The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  It was almost dark when he heard his first wyvern. He was scaling a chimney in the rock face, hands wedged into a deep crack, his body weight pulling him to the side even as he walked his way up, when suddenly the dusk was rent by a raucous cry. Tharok was so startled he almost let go, a primal reaction that his thoughts barely whipped into submission before he would have gone plummeting to his death.

  Gazing out, he searched the slopes and cliffs below and saw the wyvern. It was rising with great wing beats, a young mountain goat clasped in its claws. Tharok watched, mesmerized. It was nothing like a true dragon, lacking forelegs and with the intelligence of a vicious beast, but it was the greatest predator of the peaks. Few in number, powerful beyond comprehension, wyverns were as revered by the kragh as they were feared.

  The wyvern continued to climb, lurching up with each huge sweep of its wings, the mountain goat hanging limply from its claws. Tharok tracked its progress, craning his neck to keep it in view, and saw it disappear overhead as it swooped into the cliff itself.

  Perfect. He had perhaps only a hundred more yards to climb. Repressing a shiver, refusing to let his base kragh thoughts begin to shriek in fear, he set his jaw, tusks jutting out belligerently, and resumed climbing.

  Half an hour later, he pulled himself up and rolled onto a broad ledge. The air was freezing, but he could still smell the wyvern stink, a musky, dry scent of leatherine scales and ordure. He lay completely still, his every instinct telling him to simply roll right back over the ledge even though it would mean his death.

  The ledge was broad and irregular, its surface scarred by years of claw marks as wyverns had landed and then hopped into the caverns that yawned darkly beneath a great overhang. He couldn't see any from where he lay, but he could hear them: the croaks and hisses of numerous adults moving about in the gloom, the high-pitched yawps of their young.

  A wyvern rookery. The circlet could tell him nothing about how many to expect. At best he thought there might be a dozen individuals present, based on the sizes of the cave entrances and the scarcity of prey.

  The croaks and hisses suddenly went silent. They had spotted him.

  Tharok's hide crawled as he saw movement in the deep shadows. The wyverns crawled forward, walking on the elbows of their wings as they wriggled forth, not yet emerging from beneath the overhang, making of the deep evening shadows a writhing mass of necks and burning eyes.

  Any other being in his place would die now. Tharok's throat constricted, and his whole body shook. He wanted in his core to remain frozen, to hope that stillness would lead the wyverns to ignore him, but he knew that was the failing of his own flesh. It was too late now to avert his fate. He had climbed up into the maw of destruction. Simply lying still would avert nothing.

  Carefully, Tharok rose to a crouch, the fatigue and burn of his muscles forgotten. The wyverns' hissing became longer, more venomous, and then the first female emerged into the twilight. It was bigger than the wyvern that had saved him up in the Valley of Death; this was the leader of the rookery, and, even hunched over, it rose almost five yards tall, its shovel head swaying on its thick neck, the deep muscles of its chest and shoulders rippling as it used its wings to crawl free of the overhang and rear up to its full height.

  By the Sky Father, it was glorious. Part of Tharok mused over what it would be like to gaze upon a real dragon if simply viewing a wyvern up close was so mesmerizing. Dull bronze scales cloaked its body, growing broad and scalloped down its neck and belly, becoming small and rimmed with copper along its back, where huge black spines were now flared in aggression.

  The wyvern trumpeted its fury, but no flames emerged from between its jaws. The crest behind its head flared out, and its eyes burned a hideous, famished yellow that spoke of hatred and hunger and untrammeled aggression.

  Other wyverns were emerging from behind their leader. Two, four, six of them in all, with hints of smaller creatures behind them. The leader was poised to attack, fanning her wings as she rose higher and higher, ready for a whipcrack lunge forward of its head that would crunch Tharok into a pulp.

  Tharok inhaled deeply, drew in the storm to the center of his mind, and reached out to the wyvern. It might be the circlet's power to connect and dominate other creatures' minds, but it was his thoughts, his imagination, and his power of will that allowed it to do so.

  Time seemed to slow. He gazed up into the wyvern's burning eyes and sought to pierce them, to flow through them into the predator's being, to understand the very essence of its spirit.

  Then, there was fire, the flickering dance of tongues of flame, ever rising, ever leaping, weaving in a dance without end. Tharok could imagine within it the joy of burning, of consuming, of devouring. Heat, hunger, the furnace in one's core, a molten savage delight in satiating that appetite for flesh that was all-consuming, never-ending, that drove each and every waking thought.

  Tharok closed his eyes. To be clothed in such a suit of sleek muscularity, to inhale till one's chest creaked and to then extend your wings to their fullest reach, encompassing the world, blotting out the sky. To be a cinder in the Sky Father's eye, to defy the sucking force of the ground and soar.

  Tharok pushed deeper. He was still only skimming the surface.

  His body began to clench in anticipation of the blow. He felt fire and fury – and an awareness that they were incomplete, that they were not the final form, that they were clay and awkward, that they were strong but not sublime. A deep, ancestral awareness that there were others out there who were truer expressions of something of which they could only ever be rough approximations. Wyverns, not dragons; beasts, not legends; predators, not gods.

  But, ah! That moment of dead-drop when you fell off a cliff's edge, that dive into the abyss – the speed, the howl of the air, the sudden snap of wings, the lift! The world of wind, of currents, of hot, spiraling masses and deep, cool declivities; the sensation of power as one flew over the ravines and mountain meadows, as one hunted, as one sought prey.

  Yes: Quick thoughts. Sharp, bright jabs of need. Impulses. The cry of desire, the roar of defiance, the chirp of pleasure. They might not be the greatest of creatures, but their lives were glorious nonetheless. To bask in the sun, wings extended, tail curled around an outcrop of rock, belly full of fresh meat, the world extending out before you, thoughts slowing and stilling, hunger abated for but a moment. The leaping flames reduced to a smolder. Clothed in strength, wrapped in might, unparalleled, bowing to no other creature, ruling the world from the highest peaks.

  Tharok felt himself expand. He felt his own body change, felt the supple interplay of scales sliding across each other as he moved, the dexterous undulation of his neck, the clenching might of his claws digging into the rock, the eager ache of his wings for flight. He felt the fire in his gut, the power in his jaw, the sharp, inquisitive, dominating lancings of his thoughts.

  Tharok opened his eyes. The great wyvern was standing before him, wings furled, eyes narrowed, watching him. Its brothers and mates were still, bronze shadows under the overhang. The light of the moon glimmered on the wyverns' multiplicity of scales. Tharok felt removed from his own concerns, anointed by his own accomplishments. Regardless of what befell him hereafter, this moment, this endless second during which he gazed into the wyvern's eye – this was justification for everything he had done up till now. A deep and abiding satisfaction flowed through him like a turgid river, something greater than pride, a swelling of the soul, an elevation of his own self-worth and power.

  He took a step. Then a second. The wyvern watched him, towering above him. Tharok could feel the press of its burning mind against his own, the weight of the others just behind it. Where the trolls were cool, glacier-heart-blue depths of stillness and silence, the wyverns smoldered and burned like spheres of copper and vermillion flame.

  Tharok stopped a short distance from the great wyvern and raised his hand. The monster considered him, then slowly lowered its head till it was level with Tharok's chest, and joy blossome
d in the kragh's heart. It was magnificent. The curved beak that could tear a mountain sheep in half. The minute scales around its eyes, soft and akin to hide. The bony ocular ridge, the growing spikes that ran up its snout, the breadth of its brow, the quiescent crest.

  Tharok laid his hand on the wyvern's head. It was warm, like a sunbaked stone. The scales had a smooth, strangely leathery texture, sharp-edged in places and blunt in others. The wyvern cocked its head slightly to one side as it regarded him, and Tharok felt a deep rumble through his palm, emanating from the depths of the wyvern's chest. Up close, it smelled of cinders, the sharpness of metal shavings, the warmth of something akin to cedar and cinnamon.

  Intoxicating.

  Acting on instinct, Tharok reached up and took hold of one of the two great horns that swept from the back of the wyvern's skull. He moved quickly, before his fear could assert itself, before his own trepidation could weaken his hold on the wyvern's mind. He hoisted himself aloft, swinging a leg over the monster's neck, and settled back on its shoulders.

  The wyvern snorted, shook itself in a reflexive manner that almost dislodged Tharok, and then hopped to the edge of the cliff. Tharok held on with desperate strength, clenching his thighs and leaning forward to wrap his arms around the beast's neck.

  Saddle, he thought in a panic. Reins. Stirrups!

  Then, before Tharok could rue the idea, the wyvern simply tipped forward, flaring out its wings, sending the muscles beneath Tharok rippling, and leaped out into the night.

  Tharok felt his stomach rise up inside his ribs. His braids pulled at his scalp as the wind filled his mouth and made his eyes tear up. Down they plummeted, speeding ever faster past the bone-white cliff-face which Tharok had so laboriously climbed, hurtling toward the black valley floor below.

  Rise! His command was half panicked scream, half jubilant roar. With a subtle flexion of its wings, the wyvern tilted them just so, the membranes filling, and they leveled out, rose in an updraft, and then the wyvern began to beat its wings and they climbed, flying out over the shattered rocks and stunted highland trees.

  Tharok let out a roar of delight, sat back recklessly and gazed above them, where the other wyverns were following. A spate of fireballs erupted in his mind, prickly and demanding, testing him but obeying his will. Tharok gripped one of the spines that ran down the wyvern's neck and closed his eyes, focusing, extending his control, and once again the pale blue of the trolls appeared: distant, dim, almost beyond his reach. The circlet burned on his brow, searing his skin, but he bore the pain and gathered the trolls into his net, turning them toward his purpose.

  The sweet affirmation of his will was sublime. Tharok relaxed, riding the great muscles of the wyvern's shoulders as they bunched and extended with each beat of its wings. The night was not yet over. He had more work to do, more rookeries to visit, more minds to capture.

  But the hardest part was done.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Audsley was sitting on a narrow bench off the Fourth Circum, a paper cone filled with Ennoian chestnuts grilled in Zoeian truffle oil in one hand, a cup of Noussian elanchi juice in the other. It was hard to remain actively focused on the taste of each chestnut, hard not to enter a distracted state where he simply crunched away without noticing the delicacies that were passing through his mouth. It took focus, determination, a single-minded perseverance and dedication to gastronomic pursuits.

  Audsley tipped the cone into his mouth, enjoying tremendously how a chestnut rolled free on a scattering of herbs and salt.

  "Delicious," he said, smacking his lips.

  There. Most interesting. He would appear to be of at least a consular level, yet he wears his sleeves with a hint of disarray, as if he rushed from the bedchamber without time to properly accouter himself.

  "Hmm?" Audsley peered around the square. The demon had declared this location ideal for people watching; the confluence of officials, nobles, merchants and Sigean servants was perfect, apparently, for deducing how fashions had changed since the demon had last caught up with the clothing habits of the elite.

  Yet he carries himself with assurance and poise. Note how those two ladies regard him, each with nine folds in their fans. His state of dishabille is approved of, not denigrated as it would have been in my time.

  "Who, him?" Audsley leaned forward to study the man. He appeared wonderfully dressed in the typical seven layers of a Perfecti, his hair immaculately coifed, his sleeves trailing, his feet clad in simple sandals. "Plum baseline, meaning, ah, don't tell me, that he is – plums are symbols of wit, are they not? When matched thus with the ivory over-layer, he's saying – he's saying..."

  The more I examine the fashion of today, the more I detect the chaos that is engulfing the Empire. A degeneration in taste? A loosening of the forms? Perhaps they play with fire, advertising their disregard for norms and strictures with those pressed ruffles and irregular sleeves.

  Audsley pushed his spectacles up his nose and watched the man in question depart. "He looks quite fashionable and well put together to me."

  That means nothing. You have the understanding of a pickled herring. Note how his third sleeve obscures the fourth, so that we only catch hints of its color. Gold? Copper? Resplendent yellow? Imperial sunflower? Impossible to say. And yet, the technique does cause arousal, a piquancy that is nearly erotic. One longs to view the fabric and color, and the very fact that we can't, when it is presented by such an eminent young man, proves frustratingly alluring...

  Audsley sighed and sipped his elanchi, enjoying its tart, refreshing flavor. "I used to pick elanchi berries myself when I was young. I'd climb out on the southern face with the best of them, little basket tucked under my chin, the gulls flapping around me, seeking a chance to steal my profits..."

  I have seen enough. Rise. Let us see if Lavender Dusk is still in business after all these years.

  "Thank the White Gate and all the Virtues," sighed Audsley, rising to his feet. He drained his elanchi, poured six chestnuts all at once into his mouth, and, feeling a little guilty, allowed the paper containers to fall to the ground. "Om. Ver choo?" It was becoming a source of pleasure to torment this demon.

  Must you speak like a snake choking on its own tail? Follow the Circum sunward.

  Audsley chewed with relish, then swallowed and cleared his throat with a cough. "So. We are prepared? What is this Lavender Dusk? Are you quite sure you've seen enough?"

  Lavender Dusk was the preeminent tailor when I last walked these streets. And, yes, I believe I have seen enough to understand the undercurrents of what is driving fashion and perhaps even the Perfecti themselves.

  "Hmm, good, good." Audsley nodded in agreement, then patted the heavy pouch filled with gold at his side. "And what have you deduced?"

  All is not well in Aletheia. Much can be excused as the excesses of youth or the bold attempts of those with poor taste to stand out from the crowd, but I have seen enough examples of wildness and deliberately clashing styles to be convinced that undercurrents of dissatisfaction, depravity, and possibly even delinquency have begun to stalk these halls.

  "Lovely alliteration," said Audsley, smiling benignly to a plump lady and her two guards, completely at ease at this point with being ignored.

  I know for a fact that you are more intelligent than this, said the demon. Why do you play the fool?

  "One must derive one's satisfaction where one can, don't you think? Just as I am your captive, so too are you mine. I don't want you to get too comfortable."

  The demon subsided with a grumbling snarl, sinking back between his two silent companions. Audsley marched on, swinging his arms, enjoying the fresh breeze as it blew in through the arcade to the left, bringing with it a scent of roses and orange blossoms from the blooms that thronged about the pillars.

  Fifteen minutes later, he stopped before the façade of an ornate and elegantly decorated shop. Lavender Dusk was written in classic Aletheian over a door of Agerastian sun pine. Large casement windows allowed Audsley to p
eer into a world of color. Stepping in close, he saw swaths of fabric like the waves of the ocean, draped from one mannequin's arm to the next, a small gem of a store where everything seemed to scintillate and smolder with exquisite color.

  Audsley coughed once to clear his throat, then smoothed down his old coat, opened the door and stepped inside. It was like entering another world, from the delicate scents of clove and cinnamon to the rich undulations that draped the walls in hues ranging from magenta to emerald to creamy gold.

  A slender man of advanced years was seated at a writing desk, wearing, Audsley noted, only four sheer robes, each of them a subtle variation on pearl and cream. His nose was as angular as a hawk's, and his spectacles glimmered when he turned to stare at Audsley, his expression of sympathetic curiosity hardening to disdain.

  "You have entered the wrong establishment, good sir." The old man waved a hand, as if Audsley were a malodorous scent. "Please, see yourself out before you soil my carpets."

  Quickly now: Pity the fallen blossom, blown cruelly by the capricious southern wind, its petals ragged yet still bedecked with the dawn's sparkling dew.

  Audsley, accustomed to these orders, smiled and delivered the words with gravity.

  The old man stilled and looked over his shoulder at Audsley, eyes narrowed. He was a canny old man, Audsley saw, his gaze sharp, his mouth a pensive slit. "The wind blows as fortune dictates, and only a fool would mourn the fall of each petalled flower."

  Hard-hearted man. Attend: When the falling blossom falls in shadow, might not its scent yet recall the glories of spring despite the bleaching of its hue?

  The old man scoffed but turned now to face Audsley full-on. "Woe the flower that lands in a dank and shaded corner, for its precious scent might be masked by that of a saddened world."

  Audsley didn't know why, but his earlier complacency had been shattered. The way the older man was staring at him had him unnerved. Can't we just offer him gold?