by Jason Jones
“Well, we are not there yet. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“They always are.”
Princes I:III
Southern Docks
Valhirst
“At times the walls surround you, the corridors can imprison you, the castle is your enemy, and your power and riches are your undoing. All you place before Alden shall be taken should you live outside His divine grace.” -from the book of Saint Tarumin, psalm 12, the Agarian Aldane, 22 BC
Kaya kept the translucent blue silk scarf draped across her face as she neared the Altestani ship. It was docked at the southern most point of the city behind some high forested hills, miles from prying eyes on a small island cove. Visitors from the northern continent were not welcome in most of the countries in Agara, thus they were anchored far out of view. She kept the black robes drawn over her as well, making certain she was not recognized, as the church, her brother, and the agents of the king of Chazzrynn, were all likely looking for her since her vanishment a week ago. Even here, in the protection of the White Spider and the Prince of Valhirst, the king's own nephew, she felt as if things had closed in around her.
Lady T’Vellon waited fifty feet from the ramp to the six story trireme warbarge, the Headhunter, and watched the dark haired slaves with pale complexions work the deck, while the dark skinned Altestani with their royal garb and cloth-wrapped headresses issued orders and admired the city and the sea. She knew, from Johnas, that they were searching for the scroll as well, hoping it made it to open waters where their immense vessel and numbers could easily go unchecked and unopposed compared to the smaller ships of Chazzrynn. A man approached, headdress and loose clothing over dark skin, looking down at the ground as he walked. Kaya kept her hand on her blade as she bowed, assuming that it was Gregore.
“You have word from Johnas, speak it now please, yes. The Koorjati awaits, to make the open seas, Headhunter you call it, yes.” The changeling’s voice was a mixture of monster and man, blending the northern crisp accent through his fanged mouth. Its eyes were solid black, no matter what form it took, and gazed up at the lady, easily unnerving her.
“Our prince wishes, should the Queen Sapphire leave port, that you and yours follow and be prepared to assist. The scroll has made its way to the docks, but it is unsure whether we will attain it on land or sea. Once either we or you have it, the ambassadors from the north should rest with sharks along with their ship. Do you have men aboard the possible suspect ships in port now?” The lady spy had to look away, the unblinking black eyes of the fiendish fey creature raised the hair on her arms and neck.
“Yes, yes. Gregore has many in place, and suspected ships are being watched. The Altestani have spies throughout Valhirst, do tell Johnas, and they plan to expose him to gain allies in Harlaheim and Caberra. We will dispose of them, tell Johnas, yes, yes.” The shapechanger thought quickly, as its kind grew faster and more intelligent with age, unlike the human cycle which normally slowed with time. Gregore was an ancient among doppelgangers, yet no one knew exactly how old that was, just that he, or it, was old enough to be very dangerous.
Kaya heard thunder in the air, but thought little of it. She noticed the guised creature she spoke with, however, took great interest in it and began to pace and concentrate on things around them. “Very well, Gregore, I will inform the prince. Farewell.”
“Powerful magicks, like mine, yes, much like mine. Tell Johnas the wizard with them is strong, and I will handle that myself, yes I will, yes I will. Tell him I wish to consume her and feast of her memories in private, yes, in private.” Fangs began to drool and moisten, as the creature thought of the woman it had sensed, and all that she must know to have summoned the thunder with arcane powers.
Backing up slowly from the fidgety doppelganger in disguise, Kaya gripped her blade tight after hearing it talk of eating a woman in private. Prince Johnas used these things often and in numbers unknown throughout all his webs on this continent and others. Regardless of their usefulness, the lady spy did not care for them, nor trust them. They seemed too alien in mind and behavior, despite their ability to blend.
“I will tell him, in better fashion, but I will tell him.” She turned and walked back toward the city, noticing the haze above was gone, and the crisp sea air and sky allowed a bright winter sun to warm her just a bit.
“Bronze Harpy, that is the ship. Magicks there, powerful old things of flesh and immortal beings. I will get these for Johnas, yes, yes.” Gregore bowed to the lady's back, turned quickly, and stalked back to the Altestani vessel he had assumed command of with his children.
Kaya looked to see where thunder could have come from, seeing no clouds in the sky at all. Dozens of vessels, grand and small, came and went from port constantly. Kaya took her time returning to the web below. She was both entranced and alone, walking by the sea, so far from a home she could never return to.
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The clattering of something in the keyhole roused the Harlian's attention from staring at the wall in deep depression, pain, and thought. Balric turned, seeing the outline of Heathen opening his cell with a bundle of cloth under his arm.
“I am not ready to die yet, minotaur, tell your prince to …”
“Shut up Harlian. Do you want to leave here now, or should I wait till after they torture you?” The one horned guardian tossed his clothing and weapons to the bloody, dirty mess of a man. A new saber, stolen from the barracks, was sheathed in the middle of the garments.
Balric had no words, he could not move, and had no idea how to thank this beast that he had thought heartless and cruel beyond doubt.
“Where is she?”
“She leaves on the Queen Sapphire should the ones Johnas is after reach the waters. Take this tunnel left, then right, follow it to the surface. I can not protect you, but I would suggest heading north, out of the city to Harlaheim, to find her. They are being sent by ship, Farrigus will be with her, and the docks are covered. Stay clear.”
Heathen felt something close. He could hear the echo of heavy breathing easily as he had spent so many years under the city. He knew how the air moved, smelled, sounded, and felt, and someone was coming slowly down the stairs which he had just quietly traversed.
“I do not know what to say, how to thank you. Why are you helping me?” Balric was getting dressed faster than he could ever remember, still moist on his chest, still bleeding from his cut from the Prince.
“Just go, before I change my mind, Harlian. Leave here and find her, otherwise she rots here as the Prince’s pet until he tires of her, I know this much. Beware, her allegiance to Johnas may be more than you or I…”
“Who is that behind you, a kinsman?” The swordsman spy looked at the figure of a larger minotaur slowly walking down the corridor of prison cells. “Is he your lookout?”
“Heathen…old treacherous, one horned, disgraceful excuse for a minotaur. Are you freeing prisoners from the very hand that feeds you?” Chalas had his blade out, dragging the tip on the stone, forcing the scratching of metal to echo repeatedly with loud intermittent taps. His stare could be felt from thirty feet away in the dark, penetrating any armor or years of battle. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“No, I will handle him, just go, now!” Heathen drew his great scimitar and turned, head lowered, and stared back at the brown killer that stalked his way.
“I tire of your taunts young one. Time for a lesson in respect.” He waited, making sure Balric was safely off, before he charged in.
The Harlian ran down the prison way, turned and looked at his liberator, then ran toward the stairs leading toward the surface. He thought of staying, helping the red warrior, but his heart pulled him away. He heard the crashing of flesh, the sound of metal on metal, bone against bone, and the pounding of iron bars with muscle and growls. Balric D’Vrelle kept moving, his thoughts on nothing but escaping here and finding Vanessa, and perhaps finishing what he had started with Farrigus. One night, maybe far f
rom now, but one cold night, he vowed to return and kill the bastard that sat on the throne of Valhirst.
Behind him, the two minotaurs collided again, Chalas’ horns pressing hard against Heathen's, driving him down and back, their swords locked and steam in the underground air hissed from their nostrils. The red veteran twisted under the pressure, hurling Chalas back into the bars, the murmurs of dying prisoners now looking on in terror, and crazed delight flowed through the dungeon air. Heathen pulled back, slashing upward with his curved blade in both hands, where it met the long straight greatsword of the brown killer.
Sparks lit the dingy torchlit passage as Chalas Kalaza returned the attack, chopping from the side and hitting iron bars in his mighty swing. The serrated and chipped blade, full of as many scars and stories as the killer wielding it, swung across high, meeting the scimitar and Heathen's remaining horn simultaneously. The red minotaur was knocked back into the iron bars himself, the blows from his adversary much stronger than he could hold.
Heathen charged back at him, lowering his head yet keeping his blade high to deflect anything the brown savage swung at him. His impact sent the two flying into the bars again, this time breaking a prisoner’s outstretched arm. Screams and howls erupted from the inmates that had been there far too long, and the red minotaur cut with one hand at the blade of Chalas. The greatsword aside, Heathen tightened, raised his body, and punched the brown gladiator in the jaw, snapping his head to the side.
Again and again, their swords locked off to the side. Heathen threw fist after heavy fist into the face of his assailant. To the chest, the abdomen, his elbow smashing ahead with all his fury, growling, snorting, and the red guardian felt rage that had not poured out in decades. His immense pride and the ferocity in his minotaur blood boiled. Then it came, the laughter, from somewhere far from normal, even for a minotaur. Chalas mocked him, blow after blow, and the scarred killer simply laughed and then grabbed Heathen's throat.
“Are you done?” Chalas mocked.
His throat tightened from the grip around it and Heathen felt his toes drag on the stone floor. His eyes rose to meet the taller enemy, yet Heathen continued to fight, snarling like a ravaged beast in a cage. His head snapped forward, trying to hit Chalas in the face, but he only met air and the gaze of his adversary. The gaze slowed his assault, for it was not like anything he had ever seen. The dark black and brown eyes swirled with anger, hate, and an evil that was bred, not born, to any of his kind. He saw no blood, no injuries, their swords still locked out to the left side. Chalas merely held him in the air by a deathgrip, chuckling and taking blows that seemed to do nothing.
“You should have been killed when you lost your honor. Let me help you to hell, old one!” Then Chalas threw Heathen by the throat down the walkway between iron barred cells.
His body rolled at least three times, landing on his chest, still gripping his scimitar and fighting to get in his breath from the pressure his neck had endured. Never had Heathen been thrown like that, nor unleashed such brute force on something that did not die. He stood up, sensing that Chalas was merely waiting behind him for an honorable fight. He thought of running, making for the stairs, but what pride he had remaining stopped him. He knew the challenges of his race were to the death, had been as long as minotaurs could remember, and always would be. The old red picked himself up, and turned to face a kinsman he could not kill unless a great stroke of luck presented itself.
“How long do you have left, Heathen the Red? Moments maybe?” Chalas grinned and tapped his blade along the bars.
Heathen could no longer look at the eyes of Chalas Kalaza, they saw right through him, but he raised his blade high nonetheless. The brown gladiator raised his greatsword the same, the two stepping toward each other in time. Heathen chopped forward toward the neck, parried by Chalas, who returned with a side cut to the right flank that the scimitar blocked. All his anger and the strength in his body drove the curved blade across to the head of his enemy, whose blade was there to stop it. The brown killer shoved him off his weapon, and cut low across the abdomen of tired Heathen, spraying blood across the wall and bars of the prison.
The red warrior cut upward toward the greatsword, missed and struck iron bars . The ferocious brown gladiator twirled his blade round, cutting deep and high into the ribs of the old red bull, then pulled his blade out and cut across the chest, down through the thigh, more blood releasing onto the stone floor like the sound of water being dumped on a city street. Heathen stumbled back, feeling his lower insides releasing, and then stepped forward with a roar and a wild cut from his scimitar. Chalas stepped back, watching the disemboweled warrior slip on his own entrails and blood.
Chalas grabbed the remaining horn of the red minotaur, then turned him around, avoiding another half hearted slice from the curved blade. The brown killer forced Heathen to his knees, ignoring his snorts and flailing arms, drew his blade high in the air, and chopped down to the base of the horn. He ripped as the edge dug deep into the bone, removing the horn with a cracking tear and a roar of his own.
The red minotaur fell into his own pool of blood and insides, his scimitar clattering on the quiet stone of the dungeon under Valhirst. Three times did Heathen try and crawl to stand, three times his head lifted, then he fell still.
Chalas Kalaza, intoxicated by the blood, by the death of an enemy, and by his own power, walked up the stairs back to the chamber of the Prince, horn in hand. The prisoners went silent, staring, motionless in the torchlight, daring not to say a word to the beast that tapped his sword across the bars. An unspoken understanding issued forth, for none of them had seen anything more vicious than Heathen, or more wicked than the Prince, until just now.
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Johnas stepped twice again, practicing his lunges, reliving the fight with Balric, and cutting at the air with a ferocity that quietly unleashed much of his frustration. He thought of Vanessa, how she had assisted in setting the trap for the Harlian spy, yet he knew. The Prince knew that she had been with the man, and was waiting for the romance to be exposed. He wished he had questioned her, for now he would never know why she so readily offered herself to him on command.
She does not love him, she cannot, all an act. If Vanessa has any love, it would be for me, the man who raised her and taught her. Not for a mark, not a target. Stop worrying, Johnas, she is in your bed, and Balric dies slowly. Who focking cares about love, wasted emotion as it is. She is more loyal than anyone, you know this. If not, then I will slit her throat in her sleep.
Almost half his age, he had given Vanessa jewels, training in the arts, a home, everything he could. The one thing he had never known was love, but betrayal, yes. He had felt the betrayal of those closest to him, the women in his bed, or the best assassins in his employ, it did not matter. In his underworld life, none were above seeking their own needs and biting at the hand that fed and protected them, Johnas had felt it many times.
Farrigus had told him of the secret meetings between the spy from the north and his pet prodigy and whore. He had used it secretly to test Farrigus’ loyalty as well, and to see how deep the Harlian was entrenched here in Chazzrynn. Now, with him prisoner, he would take much time to find out who had sent him and why, painfully and mercilessly. Johnas wondered how Balric got past the domenarch in Harlaheim and was branded into their guild, his guild. His mind left thoughts of love or the spy, speeding to his next moves, his real motives, and the actions needed to stay one step ahead of every King, every noble, and every blade that itched for his throat. Vanessa was one of his deadliest, but no one knew, and Johnas preferred to keep it that way.
Hearing the main doors open at the gesture of a tall doppelganger disguised as a human city guard, the Prince sheathed his emerald blade and took his seat. Kaya entered, robed and scarfed to hide her face, and presented herself on the stone center of the room, bowing once her feet touched the spider design engraved on the floor.
“How did it go, Jade of the West?�
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“Gregore is ready with the Altestani nobles, and has his creatures on several suspect ships throughout the port, my Prince. He will follow the Queen Sapphire in the northern ship, and dispose of them either way, should they make open water.” The lady assassin removed her robes and scarf, tossing them on the nearest red couch and bowed again.
“And what of you, Kaya? What can I do with you? You can not be seen in Chazzrynn, not for many years, unless in cover. Your brother will have the backing of the king to find you, and the church is looking as well. Have you ever been to Devonmir? It’s one of our cities, north and west in Harlaheim, near the Shanador and Willborne borders. I have much trouble getting the proper amount of coin out of the corrupt lords of the city. The arena there is quite popular, and our spiders there say the chests we receive are but a quarter of what they should be. I could use some assistance in the matter, if you would like to remain of service and not worry about being found.” Johnas asked as much as he gave the order, speaking in two tongues, thinking one thing and saying another. “I should bring Vermillion here, and send Jade a safe distance away. A new set of eyes and ears to each troubled kingdom.”
He and Kaya both knew that if he were to turn her in to the king, his relations would improve slightly for some time, and this was a generous offer after losing Southwind Keep for the organization. He knew she would accept, and he had her where he wanted her, like everyone else he dealt with.
Kaya approached the throne, sauntering, staring at his cold green eyes. When she reached the prince, her hand brushed his face gently as she walked to the side.
“I could be so much more here, though. I am your best, deadliest, and most beautiful agent. I have been, for many, many, years, Johnas.” Her other hand touched his neck, and she pressed her lips on his cheek.
Kaya feared leaving, feared going to a place where she had heard wizards bred with demons and the dead, and above all else, she did not want to leave her kingdom. She wanted protection here and a position in Valhirst, for she had nothing else.
