In a world subject to the clash of supernatural forces, distant lives interconnect. Driven by survival, love, revenge and redemption, each is propelled to their destiny in the great cosmic weave of fate.
In a world subject to the clash of supernatural forces, distant lives interconnect. Driven by survival, love, revenge and redemption, each is propelled to their destiny in the great cosmic weave of fate.
I know that I am old because of my hands. I see them only by the flicker of my oil
lamp, which I must use sparingly. Down here, in the darkness, I have no other
way of measuring the time that has passed. It is probable I have already
outlived the span of most that walk the fair surface of the earth, and there is
doubtless much life within me yet. Wholesome nature alone has not granted me
this unwanted gift.
It is certain that a great many years have passed since I last saw another living
human. I know only my world, which is three rooms: the library, the laboratory
and the study. Between these chambers, a small alcove contains a hole for
waste, and another larger alcove contains a straw bed where I sleep. From the
corner of the study ceiling opens a shaft from where food and water are lowered
to me, along with oil for my lamp. In return, when requested, I post the
results of my investigations. Specimens appear in the laboratory, though the
means by which they arrive is unknown to me. There must be another entrance
somewhere, but it is part of the spell of the place that I do not remember how
I got in here. Of all of the chambers of this underground realm, which I have
reason to believe is extensive, it is mine that I suspect to be the very
deepest.
No thoughts of escape have ever crossed my mind. The power of love has eclipsed the potential for any such desire. Indeed, it is for that same love I have spent my life in research of the darkest and most awful properties nature has to hide, the knowledge of which any sane mortal would rightly shrink from. The truths I have come to understand have left a stain upon my mind and an incurable
sickness in my soul.
It is not my purpose in this text to divulge such hellish secrets as I have gleaned. It
is my hope that these words shall serve a different purpose, and that
whomsoever discovers these pages will use the knowledge contained herein to
escape a fate such as my own; or one far worse, for it is an evil truth that
there are those whose suffering greatly surpasses mine.
There was a time when my mind was my own. That the sands of time have restored some small portion of my will is undoubtable, as it is only now that I feel capable of
writing these words.
***
I was born to a noble house of the ancient and revered city of Kul. As I know not who reads these words, I shall tell what is known of the city in my time.
Kul is the oldest of all cities on the face of the world. It exists as not one, but
two cities, astride the great river Zykia. Upon the east bank sits the living
city and upon the west bank its shadow, the city of tombs. For countless
generations, since before years were measured, the dead of Kul, exempting
foreigners and slaves, have travelled across the river to find their eternal
rest within the necropolis. Each and every person, be they prince or peasant,
has made this final journey across the waters to be interred in the city of
death. The living city, although vast, is dwarfed by the tombs, graveyards and
death temples of its twin. The shadow of its tomb-towers fall across the living
city each evening as the sun sinks into the west.
It is said that no drop of rain ever fell upon Kul. At the height of the hot season
every year, the mighty Zykia swallows its banks and drowns the parched plains.
As the floodwaters subside, a profusion of life smothers the land with a mantle
of green, and the scented air is filled with the sound of wild beasts. In times
past, at the cutting of the crops, it is said the farmers of Kul have brought
forth from the soil such mountains of wheat, barley, millet and sesame that
could feed the entire world. Kings from all the realms of earth came begging to
feed their hungry people and were sustained by the beneficence of the gods and
kings of Kul. Many times foreigners came with fire and sword to take what the
gods had given to the men of Kul, but they were met with spears and chariots,
and their scattered bones whiten still upon the wastelands.
For the city into which I was born, such glories were but memories etched in stone.
Since the time of my grandfather, the swelling of the great river dwindled so
that its annual flood claimed only a small part of the land it once inundated.
The estates of my family turned lifeless and dry. By the time of my birth, we
no longer possessed the wealth to match our noble name.
With a plan to win gold, I travelled east and south to the mountains of Epru Hursag. I was accompanied by eight of my household slaves whom I had offered freedom in exchange for their voluntary service, and a share of the rewards of my venture. In the great library of my ancestral home I had discovered texts describing the location of secret valleys within the Epru Hursag mountains where precious spices grow in abundance. Within those ancient texts I found much invaluable knowledge, including instructions on concocting antidotes for the venom of the flying snakes which festooned those strange valleys. The year-long ardour of our task took us to breaking point, but we departed the mountains with our pack camels leaden with pungent cassia and myrrh.
It had been my intention to continue heading east, perhaps as
far as the distant city of Threem, of which I had heard many tales; but a
chance encounter with a caravan heading south produced a change of plan. The
column of many hundreds of people and camels was the largest we had
encountered. I was struck by the sight of their mercenary guards, warriors from
the land of Dnass, who rode camel cataphracts whose bronze armour was like the
scales of a fish. Their company could not have numbered more than thirty, but I
was awed by the peculiar and imposing sight they presented.
And so the fated decision was made. We joined the caravan of Zarshan of Sarratum and travelled south to the inconceivable doom that awaited us.
***
We kept moving south and eventually the roads disappeared. For
a long time we travelled through grassland, which turned abruptly into barren
desert; sometimes rock and sometimes sand. We started travelling by night and
resting by day, as the glare of the sun became a punishment too great to bear.
I developed a dislike of camels, a sentiment that was reciprocal; but without
these foul-tempered beasts we would have swiftly perished. They can eat the
driest scrub that even goats will not touch, and can go as long as five days
without water. Their scent, unfortunately, is no more pleasant than their
temper. Muting their smell, along with our cassia and myrrh, were hundreds of
pack-loads of spikenard, frankincense, silphium, saffron, nutmeg, black pepper
and cinnamon. To ride upon a spice-bearing camel or to walk close beside one
was to risk inhaling vapours so pungent they could put you to sleep.
At noon the radiant cruelty of the sun overwhelmed the arid
land and the half-seen creatures that slithered and crawled disappeared to find
their shelter. We cowered under tents and awnings, and sleep at this time
became an impossibility. Sometimes, when the wind settled into stillness, the
heat would become unbearable, and all we could do was endure our suffering.
One day, when the sun was near its height, a shadow fell over
me that was never to be lifted. When the camp was still, during the searing
heat, I received a visitor to my tent. Travelling with the caravan was a small
group of holy men: devotees of the water goddess N’leena. The priests of this
religion were welcome members of any desert crossing due to their ability to
locate sources of water. My guest was a prelate of their order. His name was
Preeto. Like all priests of the water goddess, he wore lapis lazuli dyed blue
robes, and beneath his turban, his head was shaved apart from a single bound
lock of hair. About his neck hung his dowsing pendulum. He was of middle age,
and despite a face full of travel-worn wrinkles, Preeto had somehow retained a
plumpness to his person. His eyes, however, were as quick as a pick-pocket’s.
As a goodwill gesture, he had brought me a cup of sacred
spring water. I recall he was fascinated by my sword. Aside from the
gold-embroidered silk shirt beneath my thawb, it was the only trapping
pertaining to my nobility, and the silvered and bejewelled shamshir scabbard
was the only outward sign I was anything other than a common merchant.
Curiously, the point of great interest to him was the disk upon the pommel
which bore my family crest, the Eye of Fire: a sun centred with an eye, with
three blazing hands reaching from it, set in turquoise, gold and garnet.
Regarding the symbol with near disbelief, he inquired as to what I knew of my
family history. I recounted some of the historic deeds of my line but admitted
it had been many generations since we had provided a courtier to the king.
I perceived the priest was making secret gestures toward me. I
knew not their meanings or his intention. Irritated, I confronted him with
this, and I believe my hand even moved to my dagger. At this, he smiled; but it
was a smile of warmth, not of weakness. His words to me were thus:
‘I apologise, my friend, but I did not know who are, and I
could not afford to take any chances. Your wits are as sharp as your bearing is
noble. Allow me to explain myself. I belong to a society – it does not have any
name I shall mention – which exists not just within my own order, but others
besides. We may follow different creeds, but we have certain enemies in common.
How can I put it? We have a shared interest in extirpating certain practices
from the race of men. It is this business that has led me to join this voyage.
I have followed a man who currently goes by the name of Biriba. He is a thief,
but not of the common variety. His perfected talent is for stealing from the
dead. He is masquerading as a servant to a merchant who travelled past your own
fallen city before joining this caravan. Where better for a grave robber to be
than the city of the dead? Especially as now no power rules in that city to
protect the sanctity of its tombs.’
I failed to see how this directly affected me. I told him so.
‘I see truly how little you know of your ancestors,’ he told
me. ‘This much I will tell you. There are those of your line who served their
kings in ways that are confined to the shadows. The type of service they
offered is not the kind that is inscribed on monuments or praised in song. It
matters not if chance alone has put you here. Your life is in danger, as is
mine. Shortly after joining this caravan, one of our priests was killed by the
sting of a scorpion, even though the sting of that species is never fatal.
Following that, an attempt was made to kill us all by the poisoning of our
water.’
Preeto removed the iron and rock crystal pendulum from around
his neck and dangled it over my cup of water.
‘The poison I detected. This is not the way to kill a servant
of the water goddess. Whoever our enemy is, they know nothing of our practices.
This ignorance is encouraging. It means there is a chance we may defeat them.’
I did not like his use of the word ‘we’. As I pointed out, I
had not chosen sides in this business of his. He looked astonished at my
naivety.
‘There is only one side to take, my friend. Either you stand
with the side of life and light, or you are nothing but prey for the servants
of darkness.’
I suggested that if he truly believed this man named Biriba carried grave goods stolen from the necropolis of Kul and was in league with sinister forces, then he should denounce him to Zarshan and the other leaders, not just myself.
‘And there you have hit upon the problem,’ Preeto sighed.
‘Biriba, I suspect, is merely a pawn. For the real enemy, the man who tried to
poison me, I fear, is none other than Zarshan of Sarratum himself.’
I asked him what suspicion compelled him to make such an extraordinary claim.
‘One thing alone,’ Preeto replied. ‘I happened to meet Zarshan
some five years ago at Zithram. And that man who leads this caravan, and claims
his name, is not him.’
***
Shortly after the break of the following dawn, as camp was
being pitched, I paid a visit to Zarshan. He greeted me warmly, perhaps partly
in show, but the merchant was clearly keen to impress me. There were rumours of
tempers, but Zarshan appeared to me a sanguine man and was well-liked by his
fellow merchants. A short, stocky man with a broad face, his charm gave him the
presence denied by his stature. He bore no ostentation beyond a pure white
linen thawb and a golden sheathed khanjar at his waist. I was offered dates,
raisins and pomegranates; and also apricots and mangoes - fruits I had not
before tasted - which made a pleasant contrast with the usual diet of barley
and figs. If he was amused to see a man of my status reduced to his level, and
below, then he concealed it well.
Under an awning hung with jewelled silks, we sat upon carpets
and cushions. Some of his fellow merchants smoked from a hookah. We drank tea
brewed from an oil stove and discussed the practical matters of our journey.
Presenting it as an item of mirth, I mentioned I had overheard rumours of
imposture regarding his person.
‘I see! So I am not myself!’ he said aloud, drawing laughs
from his friends. ‘Tell me, who else would I be?’
Under this guise of a joke, I pressed slightly harder and
studied his response.
‘Who is this accuser?’ he said, showing his palms. ‘Let them
stand before me. I am surprised at you, my friend; I would not expect a man of
your class to heed the gossip of servants.’
He appeared genuinely amused rather than perturbed by the
accusation.
Throughout our conversation, Zarshan’s bodyguard, Osmund,
stood no more than a few paces away. Zarshan may have trusted me, but his
retainer regarded me with a mute, non-judgmental mistrust. That was his job, of
course; but some intangible quality between the two of them unsettled me. An
intimidatingly tall and powerful warrior, Osmund was from the cold, barbarous
lands of the far north. Pale-skinned, his hair was the colour of sand, and his
eyes were the colour of the sky. Swirling patterns were painted into his skin
with blue ink. His weapons were a shield faced with polished bronze and a
tremendous straight sword, which most men could only have wielded with two
hands. I observed he was a man of great focus, coiled in readiness to strike,
but not moving the slightest muscle.
At a mention of the harshness of our journey, Zarshan assured
me I had made the correct decision in travelling with him.
‘As things are now, you will get not ten, but nearer twenty
times the value your spices will get you in Threem,’ he told me. ‘And your feet
will be a lot less sore.’
I referred to stories of increasingly frequent nomadic attacks
as the reason for the inflated value of our cargo. On this subject alone he
seemed uncomfortable.
‘But that is why we have warriors,’ he told me. ‘You are a
young man and new to this trade; this kind of journey I have made many times
before. The nomads are but cowardly animals; they rarely attack a large
caravan, and never one well-defended.’
This conflicted with accounts I had heard from other
travellers. Nonetheless, Zarshan was supremely confident in the men he had
assembled, particularly the feared men of Dnass, who were blood enemies of the
Na nomads.
Briefly, we were graced by the presence of Zarshan’s daughter
Rabisha, but he soon shooed her away to the company of the other women. A
little younger than myself, Rabisha wore a gown of faded saffron, which might
once have been passible at the court of Kul, but was now cut away to her knees
for the practicality of movement. She made a meek protest at her father’s
order, and then retired from our presence, trailing a waft of jasmine. Zarshan
admitted he was overprotective of her, saying he wished to keep her out of
sight of the Dnassians. In this, I thought him overly cautious, for she was a
sullen creature and no great beauty.
***
Over the following days, I paid further visits to Zarshan. I
came to believe that whatever else he was the man was not a sorcerer. This
stated, there was some vague and elusive quality to the merchant that left me
disconcerted; but try as I did, I could never define exactly why I received
that impression. Preeto remained resolute that he was the enemy.
I became good friends with the priest. I recounted to him all
the myths and legends I could remember of my fallen people and in return he
regaled me with apparently endless tales of his travels, most of which were
decidedly unholy in character. From my visits to Zarshan, I brought Preeto
dried fruits and other delicacies, which he steadfastly refused several times
before accepting. At his request, I recalled every detail of my meetings with
Zarshan. Preeto was both clever and wise, and his judgement was of great value
to me. We discussed at great length the issue of who Zarshan really was, and
what his connection to the grave robber named Biriba might be, but in the end,
we always drew a blank.
During my meetings with Zarshan, I caught further glimpses of
his daughter Rabisha. Our gaze met on a few occasions, but we never spoke. I
came to revise my initial opinion of her. After a while, I paid fewer visits to
the merchant to avoid it becoming obvious that it was his daughter who
presented the greater interest to me.
I spent enough time in the presence of Zarshan to make one
trifling observation. It was not the merchant, but his daughter, whom Osmund
was principally concerned with protecting. In this, there was no surprise, for
Zarshan was admittedly overprotective of his daughter, and would naturally
desire his best bodyguard to protect her at all times. But in some small way, I
sensed deception. I noticed Osmund would always choose to stand somewhere that
gave the impression it was Zarshan he watched over, when in truth his attention
never wavered from Rabisha, not even for one moment.
***
Our column emerged from the last of the rocky uplands and the
vastness of the Na depression spread before us. My heart was touched by the
sense of bleakness of which I had heard travellers speak at the sight of those
unending folds of sand disappearing into the emptiness. From here we would turn
westwards, and in forty days would reach a rocky coastline. Although we
travelled with the sea not far to our south, the desert air was so bitterly dry
as to steal the moistness from your mouth. If our guides failed to find the
wells and oases then we were certain to all perish.
It is the greatest of all my regrets that I never saw the sea.
It is a thing of strangeness that whenever I dream I am standing upon that
coast I never reached. I smell the brine of its breath; I feel the rhythm of
its stroke upon the earth. This mystery of my dreams is an enigma unsolvable.
Several days after entering the Na basin we were hit by a
sandstorm. These storms we had experienced before, but what struck us now
belonged to a different magnitude. It rose from the desert with shocking
suddenness, assailing us with unbearable force, and lasted an entire day. The
camels bunched together, turning their backs to the wind, and we hid behind
them, cowering beneath our sheets. Shortly prior to the storm’s cessation, the
dreadful sound of a woman’s screams reached my ears. I was told a man had been
killed. The victim transpired to be the man Preeto had identified as Biriba. He
had been killed by a wild animal. I saw the corpse myself. His whole throat had
been bitten out. The storm had erased the creature’s tracks, of course. It
seemed implausible that any creature could have moved through such a severe
storm, but that fact of his death disproved this.
There was a witness. At least it was assumed that the woman
found screaming near the body had seen something. She proved insensible; it was
as if some form of madness had descended upon her. No truth of what she saw was
ever obtained from her. For the next four days, the woman awoke from her sleep
screaming that awful, incomparable scream. That unknowable realm of her
nightmare came to the light of the world only via the agonised terror of her
voice.
By the fourth day, one of Zarshan’s men could stand it no more
and silenced her forever with his dagger. This act precipitated a fight in
which a man was also killed. For a brief while, there was chaos. Zarshan
appeared confused and powerless. Order was brought about by Gulkar, the leader
of the Dnassians, who beheaded both murderers before the assembled caravan.
Morale restored, Dnassian fashion, we resumed our journey. From that moment
onwards, it felt as if it were Gulkar who was in charge, not Zarshan.
Following Biriba’s death, Preeto became withdrawn, barely
speaking a word to me. It was evident he did not believe the grave robber’s
death to be the random attack of a wild animal. I understand now that he
realised the hidden evil which travelled with us was of a magnitude beyond his
reckoning. He must have known that we were doomed. I became angry with him for
not speaking his mind to me. I told him he was a cowardly priest. I told him,
with or without his help, I would discover what evil it was that menaced us and
confront it sword in hand.
***
The first nomad attack was a total surprise. They moved
against us in the late morning, just as the sweltering heat began to render us
torpid. We had encamped in line of march, leaving us dangerously exposed. Two
sentries had been posted, but had probably fallen asleep; we later found their
gruesomely dismembered remains.
The nomads made hit-and-run attacks along the length of the
camp, killing a few before retreating. Panic and fear consumed us like crops
beneath a swarm of locusts. Zarshan proved useless. Without time to armour
their mounts, the Dnassians rode out to hunt down our attackers. I did what I
could to organise some defence. I ordered men to the rear of the camp where we
were weakest, but most refused to move. I finally got three men from the city
of Urim to follow me, and luckily, we were also joined by a Dnassian warrior who
had been recovering from sunstroke.
We were a short way from the caravan, moving towards its rear,
when I felt something whistle past my face. One of the Urimites fell, his leg
pierced with an arrow. The Dnassian was also hit, but his metal scale waistcoat
saved him. I caught a glimpse of a few heads moving behind a high dune to our
left. I had seen the dead camp followers killed by the first nomad attack, and
the sight had enraged me, eclipsing any instinct for caution. I led a charge up
the dune, the two Urimites throwing their javelins and the Dnassian shooting
his bow. A nomad arrow hit me, passing through my thawb and grazing my left
arm, but my silk shirt prevented it from drawing blood.
The nomads fled early enough from our charge to escape, leaving
one of their number, who had been hit in the stomach with the Dnassian’s arrow.
The four of us stood around the grievously wounded nomad. Beside him was a reed
bow, bone-tipped arrows and a dagger that was just a jagged bit of iron
attached to a bone handle. He was smeared in some foul-smelling substance, and
wrapped in rags from head to toe, leaving only his eyes showing. Those eyes
looked at me with a hatred so venomous I can still see them now.
I was the leader and the others were expectant that I should
dispatch him. The rage I had felt earlier had by now subsided. I remember the
soft feeling as I sank the point of my sword into his neck. The blade suffered
no more resistance than if its tip were being pushed into water. That was the
first man I killed. The deed was done without hesitation, and the others were
relieved by the sight of my strength.
After the attack had been beaten off there was a confrontation
between Zarshan and Gulkar.
‘You dare to abandon us!’ Zarshan accused the mercenary. ‘I
did not pay you to hunt for sport, or to satisfy some blood-feud.’
Gulkar held the severed head of a nomad chieftain, which he
threw at the merchant’s feet. The warriors of Dnass took sixteen heads that
day, for the loss of only one man killed.
‘I will not stand a coward to tell me how to fight,’ replied
Gulkar. The Dnassian leader, with his grey hair and scarred face, was the
oldest warrior I had seen, but his broad-shouldered frame was still filled with
strength and vigour.
‘You are no longer in charge,’ he told Zarshan. ‘I have never
taken orders from a weakling and I shall not start now. You and your men are
not equal to women. I have seen whores fight with more spirit than your men, no
word of a lie.’
It was now clear to us that the goondas Zarshan had hired from
the cities of Kur Sandu were not men of sufficient valour to face the nomads of
the Na.
‘So you take my coin but not my orders,’ said Zarshan. ‘You
are a disgrace to your creed.’
‘This is no longer about gold, you fool. It’s about us being
gutted and skinned,’ Gulkar responded. ‘These are the worst of all nomad
tribes. They are devil worshipers. If they come again, and all we do is sit,
they will smell the fear on us. You saw your sentries. The same will be done to
us.’
Throughout the argument, Osmund stood between the two men, a
little to one side, his gaze fixed on the sand. His hand did not move from the
hilt of his sword. The barbarian had killed five nomads and defeated an attack
upon the head of the camp almost single-handed. None of the Dnassians, not even
Gulkar, would have dared challenge him.
I saw Rabisha helping to tend the wounded. It was obvious she
possessed some skill in the art of healing. I watched her treat a flesh wound
Osmund had taken. It was clear to me she harboured some care for the barbarian.
I talked with her briefly, but she soon gave me a shy smile before moving on to
treat others.
Osmund had not before acknowledged me, but now the
pale-skinned giant regarded me with deference. My contribution to the fight had
been minimal, but I had done something while others had remained passive, and
that was enough to earn his respect. He showed interest in my sword. I allowed
him to test the weapon, which he returned to me with a nod of approval.
‘Gulkar knows how to fight the savages,’ he told me. ‘But he
must temper his valour with caution if we are to prevail.’ Osmund’s voice was
deep and thick with accent, but surprisingly soft in tone. Hearing him speak, I
sensed a melancholic quality to the man.
‘The savages are not stupid,’ he told me. ‘Now they know we
have only a small number of worthy men. If they think they can lure them away
from the caravan, they will do so. These ones had poor weapons, but others may
have arms captured from travellers they have killed. We can only fight so many.
Keep a dagger for yourself. If they take you alive you will not experience a
quick death.’
I knew that should the worst happen, he would take care of
Rabisha.
Before we continued, Zarshan accused one of our scouts, a
slave and half-breed nomad, of leaving signals to betray us to the enemy. I saw
no evidence of this myself; the nomads knew where the water holes were, and it
would have been a simple enough matter for them to track us. In punishment for
this perceived crime, Zarshan had the man mutilated and staked out beneath the
sun.
I decided that if Gulkar chose to kill Zarshan, this would be an acceptable result. Osmund may have been able to kill any of the Dnassians individually, but together they would defeat him with ease. A usurpation was pending. I decided I would have to read the mood well, for I believed if I sided with Gulkar early enough I could persuade him to spare Osmund and Rabisha. Such were my thoughts at the time.
***
Many days passed without further sightings of the nomads. The
fractious mood between the leaders eased. There was an attempt by some of the
merchants to elect a new leader, but this was quashed by Gulkar, and the only
effect was to reduce Zarshan to a wreck. We found wells, but their water was
often cloudy, and we struggled to draw the quantity needed. Our scouts led us
further south on the promise of an oasis. If they were wrong, we were all
certain to perish.
One evening, a message was delivered to my tent. I recognised
the man as Uzil, the youngest of the priests of N’leena, though he was
disguised as a servant. He handed me a scrap of papyrus from Preeto, upon which
was scrawled a message in cuneiform, in an obscure language he knew I could
read. It said that he had figured out what was going on, but he was being
watched, and I should wait for him to seek me out, which he would do at the
first chance presented to him.
The following evening, we were hit by another sandstorm. It
was not as severe as the previous storm, but we took the opportunity to shelter
behind some rock formations we had only just passed. These wind-pummelled
stones emerged to be ruins of some inestimable antiquity. The flaking lumps of
sandstone appeared to me to be the withered remnants of what must have been
gigantic foundation stones. I have never heard of any civilisation prospering
in those blasted, arid wastes. I wonder that whatever city once stood here did
not antedate all other cities of men, even Kul.
Here we sat out the night as the winds howled around us. I fully expected Preeto to visit me, as it was the perfect occasion for him to do so, and was naturally impatient to hear what he had to say. I waited for him to arrive, but eventually fell asleep.
When I was awoken by raised voices, it was still night, but
the storm had abated. I was told there had been another animal attack. When I
saw it had been upon the priests’ area of the camp, I knew instantly what would
greet me. The surviving priests knelt in prayer around the two bodies of their
dead comrades. Preeto was one of them. His head had been ripped off. The other
man’s chest had been torn open. There was no sign of Preeto’s head; it was
simply missing. I followed the creature’s tracks. It walked upon four-toed,
clawed feet. It was bipedal, and a little smaller than a man. This time, there
had been no witnesses. There was some sign of a struggle, and I believed Preeto
had been the second to be killed. It was inconceivable the beast could have
moved right past the camels without disturbing them. Yet it had done exactly
that. Its tracks vanished suddenly, but at a point where the sand was still
sheltered from the wind.
Zarshan was eager for the matter to be hushed up, saying he
did not want to spread panic. I watched him scuff away the thing’s tracks.
Nonetheless, by dawn, everyone had some idea of what had occurred. The caravan
was soon moved, even suffering the full heat of the day, just to get as far
away as possible from the tainted spot. Before we left, I helped the priests
dig the graves, bloodying my fingers in building a cairn of stones over
Preeto’s remains.
I promised the priest I would discover the truth of what had
happened. If I had to torture that truth from Zarshan, then that is what I
would do. I took the vow that anyone responsible, in any way, for my friend’s
death would meet their fate upon my sword.
***
We were at the bottom of our waterskins when we found the
oasis. The pool was fed by a spring, concealed by a depression, and surrounded
by vegetation. There were even date palms. No sweeter water ever passed my
lips. From some, there were tears of joy. Here we stayed for two days to
recuperate and water the camels. Soon we would reach the coast, and a feeling
abounded that we would after all survive to see our destination.
On the second night, my servants admitted a visitor to my
tent. The smell of jasmine betrayed the identity of my guest before I could
light a pair of oil lamps, enabling us to see one another. Of all my memories,
her strange beauty in that flickering lamp light is the one that time has faded
the least.
Rabisha had made the effort to beautify herself. Her dress had
been cleaned and she had unlaced the collar. Kohl had been applied around her
eyes. Her hair was neatly combed and oiled. Coral bangles dangled from her slim
wrists. Her seashell earrings shimmered with a touch of iridescence. Her nails
were long and so was her nose.
She was dignified and self-possessed, but there was no hiding
the air of desperation.
‘Please listen to my words; there is but a
short time before I am missed,’ she said. ‘I put myself at your mercy. You are
a true nobleman and I know of no other who can save me.’
If I had sent her away, I felt she would have screamed and
fitted. When reassured I was not going to eject her from my tent, she relaxed a
little.
‘My father is not the person he claims to be,’ she said.
This much, I told her, I had already deduced.
‘He did not bring me up. I have only been with him these last
three years. I know him to be guilty of many things. He is a liar and a
murderer. And he has touched the flesh of his own daughter. If he ever thought
I would tell anyone he would have me killed. I believe he does love me, but he
is a weak man, and the weak will destroy what they love, no matter how they may
grieve afterwards.’
At this admission, Rabisha tilted her head back and closed her
eyes, as if she were holding back tears. That there was an element of
performance to what I was witnessing was undoubted, yet I did not doubt the
sincerity of her words. I sensed within her both fragility and wilfulness. My
sympathy was hers; yet if she thought I was going to confront Zarshan and
Osmund, she was flattering herself. This I put to her tactfully.
‘Osmund will not hurt me,’ she said confidently.
I refrained from saying that my concern was that he would hurt
me.
‘Whatever happens, I will escape my father when we reach the
city,’ she said. If I must cross the sea, then so be it. I have some money, but
I know the reputation of the place to which we are headed. Alone, I fear my
chances are not good.’
This was more to my liking. Effectively, she was throwing
herself at me. As soon as we arrived at Fleng I would have the gold to hire my
own warriors. Then, the situation would be very different.
But at the time, all such notions were of secondary concern.
My prime desire was to avenge the death of Preeto. To achieve this, I had to
fathom what it was he had been on the cusp of telling me. I had before me a
potential means of discovering that truth, and it was not a chance I intended
to let slip through my fingers. However, once this was accomplished, the
thought of stealing Rabisha away as a prize was an intriguing temptation.
I took a chance and told her about Preeto and everything that
had happened. She knew nothing about the animal attacks, or of grave robbers,
but confirmed her father was enmeshed in a dark and sinister web.
‘My father is not the one you have to fear,’ she said. ‘He is
a pawn, controlled by others. His true master, I believe, resides at our
destination. Of this person, he is very much afraid. I am sorry I cannot tell
you more. Now I must be gone before we are discovered.’
The final thing she said struck me as odd.
‘We may not be able to talk again until we reach Fleng. If I
need you, you will hear a bell ring. That will be my signal to you.’
I held her hand, and got the tiniest of smiles. Then she left.
Certain thoughts remained to fill the emptiness of her
absence, then, as they do now. The childlike slenderness of her fingers. The
angle of her neck. The delicate smoke of her voice. The hook of her nose. The
watery blackness of her eyes. The smell of jasmine.
***
The nomads had been following us all along. Two days from the
oasis, they attacked again. After many years of reflection, I realise Zarshan
was not a total fool and may have been right about the presence of traitors
within our scouts. It is possible we were led into an ambush. I shall
never know for sure.
The first skirmishes happened in the early afternoon and
steadily increased in intensity. We decided to move, as we were in an area
where the dunes were high, and they were allowing the enemy to get near to us
whilst remaining unseen. As dusk approached, they stepped up their attacks,
harassing us from all sides, their slingstones dropping people in our midst.
The Dnassians screened our flanks, giving countershot with their bows.
By nightfall the nomads were appearing in swarms, confidently
moving right up to the caravan. The moon was low and bright, turning the sands
white to highlight their dark and eerily silent shapes. Gulkar decided to ride
out and hunt them down. With their lances held high, and the armoured scales of
their mounts gleaming in the moonlight, the Dnassians charged the largest group
of the enemy. The dread peal of their war horn pierced the night air and the
nomads scattered before their charge. Leaving a clutch of skewered nomads upon
the sand, the mounted warriors crested a dune and disappeared from sight.
It was not long before a single wounded Dnassian returned, on
foot. He told us they had killed many, but more nomads had appeared, and they
were now surrounded and in desperate need of assistance. Something had to be
done. No one was listening to Zarshan anymore. I took the decision to lead a
relief party. If we lost the Dnassians, we were as good as dead. Osmund
volunteered to come with me, and we picked ten of our best men. Most of them
were armed with only khanjars and javelins. We knew it was a desperate move. We
would succour the mercenaries or die trying.
Firstly, we surprised and killed a few nomads we caught
lingering near the caravan. We rushed in on them, hitting them with javelins
before they could draw their slings and bows. I killed one, my sword cutting
through his arm and into his body as he strung his bow. The joy of battle was
upon me, and I felt the sweetness of cutting him down. Our blood was up, and
shouting encouragement to one another we headed in the direction of the
mercenaries’ charge. I believe we got very close to them. We could hear the
sounds of battle.
Then the sandstorm hit us. It rose in the blink of an eye. That sand-leaden tempest swirled about us, making us shield our faces, leaving us utterly disorientated. It dissipated with the same unnatural swiftness with which it had onset, but we had become separated. Only Osmund and two others were still with me: a Dremite and an Arathite, if I remember correctly. We could see no one else, nor could we hear any sounds of battle. There was nothing to do but follow the stars and head back to the caravan.
The moon had set, but the starlight was so bright that night
that it lit our way with no less clarity. The Sea of Souls had risen above the
horizon, and with it, that single brilliant star that had, when I was a boy,
suddenly blazed with such brightness. Such was its glare that night I remember
it almost outshining the moon. I sometimes wonder if it still shines as
fiercely. I can only guess how many thousands of nights have passed since I saw
the sky.
Death awaited our return. The caravan had been overrun and
slaughtered. There was nothing but dead people, dead camels, and the strewn
debris of the camp. There were no enemies plundering the dead; the only nomads
were corpses. The strangest thing was the silence. There were no groans of
dying men or animals.
I found the bodies of my servants. Once they had been slaves,
but I had come to know them as equals in all the ways that make a man. I
remembered all that we had been through together, from our escape from
plague-ridden Kul to the hardships we shared upon the Epru Hursag. I turned
away for I could not bear to look at them.
Only one man did we find alive. Uzil, the water priest, had survived by hiding beneath a pile of bodies. The youth was distraught with shame that he alone lived when all his companions lay dead. Such was his distress that I had to strike him in order to draw sense from him. The five of us searched the pitiful carnage for any other survivors.
We discovered the head of the camp where the merchants and
their men had made a last stand. The warriors must have found their courage
because there were many dead nomads. I saw Zarshan, feeling nothing as I looked
upon his dead face but a lament that I might never know the truth. I could not
find Rabisha. We searched, but she was not there. Although I did not want to
find her corpse, I feared not to find it, for that meant she had been taken
captive. If this were so, then the horror of her fate would be beyond
imagining.
For some reason, it was only then, as I looked at Zarshan,
that something very obvious struck me. He could not possibly have been
Rabisha’s father. They looked nothing like one another.
Suddenly, there she was. She was sifting through the wreckage,
a look of irritation upon her. At first, I was stunned and overjoyed to see
her. But something had changed. It was Rabisha, but she was not the same
person. It is not a thing I can describe in words. She was standing
differently; proudly, with her back arched. Her eyes were as still water, but a
furnace burnt beneath them. My initial urge to embrace her turned to revulsion.
When she spoke I flinched at the harshness of her voice.
‘Where is it?’ she said. This she repeated, again and again. I
did not know what she meant. Then she turned her head in disgust and spoke to
Osmund.
‘Osmund, Kill them!’
In a single motion, Osmund drew his sword and brought it down
in an arc upon the Arathite, cleaving his chest. I shouted at Uzil to run. He
hesitated for a moment but then fled. I never saw him again. The Dremite fought
back, jabbing with his spear, but Osmund’s mighty sword cut through the haft
and severed his arm. I drew my sword and the barbarian attacked me. The soul I
had come to recognise in Osmund’s eyes had vanished. In its place was only
emptiness.
The chime of our clashing blades rang out over the silence of
the desert. I parried his cuts and evaded his lunges, but his skill was
fearsome, and he fought in a cold, controlled fury. I pressed my own attacks,
and for one moment even had him on the defensive; but he was the better
swordsman and wielded the heavier blade. My guard soon wilted under the power
of his blows.
At the vital moment, when victory was his and he raised his
sword to finish me, he hesitated. As he intended, it cost him his life. I
plunged the point of my sword into his sternum. As I killed him I sensed a
great relief wash over him. A blessed peace suffused his countenance, as if he
were released from the grip of some evil. With his last breath, Osmund muttered
a few words in his native tongue. I believe, then as now, that he was thanking
me.
I sat beside his body. My memory is vague at this point. I may
have been there for some time. I do not remember. I sat and looked at the man I
had killed; the better man than myself.
It was Gulkar who found me. He was on foot and had five or six
of his men with him. Seeing us, he knew that I had killed Osmund, but declared
he did not believe I had beaten him. He demanded to know what had happened. I
remained silent. He ordered me to get up, but I must have been too numb to
respond. Eventually, Gulkar became angry with me and drew his sword, saying he
had had enough of cowards, and either I stood or he would strike my noble head
from my shoulders.
The great curve of his sword was raised when we heard the
sound. It was the tinkle of a bell. I do not know if it was a true sound we
heard or the ghost of a ring that echoed in our minds, but it is certain we all
heard it. Real or imagined, that eerie chime caused our blood to freeze.
With a dread slowness, a horror beyond thinking became real.
The dead, scattered so thickly about us, started to move. By soulless
mechanism, the corpses raised themselves from the sand. With a terrible motion,
lifeless and jerky, the abominations shuffled towards us. Gulkar’s men turned
and ran. The old warrior bellowed at them, but they would not rally. The
abominations converged on the two of us. Staggering forward, they issued
ghastly, breathless moans, still clutching their weapons.
Gulkar stood his ground, and with his mighty scimitar he cut
them down. He screamed at me to stand and fight, but I am ashamed to say I did
not move. He insulted my manhood, my people and my noble lineage, but I did not
rise. He did not need my help. Again and again, that great blade of his rose
and fell, leaving the accursed cadavers piled before him. When he severed their
limbs they kept coming; only when he decapitated them or cleaved deeply into
their bodies did they drop.
The awakened dead suddenly stopped advancing and stood still.
Gulkar was exhausted. Finally, I took my sword in hand and stood side to side
with the Dnassian, ready to defend the fearless old warrior. He was still
cursing me with his struggling breath.
Rabisha stepped between the living corpses and appeared to us.
A ragged black cloak was draped about her shoulders. Upon her right cheek were
the scars of three parallel cuts, although before her skin had been pristine.
From her left earlobe hung a tiny shrunken skull. In her right hand, she held a
thin piece of carved bone. Woven into her tattered black cloak were fragments
of silver thread that glittered like their own firmament in the starlight. As
she moved the tip of her bone wand the corpses shuffled aside at her whim.
With a long fingernail of her left hand, she pointed at Gulkar
and spoke in that harsh and terrible voice.
‘You!’ she said. ‘You are the only one ever to stand against
the dead. All others have fled.’
Her admiration was evident. She then looked at me and smiled.
It was the smile of a reptile as it curls its lip to use its teeth.
‘I told you he was not the one you had to fear,’ she said. She
gestured at Zarshan’s corpse, which stood beside her. ‘And that pile of
worm-shit did rape his daughter,’ she added. ‘So I spoke the truth to you.’
This was a thing she seemed especially pleased with.
Gulkar had regained his breath. Snarling, he spat an insult at
Rabisha, and stepped forward, raising his sword. At this, she pointed her
bone-wand at him and spoke a single word of malediction. He collapsed instantly
to his knees, and I could see by the way he slumped forwards he was dead. She
then pointed her wand at me and there was nothing but pain and darkness.
When I awoke I was the person I am now. I was lying upon the
sand. The abominations stood around me. Their heads were bowed, rasping as they
struggled to draw the breath they would never take. Gulkar was now one of them.
‘That should have killed you,’ I heard Rabisha say, with a
tone of indifference. ‘That proves who you are.’
When I looked up at her a black flower opened in my breast and
its nectar spilt forth to poison my soul. I was overwhelmed with love. I was
her servant. My only desire was to please her.
The only corpse that had remained still was Osmund’s. Rabisha
stared at him for some time.
‘I shall not raise him,’ she said. ‘He was a good servant. He
may have his rest.’
She told me to rise and pick up my sword. My blade no longer
threatened her; I was ready to cut my own throat, had she but given the
command. I requested she move the abominations away from me. She gave a chill
laugh but made them step backwards.
‘As well for you that you never saw my pet,’ she said. ‘You
almost had a visit, like your friend the fat priest; but I couldn’t risk the
chance that you might hurt him with that blade of yours.’
She bid me to follow her, and we walked amid the wreckage of
the camp. Her wand twitched upright in her fingers until she stopped and
pointed it at the baggage sack of a dead camel. She commanded me to cut it
open. As I slashed open the felt a cloud of cinnamon erupted from the sack,
stinging my eyes. When my vision cleared I saw what nestled inside the bundle
of spice. It was a mummified corpse, black and shrivelled. A gold circlet was
upon its brow and a gold pectoral rested upon its breast. The pectoral bore the
symbol of a sun centred with an eye, with three burning hands reaching from it.
I was looking at my own ancestor.
As I had seen her do before, Rabisha tilted back her head,
closing her eyes. Only now I could see this hideous gesture for what it was. It
was as if she were drawing some power from the sky. She smiled a cold and
joyless smile of exultancy.
‘Look upon your ancestor,’ she said. ‘For he is more valuable
to me than you could ever be. With his mortal remains, my powers will flourish
as never before.’ Idly, she tilted her wand towards me. ‘But the blood which
once flowed through his veins now flows through yours. You shall replace the
servant you have taken from me; but your talents are not as those of Osmund.
You will learn the craft of your ancestor, as far as the limits of your mind
will allow. This is how you will serve me.’
***
Many decades must have passed since I last saw her. It was
only in the very early days of my enslavement that I walked the earth by her
side. But that infernal flame of love still burns within me. I have been
sustained by the joy of knowing that my researches have, in some small way,
been of use to her. I have often wondered that had I not killed her favourite
servant she may have shown me more kindness, and I would not be incarcerated as
I am.
As to where I am now, it is my guess that I am not far from
that debased city to which I travelled so many years ago, perhaps beneath its
very streets. In truth, it is not these walls that are my prison, but the
absence within me of any desire to escape. The curse of love is not a thing
that can be undone; at least not by my hands. Her most foul magic is not of the
moon or sun but is fed by the light of a distant star. It has no parallel, even
in the darkest spirits of the earth. It is unfathomable, even to me.
Although her sources of knowledge are many, there is one she
values above all others. Rabisha possesses the ability to descend to the
underworld, where she mingles with the shades of the dead. It is here she
communes with a dread ancestor; a man of Kul, who lived a thousand years ago.
It is from him, I believe, that her darkest secrets are gleaned. Of this
subject, I am glad to say I do not know more.
There is one thing alone of which I am certain: if she dies,
the spell is broken, and my own heart and mind will be returned to me. Alas,
her arts have ensured that time has not withered her flesh as it has mine. But
there is hope. She has powerful enemies. Enemies such as the resident of Fleng
to whom Biriba was delivering his cargo. Or the Wastelander who was controlling
the nomad devil worshipers as they tried to steal the very same cargo. It is
entirely possible she may be killed.
I have always harboured the feeling that some of us from that
accursed voyage survived to reach our destination. I believe Uzil may have been
one of them. But even if that is so, it was so long ago now that they are most
likely all dead.
Time is the destroyer of all things. Eventually, I too will
die, and then I will have peace. That is a thing that not even she can take
from me. Equally, at any moment the curse may be broken by her death. It is
even possible that I may once again feel the sun upon my face. But I am old
now; too old, perhaps, for escape, in any sense. No man may know his fate. I
wait in the darkness.
Drakomunda is a book that takes place in a land of dark magic and strange artifacts where anyone can have their lives altered by fate. A series of short but related stories are presented in the book, all with a bit of a different flavor. Some take place in a decidedly ancient society while others feel like they are happening closer to our time, albeit still in a quite fantastical world.
Like with any book filled with shorter entries some stand out more than others. Overall, Guy Quarterly, does a fantastic job with his characters and the book is simply full of great action and horror. A few of the stories feel like they could have been shortened just a bit but in the end the payoff is usually worth it.
Whether Quarterly is writing about a caravan crossing the desert, a shipwrecked crew, brave warriors trying to fit in with their tribe, or warlords getting their revenge, the stories are gripping. Often times they are decidedly dark and the threats and menace in the book is palpable. Quarterly is especially good at building out interesting villains here.
Many of the themes of the book deal with unlikely allies, unexpected betrayals, and even love both gained and lost. Because the stories are so varied, there is surely something for any reader to like here but which ones stand out most to a reader will depend on individual tastes. The whole collection is very much worth reading.
There is a fair amount of gore so any readers sensitive to that may wish to take caution. That's not to say everything in the book is always gratuitous, just that those who are squeamish about such things may not enjoy every aspect of every story.
With this as a debut, I am looking forward to reading more of his work. If you like fantasy with a dark edge, and enjoy short fiction along those lines, this is a perfect book for you.