Shalthazar approached the terrified man and looked him in the eyes, noticing that the man was breathing hard and sweat was beading on his brow despite the cold air. The wizard slowly circled the lesser man and his apprentices looked on as he spoke to the man.
“How did you ever become one of my apprentices?” asked the master wizard scathingly. “You are a pathetic waste. You are fearful and weak and you will now die.”
The man whimpered and tears rolled down his cheeks as his former master looked upon him scornfully.
“It seems you can do one useful thing for me,” said the wizard, enjoying the game. “You can feed my golem!”
The hideous beast launched itself from the mound in a great leap and landed near the wizard and his paralyzed apprentice. It landed with a thud that shook the ground and caused the man who was about to die to shudder, despite the effects of the spell. Shalthazar only laughed louder, watching the golem sniff the man before it bit him in half and swallowed his body in two great noisy gulps.
Shalthazar was pleased to see the golem immediately grow stronger, its flesh darkened and another set of eyes and a mouth appeared on its great head.
“Congratulations, Master,” said Urelis. “Your spell was a success.”
“Indeed it was Urelis,” said the Master.
“What do we do with it now?” asked Charl.
“We must take it back to Fort Ogrewall and conceal it in the dungeons. When the time is right, we will conduct secret operations in the Cklathlands with our golem.”
The three remaining Sigilists began their trip back to Fort Ogrewall. Shalthazar’s mind was on the next phase of his plan.
C H A P T E R
3
Late.
Hugh Renaul strode along Market Street, the main street of Hybrand City, until he found his destination. He was here at the bidding of his master, Prince Cannath. Hugh was a loyal and devoted friend of the prince, having spent a lot of time with him in Arnathia where the two grew up. When Cannath consented to return to Hybrand after his mother died, his old friend Hugh came with him.
Today Hugh was running errands for his prince. He had already dropped off a number of warrants at the Marshall’s Office, delivered missives to General Craxis, picked up supplies for the office, and paid the Master Smithy of Hybrand for making him a very fine coat of chain mail. His last run of the day brought him to Master Giles’ shop, famous for his Cklathish whiskey and beer.
“Thank you Master Giles! Lord Cannath will be most pleased. Here is a token of his appreciation,” he said as he pressed a diamond coin into the brewmaster’s hand. The old man’s eyes lit up. His family and that of Cannath’s murdered great-uncle had long been friendly.
“Tell my prince it is my honor to give him my finest work!” he whispered fiercely. Master Giles’ daughter, Deirdre, gave Hugh a disinterested glance as she brought out the items Hugh had just paid for.
Hugh was a handsome man of Arnathian blood. His parents were nobles; his mother an Arnathian lady and his father a provincial military general of high standing. Yet, despite the ties of his blood and his proper upbringing, Hugh was not the Arnathian loyalist many had prejudged him to be. Prince Cannath had been secretly using Hugh to collect intelligence against the Arnathians and begin the process of breaking the Arnathian stranglehold on Hybrand.
Master Giles truly liked Hugh and he stood firmly behind Prince Cannath’s secret plans to rebel against Arnathia, he and his apprentices were stockpiling supplies of food for the rebellion. It was no secret that Deirdre was in fact quite fond of the young man. But Hugh could not find a place in his heart for anyone until he saw his friend sitting atop the throne of Hybrand.
“Careful, my friend. Using that title could get your tongue cut around here,” he smiled as he delivered the warning. Hugh was a very smart man and he possessed a very long memory. He was a skilled accountant and mathematician and kept books better than anyone Cannath knew. He was a scholar of ancient history, including Cklathish, and he could speak seven languages fluently. Giles smiled and nodded and Deirdre sighed wistfully as Hugh left the little shop.
Hugh made his way to the Temple of Qra’z and stood beside the massive golden gate, its bejeweled bars studded with rubies and sapphires gleamed in the sun. Two guards, resplendent in their golden dragon breastplates and shining helms, eyed him for but a moment, then resumed their disinterested staring at the comings and goings of Market Street.
His contact was supposed to meet him here in front of the main gate in the disguise of one of the Collector Monks who routinely walked the street in front of the Temple collecting coins from the commoners who were not oft allowed inside the temple of Qra’z.
When the appointed time came and went, Hugh knew he had better move on. Punctuality was critical in the game he played. Most of his contacts and operatives knew that it was far better not to show up for an appointment at all than to show up late. Often times a missed appointment meant that an operative had been compromised or captured, or at the least had encountered unwanted attention. Yes, Hugh knew it was far better to leave and await a signal to attempt contact again later. And that was precisely what he planned to do.
As Hugh was about to leave, a Collector Monk approached. Something told him to leave anyway, but he didn't. This monk was a brute of a fellow, at least six feet tall and almost as wide. He had an awkward gait and his face was hidden deep in the shadows of his hood, except for his nose. That nose with its flat bulbous shape and flaring nostrils was very common among the Hoth Islanders who hailed from a distant part of the Arnathian Empire. They were devoted worshippers of Zervish, the sea goddess, and about as unpredictable as she. In fact, the Hoth Islanders largely denied the fact that the Arnathians had actually annexed them into the empire. Occasionally an Imperial warship would come to port in Hoth Major and the Hother King would pay his tribute to the Arnathians who would promptly leave.
Arnathia knew it had a source of free flowing money from the Hothers so long as they played their game well with the Imperials. The Hothers were partial to two very lucrative pastimes: silk and spice trading with Far Kharbandom, and pirating. The legitimate Hother traders were militant and armed their trading ships to the teeth with sophisticated weapons and trained mercenaries. The Pirate King of Hoth Minor had an iron grip on the sea-ways to the various Kharbandom regions and his pirate lords were ruthless and effective at raiding foreign lands and plundering foreign merchant ships. It was often alleged that the two Hother kings worked in concert with each other. Truly a bizarre relationship that Hugh had not spent much time studying. He did know that so long as the Hothers provided income to the empire and the empire did not choose to spread across the sea to Far Kharbandom, their odd relationship would likely continue.
Hugh studied the man intently. In all his years he had never seen a Hother who had devoted himself to Qra’z or had chosen to serve the Arnathian Empire in any way. When the man was upon him, Hugh remembered his cardinal rule: never wait for a late appointment. Risking the ire of the guardsmen, Hugh decided to continue on his way and turned to leave when one of the guardsmen stepped in front of him and slammed the butt of his spear loudly on the cobblestones. “Going somewhere Renaul?” asked the man, giving him a dark grin.
“Yes, I am late for my appointment with Lord Cannath!” he said, trying to intimidate the guard.
“Lord, is it? Well, you wouldn’t want to forget your dues to Qra’z would you, Renaul?” he asked, leaning the tip of his spear close to Hugh’s face. Although Hugh was no warrior, he was no coward either, he very casually brushed away the guard’s spear. As he stepped around the guard a large meaty hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Cannath’s little birdie!” came the gruff, crass, Hothish voice thick with Hothish surliness. “You wouldn’t want to leave without giving Qra’z your due, would you, Birdie?” The bully’s hood slid back just a little leaving Hugh no doubt in his mind what had happened to his contact. He cursed the man for fool
; everyone in this business knew that if you got caught you swallow your own tongue, as the saying went. Every operative and contact had some sort of device that they would use to take their own life should the situation warrant it. Some would, in fact, swallow their own tongues while others carried a concealed razor with which they could slash their throat. While still others would use a poison powder kept hidden in a ring or necklace. Those who were gifted with magical powers had still other ways to escape or end their own life. Hugh was in the latter category and his method required the uttering of a single incantation and rubbing a piece of wormroot wood on his neck to close off his airway. Hugh was a faithful man and had recently begun learning the ways of the new order of warrior monks, the Order of the Open Palm, dedicated to Zuhr. And he hoped by the legendary wisdom of his brethren that his contact did not give up anything before killing himself.
Hugh kept his wormroot -utterly harmless when not used in conjunction with a magical incantation- in the form of an accountant’s numbering stick, marked with the mathematical formulas one needed to keep accounts, records, and ledgers. A sense of dread passed over the man and he knew, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he was going to die. However, Hugh knew that death was not the end, rather it was a glorious beginning in an afterlife where he would be rewarded. Without hesitation, Hugh placed the wormroot stick to his throat; he was prepared to give his life for his cause. But, the moment he moved to place the wormroot stick to his throat he felt all of his joints lock painfully in place. Fear gripped his very soul and his heart pounded in his chest.
“Did we scare the little birdie? I wonder where the little birdie’s friends are. Seems to me a little birdie needs to be with ’is other little birdie friends, eh?” The brute’s hood slipped off in the breeze and revealed something that any other person would have paid no heed to. In fact, anyone but Hugh would have assumed the scarred Hother had succumbed to some mysterious disease causing the flesh on his bald head to become scaly like that of a serpent. But Hugh knew the truth. Anyone who could make his joints lock with a single word and bore the serpent scales on his head could be none other than a Soulbound Smiter, the Binder Mages in the secret employ of Qra’z. Yes, he thought with dread, Soulbound Smiters were known for their dealings with the demons of the Shadow Realms. They gained powerful abilities from the bargains they made with those demons. The most dreaded power a Soulbound Smiter possessed was the ability to take a person’s soul from their body and feed it to their demon host, leaving the mortal frame a lifeless husk able to be animated and manipulated, or possessed.
“Little birdie knows me, he does. Little birdie has knowledge, he does,” the Smiter laughed mercilessly. “Little birdie will taste good, heh, heh.”
Terror filled him as he frantically thought of a means of escape or death before the worst happened. Then another set of hands grab him from behind, as he was shoved through an inconspicuous door in the wall surrounding the temple compound.
Mentally kicking himself he thought over and over, Never wait for a late appointment!
Once inside the temple compound, Hugh was strapped to a cart and wheeled across the open courtyard to the temple itself. All the while his analytical mind was processing scenarios, deducing likely outcomes and waiting to take advantage of any way out of this mess; even if it meant falling on someone’s sword. His insides were turning to water at the thought of what might happen should the forces of the Arnathian Empire learn the secrets of his spy network. The worst of it, however, was likely worse than a mere compromise of his network. Should this man truly be a Soulbound Smiter, the devious bastards would likely gain control of his body thus gain access to all of his thoughts and memories and the considerable knowledge stored in his brain.
A very skinny man in the white and gold robes of a priest of Qra’z stood at the temple door, the morning light shining on his bald pate.
“Well, well, Hugh Renaul it is. Hmm.” The man’s squeaky voice and annoying accent revealed he was from the Arnathian Capital. Hugh tried to scowl at the man, but the best he could manage to do was growl with his jaws clenched tightly by the lock spell cast upon him. If he was going to die, he would do his best to die on his own terms and at the very least die defiantly. He would never, ever, sell his soul to the foul priest or this cursed Smiter.
“Very nice specimen, Hother.”
“Jus’ pay me, priestie. No time for games.”
Hugh took some comfort in that. It appeared to him as though the Hother was going to leave him with the priest. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
“I will, Hother. But you will bring this one inside before you unlock him.” The Hother pirate growled with impatience and picked up the man, stiff as a board and threw him roughly inside the temple.
“There! Inside he is. Nah, PAY ME!” shouted the pirate. Hugh knew this Hother must be a powerful Smiter to talk to a priest of Qra’z in that way. Not because the priest was more powerful in magic than this Smiter, although that might be the case, rather it was that priests of Qra’z commanded respect under Arnathian law. Arnathians would tolerate no less.
The priest shot the Smiter a dark look and reached into his pouch producing a handful of Arnathian gold crowns.
“Nah, nah, priestie. Tha’ won’t do at all! I need stone currency. I’m for tha Eastern Kingdoms affer hare! Pay up!”
“Indeed,” said the beady eyed priest. Hugh did his best to remain silent and forgotten as the pair haggled. He hoped the Smiter would unlock him without binding his hands. A wild hope. His eye muscles had been unaffected by the spell and he was able to glance around; the temple was completely empty. A lone brazier smoked with incense on the altar at the far end of the sanctuary. The temple was lavishly decorated in the fashion of temples elsewhere in the empire. Hugh had never set foot in this temple, he somehow had never given any thought to what it looked like on the inside. The floor of the sanctuary was covered with luxurious carpeting and on the walls hung fine tapestries and paintings, while large golden statutes watched from alcoves. Clearly, sermons in this room were meant to remind the faithful of the ever-present greed of their god, he thought wryly. It seemed to Hugh that everywhere he looked the eyes in the paintings and on the statutes watched him, was a threat -daring him to act. With thoughts of defiance, Hugh vowed to act and hoped he could kill one of these men in the process.
The priest opened a pouch that had been hidden deep inside his robes and paid the Hother in gem currency. Consisting of small disks, or coins, made from rough emerald and ruby stones not fit for jewelry, gem currency had been used in Hybrand prior to occupation and was still in use in the Eastern Kingdoms. Nothing more was said between the two as the Hother strode toward the door. Before stepping out the surly man waggled a finger at Hugh and muttered something unintelligible before flinging open the door and leaving. Feeling his muscles suddenly relax as he was unlocked, Hugh shoved his hand into his pocket to reach for something that would help him end this situation. He was amazed at how much his joints hurt with the movement, even though he had only been under the spell for a few minutes. He pulled the wormwood rod from his pocket and held it to his throat as he rolled on the floor. But he hesitated before speaking the incantation.
Maybe I can escape, he thought. This is just a priest.
Fool, you know the routine! End it, now! he answered himself. With renewed determination he chose to do his duty. He forced the tip of the rod into his throat and tried to utter the incantation, but no sound came out. He almost cried with desperation, but his voice made no sound. He shoved the rod back in his pocket.
“Hmm, hmm,” mumbled the priest. “Why do you try to speak in my sanctuary? I wonder. No use. There is a silence spell at work here. Only I may speak, and those whom I choose to allow.” The skinny priest chuckled and grabbed the Cklathman with unusual strength, hoisting him to his feet. Beady black eyes in a flat face trying to read him over a hooked nosed made the man look something like an owl. “Sacrilege is not tolerated in he
re. Hmm.”
With one hand on his golden dragon pendant, and the other on Hugh’s arm, the skinny man led him to a staircase behind the altar. Hugh had already thought about why the priest had not summoned anyone else to help him. The odds were that this priest was either a powerful fighter and could whip him with one hand, or he was one of the few priests gifted with powerful magic. Sensing the latter was the more likely scenario, Hugh knew that going deeper into the priest’s lair was a bad idea and decided to make a break for it. He calculated the odds of getting caught versus the odds of escaping long enough to cast his spell. Then he dismissed the odds; after all, he really had no other choice.
Hugh slid his wormwood stick from his pocket and then he jammed it in the side of the priest’s head, hoping to stun him long enough to make it out the temple door. The moment wood struck bone, Hugh turned and ran as fast as he could toward the exit, his pouches and pockets flapping. He mentally recited the incantation that he would veritably shout should he make it safely to the exit. He sensed freedom as he reached the door and then-
-fell flat on his face, locked again. Tears rolled down his cheeks as rough, but invisible, hands picked him up and lifted him from the ground. Slowly, inexorably, he drifted across the sanctuary toward the staircase, hopes dashed. This spell was much stronger than the last, leaving him barely enough control to breathe. He was able to glimpse, with some satisfaction, that the priest was still in a crumpled heap near the alter, blood dripping from his temple.
Down the tight spiral staircase he floated, in the firm and unyielding clutches of the unseen. Hugh knew now that the end was near, and it was going to end badly. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this and he cursed himself for a coward for not thinking of it earlier; the dagger concealed in his belt was going to be his only way out now.
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