by Mok, DK
There was a pause, filled only with the sound of crunching sand.
“I mean, I don’t care what people say anymore,” said Elhan. “And I’m not necessarily going to help you if you choke on a bun. Only if I feel like it.”
“Is that why you’re on this quest? Because you feel like it?”
Elhan continued tramping ahead, pulling away towards the horizon.
“You should save your breath. It’s a long way to the fens.”
Valamon lay on the floor of his cell, the blood drying slowly on his face. The world seemed to dim and brighten in dizzying waves, which wasn’t helping the nausea. He had always been under the impression that interrogations involved questions at some point. However, this interrogation hadn’t involved questions so much as it involved being repeatedly punched.
He was thankful that she hadn’t used any of the implements on the table. And he was grateful that she’d removed her knobbled gauntlets before “interrogating” him; otherwise, he doubted he’d have much of a face left. All in all, Valamon was trying quite hard to see the bright side of things, despite the fact that he was trying to breathe through an orifice he wasn’t sure he’d had that morning.
His thoughts drifted as he lay on the cell floor, from fields of long, green grass, to his family, to the memory of Haska and that look in her eyes. Such cold rage burned through her, but something else haunted her eyes, a deeply buried grief howling to be released. It reminded him of an animal caught in a bear trap and the expression in its eyes as it tried to tear off its own leg. As Haska’s fists slammed into him again and again, it had been as though she were trying to beat her own memories out of his head.
Valamon pressed his face against the floor. He knew it was unhygienic, but at least the freezing stone was soothing for once. Through his aching body, he felt the vibration of footsteps approaching. If it was Amoriel, he didn’t have the strength to crawl away, but at least she got bored fairly quickly.
The footsteps stopped outside his cell, and Valamon turned his eyes weakly towards the light. Haska stood framed against the torchlight. She stared coolly at his crumpled figure, and he couldn’t tell if she were gloating or relenting. His heart flickered with the faint hope that perhaps she’d come to apologise, that she’d realised violence didn’t solve anything, and that they could talk through their differences over a cup of warm water and some willow bark.
“Do you understand why this is happening to you?” said Haska finally.
Valamon decided that an apology wasn’t on the way.
“I’b beed—” Valamon raised his head slightly. “I’ve been trying to ascertain that. I was under the impression that’s what led to our recent encounter.”
Haska looked down at him impassively.
“Can you tell me why a simpleton whelp of a prince has only to open his mouth to have food stuffed into it, while entire villages are decimated to feed a corpulent empire?”
Valamon truly wished he had an answer. Not only because it might avert another private audience with Haska and her mean right hook, but because it was the kind of question that had plagued him for much of his life.
Despite the popular belief that Valamon’s attention was limited to turning up for meals and staring at things, he often lay awake at night pondering issues like social cohesion, food supply management, and rule of law until his brain ached. The Talgaran Empire had expanded rapidly over the past hundred years, and a burgeoning population demanded exponentially more resources, more food, more land—things that other kingdoms didn’t relinquish easily.
As a child, Valamon had wished for simpler answers, a gentler world, but mostly, he’d wished for a talking horse to carry him away. However, as he’d grown older, he’d thought less about running away from intractable problems and more about solving them. Even so, there was a stark difference between thinking about something and acting on it.
Valamon rose unsteadily to his feet. He limped towards the bars and stopped in front of Haska, close enough to see his reflection in her eyes.
“Show me your face,” said Valamon, his voice soft and commanding.
Haska’s eyes turned so cold, he could almost feel the frost blowing against his face.
“I have a fairly good idea of why I’m here,” said Valamon, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth. “Everyone here has a vendetta against the king. An unsettled grudge, an unforgiven loss, an unhealed scar.”
He let his words hang in the air.
“Why don’t you show me what my father did to you?” said Valamon softly.
The silence bled through the corridors and out through the cracks, like a cold fire illuminating the night.
“Your father’s words did this to me,” said Haska, not moving. “But if you really want to see your father’s work, don’t look to me. I have a better example.”
For the first time since his incarceration, Valamon saw the sky. Haska was his only escort through the empty corridors, in the clear understanding that, if he tried to run, she’d slice both his hamstrings. And his tendons. And then nail his feet to the floor.
She marched him up a winding stone stairwell, torches glowing at irregular intervals. They corkscrewed up flight after flight, until they emerged on the roof of the tower, under a cold, clear night. A low stone wall rimmed the flagstones, and Haska strode to the edge, a strange hellfire lighting her features from below.
Valamon walked cautiously to the parapets, the gusty wind flapping his tattered shirt. He gazed out at the landscape, taking in this new complication.
A massive encampment stretched out into the night, glowing with campfires and forges, blanketed with tents, horses, weapons, and soldiers. It spread and shifted like a living creature—a dark, glowing mass gorging on the hills. The towering castle he stood upon rose from the centre of the camp like a needle in the heart of a stain. There must have been tens of thousands of troops assembled below. It was easily the size of a city—a city on the brink of war.
“The reign of Talgaran ends,” said Haska. “This is what your father has wrought.”
Tilvar of the Belass Ranges meditated on a troubled world. She gazed out the window, her hands resting on a ledge of translucent amber stone. The hum of gentle chanting flowed through the airy temple, punctuated by the occasional dissonant bell. Tilvar’s expression was sombre as she looked out across the misty hills rolling towards the mountains.
She’d declined Lord Haska’s initial approach. The Belass monks were generally pacifist, despite their deadly skills in combat. It was difficult for outsiders to understand the significance of cultivating a lethal force for the sole purpose of not using it. The monks had gotten tired of explaining after a while and took to telling people nonsensical riddles and sending them on “spiritual quests”.
However, the steady flow of frightened, homeless people into the Belass Ranges could no longer be ignored. Tilvar had finally relented and sent a delegation to Haska, but she feared that simple violence would not be enough.
Tilvar looked down at the crowded gardens, where temporary shelters had been erected. Refugees huddled in disheartened groups, mending ragged clothing and singing wistful homeland songs, while scrawny children bathed in temple ponds. Things done could never be undone, but this was a lesson often learned too late.
A scrunched wad of parchment landed by Qara’s feet as she entered the study. She bent gracefully to retrieve it and smoothed it out with a slightly disapproving turn to her mouth.
“Was there something wrong with the parchment, Your Highness?” said Qara.
Falon glanced up from his pile of documents, and then turned back to his work. “I’ll get it later.”
The nib of his quill snapped sharply, and Qara suddenly found a broken feather skittering into her boots.
“Am I a midden, Your Highness?”
Falon looked up distractedly, as though only just noticing her presence. He picked up another quill.
“Lord Qara, what can I do for you?”
“Do yo
u require some assistance, Your Highness?” Qara placed the parchment and the broken quill gently on the desk.
“You have your hands full, Lord Qara. It would certainly be nice if I had a brother who could handle paperwork, but I may as well pray for a castle made of gingerbread.”
“That seems very structurally unsound, Your Highness.”
Falon leaned back, stretching his shoulders.
“Do you remember the time Valamon covered his desk in all these pebbles? Every ten minutes, he’d move one stone about an inch. He was sitting there for hours, and then he just burst into tears.”
“He was a very sensitive child,” said Qara.
“I’m sure it was only six months ago.”
“He was nine, Falon—Your Highness.”
There was a muffled chime, like the tail end of a bell, and Qara’s hand flew to her sword. Unperturbed, Falon reached into a drawer and withdrew a slim silver tube, delicately engraved with dragons and pegasi. Qara’s eyes widened in shock.
“That’s forbidden in the castle—” said Qara.
“It’s hardly sorcery. It’s not terribly different from having a man run across the continent, just a lot faster.”
Falon pulled a roll of parchment from the tube and read the neatly inked writing, his expression grim.
“Good gods, they’ve destroyed the re-education facility at Tigrath,” said Falon. “Wasn’t Albaran one of the less-disastrous captains?”
“He was reasonably effective. As I recall, you found him slightly creepy.”
“I seem to recall you having similar sentiments, but rather more emphatic. Nevertheless, that wasn’t the only reason I sent him to Tigrath,” said Falon, mildly defensive. “He had a very tidy mind. I thought he’d enjoy sorting the prisoners.”
“I suppose he’ll have to find another diversion.”
Falon’s eyes skimmed the text again, taking in the disturbing details of Albaran’s report. Qara had insisted that the events at Horizon’s Gate must have been some kind of flammable misunderstanding, but clearly rescuing Prince Valamon was no longer Seris and Elhan’s highest priority, if indeed it ever had been. The events at Tigrath went beyond destruction of property, beyond criminal conspiracy, beyond treason…
Falon’s gaze lingered on the last sentence of the report, particularly the word “disintegrated”.
Perhaps the king had been right to be afraid.
“I think I have just the assignment,” said Falon.
Ralgas of the mountain clans perched on the crag of Alzafar Peak, beneath the shadow of a twisted oak. He’d ignored Haska’s calls for eighteen months. Envoy after envoy had been sent back howling.
The mountain clans cared little about what happened beyond their range. Their world was cradled between the rock and the sky, across a sea of white peaks and grey valleys. But Ralgas had seen the smoke from the burning cities growing closer, decade by decade, year by year, and then month by month. Soon, the march of armies would thunder through their land, and then it would be war.
Finally, Haska herself had come to see Ralgas and told him what he already knew. It was too late to hide, and the mountain clans would not run. The time to act was now.
The makeshift tent was functional. There were rather more geckos clinging to the ceiling than in his old office, but Albaran didn’t mind all the unblinking eyes.
The Talgaran Guard had finished rounding up the prisoners too slow or unmotivated to flee—mostly the ones who’d stayed behind to loot. They would pick up still more from the desert, too weakened by incarceration to get very far. The others would be more difficult to track, but Albaran would probably enjoy that part the most.
There was a faint, melodic hum from his tunic, and Albaran withdrew a thin silver tube. He pulled the roll of faded parchment from the case, his eyes skimming over the elegantly scrawled ink. He read the words again, with the faintest glint of a smile.
New assignment. Kill the Curse.
Jaral of the Goethos States was the last to arrive. A hawkish general and a dangerous diplomat, he believed in keeping his enemies close. Preferably entombed under the flagstones.
His military procession marched through the encampment like an uncomfortably long centipede. He’d been amongst the first to respond to Haska’s message, having caught the scent of a falling empire long before the others dared believe it possible.
The Goethos States had once been vastly superior in might to the Talgaran Empire, but that had been generations ago. Talgaran had exploded across the continents, swallowing nations and seizing swathes of arable land, driving Jaral’s people farther and farther behind their borders.
Haska’s rallying cry smacked of inexperience and naïveté, but the people had come. And so had Jaral.
EIGHT
Thalamir was the last city on the western borderlands, perched between the Talgaran plains and the unconquered fens. It was the last stop to nowhere, inhabited mostly by hermits, pariahs, and those who still believed that there were fortunes to be made on the fringes of the empire.
Seris felt that he and Elhan probably fell into the “pariah” category at the moment, although he was confident everything would be cleared up once they got back to Algaris, hopefully with Prince Valamon in tow.
The atmosphere in Thalamir was unhurried, with introspective scholars meandering between tired-looking traders and sleepy shopkeepers. Tall, whitewashed buildings lined the roughly cobbled streets, and people drifted slowly through the crowded market square.
“How about you pick up some rations, and I’ll fill up the waterskins?” said Seris.
“Let’s just grab something from the nearest stall.” Elhan glanced around with faint agitation.
“You mean let’s just buy something from the—”
“Whatever. Let’s just get out of here as soon as possible.”
“Fine, how about you buy something from the nearest stall, I’ll pick up some supplies, and I’ll meet you at the gate in an hour?”
“How’re you gonna pick up supplies?” said Elhan. “You don’t have any money.”
“Spiritual supplies,” said Seris irritably. “Cleric things.”
Elhan eyed Seris dubiously, trying to work out if he was being euphemistic.
“All right… You go attend to your…clerical needs, and I’ll meet you at the gate in an hour. But if things start going down, I’m just gonna leave.”
“Fair enough.”
Seris waited until Elhan disappeared into the marketplace before striding from the square. He headed towards an unassuming tower at the northern end of town, a dusty blue pennant hanging from its signage mast. Although the emblem was faded, Seris recognised the outline of a stylised quill.
He had to admit, he’d been sceptical of Falon’s concerns about the Kali-Adelsa. In his experience, the wealthier the noble, the more paranoid they tended to be. They feared theft, political ruin, betrayal, assassination. They saw machinations and deception in the most harmless of things. Sometimes, a pie was just a pie.
Seris didn’t like to get involved in other people’s politics—he was just there to heal whoever had fallen ill, suffered an injury, or been mysteriously poisoned. However, there were times when remaining detached became…difficult. When you’d healed broken bones in the same servant for the fourth time, you started to look at their lord a little differently. At one particular estate, after three of their servants sought refuge with the clerics of Fiviel after visits by Seris, he’d stopped being asked to that house. That estate did, however, thereafter find it difficult to recruit staff. No one wanted to work somewhere that the clerics weren’t welcome.
Seris had assumed Falon’s fears were political more than anything else, but after Tigrath…
Elhan had stubbornly rejected the idea that she was responsible, but Seris had felt it. He knew the taste of Eliantora’s power, and this had been completely alien. It had poured out of Elhan and through him, like water breaching a dam—it had almost torn him apart. And through the rending haz
e, he’d glimpsed the scope of that power, and it had terrified him.
Even now, he tried not to think of that noise, those eyes, and her face, like a hollow shell inhabited by something not even remotely human. Seris had found it hard to look at her for some time afterwards, and even now, his stomach turned at the thought of the feeling, the power, the whole landscape melting…
Seris didn’t like to get involved, but at some point, you had to decide how much further you were prepared to let things go before you said, “Enough.” He didn’t like to admit it, but Falon had been right.
The curse had to be broken.
Seris walked up the wide marble steps into the hushed library. Sunlight shafted in through narrow, arched windows, and towering shelves of manuscripts lined the walls. A slightly uneven wooden staircase circled up through several floors, the banisters worn smooth by generations of students. He approached a desk attended by a sedate librarian.
“Excuse me, could you please direct me to your historical texts on sorcery?”
They hadn’t rallied to Haska’s call, but they had come. Some skulking reluctantly, some meandering with aloof curiosity, and others marching in as though the event were being held in their honour.
The Goethos States fell into this last category, and Jaral had requested a private meeting. Haska had her hands full juggling a circus of problems, including keeping the Yaras sea salvagers and the Hoobai ninja from tearing each other apart, but denying the general would undoubtedly generate more problems.
Jaral del Goethos didn’t cut an imposing figure, but his confidence seeped through the study like a lowland mist. His dark hair was neat and shot with grey, his uniform spotless, although it had seen better days.
“My commendations on rousing such an attendance,” said Jaral. “A worthy achievement for someone with relatively little experience.”
