask, as if in a frenzy, or extreme agony.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘However,’ and Golan began examining the corpse’s limbs, ‘a number of possible causes exist for said foaming, the rictus, and the apparent indifference to pain. Ah – and here we are …’ He held up the man’s right foot.
U-Pre bent closer, frowning. He saw a swollen circular wound, discoloured, a f
erocious red lump on the sole of the man’s foot. ‘And this is?’
‘The bite of the yellow recluse. Its venom attacks the nerves inducing a horrific anguish greater than any a mundane torturer could inflict. I’ve heard it described as an “ecstasy of agony.” The man was driven to commit suicide to escape the pain.’
U-Pre’s tanned features paled and he swallowed. ‘And … this yellow recluse … it is rare?’
Golan wiped his hands on the already muddy trim of his robes. ‘Quite common, actually. Have the troops briefed regarding them – and all the other poisonous spiders. And the scorpions, of course. And the stinging red centipedes.’
U-Pre was nodding. ‘Stinging red centipedes, yes. Anything else?’
Golan gave a negligent wave. ‘Oh yes, but those are the worst. The rest are just nuisances. It is possible to survive their bites.’
‘I am ever so reassured, sir.’
Golan chuckled, straightening. ‘The campaign is loosening you up, good U-Pre. Have the bodies buried without witnesses.’
‘Yes, lord.’
Golan signed to his yakshaka and headed back to his tent. Along the way he mused: a lost yakshaka soldier, an early attack from one of the odd sports that infest Ardata’s lands, the troops seething with rumours already, our Isturé allies missing … It is as I informed the Nine: nothing of any significance as yet.
* * *
Alone in the jungle, Kenjak Ashevajak paused, listening. Drops falling from the high canopy struck the ferns and brush around him in a constant low patter. The humus beneath his feet shifted under his weight as the water saturating it oozed within. Somewhere to his left a short beast nosed the rotting logs and heaped leaves. As he stood frozen, knees bent, shortsword out, the beast snuffled its way around the trunk of a tree to emerge as a hairy anteater. Normally, Kenjak would kill the beast for meat – but he did not want the Thaumaturg and his men to eat. He hissed his imitation of a hunting fire cat and the anteater jumped, startled. Its quills rattled erect and it backed warily away. Kenjak shooed it on.
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