Chaos Shifter

by Marc Secchia

  Chapter 3: Exile

  THE MASTER HALL was a resplendent ode to the success of the Mistral Fires. It openly flaunted Marshal Chanbar’s not inconsiderable wealth, from the marble columns trimmed in leaf of gold to the pure platinum floor. To the unwavering disbelief of most visiting clients, the entire eighteen thousand square foot floor area was paved in platinum ingots. Asturbar should know. He had spent the better part of five years stealing – ah, expropriating by vigorous and varied methods – every ounce of that floor. Then there was the Marshal’s gemstone encrusted throne, the glittering dinner settings for the lavish banquets the Marshal so adored, and the cascades of Thokorian crystal lights pouring from the ceiling like living waves of water. Towering silk tapestries fifty feet tall and twenty wide celebrated notable events in the House’s history. Great golden braziers depending from the walls in a dozen locations provided additional illumination, and further heated the stultifying atmosphere. The entire roof of the hall was one huge artwork which had taken teams of artists seven years to complete.

  To his surprise the victor, Marshal Azhukazi, did not appear moved by all this wealth. Nay, he was slightly moved. The command was to transfer ten times the cost of his campaign from Chanbar’s treasury to his, forthwith. Chanbar seemed underwhelmed by this transaction, but since he was alive, if sprawled in jaw-dropping indignity beneath the Iolite Blue’s dominant forepaw as the Human Marshal gabbled out his surrender, his influence over the matter seemed rather diminished.

  When the Blue Dragon had finished listening to the muffled voice issuing from between his talons, he turned to the dumbstruck crowd. Majestic of mien, the haughty tilt of his head was every ounce a plenipotentiary Shapeshifter of Herimor, a throwback to the days of the Star Dragoness Hualiama, progenitor of the fire gift which, legend told, had uplifted and purified certain worthy Lesser Dragons, turning them into awesome Shapeshifters. Watching Azhukazi, Asturbar could believe it. He was magnificent, lithe, a creature of palpable might. A thought struck him. Would the Star Dragoness have been proud of what these Dragons had become? She had been purity itself, the white-fires of unadulterated starlight. To see her gift put to the raising of bones, to the building of tyrannical Shapeshifter Houses and Lineages – did that not grieve her?

  He had never considered the sweep of history in this manner. It felt like dusty soldiers’ boots trampling all over the sacred honour of Herimor.

  The Dragon said, “Surrender received. Noble House of the Mistral Fires, hear me now. I came for two purposes. Firstly, I need the skills and firepower of a mercenary House to further my ambitions, which are admittedly, immodest in the extreme. Congratulations upon taking up your honourable service to my cause. Secondly, I require the Jewels of Instashi. It is unfortunate that you appear to have mislaid the jewels at this crucial juncture. I find your security lax, Marshal Chanbar, and I am most disappointed in you.”

  Astonishing how a Dragon’s vocal finesse could turn the word ‘disappointed’ into a palpable evisceration shortly followed by an induction into his undead hordes.

  Covert glances from his position, central-left of the crowd gathered before the Dragon as he prowled in front of Chanbar’s throne, showed Asturbar that not one person present felt any differently. He had never seen the entire staff present in one place, nor seen stark terror painted upon so many visages. The hall was jam-packed, perhaps four thousand souls in all, he estimated, most wearing some element of the House grey with its lightning sigil. From armourers and weapons masters to cleaners and cooks, from strategists to toxicologists, from soldiers to Dragonship pilots, all were present, even the closely-guarded denizens of the Marshal’s immediate family, his three pretty wives and fourteen flawless children. The youngest was but two days old.

  In a sibilant hiss, the Necromancer continued, “Some Dragons, when so grievously thwarted, would order every creature upon this benighted Isle be executed without delay. Personally, I’d find that wasteful. However, if any man present wishes to add to the bone piles of my special troops, let him step forward and take his place in a fireless, soulless, everlasting undeath – now.”

  His challenge went unanswered by so much as a misplaced breath.

  “And if any person wishes to elucidate for me how this theft took place, or when, now is your moment. Speak!”

  Again, the voice that caressed the rich tapestries adorning the walls and shivered the crystal lights in their casements, caused every knee to tremble. The immensity of the Shapeshifter Dragon’s presences struck them dumb. This beast stood thirty-two feet tall at the shoulder and must measure upward of one hundred and forty feet in length, but it was the mesmeric quality of the eyes that unnerved, that dissected, that seemed to rot flesh from bone by the merest glance. His audience was more than spellbound. With talons of ice, the Necromancer’s glare stroked every bone within its casement of living flesh, reminding them that he possessed the power to divest those very bones of their connection to mortal life.

  Asturbar stifled an urge to try to massage the last egg down into his stomach with his fingers. It was stuck just beneath the level of his collarbones, probably just as well, because he could now vomit as he so desperately needed to. Blood pooled above the obstruction, but his airway at least was mostly clear. He coughed – a wretched, blood-bubbling sound.

  The Dragon resumed his pacing, his wings held proudly half-aloft as he bellowed unexpectedly, “I AM AZHUKAZI THE IOLITE BLUE!”

  In that close space, his voice was a thunderclap.

  The Dragon roared, “I AM THE MARSHAL OF DEATH!”

  He was corruption, the miasma of death. Never had Asturbar been so aware of the proximity of evil. He did not even believe any creature to be intrinsically malevolent, but neither had he believed any Dragon could walk his bones through inviolable House wards and then resurrect them. Was the Iolite Blue even alive as he understood mortal existence?

  “The honour of this House has been sullied!” snarled the Dragon. “Rise now, Marshal Chanbar, and resume reign over your dominion!”

  As the short, portly Marshal rose, clearly resisting the urge to dust down the forbidding onyx uniform he wore, the medals and honours clustered upon the thick chain-link honour bands around his neck and shoulders jingled softly.

  Predatory, furious, malicious, the Dragon prowled down through the hall, splitting the crowd like the bow wave of an invisible storm. One elderly cook did not move fast enough. The Dragon callously trod upon her, cutting off her cry abruptly. Now he left a bloodied footprint with each pounding stride. “This is not due to your inevitable capitulation against my superior strategy!” he shouted suddenly. A woman several ranks ahead of Asturbar fainted in shock. “Nay, that is no disgrace. It is this theft that ruffles my scales, this sneaking pustule of a Human who dares to flout the authority of his mother House! That is unacceptable! What say you, Marshal? If I discover the thief amidst these ranks …”

  Asturbar knew there could be but one answer to that implicit threat. Honour was inviolable, even for a mercenary House.

  Chanbar wet his lips. “Allow me to roust out this filth for you, Marshal. Such a menial task is beneath a Dragon Lord of your stature.”

  Excellent answer! Chanbar struck just the right balance between deference, disgust and outrage. A thousand throats begged to cheer, but the only sound to echo within that great space was an infant’s whimper, quickly shushed. Asturbar knew the Marshal’s mind would be working faster than a swooping Dragon. Great wealth and leverage could be gained by an association with a powerful Shapeshifter Dragon and his minions. Indeed, Azhukazi would be relying upon avarice as much as honour to keep the relationship on a footing that was to his liking. Not under a Dragon’s footing, the Commander’s mind joked inappropriately. His lips did not so much as twitch. Having received the Marshal’s word, the Mistral Fires were his possession, body and soul.

  “Shall you now?” A sibilant hiss. The Necromancer paused at the far end of the Master Hall, and addressed the display of antique swords and
battle armour. “Tremble, little thief. Know that I will sniff out the truth – I have the power to dissect, to analyse, to snuff out your puny little minds. Look into my eyes. Everyone! Look up!”

  The command was like a mental whiplash; every person present, right down to the babe clutched in a blacksmith’s arms in front of Asturbar, looked up, and continued to stare fixedly at the Dragon as he paced lithely back down the hall, sweeping his muzzle left and right as he came. Asturbar broke out into a terror sweat so intense, his sweat ran like rivulets of hot blood beneath his metallic gambeson. The eggs sat leadenly in his stomach; the lump in his throat felt as large as an Island, screaming, ‘Me! Here! I am the thief!’

  Had his self-serving actions doomed them all?

  The Dragon’s gaze was fire. Hypnotic. Irresistible. A wave of fainting followed in his wake as Iolite Blue surveyed his new minions with the phenomenal dominance of his magic; step by multi-tonne step, he approached Asturbar’s position, and the giant infantry Commander had to lock his knees and pray to the Dragon Gods of old he would not soil himself for the primeval, crawling sense of horror that unmanned him now.

  Then, the Dragon glared right at him. Fire for fire. Questions slammed against his mind like projectiles. Was it you? Are you the thief?

  Asturbar froze.

  The jewelled egg seemed to cool his ravaged throat like the ice he had once tasted in the Majjikor Mountains, above the region known only as ‘The Chaos.’ He swallowed, and the egg slipped slickly down into his stomach, as though it had always belonged there. A peculiar sense of wellbeing radiated from his gut, coupled with a quirky, perky sense of laughter and light. He could not fathom it. Madness!

  His fear evaporated. In spoken Dragonish, he heard himself reply, Not I, Marshal Azhukazi.

  Liar! Fool!

  Asturbar knew he should have been slain where he stood. Instead, the Dragon’s neck arched slightly farther, until the Iolite Blue dipped his muzzle in the fractional acknowledgement of a fellow warrior spirit. One talon rose, and singled him out.

  “You fought well today. I am not disappointed in you, Commander Asturbar.”

  Death by compliment. Marshal Chanbar would never forgive this slight. Asturbar’s huge hands clenched at his sides as he glowered at the Dragon, who despite his claims had not identified the thief after all. He ground out, “If I have the honour to meet you again in battle, Marshal, know that I shall not be merciful.”

  The Iolite Blue touched his unsheathed left fore-talon to the healing wound beneath his eye, where Asturbar had struck him hard and true. “Should we meet again in battle, o worthy scion of the Azingloriax nation, know that even the mightiest must fall. Death holds no mystery for me. On that day, my talons shall write your destiny in your heart’s blood, and your bones shall reanimate in my service. Anon.”

  And with that astonishing, perplexing statement which referenced the strict warrior code of the Azingloriaxii, in which ‘worthy scion’ was the highest honour an elite warrior could earn in his or her lifetime, the Shapeshifter Marshal pressed on, reaming every mind present with his potent interrogation. The fainting continued, rank upon rank. Asturbar caught the man before him reflexively, saving his baby girl a nasty fall onto the platinum ingots.

  This was impossible. Had he escaped one death, only to anticipate the Marshal’s revenge?

  When he straightened his back, Asturbar found that he alone stood upright. Unbowed. Relieved. A filthy, dishonourable, beaten soldier.

  A thief who lived.

  * * * *

  In his House, the Marshal’s word was law. Thus it was that when the summons arrived, Asturbar rose at once from the reinforced metal bunk in his small, austere chamber, picked up and donned his uniform jacket, and followed the messenger boy up through the fortress. No complaint. No delay. Chanbar must be finished meeting with the Necromancer. Fresh, comprehensive regulations would follow. New jobs. A change of focus and armaments, and perhaps a new field of operations.

  He would see none of this.

  Yet, nothing weighed more heavily upon his spirit than the moment he observed that Bantukor was already present in the Marshal’s official Command Chamber, high up in the House. The sizeable room overlooked a tidy ornamental garden of miniature trees and flowering bushes, home to a dozen frolicsome butterfly-dragonets, and boasted scenery that belied the chemically-blasted battlefield he had fought upon at noon. Where he had saved this man’s life.

  He noted that the Sub-Commander’s pins upon his friend’s uniform epaulettes had been removed.

  Telling.

  Chanbar usually liked to keep a man waiting, but this evening, he seemed agitated. Before Asturbar even finished his formal genuflection, he barked, “Commander Asturbar, you are to be relieved of your duties with immediate effect.”

  One gloved hand appeared from behind the Marshal’s impeccably uniformed back. He wore a fresh suit of his customary black, a double-breasted, silver-trimmed blazer in the rakish Frasku style, with characteristic deep sleeves and trailing silver ‘tails’ at the back. Immaculate black trousers, highly polished black boots and the black gantlets he always affected in public, completed the Marshal’s attire. The stiff, formal collar of his blazer rose in a spray exactly like a Dragon’s flaring skull spikes to a height of ten inches above his bald pate, tattooed with the House symbol and other mystic runes. Against that splendid backdrop, his eyes were hooded. A snake’s gaze.

  Asturbar snapped to attention. “Yes sah!” Removing his Commander’s pins clumsily from either shoulder, he stepped forward and placed the symbols of his rank upon the smooth black palm of Chanbar’s glove.

  “You are no longer Commander Asturbar. You are no longer a son of this House.” Turning with military exactitude, the Marshal addressed the only other man in the room. “Don your pins, Commander Bantukor. Congratulations upon your promotion.”

  A smirk briefly creased Bantukor’s lips as he accepted the platinum pins. Each was a stylised row of five sapphire lightning bolts. Four for a Sub-Commander. Five a Commander – there was one Commander of Infantry, one of Air, and one for the House defence, called the Domicile Commander. Asturbar came within an inch of spitting straight into that smile as the half-Azingloriax soldier continued his unseemly display of gratification. What? Had this changeover been planned? Bantukor must have conspired against him!

  Infuriated beyond reason, trembling with the force of the emotions tearing ragged holes in his breast, Asturbar forced his gaze to roam the room. The austere furnishings were all black or very dark shades, mahogany and ultramarine and deep jade. A large chair for the Marshal was the sole seat, located behind a dark brown lacquered desk made of costly, fragrant jalkwood – originally imported from North of the Rift, Asturbar understood, and over nine hundred years old. Its five accompanying pedestals were hand-carved masterpieces crafted by Yuxi’iathana, a famous woodcarver. The Marshal stood on the spotless black carpet in front of his desk. No sitting down for important work. To Asturbar’s right hand, a floor-to-ceiling crysglass window provided a perfect view of that garden, where five of the Marshal’s younger children played amidst the botanical rarities and treasures in their perfectly coiffed guises of bushes trimmed to represent major dragonet species, in the roseate glow of a perfect suns-set. The scene was so bucolic. Beautiful.

  It broke his heart.

  “Stay with us a moment, Commander Bantukor.”

  “Yes, Marshal sah!”

  Ceremonially, the Marshal marched around his desk and then paused with his splayed fingers touching the pristine surface. “Kneel, Asturbar.”

  Something within him seemed to sigh.

  “Commander, manacle the prisoner.” He was to be dismissed in the deepest disgrace. Dishonourable! “Asturbar, I trust you understand why I am taking this course of action?”

  His tone could almost be interpreted as kindly, if Asturbar did not know better. This was a show of strength; somewhere unseen, behind the gorgeous dark wood panelling the sides of the Marshal’s of
fice, his Inner Circle would be watching and listening. If so, then he should give them an excellent show.

  Asturbar said, “Because you disappointed the Iolite Blue, sah?”

  Curse it! What the … his stupid, flapping tongue! That was anything but the diplomatic answer, and the tic in Marshal Chanbar’s cheek betrayed his seething fury.

  “No, soldier,” he growled. “It is because you disobeyed direct orders by leaving the assault trains to attack our fortress unopposed.”

  No point in disputing the charge. Asturbar inclined his head. “It was as you say, Marshal.”

  The Marshal paused as if waiting for complaint; for remonstrance, perhaps. Behind his back, Bantukor affixed the manacles – very heavy ones, the strongest the House possessed – with faultless proficiency. “Before you receive my judgement, do you have anything to say for yourself, Asturbar?”

  He considered his response. Anger, denial, bitterness. All was worthless. Oddly, what he hearkened to most was the fragrance of freedom tingling in his nostrils. As the tranquil garden seduced his regard with its vibrant colours and the joyous chortling of children drifted through the thick, armoured glass panels, his eyesight seemed blurred. He blinked. His soul seemed so far away, already flying upon the evening breezes to the stars only knew where.

  “Well?”

  Asturbar said, “Thank you, Commander Bantukor. The years we served together have been an honour.”

  He felt the man flinch.

  “Marshal Chanbar, I wish only to express my gratitude for the opportunity to serve with the Mistral Fires. You purchased me as a son. For twenty-seven years this great House has been my hearth and home, and a finer one I could not have imagined.” What he could imagine, was crying. Asturbar gritted his teeth. What idiocy was this? Smoothing out the unexpected barrow-load of gravel in his voice, he said, “I wish you, your family, and indeed this House, a fine and prosperous future in Marshal Azhukazi’s service.”

  A service he would never have to endure. Genuflect to a Necromancer? Such a fate must corrode a man’s very soul.