by Ari Marmell
The terrain was indifferent at best, often actively hostile. From the rocky foothills and cracked stone badlands around the mountains; the desiccated and frequently blighted grasslands beyond; the torrent of the Dragon’s Tail; the vermin-spawning swamps where the Tail broke from the broader flow of the Dragon River. Every mile ate away their reserves, their strength, until Nycolos would almost have accepted the death that inevitably awaited if only he could resume his true form—and regain his wings—for a few glorious moments.
Nor was the land itself their only adversary. Late season storms lashed the open ground of the Outermark. Lightning scored deep lesions into the earth. Chilling rains pelted the travelers before accumulating into clinging puddles and sucking muck, yet never seemed to irrigate the earth much once they’d passed.
Plains wolves; the occasional bear; a circling speck high above, that might have been either wyvern or peryton hunting far from its mountain eyrie. Once, at the edge of the marsh, some form of monstrous toad-beast the size of a small horse, ambushed them. That, at least, was a battle that Nycolos’s inhuman strengths had allowed him to win, and the beast, though ill-flavored, fed them for days.
On a handful of occasions, guards fortunate enough to escape from the mines and the mountain fey had caught up with them, seeking vengeance. Then, though it chafed Nycolos more fiercely than those storms, he and Smim would flee, or find some small shelter or woodland in which to hide, rather than face superior numbers in their fatigued state. So, too, had they been forced to avoid another, more vicious form of raider, as tribes of bog goblins discovered the many bands of slaves trudging across the region. Against these, Smim’s presence was no buffer, for the slimy, peat-dwelling creatures bore little love for their cave-haunting cousins.
One twilight, as they hunted for a patch of halfway dry ground on which to bed down, they had stumbled across one of those goblin raiding parties at camp. The wicked things danced and cavorted around a fire, the light glistening on their algae-smeared and moss-clad bodies, stone-tipped spears and alligator-tooth-edged swords raised as high as their shrill, screeching voices.
Alongside the fire lay several dead men and women, stacked like logs, while another corpse rotated on a primitive spit, already lightly cooked by the flame’s kiss. And though his hair had long since burnt away and much of his skin had followed, enough of the dead man’s features remained for Nycolos, with his inhuman vision, to recognize the escaped slave Keva.
Nycolos’s reaction had nothing to do with Keva, of course. That was just obvious, when Nycolos contemplated his choices in later days. He owed the man nothing, felt no affection for him. Rather, it was the frustration of the journey, all the pain and fatigue, the good fortune of catching so many goblins together and unaware. He just lost control, couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It was about pride, about Nycolos himself.
Not about some dead slave Nycolos had barely known. That notion was just foolish. Nothing to do with Keva at all.
Unfortunately (or perhaps quite fortunately, if one happened to be a marsh goblin), Nycolos never launched his attack, whatever its motivations. Hoping to catch the entire tribe in one fell swoop, he had concentrated on his body, working to strengthen his gut, his lungs, his innards, the skin of his throat and his tongue, enough to bathe the lot of them in a gout of eldritch fire, as he’d done to so many of his foes of old.
But the only fire he’d felt burned within him as his entire body convulsed in overwhelming, maddening agony. He’d no idea of whether he was passing out or actually dying, and his final thought before the world and the pain faded was that he would welcome either. It had been hours before Smim had managed to shake him awake, and only—so the goblin told him—after dragging him for miles through the fetid swamp.
Piecing it together later, Nycolos knew he had gone too far, shifted too much of himself back. The cursed sliver, that tiny piece of enchanted steel, had recognized its prey anew, had begun to seek his heart. He must have reversed the process through sheer primal instinct before he’d gone under, turning his organs back to those of a mere human. Whatever healing he’d managed while a slave to Justina Norbenus had been brutally undone. His world was again one of constant torment, a soul-deep suffering that dogged his every breath, his every thought.
Despair might have overcome him then and there, he might have chosen to let himself die, but his ego would never allow it. Especially not with a possible salvation growing ever nearer.
So he had continued on, every step through the swamp the labor of a lifetime. He allowed Smim to support him, to help him through the roughest patches, though he burned anew at the indignity.
But finally, finally they stumbled through the last of the bogs to the banks of the Dragon River.
The broad and rapid torrent proved almost impassible. Even as he was nearly swept away, saved only by a convenient protruding rock and Smim’s desperate efforts, Nycolos couldn’t keep from smirking at the potential irony that the Dragon, of all things, might kill him. Trembling, more than half-drowned, too exhausted even to stand, they staggered and crawled out onto the opposite bank to collapse among the reeds.
And only then, his cheek buried in the muck, did Nycolos begin to truly realize: the Outermark was behind them. It hadn’t stopped him, hadn’t slain him, no matter how hard it had tried, how close it had come. They were past it.
He raised his mud-encrusted face and gazed into the kingdom of Kirresc.
It looked, from here, much like the rest of the world. Grasslands, more fertile than those in the stagnant Outermark, occasionally rolling, bedecked by sporadic patches of woodland. Nothing yet to mark it as a civilized land—by human standards, anyway—let alone the homeland of one Nycolos Anvarri.
They made camp amidst the reeds, fed themselves on uncooked fish, went to sleep shivering with the damp and awoke the same way. Then, yet again, they walked.
Aimlessly, at first. Smim had never been to Kirresc, while Nycolos had only seen it long, long ago, and only from high above. He possessed only the vaguest notion where they might be headed.
That had changed on their second day in the kingdom, when they stumbled across the highway. The broad dirt road suggested only a moderate amount of traffic, this far out, but it should lead them where they wanted to go.
The expressions of abject horror upon the first passersby they met—a farmer and several of his hands, hauling a late-season harvest to town—reminded Nycolos that, though the worst of the Outermark filth and sweat had been washed from him in the river, he was clad only in tattered rags. Also that Smim’s presence would not go unremarked, or in any way welcomed, in these “civilized” lands.
When he and Smim moved on, the folks on the wagon were short some clothes, a pair of cloaks, and a sack-full of vegetables—and were, on the whole, grateful that those were all they’d lost to the pair of monstrous travelers.
So they had continued along the highway, Smim largely concealed by what was, for him, an oversized hood, Nycolos doing what talking proved unavoidable. They asked direction where they could, stole when and what they must, their pace kept infuriatingly slow by the twin necessities of pampering Nycolos’s wound and finding shelter from the frequent autumn storms.
Until now, finally, on one late afternoon after days Nycolos had not bothered to count, they stood outside the walls of Talocsa, the great capital of Kirresc.
The place was a riot of colors that somehow wove themselves into a coherent whole even where they clashed, a tapestry of eccentric genius. Whitewashed and gleaming, the city’s walls were just beginning to glow orange in the light of the setting sun. Above them rose Talocsa’s towers and minarets, many built to almost house-like triangular peaks of umber shingles, others squared platforms with stone ramparts. Pennants in the many hues of the Kirresci noble houses saluted proudly, always overtopped by the golden eagle on crimson field that was the ensign of the royal house and the nation itself.
And while Nycolos could never have described exactly how, it seeme
d that the many sounds emerging from within those walls—of travel, of labor, of conversation, of laughter and tears and life itself—were of equally sharp colors.
The guards at the city gates, and those who walked the wall above, seemed of relatively good cheer, though it did not stop them doing their duty. Unlike some cities of which Nycolos had heard, they didn’t halt everyone entering Talocsa, seeming to choose at random those whom they questioned or searched.
Well, not entirely at random. Dressed so roughly and traveling with a companion who shrouded his face, Nycolos correctly anticipated that he would be among those who were stopped.
The soldier who faced him sported a long mustache; Nycolos had already noted that, though clean-shaven faces were not uncommon, the majority of Kirresci men boasted either mustaches alone or beards of varying styles. Like his fellow guards, this man wore a hauberk of lamellar scales and an open-faced, slightly conical helm. He carried a sabre at his side, while long spears—some traditional, some of a curve-bladed style Nycolos had never seen—and short recurved bows leaned against the wall, within easy reach.
“You look to have had a hard time of it, traveler,” the guard said, somehow sympathetic and suspicious at once.
Nycolos forced a chuckle he didn’t feel. “You’ve no idea.”
The answering smile was equally artificial. “Your business in Talocsa?”
“Coming home, actually.”
“Indeed? And your name, sir?”
He gave some thought to lying. (Well, lying about the deeper lie.) It took him no time at all to decide not to bother.
“Nycolos Anvarri.”
Oh, but he had the soldier’s full attention now—and not only his. The nearby guards all stopped what they were doing to peer his way, as did many of the passersby. Against the constant song of the city, a bubble of silence seemed briefly to envelop the gate.
“Well,” Nycolos said, shattering that silence like a mace to a mirror, “I’m pleased not to have been forgotten.”
“Baronet Nycolos is gone,” the soldier before him growled, hand dropping to his sabre. “He vanished many months ago.”
“On a fool’s errand!” an anonymous voice added from the growing audience, just loud enough to be heard.
“Now the errand is done,” Nycolos said blandly. “And the fool has returned. Somewhat,” he added, as though the admission were some great secret, “the worse for wear.”
“You’re a liar!” the sentry snapped, all but quivering in anger.
All trace of good humor vanished from Nycolos’s features. “Be very careful what you say, soldier.”
“And what of your companion?” another soldier demanded. “Why does he hide?” Before Nycolos could even think to respond, the armor-clad woman lunged forward, snagging the hood of the cloak and yanking it down.
“That was impolite,” Smim sighed. “And unfortunate.”
Everyone present recoiled, some even going so far as to hiss. Gloves wrapped around spears and multiple sabres slid from scabbards. “Goblin!” someone gasped, rather unnecessarily.
Nycolos unclenched his fists, fingers held straight, ready to sprout talons if no alternative option presented itself.
“Oi!” The voice fell on them from above, atop the wall. “What’s going on down there?”
Looking up, Nycolos saw another figure—a woman, to judge by the voice and what little of her face he could see between the cheeks and nose guard of the helm. She wore a hauberk of chain rather than the simpler lamellar, but otherwise appeared no different than the other guards.
“Goblin, captain!”
“Are you serious?! There are no goblin tribes left in Kirresc!”
“That’s not entirely accurate—” Smim began in a whisper. Nycolos elbowed him.
“He was trying to sneak into the city!”
“And this sort of entirely unwarranted reaction is exactly why—!” Another elbow.
“And who’s this with him?” the captain shouted down.
“A liar and a fraud! Claims he’s Baronet Nycolos Anvarri!”
A pause, then, “Hold them. I’ll be right down.”
The woman vanished from the parapet, leaving behind several archers, arrows trained unerringly on the two newcomers. Between them and the surrounding sentries, Nycolos had to admit he was in a great deal of trouble should the situation turn violent. Even if he could probably survive it, it wouldn’t be easy, and he saw no way he could save Smim…
She appeared again, marching from out of the gate. This close, she was definitely female, and to judge by the dark shade of her face within the helm, probably shared a great deal of Nycolos’s own heritage. (Or his current form’s heritage, anyway.)
“I’ve met Baronet Nycolos a few times,” she announced as she neared. “Even rode patrol with him once. I should be able to clear this up quickly en—” She stopped, studying him, working to focus through the wild growth of untamed beard, the months of hardship, the dust of the road.
Nycolos, who gazed right back at her, could pinpoint by the sudden dilation of her pupils the precise instant she succeeded.
“Oh, bloody hell!” She retreated a step, swept the helm from her head, and then—though not required or technically even proper for addressing a mere baronet—dropped to one knee. “Welcome home, Sir Nycolos.”
An array of dropped jaws and gasps that threatened to draw the breathable air from around the gate was quickly followed by a series of salutes or kneeling, depending on the temperament of the individual in question.
This… Oh, yes. This is how it should be. This is how it will be again.
“Please, my friends, this is unnecessary. Rise.”
They did, those who had knelt, while the others dropped their salutes. The glares of distrust and growing anger transformed into unabashed admiration, while whispers and breathless supposition raced plague-like through the onlookers.
“I apologize for the unseemly welcome, Sir Nycolos,” the guard captain continued. “None of my people meant any disrespect—”
“Of course they did,” he interrupted. Then, after a pause in which the others had only begun to cringe, he smiled. “Just not to me, exactly. An understandable confusion,” he added magnanimously.
“Um, yes. Quite.” The woman laughed, if a touch nervously. “It’s only, nobody thought to see you again, sir. Nobody—forgive me, I mean no slight to your abilities—but nobody thought you stood any chance against…. Against a creature like…”
“Like a dragon?” It was an effort worthy of its own ballad that Nycolos kept the humor in his voice, kept the bitterness choked down where it roiled in his stomach like a bad meal. He should have stood no chance, that damned, insignificant…!
“A dragon. Yes. Is it… That is, did you…?”
“I won. That will have to satiate your curiosity for now, Captain. The tale isn’t one I enjoy, and I’ve no intention of telling it more often than I must.”
“Of course, sir,” she agreed, though the bewilderment on her face belied her easy acquiescence. Understandable, Nycolos decided. To any of them, to these humans, merely surviving a confrontation with a dragon would be the boast of a lifetime. To defeat one? Surely he should be more than eager to spread that tale, shouldn’t he?
But he could not bring himself to do so, not yet, no matter how out of character his reticence might be. The wound in his chest was not the only one that remained too painful.
Perhaps spotting his discomfort, even if she could not possibly have guessed at its true source, the captain snapped once more to attention. “Would you permit me to escort you to the palace, sir?”
“Oh. Yes, Captain.” Especially since I haven’t the slightest notion of how to get there myself. “That would be most kind of you.”
“Not at all, sir. Um… Sir?”
“Hmm?”
“The, uh, the goblin?”
“Is with me.”
The mutters and whispers this time were far less content, and even those who remaine
d silent wore their disapproval in their expressions or their bearing. Nonetheless, the officer simply replied, “As you say, sir,” waved a few of her soldiers to follow, and marched through the gate.
The colorful imagery of the city’s exterior was easily matched, even exceeded, within. Most larger stone homes and structures boasted colored trim, intricately wrought iron fencing or upper-story railings, and—where space and wealth permitted—soaring archways. Even the poorer buildings, constructed of wood with shingled or thatch roofs, often sported brightly painted shutters, sills, and doorways. Many buildings of either construction were whitewashed.
And the pattern continued among the Kirresci people themselves. Men and women with skin and hair of every shade dressed largely in coats, vests, kaftans, robes, skirts, and similar long garments of almost every hue. From darkest black to forest green, sky or ocean blue to rich crimson, and almost always with lacing or embroidery of stark contrast, the garments announced to the world that these were a passionate, hot-blooded people who celebrated life.
None of which made the atmosphere of sweat, cookfires, and animal droppings any more pleasant, but then, one couldn’t expect miracles.
Word of who marched through Talocsa spread before them. The return of Nycolos Anvarri didn’t mean a great deal to the bulk of the population, but a significant minority—and certainly a great many of the soldiers and the city’s nobility—were indeed shocked and fascinated by the news. Small crowds formed along the main avenue, if only to see for themselves if it were true, though many of the onlookers didn’t seem remotely convinced by this bedraggled, exhausted vagabond of a man. A few more squads of soldiers, perhaps off or returning from duty, fell in with the guard captain. Nycolos had a small but significant entourage trailing around and behind him when Oztyerva Palace, the seat of Kirresci royalty, finally hove into view.
Except Oztyerva was no palace at all, no matter what the people of Talocsa had taken to calling it, but a fully fortified castle. The peak-roofed towers and high ramparts might be bright, the banners and sculpted eaves colorful, everything a shimmering ivory or crimson or gold, but it was every inch of it functional. An invader who thought their troubles over once they’d breached the city’s walls might find themselves bogged down in a siege of months or years before this last and greatest bastion of Kirresc fell.
