by Tom Lloyd
Picking the corpse up by the ankle, he threw it on to the roof of the small storehouse the Siblis had died against. The corpse wouldn’t be disturbed tonight, at least. Gargoyles were mainly territorial, and hunted by sight, not scent: that one would not return soon, and no others would be drawn into claimed territory.
A muffled cry came from the main building as the owner heard the commotion outside. A weak light flickered in the window above and then a round face appeared, a man’s, his several chins shaking in anger. A woman was shouting in the background.
‘What in Bahl’s name is going on out here?’ The man blinked the sleep from his eyes and peered down at the street, a candle in one hand and a club in the other. ‘You, what are you doing? Get away, before I call a patrol!’
The giant slipped back the hood of his cape to reveal the blue mask underneath. His eyes blazed suddenly as he brought the bow up from the floor with a thought. The merchant gasped and dropped the club on to the floor, wincing as it fell on his bare toes.
‘My Lord, forgive me, I did not realise—’
The giant held up a hand for silence. He was not in the mood for conversation.
‘Return to your bed. If that wife of yours continues to screech I’ll have the Ghosts cut her tongue out.’
Lord Bahl, Duke of Tirah and ruler of the Farlan tribe, marked the wall so a night patrol could retrieve the corpse later and continued on his way. This night was special to him. He didn’t want anything to intrude on his memories of a birthday long forgotten by others, just to be alone with the past in his beloved city. Outside, he forgot his loneliness and bathed in the night, remembering the happier time before he had become Lord of the Farlan, when duty had not been his only purpose.
A low moan escaped his lips; it grew and rose up into the night sky. ‘Only one thing I have ever asked, only one,’ he prayed through the sudden waves of choking grief that rolled over him. ‘I have ever been loyal, but—’ His voice trailed off. Forsaking the Gods would not bring her back; all that would achieve was harm to the nation that was now his life’s purpose. He stood and made a conscious effort to subjugate those feelings, drive them back into the deepest reaches of his heart. On this night only, the date of her birth and her death, the Lord of the Farlan allowed his dreams to be of her.
Off to the north, the Golden Tower caught his eye. The half-ruined landmark still shone in daylight, but now it was little more than a black presence that Bahl felt as much as saw against the night sky. Squatting near the tower’s base was a tavern, the only glimmer of happiness in the entire district. Bahl could hear a dulled chatter coming from within. This was a poor district nowadays; the warehouses and workshops meant few people actually lived here. The patrons of the tavern would be labourers and wagon-drivers, men without homes who followed the work. They were always amongst the first to hear news from abroad.
He eyed the drab, graceless tavern. It backed up against a larger building and faced into a crossroads, a good position even in this mean quarter of the city. A statue stood at the centre of the crossroads, probably for no reason other than that there was space. Bahl wondered how many men these days would recognise that the statue before him was a monument to Veriole Farlan, the first king of their tribe. How many would truly care? The city was covered in statues of lords and Gods, as well as scowling faces said to ward off evil spirits. Though there were very few creatures like the gargoyle watching the people below, the city’s grim and ancient grandeur meant tales persisted.
Taken by a sudden thirst for beer and cheerful voices on such a dismal night, Bahl drifted towards the tavern, changing his appearance as he did so. He felt the clammy night air on his scalp as he pulled off the close-fitting silk mask he wore. A simple glamour gave him dark hair with three copper-bound plaits. No magic could alter the colour of his eyes, but a mercenary white-eye would probably be ignored. Lifting the hem of his cloak, Bahl gave it a quick violent twitch; when it fell back to touch his calves it was a dull green - only the rich wore white cloaks. The simple enchantments left behind a familiar rushing tingle, a seductive reminder of how little he used his prodigious skills.
The combination of age and dirt obscured whatever picture adorned the sign that moved stiffly in the night air, but if Bahl’s memory served correctly, this was The Hood and Cape. At least it was not one of the many taverns in Tirah that liked to have his head swinging in the breeze. The tavern was dingy, but light shone merrily enough through the window, an invitation to passers-by to leave the chill open air. Bahl didn’t think the welcome would extend to him, but he thumbed the latch and pulled open the door anyway.
Pipe smoke tickled at his eyes as he ducked through the doorway into a large room illuminated by two fires and several oil lamps. Rough tables stood in no real order and the ground was sticky with spilt beer and mud. A short bar opposite the door was manned by a drowsy man who had a paunch fitting to a barkeep and a scowl for the new arrival.
A man of about fifty summers sitting by the fire was apparently the centre of attention in the room. Rather dirty, with unkempt hair and his right leg resting on a stool, he was obviously in the middle of regaling his audience with a story, something about an encounter on the road to the Circle City. The tall white-eye kept his head bowed as he crossed over to the bar. He picked up the tankard of beer that was placed wordlessly before him and dropped a silver coin in return. The barkeep frowned at the coin for a moment, then swept it up and went in search of change.
Bahl hunched down over the bar, leaning heavily on his elbows to make his great height less obvious and facing away from the focus of the room. When the barkeep returned with his change, a motley collection of copper pieces, Bahl gave the man a nod and found a bench on the furthest side of the room from the storyteller. There he could sit and listen in peace.
Bahl almost laughed at himself. Here he was, sitting and sipping at his beer - surprisingly good for such an establishment - but what was he doing? Sitting alone in a tavern in one of the city’s less salubrious districts, scarcely half an hour’s walk from his palace - perhaps he’d finally gone mad? Then he heard his own name mentioned by the storyteller, and Aracnan’s, and every nerve in his body came alive. He’d not been paying the man much attention, so all he caught was that Aracnan had demanded to speak to the teller’s son. Now why would that be?
He sipped the beer, no longer tasting it. There was something in the air that disquieted him: first the seeker, following his death to Tirah, then the casual mention of Aracnan. Bahl could almost see a thread weaving its way through the streets, snagging on his shoulder and drawing him into its web. It was a string of unlikely or inexplicable events... some agency was at work here.
The man holding court claimed that he had seen the mercenary slipping into the palace when he had been a member of the cavalry there. Then, with a self-important ring to his voice, he added that he had been told to forget the whole incident by the Chief Steward himself when he raised the matter with him.
Bahl wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. He doubted even the most alert guard could notice Aracnan’s passage if Aracnan didn’t wish to be seen, and his Chief Steward tended to threaten his subordinates in a more direct fashion. It was strange to hear the storyteller use Aracnan’s name, though: Bahl had been acquainted with Aracnan for more than a hundred years, yet he knew almost nothing about the man. Even the rumour that Aracnan had been the one to teach Kasi Farlan, the first white-eye and last of King Veriole’s line, how to use a sword was unconfirmed. That was before the Great War, seven thousand years ago. Bahl could believe it. Immortals kept their secrets close, and no mortal had eyes like Aracnan’s.
The little Bahl had picked up about this current story was enough for him to want to meet the boy Aracnan had apparently wanted to talk to. Aracnan had his own agenda, but sometimes he was commanded by the Gods themselves; whatever his purpose, it was always worth investigating his actions.
An old man sitting by the fireside coughed obviously. Bahl guessed he was the usua
l storyteller in this tavern, and had not taken kindly to some dirty wagoner taking centre stage. A love of stories and mysteries was at the heart of Farlan culture: a Farlan liked nothing so much as to tell all manner of grand tales, washed down with a drink or four. It was a poor tavern indeed that couldn’t afford a resident storyteller to entertain the customers.
The elderly man smoothed his beard and shuffled in his seat as he played his audience. Bahl smiled inwardly; Aracnan’s greatest feats were known to only a handful of people, and there might well be even greater exploits that had gone completely unnoticed by history.
‘Aracnan is as mysterious as the Gods themselves,’ the old man began, his voice pitched low to make his audience listen the more closely. ‘Some say he fought at the Last Battle. Perhaps he is one of the cursed Vukotic family.’
He paused, allowing a mutter to pass around the room as men frowned and gestured and murmured incantations under their breath, invoking protections against the cursed. Superstitious fools, Bahl thought to himself, only daemons are attracted by speaking their name.
The old man cleared his throat again, regaining his audience’s attention. ‘Maybe he’s a daemon that wanders the Land. Nothing is known for sure, except that he appears without warning, often just before a battle. He commands his own fee and takes no argument. Do you remember the late Duke Helrect?’
‘The one who killed his wife and became a monk?’ asked one of the more vocal listeners.
The storyteller nodded gravely. ‘He did become a monk, but I heard from the Captain of the Guard there a darker tale. It was rumoured that his wife was a sorceress who consorted with daemons and wanted to enslave the city. The duke’s mage tried to denounce her, but she struck him down before he could reach the palace.’
Bahl grimaced at that. The woman had been ambitious, true enough, but hardly a creature of evil. The mage had been more than a match for her mean abilities, just not impervious to arrows. He said nothing. Stories had a life of their own. Sometimes in a land of magic there were forces that changed even truth. He turned his attention back to the old man, who was imbuing the story with high emotion now.
‘Then she barricaded herself in her tower, and any man who neared it fell dead. The captain told me that he was taking counsel with the duke when, despite the locked doors, a daemon appeared in the chamber - to kill them all, or so they thought. The daemon named himself Aracnan, and said he had been sent to their aid. He told the duke to enter the tower at first light - and then he was gone. The duke broke down the tower doors at dawn and found his wife, torn into a thousand pieces, and all of those pieces scattered over the room.’
The storyteller paused with a theatrical shudder. ‘The duke went to offer thanks at the Temple of Death and was told by the priests that the price of their master’s aid was that he must renounce his title and become a monk.’
He turned back to the wagoner and addressed him directly: ‘You’re wrong. Aracnan doesn’t work as an agent of Bahl; he is older and more powerful than even our lord. It’s said that he is a messenger of the Gods. You should have sent the boy with him, rather than cross him.’
The wagoner belched his opinion of the storyteller. ‘Perhaps, but I don’t believe that my son has any destiny except to cause me trouble and carry cloth for the rest of his life. He’s no good for anything else, that’s for sure - can’t take orders that don’t come with a whip, so not even the Swordmasters will want him. At least the scroll your daemon wanted to give the boy will fetch a few coins, though less than he has cost me over the years, more’s the pity.’
‘I still say he wanted nothing good with that boy,’ a voice broke in. Bahl turned to look towards the new speaker, but kept from meeting his gaze. The man wore white on his collar and Bahl had no wish to be recognised yet.
‘Carel, Nyphal is not watching over the boy, so keep your fool mouth shut,’ replied the wagoner. Bahl assumed they were good friends for no one spoke to a former guardsman like that, no matter how silver his hair might be, unless they were close.
‘What did the scroll say?’ someone called out.
‘Can’t open the damn thing. Carel here reckons it’s magical, that only the boy can read it, but the lanky bastard won’t touch it. There are some symbols on the outside, but what they mean, Death only knows.’ He belched again and sat back as he felt the beer rising in his throat, then wiped his cracked lips while looking expectantly at the crowd.
After a few moments Bahl signalled the bartender to give him another. ‘And what price for the scroll?’ he enquired. This way was worth trying first.
‘To you? More than you could afford. I have enough trouble with my son; the thought of having to deal with another white-eye makes me more than thirsty.’ The man glanced over to his friend, the former Ghost, and Bahl saw he was flanked by four armed men, no doubt wagon-train guards.
A bulky mercenary sitting off to the left chuckled, and eyed Bahl’s fine armour with the smile of a thief. With a nod to his companions he stood. His thick jaw marked him a half-breed : Farlan mixed with one of the nomadic peoples, maybe. The Farlan were an elitist people, but even those regarded as inferior stock could look down on a white-eye.
‘Perhaps you should buy us all drinks, white-eye. Or donate those fine gold rings at your waist. Very exclusive tavern this is; not just anyone drinks here - not unless they’re stupid, or willing to pay for us all.’
Bahl looked down and realised his cloak was open enough to show the dragon-belt at his waist. Four thick gold rings hung from it, worth far more than their weight. The man couldn’t take his eyes off them; his stubby fingers stroked the hilt of his dagger. Before anyone could blink, Bahl had drawn his broadsword and levelled it at the man’s throat. Crackling threads of light danced up and down the five-foot-long blade before fading to nothing around Bahl’s glove.
The mercenary looked deep into Bahl’s colourless eyes and utter panic showed on his face. A bolt of lightning leapt from the blade and the mercenary spun in the air as it threw him backwards. He hit the edge of a table and crashed down on the floor. Sparks and tongues of flame danced around the room so ferociously that even the fires and lamps shrank back in fear.
No one else moved. They all averted their eyes, desperate not to be the next to attract Bahl’s attention. Bahl’s free hand bunched into a fist, and he sought to compose himself. Tonight more than ever, his rage was close to the surface; it felt like a red mist of violence lurking at the edges of his vision. He drove it back down, and as he calmed himself he noticed how the new odours of burnt flesh and urine cut through the air.
‘I will take the scroll now.’
The cowering wagoner scrabbled it out of his bag, dropped it, picked it up again and gave it to Bahl, retreating hurriedly back to his seat. The giant looked at the scroll in silence, a puzzled expression on his face, and then passed his hand over it, muttering wordlessly.
‘Lord Bahl,’ said a voice. Bahl turned to see the Ghost - Carel? - down on one knee, eyes on the ground.
‘My Lord, I would swear on the name of the Palace Guard that Aracnan meant to kill the youth. It was the sight of Nyphal that held him back.’
Bahl nodded, to himself more than anyone else. It was true only the youth would have been able to open the scroll, and probably fortunate that his instincts had stopped him, though it wasn’t intended to kill. He tucked it into his belt. The College of Magic would no doubt enjoy prising its secrets apart.
‘Bring the boy to the palace. I will take him off your hands.’ The offer surprised him as much as the wagoner. What do I do with him? he wondered in the privacy of his own mind. Was Aracnan pursuing a mission of the Gods here, or some private enterprise of his own? Either was possible.
Abruptly Bahl froze, like a dog catching a scent on the wind. The tavern and its occupants faded from his awareness and instead he felt the city around him, stone houses and damp streets and gutters clogged with rubbish, and a mind like his own. Aracnan.
He sheathed his broadswor
d and made for the door. As he pulled it open, the sensation grew stronger. Aracnan was on a rooftop ahead, masked by shadows. Somehow he’d been able to conceal himself from Bahl until now, perhaps just to prove he was more skilled in magic than Bahl would ever be.
The Duke of Tirah stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He took a moment to check for curious faces, then, when he was certain he was alone, he walked left to an alley until he was out of sight of the tavern. Then he waited.
‘Surprised, my Lord?’
Bahl hadn’t even seen the mercenary cross the rooftops to reach him. It was disconcerting that Aracnan could get around him so easily.
‘Impressed. But also curious. You’ve never needed to hide yourself in Tirah before.’
‘Times, it seems, are changing. Someone doesn’t want me in this city, so I shall be brief. It was hard enough to find you without inviting another attack.’
‘Attack?’
‘That is my problem. Your beloved city is safe. What I came to tell you is that the boy is to be your Krann. I was told to bring him to the palace, but he would not come.’
‘My Krann ... So that’s what the Siblis had sensed; they were following the call of his gifts. And the tavern, did you encourage me to go there?’
‘I did, but only gently. You’d have noticed if I’d had any ill intent towards you.’
Bahl paused, about to speak, then shrugged and returned to more important matters. ‘The boy refused? How is that possible?’
‘With this one there’ll be no simple answers. The boy’s trouble, but now he is your trouble. Take care, my Lord. The Land has not been so dangerous a place since the Great War.’
Isak stumbled on down the street, stubbing his toe on the cobbles, but there was no chance of a rest. He’d been drifting off to sleep in the warmth of the stables, soothed by the comfortable sighing of horses, when the door had burst open and his father appeared, his face contorted into a mask of terror and rage.
