by Scott Reeves
Varuk pulled her down onto the bed. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilted her lips expectantly up toward his.
“Why have you come here?” he asked.
“Why do you think?” she said breathily. She released the clasp of her bra and slipped the fabric from her loins.
He had his way with her. Afterward, they rested, naked limbs entangled.
“Why, Sayaka?” he asked her.
“Why what?”
“Why do you allow yourself to be so used by one you consider inferior?”
She snuggled closer against him and ran her finger along his chest. “I need an ally in the city, someone I can trust, who I know is not conspiring against me,” she explained. “It’s been some time since I felt I could trust my Bodyguard. The day I met you, I believe Scapius was taking me to be assassinated at the theater.”
He cocked his head. “Yet you willingly went with him?”
Her face filled with helplessness, or anxiety, or sorrow. Varuk was too unfamiliar with such emotions of weakness to know for sure. “I had to,” she said. “Due to pressures you couldn’t understand. Imperial etiquette would not let me refuse to visit whom Lord Cadon had arranged for me to visit. My meeting you has thrown things out of balance. Carefully laid schemes are being reworked even as we speak.”
She sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling a gown around herself.
Behind her, still lying down, Varuk watched her. “Why would Scapius betray you?” he asked.
“Because my sister told him to,” she said. “He’s having a secret affair with her. Since she is one step below me in the family line, if I were to be quietly assassinated she would assume my rank in the court. Now, by letting you into my bed, I have given you reason to protect me.”
Varuk smirked. “But perhaps I am the assassin Scapius was bringing you to meet.”
Sayaka laughed. “My sister prefers the direct approach. Her lack of subtleness in courtly intrigue is one of the reasons she couldn’t hold her place at court in Zendra. It’s why she’s exiled here in the north, in her husband’s city, Tolmanaria. Scapius and my sister could not be so brilliant as to hire you as assassin.”
“How would hiring me be brilliant?”
She stood and fastened her robe, preparing to leave. “Having you assassinate me would have given my father a legitimate reason to invade—”
Varuk reached out and yanked Sayaka back down onto the bed. He reached to undo her robe. “Enough talk. I wish to invade you again, and I don’t need to kill someone to justify it.”
He pulled her close and ground his lips into hers. He closed his eyes as he devoured her with his mouth. Lost in the pleasure of her skin against his, he failed to hear the intruders until they had surrounded the bed.
His eyes flew open in alarm. Three men, led by Scapius, had surrounded the bed. Varuk reeled backward in stunned surprise, scrabbling for his sword, as Sayaka was ripped from his embrace. Scapius yanked her up toward himself, impaling her on his sword. He grinned widely as he did so.
One of the soldiers kicked Varuk’s sword out of reach of his seeking hand.
Denied his weapon, Varuk took the only course of action available to him. He leapt out of bed, lashing out with bare fists at one of the soldiers, sending him reeling backward.
Scapius stood back, holding Sayaka’s limp and bloodied body in his arms. “Take him alive!” he commanded. “We can use him!”
The other two soldiers came barreling at Varuk from both sides, taking him down onto the bed. A gauntleted fist pounded into the side of Varuk’s head.
Blackness.
******
Varuk languished in a dark, dank dungeon cell. He could hear rats squeaking in the darkness. When they skittered near, he batted them away.
Nearby, in the dungeon’s guardroom, two guards sat at a table, playing cards.
Strap, the servant, entered the room, carrying a tray with a loaf of bread and a glass of water. “Food for the prisoner, m’lords,” he said, ducking his head obsequiously.
“Well, hurry about your business and be gone,” one of the guards said. “You smell even worse than the dungeons, and I can barely tolerate the odor down here as it is.”
Varuk heard feet on the stone floor outside his cell. A rectangular grate in the middle of the cell door slid aside, and a tray was shoved through.
“I know you didn’t kill the Crystal Rose,” a voice whispered through the grate. “There are two guards in the room at the end of the hall. They’re preoccupied right now. As a favor to me, please try not to kill them. I don’t want blood on my hands.”
Varuk went to the tray. He lifted a loaf of bread, revealing a rusty key lying on the tray beneath, along with three gold coins. He tucked the coins behind his belt and took the key to the door.
Reaching his hand through the rectangular opening, he managed to unlock the cell door. He opened it and slipped into the dimly lit hallway beyond. His mysterious benefactor had left as quickly as he had come. He peered up the hallway at the rectangle of light coming from the guardroom.
Varuk crept up the hallway and peered cautiously into the guardroom. The two guards were still playing cards, their backs to him.
He sneaked into the room and quietly retrieved his sword from a rack along the wall. Drawing his sword, he turned to face the guards. They had heard the sound of his sword sliding from its sheath. They rose, drawing their own swords as they faced Varuk.
Surprise was on his side. In one swift move, he clubbed the heads of both guards with the hilt of his sword rather than the blade. The guards fell to the ground, unconscious. Varuk towered over them, sword in hand, looking down at them. “Never has my sword been used in such an unnatural manner,” he told them. “The blade hungers for your flesh. But today I must deny it at the request of my benefactor, and for that I curse you.”
******
Elsewhere in the palace, Scapius stood before an open, circular hearth at the center of a cold, stony room. A huge fire blazed in the hearth. A gnarled old witch-hag stood to the side of the fire, her eyes closed, her arms extended to the fire, as if she were working some sort of magic at the fire.
Scapius looked at the fire, speaking to it. “I have terrible news, Holy One,” he said. “The Crystal Rose has been slain.”
On the other side of the fire and a thousand miles away, a powerful, regal man stood gazing into the flames. He was the Holy Emperor of the Everlasting Empire. A witch-hag, who might have been the twin of the other, stood to the side, eyes closed, working magic. The fire was formed into a likeness of Scapius.
“By whose hand?” asked the Holy Emperor.
“A barbarian from the northlands,” Scapius reported. “She let him into her sister’s palace as a guest. He repaid her hospitality by brutally murdering her and raping her corpse. And… he has managed to elude our justice.”
The Emperor bowed his head in sorrow. Then he drew erect, his face filling with wrath. “I shall hold off the invasion no longer. Send the troops over the mountains. Secure the northlands for expansion. And… wipe out the clan of he who has slain the Crystal Rose. Plaster his likeness across all the lands. Captain Scapius: you will see that he is brought before me… or you will die trying.”
The fiery image of Scapius nodded and bowed. “Most Holy, thy will shall be done.”
******
Somewhere out in the crowded city, Varuk pressed his back up against a brick wall in the shadows of an alley. On the street immediately beyond the alley, a soldier nailed a large strip of paper onto a wooden post. The paper bore a likeness of Varuk. At the top in bold letters: “WANTED.” At the bottom: “DEAD OR ALIVE 10,000 crowns.”
He was Varuk. Barbarian. Fugitive.
Varuk, the Maiden and the Demon
The bar was situated at the northern edge of dok Shibar, a town twenty miles south of Tolmania, which Varuk had recently fled following accusations that he’d murdered Princess Sayaka, the Crystal Rose. The air inside the bar was dense and clammy, f
illed with smoke and the chatter of the bar’s many patrons. The beams that held the roof were worn and weak. The roof itself sagged with age, for the bar was old. It had been in business since the reign of King Renault, nearly two hundred years before the rise to power of the present Holy Emperor, Wulonar.
Varuk had learned much of the history of this region since he had crossed the Great Mountains, two weeks earlier. He had learned enough to know that much remained to be learned. Unlike the clans where he had grown up, southern history was complex.
In the many years that the bar had served the people of dok Shibar, it had become the most popular in the city. There were many reasons for its popularity: the best whores hung out there; it was the main headquarters for the black market of dok Shibar; and last, certainly the least: it served the tastiest mug of beer in the city. But, while the bar was the most popular among the people of the city, the law enforcers of dok Shibar frowned it upon, because murderers, cutthroats, and other seedy types often sought refuge in its dark corners.
The bar was named, ironically, “The Angel’s Halo.”
Ko Ying Varuk opened the heavy oak door of the bar and inside. A cacophony of noise, smoke and putrid smells assaulted his senses. Full-bodied whores immediately surrounded his masculine form, each vying to be the one to serve the ruggedly handsome young stranger. He reluctantly shrugged them off and made his way to a table in a secluded, dark corner. The nubile wenches pouted after him for several moments and then moved on to other potential customers drifting in from the street.
Varuk had just eluded the law of dok Shibar after a particularly tiring pursuit through the city. One of them had recognized his face on the posters that had gone up around the city, and had raised the alarm. He’d come into the Angel’s Halo to rest for a while. Apparently he had overstayed his welcome in dok Shibar. He would hide out in the bar for a while and then move on to new adventures in another place.
The owner of the bar, a big man named Dylan Numidon, came over and stood in front of Varuk’s table. “What will you have?” he asked.
“A tall mug of your best beer,” Varuk replied, his voice soft but commanding. He had been trying to speak in the accent these southerners used, without much success.
Dylan nodded and left. Varuk looked after the man for a moment, then unhooked his sword from his belt and laid it on the table, the sheath loose and unbuttoned.
Soon Dylan returned with the beer, setting it down on the table before Varuk, next to his sword. Dylan glared at the sword with distaste. Varuk flipped a coin into the air. Dylan snatched it up and left. Picking up the drink, Varuk took a long swig then set it back onto the table and looked into it. The dark purple liquid reflected his handsome face. He studied his black hair and his deep blue eyes, then the rest of his face: fine, pointed nose; thin, dark red lips; and the scar that ran from his right ear all the way to the corner of his lip. He had received that in a battle with the Munghs, not so long ago.
“Excuse me, sir.” Ah, Varuk liked the sound of that voice! He looked up.
And he definitely liked the body and face to which it belonged!
A slender, voluptuous young lady stood across the table from him. Her hair was light blond, her lips full and deeply crimson, with a slight pout that could bend even the hardest of hearts. The leather outfit she almost wore left her shapely arms and legs bare, and revealed a generous amount of cleavage. And those eyes, deep blue and piercing, so full of innocence! That innocence, conspiring with the tanned, luscious flesh, ripped Varuk’s heart out, and ignited a hellish fire in his loins.
“What can I do for you?” he asked her, betraying no sign of his inner cravings.
“May I seat myself, sir?” she asked, her soft and lilting voice like music in his ears.
He gestured to the seat across from him, pushing it out with his foot. She settled herself onto it, and blushed under his bold gaze. Varuk estimated her to be around twenty years old. She was so soft, but he sensed an inner strength in her, which only added to her attraction.
“So?” he asked.
“I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “My fiance, Raol Lumi, has been kidnapped by a sorcerer who lives outside the city. I want you to rescue him for me.”
Varuk smiled slightly. “What’s in it for me?”
“Raol is the Record Keeper of dok Shibar. I saw you being chased today, and I’ve seen your likeness on the posters that have appeared around the city. Whatever it is you did, he could have the posters taken down and destroy the local records of your crimes. You would then be free to come and go as you like. In dok Shibar, at least.”
Varuk winced. He had committed no crime. It was not he who had murdered the lovely Sayaka. But still, public records of his ‘crime’ were an inconvenience, regardless of his guilt or innocence. If they were destroyed... “That’s it?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can offer. My family is not rich, and cannot afford to pay you an amount worth mentioning.”
Varuk let his eyes roam her tender form. “You have something else more valuable that money,” he said.
She gave him a shy smile. “You would rescue Raol for a night of passion with me?”
“That, and your first offer,” he said. He reached out and touched her silky hair. “I would go to the Underworld and back for a night with you.”
She gently pulled herself out of his reach. “But only after you rescue Raol.”
“Very well. This sorcerer lives outside the city, you say? I shall leave late tonight.”
She smiled, and then, clearly having to force herself, she briefly caressed his leg beneath the table to show her good faith. “What shall I call you, sir?”
“Ko Ying Varuk. And you?”
“I am Yannah.” She looked into his eyes for a moment, then down at her hands.
Varuk leaned back and crossed his arms on his massive chest, studying her. She was such a gorgeous young lady. A bit timid and aloof, but extremely attractive. He would enjoy bedding her. He had only experienced one other since his night with Ana Yingh Shaya: the delectable Sayaka. He longed to experience more.
*****
Varuk took a room at an inn near the Angel’s Halo and rested for the remainder of the afternoon. He took stock of his coin: of the three gold crowns given to him by his mysterious benefactor in Tolmania, only one remained. These bits of metal were more important to the southerners than he had first realized. To provide for his needs, he would soon need to obtain more.
But first, Yannah and her sorcerer must be dealt with.
Shortly after midnight he arose and left for the manse of the sorcerer who’d kidnapped Raol. During the five-mile walk through the dark, moonless night, Varuk occupied himself with thoughts of the wild time he would shortly have with Yannah. He silently thanked the gods that the night was cold as well as dark, for the chill kept the lust from overwhelming him. He would need a clear head to steal Raol from the sorcerer.
Finally he saw a light in the center of a large field. Right where Yannah had told him the sorcerer’s dwelling lay. He slowed his step and kept the sparse bushes between himself and the sorcerer’s abode. As he drew close he concealed himself behind a large, lone oak tree. He was surprised to see that the sorcerer’s home was a simple, small cottage made of brick and logs. The bricks were cracked and chipped, and the logs were rotting, covered with moss. Soft yellow light spilled through the three windows and seeped around the edges of the warped door. By this light, Varuk saw that the crops in the fields surrounding the house were ill tended, and the farming equipment scattered around the yard looked very old and worn out.
Not the house Varuk had expected for a sorcerer, based on what he had thus far learned of southerner ways. Surely someone who could work magic would not live in such obvious poverty. And crops? Farming equipment? This was no sorcerer’s house. It was the house of a poor farmer.
But this was the location Yannah had described to him. There could be no mistake.
Sorcery! Such
an illusion! Perhaps he actually stood the gates of an enormous, foreboding castle.
Several yards from the house stood a small, dilapidated shack. A small ribbon of water, ten feet across, surrounded it—a moat, apparently. The door was secured with a rusted iron padlock. An assortment of charms, large and small, was hung on the walls and the roof.
Varuk studied the shack for several long moments, perplexed as to its purpose. Surely it was not an outhouse or storage shed. His impression was that it was some type of prison. But what a crude, ineffective prison it must be! The shack seemed at odds with the illusion of a poverty-stricken farm. Why had the sorcerer integrated it into the illusion? It spoiled the desired effect.
The incongruity of the shack made Varuk think that perhaps this farm was no illusion; the sorcerer really did live in such decay and filth. Which meant this sorcerer was mightily secure in his power, and deviously cunning. Or it meant that the sorcerer was so weak he didn’t command enough power to house himself in a more hospitable place.
Whichever was the case, the strange shack must be the place where Raol Lumi was sequestered.
Varuk cautiously crept forward, keeping to the shadows cast by the light from the house. He stopped at the edge of the pitiful moat and stood looking down at the water. It was utterly calm, a perfect, silvery mirror reflecting Varuk and the shack.
Did the water conceal a trap? Varuk wondered. What magicks guarded the shack? How to proceed?
Varuk lithely leapt across the water, the wind of his passage sending waves across the calm surface. His sword smashed against the padlock, shattering it—he preferred the direct approach. There was no other way when dealing with magic.
But apparently no magicks guarded the shack. The water in the moat returned to its calm state, and the lock fell from the door and into the water with a heavy PLOP. Varuk suffered no apparent ill consequences of his actions.
Before opening the door he studied the charms draping it. He recognized most of them as talismans to block the passage of evil spirits. But in this case were they meant to keep evil out of the shack, or trapped within? Raol Lumi, trapped within, was not an evil spirit, nor was Varuk. So why the charms?
