“Don’t worry, Thalia…Thalus,” Percival said. “You lost your mind long ago.”
The Parthans burst in laughter. It echoed in the cave even after they had concluded it.
“Rein,” Hephaestion said, looking at the transformed Eirene who stood by himself in a corner, staring at the fire as if it spoke to him.
At the mention of his name, Rein returned Hephaestion’s eye contact.
“How are the urges?” Hephaestion asked.
“Urges?”
“The anger. Have you gotten used to it?”
Rein nodded. He put his hand into one of the many pockets in his belt and kept it there. They all knew that he reached to the Lenion figurine, but none mentioned it. “It will not be a hindrance.” He returned his eyes on the fires.
“We trust your judgment,” Hephaestion said. “Tomorrow we cover our tracks here and head to Scyldur. Prepare for everything.”
Chapter 12: With Infiltration
‘People do not fall completely when they commit atrocious acts against others, be it enemies or allies. They fall when manage to they convince themselves that the commitment of such acts is just, to the extent that they no longer feel guilt afterwards.’ Philosophical Lessons from Utyirth (Volume III: Second).
1
“What are we waiting for?” Ganis asked of her captain. He stood atop a cliff overlooking a clear path to Scyldur, and the disappearing forest invaded by the wild grasslands surrounding the city of Scylds.
“The right time to move.” Hephaestion continued to examine the clouded skies above him, looking for Screo.
“We know that we are prepared. Let us just head to Scyldur.”
“Certain events prove themselves to be of use when properly analyzed.” He paused for a moment, staring at the horizon, away from Ganis. “We should wait for Screo.”
Hephaestion had a tendency to organize his thoughts internally, alienating others from their contribution, before he spoke his mind. It was not a common occurrence, but it increased as the future became more shrouded, a shroud of planelessness.
Monolos’ hawk returned from his aerial journey. Hephaestion turned to face Ganis and was struck for a brief moment with her transformed face. He had not gotten used to it yet. “The hawk returns earlier than I expected. A favorable omen.”
The two made way to their camp, which was being restored by the other crew members of Hephaestion to its original form before they dwelled therein.
“What does the hawk tell you?” Hephaestion asked of Monolos once he was close enough to comfortably speak and be heard.
Crouching by some open cages, Monolos responded. “A battle erupted between the Scylds and the Southern Alliances. The armies started testing one another.”
Ganis recognized the cages as the ones Ninazu had used to keep his animal subjects to test his concoctions. Most of the animals died in his experiments, and some were never used. The ordeal seemed to disturb Monolos, but he understood the necessity of it enough to keep him from acting on Ninazu’s supposed savagery.
“Should we worry about the fighting?” Ganis asked of Hephaestion.
“No.” He looked around to see if all the others were ready, and after making certain that all was in order he whistled, signaling that it was time to move.
Almost immediately the Parthans parted, leaving behind a ghost trail leading to nothing but false assumptions about what had happened in the area during their stay. Even a skilled tracker would have had trouble finding the proper marks of their stay.
“Make haste,” Hephaestion ordered. “We should attempt for Scyldur before nightfall…” Hephaestion proceeded to explain to them how important it was for the Parthans to remain inconspicuous and stir as little ruckus as possible. They all knew that the success of the mission depended on it, especially now that they were about to be so close to Naa’tas, their elusive target.
Ganis knew that there was no real necessity for Hephaestion to brief the others, yet he felt it would be helpful to stress the importance of his instructions due to the influence the transformation pills had on the minds of the four changed Parthans – an influence accentuated by Rein’s exaggerated reaction to the pills.
When he was finished, Thalus said, “Must you always repeat your orders hundreds of times, captain?” Thalus quickly overtook Drain and attempted to mask the inner-race he had devised in his own mind, but Drain noticed and played along silently.
“It is only because the words take time to reach your thick mind,” Percival said. He alone laughed at the joke.
Thalus and Drain pacing amongst each other and eventually found themselves a full twelve feet ahead of the group. They acknowledged the immaturity of their act and stopped for the others to catch up. Thalus, however, made certain that he would be a full step ahead of Drain.
The three kept exchanging remarks which faded away from Ganis’ ears as he noticed Glowleaf following Monolos from a distance. “What is he coming along for?” he asked of Monolos.
“It was his choice.”
Glowleaf’s keen ears picked up the question and he rushed with his canine legs to the two, slowing down into a casual canine walk once he reached them. “We thought it best if we could keep an open channel of communication between you and the Southern Alliance. The Three believe that a Watcher would easily slip by the Scylds with little chance of compromising the mission.”
“And you are willing to risk discovery for that?”
“We are willing to risk our lives for the mission, Ninth.” Glowleaf propped his ears at the sound of a bird producing a mating tune. He immediately dismissed it and fixed his eyes ahead of him.
“You owe us nothing, Glowleaf, as I have told you many times before,” Monolos said. “The mission is our responsibility. Survival is yours.”
“Have you not taught us to make our own decisions as Watchers?”
Monolos nodded his head. He looked above him to check if his hawk was still circling the skies. Only at the sight of his winged companion did he return his focus to Glowleaf.
“And that was a decision we made. You see, Second, we have a debt to pay to you, a debt we intend to honor in full. The Three deem it so, and so shall it be.”
“You taught them well, Monolos,” Ganis said, dropping his hand on Eos, gently caressing the hilt, and smiled at Glowleaf. “Your assistance is appreciated, no matter what Monolos says.”
“Thank you, Ninth. The others were right about how wise you are.”
Ganis chuckled. “I wonder who told them that.”
“Trust me,” Monolos said. “It was none of us.” He held his blank expression.
Ganis laughed and withdrew in contemplation. He had few memories of Monolos joking, perhaps it was a sign, Ganis though, that he started to fit in with the Ona. “Tell me, Monolos, how often is it that the Ona has gone into a similar situation unprepared?”
“Never. We have always been far more informed about what we faced and what we were asked to do. It’s unusual for us to have such a mission, finding an escaped rebel. The Silver Stags are the ones responsible for such matters.”
“But the Silver Stags haven’t been assigned to this task. We have.”
“That isn’t true,” Monolos said. He held out his leather-covered arm for the hawk to descend and rest. It complied immediately and flew down in one graceful dive, violently grabbing at the brown leather as it reached it. The rest was covered in scratch marks, some nearly tearing it apart entirely, but it held for now.
“The Silver Stags were commanded to capture Naa’tas,” Monolos continued, “but they failed on numerous occasions. He even eluded Daphne Laurel herself.” He shook his head. “They are not a fighting force, Ganis, just wardens and trackers, and Naa’tas is a fierce warrior.” He pointed at Ganis with his thumb and said, “You have witnessed how powerful he is.”
Ganis Nodded. “It worries me that we are about to face him in his own dominion,”
Monolos smiled, tapping his hawk’s beak gently in a playful mann
er, eyeing the avian straight into his sharp grey eyes. “With Hephaestion’s guidance and the Ona’s support, we can accomplish anything. I am not worried.”
Then neither am I.
2
Scyldur had not changed since the last time the Parthans visited, except for the painful memories it held. The grey stones stood as they once did, neither shape nor tone of color different, and the same cobbled roads twisted and arched around the city.
The Parthans, supposed new converts, walked with no intention of hiding their presence, just their identities. They wore their red armor with great pride, intending to display it as a measure of their preparedness, and had their red hoods removed, revealing the entirety of their faces.
When the Ona approached the gate, Hephaestion hailed the two Scylds guarding it, saying in his usual commanding tone, “Hail! We seek to join the true path of Rayogin and his teachings. Will you let us into your fold?” It was a phrase he was told by the Midlanders as a code the new converts spoke to the guards at Scyldur to lead them to the next steps of their conversion.
Other visitors were welcomed without restraint, a quality which previously allowed them entry to the city, but Hephaestion doubted that it would be possible to sneak in a substantial force in such manner. It would serve little purpose, he thought, other than increasing their suspicions.
The words sounded odd to Ganis, especially coming from Hephaestion, but he played his role well enough to fool the guards, at least.
“Did you hear that, brother? They seek enlightenment.” One of the two guards started walking away. “Hold the gate until I inform the quartermaster.”
“Wait!” the other guard said. “Make certain to mention my involvement to the quartermaster for my proper share of the reward.”
“How dumb you are, brother. The reward of adding to our ranks can’t be shared.”
“Then we should draw straws to see who gets it.”
“I heard him first.”
“No way.”
The first guard, already halfway through the gates, sighed and returned to his comrade with two drawn sticks which he held in his right hand. The second one picked a straw and found it short, making him the loser.
The guard then disappeared within the gates and shortly returned with his superior, a plump man wearing lavish grey clothes and enough jewelry around his neck and fingers to weigh him down. With all the clunking of metals it would be impossible for this man to walk – or even move - unnoticed.
“I hear you seek to convert to the true religion,” the quartermaster said. His face was red with health and his speech slow, a perfect match for his gait.
“Aye. We seek the true path of Rayogin, the eternal god,” Hephaestion responded.
“Those are troubled times, the heathens’ doing.” The quartermaster stared suspiciously at Hephaestion. “Tell me, how have you come to see the truth?”
The question surprised the Parthan, confusing him for a moment, but he was quick to recuperate. “I have seen the south take arms against their northern brothers for an unjust cause instead of joining them.”
“Why have you not come to us earlier? You could have warned us of this situation.”
“At the risk of our lives, yes we could have.”
The quartermaster stood still for a moment, scanning the visitors. “You don’t look like folk who would shy away from a good fight.”
“It is true, we are a capable folk when it comes to matters of steel, a necessity for ones who lived so close to the savage Scands, but it does not mean that we are immune to harm either.”
The quartermaster looked at the sky, searching for something that was not there, murmured a few words, and looked straight into Hephaestion’s eyes, saying, “Do the others share your concerns, friend?”
“And my faith too.” Hephaestion threw a nod towards them. “I vouch for them.”
“And am I right to assume that you are no stranger to battle?”
“Does the sun provide warmth from harsh weather?”
The quartermaster ordered the two guards away. After approaching Hephaestion, he whispered, “Spare me this nonsensical gibberish. Why would a bunch of sell-swords make their way into Scyldur during these times?”
Gauging the man swiftly, Hephaestion said, “We are on the verge of war, and good soldiers will be needed if you are to win it. We simply intend to live long enough to see this through and return to our old lives.” He dropped his hand on his blade, readying for any unexpected hostility from the Scyld.
“So you seek to join the stronger side.” He hummed. “I respect a man who knows his bets.” He tilted his head backwards and laughed obnoxiously, a menacing laugh,
“For the right price, of course.”
“Smart man. We can use a fighting force as properly equipped as your men. Just make certain to tone down this Rayogin nonsense. You don’t want to seem too zealous, it draws suspicion and unwanted attention, especially in these difficult times.” The quartermaster called his guards and offered the Parthans his permission to enter the city.
“What else is required from us?” Hephaestion asked.
“For now, find a place to spend the night. Seek me out in the morning for your formal papers.”
3
Scyldur was reputed to have the best inns in Utyirth; a reputation that did not fall short. Their rooms were well lit. Their beds were properly prepared, and the fabric used for the sheets - of which Rein never failed to mention - and curtains was soft. A night in luxury prepared the Parthans for the quartermaster’s visit the next day.
Wherever the Parthans went whispers would break amongst groups of Scylds who noticed them. A sheltered life made them rarely encounter a Southern Dweller, as they called them; save for those who served as soldiers assigned to the hinterlands.
“I didn’t expect the Scylds to have such normal lives,” Ganis said to Rein. He held his posture straight as he followed Hephaestion, hand resting on Eos casually.
“Neither did I. Ever since Pertinax’s death, I have been feeding my heart with hate towards them, but now I’m starting to wonder if I misjudged them.” Rein took a moment to reassess his thoughts. “No, they should be hated. This must be a trick they play on strangers.”
Ganis held Rein by the arm and stopped him, separating him from the others walking past them, none seemed to mind the private talk. “Rein, the others need you to keep a clear mind and remind them that Pax still looks after them. See these men?” He pointed towards the seven Parthans. “They trust you to guide them towards the way of Pax. They depend on you to remind them that the true purpose behind the violence they commit is peace. These words of yours forsake them.”
Rein paused for a moment, an unnatural pause accompanied by a deep gaze into Ganis’ eyes. “You speak truth, and I know that they come from the purest intentions, but you belittle the difficulty I face; being so close to avenging Pertinax yet having my hands held.” He looked at his hands and drew them closer to his face. “What is happening to me?”
“Rein, remember this.” Ganis took out the Lenion figurine which rarely parted from Rein’s pocket or hand. “Where we are now and what we are doing is what your Lenion figurine is for.” He rubbed the figurine’s withered face. “As a reminder.”
Rein nodded and reached for the figurine, holding back the anxiety it caused him to have Ganis take it away. “I will try, but I cannot promise how successful I will be.”
“Just remember Pax.”
“I will.”
They made haste to regroup with the other Parthans.
The quartermaster’s office was a thing of luxury. It would defy what a supposed-minimalistic religion would usually entail from men of authority, regardless of the source of such authority, in Nosgard. The structure was large and its stones smoothed, an unusual sight in Scyldur. The floor was polished and busy with many vibrant carpets, of which most were gold-trimmed.
In the large hall twelve pillars on each side, each with a pikeman standing as still t
he column itself, led visitors from the large iron-reinforced gate to the quartermaster sitting casually on his desk. A young woman stood at his right, wearing long yellow robes and a single sash with many scrolls and parchments hanging from it.
“Hephaestion of Midland,” said the quartermaster. He paused for a moment, checking if the name reported to him was correct before continuing. A lack of response proved that he was not in fault. “My scribe here prepared your papers.” He pointed to the young woman with his thumb, inciting a brief curtsy. Her eyes never parted the floor to see the strangers.
“Thank you, quartermaster. What of my companions?”
The quartermaster reached out across his busy table, with many writing feathers and scrolls scattered, towards a silver bowl of fruit. He eyed Glowleaf wearily before grabbing some grapes and stuffing them in his mouth, making quite the mess. With his mouth still full, half-way done with chewing, he said, “Scribe, what names have you written?”
The woman cleared her throat and softly said, with the uncertain tone often accompanying a fear of making a mistake, “Percival of Midland, Drain of Midland, Rein of Midland, Sigurd of Midland, Thalus of Midland, Ninazu of Midland, Monolos of Midland and Ganis of Midland. Have I gotten the names right?” Her eyes did not part the floor.
“Aye, quartermaster, these are the names.” Hephaestion remembered the lessons Ganis had given them in preparation for Scyldurian talk. It was unnecessary considering that they were expected to carry the accent of Southern Dwellers, but it helped them gain the trust of the locals, Hephaestion thought.
The quartermaster nodded at the scribe. She immediately reached into her sash and produced nine documents. While she pulled them out another scroll fell. And when she attempted to pick it up the quartermaster pushed her with his leg, felling her to the ground and making her drop the Parthans’ documents, and shouted, “Imbecile!”
Book of Kayal: Strength of Unity Page 24
