Shadow of the Ghost Bear
Book Two of the Tale of Azaran
By Zackery Arbela
Copyright ©2016 Zackery Arbela
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Discover other titles by Zackery Arbela
THE NINE SUNS
Gaebrel's Gamble
Storm Over Olysi
THE LEGEND OF FENN AQUILA
The Thief Of Galadorn
Red Shadows
THE TALE OF AZARAN
Warrior on the Edge of Memory
Shadow of the Ghost Bear
Fires of Mastery
The Infinity Key
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
Tall stone walls, rising fifty feet high, converging on a great down of crystal, the panes were lit with glowing lines of script, written in a language no human eye could decipher, no human mouth could speak. Down below ran row after row of sculptures cut into the very stone, in a style so exaggerated that it was hard to tell what the images cut actually depicted. Repeated every twenty feet were long faces, brutish and brooding, with chins far larger than they should have been, the rest of their features hidden by stony cowls that thrust out, bathing them in shadow. The floor was bare and dark, save for a single shaft of light coming down from the dome above, creating a perfect circle on the floor, the shadowy letters glowing with their own faint light, a whispery red that crawled across the stone.
Men stood at the base of the wall, made tiny and insignificant by their surroundings. Some wore plain kilts wrapped about their waists, leaving their chests bare, others were clad in dark armor, made from some kind of metal that seemed to absorb the light. All had their heads shaved, exposed torso's marked with runes branded into their flesh that seemed to glow with a faint blue light. All heads were bare and shaved, all eyes downcast. All were still as statues. They would remain standing until ordered to do otherwise...or until death.
A man emerged from the darkness, wearing the white kilt, entering the circle of light. He was called Nerazag, a pale-skinned, wiry fellow, his head freshly shaved. The shadow script on the floor flashed briefly, the light echoed in the dome above. Though he stood in the center of the light, he cast no shadow, indeed could barely see beyond, his vision dazzled.
He knelt down, then bowed his head against the floor, arms spreading out, palm down and fingers wide. He remained in the position for a moment, an eternity.
Something moved in the darkness beyond. Those among the men who dared to look up, might catch sight of a great shape, hulking in the gloom, catch a glint from a pair of eyes that had seen things no human mind could understand, that had grown stronger from it. That was Master of everything it looked upon.
RISE. The words were not spoken, but instead appeared directly in the mind, for the Master would not sully his mouth with the indignity of speaking with his servants.
Nerazag stood. "Master,' he said, raising both hands high, palms up. "Your servant has returned from the Isle of Tereg with news to report."
SPEAK.
"Master," said Nerazag, "Azaran lives."
Silence at that. The men standing before the walls, shifted at that. One of the looked up for a moment, shock plain on his face.
IMPOSSIBLE. The Master's voice rang in his skull.
"Master," said Nerazag, "I saw him with my own eyes."
HOW DID HE SURVIVE?
"I do not know, Master. But he lives and he continues in his crimes and vile treasons against you. He is the one who led the rebellion against your puppet Enkilash. Now he heads north to the land of the Eburreans. I have no doubt, he will strike against your interests there as well."
More silence. Nerazag remained where he was, arms still raised, content to remain as long as it was required of him. Obedience was the first, virtue, loyalty the second. Should the Master order him to die, Nerazag would put the knife to his own throat with hesitation. Human life was nothing, he was but a insect compared to the Master and those like him.
AZARAN MUST DIE. The Master's command reverberated in the heads of every man in the chamber. SEE THAT IT IS DONE.
"By your command, Master. But I will need help. Azaran is a formidable opponent. Common warriors will not suffice. I will need one equal to him in skill, if not greater."
TAKE THE ONE WHO TRAINED HIM. Anger tinged the Master's words. BRING ME THE TRAITORS HEAD.
"It will be done, Master."
LEAVE ME. ALL OF YOU.
The men bowed deeply and filed out of the chamber. Nerazag knelt down again, pressing his forehead to the floor. He rose back to his feet and left the light, headed to a exit cut in the wall, looking like a mouse hole compared to the expanse of stone above it. He went through, stepping into a wide stone corridor beyond. As soon as he passed the stone seemed to ripple. The opening filled with a large piece of bronze shimmering in out of nowhere, shaped like a snarling face, the fangs of the beastly mouth sharp. The effect was frightening, but Nerazag knew from personal experience that it only approximated the terror caused by the real thing, a creature native to a world far away. The home world of the Master.
The men continued on the corridor, speaking to one another in the guttural tones of the Servants Speech. So very different from the native tongue of the Masters, which no slave would ever sully with his tongue. Obedience above all, which began to a firm knowledge of ones place in this universe. So it was taught to him from the moment he was able to comprehend the world around him, so it was with all the servants of the Masters. So it would be on all worlds, one day.
Hierarchy was everything. The Master's were above all, of course, but the world beneath them was strictly ordered. Below the Masters were their Servants, who in turn were divided into four castes; laborers at the bottom, craftsmen above them, warriors above them both, above them all the administrators, the Nam'shaq. Men like Nerazag. As the Master ruled him, so he ruled the others.
So it was that lone man who remained behind when the others were gone bowed his head, clenched fist over his heart. He was an old warrior, his skin scarred from multiples woulds gained honorably in battle. His head was bald, but the faintest hint of stubble could be seen, silver in color. But age was no sign of weakness with a Warrior of the Green Banner, the highest of the three banners of the Osa'shaq, sworn to the protection of the Masters. A man did not reach his rank unless he was exceedingly tough, a veteran of more battles than could easily be counted.
Yet he bowed his head all the same. He knew his place.
"Tarazal." Nerazag spoke first, as protocol demanded.
"Honored Nerazag." Tarazal raised his head, calm and awaiting orders.
"You trained Azaran."
"I did." A hint of consternation appeared on his face. "He was a good student. One of the best. For him to turn traitor...it shocked us all."
"Perhaps you should have watched him closely," Nerazag said, waiting the man closely, seeing his reactio
n. If the student erred, the fault often lay with the teacher.
But Tarazal only bowed his head. "He was already a man in age and body when he came to me. He'd proven himself in battle, else he never would have advanced. Every report on his conduct was nothing other than exemplary. If the fault lies with anyone, it's with the men who sent him to us."
"And they will be questioned, assuming any are still among the living. But now we must see to the Master's business. He calls for Azaran's head. What will he do next?"
"I know as much as you do about the incident. Until now I had thought him dead." A hint of admiration entered Tarazal's voice. "He always was tough."
"Not too tough to kill, I trust?" Nerazag asked.
And to his credit, Tarazal shook his head. "I trained him. I knows his strengths and his weaknesses. When the time comes, I will take his head."
"First we must find his head. He will not remain on Tereg." Nerazag was certain of this. "He claims to have lost his memories."
"And you believe him?" Tarazal asked.
"I have no reason not too. No man could have survived what he did without cost. In his case the cost was to his mind instead of his body."
"Then he has learned how to lie. He remembers everything. If Azaran had forgotten his training, he would never have survived among the savages who infest this world." Tarazal was equally certain. "No, it is an act to throw us off the scent...or to hide the shame of his betrayal. He seeks to place himself above those rude tribesmen, to be their lord. He would take the place of the Master."
The loathing in Tarazal's voice at the very idea put an an end to any suspicions about his loyalty. "Then again," said Nerazag, "he will not remain on Tereg, as I have said. "Such a place will not suit the scope of his ambitions."
"There are plenty of places that are not Tereg," Tarazal pointed out. "North, or south, east or west, all will other opportunities for whatever he has in mind."
"Then we must decide which direction he will choose." Nerazag smiled. "And I can hazard a guess. He will go north, to Eburrea."
"How can you be certain?"
"When I saw him in Tereg, he was in the company of Eburrean exiles. One of them is now the new lord of the island. Another is one of those priests who have caused so much trouble to the Master's interests. He will want to return home. And Azaran will go with him."
"Eburrea." Tarazal thought on this. "The place is unsettled at the moment. He will find opportunities there."
"Indeed." Nerazag made his decision. "We shall depart there at once. I will send word to Ganascorec to keep an eye open for the traitor. With luck, they will find him before we arrive, and present us with his head..."
"No." Tarazal spoke, his face hardening. "No one kills Azaran but me."
"You defy me on this?"
"I uphold tradition," Tarazal stated firmly. "Traitor he may be, Azaran is still of the Green Banner, of the Osa'shaq. He was my student. He dies by my hand only. Any man who takes his life before me shall die in turn. Even if it is Ganasorec or any other puppet whose strings you pull. Honor demands no less."
"He will die one way or another. What difference does it make?"
"He will die by my hand." On this Tarazal was resolute. Loyal and obedient...but he also held to tradition. "Tell that to Ganascorec and his lackey. He shall be taken alive."
For a moment Nerazag considered overriding him...but that would be a risk. Tradition was the foundation of obedience. On it lay the foundations of everything. Men of the warrior caste were meant to die in battle. If they reached an age when they were too old to fight, too old to be of use, they submitted themselves to blades of their comrades to die with honor. When they transgressed to the point that death was called for, it was the same. Only the Master could override such stern commandments...and he would not look on his servants squabbling in such a manner with favor.
"As you wish," Nerazag said in sour tone. "No one kills him but you. Make no mistake though, he will die. And if he escapes before we get there, you will take the blame."
Tarazal nodded. "As you say, Honored Nerazag. I hear and obey."
Late summer winds blew across the sea, rippling the waves rolling to the shore. Birds circled overhead, wide-winged creatures with dark plumage tipped at the ends in bright red, giving them a faint scarlet glow in the morning light. Occasionally one would drop down to the water, its talons skimming the surface, returning to the air moments later with a struggling fish. Scales and guts would rain down to the water as the bird tore into the still living meal on the wing, devouring as much as it could before being mobbed by the others swooping in to steal the kill.
"A poet could find all kinds of metaphor from such a sight." Segovac watched the scene from the bow of the ship. A crutch lay on the railing next to him, but he had little use for it, the would in his leg being all but completely healed. Faint squawks sounds above as the fighting among the birds turned vicious.
"I can only think of one," said Azaran, standing beside him. He watched the birds without expression, though inwardly he was appalled at their antics.
"And what would that be??" asked Segovac.
"All living things steal from each other."
"That counts more as an observation than a metaphor, friend Azaran. Now, consider how the first sezoran..."
"Is that what you call them?"
"It is and do not interrupt! Consider how the first sezoran has caught the fish. He spots a potential meal below the water, drops down to seize the opportunity before it returns to the depths. He rises up to enjoy the fruits of his labor, only to have wastrels and parasites descend on him, demanding their share of his labor and seizing it by force."
"Makes sense..."
"Of course, a man of a different mentality might have a different approach. The first bird refusing to share the wealth with the fellows, is now gaining a lesson in the importance of possessing a generous spirit."
"Or," Azaran said, "it's just a flock of birds, following their natures."
"As men are fated to do as well?"
"You said it, not me."
"Ah, Azaran..." Segovac shook his head. "Men are more than beasts. They are bound to their natures, it's what makes them animals. But men have the choice to defy it...the duty, you might say. It is by defying our natures that men pull themselves up."
Azaran couldn't help but think of the brands on his chest. You are a weapon...
"On Tereg," he said, "there were many men who chose to heed their natures. One of them put an arrow in your leg."
"They made their choice. It is a sign of their weakness. Men who live as beasts die the same way."
Then Segovac perked up. "There," he cried, pointing his hand to the north. A faint green line on the horizon, growing larger with every stroke of the oars.
Azaran peered into the distance. He could just make out low hills covered in forest, tall granite cliffs dropping precipitously into the sea, the sea foaming against them. "Your homeland?"
"The Giants Wall," said Segovac in a reverent voice. "In the Time of Dreams, before men were even a thought, the giant Ullac warred against Saerec and his servants. Everything they created, he destroyed. They raised mountains and he pulled them down, they filled the seas and he drank them dry. Finally Saerec went before the giant and challenged him. "For every mountain you destroy," he said, 'I can create two. For every tree you burn, I will raise three. Face me now, and prove me wrong.' Ullac took the challenge, striding into the middle of the ancient ocean and daring the One to do his best. Saerec reached down to the heart of the world and raised a great mountain, which UIlac hurled down. Saerec raised two more, Ullac pulled them down. He raised three, four, fifty, and every time the giant shattered them with his fists, crushed them with his feet, wrestled them back into the sea. But as time passed, he grew weary, yet pride would not allow him to stop.
"Finally Saerec raised a mountain so great in side that its summit reached to the Mansion, its roots to the underworld. Ullac, exhausted beyond all measure, pul
led it down, but so weakened was he that he could not get away when the mountain fell on top of him, ending his life.
"From his flesh, Saerec and his servants made all creatures that fly, swim or walk on land, air and sea. From the fire burning in his heart, they created the first man and woman. And to mark the victory, they took his bones and placed them in a great stone wall raised from the sea...which men still see today when the arrive from the south."
By now the Giants Wall was close enough that Azaran could see immense stony bones embedded in the cliff faces. Giant femurs, three times the height of a man, standing out against the rock as if cut by a Celestial sculptor. A giant clawed hand reached to the east, the long fingers splayed out in an eternal plea, a final reach towards life immortalized. No sign of a head, through a half-visible rib-cage large enough to cage a good sized beast suggested one had been there, once upon a time.
Perhaps the gods found a better use for it. Azaran noted the way the sailors watched the cliff face with fear and respect, many making signs of protection over their breasts, perhaps afraid that the bones would come to life and reach down into the ocean, hungry for their flesh.
Though the rocky reefs clustered at the food of the cliffs were reason enough for sailors to be wary. The sea boiled white about them, jagged rocks sending white spume twenty feet into the air. Ancient timbers and driftwood washed up on them told their own story of ships that got too close and paid the price.
They turned eastward. An hour before dusk the ship pulled up beside a small rocky islet rising up from the sea like a fist. A small beach covered in rocky shingle faced off to the south. The crew ran the galley ashore, two men jumped ashore with lines and tying them down to a pair of stone pillars thrust into the ground. Years of wear and tear told of countless other crews doing the same over the years.
The isle was less than fifty yards across. Away from the beach the ground was covered in sparse tufts of tough grass and a few spindly bushes. A single tree grew near the center, where there was just barely enough soil for it to take root. Set in the ground before it was a square lump of rock, the corners rounded from wind and rain. Images of men in procession were cut into the sides. At the top was a perfect spiral circling out from the center, the outer reaches fading away until it disappeared.
Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2) Page 1
