by Paul Barrett
Corby turned and put his hand on Erick’s shoulder. “Promise me one thing.”
“I won’t lie anymore,” Erick said.
Corby shook his head. “Thank you, but that’s not what I was going to ask. Promise me we’ll always be friends, no matter what you learn about me.”
“What do you mean? What would I learn about you?”
“Just promise me.”
Erick paused a moment, then nodded. “I promise. You will always be my friend.”
“Thank you,” Corby said. Leaning in, he gave Erick a quick hug, then let go and walked back to the ladder leading below, leaving Erick confused and curious. Other than the nebulous immorality of wishing someone dead and not actually killing them, what dark secret could someone like Corby possibly have?
The cry of “land dead ahead” rang from the crow’s nest and chased the dark thoughts from Erick’s head. He ran toward the bow, searching for land.
He spotted the coastline, still only a dark clump on the horizon, with a jumbled mixture of fear, excitement, sadness, and uncertainty. He remembered reading of places outside Draymed in his mother’s now destroyed library. He had spent countless hours dreaming of traveling to those places, but in the dreams, his parents were alive and with him, not vanished in the uncaring ocean.
Homesickness engulfed him, followed by dismay at all that he and the others had lost. His home and town were gone. As far as he knew, the three people on this ship were the only reminders that a place called Draymed ever existed. The thought crushed his enthusiasm at their imminent arrival in unknown lands.
As the ship drew closer to land, Erick’s despondency deepened. It was time to deliberately rid himself of the last remnants of his old home. Although his constant knife training had modestly improved his abilities, his book work had been far more successful. The long unused--and in some cases, never used--Rituals were not forgotten, only buried deep from lack of study. Reading through his father’s tomes refreshed them in Erick’s mind. He no longer needed the books. He had to get rid of them as he had promised his father’s ghost, and he needed to do it soon.
Erick returned to his cabin to find Blink stuffing the last of the tomes into one of the sacks. “I knew you would be coming for these.”
Erick nodded. “Are you going to be able to hide out here until nightfall?”
“Yes.”
Erick looked at the sacks on the floor.
“You have to do it,” Blink told him when he showed no signs of moving.
“I know.” Erick walked toward the sacks. He lifted them and lumbered to the door, a bag held low on either side. He awkwardly shuffled down the passageway and up the ladder. He spotted Elissia and Corby on deck, watching the approaching town. He headed in the opposite direction, hoping they didn’t see him.
Sailors bustled about in preparation for landfall. They paid him no attention as he reached the railing and dropped both sacks, determined to send them over the side before he changed his mind. Holding the railing, he used his feet to push one and then the other overboard. The full packs hit with a loud splash and sank into the water.
“So long,” he said. All he had left from home were his memories, herb box, and the amulet on his neck. All inadequate substitutes, but they would have to do.
He walked across the deck to join the other two. As he came closer, Corby spoke with great animation about the approaching land. It pleased Erick to see some of his friend’s old spirit back.
They spotted him, and Elissia said, “Ready for your first visit to the mainland?”
Erick smiled and nodded. Her simple question made him feel worlds better.
The shoreline soon resolved itself into a cluster of buildings. Although Erick hadn’t seen much of Keyport, he had sensed its large size. Now, however, his eyes told him that Kalador was huge. There were at least forty docks, and ships were towed in and out of the berths while longshoremen hauled cargo back and forth, going from ship to warehouse to ship again. Behind the multitude of warehouses, as far as Erick could see, more buildings sat, some of wood, some of stone, many four and five floors high.
As they drew closer, Erick heard the noises and caught the odors, an odd mixture of fish, bread, and things that had never passed his nose. Dockworkers yelled while ropes creaked under heavy loads lifted from decks. Donkeys brayed as they pulled laden carts. Merchants haggled with captains and brokers. So much clamor and riot almost overwhelmed Erick.
Blink, you have to see this. He sensed his familiar making the connection to see through his eyes and could feel his amazement echoed by the homunculus. Erick’s depression faded amidst the excitement of their new destination.
They docked without fanfare, the ship guided in by ropes attached to two rowboats, and Erick mentally summoned Geran to join them. The former soldier still appeared the same, but the sailors gave him a wide berth as he crossed the deck.
“Stay close to us,” Elissia warned Erick as he fidgeted while sailors lowered the gangplank to the dock. “It’s easy to get lost here, and you have ‘newcomer’ written all over your face. When I first told you about this place I exaggerated, but not by much. Are you listening?”
“Of course,” Erick said. His eyes darted about as he tried to capture everything.
Elissia sighed and grabbed his hand. “Slow down,” she said, as he pulled her down the ramp.
It amazed Erick the other two could be so blasé about everything. He would have expected the same reaction of awe from at least Corby, but the scholar only stayed close to Elissia. He studied their surroundings, but nothing showed on his face.
They moved through the docks and past the warehouses and small shanties housing the sailors and dockworkers. They passed one large building where several women and men stood outside and watched the passersby. Erick thought them not much older than himself. The women wore no tops and only the barest amount of material necessary for modesty below, and the men wore loincloths of a snug-fitting fabric that left nothing to imagine. Erick goggled at the bare breasts. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Corby turning the color of a strawberry.
A man dressed in a crimson robe embroidered with outlines of male and female figures stood on a platform above them and shouted to the crowd. “The finest of Amare’s disciples here for your pleasure. Take your pick, whatever you desire. Best prices and all blessed by the god of love.
“You there,” he said to Erick, “lose your girlfriend for a day and enjoy some fresh cunny. And you, scholar, give your hand a rest and learn new tricks from one of these beautiful ladies.” Unaware of Geran’s nature, the barker pointed at him and said, “How about you, soldier? Come show these ladies what you can do with your sword.”
Erick didn’t think it possible, but Corby turned redder. Emotional fire raced through his own body. As he stared at the bare flesh, his penis rose, demanding attention like a needy puppy. The fabric of his undergarment rubbed against the sensitive skin, sending arrows of pleasure through him. Panicked, he shifted the garment, removing the pressure before he had an accident.
Why is that all you think about? Blink asked.
You came from a vat, so I don’t think you’d understand.
Elissia avoided the show of flesh but squeezed Erick’s hand so hard it was almost painful. “Let’s go,” she said. “There’s nothing to see here.”
Erick didn’t agree but was thankful when they moved on, leaving the temple behind.
Another two minutes brought them into a less odiferous but no less hectic area. Shops stood everywhere, with tradespeople outside the buildings shouting the virtues of their wares to any who would listen. The scents here were of food and perfume, candles and herbs, exquisite in their variety, but almost sickening in the aroma created by their fusion.
In addition to the aromatic assault, Erick beheld clothing in colors he’d only read about. With the exception of the robes worn by Fathen and his acolytes, the brightest color in Draymed was a light brown. Here, there existed hues and attire Erick co
uld never have imagined, blending in combinations to shame a rainbow. The merchants appeared to be the most brightly dressed, their loud clothes matching their strident voices. Thankful but disappointed he encountered no more displays of naked women, Erick could have stayed watching the nearby activity for hours. When it became evident they were leaving as soon as possible, he asked, “Where are we going?”
Elissia started to answer when a commotion twenty feet away stopped her. From an alleyway came four guards. They wore leather armor, overlaid with the Zakerin army taupe shirts, a silver rose embroidered on the left breast and a sparrow in flight on the right. One of the men wore silver epaulets and a leather helm. The other three wore no helms or markings of rank, but they carried a young man, perhaps Corby’s age, his olive skin devoid of even a loincloth. He struggled, but his whipcord-thin frame and sinewy arms were no match for the muscular soldiers. His black hair was clipped to no more than an inch long, and his intense blue eyes gleamed with fear as he looked their way. A disbelieving recognition seemed to cross his angular face. He disappeared, carried into the crowd, which quickly surrounded and followed the escort.
“Come on,” Elissia said, running to the alleyway where the quintet had emerged. Another boy, perhaps ten and dressed in a ragged green shirt and faded yellow pants cinched by a dirty rope, stood nearby watching the receding procession. When he saw the quartet approaching, he backed away. Elissia gestured elaborately with her hands, and he stopped, eyes wide.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Th-the-they’re taking Marcus to be hanged,” the boy stammered.
Erick’s ears perked up. Was this the Marcus that had given Elissia her beautiful daggers? The unknown suitor Erick now knew he would fight if necessary to hold onto Elissia’s affection.
“Hanged?” Elissia asked. “For what?”
“Stealing a gem from a noble.”
Elissia sighed and shook her head. “Come on; we have to rescue him.”
“Rescue him?” Erick asked. “He’s a criminal.”
“That’s true,” Elissia said. “But he also happens to be my brother.”
17
Though nowhere near the most powerful of the Necromancer’s creatures, taboar, common name ghouls, are (to this humble author) the most frightening. Their speed, savagery, and the tenacity with which they will pursue their quarry can still cause nightmares, even so many years later.
-Corberin of Draymed, On the Necromancer’s Art.
Fathen gave the mug of water before him a disdainful sniff. He hadn’t realized how much he took the cleanliness of Draymed for granted until he stepped into this tavern, with its smell of stale beer, unwashed sailors, and dockworkers reeking of dead fish. He held his complaints from Andras, whose mood had soured after their late arrival at the docks.
The former priest shared his mentor’s ill humor. Fathen’s legs had stiffened painfully. Exhaustion from staying up all night tugged at him, and his stomach rumbled. Although a plate of what passed for food sat before him, he vowed to starve before eating anything that originated in this tavern.
Andras seemed unconcerned with their environment, forking a mash of meat and potatoes from plate to mouth while he spoke with another man sitting at the table. The man claimed to be captain of a worthy sailing vessel, but Fathen found it unlikely. A Sakenin, he had scraggly black hair, piggish black eyes, and a jagged scar running across his forehead like a stark white ridge against his tawny skin. His ocean blue shirt with bloused sleeves stood open halfway down his chest, and his pants were as much stitched patches as fabric. Three shiny gold hoops hung from each ear. The man appeared disreputable at best.
Of course, Fathen thought as he grudgingly sipped the water to ease his parched throat, disreputable in this establishment is a step up.
“Yah,” the man said in response to a question from Andras, his voice loud, accent thick, and command of Zatrim tenuous. “Kalador tomorrow is where we sail. You and friend ride two aesta each.”
“That seems extreme since you are already bound for Kalador,” Andras countered. “Two aesta for both.”
“Nah, nah,” the man bellowed, seeming both angered and insulted. “You take up space, eat food. Two each.”
“We will bring our food, which in any case will be better than what you offer.”
“You still take room on ship, Zakerin gold not spend well in Falan-Dar.” A glint appeared in his eye. “You have amber Drakobi, maybe? You have that; you pay cheaper.”
“I have no amber.”
“Then two aesta or walk to Kalador!”
Andras leaned in close and lowered his voice, his tone turning menacing. “How about one Aestes for both of us and I make sure the Fist leaves your ship intact?”
The captain flinched from Andras, his eyes growing wide. After a panicked moment, he smiled and guffawed. “Ho, you no Fist. Fist dead.”
Andras placed his elbow on the table and rolled up the sleeve of his ebon tunic, revealing the underside of his forearm to the captain.
The man flinched as he observed the mark on Andras’ forearm. Fathen leaned over and saw a tattoo of an arrow-headed sword; a line ran in a serpentine pattern across the length of the blade, thick in the center and tapering to points at the ends. Centered on the blade, but set underneath, a large ring stood flanked by two smaller ones. It was a fascinating, elaborate tattoo, but Fathen didn’t understand why it evoked the fear painted on the Sakenin’s face. The man’s bronze skin paled as he grabbed his mug of ale. “You ride free,” he said and took a deep draught
“No, an Aestes for both of us will be fine.” Andras gave a cold smile as he rolled his sleeve down. “I wouldn’t expect you to sail without a profit.”
The captain nodded and stood hastily. “We sail out tide tomorrow. Morning light.” He offered a hesitant bow, then turned and walked away, stopping to speak with two other men before they all left the tavern.
Once the sailors were gone, Fathen asked Andras, “What is that tattoo?”
Andras frowned. “Did you study no other faiths beyond your bastard god? It is the symbol of the Fist of the Inconnu. The arrow and blade are given to the Eligoi, the assassins of the Fist, which is what this meat was before you killed it. Talva received the mark of Napaei, a swordsman, and you received the mark of Ecrin, a priest.
“Mark?” Fathen asked. “I received no mark.”
Andras smiled, a strange expression on his bland face. “Look.”
Fathen rolled up his sleeve to reveal his long, thin arm. Where once he had a brand of the sun received upon taking his vows to Caros, he now found emblazoned on his forearm, as if pressed with ebony ink, a tattoo similar to Andras’s. The only difference lay in the sword, which had spikes surrounding it, radiating outward, each tipped with a small drop, as if it leaked black blood. Although he had felt nothing, Fathen knew this mark had manifested as soon as he killed the man sitting across from him. Shaken, Fathen rolled his sleeve down.
Andras continued. “The symbol no longer receives the respect it should, but there are some who still recognize it and show the proper obeisance, or at least fear. Soon that number will grow.” Andras pointed toward the door where the ship’s captain had departed. “Be wary while we sail on that man’s vessel. He is not trustworthy.”
“All men are untrustworthy,” Fathen said. “It is the nature of man. That is why we have the gods to guide us.” Andras’s smirk made Fathen flinch. “My god turned away from me first,” the ex-cleric muttered.
“Perhaps,” Andras said. “So you know the captain cannot be trusted, but would you expect him to try and kill us?”
“He appears dishonorable and greedy. I understand some Sakenin captains deal in slavery, so I would have more fear of that than death. He doesn’t look like a murderer.”
“Neither do you,” Andras said. “He will try and have us killed the first night aboard.”
“Won’t fear of the Fist keep him at bay?”
“His greed and history will over
come his fear,” Andras explained. “We of the Fist are believed mostly extinct, but there are those in your bastard god’s temple and the Myrmidons of Sangara who listen for rumor of us to hunt us down. Even without knowing what I truly am, they would pay well for the death of an Eligoi. Much more than we are paying for this voyage. The man is also a Parshera tribesman.”
“What does that matter?”
“The Parshera fought against us the first time.”
“If you know all this, wouldn’t it have been better to pay his price and avoid revealing yourself?”
Andras nodded. “Perhaps. But word must be spread that the Fist is active again, so terror and hopelessness precede my return to power. This Sakenin captain will help spread that word.”
Fathen wasn’t convinced. Andras must have seen his doubt. “Do not worry. His first attempt won’t succeed. I will make sure he has no desire to try a second time.”
As Andras finished his breakfast, Fathen’s hunger overcame the strength of his earlier vow. He chose the least offensive items available, a slice of dark bread and wedge of white goat cheese, and consumed them with efficiency, if not pleasure.
They retired to their small room and slept through most of the day, exhausted by their rushed journey. Despite the meanness of their lodging, Fathen had never been so happy to lie down in a bed; his pleasure was short-lived. Every overworked leg muscle shrieked in agony as he unfolded on the hard wooden cot. He had to bite his lip to stifle a scream. He tried moving about to find a more comfortable position, but the slightest change caused his muscles to protest even more. He lay still, wondering if sleep would ever come. Eventually, the pain settled to a dull throbbing, and he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
