“He attacks Thardin,” D’Jenn mused. Dormael saw his cousin stroking his goatee, and he imagined that D’Jenn was catching on. Dormael was still a bit confused.
“Right, Thardin – which is in the other Gods damned direction!” Victus said, pounding the table with a meaty fist to accentuate his point, “It doesn’t make a bit of sense tactically. Thardin borders Old Galania on the northeastern side. It doesn’t even cut a swath of land between the Galanians and the sea. It’s just sitting there, cold and mountainous, and without a Gods damned export to speak of except for iron ore and steel, which Galania buys anyway. So why attack them? Why commit his men to a war in the mountains, in the middle of winter, when the war they were fighting is to the damned south?”
Dormael was beginning to understand where Victus was going. “You’re right. The smart thing would have been to take Solace Island and the mines there, then move steadily towards Shera and the Shipyards, if his goal is to occupy the whole of the Alderak.”
“Now his territory is sandwiched,” D’Jenn added, “between Cambrell and Lesmira to the north, and Moravia to the south. And Moravia is ready for him. He’s only giving them more time to prepare by moving against Thardin.”
“That’s true, but it’s also true that any goods moving overland from north to south have to go through his territory now. He’ll make a lot of money taxing those roads and levying tariffs on trade goods in transit,” Dormael pointed out.
“Yes, but why go to war with the Thardish? That stretch of land is nothing but a mountainous, snow-covered, hellishly-fortified place full of hardy warriors who cut each other’s heads off for fun!” Victus said, almost laughing at what they were all laying out.
“It will cost him. Money, and lives,” D’Jenn said.
“Yes!” Victus exclaimed, pointing at D’Jenn as if to commend him for the comment, “So why? What is there in Thardin that he would risk everything for? Why move against them? What do they have that he wants?”
“Another relic,” Dormael whispered. The room grew silent.
“My point,” Victus said somberly, “exactly.”
“Another one? But how…how in the Six Hells can another one even exist? And how is it that Dargorin learns of it, and we do not?” D’Jenn spat disgustedly. Dormael was a bit surprised by the emotion in his cousin’s voice. It was more than he usually showed.
“Indeed,” Victus mused, “Where did the one we have come from? And if there is another one, then logically there could be more. We’re missing an essential piece of this puzzle.”
“Now you sound like Lacelle, with all of that logic,” Dormael said, as nonchalantly as he could manage. D’Jenn barked a short laugh into his hand. Victus shot Dormael a glare that could have melted ice.
“Perhaps the Mekai will learn something,” D’Jenn said, stroking his goatee.
“Bah,” Victus spat, “If you ask me he’s half the reason we’re in this mess to begin with.”
Dormael and D’Jenn both stared at Victus. It was the most unexpected thing to come out of his mouth for two people who knew him well. Victus had been an avid supporter of the Mekai and the Conclave in general for as long as they could remember. He was steadfast. He was just…Victus.
And he’d just very nearly denounced everything they thought he’d believed in.
“Well don’t look at me like that, lads,” Victus said, swishing his hand in a shooing gesture, “We’ve become…complacent. We sit here in our Conclave and we let the world pass us by with only the most subtle and mild influence. We could do so much more for the Sevenlands, and for the world. But we do nothing. We let Dargorin conquer two autonomous countries, and slaughter the royal family of one. We let horrors happen all over the east, and the west for that matter, without interfering. There’s slavery. There’s corruption. There’s cold-blooded murder. And what do we Warlocks do, eh? We gather information, sometimes at great personal risk to ourselves – just so the Mekai can sit on it. So he can think very hard on what to do, until he finally decides to do nothing. It’s…it’s infuriating, sometimes.”
“Deacon…” Dormael began, trying to soothe the head Warlock somewhat, but he was unable to find the words. The problem was Victus was right. Dormael had often thought the same thoughts, felt the same feelings. But there was a reason for their absence in the events that shaped the world. Long ago, Sevenlanders had realized that a wizard-king could be a terrifying thing, indeed. The law stated clearly that no Blessed or Learned could ever hold a place of power and authority within the government, save in an advisory position. It was simply too dangerous.
The thought of a group of Warlocks running around the world shaping history could be just as frightening. Even Dormael would act on a desire to do good in the world, but power inevitably corrupts. The problem is that wizards start with an unfair advantage where power is concerned. When he thought about it, even with the way things were now, Warlocks were pushing the letter of the law considerably sometimes. There were oceans of gray areas in his line of work.
“That’s not entirely the Mekai’s fault, Deacon,” D’Jenn pointed out, “It’s just the way things are. The way they’ve been for ages.”
“Yes, maybe so,” Victus admitted, “But I still don’t believe we should leave our people to die in those Galanian internment camps. It’s selfish.”
Dormael and D’Jenn had no argument for that.
“I just think that something should be done. We need someone who can lead us through changing and turbulent times, and the Mekai is getting old, that’s all. Perhaps he’ll see reason as time passes, just forget I said anything, boys,” Victus sighed.
Dormael and D’Jenn eyed each other sideways as they nodded, silent incredulity passing between them. Victus seemed to be immersed in his own thoughts and didn’t notice. After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
“Well, I’ve business to get to, and I’m sure you boys are worn out from your travels. You’re dismissed, do what you will.” Victus rose and strode purposefully from the chamber without a backwards glance. Dormael looked at his cousin with his eyebrows raised.
What was that all about? He signed in the Hunter’s Tongue.
No idea, D’Jenn replied, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
****
Maarkov stood silently, arms crossed, gazing uninterestedly into the chasm that yawned beneath the bluff he was standing upon. For days he’d ridden silently, breaking his reticence only to jab at his infernal sibling from time to time, offering up his best sarcasm and derision. Maaz, as always, offered back only the same with a healthy amount of frustration to go with it. Sighing, Maarkov turned to walk slowly back toward the place where his brother had set up camp.
They’d ridden hard since the shipwreck had left the galleon in pieces on some unnamed rocky Sevenlander cove. There had been three survivors - Maaz, Maarkov, and one sailor unlucky enough to have alighted on the beach with them instead of dying a peaceful, drowning death. He’d lived just long enough to serve Maaz’s purposes, as anyone around him did, and died two days hard ride from the cove. Maarkov almost envied him.
Almost.
Coming upon the camp, Maarkov couldn’t help but sigh in the face of this monotonous drudgery. There stood his brother before a bonfire that practically towered over him, wrapped as always in his dark cloak, arms stretched out to his sides and hands clutched into fists. There was bright, red blood dripping from them, but it never reached the ground. As the droplets fell, they steamed and sizzled, and disappeared in midair, his power drinking the life from them. There was a wavering distortion in the air around him and the fire, and Maarkov knew that he was performing another of his rites of power. For what, Maarkov didn’t know. For that matter, he didn’t much care, either.
The source of the blood lay behind him on the soft, wet earth. She was an older lady of middle years, gray streaks through her brownish hair. She lay on her back; her body rigidly held by what Maarkov could only guess was his brother’s
power. He’d drawn a circle around her in the mud, interspersed here and there with symbols of his power.
Her homespun dress lay sliced open at the sides of her torso, and her bare chest heaved up and down with her excited, fearful breathing. Maaz had maimed her as he did many of his victims, cutting arcane symbols into her skin and leaving her to bleed and feel the pain of it all, so that his dark god would be sated and her pain would fuel his magic. Maarkov looked upon the scene with mostly indifference, but as he looked at the woman he felt disgust welling up inside of him. Pitiful, muffled cries came from the woman, who was gagged with rags that had been ripped from her own dress. Maaz was deaf to her cries.
Her family, however, was not. They sat about sixty hands off to the side of the camp – father, son, and two daughters all tied and similarly gagged. Every time the woman let out one of her muffled cries, it was answered in kind by her family. From the father were the snarls of a man who has murder in his heart but is unable to enact his vengeance. From the two daughters came the same distraught, dreadful screams of fear. The son, who was yet too young to do anything about the situation, sat with his eyes closed tightly, sputtering sobbing cries into his chest.
Standing guard over the imprisoned family was the sailor, or what was left of him. Maaz never let a body go to waste, especially when there was manual labor or other menial tasks to be done. He stood completely still, eyes gazing off into the distance. Maarkov didn’t know if gazing was the right word for what the sailor was doing, though. Those eyes were empty; devoid of all thought and emotion. Maarkov was always disgusted by these things, but being in league with his brother meant dealing with them on an almost constant basis. He hated them.
Strega was the word his brother used for them, the dead things that were given life, or purpose, at least, by his magic. They were mindless beings, and lived only to follow commands. Maarkov had wondered at one time whether or not any remnant of whom they had been before remained inside the animated bodies, but after years of being in such close proximity to them he had decided that it wasn’t so. They never spoke, never slept, never pissed or shit, never did anything. Hells, the things didn’t even move unless commanded to do so. It was truly disconcerting to see something that could sit completely still. Every living thing in the world makes little movements. The rise and fall of the breathing chest, the shuffling about when uncomfortable or the tiny twiddling of thumbs when one is bored – none of these things were present in the strega. They simply stood silently until commanded to do something.
Gods, though, the things were strong. Stronger and faster than anything should be in a body that size. He’d watched this one run down and capture the small boy that now sat sobbing at the edge of camp. It had been a ghastly sight. The thing had closed the distance in about two seconds, running with a preternatural speed and gait, and then had simply pulled the boy up by his hair. It had then walked back, numb and completely unaffected by the boy’s attempts to flee or fight. It had been an appalling sight for Maarkov. Maaz had laughed as if he were out coursing with young lordlings.
A wet thud accompanied with a gurgling, muffled scream came suddenly from the direction of the fire, and Maarkov knew that Maaz had finished with the woman. There were louder and more insistent screams from the family, and Maarkov saw Maaz turn a cold eye upon them.
“Don’t be so distraught,” Maaz hissed in a mocking tone, “You’ll have your fun soon enough.” With that chilling comment the captives fell mostly silent, uttering only the most insistent of sobs. Maaz turned his cold gaze to the dead woman, and began to cut upon her. Someone, Maarkov thought it was the father, gave an outraged retching sound. Maarkov turned to walk back to his solitary brooding.
“Don’t go just yet, brother,” Maaz said, still gazing intently down at his work, “There is something for you here, still.” Maaz reached a grasping, claw-like hand down into the woman’s torso, now sliced open from bellybutton to clavicle. The wet noises his hand made while it rifled through the woman’s insides were almost comical in some morbid, sickening way. Though Maarkov was disgusted, he had to stop himself from laughing.
“I don’t want it.”
“You need it, you great idiot.”
“I’ll not take of this anymore,” Maarkov’s tone was one of shrugging indifference, as if he were simply stating a fact.
“You will. Oh yes, brother,” Maaz hissed in an almost friendly, pleading way that Maarkov knew was his absolute most sarcastic voice, “you will, or that fine almost living body of yours will begin to rot. You’ll deteriorate slowly, for sure, but it will happen. The smell will be quite revolting, and I must say that the whores who you normally pay to share your decrepit bed will shun you first. Then, so must the rest of society.”
“As if that would be anything new. It’s not as if your pretty face has seen the inside of a common room in decades, brother mine,” Maarkov replied. He knew what his brother was saying was true, just as it had been true for years, now. Still, he wished to resist for some reason. Perhaps it amused him.
“Ah, but we must maintain the image, dear sibling. We must have the ability to walk amongst the sheep. We are but wolves, brother, and wolves must maintain their sheep suits. Now. Here, and try to enjoy it for once. The taste is really rather…satisfying, I think.”
Maaz ripped his skinny, pallid arm free of the woman’s mutilated corpse and tossed something bloody and pink to his brother. Maarkov caught it out of the air, using both hands so that the blood wouldn’t cause it to slip into the dirt. Oh no, he thought, that just wouldn’t do at all.
Maarkov sighed but he knew his brother was right. For as long as he was tied to Maaz, he would need to do this. There was no need to cry about it anymore than was necessary to irritate his brother. The flesh was warm in his hands, as it always was, and without thinking he raised the slippery meat towards his mouth.
He caught the eyes of the young boy as he did so. He froze.
They were big, brown eyes, wet with tears. They were watching him, not pleading, not wishing for anything at all, simply watching and accepting.
They were accusing eyes.
Maarkov was struck by a memory, it reeled him as if slapped full in the face. A young boy with brown eyes not unlike the ones watching him now, sitting by a creek and crying the innocent tears of being physically hurt at a young age. His knee, bleeding and bruised from a fall, is cradled to his chest. His older brother picking him up and dusting off the woolen pants of the younger, and telling him everything was alright, that everybody took hurts now and then and the best thing to do was to be a man about it.
Maarkov’s gaze fell on his brother, who crouched now in such a similar fashion that it almost could be him. Except now, there was a body underneath that crouch, and now, the blood wasn’t something to cry over. For a second the two scenes were imposed upon each other in Maarkov’s mind. He grunted to himself.
Turning from the boy, he sank his teeth into the warm, bloody flesh.
Best thing to do is be a man about it.
****
Chapter Eighteen
Reunion
Ishamael was a sprawling city. It sat in the middle of a valley that was just on the Runemian side of the Runemian Mountains, north and west of Soirus-Gamerit. The oldest (and some said the first) city in the entire Sevenlands, it boasted peoples from every tribe. It had been founded by and named after the oldest (and some said the first, though there were arguments among historians on the matter) ruler of the seven tribes, Ishamael.
Ishamael flowed out from the banks of a wide, flowing river that was named for the city. The city itself had no walls, so it had simply spilled out along the countryside over the years, growing and growing as if it had a mind of its own. The residents of Ishamael and the leadership of the Sevenlands had never been afraid of being attacked in their capital city. Even during the turbulent years of the Second Great War when the Dannon armies had ravaged the Sevenlands, Ishamael had remained unspoiled. In fact, it had been given a very w
ide berth. One thing kept aggressors from Ishamael’s doorstep, and that was the presence of the Conclave of Wizards.
The Conclave itself was a very large compound. There was, of course, the Conclave Proper, which was the main tower where wizards lived and worked, and where the majority of classes were held for those in their First Four and for those who had progressed into their actual magical training. There were also two large greenhouses, called “Plantings One” and “Plantings Two” affectionately by students, a dining hall and a weapons yard where students were instructed in the basic use of chosen weapons. The yard was called “The Bruising Stretch” by students, this term more often used in a not-so-affectionate tone of voice.
Dormael strolled idly past all of this, taking in the sights mechanically and trying his best to keep his breathing steady, as the hand-shaped bruise on his chest throbbed in time with his steps. His body felt as if it had been dragged behind a mad horse, every step sending annoying jolts of pain up his legs and into the purple welt, which in turn caused him to suck in a pained hiss, which then resulted in a cough more often than not – a result of the toll his magic had taken on his body during his duel with Jureus. He’d heal, he knew. He just wished that the damned process would hurry along a bit.
He’d awoken this morning irritable and restless, in pain and unable to be near the continued arguing that was quickly reaching a boil inside the Conclave. It seemed that regardless of the secrecy that was usually maintained during any of the Mekai’s meetings with his Deacons or Warlocks, word had gotten out of the death camps that the Galanians were setting up in the heart of their empire – and tempers were flaring over the Mekai’s continued silence on the matter.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 57
