The prince had spoken little, save to inquire about their daily progress. What angered Kian was that Prince Varis had purposely kept back the tidbit that they would ultimately journey to Qaharadin Marshes-a vile swamp avoided by all but madmen and desperate firemoss hunters. In this, the fool boy’s secrecy had made Kian’s task more difficult. Each mission required different preparations, men, and skills, but the prince had only grudgingly allowed that he desired to travel abroad in the kingdom. And so had Kian prepared, assuming Varis wanted to sow his seed throughout Aradan. Such a mission as that would have been simple, even boring.
Yet now, far from Ammathor and days deep into the vast border swamp between Aradan and Falseth, Kian and his company were standing about like fools, getting eaten alive by a thousand unnamed insects, stewing in their own foul sweat, all while the middling prince of Aradan investigated some rundown temple of unknown origin.
The temple-and how the prince had led them to it-had stirred an initial curiosity, but Kian was fast reaching his boiling point. Highborn or no, gold or no, he’d had enough of this farce. It was past time to take the princeling back to Ammathor and deposit him into the care of his family.
“A fair throw,” Hazad said, dismissing his captain’s anger out of hand. Bigger in girth and height than Kian, and ugly as ten sins, Hazad smirked behind his wild black beard braids. “I, however, could have done better.”
“Then do so,” Kian invited.
In mock astonishment, Hazad’s dark eyes flew wide as he slapped his palms around the leather belt girding his trousers. “Seems I’ve misplaced my dagger.”
“Use mine,” Azuri said with a wry grin. From a finely tooled leather sheath at his belt, he drew a blade as beautiful as it was sharp. The dagger suited his cold, handsome features. In carriage and dress, Azuri was more a foppish lordling than a hardened mercenary, but Kian had seen many a lout back down from the fair-haired Izutarian after taking a closer look into his flat gray eyes. Those poor fools who had mistrusted their instincts had suffered, greatly.
Hazad’s gaze lifted from the dagger to the owner, unfazed by Azuri’s troubling stare. “Your dainty knife would snap with the force of one of my throws,” he boasted. “Besides, I’d hate to mar the blade with sap and force you to carry something so tarnished.”
As he tucked the weapon back into its sheath, Azuri said to Kian, “Rest assured that yours was a marvelous throw. As for this unruly cur, he is more likely to make a eunuch of himself than toss a dagger in the right direction. Better to place a cudgel in his hand, and hope he does not batter in his own head with it.”
A wide grin split the unruly plaits of Hazad’s beard. Without a word, he hawked and spat. Azuri squawked in outrage and leapt backward, nearly losing his footing in the swamp’s pervasive mud and moldering leaves. “You son of a poxy whore!”
Hazad retorted with a mocking grin. He was the only man Kian had ever seen who could put Azuri out of countenance-and the only man who had no fear of doing so.
Kian could not suppress a smile. As often as the two squabbled, and as different as they looked from one another, they were, with himself included, as close as brothers. The two had stood fast beside Kian since they were but starving urchins trying to survive in an enemy’s city. Izutarians all three, they had suffered the same plight as many children during the aftermath of the war between Izutar and Falseth. The conflict went badly for Izutar, a disorderly nation made up of dozens of rival kings with no loyalties to one another. That disharmony led to the enslavement of many thousands of his people. Izutarian parents with honor, believing that starving free was better than dying in chains, sent their children away to fend for themselves. And so, lost half a thousand leagues from the icy steppes and forested mountains of Izutar Kian, Hazad, and Azuri had found each other in the wild streets of the Falsethian coastal city of Marso. Back then, stealing food and keeping clear of slavers had been their greatest concerns. Their fortunes, guided from the beginning by Kian, had eventually changed.
Now Kian’s companions offered strong and deadly arms in keeping wealthy charges safe. Commanding a mercenary company was not an endeavor that garnered fame and glory, but it served Kian and his men well enough. These days, more than ever.
As dark times had come to Izutar, now suffered Aradan, the greatest kingdom since the fall of the Suanahad Empire. As Izutar had been, Aradan was torn as much from within as from without. With new rebellions rising almost daily, and powerful nobles often standing against the Ivory Throne itself, as well as the danger of the nomadic Bashye clans, and Tureecian raiders from the south, there was more than enough trouble to keep all three men awash in gold.
While Hazad and Azuri settled into a deeper argument, Kian retrieved his dagger. After wiping off the sap, he armed sweat from his brow. The sun had been up a mere two hours, and already the day was sweltering. But then, nights in the swamp were hardly cool in comparison. Insects of all shapes and sizes droned in the marsh’s green shadows, lighting upon exposed skin to feast on sweat or blood. Just the sound of them was enough to make his flesh itch and crawl. With equal abandon, snakes and lizards slithered or scurried through high boughs and underfoot. Unnamed beasts screamed and howled in the steamy, verdant reaches. All around, birds called and flitted in colorful flashes, but of the sixty-man company of saffron-robed Asra a’Shah mercenaries Kian had hired for this mission, he saw not one. Like the dark-skinned folk of Aradan, the lethal men of Geldain were more accustomed to sand and stone and sun than dripping marshes. Despite this, they blended effortlessly into the foreign landscape.
Kian forced himself to wait for the prince to find whatever he was looking for, all the while thinking about escaping back to the arid wastes of the Kaliayth Desert-a harsh wasteland in its own right, but far better than the swamp.
Swatting a host of midges away from his face, Kian turned to study the stone temple, a domed building of unusual, even remarkable design. It might have been beautiful at one time, but now its pitted surface was covered in vines, creepers, and witchmoss. Dampness and invading roots had crumbled its stones, giving it the look of an ancient, slumbering beast stricken with leprosy. Towering trees obscured most of the sunlight, but a few rays filtered down, and the temple’s grim surface seemed to writhe with green and gold shadows.
Kian upended his waterskin, took a long swallow, then let the lukewarm stream dribble over his sun-darkened brow and cheeks to his broad chest. Next he wetted his long, dark hair. While not wholly refreshing, the water did cool him, a little. He and his companions had never returned to their icy homelands after escaping Marso, but at the moment he wished he were there, hunting frosted evergreen forests. Maybe after Varis was safely back in Ammathor they could ride that way, see about making new lives for themselves. By day they would hunt, and by night they would gather friends and family around the hearth fire, recounting their exploits. Yes, that sounded like a fine plan.
With a resigned sigh, Kian abandoned daydreams of the future, and called Hazad and Azuri to his side.
“Tell me what you saw in the temple,” Kian said to Hazad.
The man shrugged. “Same as you. Crumbled stone, moss, rats.” Sensing the deeper question, he added, “As to anything temple-ish, there was nothing, save maybe that crusty bathtub Varis was so interested in. Far as I’m concerned, that useless vessel would barely serve as a privy pot.”
Kian looked the question at Azuri, who repeated the assessment, though it seemed to pain him to agree with Hazad.