An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  “Yes,” the chief nodded in accord, “wyverns… the vile lizards that dwell beneath the still dunes.” He reached for his cup, and drank it whole. He wiped his mouth with the back of his heavy hand, then continued. “The sand storms... the storms free the beasts, and they crawl. They dig and hiss – revealing themselves to us. They hunger for human flesh. But the Father keeps them at bay. And so the monsters scour beneath the sands to hunt and feed. The foul creatures should all be dead; but some still linger, still roam.”

  The chieftain looked at the girl, smiled, and returned his gaze to Sycarus. “Who moved your heart to the right, boy? And are there many outlanders such as you?”

  “I don’t imagine there are many like myself, great chieftain. I… I was born this way. It’s a strange thing, indeed. Fate blessed me, I think… Elsewise, I’d be dead now.” That made the chieftain smile; Sycarus was glad for that much at least. He fumbled at his hips, trying to feel if those bastards had emptied all of his pockets before they stole his gold and left him for dead. They hadn’t. And he found the small jewel on string, which he had bought from a local bazaar in Sand’s Port, while looking for guides.

  Sycarus pulled it out of his pocket – the wings of a butterfly trapped in a pendant of amber, and slipped it over the girl’s head. The string was long, and the pendant dangled over the girl’s cloth covered chest. Her small fingers wrapped around the jewel, eyes gazing to discern the wings inside. She smiled a big smile, then ran outside the tent without so much as a word. Sycarus looked back to the chieftain. The man’s expression had grown stern once more.

  “What wind brought you here?” He asked in a solemn tone. “Why did you travel the sands from your heathen nest of a city port? What business have you in our lands?”

  Sycarus was most grateful for that question. He would tell the chieftain everything; about the emperor’s request, his gift of gold, the thieving and murdering desert guides, even about his ominous dreams. I shall speak the truth and the truth only.

  After hearing about his tales, the Aharo lord’s face was left cold.

  “Honorless scum those men of yours. A treachery in the night, a vow broken. So easy is betrayal, but to toil under the searing sun and the cold of night; to battle thirst and hunger... to protect your house, your people and keep true to your promise. That is true strength worthy of remembrance.” The chieftain paused to release a tired breath; then continued. “In the times of old, the Sky Father gave our kind no sign they could see or hear. Instead, he gave them strength to endure the monsters. To fight them off and preserve what little life remained green in our once glorious country. All that’s left now are a few scattered patches of earth and water – an oasis there and there. Sometimes a chieftain grows bold, ambitious, warlike… and invades another to prove his worth and right. But the true reason behind such conflicts is dearth. And much blood is spilled for that purpose; to live is to struggle and take life for your own.”

  “You seem to have a good realm here, though. I saw date palms, orchards of apricots, reared goats, even barley crops. And the clouds above this haven of yours surely are a blessing from the gods – ”

  “From god,” the chieftain cut him off. “This part of the world is not your own country, outlander. Your Sun Father and Twin Mothers are a shattered being. A parting of the whole in three ways. There is only one father, the sky and everything in it. And only one mother... the earth itself.” The Aharo lord eyed him with a stern face, a face absent of any true emotion. “What do they call you?” He asked.

  The most foolish of accounts scribblers. “My name is Sycarus.”

  “And I am Umar, son of Zahui – warchief of my tribe, breaker of spears, skinner of snakes, hunter of wyverns.” The chieftain’s voice shifted to a more familiar tone, one that spoke of convenience. “No coins of gold metal, no daughter of mine. You outlanders call such coins wealth, but for us they have no value. They do in the port city, however, and we trade such coins for real goods. You came to us during our longest month. These are sacred times, times in which the Shepherd of birds and clouds favors us with water and the shade of his unending sky.”

  Umar son of Zahui drew in a deep breath, then sighed. “It is not always thus. We do not always enjoy the blessing of clouds upon our settlement. That is why you see us head and chest bared. When the season is over, when the clouds retreat and the birds stop singing, you will leave this place. Halfway between our oasis and your port city, we meet with the caravans, with traders. You’ll return home with them. And as for your dreams, the wise woman will know what to make of them.”

  After the meal and talk, Sycarus was returned by the girl back to his tent; and left there. But not without her whispering her name in his own tongue. “Shali,” she smiled. “Shali, I am. You, Sycarus.” Without waiting for his reply, the girl scurried off.

  “Well that was fast,” he said to himself in amusement.

  Regardless of the Aharo lord’s benevolence towards him, doubt weighed heavily upon his heart. He should have died, but he didn’t. He was meant to reach the Aharo tribes. He was meant to sail all the way from the Old World, to reach the Desertlands – but not to make good on the emperor’s promise. “It is all part of fate, events beyond my control,” Sycarus whispered to himself, trying to defeat his fears. And after moments more of silent contemplation, sleep took him.

  When he awoke, the amber amulet appeared before him – the trapped butterfly wings a stark contrast with the jewel’s glow in the firelight of the tent. Above it stood the girl. Her big black eyes regarded him playfully.

  “What? What are you doing?”

  Shali was on top; his hips squeezed between her thighs. With a tilted head and honest grin, she brushed herself against him – arousing his mind and loins. Sycarus turned his head towards the tent’s entrance, worried that someone might see them; but outside there was no light. I slept so much, it’s dark out, he realized.

  The girl unshrouded her chest from the cloth. Though reluctant at first, Sycarus began to caress her arms and shoulders. The amulet was dangling; he turned it to her back, so he could kiss her freely, frantically… so he could kiss those flat breasts. Shali was warm, and his lips on her soft red skin made both their flesh even warmer. Her nipples hardened from his kisses, and so did he. His hands felt and moved without pause. With his eyes upon her skin, Sycarus couldn’t see her face. But somehow, he knew that she was smiling – that she shared in his passion.

  All possible doubt left him, when the girl squeezed his head into her arms. He felt her scented sweat – her neck upon his brow. She pulled his head back and kissed him… kissed him with a fire of wet lips. Shali’s tongue was sweet, and soft, and nursing. His hands moved down, gripping the cloth from her waist. She raised herself above him, and removed it. Shali stood before his eyes, stood naked as her name day and beautiful. The gods, her god, had made her beautiful…

  Sycarus raised his back – ignoring the sharp pain of his wound, provoked by his sudden movement. The hunger in him was all too great. He craved one thing... only her. Lips kissed flesh, skin sought skin; warmth and scent melted together – the light of sensation birthing itself again and again. Sycarus craved her; enjoyed every measure of her being. He was now a drunk man, drunk with her soul and flesh.

  Shali gasped. She gasped loudly, her body quivering with his every touch. His tongue read her sex, sensing – moving around and against her flower’s lips. She was wet and intoxicating. She smelled so good; her womanly waters tasted so sweet. The ambrosia of mortal man; that even the gods craved to eat in their immortal lifetimes.

  Shali played her fingers in his hair; rubbing and pulling, the soft tips caressing his scalp. After a moment or two, she mounted him. Sycarus was again on his back, with the girl on top – her fingers fumbling at his breeches. She smiled when she found him hard and ready. Those big black eyes were pits to another world – two drops of obsidian revealed perfectly in the firelight. Then she took him inside her; life flowed into him... Quickly enough, Syca
rus finished – pulling her away before his seed came. But that was not the end. Shali kissed him again, and again, and again, until he was ready to take her once more. And this time, he lasted longer.

  After they had finished, the girl turned to sleep by his side – coiled on his right underneath the blanket. Though tired himself, Sycarus had another thought in mind. He wanted to cast his eyes upon the settlement; to see how it looked like under the dark of the clouded sky. Once outside the tent, he marveled at the heavens – which seemed to stand still, the clouds dwelling over this place as if they were the ground’s very roof. Only a few torches were lit, scattered across the camps. Behind sunken alcoves, shadows were stirring in whisper. The Aharo folk were without rest; the shamans without pause from chant and ritual. The elders speaking their wisdom, the children hearing their tales.

  “It’s beautiful here,” he said to himself. “But without the clouds to shield them from the awful sun’s rays... life here is hard indeed. I am sure of it.” Many of the tribesmen took note of his presence; but paid him no mind. He was an outlander with a queer heart inside his chest. That doesn’t bother me; I prefer to be ignored instead of being pestered. His wish, however, was not granted.

  Emerging from the crowds with purpose in her stride, the wise woman beckoned him to follow. Her features betrayed nothing of amusement or curiosity; she was stern yet indifferent. And though reluctant, Sycarus did obey the woman’s wish. After all, she saved my life. And if I’m right, she will make sense of my hellish dreams.

  The wise woman led him to a more distant sunken shrine. Many symbols of black ink embellished the outside of the edifice. Mayhaps they are sigils of magic, Sycarus mused. Wards of protection against maleficent creatures. It’s not such wild a guess; the priests of the Holy Temple have too their sacred objects and sayings of benediction.

  The shrine’s interior was adorned with animal bones and skulls, the curved walls encased in a leather crust of ominous shades. The shades of beasts, monsters... The monsters he had dreamed, sand wyverns – heralds of drought and death.

  “Be at ease, outlander,” the wise woman breathed; like the chieftain and unlike Shali, she knew Galinthean well. “I know of your troubles. I know of your dreams.”

  From within a small coffer, she produced a skull, a human skull. It was so polished, that it glowed orange-white in the firelight of the shrine. The skull’s eye sockets had a queerness about them. The left one was hollow, while the right one contained a red eye made of crystal. It seemed to be a ruby of sorts, but he couldn’t say for certain. The wise woman pulled out her own eye, the crystal eye. She held it in her palm – it seemed a simple thing, devoid of any preternatural powers.

  She put it inside the skull, and picked up the red crystal eye. That one she fixed in her empty eye socket and began strange incantations – a humming that made his neck hairs rise in anticipation. She put herbs on fire, as well; allowing the inside of the shrine to become heavy with scented fume. Every breath Sycarus took was a breath of heightened sensation. Something he had never felt before in his life.

  Her words seemed a mixture of secret beauty inside terror. To his mind, it was as if she spoke beyond the human ear… to the very soul. And as the incantations melted into the air about the shrine, the red eye glowed crimson. And inside it, he discerned twisted forms of haze and shadow.

  “By the gods,” Sycarus breathed. “This illusion is akin to sorcery.”

  The wise woman laughed at his comment, laughed with vigor. Her voice was more than human and more than one – a chorus of entities all speaking from the same mouth. “Wondering thoughts do not make a man lost; they find his way.” Said the wise woman; and Sycarus listened without distraction.

  “Dreams are hopes, dreams are memories, dreams are possibilities. Even fate dreams itself. The spirits of the living and of the dead are no different; just like the creatures of the void. Just like the creatures of ethereal flame, they dream and scheme. Aspiration, hunger, and thirst... they seek you, outlander. You have been marked by destiny to witness a great change; a great design upon the world at large. Be at peace with such knowledge; for it is a gift bestowed upon you... the gift of prescience is a beautiful thing.”

  Tired of such impossible meanings, Sycarus gave voice to his defiance. A petty conjurer of cheap tricks was nothing next to a master of such a craft; but neither the apprentice nor the master were gods. They were just human beings; they were not divine... they couldn’t tell the future – for the future did not exist. Not in truth; the future is what we make of the present.

  “I thank you for all your aid,” he said carefully. “I confess, I a man of weak will; but I do not believe mine own eyes; for they have betrayed me in the past. My trade is that of numbers and bookkeeping; I am not a man of prescience. In the great scheme of things, I am but a simpleton; and chance spared my life. Nothing more.” With those words, Sycarus left the cursed shrine to return to his own tent – to return to Shali. And I shall not dream of monsters again; this I vow.

  Chapter XVIII: Kalafar

  They arrived in the mid hours of the day – all of them, the household knights he had left behind, the horses, the carts, Juni and her handmaidens. But something was wrong. The men looked distressed.

  “You’ve returned swiftly,” Kalafar said as he approached them. “I was expecting you to arrive at least three days from now. How was the journey?”

  “My lord,” sir Jonathan Laster addressed him in a shaken voice, “we’ve heard news while on the road, news of great import.”

  Everyone closed in around them, his lord uncle, the master at arms, the knights, their squires, and the grooms. His mother, of course, was absent; since she didn’t approve of his decision to wed the lady Mayflower. But he didn’t care. She will get used to it, in time. Kalafar gave Juni his hand, to help her out of the wheel cart. He was surprised to see she didn’t wear lady’s clothes beneath her fur cloak, but breeches and tunic. Her hair was short, with the longer strand on her left. Just as he preferred it, just as he remembered her a long time ago.

  Perchance, she too remembers it. Her amnesia could be slowly drifting away, revealing her past. “My sweet,” Kalafar said in a warm voice, “you are so beautiful. Even without skirts, corset, and slippers... you are the envy of your sex. I’ll make a northlander out of you yet.” He kissed her hand, and drew her close to him.

  “My lord, terrible events have fallen upon us.”

  Kalafar saw fear in her brown eyes, and her hands trembled. He squeezed them inside his own, and gave her a kind reassuring smile. “Worry not, my love. You are with me now. We’re safe behind my walls.” Then he turned to the men. “Sirs, what are these terrible events?”

  “War, my lord,” sir Jonathan said, as he gave his mount to the grooms. “War in the south. The usurper, armies of sellswords, rumors of riots and rebellion. We’ve met up with a rider along the way, who told us of these things. And here he is.” Sir Jonathan presented the man. “He brings news from the steward of Rivermark.”

  “From the steward?” Birus Mandon has not returned to his castle, it seems.

  Kalafar took a moment to considered the implications; his mind already troubled by something else. He had yet to hear word from his brother, from Arfaij’s regiment of greenhorns. Though they were not that close as brothers, Arfaij had never disappeared in such a fashion without news. Though not the favorite of his lord uncle and lady mother, Kalafar did his best to emulate their concern for his sibling. But casting such thoughts aside, the ram turned his attention towards the messenger from Rivermark.

  “Speak then, good man. What words from lord Abelbrooke?”

  “The exile, Soronius Mero, has crossed the Rubicund sea and landed on the eastern beaches with sellswords from the Lowlands; thirty thousand men, so the rumors claim... The imperial fleet is defending the capital’s harbor, but word has it that several of its captains have turned their cloaks and sailed to join the exile’s forces. The people of Sun’s Helm are rioting in the stre
ets. In the west, the lord of Rogfort has called upon his knights to rise, and the stream lords are set to amass their banners at Rainhall. In the Eastlands, lord Verwick has already started marching his own army south, but not for the capital, but for the beaches. They’ve passed the foul marshes of Rogue’s tongue. Verwick and Soronius Mero seemed to have made common cause.”

  Some of that knowledge didn’t make sense to the ram’s ears; but the essence of it was plain... Treachery. “I don’t understand,” Kalafar said more astonished than worried. “How did this happen so fast? Surely the imperial spymaster would have foreseen it.” Now he was squeezing Juni’s hand harder than he was before. Only when she pulled away from his grip did Kalafar understand the full extent of his quiet anger. “Forgive me, Juni. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  She nodded meekly in reply, as the handmaidens flocked to her side – ready to be of service. “I understand the troubles, my lord,” she said to him. “War is always the grimmest of news.”

  “That it is,” said Kalafar. Then he returned his gaze to the news bearer. “Sir, you’ve mentioned turncloaks. It’s those southern lords; are they not? But why am I asking? Of course it’s them. The exile’s mercenaries couldn’t have landed without support from within. Most likely from the lords of Heart’s Gift, Sunderbridge, and Griffin Height. Those men have renounced their loyalties once before, why not repeat the treachery if the winds blow in their favor?” Now I know what Birus Mandon was talking about. He knew something and tried to warn me, but failed with his discretion.

  The news bearer swallowed loudly and spoke out. “Lord Sodomis, I’ve been instructed by the steward of Rivermark to tell you that every stream lord will stand with Hagyai Rovines, the true emperor – ”

  “The true emperor!” Kalafar exclaimed those words with a queer smile on his face. “The only truth in this world is pride and ambition. Take these words to your master, to the hawk should you find him. Tell Mandon… that there are traitors in every realm, and he would do well to watch from both shoulders. Oh, and tell him another thing. Tell him that the north will stay out of this conflict; for our people have nothing to gain from yet another civil war. Off with you, rider!”