Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3)

by Zackery Arbela

  In some places water could be found – a stream that still flowed or a well that wasn't dry. Men still worked the land there, but what they grew did not resemble any crop Azaran had seen before. Lines of tall, fleshy plants with heavy waxen leaves pointed downwards. Small red flowers sprouted at the top, letting out a heady musk which drew every insect around for miles in a buzzing ecstasy. When the leaves were broken open, a white-yellow sap leaked out, which soon hardened into a golden crust with a sweet smell that made the head swim if inhaled too deeply.

  The men who worked those fields were not the small farmers driven from the fields, but wore slave collars of iron and leather. They labored under the eye of whip-bearing overseers, who punished any infraction with violence. Those whose offenses went beyond mere floggings could be found alongside the road, hanging by their heels from trees or wooden poles rammed into the earth, their bodies subjected to all manner of cruel punishments meant to prolong death as long as possible. Scattered about the ground below them were other bodies, slaves too old, injured or worn out to work any further and left by the road to die.

  The second night out, Azaran and Segovac made camp near such a place. The window blew down from the mountains towards the sea, sparing them the worst of the stench, but every so often it would shift, bringing the smells of rotting flesh, mingled with the sickly-sweet perfume of the plants. The Mansion was particularly bright this night, and whenever Azaran looked over his shoulder he saw a dead tree a hundred yards away, from which hung what remained of a young man, though by now vultures and the elements had left it all but unrecognizable. It wasn't the first choice of either men for a campsite, but their horses were tired and so camping by a corpse was deemed preferable to walking the rest of the way to the city.

  Neither said much. The grimness of the landscape made even the talkative Segovac quiet. He kept glancing at the tree. Finally he said, "There are two other bodies at the base. Did you see them?"

  "Honestly, I didn't even notice."

  Segovac traced a spiral in the dirt. "A foul thing, to treat the dead so," he said. "They remember the indignities suffered while they lived. They may exact a price from the living."

  "All I see are dead bodies."

  "Hmm." Segovac rocked back and forth for a while. He then stood and walked off into the night. "I'll be right back," he said. Time passed and Azaran went to look for him. He found his friend kneeling by the bodies at the base of the tree, touching them on the forehead, chest and stomach, uttering a prayer in Eburrean to Saerec for the good rest and welfare of the dead.

  "I don't think their gods would approve," Azaran pointed out when he was finished.

  "The gods of this place don't seem to care," was Segovac's reply. "The dead should be honored and if the gods of Kedaj won't bother..."

  "Fair enough," Azaran said. "It makes little difference to me either way."

  Segovac shuffled back to the campsite, wincing at the aches and pains in his legs and lower extremities, Azaran looked the bodies and shook his head.

  He is right, said the silent passenger.

  "You again?" Azaran muttered. "You've been gone a while."

  I've always been here.

  "Joy." Azaran turned his back on the tree, a foul mood descending on him.

  By noon of the third day the walls of Kedaj had come into view. From a distance they shimmered with a ruby glow. As the distance closed, both men saw tall images of kings on prancing horses while their enemies and subjects knelt in submission, of gods and demons and great men of the past, all formed from chunks of some reddish crystal, fitted together to form the shapes and polished to a high shone. The northern gate was shaped from red stone to resemble the mouth of a lion, the maw stretched impossibly wide. Tall step-pyramids rose above the walls, and solders patrolled the top, looking down on the world with suspicion and arrogance.

  A long line of carts, carriages, litters, and people on foot were gathered before the gate. Soldiers in red cloaks were conducting searches of everyone and everything going in and judging by the size of the line taking their time to do it. Azaran reined in, waiting for Segovac to do the same and for his stream of grumbles and groans to cease before pointing this out. "Not a good sight," he said.

  "What, the walls? A bit garish for my taste but magnificent nonetheless..."

  "The guards. They are looking for someone."

  "And you think it might be you?"

  "It is a possibility."

  Segovac nodded. "So...what shall we do then?"

  Azaran did not know. "Trust in fate," he said, urging his horse forward.

  "Odd, coming from you."

  "When in doubt, do something. It's better than nothing."

  "That's a lesson from your past?"

  "No, I just made it up."

  A line of gibbets were set in the ground on the eastern side of the road. Ropes were threaded through a iron rings on their crossbars, one end tied about the main pole, the other suspending a body by the heels six feet above the ground, not a one empty of decoration. Much like the poles used to punish recalcitrant slaves seen the day before, but those hanging here did not not wear collars around their neck. Whip marks on their backs told of punishment beforehand and most had the same brand burned into their cheeks or forehead, that of a bull standing below a heavy cleaver. With some the branding was fresh, with dried blood seeping about the mark, with others it looked to have been done years before. Thieves, murderers and others of low character, sentenced to a death that was both slow and public, so that visitors to the city would understand this was a place where laws existed and were enforced with vigor.

  Crows perched atop the dead of the executed, watching the travelers go by with beady eyes. Azaran glared back at them, while Segovac made a sign of protection. They continued onward, the line of travelers waiting to get into the city beckoning ahead...

  "I wouldn't go that way." The voice called out to them from the left. Both men turned their heads, and were met by a pair of eyes looking at them upside down, the mouth above twisted into a grimace. "It would be bad," said the man, swinging by his heels from the rope. His face was flushed, his arms bound behind his back. Fresh whip marks on his back still oozed blood.

  Azaran rode closer. "Why is that?" he asked in Hadaraji. Segovac hung back, unable to comprehend the language, watching with interest.

  "You're foreigners," said the man. "Your friend looks to be a northerner. You...I can't guess, but it's not from here. Either way, you're buggered ten times over if you go through the gates. They are arresting every foreigner trying to get into the city."

  "Why?"

  The man shrugged, or at least tried to, given his situation. "They are looking for a man. Not of Kedaj, or Hadaraj. Supposed to be an enemy of the King...only thing is, no one knows who he is or what he looks like, so they are arresting anyone who isn't of this city. You'll be in irons fast as you blink."

  "Thanks for the warning." Azaran turned away.

  "Wait." The man called out, swinging back and forth. "I helped you! Surely that means something in return?"

  "Like what?" Azaran called over his shoulder.

  "What do you think? Cut me down!"

  "What is he wailing about?" asked Segovac, jutting his chin at the condemned.

  "He says the gate guards are arresting every foreigner they come across. Wants me to cut him down in return."

  "Not a wise decision." Segovac shook his head. "Someone hung him there for a reason."

  Azaran turned back to the man. "What is your name?"

  "Teshali," came the reply. "My mother named me Teshali."

  "And what did you do to merit punishment?"

  "Well...Teshali twisted about, trying to face Azaran, and only making himself turn about in the process. "I was a smuggler. I bring contraband into the city without the guards finding out. Food mostly, people are starving, so it's really an act of charity...but that's why I can help you! I know the secret ways into the city, I can get you through the walls without the
guards finding out..."

  "You can't be very good," said Azaran. "After all, you are hanging here."

  "They didn't catch me in the act! They found me at home...one of my friends sold me out, the bastard, I settle him soon as I get free of this..." Teshali stopped spinning. "If you go to the guards, you'll be in irons and locked up in the night cells below the palace. And no one ever escapes from there! Cut me down, and I'll get you inside. I swear by all the gods, may Sagosh strike me down with his thunderbolt if I lie, may Nanrabaaz burn my manhood to ash and curse my line for ten and one generations, may Arbishi fill my mind with the maggots of madness..."

  "All right, we get the idea." Azaran dismounted. "Segovac, give me a hand."

  "You are trusting this man?" Segovac asked as he drew his belt knife.

  “No choice. We can always kill him later." He grabbed Tashali by the shoulder. "Cut it now!"

  Segovac leaned over and sliced through the rope. Azaran grunted as Tashali fell, shifting about so that the man's feel swing down to the ground. He drew his own knife and cut the bindings on the man's wrists and ankles, then glanced up towards the city gates. None of the guards seemed to notice, and those travelers on the roads who saw then hurried on without comment.

  Tashali stood, wincing as feeling returned to his extremities. "We'd best get off the road," he said. "Come along, there is a house nearby where we can wait. I know the owner...well, I know his wife at least."

  "Don't forget your end of the bargain," said Azaran.

  "I shall not, else all manner of gods will take their revenge on my soul! But we best do this at night. Come along, it won't be a long wait."

  "This way." Tashali waved at them in the darkness. "The other side of the field."

  They were crossing a broad field on the eastern side of the city. Tufts of grass clung here and there, but in most places the ground was bare and cracked like broken pottery. A cluster of houses stood ahead, set apart some distance from the walls, the roofs line gone and the walls of several broken from some past conflict. It was dark as pitch, the sky covered by a layer of clouds that led many to hope for rain.

  Tashali seemed to be among them. "Look," he said, pointing at the sky. "They came when you did. Perhaps it is an omen."

  "What did he say?" asked Segovac.

  "He thinks our coming here has to do with the clouds. Maybe it will bring rain."

  "He will be disappointed. The clouds will be gone by dawn."

  "You can sense that?" Azaran asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "I can smell it. Rain has a smell."

  "I'll take your word for it..."

  "Shh!" Tashali glared at them, placing a finger to his lips, a message both men understood.

  They reached the abandoned house. Rats scuttled out of corners as the men went in through the doorways. A fire-charred table stood in the center and a splintery bench by it that neither want to rest their backsides on. Tashali went to one of the corners, rummaging about until he found an old burlap sack. Inside was a small brass lamp, which he lit with a flint and steel. He placed it by an open window that faced the wall and hid the flame behind his hand, pulling it back and forth three times so that the light appeared to flash. Then he extinguished the lamp and put it it away. "We wait," he said.

  Time passed. Azaran heard it first, men crossing the field, their feet crunching on the ground. He reached for his sword. Tashali shook his head, motioning for Azaran to stand down.

  A man appeared in the doorway, wearing dark clothes, his head wrapped in a black turban. "By the beard of Sagosh," he said, "I thought you were dead for sure!"

  "No man alive can kill me," came Tashali's reply. "These two helped me down. I owe them a debt for my life."

  The man glanced at Azaran and Segovac. "Foreigners. You know the guards..."

  "I heard. And so did they. The big one speaks our language."

  The strangers rubbed his chin, fingers scrapping over stubble. "As you say. But who pays my fee?"

  "I'll see to it," said Tashali.

  "With what? Your singing voice?"

  "I have coin put away, enough for this. A small price for my life."

  The man did not look convinced. But then he shrugged. "As you wish."

  They left the house, crossing the field towards the walls. The guide led them on a twisting path, back and forth across the open ground. After a moment, Azaran noticed that he was leading then along patches of ground that were noticeably darker in the night than others. From the walls they would appear invisible.

  They reached the base of the walls. The stranger felt his way along the face, fingers running along the stones, tapping them every so often. Then he stopped, raising a fist and striking it several times against a patch of wall that to their eyes looked indistinguishable from the rest. A hollow booming sound was heard. There was a series of clicks, then the patch of wall swung outwards, revealing itself to be a thick wooden door painted on the outside to resemble the stone around it.

  "An old bolt hole," Tashalli explained as they went in. "In case men needed to sneak in and out during a siege. Handy for men in my profession."

  Two other men waited inside, both of them looking out into the night. One of them wore the scarlet cloak of a soldier. The stranger dropped a few coins into his palm and nodded once. "You know the way," he told Tashali. "I'll find you tomorrow for the payment...assuming they don't hang you heels high again."

  "I'll be waiting."

  The soldier closed the door, slamming several heavy iron bolts into place. He followed them as they went through the small tunnel heading through the walls, closing a pair of iron gates behind them and locking them as well. He then ducked down a side tunnel and left them be.

  The tunnel ended before another wooden door. Tashali paused by it, then looked back. "Wait here," he said. "I will make sure the way is clear." Then before either man could answer, he opened the door and went outside.

  "He goes to make sure the way is clear," Azaran said.

  "So we wait?"

  "I suppose..." His voice trailed off. Something wasn't right. He didn't know how or why, but he could sense it, like the way animals hid before the coming of a storm.

  Instinct is the best friend you can have. Tarazal's voice sounded, another lesson recovered. When everything else is lacking, listen to it.

  "Segovac," he said calmly. "I need you to do something."

  "Of course..."

  "When I tell you...run. As far and as fast as you can."

  Segovac frowned. "Do you suspect a trap?"

  "Suspect...no. My apologies."

  "For what?" Segovac asked.

  "Everything about to happen."

  Before Segovac could say another word, Tashali opened the door again. "This way," he said waving them through.

  Out they went, both men reaching for their weapons. "No need for that," said Tashali. "Don't you trust me?"

  "What do you think?" Azaran replied.

  They emerged from the walls in a narrow street. Buildings pressed up close and the air was thick with the smell of dust and piss. Tashali spread his hands. "I think you do not trust me at all. That makes you wise...but not wise enough!"

  Men appeared on the rooftops, soldiers of Kedaj armed with bows. Azaran drew his sword, then skipped back as a pair of arrows slamming into the dirt before his boots.

  "Enough of that!" Nerazag appeared of the building directly ahead of them. He glared at the archers. "I want him alive. His friend as well!" Then he turned to Azaran. "You are late," he said, speaking in Eburrean for the benefit of Segovac. "I thought you would have been at the city gates a day earlier."

  "You were watching the road," said Azaran.

  "Of course. I invited you here, did I not? I took precautions."

  "Tashali works for you?" Azaran glanced at the smuggler, who shrugged apologetically. "You had him strung up on the road, knowing we would help?"

  "A bit convoluted for my taste, but the locals are arresting every foreigner at the gates. They
have no subtlety. But I turned it to my advantage. You would seek an alternative way into the city. He provided the means, at my command."

  "And here I am." Azaran lowered the blade. "Now what?"

  Chapter Three

  A leather purse dropped down to the street, landing in front of Tashali. "As promised," said Nerazag.

  Tashasli scooped up the payment and ran off without a second look. Azaran let him go. He was more concerned about the soldiers marching up both ends of the street and the alleyways between the buildings. Torches flared in the darkness, reflecting dully off spearheads and arrow points.

  "You've seen me fight," he called up to Nerazag on the roof. He then switched to Hadaraji."You know I can kill a dozen of them before they can draw their next breath. How many of you want to die this night?" He addressed the last to the soldiers.

  "You can kill," Nerazag answered in the same language. "You are a weapon, that is your purpose. But your friend will not survive. He is just a man, and no warrior by the looks of him. Throw down your sword and come along quietly and you will find the answers you seek. Or die in ignorance. But your friend will die first."

  "Azaran." Segovac spoke up. "This is not my day to die."

  "Does your god tell you these things?"

  "Of course not! But there is a time and a place for a glorious death. This is not one of them."

  Azaran thought on this. He sighed and dropped the sword to the ground. "Remember what I told you," he said as the soldiers closed in.