The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  I did all that? Audsley tried to recall the verses. He'd long been a lover of Aletheian poetry, but had only ever read it in the enigmatic and self-referential style of its pictograms. Understanding bloomed. So, the beauty in the verses lies not so much in the verses themselves, but in how they refer to older, more revered poems?

  In part. The beauty lies in how one combines these references with one's current situation. Mastery is then shown when one is able to respond swiftly, elegantly, playing off the previous poem while introducing new elements of your own.

  "I did all that," said Audsley in wonder, as he resumed his slow walk down the causeway. "But – look at me. Despite this fine outer robe, I have the appearance of an insincere mendicant."

  Iarenna apes her betters, and seeks to divine the true quality of your soul. Should it shine with sufficient élan, she will see only its beauty and not that of your gross corpus.

  "Careful, now," said Audsley, patting his sides defensively. "Well. It would seem I am a man about town! And if I were to return? Would she expect more romantic repartee about moons and nine-fold mists and the like?"

  Yes, but first you must send her a written poem on exactly the right style of paper, revealing the depth of your refinement through your calligraphy. The demon paused, clearly timing his next words carefully. But it is not Iarenna you should be seducing. It is a lady of sufficient rank who can gain you admittance to the Minister of the Moon.

  "Yes, of course." Audsley fought not to feel disappointed. Iarenna was so lovely. Could he really...? No. But, then again, that was just what the demon had demonstrated, hadn't he? But what of calligraphy? Dancing? Musical instruments? I can't suddenly become a master at them merely because you tell me to.

  There, my help will have to be more direct. Should you allow me, I will ensure that you write with the hand of an Adept, that you play and dance with such grace that those who observe your performances will weep.

  "Ah, so there it is." Audsley narrowed his eyes and examined the demon's suddenly bland expression. "The catch."

  Not at all. You can limit what part of you I can access, and take control the moment you desire. I would only ride you partially. I would not seek full investment.

  "Hmm." Audsley walked on. Aletheia arose before him, the entrance to the Seventh Circum looming, its white stone and complex face rising toward the hidden spire. "Is it worth it, I wonder? To do all this to gain access to this Minister? What could I seek to learn?"

  The Ascendant's Grace cheated death by drinking an illicit potion, did he not?

  Audsley gave a little jump. "How do you know that?"

  I have been browsing your memories. Nothing invasive. Mere curiosity, that is all. I wished to learn more about my master.

  "Well, don't. Don't do that. Ever." Audsley frowned and imagined a glowing golden wall rising up between the recess where the demons dwelt and his memories. "But, what of it? Wait." He tapped his lips. "The Minister of the Moon deals with magic. Sin Casting. The Ascendant's Grace was tempted to drink a potion that restored his health, cheating him of his final Ascension. Perhaps the Minister is behind this corruption?"

  Speak such words only in your mind, fool. Do you wish to be overheard?

  Ah, um. Of course. My apologies.

  But, yes. That is a very real possibility. Think of the value of such a discovery. If Aletheia's leaders are being corrupted, then what peril does that portend for the Empire? Can you truly resist investigating further?

  No, I suppose I can't.

  Audsley had reached the mouth of the tunnel that led into the great Circum. The flow of people and carriages was steady, but Audsley saw none of them. He turned and rested his elbows on the stone railing as he gazed out over the clouds and lower extensions of the Eighth and Ninth levels below.

  Could he do it? Seduce a powerful Aletheian noblewoman, infiltrate the highest levels of Aletheian society, reveal a hideous corruption, and save the entire Empire? He felt a little thrill as he pondered the idea. Imagine his return to Nous! Not only would he have rediscovered Starkadr, but he would have done a deed worthy of the attention of every bard from Zoe to Aletheia itself! Audsley the Magnificent! No, too pompous. Audsley the... Courageous? Better.

  Audsley, Savior of the Empire. Yes.

  Then he frowned. What of Iskra and her rebellion? First he had to report back to her, alert her as to the success of his mission, and then ask her permission to pursue his investigation. Surely she would understand? Demonic corruption would have to be rooted out, regardless of who ruled in Aletheia. Didn't it?

  Very well. I accept your offer. But, first, I must return to Lady Iskra to report.

  As you wish. I am your servant and nothing more.

  Audsley snorted and stepped into the tunnel. He would have to turn Sunwards. Would he recognize the entrance to the abandoned hall? He'd make a quick visit to Mythgraefen Hold, perhaps to collect some funds so as to purchase new clothing, and then with Iskra's blessings come back to Aletheia.

  Audsley gazed about at the wondrous crowd, the sumptuous clothing, the haughty expressions and averted eyes. Oh, yes. He would return, and after he did, Aletheia would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The light of dawn set the upper reaches of the Five Peaks to glittering as Tharok strode up a narrow goat path above the Shattered Temple, the stones crunching beneath his boots, the scent of the smoke from the dying bonfires growing thin and attenuated. He rounded a shoulder of rock, found a suitable boulder away from anyone's view, and sat. Then he reached up, his hands beginning to shake, and with a growl of effort managed to pull the circlet from his brow.

  The world spun and contracted, his mind flattened, his thoughts grew simple. He reached out to steady himself, a bout of vertigo coursing through him, and then dry-retched. Breath rasping in his throat, he held up the band and turned it before him in both hands, examining its deceptively simple and common form.

  He felt as if he'd taken a hammer blow to each temple. His very skull seemed to throb. For a long while he simply panted, great shoulders rising and falling, then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazed down the sharp slope to the great camp below.

  A bewildering number of huts had arisen around the temple in a variety of colors and styles, clumped together by tribe and each centered around a central fire. Never had he seen so many highland kragh gathered in one place. Already he had an army at his command. Five hundred Crokuk, perhaps a thousand five hundred more highland kragh.

  Tharok groaned and dug his thumbs into his eyes. His stone trolls were slumbering below, crouched in shadows and gulches, hunched over and inanimate. He'd spent the whole night controlling them, keeping them near him as a visible manifestation of his power. All the while, he had dealt with the warlords, expounded on his vision, heard their complaints and laid down judgements, and woven their allegiance so that by dawn there was no longer a chance of insurrection or the cowardly melting away of a tribe into the mountains.

  But, by the Sky Father, how the night had drained him. Through all of it, he had watched Kyrra out of the corner of his eye as she held her own court up on the stone stage, forcing each shaman to be dragged forth and brought before her.

  That had been the most difficult element to contain, to control, to sell to the other warlords. The kragh had watched, horrified and fascinated, as one shaman after another was given the choice of servitude. Some had accepted, mostly the younger ones, and had been given the Kiss. The others had refused. From where Tharok was sitting, he could see the great cart wheels laid across huge trunks of wood, the shattered forms of the slowly dying shamans spread-eagled across the spokes, their heads lolling as they gibbered to the spirits and waited to die.

  Tharok shivered. Unnatural. Blasphemous. Yet, his own doing. He stared down at the circlet. It had told him how to awaken her, but he hadn't guessed at the consequences. Had the circlet known, and hidden that truth from him? And, if so, what else might it be hiding? How much of a paw
n was he? He considered hurling the circlet away from him, but knew that it was too late. He could return below as merely Tharok, but that would in no way help him with Kyrra.

  No. He needed the circlet. Now, more than ever.

  He heard the crunch of approaching footsteps. A solitary figure. Tharok sat up straighter and stretched, feeling the large muscles of his back coil like serpents beneath his leather vest. He was beyond exhaustion. He should put the circlet back on and prepare to deal with whichever opportunist warlord had followed him. But he was loath to bear that burden so soon, and instead simply turned to the shoulder of rock, composing his expression.

  Maur walked into view, wearing a white wolf pelt around her shoulders. Her expression was grave, her eyes wide with lingering shock. Muscled, powerful, she was a vision that warmed his heart even as her expression made him wish to recoil.

  "Tharok." She stopped a good five paces from him. "Or may I not call you that any longer?"

  "Tharok is fine." His voice was a low rumble. Why did he feel so defensive?

  They stared at each other until, finally, Maur lowered her gaze to the circlet in his hands. "Good. I had hoped to speak with the real you." Then her gaze traveled over his body, and he knew that she was taking in his blackened skin and the faint red smoldering glow that marked the ridges of his frame. "What has happened to you? What have you done?"

  There was a sudden anguish in her voice that made Tharok rise instinctively to his feet. He didn't know where to begin, how far back to trace the events that had led him to this moment with a seeming inevitability. I had no choice, he wanted to say, but he forced that down. That was a lie. He had to take responsibility for his actions.

  Maur shook her head. "Golden Crow insists on being called Death's Raven. He frightens me. And the other shamans – oh, Tharok, how could you have done this to us?"

  "Death's Raven." Tharok tasted the name and found it foul. He sat back down and stared broodingly at the circlet. "I told you from the start. I told you I would shatter the old ways. That I would lead us all into war."

  "Yes, but never did I dream it would be like this!" She took a quick step forward, then checked herself. "Do you know what is happening in the Shattered Temple, even as we speak? Something that's not happened since time out of mind! Kragh are gathering before that monster you unleashed! They are kneeling before her, learning sacraments from this Death's Raven!"

  Tharok whipped his head up. "They worship her?"

  "They are starting to. Not many. Perhaps two dozen, but where will this go?" Maur's eyes blazed. "Is this your vision of the future? Exchanging freedom from the humans for subservience to this fiend? Do you know, have you seen what they have done to our shamans? Oh, Tharok, they aren't dying. Not one of them. The spirits are so horrified that they refuse to let their souls depart their flesh. They turn on those wheels and cry out for mercy, and it doesn't come. It doesn't come!"

  Tharok rose to his feet with a wounded cry of rage, impotence, fear, disgust. This time he did throw the circlet, an overarm hurl into the rocks behind him, where it clanged and bounced back out into the air to thud onto the gravel to his left. "What would you have had me do, Maur?" He turned on her, shoulders hunched, head lowered. "Die? Nakrok was going to kill us! You, me, Nok, all of us! I had to put it on! I had to save us!"

  Maur stepped right up to him and gazed up into his face without fear. "Then, why did you flee? Why did you run once the tide of the fight was in our favor?"

  The memory hit him like a slap: that moment when he had exulted in his power, had turned the Crokuk against each other, that gloating sense of power that had made him wish to warp Maur's mind to his will, force her to crawl toward him through the thick of battle, drenched in blood, so that he could mount her, take her, make her his...

  Tharok turned away. Shame burned in his face. "I was about to lose control. I had to leave."

  He could feel Maur's eyes boring into his back. "And so you left and awoke a medusa."

  "I was dying. The circlet –" Made me do it. "The circlet showed me a way to survive. I took it." He stared at the dull band. "You don't understand. When I wear it, everything becomes simple. All I see are ways to further my goals. To achieve what I desire."

  "And do you? Desire this?" She moved up close behind him. "Is this what you really desire, Tharok?"

  The camp below was awakening, but Tharok could hear nothing of the normal morning songs, the laughter or the bellows. A strange and eerie silence lay over the huts.

  No, he wanted to say. Frustration boiled up within him. "I can't undo what's been done. I still believe in defeating the humans and freeing our kind." He paused, searching for the right words to phrase the yearning he felt in a way that she would understand. He turned to regard her. "I want us independent. Strong. United." He looked past Maur at the vast camp below. "But not like this. No."

  "Then, you have to do something about her," said Maur. "You have to stop this before it goes any further. You might not know the old legends, being male, but, Tharok, the medusas were worshipped as goddesses for a reason. What madness makes you think you can control a creature out of our worst legends?"

  Tharok nodded slowly. How could he control her? Send his stone trolls against her? Would they raise their weapons to strike her down at his command? There was a bond between Kyrra and the trolls that he didn't understand. They were connected in some mystical way, united through their affinity for stone. If he sent them to attack her, and they refused? If they turned against him?

  Tharok rubbed at his jaw. He glanced again at the circlet, wishing for its clarity. But no; he didn't trust it with this. "I can't attack her openly. I don't trust my trolls to remain true to me. I must... I need to speak with her. Learn what she has planned, what she has been hiding from me. And then find a way to cut her out and destroy her." He shivered at his own words. Oppose a medusa? She was power incarnate. Deadly beyond measure. What have I done?

  Something had changed in Maur's expression. She was no longer regarding him as an appalling stranger. "Nok and Shaya are below, as are Barok, Rabo, and the others. The Red River is still your tribe, though that may change soon. Will you come down to them?"

  Tharok nodded. "Yes. I had planned to." And he had. He had thought of them as a tool, the means of legitimizing his claim to the title of warlord, the stepping stone to becoming the next Uniter. He had planned to continue using them as coldly and callously as before. Another pang of shame ran through him.

  "What did she do to you?" Maur's voice grew soft. She reached out, her own skin a beautiful dark green that contrasted sharply with his own matte black. "Does it... does it hurt?"

  Tharok held up his hand, turned it around as if examining it for the first time, then closed it into a fist. "No. It strengthens me. Makes my hide tougher. Gives me some measure of resistance to Kyrra's... charms." He sighed and dropped his hand. "And fire no longer burns me. At least, it hasn't yet."

  "Fire..." Maur trailed off in wonder. "What she is doing to the shamans – converting them. You need to stop that, as quickly as you can. Golden Crow – I mean, Death's Raven – he scares me, Tharok. I can't stand to be near him. There are five others like him now. If that number grows, it may be too late for us to cast Kyrra from our ranks."

  Tharok nodded. "I will deal with them. I will deal with them all." At last, his self-disgust coalesced into determination. "I unleashed them upon the kragh. I will put them back."

  Maur nodded and stepped away. "I am meeting with the leaders of the other tribes' Wise Women. We are gathering in secret to see what can be done. The warlords are inflamed, however, with your speeches from last night. You have riled them up, put fire in their bellies. I don't know how well they will listen to us if we put forth an edict, especially without the shamans to back us up."

  Tharok nodded. "Be careful. Don't betray your intentions yet. Wait for me to gather more information. We will talk again, and then we will decide how to act."

  Maur nodded. She turned to go, and
then stopped at the edge and looked back at him. "I – I'm glad you are... I had feared –" She cut herself off and looked down. Emotion caused her shoulders to shake for a moment, and then she took control of herself and raised her head briskly, eyes wide, as if defying him to notice how overwhelmed she was. "It is good to be able to speak with you like this, Tharok. You have given me a little hope that we might yet get out of this nightmare."

  Tharok felt a cold, cruel hand close into a fist within his chest. The pain in her eyes cut him to the quick. "I am still Tharok, Maur. Beneath it all, it's still me."

  Maur gave him a sharp nod, then strode away.

  Tharok placed his hands on his hips and hung his head. Exhaustion beat at him like hammers at a sheet of iron. He wanted nothing more than to lie down in the weak dawn light and sleep, an arm thrown over his eyes as he sank into oblivion.

  Instead, he stepped over to the circlet and picked it up. No mark had been made on its iron surface from its impact with the rocks. I am still Tharok. But was he? And was Tharok enough? Standing there, worn out and alone, he realized that he had no idea how to pry Kyrra out from amongst the kragh. He needed the circlet. He needed its brilliance, the incisive thinking it imparted to him.

  "You are mine," he growled at the dull metal. "You serve me. My wishes. You will help me accomplish them, and nothing else."

  A low wind moaned down the mountains, seemingly in response, desolate and mocking.

  A question occurred to Tharok, spearing right through him. Had Ogri once addressed this very circlet in the same manner? Had he wrestled with its ambitions, its goals? Who had united the tribes and led them to war, Ogri or this circlet?

  Tharok raised it above his head and hesitated. Closed his eyes. I must control Kyrra. I must control Kyrra. I must stop her before it's too late. Saying those words over and over again, he lowered the circlet onto his brow.