“This is a missive from a close friend who I have known longer than any of you have been alive. He is my most trusted advisor. He is known by many names, but you know him as Transvartius.” Calleus let out a small noise, his eyes going wide. Rogen nodded at him. “He is the same man you have heard tales about since you were a child. Every bard or troubadour worth his salt knows at least a dozen stories about the Traveller.”
All five advisors looked uncomfortable. Rogen tossed the parchment onto the table in front of the men, gesturing for them to inspect it, and went to refill his mug with wine. The men approached the paper and hesitated. They had never seen Rogen on edge as he was now; not when the armies of Verl’zen-luk came from Ez’rainia-fromton, not when Everyway claimed him to be an enemy of the City, not even when Humbrey banned slavery and freed all his holdings there. As they unrolled it, it crackled with age and bits flaked from the edges a musty smell rising from the page. Rogen paused, watching them, clay pitcher in hand and poised under the tap of the wine cask. With a heavy sigh, he set the pitcher down with a bit too much force. The resulting thump showed his agitation and made the advisors turn to look at him. He turned his back on them and knowing he would need something stronger than wine, he took a crystal decanter from the cabinet above the wine cask, and proceeded to fill it with brandy. Rogen poured himself a large snifter as the men turned back to the paper to inspect it.
“This is well over a hundred years old,” Calleus, the eldest advisor said, looking up with a mix of wonder and fear. It reminded Rogen of a child seeing fireworks for the first time. Rogen nodded and stared at the man, showing his impatience for being given information he already knew. The counselor turned back to reading the document with the others. They read it over many times, and then they stood back, waiting for Rogen.
Rogen scowled at the men, a standard reaction from the Rokairn when he was dealing with things that may not go smooth. “You can see it is from a time before I came to the Empire. I recall the day I was given this paper. I was in a small human and Dasism settlement where I worked and lived. A strange man came to my booth in the market where I was selling weapons. He looked like any other traveler, a bit road worn, dressed in standard browns. His clothes were quality; I could see that even with the stain of use on them. He wore no jewels or any other outward sign of money, but I could tell he had the coin to purchase anything in my makeshift shop. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, or maybe it was just my gut, but I knew he was not a regular custom.” Rogen took a drink from his glass, breathing out slowly from the burn of the alcohol in this throat. His advisors waited for him to go, unused to their master reminiscing or giving out any information about his past. “He inquired about a slim sword I was selling and I began my usual sales pitch about its uses and creation. Once the stranger learned I was the artisan who crafted the blade, he bought it. I had no idea who the man was, and as we completed our transaction, I asked why he would want a weapon specifically made by me. He told me that he had been searching for me, and wanted a token by which to remember the moment. I was flattered, but I was not the best weaponsmith around, and he could have a far better blade from at least two others in that very town.
“Amazed that someone would seek out my work, I offered to pour him a glass of wine if he told me why he would seek me out.” Rogen took another drink, stepped forward and lifter up the aged paper. “It was that day he gave me this parchment, and that day began a friendship that has spanned nearly half a century. We talked long into the night, sharing drinks and tales. I like that man, and trusted him completely…, which is unusual for me to do without good reason. Since that day, he and I have spent long hours discussing what is on this scroll. Though he has many names, I knew him as Transvartius, and he often visits me here in this very room, though few have ever seen him or even known he was here. There have been times that you have been in the room and did not notice him, or felt the he was beneath your notice.”
“Not possible,” Phaeton scoffed, not believing that he would ever ignore a man with the reputation and power that Transvartius had.
“Not because of any disrespect from you or stupidity on your part,” Rogen went on speaking, glaring at the man who had the outburst, “but because he did not want you to be aware of him. He was not invisible, just made himself not worth noticing.” Rogen took a sip of his brandy. “Or not wanting to be observed. It is one of the simpler pieces of magic which I have seen him perform.
“You saw what the letter said,” his voice dropped into a deep rumble. “It states the coming of a fallen star. It tells of changes creating a hell on earth, the end of days. It mentions a blood red city in the sand. It mentions a man who can cut with no weapon joining a man of stone and metal. I think our new slave may be the former man and I am the latter. Now, I am ready for our opinions or questions.”
Rogen looked at the men from under his bushy eyebrows and over the rim of his crystal glass. The Rokairn took another drink as he waited for the men to sort out their thoughts and speak. Each man knew to think before speaking. They knew better than to waste their master’s time with prattling. Efficiency in everything was demanded. Everything in order and an order for everything was the rule Rogen had taught them since they first came to this place, the rule that they lived by.
They also knew the order in which they were allowed to speak. Calleus, the chief advisor spoke first; he was not the oldest, but he had earned his position. “This paper, and the prophecy written on it, mentions the man of stone and metal has the key to ‘doors of demons’. That is not you. You have long showed your distain for the magics, especially the magic of summoning.” The others nodded their agreement. Rogen thought before he answered, weighing how much to tell these men. Too much information, and letting people know you too well, made people think you were weak, or that they had information to use against you. Either would not be something the slave master would want in his kingdom. He considered his words carefully.
“I am an enslaver and master of men, and so am I an enslaver and master of demons. I have long studied summoning.” Rogen looked at the men, who stared back with surprise, but not with judgment or condemnation. Phaeton’s eyes narrowed and he shot a meaningful glance at Izreus who had paled. Rogen smiled behind his glass as he raised it to his lips for another sip of brandy before continuing. “I have done many things in my life, including the dark and dirty art of summoning. You know I demand absolute control of myself, and this task was no different from anything I do. The Desert Empire is caught between the dark cults hidden in the corrupted city of Dangrazio in the Rolling Mountains, and we lay just a bit south of Ez’rainia-fromton. The former practices dark arts, and have even been attempting foul acts of mating demons with Aeifain to create… things of which we shall not speak of at this time.” His visage darkened with the knowledge of dark secrets and he shook his head to clear the thoughts. “The latter’s black practices have revived evils, and even propelled the master of that ancient city, which had been buried in the sands for centuries, Verl’zen-luk, into Godhood. Decades ago, I was in the east in Durgan’s Keep when Land’s End was overrun with the demon spawn. I have many reasons to know my enemies. For those reasons and others, I studied summoning, have enslaved demons, and worked with other beings from other worlds, dimensions, and planes in the past. I believe the man the prophecy mentions, is me.” He looked at his counselors, waiting for more questions.
“This lad we took in,” said Talidon, in his language of clicks and whistles, as he ran his hand across his shaved scalp, “you feel he has a place in this then? I realize what happened in the testing arena, but he did not cut anyone.”
“He did. I had Vandus checked. His brain shows scarring, as do the internal organs. I do not know how the boy did it, but he cut the man without a blade or breaking skin.”
The rest of the meeting was short and to the point with very few questions. Rogen had thought this through. After his advisors had finished, Rogen began asking questions about trade routes,
weather, far-away rulers, various activities, and myths that had recently resurfaced that might have a connection. He knew more than he let on and they all knew it.
5854 – Thon – Jordar – Midā
The new slave woke to the sensation of gentle hands massaging something into his chest. From the pungent aroma, he guessed it was a medicinal salve. He lay on his back on a hard, cool surface. He tried to open his eyes, but failed. They were caked shut and the effort made his head pound. Trying again, he achieved some measure of success. He saw a dark haired young woman standing next to him working the unguent into a wound that ran from right side of his pectorals to the left armpit. The room had no windows and was lit by three small candles. He stared at them, wondering where he was.
He groaned and lifted a hand to his head, trying to stop the pounding inside. The girl applying the ointment leapt from his bedside with a squeak. The bowl of balm crashed to the floor, shattering. She darted from the room.
The young man tried to sit up and his wound pull tight. He flopped back to a prone position, and groaned as pain shot through his head and chest. His whole body ached as he tried to collect his senses. He tried to sit up again, taking his time and being careful not to tear the wound further. Taking stock of his surroundings, he saw he was in a small room. The only other furniture in it besides the stone slab he was on was a long table to the side of it. The table held a platter of cheese, sausage, bread, plums, a pitcher, cups, and what looked to be medical supplies sat beside the food. On the other side of the room was small alcove with shelves. One half that held bedding and smallclothes on shelves. Robes and other clothing hung in the other half on pegs. Sliding the sheet off his naked body, he swung his feet off the slab, careful to avoid the broken crockery, and tried to remember how he had gotten here.
He remembered being banished and leaving his village with the caravan. It had been a dull, monotonous trip until the attack. The slavers had overpowered the wagon train with few deaths and less trouble. Those were the men who had brought him here, traveling through the desert in with him in ropes and chains.
There was a hole in his memory. His recollection was flawless, until now. He had the feel of blank time in his head. The missing days had not been spent walking through the desert; it was inside his own head, a place without time. He had withdrawn and spent the time in a waking dream. In the visions, the desert sands from the east had turned black and became dust. Fire had scorched the Rolling Mountains to the west. He recalled staring west as he shuffled across the burning sands, watching the mountains melt into hills, and then into desert. The flames erupted into life, launched themselves into the air, and flew across the land in sheets of fire. The dead black sands from the east roiled and crept forward, devouring everything in their path, spreading like a living disease. He had been in between the two and watched as they closed in on him. They were hungry for him, and he could feel their desire to destroy him. Perhaps it was for the crimes for which he was banished from his village, or perhaps he was just caught in the middle of something larger. He strained to find meaning in his vision.
Wandering to an opening in the wall that was little more than an arrow slit he looked out. A city-keep was laid out before him. It wasn’t anything like what he had seen before, at least not that his addled brain could remember. The sandstone walls that ringed the city rose to the height of most castle walls he had seen before, and then some, with crenellations and murder holes visible along the walkway. Lookouts were posted in shaded gazebos just large enough to fit one man. The city inside the walls bustled and surged the same as any other he had seen before. Mothers called for children, and teenagers herded geese, pigs, and sheep through the streets to market or feeding grounds. Men leaned against the wall, seeking shade to talk with neighbors or shopkeepers. One thing was missing here though; there was no sign of any sort of military or police force. Everyone wore similar colors, and though it was all loose and billowing material, they reminded the man of uniforms.
The door opened, pulling him from his reverie. Three people entered, and the slave recognized the girl who had been attending him when he woke. She hid behind a tall, willowy woman who wore a sheer shift that showed her curves in the soft light of the candles. A short thick man with a beard streaked with steel gray that went down to his chest followed the women into the room. The man stepped to one side, crossed his arms behind his back in a relaxed military stance, and watched with sharp dark eyes. The tall woman surveyed the scene in the room, her eyes lingering on the broken bowl.
“Elean, clean up the mess, then report to the headmaster to be punished for your carelessness,” she said in a gentle but commanding tone.
“Yes Mistress Sybia,” Elean said, as she darted forward, kneeling to clean up the mess she had made.
“What?” the slave croaked, his voice dry and cracking. “It was an accident, I surprised her. Why would she be punished?” He tried standing to block the woman as she approached the girl who was wiping up the thick cream from the stone floor. The slave fell back groaning and holding his chest from the effort. Blood showed at the edges of his cut. Realizing his nudity, he grabbed the sheet, which had fallen away earlier, and covered himself.
The woman walked around the slab to the opposite side of where the girl was cleaning, and began to inspect the slave. Her hands were cool on his hot skin as she took his shoulders and turned his body, making him lift his feet back onto the stone bed. He cried out, but she ignored his outburst and inspected the tender, puckered flesh with deft, experienced fingers. She circled the slab and went to the table along the wall to retrieve bandages and the other items she would need to bind the wound.
The slave hissed through clenched teeth, then said, “What will happen to her? I told you she didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sybia interrupted him, “Don’t worry about her, she knows her place and her duties. Breaking things is not among them and her punishment will be just. Now, be quiet so I may bind this again and we can begin the real purpose of this visit.”
The slave quieted but continued to glare at the woman for a moment before remembering the silent man. He studied the man, whom he thought to be a guard. The captive grasped the concept that he was not in control of this situation. Minutes later, his wound had been bound, the broken pottery and spilt ointment cleaned up, and the young girl left the room, head bowed.
The tall woman looked pointedly at the short man and nodded, before she turned back to the slave. The man on the slab watched with interest, though he was unsure what it meant. The woman went to the table, put bread on a plate, and poured a cup of water. Sybia held these things towards her patient, who looked at them, and then crossing his arms, stared back at her in defiance.
“Very well,” she said. “I can feed you if you are too weak or stupid to do it yourself. Eating would be wise; you will need your strength if you are ever to leave this room, or this place.”
The slave’s face reddened and his anger slid away. He took the plate and cup from her with shaking hands. “Thank you,” he said.
“You have manners. Good. They will help you here. Eat first, and when you are finished the Master will speak with you.” The woman glided across the floor and left through the open door. The bearded man, who had watched Cite the whole time, followed and shut the door behind them. The slave heard a heavy bar fall into place outside the door.
Seeing no other option, the slave ate. He saw the wisdom and necessity of it, and wasn’t stupid as the stern woman had implied. It was harder to eat than the he imagined it would be. He sat, wrapped in the sheet, took small bites of the bread, and sipped at the water. As he set the empty plate beside him, the door opened and the stout man came back into the room. The slave’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted as he considered the timing.
“Now lad, allow me to introduce myself,” the short man began, putting his hands behind him once and began to pace the floor at the end of the bed.
“You were outside watching me.” The slave interrupte
d. “Where exactly am I? Am I being held prisoner or am I now your slave?”
Rogen, unused to interruptions, stopped his pacing for a moment and looked at the youth. Squaring up to face the lad, he said, “I am Rogen the Plague, master of these lands. You are in the Great Desert. Your humble accommodations are courtesy of the Great Desert Empire. As for your other questions, it remains to be seen what your status here is. It seems you have special talents. I guess I do not need to point that out to you, but I may need to point out why it came to my notice.”
“What special talents?” the slave interrupted again. “My dreams? You know about them?” The slave watched the shorter man’s brow furrow.
“What is your name, boy?” Rogan asked. “And tell me the truth, because there is no point in lying.”
“People call me Cite.” The slave said.
“Not your real name though? All right. Why do they call you Cite?”
“Because of my gift of second sight and precognitive dreams. Wait, why am I… you gave me something! Either in the food or the medicine, you are trying to get information out of me…”
Cite trailed off, staring past his host and captor. He felt memories stir, and something he had been trying to recall was on the tip of his tongue, a mental rush made him fall silent as realization washed over him. Rogen’s face had remained as unchanging as stone itself, but Cite knew that the Rokairn had not known about his dreams. Cite felt the image of himself in an arena, and knew the slave lord had been referring to something that happened there. That moment was part of the time that had been lost in the hole in Cite’s memory, and this was the first he knew of it.
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 2
