“Nephew,” Alghernon Sodomis said in a sly tone, “if you’re quite done admiring yourself in the mirror, there’s someone else wanting an audience.”
“Of whom do you speak, uncle?”
“Sir Brandon Weimar, one of the great knights of the west, has sent his son to deliver a message. Sir Gregory insists that the news of his father are meant for your ears alone. He’s made that quite clear to me. I know not what the wretch desires; but we are no longer at war with the black knights of Rogfort so that I may pose questions at the edge of a blade.”
Kalafar nodded. “Very well, uncle; I’ll meet with the man. Send him here to my solar.”
“As you say, nephew,” Alghernon grumbled the reply, then went to do as he was bid.
His lord uncle had always been a man of little words – more so after the civil war. The wounds he had received in the battles against the black knights of the west had left the man a eunuch. During the years that his lord father, Jorghel, lived and served at the imperial court in his high office as chancellor – Alghernon Sodomis had taken on the role of Weiyenor’s steward. The man proved to be quite the silent workhorse… always busy with household affairs. Without any living children and a eunuch as he was, Arfaij would inherit Corhag’s Fasthold after their lord uncle would pass on.
Kalafar unburdened himself of the armor, and signalled one of the cupbearers to bring white. “Bring only that of western make.” Let the man drink his own wine. No sense wasting what little Sweet Sun I have left in my cellar on a westlander’s throat. The two realms still bore rancor for one another, ever since the civil war – in which the northlanders alongside the streamlanders fought off and humiliated the so-called black knights of Rogfort. The battle of Streamwake was a thing of great shame for them.
When sir Gregory entered the ram’s solar, leaving his sword and knife in the hands of the two guards outside the doors, he bowed courteously. And before the westlander could open his mouth to speak, Kalafar offered the man a seat next to him.
“May I talk freely, lord Sodomis?”
“Yes you may, sir Gregory. I’m quite interested to know what manner of purpose brings you all the way to Weiyenor. We seldom have visitors here in the north, especially visitors from the Westlands. Creedhold fares far better in weather, I’m sure.”
The black knight was dressed appropriately for the realm he visited. He wore a black fur cloak, and his blue surcoat bore the arms of his house, the six upside down golden hearts arranged to depict a pyramid on a field of purple.
“My father,” sir Gregory spoke in a low voice, “has come to understand the circumstances of a particular death. The death of a particular lord, who met his end fulfilling the duties of his office.” The man licked his lips before speaking the next words. “Like many places, Creedhold has its spies. Your lord father, Jorghel Sodomis, did not suffer a natural death. It wasn’t the sweating sickness that killed him – ”
“Do not trifle with me, sir knight. Speak Brandon Weimar’s words and speak them quickly.”
“Very well, lord,” the knight curled a wicked lip. “Jorghel Sodomis was murdered by the one who currently rules as the right hand of the emperor; poison did the work.”
Kalafar swallowed, it was a hard and bitter effort. The lord of Findar’s Keep, he said to himself. The liege lord of the Eastlands. The implications of such knowledge were dire. The accusation, however, was not so outrageous. In fact, he was utterly convinced by it. The treacherous dolphin murdered the ram? He signalled the cupbearer to serve his guest wine. Kalafar was now regretting his decision of sparing the Sweet Sun.
“Mayhaps, lord Sodomis, you are wondering why my father sent me here to share this grim knowledge with you.”
The only reply the ram could manage was a faint nod.
“Though enemies during the civil war, your father and mine agreed on a peaceful exchange of prisoners. Lord Sodomis could have asked for quite a ransom in order to free my father’s brother, whom he loved very much. Jorghel Sodomis accepted the other prisoners, lowly men the lot of them, in exchange for my uncle. That wasn’t a fair trade; not by the standard of merchants or soldiers. My old man got out of it much more than your lord father did.” Sir Gregory smiled a warm smile. “Brandon Weimar felt he owed you something, you... the son of the late ram...” The black knight took a mouthful of wine, and then another, until he emptied his cup. “Lord Kalafar, the debt owed to your house by my father has been acquitted. I thank you for the drink and the warmth of your keep.” Gregory’s tone had grown wicked once more. “I’m glad to see that the produce of our western vineyards is to your lordship’s liking.”
The ram paid no mind to that remark. All Kalafar could think of... was vengeance...
Chapter XVII: Sycarus
He had to be dreaming, for it seemed like a dream, a stygian nightmare – sand wyverns slithering across and all around him. Beasts wearing ominous tones of black, grey, and yellow. Long spiked ears grew wide and frightening whenever the creatures shrieked and hissed. And their claws burned like fire through skin and flesh. One was eating away at his armpit, while another chewed on his legs. The two bastards had turned him into a sacrifice, a sacrifice that served as feast for monsters.
Looking at his hands, Sycarus couldn’t see any fingers, only feel their phantom bones. He wanted to scream at the world, but he could only scream in his mind. Some foul spell had robbed him of voice. And that same spell would soon steal the life from him. Light! Save me! In the thick of the dark sky, red stars were given birth. And from unseen pores of faint black clouds, blood dripped upon all and everything.
Sycarus had never dreamed such horror, but then something caught his ear, a whisper that turned into a calling from afar. The voice bore strange sounds – not sounds made by beasts, but something else... words he did not understand. Fear released him from its icy grip, and faded alongside the dreaded wyverns and blood stars. They melted into darkness, and the darkness revealed itself as something very familiar, as a human shape… the shape of an old woman. The dream had ended.
Her skin was red and dark, obviously wrinkled by age and the scorching sun. Though she looked old, she wasn’t skinny, nor frail, but plump of cheek. She squinted with one eye, while her other appeared white as crystal, and it flickered short rays. Coloured rays of unnatural light, as the small fire beside her burned.
Small flames, safety, Sycarus thought.
Her thin lips moved without pause, uttering the queer words, as if in the form of a prayer or spell. The crone wore something like a cloak. Black feathers adorned it, alongside black stones that did not shine in the firelight. A string of sharp teeth hung about the woman’s neck – animal’s teeth most certain… Her hair was sweaty, and black, and long to the shoulders.
As the image became clearer, Sycarus discerned someone else, a youth of short hair and big black eyes. He couldn’t say at first if it was a girl or a boy; but after a moment more of staring in silence, Sycarus was no longer in doubt. It was indeed a girl, a young one and pretty. She had the same red skin as the crone, though, somewhat lighter. And she was wrapped tightly in beige cloth from chest to thighs. The two souls pointed to his armpit.
Then Sycarus remembered his wound, the place where that cursed thief, Manyo, had stabbed him. The girl was tending to the wound, changing the dirty cloth with a fresh one. And a cup of potion was offered him. Let’s hope it’s not venom. But then again, what reason would they have to kill me? The potion had a peculiar taste, and it also smelled good. Sycarus lifted a hand to hold the cup. For but a moment, the girl’s fingers gently brushed his own.
The crone uttered in that strange tongue what he thought was a question. Sycarus arched his brow and tried to give a shrug. But the motion gave him pain; his wound was still fresh. The crone asked with the same words, only this time, the young girl also repeated them – pointing at his chest. Sycarus remembered then the strangeness he carried. It’s still alive, still beating.
She leaned towards him, and put a han
d over the left of his chest – big black eyes wide and curious under an arched brow. Sycarus put his hand over hers and moved it to the right. They both felt the beats. She smiled in surprise, giggled almost; then she leaned away from him. In a warm gesture of reply, he nodded and grinned as well. Gazing into her eyes, Sycarus discerned something more than mere curiosity.
“A strange thing, isn’t it? Yet for me, not so much.”
After that, the crone bid the girl to help her to her feet. Both of them left the tent; and once alone, Sycarus began to think. I’ve made it. I’m alive. That bastard stabbed me in the wrong side, for I am not like most men. All my child years I thought fate bestowed this queerness upon me as a cruel jape. I had no idea that it would save my life; the heart granted to me at birth by the strange whim of the fateweavers, in the right side of my chest. He smiled at the realization, then sleep took him once more.
When he awoke to the sounds of birds, Sycarus thought he was having another one of his twisted dreams; but he wasn’t dreaming. Daylight entered the tent, and alongside the sounds of birds, he heard the voices of men, women, and children. Leaning on his elbows, Sycarus managed to get up on his feet. The pain from the wound was now bearable. Either it was that potion they gave me, or the crone’s chants, or that magical crystal eye of hers. Or all of them combined. Sycarus glanced through the opening of the tent and saw them – the legendary Aharo tribesmen – in flesh and blood before his very eyes. “It isn’t a dream,” he whispered to himself with joy on his lips. “It isn’t a dream. No. It’s real.”
All the men had black hair and wore it long. They were bare-chested and well-built, tall with able arms and backs. A race of hardened fighters, no doubt. Their garments, dyed in earthy colours, were adorned with strange rocks, bones, and talismans. Unlike he was led to believe, the Aharo women kept their nakedness behind their vestments, simple cloth from hips to thighs. And there were thralls, as well, judging by their aspect and lowered postures. They wore no chains, however, no plate with the name of their masters around their necks.
This isn’t Harpool, now is it? A culture based on the warrior creed requires menials, souls to be locked within a permanent cast of toil and servitude. Sycarus leaned his head outside, to look upwards. When he did so, he understood how everyone could allow themselves to walk while showing so much skin. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered in wonderment. The sky was filled with clouds – clouds of grey and green hues. The clouds were the sky, and he saw wings in the air. Birds of white and black, tails long and gracious. While beautiful to the eye, the creatures weren’t so much on the ear. Judging by the loud sounds they made, the feathered beings seemed a strange cross between gulls and crows.
In his wonderment towards these strange heavens, Sycarus made an effort to stand and then went outside the tent, still looking upwards. He gave into laughter; embraced the freedom of triumph, the joy of life. In that moment, someone grabbed him by the hand. It was the the crone’s apprentice, Sycarus recognized her. In daylight, she looked as pretty as she did in the tent’s firelight. Even more so…
She spoke words with her curious kin. Some of the people shrugged, others nodded with smiles and went about their business, while some of them continued to stare; but only with an eye’s tail. The girl pulled at his arm – guiding him away from the tent and through the crowds. Sycarus still didn’t know how he even got to this wondrous place, this haven in the heart of a desert. Where clouds filled the sky to shield the tribesmen from the glare of the baleful sun. Such a place should not exist. It is most unnatural.
He thought about asking the girl of how he got here; but thinking on it, he remembered that he didn’t speak her tongue, nor she his own. Sycarus couldn’t ask, and the girl could not answer for him to understand.
As they walked, he saw many tents and crowds of people. But also shrines sunk into alcoves; with shamans bearing strange masks of feral twisted features. They seemed to meditate with chant and stillness. After all, these were holy days for them. The so-called longest month, Sycarus remembered. Yet not all souls were engaged in ritual practice... Some of the people shared words of laughter, others were busy tending to their labors – sharpening tools and weapons, reaping the fruits of their fields.
But what truly caught his eye were the Aharo megaliths. They somewhat resembled the great monuments of the Old World from the benighted pagan epoch. Few such constructs had endured the passing of time, however, the rule of many a sovereign. But some of those ruins existed still in the five realms. I’ve seen a part of them; and these ones are so alike in craft and form. The great stone erections of the Aharo people adorned many sculptures as well as strange markings and sigils – scenes of mighty warriors in battle with errant creatures. There was no parting myth and legend from history; no forgetting the knowledge of ancestors.
“Strange monuments, and most impressive. But how could they have built such megaliths? These savages? How could they have wrought such wonders in these arid plains of dust and sand?” So many questions he had, but no answers…
“Savages,” said the girl, curious and frowning.
Sycarus bit his lip and shook his head. “No, no… no savages, no…” He grabbed her by the hand, and gave a shrug. The shrug was a universal gesture, and he hoped that would please the girl. She nodded in agreement and proceeded to lead him again.
As they walked, the crowds of tribesmen grew thinner and thinner. They stopped before a great house adorned with bone and cloth – arched stone giving the structure strength as a spine gave posture to flesh. The house itself was covered in a strange leather crust. Sycarus thought he recognized the skin from his awful dream; the dry aspect and shades of monstrous creatures. The structure’s heading displayed strange bones bundled together. On top of them, a frightening skull stood watching with hollow eyes. It wasn’t a human skull, but an animal’s... most familiar and ugly. The snout wasn’t long, but it’s teeth were. And doubtless they were sharp.
Sycarus had no more doubts. The spirit realm of this blasted continent of searing sun and sand had given him a glimpse of its errant beasts. The wyverns were real; and he had seen them from the safety of his nightmare. Nevertheless, the gods had spared his life; and no god would take kindly to those who would squander such a gift. Whatever divine intervention, I am alive and grateful to be alive –
But before he could finish his thoughts, the girl pulled him inside the queer tent of cloth, leather, and stone. A broad figure was waiting for them, waiting in silence and shade. There was no question as to the man’s title... chieftain, warlord, the head of martial wisdom. His sheer presence was enough to make Sycarus fall to his knees in a gesture of reverence. The chieftain’s attire was quite a sight to behold.
Long patches of beast skins covered his arms and chest. From the hips down, the garment was trimmed with what appeared to be claws. Around his neck hung strings and strings of earth-like gems, amulets, flawless sharp fangs, and black and white feathers. The man’s hair was silver, long to his belly, though, his features bore no weakness of old age. Yet, what truly caught his eye was the chieftain’s martial attire that encased his stalwart breast. An armor made of bones, strangely arched and mended together as a blacksmith would shape metal according to his will and purpose.
The girl showed him where to sit and how – legs crossed. Such a position was most uncomfortable for him, but Sycarus frowned little to show it. As a guest, he had to obey their customs. But the barrier between himself and their kind felt so great and immeasurable. The difference in speech enthroned oddity and seeded distrust between peoples and entire realms. The chieftain’s abode was not without food; lizard meat, ripe dates, apricots, goat milk, and spirit drink. Though his plates were not lavish, they were sustenance enough. The small girl filled two cups with spirit – giving one to the chieftain and one to him.
The Aharo lord took a mouthful, then swallowed. “Drink,” he uttered in a rough voice. “Drink and eat to your heart’s desire.” The look in the man’s stern black e
yes mirrored perfectly the knowledge behind his former silence. He was no stranger to the old and beautiful Galinthean tongue.
Wasting no time in following the chieftain’s command, Sycarus drank the whole cup without a breath’s pause. The outlandish spirit was not so hard or bitter on the tongue; in fact, it was fairly sweet and rich in flavor. The gods are good this day. “Chieftain,” Sycarus said eagerly, “my lord, chieftain... I’m so grateful to you and your people for rescuing me. For not letting me die in that desolation.” The words sort of stumbled upon him; and he bowed several times, trying to show his most sincere gratitude.
His savior gave him no reply, however, not even a nod. Instead, he made a sign for the girl to refill his cup. The man’s eyes were unperturbed in focus, chips of flint who had witnessed everything there was to know about the world. His stern gaze openly revealed his character – grim humours tempered by wisdom. Features clearly those of a warrior; wide forehead, scarred no doubt in battle, strong jaw, and stern brow.
The girl watched both of them with wondering eyes; though, she watched him more than she watched the chieftain. Sycarus had noticed that, but all the same paid her no mind. He had to confess first, to reveal the emperor’s purpose. But the Aharo lord spoke before he did – his voice deep and measured.
“You, outlander. You were alone in the sands, when my scouts found you. You had dreams, you dreamed…” Sycarus did not understand, so he tried to utter a response, but failed to produce meaningful words. Nevertheless, the chief talked over him. “The wise woman saw, she saw. Her crystal eye shows her truth, always truth. She saw yours.” The man pointed a heavy finger at him. He pointed to his chest.
And in that moment, the girl leaned forth and touched his right side, his heart… She smiled warmly when she felt it beat. “Wyverns,” Sycarus heard himself say out loud, without realizing it. And he grimaced.
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 21