He wet himself.
Dar let loose a malicious laugh and threw aside the tent flap. Eldinn followed and found himself enveloped in Sane’s presence, deadly and regal in her black armor.
He dropped to one knee at her feet. “Goddess, I’m blessed to see you again.”
“My, my,” Sane crooned, “you’ve had quite the change of heart haven’t you? Stand so I can look at you.”
Eldinn unfolded his near seven feet of mass and puffed out his chest with pride. Sane looked him in the eye for a moment then brushed her fingers across his taut chest and down his arm. He flexed as she squeezed and her brow lifted in appreciation.
The emperor of Madhebah eyed his goddess with a longing having little to do with worship.
Sane walked a languid circle around Eldinn, her fingers never breaking contact as she moved. “I’ve been watching you, my pet, and I’m pleased with your progress. I’m pleased when promises are kept. The clans are waking up to fight, so I brought you some help.”
She gestured to one of the tent’s shadowy corners where Eldinn noticed a pair of strangers for the first time. One was stooped over, dressed in a tattered coat. His hood was pulled up, revealing nothing but a long, crooked nose. His gnarled hands were folded together before him, holding on to a fine chain of silver, a chain leading to a collar around the neck of the other stranger.
She was tall, a purple-haired elf dressed in an iridescent gown. Fine silver shackles bound her wrists and an amethyst-encrusted choker circled her neck above the collar. She stood with regal defiance.
Surely she could break those chains, Eldinn thought. Perhaps they were merely symbolic rather than functional.
“This is Niddah,” Sane pointed at the cloaked man. “He’s something of a brother to me. The pretty one is Soreq, his…slave.”
Dar growled, sneering at the elf in contempt. Soreq looked down at the dwarf, hatred sparkling like a fire in her eyes. Eldinn saw they would kill one another given the chance.
“Brother?” asked Eldinn. “Is he powerful like you?”
“He’d like to think so,” Sane scoffed, “but he knows who’s in control. He does, however, have his uses.”
“How can this little beggar help me?”
Niddah’s hand snapped out faster than Eldinn thought possible. The emperor tried to break away but found himself in a grip like iron. Pain like hot needles lanced up his arm as huge boils formed on his skin. The pain didn’t stop when Niddah withdrew his hand, it only grew more intense as the boils grew and the surrounding skin turned purple, then gray.
“Enough,” Sane commanded.
The hunchback touched a finger to Eldinn’s arm and the affliction disappeared as if had never been.
“Niddah is the father of all disease,” Sane said with a contemptuous smile. “He will see to it your enemies never gain the upper hand. He will strike your foe with whatever you desire, from simple stomach cramps to pestilence.”
The emperor backed away, rubbing at his arm where the boils had stricken him. “Whatever I desire? Then will you ensure such sicknesses do not touch my army?”
“You ask me to cure?” Niddah wheezed in shock.
“Yes,” Sane smiled. “It’s that kind of forward thinking strategy that made me chose you, Eldinn. Niddah will comply. Your men will have no fear of sickness as long as you please me.”
“I live to please,” Eldinn’s voice was thick.
“Mmmm,” Sane touched Eldinn’s chest again, “that remains to be seen.”
65
Parthiy
The Sunset’s Trace rounded the last bend in the river and pulled within sight of the city of Parthiy. Stile’s crew had been at the oars for the better part of a day, struggling against the strong current of the River Zohar’s eastern distributary. The city sat at the apex of a complex delta that emptied into the southern ocean.
Stile had been forced to hire a guide boat at the river’s mouth, one of the main reasons he’d avoided Parthiy over the years. The Zohar delta was unnavigable without a guide. Seasonal flooding and erosion changed the courses of the river’s distributaries every year and it was far too easy to find yourself lost or your ship beached in heavy silt. More than one ship had found itself marooned because they tried to save money.
Visiting ships were at the mercy of independent guide boat operators who charged outrageous fees to lead ships inland. Cut-rate guides were available but those were often unreliable, a fact noted by the lack of a clan totem carved into their ship’s prow. Such unsanctioned escorts were known to lead ships into ambushes, purposefully beaching the ships so pirates could pick them clean. The passengers and crew of such ships often found themselves on a slave ship headed to Darowm before the next dawn.
Those who successfully navigated the watery maze were faced with exorbitant docking charges. These were highly regulated by the sitting jelefe’s clan and no alternative berths were available, meaning the jelefe’s clan could charge whatever they wished.
Their guide boat broke away as a small boat bearing a Snake clan totem approached. Duras sneered at the visual reminder of the usurper sitting on Ulquiy’s chair.
Y’neth stood on the quarterdeck next to Stile, gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles were turning bright blue. Though she held no ill will toward the people of Parthiy she still remembered who it was that had slaughtered her friends on Tower Island and left her for dead.
Stile had decided not to fly the Trace’s customary flag that marked her as an independent trader out of Maehdras. They flew the colors of the Shrine instead, a gold Unending Circle—symbol of Onúl—set against a field of deep blue. In light of Eldinn’s invasion of the Ulquiy homeland he thought the move prudent.
“You two had better get below,” Stile told them. “At least until we understand where non-humans fit in the current climate. Could be things are so bad they won’t even welcome my coin once they learn I’m Maehdrasian.”
“I told you I won’t be left behind,” Y’neth said, “so they may as well see me now. If they harm me and word got back to Qiryah, this usurper might find himself fighting a two-front war.”
“Hmph,” Duras grunted. “I don’t like it, but I’ll go below. I’ve no wish to become a Snake clan slave dog.” He stomped down the stairs muttering to himself.
“I wish you’d reconsider,” Stile told Y’neth. “Your presence only makes it more dangerous for everyone.”
She cross her arms and stared him down. “I. Will. Go.”
“Then so will I.” He turned and walked away. Y’neth’s eyes widened in shock at first, then a smile swept her face as she watched his retreating back.
Stile met the harbormaster’s deputy on the main deck. He was a strange looking man, long-haired and dark skinned like most clansmen, but his eyes were set too wide. They seemed to jump here and there in an effort to take everything in, like a rodent afraid of being snatched away by a hawk. White paint covered his face, lending him a ghostly appearance. One hand held a wooden staff topped with a crudely carved snakehead in matching white.
“Who’s captain here?” the man lisped.
“I am,” Stile said.
The deputy’s eyes finally settled to look Stile up and down. “Ah, Maehdrasian. Five gold for a berth.”
“Five gold!” Stile was scandalized. “More than two is robbery.”
“I will not barter,” Rat-Eyes said. “The fees are set by the jelefe himself. If you do not wish to pay, you must be gone from our shores before sundown.”
Stile grumbled and pulled his coin purse from his coat. He counted out five gold and handed them over.
“Are any of your crew or passengers khathat?” Rat-Eyes asked as he took Stile’s gold.
“Khathat?” Stile frowned.
“Non-humans,” Rat-Eyes sneered, “do you have any aboard?”
“What do your eyes tell you, Snake?” Y’neth called down from the quarterdeck.
The deputy looked up to see Y’neth. His face went slack and he started
licking his lips in fear as if her presence might harm him. He backed away a step and said, “Only humans may enter the city by order of the jelefe. Khathat must stay on board. All human passengers and crew are subject to curfew and must be back aboard before sundown. You may not reenter the city until dawn.”
“I am the personal representative of the High Keeper,” Y’neth said. “We have come to see the jelefe himself.”
“Abomination,” the deputy spat. “Your false religion has been banned from the city. The jelefe has restored the true faith in the Elder Gods and would never allow a heretic khathat into his presence.”
“He’ll see me.” Doulos’s voice rang out across the deck. The old wizard stepped up beside Stile and stared the little man down, his blue eyes piercing like a hawk’s.
“Sorcerer!” Rat-Eyes made a sign against evil. “The shaman warned us you would come. He said you will say lies are truths and truths are lies.” He reached back into his purse and pulled out Stile’s gold, throwing it to the deck. “Begone!”
“Hold!” Doulos commanded.
Rat-Eyes stopped as if grasped by an invisible hand. Doulos pointed at the man’s snake headed staff. “Take this message to your jelefe and his shaman,” the wizard said.
The staff began to writhe in the deputy’s hand, turning into a live snake.
“Ah!” Rat-Eyes dropped the snake to the deck. It fell with a thump, nothing more than a stick of rough wood again.
“Pick it up and carry it to your shaman,” Doulos ordered. “Tell him Doulos demands an audience. He’ll either face me willingly or I’ll come after him on my own.”
Rat-Eyes reached a trembling hand out for the staff, relieved to discover it remained wooden. He snatched it up and ran to the ship’s railing and leaped down to his boat below, screaming at his men to row hard.
The Trace was docked before the hour was gone and Doulos and company were striding through the city.
Walking through Parthiy was like traveling through time. The site had been considered neutral territory in ancient times, when the disparate clans were still nomadic and often warred against one another. The river was sacred and blood was never shed near its banks. It was also the continent’s chief source of flint.
The clans would migrate in and out of the area to find flint and craft the weapons and tools necessary for survival in the days before iron and bronze. Pits dug in those ancient days were still in evidence throughout the city. Some were still in use for the threshing of wheat or pressing of oil.
The outskirts of the city were disorganized. The streets meandered around wattle and daub houses built by the poor, the transient, and the outcast. Further in the streets became more regular. Strait roads crisscrossed neighborhoods of glazed clay brick houses. Other construction methods were found as well—log houses, stone, lashed boards plugged with pitch and thatched roofs. Each clan brought their own traditional techniques, adapting them to the climate and locally available materials.
They walked along a cliffside lining the western bank of the river. It towered over them for miles, leading toward the modern city center. Here was the real treasure from ancient days. It was here the clans came to escape from invaders, often roving packs of yrch.
The cliff face was honeycombed with layers of caves and ledges, once accessible only by climbing the bare face of the rock. The clansmen would then lower baskets for heavy loads and those incapable of making the climb. So ensconced, the clans could hold out indefinitely, raining arrows on the heads of their enemy.
In these more peaceful times, the cliff dwellings had been rehabilitated as comfortable homes for the more affluent among the clans. One of the byproducts of setting aside the old religion had been an end to the raiding between clans. As the clans moved toward confederation the ancient cliff site was converted into a place representing peace and cooperation. The final result of this peaceful unanimity was a series of wide stairways carved into the face of the rock.
Doulos led the company up those stairs until they reached the top of the cliff, exposing a wide plateau beyond. Here was the true hustle of Parthiy. While all seemed calm down below the cliff, the population on the plateau was clearly on a war footing. Soldiers patrolled the cliff’s edge and marched through the streets, each band arrayed in their clan garb and keeping a suspicious eye on one another. Clearly trust between the clans had been shaken by the recent coup.
Snake warriors dominated the streets and the other clansmen gave them a wide berth. A squad of Snake warriors saw the company and moved toward them, their spears held out menacingly until Doulos raised a hand, holding up a rod of wood topped with a red snake head. It had been delivered to the ship, signifying sanction from the jelefe and guaranteeing safe passage.
The warriors seemed angered by the rod and especially disturbed by Y’neth’s presence—whether because she was khathat or a woman was hard to tell. She held her head high, staring the men down in challenge. The rod in the wizard’s hand held their aggression in check. Their leader snarled in anger and led his squad away.
Signs of the old ways were everywhere. Though totems had remained symbols of the clans they had fallen into disuse after the people’s mass conversion to Onúl. Now, every building had a carving or a flag or a banner depicting the animal spirits. These new representations were more than a sign of clan pride, they were marks of religious fervor.
They passed a large wooden structure known as the Old House and turned toward the center of Parthiy. A wide market, surrounded by the tallest buildings in town, bustled with life. Stalls full of food and carts of wares filled the space in neat rows. Since the slaughter in Hocsaros, Parthy’s central market had become an even more vital trading site among the clans.
Doulos pulled to a halt as they rounded the corner into the market. His sharp intake of breath drew the company’s attention to his face—a face red with anger.
“Shards!” Zalas hissed.
“What?” Tenna asked.
Her father pointed across the market towards the city’s largest structure—the temple. Enormous, the temple was famous for being the largest building ever built by the clans. It once stood as a symbol of unity and faith.
Now it stood desecrated.
Where an Unending Circle had graced the high front of the temple, a giant snake head now hung. It looked down on the populace below with palpable malevolence. Other, smaller heads were arrayed below the snake, each representing one of the old Elder Gods. The arrangement made clear which of the old gods held prominence in this new Ulquiy.
The Wolf clan totem was significant by its absence.
“The Fang has much to answer for,” Doulos said between clenched teeth. He stomped off toward the New House.
New House, the palace of the jelefe, sat near the temple and served as the hub of the confederacy. Clan chief meetings took place there, as well as negotiations with ambassadors and all the other necessary functions of governance. Like the temple, it was constructed out of stone, imported at great cost from the Celadine Mountains. It stood in direct contrast to the Old House, an empty reminder of the times before clan unity allowed for the construction of such imposing monuments.
A pair of armor-clad warriors stood guarding the entrance to the New House. They wore grotesque snake head helmets, and their armor was embellished with enameled snake motifs. They crossed their spears as the company approached. Doulos thrust the red, snake-headed rod into the face of the left-hand guard.
“We have business with the jelefe,” he snapped.
The guard pushed the rod away and said, “No weapons are allowed in the jelefe’s presence.”
“We’ve brought no weapons,” the wizard said.
“Your staff is a weapon. You must leave it here.”
“Fine.” Doulos handed his staff over and tried to walk onward. The guards kept their spears crossed.
“Now what?” Doulos asked, his face growing darker.
“The khathat cannot enter,” the guard pointed at Y’neth. “Nor the
girl. Only human men are allowed into the jelefe’s presence.”
“Unacceptable.” The wizard waved his hand and the guards fell to the ground with a clatter. He bent over and picked his staff off the floor.
“What did you do?” Tenna’s face turned ashen. “Are they…?”
“Dead?” Doulos asked. “Of course not, girl. Now follow me and stay close.”
The wizard pushed through the wooden doors into a long hallway. Torches gouting oily smoke lit the way, making the air feel dim and oppressive. The smoke drifted up to vent holes in the ceiling but not enough of it escaped to keep the air from turning foul. Some of the company covered their mouths and tried to stave off fits of coughing.
More snake-helmeted guards walked the crossing corridors but few took notice of the strangers. They assumed they’d been given entrance by the door sentries and so kept to their own business. Those that did notice seemed most disturbed by Y’neth’s presence than anything else.
Halfway down the corridor they heard screams of terror coming from behind a closed door. It flew open as they passed by and a guard came stomping out. Blood streamed from three deep gouges in his cheek. An elven woman lay bent over a table inside, her dress in tatters. Another guard with a whip in his hand gave the company a hard look before slamming the door.
Y’neth’s hands balled into fists and she stepped toward the door. Stile gripped her shoulder and pulled her to a stop.
“I know what you’re feeling,” he said, “but don’t start something we can’t escape from.”
She stiffened under his hand for a few breaths before finally relenting with a nod. The elf’s agonized cry split the air as the whip began to crack. Several more screams followed until they came to an abrupt halt. Y’neth hardened her heart and walked on.
The wizard led them to another pair of guards. He waved his hand before they could move to block the way and they fell with a clang. Some guards walking through on patrol witnessed the deed and moved to intercept. Doulos waved again and they flopped to the floor in mid-stride.
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 35
