by A. C. Ellas
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One: Slave Market
Chapter Two: The Council
Chapter Three: Politics
Chapter Four: The Forms
Chapter Five: Chasing Rumors
Chapter Six: Neren
Chapter Seven: The Sickness
Chapter Eight: Misdirection
Chapter Nine: Soansa
Chapter Ten: Aftermath
Epilogue
About the Author
What does one do when confronted by the Lord of Madness?
High Priest S’Rak is under suspicion of murder. Captain Jisten isn’t sure if the Loftoni is innocent or guilty, but he’s convinced that keeping Rak under guard is the best thing to do. Unfortunately, Rak doesn’t agree with him. As the Lord of Madness toys with them both, their relationship grows ever more strained. Rak slips away from his guards more than once, and Jisten grows increasingly desperate to bring the wayward priest to heel.
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Soansa
Copyright © 2018 A.C. Ellas
ISBN: 978-1-4874-0667-7
Cover art by Angela Waters
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Soansa
Dark Servant 35
By
A.C. Ellas
Prologue
Musday, the 39th of Thermon
Єnatεra Atεlio, Thamεros Fεngari
9th day, 2nd week, Thameros’ moon
The ceiling was grey, unmarked stone without seam or crack or feature. Nothing in its smooth expanse caught the eye, relieved the tedious monotony, or gave any clue as to the source of the cool, dim light that suffused the small room. He turned his head and contemplated the wall. It was also grey, but deeply incised runes marched in precise columns from grey floor to grey ceiling. He read the runes without effort.
“You belong to the Goddess now. You are part of Her temple. There is no escape. There is no hope. Obey or die.” These five statements were repeated over and over across all four walls, without variation.
The monotony of it irked him, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. The temple would replace the runes when it chose to do so, he had no control over it. The opposite, in fact, if the walls were to be believed. He knew exactly where he was. What he didn’t know was how.
I died. I remember dying.
Pajel sat up, shivering. He had been lying, naked, on a stone slab of a table for an unknown length of time. His death had been painful, and he remembered every moment of it, too. He’d been killed and consumed by the katrami flies that called this temple home. This temple wasn’t the temple he should have awoken in. This temple did not belong to his God but to the Goddess Katzrevia, the ex-consort and implacable enemy of the God he served.
I’m not only dead, I’m screwed.
“You’re not dead, traitorous scum.” Dienok’s cold voice shivered through him. The chaos mage loomed into view, his arms crossed over robes the hue of dried blood, the expression on his face impassive but for the malice glittering in his dark eyes. “The temple brought you back to make you answer for your sins.”
“I have done my duty, nothing more,” Pajel replied.
Dienok’s hand flicked outward, toward him. Five distinct lines of intensely burning pain slashed across Pajel’s unprotected flesh. “You belong to me now, Kephi. You died, and your precious God did not collect your soul. Perhaps He didn’t want it. It doesn’t matter now; you’ll never escape me, not even in death. You might as well resign yourself to a very long life of serving me.”
“I serve the Storm Lord, not you. I will never serve you, no matter what you do to me. Lord Zotien, hear my prayer, safeguard my soul from the Unmaker and render her minions powerless over me.” Ten slashing lines of agony struck him this time.
When Pajel’s scream died away, Dienok replied, “Your God can’t hear you, and you will serve me, one way or another.” He unfolded his arms and gestured.
Pajel’s body slid itself off the tabletop and stood, ignoring Pajel’s attempts to take control of himself back from whatever strange force was moving his physical form. His body took two steps forward, closer to Dienok then stopped.
Dienok twirled a finger. Pajel’s body turned itself in a slow but complete circle. When he faced Dienok once more, the chaos mage said, “You have all the tattoos of a chaos monk. You know the role so well that you were able to fool not only me, but also the temple—for a time. And so, when I am done with you, a chaos monk you shall be in truth, forever.” He set a hand on Pajel’s head.
Pain consumed him. He was falling, burning up like a stone plummeting from the heavens toward the ground. He ached bone deep as ice sheathed him, replacing the burn of fire with the even worse burn of cold. Spiders crawled through his mind, spinning their webs across his thoughts and memories. He fought them. I am Pajel. I am a servant of the Lord of Night. I am Pajel. I serve Zotien. I serve Zotien. I am... Pajel. I am a servant. Paezin? No, Pajel. Paejel... I am a servant. I serve... I am Paezin.
Dienok released him and stepped back.
Paezin bowed in respect. “Master, I serve you.”
“Yes, you do.” Dienok’s smile was cold, but it warmed Paezin nonetheless. “Tell me what you are.”
“I am a chaos monk. I serve the daniz’dvas and you, m’lord Dienok.”
Dienok nodded. “Tell me about our enemy, the high priest. Tell me everything.”
Paezin searched his memories and was surprised to realize that he did know this S’Rak, had known him for years. They’d been close friends, intimately close. He began to talk.
After a short time, Dienok interrupted him. “Dress.”
He turned to where the mage had pointed. He picked up the soft, dark red sleeveless robe and donned it. He then tied the black leather rope around his waist and hung a few necessary implements from it. He felt complete now, and grateful to his master for the courtesy. “Thank you, sir.”
“Come. We will continue our discussion in the library.” Dienok strode out of the workroom, and Paezin was quick to follow him. “It’s interesting,” the chaos mage observed as they walked, “how easily you converted.”
“I have always served the daniz’dvas,” Paezin said uneasily, his mind skirting around something he really didn’t want to remember.
“Of course, you have,” Dienok replied in a reassuring tone of voice. The invisible servants had laid out food and drink for the two men. They settled in at the finely crafted bone table and dug into a simple repast of roast meat, bread, and ale.
Paezin resumed speaking, detailing everything he knew about the brotherhood of dark servants in general and S’Rak in particular. Together, they laid plans to bring down the high priest.<
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Eventually, Dienok was satisfied. “There is one other to whom you must beg forgiveness. He is my ally, and you will offer him every courtesy that you offer to me. Understood?” He leaned back in his seat and gestured to his crotch.
“Yes, m’lord. Might I know his name, so that I do not fail in my duty to him?” Paezin obeyed the silent command by sliding out of his seat and approaching Dienok on his knees. He parted Dienok’s robes and kissed the shaft between his legs.
“His name is Neren. He is a mage of some skill and of particular interest to our Queen.” Dienok stroked Paezin’s hair as the monk-slave fellated him.
Chapter One: Slave Market
Єnatεra Ligo, Alethian Fεngari
Ninth day, first week, Alethian’s moon
Seaday, the 10th of Thamon
Rak did his best to ignore the pair of palace guards trailing him as he walked through the beast market. This market wasn’t his goal, but his step slowed as he evaluated the animals he passed. A deep cough, sounding to his right, concerned him. He turned to regard the coughing horse. The beast’s head was extended as it coughed, the nostrils were flared as if it was having trouble breathing. He could see the yellow mucus draining from the nose.
Two men were also watching the horse, and after a hurried conference, they untied the horse and led it out of the market. Rak glanced at the other horses. They appeared okay. Satisfied that the stockmen had dealt with the sick beast already, he turned his back on the horses and headed for his real destination, the slave market.
This was not a place he particularly wanted to be, but he was sure that most of the merchandise felt likewise. He wished he could buy all of them, impractical though that would be. Even if he had enough gold, how could he provide clothing, shelter, and sustenance to that many people?
He forced himself to focus on the task that brought him there. He studied the slaves being offered for sale, looking for individuals who might make willing servants. Despina and Liast were going to move into Virien’s mansion, so they’d need a staff large enough to tend to their needs and to the building and surprisingly extensive grounds—Virien’s in-town dwelling was almost a palace in its own right. Rak felt better about having Despina next door, so to speak, as opposed to across town, and Liast would be more approachable as a healer if he were disassociated from the palace.
Many of the slaves wouldn’t meet his gaze. Pursed lips and surreptitious sun symbols drawn on the breast told him all he needed to know. The slavers had to have been speaking against him. It was easy for a slave to swallow the lies fed to them by their masters and often painful to insist upon the truth.
“Have you come to submit, subhuman?” A slaver stepped out of the shade to block his path. “Do you desire your collar back that much?”
“I have come as a buyer.” Rak clenched his jaw on what else he wanted to say. He needed these men to sell to him.
“Have you now?” The slaver raked him over with a cold gaze. “Come into my office; we will speak.” The man turned and opened a door that blended into the wall almost perfectly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rak followed him. The office was just inside the door. A second door led into the remainder of the warehouse. There were a desk and some wooden chairs to the right. The slaver sat behind the desk. Cautiously, Rak took a chair across from him. The palace guards slid into place behind him, offering an unexpected element of safety. Surely the slaver wouldn’t try anything with these men at his back.
The slaver didn’t even glance at the guards. He focused on Rak. “What sort of slaves would a high priest of Zotien be looking for?”
“Household. People to clean, cook, do laundry, care for the grounds. Age is immaterial, nor is the current state of health.”
“And will you be freeing these slaves?” The slaver flipped open a ledger and studied it briefly.
“Of course.”
“I have a group that might suit you. They’re nothing special, mostly older and not worth the cost to take to auction. I’ll sell you the lot for ten royals.”
“How many people?”
“Two dozen.” The slaver looked up. “They’re a waste of space and resources for me. Individually, they won’t bring in enough to meet the costs of keeping them alive. As a group, at ten royals, I’ll break even for costs.”
“Fair enough. I’ll take them.” Rak set ten nomi on the desk.
Nomi were heavier than royals, so the slaver raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“For the paperwork. I want a sales receipt and manumission form for each individual slave.”
An hour later, Rak stood before the twenty-four souls his gold had just freed. He addressed them briefly. “I am S’Rak, high priest of the Thezi sect of the Brotherhood of the Dark Servants of Zotien. I have purchased you from this slaver house, and I have freed you in accordance with the Laws of my God. I need servants to tend to a mansion here in the city. Should any of you wish to accept my offer of employment, I will pay you a gold royal per ten-day in addition to providing free lodging, meals, and clothing.” This was a calculated gamble on his part. There was a chance all two dozen could walk on him, but he doubted that would occur. Not when he was offering gold.
The men and women looked at one another as if to find answers—or strength—in numbers. Then one stepped forward. “I accept.” That freed the remainder from their paralysis. Rak was mildly astonished when all two dozen ex-slaves accepted his offer. He led the procession out of the warehouse, the palace guards bringing up the rear.
Tebber was waiting at the door with a wagon. “Scorth told me to bring the largest wagon I could find. I borrowed this from the kitchens—it’s one of the home farm wagons.”
“Good thinking, both of you.” Rak sent a mental thanks to Scorth and turned his attention to moving the people into the wagon.
The mansion was in good shape, at least. Someone had kept it up while Virien was away, so after a good cleaning, it had been ready for occupancy once more. Despina and Liast had taken charge of the place. Liast wanted to convert the great hall into a healer’s hall, and Despina spoke of opening a soup kitchen to feed the very poorest. Rak stifled his laughter at the mental image of the city’s poor marching into the district of the very highest and wealthiest for bowls of soup being served from the mansion right next to the palace itself. He was sure the watch would have an apoplectic fit at the very thought of it. That didn’t entirely displease him; he wasn’t on good terms with the watch at the moment.
Rak drove the wagon into the mansion’s grounds, following the curving pathway that led to the carriage stand and the entry portico. He eased back on the horses, bringing them to a stop precisely where he wanted them. The ex-slaves would be able to step directly out of the wagon bed onto the platform. Despina was already there, waiting with trays of buttered bread, fresh fruit, cheese, and pitchers of cool cider and water.
As the ex-slaves clambered out of the wagon to accept the food and drink being offered, Rak set the brake and exited the driver’s box. He walked over to Despina and addressed the ex-slaves. “This is Despina of the Kydem Valers. She is in charge of this mansion and of you. Once we have seen to your needs, we will speak to you individually to see what work you will be best suited for. There is another priest who will be living here; he is S’Liast of the Therrai sect. He is a healer. If you are sick or hurt, please tell him so that he can help you. He takes his payment in chocolate—from Despina, so ignore any requests along those lines that he might make.”
There was some scattered laughter at that, which pleased Rak immensely. He and Despina settled in for the task of sorting out who was who and what to do with them all. It took most of the morning. The sun was approaching zenith by the time Rak was able to head back to the palace. The two guards closed up on him once they were on the street. Rak continued to ignore them, despite one of them signaling a desire to speak. He just wasn’t in the mood to deal with them.
Chapter Two: The Council
From his position
behind King Owain and Prince Jethain, Captain Jisten watched the councilors. The full council was present that morning, including Ylion Forael, resplendent in his cream and gold robes. Jisten expected this to be a tumultuous session but felt that physical violence was unlikely, especially as the main topic of discussion on the agenda, the High Priest S’Rak, was not present.
However, Owain didn’t immediately turn his attention to the expected topic. “The first order of business is to appoint a new chancellor. This has, traditionally, been a post appointed by the monarch, and while the council may comment as they wish, they cannot override the king’s choice.”
From the expressions around the table, Jisten gathered that the council was already well aware of this and not particularly happy about it. Jethain blandly commented, “Someone less corrupt than the late Lord Virien would be a welcome change.”
Owain glared at his son for a moment then turned his attention back to the council. “To the post of Chancellor of Koilatha, I name Lord Deviol. He has served this council ably and well for many years and thus has the wisdom and experience required to effectively execute his new position.”
The new chancellor had enough acting skills to at least pretend to be surprised. He bowed to the king. “Your Majesty, thank you. I am surprised and humbled that you have chosen me for this great honor. I will do my best to serve you and the kingdom as your chancellor.”
Jisten tried not to grimace. Deviol was a shrewd choice on Owain’s part. The man was ineffective on his own, a natural-born follower. He’d do whatever Owain wanted without question. The problem was that Deviol had been firmly in Virien’s pocket and wasn’t much of an improvement over the late, unlamented chancellor.
