The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia

by James Berardinelli

  “Pity in a way, though,” mused Warburm. “Kara done said he be a natural-born farmer. Better’n his father, that be for sure. Lamanar tilling the earth! Never thought I’d see the day…” He trailed off as if he’d said too much.

  “When does he get here?”

  “He’s here already,” said Ponari. “Lamanar brought him up from the farm this morning. He’s out in the stable, ‘observing’ Visnisk, learning all the lazy boy’s shortcuts.”

  Annie’s heart went out to the little boy - five years old, severed from his parents, thrust into a strange situation… She remembered what it was like to be alone in a hostile world at such a young age. “I’ll see if he needs anything.”

  Ponari nodded but Warburm grunted. “Don’t coddle the lad. He be here ta work, an’ work he will. You’ll have ten years ta get ta know him, if you stick around that long.”

  When Annie entered the stable, she received a lascivious grin from Visnisk, which she ignored. Once, when he had been shy and guileless, she had liked him but age had turned a measure of his sweetness to vinegar. Of late, something about him made her skin crawl. She spotted Sorial easily, sitting dejected and cross-legged atop a bale of hay. His clothes were ragged, like those of a beggar, and his skin was filthy. The hair atop his head had been cropped close as a guard against lice. He was short but stout; the musculature evident in his young form testified to how hard he had been worked on his parents’ farm. The tone of his skin and his dark eyes marked his heritage as being at least part-Syrene.

  Those eyes met hers as she approached him.

  “Are you here to take me back to my mama?” he asked. His voice was soft but determined. Annie noted there were no tear-tracks in the dirt caking his face. This might be hard on him but he wasn’t crying about it.

  “No.” She kept her tone gentle as she knelt beside him. “Your ma and da have put you in the care of Master Warburm and Mistress Ponari at The Wayfarer’s Comfort. Here, in return for working, you’ll have a place to sleep and a full belly every day.” She didn’t want to lie to the boy but there was no point scaring him with a more frank appraisal of his situation. For ten years, he would be Warburm’s slave in all but name. Sorial’s services had been paid for until the day of his Maturity. Still, based on her knowledge of Warburm, he wouldn’t be an unreasonable master… or so she hoped.

  “I wanna go home,” said Sorial. It was a simple statement, made without whining or pleading. But there was resignation in his tone; he knew he wouldn’t be returning to the place he called “home.”

  “This is your home now. An’ there’s many of us as will be happy to have you here. All the serving girls.” Most of them, herself included, would dote on him. “The lads who run errands. The watchmen Master Warburm pays to keep an eye on his property. Even Visnisk and Errabad, the stable hands.”

  “The fat man…”

  “Warburm,” clarified Annie, stifling a chuckle. She wondered how the innkeeper would react to being called that. He liked to think of himself as muscular.

  “Fat Waborn said I was to sleep here. I don’t like it here. There are things in the straw.”

  Annie’s lips quirked in a smile. “There’s a lot worse places to sleep an’ I’ve spent many a night in a few of them. Here it’s dry and don’t smell too bad.” That was mostly true except during hot summer days when the combined stench of animals and shit made the stable stink worse than The Wayfarer Comfort’s privy pit. “The mice and rats won’t bother you. They’re just looking for a cool place to make their nests.”

  “Is you staying out here too?” A note of hope crept into Sorial’s voice. Annie’s heart went out to him; he was trying so hard to be brave but it was obvious he was lost and scared. She remembered those days. They hadn’t been so long ago.

  “No. I got a room in the inn. I work for Warburm and Ponari and I’m always around. If you need someone to talk to or if you feel lonely, come find me. We can talk or play games - whatever you want. Think of me as your sister.”

  Over the course of the next few weeks, Sorial often sought out Annie’s company and, except when she was working, she obliged him. As he became more acclimated to living at The Wayfarer’s Comfort and as Warburm assigned him more demanding work - chores that Annie personally believed were too arduous for one so young - the frequency of his visits diminished. When the innkeeper issued an edict that “workers in the stable” weren’t allowed in the common room when it was open for business, it forced Annie to seek out Sorial rather than the other way around. She did so willingly. She had become unaccountably attached to the young boy with the dark eyes and brooding demeanor.

  One Restday, after spending a day and evening swimming in the Vantok River and visiting some friends, Annie returned to The Wayfarer’s Comfort near closing to find that her presence had been missed. “Someone be waitin’ for you in yer room,” Warburm told her as soon as she walked through the front door. “She’s been there for most of the night and ain’t gonna leave till she talks to you.”

  “Who?”

  Warburm’s only response was a shrug. Annie scanned the room for Ponari but the innkeeper’s wife was nowhere to be found. Warburm’s reticence made her curious but also a little wary.

  When Annie entered her small chamber, the lantern was already lit. It didn’t offer a great deal of illumination but what there was, was sufficient to reveal her visitor. Annie had never seen the slight, nattily dressed woman before but she recognized the features. There was no mistaking that she was a native of the northern city of Syre and also a close relative of Sorial - most likely his mother. They had the same sad, dark eyes.

  She rose from the chair where she had been sitting, nervously smoothed down her skirt, and extended her hand while making direct eye contact with Annie. “My name is Kara. Kara bet Lamanar. You must be Annie.”

  She shook her head. “You’re Sorial’s mother?”

  The answering smile was tinged with sadness. “He’s my son. Or at least was until our circumstances forced us to indenture him to Warburm.”

  “A choice you don’t agree with?”

  “My husband Lamanar is more practical and less sentimental than I am. He did what was best for Sorial and us. Now we don’t have to scrimp as much and Sorial can be assured of food, water, and shelter. Warburm has his flaws but he’s a good man. That doesn’t make it any easier. Sorial is all I have and I miss him dreadfully. Eventually, he’ll be allowed to visit but not at first. Not until he’s older. I’ve been assured it’s best that I stay away until he’s put down roots here.”

  “He’s a good boy. It was hard for him at first but he’s starting to fit in.”

  “You must be wondering why I’m here.”

  Annie didn’t say anything but the question was foremost in her mind.

  “Sorial is a special boy. I know all mothers think that of their sons but in this case… At any rate, I’d like you to look after him. That’s a lot to ask for a young woman but, as fair a man as Warburm may be, he has many rough edges. Sorial needs nurturing and an inn isn’t the best place for him to get it. The work and his new master will harden him up for whatever lies ahead but he needs someone with a… softer touch… as well.”

  It was, thought Annie, a strange request. Not difficult but odd. She sensed there was something going on that she wasn’t privy to.

  “If all you’re asking is that I be Sorial’s friend, nothing could be easier. We’ve already got a bond; he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a little brother.” It was, Annie reflected, an odd family indeed. Father Warburm, mother Ponari, sister Annie, brother Sorial. Like all families, though, theirs was undoubtedly a temporary union. She wondered how long it would last.

  “Thank you.” The words were spoken with a mixture of gratitude and relief, almost as if Kara had been expecting another response. Annie supposed a lot of girls her age would feel burdened by the consideration of looking after a boy, but she wasn’t one of them. Connecting with people in a meaningful way had become importa
nt to her regardless of their age or gender.

  Kara departed without another word, leaving Annie alone in her room.

  The next day, she added another charge to her list of duties: barmaid at the Wayfarer’s Comfort, occasional companion to rich and lonely travelers, tutor to Warburm and Ponari’s daughter, and close friend and future confidante to the inn’s newest stableboy. Little could she imagine where it would all lead…

  The Iron King

  “The Iron King” and “The Spymaster” are intended to be companion pieces. Both stories relate the same events but from different perspectives. Designed to provide insight into life in Obis, these tales also introduce readers to a younger Myselene and provide us with a glimpse of her mother, who is never mentioned in the trilogy. There’s a little bit of a “Rashomon” effect here as some events are presented with a slightly different slant in “The Iron King” than in “The Spymaster.” Both have to be read to get the full picture. These stories take place approximately five years prior to the beginning of the trilogy.

  His name was Rangarak and he was the most powerful man in the world. So people told him every hour of every day and so he believed. There was a reason for this. The city of Obis wasn’t only the most populous of the six great human habitations but its military might was unchallenged. For the entirety of its 2000-year existence, Obis had never been conquered. Its massive walls had never been breached, its armies never bested on the field of battle. It was a bastion of strength, its reputation as fierce as that of the people who lived within its walls or in its shadow. And he, Rangarak, was its king. He was Obis and Obis was him. They were indistinguishable, inseparable - and Rangarak would have had it no other way.

  He was The Iron King, son of The Stone King. When it came to his people, he cared little about their base needs but, as far as protecting them from outside forces, be they human or otherwise, he was fully invested. He was widely viewed as a tactical genius but, when it came to feeding and clothing his subjects, they were on their own. The Iron King was not a proponent of social programs or handouts. If people needed a job, he’d put them to work but they had to be prepared to sweat and suffer to earn their meager wages. Obis was strong but it was also severe and unforgiving. The same traits applied to its sovereign. Rangarak had many subjects but no friends. He had many concubines but no lovers. Two decades ago, force of arms had helped him take the throne when his father had grown too old and feeble to hold it and fear, not love or affection, had allowed him to sit on it since then. Someday, he supposed, someone mightier than he would come along and send him to his grave, but that day wasn’t today. Nor was it likely to be anytime this year or the next or the next after that.

  As a youth, Rangarak had been ruled by his appetites, all of which were prodigious. He was a big man in every sense: tall, wide, and with a cock to match. While a prince, before ascending to the throne, he had given them all free reign. Every evening, he had sat at table where wine flowed like water in a fast-running stream and an endless supply of food had been placed before him. Every night, he had selected three of four women, often Syrene courtesans, to service him. Every morning, he had stayed abed until the urge to piss became too strong to deny. Every day, he had practiced with sword, pistol, bow, and shield - never content merely to defeat his enemies but needing to humiliate or destroy them, depending on whether he deemed them worthy of a continued existence. Between his debauchery and his mastery of the martial skills, he had no time to learn about governing or statecraft. Becoming a king appealed to him. Being a king was drudgery beyond endurance.

  Rangarak wasn’t entirely devoid of human emotion. He loved - not easily or frequently - but his life hadn’t been defined by a lack of affection. With the exception of his middle daughter, the quick-minded, ambitious Myselene, Rangarak didn’t care much for his children. His heir, the boorish Grushik, reminded Rangarak of himself at that age: cruel, callous, and consumed by contempt for everything he viewed as beneath himself. Grushik was a nasty person but so had Rangarak been. He had grown out of it and he assumed his son would as well. If not… he could always have Grushik removed. He wondered what the esteemed nobility of Obis would say if he announced Myselene as his heir. It wasn’t that Obis had never before been ruled by a woman but it had been centuries since one had inherited the throne and held it. The second part was harder than the first but Rangarak doubted it would be a problem for Myselene. Not that it would come to that. For better or worse, it was almost a certainty that Grushik would be the next king. Of course, Rangarak didn’t intend for his son to gain the crown anytime soon. He planned to enjoy a long reign before the God of Night came calling - not that Rangarak believed in the existence of such a being.

  Religion, in his view, was for the superstitious and weak of mind - a figment created by the Temple to keep its priests relevant. The new rumors about the gods dying represented the next phase in a byzantine plan devised by the clergy, although Rangarak didn’t understand the motivation behind it. He assumed it would eventually lead to the “discovery” of a “new god” or some other such nonsense. Not that it mattered. In Obis, the Temple was subservient to the Crown and Rangarak’s control was unchallenged.

  Aside from Grushik and Myselene, Rangarak had two other children, both daughters: the vapid Esmelene, who was fair of face but lacking in intelligence and common sense, and the petty Fyselene, who wheedled and whined until she got her way. Both would be pawned off in intra-city marriages that would increase Rangarak’s political capital, not that he really needed it. At the moment, his rule was unquestioned but there might come a time when he would need allies. As for Myselene, he had grander plans for her. Even if there were insurmountable obstacles for her eventually ruling Obis, that didn’t mean she couldn’t find a path to a throne elsewhere. His gaze was already straying south to the city of Vantok. The current king was said to be in poor health and his son was neither married nor betrothed. Establishing Myselene as the future queen of the South’s largest bastion of humanity might give him the foothold he would need to appropriate the title of emperor - a designation no man had used since the old days, when a single ruler in the North had controlled Obis, Ibitsal, and Syre. Rangarak was a military man but he understood one basic rule of expansion: never take by force what can be won by fucking.

  Rangarak’s wife, the Queen of Obis for these last twelve years, was the most graceful woman in the North. Selene was a native of Obis despite her predominantly Syrene blood. Her father, Count Kildrom, was a minor noble with a mixed heritage, his parents having emigrated from Syre and Earlford. Selene’s mother, Princess Ariage, was a member of Syre’s royal house, although so distant from the throne that it would take a spate of mass assassinations to put her on it. There had been more advantageous matches available to Rangarak when he had sought a wife but he had made his decision more on the basis of looks and breeding than connections. It was perhaps the only time in his life when Rangarak had allowed his cock to influence a political decision. More than a decade after the marriage, he still couldn’t say whether it had been the right one or not.

  He loved Selene. At one point, he would have been embarrassed to make that confession, even in the solitude of his own thoughts. As a child, it had been drilled into him that love was a weakness - something to be denied and suppressed. Other emotions - anger, rage, greed, lust - could all be tamed and used but there was no upside to love. History was replete with examples of great men brought down by it. Rangarak’s great-father had been forced to abdicate when he had fallen for a woman deemed inappropriate by his advisors. He had lived out the rest of his short, sad life in exile, reviled by the people he had once commanded.

  For Rangarak, the enchanting thing about Selene - the personality trait that had initially captivated his interest - was that she wasn’t cowed by him. She was deferential but not subservient. The night he had taken her virginity, long before they were married and just days after her Maturity, she had responded to him with unexpected vigor. Whatever he had felt for he
r that evening had grown and deepened. He knew his feelings had never been reciprocated but Selene acted her part as the Queen of Obis to perfection. In public, she was a doting wife. On nights when Rangarak wanted to spend a few hours in her chambers, she made herself available. She conducted herself as was entirely appropriate and did everything expected of her: producing children, charming foreign dignitaries, and softening the king’s brittle image.

  But Selene was ill and the thrice-damned palace healer had thus far proven unable to discern the nature of her ailment. At first, she had borne her discomfort in a manner befitting a queen - mentioning it in passing and not complaining but, as the pain and weakness had become more pronounced, she had been forced to take to her bed. That concerned Rangarak. Selene wasn’t the kind of woman who would be slowed by anything unless it was serious. Characterizing it as a “woman’s infirmity,” as the healer did, made the king question the man’s credibility.

  “Your Majesty…” The words, spoken gently but firmly, jolted Rangarak out of his reverie. It was unlike him to succumb to daydreams but he realized that his attention had indeed wandered from the here-and-now. Fortunately, the only one to notice the lapse was his closest advisor, Vice Chancellor Gorton. Gorton was everything the healer wasn’t: reliable, trustworthy, and discreet. Too bad the man’s skills didn’t extend to medicine. Rangarak never fully let down his guard in front of anyone but he came closest with Gorton. He had never had a true fried to go along with his small army of sycophants but Gorton filled the role, at least insofar as being honest with and supportive of his liege.

  “Is it time?” muttered Rangarak, knowing the answer. The only reason the Vice Chancellor would have disturbed him in his private sanctum was if the hour had arrived for his twice-weekly public audience. Meeting with supplicants and hearing complaints were among the least appealing aspects of ruling a city but he recognized the importance of being seen and heard by the populace on a regular basis. Otherwise, rumors would circulate about a ruler’s incapacitation, infirmity, or death.