ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 18

Karak stood in the shadows of a doorway across the street from the Breakers Inn and Tavern, watching people pass in and out of the swinging doors.  Raucous laughter and singing floated from the bright interior, and Karak saw through the main window many bodies moving back and forth in the lamp-lit common room.

The Breakers was one of the busier taverns in the Low City, attracting mostly Low City residents or sailors from the merchant ships docked in Calaman for the night.  Business was brisk despite the late hour and the continuing drizzle.  Karak was not surprised.  It was one of his inns, and he had made sure they all had the stoutest ale and plumpest whores in all of Calaman, maybe even Gahall.

Or at least the inn had been his.

Karak pulled his long, loose hair over his face as more people passed by.  His normally blond hair was more brown and greasy now.  He looked and smelled like one of the usual vagrants that haunted the Low City’s corners and crevices searching for shelter.  He had rolled in piles of horse dung throughout the day to keep people from looking too closely at him.  Ironic that the worse he smelled, the more people tried to ignore him.  And the farther away people stayed from him, the better chance he had of evading Klahdera assassins.  At first he had to keep from gagging, but he was finally getting used to the smell after two days of wanting to retch.

At least the smoke from the Orlenian quarter helped with the dung stench.  Karak glanced at the glowing orange sky less than twenty blocks from the Low City.  The Orlenians had been rioting ever since their favorite son, Dylan Edoss, had been kicked out of the Speaker’s office.  Not even their Parliamentary leaders could calm their anger.  Karak normally hated riots—it was bad for business.  People wanted a relatively safe place to indulge their vices.  But at least this riot kept most Klahdera Swornmen on Antahl Street to ensure the violence did not spill over into their Low City territories, which meant fewer Klahdera looking for him.

Every time Karak thought about what got him into this situation, he felt sicker than when he first rolled in dung.  He had left his men to die with those…things.  He had lost loyal friends in that silo.  And Crane.  Karak had shot the man in the forehead, yet he got up as if the bullet hole were a bug bite.  Though Karak came from the Wild Kingdoms in the south, where supernaturalist beliefs still existed, he had spent most of his life in the Pathist Compact.  It was hard for him to accept what he saw, but he was a man who trusted his senses.  It was even harder for him to accept that he had run from a fight like a craven dandy.  Never mind that his cowardice had earned him a death sentence from the Klahdera Overlords.

The swinging doors of the tavern fell open and the man he was waiting for strode out, accompanied by three men as large as Castle, their hands resting on the butts of their revolvers and their eyes searching the dark streets.  The Klahdera Overlord wore a black tri-corner hat, with a pony-tail of steel-gray hair hanging at the nape of his neck.  He was well dressed in a crisply pressed black suit.  He still retained the large build that helped him survive the harsh climb up the steps to Klahdera Overlord.  He nonchalantly smoked a cigar, content after a couple of hours with Karak’s whores—Sammilia was his favorite, Karak remembered.  The Overlord strode down the street as if he were the king of Low City.  In a sense, he was.

Karak affected the stagger of a drunk, stumbled forward, and crossed the street toward the Overlord.  He dodged a carriage, prompting curses from the driver, and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Overlord.

“Spare a penny, my lord?” Karak said, holding a grimy hand out and keeping his head low so that his hair fell over his face.

One of the Overlord’s men, a Kingdomer by the looks of his long blond hair tied back in a single tail, shoved him out of the way without a word.  A second one used his forearm to push Karak onto the street.  The Overlord did not even look his way.

“I reckon the weather is finer in the Kingdoms this time of year, my lord,” Karak said.

The Overlord stopped, then turned slowly to stare at Karak.  The Overlord’s men followed, but the Overlord said, “It’s all right, Marwa’jin.”

The blond-haired Marwa’jin reluctantly motioned the other two men to stay back, but he and they kept their hands securely fastened on their revolvers.

Overlord Silek approached Karak, squinting at his face, trying to peer beyond Karak’s hair.  Then he laughed, shaking his head.  “Mercy, Karak,” he said.  “You smell like a stable.”

Karak grinned.  “Keeps away the curious.”

Silek’s laugh faded.  “You lost your entire crew, and that’s one thing the Overlords won’t forgive.  They’re going to kill you, boy.  And there’s nothing I can do about it this time.”

“I know,” Karak said.  “You’ve done more for me than you should have done.”

Silek shrugged.  “Kingdomers need all the help they can get in this country.  Someone did the same for me once, now I do the same for you.  Or did…”

Silek scanned the street with his sharp gray eyes.  “You shouldn’t be here.  You need to get out of Calaman, get out of the Compact.  Go back to the Kingdoms.”

“That is my plan, old friend,” Karak said, then hesitated, embarrassed at what he was about to ask.  “It’s just that…I don’t have any money.  I cannot get back to my inns, they’re being watched.  And Klahdera owns all the banks where I keep the rest of my money.”

Silek chuckled.  “My boy, you never did plan ahead, did you?  I have secret stores of han all over the city just in case I…well, just in case.”

Silek sighed, then said, “All right, I’ll tell you where to find one of them.”

He gave Karak directions to the Hallowed Bridge, which crossed the Veda River on the north side of Calaman, just outside the walls of the Old City.  It was a place Karak knew well, for he had taken possession of many a smuggled shipment there.  It was quiet, virtually abandoned, and he would not attract attention.  Ironic to think he had probably stood next to a large store of Silek’s gold on several occasions.

“Thank you, my friend,” Karak said.  “I will not forget this.”

“You had better not,” Silek said with his usual wry grin.  “I expect repayment with interest.”

Karak smiled back, and was about to turn away when he looked back at Silek.  “That business back in the silo was bad.  Really bad.  Did anyone go there after…after I was there?”

Silek glanced back at his men, then said in a low voice, “All they found where the bodies of your men.  Or what was left of them.  Now I know you would never intentionally allow such a thing to happen to your men, but intentions are irrelevant with the Klahdera.  You know that.  Results are what count, and you failed spectacularly.  Ten Swornmen were killed that night.  Ten of your Swornmen.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” Karak growled.  “I was there.  I saw it all.”

Karak then calmed himself, and shook his head.  “Something bad is going to happen in this city, I can feel it.  My advice probably doesn’t mean much these days, but you should leave the city for a while, too.  At least a few weeks.”

Silek laughed.  “You’re not going supernaturalist on me, are you Karak?”

“Yes,” Karak said, with as deadly serious of a voice as he could manage.  “After what I saw two nights ago, yes I am.”

Silek’s smile melted.  “I don’t care what you saw, boy.  What I care about is that the longer you stay in this city, the more likely you’ll get a bullet in the back of your head.”  Glancing around at the people on the street, Silek said, “I think we’ve talked long enough.  You’d better go.”

Silek turned without another word, and was immediately surrounded by his Swornmen.  Karak stood on the sidewalk watching his patron until he rounded a corner.  He glanced about the street, saw nothing but vagrants, drunks, and those looking for a place to get drunk, then wrapped his raggedy cloaks around him and set off toward the Hallowed Bridge.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 17

“These are our saviors?” General Myndehr muttered to Dylan as the column marched into Fedalan.

Dylan was thinking the exact same thing.

Truth be told, he had begun to worry as soon as he saw the Tuathan guides.  They were clad in furs and buckskin like three Cossops from the Komenda Steppes, with wild red hair and pale skin.  They certainly were not the Mystics of childhood stories—shining white robes with auras of beautiful colors surrounding them.

The outskirts of the Tuathan “city” only increased his worry.  These were people who had not advanced much beyond the technology of a thousand years ago.  They lived in thatch huts and what looked like hastily made tents of stitched animal skins.  Older women tended to small plots that looked to be the corners of larger fields.  Beyond the small plots, weeds choked what little crops of potatoes, cabbage, and carrots the Tuathans grew.  Dylan had no farming experience, having been raised in a mining community near the Perla Mountains, but even he could tell when a field had not been tended in over a month.  Most of the small huts they passed were deserted, and their Tuathan guides would not explain why.

“All will be explained by the Seats in Fedalan,” the girl Fatimah had said.  She seemed to want to tell him more, and ask him questions, but a stern look by Dornal and Ida always closed her mouth.

When the column had marched to the top of a hill, they saw Fedalan in the valley below next to a small lake.  The town was made up mostly of the same huts and tents they had passed, which was why the most striking feature of the town made Dylan begin to hope again.

A tall white obelisk rose up from the town center, twice as tall as the Guardian through which they had passed.  Gold plating covered the top half of the obelisk’s point, making it glitter in the meager sunlight.  Dylan wondered how bright the tip would shine if the clouds ever cleared over this depressingly gray land.  Nearer the obelisk were one-story buildings made of logs, but not much more advanced than the thatch huts beyond the center of town.  Small chimney’s pumped out smoke from the buildings surrounding the tall obelisk, while the huts and tents outside that town’s center looked empty and neglected.

Halfway down the hill into the valley, four men clad in buckskin and armed with spears walked out of the woods.  All four wore their red hair long with many small braids at the ends, each with full beards.  They ignored the Shadarlak surrounding Dylan, who immediately put their hands on their revolvers, and went to confer with the Tuathan guides.  After talking quietly for a few moments, the men warily eyed the column of Shadarlak, then stood off to the side of the road to watch the column enter the town.

While walking into Fedalan, Dylan’s brief hope again turned to despair.  The small buildings on the outer fringes of the town looked to have been abandoned long ago.  Many had shutters that were nailed closed, while others had gaping holes in the roofs and collapsed porches.  Several dogs, skinny and feral, whined at the column as it marched by.

The closer the column came to the white obelisk, the more signs of community Dylan saw.  The first commerce Dylan encountered were the noxious odors of a tanner’s shop.  The shirtless tanner sat on a stool using a sharpened rock to scrape loose hair off a large hide.  He continued his scraping, but glanced up now and then at the column as it passed.  Beyond the tanner shop, here and there, candles burned in some of the homes, and Dylan noticed wet laundry—wool skirts, pants, and blankets—hanging on lines strung between the huts.

Near the foot of the obelisk, all of the homes and buildings were occupied and of a sturdier wood construction than the thatch huts they had passed.  Actual commerce took place here, in addition to serving as living quarters for most of the population.  A blacksmith, shirtless, sweaty, and wearing a large leather apron, hammered at a small, glowing, embryonic knife.  Nearby sat a large box filled with unpolished knives that had not yet been fitted with hilts.  Two other sweaty, red-haired blacksmiths stood in the back of the same shop hammering glowing metal.  Dylan wondered where they got the metal, for surely these people could not have much of a mining industry.  His question was answered when he saw large piles of rusty metal pots and field tools behind the smithy.

The column passed a tavern, where six gaunt men in buckskin and wool, with unstrung bows attached to their backs and knives at their belts, stood holding clay cups, whispering to each other while the column marched by.  Merchants selling potatoes, turnips, cabbages, and carrots, called out to the column in their incomprehensible language, trying to sell produce to their town’s strange new visitors.  Most of the Shadarlak ignored the merchants, while some shook their head politely.  One merchant rushed toward Dylan, holding a wool blanket and talking animatedly about it, but Dornal and Ida pushed him away before General Myndehr or the Shadarlak surrounding Dylan could get any rougher with the man.  Dylan had ordered his men to keep their revolvers holstered, and he was pleased to see them obeying that order despite the strange surroundings.

“Not even the Turicians live like this,” Lee said in a low voice from Dylan’s right.

As they drew closer to the obelisk, small groups of dirty children ran alongside the marching Shadarlak, staring at the soldiers with wide, curious eyes.  Dylan saw Dr. Abraeu reach into his pocket and give one of the smaller girls a chunk of hard candy.  The girl put it in her mouth, smiled up at Abraeu, then ran off.  Abraeu stared after the girl for a few moments, sadness plain on his face.

The column rounded a corner in the road and saw the base of the obelisk before them.  It was even more impressive up close.  It looked to be ten stories tall, rivaling the height of the Parliamentary Towers.  It was cut from smooth white stone, without seams that Dylan could see.  Starting around the third floor, windows dotted the obelisk’s smooth white exterior, all the way up to where a large balcony encircled the top.  The obelisk did not have the same weathering that had eroded the arches around the smaller obelisks, and looked to have been built months ago.  Wide steps led to thick wood doors that were swung inward, and Dylan could see the pointed spikes of a portcullis gate jutting from the ceiling above the doors.

About a dozen Tuathans descended the steps as the column approached.  They also wore buckskins, wools, and furs, although their clothes seemed better made than the Tuathan masses.  And more colorful.  Some of the Tuathans wore sashes dyed a light green, while some wore sashes dyed scarlet.

Two of the Tuathans led the group, an older man and older woman walking side by side down the steps.  A hush fell over the people in the square, and all eyes trained on the two Tuathans.

Dornal, Ida, and Fatimah went to the two, bowed, and said something in their language.  As the Tuathan leaders proceeded down the steps, Dylan ordered the Shadarlak standing in front of him to move behind him.  Infuriatingly, the men first looked to General Myndehr before moving, who nodded.  Dylan turned to Abraeu.

“Doctor,” Dylan said.

Abreau nodded, falling into step behind Dylan.  Dylan hoped the good doctor was about to earn his keep on this mission.

Fatimah stood between the two Tuathan leaders and Dylan, then said, “Speaker Dylan Edoss, may I present Ollis Gray, the Worldly Seat of the Beldamark Tuatha.  He oversees the worldly administration of Tuathan affairs.”

Ollis Gray, with more white than red in his beard and on his balding head, wore a light green sash with several gold symbols over his buckskin tunic and breeches.  He regarded Dylan with narrowed eyes, as if Dylan had just tracked mud into his home.  Reluctantly, Gray gave Dylan a quick bow of the head.

Fatimah then pointed a hand at the older woman and said, “May I present Melahara of Fedalan, the Holy Seat of the Beldamark Tuatha.  She is the Tuathan spiritual leader and the leader of all Ahura priests in the Beldamark.”

Melahara was a tall, handsome woman who looked to be in her upper-middle years.  She had long, reddish-gray hair tied in a single braid that hung over her right shoulder.  She wore a red sash with gold symbols over her buckskin dress.  She bowed, smiled warmly at Dylan, then said something to Fatimah.

Fatimah said, “The Holy Seat welcomes the Tuatha’s Recindian children back to the Beldamark.”

Children…?  Dylan thought.

“On behalf of the Recindian Compact,” Dylan said, “I thank the Tuatha for inviting us into your lands, and I look forward to a long lasting partnership between our two peoples.”

The Compact would not be subservient to anyone while he was Speaker, Mystics or not.

Fatimah translated Dylan’s words to Melahara and Ollis, and if they had any objections, their faces did not show it.  Melahara continued to smile warmly, while Ollis still wore a sour face.

Translating for the two Seats, Fatimah said, “Your men are free to set up their tents on the lawn in front of the Heiron.  You and your advisors are invited to stay inside the Heiron, if you choose.”

Dylan nodded to Fatimah, then bowed to Ollis and Melahara.  “Thank you for your kind offer, but my place is with my men.  I will camp with them.”

Ollis and Melahara nodded at Fatimah’s translation, then Melahara said through Fatimah, “Though you must be exhausted from your long journey, we regret we have much to discuss that cannot wait.  You and your advisors are invited to join us for dinner as soon as you see to your men.  Is this acceptable?”

Dylan looked at Myndehr, who said, “We will have our camps set up within the hour, Excellency.”

Dylan said to Fatimah, “I look forward to joining you within the hour.”

Melahara smiled, while Ollis had already turned to walk back up the stairs to the open doors.

Once the Shadarlak set up camp, Dylan gathered Lee, Abraeu, and General Myndehr.  Fatimah stood nearby, but out of earshot, talking to an elderly woman with long, thinning white hair tied in a braid that draped over her right shoulder.  The older woman seemed to be one of the Holy Seat’s priests, for she wore the same scarlet sash as Melahara.

Dylan turned to his men and said in a low voice, “Do not let the appearance of these people fool you into thinking they are weak or unintelligent.  They’ve shown that they have some of the powers attributed to them in legend—by healing Dr. Abraeu and by those arches we walked through.  We live in disturbing times, times that are challenging some of the beliefs on which our civilization has been built.  Keep your eyes—and minds—open.”

Abraeu nodded his agreement, while Myndehr and even Lee seemed uncomfortable anticipating what they would hear and learn in their discussions with the Tuathans.  He did not care if they were uncomfortable—Mercy, he had not breathed easy since the rings appeared!—but he expected them to obey his commands.

Dylan marched up the steps to Fatimah and the elderly woman, who stopped talking when he approached.

Fatimah said, “Speaker, this is my Master, Eblin of Luesing.  She has taught me your language and much about your culture.”

Leaning heavily on her walking staff, Eblin gave Dylan a kindly smile and bowed her head.

“Speaker,” she said in flawless Recindian, “I have looked forward to meeting people of your nation face to face since…well, my entire life.  Welcome to Fedalan.”

Dylan thanked Eblin, and then introduced Lee, Abraeu, and Myndehr.

Eblin smiled at them all, then said, “I will take you to the library.”

Eblin turned and walked through the obelisk’s large doors with the slow pace of someone with terrible leg pain.  For a moment, Dylan wondered why she was even on her feet, or why the Tuathans had not healed her like they had healed Abraeu.  But he realized that if she was a “Recindian expert,” she would have climbed out of her deathbed to meet Recindians.  Dylan saw the same thrill in her eyes that he saw in Abraeu’s.

The steps leading up to the large double doors were well worn with age and the footfalls of countless Tuathans.  Dylan marveled at the thick wooden doors, almost two stories tall and banded with iron.  He suspected they could have withstood three or four canon blasts before buckling.  Above the doors, a large iron portcullis was withdrawn into the ceiling.

A long white hall with lit torches in stone sconces stretched beyond the doors.  The ceiling was maybe twelve feet tall, and the width of the hall could have comfortably held three wagons side by side.  Dylan noticed slits in the hall on either side.  Arrow slits, to be exact.  He was beginning to think this obelisk—or Heiron as the Tuatha had called it—was not only the location of the Tuathan leadership, but the last refuge of its people should the town ever come under attack.  From what little Dylan had seen of it, the Heiron was a formidable fortress, albeit one that would not last long against a battery of modern cannon.

Thirty paces into the obelisk, the hall opened into a large, circular anteroom lit by skylights at ten pace intervals on the walls two stories above the floor.  The white walls were adorned with aged and fading tapestries with incomprehensible pictographs similar to what had adorned the Markers on the border of the Beldamark.  Dylan glanced at Abraeu, who was studying the tapestries with keen interest, his lips moving as he read the symbols printed on each.  Dylan made himself remember to ask Abraeu later what the tapestries said.

In the center of the room were two freestanding arches about twelve feet high, both at sixty degree angles to each other.  Dylan immediately recognized them as the same style and construction as the arches in the forest, for the rooms he saw through them did not exist on the other side of the arches in the anteroom.  On the right was a shadowy, torch-lit room without any daylight streaming into it, while on the left was a room lit by the gray sun, but with different shadows than the room in which they stood.  Eblin shuffled through the arch on the left, followed by Fatimah.  Through the arch, Dylan saw Eblin walk toward another arch set at a sixty-degree angle from the one she just walked through.  Dylan glanced at his men, all of whom stared at the arches with wonder and a bit of fear—except for Abraeu, who looked at Dylan impatiently, waiting for him to lead them.

Fatimah turned, smiled at them from the other side of the arch, and said, “The builders of the Heiron thought this would be easier than stairs.”

Dylan smiled, and then strode through the arch.  As with the arches in the forest, it was like walking through a normal doorway.  The new room he entered had a shorter ceiling, and was lit by windows at the end of three hallways thirty paces from the arches.  Through the large windows, he could see the tops of the trees on the hills surrounding the town, so he knew he was at least two stories above the ground.  He turned and followed Eblin and Fatimah through the second arch, entering a room much like the one he just left.  They seemed to be walking in circles, always walking through an arch on the left that was connected to the previous arch, with both arches at sixty-degree angles.  It would have been like a spiral staircase right up the center of the Heiron if the arches had been stairs.

After passing through the seventh arch, Eblin turned left toward one of the hallways that led out of the circular arch room.  Dylan was startled to feel like he was in the Parliamentary Towers, for the architecture—white stone walls with gray, tiled floors—was very similar.  Even the tapestries and paintings that hung on the walls were of a similar feel—vistas from the mountains, the sea, and the plains.  But where the paintings and tapestries in the Parliamentary Towers depicted Recindians, the paintings and tapestries here showed ancient Mystics in iconic poses standing before masses of people who seemed to be worshiping them.  Other paintings showed Mystics with flaming swords fighting shadows that reached out to them and wrapped the Mystics in misty tentacles.  There were many alcoves in the walls, some holding small busts of men and women who were obviously important, while others displayed porcelain bowls of all colors and sizes with beautiful etchings of various shapes and patterns.  Dylan marveled that people who lived in such primitive conditions could create such works of art.

At the end of the hall was a large oak doorway that Fatimah had to push open for Eblin.  The elderly woman smiled at her pupil, then walked inside.

The room was large, at least three stories tall, fifty paces long, and twenty paces wide.  Each wall was filled with books, scrolls, and loose sheets of parchment, with ladders leading up to each of the three levels.  Two more rows of shelves ran down the center of the room, each at least ten feet tall and having its own ladder on rollers so that one could move it up and down the row.  Dylan was no scholar, but he knew this was a library to rival the Library of the Compact in Calaman.  He only had to look at Abraeu’s awed face.

Eblin led them to the right, past tables filled with books and scrolls, where six young female priests in their teens wearing scarlet belts stared at the Recindians.  An older woman in her middle years near the table said something in the Tuathan language, and the young priests quickly put their heads back down to their parchments.

Eblin and Fatimah led them to the far end of the library where an ornate, dark wood staircase led up to the second level.  Fatimah helped Eblin climb slowly, and when they reached the top, they saw Melahara and Ollis standing next to a large red and white clay bowl on a white stone pedestal.  They argued in low tones, but stopped when they saw Dylan top the stairs.  Melahara put on the same warm smile she had used to greet Dylan earlier, while Ollis seemed more frustrated than before.

Eblin and Fatimah led Dylan and the other Recindians to Melahara and Ollis.

Eblin said, “Translating between the Seats and yourselves might get tedious, which is why we suggest that you all touch the Crucible so that we can all hear each other’s words as they were meant to be heard.”

Dylan looked at the bowl, then at Eblin.  “You mean touch that bowl?”

“Yes,” Eblin said.

Predictably, General Myndehr said to Dylan in a strained voice, “Excellency, I have no problem with the ‘tediousness’ of translation.”

Which Dylan heard as: There’s no bloody way I’m going to let you touch a bloody supernaturalist bowl in this bloody supernaturalist land.

Before Dylan could say anything, Abraeu stepped forward and said, “What do I have to do?”

Eblin guided him over to the bowl, while Ollis and Melahara put their fingertips on the bowl’s rim.  Fatimah stood beside Melahara and touched her fingers to the rim, along with Eblin.

“Just place your fingers on the bowl like this,” she said.  When Abraeu did so, Melahara said something in the Tuathan language.  Abraeu’s eyes widened, and he said, “I can understand you perfectly.”

Eblin laughed and said something else in Tuathan.  Abraeu looked at Dylan and the others and gave a wry smile.  “That is true.”

I’ve come this far…, Dylan thought, then stepped toward the bowl.  Before he could touch it, General Myndehr put a hand on his shoulder.  “Excellency, at least let me do it first.”

He turned, saw the firm set to her eyes, then nodded.  It was one of the first lessons drilled into him when he became an officer—let your people do their jobs.  General Myndehr’s job was to protect Dylan, and Dylan had not made her job easy during this journey.

She stepped forward, swallowed once, then put her fingertips on the bowl.  When Eblin said something to her in Tuathan, Myndehr yanked her hands away from the bowl, then said, “Yes.”

She turned around stiffly, walked back to Dylan.  He asked, “Well?”

She looked down at him with wide eyes.  “I can understand them now.”  She shook her head.   “This is all a dream…or nightmare…”

Dylan said to Lee, “I’m not going to order you to touch the bowl.  There will be no shame if you choose not to.”

Without a word, Lee walked over to the bowl and placed his fingers on the rim.  A moment later, he nodded at the speaking Tuathans with an uncomfortable grin.

The last to go, Dylan placed his fingers on the bowl’s rim as Melahara was saying something in Tuathan to Abraeu.

“Gal da rianki hra’mora working when the Blessed Rings appeared in our sky.  Ever since then, many of the artifacts we considered simple bowls have come alight with the Aspects of Ahura.”

Dylan stared at Melahara.  One moment she was speaking Tuathan…and the next she was speaking Recindian without an accent he could detect.  Dylan pulled his fingers away from the bowl, and he continued to hear her speaking to Abraeu in flawless Recindian.  Once Dylan had touched the bowl, Melahara, Ollis, Fatimah, and Eblin took their fingers off of it.

Eblin put a gentle hand on Dylan’s arm.  “How do you feel?”

Dylan did not know what to say.  Her words seemed crisper and contained less of an accent than they had before.  He asked, “Are you speaking Mystic right now?”

Eblin smiled.  “We do not refer to ourselves or our language as ‘Mystic,’ but yes, I am speaking my native Tuathan, although with a Beldamark dialect.”

Dylan asked Eblin, “Can I understand anyone who speaks Mys—er, Tuathan?”

Eblin shook her head.  “You can only understand the words of the people who were touching the Crucible when you touched it.  We are working on ways to enhance the effect so that you can understand languages rather than people, but there is so much about the Aspects of Ahura that we’ve forgotten.”  She shrugged and said, “It has only been a month since the Barrier fell.”

Abraeu, listening to Eblin, said, “I keep hearing that word.  What was the Barrier?”

Ollis said in a gruff voice, “That can wait.”

He strode past Melahara and walked to a small table in the corner of the balcony above the library.  The table sat beneath a stained glass window that had a stylized map of the entire Recindian continent.  Gray light from outside illuminated the map, which did not show borders, but did show mountain ranges, lakes, forests, and other natural features.

“Right now there’s something the Speaker needs to see,” Ollis said.  “Follow me, Dylan Edoss.”

Ollis said this without turning to see whether Dylan followed.  The Tuathan stopped in front of the small table and put his hands on it while looking at the stained glass window above it.

Dylan was never a stickler for diplomatic protocols, but neither was he used to being ordered around like a drafted private fresh out of the mines.  Melahara must have noticed the frown on Dylan’s face, for she gave him an apologetic smile and said in a low voice, “Ollis is not the most…delicate speaker, but he is a good man and he wants to help you.  You need to see what he has to show you.”

Dylan walked to where Ollis had placed his hands flat on the table.  The man’s eyes were closed and he mumbled something under his breath that Dylan could not make out.

“Bloody Mercy,” Lee breathed from behind Dylan.  Dylan turned, cast a questioning look at Lee, and saw that Lee’s eyes were focused on the stained glass window above the table.  Dylan looked up at the window and saw it moving.  The glass silently rearranged itself from the map of the Recindian continent, focusing slowly on the lands of the Compact, then onto the state of Gahall, and then the city of Calaman.

“Since you’ve been gone,” Ollis said with his eyes still closed, “there have been developments in your government.  I just need to find…ah, there.”

The glass continued to rearrange, until it found a particular street in Calaman next to the Parliamentary Towers, then focused on a café, then a sidewalk table where a man was reading a newspaper, and then the newspaper itself.

Dylan’s heart grew cold when he read the headlines:

 

DYLAN EDOSS DEPOSED; PATHIST MINISTER KIRICIA ASSUMES SPEAKERSHIP ON PURITY CLAUSE

 

“That’s impossible!” Lee shouted.  “Adellia would never do such a thing.  Dylan, she’s been one of your best friends since you first ran for Parliament.”  Lee turned to Ollis, and said, “This…window is wrong.”

Ollis opened his eyes and glared at Lee.  “The Window does not lie.  This happened yesterday.  Dylan Edoss is no longer Speaker of the Recindian Compact, therefore we will not negotiate with him.”

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 16

Much to General Myndehr’s displeasure, Edoss refused to ride in the carriage through the Beldamark, which pleased Taran since it was his suggestion that Edoss walk.  Taran’s research on the ancient Mystics—or Tuatha, as they preferred to be called—showed their war leaders never accepted a luxury that was denied to their soldiers.  Taran hoped this small act would earn Edoss some respect from the Tuatha.

Ulrike and Alton—who the Tuatha did not invite into the Beldamark—volunteered to guide the carriage driver back to Markwatch.  The Turcian guides were disappointed they could not accompany the Recindians into the legendary Beldamark.  But like all Turicians, they did not believe it wise to dispute the wishes of the “Blessed Ones.”  Especially after the recent plague.

Crossing the Markers into the Beldamark was not the magical experience for which Taran had hoped, but it was satisfying nonetheless.  Stepping past the Markers was just like any other step…only he didn’t find himself suddenly walking back to Markwatch.  The Tuatha guides led them through a dense patch of forest for a few dozen paces until they came to a hard-packed road that wound its way south through the pine trees and hills.  The column made good time—ten miles in three hours—but was soon exhausted from the Beldamark march in addition to the earlier march to the Markers.

Actually Taran and the government bureaucrats were exhausted.  The Tuatha looked as refreshed as if they had just awakened, and the Shadarlak seemed no more tired than a steam trolley at the end of the day.

By the time the column camped for the night, Taran thought his suggestion to leave the carriage behind was not such a good idea after all.  Sitting by one of the camp fires, he removed his boots and socks to find several oozing blisters on each foot.  He poured water from a canteen over them and dabbed them with a relatively clean handkerchief.  The chill in the night air combined with the water to soothe much of the pain.  According to the young Tuatha woman, Fatimah, they had nine more miles of marching until they reached their destination, the Tuatha town of Fedalan.  Taran didn’t think his feet would last nine more paces.

As Taran poured more water over his feet, Fatimah came and sat on her knees next to him.  She lay down her walking staff and put her hands over the fire.

Taran moved his boots and socks away from her.  Tthey could not have been the most pleasant smelling items in camp at the moment.  “Sorry,” he murmured.

Fatimah smiled, and continued warming her hands over the fire.  She glanced at Taran, then started to say something, but stopped.

“Speak your mind, Fatimah,” Taran said.  “I’d be happy to answer any of your questions.  I have a few for you, quite honestly.”

She thrust her hands into her fur cloak.  “Thank you, Taran Abraeu.  I am sorry if I stare.  And I apologize if my questions offend you.”

Taran laughed.  “Not much can offend me.  I’m more used to offending others, to tell you the truth.  I’m somewhat of a pariah among my people for simply wanting to study your people.”

“It is Pathism?” she said.  “Pathists deny the existence of supernaturalism in the world, declaring any who advocate supernaturalism as suffering from lack of critical thinking at best, and delusions at worst.  Correct?”

“That’s part of what Pathists believe—”

“And they claim to be the champions of reason and science, that they have open minds, yet they stamp out any theories that do not conform to their own preconceptions.”

“Well sometimes—”

“Are they not hypocrites then?” Fatimah asked.  “If they claim to have open minds, would they not have to accept all theories as valid until they can be disproved or supported?”

Taran smiled.  “That’s not exactly how science works.  Scientific theories must be falsifiable.  That means it must be possible to prove that they’re wrong.  In other words, there’s no way to prove magic does not exist, therefore there’s no point in scientifically studying it.  So, to a Pathist, studying anything supernatural is a waste of time.”

“But Ahura and Angra are now direct evidence that magic does exist,” Fatimah said, “yet there are still those among your people who deny the possibility that their magic is real.  Even now, your leaders come to us under a cloak of secrecy, to protect themselves from persecution by their own people.”

Taran stared at her.  “How do you know that?”

Fatimah shrugged.  “The Tuatha may have retreated from the world, but we do not ignore it.  We have ways to study your people, ways that we have used since the Barrier went up.”

“How do you study us from behind…the Barrier?” Taran asked.

Fatimah was about to speak, but then closed her mouth.  “Forgive me Taran Abraeu, I have said too much.  Those are things that your leaders should discuss with my leaders.”

She then put her hands over the fire again, but she stared at Taran’s feet curiously.  In that same fluid accent, she asked, “May I try to ease your pain?”

Taran looked at her, then his feet, then sat up quickly.  “You can heal?” he asked.  “Using Ahura?”

“A little,” she said.  “Since the Barrier has fallen, we have to relearn so much.  I know how to bind small cuts.”

I found them Mara, he thought.  Hold on just a little longer…

Taran nodded.  “Please, go ahead.”

He moved his feet so that they were closer to her, all worries of how they smelled gone.

Fatimah removed her hands from above the fire, then raised her left hand to the sky and hovered her right hand over the blisters.  She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and muttered something in ancient Tuathan that Taran could not understand.  Taran stared open-mouthed as a small colorful tendril from Ahura weaved its way down from the ring and seemed to caress Fatimah’s hand.  Fatimah exhaled, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

At first Taran thought it was the cold in the air that made his feet tingle like they had fallen asleep.  But then he saw the blood stop welling from the blisters and then the blisters scab over.  Fatimah lowered her hands, breathing heavily as if she had just run the entire ten miles from the Markers.  Then she lay on her back, staring up at the sky, at Ahura’s swirling colors.

“Are you all right?” Taran asked.

“Yes,” she said.  “This fatigue is a natural part of Wielding the Aspects of Ahura.  It only fades with years of Wielding and dedicated study of the Aspects.  All Tuatha who Wield feel it now.”

The two other Tuathans, Dornal and Ida, rushed over and knelt down next her, talking in ancient Mystic too fast for Taran to follow what they were saying.  The only thing he could tell was that they were angry, and he did not need to know the Mystic language for that.

Fatima replied with something along the lines of, “We will never grow stronger unless we practice.”

Edoss and Cursh came over and stood by the fire, watching the Tuathans argue.

“What happened?” Edoss asked Taran.

“She healed my feet,” Taran said.  “Look.  Those were bleeding blisters just moments ago.  She healed them.”  Taran laughed, happiness overcoming his wonder at last.  “They can heal.  I was right.  I was right…”

“Only injuries,” Fatimah said, rising onto her elbows.  Her eyes looked weary, and she struggled to focus on Taran.  “We can only heal light injuries, or the Taint of Angra.”

Taran felt twinges of cold disappointment creep into his heart.  “What about diseases?”

“It depends on the affliction,” Fatimah said.  “If it is an affliction caused by life, than we can no more Wield to destroy it than we could Wield to destroy a human being.”

“A virus is not life,” Taran said, bitterly.  “It only destroys what it encounters.  It is no better than harrowers.”

Fatimah looked shocked, and Dornal and Ida demanded to know what Taran had said.  Fatimah told them, and they looked on Taran with dismay and a little bit of pity.  This only angered Taran.

“This ‘virus’ you speak of,” Fatimah said, “is part of Ahura’s creation.”

Taran shook his head.  “No, there has to be a way.  I did not come all this way, or spend all these years destroying my reputation, my life, looking for you people just for you tell me…that.”

“Dr. Abraeu,” Edoss said quietly.  “Compose yourself.”

Taran put his socks and boots back on, stood without saying a word, and went to the small tent he shared with Ladak.  Thankfully, Ladak was not in the tent, so Taran was able to lie on his blankets and stare at the tent ceiling without having to talk to the man.  Not even the cold, rocky ground beneath his blankets could cool his anger.

There had to be a way.  The Mystics could do anything with their powers.  They were practically gods…or so the legends said.  These Mystics outside—these Tuathans—were simply relearning their powers, so they must not have figured a way to heal diseases yet.  Yes, that had to be it.

Exhaustion from the march soon overtook Taran’s frustrations and anger, and he awoke at dawn to the sounds of the Shadarlak breaking camp.  Ladak snored next to him, despite a Shadarlak sergeant poking his head inside and asking them to break down their tent.  It took Taran several shoves to get Ladak to wake up.

After Taran and Ladak had packed their tent and stored it on the supply wagon, they enjoyed a bland breakfast of boiled oats and hot tea.

“Ah, breakfast on the march,” Ladak said, spooning the lumpy oats into his bowl from a pot sitting on a grill over a fire.  “Almost forgot how tasty it is.”

“You were in the army?” Taran asked as he poked at his own tasteless oats.

“I was drafted at the end of the First Mazumdahri War,” he said, sitting down on a log next to Taran and sipping his tea from a tin cup.  “I went through four weeks of training, spent four days on a ship bound for Levakan, and marched twenty miles to the front.  The day we arrived, the cease fire was declared.”  Ladak laughed.  “As you can imagine I was quite relieved, but bloody Mercy, couldn’t the Mazums have given up a month earlier?”

As Ladak talked, Taran saw Fatimah speaking with Dornal and Ida, each one occasionally glancing in his direction.  They abruptly stopped when Fatimah turned away from them and marched toward Taran.  She did not look pleased.  When she stood in front of Taran and Ladak, she simply looked at Taran.

After an uncomfortable silence, Ladak stood, asked, “Would you like some oats, Miss Fatimah?”

She shook her head.  “My companions want me to apologize to you, Taran Abraeu, for speaking the truth to you last night regarding our…limits on healing.  My comments were not intended to offend you.  These are topics that you should discuss with my Masters in Fedalan, and I had no right to talk to you about them.”

Before Taran could reply, she turned and stalked back to the other Tuathans, who gave her cool glares.

“What was that about?” Ladak asked.  Taran told him about what Fatimah had said about a Mystic’s ability to heal viral diseases.

Ladak seemed confused for a moment, then realization came to him, and a look of sympathy flashed across his face.

“I’m sorry, Taran,” he said.  “Perhaps they don’t know their own abilities yet.  Perhaps they’ve simply forgotten how and need to relearn it.”

Taran looked back at the Tuathans, who stood at the edge of the clearing near the road.  Dornal and Ida, the older Tuathans, spoke softly to each other, while Fatimah studied the Shadarlak and the Recindians near them.  She watched them as if she were committing to memory observations of a strange new animal species.  Taran supposed the Tuathans were just as curious about the Recindians as the Recindians were of them.  And it was apparent from the apology that Dornal and Ida had forced Fatimah to make that the Tuathans needed the Recindians just as much as the Recindians needed them.  Taran suddenly had a bad feeling that the Tuathans were not as powerful as the legends had made them out to be.  At least not these Tuathans.

When the march continued, the air was once again misty with morning fog but cleared as the day wore on, though the sky remained gray and drizzly.  The pine trees along the road seemed to lean in towards the marchers, as if curious about Recindians that had not walked through the Beldamark for centuries.  With the drizzle, the hard packed road turned to mud, and there were a few occasions where the supply wagon’s wheels bogged down in a rut of muck.  A nine mile march ended up taking the column most of the day.

A few hours before dusk, the column arrived at a four-story, white marble obelisk with archways attached to the right and left sides.  Taran marveled at the construction of the obelisk, for it seemed to have been carved from a single piece of stone.  There were no seams that he could see, and the carvings along the base showed no signs of weathering.  It was as if the obelisk had been built yesterday.

Taran had been so enamored with studying the obelisk that he had not noticed the Tuathans approach Edoss, who stood a few paces ahead of him.

Fatimah said, “Your next steps will seem…strange.  But you have nothing to fear from the Guardians.”

“Guardians?” Edoss asked.

Fatimah pointed at the obelisks.  “We call them the Guardians.  They are what keep the uninvited out of the Beldamark.  The arches attached to them provide us with a quick means of travel throughout our lands.”

Taran looked at the arches again.  They had seemed like normal arches to him upon first glance.  The road led right up to them and split into two paths that went through the arches and then merged again beyond the obelisk.

But there was something different about the terrain on the other side of the arches.  A large pine towered above the obelisk behind it…but Taran could not see its base through the arches.  He walked around the arch on the left.  Yes, the terrain he saw through the arch did not match what was really on the other side.

“These are a doorway into another land,” Taran said, looking at Fatimah for confirmation.

She nodded.  “The arch on the right goes to another Guardian to the north.  We will take the arch on the left, which will take us to the next Guardian south of us.  It will take seventy miles off of our journey to Fedalan.”

General Myndehr whispered something into Edoss’s ear, but the Speaker shook his head and said in a normal voice, “Time is short, and I don’t want to spend another week on the road if we can help it.”

Myndehr frowned, and Edoss grinned.  “I thought you didn’t believe in Mystic supernaturalism?”

Without a word, Myndehr turned and went to her men to brief them about the arches.

Edoss said to Fatimah, “Please lead us through, Fatimah of Kulon Fields.”

Fatimah bowed, then strode to the arch on the left along with Dornal and Ida.  They walked through as if they were walking into another room, and continued walking as if they had simply stepped over a rock.

Edoss, Cursh, and their aids—some staring warily at the arches—walked through, followed by Taran and the Shadarlak.  As Taran passed beneath the tall stone arch, he was a bit disappointed to find that it truly was like walking into another room.  The surrounding hills were much steeper, and the trees were not as numerous, but the road looked exactly the same.  The rest of the column came through, most of the Shadarlak keeping their eyes forward and not even glancing at the arch as they marched under it.

Taran jogged up to the three Tuathans and asked, “How do they work?  I thought your powers left you after the Barrier went up.”

Dornal and Ida looked at him, then looked to Fatimah.  She translated Taran’s question, and they nodded.

“After the Barrier,” Fatimah said, “the Tuatha lost the ability to Wield, but the few items imbued with the Aspects still retained them.  The Guardians are among those objects.  They keep out the uninvited, and they help us to travel throughout our lands.”

“You keep mentioning ‘the Aspects.’  What are they?”

Fatimah frowned, glanced quickly at Dornal and Ida, then said, “I am sorry, Taran Abraeu.  I cannot discuss that with you.”

“What are you allowed to talk about?” Taran asked.  He wanted to shake Dornal and Ida.  He was one of the first people to meet the Mystics in a thousand years, and yet they would not talk to him.

Fatimah gave him a pleading look.  “I wish I could answer your questions, Taran Abraeu, but my only task is to guide you to Fedalan, where the Worldly Seat and the Holy Seat will answer your questions.  I have many questions for you, as well, but my oaths forbid me to speak of them until after my Masters have spoken to you.  Please understand.”

Taran nodded, disappointed, but understanding of her situation.  He supposed Edoss would not want him divulging all the secrets of the Compact to the three Tuathans whom they had just met.

Taran slowed down a bit and waited for Edoss to approach.  The Speaker said, “I trust you are not annoying our new friends.”

He used a casual tone, but Taran had come to know that the Speaker never spoke casually.

“I was asking about the obelisks, Excellency.”

“I know how difficult this is for you, Doctor, but your first priority is to be a translator, not an academic.  You can conduct your research at the appropriate time, but not at the expense of this mission.  That means no more questions for our guides about healing diseases.  Do you understand?”

Taran seethed at the Speaker for treating him like a misbehaving first-year student.  Edoss had asked—no, ordered—Taran to come on this mission, and he suddenly wanted Taran to stop being curious about the Mystics?  What did he expect Taran to do, simply march along to his orders like one of his mindless Shadarlak?  Taran was a scientist—though most of his colleagues denied him that title—and scientists ask questions.  Was he supposed to turn off his curiosity in the face of the biggest discovery of this age?

Taran knew he was pouting, and was ashamed of it, but bloody Mercy, he had waited long enough to find the answers to his questions about the Mystics.  And so had Mara.

Taran spent most of the march making mental notes of all the questions he would ask once he was allowed.  The type of country they marched through was familiar to Taran—more tall pines covering steep hills beneath a gray sky—so there was not much else for him to do.

He then began studying the rings, when he wasn’t avoiding mud puddles on the road.  Both rings gave him different, intense feelings whenever he stared at them.  Ahura made him feel loved and at peace, like he did when he was a child, lying in bed as his parents told him a story.  Angra made him uneasy and his blood quicken…the same way he felt when Edoss had berated him, or all the other times he had been insulted and laughed at because of his research choices.

Or when Adhera talked about the Mercy for Mara.

A large black tendril suddenly slithered down from Angra and touched the ground beyond the hills to the northwest.  Almost a dozen tendrils from Ahura came down in the same location, their colors swirling as they descended.  The tendrils from both rings whipped around and brightened, as if the wind were tossing them about.  One by one, the tendrils from Ahura retreated back to the ring, and after a few minutes, only the black tendril remained.

Taran looked at the Mystics, who were also watching the tendrils.  Shock and sadness covered their faces as they spoke in low voices to each other.  After a few moments, they made conscious efforts to suppress their sadness, and their expressions turned stony and determined.  Their pace quickened, and the rest of the column was forced to march faster to keep them within sight.

Taran was tempted to ask what had happened, but by the Tuathan demeanors, he knew he did not have to.  Only a few miles to the north, there had been a battle between the Tuatha and a powerful harrower.

And the Tuatha had lost.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 15

Adellia Kiricia seethed as she strode through the long, marble corridors of the south Parliamentary Tower.  She tried to keep her pace even, her face serene, so as not to start gossip among the numerous aids and civil servants she passed.  Seeing the Pathist Minister, second in line of succession to the Speaker, angry and hurried made people nervous.  And nervous people gossiped.  She did not want people speculating on the whereabouts of the Speaker.  At least not yet.

Bloody Mercy, the man was a fool!  How could he believe that letter had been written by characters from a children’s fantasy?  How could he risk throwing the entire Compact into chaos if it became known that its Speaker was a supernaturalist madman?  And how could he have left without telling her, expecting her to clean up the mess he had made with his abrupt departure?  The man did not have the guts to tell her face to face, but left a letter for her in her office explaining his disappearance.  Adellia clenched her fists to keep from growling at an aid that almost ran into her as she rounded a corner.

The Compact was a Pathist nation that had abandoned all foolish notions of supernaturalism two centuries ago.  It was a nation built on logic, reason, and science, virtues that had made it prosperous and strong.  For a Speaker to abandon those ideals upon which the Compact was founded was more than foolish.  It was treason.

In a hallway that was not as busy as the main thoroughfares in the Towers, she found the entrance to a private corridor that was known only to Parliamentary leaders.  Adellia had once been leader of the Scarlet faction within Parliament, and had used this corridor for meetings with Members that she did not want known throughout the Towers.  Though the Compact was a republic, it ran on secret deals between Parliamentarians that enabled the government to function without paralyzing conflict.  While many deals got results, the compromises made would not look good to the voting bases of some of the deal makers.

Adellia produced a key from her coat, opened the nondescript door, and entered the corridor beyond.  The corridor smelled musty and was in shadow, with only the daylight from the open doorways guiding her way.  At the end, lamp light flickered from the open door there.  She heard voices, which stopped when her footsteps echoed in the empty hall.  Olmedo Tamar, Levakan’s senior Member and leader of Parliament’s Emerald faction, poked his bald head from the room and squinted at Adellia.

“It’s me, Olmedo,” she said, entering the zone of light just outside the door.

Olmedo relaxed, then retreated into the room.  Adellia rounded the corner to find three Members from the Scarlet faction sitting at a round table in the center of the room.  Light streamed from a small window set high into the wall, but was not enough to illuminate the whole room.  Two gas lamps sat on the table, bathing the room in an orange glow.

“Why the secrecy, Adellia?” Olmedo asked as he sat back down at the table.

Abbe Saccello, her black hair worn long around her shoulders, said, “I had to tell my staff I was ill.”

She was Orlenian, so quite short in stature, but she was young and pretty enough to draw the attention of many of the taller Members, single and married.

Saul Mata, a Gahallian and one of the oldest Members in Parliament, said, “I had to lie to my staff as well.  I don’t like lying to them, Adellia.  They’re smart enough to know I’m lying.”

Adellia sat down and looked at each one of them.  “Speaker Edoss has gone to the Beldamark to meet with Mystics.”

All three gave her silent, blank stares for a few moments, then Olmedo laughed.  “And here I thought it was something serious.”

“I am serious,” Adellia said, then folded her hands on the table.  “Our Speaker believes that the Mystics sent him a letter inviting him to the Beldamark to discuss the rings.”

Saul Mata asked, “What made him believe this letter came from the Mystics?  Could it be a Mazumdahri trick?”

“That’s what I tried telling him,” Adellia said wearily.  “There is no proof yet of a Mazumdahri trick, but this has their stink all over it.”

For two weeks, she tried discussing with him his thoughts regarding the infamous Mystic letter and its invitation to the Beldamark, but he would always change the subject without revealing his plans.  A few days before he left, he even refused to discuss the matter with her, and he never brought it up in Ministerial meetings.

When he disappeared three days ago, he left only a letter for her saying where he was going.  Even now most of it was burned into her memory.

I know you were doing what you thought was right when you tried to dissuade me from going to the Beldamark.  But you have to know that I believe what I am doing is right.  If these Mystics exist, then they are the only beings that can help us against any further attacks against our cities.

As if a freak tornado was an “attack!”

The secrecy of this mission is paramount.  You are one of my oldest friends, and it pained me to keep this from you.  But I know you would have wanted to go with me only to debunk the Mystics, not to open a dialogue with them.  

He’s bloody right she would have gone to debunk these ‘Mystics.’  And afterwards she would have dragged Edoss back to Calaman by his ear, bloody Speaker or not.

This mission is too important for us to start our talks with the Mystics on a distrusting tone.  Besides, I need you in Calaman.  You are second in line of succession, and if something happens to me, the Compact will need a strong leader for the coming trials.

Ah, Dylan, she thought, the trials will be for you, my old friend.

“The newspapers in Orlen are abuzz with the Speaker’s visit there,” Abbe said, smiling in wonder.  “Remarkable disinformation campaign for so secret a mission.  I wonder how many editors Edoss had to bribe?”

Olmedo put his head in his hands.  “Bloody Mercy, if this gets out…”

“It will be chaos,” Saul said, his face grim.  “The public has remained calm in the face of these rings and the storm because the government has given them plausible explanations.  Albeit without hard evidence to back them up.”

Adellia glared at Saul.  “Just because we do not yet have scientific proof of what the rings are doesn’t mean—”

“I know, Adellia, it doesn’t mean these rings are supernatural,” Saul said.  “But the people believe what the government and the Pathist hierarchy tell them.  If the people should find out that the Speaker of the Recindian Compact thinks Mystics exist, then they will begin to doubt everything about Pathism and the Compact.  Our society will crumble, and the Mazumdahri will laugh as we tear ourselves apart.”

Abbe shook her head.  “I have a little more faith in the people than you, Saul.  They will not run riot in the streets if they find out the Speaker has ‘gone to see the Mystics.’”

“Do you want to take that chance?” Saul asked.  “We may have a cease fire with the Mazumdahri at the moment, but we’re still at war.  If they smell any sort of weakness, they will start shooting again.”

He turned to Adellia.  “I know Edoss is your friend—Mercy, he’s a member of my faction—but he has gone too far.  He cannot remain Speaker.”

Adellia knew what Saul was implying.  Her choice was loyalty to a friend or loyalty to the Compact.

And she had made the choice when she called this meeting.

“If I invoke the Purity clause,” she said slowly, “are there enough votes in Parliament to overturn it?  If there are, I will not even consider it.  The last thing the Compact needs is a constitutional crisis while most of the Mazumdahri army still sits on our border.”

Saul leaned forward.  “There will be opposition from Edoss’s more loyal supporters, but it will be nothing compared to the outrage from all factions of Parliament once they learn of Edoss’s mad pilgrimage to the Beldamark.  Parliament will back your succession.”

Adellia looked at Abbe.  “And what of Orlen?  Will their delegation back me if I depose one of their own, the first Orlenian to hold the Speakership?”

“Most Orlenians are orthodox Pathists,” Abbe said.  “At least the ones who vote.  If the Speaker is a supernaturalist, they will not care if he is Orlenian.  They will want him deposed.  You can count on the support of the Orlenian delegation.”

Adellia looked to Olmedo.  She knew she didn’t have to ask whether or not the Emeralds would support her succession.  They had fought hard to keep Edoss out of the Speakership because of his push for a conciliatory peace treaty with the Mazumdahri.  But the Emeralds were staunchly Pathist, and they would overlook Adellia’s own calls for peace with Mazumdahr as long as she upheld Pathist values in the government.

Olmedo smiled, and said, “Levakan and the Emeralds stand with you…Speaker Kiricia.”

 

Adellia Kiricia immediately called a special a session of Parliament and told the Members about Edoss’s belief in the Mystics, and how he had left for the Beldamark several days earlier on a mad quest to meet with those fraudulent beings of legend.  Ministers who were present in the meeting where Edoss received the so-called Mystic letter testified to him collapsing on the balcony, and could verify he had not been the same afterwards.  At best, the Speaker had succumbed to an illness of the mind due to the pressure of the war and his recent election.  At worst, he actually believed in the supernaturalist theories for the rings and the Calaman storm.  Either way, he had to be removed from office.

That night, newspapers throughout the Compact were wiretyped the news that Speaker Edoss had been found guilty under the Compact constitution’s Purity clause for attempting to turn the Compact into a supernaturalist nation.  He was removed from office by his Pathist Minister, Adellia Kiricia.

The next day, in her acceptance speech before Parliament, Adellia Kiricia pledged to keep the Compact free from the slavery of supernaturalism and deism.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 14

Karak sat in his carriage watching the cargo ship Hutina float toward a deepwater stone pier at Yaro Docks.  The time was close to midnight, so gas lamps hung on hooks above the pier, providing the four longshoremen with enough light to gather the Hutina’s lines.  The longshoremen securely tied the ship to the dock within a minute.  As soon as the gangplank was lowered, Karak watched the crew and the longshoremen haul a large crate off the ship.  A Compact customs official—someone Karak had bribed dozens of times before—approached the crate, stamped it with the Compact seal without even opening it, and waved it on toward the nearby wagon.  The longshoremen threw oiled tarps over the crate, concealing it from the curious eyes of unbribed authorities and other onlookers.

Karak smiled.  The whole process took less than five minutes.

Karak knocked three times on the interior ceiling of his coach.  His driver turned the horse to follow the wagon transporting the crate.  They wound their way through the Low City, the quarter of Calaman that most respectable citizens declared immoral and filthy, but where they all ended up at one time or another in their lives.  It was Karak’s home and place of business.  He knew there would always be a flourishing trade of gambling, whorehouses, and opium dens, no matter how many laws a government passed against them.  Karak understood human nature, understood that even in the darkest times there were certain businesses that would always prosper until humanity faded from history.

Once the wagon reached the Low City, Karak knew they were safe.  Most of the people wandering the dark streets were alone, with hoods over their heads or wide-brimmed hats pulled low.  Karak knew of several Parliamentarians who frequented his establishments, along with many powerful merchants and military officers.  None would comment on anything they saw here, for that would only raise questions on what they were doing in the Low City to begin with.

Businesses in the Low City did not advertise their wares like the “legitimate” businesses in the rest of Calaman.  Whorehouses and opium dens were illegal in the Compact (though it was relatively easy to bribe an official here and there to look the other way), so they could not post signs above their establishments.  Word of mouth was the only advertisement these places had.  All of the buildings along the winding cobblestone streets would have looked deserted had it not been for the people walking—usually stumbling—in and out of their doors.  Most of the gas lamps on the streets were dark, for the city government had ceded de facto control of the Low City to its denizens…which Karak controlled.  Though he had the power to order someone to keep the lamps lit, he knew the Low City’s clientele preferred the shadows.

After a twenty minute ride through the Low City, the wagons arrived at the rendezvous point inside a complex of abandoned grain silos.  The night outside was moonless and cloudy, the only illumination coming from the glow of thousands of gas lamps in the city.  Once Karak’s carriage passed through the doors, they closed behind him.

Crane, dressed in an impeccably tailored blue suit and matching blue tri-corner hat, stood in the center of the silo holding a torch.  Five cloaked and hooded men, all holding torches, stood behind Crane.

Karak stepped out of his carriage and approached Crane and his men.  The cloaked men gave Karak an uneasy feeling, like when he saw what Crane had done to his plant several days ago.  Every bit of their skin was covered, and they stood unnaturally still, holding the torches above them with cloth-wrapped hands.  The horses harnessed to Karak’s carriage and the wagon pulling the crate snorted nervously.  The drivers got down from their seats and patted the noses of each horse, soothing them with soft words, though the drivers looked as uneasy as the animals.

“Your package is delivered, Mr. Crane,” Karak said.  “Now I believe we have a transaction to complete.”

Crane walked around to the wagon, swinging his walking cane as if on a noonday stroll along the waterfront.  He used the cane to lift the oiled tarp and inspected the crate.  He leaned in, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath through his nose.

He smiled.  “You are a man of your word, Mr. Frost.  But there is one more task I must ask of you before our transaction is complete.  You must kill your drivers.”

This drew shocked gasps from the drivers, and the horses began to whinny, sensing their masters’ fear.

Karak laughed.  “These men are Klahdera.  They are sworn to me and I to them.  They would sooner slit their own throats than talk to the authorities.  Don’t worry, your secrets are safe.”

Crane shrugged.  “Very well.”

The men in cloaks behind Crane dropped their torches.  Tentacled arms shot from out of their cloaks with sickening cracks and moist slithering sounds.  The ends of the tentacles wrapped around each driver’s neck before he had time to scream.

But Karak had a revolver in his hand aimed at Crane’s face just as quickly as the disguised monsters had struck.

“Release them,” Karak growled.

Crane laughed.  “Or what, you’ll shoot me?”

Karak pulled the trigger and blasted a hole in Crane’s forehead, spraying the cloaked men behind him with Crane’s blood and brains.  Crane’s body fell to the ground on its back.  From the rafters above, revolver fire opened up on the “men” in cloaks.  The cloaked men unwrapped their tentacles from around the drivers, the men slumping to their knees gasping for air.  The cloaked men fell to the ground as holes exploded all of their bodies from the Klahdera men Karak had posted in the silo’s rafters before Crane had arrived.

He always had a back-up plan.

The cloaked things stopped moving.  The gunfire stopped.  Besides the sounds of Karak’s men coming down from the silo rafters, all was quiet.  Karak walked over to Crane and stared at his body.  There was a small hole in his forehead and a large pool of dark blood spreading on the ground from the back of his head.  Crane’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, and his lips wore with the same grin he had just before Karak shot him.

Primas Maed stood next to Karak, while Castle, leading the rest of Karak’s men, aimed his two silver revolvers at one of the cloaked men he had killed, poking its body with a toe.

“Can’t trust anybody these days, my Lord,” Primas said, looking down at Crane and holstering his revolver.

“That’s why I keep you around,” Karak said.  He walked over to the wagon carrying the crate and whipped the tarp off the back.  “Now let’s see what’s in this thing.  Castle, those things are dead.  Come over here and help me with this.”

The large Klahdera man holstered his revolvers in the belt around his hip, then leaped up onto the wagon with Karak.  Another Klahdera man tossed Castle a crowbar, which Castle used to pry open a corner of the unmarked wood box.  Karak used another crowbar to pry open the other ends, and they soon had the lid off and leaning to one side of the wagon.  A terrible odor sprang from the box, making Karak wince and Castle begin to cough.  It was as if a thousand rats had rolled in their own dung and then died inside the box.  Through teary eyes, Karak looked inside.

The crate was filled mostly with straw, but in the center was a chest made of black stone about two paces wide and long.  The chest looked extremely old, for the white paint in the carvings on its lid was nearly gone from weathering, as were the rounded corners.

“Bloody Mercy,” Primas said, covering his mouth and nose.  “What’s in there?”

Karak pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and put it over his mouth and nose.  It did not help.

“My Lord,” Castle said, covering his nose with his sleeve, and looking at Karak with more fear in his eyes than Karak had ever seen before.  “This stench is supernatural.  Those men over there were supernatural.  We should leave this place now.”

Karak was inclined to agree with Castle.  Nothing about this whole job was “natural.”  He almost wished he were a good Pathist, who could simply shrug off his nervousness—and yes, fear—and leave the boxes here in this crumbling silo.

But that was a luxury he did not have.  The Klahdera Overlords would be most displeased if he happened to return to them without bringing the item for which Crane was willing to pay forty thousand han.

But that didn’t mean he had to open the box right now.

“All right, let’s get the lid back on,” Karak ordered.  Castle was only too eager to comply, practically lifting the lid and placing it back on the crate by himself.

As Karak pounded the nails back into the crate, he heard Primas say, “Lord Karak…”

When Karak looked up, he saw Crane standing in front of Primas with his same death smile.  He wiped away the blood trickling from his forehead with the back of his hand, then licked it with a nauseating slurp.

Primas fired at Crane, emptying his revolver into Crane’s chest by the time Karak and Castle were able to draw theirs.  Primas’s bullets did nothing to stop Crane, who strode over to him, stuck his fingers into Primas’s throat and ripped it out.  Primas fell to the ground, his body jerking, while Crane threw the bloody gore in his hand to the ground.

Karak’s men fired at Crane, but the bullets affected him less than a stiff morning breeze.  The cloaked men behind the Klahdera rose up and wrapped their grotesque tentacles around the necks of Karak’s men.  The Klahdera men screamed as claw-tipped tentacles began tearing at their throats.

Crane leveled his black eyes at Karak and said, “Kindly step away from my crate, Mr. Frost.”

Then his hand shot toward Karak, elongating into a tentacle with five taloned fingers.  Karak dove off the wagon and ran for the closed doors to the silos.  He did not think, could not think.  He acted on animal instinct alone, not bothering to look back as the screams of his men ended in wet gurgles, cracking bone, and rending flesh.

Karak used his shoulder to slam the doors open, and then ran until he collapsed in front of his tavern.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 13

Taran felt more at home on a swaying ship than most of his companions.  While he stood on the bow, watching the front of the ship rise and fall in the waves, many of the Speaker’s aids, and a few Shadarlak, leaned over the side of the ship emptying what was left of their breakfasts, lunches, and dinners into the Gulf of Pagilah.  Even the Speaker looked ill, though he fought back his nausea stoically.

Taran shook his head.  In a relatively land-locked country, where train travel was commonplace, travel by water had become the choice of foreigners and exporters.  Taran had grown up sailing with his father and grandfather on Lake Maximohr, which could be just as violent and wild as the Gebremeden Sea or the open ocean.

The journey to Markwatch took little less than a day, compared to the three days it would have taken if the mission had traveled the dirt roads that snaked through the forests of Turicia.  That country had not yet taken to the idea of modernity, much less trains, and it had taken lengthy negotiations to get them to accept a wiretype line through their country so the Compact could communicate with its embassy in the Turician capital Goray.

The town of Markwatch was one of the largest towns in Turicia, though it was slightly bigger than Kaneta and much older.  Stone walls twelve feet high ringed the town’s northern boundary facing the forest, while Markwatch Keep, a large, multi-spired stone castle, sat atop a hill that dominated the center of town.  Besides the tall lighthouse on a small island a mile offshore, the castle was the first thing Taran saw as the sloop approached.

The sloop crept into the town’s dock.  The crew set the anchor and tied docking lines to rusted metal cleats on the stone pier, all with experienced proficiency.  It was a little before midnight, so once again the Compact mission entered a town that slept.

From the railings of the sloop, Taran saw the Lord of Markwatch, Sirucz Ven Demeg, standing in front of three other bearded men who looked thin and haggard.  Ven Demeg had the same black hair and dark beard as the King of Edellia, but Ven Demeg was just as thin as his advisors and did not have the smiling eyes that King Hamacz had.  Speaker Edoss descended the gangway to the dock and made the customary bows to Lord Ven Demeg.  They talked a few moments, and then Edoss said something to General Myndehr.  Myndehr turned and issued orders to Captain Latish, who then bellowed out to his Shadarlak to begin unloading the ship.

The Edellian crewmen stood by as the Shadarlak unloaded their gear, not helping as they had in Sydear.  Rumors of the incident at Kaneta had already spread among the crew, creating palpable tension between the Compact passengers and the Edellians.  Though Taran loved to sail, he was quite happy to be off the Edellian ship before another incident exploded.

“Dr. Abraeu,” Edoss called from the dock, motioning him over to Lord Ven Demeg.  Taran grabbed his large duffle sack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked down the gangway to the Speaker.

“Dr. Abraeu is the Compact’s only Mystic expert,” Edoss was saying to Ven Demeg.  The Lord’s eyes were tired and vacant, his chin pointing more toward his chest rather than held high like King Hamacz.  With the quiet, exhausted shuffling of the dockworkers nearby, Taran was getting an uneasy feeling about Markwatch.

Ven Demeg nodded his head, and said in a deep voice, “Welcome to Markwatch, Dr. Abraeu.  I would be most interested to hear your opinions on the Blessed Ones and”—pointing to the sky—“Ahura and Angra.”

There was not a hint of an accent in Ven Demeg’s voice, which surprised Taran, since Turician and common Recindian were such different languages.

But Taran was more interested in Ven Demeg’s terms for the Mystics.  To the Turicians, the Mystics were the avatars of Ahura and Angra.  Most Turicians had a prophetic faith in the Mystics, that the Mystics would return when the world needed them most.  Taran assumed the appearance of the rings would be a celebrated event in Turicia.  But the hollow faces of Ven Demeg and his advisors, along with the dockworkers, told a different story.

“Thank you, my Lord.  I would be most honored to discuss my theories with you.  I was wondering why—”

“There will be time for talk at my dinner table tonight.”  Ven Demeg turned to Edoss.  “Excellency, these carriages will take you and your advisors to Markwatch Keep.”

Edoss bowed, then ordered General Myndehr to march the Shadarlak to the Keep.  Ven Demeg held open the door to one of the carriages for Edoss, who climbed in, followed by Lee Cursh, two Shadarlak, and Taran.  Ven Demeg climbed in last.  General Myndehr chose to march with her men to the Keep.  The carriage lurched forward as soon as Ven Demeg shut the door.

The town at the foot of Markwatch Keep was eerily quiet, even for midnight.  In many sections, there were no souls on the streets, even outside taverns and inns.  There were even sections where many of the homes and buildings had recently burned to the ground.  Taran gave Ven Demeg a questioning look.  The Lord of Markwatch stared back at Taran, his eyes in shadow.

“The night after Ahura and Angra returned,” he said in a quiet voice, “a terrible pestilence began in the surrounding farms, then spread to Markwatch.  People vomited blood.  Blood poured from their eyes, noses, ears.  Oozing sores covered the infected.  Our healers could not determine how the disease passed from person to person, for there were healers who cared for the sick from the beginning and never developed a single sore.  But then a farmer on the outer fringes of my lands would develop the disease even though he had no contact with the infected.  It killed over half the population of Markwatch within a week.”

Ven Demeg stared at the empty buildings.  Taran thought Ven Demeg did not see empty buildings, but the corpses that must have once been piled high around them.

“And after a week, the dying stopped, just as suddenly as it began.  Those who were sick recovered within a day.”

With fevered intensity, Ven Demeg declared, “It was Ahura who saved us from the Angra-spawned plague.  We had not shown proper respect to the gods when they re-appeared, so the Blessed Ones allowed the Angra plague to punish us.  Once we showed proper repentance, the plague stopped.”

Ven Demeg returned his gaze to the empty streets of Markwatch.  Down one of the streets littered with razed buildings, Taran saw a figure sitting in front of a collapsed house, a lantern by its side.  The figure rocked back and forth.

“What do you mean by ‘proper repentance?’” Taran asked.

Ven Demeg still gazed at the streets of Markwatch.  “It was my responsibility to ensure my people were prepared for the return of Ahura and Angra.  It was my responsibility to ensure they showed the proper reverence for the gods.  It was my failure, not theirs.  It was my duty to suffer, not them.”

When he turned back to the Compact men, his face was more sunken than it had been moments before.

“In days of old, it was the king’s family that paid for the king’s sins.  So I put my entire family to the sword.  Once I did, the dying stopped.”

 

“Now I understand why the Compact abandoned religion long ago,” Ladak said to Taran while washing his face and hands in the bowl of water Ven Demeg’s servants had set out for them.

The room on the third floor of the Keep was small, maybe five paces by ten paces, but felt like a ballroom compared to the cramped quarters of the bunk Taran had shared with Ladak on the train, and the even more cramped hold on the sloop.  There were two small beds on either side of the room, both with well maintained quilts and blankets finely embroidered with silver swirls and whorls on dark green fields.  Taran sat at a small desk next to the paned glass window thumbing through a treatise on Turician theology where it concerned the Mystics.  Night had fallen, and Taran was barely able to make out the words from the small candle on the desk.

“That wasn’t religion,” Taran said, flipping through the pages of the book.  “It was desperation and madness.  There’s nothing in Turician theology that says a king or lord has to sacrifice his family to appease Ahura.  There are legends that speak of Turician kings burning their families so the old gods—pre-Ahura—would grant them victory in battle.  Even then there was nothing about killing the royal family to atone for a lack of faith.”

Toweling his hands and face, Ladak said, “Well, simply having dinner with the man was enough to make me want to run to the nearest Pathist Teacher.  He actually believes that murdering his wife and three sons was what stopped the plague.  What do you think?  Was it natural or caused by harrowers?”

Taran shook his head, shutting the book and eying the bed through a stifled yawn.  “We’ve seen that harrowers can control the weather and turn living creatures into monsters.  Why not unleash a plague?”

Ladak climbed into the bed across the room from Taran, and  said, “How do we fight an enemy who can strike us with plagues?”

Taran stared at the dark sky through the clouded window.   “With the help of the Mystics.”

Only they can cure Mara of her own plague.

Ladak grunted.  “I suppose we’ll see tomorrow, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Taran said.

He felt the familiar surge of excitement over meeting the Mystics, a feeling he welcomed over the constant terror and unease he had felt throughout the journey here.  Tomorrow he would meet the Mystics.  Tomorrow he would meet the people who would return his daughter to him.

 

 

That night Taran dreamed of fire and blood.

He stood before his house in Calaman.  It was the only house still intact, for the surrounding block was a charred ruin.  The stink of burnt flesh mingled with the rotting corpses festering in the ruined buildings and on the street.  He ignored it all, and walked up the steps to the door to his home.  He entered the house, saw Teacher Owhn Feshaye sitting on the couch consoling Adhera, who leaned against Owhn’s shoulder crying.  She was naked.

Owhn looked up at Taran and said, “I’ll take care of her now, lad.”  He gave Taran a leering smile, then lifted Adhera’s chin and kissed her deeply.

Taran turned away and climbed the stairs to Mara’s room.  As he reached the top, he saw a shadow enter Mara’s room at the end of the hall, and then heard her cry.

“Papa!” she screamed.

Taran wanted to sprint forward, but as is typical in dreams, his feet would not move as fast as he wanted.  He could only shuffle forward in small steps.  He wanted to yell out to her, to let her know he was coming, but he could not open his mouth.  All the while he heard her crying for him.

After an eternity, he reached the closed door to her room, then pushed it open.  Mara lay on the bed on her back, her sleep clothes stained yellow from recent vomit.  Blood seeped from her eyes, her ears, her nose.  The shadow hovered above her, its black wispy, tendrils stabbing at Mara like spears.  She looked at Taran, her long black hair wet with sweat.  When she opened her mouth, a gout of blood spurted from her mouth and ran down over her chin.

“Help me,” she cried in a gurgling voice.

Taran could not move, but he found his voice.  He screamed at the shadow, “Get away from her!”

The shadow continued stabbing at Mara, but a face formed in the chaotic swirling mass.  It was not a face that Taran recognized, but it was distinct in its features.  The nose was long and pointed, the eyes set far apart, and it wore a well-trimmed beard that was barely more than stubble.  Though the face swirled in a black mist, Taran knew that its hair was reddish.

“You want me to stop?” the face asked in a harsh whisper, then laughed at Taran.  “So stop me.”

Taran could not move or even speak.  The shadow continued to stab at Mara, and her sudden screams of anguish and horror were like nothing he had ever heard come from a human throat.

Ladak woke him.

“Doctor?” he said, a hand on Taran’s shoulder.  “We have a big day ahead of us.”

Taran looked up at Ladak through sleep covered eyes, confused for a moment.  The dream was still vivid in his mind, and he wondered if Ladak was part of the dream.  Ladak stared at him.  “Are you well?  You look pale.”

Taran swallowed a spitless swallow, his throat dry from the night’s sleep.  He blinked his eyes again, then said, “I’m fine.  Just didn’t sleep well.”  Was this conversation a dream…?

Ladak nodded, then sat on his own bed to lace his shoes.  “I can imagine.  You’re about to meet the people for whom you’ve been searching for ten years.  You must be quite excited.”

Taran slowly swung his legs out of bed and reached for his pants.  “Yes.  Excited.”

For the moment, his mind returned to the Mystics and how he was about to fulfill a quest that started when Mara was struck down with the Blood.  But he could not help but feel that the dream had something to do with them, for he felt uneasy about meeting them now, whereas before last night, it was all joy.  The dream felt more real to him than being awake in this small room in Markwatch Keep.  What did the shadow mean when it said, “So stop me?”  And whose face was in the shadow?

Taran gathered his gear and made his way down to the stables with Ladak.  The Keep was ancient, old even before the Faith Wars.  It had dark hallways made of granite where not even a candle burned.  There were very few servants in the halls, but the ones he saw were subdued and walked about with lowered heads.  The horror of the plague and Ven Demeg’s “cure” was bound to fill the residents of Markwatch with grief and despair.  Taran wondered if this town would ever recover.

Taran and Ladak found the stables near the western gate of the Keep.  Most of the Shadarlak were there organizing themselves into squads.  There were maybe three dozen Shadarlak now, since the attacks during the journey had depleted them from the fifty that had started in Calaman.  Taran didn’t think it could be possible, but the men who remained wore harder expressions and seemed more focused than when they had set out.  They went about their preparations without a word.

Ladak went to see to his luggage, while Taran approached the Speaker as he talked to Ven Demeg.

“Once again I want to apologize, Excellency,” Ven Demeg said in the same deep, subdued voice he had last night.  “The plague even struck our animals.  Many of our horses succumbed to the Angra scourge.”

Edoss shook his head.  “Please do not apologize for events that were beyond your control, Lord Ven Demeg.”

Taran winced, and saw Ven Demeg’s eyes flash briefly.  Ven Demeg believed the plague was entirely his fault, and Taran knew that to say otherwise was to say that he killed his family for nothing.  Edoss seemed to catch his error as soon as he said it, and he quickly added, “You are a wise ruler and you have done everything within your power to take care of your people.”

Ven Demeg’s face continued to twitch a few moments, and then he said, “Here are the guides who will take you to the border.”

He motioned to two men striding through the Keep’s open western gate.  Both wore green cloaks with pins that were molded into the crossed-spears crest of Ven Demeg’s house.  One man was in his middle years, with gray flecks in his reddish-brown hair, while the other was barely past twenty and looked remarkably like the older man.  Taran instantly recognized them.  Judging by the smiles they gave him, they also remembered him.

Ven Demeg said, “Ulrike Laneve and his son Alton.  They own land near the Beldamark border, and they also guide Turician pilgrims to the Markers.  They will take you along the swiftest route.”

Both of the guides bowed to Edoss.  “My Lord,” they said with a heavy Turician accent.

Then to Taran, Ulrike said, “It is much good to see you again, Abraeu.”

“Happy to be back, Ulrike,” Taran said, clasping hands with the older guide.  “I only hope this expedition goes better than my last two.”

“Ahura lights your way this time,” Ulrike said.  “The Blessed Ones will invite you for sure.”

Edoss and Cursh gave Taran questioning looks, and Taran said, “Turicians believe that no one can enter the Beldamark without an invitation from the Mystics—er, Blessed Ones.”

Cursh asked the two Turicians, “Have you ever been into the Beldamark?”

Both looked at Cursh as if he had just asked if they had ever jumped off a mountain top.  “No, sir,” Ulrike said.  “The Blessed Ones not ever invited us.”

“How do you receive an invitation?”

The two guides looked uncomfortable, and glanced at Ven Demeg, who gave them a blank stare, then nodded.  Taran remembered how guarded Turicians were about their religion.  Speaking of Turician theology with outsiders was usually forbidden to common folk, requiring the permission of either a priest or a commoner’s lord.

Ulrike turned back to Cursh.  “You die, sir.  If you have lived virtuous life, then Blessed Ones take you to their realm where your spirit enjoy eternal life.”

General Myndehr approached as Ulrike talked of dying.  “We have an invitation from those who claim to be the Blessed Ones.  They asked us to come here.  Surely they will not try to kill us?”

Ulrike shook his head.  “The Blessed Ones are of truth.  If they say they want to meet you, they want to meet you.  If they want to kill you, they will tell you so.”

Cursh said under his breath, “That’s a relief.”

Edoss said, “General, are your men ready?”

He seemed impatient to get on with the trek through the Markwatch wilderness.  Taran wanted to ask the guides more questions, but he figured he would have time during the march.

The same carriage pulled up that had taken Taran, the Speaker, and Cursh to the Keep yesterday, with the same driver and the same horses.  Ven Demeg pulled open the door for the Speaker, who thanked him and climbed aboard.  Once Taran and Cursh were inside, Ven Demeg closed the door.

Through the open window, Ven Demeg said to Edoss, “May the Blessed Ones favor you, Excellency, and your mission.”

Edoss nodded, and then the carriage rolled forward through the western gate and into the cobblestone streets of Markwatch.  The empty buildings in the town soon gave way to empty homes, and then farm fields that were overgrown with a month’s worth of weeds.  Scavenging animals—and humans—had already stripped the fields of harvestable produce.

The morning sky was gray and the air was misty, making even the tall green pines covering the surrounding hills look as gray as fresh-spun wool.  There was no sun to be seen, yet the rings of Ahura and Angra still penetrated the thick clouds.  Taran still marveled at that, that the rings could be simultaneously of the sky, yet apart from it.  He tentatively scanned the Angra ring—the mere sight of which made him cold—for the tendrils he saw during the Calaman storm and the harrower attacks, but he saw nothing.  Nor did he see tendrils coming down from the Ahura ring, making him wonder if Ahura Mystics drew their powers from the rings in the same way as the harrowers.

Ulrike and Alton strode quickly down each winding path and road on which they led the column.  Often times the hard packed roads became nothing more than two-wheel tracks before turning back into hard dirt again.  Ulrike and Alton took many turns, making Taran wonder if the Turicians deliberately designed the road to the Beldamark to confuse as many people as possible.

Edoss and Taran stepped out of the carriage occasionally to walk with the two guides, asking them questions about life next to such a mysterious land.  Both Turicians were quiet at first, but soon opened up to Edoss when he continued to press them.

Ulrike’s family had lived on the border for hundreds of years, and not one of them had ever heard of someone entering the Beldamark and returning to tell the tale.  Many had tried to enter, and were magically turned around, heading back in the direction from which they came, not even remembering that they had turned.  Those who watch someone walk past the Markers will see that man suddenly turn around with a blank expression and begin walking the other way.  Unless he is stopped, or “awakened,” he will walk all the way back to his home without remembering the journey.  Once home, all feel as though they had awakened from a dream.

Around noon, the column stopped in a large clearing for lunch and rest.  Ulrike told Edoss and Taran that the column was making good time.  Ulrike said that they should reach the Markers in another three hours.  At first Taran was a bit impatient that it would take them three hours to march another ten miles.  He was so used to the comforts and convenience of train travel that he quickly forgot that outside the Compact and parts of Edellia, this was how the majority of humanity traveled.  To Ulrike, the whole column was moving at an astonishing speed.

Just as Ulrike had estimated, the column arrived at the Markers after another three hours of marching.  The Markers were simply two stone columns as tall as a man on either side of the two-wheel track that ended abruptly in a clearing in front of the stones.  Ten paces past the stones were tall pine trees clumped so close together that the light of day could not penetrate much farther than another five paces into the forest.

They had reached the border of the Beldamark.

Taran took out his pocket watch.  It was near half past noon.  The Shadarlak sergeants shouted orders to the men to form up and secure their flanks, even while General Myndehr told Captain Latish to have his men keep their sabers sheathed and their revolvers holstered if the Mystics should happen to appear.  But she also ordered him to ensure their revolvers were loaded.  Taran could not blame them for being cautious, but he knew in his heart that they had nothing to fear from the Beldamark Mystics.  He could not offer any proof of this, but it was something he was as sure of as he was standing there.

Taran walked to the Marker on the right and studied its carvings once again, just as he had done on his previous expeditions.  The glyphs were faded by time and erosion, but they were carved deep enough to view.  They told him that it had not been the Mystics who had erected these Markers, but the local Turicians.  They had began simply as markers of the place where the magic of the Mystics turned the uninvited away from the Beldamark, but they soon became religious relics to the Turician pilgrims.  Farther down, near the base of the Marker were carvings in somewhat modern Recindian, the common language of the continent, asking for the “favor of the Blessed Ones who dwell in the Heavenly Lands.”

Edoss came over to Taran.  The Speaker’s dark eyes squinted as he peered into the shadowy forest.  “You’re the expert, Doctor.  Do we wait for them or do we enter?”

“We have to wait, Excellency.  Any attempt to enter without permission might—”

Taran’s eye caught movement in the forest.  At first he thought it was a deer or some other animal, but three shapes materialized out of the trees and mist.  All three were draped in an amalgamation of animal furs, with hoods that left their faces in shadow.  They held walking staves, though the way they navigated effortlessly through the underbrush of the forest showed a dexterity that seemed to make the staves unnecessary.  They walked straight toward Taran and Edoss.  Several Shadarlak rushed over to Edoss to encircle him, but Edoss angrily told them to stay behind him.  The three tall, fur-clad figures seemed to ignore the Shadarlak, but remained focused on Edoss.

They stopped right before the Markers, then they pulled back their hoods.  There were two women and one man, all with pale complexions, red hair, and thin, almost gaunt faces.  The man was older, with a gray-flecked beard and long hair that fell around his neck.  He wore a light green dyed sash over his furs that was tied like a belt around his waist.  The two women, one older and one younger than Taran, wore their hair in a single braid that ran down their backs.  The younger woman had a scarlet sash tied around her waist, while the older woman wore a light green sash similar to the man.

Taran was a little stunned at their appearance.  He had not expected the Mystics to be bathed in radiant light, but nor did he expect them to look like beggars from the Wild Kingdoms.

Edoss bowed to the new arrivals. “I am Dylan Edoss, Speaker of the Recindian Compact.  Are you the ones who invited me here?”

The older man and woman looked to the younger woman.  She spoke to the other two in an elegant, flowing speech that sent a jolt down Taran’s spine.

Ancient Mystic!

Taran was among the first Recindians in a thousand years to hear a Mystic speak that language.  He could discern several words, but most were pronounced in ways he did not recognize.  What Taran could make out was that the younger woman translated what Edoss had just asked.  The older man and woman spoke to the younger woman, and Taran heard something about Edoss being late.  Although it could have been something about Edoss being early.  It was definitely something about Edoss’s arrival.

The young woman turned to Edoss and said in sharp Recindian, “I am Fatimah of Kulon Fields, Priest of Ahura, and Servant of the Holy Seat.”

Taran stared at the young woman, astonished that she had such a strong command of Recindian, despite her people being secluded in the Beldamark for a thousand years.  How did the Mystics stay educated on Recindian languages?  Surely the language had changed in the last millennium.

The younger woman pointed an open hand to the man and said, “This is Dornal of Fedalan, Servant of the Worldly Seat.”

Dornal nodded to Edoss, and then the young woman motioned to the older woman and said, “This is Ida of Defallon, who also serves Worldly Seat.”

After the older woman nodded to Edoss, the young woman said, “The Tuatha of the Beldamark greet you, Dylan Edoss, and welcome you into our lands.”

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 12

“I will not lie to our greatest ally,” Dylan told Lee, hoping the finality in his voice would dissuade Lee from further argument.  It was three hours past midnight, and Dylan had not slept since the night they had left Calaman, so he was in no mood for debate.  But Lee persisted.

“I’m not saying you should lie,” Lee said in a low voice, “just don’t volunteer any information.  If King Hamacz finds out about Kaneta, he may not transport us to Markwatch.  Not even Jeluha had heard of the incident, so Hamacz likely doesn’t know either.”

The train’s second Edellian stop at the village of Jeluha—hardly more than a train depot—had gone well, considering what a tragic disaster the last stop had been.  It enabled the train to take on enough coal for the rest of its journey.  The station manager was friendly, despite his curious glances at the train’s broken windows and bullet riddled exterior.  Edoss had ordered the conductor to tell him it was Cossop raiders who had attacked them en route.  The manager nodded sympathetically, and gave no indication he had heard of the firefight in Kaneta.  This only emboldened Lee’s efforts to persuade Dylan to lie to King Hamacz.

Dylan shook his head.  “No.  I won’t begin my administration’s first meeting with a friend of the Compact by keeping something like this from him.  We will acknowledge our actions and offer any form of restitution the King deems appropriate.  I’ve made my decision.”

Lee leaned back in his chair and stared out the window.  Dylan regretted snapping at him, but he was too tired, scared, and frustrated over the past few days to apologize.

With the late hour, Dylan saw few people on the streets of Sydear’s outlying areas.  Scattered clay homes became small villages, then towns with street lamps illuminating empty cobblestone roads.  The night was cloudy, yet the rings shone through in all their supernaturalist splendor.  Dylan realized a thought like that would have made him wince just a month ago.

The train’s arrival in Sydear was a mixed blessing.  On one hand Dylan was happy to be in a city that had not seen the destruction wrought on the frontier towns by the Angra harrowers.  Nor had it had a storm like Calaman.  On the other hand, he had to tell King Hamacz, the Compact’s most faithful ally through both Mazumdahri wars, that his Shadarlak Armsmen had killed several Edellians in Kaneta.  Lee’s fears were valid, but Dylan felt he had no choice but to be honest with the King.  How could he meet the King face to face and not tell him about the incident?  What would Hamacz think if he learned the news after Dylan had met with him and used his ships to get to Markwatch, yet “forgot” to mention the tragedy?

The train bypassed Sydear’s Jewel of the North Station—almost a replica of the Revela Street Station in Calaman—and continued on to the wharves on the waterfront.  Though the train would get curious looks from the dockworkers reporting for their morning shifts, at least it would not be throngs of Edellians in the public train station watching the approach.  Dylan knew that rumors of his “secret” arrival in Sydear would eventually get out.  The goal was to keep the news a “rumor” for as long as possible, at least until they were on their way to Markwatch.

When the train reached the wharves, it slowed to a crawl, then lurched to a stop near several grain silos to the left, and the Gulf of Pagilah on the right.  Fishermen on the Gulf might notice the train, but the silos would block casual spectators from the city itself.

Outside the train sat a nondescript coach with curtains over its windows.  The driver stood next to the horse, checking its harness and paying no attention to the train.  Another man stood next to the coach—head held high, back straight—and approached the conductor as he stepped down from the locomotive.  They spoke a few words, and then the conductor motioned the man onto the Speaker’s car.

The man was well dressed, though not in the customary livery Dylan knew from meeting other Edellian agents of the King.  Dylan was grateful for that.  A King’s man standing on the wharves at four o’clock in the morning would certainly draw attention from any passers-by.  The agent glanced at the broken windows and damaged furniture in the Speaker’s car, but his smooth face gave no sign of curiosity.

The man bowed low, then said to Dylan in a smooth Edellian accent, “Honored guests, I am Cavares Aisha, the Word of King Hamacz.  King Hamacz requests the honor of meeting the new Recindian Compact Speaker at your convenience, Excellency.”

Dylan stood, as did Lee and General Myndehr.  “The honor of a meeting with the King is mine,” Dylan said.  “Lead the way, Word Aisha.”

Aisha bowed again, then turned and exited the car.  Four Shadarlak fell in behind Aisha and in front of Dylan, while four more proceeded behind Dylan.

Outside the car, the Edellian air was cold.  The clouds released a misty drizzle that made the air even colder.  Dylan ignored the chill—for it was nothing compared to an Orlenian winter in the Perla Mountains—and strode after the Word, who stopped in front of the curtained wagon.  The Word opened the carriage door, and a tall man with a dark, well-trimmed beard and the clothes of a wealthy commoner stepped out.  He towered several inches above Dylan’s tallest Shadarlak, but he had a warmth in his eyes that made his size less intimidating.  Dylan hoped that friendliness still existed after this meeting.

The King bowed, as did Dylan, and then said, “Excellency, welcome to Sydear.  It is unfortunate this visit must remain secret, for I would hate to think you would form an opinion of my city based on what you see around you.”

The King smiled ruefully as he glanced at the dirty wharves, where boxes of cargo sat nearby and the smell of rotting fish was strong enough to cut with a saber.

“Your Highness,” Dylan said, “from what I saw of the city coming in, you have much to be proud of.  And it is an honor to finally meet the Recindian Compact’s greatest and most trusted ally.”

“Thank you, Excellency.  I understand your time is limited, so I will escort you to your ship.  It has been stocked with the supplies, provisions, and horses you requested.”

King Hamacz extended his hand toward a pier, where Dylan saw a sloop tied to the dock.  Dylan told Lee to have the men transfer their supplies to the ship, then followed the King, with the Shadarlak in tow.

The King frowned at the train as they turned toward the docks.

“Excellency, I’m curious as to what happened to your train.”

“The damage you see is what makes my mission to Markwatch all the more important,” Dylan said.  “We were attacked in a Compact village on the way here by those who know how to wield the power of the rings above us.  This person was able to create…monstrous creatures.  I suppose there’s no other way to explain them.  We barely got away.”

The King gave Dylan a sharp look.  “We have just received word today of these attacks near the Perla Mountains.  Many of my plainsmen still have faith in the Old Ways, that the rings herald the end of time, so I thought they were simply the imaginations of a simple people.  I thought perhaps the Cossops were playing games.  But now, hearing the same reports from the Compact Speaker and a Pathist…perhaps the end times are here.”

“Hopefully my mission will prevent that.”  Dylan paused, and then said, “There is another matter of which you must be aware.  On our way here, there was an incident in the town of Kaneta, just north of the Perla Mountains.”

“Incident?” the King asked.

“Your people there are frightened.  Something has attacked them the previous few nights, which made many people try to barter their way onto my train.  We did not have the room so…”

The King’s friendly demeanor began to evaporate, and he regarded Dylan with a blank stare.  “What happened?”

“The bartering turned into a panicked riot.  One of my men was shot, killed.”  Dylan stopped and looked directly into the King’s eyes.  “The rest of my men returned fire from our train.  I don’t know how many Kanetans were hurt, but seven of my men were killed in the return fire.  I wanted to tell you this personally.  I apologize for any loss of Edellian life, and I offer the resources of the entire Compact to make any restitution you deem appropriate for this unfortunate accident.”

The King closed his eyes and lowered his head, then looked past Dylan at the sleeping city of Sydear.  “Seven of your men died,” Hamacz said.  “I would say blood has been paid in blood.”  The King sighed.  “But once news of this becomes common knowledge, it will be difficult for me to maintain our alliance.  My people grow weary of the war with Mazumdahr.  Even though it is in a cease-fire and only minor skirmishes occur, Edellian men are still dying in those skirmishes.  A Mazumdahri ambassador visited me two months ago offering a separate peace treaty.”

Dylan was stunned.  He hesitated, but asked, “What did you tell him?”

Hamacz smiled sadly.  “I told him I would think on it.  You must understand that we do not have the resources that you in the Compact have.  My country is large in land, but few in people.  We were once nomads, not all that different from the Cossops.  We have no industry other than what we learn from you, nor the population to sustain a long war, which this war has become.  My people are tired.”

The King shook his head.  “I know the Mazumdahri are trying to break our alliance.  I know what will happen if they do.  But I fear the unrest in my country will be far worse if this war does not end soon.  And I fear that this incident in Kaneta will be all my people need to demand that we make peace with Mazumdahr now.  Without you, if necessary.”

Dylan stared numbly at his scarred train.  It looked as if the train had been target practice for a company of Mazhumdahri musketmen.  Edellian soldiers helped the Shadarlak unload the Compact mission’s gear onto oxen-pulled wagons that slowly rumbled back and forth between the docked sloop and the train.

What would happen if the Compact suddenly lost its most steadfast ally?  It was only with Edellia’s alliance that the Compact had been able to hold off the Mazumdahri onslaught on its northern border.

Dylan said to the King, “You must know that peace can only come if we stand united.  Their entire civilization is geared toward expanding this religion they’ve built up around their ‘Immortal King.’  If they destroy the Compact, it will only be a matter of time before they come after you and the other free nations of Recindia.  Your Highness, I fear for the continent’s future if Edellia makes a separate peace.”

“As do I,” the King said sadly.  There was a quiet moment as they both watched the Shadarlak and Edellian soldiers load the sloop.  The King broke the silence and said, “Perhaps the Mystics will be able to help you.”

At that moment, Dylan knew the King had already made his decision.  The Mystics were now the Compact’s only hope in fending off a redeployed Mazumdahr.  Without Edellia to worry about on its northern flank, the Mazumdahri would surely concentrate all their forces on the Compact.

Dylan realized that by giving the him an Edellian boat to take to the Beldamark, the King was trying to help the Compact one last time.

Just before he ensured its destruction.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 11

Taran sat in a chair next to one of the broken windows in the Speaker’s car, his wool overcoat buttoned to the top against the frigid mountain air blowing through.  Unfortunately none of the other car windows were intact, so there was not a warm place left on the train besides in the locomotive.

The train had reached its highest point in the Perla Mountains, and was descending into Edellia.  Beyond the fir-covered mountains below, Taran saw the Edellian foothills begin not five miles away as the sparrow flies, though the train still had to make a serpentine route down mountain passes, making the entire journey more like twenty miles.  He had traveled this route twice before, in failed expeditions to the Beldamark.  He would have enjoyed the breathtaking view just as much this time if he had not been so nervous about what they would find in Kaneta.

When the train reached the Edellian plains and approached Kaneta, the Shadarlak checked their revolvers and made sure their sabers were easy to find on their hips.  It was not long before Taran heard the locomotive’s engines die out after burning the last of its coal.  All he could hear now was the creaking and rumbling of the train, and the screeching of metal as the engineer applied the brakes all the way down the mountain tracks.

When the train finally rounded the last jutting mountain, Taran saw the scenery change from walls of rock interspersed with fir trees, to rocky hills, to rolling hills covered in a carpet of lush, emerald grass.  The engineer let off the brake a bit more, allowing the train to pick up speed in a straight sprint down the Edellian foothills.  It was faster than Taran ever remembered traveling in a train, but they would need the speed to coast into Kaneta.

After almost fifteen minutes of watching the grass and hills blur past the train, the conductor entered the car, a relieved smile on his face.

“The station in Kaneta returned our flash signals.  They’ve welcomed us to stop for fuel.”

The easing tension in the car was palpable, and many of the aids smiled at each other.  The Shadarlak, however, maintained their grim watch despite the apparent good news.  Taran was inclined to feel the same way as the Shadarlak, and judging from Edoss’s furrowed brow, the Speaker’s tension had not eased either.

A twinge of fear returned when Taran saw the outlying homes of Kaneta.  The town sat on the edge of a small lake called Dacava Lake.  The last time Taran had traveled through the town, children and adults sat on their front porches gaping and waving at the train as it rumbled by their homes.  Now every window was boarded up with fresh lumber.  Many homes had broken windows, and a few had recently burned to the ground.  There were no fishing boats dotting the lake, as Taran had remembered on previous trips, and a large number of boats were haphazardly beached on the gravel shores as if blown there by a storm.

The train soon approached the tall stone walls of Kaneta proper.  Occasional raids by migrating Cossop horsemen from the Komenda Steppes were a fact of life out here, and sturdy walls meant you could keep safe supplies for the winter.

And for the first time since leaving the Calaman region, Taran saw actual people outside the train.  A cluster of seven men watched them from horseback on the road leading to the town gates—closed, though they were open the last two times Taran had been there.  The men wore coats and breeches made of gray and brown wool, and all wore wide-brimmed hats.  Each one had a musket strapped to his back, with rusting bayonets that looked older than the Perla Mountains.  The men eyed the train warily, as if they were not sure they wanted to rejoice at the sight of it, or begin shooting out the remaining windows.

When the train finally stopped, Taran remembered there was no way to get it going again unless they refueled.  If they could not get fuel in Kaneta, they were walking back to Calaman.  And Taran did not relish going back the way they came.

The Kaneta station, which sat outside the walls of the town, was no more elaborate than the Compact stations they had passed.  In fact, it was less so.  There was not even a raised platform, nor a covered waiting area with benches for passengers.  Two Kaneta men stood on the hard-packed dirt road next to the tracks.  Though their clothes were relatively the same as the cluster on horseback, they at least looked a bit cleaner.

The conductor disembarked and talked briefly with the men, who shaded their eyes as they stared at the train.  Taran knew the conductor would not tell them who was on board, but he knew Kanetans were not stupid.  Shadarlak Armsmen stared at them from the broken windows of each car.  Anyone on the continent would know there were important Compact officials on board and that they had been through a fight.

The conductor finished talking with the men, who eyed the train a few more moments before returning to a small red-tiled wiretype office next to the tracks.  Taran noticed more people peeking at the train from the open town gates a couple dozen paces away.

The conductor entered the car, frowning.  “The station manager has agreed to sell us some coal, but not as much as we need to get to Sydear.”

“Why not?” Cursh asked, wincing as he inadvertently bumped his wounded arm against the table.

“He says their supply train from the Perla Mountains never arrived last week, so they’ve had to use coal from the train depot to heat their homes.”

“Have there been other trains?” Edoss asked.

“We’re the first one to come from the south in three days.”

General Myndehr asked, “What is their security situation?”

“They didn’t say much,” the conductor said, “but they’re afraid of something.  They’ve been attacked the last three nights straight.  They said it was by Cossops, but I don’t think that’s true.  Cossops wouldn’t put the fear in their eyes that I just saw.  Whatever it was, they lost eight men so far and they’re frightened about more attacks tonight.”

“These are plainsmen, as tough as they come,” Myndehr said.  “For something to scare them that bad…”

Edoss asked the conductor, “Have they received any wiretypes from the south recently?”

“I didn’t ask, Excellency.”

“Lee, draft a wiretype message explaining what’s happened to us, then send it to the first Compact train station that answers the ring.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Lee said, then called Flynt over, who furiously wrote down Lee’s message.

“Captain Latish,” Myndehr called out.

Latish holstered his pistol and stood at attention before Myndehr.  “General.”

“Escort Mr. Flynt to the nearest wiretype office.”

“Yes, General.”

Taran asked Edoss, “May I go with Mr. Flynt?  I’d like to get information from the locals on what they saw last night.”

It was not the only reason Taran wanted to go into town.  He also wanted to wiretype Adhera to see if all was well in Calaman.  Taran did not think a request like that would be granted, given the secrecy of their mission.

Edoss hesitated a moment, but nodded.  With a stern look that would have done Taran’s mother proud, he said, “Do not stray from Captain Latish.  You’re rather important to this expedition, Dr. Abraeu.”

As Flynt copied down Cursh’s message, Taran took off his overcoat but kept on the lighter brown jacket he wore underneath.  The air was warmer on the plains, but a chill wind still blew down from the Perlas.  Once Flynt was ready, Latish and another Shadarlak named Teol escorted Flynt and Taran off the train and into Kaneta.

They first stopped at the wiretype office next to the train station, but the grizzled ticket agent said the wiretype had been damaged and that they might want to try the public wiretype at the town’s only tavern, the Grand Steppe Inn.  With a fearful glance at the two men the conductor had talked to—who stared at him with hooded eyes—the agent refused to say how the station’s wiretype had been damaged.

The four Compact men entered Kaneta through the open gate.  The thick, heavy logs that made up the gate had fresh gashes in them, and the yellow clay walls around them were streaked with black spatters, as if someone had swung a brush dripping with black paint at the walls.

Most of the town’s buildings were made of yellow clay, and roofed with either red tiles or thatch from the brush near Dacava Lake.  The main road into the town was hard packed dirt that looked as if it had not seen rain in years.  Men and women sat in separate clusters watching them pass, whispering to each other, making Taran feel like he was part of a carnival act.  The mood of everyone he passed was either fearful or tense.  Taran rested his hand on the butt of the old revolver at his hip.

They found the Grand Steppe Inn, a two-story clay building, in the middle of town.  Inside the dark tavern room, two men sat in a corner staring at an eches board, their muskets leaning against their table.  Two more men sat at a table near the door eating a hot soup with a savory smell that made Taran remember he had not yet eaten breakfast.  A barmaid stepped out of a back kitchen carrying two pints of frothy liquid, and started when she saw the Compact men standing in the doorway.

“Welcome, sirs,” she said, in a thick Edellian drawl.  She put the pints down in front of the men eating soup, then wiped her hands on her apron.  “What canna get for you?”

“Good morning, madam,” Flynt said, bowing his head.  “Do you have a wiretype?”

She pointed to a hall in the back of the small tavern’s common room.  “Straight back and turn right.  Mr. Gwynder should be on the wiretype right now.  He’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” Flynt said, then proceeded to the hall.

When Taran went to follow, Latish put his hand on Taran’s shoulder.

“I thought you wanted to talk to the locals, Doctor.”

Taran turned and said, “I do.  And I figure the wiretypist might be a good person to start with.  They always know all the gossip in town.”

Taran then looked at Latish’s hand, and Latish removed it, but followed Taran into the wiretype room.

A short, round man with a balding head sat in a chair before the wiretype machine studying a sheet of paper.  He must have also been the Grand Steppe’s owner, for he wore the stained apron of a tavern keep.

“Mr. Gwynder?” Flynt asked.

The man jumped, turned wide-eyed, but then looked eager when he saw potential customers.

“Ah am, ah am.  Do yous need to send a wiretype?”  Gwynder reached out his hand for the paper Flynt was holding.

“Yes, sir.  And it is a private message.”  Flynt motioned to Gwynder’s seat in front of the wiretype machine.  “May I?”

“Ah have to count the words to know how much to charge you.”

Flynt took several gold han coins from his pocket and put them in Gwynder’s outstretched hand.

“That should be more than enough to send a book over your machine.  I only want to send a half-page…and I don’t want any questions.”

Gwynder’s eyes went wide at the coins in his ink-stained hand.  He pocketed the gold, and then relinquished his seat with a smile.

“Of course, of course, sir.  Can ah get you any drink?  Food maybe?”  When Flynt shook his head, Gwynder said, “Your friends maybe?”

Latish and Teol just stared at the man, but Taran said, “No thank you.”

“You folks off the train, ah take it?”

Flynt looked at him with impatience.  “Yes.  Now, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Gwynder nodded, apologized, and then left the room.  Flynt said to Latish, “Make sure no one comes in here.”

Latish glanced at Taran, then nodded.  Latish and Teol went to stand in the hallway.

Flynt shut the door, then said to Taran, “You have two minutes to send a wiretype to your family.”

Taran tried to look confused rather than startled.  Flynt said, “Latish may think you’re a security risk, but I know if I had a family, I’d want to make sure they were safe.  Especially after last night.”

Taran murmured a thank you, then sat in the chair as Flynt went to stand near the door.

Taran suddenly had no idea what to say to his wife that would not violate the secrecy of the mission.  He decided on a brief message, just to say that he was all right and that he missed her and Mara beyond measure.  It was short and simple, but hopefully enough to get her to respond right away if she was at the house.

He typed in his wiretype number, then waited a minute for the switchboard operators further south to reroute his message.  The bell next to the wiretype rang two short bursts followed by a long one.  Taran slapped the desk with his hand.  The call had not gone through.

Flynt sighed.  “Let me try Vigilance.  It was the last standing town we passed before Doare.”

Taran stood and leaned against the door, disappointed and worried.  He should have expected this, but it was a frustrating nonetheless.  After Flynt entered the number for Vigilance, the same “message not received” bell rang.

Flynt shook his head.  “I’m going to try our embassy in Sydear.”

Message not received.  

Flynt stood.  “No way to warn anyone coming from the Compact and no way to tell the north what’s happening.  And that greedy bastard knew the lines were down, yet he took my money anyway.”

Flynt and Taran passed Latish and Teol, who fell into step behind them as they left the tavern.  Mr. Gwynder smiled, said, “Until tomorrow, sirs,” the traditional Edellian good-bye.

Flynt stopped before Gwynder.  “The wiretype lines are down and you still took my money.”

Gwynder looked shocked.  “The lines are down?  They were up just as you walked in.  Ah’m sorry sirs, there’re no refunds once you try to send a ‘type.”

Taran saw the men who had been playing eches now had their hands on their muskets, eyeing him, Flynt, and the Shadarlak.

Flynt noticed the rising tension, and mumbled, “Better get those lines fixed.”  He turned and walked out of the tavern.

Gwynder smiled, two bottom teeth missing.  “Of course, sirs.  Until tomorrow, sirs.”

Taran exhaled when they exited the tavern and followed Flynt down the hard dirt road back to the train.

When they rounded a corner, a man carrying two large bags over his shoulder blocked their path.  Behind him was a small woman wearing a head scarf, holding the hands of two girls who were no more than five years old.  A pre-teen boy carrying several more shoulder bags stood next to his father.  All five looked at Taran and Flynt with pleading eyes.

“I’ll give each of you five Compact han for your tickets on that train,” the man said desperately.

Someone from a nearby cluster of men with muskets strapped to their backs called out, “Bariam, you coward.”

“That’s right,” Bariam shouted back.  “After what we seen the past three nights, ah want out of these here walls.”

Another man in the group, this one older, said, “Hold your tongue, Bariam.”

He said it with a quiet voice, but a voice used to being obeyed.  It made Bariam pause for a moment, then he turned back to Taran and said, “Six han, for each of you.  Please, ah must get mah family out.”

“Why?” Taran asked.  “What happened here?”

Bariam paused, gave another fearful glance at the men with muskets, who were now walking over to him with warning glares.  He was about to say something, when someone behind Taran shouted out, “I’ll give you ten han.”

Taran turned and saw another man rushing up to him, his wife behind him holding an infant.  Both parents looked just as desperate as Bariam and his family.

Flynt said, “Our tickets are not for sale.”

Then Flynt pushed past Bariam.  Taran and the two Shadarlak followed, but Bariam walked beside them, pleading, “Ah’ll give you all the han ah have.  Please!”

Two more families joined the crowd now gathering around Taran, Flynt, and the Shadarlak, blocking their path to the train only a hundred paces away.  The Kanetan musketmen tried to push back the crowds starting to gather, calling them cowards for not staying to defend their town, threatening them with a bayonet in the gut if they did not back off, but nothing worked.  Men and women materialized from out of the buildings around Taran, all screaming for passage on the train.  People were even running toward the train and trying to climb aboard.  It was turning into a full-fledged riot.

A gun shot exploded next to Taran’s head, and the crowd hushed.  Latish was pointing his revolver at the sky, then leveled it at the crowd, as did Teol.

“Stand back,” Latish shouted.  “Make way!”

The crowd in front of them immediately backed away, fear and anger on their faces.  A dangerous combination, Taran thought.  Fear would make them do something desperate, and anger would ensure that desperate act was violent.

When Taran, Flynt, and the Shadarlak were fifty paces from the train, another shot rang out.  Flynt grunted next to Taran, then slumped to the ground.  Taran reached down, turned him over, saw a pool of blood spreading from a neat hole in his black coat right in the center of his chest.  Flynt stared at the sky with dead eyes.

After that, chaos.

The pleading families disappeared into nearby buildings, while other Kanetans began firing their muskets at the train.  Latish and Teol grabbed Taran and dragged him toward the train, leaving Flynt behind.  Bullets whizzed by Taran, striking the ground, taking chunks out of the train.  Shadarlak on the train fired back at the crowd from already broken windows.  The train’s locomotive had already started moving, and Taran, Latish, and Teol leaped onto the last car as it moved past them gaining speed.  Inside the car, they stayed low to the floor.  Bullets slammed into each side of the train, breaking windows that had not already been broken from the nightmare attacks in Doare.  The shooting leveled off as the train picked up speed, passing the town’s walls and the sporadic clay dwellings beyond.

Taran and the Shadarlak made their way to the Speaker’s car, passing several wounded men being tended to by other Shadarlak.  Most had flesh wounds on their arms or past their temples, but Taran saw one man on the floor with blood flowing from his neck and mouth.  He gurgled and grabbed at the Shadarlak trying to patch the hole in his neck.  Taran looked away.

When they entered the Speaker’s car, Edoss’s eyes were afire.

“What happened?”  He looked past Taran and asked, “And where’s Flynt?”

Latish saluted the Speaker, then said, “Mr. Flynt was killed during the mob’s attack, Excellency.”

“What?” Cursh asked.  “How?”

“He was shot,” Taran said before Latish could report.  He gritted his teeth over the memory of the bloody hole in Flynt’s chest and his dead eyes.  “These people were terrified, desperate to get out of Kaneta, so they mobbed us, trying to negotiate their way on board.”

General Myndehr asked, “Is that how the shooting started?  We heard two shots, and then a bloody battle broke out.”

Latish said, “I fired first, General, but only into the air to disperse the crowd.”

Taran admired Latish’s willingness to take responsibility for possibly starting the riot.  Latish held his head high, ready for any discipline the General might hand out.

Taran said, “And it seemed to work, too.  Until Flynt was hit.”

Edoss slammed a fist on the table.  “Bloody fine mess, firing on citizens of the Compact’s closest ally.”

He sat down, put a hand over his eyes and rubbed his temple.  Then he asked, “What about the wiretype, did Flynt get that through?”

Taran shook his head.  “The wiretype lines were down.  To the north and south.”

Cursh said, “At least news of this won’t reach Sydear before we do.”

Edoss snorted.  “Small consolation.”  Then he turned to Taran.  “Did you find out anything about what made these people so frightened?  Was it fear of the same things that attacked us?”

“Absolutely,” Taran said.  “They were terrified about the recent attacks on their walls.  There were some who tried to bully the others into staying, but it wasn’t working.”

“Bloody Edellian pride,” Myndehr said, shaking her head.  “They never talk about their own troubles to outsiders, even if they need help.  Perfectly willing to help others, but won’t take it.”

The conductor entered the car and said to Edoss, “We took on enough coal to get two-thirds of the way to Sydear, Excellency.  We will have to make one more stop.”

Edoss nodded as he stared out the window at the passing plains of emerald grass.  Then he looked at Taran with a pleading glare.  “These Mystics better be worth all this.”

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 10

“‘Zervakan het gaklai na Zervakan,’” Taran explained to Edoss, Cursh, and General Myndehr in the Speaker’s car.  “That is what I think I heard.  It’s an ancient Mystic dialect.  Now I don’t know what ‘het gaklai na’ means, but I think Zervakan means something like a ‘equal’ or ‘maker.’”

It had been several hours since the attack in Doare, and the train had not dared stop in any of the villages it passed.  For they were all destroyed or still burning.  There had been no more attacks by things similar to the Doare creatures.  But near three o’clock in the morning, while Taran was in his cabin searching his books for a translation of the madman’s shouts, the train passed a hillside a hundred paces from the tracks.  Taran saw what looked like a carpet of human limbs without torsos slithering over each other like mating snakes.  Moonlight reflected off the glistening mound, and the limbs swayed back in forth in unison—like a wheat field moved by a breeze—as the train sped by without slowing.

“Which is it?” Cursh asked.  “‘Equal’ or ‘maker?’”

“I don’t know for certain,” Taran said.  Cursh went to fold his arms, but winced as he touched his bandaged arm.  He let his arms fall to his sides again.  Taran knew he risked the ire of Cursh who seemed to have no patience for people who said I don’t know.  But the truth was the truth.

Taran put a large sheet of paper with pencil rubbings in the middle of the table, and Edoss, Cursh, and Myndehr gathered around to look at it.  Only one lamp burned in the car, giving off enough light to cast an eerie yellow glow on everyone’s faces.  General Myndehr refused to allow any more light for fear of the car being targeted again.

“I copied these pictographs from a stone tablet I found in Edellia near Sydear three years ago,” Taran said.  “They flow from right to left.  The first picture shows two beings fighting each other.  The second shows a larger being pushing the two fighting beings together so that they become one.  I believe this Zervakan must be what the Mystics called the First Cause, the creator of the universe.  The source of both rings.”

“I’ve never heard the term First Cause,” Cursh said.  “Why do the Mystics call their creator that?”

“Well there is a philosophical theory that nothing exists unless it is observed.  Taking Observation Theology to its logical conclusion, there had to be someone or something around to observe the universe before there were humans, otherwise there would be no world from which humans could evolve.  In other words, how did the universe begin if there was no one around to observe it?  This eternal being is what the Mystics called the First Cause, for it was the first to observe, and thus cause, the creation of the universe.”

Myndehr laughed.  “No wonder nobody has heard of that theory.  It’s supernaturalist gibberish.”

Taran countered, “Just because a theory contradicts current beliefs does not make it ‘gibberish.’”

“Of course,” Myndehr said, “but extraordinary claims must have extraordinary evidence to support them.”

“Spoken like a good Pathist,” Taran said.  “The rings aren’t evidence enough for you?  That thing in Doare?”

Edoss interrupted.  “Can we get back to the problem at hand?  Why was this man shouting this at us?”

“I don’t know why he would be shouting at us.”

Taran remembered the madman’s crazed glare that seemed directed specifically at him.  But it could also have been a trick of the shadows.  Taran shuddered when he thought of the man pulling bloody clumps of hair from his head and throwing them at the train.  Those were not the actions of a sane man, no matter which theory you believed.

“Somehow Angra’s touch must have driven him mad,” Taran said.

“‘Angra’s touch?’” Cursh asked.

“He had this black glow around him,” Taran said.  “A tendril of dark light came all the way down from Angra and was touching him.  It must have driven him mad.  I saw something similar in Calaman during the storm.  There were two tendrils of black light reaching down into the city, to what must have been harrowers.”

Cursh said, “We received no reports of ‘tendrils’ coming from the black ring during the storm.  Are you sure it wasn’t just part of the storm?”

“Before a few hours ago, I thought they were.  But after seeing that glow around that man…”

General Myndehr said, “And what where those creatures that attacked us?”

“I believe those creatures were once normal animals, maybe people.  But they were changed.  That’s what the harrowers did—they warped living beings into monstrosities they could control.  That man must have been a harrower.”

General Myndehr shook her head.  “One man destroyed an entire village?  Where did he come from?  I thought all the Mystics were in the Beldamark.”

Taran said, “I think we may have to accept the possibility that some Mystics are among us right now.  Maybe our next door neighbors.  Perhaps some are harrowers.”

The General leaned forward, anger flashing in her eyes.  “And we’re taking the leader of our nation right to them?”  She turned to Edoss.  “Excellency, I commend you for your bravery and commitment to this mission.  But with all due respect, there is bravery and there is foolishness.  As the Shadarlak commander, I must insist we end this mission and find a way back to Calaman.”

Edoss stared at the darkness outside the train windows.  “No,” he said quietly.  “We continue on.”

Taran interrupted the General as she was about to continue.  “General, the Mystics who contacted us are not harrowers.  The legends say that the Mystics who fled to the Beldamark were priests who helped humanity.”

“And according to your own words,” Myndehr said, “the Mystics fled to the Beldamark because humanity turned on them.  Maybe it’s finally payback time.”

“Revenge is not what they want,” Edoss said, staring at the pictograph on the table.  “I felt no hostility during my vision.  I saw a culture that only desired peace.  The only negative emotion I felt from them was fear.  Besides, if I’m to understand Dr. Abreau, harrowers cannot…call on Ahura, correct?”

“That’s right,” Taran said, pleased that at least the Speaker was beginning to open his mind.  “Your vision was prompted when you invoked Ahura.  Harrowers can not call on Ahura, or vice versa.”

Edoss looked at each one of his Ministers with a fire that matched General Myndehr’s.  “My friends, the Mystics I saw are afraid of what will happen to the world if we do not help each other.  This ‘harrower’ in Doare is only the beginning.  They are already burning our cities and turning our people into Mercy knows what.  We need the help of the Beldamark Mystics, and they need ours.” He gave Myndehr a sharp look.  “We continue on.”

The General sat back, her arms folded and her face in shadow.

The conductor entered the car, approached the table, and said, “Excellency, we must stop for fuel at the next station.”

General Myndehr said, “You’ve gone through your backup stores already?”

The conductor nodded grimly.  “We only have enough for ten more miles.  After Brehke, there is no place to stop until Kaneta in Edellia.”

Edoss nodded.  “How long until we reach Brehke?”

“Fifteen minutes, Excellency.”

Edoss looked at General Myndehr, and she nodded.  She stood and went to her Shadarlak lieutenants, issuing orders to have all men armed and ready for combat when the train stopped.  The men saluted, then rushed off toward the passenger cars where their men were stationed.  Taran hoped fifty Shadarlak Armsmen—among the best trained military units in the Compact—would be enough to hold off more of the corrupted creatures and harrowers controlling them.

Though he did not say it, he thought General Myndehr was right to be concerned for the Speaker’s safety.  He doubted the Mystics who had sent the Speaker the letter had dangerous intentions, but harrowers were now roaming the land causing the chaos and destruction they had witnessed in Doare in every village since then.  What if the harrowers were also in Edellia, a vast nation of plains and forests through which the train needed to travel for two more days before reaching the port at Sydear?

But Taran was not going to voice his thoughts.  Even if he had to march through an army of harrowers and their grotesque creations, he would do so.  This mission was Mara’s only chance for life.

The Shadarlak gathered all the train’s civilian passengers—about a dozen, including Edoss and his aids—into the Speaker’s car, then posted Shadarlak at the windows of all four of the train’s passenger cars.  As the train slowed, Taran loaded bullets into his father’s old revolver, hoping he still remembered how to shoot straight.

Ten Shadarlak gathered at the windows, five on each side.  The train began to slow for the Brehke station.  They all had their revolvers drawn, pointed at the floor.  They eyed the sparse homes that crept past the windows, searching for movement or signs of danger.

The sun had not yet risen, but it had turned the eastern sky orange, enabling Taran to get a good look at the town.  In between the Shadarlak crouching at the broken windows, he saw a town that simply looked asleep.  None of the buildings he saw were burned or damaged in any way.  But he saw no one walking the streets, nor horses tied to hitching posts, nor dogs, nor birds, nor anything alive besides the pine trees surrounding the village in its mountain valley nook.

Taran saw the platform creep by until the train lurched to a stop.  Nobody met them, nor did Taran see any bags.  Besides the hiss of steam from the locomotive, all was quiet.

Then Taran heard General Myndehr’s voice outside from near the locomotive shouting orders to her men.  Boots fell on the wood platform, and Taran saw the gold tri-corner hats of the Shadarlak rush past the windows on the station side of the train.

A Shadarlak abruptly opened the car door, making all the civilians jump, including Taran.  “Dr. Abraeu,” he said, “General Myndehr needs your counsel.”

Taran took a deep breath, holstered his revolver, then followed the young soldier out the door.  He passed Flynt and Ladak, who gave him wide-eyed stares that did not ease his anxiety over leaving the relative safety of the train.

Taran stepped down onto the platform.  The station was small, with one platform and a long, covered bench for passengers to escape the sun and rain as they waited for their trains.  A small office with a closed window and drawn shade was the only nearby structure.  Beyond it, no one appeared on the dirt road outside the stone buildings of Brehke, though the town looked to have at least a hundred residents.  For what was surely an agricultural community, it was odd that the residents were not up and about before dawn.

Taran shivered, and it was not from the cold mountain breeze.

The young Shadarlak led Taran to the right, where General Myndehr stood with her back to him and looking down at the platform.  Two Shadarlak flanked her, their eyes constantly moving.  More men stood in lines in front of the train’s engineers as they maneuvered a coal shoot above the locomotive’s fuel bin.

When he approached Myndehr, she turned, then pointed to the platform.  “Look familiar?”

Taran stared at the wood floorboards.  He knew he should not have been surprised.  Written in large, wide strokes that filled the entire platform, were the Zervakan pictographs that Taran had just shown the Speaker.  The strokes were in dark red.

“Blood,” Taran said, staring at the pictographs.

“So it would seem.”

Yes, they were the same pictographs, all up and down the platform.  Taran shook his head, wondering what had happened to the residents of Brehke.  Judging from the amount of blood—

The engineers cursed in terror and disgust.  Taran looked up to see human limbs, torsos, and heads flowing out of the coal chute and into the fuel bin.  One of the engineers immediately shut off the flow from the chute when he saw its grisly contents.

“Mercy,” General Myndehr breathed.

A sudden, maniacal howl echoed off the mountains, followed by a terrible laugh that made Taran’s hair stand.  The laugh went on and on, as if the being making the horrible sound had no need to breathe.  Taran turned around, searching tree shadows along the steep mountain incline above the train for the insane laughter’s source, but saw no movement in any direction.

A gunshot cracked from one of the passenger cars, followed by another, and then all the Shadarlak were firing in all directions.  Taran took cover next to the train as General Myndehr screamed for her men to cease fire, waving her arms above her head.  The men on the platform stopped firing, but it took another minute before order was restored on the train.

Once the firing ceased, Taran heard the laughter again, as if it had continued throughout the firestorm.

Myndehr ordered her men back onto the train, then shouted to the conductor to get the train moving again.  The train was already creeping forward before all of the men had returned, making them leap onto the car steps to scramble on board.

Taran rushed back to the crowded Speaker’s car, found everyone staring out the windows in grim silence.  Taran glanced out and saw human remains flying through the air and landing in the grass, brush, and platform with wet slaps.  The engineers were shoveling the gruesome cargo out of the coal car.

The conductor entered the car, his face tired and pale.  “We cross the border into Edellia in five miles, Excellency.  There is a town twenty miles past the border that should have coal.”

“Twenty miles?” Cursh said.  “You said we only had enough coal for ten.”

“We do, but the border is the high point of our ascent into the Perla Mountains.  Once we cross the border, we will be able to coast down hill all the way to the Edellian town of Kaneta, which has the coal.”  Looking at Edoss, he said, “But if Kaneta is lost…”

Edoss nodded.  “Do what you have to do.”

Edoss and his aids began discussing possible options for what to do if Kaneta had also been overrun.  Their discussions were drowned out by Taran’s thoughts as he watched the passing mountains and trees.

Why were there so many harrowers out here?  Where had they come from?

And were they in Calaman right now?