An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  Tirdad pensively ran his fingers along the scabbard. He picked it up and unsheathed the blade enough to see the magpie-black. Its throbbing hadn’t ceased. He slid it back in, then finished his morning routine by securing it to his left hip. The long sword had come first since his youth; now, it came last. He wasn’t sure why he’d made the change.

  With a deep, steadying breath, he fastidiously smoothed the front of his poppy-red tunic, then about-faced and started for the exit.

  The last thirty days had been devoted to mourning, and rituals before that. Ashtadukht’s passing still weighed heavily on his heart. Unlike her, he would not let it consume him.

  “You spend too long getting dressed,” Chobin chided light-heartedly the moment he stepped outside.

  Tirdad shielded his eyes, squinting through the too-eager glare of a sun recently freed from winter. Chobin sat on his horse, the reins to another in his hand. “A military man should have order in everything,” he said as he approached.

  “Military man, huh? I only see one here.” The marzban scratched his beard. “Oh, and some sorry fuck who’s been sitting on his ass for a month and more.”

  Tirdad allowed himself a chuckle. “Yeah, I imagine that’s why I’m the one who looks the part. I can’t believe you’ve been in that saddle for a month.” He mounted his horse and took the reins from Chobin. “Probably can’t tell your cheeks from a bad case of acne.”

  “Listen here. My cheeks are pristine.”

  “Well, your clothes sure aren’t.”

  Chobin belted a full-stomached guffaw. “Hah! Do not know what you did in there for a month, but I like it!” Once his laughter subsided, he turned an appraising look on Tirdad. “Seem healthier than I remember. Good. Now, for the love of all that is Truth, would you stop with all this mystery and tell me where the fuck we’re going?”

  Tirdad rested a hand on the ram’s head pommel. “Are you sure about this? You should be with your soldiers.”

  “Fucking nonsense,” the marzban replied. “The divs have scattered, and the nomads’ fate is sealed. More importantly, you are a friend. Must we go over this again?"

  “Fine. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “I like it already.”

  “Figures.”

  “So? Out with it.”

  Tirdad turned his horse about and urged it into a trot. He had observed the mourning period wholeheartedly, but it bred restlessness. The road called with promises of distraction and, if fortune favoured him, answers. “We’re to see a rogue star-reckoner. I think he’s our best bet.”

  “There a reason we need a rogue?” asked Chobin, bringing his mount alongside.

  “You know why. They’d have the sword destroyed without a thought.”

  “Mmn,” Chobin agreed.

  “And before you ask,” Tirdad went on, “As far as I can tell I’ve never heard of this man. I just . . . I know. Like a gut feeling with detail.”

  The marzban shrugged. “Did not think to ask. But let me tell you, that does not fucking inspire confidence. Looking forward to it more and more.”

  “Something’s wrong with you.”

  • • • • •

  The pair favoured a westerly course along the Mazandaran Sea, Tirdad savouring its brackish reminder of better times, until they reached the paddy-hugged river delta that, mountains be damned, connected the Mazandaran plain with the rest of Iran. The winding way the water negotiated the range seemed like the tracks left by a leviathan—as if the Great Wall of Varkana had slithered through to reach the sea. The Ivory River carved through the range, and they with it.

  “Still a while yet,” Tirdad mused as they forded it for the fifth time. The dense beech-dominated forests of the sort he’d haunted as a child would soon give way to oak and juniper, and with them the comfort of relatively level terrain would also pass. “Let’s pray the winter was kind to the paths.”

  “You know,” Chobin replied as he swatted at a mosquito, “funniest thing. Almost as if I could have looked into that if you told me where the fuck we were headed a month ago.” He slapped at another, and if the dip in his bonhomie was any indication, he regretted removing his tunic. “Fucking mosquitoes.”

  Tirdad turned in his saddle to look back at his travelling companion, who was riddled with bites. “I keep telling you to take some ambergris.”

  “I have taken so much ambergris somewhere a whale is checking its pockets.” He slapped at the air. “Makes me want a woman with ripe quinces, but does nothing for the fucking mosquitoes.”

  “Then put your tunic back on,” Tirdad said as he turned to hide the grin that had already begun to soften his features. Ambergris increased sexual potency; mosquitoes could love it for all he knew. It occurred to him that he had taken a page out of Waray’s book, and just like that his good mood plummeted.

  “Better the mosquitoes than roasting in a tunic. A healthy bronze makes me look more muscular besides,” the marzban explained, probably flexing.

  “Yeah.”

  “You aren’t even looking.”

  “You never tan.” Tirdad reached down to his bow case where it was suspended from his saddle. He drew his lips taut as he counted the arrows. While it had dampened his mood, the unwelcome memory of his single combat with Waray reminded him of the partridges that nested here. “I’ll go fetch us some heathcocks.”

  Bow in hand, he dismounted and secured his quiver to his belt, then headed into the nearest thicket.

  While he felt Chobin’s eyes on his back, he did not notice the look of defeat with which the man pocketed the ambergris.

  • • • • •

  For a pair such as them the only real peril of the road was monotony. Anything else they could either outrun or outfight. So they would pass the time with nard, a game of strategy that sought—and as Tirdad had recently learned, failed—to emulate the celestial theatre. He was the better of the two, but by a small enough margin that a friendly rivalry thrived. When that grew old, or when they were riding, the two would exchange stories while snacking on ragout, preserves, and so much partridge they grew sick of it. It was a journey that would not grace future stories but for the mention of it not being noteworthy.

  To Tirdad’s unspoken surprise, they reached their destination in the height of summer. What surprised him wasn’t when they reached it, but that they reached it at all. He had been nearby once, decades back, when he had been tasked with bringing a rampaging forty-armed div to heel. But this place was foreign to him. And not the sort to be forgotten.

  “Castle Dahag,” Chobin whispered. “I cannot believe it still stands. The fucker’s tyranny ended millennia ago.”

  “Yeah,” Tirdad replied from where they knelt in the shadow of a ridge. A tower loomed far overhead with contours at the same time graceful and disturbing. Rather than standing vigil atop the gorge, it slumped over the edge as if it were crestfallen over being abandoned. No braziers burned in its crenellations; no sentries manned its walls with torches in hand. Only the light cast by the moon described its features, and it did so with the consistency of yogurt spilling languidly over the sides.

  “A stork,” the marzban said. “Looks like the head of a stork.”

  “Strange,” Tirdad agreed with a nod. “That’s a first.”

  “Why a stork? And why does the light . . . do that?”

  “I haven’t the slightest. But the star-reckoner is in there. Of that much I’m certain.”

  “A gut feeling, huh?” Chobin shook his head amusedly. “Certain about a gut feeling. How do you want to do this?”

  Tirdad got to his feet and dusted off his knees. His gut told him to stroll in casually, and he found it puzzling that his gut would suggest something so obviously reckless. “I wish I knew how to put it into words.”

  “Try.”

  “I’ve a strong feeling of having been here before, but I’m sure I haven’t. It’s like salmon finding the spawning ground for the first time.”

  “Sounds fishy to me.”
>
  “I agree,” said Tirdad. “But it’s also telling me we won’t come to harm . . . I think. Whatever the case may be, I suggest we reconnoiter the area above.”

  With a nod from Chobin they picked a cautious path up the gorge, doing what they could to keep to the deeper shadows. They had no way of knowing that no amount of darkness could have hidden them from the eyes that followed their progress.

  Cresting the last rise brought them to the base of a castle that was, as its leading tower had suggested, fashioned in the shape of a stork—a morbid depiction of a stork that had taken some liberties when it came to exposed organs, but a stork all the same. Like the head, its ramparts were smooth, seamless, and graceful, which played a striking contrast to its grotesque features. It was as if the architect had intentionally devised something of beauty for the sole purpose of corrupting it.

  The pair found it as ostensibly deserted as they had from below. The light that dribbled down the sides disrupted its stillness, but betrayed no activity. Tirdad was beginning to suspect it had been warded against the light. “The door’s ajar,” he said, indicating the gate. “Do you think it’s an invitation?”

  “Could be. Could be an invitation to our deaths.”

  “You were looking forward to this yesterday.”

  “Still am.” Chobin had his jaw set and a wary stare trained on the tenebrous ingress. “Just thought it needed saying for your benefit.”

  “Sure,” said Tirdad, not at all convinced. He drew his sword, and started for the entrance. He and Chobin sidestepped the moonlight that fell in clots from above, and stopped long enough to light a torch. They followed a bare causeway doing what they could to watch for traps, which in truth was very little, until it opened into a cloistered courtyard. All they could make out beyond the reach of torchlight were the patches of quivering yogurt that lived brief lives here and there.

  Tirdad glanced at his companion, who just shrugged. He cleared his throat, and called out. “Hello? My friend and I are looking for the star-reckoner who calls this . . . this place home.” Uncertainty gripped his voice, but try as he might he couldn’t iron it out. “We’d like to talk.”

  “Just a friendly chat,” Chobin stressed.

  Dead silence.

  Giving his sword an anxious squeeze, Tirdad waited and watched, allowing anyone who might be considering their options time to do just that. After a few steadying breaths and no reply, he glanced back at Chobin with a shrug. “Watch my back,” he whispered.

  Rather than waltz into the clearing, he nodded to the covered causeway to his left and forged on. Blade interposed between him and whatever lay in wait, he and Chobin crept around the perimeter. Like a thief skulking the shadows, and none too happy about it, they made it to the halfway point where a corridor branched off. A quick wave of his torch illuminated a line of beds caked with what looked to be dried blood. Among them were discarded bandages, open unguents, and what were probably barrels of wine judging by the empty wine vessels scattered about. He and Chobin exchanged a curious look, then they pressed on around the courtyard.

  As they neared the exit opposite the way they’d entered, their torch revealed a figure directly in their path. Tirdad halted and brandished his long sword.

  “Shouldn’t be here mhm,” the figure said, accompanied by a low hiss. A div. With its semi-keeled scales and sanguine cuirass over mail, Tirdad recognized it as one of the viper-like Eshm sisters who had proven fearsome in the recent war. She reminded him of Waray. This one was badly injured: she had one arm in a sling, her head and abdomen wrapped in stained bandages. “Shouldn’t be here,” she repeated.

  Tirdad’s eyes flicked from shadow to shadow in search of others, but he couldn’t pick out anything unordinary. “We don’t want to fight.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Chobin said from behind.

  “Don’t care. You shouldn’t be here mhm. Go.”

  Something more than her injuries gave Tirdad the impression she had no interest in fighting either. He took measure of the div, and when the likely reason came to him, he lowered his weapon. “The war was months ago. You’ve no doubt been on the run since. Harried all the while, I’d wager.” He waved his blade at her dressing. “And those are fresh wounds.”

  “Go,” the div commanded. She unslung her arm, which looked mangled beyond repair, and flexed it with little more than a wince. Then she drew her sword. Her eyes flashed with a visceral hunger he had come to know and respect in his years with Waray.

  Tirdad swallowed. Fear swelled in his throat, and his breathing quickened. Adrenaline was quick to follow.

  “You tried words,” Chobin spoke up from behind. “Doesn’t seem like the tortoise-fucker will heed them. Now, we came all this way to see this star-reckoner, so kill the div and move on.”

  “Don’t underestimate her,” Tirdad warned. Then to the div, “Do you want to die that badly?”

  The div hissed, and what had been a neutral stance shifted to something decidedly more aggressive. She seethed; she bared her fangs. Tirdad hardly had the time to register the host of divs that seemed to manifest out of thin air just beyond the reach of his torch. Then they were on him in a frenzy. Unlike everyday divs, the Eshm sisters fought with brutal finesse and cooperation, weaving in and around one another’s attacks like a mass of swiving snakes. It was all he could do to fend off their strikes, and for every strike parried three would connect.

  “Not good!” Chobin called out. They were back to back, and the marzban was having marginally more luck both because he had brought a shield and because his lean build belied the strength of a larger man. Every swipe of his shield sent divs flying. But no sooner than they’d hit the ground they were on him again, injuries be damned. “Not fucking good!” he yelled.

  “Gathered as much,” Tirdad said through gritted teeth. He batted aside one blade, then his frustration drove him to counterattack. That rewarded him another five gashes. And he missed.

  “They are—” The marzban interrupted himself with a growl, and three divs were thrown back by his shield. “They’re toying with us.”

  Tirdad had worked out as much. With this many, they could have simply overwhelmed the pair. He’d been given a good twenty light wounds already, most of which could have been death blows. These divs were in a bad way, on their heels for months, and were just now licking their wounds. Issuing threats to such a gathering was beyond stupid. For that, the Eshm sisters were going to pick them apart. “We have to—”

  He had meant to direct Chobin somewhere more tenable, if such a place existed. Instead, he was run through. Pain like a firebrand gripped his abdomen, bringing him to one knee. He cried out, but managed to ready his sword for the next attack. None came.

  The sister responsible was on the ground in front of him, her shin snapped in half and a failed splint beside it. She made no move to clutch her leg; neither did she give any indication it bothered her. She just sat there wearing embarrassment.

  “What the fuck?” The one they’d first encountered marched on the fallen div. “What the fuck was that? We’d only just begun!”

  “S-sorry,” stuttered the one on the ground. She gestured at her shin as if that were explanation enough.

  The leader shook her mangled arm in response. “Like I give a flying fuck about your fucking leg! This is like a fucking . . . a fucking ruined orgasm!”

  Meanwhile, Chobin knelt to examine Tirdad. “Got you good,” he said. “Put some pressure on it.”

  “I’m fine,” said Tirdad. With the marzban’s help he got to his feet and applied pressure to his abdomen. “I’m fine. It caught me off guard after all the nicks is all.”

  The leader began to whale on her subordinate, so they seized the opportunity to edge their way out of the crowd. The other sisters seemed too absorbed in the beating to pay them any mind. As they crept away, Tirdad counted twenty-three divs, each and every one sporting a mean injury. They hadn’t fought like it. “We don’t stand a chance,” he muttered. “We’ve got
to find another way.”

  “Yeah,” said Chobin. When Tirdad raised his eyebrows, the marzban went on. “Adventure is grand. This is suicide.” Then, with a grin, “We need to talk about those gut feelings of yours.”

  They’d almost cleared the courtyard when the leader once again blocked their path, having cut them off without a sound despite her heavy armor. She had her fangs bared. “You’re already dead mhm,” she said, her delivery dripping with venom. Her muscles bunched, her legs flexed, and—

  “Enough!” The shout spilled over everyone present with almost tangible authority.

  —her pounce misfired. “Fuck,” she breathed, catching her stumble before it became a fall by driving her blade into the dirt.

  A brazier went alight in the centre of the courtyard, rousing a chorus of hissed complaints from the divs. Tirdad glanced over his shoulder. A figure in pristine white robes stood by the fire, a cowl over its face and sleeves to its ankles. It seemed to raise its chin and asked, “What did I say when you stumbled in, pitiful and on the brink of death, seeking the aid of a star-reckoner?”

  Tirdad furrowed his brow and turned to face the mysterious figure. His palm came to rest on the pommel of his sword. Whatever it was, it was a star-reckoner, and none too pleased. “I’m not sure I follow,” he said.

  And he was utterly ignored. The star-reckoner continued without so much as acknowledging his response. “That you could only shelter here provided you behaved. What I see here is nothing short of misbehavior.”

  “Fuck,” the nearest Eshm sister hissed under her breath. More loudly, “They’re intruders. We’re earning our keep.”

  “You were intruders until you were not,” the star-reckoner replied. Its tone had softened, though a subtle yet unmistakable warning maintained its bite. What followed would brook no argument. “Cause trouble again and you will wish you were out there.”

  With the Eshm sisters addressed, the star-reckoner finally chose to acknowledge Tirdad. When it strode over, it did so with an otherworldly gait that gave the impression of being too big for its frame—and it stood a few heads taller than Chobin. Upon reaching him, it indicated his wound. “I will heal you,” it said in a surprisingly youthful voice.