ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 9

Taran was startled awake by a sharp knock on the cabin door.  He glanced outside the train window, saw the sun was low in the sky, and realized he had napped longer than he wanted.

Chen Flynt rose from the bottom bunk across from Taran, put a book down on the blankets, and slid the door open.  A tall, thin, white-haired man stood in the passage, his blue eyes searching the cabin until he found Taran.

“Dr. Abraeu, you are invited to dine with the Speaker in ten minutes.”  Then the man turned and left.

Flynt shut the door, regarding Taran’s shocked expression with a smile.  He went to his small bag and took out a comb.

“I think you’ll need this, Doctor.”

Taran felt his hair, and then took Flynt’s comb.

After unsuccessful attempts to smooth out his wrinkled clothes, Taran pulled his long hair back and tied it with a green ribbon at the nape of his neck, then left the cabin and made his way towards the Speaker’s car.

Taran passed through two Shadarlak cars before arriving at the entrance to the Speaker’s car.  The two Shadarlak guarding the door stopped him, searched him, and then made him wait while one entered the car to announce his presence.  When approval was given, one of the Shadarlak opened the door and bowed his head as if Taran were a Parliamentarian.

The Speaker’s car was decorated the way Taran thought a Speaker’s car would.  Small framed paintings and sequoia photographs of Compact heroes and events adorned the walls around the curtained windows.  Red-cushioned chairs with ornately carved, wooden legs sat next to small tables that were just as ornate.  Lamps with sculpted pewter bases sat atop each table.  Most were lit, for the sun had already set behind the hills in the west.

At the far end of the car was a small table where Speaker Dylan Edoss and his advisor Lee Cursh sat, both dressed in the usual dark suites of government officials.  Behind them stood the white-haired man who had come to Taran’s cabin, his back straight and his hands clasped in front.

When Taran entered, Edoss stood and extended his hand.  “Dr. Abraeu, thank you for dining with us tonight.”

Taran had not known many Orlenians, so it was a bit odd for him to look down on the Speaker of the Recindian Compact, who was no taller than a ten-year-old Gahallian child.  But what Edoss lacked in height, he more than made up for in build.  He had wide shoulders and a barrel chest, with a lean face that told Taran the man had not sacrificed his military exercises for his political career.

Taran took the Speaker’s firm handshake.  “Excellency, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Edoss motioned him to the third open chair at the table.  “This is my chief advisor, Lee Cursh.”

Taran and Cursh shook hands, and then Taran sat down.  Edoss asked, “Tea, Doctor?”

Taran nodded, and Edoss asked the white-haired man, Jac, to fill the cup in front of Taran.  The black tea steamed and smelled of orange spice.  Taran poured a bit of cream into it and sipped it as Edoss stared at him.  Once Jac had filled their cups, he exited the car through the door behind Edoss.  Taran glimpsed a cook finishing up dinner, the scents of garlic, butter, and frying bacon making his stomach rumble audibly.

Not knowing what to say to the most powerful man on the continent, Taran glanced out the windows.  The moon was rising full next to the swirling colors of Ahura.

“Lovely evening.”

This seemed to break Edoss out of his reverie.

“Yes, it is.  Lovely.”

Edoss took a sip of his tea, then set the cup back down in its saucer.  The cup rattled a bit from a sudden lurch by the train, but no tea spilled.

“Dr. Abraeu,” Edoss began, but then paused thoughtfully.  “I know that you’ve had to mislead your family regarding the purpose of this trip.  I wanted to personally apologize for the awkward position I’ve put you in.”

Taran bowed his head.  “I appreciate that, Excellency.”

“This journey would cause quite a stir in my government if it became common knowledge before I left,” Edoss said, frowning.  “Only Mr. Cursh, Mr. Demiati, General Myndehr, and their close advisors know where we are going.  And most of them think I’m mad for it.  Not even the leaders of Parliament know about it.”

“People being people, they will talk,” Taran said.  “They’ll wonder where you’ve disappeared to for two weeks.”

Cursh leaned forward.  “We know people will find out, but we wanted to be well underway before that happened.  To avoid any delays or unpleasant questions.”

“But if this mission is a success,” Edoss said, “the only questions will be how to work with our new friends the Mystics.”

“And if it’s not?” Taran asked.

Edoss and Cursh glanced at each other, then Edoss said with a grin, “I will be the shortest serving Speaker in the Compact’s history.  Pun intended.”

Taran laughed.  With that bit of self-deprecating humor, he understood how Edoss’s charm had enabled him to buck decades of tradition to become the Compact’s first Orlenian Speaker.

Jac opened the sliding door from the small kitchen and carried in a large platter with three covered plates.  Taran marveled at his ability to move about the shaking train without spilling the platter.

Taran’s stomach rumbled when Jac removed the silver cover from his plate.  He was greeted by three large, steaming crab cakes wrapped in bacon, several stalks of buttered asparagus, a small loaf of dark bread, and a stem of grapes.  Taran fought the urge to simply dig into the feast, having been to enough state dinners with his hero father to know he had to wait for the Speaker to pick up his fork first.  Thankfully, Edoss wasted no time beginning to eat, and Taran quickly followed.  The meal was just as delicious as it looked and smelled.

Jac left the car again, and Edoss continued.  “So what has your research told you about visions given by the Mystics?”

“Visions?”

“Where one seems to be taken to another place.  Visions that feel as real as this table or the movement of this train.”

Taran swallowed the food in his mouth, then said, “Not much information exists on the entirety of the Mystics’ powers.  All I know is that they were revered as avatars of Ahura and Angra, who were themselves worshiped as gods before and during the Faith Wars.  The Mystics were renowned for their abilities to heal or kill with a touch.”  Taran looked at the Speaker.  “Did you have a vision?”

Edoss smiled.  “We wouldn’t be on this journey if I hadn’t.”

Taran set his fork down, the feast forgotten.  “Tell me everything.  What did you see?  Did you see actual Mystics?  What did they tell—?”

Edoss held up a hand.  “One question at a time, Doctor.”

Taran was embarrassed that he had grilled the Speaker of the Compact like he was a graduate student applicant.  “Apologies, Excellency.”

“I admire your passion.  It assures me that I made the right decision to bring you along.  Now, as to what I saw.”

Edoss described the vision with a glassy, far away gaze, reliving the event.  Taran grew more enthralled with each detail, from the Speaker’s “flight” to the Beldamark to the fact that nobody on the balcony had seen the Speaker move.

When he finished, Edoss said, “All of that happened after I looked up at Ahura and said the words the Mystic letter told me to say.  You can understand why I would not want that experience widely known.”

Taran was thrilled.  The Speaker’s experience was confirmation that Mystic powers were not exaggerated, that they not only had magical powers in the past, but in the present, at this moment.

Oh, Mara, I’m so close.

Taran said, “Now that the rings have reappeared, the Mystics can do the things ascribed to them in legend.  And we likely don’t know the half of what they can do.”

Cursh asked, “Are they dangerous?”

“In all my research, I’ve found that certain factions are no more dangerous than any other group of humans.  But there are some factions that are quite dangerous.  Evil, in fact.”

Edoss asked, “How do we know the dangerous factions from the not-so-dangerous?”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door.  Edoss called out, “Yes.”

A Shadarlak Armsman strode in, saluted, and announced, “The conductor wishes to inform you that the train is about to stop in Doare to fuel the locomotive.”

Doare was one of the last stations before the Perla Mountains and the vast steppes of Edellia.  Taran glanced outside, could see the outlines of small farm houses passing by in the growing darkness, and he noticed that the train was now at a slight upward angle and moving slower than it had on the plains outside Calaman.

“Thank you, sergeant,” Edoss said.

The Shadarlak turned and strode out of the car.  When Edoss looked back at Taran, Taran said, “Right, the dangerous from the not-so-dangerous.  I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to that, Excellency.  At least not until we actually meet them.  Nobody has seen a Mystic in over a thousand years.  Frankly, I don’t know what to expect.  I can tell you legends of what they used to be, but I have no idea what they are now.”

“Can you speak to them?”

“I wouldn’t think communication would be a problem,” Taran said.  “The letter they sent proves they know Recindian.”

“I’m not worried about them talking to us,” Edoss said.  “But if they should speak their own language in front of us, I’d like to know what they’re saying.”

“Again, I won’t know until I meet them.  I’ve studied their ancient languages, and I have a grasp of their grammar.  But I have no idea if I’m even pronouncing their words correctly.”

Taran thought he had a good understanding of the Mystic language, but he wanted to keep the Speaker’s expectations realistic.  One of his father’s gems of wisdom was to set your superiors’ expectations low, then deliver more than they expect.

Edoss grinned.  “I don’t like going into negotiations where I don’t know what the other side is saying, Doctor.  I hope you’ll be well-practiced before we reach Markwatch.”

It sounded to Taran more like an order than a statement.  “I will do my best, Excellency.”

The train continued to slow until it finally stopped at the Doare train station.  Taran glanced out the windows, but saw nobody standing on the platform, though it was difficult to tell since the lamps had not yet been lit.

Jac returned to the car and filled each tea cup, then took away the empty plates.  Edoss produced a small pipe, filled it with tobacco from a pouch in his coat, and lit it.  The fragrant tobacco smoke was tinged with cherry and spices, and made Taran want to run back to his cabin and get his own pipe.

Cursh stamped some tobacco into a pipe, then asked Taran, “How do these Mystics do what they do?  Are they even human?”

“None of the texts I’ve found agree on one theory.  Some say—”

A gun shot echoed from the back of the train, causing Taran to jump.

Edoss said, “What the bloody—?”

A second shot rang out, followed by another, then an eruption of fire.  Several Shadarlak burst into the Speaker’s car, their revolvers drawn, their eyes scanning the car for threats.  One extinguished all the lamps in the car.  Edoss jumped up from his chair, followed by Cursh, and then Taran, and rushed to the windows on the platform side of the train.

One of the Shadarlak whispered, “Speaker, you must not go to the windows.”

When Edoss ignored him, the Shadarlak motioned two men to stand on either side of the Speaker.

The darkness on the platform prevented Taran from seeing much, though he noticed an orange glow that pervaded the entire station and the sky beyond it.  The scent of smoke was stronger near the train’s open windows, and Taran could not believe he previously mistook it for the train’s own coal furnace.

A large fire burned in the middle of Doare.  Judging from the size of that glow and the embers floating in the smoky air, it looked as if the entire town was burning behind the station building.

Then the most inhuman, animalistic scream Taran had ever heard pierced the night.  Taran covered his ears, but it did not block out that awful howl.  The scream reverberated inside Taran’s head, weakened his muscles, his bowels.  It carried on for what seemed like minutes, and then stopped.  Taran glanced around the car, saw that every other man had his hands to his ears and wore a pained expression.

Motion on the platform outside caught his eye.  He recoiled.  Several glistening forms were crawling along the ground toward the train.  The wavering orange glow of the town fire made shadows leap and twist, but he thought he saw—

A long gray tentacle, like from a squid washed upon the shores of Lake Maximohr, shot through the open window next to him.  It caught Cursh on the arm, wrapped itself tightly, and yanked the Speaker’s advisor toward the window.

Cursh screamed.

Several Shadarlak grabbed Cursh.  One of the Shadarlak drew a saber and sliced off the tentacle, sending Cursh and the Shadarlak holding him sprawling backward.  The other part of the tentacle retreated out the window, spewing black blood in its wake.  The inhuman shriek came again, and Taran wanted to cry out from the despair and terror with which it filled him.  More tentacles shot through the windows, thrashing about and pulling at the pictures, lamps, and curtains.

As the Shadarlak fired their revolvers and slashed at the tentacles with their sabers, Taran saw the misshapen head of one of the creatures poke through a window.  It was a bulbous, oozing nightmare of a face, with no symmetry or recognizable features other than the oblong opening where dozens of yellow-gray teeth shone, some dangling bits of flesh from the thing’s last meal.  It howled again, staggering Taran into the dinner table behind him.  He covered his ears and screamed to drown out that sound.  Anything to stop that sound.

The train lurched forward.  The tentacles were at every window now, and some even had what seemed like clawed human hands at the ends.  They thrashed and whipped about the car.  They grabbed anything they could reach, including the Shadarlak, but the Speaker’s bodyguards chopped off each tentacle that slithered through the now broken windows.

As the train gained speed, the tentacles fell out of the car.  Taran continued to hear gun shots from up and down the train.

The terrible howling stopped.  Taran was loath to go to the windows again, but his scientific curiosity overrode his fear and disgust.  He crept forward, past Edoss who was wrapping a tourniquet around Cursh’s bloody arm, and peered out one of the shattered windows.

The train was passing through the outskirts of the town.  Several homes were blackened skeletons with wisps of smoke rising above them, the fires having burned themselves out only hours before.  In the ruins of one of the homes, Taran heard someone shouting.  He was about to alert the Shadarlak that someone needed help, but the words died on his lips.

A man in the embers was illuminated by a cold, black light that enveloped him from a tendril of darkness reaching down from Angra.  He screamed words that Taran could not understand.  He pulled chunks of hair from his head and threw them at the train.  Several of the hideous forms that attacked the train writhed about him, some made up of nothing but greasy entrails while others—more horribly—had the warped bodies of humans, but with hideous, chitinous protrusions on their naked flesh.

And the man seemed to be screaming at Taran.

Taran suddenly understood some of the words he was saying.  They were ancient Mystic, though with a pronunciation different from what Taran had studied.

Taran rushed past the Shadarlak to the car’s door.  The Shadarlak captain, Latish, called from the other side of the car not to open the door, but no one was close enough to stop him.  He charged into the next car.

All the Shadarlak in the next car looked out the glass-less windows, their revolvers and sabers drawn.  Several slimy tentacles lay on the floor in pools of black, stinking blood.  Taran picked his way through the men, then entered his own car, passing Flynt and Ladak in the cramped hallway, ignoring their frightened questions.  In the last car on the train, Taran went to the door at the end, squeezing between two Shadarlak with muskets aimed at the night behind them.

The man in the burned house continued screaming.  Taran struggled to listen to the words as the train’s locomotive picked up speed and noise.  The train was soon out of hearing distance, but the man continued to gesture and shout, the monstrosities at his feet writhing and caressing him with their tentacles, hands, and grisly limbs.

The man ran to the side of the train tracks, his creatures following him, and then pointed to the tracks.  With impossible strength, the nightmarish tentacles and limbs tore up the iron tracks and wooden slats, destroying both sets of tracks going in either direction.

A Shadarlak grunted, an older man with a scar along his chin.  “Looks like we won’t be taking a train back to Calaman.”

Another Shadarlak holding the muskets asked Taran in a frightened voice, “What are those things?”

Taran said nothing, just stared at the gruesome mass and the man who continued shouting at him.