Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3)

by Zackery Arbela

  He'd been on this world two days, long enough for the strange cinnamon smell that permeated everything to recede. Soon enough he would smell nothing...if only because the air would be saturated with the stench of blood and death.

  He stood in ranks with the other Osa'shaq, most as newly minted as he, their rune-brands still sore, atop a low bluff. Ranging below them were more warriors, men of the Gur'shaq caste, ordinary men recruited by the battalion from estates on countless worlds and given a modicum of training. Barely a step up from the savages they faced. Brought here so they could die.

  And die they did. The enemy came charging across the battlefield, thousands of them, rough fellows in ragged skins, brandishing weapons of iron and bronze. Pathetic really, yet they outnumbered the Servants ten to one. Fifty thousand, that was the latest count from the scouts, to face off against four thousand Gur'shaq and five hundred men of of the Banners.

  It hardly seems fair. The silent passenger. He ignored the words.

  Drums beat. The Gur'shaq closed ranks, locking their shields. The savages crashed into their lines. Several hundred went down immediately, their screams cut short by, but the rest held firm. No matter what the enemy might do, the men behind them would do worse to those who fled.

  "Archers!" Tarazal's voice carried over them. "Loose at will!"

  Azaran raised his bow. Made from cheregaz, that mysterious metal whose creation was a secret of the Masters, stronger that steel. With it the crafters made the armor that clung to his body like a second skin, the sword slung over his back that would cut through chain mail without losing its edge. The bow he held, its arms made from woven strands of the metal, wrapped about like tight stiff cords. How it was done remained a mystery that he had no interest in solving.

  He fitted an arrow to the string. An eagerness filled him, which he ruthlessly suppressed. There was no joy in combat, or fear. No pleasure in it. Only calmness, a stillness at the center of a storm, unbroken in the chaos. He drew back, aiming above the heads of the Gur'shaq and loosed. He didn't bother to see where the arrow went, knowing that it would hit something. Drew another, fitted it to the string and repeated, one after another, just like the other men of his company. Arrows streaking down, punching through their targets to strike the men behind them as well. A wave of screaming rose up at the barrage and the lines of savages faltered.

  He shot the last arrow and lay the bow on the ground. "Ready for assault!" came the order, and he drew his sword.

  "Charge!" And Azaran raced down the bluff with him comrades to take apart the enemy army...

  Violence. Death, and the victories it paid for. After a while they all blended together, just another fact of life. But why did he hear their screams in his sleep? When he could sleep at all...

  The Houses of Recruitment. That was the running joke about the place among the veterans. To be summoned here was an honor, a sign of one's great worth, yet all found it a particularly distasteful duty. He was not alone in that opinion.

  He's been posted to this moon for a month. Promotion to the Green Banner, a high honor for any Osa'shaq, to serve directly under the eye of a Master. Which Master that might be was still being determined and so he spent the last two months kicking his heels, wondering what the delay was for. The orders some servant placed in his hand last night helped clarify that point. He had a mission here, in a sense, that needed to be completed before he could move on.

  The building was much like any other on the base. This particular moon - he never did learn the name - was a full colony, which meant that it was the holding of no individual Master. Instead a rotating group of administrators of the race of the Master's rule the place in the name of their betters, youngsters looking to make their name as they worked their way up. No different from humans in truth, though that was something he would never dare mention out loud. No doubt some were hard at work in the tall great spire in the center of the stronghold, five hundred feet high, giving those at the top unparalleled views of the surrounding countryside. Not that there was much to see - beyond the walls were miles upon miles of plantations, mines and manufactories whose workers were little more than slaves, overseen by companies of Gur'shaq and the sharp eyes of Nam'shaq overseers. No hiding the reality of the situation, here power was exercised openly and without pretense.

  Thus it was on worlds like this, which had been under the collective rule of the Masters for centuries. But such worlds were the minority of their holdings. Other worlds under the direct rule of a single Master might be governed by puppet rulers, each with a Nam'shaq 'adviser' whispering in their ears. Or by some other methods...it hardly mattered, each Master did as he saw fit, such was his right and privilege, with men like Azaran tasked with bringing their wishes into reality.

  He approached the building. Pitted gray walls were held up by bare unpolished columns. The single door in the front was always open. He went inside. The entrance hall was bare of decoration. A desk sat in the center, at which a clerk slumped, idly flicking the beads of an abacus. "Yes?" he asked tersely, not bothering to look up.

  Azaran placed the orders before the man. He glanced at the words, then opened a ledger and ran his fingers now narrow lines of entries. "Azaran...Green Banner of the Primary rank...newly raised, I see." He glanced for a moment. "Congratulations. Is this your first time in a place like this?"

  "Yes."

  The clerk plucked a pen from an inkwell and scribbled some words on a scrap of paper. "Hall to the left, second door on your right. The man there will walk you through the procedure."

  Azaran took the scrap, saw his name on it, followed by some notations that meant nothing to him. He went left, down a freshly swept stone corridor and to the door specified. Another clerk of the Nam'shaq waited. He read the note carefully and told Azaran to wait. Time passed by, then he returned. "Remove your clothes," he said.

  Azaran undressed. The clerk opened a cabinet and took out a slender metal collar. "This will inhibit the Mark of Restraint," he said, placing it around Azaran's neck. "Be careful. Some find the first experience unsettling."

  "I know how it is done."

  "I'm sure." The clerk pointed to a door at one end of the room. "Through there. Wash yourself when you are finished."

  Azaran took a deep breath. "Right," he said, exhaling slowly. "Let's get this over with."

  He went through the door, entering another room. A low bed lay in the center, and on it sat a woman. She had the same olive complexion as he, the same dark hair, her body somewhat pudgy. She wore nothing and that fact struck Azaran like a hammer to the skull. A sensation he had never experienced before, through it had been described to him. Sexual desire...something the runes suppressed, as it was a distraction and an impediment to discipline. But a necessary evil here.

  The women had a simple look to her - all the women here did. If her head was shaved, he would have seen a single rune branded into the back of her skull, placed there when she was no more than six years old, halting her mental development at that age. In looking at her, Azaran saw what his future might have been, had he been been born female. Each generation fathered by the best of the Servants, the sons taken away to be warriors, assuming they survived the training, the girls raised to be breeders, their minds inhibited at a young age since they had no need for intelligence, only functional wombs. Thus did the Osa'shaq, the elite warriors of the Master's, replenish their ranks.

  She lay back, spreading her legs. Azaran felt nauseous...but his body reacted as he'd been told it would. He approached her and did what was expected. It did not take long. He wanted to run screaming, he wanted to jump for joy, when it was done...

  He exited the bedroom, clawing at the collar. "Get this thing off me!"

  "Careful, you'll break it." The clerk fiddled with the catch, pulled it it away. Immediately the disturbing sensations vanished as the Mark of Restraint reasserted itself.

  "Is that it?" Azaran demanded.

  "Wait here. And dress yourself." The clerk went into the bedroom fo
r a few minutes. When he returned, it was with a smile on his face. "Success," he said, taking out a ledger from the cabinet and a pen. "The breeder has been impregnated."

  "That's...good. Do I need to return?"

  "No, it will not be necessary."

  "Right." Azaran felt relief at that...but also something else. Disappointment. He'd hated the experience...mostly. But part of him wanted to do it again....

  "What will happen to the women?" he asked.

  The clerk looked up from a ledger. "Off to the nursery, I suppose, until she gives birth, the same as another breeder. What do you care?"

  "I don't." And with that Azaran left.

  It was a lie. He did care, despite his best efforts. He'd left part of himself in that woman. In time it would result in a new life. He wondered if it would be male or female, if it would have something of him in its face, his eyes or nose. If it would be a success. He wondered idly what it would be like to watch it grow up and found he wanted that very much.

  Utter foolishness. That was the way of a savage, not an elite Osa'shaq who served in the presence of the Masters. That's the way it was, the way it would always be.

  Nevertheless the issue remained in his head and sent Azaran into a depression that lasted a long time...

  Regret. Weighing him down until he could not breath, until he was drowning, lungs filling, yet death would no come. He remembered and he wept...

  Years passed. One battlefield after another, one campaign after another. He was placed in the service of a Master, Zal'zarrin, to whom his pledge was given. They were sent to a world...this world. Ethera, the natives called it, or at least those on the southern continent who were the first to feel the power of the Master. To Zal'zarrin was given the duty to bring this world into the Dominion of the Masters and thus prove his worth as one of its rulers. The strategy followed here was the same used on a hundred other worlds over the centuries - weaken the local powers from within through subversion and alliances of convenience. Turn them against one another until all were weakened. Then conquer them outright or rule through puppets.

  The people of this world were primitive. Few had any inkling there was a Universe beyond the boundaries of their sky, that there were even other continents beyond the horizon. The Master picked them off one by one. It was a bloody business. The Green Banner went into cities that were thriving, fields full of crops and villages thronging with people. They left behind only the dead, for none could be allowed to stand against the Master. Their screams filled Azaran's dreams. The smell of death was in his nostrils when he woke, even when in the Empyrean, where only the Celestial Winds blew. He saw them all. He stopped sleeping more than absolutely necessary, to the point that Tarazal began to ask questions about it.

  Then came that terrible day, in a city whose name he never bothered to learn. An old man staring death in the face and meeting it with dignity, looking on his murderer without fear or hate, only with pity. As Azaran murdered him, so he murdered himself.

  All for the Master. The words were a lie in his ears. They left the ruined city behind, the few survivors huddled in the ruins at the mercy of their neighbors who, for the moment, were the Master's allies. Soon enough they would fall as well. Azaran would be there. He hated himself for it. There were two ships outside the city, small transports the size of villages, attached to the Citadel that for the moment was high in orbit. Tarazal went on the larger, which immediately took flight, headed east for Athega. Azaran went on the other and found himself sharing it with a handful of Gur'shaq, several men of the Blue Banner he did not know. Up front was one of the Master's race, who was along as an observer and who paid the humans no more mind than he would an insect. The crew on the ship were busy with their own tasks and none noticed the Green Banner warrior sitting at the aft railing, holding his head and rocking back and forth beneath the night sky.

  "What is this sickness that grips me?" he asked out loud. It twisted him inside. He saw the old man fall, over and again, saw the pity in his eyes, the sadness. He murdered the man, he murdered himself.... "What is happening to me?"

  It is guilt.

  "You leave me be!" he shouted, his words lost in the wind. The land passed below and the sea was was nearby, coming closer. "You're just a voice in my head! You are not real!"

  Feel the ship, the stone that it is made of. Feel the wind on your face. See the sky above and the land below. I am just as real.

  "What have you done to me?" he cried out. "I am sick!"

  It is guilt you feel...shame. You killed an innocent man, one of many. Their blood stains your conscience. Their souls cry out for justice. Deep down, you know this.

  "I am a warrior of the Green Banner! A servant of the Masters, a weapon in their hands! I am nothing more..."

  They give the orders and for that they bear fault. You obeyed the orders and for that you bear fault. Actions have consequences.

  "I am just a servant..."

  You are a man. You must answer for your sins.

  "If I hadn't obeyed," Azaran cried out, "I would have died. To obey is the highest virtue."

  Mercy is the highest virtue. Compassion is the mother of all virtues and righteousness the father.

  "I would have died."

  And does that bother you?

  Azaran knew it did not. Death was nothing. Had he refused Tarazal and been cut down for disobedience, he would have passed into the darkness beyond with a clear conscience, the greatest of all treasures. Instead he lived and every moment was a torment.

  He should have died there. It would have been a blessing.

  "What must I do?" he asked. "To make it right?"

  Penance.

  And he knew what had to to be done.

  Azaran left the railing, headed down into the ship. Narrow stone passageways wound through its structure, faint rune lines pulsing in the walls, holding it together. Crewmen passed by, intent on their labors and paying him no mind. Several of the Blue Banner men sat in the galley trading war stories. One called out to him to join. Azaran continued on without a word, which they took as another sign of Green Banner arrogance.

  He approaching the Chamber of Control, a small domed room in the top center of the ship. In the center of the room was the Control Stone, a polish orb of onyx, incised with runes of control and direction. Normally a two-man pilot crew would be here, taking orders from the navigator standing before a crystal panel, on which a map of the surrounding thousand miles was etched in lines of blue light. At the moment all three were standing by the screen, while the acolyte of the Master's race stood at the the stone, taking the pleasure of driving the ship for himself.

  The navigator looked at Azaran. "What is it?" he asked.

  Azaran looked at him, then at the acolyte. Without a word he reached back and drew his sword. The crewmen gaped as he strode across the chamber. The acolyte looked up, irritation on its ape-like face. WHAT IS THIS? it asked, the words sounding directly in Azaran's mind.

  "Penance," Azaran answered. He stabbed the blade into the acolytes face, shoving it deep into the massive skull. The acolyte fell, for even the Masters were mortal.

  The crewmen fled, shouting for help, raising the alarm. It didn't matter. Azaran yanked the blade free, his mind filled with clarity for the first time in years. He turned to the stone. "Forgive me," he called out to the universe and anyone who might be listening. He raised the sword and with all his strength swung down at the stone, the blade striking one of the runes.

  There was a flash. Explosions. Something struck his head, some kind of energy as the ship twisted in the air. He heard the shouts of the crew, but then his thoughts shattered into confusion. He was falling...falling...the ocean rushed up...

  Impact. He was thrown upwards as the control stone exploded, sending waves of energy skywards. The runes holding the ship together were broken. The sea rushed in. Water held him, hurled him about, hurled him through the shattered dome to the surface, even as the rest of the ship sank down.

  He was
floating in the ocean, clutching a shaft of wood flung free of the wreckage. He could not think, he was tired, confused, afraid. Arms reached down, pulled out of the water, hurled him to a wooden deck. Someone asked his name.

  "Azaran," he answered. He remembered nothing else...

  The flood of memories slowed to a trickle. The man Azaran remembered it all. And it was all to much...

  Azaran groaned and fell backwards, landing on the ground, arms out. "Too much," he whispered. "Too much..." He sighed, falling into unconsciousness.

  The Master looked down at his traitorous servant. Silence reigned, the air thick with tension. Nerazag and the others waited for the Master to draw his great mace, to shatter the scum with a single blow, to pound his bones to dust and his flesh to jelly. And for a moment the Master's hand did twitch.

  RETURN TO THE CITADEL he commanded, his words reaching all.

  "By your command," Nerazag answered.

  The kneeling warriors and servants rose and headed through the doorway in quick order. The Master remained where he was, looking down at Azaran. The golden eye in his head gleamed for a moment, with malice, with amusement, with some other emotion that would not make sense to mere human minds. Soon he was alone on the plain...except for one. The only other being on this world who did not have to obey him instantly and without question.

  Zal'zarrin heard the tread on the ground. "You should be on the ship," he said, openly, in a language not of this world, whose birth place lay across the universe, on a world that was a child of another Sun. Human lips were forbidden to speak it, human minds to understand it, it was the only language the Runes of Understanding would not translate and any who displayed even the slightest hint of comprehending it would die immediately.

  He turned about slightly as the other kezan exited the ship. Kezan, another word forbidden to the Servants. The name the Masters had for their own race was their treasure to keep.