by Scott Taylor
“I am Tohil, a Sturgeon of Taux,” the guardsman introduced himself while holding out a hand.
The stranger looked at Tohil’s dark, tattooed face for several heartbeats before sliding his right hand out from under his cloak and taking the Sturgeon’s in a hearty grip. “I am Matlal, a simple traveler to this city. I thank you for your help, though I fancy I could have finished off these clumsy dogs myself.”
The left hand remained beneath his hanging cloak and Tohil smiled at the stranger’s caution. He had no doubt that there was a knife in that left hand in case of treachery. He laughed as he shook Matlal’s hand. “Not so simple a traveler as you might claim,” he said and waved at the scattering of rogues trying to bind up wounds. “That was as clever a use of magic as I’ve seen. Just a little distraction at the right moment. If every traveler could defend himself as well as you do, there’d be a deal less of these pitiful thieves about.
The man gave a nod of acknowledgement, but did not reply to the praise.
“Come,” Tohil told him. “Fighting’s thirsty work and this is my city. I know just the place to take care of anything you need.”
“What do you know of what I need?” the man asked quietly.
“Me? I’m only a mercenary Sturgeon. I don’t pretend to know anything more than fighting, but come with me to the Emerald Serpent and I will introduce you to a good friend of mine, Quilan. Now he’s an innkeeper with his ear to the ground. He can find a fellow anything his heart might desire: whether it’s a ship to far away lands, an assassin to quiet a feud, or a meal and a cup of good wine.”
“What about a room for the night?”
“He has several, but the cut and fabric of your cloak shows you to be a man of taste and means. For such a simple necessity let me tempt you with the comforts of the Silk Purse. The two establishments stand conveniently back-to-back. At the Purse, the rooms are finer and their drinks somewhat more expensive, but the company there is infinitely more entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” Matlal seemed interested.
“Infinitely more entertaining,” Tohil repeated. “Come, I’ll take you there. The pair of us together are less likely to draw any more of these annoying parasites. He kicked one of the crawling wounded out of his path, and led off down the street.
“This is the famous Black Gate of Taux.” Matlal hesitated before following Tohil through the ancient, stone archway. The man brushed his fingertips across the dark, groaning stone of the structure and recoiled.
“Unsettling, isn’t it?” Tohil observed. “They moan like that throughout the nights. Daylight calms them somewhat.”
“It’s said that the stones wail with the voices of the city’s former inhabitants,” Matlal mused.
“Yes, and they’re even louder at certain times of the year,” the Sturgeon replied. “It’s damned creepy to be in this city on those nights, I can tell you. More than a half a century ago the city was emptied as every soul was sucked into the stones. Only their dark, old gods know why. When we hear the voices whisper, no one knows if the spirits are intoning spells to escape their stony prison-- or casting curses to draw the rest of us in with them. The old ones were a black-hearted race steeped in blood and sorcery. Best to disturb them as little as may be.”
“Better to let the dead rest, eh?” Matlal asked.
“It is that,” Tohil told him with a wave to follow along. “Beyond the Black Gate is the old Ullamalitzli Stadium. Now it’s a city within the city, a haven for every un-hanged rogue on the Free Coast. At this archway we leave the confines of Taux City behind and join into the society of free men.”
“Oh, is that how it works?”
“No law beyond the Black Gate but what you bring with you, my friend.” Tohil hefted his sword. “So keep your weapons close and your purse even closer.”
“Then it is truly a pool of anarchy?”
“No. Say rather this is a businessman’s paradise and the inhabitants like to keep it that way. They stay clear of the law, but they have a deal with the Nightmen Guild to keep organized crime out. For a nominal monthly sum, the Nightmen stay out of the businesses beyond the Black Gate and watch that no one else moves in. All men profit – except the city fathers – and visitors are reasonably safe from harm, even without the presence of the city guards.”
Matlal nodded, “An interesting arrangement.”
They passed through the nearly empty walkways, the ramshackle structures, the closed tents of the infamous Raised Market, and reeking refuse piles in the streets. There were few people about at that hour and all gave them a wide berth as they traveled.
The building that hosted the Silk Purse had been crafted as part of the original city, a permanent structure of several stories. Before the smooth face of its polished, lindenwood doors stood a pair of delightfully-cast brass monkey figures bearing lamps which were burning brightly even at the late hour.
“Now here’s the finest bordello in Taux,” Tohil told him proudly. “In the Silk Purse your most basic needs may be fulfilled or your wildest fantasies will be explored, depending upon how much coinage you have to indulge your pleasures.”
He hammered upon the door and it swung open after a moment. A massive giant of a man armed with a shortsword and a wide assortment of ugly knives stood before them. He smiled as he looked down at Tohil displaying lower canine teeth that were too large for a Human.
“Hammil!” Tohil greeted the Jai-Ruk guardian. “What’s on special this morning?”
The guard laughed and patted the burly Sturgeon on a shoulder very carefully, as though he were afraid he might break him. “Tohil! Always joking.” He waved them inside while displaying a huge, toothy grin.
After they had passed inside, Matlal whispered, “I didn’t know a Jai-Ruk could grow that big.”
“His size makes sure everyone stays friendly,” Tohil told him with a smile. They walked down a hallway and pushed aside a white linen curtain, and Tohil heard Matlal draw breath.
The ancient stone walls were draped with hangings of emerald, saffron, and azure silk that tumbled to rainbow piles of luxurious pillows. Smoldering cressets of polished brass lent a gentle hint of spicy incense to the warm air, and a ring of low tables created a circle where a nimble dancer cavorted to the beat of drum, pipe, and lute.
“Ueuecoyotl be praised,” Matlal murmured as he looked around. “This is an elegant playhouse.”
Tohil laughed and waved the man to one of the many unoccupied tables. He doffed his helmet and the blue cloak of his office. Matlal swept off his own cloak and buckler. Beneath the garment, the man wore a simple skirt-like loincloth of white that draped to his knees in the front and was edged with a banding of woven purple braid. The room’s many lamps revealed his coppery skin and a patterned headband that held his black, shoulder length hair from his face. No shirt covered his well muscled body, but studded leather straps terminating in a wide, gold medallion in the center of his chest secured a brilliant jaguar pelt to drape over his left shoulder. A vague recognition stirred within Tohil when he saw the pattern of the medallion. He knew he’d seen its likeness before, but couldn’t remember where.
The pair sprawled out upon pillows to observe the dancer’s undulating charms at closer range. She was a lithe woman, dressed in little more than a translucent breast band and a plethora of intricate jewelry that shimmered frostily in the lamplight as she moved.
“So, where are you from, Matlal?” Tohil asked.
“Tehuantepec,” the man said while waving a hand vaguely to the North.
“Te- huan- te- pec,” Tohil mouthed the curious word. “Is that a city or a country?”
“It is a place,” the man replied with a shrug.
There were still various tribes living in the mountains beyond the poisonous swamps that bordered Taux. Although immigrants from various far-off nations had re-settled the city, an odd handful of locals occasionally dared to travel to the city. Before Tohil had time to importune Matlal further, soft fingers stole across t
he black tattoos that wound about his dark shoulders and a voice whispered, “Tohil”. He looked up into the striking, green eyes of a buxom, olive-skinned matron gloriously draped in a gown of supple, emerald-colored silk that caressed her generous curves in a way that pleaded for a man’s attention.
“Mama Serene!” The Sturgeon swept her into a possessive embrace with a laugh and a kiss. When they pulled apart, Tohil nodded toward Matlal and told her, “My friend needs a bed for the night and someone amicable to share it with him.”
“Well then you’ve brought him to the right place,” Serene clashed a pair of finger cymbals three times and a group of girls gathered from around the room. They stepped past the tables and paraded into the circle. Surrounding the dancer in the center, they circled slowly, stopping every few steps to turn and then resume their bold procession.
Matlal’s eyes made his choice long before he admitted to it. His gaze passed over the buxom trio of haughty, blonde Thalonian’s with their ice-blue eyes and ivory skin, it lingered upon Lan and Lin, the waifish, giggling twins from the T’ung, and he winked at the dusky, round-hipped beauties of Zimbolay. Yet it was a local mountain girl with her raven black hair chopped at her browned shoulders and crested with a tall spray of pheasant feathers who held his attention.
“I see that Teya has drawn your comrade’s favor,” Serene said as she waved the girl over. “And who shall it be for you good Tohil?”
“What about you, Serene?”
“Don’t be foolish,” she brushed off his suggestion coolly. “You know I never get involved with men of law. What about Zama, Melyne, Varvara-- or perhaps the twins with a flask of spiced wine and a pot of warm oil?”
“Ah, you know me too well,” Tohil laughed. “But it’s late and there isn’t time to do the skill of the twins justice. Is Plums-By-Midnight available?
Serene shook her head, “No, I’m afraid not.”
Tohil nodded, “Then I think I will make do with Ingitrude this evening.”
The Thalonian girl overheard him and her pale eyes flashed with resentment. She approached the Sturgeon as though warming for bitter combat.
“Make do? Haughty swine,” she snapped. “No one ‘makes do’ with Ingitrude! Bold suitors cut each other’s throats for the favors of Ingitrude.”
Tohil looked about at the scattering of patrons in the room and then back at her before saying with a laugh, “No one’s cutting any throats over you tonight my fair dove. But I’ll punch that little wine merchant over there in the corner if it would make you feel more important.”
Even as he sparred with his choice for the evening, the odd reaction of the girl, Teya, caught Tohil’s attention. Having approached the table, the object of Matlal’s interest only stood, kohl-blackened eyes wide, staring at the man. Tohil saw her shaking finger raise as she inhaled and he looked to his new comrade just as the girl loosed a shrill scream of terror.
Every head in the room turned and the frantic woman yelled, “Tezcatilpoca! Tezcatilpoca!”
The room became chaos as a handful of patrons scrabbled for the exits. The hulking guard, Hammil, rushed into the room with sword drawn and cast about to see what was causing the commotion.
“Oh, shush, girl!” Serene ordered then turned to Matlal with an apologetic smile and told him, “I must beg your indulgence, Sir, she’s just a superstitious mountain girl, unsettled at seeing someone wearing a medallion of the old Jaguar god.”
Tezcatilpoca, the Jaguar god of rulers, sorcerers, and warriors. That was where Tohil had seen the emblem on the man’s medallion before! It was boldly displayed upon the blood-stained stones of numerous old temples throughout Taux. Tezcatilpoca, whose insatiable thirst for human blood had been fed throughout the long centuries with the dripping hearts of prisoners, slaves, and even shrieking citizens of the city. Tohil had heard that the murderous cult of the Jaguar god was long extinct.
“She is wise,” Matlal said as he stood, “for I am a priest of Tezcatilpoca.” He reached into his wide wallet, withdrew an intricate bracelet of figured gold, and held it aloft to shine in the bright lamplight. Tohil saw then what old Kine, the trinket merchant, had sold the stranger in the dark alleyway. It was an artifact from the temple of Tezcatilpoca.
Matlal shouted, “The Jaguar god shall rise again!” and then wrapped the ornament about his wrist. At the instant of the shining gold encasing human flesh, the room was filled with palpable horror. The silken hangings about the room were whipped and swept away as though by storm winds, and the ancient stones of the building walls howled to tormented life.
“Xolotl,” Matlan cried, “help my brothers and sisters break free of their prison of stone. Xolotl, great traveler, lead your children home again!”
Before their eyes the wine merchant sitting in the corner of the room seemed suddenly drawn into the stones, almost as though he’d been yanked off his feet. He had barely time to scream before he’d vanished into the wall and a different man was pushed out into the room. The newcomer’s shape was cloudy for a moment, then solidified. He was dressed as Matlal was, in a loin cloth of purple-edged white. His eyes were wide with wonder and he bowed to Matlal. Though his speech was strange, it was clear by his posture and gestures that he was thanking the priest for freeing him.
Tohil had seen mages use mystical artifacts in deeds of black sorcery before. The diabolical items magnified the paltry magical gifts of ordinary people to extraordinary levels of power, but he’d never seen anyone wield such a horribly potent artifact like this.
“Damnit, man,” Tohil stood and cursed Matlal, “You can’t just trade the lives of the living to resurrect those long dead!”
“Itzli, the god of sacrifice, must be paid,” Matlal told him. “A life for a life. I will gladly sacrifice the lives of strangers to bring back the glories of my grandfathers.”
Ingitrude ran wildly for the exit, though for all her unsteady haste, she lurched suddenly toward a wall and vanished into the stone with a wail. A different girl burst from the wall, stumbled and faded in to look about in confusion. She was dressed in a simple, white wrap edged with purple and she also bowed to Matlal.
“Keep away from the walls lest they draw us in!” Mother Serene shouted to those about. At her words, the patrons and employees of the Silk Purse eschewed the raving walls like the trap they were, and moved together into the center of the establishment.
“Saint Siegfried curse your elder gods, you cold-blooded bastard!” Tohil drew his sword and stepped between the group and the priest. “Their toll of passage shall not be paid with my people!”
In answer, Matlal thrust his hand toward Tohil and screamed, “Atlacamani!” and the world whirled about the big Sturgeon. He was flung, spinning like a doll in a hurricane to tumble across the floor.
He heard a frantic shrieking and was able to flop over in time to see Lin, one of the twins, pulled from her sister’s desperate grip and vanish into a wall. No sooner had the girl disappeared than another of the city’s lost inhabitants appeared in her place.
Hammil sprang to attack the priest with a roar but was sent spinning away in a whirlwind just as Tohil had been. The huge Jai-Ruk lay stunned a few feet from the Sturgeon. Still dazed, Tohil could hear the cacophony of the power-drunk Matlal laughing in victory.
Then, above all the rest of the noise, the strong, rich voice of a woman entreated, “Here beloved priest! I’m trapped here! Release me!”
Matlal walked boldly to a wall and waved his hand over it saying, “I divine that your spirit is strong. Who are you?”
“In life I was the Princess Yaretzi, a joy to my people,” a melodic voice replied. “In death my heart has withered to stone.”
“Then I shall give you the joy of life once again,” Matlal promised. “And we shall overcome the curse of our people together and renew the former glory of our city.” He looked around and waved a hand at the prostrate form of Hammil. “To bring back a spirit of your power, we’ll need someone stronger than a usual sacrifice. This stalwart
fellow should suffice.” He waved a hand and Hammil began to be dragged toward a wall by unseen forces, but Tohil had gathered enough strength to throw himself forward and wrap his arms around the unconscious Jai-Ruk’s leg, trying to anchor the guard with his own bodyweight.
He slowed the movement, but found himself dragged toward the wall along with the giant. He hung on dizzily with all his might as the hungry surface of the wall grew closer and closer. At the last moment, he was knocked rolling by another weight striking him from the side. He lost his desperate grasp on Hammil’s leg and the Jai-Ruk slid into the wall as though he had slipped down an icy incline. Tohil looked down and found Serene’s arms wrapped about his waist.
“I thought you never got involved with the law?” Tohil took the time to ask in his surprise.
“This isn’t business,” she told him with flushed cheeks. “He’s insane! Don’t you see, he’s planning on destroying us all to bring back the people of the old Tolimic Empire!”
“But what can we…” Tohil hesitated as the figure of the Princess Yaretzi solidified within the Silk Purse.
A shroud of silence muffled the frightened exclamations of the people trapped in the establishment. Yaretzi’s flowing, sea-green robe rustled before them upon a spectral breeze that touched nothing else in the room. The garment bore a cunningly-wrought emblem of a pale, white skull upon its breast and seemed to be woven of supple snakeskin. She wore no royal ornaments and her head was closely shrouded with a shading hood that hung low where her proud face would’ve been – if she’d had a face. Chalk-white bones poked through every undraped corner of her form and her skeletal hands spread as though in benevolent greeting to all before her.
“Blessings of Saint Shera,” Serene whispered. “She’s a Civatateo!”
All the people were frozen where they stood, though whether by some arcane power of the Civatateo or through the sheer horror of her presence Tohil couldn’t tell. The monster moved with a gliding gate toward the door. Matlal thrust out a hand in a gesture of command, but the undead princess ignored it.
