“You are a good man, Handle.” Rogen said as he sat in a wicker chair, it creaking from his weight as he did. “Nothing speaks higher of someone than a man who will care for those who cared for him.”
Handle sat across the table, opened a polished wooden box, and offered Rogen a cigar. Rogen chose one, and lit it from the candle on the table. Handle did the same, and waited for Rogen to begin.
“What news do we have of Khelikian, Obsidian, and Verl’zen-luk’s followers? And keep it to events in the west unless you feel something east of the Rolling Mountains is important or related.” Rogen asked as he leaned back and drew on the cigar.
“Much of it is standard information,” Handle began, sitting straight up with one hand in his lap, and the other holding his cheroot. “Khelikian’s followers are sacrificing people whenever they find an insect horde, but aren’t organized in any fashion. The insect attacks are random also, and show no pattern. They don’t even have the same kind of bugs, time of day, length of attack, or anything else.
“Verl’zen-luk’s people have dug deeper into the politics in Pantageas, but nothing new or unexpected. There is a necromancer, named Rondarius, who is gathering an undead army. He travels north of the Oracle, and is heading west towards larger civilizations. He doesn’t seem to be a follower of Verl’zen-luk but…”
“What is it, lad?” Rogen asked, sitting up.
“He is surrounded by his undead, and has no living servants. It’s very hard to get information about him, except for survivors of his attacks. We did find mention of him in Land’s End journals, mentioning he was imprisoned over a century ago, but it couldn’t be the same person. Could it?”
“Necromancers are an odd sort. Find out more about the man he should not be, and go from there. What else?”
“Kala the Black is a follower of Obsidian, and has become the leader of the Dasism in Ocean Wood.”
“I know that, he took over that region decades ago.”
“Yes, but he has ramped up his attack on villages, and even a few cities. He won’t trade with humans at all, and any trader that tries is never heard from again.”
“Find out more about him. Ask at all the surrounding towns; get me the information from the streets and the bureaucrats. Have that information waiting for me at Stadia Isle. Go on, what else is happening?”
“In Humbrey there seems to be a shift in power, and many things seem to happen when Duke Malvornick is around.”
“Is his Duchy not in Trysteria?”
“Yes,” Handle said as he tapped his cigar, and then crushed the ash that fell to the ground with his booted foot.
“I do not think that relates to anything, but go ahead and find more in that area. I have had too many slaves disappear under his care, and have even stopped selling to him, but cannot prove anything to take retribution. Hm, in fact, send notice to Kaht, and tell her I want to see her when I get to Edgewater.”
Rogen’s mood darkened as he listened to more of Handle’s report. Duke Malvornick had been a growing problem for nearly two decades, and shadows were his weapons of choice. The man had always been a distant problem, never immediate, and considering his current situation, Rogen still felt that Malvornick could wait until a better time. Kaht would be enough of an effort for the moment. She was one of his best slave trained spies, and knew how to use her head and body to get anything she needed. She had also built a very impressive network of informants from the Slim Desert east to the Sinking Swamp in the west and all the way to Red City in the south, covering Humbrey, Pantageas, Everyway, Dragon Estates, and two dozen other smaller cities. Then there were the connections she had made after tracking down the threat from the Troöd’s magic syphoning device. Rogen focused on Handle again and the man wrapped up by telling about frogs and blood raining from the sky in Land’s End in the eastern peninsula.
“You have done well, Handle, “Rogen stood, and took the hand of the scarlet clad man, shaking it. “Thank you for everything. I need to get to my second meeting, I am sure you understand.”
“Of course, Master,” Handle stood also, towering above the Rokairn. “I have prepared the sacrifice, incense, and gems… as you required.”
“Good man, now keep an eye out up here. See to it that I am not disturbed, or your life and everyone’s life on this island could be forfeit. Have the men ready to burn the shack, and slay anything coming out if I do not give you the correct responses.”
“I understand, sir.” Handle swallowed. “Be careful, the world needs you now more than ever. Besides most of your trained will expect you to give their eulogy. “
“You are a funny man, Handle. You know perfectly well I do not have time to travel to another country every time someone dies.”
Rogen pulled a wax-sealed letter from a satchel and handed it to the man.
“Prepare this list and have it waiting for me on Stadia Isle. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a demon to summon.”
Rogen turned away, and walked to the door of the hut. He took and deep breath and squared his shoulders, and then stepped forward and opened the door, turning to close and latch it afterwards. The interior of the small shanty was dim and dust motes danced in the light that streamed through the cracks of the wall. The supplies – still in the crates they were delivered in - were laid out on a rickety table. The Rokairn set to drawing the circle and runes to contain the otherworldly being that waited for him around the three baby lambs staked to the ground, flask of wine, and bags of pearls. After checking his preparations for a third time, Rogen began the incantation that would call upon Titusian and bring him partially into the world. The Rokairn closed his eyes and fastened the invisible cords of power to the anchor points of the circle.
“This place smells different,” came a voice full of gravel and spite as mists rose to fill the unseen magical dome. “It is so much pure and sweet than your other place.”
A dark shape grew within the protective shield. It hunched over, supported on the knuckles of one set of thick arms, as a second set gestured. An ape-like head with stunted bull horns sniffed the air. Course, dark hair covered the being. The sickly sweet smell of molasses and sulfur permeated the air.
“Titusian,” Rogen boomed, “I called upon you for information, not your thoughts on my abode. I do not think pleasantries are necessary.”
“But it is so… soft, compared to the dry rocks and stones of your last place,” Titusian said as he reached for a bleating lamb and tore its head off, and lapped at the spouting blood. Ripping its body from the leather strap that held it in place, the demon threw the spasming body against the magical shield. The protective circle lit up, sparks and lights radiating outward.
“Must you test my barrier every time?” Rogen sighed.
“Of course, I know you’ll make a mistake one day,” the demon said as it scooped up the body and began feeding on the soft underbelly of the animal.
“I need to know of the Troöds,” Rogen said with a shrug. “They hide underground and do not interact with others as most societies do. But I have heard whispers of demons being summoned. What can you tell me of this?”
“You cannot do this thing you seek to do.” Titusian growled and spat a gob of tendon at the barrier. The meaty excrement flashed as it hit the magical wall and slid down to the ground. “You must see that, little man.”
“Which thing do you speak of?” Rogen asked, crossing his arms and keeping his impatience in check. The Rokairn knew the games otherworldly beings played, trying to twist answers and get into your head. “Do you mean finding what the Troöds intend?”
“I mean trying to fix this world. You like everything in order, and want everything to move like a machine’s dance.” The monster leaned towards Rogen, putting his weight on his knuckles and the skull of the sacrifice in his hand. The bone dome cracked, and brains gushed across the floor with a noise similar to pulling a boot from the mud. “You can’t save them, Rokairn. These people have brought this on to themselves.”
“Save them from what? What is it the Troöds want to do?”
“The same thing that any of the natives of this world want, to take control and enslave everyone else. The same goal you have, isn’t it?”
The demon loomed towards the edge of his energy cage, leering at his host and captor. Rogen cocked his head, then uncrossing his arms enough to tap a lip with one finger, he asked another question.
“Interesting that you use the term ‘native’. Are Troöds originally from this plane of reality? A yes or no answer will do, as is binding in the covenant, you shall do.”
The beast roared and launched itself at the wall, rebounding in a flash that left the visitor flat on its hairy hunched back.
“Yes or no. Or would you prefer I revoke our agreement because you broke the terms?”
“No,” Titusian growled as he pulled himself upright again.
“Are they attempting to summon demons to help them?”
“Yes.”
“We are done here, take your price and begone from here. I know not if I will bother summoning you again.”
That night Cite dined with the officers in the Captain’s quarters. The room was small and everything was nailed down so it would not shift if the seas were rough. It was pleasant meal with light conversation and a fair amount of laughter. Tildan, Maurence, Cite, and Dawn all sat around the table afterwards talking.
“So how does a woman become captain of a ship anyway?” Cite asked as laughter trailed off after the off color story Tildan had just finished. The room got quiet. Cite looked around and the three men would not meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” Cite began, and then stumbled over the words. “Please, forgive me, I meant no offense, forget I asked.” He tried to smooth over his verbal blunder.
“No, it’s all right,” said the Captain. Tildan looked at her with sympathetic eyes but said nothing. “This was my father’s ship. I inherited it upon his death. My uncle and the crew accepted me and have remained loyal to me, even when I made my mistakes.”
“Ha! Mistakes. She doesn’t make mistakes, Cite,” Tildan boomed in his deep voice that redoubled in volume as it bounced off the close walls of the cabin. “She has been sailing for more than twenty years now. You could call her a sailor before you could call her a woman.”
“My thanks, Uncle. I am sure he wanted that mental picture,” Dawn said with a touch of sarcasm as Tildan laughed and slapped Maurence on the shoulder.
“Remember when she first had her woman’s week?” Tildan said, his voice seeming to yell even when he was not. Maurence’s wide smile showed many white teeth as he let out a rough braying laugh, surprising Cite who had never heard the man make any noise.
“That is enough, Uncle. I am sure I can recite more embarrassing tales of your escapades than you can of mine.”
“Go ahead, I don’t care,” Tildan said, but quieted anyway. The whole room was silent for a minute as everyone searched for a new topic.
“How long have you been Captain of the Lady Luck?” Cite asked, as he picked at the roasted pheasant on his plate.
“Hm, about five years now,” she hesitated, “since my father was… since my father died.”
“Well, I am sorry to hear about your father,” Cite said, more to fill the silence than to comfort Dawn.
Dawn sighed and Cite felt a surge of anger, fear, and hate. He looked at her with wide eyes, worried that he had offended her again.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, as he held up a hand in apology. She shook her head.
“It’s not you. Just drop it. I think dinner is finished. Perhaps some fresh air would be best for everyone.” She stood and tossed her napkin on the table.
Cite looked at Tildan and Maurence as Dawn turned, went into her private cabin, and shut the door. Maurence the mute shook his head and put a hand on Cite’s arm.
“Don’t worry, Cite,” said Tildan as he smiled to lighten the mood, “you didn’t do anything wrong. It has been rough for her, that’s all. Let’s go up on deck, I think the smoking lamp is lit.”
The three left the cabin. Once topside Tildan produced dark wrapped cigars and passed them out. Cite looked at the tobacco stick and then back at the men and tried to imitate their movements.
They cut the tip off the butt of their cigars then lit them from the candle in the smoking lamp.
“Don’t inhale the smoke,” Tildan warned with a grin and Maurence let out his odd braying laugh again. “Did I ever tell you how I met Maurence?”
Cite shook his head, as he puffed on the cigar, the smoking lamp held to the tip. He squinted as smoke thickened from his efforts. When the tip glowed red, he leaned back out of the cloud of grey that had formed around his head to gasp a breath.
“The Lady’s Luck had taken a long haul, all the way to Durgan’s Keep. It was a load of shuglak ivory - from the herds in the northern plains - tobacco, and other odds and ends.”
Maurence made a gesture to his head, extending his hand along his neck and shoulder, and then shook his head.
“Yes, I was getting to that,” Tildan said. “It was before Dawn was Captain; she was just a girl at the time. Her father ran a good ship, clean and honest. We didn’t pirate back in those days. My brother wouldn’t ever rob another, even someone who deserved it. Anyhow, we were in Durgan’s Keep. You know the city?”
“I have heard of it, but not too much. Once met a man who claimed to make magic wands that was from there. He even said he had visited the Nine Towers of Magic, where they train wizards and mages.”
“Right, so you don’t know anything about it,” Tildan laughed. “This city is like no other. It’s way out east, and was built by a Rokairn and some of his friends that made their money by bounty and fortune hunting. This was their retirement project. They went to the wilds, and built a city. Not a village or town, but an armed fortress. It’s an amazing place, very frontier, but with all the luxuries of real civilization. It is because of Durgan’s Keep – named for the Rokairn – that commerce and trade exist in the east at all. Only other thing out there before it was ruins and Seawall City, and they are constantly at war with the women warrior tribes off the coast.
“Well, I had been carousing, something I no longer do…”
Maurence laughed and rolled his eyes.
“Something I don’t do very often anymore, is that better Maurence?” The mute nodded, and Tildan continued, “I had just left the Weighty Wench, famous for full figured women, not the stick figured girls that most places tout. A man like me needs a woman with meat that can handle a man like me.”
Maurence pantomimed a huge body around his skinny one, puffing out his cheeks and holding arms in a circle in front of his belly, and then leaned back, looking at Tildan and drawing on his cigar.
“I am not fat!” Tildan objected, “I am solid and well built. Anyway, I went to see the carnival that was visiting the city. I saw a bear-wrestling contest. I thought they probably had some old toothless thing that had seen better days. Now, I am a bold man, and a brave man, and I knew I could take a bear.”
Maurence held his fist up to his mouth, thumb and pinky extended, and threw his head back like he was drinking.
“Ok, and I had been imbibing.”
The mute made the same gesture again, wobbling as he did, almost falling off the barrel he was sitting on.
“Alright, I drank a lot that night,” Tildan smiled at his friend, and pulled on his cigar. Cite looked between the two, and shook his head.
“Will you let me tell the story and quit interrupting?” Tildan glared at his friend. Maurence held up his hands in supplication.
“I paid my gold, and when I entered the ring they opened the gate. The crowd, which was ten feet up above the pit, cheered and roared. I thought they were cheering for me; after all, I was an impressive figure of a man, if I do say so myself. But, they were cheering for the bear. The largest, fiercest beast I had ever seen lumbered out of its cage. It rose up on its hind legs, and
it must have been three meters tall if it was a centimeter! It roared, and all I could see is its foam-flecked jowls vibrating. I ran. Well, I tried to run. I ran in circles around that pit, scrambling at the walls as that monster chased me. I didn’t know it then, I wasn’t paying attention to anything except the bear, but the crowd was laughing its ass off. Bastards.
“When I realized I wasn’t getting up I turned to face the beast. It took my measure, staring at me like I was a toy to play with. But that look to me said it was hungry, and I was a tasty treat. I ran towards it with a roar, and it knocked me aside like I was a child having a tantrum. I knew I was done for, but damned if I was going to go out without a fight.
“One thing I didn’t realize is that earlier that night, while in my cups at the carnival, I had interrupted a group of young toughs that was about to rough up a certain dark skinned dummy who couldn’t speak. It seems that I passed a small alley with about a dozen,” Maurence held up five fingers, “whatever, there was a lot of them. A bunch of kids about the beat the crap out of some skinny kid who couldn’t talk. I just don’t like bullies, so apparently I waded in and whooped the asses of the bastards. I do remember them running away, bruised and limping, and some kid with scraggly hair – yup, Maurence used to have curly hair all over his head, it stood almost a hand span above his tiny little head – running up and grunting and moaning at me. I pushed him away and told him to get a haircut.
“Well, right as that bear was coming in to take me out, that same skinny kid leapt in the pit, and stood in front of me, a knife in each hand. And these weren’t impressive pig stickers. He had two tiny little whittling knives better suited to attacking a plate of steamed carrots than a bear. But wow, did he know how to use them! He threw one into each paw of the bear, then had two more waiting as he crouched in front of me. I did what any brave and impressive giant would do… I leapt up and ran for the wall. I don’t know how I jumped high enough, but I caught the ankle of two of the carnies watching, and pulled myself up into the crowd, pulling them into the pit as I did. When I turned to look, that kid was in the air, coming towards me. I grabbed his wrist and pulled him up also.
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 12
