Death Mark

by Robert J. Schwalb

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” he said. He extended and flattened his left hand, palm up, the wooden sphere unmoving. He pointed his index finger at the object, his eyes and concentration fixed upon it. He didn’t need much power for such a minor spell, a mere fraction of what was required to hurl the magic he had used in service to the late sorcerer-king. Magic, however, was a ravenous ally, and it refused to obey any command without a sacrifice.

  Korvak opened his mind. His awareness expanded to find the life he needed to manipulate the sphere. One by one, faint lights ignited in his thoughts, the squirming worm eating through the parchment scrolls, the rapid, staccato beat of a tiny rodent skittering across the floor, and the more immediate life-force shining from the caged lizard. Without thinking, Korvak snuffed out the tiny lights. He burned away the worms, and the sphere began to rise. A faint squeak sounded from behind a shelf as the rodent’s heart stopped to let the sphere rise higher and circle Korvak’s head. Finally, the z’tal sagged in its cage and made pathetic mewling sounds, the spell draining away its life. Faster and faster the sphere spun, bouncing as it made its circumlocutions around Korvak’s head.

  Even such a minor spell awakened dark hunger. Korvak wanted to draw more and more, to channel even greater power. He knew he could blow the doors off their hinges if he wanted. Anyone who tried to stop him would die. Tyr would be his. He would cut down the pretender Tithian, burning him to ashes before he could even raise a hand in protest. Then he, Korvak, would be king forever after, greater even than Kalak himself.

  The magic coursing through him almost blinded him to the z’tal’s suffering—almost but not quite. The sphere fell from the air, bounced onto the floor, and rolled away under a rack filled with scrolls. A bitter, acrid stench filled the air, and a black shadow covered the floor in all directions, extending out just a few feet. Korvak knew the shadow was magic’s price. He had killed the world around him, and forever after the area would remain dead, unable to sustain or support life. Nothing would grow there, even after Tyr was in ruins, and not a trace of the city remained. There would be a circle of death there until the end of days.

  The twisted fantasies faded with the magic. He sighed and returned to the desk. The z’tal still lived but had curled itself up in a tight ball.

  “So you see, little friend, they fear me,” he whispered to the creature. “They have lost the magic and may never get it back. Why? The sorcerer-king, of course. King Kalak gave us our power in exchange for our loyalty, our obedience, our service. We drew our power from him, and so long as he lived and so long as we served, the magic would be ours. But he is dead, and the templars have lost everything but their titles. Well, all the templars but me and perhaps a few others who have managed to keep their abilities secret.

  “Until they determine how I have retained what they have lost, I will live, tucked away in this vile room until they can take me apart, piece by piece, and steal my magic for themselves.

  “They are so desperate now. And who can blame them? Not even a year ago, everyone in Tyr feared the templars and for good reason. We were Kalak’s eyes and ears, his chosen representatives. Our word was law. And now? We are nothing more than harmless bureaucrats. Correction. They are harmless and they hide behind King Kalak’s memory. Someone will grow wise to their impotence, and when they do, old enemies will come out from the woodwork and exact a well-deserved vengeance.”

  Korvak inspected the z’tal. Its breathing was less ragged; its tail twitched. It even gave him a halfhearted hiss. It would live. Korvak’s concern stemmed not from any sympathy for the lizard; he needed it. He doubted the few servants still loyal to him and free to act on his behalf could smuggle in a replacement without the guards growing wise to what Korvak was doing—practicing. Korvak had to find out just how much power he still had, and the occasional rodent was insufficient for working spells of any consequence. The z’tal was somewhat hardier.

  With the z’tal struggling back to its feet, Korvak left the table to continue prowling the room. His black templar’s cassock swished with each step. He picked at the silvery tassel hanging from his cord belt. He blamed himself for his situation.

  He had chosen the losing side, and his enemies could, by rights, do what they wanted. A fool would have seen what was happening in Kalak’s last days. The sorcerer-king’s obsession with the Ziggurat had bankrupted the city, cost the nobles their slaves, and shut down the mines.

  Korvak followed orders. He was an obedient henchman. Yet he had seen an opportunity for himself. He expected the uprising. He even hungered for it. Discontent might have shaken Kalak loose from his madness or driven him over the brink, shifting more power and responsibility onto his templars. The Ziggurat would have been abandoned, the slaves back in the mines and fields. But who could have guessed a mere gladiator could slay a thousand-year-old sorcerer-king with a flung spear. Never.

  Korvak rubbed his hands on his face and examined the scroll he had been reading. It catalogued grain stores from two centuries past. He had no idea what he was to do with it, so he dropped it to the floor. He needed to get out, get away from his room. He needed to think, to find some way to make peace with the new king.

  A faint scratching at the door drew him from his thoughts. Puzzled and doubting what he had heard, he moved through the racks to the wooden door set in the far wall. The noise came again. The templars would have just opened the door, and an assassin wouldn’t bother knocking. Korvak crossed the room and pulled the door open to reveal an enormous, upright insect, something like a humanoid praying mantis. A thri-kreen. The creature waved its one remaining antenna.

  “Zick-Ticks,” said Korvak, mangling the thri-kreen’s language. He lacked the mandibles to say their names let alone hold a conversation in their complex tongue.

  Korvak admitted his bias toward humanity, having found little to like in the lesser races. Elves were too shifty, dwarves too focused, halflings too violent. He did not recognize thri-kreen as people. They were giant vermin who pretended to have personalities. Korvak was convinced they aped human personalities so they could get close enough to eat their victims. Xixtix, however, had proved loyal and had endured terrible hardships on his behalf, including beatings, torture, and worse, to keep Korvak’s movements secret. Korvak could see the signs of the creature’s suffering in the missing forelimbs and its cracked and pitted exoskeleton. Xixtix peered at him through faceted eyes, his one antenna twitching with apprehension.

  Korvak fought back his revulsion, reminding himself though Xixtix was a wretched creature, it, or maybe he, was ever loyal. Korvak left him at the door and waved for him to follow.

  “Master,” it spit, “I bring news.” It mangled the Common tongue as Korvak did its own language.

  At the desk, Korvak added, “Close the door after you.”

  Xixtix scuttled inside. The door clicked shut.

  “Were you followed?” asked Korvak.

  “No, master. Never. No one notices Xixtix.”

  He was right. It was part of the reason he was so useful.

  “Good. The news?”

  The thri-kreen looked around the chamber as if it had never been there before and said, “Master, the scouts returned. They meet with King Tithian as we speak.”

  “Kalak’s bones! I should be there,” said Korvak.

  “That, master, is why Xixtix has come.”

  “When did the meeting begin?” asked Korvak.

  “Moments ago,” he said.

  “Where?” he asked, though he knew the answer and was walking toward the door.

  Xixtix scampered after him, “The Adviser’s Chamber.”

  The higher Korvak climbed, the more sand clogged the steps and the louder became the wind’s screaming. The way to the Golden Tower in which he would find the Adviser’s Chamber was via a narrow bridge extending from the observation spire, across the gap, to the larger, palatial building where the new king lived. Korvak climbed the steps, using the rail to pull himself higher. Xixtix struggled to fo
llow him.

  At the top, reached by passing through an opening in the rooftop, Korvak found himself battered and whipped by the wind and grit, yet he ignored the difficulty as he took in the city and the surrounding landscape, the fields and orchards ringing the city and the desert beyond. To the north and west, he saw the Ringing Mountains clawing at the sky, their jagged peaks almost lost in the haze swirling around their heights.

  Korvak shielded his eyes against the blowing grit and winced as it clawed at his face and arms. He looked for the bridge to the Golden Tower. It was a gleaming, almost glowing spire. It had been the residence for the last sorcerer-king and his personal guard for ages. The new king wasted little time claiming Kalak’s chambers and, perhaps, the secrets they contained.

  Both towers, the Golden and the observation, rose from the bureaucratic district of Tyr, a quarter known as the Golden City. There the king ruled over Tyr’s people. There the templars lived, worked, and schemed. The Golden City, with its broad streets and expansive gardens, its delicate statues and enthralling beauty, stood in stark contrast to the ramshackle expanse that was the rest of Tyr.

  Korvak looked out over the Old City, where the rabble lived, and spotted the great arena and the multitiered Ziggurat rising above it all. Ringing those central structures was a tangle of streets and adobe structures set atop one another like a child’s blocks. Craning his neck, Korvak could see the far gate, leading out from the city and the Merchant District where the merchants plotted their own skullduggery.

  Xixtix scrambled up the last step but stayed low to keep his footing on the exposed rooftop. Together, they walked toward the bridge. Every templar knew the winds around the bridge were not natural. Elementals bound to the ancient stones protected the causeway from intrusion by anyone not wearing a templar’s cassock or not accompanied by such.

  Korvak felt a malevolence rising from the span, a presence wanting nothing more than to dash them both on the stones hundreds of feet below. Each step they took toward the bridge caused the winds to build into a shrieking and moaning storm, yet the moment he stepped on the span, all became still. Korvak could sense them still. Their hatred and outrage were so intense, he could feel them. Although he was safe from their attacks, the few moments across the bridge proved harrowing. It wasn’t until Korvak passed through the darkened archway on the opposite side that he felt his heartbeat begin to slow.

  The bridge took them to an antechamber. Two onyx staircases swept up through the ceiling to what Korvak knew was the library. Ornamental statuary in gold and silver, all wrought to resemble fabulous creatures whose names and habits were long forgotten, stood around the chamber. Across the room, tall iron-bound doors led into the room once called the royal receiving room. Two hulking guards, half-giants, stood on either side of the door. They lowered their spears across the doors to bar the way.

  Xixtix cringed and made pitiful clicking noises. Korvak ignored him and approached the guards until he stood a few paces away. He leveled his gaze at the one on his left. The half-giant wore an expression of dim menace, exaggerated features making it seem stupid and brutish. The guards were exceptional. They were tall, each ten feet if they stood upright, and muscled to the point of being grotesque. Korvak had no doubt they could crush the life from him with little effort at all.

  “Let me pass,” said Korvak.

  The guard on Korvak’s left raised his spear. He seemed taken aback by Korvak’s command. The other was not as moved and instead pointed his spear’s iron tip so it rested on Korvak’s chest.

  “I know you,” sneered the guard.

  “Then you know to step aside,” said Korvak. Menace lurked in the spaces between his words.

  “Astini said you can’t enter,” said the guard.

  Korvak cursed under his breath. Astini. His master would keep him away. Being seen by Tithian would be dangerous for Korvak. But he had to get inside. He had to know. No one in the city knew more about Urik than he did. It was his chance at redemption, the chance to get out from under the pompous high templar’s thumb.

  Before he could answer, angry shouts sounded through the door. The guards half turned. Korvak took his chance. He whispered a quick incantation, reaching for Xixtix’s life energy to power the spell. The thri-kreen moaned and crumpled. The magic gripped the guards so that when they turned toward him, they did so slowly that Korvak could have danced around them. The guard on the left fell to the floor, even as the other raised his spear as if to attack. Before he could shove the weapon forward, his eyes rolled in his head and he joined his partner on the floor.

  Korvak frowned. There would be repercussions for using magic against Tithian’s guards. It was a risk, however, he was willing to take. The council meeting beyond was too important to miss. He opened the door, using the commotion within to cover his entrance, and left Xixtix writhing on the floor in the hall. Korvak knew the guards would cause trouble for the thri-kreen. The regrettable situation was not enough to stop Korvak from entering the royal receiving room.

  The late King Kalak did not use the royal receiving room often in his last years. His interests lay in his own secret plans and the Ziggurat, and he seemed content to leave the business of dealing with the nobility to his templars. So long as the slaves kept pace with the impractical schedule he set for completing the monstrous structure in the Old City’s center, he didn’t care what else happened. Kalak’s disinterest in the city’s affairs meant it had been years since Korvak had last set foot in the large chamber, and he was surprised to see it had changed little.

  Rows of fat, fluted columns supported copper-gilded rafters, each equipped with several glowing globes. A cushion-littered dais rose from the floor opposite the heavy doors. King Kalak’s ornate iron throne was gone, replaced by a simple wooden chair.

  Through the templars, nobles, freemen, and gladiators filling the room near to bursting, Korvak could just make out the new king, Tithian. He still wore his templar robes, long and black, fine silk. His auburn hair hung down his back in a single braid. His gaunt features and hawkish nose gave him the predatory look Korvak knew was true to the king’s personality. Anger had created spots in his cheeks, though he kept quiet as a brawny mul Korvak recognized as Rikus spoke. The scarred arena champion had hurled the spear that had impaled the sorcerer-king. The warrior, famed for his arrogance, was boasting about his gladiators and how they would fight to protect Tyr even if the nobles and templars were too craven to fight. The muttering in the chamber rose to shouts until Korvak could no longer hear his words.

  Korvak nudged the door closed behind himself and followed the wall, moving from pillar to pillar. The scouts had already delivered their reports and stood, wavering, in the room’s center. Blood-soaked bandages suggested they paid heavily for the information they brought.

  Tithian raised his hand for silence. After a moment, only a quiet murmur filled the air. In Kalak’s time, silence meant silence. No one would have dared voice even a whisper. Tithian said, “Thank you, Rikus. Your gladiators will form the core of the Crimson Legion, our glorious army. They will prevail under your leadership.”

  The mul made no comment, features unreadable. A beautiful red-haired woman put a restraining hand on Rikus’s muscled arm. Korvak recognized her. She was Sadira, a cunning witch and former slave who had helped overthrow the sorcerer-king. Her friends and reputed magical power were the reason Korvak could imagine a half-elf would be allowed to appear in the king’s presence. Rumor also suggested she was a member of the Veiled Alliance, a terrorist organization operating in Tyr throughout the sorcerer-king’s reign. The Alliance undermined the templars and caused trouble for Kalak, thwarting their plans. Some whispered they had a hand in the sorcerer-king’s assassination.

  A black-robed templar raised a hand to his mouth, whispering to a fat, little man Korvak recognized as his own master, Astini. Korvak stepped closer to listen.

  “A clever though risky move, installing the mul as the commander,” said the man.

  Ast
ini nodded. “Not so risky as one might think. Tithian does sit easy on his throne, and the mul is no friend to him. The king will benefit from sending Rikus against King Hamanu. If Rikus succeeds, Tyr is safe and all will praise Tithian for his wisdom. If Rikus fails, neither he nor his gladiators will be around to trouble us any further.”

  “Rikus cannot succeed against King Hamanu. What does a mere gladiator know of warcraft?” said the fat templar. “Our king would sacrifice the city to rid himself of a rival?”

  Tithian’s voice cut through the noise again. “While I have every confidence in your abilities, from what the scouts report, Urik’s armies are far more numerous than the gladiators you would lead.”

  Rikus interrupted. “Each one of my warriors is worth ten of those Urikite bastards.”

  Tithian glowered. “I am sure you are correct, but I could not, in good conscience, send you without help.” He turned to the assembled host, looking for volunteers.

  A few nobles pledged support, offering troops from their personal garrisons and supplies to sustain the army on the march to face Urik’s legions. Then a high templar, whose name Korvak could not remember, also pledged templars to the city’s defense.

  “My king, you shall have two thousand of my finest warriors,” said a voice over the halfhearted efforts to assemble the Crimson Legion.

  Tithian craned his neck to see who had spoken. Several merchants backed away, revealing a slender man with gray hair and a smirk on his face. He wore a smart, rust-red doublet with a black iron diamond pinned to his collar. Korvak recognized him as Thaxos Vordon, head of House Vordon, a merchant house somewhat diminished in King Kalak’s last days. With the mines closed and slaves bent toward other purposes, House Vordon’s fortunes fell with all the nobles who had themselves lost their slaves. Given iron’s scarcity and Tyr’s role as sole supplier of the ore to the Seven Cities, the entire city-state’s economy collapsed, all to build the great eyesore standing in the city’s center.

  Thaxos Vordon threw in his lot with the rebels, perhaps believing the new king would see the wisdom in keeping iron flowing across the desert. Tithian had still not opened the mines, perhaps because he knew he lacked the slaves to mine them. Or perhaps for some other reason. Korvak did not know for certain. What he did know was House Vordon had struggled to maintain its prominence in the marketplace even though its two main commodities—slaves and iron—remained unavailable in Tyr. House Vordon’s soldiers, who maintained the peace in the city-state since the templars were out of favor, drew attention from the merchant house’s rivals.