“Have we purged the disloyal ones?” Kehl asked.
“Yes, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied, bowing low.
“Are we certain the ones that remain are loyal?” Kehl asked.
“As loyal as these dung eating dogs can be, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied.
“That does not make me feel very secure,” Kehl replied. “I am to lead these thugs. I cannot do this if I fear a knife in my back every moment.”
A’Uthma bowed again. “Im’Ka’Da, I dispatched the ones that were outwardly disloyal quickly, disemboweling them while they still breathed, burning their entrails as an offering to Ner’Galgal. I ripped their still beating hearts from their chests and offered them to Nan’Sin. I did all this while the others watched.”
“And?” Kehl asked.
“Those who were not loyal, but did not choose to say so outwardly, left in the night,” A’Uthma replied. “A dozen men, perhaps. Albin and Flemming tracked down at least half of them and killed them.”
“And those that remain?”
“They have pledged loyalty,” A’Uthma replied, “to the death. They have been branded with the mark of The Slayer on their left breast, the mark of the Mistress of Night on their right hand, and the mark of Master of the Morning Sun on their left cheek.”
Indeed, a symbol of loyalty. To brand the symbol of just one of their gods on the body would certainly be a sign of loyalty, but all three? The death’s skull, the moon, and the sun. These thieves were truly loyal to Kehl. After being branded, he did not doubt that. And if they weren’t, A’Uthma, Flemming, and Albin would take care of them.
“How many in total?” Kehl asked.
“Two score men,” A’Uthma replied, “and a dozen women.”
“Whores,” Kehl hissed. He didn’t despise whores, but to have them in his employ would prove distracting to his men. “Sell them.”
“They are not whores, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied, bowing again. “They are adept thieves and assassins and spies. Of this, I have been assured.”
“We will see,” Kehl said.
“Has this violence reached the ears of the Council of Five?” Kehl asked.
“Not that I know of, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied. “Should we be so worried about the Council of Five?”
Kehl shot A’Uthma a hard look. His fellow Samanian bowed his head and stepped backwards.
“They are brutal,” Kehl replied, “the Council. They care nothing for allegiances, loyalties, good or bad, righteous or iniquitous. They care nothing for the plight of the poor or the corruption of the rich. They only care for the law—and care only for those who follow the law. In this city, we must be careful. If the Council knows there is an unlawful element in their city like us, they will be quick to extinguish it, and with terrible force. Why do you think Toth took such care to keep his lair secret?”
“I understand, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said. “What is your plan?”
“I wish to leave this place, eventually,” Kehl said.
“You wish to go home?” A’Uthma replied.
Kehl nodded.
“With our connections in Crom and Tyr, and with new connections in Finlo, we can be rich men—aristocrats with power and influence—in Saman.”
“I beg a thousand pardons, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said, “but your tone does not sound like you are convinced this is a wise thing to do.”
“It is wise,” Kehl replied. “It is the wisest thing to do.”
“But …”
“But I have unfinished business,” Kehl replied. “I have my brothers’ deaths to avenge.”
“You wish to go to Waterton,” A’Uthma said.
“Yes,” Kehl replied. “I will burn that shit heap of a town down; I will enslave its people, and I will sell them in Saman when we return.”
“How many will you take with you, Im’Ka’Da?” A’Uthma asked.
“I do not wish to take many of these thieves,” Kehl admitted.
“You do not trust them, Im’Ka’Da?” A’Uthma questioned.
Kehl shook his head. “If you trust them, I trust them.”
“Then why would you not take them to raze Waterton?”
“I fear that will be a hard fight, destroying the town of Waterton,” Kehl said, “and these new members to our guild are valuable and skilled.”
“Guild?” A’Uthma asked.
It was true. Kehl had never referred to their band of slavers as a guild before.
“Yes, A’Uthma,” Kehl said with a smile. “A slavers’ guild. I think that has a nice ring to it. Don’t you?”
A’Uthma smiled.
“Yes, Im’Ka’Da. If you wish to not take members of your guild, then who?”
“I will take a dozen,” Kehl said, “and Albin. For the rest … I wish you to spread word. Spread word that there is a need for swords—anyone who is a skilled fighter and has a taste for gold and women. Despite the Council of Five, there should be enough dispensable alley rats in this city that would be willing to follow me to Waterton for the glimmer of a gold coin and the pretense of membership into the newly formed slavers’ guild of Finlo.”
“Am I to not go with you?” A’Uthma asked.
“No.” Kehl shook his head. “I need you and Flemming to stay here. Ready our departure for Saman. Purchase a ship. Make preparations. As for me, I will travel to Waterton under the guise of someone else.”
Kehl thumbed through a book that rested on his—Toth’s—desk. It was a book of disguises, both simple and intricate, one he had found amongst the vast books that sat on Toth’s bookshelves. He could simply change his eyes or mouth, or his whole face, or his body, his sex, his voice, the complexion of his skin. He could even change his race—a dwarf or goblin. Towards the back of the book, he found spells that even suggested he could change into animals—a cat or wolf.
“As you wish, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said, bowing.
Kehl’s lieutenant turned to leave when the Samanian slaver stopped him.
“The women in our guild,” Kehl said. A’Uthma looked to Kehl over his shoulder. “Are any of them from Saman? The pale skin of these Háthgolthanians makes me sick. I wouldn’t mind lying with a woman from my homeland.”
A’Uthma turned to face Kehl, a wry smile on his face.
“I do not believe we have any women from Saman, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied. “However, one of the women is from Nai Na’Kinasa. Her shoulders are strong, her hips wide, and her skin dark and beautiful.”
“What is her name, A’Uthma?” Kehl asked.
“N’Jeri,” A’Uthma replied.
“And would N’Jeri be willing to please me?” Kehl asked.
“Im’Ka’Da, her willingness is inconsequential,” A’Uthma replied. “You are master of this slavers’ guild. You take as you wish. However, yes, N’Jeri has the heart of our continent. She is tired of living among these dogs. I do believe she would be more than willing to lie with the Im’Ka’Da.”
“Then send her in.”
Kehl spoke a silent word, and the door to his office appeared and opened. As soon as A’Uthma left, the door disappeared again. He sat for a while, waiting for N’Jeri, thinking about his plans.
I don’t really care if I take any slaves from Waterton if all I do is kill that fat, disgusting dog. But I must give A’Uthma a reason to go. I will return to Saman, and I will be rich.
He sat and thought, thumbing through the same book of guises before opening a book of simple tricks—lighting torches with a snap of his fingers, causing a fog with the blink of his eye, commanding a shadow to fall over him with a simple word. Then, he saw them. He saw the heat of two people on the other side of his door. They wouldn’t be able to see the door. Magic hid it from the naked eye. But he could see the heat a body emanated through the wall. Kehl spoke a few words, and the door formed.
A’Uthma opened the door but did not enter. He simply ushered in a tall, dark woman before bowing and closing the door. Kehl spoke again, and the d
oor disappeared.
Kehl tried saying something while this woman stood before him, but her beauty made him mute. He felt his pulse quicken, his face grow hot, his manhood become excited.
“You are N’Jeri?” Kehl asked.
She bowed low. “Yes, Im’Ka’Da.”
“You are beautiful,” Kehl said. He stood.
“I am glad my appearance pleases you, Im’Ka’Da.”
She was tall, almost as tall as Kehl. Her skin was dark, her hair black and braided, falling to the middle of her back. The muscles in her arms undulated as she moved slightly. Her jaw was strong and firm. She reminded Kehl of home. Kehl could see the brands on her hand and cheek blistering, but they did not take away from her beauty.
“You wish to lay with me?” Kehl asked. He felt boyish. He didn’t know why, but he did.
“I wish to do whatever pleases the Im’Ka’Da,” N’Jeri replied. She reached up and undid the clasp that held up her dress. It fell away, revealing her breasts, large and round, and the blistering brand on the left side of her chest. There was another brand on her stomach, an old one, raised and gray against her dark skin.
“What is that a brand of?” Kehl asked.
“The Kinasan god of war,” N’Jeri replied, “Oguan.”
“I have heard of Oguan,” Kehl replied, “although I have never worshipped her.”
N’Jeri bowed low.
“It has been a long while since I have lain with a woman from my continent,” Kehl said walking to the front of his desk.
“Then I will remind the Im’Ka’Da of what it feels like to be with a real woman,” N’Jeri said, stepping close to Kehl, so close he could smell the oil on her skin. She grabbed him, gripped his crotch hard. “I will make you forget the filthy bitches from this place, who open their whore legs to any tiny cock with a copper penny that walks their way.”
Kehl grabbed her and pushed her onto his table.
“You will be mine,” Kehl said, excitement in his voice. “You will stand next to me as I rise in fame and fortune.”
“I am yours, Im’Ka’Da,” N’Jeri said before she kissed him, and Kehl was putty in her hands.
Chapter 5
Erik looked over his shoulder as they left the hall and the well and fountain. He could still here the distant trickle of water, but as he stepped into the adjoining tunnel, leading to somewhere within the city of Orvencrest, the torches that lined the large hallway extinguished, the distant sounds of water stopped, and in the darkness, Erik heard voices.
“Do you here that?” Erik asked Demik, who walked next to him.
“Hear what?” Demik replied.
“Those voices,” Erik said.
They both stopped and stared into the darkness. Erik could see the dwarf straining to hear what he had heard.
“No,” Demik said, shaking his head. Then, he shivered. “But the warmth of this hallway seems to have disappeared with the light.”
“That is them,” Erik said. “They are here, in the darkness.”
“Who?” Demik asked.
“Demik. Erik,” Balzarak called from the front of the company, “we must go.”
At the edge of their own torchlight, and the light of Bryon’s sword, Erik could see the tunnel was short and opened into another wide hall. On both sides of the hall were platforms, both with broken stairways.
“Guard posts,” Turk said.
A long spear rested against the wall on one platform. Under that same platform, they found a pile of clothing—armor—and under the armor, old bones, brittle and ancient.
“Why don’t these torches magically light?” Erik asked, pointing to the sconces on the wall holding ancient sticks covered in pitch.
“I don’t know,” Balzarak replied. “Perhaps the magic of the guardian only extends so far. Whatever the reason, be careful. Be ready.”
Beyond Balzarak’s circlet, Erik could see a wide darkness, blacker than the shadow around it, gaping like an open maw.
“A doorway,” Erik said.
“Aye,” Demik agreed.
The large double doors that once stood strong and tall at the end of this hall—a smaller version of Thorakest’s Gröde Hadenhall—hung open, rotten and dilapidated. The darkness from beyond the doors spilled into the hall as if it were sunlight, only its shadowy, evil twin. At this end of the hall, stood two more guard stations. The remains of one dwarf, now skeletal, hung over the edge of one platform while the remains of two other dwarves rested underneath the other platform.
Trauma was evident on these remains, a clear tale of battle from within and treachery, with cracked skulls, broken weapons, and shattered bones.
“They were taken by surprise,” Dwain said.
“How do you know?” Wrothgard asked.
“We only see the remains of four or five guards,” Dwain replied. “If an alarm had gone off before they were attacked, this hall would have been filled with the remains of hundreds of warriors.”
“Maybe time has washed the evidence away,” Wrothgard suggested.
“No,” Balzarak said. “Something surprised them.”
“They surprised them,” Erik added, and Balzarak replied with a quick nod. Erik couldn’t help seeing the disapproving stare Threhof gave the general.
As they passed through the great, dark opening, Erik heard them again, shadowy voices from the darkness, the memory of the dead.
“We are here,” they hissed in one, sickening chorus. “Come to us.”
Erik turned as the others passed through the doorway. The light around him faded, and only Demik stayed, with his torch. Erik could almost see them, at the edge of the darkness.
I’ll see you enough in my dreams.
He looked at Demik with a sidelong glance. He knew the dwarf didn’t hear them, but he knew something was there nonetheless. Still, it didn’t stop the questioning look on his face.
“Coward!” they hissed.
“Maybe,” Erik replied. “Or maybe I’m just smart. Maybe I will fight you on my terms.”
Their laughter seemed to rattle the walls.
“You are in our realm now,” they hissed. “You will fight on our terms. This is the realm of the dead.”
“Let’s go Demik,” Erik said, and they turned to follow their companions.
The broken doorway opened into a huge cavern, the ceilings beyond sight so Erik could only discern the outlines of buildings and walls. Balzarak and the other dwarves stood just inside the door.
“Is he bloody crying?” Switch asked.
“I think so,” Bryon replied.
“This is it,” Balzarak muttered, more to himself. “This is the lost city.”
“I doesn’t look like much,” Switch said.
“If the fires were only burning,” Dwain added, “you would see its grandeur.”
“Where are its mirrors?” Erik asked. “Are they broken?”
“No mirrors,” Bofim said. “Time before mirrors.”
“Ah I see,” Erik said. “So, they just used torches to light the city.”
“Giant fire pits,” Bofim replied.
“You know, you can speak to me in Dwarvish,” Erik said.
“If I speak Dwarvish,” Bofim said, “I no get better at Westernese.”
“What if I speak to you in Dwarvish, and you speak to me in Westernese?” Erik asked.
“Deal,” Bofim replied.
The shadows of buildings rose around them, most distant memories of what they once were. Wood had rotted away. Stone had crumbled.
“No farms,” Befel said.
“No,” Turk replied. “Their farms would have been on the surface somewhere.”
Erik felt something under his boot. He bent down and picked up a child’s doll, a thing made of cloth that had somehow avoided the ravages of time, with string hair and buttons for eyes—although one of the blue buttons was missing. It reminded him of the gypsies, which seemed so long ago. He remembered a little girl carrying a doll similar to this one. She had reminded him of
his sisters. He felt a lump in his throat. Families had lived here. This wasn’t just a city of hardened dwarvish warriors. When the dwomanni attacked, women and children fell victim to their shadow.
“What’s that?” Befel asked.
“Nothing,” Erik replied. “Just an old doll.”
“Still intact?” Befel asked.
Erik nodded, lifting the doll up, close to his face. He could almost smell the child that had held this doll. It smelled like his sisters, like their hair. Their hair always smelled sweet, like his mother’s roses.
“Seems odd,” Befel said.
“There are no dwarvish remains,” Wrothgard said. “No bones, clothing, armor. There isn’t any evidence of an attack.”
“Keep moving,” Turk said as he passed Erik, Wrothgard, and Befel. “It isn’t safe to stop.”
Erik tucked the doll into his belt. As he followed his dwarvish friend, he felt them watching. He knew they were there, beyond the shadows. He could smell their stink and tried thinking of the smells of his mother’s garden. They came to an open place.
“The main marketplace of Orvencrest,” Threhof said.
It was a large space. At its center, as with almost any marketplace, was a fountain. Whatever massive statue that once rose as the centerpiece of the fountain was gone, crumbled away into dust, but the remnants of a sitting space that surrounded the fountain still remained.
“It still has water in it,” Bryon said, peering into the fountain.
“Bryon,” Dwain said, “be careful.”
Beldar and Bim stepped next to Bryon as he reached to dip a finger in the water. But as he touched it, they saw that it wasn’t water. It was sticky and black and bubbled when he disturbed its surface. Both Beldar and Bim grabbed Bryon’s arms and pulled him back, almost dragging him away from the fountain. In their light, Erik could see steam rising from the fountain, and he heard a rumbling like boiling water. Bryon flicked the sticky stuff from his finger onto the floor, and where it hit, it hissed and smoked.
Breaking the Flame Page 3
