Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3)

by Christian A. Brown

  After meandering through the camp, they had finally reached its busy center. Here, warrior circles and hearths were plentiful. In kneeling, muttering droves, tribesmen now prostrated themselves in front of Mouse. She found the reverence they had for her—for Feyhazir, rather—unnerving. Mouse wondered what the Dreamer’s association with this tribe could be to have inspired the kind of fealty generally reserved for a king.

  “In there,” said Talwyn, who’d taken the lead.

  The scholar strode toward a tent no larger or smaller than the others, and curiously devoid of activity. Talwyn slipped between the flaps. Mouse hurried after him and past a few kneeling Amakri, whose worshipful attitude she found increasingly bothersome. She entered the tent. Within, a sweltering robe of air wrapped itself around her, and she immediately undid her cloak. The dwelling was far more cluttered than the one in which she’d awoken. Aside from a scattering of fur rugs, the floor was mostly bare; twine and bone talismans hung from the white supports of the dome. The fetishes clattered like mad wind chimes as Mouse and the others came inside. Incense burners, clay and metal pots, urns, and arcane phylacteries carrying misty, whirling substances behind their glass lay jumbled around the outside ring of the tent. The tent smelled of must, pepper, body odor, and unrefined dirt. She turned up her nose at none of them, though, for the fragrance was one of knowledge, magik, and toil. Mouse found the smell welcoming compared to the cold, mildew stink of sorcerer’s towers and ateliers in the West.

  The Keeper of this sacred space bade them welcome. Although he’d been sitting in the center of the floor when they arrived, no one had noticed him until he greeted them. “Kalasi, Feyhazir.” (Hail, Feyhazir.)

  How could he not have been seen, if not for mystic forces? For when he stood, he would be a tall man, even for an Amakri. Mouse knew that when he was enraged, his long veiny limbs would swell with violent strength. At the moment, however, his cobalt countenance wore a peaceful smile. Still, in his greenish eyes flickered the tempestuousness of a sea storm. This spark was one of magik, for gazing upon him and his iridescent, scaled face, Mouse felt the thrall of enchantment, as if she were being lured in by the twisting dance of a snake. Indeed, he seemed to waver as he sat there, dizzying the watchers with his shimmering allure, his coat of scales, and the mystic inks drawn in circles upon circles on his mostly nude flesh. His face was beautiful, at least for a man: a hard V of a jaw, slashes for cheekbones, a small scowling mouth, and heavy eyebrows that looked made for brooding. From his hairless skull protruded two grand ebony horns like those of a ram, though these spiraled upward to sharp points. This man was dangerous, Mouse felt.

  Suddenly, the shadows seemed heavier, and the noises outside—winds, chatter, fighting—fell to a thrum. The shaman swept a large, elegant hand through the space between them. “Vlépoóti sae ékei apomeína. Eímas sígour óti échet erotís. Parakaló, kathís.” (I see that he has left you. I am sure you all have questions. Please, sit.)

  As Talwyn wrestled with the string of words, Moreth beat him to a translation. “I believe he is asking us to sit. I don’t know about the rest.”

  The three came forward and formed a semicircle around the shaman. Teasing fragrances of cinnamon, dried apples, and an oil sharper and sweeter than lavender wafted from small black pots that lay around the shaman. The fumes of which caused warmth to rush from their groins to their chests. Patiently, the shaman watched and waited for the three to settle, to feel comfort in their bodily beats and to become distanced from the commotion happening elsewhere. He waited until they had inhaled enough of the ísycho vótan, the quiet herb that burned in the black pots. When he sensed they were calm and in a state to listen, to hear with more than their ears, he Willed the shadows to be a little darker and the smoke to be thicker and to curl about him. He then shone in the haze like a glittering being of light.

  “Greetings, vessel of Feyhazir,” said the shaman. “I am Pythius, and I shall answer the questions you no doubt have. We have only so much time to speak with our souls as we now do, because the quiet herb can be dangerous to those not used to it.”

  Mouse understood him, somehow. “The quiet herb?” she asked.

  Pythius bowed his head. “A gift from Feyhazir many, many ages ago. When the Amakri first lived on these lands, after the Great Fall and the ruin of the Cradle, times were grave. The land would not tolerate us. Feyhazir, however, walked amongst us, bringing with him many wonders of knowledge. He showed our elders how to cross any barrier of language so that we might make peace and not strife. Feyhazir showed our elders how to mend wounds with medicine, how to unearth the rarest of flowers, roots, and plants—things that grow less than once each season, in each changing climate of Pandemonia. Our land may seem chaotic, but it has its own rhythm and seasons, an order that cannot be seen by those unfamiliar with chaos. Feyhazir taught our cast-out Keepers to do more than listen for secrets—he showed them that their gift was a doorway to possibilities and to other Arts. He showed them how to use the secrets of their souls, how to make miracles with their Wills. The Amakri, and many other tribes of Pandemonia, owe the Dreamer for the preservation of our people.”

  The last time Moreth and Talwyn had entered this space, the conversation had been much less informative. Mostly, Moreth and the scholar had strained to translate a jumbled tale about Feyhazir and some relic of the Dreamer that was hidden somewhere in Pandemonia. Thanks to Moreth’s skulking about the camp, they knew that the Dreamer had often taken private counsel with the shaman, though they hadn’t been privy to the fruits of those discussions. Moreth had made almost a hobby of tracking the Dreamer, while Talwyn had blundered about the camp like a nosy traveler, murdering the natives’ language while attempting to know more of their aims, history, and relationship to Geadhain and this war. Here and now was their first opportunity to know more—about everything, really. Talwyn leaped into the conversation. “Feyhazir taught your people magik?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Pythius.

  The serpents of smoke and scent twining around Talwyn had sedated him enough that he refrained from jumping to his feet. “He has walked here before? As a man, or using a vessel?”

  “All of the great Wills in the sky once made Geadhain their garden of joy and sin. Feyhazir walked here, many times, through many bodies cursed to be vessels.”

  “Cursed?” said Mouse, with a spike of fear that the herb and sorcery couldn’t calm.

  “Breathe deeply, Mouse, and call upon your lion’s heart. Your master is not the same as his kin. There are those who would rule through ruin, such as Zionae, and there are those who value the preciousness of every soul. Feyhazir does not seek to harm you or me. He seeks, rather, to free us, to answer our every desire. Look to the legacy of the Doomchasers, and see what our ancient pacts with Feyhazir have granted us: immunity to the taint and influence of those who would seek to control their creations. We live by our natures and desires; we are free.”

  Taint and influence? Does he mean the corruption Zionae is spreading? wondered Talwyn. Can the horrifying transmogrifications of living men to Blackeyes be stopped, stalled, or reversed? Have these tribesmen been inoculated against Zionae’s corrupting power?

  The group listened raptly as Pythius continued. “In our blessed silence, I hear your clever thoughts well, West Sun.” He looked at Talwyn as he spoke, though the title he used was obscure. “All of what you think is true. We cannot be claimed either by her darkness or by the deceits of any Dreamers. Long ago, when we wandered, when Feyhazir walked among our elders once again, after we’d been cast out of the Great Cities for refusing to honor their laws and accept meekly and quietly the secret wars the Dreamers wage, he granted us this gift—a gift so strong that even after thousands of years, our bodies still carry the essence of his wish. His wish was for us to be free and fierce, to become the hand that fights the untouchable. Our bodies cannot be claimed; our Wills cannot be swayed. So it is that we chase the darkness. We hunt the doom. We are Doomchasers.”

>   A tribal pounding suddenly rose and thundered, as if a single-instrument orchestra were bashing drums outside this cozy cocoon of magik. Perhaps it came from their hearts, or perhaps it was generated by the passion of the shaman’s words. He spoke low and emphatically, his eyes glinting, his form grander than a mountain’s. From everywhere at once, it seemed, the three heard the drumbeats of ancient war, the screams of men spearing their enemies. In the furls of smoke, they could almost glimpse the ghosts of these warriors.

  “Look at our bodies, and see men who are weapons,” said Pythius.

  Sudden fury twisted his handsome beauty, revealing the sharp teeth he had been hiding and causing his sinews to ripple.

  “Look to our souls and to the light and truth from which we were born.”

  They now looked past his great glowing figure, toward a point of light hanging like a Northern star—if this were illusion it was more real than life itself. Frenzied by an irrational need, they grabbed for the star, which seemed within reach. In a moment, each held it: a chalice, possibly of bone, carved with inexplicable runes and an orgy of grotesque designs. Had they not been so bespelled, they would have recoiled. The cold earthen feel of the cup chilled their hands, as though it had just been pulled from a tomb.

  “Look to your hands, and see what we seek, what Feyhazir has returned to reclaim from the lands where it was lost when last he walked Pandemonia.”

  A chalice? they wondered.

  “The Covenant!” declared Pythius, who’d turned into a shivering colossus of light.

  The three cowered, dropped their phantom chalices, and raised their hands to ward off the brilliance. Following a burst of savage wind, the drumming stopped, and only the sound of their heartbeats and breathing could be heard. Some of the darkness and smoke had cleared, and they faded back into their bodies, still in a deeply confused state. They saw Pythius waving away the plumes from the potted incense. Nothing had really changed. He wasn’t any more of a giant than seemed normal for him, and there was no chalice to be seen. They even sat exactly as they had before the strange cacophony of visions. Pythius welcomed them once more with a smile. “I hope that answers some of your questions,” he said. “I am afraid that our time with the quiet herb must now end, lest you develop something worse than a headache.”

  Ow, thought Mouse, as pain shot through her head on cue.

  “I think I understand,” said Talwyn, but the others couldn’t say the same. “I have further questions, though.”

  Pythius tilted his head and stared at the scholar, like a reptile deciding on a cricket to eat. “Very well, West Sun. Stay and we shall speak. You will not have the advantage of the quiet herb to assist you; however, I feel you will do well enough with your wits and perseverance.”

  “Wonderful,” said Talwyn, rubbing his temples, where an ache had now settled. “Where to begin…”

  Heads pounding, needing fresh air, Mouse and Moreth left the scholar and the mysterious shaman to themselves. She had more questions, though any more mysteries and her head might split from pain or the burden of those secrets. Talwyn would be a better sleuth than she. Glancing back as she went, Mouse was struck by the voracious gleam that appeared in the shaman’s eyes as Talwyn started to pour out his hundred questions—a look of hunger, one she’d seen in many men before. Should I be worried? she wondered.

  “He will be fine,” said Moreth, catching her lingering, troubled look. “If Talwyn was to be eaten for his inquisitiveness, it would’ve happened days ago.”

  Somewhat assured, she and Moreth wandered off to find a quiet place of their own, where they could have a chat and clear the rest of this quiet herb from their skulls.

  VI

  Pythius proved himself to be outstanding company. The Amakri possessed as good a mind as any Talwyn had ever known. Not that he’d encountered many intellectuals outside of formal, academic, or technomagikal settings; he wasn’t convivial, and had been virtually friendless before meeting his new pack. The two of them sweated, gestured, and cursed, often laughing at one another as they tried to tackle ancient history and the world’s greatest secrets without the benefit of a shared tongue—an exchange so exciting that Talwyn’s pain quickly diminished to an easily dismissible irritant.

  Strangely enough, they made do. Pythius proved as patient as he was aggressive. Like a man of two temperaments, two spirits, he took his time sounding out words and phrases, but often grew enraged during other passionate discussions, usually regarding the Dreamers or the other people of Pandemonia—the Lakpoli—who inhabited the Great Cities and who’d spurned the wandering tribes in an age long past. Like an angry snake, Pythius hissed the word, Lakpoli, whenever it came up. He showed a similar anger when discussing the concept of honor, which arose often, especially when the city-dwellers were mentioned. For pride, honor, and the very fact of being alive were all the same to an Amakri. If you could not live honorably, you should not live. Pythius did not believe that the Lakpoli had ever known honor. Talwyn never felt brave enough to ask what it was that had caused this rift between the civilizations; he would just have to suss out the answer in a subtler fashion.

  A bit of verbal stumbling occurred at this point in the conversation, as the men explored concepts of excommunication and social exile. The Doomchasers never killed one other, not even for reasons of justice or dishonor. They did, though, mete out what was perhaps a colder punishment, banishing a wrongdoer forever from his tribe and branding him with a mark that would declare him untouchable to any and all Amakri he might encounter. Pythius showed Talwyn the brand—a metal rune like an inverted cross with a circle of metal in its middle—which he pulled from somewhere among his arcane clutter. With a snarling smile, the shaman demonstrated how it would be used. First, he stood the scholar up, then he spun him around, wrenched up his shirt, and placed the freezing metal stamp on his flesh, saying, “Símac delhiós.” (Coward’s mark.)

  If Talwyn had not felt a conflicted, unexpected enjoyment at this aggressive handling from an attractive man, he would have objected sooner. Instead, he waited until the lesson had ended before anxiously tucking in his shirt. Pythius put the rod and its flesh-burning stamp away and made apologetic gestures. When Pythius realized he hadn’t offended his companion, he came nearer and helped Talwyn tuck in his clothes. The intimacy and freeness that these people exhibited around each other and the spice of the shaman—sweat, sweet-grass, and tree oils—gave Talwyn a second bout of nerves.

  “Akoúoch to fóva sas, lypámani. Misótous adýnamoch.” (I hear your fear, and I am sorry. I hate the honorless.)

  Talwyn gathered the “sorry” part, and guessed some of the rest. “I’m fine, really,” he said, and hazarded a phrase. “E-eímai gennaíoch.” (I am brave.)

  Pythius howled at that, whether because of the sentiment or because Talwyn had pronounced the words incorrectly, Talwyn couldn’t tell. Pythius walked to the entrance, pulled apart the flaps, and shouted to his men, leaving Talwyn to worry over his gaucheness. In a moment, the Amakri indicated he should sit once more. Talwyn sensed the kinder side of Pythius’s soul as the shaman knelt with him knee to knee and gave him the smile he now often wore when the scholar had said a silly thing.

  Lightly, they picked up the strands of their conversation, with Pythius making inquiries about Talwyn’s “tribe.” “A pack,” corrected Talwyn, causing the shaman’s smile to deepen. When chatting about his pack, Talwyn was almost certain he referred to Morigan as a milkmaid and the Wolf as a dog, but he didn’t know how to correct these mistakes without making more. In the end, he supposed the picture he painted of the company for Pythius was rather odd. In his turn, and in the spirit of swapping tales—and slaps, for the Amakri slapped him so frequently that Talwyn’s arm ached, and the scholar slapped him back once or twice—Pythius explained to the scholar the wonders of his tribe.

  Some of what Pythius told him supported observations Talwyn had made during his investigation of the encampment, although it felt good to have his perceptive
ness validated. The Amakri, Pythius explained, were not single-minded warriors, but also storytellers: each and every one of them, not only the elders and learned people elected to lead. True, Pythius knew the most tales, the longest threads of history, but they were handed down from shaman to shaman: his knowledge wasn’t hoarded. Unshared secrets and tales were thought of as poison; they needed to be circulated in order to cleanse the bearers’ souls. This belief stood in stark contrast to the philosophy of the silent Lakpoli, their Keepers, and their soldiers, who lived protected in their bastions of elemental power; those dishonorable men never shared their stories, but hoarded them for power. As such, they were considered poisonous, every man, woman, and child among them. A toxic culture. For there was only one law in Pandemonia, one truth, declared Pythius: “Típotae deen eínnai aiónioch.” (Nothing is eternal.) Whereas the Lakpoli thought of themselves as above the order of time, nature, and the elements—they ruled, and did not respect these forces.

  Once more, the conversation became heated as Pythius described the differences between the cultures of the Lakpoli and the tribes who wandered. Here, then, was at least a partial explanation for the hostility between these peoples. Talwyn listened as Pythius shook his fist and hissed, asking few questions. The colonial attitudes of the Lakpoli weren’t all that different from those shown in the West toward the now vanished indigenous folk. Here, though, the original inhabitants had managed to protect their culture, avoiding assimilation by the apparently civilized societies walled up in Pandemonia’s Great Cities. The Great Cities…Where stood crystal towers, silver eggs that flew through the sky, bridges of fire, rivers of molten rock…The wonders of these places sounded greater than anything in Eod, and Talwyn fantasized about, as much as he dissected, what was said.

  However, the Amakri wanted none of these cursed wonders, were interested in nothing that would weaken or sever their connections to their land, community, honesty, and honor.