The elder soldier woke quickly and quietly at Ahmed's hand on his shoulder. Sandilianus reached for his sword as he looked about in the flickering firelight, alert for trouble. Seeing nothing obvious, he looked at Ahmed and raised an eyebrow.
“No enemies,” Ahmed said. “And no need for quiet. Wake the men and break camp. Ilaweh commands you to go to Torium. You must reach there before a great evil is born.”
Sandilianus gave Ahmed a suspicious look, then muttered, “It's hundreds of miles from here. Who knows without the maps. We would make better time waiting for the crew and sailing.”
Ahmed shook his head. “You do not understand.” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before continuing, knowing how this sounded. “Ilaweh wills you go this very moment.”
Sandilianus's face grew dark with anger. “It is midnight, Ahmed!” he hissed through clenched teeth, still trying not to wake the sleeping men around them. “This is madness!”
Ahmed set his jaw and looked his mentor in the eye. “Do you not think I know how it sounds?”
For long moments, Sandilianus held his gaze, as if he could, through simple observation, see into Ahmed's head, perhaps determine if he had indeed lost his mind, or if these insane orders were truly from their god. “I am no fool. I hear 'Ilaweh commands you', not 'Ilaweh commands us.' What are you not telling me?”
Ahmed could not say the words for a moment. The terror seemed as if it would grow to overwhelm him if he actually gave voice to the rest of Ilaweh's plan. Unspoken, it was just theoretical, but to speak was to seal his fate.
Sandilianus's features hardened as he began to understand. “Where does Ilaweh send you, boy?”
With a great, shuddering sigh, Ahmed told him Ilaweh's will. “I am to stay and enter the city.
Sandilianus's jaw bulged a moment. “You are certain?”
“Aye. I am to place myself at their mercy.”
Sandilianus's head swung back and forth as if he were searching for an enemy to strike, his hands clutching together as if throttling an invisible enemy. “Has Ilaweh forgotten what happened to the last prelate who surrendered to them?” he shouted.
“No,” Ahmed said as the sleeping men about him began to wake. “He has not, nor has he guaranteed me a kinder fate. Let us hope Caelwen's promise will do in good stead.”
Sandilianus looked at Ahmed for a moment longer, jaw working, eyes flashing, then gave a quick, angry nod of submission. “How long?”
“You must reach Torium by the third sunset from now, or all is lost.”
Sandilianus raised a hand and squeezed Ahmed’s shoulder briefly as he locked eyes for a moment in silence. “Ilaweh is great,” he said at last, and turned to his duties.
Ahmed began gathering his meager possessions as Sandilianus's orders rang through the camp. “Wake, women! Cocks down, swords up! Ilaweh has work for us!”
Indeed, he does. Hard work. I will do the best I can.
Ahmed looked back only once. Sandilianus had matters well in hand. The men groused, but they performed, which was all that was expected of a soldier. Provided one did as he was told, bitching was not only permitted, but expected. If men did unpleasant things without complaining, one would wonder at their mental status.
He hiked toward the city in silence, the fear like a dagger piercing his chest, burning within. He cursed himself, even as he felt his hands tremble. Had he not prepared for death many times of late? And of those times, only once had he felt like this: within the confines of Brutus's cabin, as the water slowly rose.
That is why I fear: the loss of control, of agency. It is easier to live or die by one's own hands and wits than to leave that duty to another.
A ten-minute hike brought Ahmed to the road he and Caelwen had traveled. They had camped in a thick wood, but now that he was out of it, he had a clear view of the city once again. Alone, and with no pressing duty to make him hurry, Ahmed saw the city as if for the first time, its spires and spans gleaming under the orange cloud, and felt in his gut something altogether new: a sense of wonder and admiration. Dogs and barbarians cannot build such beautiful things.
If there were a moon tonight, it was hidden by Nihlos's clouds, but the clouds themselves gave plenty of light, a yellow-orange light rather than silver. Is it never dark, here? Have they banished night as they have weather, and should they have?
The road changed from dirt to cobbles as Ahmed walked, absorbed in such thoughts, and pausing occasionally to observe some new feature of the city that he had not seen previously. Once, he actually stopped and stood slack jawed a moment, stunned, as he realized that the city was composed of two layers. He saw the great houses on the surrounding hills and understanding blossomed in his mind. The rich live above, and the common live below.
Soon the city gates loomed ahead, backlit by blazing, white lights that Ahmed could not identify. They were certainly artificial, but beyond that, Ahmed could not even speculate. He knew of no means to produce such intense, directed illumination. The beams shone forth from the gate to bathe the area in front in near-daylight. Ahmed raised an arm to shield his eyes. It is a good tactic. An approaching enemy would be at a great disadvantage.
He could see four figures behind the gate, man-shaped, but otherwise featureless, black spots in the brilliance. He was not at all surprised to see them spring to attention as he approached, shadow figures reaching for weapons.
“Halt, Southlander!”
Ahmed held his hands aloft. I am from the North!
As his eyes adjusted, he began to make out the men's faces. All of them had the same unnerving, pale yellow hair, and while he could not see their eyes, he had no doubt they would be blue. Beasts. But no, that was wrong. Had not Ilaweh himself made that clear? Men, then. But stupid men, who think of North and South backwards. When I am clear of this, I will go fists with someone to settle that foolishness.
The men behind the gate shuffled their feet, swaying back and forth, three looking to the other, presumably their leader, for orders. After a few moments, the leader cleared his throat and demanded, in a voice that seemed a register higher than it ought to have been, “State your name and business.”
“I am Ahmed Justinius, Prelate of Ilaweh, and I am here at his command.”
The men looked back and forth at one another, faces blank and puzzled. “We do not know this land.”
Ahmed felt himself tense with anger. “Ilaweh is not a land!” he snapped, then, with great effort, calmed himself. “Ilaweh is a god.”
The men again looked back and forth, as if each hoped his fellows had worked something out and could explain the foreigner's strange words, but none had found any particular insight. “Why does your god send you here?” the leader asked in a shaky voice. His long, thin fingers were tight on the grip of his sword, as if he half expected Ahmed to tear through the gate and slay them all.
A very good question. Ahmed shrugged. “I do not know. I know only that he bid me come.”
The leader frowned. “I do not know this god, and in any event, I do not answer to any gods. I answer to Caelwen of House Luvox, or Davron of House Noril.”
Ahmed perked up at this. “I know Caelwen. I made the trek to our camp alongside him. He will speak for me.”
“Perhaps, but he is indisposed. I cannot let you in without authorization. You seem a military man. You understand my position.”
“Aye, all too well. And I do not even know if it is my goal to enter.”
“Then what will you do?”
Ahmed raised an eyebrow, considering, then answered, “I will do what military men do best.” He lowered himself to the ground and leaned against the gate, chuckling softly as the guards took a step back, as if they feared he might be venomous.
“I will wait.”
Eleran knew he should have left hours ago. He had an important meeting to attend in the morning, but between the cold outside and the warmth of the lovely farm girl who had offered to share her bed, it was just a damned hard thing to get going. That
and he felt he should probably sleep off the booze, or he might have trouble finding the camp again.
It had never occurred to him that he might have a similar problem once he sobered up. Admittedly, he was still a bit foggy, and definitely a little preoccupied by the smell of his new friend hanging in the air, on his skin, everywhere. And the cold was indeed a distraction, too, but he would have thought that it would make finding a bunch of men with campfires in the dark not just easier, but significantly more desirable. Somehow, though, he still found himself stumbling about in the snow with no clue. It doesn't make any sense! I should be able to see smoke!
Eleran shook his head and slogged back to the road to get his bearings, his breath steaming from his nose. If I had one of those guard helms, I could pretend I was a dragon. With an impish grin, he snorted a brief, real flame from his nose, then quickly looked around to make certain no one had seen.
I'm not like my old man. That was important to Eleran. The nobles were weak people, and worse, kept people. They imagined they had it better, and he supposed some had it better than some commoners, but the truth of the matter was that each and every one of them were bound with chains they couldn't even see. Even you, Dad, pretend as you might to be free.
They sat huddled in the city, worried about whom they might offend, scared even to get rained or snowed on. And then they wonder why it's so damned easy for me to fuck their wives. Actually having a pair helps in that area.
Eleran heaved a sigh, still scanning the horizon. He was certain they had left the road here. Not only did he remember it, the grass was trampled, and there was a clear path.
Shaking his head, Eleran followed the trail. For some reason, they camped cold. It was the only thing that made sense, but why would they, in this temperature?
The trees grew thicker, snow covered needles brushing wet over his face as he pushed through, searching, searching... here we are. He stopped and looked about, certain this was the place. There had been fires here, and recently, but now they were filled with dirt. The Xanthians had been remarkably responsible, actually. The entire campsite was buttoned up and policed. Even their scraps had been buried, so as not to draw predators.
It was unfortunate that they had failed in that last effort, or at least it seemed so to Eleran. Where fortune held was that, for the moment, Eleran was upwind of the wolf that had managed to locate said scraps and was, currently, digging in the dirt with focused intensity.
I really should get in the habit of carrying a sword or something. He knew how to use one fairly well, though he was perfectly happy if the world remained ignorant of that. In his fairly considerable experience dealing with people, it was usually better to know more than they thought you did, and keep your mouth shut about it until it mattered.
It mattered, now, though. Wolves did not, as far as Eleran knew, run alone without reason. This beast was no runt or sickly elder driven out for weakness, which left the probability that it had trouble getting along with others.
Like me. Shit, this won't end well.
As if sensing his thoughts, the wolf jerked its head in his direction and twisted its muzzle in a snarl.
“Don’t have to be this way,” Eleran offered in a calm voice, but even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. If it were spring, they might have passed one another by, two lone wolves respecting each other's territory, neither wanting to risk injury, but it was winter, and winter made for desperate wolves.
It came, bounding and loping. Really wish I had that sword about now. Eleran gave himself about fifty-fifty odds, fairly certain that he would get only one chance. He clenched his fists, waiting, time seeming to stretch as the beast hurtled toward him, snarling and gnashing its teeth, a blur of fur and fury. He judged as best he could, waited for his moment, and swung with all his might, hammering his fist against the side of the beast’s head as it leapt in the air to tear out his throat.
The damp, snow-filled air resounded with the crack, but the beast gave no cry. It hurtled past him in silence, deflected by his blow, and landed in a heap, head tilted nearly backward on its neck. He studied the fallen wolf a moment, surprised to see not even a twitch from it. Well, I didn't plan it exactly like that, but I'll take it. I was going hungry this morning, too, until you came along.
He had hoped to find a spot of breakfast with the Xanthians, and had not a cent left to his name, so the wolf had turned out to be good fortune rather than bad. I thought I was part of this outfit by now. I guess you can't really count on anybody but yourself.
Eleran was in no way above eating a wolf, and was in fact glad for the chance not to starve, but a chance was all he had at the moment. I should carry a knife, too. Everybody does. Everybody except me. He considered that it was probably for the best, in that he'd likely have tried to use it against the wolf and not come out half as well, but it left him with a conundrum: how to turn a wolf carcass into edible meat without a blade. I'll go back into Nihlos and beg before I'll chew this fleabag with fur on. The notion of returning to his female companion's home was equally out of the question. In Eleran's experience, one-night stands were best capped at one night, doubly so when fathers and brothers woke shortly after or even before sunrise. I mean, she's fifty, she can do what she wants, but her old man would probably still be a problem.
Any other camp, there would be plenty of rubbish left behind, and surely some of it would be sharp, but not this one. Eleran shuffled through the snow and into the central area, just to say he had.
He had to smile when he saw it. It stood hilt up, point driven into the ground, one of the well-made, brutal short blades the Xanthians favored. Tied to the top was a note written on an empty package of coffee.
Ilaweh calls us to Torium, Demon Man Dog, and we obey, while you lie abed doing disgusting things with women and no doubt pigs or dogs. I know you cannot afford a sword, so I leave this one for you. Don't pawn it. Join us if you would. – Sandi
Eleran wiped at his eyes as he chuckled at the words. Maybe you can trust some people after all.
Chapter 4
Actions and Consequences
Logrus had slain men with all sorts of weapons, many of them improvised, and counted himself an expert in killing. I recently bludgeoned a man to death with a coffee pot, after all. And yet, up to now, Logrus had been certain that a man could not be killed with mere words.
These last few days with Aiul made him doubt that.
It seemed there was no end to the Nihlosian's complaining, questioning, and promises of rebellion. “What is the book we are to fetch?” he would demand, and a shrug was no answer to him. Logrus had to actually speak the words “I do not know” to satisfy Aiul, and even that would only quiet him for a while.
“How can you not know?” he would rail.
To this, Logrus offered only a shrug. What else was there to say?
They were making fine time despite the snow. The road was good and mostly clear, and the horses strong. The zombies followed on foot, limiting travel speed, but progress remained steady, which was far and away the most important matter.
Moreover, Logrus had every motivation to spend as much time on the road as possible.
Part of this was certainly that traveling was the best way of avoiding Aiul's constant chatter. The man was never truly silent, even on the trail, but when camped, he had the expectation that Logrus would converse over meals, or just prior to sleeping, and became sullen if Logrus did not indulge him. On the road, if Logrus pressed hard, Aiul was more concerned about his backside, and distracted from constant blather.
But the larger part of Logrus’s urge to keep moving was something else entirely. The dreams had come soon after they left the battlefield, dreams Logrus knew to be prophetic. He had never seen Torium, nor had he ever been taught about it, and yet he knew the place. He knew it was surrounded by a great wall; that it was warm there, even in winter; and that they would have to descend into the earth to truly enter. He knew there would be strange, triangular buildings that barred entra
nce into the underground, and that the place was filled with deadly mechanisms to repel, trap, and kill invaders.
More, he knew the place was a pit of malignant, gut wrenching evil beyond anything he had ever encountered. He had tracked and slain many a man who earned Elgar's attention: child killers, torturers, cannibals, the list was long, all written in his book. He had made a life of punishing those whose evil rose beyond the mundane. There were no simple murderers or thieves in his book; no common evildoers met their ends at the hands of a Knight of Fear: every target was something more twisted, more perverse.
Not a one of them, or even all of them taken together, held a candle to what lurked in Torium. Logrus did not know the form or the deed, but he knew that the place itself was the true focus of the mission. The rest, about the book and the blood, that was a bonus, a ruse to keep Aiul interested, perhaps, but not their primary goal.
Their true target lay coiled in those depths, scratching at the stones in hunger and madness, waiting for ever more victims.
Logrus jolted with surprise as Aiul said, quietly, “The Master. That is his name.”
Logrus opened his eyes to near darkness. He had intended to sleep. Perhaps he had. “Yes.”
Aiul's pale, angular face, his features etched by starlight shadows into something near inhuman, whispered “We must destroy him.”
“Yes.”
Aiul was silent for a long time in the dark, long enough that Logrus began to imagine he had fallen back asleep, but at last he said, his voice both fearful and resigned, “We must hurry. I can feel it.”
“Yes.” Logrus looked up at the sky. It was still dark, but he guessed it was not long before dawn. With a sudden burst of energy, he rose and began gathering his gear, as did Aiul.
“The zombies will slow us down,” the Nihlosian noted.
Logrus scratched at his chin, considering. It was indeed a problem. If they left the zombies, they would have to leave behind the supplies they took from the Nihlosians, but they could probably scrape by on what they could carry themselves. Losing their fighters, though, was another matter entirely. Logrus did not know for certain what enemies lurked in Torium, but he knew it was better to have weapons and not need them than need them and not have them. The zombies were slow, but they could hit hard, and they could take a lot of punishment.
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