I'm sure Peter Jackson will find more work.
Now, with the last of the Hobbit movies unleashed upon us and being readily consumed, we are free to take the time to reflect. I'll assume by now that you've either read the books or have familiarized yourself with the material. From this point on, though, I'll speak freely.
You've been warned.
Picking up where The Desolation of Smaug had left us, we were treated to the final flight of His Resplendence, Smaug the Magnificent. Inappropriately or not, I laughed my ass off watching him blaze a path from one end of Laketown to the other in a single pass. Frankly, though, those barrel-riders were asking for it. If they didn't want to be targets for the dragon, they shouldn't have lived within sight of Lonely Mountain. There was a town outside Erebore, sitting on Smaug's doorstep. If they weren't going to live over the horizon under aerial camouflage, they might as well have lived out there. They could've chatted up the old fellow over the years, offered up some cattle...
Oh, well, hindsight. Laketown had no chance. The next best move would've been moving into...Smaug's doorstep. Outer Erebore? Whichever you like. Anyway, move in and tell anyone who comes in response to Smaug's death that he's still alive. "Shhh...His fearsome majesty has just gone back inside to sleep." Maybe they could even get through Thorin's gold fever and get the dwarves to make some convincing grumbling sounds.
Don't get me wrong, though. I'm not out to squelch the story. Good stories come from bad choices, so the characters have to be allowed at least a few. Too much logic has people moving out of haunted houses as soon as the walls start to bleed and where's your movie then? Using logic to avert a war doesn't get you The Battle of Five Armies.
Were we entertained? Damn straight. If you liked the other dozen-plus hours of barefoot hobbits, staff-wielding wizards, and sword-swinging fighters, then you've already seen this one at least once.
What did we learn? Always bet on the fifth army--the last ones to show up to a fight always have an edge; air-dropped cave bears rock; as in Star Wars, armor isn't always as useful as you might think it's going to be; Billy Connolly just can't help being funny; and as every installment has shown us, Elf-fu will jack a sucker up--Legolas, bitch!
Once again, well done. Certainly better than time spent on another bit of tripe from Hollywood's rom-com division.
Showing posts with label magic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label magic. Show all posts
Monday, December 29, 2014
Monday, September 30, 2013
17157--SNICKER SNACK!
Through fire is the will of the maker enforced, shaping the metal into a blade of dangerous intent. Rhythmic hammer blows may be accompanied by chant or incantation or blessing to infuse the newly crafted weapon with specific magic or other supernatural purpose, especially if hands beyond those of mortals are involved. Air is breathed into the forge, fueling the flame and infusing the weapon with spirit.
And make no mistake, it is a weapon. Call it nothing less. It is no mere tool, brought into being for myriad function and adapted to combat. The sword is a weapon, decisive and fearsome, edged for cutting and pointed for stabbing. It is the one and only thing it was created to be. The metal of the blade is chosen for its strength so that it may easily destroy tender, yielding flesh. For thousands of years, man has been resigned to fighting his own kind.
Water is introduced to the fusion of elements, tempering the blade against stress with the fluid's cooling stability. In its own ways, water is as mystical as fire and it is a special strength it shares with the sword.
Feared or hated by goblin, demon, shade and beast, whether supernatural or mundane, spawn of the dark or the light, none crave the blade's keen bite. Inscribed with arcane symbols, imbued with the spirit of its wielder or ornamented with rarest gems, magic will only make the weapon more formidable. In fact, the most ready counter to any sword, enchanted or otherwise, seems ever to be another sword.
Was your weapon custom-made or forged by means beyond mortal ken, perhaps an immortal's gift from another realm, fat with the weight of its destiny. Draw forth your terrible blade, polish it bright and let others cringe before its shining menace and feel its awesome power.
Off the top of my head, of the many exotic personal weapons appearing in character hands throughout CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD, more than half of them are enchanted swords. Face it, they're tough to get away from. Do you have a favorite sword, magic or not, that holds a special place in your psyche?
And make no mistake, it is a weapon. Call it nothing less. It is no mere tool, brought into being for myriad function and adapted to combat. The sword is a weapon, decisive and fearsome, edged for cutting and pointed for stabbing. It is the one and only thing it was created to be. The metal of the blade is chosen for its strength so that it may easily destroy tender, yielding flesh. For thousands of years, man has been resigned to fighting his own kind.
Water is introduced to the fusion of elements, tempering the blade against stress with the fluid's cooling stability. In its own ways, water is as mystical as fire and it is a special strength it shares with the sword.
Feared or hated by goblin, demon, shade and beast, whether supernatural or mundane, spawn of the dark or the light, none crave the blade's keen bite. Inscribed with arcane symbols, imbued with the spirit of its wielder or ornamented with rarest gems, magic will only make the weapon more formidable. In fact, the most ready counter to any sword, enchanted or otherwise, seems ever to be another sword.
Was your weapon custom-made or forged by means beyond mortal ken, perhaps an immortal's gift from another realm, fat with the weight of its destiny. Draw forth your terrible blade, polish it bright and let others cringe before its shining menace and feel its awesome power.
Off the top of my head, of the many exotic personal weapons appearing in character hands throughout CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD, more than half of them are enchanted swords. Face it, they're tough to get away from. Do you have a favorite sword, magic or not, that holds a special place in your psyche?
Saturday, July 13, 2013
17078--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 2)
The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
Deep within the Sun Islands archipelago, a group of ten light combat ships cleaved the cool waters as the first fingers of dawn began to reach over the eastern horizon. With tactical maneuvers coordinated by their command ship, the Albani expeditionary force closed in on Varga, hidden stronghold of the eastern pirate lords. From Varga, the seafaring traffic of more than a score of nations had been prey to the unpredictable methods the outlaws had developed across nearly two centuries of widespread activity.
The pirates of Tarakk had grown from operating in small groups looting small civilian vessels for whatever random valuables they had aboard, to acting as ordered fleets of small, swift attack boats under an organized command structure. The pirate fleets had become capable of harassing, boarding and capturing non-military vessels of any size.
The uncivilized men and women who had dedicated themselves to lives of crime on the open ocean gradually became technologically obsessed to the point of modifying their bodies with cybernetic additions and mechanical prosthetics to achieve greater efficiency in their endeavors. Their observed process was believed to involve holding captive vessels, their passengers and materials for sale, use or ransom. Profits were largely believed to fund continued operations and illicit surgeries.
The Albani military action, converging ships on Varga, was the latest and most significant tactical maneuver against the pirate forces in the last two decades. Years of undermining the fearsome reputations the cyborg pirates had established was seen by most as owing to the driving efforts of one man. It was at his command that missiles carrying payloads of irritant gas were unleashed upon Varga’s interior.
Though the gas-laden missiles appeared to be the first stage of the Albani surprise attack, it was actually the second. Before the sun’s first light, the expeditionary force’s command ship had engaged what the crew had come to call the Voice of Doom, a low frequency sound resonator that induced powerful disorientation and nausea in its targets. As a result, the pirate community’s response to the gas attack was minor.
The pirates of Varga woke to bursting gas bombs and stumbled toward their haven’s sheltered harbor. At the docks, their light attack craft, each capable of carrying twelve to twenty action-ready raiders, were blockaded by military vessels up to five times their size. Even with many of their attack craft captured over the past month, the scores that remained might still use their superior aquatic agility to threaten the military force.
Squads of riflemen and infantry in powered armor leaped over the side of the Albani frigate Hammer of Justice to pour across the decks of the pirate skiffs Hell’s Rage, The Scream of Demons and Goddess of War. Ready for action, the soldiers took up position on the boats and established a firing line on the dock. The pirates who had managed to gather at the docks, a majority of them still queasy and shaking, held fast to their swords and guns as they cybernetically selected combat targets through sonic and thermal imaging devices.
“Soldiers,” a somber officer with a dragon skull helmet cloaked in gray, called out from Hammer of Justice’s deck, “stand ready.”
“You’ve come to talk then?” one of the pirates called out.
“You are among the leadership of this rabble?” the bearded officer responded, spreading his cloak enough to display his ornate dark armor.
“Vopho Varin Sala,” the brown-haired man said, standing tall within his armored coat, his cybernetic eye glowing green. “Rorian Broadax to my left. You must be the Lost Prince.”
Within the beard, beneath the dragon skull helmet, there was a smile. The veteran commander tightened his grip on his long, bladed lance and lifted it skyward. Lightning flashed above him, rolling thunder behind it. As eyes turned to the clouds, the dirigible command ship Destiny appeared, moving slowly groundward. Descending faster than the larger craft, a hover platform approached the standoff bearing a white-haired man in black and gold armor flanked by two soldiers. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, flowing in the breeze as they flew.
“Pirates of Varga,” the white-haired man called out, his voice magically amplified to awe-inspiring resonance, “you stand before the Army of Light, prepared to dominate any resistance on this island. For numerous counts of violating international law, Alban’s Army of Light has come to bring you all to justice. The control codes on your boats have been overridden and their systems temporarily disabled. We have no wish to harm you. You are advised to surrender.”
The hover platform set down behind the Albani firing line almost silently. With absolute confidence, the commanding noble walked forward. His soldiers parted, allowing him to pass as the pirate leader also came forth to meet him.
“You’re the one they call the Lost Prince?” the pirate asked.
“Lar Kwa, prince of Alban,” he said, “leader of the Army of Light. You lead these people?”
“Vopho Varin Sala and my brother, Rorian Broadax,” the pirate replied, “last pirate lords of the eastern faction and commanders of Varga.”
“Then you are authorized to present the surrender of your people and transfer control of Varga without challenge?” Lar Kwa asked.
“We are,” Sala confirmed, looking about at his own people and the military standing against them. “The day is early yet, though. We’ve gone to the trouble of warming up our hardware, so we would not be averse to some killing before breakfast.”
“I do offer terms,” the prince said, “if you are of a mind to hear them.”
“What do you have to offer that we should not fight to take?” Broadax asked, his gleaming bionic arms brandishing a heavy combat axe menacingly.
“Redemption. To that end, your people will have safe passage under the royal authority of Alban,” Lar Kwa said, the fist beneath his cloak grasping the pommel of his blade as a faint golden halo enveloped him, “If your honor code demands, as lords of this land, nobility dictates that I may offer you a duel. I will try my best to leave at least one of you unharmed and then we can be on our way.”
Vopho Varin Sala seemed to consider the prince’s offer, perhaps even silently communicating with his brother through their matching artificial eyes. Even without the passing nausea as a factor, something overwhelming in the prince’s winning smile and gleaming eyes drained from them the urge to fight. As they looked back to Lar Kwa, Sala and Broadax seemed almost entranced by his presence. Then, trembling, they each fell to their knees. Taking the prince’s gloved hand, the pirate lords gently bowed their foreheads to the royal presence. Following the example of their leaders, the assemblage of pirates down to every last man, woman and child quietly sank to their knees and bowed their heads.
“And at once, you recognize the divine power you face,” Lar Kwa said, “reaching into your core.”
“Tales of you and your mighty army have spread far, my great lord,” the pirate leader said. “It is you alone, though, to whom we attribute the losses we have suffered for over a decade in many battles. We have often discussed the coming of this storm and choose not to oppose you now.”
“You honor me,” the prince said with a cautious smile. “Perhaps our great gods will yet show you their mercy.”
“If it is your will,” Sala said. “We’ll all do our best in your service to earn that mercy.”
“Perhaps we can duel later,” Lar Kwa laughed, “to entertain our people and the cameras.”
“As your highness wishes,” Sala said humbly.
“As all of these people are yielding to the authority of the Crimson Throne and the power of Alban,” Lar Kwa said, employing his amplified voice again and holding his golden sword overhead to make a sweeping gesture, “I know they will begin happily earning our favor by joining my Army of Light in freeing any captives still held here. Once we have finished here, we will begin our journey home to Alban.”
“Master?” General Karra queried from the deck of the ship, marking the only time anyone gathered could note hearing uncertainty in the stalwart veteran’s voice. “Is it time already?”
“Absolutely, old friend,” Prince Lar Kwa said. “Those who sit above have shown me that Alban has dire need of us, so we must return with all haste. Land the troops. Varga must be made secure and then our homeland must be saved from the horrors that beset the people even now. We have prepared for years to face this and now the Lost Prince will go home. It will be our greatest challenge yet, though only the first of many should we succeed.”
“Yes, my lord,” the general responded, bowing sharply before he withdrew.
Releasing the unseen grip on his weapon, Lar Kwa activated a radio in his collar and called, “Arcane, is Destiny ready to travel?”
“The command ship is fully prepared, lord,” came the atonal reply from his most efficient servant. “Is there anything else to which you need me to attend?”
“Move the remainder of the fleet,” the prince commanded, looking up at the hovering dirigible. “Any that still have available space for transport, send here. Have the rest wait to the southwest of the islands where we can meet them for the journey back to Alban.”
“Affirmative,” Arcane replied. “Movements will begin at once.”
“Excellent,” the prince said. “I already know the perfect room for you to set-up in when we reach the palace. We have a lot of work ahead of us if we are indeed to change the world.”
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
TWO
Deep within the Sun Islands archipelago, a group of ten light combat ships cleaved the cool waters as the first fingers of dawn began to reach over the eastern horizon. With tactical maneuvers coordinated by their command ship, the Albani expeditionary force closed in on Varga, hidden stronghold of the eastern pirate lords. From Varga, the seafaring traffic of more than a score of nations had been prey to the unpredictable methods the outlaws had developed across nearly two centuries of widespread activity.
The pirates of Tarakk had grown from operating in small groups looting small civilian vessels for whatever random valuables they had aboard, to acting as ordered fleets of small, swift attack boats under an organized command structure. The pirate fleets had become capable of harassing, boarding and capturing non-military vessels of any size.
The uncivilized men and women who had dedicated themselves to lives of crime on the open ocean gradually became technologically obsessed to the point of modifying their bodies with cybernetic additions and mechanical prosthetics to achieve greater efficiency in their endeavors. Their observed process was believed to involve holding captive vessels, their passengers and materials for sale, use or ransom. Profits were largely believed to fund continued operations and illicit surgeries.
The Albani military action, converging ships on Varga, was the latest and most significant tactical maneuver against the pirate forces in the last two decades. Years of undermining the fearsome reputations the cyborg pirates had established was seen by most as owing to the driving efforts of one man. It was at his command that missiles carrying payloads of irritant gas were unleashed upon Varga’s interior.
Though the gas-laden missiles appeared to be the first stage of the Albani surprise attack, it was actually the second. Before the sun’s first light, the expeditionary force’s command ship had engaged what the crew had come to call the Voice of Doom, a low frequency sound resonator that induced powerful disorientation and nausea in its targets. As a result, the pirate community’s response to the gas attack was minor.
The pirates of Varga woke to bursting gas bombs and stumbled toward their haven’s sheltered harbor. At the docks, their light attack craft, each capable of carrying twelve to twenty action-ready raiders, were blockaded by military vessels up to five times their size. Even with many of their attack craft captured over the past month, the scores that remained might still use their superior aquatic agility to threaten the military force.
Squads of riflemen and infantry in powered armor leaped over the side of the Albani frigate Hammer of Justice to pour across the decks of the pirate skiffs Hell’s Rage, The Scream of Demons and Goddess of War. Ready for action, the soldiers took up position on the boats and established a firing line on the dock. The pirates who had managed to gather at the docks, a majority of them still queasy and shaking, held fast to their swords and guns as they cybernetically selected combat targets through sonic and thermal imaging devices.
“Soldiers,” a somber officer with a dragon skull helmet cloaked in gray, called out from Hammer of Justice’s deck, “stand ready.”
“You’ve come to talk then?” one of the pirates called out.
“You are among the leadership of this rabble?” the bearded officer responded, spreading his cloak enough to display his ornate dark armor.
“Vopho Varin Sala,” the brown-haired man said, standing tall within his armored coat, his cybernetic eye glowing green. “Rorian Broadax to my left. You must be the Lost Prince.”
Within the beard, beneath the dragon skull helmet, there was a smile. The veteran commander tightened his grip on his long, bladed lance and lifted it skyward. Lightning flashed above him, rolling thunder behind it. As eyes turned to the clouds, the dirigible command ship Destiny appeared, moving slowly groundward. Descending faster than the larger craft, a hover platform approached the standoff bearing a white-haired man in black and gold armor flanked by two soldiers. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, flowing in the breeze as they flew.
“Pirates of Varga,” the white-haired man called out, his voice magically amplified to awe-inspiring resonance, “you stand before the Army of Light, prepared to dominate any resistance on this island. For numerous counts of violating international law, Alban’s Army of Light has come to bring you all to justice. The control codes on your boats have been overridden and their systems temporarily disabled. We have no wish to harm you. You are advised to surrender.”
The hover platform set down behind the Albani firing line almost silently. With absolute confidence, the commanding noble walked forward. His soldiers parted, allowing him to pass as the pirate leader also came forth to meet him.
“You’re the one they call the Lost Prince?” the pirate asked.
“Lar Kwa, prince of Alban,” he said, “leader of the Army of Light. You lead these people?”
“Vopho Varin Sala and my brother, Rorian Broadax,” the pirate replied, “last pirate lords of the eastern faction and commanders of Varga.”
“Then you are authorized to present the surrender of your people and transfer control of Varga without challenge?” Lar Kwa asked.
“We are,” Sala confirmed, looking about at his own people and the military standing against them. “The day is early yet, though. We’ve gone to the trouble of warming up our hardware, so we would not be averse to some killing before breakfast.”
“I do offer terms,” the prince said, “if you are of a mind to hear them.”
“What do you have to offer that we should not fight to take?” Broadax asked, his gleaming bionic arms brandishing a heavy combat axe menacingly.
“Redemption. To that end, your people will have safe passage under the royal authority of Alban,” Lar Kwa said, the fist beneath his cloak grasping the pommel of his blade as a faint golden halo enveloped him, “If your honor code demands, as lords of this land, nobility dictates that I may offer you a duel. I will try my best to leave at least one of you unharmed and then we can be on our way.”
Vopho Varin Sala seemed to consider the prince’s offer, perhaps even silently communicating with his brother through their matching artificial eyes. Even without the passing nausea as a factor, something overwhelming in the prince’s winning smile and gleaming eyes drained from them the urge to fight. As they looked back to Lar Kwa, Sala and Broadax seemed almost entranced by his presence. Then, trembling, they each fell to their knees. Taking the prince’s gloved hand, the pirate lords gently bowed their foreheads to the royal presence. Following the example of their leaders, the assemblage of pirates down to every last man, woman and child quietly sank to their knees and bowed their heads.
“And at once, you recognize the divine power you face,” Lar Kwa said, “reaching into your core.”
“Tales of you and your mighty army have spread far, my great lord,” the pirate leader said. “It is you alone, though, to whom we attribute the losses we have suffered for over a decade in many battles. We have often discussed the coming of this storm and choose not to oppose you now.”
“You honor me,” the prince said with a cautious smile. “Perhaps our great gods will yet show you their mercy.”
“If it is your will,” Sala said. “We’ll all do our best in your service to earn that mercy.”
“Perhaps we can duel later,” Lar Kwa laughed, “to entertain our people and the cameras.”
“As your highness wishes,” Sala said humbly.
“As all of these people are yielding to the authority of the Crimson Throne and the power of Alban,” Lar Kwa said, employing his amplified voice again and holding his golden sword overhead to make a sweeping gesture, “I know they will begin happily earning our favor by joining my Army of Light in freeing any captives still held here. Once we have finished here, we will begin our journey home to Alban.”
“Master?” General Karra queried from the deck of the ship, marking the only time anyone gathered could note hearing uncertainty in the stalwart veteran’s voice. “Is it time already?”
“Absolutely, old friend,” Prince Lar Kwa said. “Those who sit above have shown me that Alban has dire need of us, so we must return with all haste. Land the troops. Varga must be made secure and then our homeland must be saved from the horrors that beset the people even now. We have prepared for years to face this and now the Lost Prince will go home. It will be our greatest challenge yet, though only the first of many should we succeed.”
“Yes, my lord,” the general responded, bowing sharply before he withdrew.
Releasing the unseen grip on his weapon, Lar Kwa activated a radio in his collar and called, “Arcane, is Destiny ready to travel?”
“The command ship is fully prepared, lord,” came the atonal reply from his most efficient servant. “Is there anything else to which you need me to attend?”
“Move the remainder of the fleet,” the prince commanded, looking up at the hovering dirigible. “Any that still have available space for transport, send here. Have the rest wait to the southwest of the islands where we can meet them for the journey back to Alban.”
“Affirmative,” Arcane replied. “Movements will begin at once.”
“Excellent,” the prince said. “I already know the perfect room for you to set-up in when we reach the palace. We have a lot of work ahead of us if we are indeed to change the world.”
Friday, June 14, 2013
17049--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 5)
The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
FIVE
Alone, King Tural ascended the hidden stairway that carried him from the den behind the throne dais up to a stone wall inscribed with ancient sigils. Putting thoughts of the festivities behind him, he raised a unique obsidian dagger and steeled himself before slicing open his left palm. Taking a final step forward, the monarch pressed his hand to the wall, moving it from one arcane symbol to the next. He solemnly recited each symbol’s name as he anointed it with his blood. Then, with the ninth, the wall faded and vanished.
Alone, King Tural ascended the hidden stairway that carried him from the den behind the throne dais up to a stone wall inscribed with ancient sigils. Putting thoughts of the festivities behind him, he raised a unique obsidian dagger and steeled himself before slicing open his left palm. Taking a final step forward, the monarch pressed his hand to the wall, moving it from one arcane symbol to the next. He solemnly recited each symbol’s name as he anointed it with his blood. Then, with the ninth, the wall faded and vanished.
Before the king, the Celestial Temple and the Circle of Nine stood revealed. King Tural felt a fluttering in his belly as he stepped into the presence of the wizard-priests. He noted that the air was cooler than he expected, then noticed the precipitation of tiny hailstones falling from one of the glowing clouds wafting across the room. Each hailstone burst as it tapped to the stone floor, exploding in a spray of colored light. Setting his awe of the temple aside, the monarch realized the magic users were oblivious to his arrival.
“I bring you salutations of the Crimson Throne,” King Tural said, looking about for any sign of acknowledgement. “Your regular Speaker, Chief Minister Araka, has died as a result of illness. A new Speaker has yet to be chosen, but we must converse. By the Blood Rite of Malechis, I bid you hear me.
“Tshan’casai, long-thought dormant and locked away, is loose in the world,” Tural explained. “It is in the hands of my son and I feel that he is in the thrall of its powers. You know the sword’s potential for danger is beyond measure. You must tell me some way in which it can be stopped. I am a warrior and king, but I am also a father and I do not wish to seek Lar Kwa’s end. Tell me there is some way to save us all from--”
“You demand much of minds so strained as theirs,” a familiar voice greeted the king from the doorway to his rear. “That is the way of a ruler, I suppose, always insistent upon having things work just the way you want them to. You have always sought to rule with the strength of your fathers.”
The troubled ruler faced his polished prince as he glided into the chamber with a comfortable pride. King Tural saw the persuasiveness of the charismatic image that draped his son as elegantly as the black silk cloak hanging from his shoulders. His shining gray eyes and practiced smile were crowned by neatly trimmed golden locks. The king was nearly entranced by the radiant confidence and winning beauty he projected. He struggled to resist the magic’s cloying influence, fighting to perceive his son beneath his persuasive aura.
“You know nothing of either the strength or the sacrifice,” Tural snarled, “needed to maintain crown, throne and kingdom.”
“My strength has come to me,” Lar Kwa said, stepping forward, “through other struggles beyond your experience.”
“What are you doing?” the monarch asked of his son as he entered. “You do not belong in this sacred space.”
“Belong? Of course, I belong,” Lar Kwa insisted, his unyielding smile clearly disturbing to his father. “You would know better if you could only hear the call as I do. I know, father, how loathsome you find the burden of sharing with me, but I won’t begrudge you that. I’m sure it comes from your warrior’s heart, so determined never to surrender anything.”
“You have drawn a bloody red line in the snow,” Tural said, his ire building, “and it is a challenge that will not go unmet.”
“Ultimately, you are a wise man. You will come to see that this is what must be. I am the divine instrument of inevitable change.”
“I will not allow you to have this kingdom,” Tural told his son. “You have fallen under an unnatural influence.”
“Certainly, father,” the younger man said. “I have opened myself to its glory. When I told you I could hear the call, what did you think I meant?”
“That you were losing your mind, of course,” King Tural replied.
“You have more of a sense of humor than I remembered, father,” Lar Kwa said. “You have grown weary, though, from your valiant struggles against the crises that have beset these lands. Like a pilot too long at the ship’s helm in a raging storm, it is your time to rest and let another see us to safe harbor. I am home now.”
“You are toying with forces beyond your understanding. I have entered this temple, come into the presence of the Nine, that I might seek their counsel. Your entry here--”
“Dear father,” Lar Kwa chuckled, “if you do get these ancient treasures to speak, I imagine I shall have a far better understanding of their words than you. There are things that happen to one’s mind when expanded by magic’s touch…” the prince said, tapping a finger to his own temple.
“Yes, the maddening that affects the human mind is well known,” King Tural said. “Relinquish that weapon and leave this temple. Tshan’casai gathers more magical power into itself than mortal hands should ever know. It will consume you and twist all the works you would achieve into ruin.”
“Those who would name this sublime beauty madness,” Lar Kwa said, drawing the golden, chisel-tip long sword, “are unable to comprehend what is seen beyond the shadows when others dare open themselves to realms beyond mundane experience. I understand so much more than ever before and have come to commune with the Nine, not in fear but to join with them in changing this world for the better. Their magics and mine will unite and you will see the beginning of a new age.”
With casual swiftness, the prince raised the golden two-handed sword overhead. The thick blade moved with near-weightless ease as Lar Kwa held it aloft and felt himself buoyed by the rush of its power. Beyond the brilliance of its golden, mirror-finish, the sword began to shine, bathing the gathered men in its dazzling light.
“Tshan’casai,” King Tural whispered, recoiling as he shielded his eyes.
“You see, remnants of your past are not to be carelessly discarded,” Lar Kwa said. “Observe.”
Without even a gesture, the wizard-priests began to move toward the prince, shuffling forward as though sleepwalking.
“See how they flock to me, father,” Lar Kwa said. “Thus will the masses of Alban gather. Those who embrace wisdom will pray to me and the salvation I offer. They will have the curse of plague lifted from them. My light will--”
“They are not all ill,” Tural reminded him. “Those loyal to the crown--”
“Will still be weak from hunger,” Lar Kwa said, his voice changing to one Tural did not recognize, powerful and daunting. “They will be weak and afraid, some may even hate you for it. Those souls, too, will I then claim, wherever the golden light finds purchase. You denied this power out of fear, deafened yourself to the sword’s call.”
“It lures you to destruction!” Tural lashed out, the back of his hand finding the prince’s cheek with a reflex that rekindled memories thought buried. “I command you to quit this path of folly!”
“I yield to it. It shares its power with me,” the prince countered, his voice once again his own, “parenting me in ways you never could. The embrace must not be denied. Your time is done and you must withdraw now, father. It is I who will lead us into the light. It is I who will guide us to the future that awaits.”
Almost involuntarily, Tural found himself awash in a strange calm as he backed toward the door of the Celestial Temple. Lar Kwa’s aura grew brighter, the light hurting Tural’s eyes. As he drew near the doorway, a line of hooded, robed men filed in past the king. Two of them carried a litter with a large golden orb supported between them.
“Who? What?” the baffled king wondered aloud.
Through the intense glow, Tural could see the newly arriving men gathering about Lar Kwa with the wizards of the Nine. In his confusion, he felt a strange tremor in his chest as the men of magic began to chant in a hypnotic rhythm.
Tural saw Lar Kwa raise his free hand as the chanting degenerated to a swirling soup of words in his mind. As the king felt his stomach and head attempting to trade places, he realized that he should have heeded his son’s urging to withdraw. Golden light obscured his vision. His ears were flooded with a chorus of voices, first from the Nine, then by additional tones that he both knew and did not know but all bringing him an unexpected level of peace. The voices chattered at him all at once, confusing him more and more as he tried to make any sense of them. How long his sensory miasma continued, he could not tell, but one voice finally broke through his fog and overpowered the din of all the others.
RUN! came the sharply intelligible intonation.
“Relinquish your burdens to me, father. I will take your mantle upon my shoulders and carry us forward in ways you could not,” Lar Kwa said. “I feel your uncertainty, but the embrace of the light will burn it all away and you will thank me later for this gift. Cry to the world that the gods bring a new day from above!”
King Tural’s gold silk cloak fell from his shoulders as he ran from the Celestial Temple. In confusion, he stumbled down the hidden stairs. Panic and adrenaline drove his pounding heart. His mind clouded, he could barely think, acting primarily on instinct.
Lar Kwa stood on the ring of onyx and gold as he looked down upon the assemblage gathered in the throne room. His eyes searched the edges of the crowd, making sure that his photojournalist Mischa had recorders trained upon him as he had ordered. With his father’s golden cloak replacing his own black one, the prince held an open hand out to the people below.
“Hear me, Alban! Plague has ravaged our people,” Lar Kwa called out, drawing the attention of the full assemblage at once, “defying medicine, magic and science, with utter disregard for quarantine or contact, geography, age or status. Fear has taken hold of hearts and minds, but no longer. Join with me and be free!”
He tightened his grip on Tshan’casai and thrust it overhead. The polished golden blade gleamed in the Celestial Temple’s unnatural light, adding to the magical glow that surrounded it. Much of the crowd gasped at the sight of the legendary weapon being openly brandished for the first time in decades. Most had never before seen Tshan’casai, having heard its name whispered only as legend. Hushed murmurs raced through the crowd.
With the ancient blade in hand, Lar Kwa stood above his people as a giant. In that transcendent moment, the shining prince held a pose that ignited memories of Mighty King Mokwa, taught to every Albani school child as the founder of the empire to which their proud nation once belonged. The surreal image reminiscent of the Father of Alban looking down upon them stirred hearts beyond reason, pushing an emotional swell of reverence through the crowd.
Many, including King Tural, could do nothing more than fall silent. Still regaining his senses, Tural was certain that he felt his heart skip a beat as a bizarre chill clawed at it fiercely. The monarch felt an unwelcome desperation as he took the hand of his queen and quickly led her away from the dais of the Crimson Throne.
“During my long journeys, I have awakened to the truth of my power! As I have returned to you with feasts in the face of famine,” Lar Kwa continued, “so too do I bring you the power to break the deadly grip of this plague! If your faith is strong, through me, the dawn shall see our people restored! Through the sword of my fathers, we shall be free of foreign oppression! No longer will we tolerate attempts to starve and control us! With the light of truth, we will drive them back to their homeland!”
The sword glowed like a sunbeam in his hand and Lar Kwa willed a shaft of golden light to shoot upward from Tshan’casai and through the faceted crystalline dome that topped the Celestial Temple. Almost instantly, black storm clouds gathered, swirling ominously about the golden beacon. Lightning flashed repeatedly above the palace, bringing the roar of thunder chasing the blinding bolts. More gasps and tense mumblings were drowned out by the building storm, but a chaotic shift of moods clearly swept the room.
“Blessings of the divine have showered upon me! Add me to your evening prayers this joyous Father’s Day,” Lar Kwa commanded, “for I come before you as the herald of ancient gods! Here will my hand draw down their matchless power! Pledge yourselves to our cause that your faith will see our people made whole! First Alban will heal and then march into the future, renewed! Follow me and our enemies will be swept before our might! The raging storm will warn all Tarakk to let none stand against us!”
A validating surge of applause swept the gala as the assembled guests felt themselves overwhelmed with irresistible emotion. For the first time in weeks, the Charis’colia had been given something more to sustain them than vague hope. His display of power and his confident promise brought Prince Lar Kwa the adulation he had longed for and, at that moment, the assurance that he was done with exile. His magical radiance buoyed his spirit as it shone down on the thousand eyes Lar Kwa felt upon him. He was unable to repress the laughter bubbling from within as he bathed the palace guests in his dazzling light. Spiraling ceaselessly, the storm began to warp around an increasingly calm eye centered upon Crown City even as its fury continued to build both beyond the city’s walls and in Lar Kwa’s soul.
Friday, April 5, 2013
16979--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 19)
The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
The hot spring the dragons traditionally referred to as “the Place of Surrender“ was a place that some said conveyed its own sense of personality. Even frequent visitors found themselves impressed by its beauty. Believed to be unique within any lands the dragons knew, the area was dominated by a reddish brown and white marble eroded smooth by bubbling mineral waters over the course of countless years. The natural stone formations of slopes, steps and pools had been added to by many skilled crafters, enhanced through the creation of polished marble shelters and decorative structures to guide the water flows in aesthetically pleasing ways and to control the dissipation of the area’s natural heat. The artistic and practical fusion of elements created a special valued status for the location, respected for its tranquility by both dragon and Magi. All this existed within a great basin barely a hundred feet from the base of the southern wall of a sprawling range of jagged mountains most of the world called the Teriena Mountains. To those ancient dragons who had collectively inhabited the range for over a million years and the Magi who lived further south, they were simply dragonlands.
The nature of dragons being as it was, it was particularly rare for any of their kind to note time passage with the level of detail common to more finite species. Marking seasonal changes was their normal method of measuring the progression of a year. It was atypical among dragons to require any more specific record. Arranging meetings with non-dragons often proved an exercise in frustration when attempting to be more precise than a period of about twenty days. In adversarial matters, patient dragons had sometimes been known to outwait human opponents, achieving effortless victory through attrition.
Shakata knew it was significant to have been called to meet the head of the Dragon Council with such specificity, but he was also not surprised that the elder had not yet arrived. Still, he felt compelled to search while waiting, just to be sure they had not missed each other. Wearing only a snug pair of shorts that covered him down to mid-thigh, Shakata‘s muscled arms and torso glistened in the humid air as he walked away from a pair of relaxation experts back toward Kieren Sha where he had left her basking. Kieren Sha’s arms were outstretched from her sides along the rim of the basin, her upper body soaking in sunshine as the rest of her bathed in effervescent mineral water.
“Close your mouths, girls,” Kieren Sha called to the pair watching Shakata walk away. “You’re going to catch flies.”
“What’re you on about?” he asked, crouching beside the hot tub. “You’re supposed to be basking.”
“They were looking at you like you were lunch,” Kieren Sha said. “I don’t like their ideas of servicing you.”
“I thought it was odd that they were both offering to massage me,” he said.
“I can’t leave you alone anywhere,” she said. “I’ll massage you if you want one. They shouldn’t be trying to abuse their position like that. There are plenty of places for them to meet men with their guard down.”
“Not with so many spending all their time in Freespace,” Shakata said. “This is one of the few experiences that artificial reality just can’t match. You know how I feel about that, though.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “You won’t shut up about it.”
“Sorry,” he told her. “You should keep an eye on your tan. You’re going to be as red as the marble if you’re not careful.”
“As long as I don’t get any tan lines,” she said, turning around. “How’s my back?”
“Beautiful as ever,” he replied. “You don’t have to stay just to protect me from stalkers, y‘know. I have to do this, but if you want to go, I can do this without you.”
“What? No, I’m in,” Kieren Sha said, turning back to face him and sliding her palms up her sides and over the tops of her breasts before stretching her arms to the sky. “I just never seem to get here enough…to really enjoy it.”
“Well, I just want to get to business and get done,” Shakata said.
“Alright,” Kieren Sha said, standing tall with her perfect breasts glistening in the sunlight, “I‘m ready. Get in here and service me.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot…It’s my turn to service you, isn’t it? Get in here and--”
“I…thought I’d look around once more,” Shakata said, eyeing her with increasing scrutiny. “Are you sure you’re alright? Maybe the heat‘s getting to you.”
“I…thought I was fine, but maybe it is,” Kieren Sha told him. “There are lots of other places to see pretty things. Maybe we should get out of here and bounce through some other dimensions. It could be lots of fun.”
“Just for the day?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said with a smirk, “maybe two.”
“Or even a week,” Shakata said. “It has to be more fun than hanging around here.”
“Oh, we could visit my mother,” Kieren Sha said.
“In Magick?” Shakata asked. “Even if you know where, I thought there were restrictions against us mingling with the faeries.”
“But if you got special permission from Coyote…”
“Because all he wants is for me to agree to come to his plane and party and play and never ever leave,” Shakata said.
“Oh, now you’re talking my language,” Kieren Sha told him, wading across the hot tub to him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“Literally, I imagine,” he said, poking his index finger at the center of his companion’s forehead, “Coyote.”
“Damn,” Kieren Sha said, her voice changing slightly and her shoulders slumping as a look of profound disappointment overcame her. “How’d you know?” came the question, accompanied by a profound huff and a lower lip pushed into full pout.
“You’re chaotic, Great Trickster,” Shakata said, “but broadly consistent. More importantly, Kee actually knows why we’re here.”
“It’s not to get hot and sweaty?” the puzzled immortal asked. “You do know, that’s why everyone else is here, right?”
“No,” Shakata said, doing his best to sound patient. “Regardless, I’m here for something serious.”
“No, you’re here for something boring,” Coyote complained through his mortal disguise. “Everybody else is here for action. Hot bod here,” Coyote said, grabbing and shaking her ample breasts, “is here for action with you, believe it or not. When are you going to close this deal, little buddy?”
“You’re making less sense than usual,” Shakata said, maintaining a confident facade. “This is one of those times when you’re trying to salvage your position by confusing me, right?”
“Whatever you want to believe,” Coyote said, looking at him with renewed resolve. “You desperately need to enjoy yourself more. You’ve no idea how stressed you look. Come with me. We can fly and play and--”
“No,” Shakata said, reminding himself who was truly behind the inviting tones and violet eyes.
“You don’t trust me,” the pouting lips moaned with a bit of a quiver. “After all the years we’ve known each other?”
“On the contrary,” Shakata said. “I trust you to be all too true to the Bright Chaos you embody, which offers me very poor odds of surviving your ideas of play, especially when your mind starts wandering to some new whim. That's when spider silk wings suddenly unravel and reality's harsher bits revert to relevancy.”
Coyote stuck Kieren Sha’s tongue out at Shakata.
“I definitely don’t want to see you harm Kee. You didn’t just copy her this time,” Shakata said, studying his friend’s form, “you’ve possessed her, haven’t you?”
“So what if I have?” the Trickster asked, making her sound petulant. “Maybe I like being a Coyote in Sha’s clothing.”
“And maybe I don’t like you treating her like some kind of a toy,” the young man said, steam rising off him as he lost his composed veneer for a moment. “I thought it was just the heat, at first, but you’re doing something to her aura that can’t be healthy.”
“Hey, calm yourself. You’re going to boil the water,” Coyote warned. “You want her back raw not cooked, right?”
In response, a flash of violet energy leapt from her. The light coalesced into a canine form seated beside the hot tub. Shakata noticed almost immediately that this new body had not only six legs but also six eyes.
“Satisfied?” Coyote asked.
“Close enough. That form’s actually more comprehensible,” Shakata said. “Thanks.”
“For you? Not a problem,” Coyote said, “big dumb genius know-it-all.”
“Shaka?” Kieren Sha moaned weakly. “What…?”
“Welcome back, Kee,” Shakata said, steadying her and guiding her to his side of the pool. “How do you feel?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “When did we get here? And where’s here, anyway?”
“Here is where we are, of course,” Shakata said to her.
“Thanks,” she said, looking about. “Wolf?” Kieren Sha asked, still a bit dazed.
“Oh, please,” Coyote snapped, assuming the form of a grizzled, white-haired man so he could scowl at Kieren Sha with his hands on his hips, “as if that stiff has anywhere near my charm.”
“It’s Coyote, Kee,” Shakata said. “He…borrowed you.”
“You dare take me for some mundane avatar, a spirit, a shade reincarnating from one mortal form to the next,” Coyote protested. “I am of the Infinite, older than time, primal power beyond your woefully limited comprehension. Were you to behold me in all my unbound glory--”
“Thanks for keeping that thing covered this time, by the way,” Shakata said.
“--you would succumb to utter madness.”
“Would it sound anything like your ranting?” Shakata asked.
“Tread with care, boy,” Coyote warned grimly. “You may be especially delightful, but you’re not beyond even the least of my power.”
“No,” Shakata acknowledged thoughtfully, looking deep into the celestial being’s eyes, “but I notice you’ve yet to end me.”
The bullying trickster read the eyes of his mortal acquaintance for several tense seconds, seeking out any trace of fear upon which he might prey.
“Did you really need me here for this?” Kieren Sha asked, attempting to break the uncomfortable tension.
“Of course not,” Shakata said. “Coyote just doesn’t have a problem treating everyone else as a plaything.”
“You should see how you seethe when you get protective of her. You don’t have to like it,” the ancient entity told him, “but this one’s mine. She was born here, but she’s got my brand on her same as her mother.”
“She doesn’t need you exploiting her,” Shakata said. “This plane isn’t Magick and we’re not part of your playground.”
“You’re funny,” Coyote said. “If I ever get tired of going where I want and doing what I want, I’ll let you know.”
“For now, how about you just leave Kee alone?” Shakata asked. “She needs to recover.”
“You’re so fussy,” the immortal laughed. “She’s too comfy inside not to wear around once in a while. You should try her.”
“Being part-faerie doesn’t make her yours to victimize.”
“Sure it does,” Coyote insisted. “She’s so much bigger on the inside and we both like you for some reason. Plus, the faeries are my children, so…who better to torment? I screw with them and they pass it on. It‘s educational parenting.”
“Not enough fey blood to allow her to dwell with the faeries, but enough to make her a target?” Shakata asked.
“Yup.”
“Not even close to fair for her,” Shakata said. “Bad form.”
“You think you‘re the first to notice mortal lives ain‘t about fairness?” Coyote taunted. “Still, I’ve yet to make her do much of anything she hasn’t truly wanted to do.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Shakata asked.
“I expect you not to know whether to believe it or not,” Coyote laughed. “You two are such messy torrents of thoughts and feelings,” he said, tapping on Shakata’s skull. “Poor boy. So many gifts from the First Child, yet still merely mortal.”
“I can live with it.”
“But for how long?” the immortal asked. “Are you really going to argue for the limits of the finite?”
“She‘s free,” Shakata told him, “and I’ll fight for her for as long as I‘ve got.”
“You’ve got spirit, kid,” Coyote said. “You may not pick the fights with the best odds, but you’ve got spirit.”
“Look where I live. I’m used to being the smallest one in any fight.”
“Yeah, you’re really shaking your home team up with all that young rebel noise of yours,” Coyote said. “When do you start setting the fires?”
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” Shakata said. “I do respect my people.”
“You want them to eat right and exercise,” Coyote said, “but you want to do it the hard way by leaving the choice up to them based on some notion of respect for those…people you’re pretending are your actual parents.”
“I--Wait. What?” Shakata asked.
“I’d tell you to accept that you’re not going to fit in and get on with your life, but you clearly yearn to be challenged,” Coyote smiled broadly as he laughed out loud. “So keep charging onward like a wildfire, young one. You’ll find all you can manage.”
“You’re saying that following my feelings on this will lead to destruction?” Shakata asked.
“You can’t reconstruct till after you’ve destroyed, kid,” Coyote said. “Any shaman worth a damn’ll tell you that.”
“All of Nature finds regeneration through Fire,” Shakata said with the distant tone of one recalling a dream.
“Who says the young can’t be taught? No, boy, you do whatever works for you. Follow your nose, your big toe or your third leg. It doesn’t matter to me. Dance to your own music. Take a rope to a sword fight. Cut the blue wire. Answer authority with questions! Just remember to enjoy stepping on all those toes because people too angry to see straight can‘t aim their lies well either.”
“Wait, what about my parents?” Shakata asked.
“What about your parents, Shaka?” Kieren Sha asked, a probing hand on his right arm.
Shakata looked at her, then back to Coyote, but the immortal was gone.
“He’s gone,” Shakata said. “Where’d he go?”
“He vanished thirty seconds ago, Shaka,” she told him. “Then, you just…blanked out. Whatever possessed you to challenge him like that?”
“Him possessing you, I believe,” he said. “You think I’d ever just stand by and not fight for you?”
“He could’ve changed you into a slug or something,” she warned him. “Or wished you away like dust in the wind.”
“Well, the day I push too far,” Shakata said, “I suppose I’ll find out the hard way.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “You going to be alright?”
“Indeed, a valid query,” a deep, gravelly voice asked from behind them.
“Aash-katier,” Shakata said as the young Magi pair turned to face the huge silver dragon. “Welcome, elder. You’re well?”
“My greatest issue is deep concern for you, little one,” the revered dragon elder said as he folded his shining wings along the shimmering scales of his back.
“Just…pondering my sanity,” Shakata said. “How might I assist the Dragon Council today?”
“Oh, it is I who have come to be of aid,” the ancient one said. “There are events unfolding of which you should be aware.”
“Alright,” Shakata said. “Where shall we begin?”
“You should take this,” Aash-katier said, holding out a luminous crystal ball to him.
“Thank you,” Shakata said, cradling the heavy piece of clear crystal in his hands. “This is…several thousand years old?”
“Correct. Two of our smoke agents have confirmed the presence of an Albani military force that’s taken control of two human communities in Bentrci near Zadiasam’s border,” the great dragon reported in his rumbling bass. “And I believe you were already aware of the manifestation in Azirta.”
“Yes,” Shakata said. “Are these events connected to this crystal somehow?”
“Look into the crystal,” Aash-katier told him. “Relax and clear your mind.”
His feet still dangling in the hot tub, Shakata did as he was instructed. Kieren Sha continued watching over him silently from a few feet away, submerged in the bubbling water up to her neck. As his gaze blanked, Kieren Sha’s brow furrowed.
“That’s not magical,” she said quietly. “I sense some great power in it, though. You know he doesn’t do magic, right?”
“Be at ease, child,” Aash-katier whispered, his silver-scaled form relaxing along its outstretched length as it wound about the curvaceous formations of hot rock in characteristically serpentine fashion. “Give him a moment.”
“I see…great fire,” Shakata said, the crystal beginning to glow as it appeared to flame within. “From First Child‘s fire were Magi formed and formed again. Through time’s passage, Darkness first falls. The frozen giant advances. With crimson storm, are beast and Behemoth born. By night, fire descends to cool the eastern jewel. By southern dawn’s light will fire take flight over fertile fields of blood and peace…rushing jumbling images…so much…” he said, starting to wobble.
Kieren Sha stood, wading to Shakata’s side and putting her hands on his knee. The crystal rolled forward from his limp hands, Kieren Sha catching the orb just before it hit the water.
“Shaka?” she probed as Aash-katier reached out to hold him upright.
“Fire and water…” Shakata said, sounding almost drunk. “Raining fish…ice and dark…and…”
“And? And what, Shaka?” she asked.
“The end,” he said.
“End,” she echoed. “What end? End of what?”
“End…the Magi,” he said.
Kieren Sha looked at the crystal in her hand, its glow faded, then up at Aash-katier.
“It’s more than I got out of it,” the ancient dragon said.
“Where did you get this?” Kieren Sha asked.
“From our friend’s parents,” Aash-katier replied, looking to Shakata.
“Did I miss anything?” Shakata asked, regaining alertness.
“When the Magi came to request a home in these lands,” Aash-katier said, “they were received as kindred for it was through the First Child that dragonkind first learned the Way of Fire. Still, the Magi were charged with proving they could hold any territory they might be granted, ultimately earning the name ‘Warlords’ among the humans whom they had allowed to live. With their chosen border defined, the Magi entrusted this crystal to me as a symbol of peaceful coexistence. Naming it ‘Laku’, they bid I should hold it until a time I would come to know.”
“They gave you this…thousands of years ago?” Kieren Sha asked.
“Yes,” the dragon said.
“I saw myself,” Shakata said.
“I saw you, also,” Aash-katier told them. “Thus, as events began to occur that struck my notice and the orb began to glow more, I thought it time to pass this to you.”
“Laku,” Kieren Sha said. “That sounds…old…and very familiar. What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” Shakata said.
“I know it’s familiar,” she said. “It has to mean something.”
“It does,” Shakata said. “It’s the old tongue, Primal. It means, ‘zero’ and ‘nothing’. In this case, apparently a very specific nothing: the end of the Magi.”
“If any of that other nonsense is even to be trusted,” she said. “There is no southern dawn.”
“Maybe…second dawn?” Shakata pondered.
“Prophetic ramblings are often open to interpretation,” the elder dragon offered. “This whole thing may be premature, but when the manifestation of Phoenix descended last night upon Azirta, Zadiasam’s eastern jewel, I made an assumption. It may yet be proven right or wrong. Likewise, the further connection of Alban to being the frozen giant.”
“I’d say our options are further meditation,” Shakata said, “and using Oracle’s planetary surveillance to watch for anything else that seems like it may fit.”
“Just what you needed,” Kieren Sha said, “an excuse to try to isolate yourself.”
“Well, Kee, obviously, this could be of great importance,” Shakata said. “The things I’ve just seen and the images I’ve been seeing may prove to be warnings of great danger to all of us. We have to find out what’s going on.”
“Yes,” Aash-katier said. “No offense, but I’ll be very interested to learn what comes of all this. The suspense has really been getting to me the last couple of centuries.”
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
NINETEEN
The hot spring the dragons traditionally referred to as “the Place of Surrender“ was a place that some said conveyed its own sense of personality. Even frequent visitors found themselves impressed by its beauty. Believed to be unique within any lands the dragons knew, the area was dominated by a reddish brown and white marble eroded smooth by bubbling mineral waters over the course of countless years. The natural stone formations of slopes, steps and pools had been added to by many skilled crafters, enhanced through the creation of polished marble shelters and decorative structures to guide the water flows in aesthetically pleasing ways and to control the dissipation of the area’s natural heat. The artistic and practical fusion of elements created a special valued status for the location, respected for its tranquility by both dragon and Magi. All this existed within a great basin barely a hundred feet from the base of the southern wall of a sprawling range of jagged mountains most of the world called the Teriena Mountains. To those ancient dragons who had collectively inhabited the range for over a million years and the Magi who lived further south, they were simply dragonlands.
The nature of dragons being as it was, it was particularly rare for any of their kind to note time passage with the level of detail common to more finite species. Marking seasonal changes was their normal method of measuring the progression of a year. It was atypical among dragons to require any more specific record. Arranging meetings with non-dragons often proved an exercise in frustration when attempting to be more precise than a period of about twenty days. In adversarial matters, patient dragons had sometimes been known to outwait human opponents, achieving effortless victory through attrition.
Shakata knew it was significant to have been called to meet the head of the Dragon Council with such specificity, but he was also not surprised that the elder had not yet arrived. Still, he felt compelled to search while waiting, just to be sure they had not missed each other. Wearing only a snug pair of shorts that covered him down to mid-thigh, Shakata‘s muscled arms and torso glistened in the humid air as he walked away from a pair of relaxation experts back toward Kieren Sha where he had left her basking. Kieren Sha’s arms were outstretched from her sides along the rim of the basin, her upper body soaking in sunshine as the rest of her bathed in effervescent mineral water.
“Close your mouths, girls,” Kieren Sha called to the pair watching Shakata walk away. “You’re going to catch flies.”
“What’re you on about?” he asked, crouching beside the hot tub. “You’re supposed to be basking.”
“They were looking at you like you were lunch,” Kieren Sha said. “I don’t like their ideas of servicing you.”
“I thought it was odd that they were both offering to massage me,” he said.
“I can’t leave you alone anywhere,” she said. “I’ll massage you if you want one. They shouldn’t be trying to abuse their position like that. There are plenty of places for them to meet men with their guard down.”
“Not with so many spending all their time in Freespace,” Shakata said. “This is one of the few experiences that artificial reality just can’t match. You know how I feel about that, though.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “You won’t shut up about it.”
“Sorry,” he told her. “You should keep an eye on your tan. You’re going to be as red as the marble if you’re not careful.”
“As long as I don’t get any tan lines,” she said, turning around. “How’s my back?”
“Beautiful as ever,” he replied. “You don’t have to stay just to protect me from stalkers, y‘know. I have to do this, but if you want to go, I can do this without you.”
“What? No, I’m in,” Kieren Sha said, turning back to face him and sliding her palms up her sides and over the tops of her breasts before stretching her arms to the sky. “I just never seem to get here enough…to really enjoy it.”
“Well, I just want to get to business and get done,” Shakata said.
“Alright,” Kieren Sha said, standing tall with her perfect breasts glistening in the sunlight, “I‘m ready. Get in here and service me.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot…It’s my turn to service you, isn’t it? Get in here and--”
“I…thought I’d look around once more,” Shakata said, eyeing her with increasing scrutiny. “Are you sure you’re alright? Maybe the heat‘s getting to you.”
“I…thought I was fine, but maybe it is,” Kieren Sha told him. “There are lots of other places to see pretty things. Maybe we should get out of here and bounce through some other dimensions. It could be lots of fun.”
“Just for the day?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said with a smirk, “maybe two.”
“Or even a week,” Shakata said. “It has to be more fun than hanging around here.”
“Oh, we could visit my mother,” Kieren Sha said.
“In Magick?” Shakata asked. “Even if you know where, I thought there were restrictions against us mingling with the faeries.”
“But if you got special permission from Coyote…”
“Because all he wants is for me to agree to come to his plane and party and play and never ever leave,” Shakata said.
“Oh, now you’re talking my language,” Kieren Sha told him, wading across the hot tub to him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“Literally, I imagine,” he said, poking his index finger at the center of his companion’s forehead, “Coyote.”
“Damn,” Kieren Sha said, her voice changing slightly and her shoulders slumping as a look of profound disappointment overcame her. “How’d you know?” came the question, accompanied by a profound huff and a lower lip pushed into full pout.
“You’re chaotic, Great Trickster,” Shakata said, “but broadly consistent. More importantly, Kee actually knows why we’re here.”
“It’s not to get hot and sweaty?” the puzzled immortal asked. “You do know, that’s why everyone else is here, right?”
“No,” Shakata said, doing his best to sound patient. “Regardless, I’m here for something serious.”
“No, you’re here for something boring,” Coyote complained through his mortal disguise. “Everybody else is here for action. Hot bod here,” Coyote said, grabbing and shaking her ample breasts, “is here for action with you, believe it or not. When are you going to close this deal, little buddy?”
“You’re making less sense than usual,” Shakata said, maintaining a confident facade. “This is one of those times when you’re trying to salvage your position by confusing me, right?”
“Whatever you want to believe,” Coyote said, looking at him with renewed resolve. “You desperately need to enjoy yourself more. You’ve no idea how stressed you look. Come with me. We can fly and play and--”
“No,” Shakata said, reminding himself who was truly behind the inviting tones and violet eyes.
“You don’t trust me,” the pouting lips moaned with a bit of a quiver. “After all the years we’ve known each other?”
“On the contrary,” Shakata said. “I trust you to be all too true to the Bright Chaos you embody, which offers me very poor odds of surviving your ideas of play, especially when your mind starts wandering to some new whim. That's when spider silk wings suddenly unravel and reality's harsher bits revert to relevancy.”
Coyote stuck Kieren Sha’s tongue out at Shakata.
“I definitely don’t want to see you harm Kee. You didn’t just copy her this time,” Shakata said, studying his friend’s form, “you’ve possessed her, haven’t you?”
“So what if I have?” the Trickster asked, making her sound petulant. “Maybe I like being a Coyote in Sha’s clothing.”
“And maybe I don’t like you treating her like some kind of a toy,” the young man said, steam rising off him as he lost his composed veneer for a moment. “I thought it was just the heat, at first, but you’re doing something to her aura that can’t be healthy.”
“Hey, calm yourself. You’re going to boil the water,” Coyote warned. “You want her back raw not cooked, right?”
In response, a flash of violet energy leapt from her. The light coalesced into a canine form seated beside the hot tub. Shakata noticed almost immediately that this new body had not only six legs but also six eyes.
“Satisfied?” Coyote asked.
“Close enough. That form’s actually more comprehensible,” Shakata said. “Thanks.”
“For you? Not a problem,” Coyote said, “big dumb genius know-it-all.”
“Shaka?” Kieren Sha moaned weakly. “What…?”
“Welcome back, Kee,” Shakata said, steadying her and guiding her to his side of the pool. “How do you feel?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “When did we get here? And where’s here, anyway?”
“Here is where we are, of course,” Shakata said to her.
“Thanks,” she said, looking about. “Wolf?” Kieren Sha asked, still a bit dazed.
“Oh, please,” Coyote snapped, assuming the form of a grizzled, white-haired man so he could scowl at Kieren Sha with his hands on his hips, “as if that stiff has anywhere near my charm.”
“It’s Coyote, Kee,” Shakata said. “He…borrowed you.”
“You dare take me for some mundane avatar, a spirit, a shade reincarnating from one mortal form to the next,” Coyote protested. “I am of the Infinite, older than time, primal power beyond your woefully limited comprehension. Were you to behold me in all my unbound glory--”
“Thanks for keeping that thing covered this time, by the way,” Shakata said.
“--you would succumb to utter madness.”
“Would it sound anything like your ranting?” Shakata asked.
“Tread with care, boy,” Coyote warned grimly. “You may be especially delightful, but you’re not beyond even the least of my power.”
“No,” Shakata acknowledged thoughtfully, looking deep into the celestial being’s eyes, “but I notice you’ve yet to end me.”
The bullying trickster read the eyes of his mortal acquaintance for several tense seconds, seeking out any trace of fear upon which he might prey.
“Did you really need me here for this?” Kieren Sha asked, attempting to break the uncomfortable tension.
“Of course not,” Shakata said. “Coyote just doesn’t have a problem treating everyone else as a plaything.”
“You should see how you seethe when you get protective of her. You don’t have to like it,” the ancient entity told him, “but this one’s mine. She was born here, but she’s got my brand on her same as her mother.”
“She doesn’t need you exploiting her,” Shakata said. “This plane isn’t Magick and we’re not part of your playground.”
“You’re funny,” Coyote said. “If I ever get tired of going where I want and doing what I want, I’ll let you know.”
“For now, how about you just leave Kee alone?” Shakata asked. “She needs to recover.”
“You’re so fussy,” the immortal laughed. “She’s too comfy inside not to wear around once in a while. You should try her.”
“Being part-faerie doesn’t make her yours to victimize.”
“Sure it does,” Coyote insisted. “She’s so much bigger on the inside and we both like you for some reason. Plus, the faeries are my children, so…who better to torment? I screw with them and they pass it on. It‘s educational parenting.”
“Not enough fey blood to allow her to dwell with the faeries, but enough to make her a target?” Shakata asked.
“Yup.”
“Not even close to fair for her,” Shakata said. “Bad form.”
“You think you‘re the first to notice mortal lives ain‘t about fairness?” Coyote taunted. “Still, I’ve yet to make her do much of anything she hasn’t truly wanted to do.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Shakata asked.
“I expect you not to know whether to believe it or not,” Coyote laughed. “You two are such messy torrents of thoughts and feelings,” he said, tapping on Shakata’s skull. “Poor boy. So many gifts from the First Child, yet still merely mortal.”
“I can live with it.”
“But for how long?” the immortal asked. “Are you really going to argue for the limits of the finite?”
“She‘s free,” Shakata told him, “and I’ll fight for her for as long as I‘ve got.”
“You’ve got spirit, kid,” Coyote said. “You may not pick the fights with the best odds, but you’ve got spirit.”
“Look where I live. I’m used to being the smallest one in any fight.”
“Yeah, you’re really shaking your home team up with all that young rebel noise of yours,” Coyote said. “When do you start setting the fires?”
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” Shakata said. “I do respect my people.”
“You want them to eat right and exercise,” Coyote said, “but you want to do it the hard way by leaving the choice up to them based on some notion of respect for those…people you’re pretending are your actual parents.”
“I--Wait. What?” Shakata asked.
“I’d tell you to accept that you’re not going to fit in and get on with your life, but you clearly yearn to be challenged,” Coyote smiled broadly as he laughed out loud. “So keep charging onward like a wildfire, young one. You’ll find all you can manage.”
“You’re saying that following my feelings on this will lead to destruction?” Shakata asked.
“You can’t reconstruct till after you’ve destroyed, kid,” Coyote said. “Any shaman worth a damn’ll tell you that.”
“All of Nature finds regeneration through Fire,” Shakata said with the distant tone of one recalling a dream.
“Who says the young can’t be taught? No, boy, you do whatever works for you. Follow your nose, your big toe or your third leg. It doesn’t matter to me. Dance to your own music. Take a rope to a sword fight. Cut the blue wire. Answer authority with questions! Just remember to enjoy stepping on all those toes because people too angry to see straight can‘t aim their lies well either.”
“Wait, what about my parents?” Shakata asked.
“What about your parents, Shaka?” Kieren Sha asked, a probing hand on his right arm.
Shakata looked at her, then back to Coyote, but the immortal was gone.
“He’s gone,” Shakata said. “Where’d he go?”
“He vanished thirty seconds ago, Shaka,” she told him. “Then, you just…blanked out. Whatever possessed you to challenge him like that?”
“Him possessing you, I believe,” he said. “You think I’d ever just stand by and not fight for you?”
“He could’ve changed you into a slug or something,” she warned him. “Or wished you away like dust in the wind.”
“Well, the day I push too far,” Shakata said, “I suppose I’ll find out the hard way.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “You going to be alright?”
“Indeed, a valid query,” a deep, gravelly voice asked from behind them.
“Aash-katier,” Shakata said as the young Magi pair turned to face the huge silver dragon. “Welcome, elder. You’re well?”
“My greatest issue is deep concern for you, little one,” the revered dragon elder said as he folded his shining wings along the shimmering scales of his back.
“Just…pondering my sanity,” Shakata said. “How might I assist the Dragon Council today?”
“Oh, it is I who have come to be of aid,” the ancient one said. “There are events unfolding of which you should be aware.”
“Alright,” Shakata said. “Where shall we begin?”
“You should take this,” Aash-katier said, holding out a luminous crystal ball to him.
“Thank you,” Shakata said, cradling the heavy piece of clear crystal in his hands. “This is…several thousand years old?”
“Correct. Two of our smoke agents have confirmed the presence of an Albani military force that’s taken control of two human communities in Bentrci near Zadiasam’s border,” the great dragon reported in his rumbling bass. “And I believe you were already aware of the manifestation in Azirta.”
“Yes,” Shakata said. “Are these events connected to this crystal somehow?”
“Look into the crystal,” Aash-katier told him. “Relax and clear your mind.”
His feet still dangling in the hot tub, Shakata did as he was instructed. Kieren Sha continued watching over him silently from a few feet away, submerged in the bubbling water up to her neck. As his gaze blanked, Kieren Sha’s brow furrowed.
“That’s not magical,” she said quietly. “I sense some great power in it, though. You know he doesn’t do magic, right?”
“Be at ease, child,” Aash-katier whispered, his silver-scaled form relaxing along its outstretched length as it wound about the curvaceous formations of hot rock in characteristically serpentine fashion. “Give him a moment.”
“I see…great fire,” Shakata said, the crystal beginning to glow as it appeared to flame within. “From First Child‘s fire were Magi formed and formed again. Through time’s passage, Darkness first falls. The frozen giant advances. With crimson storm, are beast and Behemoth born. By night, fire descends to cool the eastern jewel. By southern dawn’s light will fire take flight over fertile fields of blood and peace…rushing jumbling images…so much…” he said, starting to wobble.
Kieren Sha stood, wading to Shakata’s side and putting her hands on his knee. The crystal rolled forward from his limp hands, Kieren Sha catching the orb just before it hit the water.
“Shaka?” she probed as Aash-katier reached out to hold him upright.
“Fire and water…” Shakata said, sounding almost drunk. “Raining fish…ice and dark…and…”
“And? And what, Shaka?” she asked.
“The end,” he said.
“End,” she echoed. “What end? End of what?”
“End…the Magi,” he said.
Kieren Sha looked at the crystal in her hand, its glow faded, then up at Aash-katier.
“It’s more than I got out of it,” the ancient dragon said.
“Where did you get this?” Kieren Sha asked.
“From our friend’s parents,” Aash-katier replied, looking to Shakata.
“Did I miss anything?” Shakata asked, regaining alertness.
“When the Magi came to request a home in these lands,” Aash-katier said, “they were received as kindred for it was through the First Child that dragonkind first learned the Way of Fire. Still, the Magi were charged with proving they could hold any territory they might be granted, ultimately earning the name ‘Warlords’ among the humans whom they had allowed to live. With their chosen border defined, the Magi entrusted this crystal to me as a symbol of peaceful coexistence. Naming it ‘Laku’, they bid I should hold it until a time I would come to know.”
“They gave you this…thousands of years ago?” Kieren Sha asked.
“Yes,” the dragon said.
“I saw myself,” Shakata said.
“I saw you, also,” Aash-katier told them. “Thus, as events began to occur that struck my notice and the orb began to glow more, I thought it time to pass this to you.”
“Laku,” Kieren Sha said. “That sounds…old…and very familiar. What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” Shakata said.
“I know it’s familiar,” she said. “It has to mean something.”
“It does,” Shakata said. “It’s the old tongue, Primal. It means, ‘zero’ and ‘nothing’. In this case, apparently a very specific nothing: the end of the Magi.”
“If any of that other nonsense is even to be trusted,” she said. “There is no southern dawn.”
“Maybe…second dawn?” Shakata pondered.
“Prophetic ramblings are often open to interpretation,” the elder dragon offered. “This whole thing may be premature, but when the manifestation of Phoenix descended last night upon Azirta, Zadiasam’s eastern jewel, I made an assumption. It may yet be proven right or wrong. Likewise, the further connection of Alban to being the frozen giant.”
“I’d say our options are further meditation,” Shakata said, “and using Oracle’s planetary surveillance to watch for anything else that seems like it may fit.”
“Just what you needed,” Kieren Sha said, “an excuse to try to isolate yourself.”
“Well, Kee, obviously, this could be of great importance,” Shakata said. “The things I’ve just seen and the images I’ve been seeing may prove to be warnings of great danger to all of us. We have to find out what’s going on.”
“Yes,” Aash-katier said. “No offense, but I’ll be very interested to learn what comes of all this. The suspense has really been getting to me the last couple of centuries.”
Monday, March 4, 2013
16947--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 16)
The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
SIXTEEN
Through hours of frigid night, the unnatural storm surrounding Crown City had grown stronger, expanding with the support of Lar Kwa’s faithful. Normally a rarity in Alban, lightning flashes continued to disrupt the calm of the blanketing dark chased by rolling thunder that threatened to drown out the sounds of the city. With thickening cloud layers, both luminous and dark, obscuring any hint of the sun’s radiance, an eerie twilight veiled the populace. Beneath a swirling cloudy dome, a relatively calm storm’s eye remained firmly in place over the city, providing haven from forces that grew strangely stronger as they reached farther. Even without any view of it to guide them, following the time of sunrise, people swarmed the palace walls.
Word had spread of Lar Kwa’s vow to abate the plague and even those who had not heard the word directly had felt the touch of his influence in their dreams. By the word of their golden prince turned emperor, coming to him with their fears, opening themselves to him, was sufficient to allow his power to save them from the King’s Pale Pox. Rumors spread to the masses through whispers and dreams of Lar Kwa spending the stormy night in devoted meditation before the Crimson Throne accompanied by the Golden Shadows, his enigmatic elite guard, and the Circle of Nine who dwelled in the Celestial Temple in endless service.
In one home after another, illness that had threatened death faded as quickly as it had come. With restored health and renewed vigor, people came from within Crown City and beyond it to converge on the royal palace. Many of those who remained afflicted braved the daunting weather with the assistance of the healthy that they might plead personally for their salvation. Their faith had not been sufficient to earn their lord’s favor, but encouraged by the restoration of so many others, they were determined to offer themselves with redoubled passion.
By sunrise, though the sun remained unseen anywhere below the expanding storm, a sea of nearly a hundred thousand people had surged to the edge of the Plaza of Fathers and the city streets leading to it. While many spoke of the elimination of the plague as a miracle, those aware of the multitude gathered outside the palace could tell that the military being able to maintain order would require something more. Anticipating their arrival, Lar Kwa had ordered that rations of bread and dried meat be distributed to all who came.
With all his preparations, he fully expected their fervent response when he walked out onto the great balcony overlooking the plaza. Powerful spotlights shone upon him, resplendent in his golden robes. As he held Tshan’casai overhead, a trio of large white dragons descended from the thick clouds. The winged creatures circled the palace before each found a perch on its roof and towers. In spite of the strange weather and physical privations, Crown City’s denizens met their ruler with cheers of unbridled adulation.
“Our society, once noble and glorious,” Lar Kwa called out, his magically amplified voice echoing from loudspeakers around the plaza’s perimeter, “has become fragmented and rife with conflict. Through these cracks in the armor of our spirits, our people became easy targets of starvation and disease, but no more! Many of us have died and they will be remembered, but they were the weakest of us! Those who have survived this dread time are the strongest of Alban! You are Alban’s strength! While I have become known as an advocate of peace, foreign powers have taken advantage of our nation’s peaceful ways to interfere with the free exercise of our sovereign powers, but they shall be reminded of Alban’s ferocity. Their shackles of oppression must be thrown off! The Charis’colia have eagerly volunteered their support, pledging their wealth and power to help us rise together in a unification of souls against which our oppressors can not stand! We will be a force beyond resistance! We will remind them that we are warriors!”
Impassioned cries rose up from the populace as Lar Kwa continued. The flames of fervor had been fanned and he knew the people were nearly ready. Then he heard it. At first, it was scattered and disorganized, sounding off randomly among the many different intonations. Quickly, it grew, becoming more clearly audible as the chant became repeated by more people with increasing frequency. The more it repeated, the more it drew others to join in the chant. As more people joined in, the chant gained organization until all he could hear was “LAR KWA! LAR KWA!” rising up to embrace him with a force to match the unrelenting wind beyond the city’s edge. He allowed himself a rapturous smile as the voices washed over him. They were finally ready.
“Gather with your families,” Lar Kwa ordered. “Draw together, warm yourselves and eat! Then pray for Alban! Pray for us all! Soon we shall begin our quest to glory!”
The people began to cheer their approval once more.
“As surely as I have brought you salvation this day, follow me and I shall lead you forth to change the world! Follow me as your glorious Golden Emperor and the unrighteous will fall before us!”
Tshan’casai glowed brightly, its golden light once more a beacon as he thrust it skyward. The people began to chant his name again as the summoned dragons roared to the swirling storm.
Lar Kwa felt light with rapturous energy, the chorus of voices he had inspired flooding him, buoying his spirit. His heart pounded hammer blows, fed by his matchless ambitions as he looked out over the frenzied masses below. Darkness and desperation had been rampant across frozen Alban for weeks, but the new emperor’s zeal had swept across the citizenry and reshaped their fear. Backed by the power of ancient magical forces, Lar Kwa’s impassioned words were as eagerly received as he ever could have wished.
Within the centuries-old palace walls, heart of the transformative fervor, the rising chaos was music to the one who had orchestrated it all. The golden robes that had graced his father’s shoulders hung from Lar Kwa’s own as though he wore a new skin, reforming him into a new man. Hearing the whisper of a familiar voice that assured him all obstacles would soon be swept from his envisioned path, Emperor Lar Kwa felt a confidence rise within him as he turned from the cacophony below his grand balcony perch and walked back into the palace with a flourish of flowing gold.
With practiced invisibility, a dedicated team of videographers under the direction of Mischa, Lar Kwa’s chief promotionalist, dutifully recorded the actions of the emperor and every event that occurred around him for the sake of whatever historic record their master sought to present to the world. Gliding about the polished marble floor with silent grace, the camera operators deftly avoided interaction with any of the emperor’s guard or guests. Even more importantly, as they spread around the great hall, they stayed out of the emperor’s way and managed to record him from multiple angles as he moved to his newly occupied throne.
“Bring them in,” Lar Kwa commanded, barely restraining a chuckle as he triggered a rush of frenzied activity.
Heavy, ornately crafted doors that had been hand-carved from imported wood stood at the main entrance to the opulent chamber. The dark wood was born of trees in the forests of Tahzir in the distant north. The archaic symbols carved in the wood told of the birth of a long-broken empire, the unification of people from distant lands. The doors were flung open with the suddenness of lightning and a deep booming barely distinguishable from thunder. Through the open doorway marched the striking figure of General Karra, still dressed in his familiar black and gray armor. Held in his strong right hand, the general walked with Torrent, a powerful stormlance. The bladed upper end of the magical, eight-foot greatstaff was aglow with a scintillating light that sparkled on the surface of the polished dragon skull he wore as a helmet. A cloak of coal black cloth and fur flowed in the general’s wake and just behind its edge followed two of Lar Kwa’s Golden Shadows, silent figures bound in service as the emperor’s elite guard. The dutiful knights were clad in full plate armor of shining gold, as reflective as any mirror. Despite their bulk, they moved with inhuman grace and their armor never made a sound.
The seasoned general with his glowering eyes and traditional warrior’s garb of leather and cloth approached the Crimson Throne. Lar Kwa, his gaze straining to pierce the thick beard, scrutinized the aged face that came toward him. The general was a unique sculpture, scarred like an ancient stone displaying the record of years of practiced violence and even at its most serene projecting nothing less than menace straight from the depths of his hardened heart. The emperor studied him as all nine of the Golden Shadows took position at the bottom of the steps that led to the Crimson Throne.
“General Karra, I revel in the midst of a day where my long-mapped plans become manifest after years of struggle,” Lar Kwa announced to the general, “and yet I am faced with you.”
“I respond only to your summons, sire.”
“But you’re grim, Karra,” the emperor told him. “Look in a mirror sometime. You’re a grim fellow. If I wanted to frighten children to death in their beds, I couldn’t imagine anything better than to include you in their nightly stories.”
“We prepare for war, my lord,” General Karra reminded him. “It’s grim business on its best day. I am your warrior and intend to deliver you only the best results.”
“The restoration of your reputation and honor is of great concern to you,” Lar Kwa said. “I can see how it weighs upon your troubled soul.”
“Your perceptions are accurate, my liege,” the general told his master. “My burden drives me, motivates me in your name.”
“Of course, I treasure your loyalty, Karra,” Lar Kwa told him. “Remember, though, it is not war for which you prepare, but peace. Unlike our many pirate battles, this will be a divine mission of reunification. The change we bring may not be welcomed by all, but those who would resist us will be unable to stand and will be swept aside.”
“I understand, majesty,” General Karra told him, “but no one ever invites being swept away with any eagerness. The gods favor the prepared.”
“You already have five thousand troops preparing for deployment over land. Several thousand zealous peasants outside are hungry to serve and more are on their way. They’re going to bridge the efforts of those already in Bentrci and your infantry as it follows. We are going to rebuild a broken empire and restore the faith of its people.”
“With all due respect,” General Karra said cautiously, “that’s a half-starved mass of civilians. They need to be trained bef--”
“That’s a fevered mob, souls intoxicated by the glorious touch of divinity through my power,” Lar Kwa said, leaning forward in his exalted throne. “They’re being fed enough to sustain their bodies while my magic drives their souls. Have them dressed in the right colors, take them to the border and point them north!”
“My apologies,” General Karra said. “I’ll have weapons and field packs distributed right away.”
“Save those resources for the real soldiers,” Lar Kwa told him. “A fanatic mob travels best when it travels light and carrying weapons certainly won’t convey the message of peace. They will be the first ambassadors, spreading the divine message on their pilgrimage. Their needs will be provided for as they go.”
“Brilliant, sire,” General Karra said with a half-bow.
“Divinely inspired,” Lar Kwa said, his gaze shifting to the people being escorted into the throne room flanked by palace guards. “You must have faith, Karra. I extended a hand to you in your exile and you took it. Do not falter and you will yet know redemption for your past. Obedient steps will maintain your soul on a healing path.”
“Thank you, majesty.”
“Put the civilians under the Weasel Clan’s charge and let Tais deal with them,” Lar Kwa ordered. “He’s accustomed to handling unwashed masses. Now, on to other matters. The foreigners? Where are they?”
“Kent Haleen,” Jarkadin informed them, stepping forward nervously, “ranking trade envoy and his delegation from Zadiasam.”
“All dead,” General Karra said, “attempting to escape the country with your parents.”
“Oh, how tragic. There was so much more for them to see and to learn. Zadiasam has made another poor choice,” Lar Kwa said, “attempting to support the old rulership’s collaborations against the true might of Alban. Fearfully clinging to old ways has driven them to flee from grace, to deny the promise of the future. Zadiasam’s predatory oppression here shall be put to an end. The monstrous, organized evil it has become shall be revealed to all Tarakk. Leaders of the Charis’colia, step forward.”
Lar Kwa smiled at the faces and movements of those breaking from the crowd to approach him. As they aligned themselves before him, the colors of each faction were displayed proudly. He looked down upon them, reminding himself of the magical disciplines that each was reputed to have at their disposal. Before returning to Crown City, Lar Kwa had contacted select heads of the Colia, strengthening the foundation of his imperial plans by offering deals to those of the most powerful tribes and clans in exchange for support of his cause. Those he could not initially sway to see the virtue of his grand vision, he remained confident that ways to bypass their resistance would present themselves to him.
“Tilo Isharien,” Lar Kwa called out with a knowing smile, “you have stepped forward to speak for Clan Isharien this grand morning. Could your father not be with us?”
“High Lord Aolo is unwell, majesty,” Tilo replied humbly. “Following your most generous party last night, we retired to the luxurious suites you provided here in the palace. This morning we found him deep in a cold sleep from which none have been able to rouse him.”
“Indeed a tragedy which must weigh upon you greatly,” Lar Kwa said. “He must not have focused upon his prayers.”
“All Clan Isharien prays for his speedy recovery,” Tilo told the emperor.
“It is noble of you to have joined us in this time of crisis. It stirs my heart to know that there are still those among us who recognize their duties. In Aolo’s absence, I am certain you will serve well as Isharien’s High Lord in his stead. I will need you to begin familiarizing yourself with available intelligence about those who might resist us.”
“Isharien’s resources are at your disposal, of course, majesty,” Tilo assured him.
“Of course,” the emperor replied, gesturing to a tall, hooded man to step forward from the shadows, “I have already put them to good use. You will need to be brought up to speed.”
The unknown man caused a chill to run through Tilo, the daunting figure knotting the young lord’s stomach as he stepped forward silently. Ornate gold bracers adorned the stranger’s lean arms and a white hood kept his face in shadow. Tilo’s eyes scanned him quickly, but thoroughly, making note of the two swords on the man’s back and one on each hip, each weapon a unique treasure.
“He is draped in the colors of Isharien,” Tilo commented, “but I don’t think we’ve been introduced. Idon, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Reputations do speak volumes, do they not?” Lar Kwa chuckled. “He is an agent of your father’s. One of his better known secrets, I must say. Certainly, a credit to your clan.”
“Yes, the Eight Blades of Idon have cast long shadows,” Tilo said, “feared by many. They’ve been doing advance work for your plans, majesty?”
“Superbly so,“ Lar Kwa confirmed. “Go. He will explain the network that has been put in place. I expect preliminary recommendations quickly.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Tilo said, thumping his fist to his chest before withdrawing from the throne with the silent lesser noble.
“And do not concern yourself about your father,” Lar Kwa continued. “He and the rest of your family present will be welcome to stay on in the guest suites where they will receive the finest possible care.”
“Thank you, majesty,” Tilo said.
“As we are in a time of crisis, I insist that all of your family members present, in fact, should remain guests of the palace,” Lar Kwa announced to the rest of the gathered nobles.
“Your…majesty,” Duchess Cella managed to force the words from her mouth, refraining from displaying her outrage at the situation, “we are the Colia. As the nobility of Charis, we must return to our domains. There is much to be done…if we are to aid you.”
“Certainly,” the emperor said, “and such sense of duty is admirable. I would be remiss, however, if I failed to honor your service. I can think of no better reward than to continue hosting your loved ones. Secure in these mighty walls, the Charis’colia will be protected as nowhere else in all of Alban.”
“But, majesty,” Duchess Cella contended cautiously, “I--”
“I insist,” Lar Kwa reminded her. “My military’s officers must know that their loved ones are safe in order to perform at their best. All manner of ill might befall them outside the palace, more than merely the pox.”
“We understand and thank you, sire,” High Lord Tallis Vey of the Ice-wolf Clan broke in, bowing deeply and flaring his cape before Lady Cella to draw attention away from her. “We are all grateful beyond measure.”
“Of course you are,” Lar Kwa said. “I am being magnanimous. Confer with General Karra. He has your assignments and will begin briefing you on my campaign plans. I will join you soon. Palace guards will escort my honored guests back to their suites. When there is time, those staying here can join in a discussion of the reborn empire. Perhaps at dinner.”
The guards began to encircle them with swift efficiency to escort their charges out of the throne room once more. As people were ushered from his presence, the number of soldiers and guards quickly outnumbered civilians before the emperor.
“No,” Lar Kwa said, gesturing at one strangely dressed woman with the tip of his sword, “not that one. She stays.”
He gestured with the ancient sword, first up and then toward the thrones, the surprised Treutelaar rising helplessly over the heads of the guards and then flying to the jeweled throne that she had always known as her mother’s. The distaff noble, clad in her gray coveralls, was dropped unceremoniously into the padded throne and struggled to catch her breath.
“Once upon a time,” Lar Kwa said, “there was a prince who was sent into the wilds. Though he was far from his home, he did not die--”
“Raging storm…raging maniac,” Treutelaar grumbled.
“--for he was favored by ancient gods,” Lar Kwa continued. “When they saw that his struggles had made him strong and worthy, they gave him a magic sword that shone with a light to guide him home.”
“So I’m to be plagued with stories to keep me up at night?” Treutelaar asked. “Is that why--?”
“An emperor needs an empress,” Lar Kwa explained. “Best to keep it in the family.”
“I want no part of this madness,” she protested. “Please, either release me or just kill me.”
“Moving from princess to empress is a promotion,” Lar Kwa told her. “Serving your people is a sacred duty. You are their light, after all. They adore you nearly as much as I.”
“You have the throne,” Treutelaar said, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks, “and a cult of followers. You don’t need me to legitimize…”
“No, do not speak nonsense, dear one,” Lar Kwa laughed as he approached her in her seat. “You are the pure Light of the People, glory of this palace.”
“We, best of all, know I am neither,” she said. “Be done with me.”
“Never,” he told her. “I want you here more than any other. I have always loved you, dear sister.”
“Then, let me go.”
“We have too much time lost between us already,” he said softly. “You did love me once.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “when you were my darling little brother. Before you were a monster.”
“Oh, sweet, sweet sister,” Lar Kwa said, taking her by the hand, “I caused you such pain when we were younger. I will lavish you with my most heartfelt apologies until you accept them and accept that I do love you.”
“Then we’re going to be waiting a long, long time,” she told him.
“However long it takes, I will know the truth of it when you warm to me,” he insisted.
“Speaking of truths,” she said, “you used to be younger than I. What happened to you? You look almost old enough to be my--”
“Jarkadin!”
Startled by her brother’s sudden shout, slender Treutelaar nearly leapt from her seat.
“Well, I wasn’t going to guess that old,” she mumbled as the aged servant shuffled forward from the rear of the throne room. “Still, y-you may have everyone else fooled, but not me. You’ll never convince me that you’re anything other than the monster you’ve been for years!”
“In time,” he assured her, looking into her pale eyes. “In time. Time is subject to strange flows. My experiences beyond the horizon have forced me to endure much in order to return home…to you, but such trials have been my forge, casting me into a form far more worthy than that which last dwelled in these great halls.”
“Trials may have aged you, beast,” she said bluntly, denying him the caress of her cheek as her gloved hand swatted his away, “but the monster before me consumed my brother long before you departed these lands.”
“Majesty?” Jarkadin spoke as he stepped up, his withered form moving far faster than it looked capable of doing.
“Jarkadin, you old goat, every time I see you I’m surprised you haven’t crumbled to dust yet,” Lar Kwa told him. “Take her, please,” he said, leading Treutelaar from her throne by her delicate wrist and handing her over to Jarkadin as though passing off a leashed dog. “See that she is cleaned, dressed properly and moved into the new master suite.”
“Then you’ll not be having her exiled or imprisoned, sire?” the old man asked.
“No, only the very best for her,” Lar Kwa responded. “She is the Light of the People.”
“Brighter attire then, sire?”
“I see that revolution has not dulled your droll wit any more than the passing centuries, old man,” Lar Kwa said.
“Shall I smite him, my lord?” General Karra asked, walking up behind Jarkadin as he returned to the throne room.
“Not yet,” Lar Kwa said, tousling the old man’s snowy white, once-blonde hair. “He still makes me laugh. Go, Jarkadin.”
“Wait,” Treutelaar said, easily pulling free of Jarkadin’s weak grip. “I-I have projects active. Could I be allowed--?”
“Your precious hobby room, of course,” Lar Kwa said, reaching out to caress her cheek. “Very well, but do not forget this favor. Let her tend to her obsessions, but keep her guarded. I do not want her hurting herself.”
With a practiced bow, the stooped manservant departed, escorting the despondent empress from the throne room. Lar Kwa felt a surge of strength.
“Why are you here, Karra?” Lar Kwa asked, turning his attention back to the center of the great room where his general stood waiting.
“If I might speak freely, my great lord…”
“Certainly,” Lar Kwa said, his eyes darting about the room. “Mischa, depart. Golden Shadows, clear them from my presence and guard the doors. This audience is ended.”
Emperor Lar Kwa seemed to drift away in thought. General Karra could not tell whether his lord was listening to the sounds filtering in through the palace walls or if all he heard any longer was the golden blade he grasped so tightly.
Karra waited for the emperor’s elite guard to close the heavy doors behind the last people to leave the room before saying, “My lord?”
“The Circle is…occupied,” Lar Kwa said, chuckling as he glanced overhead. “We are alone enough. Have your say.”
“I have concerns…military concerns,” Karra told his liege.
“That is your arena,” Lar Kwa said, starting down the blood-red steps of his Crimson Throne. “Do not let trifling details stand in the way of my vision.”
“The original plan called for naval transport of a military force north for a peace conference regarding division of territorial management of Bentrci,” Karra reminded him. “Your majesty’s latest variation calls for additional forces to advance over land to secure territory in Joba and Bentrci on the way to Zadiasam. The length of such a supply line concerns me as does the lack of a definable battle front.”
“You must stop thinking in such terms,” Lar Kwa said. “We play a different game, one of influence and domains, not fronts. Bentrci is populated with many tribes, villages and towns under no centralized government.”
“True,” Karra said, “but Zadiasam holds the greater influence in the area. Bentrci is closer to them, they patrol the area with significant military assets and they have established alliances.”
“Which is why they must be pressed to retreat from Bentrci, leaving it open to Alban.”
“Instead of one war, we could quickly find ourselves fighting dozens and leaving enemies at our back,” the general advised.
“You let doubt plague you still,” Lar Kwa said. “Zadiasam is a unified nation. They have avoided draining their energies on petty internal squabbles. I have put an end to that problem here. We will go to the peace conference and Zadiasam will also be dealt with.”
“Sire,” Karra said, his surprise poorly hidden by his face, “the terms imposed by the Treaty of Orray--”
“A treaty and practices to which I never agreed,” Lar Kwa interrupted, slicing Tshan’casai at the air, “and cost you your illustrious career. The empire will be restored. The Sea of Orray will be within our borders and I will announce to the warlords that I am dissolving their intrusive treaty.”
“Very bold, my lord.”
“I want to weaken Zadiasam’s position as much as possible before then, so move quickly,” Lar Kwa insisted. “Far easier to keep control of that which you already possess. Our additional forces positioned on Zadiasam’s border will only strengthen our position. No matter their arrogance, they won’t be so quick to scrawl lines on a map if they know they have to fight for the territory. Zadiasam has many things, but they are softened by their luxuries and haven’t the courage for that. Now go. Make sure your officers are prepared. My Army of Light has auspicious works ahead.”
Monday, February 25, 2013
16940--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 13)
The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
The rays of the morning sun were barely able to penetrate the lingering cloud of dark smoke that hung in the air over Azirta’s fire-ravaged Upasha District. Scores of laborer hands worked at a hurried pace to sort through the remains of the area’s buildings. Neighboring one of the crumbled structures was a nondescript warehouse that had been damaged by the fire and was host not to law enforcers or fire inspectors, but instead to a score of workers who had been roused from sleep at an unusual hour to move the thousands of boxes being stored on the premises.
The warehouse was a property held by one of the business enterprises controlled by entrepreneur Amilian Tenking. Though the wealthy Tenking was considered mysterious to most, he was known to wield some local political influence and to have a growing ambition for more. Likewise, he was known to have hedonistic interests in fast cars, fast horses, fast boats and compliant women. Anyone who knew him even slightly beyond his reputed proclivities, knew that he never made a habit of showing himself anywhere other than breakfast until at least another hour past sunrise. The well-dressed businessman’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing, as the figure of a large, powerfully built man clad in gray descended from a roof access hatch to alight before him on the warehouse floor. His huge left fist clutched a five-foot-long metal staff that held the shine of polished silver and was inlaid with spirals of black crystal. Though his face was partially concealed by the shadow of his hooded coat, Tenking knew him better than he cared to and steeled himself for their latest encounter.
“I don’t smell anything cooking,” the new arrival said, his loose clothes fluttering around him with a sound reminiscent of wings, “so I can only imagine that whatever your men are clearing out of here is worth large piles of money.”
“Moving my company’s merchandise to a location that’s not on fire is good for business, Sterling,” Tenking said with a tightened jaw. “Terrorist explosions and giant firebirds constitute excessive risk. If you ever give up prowling around rooftops and alleyways and get involved in a legitimate business activity, you might learn this sort of thing.”
“Are you going to give me lessons on running legitimate business activities, Tenking?” Sterling mocked him, the towering man peering past his adversary from beneath his hooded coat with piercing eyes. “When do you host your special seminars in falsifying documents, smuggling, conspiracy and miscellaneous fraud? Better still, let‘s skip to the best places to hide bodies.”
“You’re a funny man,” Tenking said, trying hard to keep from displaying his anger.
“I do two shows a night on the size of your ass alone,” Sterling jibed. “You should catch it sometime. It kills on the east side.”
“You need a hand here, boss?” one of Tenking’s workers asked, cautiously approaching the near-eight-foot-tall intruder from behind.
“The big man just stopped in to bring me a few new gray hairs,” Tenking said, running a hand through his expensively cut blond and gray locks, “like those religious crazies blowing up buildings aren‘t causing enough problems. And I‘m sure not waiting to see what Phoenix cults start showing up after last night.”
“ummm…”
“Just keep moving crates, Slaran,” Tenking instructed. “This whole place needs to be empty before they cordon off the area. The next truck is due in ten minutes. You boys need to quit dragging ass and double-time it.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Slaran said, his muscular arms reaching to take a wooden box from the top of a nearby stack.
“Hold on, tiny,” Sterling commanded, touching one end of his staff to the side of the crate. “We should take a look inside. It might help you with organizing.”
Determined to follow the orders of his notorious employer over those of the stranger, Slaran grunted and strained, wrestling with all his might yet failing to budge the crate. For all his effort, the man’s merely mortal muscle was no match for the magic of Sterling’s staff, which Slaran might have been aware of had he noticed the faint glow at its tip.
“I heard you was strong,” Slaran said. “I guess that’s true. I heard you scared some guys into thinking you got wings, claws and fangs, too, though.”
“You have a point to make?” Sterling asked.
“Maybe you’re just big and scary,” Slaran said, “and nobody’s had the balls to try fighting you. Momo!”
“You’re going to hurt yourself, Slaran,” Sterling said, reaching for the crate with his right hand and tearing the top open with ease. “Let’s see if we can’t help lighten your load.”
“Momo!” Slaran shouted. “Where is that moron?”
“Smarties?” Sterling asked, his tone obviously indicating his puzzlement at seeing dozens of pocket-sized, individually packaged, personal computers ready for redistribution. “You’re in a panic over these? People can get these anywhere. Hell, they’re practically disposable.”
“I told you, I’m a legitimate businessman,” Tenking said. “I’ve got product to get into the hands of rational, not-crazy people. You can see yourself out, right?”
“So I suppose you have transaction records that show you own all these,” Sterling said.
“Available to show anyone with actual law enforcement authority,” Tenking assured him.
“Momo! Get your fat ass over here!” Slaran shouted across the warehouse.
“And to support your claim of losing them to the fires,” Sterling said.
“Let me explain something to you, hero-man. I enjoy making a profit from disaster as much as the next man,” Tenking admitted. “Truly, probably even more since doing so doesn’t upset any of my moral sensibilities.”
“Morals? Who’d you steal those from?”
“I’m a practical man and as such I don’t make a habit of destroying my own property. It‘s bad for my profits.”
“I would think a practical businessman wouldn’t go to such lengths to run afoul of the law as you.”
“If the upstanding law enforcement personnel of this beautiful city and the illustrious elected lawmakers of our great nation haven’t found any reason to take issue with the legitimacy of my business activities, I don’t see how you can claim to have grounds--”
“I’ve had your society of entrepreneurs in my sights for too long for you to fool me with flowery words,” Sterling shared, “and I’ve never heard of a politician who wasn’t lying about being honest.”
“Yeah,” Slaran laughed, “you know what they say about honest politicians.”
“No, Slaran,” Sterling responded, grabbing him by his arm, “what do they say?”
Slaran was momentarily dumbstruck, amazed at both Sterling’s strength and the size of the large man’s hand around his own not inconsiderable upper arm.
“Slaran talks too much,” his boss said grimly, poking his man in the chest, “about things that don’t concern him when he should be working.”
“Yeah, boss,” Slaran agreed with a nervous laugh, “nothing like a good day’s work for your health.”
“Right. Work’s always better for your health than running your mouth,” his employer reminded him. “Now, get back to packing.”
Sterling’s fierce gaze burned at Slaran through narrowed eyes for several seconds before he shoved the frightened minion away. He looked back at Tenking and growled, “This isn’t over,” before bounding skyward in a single powerful leap.
“True enough,” Tenking mumbled, watching Sterling vanish back through the skylight. “It’ll be over when I’ve got your head on a pole, watching me eat your liver.”
A beeping came from Tenking’s coat pocket. He pulled out his own smarty in response and looked at its view screen to see who was calling him before opening the communication channel. When he did answer the call, the image of the man in his screen was completely shrouded in shadow.
“Y--”
“Friend of yours?” a rasping whisper asked.
“No, damned social crusader’s a pain in my ass,” Tenking replied angrily as he started looking around the warehouse nervously, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “You’re watching?”
“You should be used to that. It’s a likelihood for anyone who works with us, at any time, anywhere.”
“Well, don’t expect me to get used to it,” Tenking warned. “I value my privacy.”
“And you’re used to being in charge.”
“Yes,” Tenking said. “I worked hard to get where I am.”
“I don’t care,” came the response. “For now, you’re working for me. Now, is he going to be a problem?”
“No, of course not,” Tenking assured his caller. “He’ll try, but he doesn’t know anything. He’s just grabbing at smoke.”
“Good. I have another job for you.”
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
THIRTEEN
The rays of the morning sun were barely able to penetrate the lingering cloud of dark smoke that hung in the air over Azirta’s fire-ravaged Upasha District. Scores of laborer hands worked at a hurried pace to sort through the remains of the area’s buildings. Neighboring one of the crumbled structures was a nondescript warehouse that had been damaged by the fire and was host not to law enforcers or fire inspectors, but instead to a score of workers who had been roused from sleep at an unusual hour to move the thousands of boxes being stored on the premises.
The warehouse was a property held by one of the business enterprises controlled by entrepreneur Amilian Tenking. Though the wealthy Tenking was considered mysterious to most, he was known to wield some local political influence and to have a growing ambition for more. Likewise, he was known to have hedonistic interests in fast cars, fast horses, fast boats and compliant women. Anyone who knew him even slightly beyond his reputed proclivities, knew that he never made a habit of showing himself anywhere other than breakfast until at least another hour past sunrise. The well-dressed businessman’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing, as the figure of a large, powerfully built man clad in gray descended from a roof access hatch to alight before him on the warehouse floor. His huge left fist clutched a five-foot-long metal staff that held the shine of polished silver and was inlaid with spirals of black crystal. Though his face was partially concealed by the shadow of his hooded coat, Tenking knew him better than he cared to and steeled himself for their latest encounter.
“I don’t smell anything cooking,” the new arrival said, his loose clothes fluttering around him with a sound reminiscent of wings, “so I can only imagine that whatever your men are clearing out of here is worth large piles of money.”
“Moving my company’s merchandise to a location that’s not on fire is good for business, Sterling,” Tenking said with a tightened jaw. “Terrorist explosions and giant firebirds constitute excessive risk. If you ever give up prowling around rooftops and alleyways and get involved in a legitimate business activity, you might learn this sort of thing.”
“Are you going to give me lessons on running legitimate business activities, Tenking?” Sterling mocked him, the towering man peering past his adversary from beneath his hooded coat with piercing eyes. “When do you host your special seminars in falsifying documents, smuggling, conspiracy and miscellaneous fraud? Better still, let‘s skip to the best places to hide bodies.”
“You’re a funny man,” Tenking said, trying hard to keep from displaying his anger.
“I do two shows a night on the size of your ass alone,” Sterling jibed. “You should catch it sometime. It kills on the east side.”
“You need a hand here, boss?” one of Tenking’s workers asked, cautiously approaching the near-eight-foot-tall intruder from behind.
“The big man just stopped in to bring me a few new gray hairs,” Tenking said, running a hand through his expensively cut blond and gray locks, “like those religious crazies blowing up buildings aren‘t causing enough problems. And I‘m sure not waiting to see what Phoenix cults start showing up after last night.”
“ummm…”
“Just keep moving crates, Slaran,” Tenking instructed. “This whole place needs to be empty before they cordon off the area. The next truck is due in ten minutes. You boys need to quit dragging ass and double-time it.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Slaran said, his muscular arms reaching to take a wooden box from the top of a nearby stack.
“Hold on, tiny,” Sterling commanded, touching one end of his staff to the side of the crate. “We should take a look inside. It might help you with organizing.”
Determined to follow the orders of his notorious employer over those of the stranger, Slaran grunted and strained, wrestling with all his might yet failing to budge the crate. For all his effort, the man’s merely mortal muscle was no match for the magic of Sterling’s staff, which Slaran might have been aware of had he noticed the faint glow at its tip.
“I heard you was strong,” Slaran said. “I guess that’s true. I heard you scared some guys into thinking you got wings, claws and fangs, too, though.”
“You have a point to make?” Sterling asked.
“Maybe you’re just big and scary,” Slaran said, “and nobody’s had the balls to try fighting you. Momo!”
“You’re going to hurt yourself, Slaran,” Sterling said, reaching for the crate with his right hand and tearing the top open with ease. “Let’s see if we can’t help lighten your load.”
“Momo!” Slaran shouted. “Where is that moron?”
“Smarties?” Sterling asked, his tone obviously indicating his puzzlement at seeing dozens of pocket-sized, individually packaged, personal computers ready for redistribution. “You’re in a panic over these? People can get these anywhere. Hell, they’re practically disposable.”
“I told you, I’m a legitimate businessman,” Tenking said. “I’ve got product to get into the hands of rational, not-crazy people. You can see yourself out, right?”
“So I suppose you have transaction records that show you own all these,” Sterling said.
“Available to show anyone with actual law enforcement authority,” Tenking assured him.
“Momo! Get your fat ass over here!” Slaran shouted across the warehouse.
“And to support your claim of losing them to the fires,” Sterling said.
“Let me explain something to you, hero-man. I enjoy making a profit from disaster as much as the next man,” Tenking admitted. “Truly, probably even more since doing so doesn’t upset any of my moral sensibilities.”
“Morals? Who’d you steal those from?”
“I’m a practical man and as such I don’t make a habit of destroying my own property. It‘s bad for my profits.”
“I would think a practical businessman wouldn’t go to such lengths to run afoul of the law as you.”
“If the upstanding law enforcement personnel of this beautiful city and the illustrious elected lawmakers of our great nation haven’t found any reason to take issue with the legitimacy of my business activities, I don’t see how you can claim to have grounds--”
“I’ve had your society of entrepreneurs in my sights for too long for you to fool me with flowery words,” Sterling shared, “and I’ve never heard of a politician who wasn’t lying about being honest.”
“Yeah,” Slaran laughed, “you know what they say about honest politicians.”
“No, Slaran,” Sterling responded, grabbing him by his arm, “what do they say?”
Slaran was momentarily dumbstruck, amazed at both Sterling’s strength and the size of the large man’s hand around his own not inconsiderable upper arm.
“Slaran talks too much,” his boss said grimly, poking his man in the chest, “about things that don’t concern him when he should be working.”
“Yeah, boss,” Slaran agreed with a nervous laugh, “nothing like a good day’s work for your health.”
“Right. Work’s always better for your health than running your mouth,” his employer reminded him. “Now, get back to packing.”
Sterling’s fierce gaze burned at Slaran through narrowed eyes for several seconds before he shoved the frightened minion away. He looked back at Tenking and growled, “This isn’t over,” before bounding skyward in a single powerful leap.
“True enough,” Tenking mumbled, watching Sterling vanish back through the skylight. “It’ll be over when I’ve got your head on a pole, watching me eat your liver.”
A beeping came from Tenking’s coat pocket. He pulled out his own smarty in response and looked at its view screen to see who was calling him before opening the communication channel. When he did answer the call, the image of the man in his screen was completely shrouded in shadow.
“Y--”
“Friend of yours?” a rasping whisper asked.
“No, damned social crusader’s a pain in my ass,” Tenking replied angrily as he started looking around the warehouse nervously, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “You’re watching?”
“You should be used to that. It’s a likelihood for anyone who works with us, at any time, anywhere.”
“Well, don’t expect me to get used to it,” Tenking warned. “I value my privacy.”
“And you’re used to being in charge.”
“Yes,” Tenking said. “I worked hard to get where I am.”
“I don’t care,” came the response. “For now, you’re working for me. Now, is he going to be a problem?”
“No, of course not,” Tenking assured his caller. “He’ll try, but he doesn’t know anything. He’s just grabbing at smoke.”
“Good. I have another job for you.”
Monday, January 28, 2013
16912--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 4)
The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD
FOUR
All of the Charis’colia was represented, when not by the ultimate leadership of each noble faction, at least by those close to it through blood or rank. Likewise, there were several representatives present from foreign governments who had been in Crown City conducting business. Though presented as a palace gala, there was far more afoot than merely the return of Alban’s prince or even the bounty of desperately needed foods he had brought to save the people from starvation. Even with hearts made light by the abatement of the food crisis, there still remained an oppressive weight on the minds of the people of Alban.
“Mak Tares, there you are,” Duchess Cella of the Fifth Tribe greeted the Ling Mountain clan’s High Lord. “I’ve just been talking with the trade envoy from Zadiasam, that Kent Haleen person.”
“Pleasant enough fellow,” Mak Tares said, “but was he able to give you a better answer to when we would receive full food shipments than he gave me?”
“Sadly, no. His government complains of terrorist bombings on land and pirates at sea. I continue to hear rumors that insist little is being done in Zadiasam to rectify the loss of our promised shipments and some to suggest their government is the actual cause of our problems. Meanwhile, Alban starves and you and I are overdue for this year’s contract negotiation,” she told him, a glass of stout dark wine in one hand and a small plate of meats and fruits in the other. “Our commerce secretaries need to confer.”
“I would think you’d be more concerned about this plague that’s killing people off,” Mak Tares responded grimly. “I would think that that would hold a far higher priority than routine business issues, your grace.”
“The prices you charge for your transit routes may be routine to you, but--”
“What’s important to me right now is the safety of my loved ones,” Mak Tares insisted with no attempt to conceal his annoyance. “Holiday or no, there’s no need for my family to be here!”
“Stay calm, Mak,” Cella urged him as she gently drew his attention to the event recording team spread throughout the room. “You don’t want to get too loud and become noticed.”
Cella drew his attention to a small fire opal in her hand, prompting his silence. No matter what contentions existed between the two, his respect for her wisdom remained paramount. Truly, on a larger scale, as leader of Fifth Tribe, the only body of the Colia considered mighty enough to independently challenge the Crimson Throne, Cella typically drew a quiet reverence at state gatherings. Even among the Charis'colia, her status was that of a celebrity. Though it was not in her nature to trade upon the esteem in which others held her, Cella’s presence alone commonly instilled hope in those around her. Holstered at her side, rather than a revered family sword that was typical in the warrior culture, she wore the metallic crystalline scepter Adamantine, symbol of her position and focus of her formidable discipline. As Cella closed the gem in her fist, she concentrated and whispered a short incantation too low for Mak Tares to understand. The stone began to glow a bright red.
“Alright,” she said, looking him in the eyes intently, “people will ignore us for a few seconds. Go ahead.”
Cella drew his attention to a small fire opal in her hand, prompting his silence. No matter what contentions existed between the two, his respect for her wisdom remained paramount. Truly, on a larger scale, as leader of Fifth Tribe, the only body of the Colia considered mighty enough to independently challenge the Crimson Throne, Cella typically drew a quiet reverence at state gatherings. Even among the Charis'colia, her status was that of a celebrity. Though it was not in her nature to trade upon the esteem in which others held her, Cella’s presence alone commonly instilled hope in those around her. Holstered at her side, rather than a revered family sword that was typical in the warrior culture, she wore the metallic crystalline scepter Adamantine, symbol of her position and focus of her formidable discipline. As Cella closed the gem in her fist, she concentrated and whispered a short incantation too low for Mak Tares to understand. The stone began to glow a bright red.
“Alright,” she said, looking him in the eyes intently, “people will ignore us for a few seconds. Go ahead.”
“We’ve had absolutely no trace of this mystery illness in the Ling Mountains,” Mak Tares continued, drawing nearer to her, “yet it was for some reason deemed mandatory that my family and everyone else’s be trotted into the most densely populated part of the country for the Crimson Throne’s glorification of the Lost Prince.”
“We’re celebrating our hero,” Cella clarified. “He has saved us from piracy and famine and survived years away to return taller and more handsome than ever. A little tribute is a small price to pay, especially for one’s future king.”
“Seven hells, look at the empty space by her majesty’s side. Princess Treutelaar isn’t present for this circus and she lives here.”
“You know siblings,” Cella said. “At least pretend to look at the monitors occasionally.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“I appreciate your concerns, but try to calm yourself,” Cella said in her most soothing tones. “I don’t pretend to know much, but we haven’t had any solid indication that the disease is spread through contact or even proximity. It has resisted the efforts of both magic and medicine. That’s why the King’s Pale Pox is still a mystery and why it’ll probably be months before anyone can get another piece of amber through the Shadow Market at any price. King Tural has assured me personally that the situation will be one of tonight’s chief topics--sometime after the prince has finished yet another retelling of his pirate battles, I would assume. The rumors making the rounds say that the prince himself may have brought a solution to rid us of it.”
“Well, I suppose that’s slightly comforting…in its own way,” he said as her gemstone fell dark and crumbled into a scorched silica dust that she let fall to the floor.
“Good. Now, I don’t relish having my family endure these functions any more than you,” Cella assured Mak Tares, “but we can at least use the opportunity to introduce them to each other. You have little ones?”
“Yes, I do,” he smiled finally, “each one with a personal guard to keep them under control.”
“Clever,” Cella said. “I’ll have to assign some of those for my own hellions. What was their impression of the Nine?”
At their mention, both Duchess Cella and High Lord Tares looked upward at the vast throne room’s unique ceiling. Roughly thirty feet above the Crimson Throne, the stone ceiling sported a circular opening so wide as to take up two-thirds of the width and half the length of the great room. The large circle was ringed with polished onyx and gold, a gilded opening to the chamber above. There, they could see into the Celestial Temple where the mysterious Circle of Nine reposed in various meditative states. Beneath the Celestial Temple’s vaulted dome, sparkles and swirls of light played about glowing clouds and detached wizards, some sitting, some standing, others floating aimlessly.
“I haven’t visited here in months,” Cella said, still gazing upward, “but I must admit that the view is always astonishing.”
“Indeed,” Mak Tares said with a sigh, “though it might’ve been nice if those two had put some clothes on…at least, for the party.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, the two chuckling uncomfortably as they looked each other in the eyes once more. “Well, you know wizards.”
“A little better now than I would’ve preferred,” he said.
“They may not even know we’re all down here,” she said. “Now, you came in on that beautiful skyship, didn’t you?”
“The Emerald Star,” Mak Tares smiled, beaming at the thought of his gleaming, magically guided dirigible that proudly served as the flagship of his clan’s fleet. “Yes.”
“Your little ones must enjoy it immensely,” she said.
“Oh, they take great delight in every voyage,” he confirmed, “but not nearly so much as their father, I must confess.”
“Well, don’t keep them waiting,” Cella told him, urging him to continue on to his family. “I’ll find my brood and we’ll catch up with you directly. Perhaps, aboard your ship, we can speak more openly of…matters of concern to the Colia.”
Unnoticed by either noble, or by most anyone who was not supposed to notice them, agents of Clan Isharien moved smoothly among the scores of brightly garbed guests filling the palace’s sprawling throne room. Though some posed as servers, other Isharien agents played their roles as guests, subtly eavesdropping on virtually every conversation in the room for their masters. Mixing with the sounds of gentle music and chattering voices and their somber undertones were the scents of full-bodied wines, stout ales, fresh meats, succulent fruits and crisp vegetables which all helped to soften the moods and loosen the tongues of the assemblage.
Still, to any who had a sense of such things, the whole affair was obviously as much political as celebratory. The more adept navigators of the perilous waters of the royal court, like High Lord Tallas Vey of Ice-wolf Clan, never strayed too far from the vicinity of the royal family and the Crimson Throne. Rather than the king, though, it was the long-absent Lar Kwa who was the radiant star of the evening. Recounting tales of his celebrated travels, the heroically returned prince easily drew one enthralled listener after another into his orbit.
“Any great surprises you found awaiting you upon your return, my prince?” minor Lord Els Bardinn asked between sips of wine. “Or have the eastern pirates made you their king now that you have mastered them?”
“To be honest, one of my great surprises came at learning the profound affinity my tongue had retained for the tastes of home,” the prince proclaimed, hoisting his own glass to sniff at the rim before savoring another sip. “Foreign alcohols tend to be needlessly sweet.”
“To Alban,” one of the nobles raised her glass, prompting a wave of like murmurs and mimicked motions by others rushing to show their patriotism.
“What I do find nearly as eye-opening,” the prince continued, “is that a minor Second Tribe landlord would find within the purview of nobility the audacity to suggest that a prince of Alban would dare pretend cloak himself in some hollow mantle of foreign kingship.”
“I…my prince, I…”
“And within steps of the Crimson Throne, no less,” Lar Kwa added, draining his glass and shoving it into Bardinn’s trembling hand. “Bad form, Bardinn. Bad form. Perhaps it is time you withdrew to seek out your favorite tea. A happier tongue is less likely to betray you to treason and enable you to see another dawn.”
“Th-Th-Thank you, highness,” Bardinn stammered as he stumbled off through the crowd.
“Generous of you, my prince,” Lord Entouff said, offering the royal a fresh drink. “Refreshing.”
“Thank you,” Lar Kwa said, taking the glass from the corpulent noble. “You are Grand Otter of the Weasel Clan, so I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that a rude guest is better met with instruction and only by a rude response as a finality.”
“Clearly,” the black-and-red-draped noble said, “you’ve taken some time for study while roaming the world.”
“One way or another, minds and souls must be nourished,” the prince replied as the court listened on. “I took particular delight in the tales of Varen and Pokieri. They made many a night pass more easily.”
“Warriors of yours, Entouff?” Tallas Vey asked.
“The ancient founder of our clan and his companion, the symbol of our clan,” Entouff said.
“That six-legged beast?” Tallas Vey asked. “That’s supposed to be something real? Your founder’s pet?”
“Pokieri became the sacred symbol of Weasel Clan as the boon companion of Varen,” Entouff confirmed. “Where he came from we do not know. Some have guessed at sorcery, others at the work of the gods. The legends tell that Pokieri was a great grey wolverine that roamed the mountain forests of Charis. It was the size of a bear with claws that could rend stone. Its teeth and jaws could crush even the hardest gems. It ate rapaciously, a terror to those who dwelled in the valleys below its frigid home. Varen was the only man bold enough to seek it alone. He tracked the beast for months before he even laid eyes upon it. It was too clever for most traps and too strong for those that could catch it to hold.”
“He could not kill the creature?” Tallas Vey asked, his eyes darting between the smiling prince and the large storyteller.
“It’s fur was too thick,” Entouff said. “No spear or blade could pierce it any better than the bite of Arrecol’s winds. It wasn’t until Varen made camp and managed to build a fire where none should burn that he was able to draw Pokieri to him. The hunters solidified their mutual respect over cooked meat and survival.”
“Heartwarming,” Tallas Vey said.
“Isn’t it?” Lar Kwa responded. “I have a feeling you would enjoy reading those with your children. How old are they now?”
“Too old to sit still for story time anymore,” the Ice-wolf Clan’s high lord chuckled. “If I hadn’t brought them here, they’d have been likely to host a party of their own to rival this one. Thank you for sharing, nonetheless, Lord Entouff.”
“My pleasure, of course,” Entouff said, looking about for a server, “trading tales over such fine repast is no trouble at all.”
“Of course not,” Lar Kwa said. “We should revel in our traditions and celebrate our history. Come, we will refill our cups and plates as we talk of Alban’s glories.”
Stepping through a set of heavy cloth curtains to steal a respite from royal influence, a lone young woman carried her wine through an arch and out to an enclosed balcony, overlooking the frosted city through thick glass. There she found Tilo Isharien brooding in the dim light.
“Any great surprises you found awaiting you upon your return, my prince?” minor Lord Els Bardinn asked between sips of wine. “Or have the eastern pirates made you their king now that you have mastered them?”
“To be honest, one of my great surprises came at learning the profound affinity my tongue had retained for the tastes of home,” the prince proclaimed, hoisting his own glass to sniff at the rim before savoring another sip. “Foreign alcohols tend to be needlessly sweet.”
“To Alban,” one of the nobles raised her glass, prompting a wave of like murmurs and mimicked motions by others rushing to show their patriotism.
“What I do find nearly as eye-opening,” the prince continued, “is that a minor Second Tribe landlord would find within the purview of nobility the audacity to suggest that a prince of Alban would dare pretend cloak himself in some hollow mantle of foreign kingship.”
“I…my prince, I…”
“And within steps of the Crimson Throne, no less,” Lar Kwa added, draining his glass and shoving it into Bardinn’s trembling hand. “Bad form, Bardinn. Bad form. Perhaps it is time you withdrew to seek out your favorite tea. A happier tongue is less likely to betray you to treason and enable you to see another dawn.”
“Th-Th-Thank you, highness,” Bardinn stammered as he stumbled off through the crowd.
“Generous of you, my prince,” Lord Entouff said, offering the royal a fresh drink. “Refreshing.”
“Thank you,” Lar Kwa said, taking the glass from the corpulent noble. “You are Grand Otter of the Weasel Clan, so I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that a rude guest is better met with instruction and only by a rude response as a finality.”
“Clearly,” the black-and-red-draped noble said, “you’ve taken some time for study while roaming the world.”
“One way or another, minds and souls must be nourished,” the prince replied as the court listened on. “I took particular delight in the tales of Varen and Pokieri. They made many a night pass more easily.”
“Warriors of yours, Entouff?” Tallas Vey asked.
“The ancient founder of our clan and his companion, the symbol of our clan,” Entouff said.
“That six-legged beast?” Tallas Vey asked. “That’s supposed to be something real? Your founder’s pet?”
“Pokieri became the sacred symbol of Weasel Clan as the boon companion of Varen,” Entouff confirmed. “Where he came from we do not know. Some have guessed at sorcery, others at the work of the gods. The legends tell that Pokieri was a great grey wolverine that roamed the mountain forests of Charis. It was the size of a bear with claws that could rend stone. Its teeth and jaws could crush even the hardest gems. It ate rapaciously, a terror to those who dwelled in the valleys below its frigid home. Varen was the only man bold enough to seek it alone. He tracked the beast for months before he even laid eyes upon it. It was too clever for most traps and too strong for those that could catch it to hold.”
“He could not kill the creature?” Tallas Vey asked, his eyes darting between the smiling prince and the large storyteller.
“It’s fur was too thick,” Entouff said. “No spear or blade could pierce it any better than the bite of Arrecol’s winds. It wasn’t until Varen made camp and managed to build a fire where none should burn that he was able to draw Pokieri to him. The hunters solidified their mutual respect over cooked meat and survival.”
“Heartwarming,” Tallas Vey said.
“Isn’t it?” Lar Kwa responded. “I have a feeling you would enjoy reading those with your children. How old are they now?”
“Too old to sit still for story time anymore,” the Ice-wolf Clan’s high lord chuckled. “If I hadn’t brought them here, they’d have been likely to host a party of their own to rival this one. Thank you for sharing, nonetheless, Lord Entouff.”
“My pleasure, of course,” Entouff said, looking about for a server, “trading tales over such fine repast is no trouble at all.”
“Of course not,” Lar Kwa said. “We should revel in our traditions and celebrate our history. Come, we will refill our cups and plates as we talk of Alban’s glories.”
Stepping through a set of heavy cloth curtains to steal a respite from royal influence, a lone young woman carried her wine through an arch and out to an enclosed balcony, overlooking the frosted city through thick glass. There she found Tilo Isharien brooding in the dim light.
“Artaria,” he said, acknowledging her arrival. “Wine?” he offered, picking up the bottle of wine from the small table beside him. “This one is a ten-year-old red from northern Bentrci and I also have a seventeen-year-old Zadiasam vitarae that I haven’t even opened yet.”
“Oh, how strong and manly it must be. I certainly won’t envy you your head in the morning. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to mix your alcohols like that?”
“A vicious lie,” he protested, “spread by people trying to stop others from enjoying themselves.”
“Just the same,” she said, holding up her own glass and wine bottle for him to see, “I’m having the gold.”
“I should’ve known,” he said, refilling his glass before setting the bottle down again. “Sorry, it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you.”
“No, it was last year,” Artaria corrected him, “at the hot springs. I wouldn’t expect you to recall my favorite drink after so long.”
“That was the last time you saw me, yes.”
“Oh, of course,” she smiled playfully, “the eyes of the Isharien are everywhere. I suppose I should be flattered that I’m of such interest.”
Artaria performed a subtle hair flip and giggled as she smiled. Tilo pretended not to notice, then let his gaze drift over the untouched plate of food for which he was sadly finding little appetite.
“You worry your father,” Tilo told her distantly, pausing to sip his wine, “disappearing as frequently as you do.”
“Clan Isharien spies for my father?” she asked. “I thought Isharien pledged loyalty to the exalted Crimson Throne.”
“Don’t be so naive, girl,” Tilo admonished, waving a piece of cheese from his plate at her. “Clan interests are its own.”
“All others pay in advance,” Artaria mocked.
“Not so naive after all, eh?”
“If you’ve been watching me,” Artaria said, refilling her own glass, “then you shouldn’t need to ask.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Anyway, no point in letting potentially useful information sit idle when it can find its way into the right hands for the right price.”
“Well, if you need to report in to him tonight,” she said with disdain, “Lord Daddy’s back in the main room with the cluster of other drones, hanging on every word of Prince Perfect.”
“Perfect,” Tilo scoffed. “There’s an adjective I never would’ve attached to that one. He really has come a long way, though. Why aren’t you in there with the others? Don’t you want to hear again about the masterful taking of Varga?”
“The less visible I am, the less chance my father tries to marry me off. Besides, I saw King Tural departing even before I did,” she told him.
“Sovereigns do as they will,” Tilo warned. “They aren’t held to the rules of their subjects.”
“I’ll settle for the standard of the princess, then,” Artaria said. “Even the king’s own daughter, pure Light of the People, is conspicuously absent, which is stirring up quite a few rumors around the room, by the way.”
“Must be tonight’s secret party theme: worried fathers and absent daughters. You’d think Lar Kwa’s exploits of adventure on the seas and in the realm of sunshine and rainbows would be entertainment enough.”
“And the video recordings. You can’t forget the video recordings,” she added. “They expect us to be happy and eat and drink while twenty-foot wall screens play recordings of his highness fighting pirates and feeding starving children and tending to the sick and preaching for peace. He may be our guide to the future, but it’s disrespectful to every warrior ever to stain our snows with blood. I mean, this is Father’s Day. Our fathers fought to provide all that we have. I do respect that no matter how much he aggravates me. So, though the idea of this party for the prince sickens me, I certainly didn’t want to end up onscreen trying not to vomit.”
“Oh, right, Mischa,” Tilo said, remembering the slight man directing the recording team that was weaving through the party while avoiding actual interaction with any guest, “the odd little man always hovering in the background near Lar Kwa. He produces all the prince’s promotional materials. He’s got cameras all over.”
“I couldn’t take any more. You could teach them how to be much less conspicuous.”
“Oh, certainly,” Tilo agreed. “Inconspicuous is what Isharien do best. Well, aside from my cousins--Kylo, who is likely hovering near the throne amidst a swarm of swooning girls, and Jono, who I’m sure is giving the palace guard all the adventure they care to handle with his imagination and his wooden sword. Beyond those two, even I don’t know how many agents we have in the palace tonight.”
“I’m imagining hundreds, mingling unseen.”
“Such imaginings are a powerful resource for us,” Tilo confessed. “In fact, it would violate clan law for me to confirm or deny your suspicions even if I could.”
“What a blessing for you that must be,” Artaria said. “People can say they didn’t see you at all manner of pivotal social events and you can take it as a compliment while building your mystique.”
“With the benefit of getting me out of some of the most tedious crowds you never wanted to see assembled, I assure you.”
“Plus, I heard all the really interesting people were getting together out here.”
“So they are,” Tilo agreed, managing a smile as he held his glass out to her. “A salute to full bellies.”
“It’s good to eat fresh food again,” Artaria said, holding her glass up to him in kind before taking another drink.
“Yes, long overdue, considering…”
“Considering what?” she asked from under a raised eyebrow. “What aren’t you saying?”
“Just…that there’s deeper truth regarding our food supplies than our prince has told,” Tilo told her even as he considered how much to reveal.
“Great Keemu!” she exclaimed, eyeing her plate with sudden suspicion. “You’re not going to tell me this is all…made from people or something gross like that, are you?”
“No,” he laughed, “of course not. Let’s just go as far as to say that while the prince’s bounty may be connected to piracy, it has little involvement with pirates.”
“You are full of secrets, aren’t you? As long as we’ve the city and the night and the stars, tell me…what the Hell are you doing out here getting drunk?”
“Just…pondering weighty decisions and their consequences.”
“Well, that told me…virtually nothing,” Artaria said. “Care to try that again?”
He sighed and after a thoughtful silence said, “I have the ability to affect the future of our peoples…perhaps all of Alban…perhaps even more. What may be worse, I can decide not to be a part of it, too. My shoulders labor under the great weight of choice.”
“No more wine for you,” she told him. “You’re starting to spout crazy talk.”
“Have you ever really watched the results of any of your father’s decisions? Does he discuss with you what it means to be among the Charis’colia?” Tilo asked his comely companion. “Alban’s clans and tribes are interconnected, you know, surviving because of their influences upon each other.”
“My father doesn’t consult with me anymore than he listens to…well, anyone he doesn’t feel he has to. Has High Lord Aolo begun to hand you responsibility? Is that what this is about? Has he begun to trust you with more responsibility and his most secret magics and you don’t know what to do with such precious treasures?”
“High Lor--My father…,” Tilo said, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, then squeezing the bridge of his nose, “is a cold-hearted son of a bitch, raised by the same. If he weren’t home sick, you’d have a chance to see him in action.”
“I think I did once,” Artaria said. “It was just briefly, but he seemed pretty grim.”
“Having the fate of others in your hands is burdensome,” Tilo said. “My family teaches that the way to live with that is to truly commit only to self-interests, planning ahead and being willing to do whatever must be done to achieve your goals.”
“Ummm…I see…I think.”
“Drink up,“ Tilo said, refilling his own glass. “Hearing this is easier with more alcohol.”
“That part I’ve got covered,” she assured him. “Go.”
“A few generations ago, before the northern kings descended upon us with their wizard-priests, Suiala was--”
“Oh, what a pretty name.”
“Yes, delightful. I think it means ‘noble birth’, but it’s no longer spoken in polite company.”
“What?” she asked. “Why?”
“Getting to that. Anyway, she was a daughter of High Lord Tolis. She was, of course, a young beauty and her myriad charms made her an obvious selection to serve as a courtier maiden to Emperor Tophe.
“The imperial court was, of course, fraught with the usual dangers born of competition for the emperor’s favor. As such, and as is attendant to the power of the throne, the emperor was afforded the luxury of indulging his whims. Suiala wisely looked to the future, though, knowing that even her own considerable virtues could not ensure her position with the aging emperor.
“After a time, opportunity presented the patient and cunning Suiala with her chance to seduce the emperor’s son Konos, heir apparent. As a result, when the emperor finally died and Konos succeeded him, Suiala met with neither exile nor execution. Kept on at court, she remained secret counsel to the new emperor and even close companion to his new empress. Younger and less familiar with palace life, Konos’ spoiled bride became known for her fits of rage. Suiala however fawned affections on the empress, who came to welcome an experienced ally at court.
“Within two years, it was Suiala who gave birth to Konos’ first child. Soon after the birth, the empress visited Suiala and the new heir to the throne. Whatever went on during the visit, as soon as the empress departed, Suiala smothered the newborn.”
“What? Her own…?” Artaria stammered. “But the child would secure her position. Why…? I…I’m confused.”
“After the discovery of the murder, suspicion fell upon the empress, who was known to have been on the scene and to possess a jealous heart. Charged with the murder, the young empress was imprisoned, tried and executed with unprecedented speed. Almost as quickly, Suiala was crowned empress and handed the reins of power by a husband who had grown to adulthood more accustomed to debauchery than responsibility.
“From a position of greater power than she had ever known, Empress Suiala was well-positioned to watch enemy after enemy fall away. When in her forties, Suiala received a visit from her beautiful niece bearing tributes of their Isharien kinsmen. The enchanting visitor caught the eye of not only the emperor but the new heir apparent, Suiala’s second son, at that evening’s feast. By morning, both Suiala’s niece and son were dead, apparently having succumbed to food poisoning. After a swift investigation, her majesty had the entire kitchen staff put to death. The next-eldest heir, the emperor’s son by another courtier maiden, was killed soon after in a hunting accident. Suiala had the next of the emperor’s sons exiled on false charges of treason. Emperor Konos himself was next to die. With practiced ruthlessness, Suiala had her third son declared unfit to take the throne and thereby ensured that the empress, then one hundred and two years old, would continue to rule.”
“Impressive,” Artaria said, “but she’s still making me ill.”
“Over the next several decades, she met the challenge of numerous coup attempts with merciless executions for every fool conspirator who dared plot against her. She held the throne until the coming of the northerners and their magics, the mage kings with their Circle of Nine. Even then, one hundred and sixty-five years old when she finally surrendered the throne, Suiala was able to negotiate a return to Clan Isharien with land, title and bonded servants. She died at two hundred and eight, full of energy and dangerously intelligent to the end.”
“Oh, she did finally die?” Artaria asked. “So, a happy ending after all.”
“Lots of people who knew her attended the funeral to make sure she was put to rest properly,” Tilo went on. “There were persistent rumors of her involvement with…very subtle, potent magics and…service to dark and deadly powers.”
“With over a hundred years on the throne and such a body count, it’s no wonder,” Artaria told him. “Yet she was finally brought down.”
“After a time, when things seemed settled, the Crimson Throne swooped down upon her with magic and military might in concert. A theory exists that her third son, the one she had declared unfit for the throne, may have aided the northerners in moving against her--”
“Can we find a way to go back in time and help, too?”
“--but it was never known as a certainty for she surely would have seen him precede her to the afterlife in a bloody, bloody end if the rumor had ever been confirmed.”
“Well, of course,” Artaria said. “She sounds like a cunning woman, but lacking honor.”
“Still, leadership of Clan Isharien did fall to her son under the new king and to High Lord Aolo after that.”
“So, that…horrible woman was your great-grandmother?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That was one of my bedtime stories. Bloody Ala we called her. Hurry, scurry, get to bed. Bloody Ala wants your head…”
“I take it back,” Artaria said with a chilled shudder. “You haven’t had too much. You need another bottle.”
“Thanks for the support,” he said, emptying his glass again, “but I’m not sure that’ll help me in my decision.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” she said. “Your family’s relationships obviously need work, but…”
“My choice of damnations remains,” he lamented. “Is it greater loyalty to my blood to cleave to a family of monsters or to betray them for my own benefit?”
“Whatever you decide,” she said, refilling his glass, “keep the memory of this night, these moments--”
“--the importance of searching my soul as I wrestle over the course of my destiny,” he concluded.
“No, “ she said, poking him in the forehead, “remember who you chose to trust and open up to, fool. Ar-tar-ia. You picked me to be your best friend. That means you can never have me killed.”
“Well, technically, should it ever come up,” he said, “I wouldn’t be having you killed. I’d have been commissioned--”
“Never ever.”
He sighed and said, “I’ll still be spying on you.”
“That’s alright,” she winked. “It’s different when someone who cares is watching over you. It’s nice.”
“For money.”
“Just a nice bonus,” she said, raising her glass.
“After a time, opportunity presented the patient and cunning Suiala with her chance to seduce the emperor’s son Konos, heir apparent. As a result, when the emperor finally died and Konos succeeded him, Suiala met with neither exile nor execution. Kept on at court, she remained secret counsel to the new emperor and even close companion to his new empress. Younger and less familiar with palace life, Konos’ spoiled bride became known for her fits of rage. Suiala however fawned affections on the empress, who came to welcome an experienced ally at court.
“Within two years, it was Suiala who gave birth to Konos’ first child. Soon after the birth, the empress visited Suiala and the new heir to the throne. Whatever went on during the visit, as soon as the empress departed, Suiala smothered the newborn.”
“What? Her own…?” Artaria stammered. “But the child would secure her position. Why…? I…I’m confused.”
“After the discovery of the murder, suspicion fell upon the empress, who was known to have been on the scene and to possess a jealous heart. Charged with the murder, the young empress was imprisoned, tried and executed with unprecedented speed. Almost as quickly, Suiala was crowned empress and handed the reins of power by a husband who had grown to adulthood more accustomed to debauchery than responsibility.
“From a position of greater power than she had ever known, Empress Suiala was well-positioned to watch enemy after enemy fall away. When in her forties, Suiala received a visit from her beautiful niece bearing tributes of their Isharien kinsmen. The enchanting visitor caught the eye of not only the emperor but the new heir apparent, Suiala’s second son, at that evening’s feast. By morning, both Suiala’s niece and son were dead, apparently having succumbed to food poisoning. After a swift investigation, her majesty had the entire kitchen staff put to death. The next-eldest heir, the emperor’s son by another courtier maiden, was killed soon after in a hunting accident. Suiala had the next of the emperor’s sons exiled on false charges of treason. Emperor Konos himself was next to die. With practiced ruthlessness, Suiala had her third son declared unfit to take the throne and thereby ensured that the empress, then one hundred and two years old, would continue to rule.”
“Impressive,” Artaria said, “but she’s still making me ill.”
“Over the next several decades, she met the challenge of numerous coup attempts with merciless executions for every fool conspirator who dared plot against her. She held the throne until the coming of the northerners and their magics, the mage kings with their Circle of Nine. Even then, one hundred and sixty-five years old when she finally surrendered the throne, Suiala was able to negotiate a return to Clan Isharien with land, title and bonded servants. She died at two hundred and eight, full of energy and dangerously intelligent to the end.”
“Oh, she did finally die?” Artaria asked. “So, a happy ending after all.”
“Lots of people who knew her attended the funeral to make sure she was put to rest properly,” Tilo went on. “There were persistent rumors of her involvement with…very subtle, potent magics and…service to dark and deadly powers.”
“With over a hundred years on the throne and such a body count, it’s no wonder,” Artaria told him. “Yet she was finally brought down.”
“After a time, when things seemed settled, the Crimson Throne swooped down upon her with magic and military might in concert. A theory exists that her third son, the one she had declared unfit for the throne, may have aided the northerners in moving against her--”
“Can we find a way to go back in time and help, too?”
“--but it was never known as a certainty for she surely would have seen him precede her to the afterlife in a bloody, bloody end if the rumor had ever been confirmed.”
“Well, of course,” Artaria said. “She sounds like a cunning woman, but lacking honor.”
“Still, leadership of Clan Isharien did fall to her son under the new king and to High Lord Aolo after that.”
“So, that…horrible woman was your great-grandmother?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That was one of my bedtime stories. Bloody Ala we called her. Hurry, scurry, get to bed. Bloody Ala wants your head…”
“I take it back,” Artaria said with a chilled shudder. “You haven’t had too much. You need another bottle.”
“Thanks for the support,” he said, emptying his glass again, “but I’m not sure that’ll help me in my decision.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” she said. “Your family’s relationships obviously need work, but…”
“My choice of damnations remains,” he lamented. “Is it greater loyalty to my blood to cleave to a family of monsters or to betray them for my own benefit?”
“Whatever you decide,” she said, refilling his glass, “keep the memory of this night, these moments--”
“--the importance of searching my soul as I wrestle over the course of my destiny,” he concluded.
“No, “ she said, poking him in the forehead, “remember who you chose to trust and open up to, fool. Ar-tar-ia. You picked me to be your best friend. That means you can never have me killed.”
“Well, technically, should it ever come up,” he said, “I wouldn’t be having you killed. I’d have been commissioned--”
“Never ever.”
He sighed and said, “I’ll still be spying on you.”
“That’s alright,” she winked. “It’s different when someone who cares is watching over you. It’s nice.”
“For money.”
“Just a nice bonus,” she said, raising her glass.
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