‘The work of our shaman friend?’
‘Shaman? Ah — shaduwam. Yes. He is a practitioner of Agon. Sacrilege and desecration. Note the cloth. I see the weave of the Awamir, Manahir, Vehajarwi and my own Hafinaj. Curses upon all our heads.’
‘Not a man to be denied.’
‘No.’
Scarza’s mercenaries emerged from the dark to shake their heads. Scarza stood, brushing the dirt from his knees. ‘Well, he’s long gone.’ He waved a hand, indicating the evil makeshift shrine. ‘You believe in any of this?’
‘They have power, these shaduwam. And they are immune to punishment or threats.’
‘Immune?’
‘It is their religion, you see. They worship pain and violation of the flesh.’
The man grunted his understanding. ‘Not immune to a plain old beheading then.’
‘No. But such a one would probably embrace that fate. He would be considered a holy martyr.’
The lieutenant appeared to be staring at the candles yet again while he rubbed his jowls. ‘Have to punish him with forced feeding then,’ he mused, his thoughts seeming elsewhere. ‘And dancing girls.’
Jatal smiled his appreciation. ‘Yes. A fate worse than death.’
Scarza half reached out for one of the candles then reconsidered, lowering his hand. ‘Burn this down,’ he ordered his men and turned away. Jatal followed.
* * *
The throne room lay empty but for the shifting shadows cast from the dim flames of lamps hung on chains that climbed disappearing into the gloom. Footfalls on the polished stone flags announced the entrance of a man, tall and powerful, his hair a mane of white. Crossing to a wall, the man studied the shelves of artwork and scrolls. He spared a glance to the tall wooden throne where it stood enmeshed in shadows then lifted a scroll and opened it, reading its contents. ‘Just what effect are you trying for, Usurper?’ he asked, still studying the scroll. After a time he raised his head to the throne. ‘Well?’
‘God-like patience, I should imagine,’ a reedy voice answered from the gloom.
The man narrowed his eyes, which glowed a molten gold. ‘I don’t see it.’
‘You are quite finished, Osserc? I would have you know I am very busy.’
The man returned the scroll then lifted a vase from another shelf. ‘Then you need not follow me about like an anxious shopkeeper.’
‘Ha!’ A finger pointed from the murk obscuring the seat of the throne. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’ll try … whatever it is you mean to try, then … won’t you!’
Osserc turned a rather puzzled glance upon the throne. ‘I’ll do … what?’
‘Exactly!’
The tall man frowned and cocked his head, attempting to work his way through that. Shrugging, he replaced the vase. ‘Well, you need worry no longer. I am finished here.’
‘You most certainly are!’
‘I go to speak with another.’
‘Another? Who? Who would you speak to?’ Osserc ignored the question and walked up a darkened hall. The murky transparent figure on the throne leaned forward as if listening. ‘Where are you going?’ The flickering light in the main hall changed, dimming even further. ‘Osserc? Hello?’ He leaned back. ‘So … gone! Ha! Drove him off, the fool!’ A fisted hand banged from one armrest. ‘But where has he gone?’ Hands flew to a head cowled in shreds of shadow. ‘Gaa! I must know! I must know everything!’
A tiny monkey-like animal came waddling from a corner. In one hand it turned something bright which glimmered and flashed. ‘You!’ the figure on the throne yelled. The monkey whipped its hands behind its back and peered about innocently. ‘You! Do something!’
The animal’s expressive face wrinkled up with something resembling determination. It sat on one of the steps leading up to the throne and proceeded to stare off into the distance. It stroked the tuft of hair at its chin as if deep in thought.
‘Oh, you’re a big help.’
CHAPTER II
There are many tattooed men and women. Tattoos are often religious incantations or symbols. They are held to offer protection against illness, curses and to ward off the attention of ghosts. The more superstitious the person, the more tattoos they are apt to have. Since tattooing is very painful, the victim chews mind-dulling leaves or inhales stupefying smoke, without relent, for the days of the operation.
The first significant attack upon the army came on the fourth night of the march through the border region of jagged limestone mounts, sheer cliffs and sudden precipitous sinkholes, the Gangreks. Golan had fallen asleep at his travelling desk. Long into the night he’d been reading U-Pre’s disheartening progress reports while the candles burned out one by one around him. Screams and shouts from the edge of camp snapped his head from among the sheets of cheap pressed fibre pages. The candles had all guttered out. Wrapping his robes about himself, he stepped out of the tent and met the messenger sent to bring him word of the disturbance. He waved the man silent and set off.
His yakshaka bodyguard fell in about him, swords drawn, and Golan sourly reflected that this was hardly where their swords were needed. Still, they were not to be blamed. It was not their job to patrol the camp perimeter. He found most of the troops and labourers up and awake. They murmured among themselves and strained to peer to the south. The whispers died away as Golan and his escort passed. He felt the pressure of countless eyes following him from the dark, all glittering as they reflected the dancing flames of the camp torches. He recognized the gathering panic fed by the darkness and their destination — a smothering animal coiling itself about everyone.
The south was a trampled battleground of torn tents, overturned carts, slaughtered men and animals. The butchery appeared indiscriminate, savage. Corpses lay where they had fallen, sprawled, revealing hideous wounds, and Golan gritted his teeth. Where was U-Pre? He expected better than this of the man. Droplets of blood and other fluids spattered the grasses and slashed canvas. Here and there limbs lay completely torn from torsos. He studied the corpse of a labourer eviscerated by a ragged gash across his stomach. Blue and pink-veined intestines lay thrown like uncoiled rope. Someone wearing sandals had walked across them. As reported: a fanged monstrosity emerging from the forest to rend men limb from limb. What else but an opening move from Ardata?
He sighed, and, chilled by the cool night air, slid his hands up the wide silk sleeves of his robe. Thankfully, a cordon of troopers had been organized and these, with spears sideways, held back the curious.
Yet even so, stamped on the faces of those survivors, in their wide staring eyes and sweaty pallid features, lay their obvious terror and near panic. Must separate these from the rest; such fear is contagious and grows in the recounting.
Walking unconcerned through the muck and steaming spilled viscera came the equally fearsome apparition of the Isturé Skinner himself. His ankle-length armoured coat glimmered like mail, though Golan knew it was actually constructed of smooth interlocking scales. As he stepped over the sprawled corpses his coat dragged across staring faces and slashed wet torsos. It shone enamelled black except where spattered fresh gore painted it a deep crimson.
‘And where were you and your people during the attack?’ Golan demanded.
‘Elsewhere,’ the foreigner responded, unconcerned. He clasped his gauntleted hands behind his back to study the field of dead. Golan strove to shrug off a feeling of unease at such a blasé attitude to this bloody business. ‘Well … now that you are here it is time you were useful.’
The foreigner, so tall as to literally tower over Golan, cocked a blond brow. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Track down this servant of Ardata. Slaughter it.’
In a scratching of scales Skinner crossed his armoured arms. ‘It is hardly a servant of Ardata.’