Sororicide
Sadrik was uncertain of the exact time, but surely it must have been near dawn when they at last arrived back in Nihlos. He had promised himself he could endure dangling from Maklin's grip long enough to see another sunrise, and after hours of enduring such indignity, Sadrik was reaching his breaking point. Surely that means something, yes?
Maklin released Sadrik four feet above the ground, leaving him to fall the last bit and land with a thud in Ariano’s topiary garden.
“Thanks, old man,” Sadrik muttered, dusting at his shirt.
“I could have let you go a little higher, you know.”
Sadrik opened his mouth to deliver a more artful rejoinder, but one look at the elder sorcerer changed his mind. Had Maklin been angry, or taunting, it would have felt right, but he saw none of the usual. Maklin looked thin (well, thinner than usual) and pinched, used up from the trip. “I'm glad you didn't.”
“It might not have even been on purpose,” Maklin said. He patted Sadrik on the shoulder as he moved past. “And we're off again in the morning, too.” He shook his head and carped, “I am getting too old for this shit, especially without a drink or two and a nap between.”
Maranath and Ariano settled to the ground with gentle dignity, a stark counterpoint to their previous landing. Ariano blinked several times and rubbed at her forehead.
Maranath stretched and heaved a great yawn. “I'll be glad to see my own bed,” the old sorcerer said. “It's been... eventful.”
Ariano looked back and forth at her companions before muttering, “We're all exhausted. Perhaps we should put this trip off.”
Maklin scowled at her with suspicion. Maranath shook his head, a wry smile on his lips, and said, “Still looking to avoid that, eh?”
Ariano, annoyed now, shot back “It's a stupid plan!” She looked at Maklin and Maranath with pleading eyes. “Cruentus is in the exact opposite direction of Torium, and what's to be gained by the trip, other than to rub my face in things?”
Maklin hacked up phlegm and spat it on the ground. “We need to verify he still retains his piece of the Eye. One is in Torium, another is headed there, and a third is abroad with the Southlander leader.”
Maranath shook his head in consternation. “It's headed there, too. Ahmed told me so. He says we all end up there, but he doesn't know if we survive.”
Maklin sneered and waved a hand dismissively. “He looked mortal enough to me. Now he's a prophet?”
“He has the sight,” Maranath replied. “I can't say exactly how much, but I could sense enough to know we should trust his instincts. Even if we don't, he certainly does. He intends to go to Torium.”
Ariano brightened at this. “Then we stop him!”
Maklin shot her a foul look. “We could avoid all of this if you'd bother to just come clean.”
Maranath gave Ariano a pointed look. “Indeed.”
Ariano looked back and forth between them, seeming almost ready to speak, before falling back to her old position. “I've told you all I can.”
Maklin jumped in the air and swung his fists at nothing a few times, shouting, “Stubborn fool!”
Maranath glared at Ariano, who remained inscrutable. “She's not sure how much he will tell us is my guess. He's in on whatever she and Lothrian got up to, mark my words.”
Maklin snorted and nodded toward Sadrik. “Even the baby here worked that out hours ago.”
Ariano growled a low, harmonic, almost musical sound. “You're not leaving me a lot of room here.”
“We're going,” Maranath asserted, striking his hand to end the conversation. “The forces in play demand it.”
Sadrik could see that Ariano wanted to fight about it, and yet she was outplayed. Lips pursed and jaw clenched, she cast her gaze to the ground and said nothing. Submitting to the stronger clearly never gets any easier. I have to give you credit for taking it even this well.
The uncomfortable silence went on a bit longer, until broken by someone clearing his throat. Sadrik spotted said someone peeking around a topiary lion, a slight man, graying at the temples, but dressed rather smartly for a slave, in a well-tailored blue waistcoat and white cravat. He had his hands clasped together, not quite wringing them, but certainly kneading, a gesture that matched the worried expression on his prim face. Surveying the scene before fully exposing yourself to the fire, eh? You're smarter than I am, then, sir, at least in that regard.
The others turned at the sound as well. Ariano took one look at the slave and turned away immediately, dashing at the tears in her eyes. “This had best be important, Anthar,” she croaked, her voice husky with rage. “This is a most inopportune time.” So, this one is important enough to you that you're embarrassed that he should see you cry, eh? Does Maranath have some competition, I wonder?
Anthar approached the quartet, the look in his eyes saying that not only was what he had to say important, but that he had no wish to say it at all. He stammered a moment before finally finding his voice. “Master Prandil has sent word that you must contact him immediately, Mistress.” Ariano rolled her eyes as the man continued. “There has been an... an accident.”
Sadrik had felt genuine fear only a few times in his life, but he felt it now. Prandil stood a damned good chance of not surviving this encounter, and depending on how things played out, he might not go alone. Explosions were not very selective in their targeting, and it seemed a certain thing that at some point, Maranath was going to erupt like a volcano.
Sadrik had never seen the old man like this. With Maranath, sarcasm and snark were usually plenty. For a Meite, he had remarkable patience. Now, though, the old man was at full-blown, homicidal levels of rage. Even Ariano was standing off to the side, looking pensive. Maklin, well, Maklin seemed more impatient than anything else, as if he wished Maranath would get on with the killing so they could get to bed.
Prandil was already on his knees, head bowed in submission, kneeling in his nightclothes amidst the ruins of his veranda doors. Sadrik empathized with his position. I know just how it feels. Well, except for the having my door blasted in and being dragged from my bed in the wee hours. I turned myself in, when it happened with me. Of course, the elders had looked on the mess Sadrik had made with Theron as two young fools who ought to have been watched more closely. They felt some responsibility for the outcome. Prandil, however, was unlikely to receive any benefit from such notions. They would hold him to full account. Odd that they are only angry with him. Narelki started it, after all. I suppose she already received her punishment, though.
Maranath seemed unable to stand in one place. He paced back and forth, shaking a fist and ranting as he absorbed Prandil's tale, lashing out at anything near to hand, the more valuable-looking, the better. He rubbed his hands over his face, then swept his arms in front of him. One of Prandil's many bookshelves imploded, sending shards of wood and paper debris flying. Sadrik made certain to consider the silliness that any of the tiny missiles could possibly harm him. Indeed, several did hit his face and rebound harmlessly.
Maranath was not done. He grasped at the air, and Prandil's entire bed vaulted from the floor, sending mattress and bedclothes tumbling. The wrought iron frame twisted and rent, shrieking in the way only tortured metal can scream as it turned in on itself and compacted into a roughly spherical mass of sharp spikes, a ball of jagged knives. Prandil kept his head down, not even flinching as Maranath sent the missile hurtling at him. It passed just over his head, the wind fluttering his hair, to crash against what was left of the veranda, tearing the remaining door from its hinges. Maranath swept an arm after it, and the entire wall blew out, leaving a clear view of the brightening morning sky.
Sadrik watched as the whole veranda groaned, then, with a great rending noise, tore loose from its moorings and plunged to the street below. The impact shook the entire house, but thankfully no screams followed. So, no hapless early riser crushed on his morning constitutional, or at least it was mercifully quick.
Maranath stood
in the center of the room, eyes still blazing, and strode toward Prandil with a clenched fist. He hammered Prandil in the face hard enough to knock him onto the floor, then stepped back, chest heaving. And that's important, isn't it? Sometimes you want to hurt a man with such intensity that it needs to be done with your bare hands. Sorcery isn't good enough.
Maranath pointed an accusing finger at Prandil and roared, “We promised to protect Lothrian's children! Now, one probably won't last the week, and another lies dead by your hand!”
Maklin's face suddenly darkened. “Maranath! Mind yourself!”
Maranath glared at Maklin and muttered, “It was all for her benefit, anyway! Who gives a damn now?”
Ariano spoke up, softly but firmly. “Maranath. Come back. Before you do things you'll regret.”
Maranath's composure was slowly returning, but his eyes still spoke volumes. “Since when would you care about what happens to Prandil? Or Narelki, for that matter?”
“I didn't mean Prandil, and the girl seems to have shown some mettle at the end. It makes up for much. Let's not mar her legacy.”
Maranath grunted and looked at the ground. “Or yours, eh?”
Ariano clearly wanted to say more, but managed to restrain herself. Because of me. Because I will overhear. Just a few more ill-considered remarks and I might be able to work it out.
Prandil rose slowly back to a kneeling position and wiped blood from his lips and beard. “She said she felt like herself again, just before she passed.”
Maranath spun on him, fist raised again. “Who gave you permission to speak? I haven't decided if you walk away from this, Prandil!”
Prandil mustered as much dignity as a bleeding man in his nightclothes and on his knees could, straightening his back and looking Maranath in the eye, still fierce, even in defeat. “She wanted all of us to know.”
Ariano's eyes twinkled with something that might have been moisture, and Maranath's eyes grew wet with tears. Slowly, he reached a hand toward Prandil. “At least there's that. She's not suffering anymore. She chose how to go.” He gave Prandil a jerk to his feet, chuckling through tears. “Damn near killed you, eh? You always were a sucker for women.”
Maklin hacked and spat on the floor. “You should have let her finish the job. She might have been useless, but you're an active impediment!”
Ariano waved his comment aside. “When is her funeral?” she asked Prandil.
Maklin waved back at her with a sneer. “What does it matter? We're not going. Don't think to use this as an excuse to get out of being taken to the woodshed.”
Maranath growled briefly. “We'll all be attending her services, Maklin, and Ariano is going to see the dragon.”
Maklin eyed Maranath a bit, as if trying to judge his old friend's state of mind. “The timing is too damned tight, Maranath. We have to get there before Aiul!”
Sensing the first opportunity to say something that wouldn't get him killed, Sadrik pounced on it. “Or the Southlander.”
Prandil reached into a drawer by his bed for a cloth and began dabbing at his bloody face. “They'll wait until Caelwen returns, I'm certain.”
Maranath’s jaw worked as he considered. “He and the Southlanders should arrive this evening, if all goes well, so not before tomorrow.”
Maklin was having none of this. He waved his arms in the air, gesticulating wildly and stammering as he shouted, “Are you deaf? Did you not hear The Windbag just say it was in the complete opposite direction of Torium?”
Ariano glared at Maklin, but said nothing. Smart. You'd invalidate your own arguments if you complained!
Maklin waited a moment for a response from Maranath, but received none beyond eye rolling and head shaking, which only served to make him even more furious. “It's a day's travel to Cruentus, and another back!”
Maranath shrugged. “Add a day for the funeral, and another day for us to reach Torium. It would still take two men on horses a week. We're fine.”
Maklin actually stamped a foot on the ground like a child having a temper tantrum. “Those two are not just men, and you know it!”
“So, they can fly, you think?”
Maklin scowled at Maranath, but offered no response.
Maranath eyed them all for several moments, his expression saying clearly he would brook no more defiance on the matter. He announced his decision (and his recognition of their submission) with a curt nod. “Here's how it will be. We'll attend Narelki's funeral. All of us,” he said, casting a pointed glare at Prandil. “Then all of us except you will pay Cruentus a visit. The only excuse I am likely to accept is grievous bodily harm or death, and if anyone is a no-show, one of those will be in his or her future! Am I clear?”
Polus paused, his hand hovering over a pawn, finding himself, for the moment, distracted by the practically non-existent surroundings. Davron favored the austere, and Polus occasionally found himself thinking that visiting Davron could quite literally be a pain in one's ass. He might at least put cushions on the chairs for guests, even if his backside is made of iron.
As for the rest of the place, Davron's private quarters were a slightly warmer and brighter version of a prison cell. A square room, expensive but bland wooden paneling, each wall home to a single sword. The blades looked deadly enough, but Polus had no idea of their history, and Davron saw no need to label them for visitors, either. One is supposed to ask, and then be regaled with the tale, no doubt.
The only thing in the room that showed any taste or color was the very large bed. Polus eyed the sharp, crisp corners of the folded sheets with some amusement.
Davron sat back in his stiff chair, folded his arms across his chest, and offered a smug grin. “Having difficulties?”
Polus shot him a glare as he considered, hand still hovering. “You might accommodate a guest better, you know.”
Davron chuckled briefly, and gestured with his head toward the bed. “Depends on the guest.”
Polus offered a wry smile. “I suppose one would need a different room for that sort of thing.” He moved his pawn forward and added, “I presume that's why you didn't join the Meites in their hunt for Aiul? Distracted by her?”
Davron laughed out loud at that. “I won't claim she hasn't got my attention, but there's nothing sordid about it. I need an heir, Polus.”
“A Prosin heir,” Polus noted. “And you didn't answer the question.” He sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. Chess is a deeper game than some realize. Even the conversation can influence the play. He studied the board a few moments as Davron was considering his move. “I've never known you to avoid a fight for anything less than fucking, and even that came in second at times. Should I expect more trouble with you and the Meites?”
Davron reached for his knight and paused to answer, “Honestly, I reckoned I'd already made enough of an ass of myself.” He pulled his hand back without touching his small, horse-shaped figurine. “It seemed prudent to let the new peace settle a bit before testing it.”
“It will be tested at any rate. When they learn of Narelki's death, and Prandil's involvement, there will be trouble.”
Davron shrugged and reached back to the knight. He plunked it down with a grunt. “What of it? So they kill one another over it? Is that not fair play?”
“It is not in comport with the law.”
Davron laughed out loud. “Oh, well, then, Mei forbid it!”
Polus considered his words as he considered his next move: hand to chin, calculating. “The more the nobles flout the law, the more the commoners are emboldened to do so as well. This chaos with the Meites of late, it's almost madness. What provokes it?”
Davron gave him a look that seemed to question not only Polus's sanity, but his common sense. “They think the world is ending. It has them edgy.”
“Will it, do you think?” He gently slid his rook a single square to the left. That should do it.
Davron flashed a triumphant grin. “It will for each of us, some day. I don't think abou
t such things much. There's no point to it.” He moved his queen with gusto. “Checkmate.”
Polus looked at the board for long moments, well aware of his old friend's nature. “Not quite,” he said with a thin smile. Davron's expression went from victorious to crestfallen as Polus moved one of his knights to capture Davron's queen.
“Mei. This is a stupid game. Why simulate war when we could wage a real one?”
Polus raised an eyebrow and hesitated a moment before answering. “Is that what we're discussing here, now?”
He knows he's likely doomed now. That was a critical blunder. He can only hope for an equally stupid move on my part, but he will not resign. He will fight on to the bitter end, as always.
Davron looked over the board and pushed a pawn forward, “When do you intend to get started?”
From bluster to caution, eh? You might have saved yourself, or at least delayed things, if you'd stayed aggressive. That will cost you, old friend. “One waits for an opening, then strikes a firm blow.” Polus moved his own queen into position and smiled. “Checkmate.”
Chapter 2
Law and Justice
Ahmed felt little enthusiasm for the journey ahead. He and his men had managed only a few hours of sleep. The sun had not even risen yet, and they would be on the road until it set again, perhaps longer. At least it will likely be peaceful.
Such thinking was alien to him. Only a few months past, he would have welcomed the possibility of trouble to break up the monotony of travel. But lately...
Perhaps it was due to the influence of the foreigners. Ahmed still had his doubts about them, though he was uncertain how much was due to his own prejudice. It was difficult to see the man riding alongside him and ignore the blue eyes, the pale skin, the yellow hair. The bruises on his face highlighted his alien nature, rather than hiding it. The man wore armor and bore a sword as any civilized man ought do, though the spikes his people used for rank struck Ahmed as odd. Yet he still seems beast-like, to me. Horses and dogs have yellow hair, not men.
War God's Will Page 4
