"What of your gods?"
"What about them?"
"Is Saerec the only one?" Azaran asked, mostly to make conversation. He needed something to pull his mind away from his earlier thoughts.
"That depends on who you ask." Segovac leaned forward. "There are fourteen named gods known to my people. Gods of wind and rain, of earth and sky. Love, fear, war and death. People give honor and praise them as needed. But the Rhennari teach that Saerec is the One God and the other gods are but aspects of his power...or his servants, there is some debate about that. Others among my people disagree, they say the Goddesses Three are the true gods, with Saerec and the others being their servants."
"Sounds complicated."
"That's putting it mildly."
"So where do the gods of other lands fit into this?"
"How do you mean?"
"Are they also aspects of Saerec, or do they have power in their own right?"
Segovac rubbed his chin. "Some say that the latter, depending on where you are. Others claim that all gods and spirits are but aspects of a single Universal Purpose, perceived differently from one place to the next, but all ultimate leading back to the same Divine Origin. Even Saerec, they say, is but the reflection of this One, as seen through the eyes of our people."
"Is that what you think?" asked Azaran.
"To be honest," Segovac said with a shrug, "I haven't given it much thought, my concerns were always more practical. There was trouble enough in the lives we were living, I figured Saerec would enlighten me to the truth when I finally got the chance to meet him. Why the questions, friend Azarean? You don't strike me as the devout sort."
"Just passing the time."
"Do you remember your gods?"
Azaran frowned. It wasn't something he'd thought on. "No."
"Maybe they'll come back to you."
"I don't think they will. My people have no gods." As he soon as he said it, Azaran knew this to be true.
"No gods." Segovac thought on this. "I never heard of such a thing. Are you sure?"
"Yes..." Azaran nodded. "Yes. I am sure."
"Well," said Segovac, "that is most peculiar."
They continued on, leaving the abandoned settlement behind. They saw others scattered about the forest. Clinging to hill tops, hidden on the valley floors, crumbling by narrow creeks. Farmsteads, hamlets, all empty, all deserted, their people long gone, the only memory of their passing the rubbish they left behind. They spent the night in one such place, the roof open to the stars above.
The next the day the land became even more rugged. Halfway through the morning the two men crested one particularly steep hill and took a moment to rest. When they looked south, a faint blue line on the horizon told of the ocean.
To the north the view was dominated by a single sharp peak, rising from the ground and towering over the surrounding hills. A faint plume of white smoke seemed to trail from the top, carried to the west by the prevailing winds.
"We're halfway across the island," said Segovac, pointing at the mountain. "That is near the center of Tereg. The land will slope downwards from now on, much to the relief of my knees!"
Azaran squinted. "There is some sort of road going up the western slopes." He thought he saw a few lone figures walking on it.
"There are caves in there," said Segovac. "I've heard Enkilash goes in them. No one knows why. Some say he stores his treasure enough, enough gold and solver to ransom a dozen kings. Anyone who goes for a look never comes back to tell the tale."
"Why the smoke from the top?"
"Steam, actually. There are supposed to be hot springs inside...but again, no one can really say." Segovac stood. "We should go. Patrols don't usually come this far south, but it's best not to tempt fate."
Azaran nodded. He glanced at the mountain again, a sense of unease growing in him at the sight.
The hills dropped in height the further south they went and the closer to the sea they got. The air grew humid. Clouds began to fill the sky, gradually turning dark, telling of a coming storm. A few hours past noon the first heavy drops fell from the sky, pattering off the trees and bouncing off their heads.
"This way." Segovac pointed to a nearby hill, where a heavy slab of stone was placed atop a boulder half-buried in the ground. They ran for it, ducking under the slab only moments before the clouds finally opened.
Thunder rolled across the sky, the afternoon light turning to dark murk. Neither men said anything as lightened flashed, striking somewhere in the island. The forest disappeared behind a curtain of water, heavy drops drumming on the ground. Both men found themselves edging back as water sheeted down from the stone above them, soaking the ground on which they crouched. Before long they wet from head to toe.
Then it ended as quickly as it began. The rain lessened, then stopped, a few last drops striking the stone slab. By the time both men crawled into the open air, rays of light were punching through the clouds, patches of blue opening up before their eyes.
Azarean stared with wonder at the sight. "Gone so fast," he said.
"Summer storm," said Segovac. "Like my mothers temper...ends as soon as it begins."
The humidity that filled the air was gone, leaving it cool to their skin, a blessed relief. Segovac turned towards the southeast. "Come, we're only half a day from...ai!" He gasped as an arrow struck him in the thigh.
Segovac fell, clutching at his wound. Azaran drew his sword and stepped before his companion. Six men emerged from the forest. One of them carried bow, to which he fitted a new arrow. The others had drawn swords and mocking expressions.
"We need the big one alive," said the leader. "There's no bounty on the other."
"Alive don't mean not bleeding." The archer drew back and loosed the second arrow.
Azaran stepped aside, sword flashing through the air. Wood struck metal and both halves of the shaft fell to the ground.
"Nice trick," said the archer, loosing two more in rapid succession. Azaran knocked both shots aside with his sword before assuming a guard stance.
"Enough of that!" said the leader, glaring at the archer. He stepped forward, holding a sickle sword that was spotted with flecks of rust. Something in Azaran groaned at the sight. A warrior who dishonors his weapon dishonors himself...
"You be Azaran," said the leader. "We been tracking you two. Most thought you'd head to the north coast, but I thought different."
"Come any closer," Azaran responded, "and you'll wish you went north."
The leader of the corsairs grinned. "They said you won't come willing. But I got an offer to you anyway. Drop the blade. Come quiet and we'll leave your friend behind. He can take his chances after, free and clear."
"You put an arrow in my leg," Segovac shouted. "How far do you think I'll get?"
"Be glad I didn't put it through your eye," the archer called back.
"Shut it!" snapped the leader. Then to Azaran, "Be the best offer you'll get. Any of the others find you, they'll cut your friend down and break your legs."
"A fair offer," said Azaran, assessing the odds. The swordsmen he could handle, but the archer would be a problem. He'd have five shafts in the air before Azaran got within cutting distance. He looked back at Segovac, who'd pulled himself into a sitting position. He nodded once. Segovac said nothing, his eyes calm as always.
"I'll take it," he said, dropping the sword to the ground.
The leader smiled. "I knew you was a smart fellow. Bel, help me bind this smart fellow's arms. You with the arrow, crawl off somewhere before I change my mind."
The leader of the corsairs amble forward, accompanied by one of his men. Azaran raised his hands, adopting a meek expression. The men approaching him on either side, the one called Bel pulling out a length of cord. He grabbed Azaran's wrists and bent them down behind his back. "We're rich," he said. "Enkilash will shower us with gold..."
Azaran whipped his head back, striking Bel on the nose. The man fell away with a shriek. The leader cursed, raised his sword t
o strike. Azaran stepped inside his swing, placing his wrist in a lock and using the momentum of his swing to twist. The corsair yelled as Azaran spun about, spinning him off his feet and flipping him onto his back. There was a crack of bone as Azaran twisted his arm behind, then hauled him up. The man's shout of pain was cut off as his free arm wrapped about his neck, cutting off his breath.
"Back off, Bel," Azaran said calmly. "Or I'll snap his neck."
"My bloody nose..." Bel staggered back his feet, red murder in his eyes. "You son of a whore..."
"Step away. Quickly now!"
Bel glared at him, but did as he was told, circling away to join his fellows. Azaran faced them, keeping a firm grip on the man, his eyes on the corsairs. "What is your name?" he asked the man, slackening his grip just enough for the man to talk.
"Ergh...Na...Nashaggi..."
"We have a stand off," Azaran said to the men.. "Run back into the forest, or I'll break even bone in Nashaggi's body..."
"Belay that!" Nashaggi forced out. "Any man what steps away, I'll rip his heart out through his mouth...ack!" Azaran tightened his grip again, cutting off air.
"If I squeeze just a little harder," Azaran declared, "your friend here will black out. One minute later he'll dead, or near enough so that it doesn't matter. Walk away now!"
But the corsairs remained where they were. The archer raised his bow, slowly drawing back the string. "Bet I can put a shaft through your eye fast as you blink," he drawled.
Azaran shifted, placing Nashaggi in front like a shield. "You might put a shaft through him instead."
The archer shrugged. "Captain's share is triple," he said. "More for us in the end."
"Let him go," said another Corsair.
Not going the way he planned. Time for another approach. He shifted his weight about slightly. "As you wish," he said, letting go of Nashaggi's arm and grabbing the back of his trousers. Runes flared on his chest as he lifted the captain up and hurled him at the archer.
Nashaggi shouted as he flew. The archer tried to dodge, shooting his arrow off into the forest, then fell as Nashaggi crashed into him. Azaran knelt down, grabbing the fallen sickle sword, then charged forward, even as the Corsairs attacked. He swung the blade in an overhand chop, striking one of the corsairs on the skull and cleaved down just past the nose, at which point the rusty blade snapped.
"Useless," Azaran snarled, shoved the dead man aside, avoiding a clumsy swing from a corsair and shoving stub of the blade into his neck. The remaining two men slowed, looking at the four bodies on the ground. One of them turned and ran for the trees. The other howled like a madman and charged, sword raised above his head.
Always keep your weapon between you and the enemy. It was almost too easy. Azaran stepped inside the man's swing, grabbing his wrist with one hand and planting the other hand on his face. The impact ran up his arm as the corsair was knocked off his feet, Azaran plucking the sword from his grasp as he fell. The hilt of the sword rapped smartly on his skull, cutting of the stream of curses in mid-obscenity.
The last fellow disappeared into the trees. Azaran glanced at Nashaggi and the archer, both of whom lay still on the ground. Dead or unconscious, at the moment it hardly made a difference.
He went to Segovac, who pushed himself up on a rock with his good leg.
"I still find it hard to believe how quickly you move," Segovac said. "Whereas I don't move fast enough."
"How bad is it?" Azaran asked, kneeling down for a look.
"Painful." Segovac probed the wound gently with his fingers, grimacing. "Not stuck in bone and it missed anything important. But pulling it out..."
"Don't." Azaran grasped the shaft and snapped it, bringing a curse from his friend.
"Gah! Some warning next time!"
"Apologies. We'd best find something to use as a crutch..."
"Maybe they can help." Segovac pointed at the forest.
Ten more pirates emerged from the trees, all of them drawing weapons. One of them looked at Nashaggi, lying on the ground, then at Azaran, hate darkening his face. "To the Pit with the reward," he growled. "Kill that bastard!"
Azaran stepped forward, raising the sword to the guard position. The pirates came at him, raising weapons and ready to trample him down.
Then they stopped. Eyes widened in shock. One of them shouted, "It's a..." An arrow struck his throat before he could finish.
More arrows whistled past. Azaran ducked as shafts filled the air. Three men fell outright, struck in chest or limb. The rest ran for the trees, dropping before they went more than a few steps, shot down from behind. A heartbeat later the last of them dropped, struck twice in the back, one in the leg and once in the back of the head.
The arrows ceased. Azaran looked up. No pain in his body, he hadn't been shot. He rose up.
"Drop the sword," said a voice behind him. "And turn around."
Azaran pondered this. But the number of arrows sticking out of the dead like porcupine quills told him all he needed. The sword dropped to the ground. He raised his hands and turned about.
Twenty men beside and on top of the rocky outcropping. They were ragged in appearance, wearing cast-off clothing and animal skins. But their eyes were alert, the blades at their sides looked sharp and well-maintained. The bows they held looked crude to his eyes, but the dead men lying on ground showed their effectiveness.
"Who are you?" asked one of them standing on the stone slab, nocking an arrow to his string. "And why shouldn't we leave you in the dirt with the rest of the filth?"
Azaran kept his hands high. "We're fugitives," he said. "My name is Azaran."
The arrows remained pointed at his chest. "That name means nothing to me," said the man. "Put him down with the others..."
"I wouldn't do that, Tavarus," said Segovac, forcing himself to stand. "Arrows just make him angry."
The man lowered his bow. "Segovac?"
"You look thinner."
Tavarus lowered his bow. "And you're bleeding. What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Looking for you." Segovac remained standing, face turning pale from the effort. He jerked a thumb at Azaran. "He's with me."
Tavarus laughed, the suspicion vanishing from his face like fog before the sun. "It's good to see you. Lower 'em lads, this one is all right. And the other as well."
The men came down from the rocks. Two of them helped Segovac sit down, while the rest fanned out among the dead, retrieving arrows from the fallen. Groans came from several of the fallen pirates, ending when knives were drawn to cut their throats.
Azaran turned away from the sight. Tavarus stood by Segovac, speaking to him in a strange, almost lilting tongue. Eburrean, Azaran reckoned. Tavarus was a man of medium height, somewhere in his third decade of life, with thick black hair and a beard, both of which had faint streaks of gray. Old scars could be seen on his arms. Blade marks, a sign of a violent past.
The strange crawling sensation began in Azaran's skull. He listened to the words passing between both men, each sound and syllable pulling him closer to understanding.
"...heard you were somewhere in the east," said Segovac. "Word got back to Otossa. You're something of a legend among the slaves now. Tavarus the Renegade."
"Not too much of a legend, I hope. Last thing we need is Enkilash sending an army after us."
"He'll might do that regardless. You've got an army of you own out here."
"They're good lads. Took some training, but the motivation is there." He turned to his men for a moment, switching to Teregi. "Take everything useful! Even the clothes. Leave the bodies for the crows."
"Not a good thing, dishonoring the dead so," said Segovac, still speaking in Eburrean.
Tavarus switched back to their shared language. "That lot would dishonor the living, if they got their hands on us. So...who is your friend?"
"Azaran. He's not from around here."
"I saw him fight. He's...competent."
"That's one way to describe it. By the way, he probabl
y understands our language now."
"What do you mean?"
Azaran took that as his cue. "It would take too long to explain," he said in fluent Eburrean, a tongue unknown to him only moments before. "Segovac says you are friend to those who call Enkilash an enemy."
"And you count yourself among the latter?" asked Tavarus.
"He's put a price on my head. A big one. We're not friends."
Tavarus laughed at that. "No, he doesn't have friends. Just targets he hasn't struck yet. I know that better than anyone." He turned back to Segovac, switching to Teregi. "Rest easy. We've a healer back at the camp. It's half a day's walk..."
"Longer with me slowing you down." Segovac pointed at the wound.
Tavarus called several of his men over. Orders were passed, the men headed into the woods with knives and returning soon after with armfuls of green branches and a pair of cut saplings. A rough litter was tied together using strips torn from the clothes of the dead. Segovac lay on it, clutching the sides and grunting as two bearers lifted him up, doing their best not to jar the leg.
"Time to go," Tavarus called out. He headed into the woods, his men followed behind, carrying armfuls of loot.
Azaran glanced at the bodies, now stripped naked and left in the ground. Crows circled overhead.
So much violence, murmured the silent passenger.
Chapter Seven
Smoke still thickened the air, mingling with the summer heat and damp to create something that a body more had to swim through than walk. Something that left even skin fresh from a bath feeling grimy and grainy, the eyes watering and the mouth filled with a taste of burnt wood and worse that no amount of strong drink would wash away.
Enkilash stood before what remained of the holding pen. The roof was long gone, with only a few broken timbers spanning the scorched stone walls. The moldy straw that had covered the floor was replaced by a thick layer of ash and burnt debris.
He turned to towards the Pit, which was relatively untouched by comparison. Of course, being little more than stone-lined hole in the earth, the flames found little to touch. But there would be no fights on the sand there for a long time to come. No killing, nothing to keep his men calm while they were away from the sea. Nothing to calm the ever-present hatred of the world, a soporific that soothed his demons in ways that wine could not.
Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1) Page 8
