‘Iron and flesh are no barrier to me,’ the shaduwam grinned, revealing teeth filed to fine sharp points.
The guards came rushing in, only to flinch in loathing from the holy man. ‘A curse comes to any who dare touch me!’ he warned.
‘Curse wind and wood, then, dog,’ answered Princess Andanii, and she turned to her guards: ‘Bring me my bow!’
‘Would you strike down your own beloved mother and father, Princess?’ the shaduwam challenged. ‘For that is what will happen should you slay me. They too shall die … and not quickly.’
Andanii paled yet her dark eyes glared a ferocious rage.
‘What is it you wish?’ the Warleader called, breaking the silence.
Ganell waved the question aside. ‘Nay! Do not invite this one into our congress, stranger. Do you not see the skull in his hands? He is no normal holy man. He is an Agon. He has enslaved his spirit to dark powers: the Fallen One, and the Demon-King, the infernal Kell-Vor.’
‘Kell-Vor?’ the Warleader echoed, and his lips quirked up as if amused.
The shaduwam had been staring avidly at the foreigner all this time. His own mouth tilted as if sharing some dark secret with the man.
The Warleader broke the gaze and shrugged his indifference. ‘Yet it seems to me we should fight sorcery with sorcery. Is that not so?’
Sher’ Tal clawed his full beard as he examined the priest the way one would a diseased animal – with disgust and wariness. ‘If these dark ones will slay theurgist mages then it is about time they did something useful …’
The Agon smiled, baring sharpened teeth that looked to Jatal as if eager to sink into the man.
‘Then it is decided,’ the Warleader said. ‘When—’
‘It is
not
decided!’ Princess Andanii called, interrupting him yet again. She faced the priest while making a great show of her loathing. ‘You offer to help us … yet you speak not of any price! What is it you would demand of us?’
Many of the assembled tribal chiefs murmured in support of Andanii, including Jatal, despite their families’ traditional antipathy. He called: ‘Aye. We would have it now.’
The priest drew himself up tall: easily as disdainful of them as they of him. ‘Gold and jewels are as coloured dust and dirt to us. Our price is one quarter of all captives.’
‘Blood rites!’ Ganell spat. ‘Unholy sacrifice!’
‘Never!’ Andanii swore, and she yanked her belt knife from the table.
Jatal stood as well to show his support of the princess. His own father had always carried a particular hatred of the shaduwam Agon priests and forbade any to enter his lands. Ganell surged to his feet also and with that all representatives waved the priest from the tent.
The priest’s seething slit gaze shifted to the Warleader, who remained silent. The foreigner offered a small pursed frown of regret as if to say:
I am very sorry, but there is nothing I can do
…
The priest bowed to the Warleader and backed away. Yet it seemed to Jatal that the mocking smile remained, half hidden, as he ducked from the tent.
Across the way, Princess Andanii offered a pleased nod in acknowledgement of Jatal’s support. He bowed then sat, as did all. Ganell called for another round of sweetmeats and wine, ‘To clear this gods-awful taste from all our mouths.’
After the cups had been refilled the Warleader raised a hand and conversation died away. ‘My lords and ladies,’ he began. ‘Have I your answer, then?’
Peering about the circle of tribal representatives, Jatal saw in the eager faces that most appeared convinced. He cleared his throat and eyes shifted to him. ‘Warleader,’ he began, and gestured in an arc to everyone assembled, ‘I see some twenty tribes and families of the Adwami gathered here this night. Each of which, myself included, expect no more than our fair share of any spoils.’ He opened his hands. ‘All things being equal, that should come to one twentieth share each. And so I ask myself … why should your share amount to twice that of all others?’
‘By all the demon gods!’ Ganell exploded. ‘You have the right of that, Jatal!’
Most of those present joined their voices in support of the point. ‘Well?’ Andanii demanded.
The Warleader offered Jatal a slit of a smile that eerily echoed that of the Agon priest. ‘Prince,’ he began after the calls had died down, ‘your wisdom is unassailable. However, I bring to this raid my experienced fighting men—’
‘Are you claiming ours are inexperienced?’ burst out Sher’ Tal. ‘Are you saying that we of the Adwami know nothing of fighting?’
The Warleader offered a stiff sitting bow, hands on knees. ‘Not at all. I merely … misspoke … However, I am a
very
experienced commander in matters of tactics and strategy—’
‘Then you may serve as a valuable adviser in this endeavour,’ Princess Andanii cut in, decisive. ‘And no servant should expect a share larger than that of any of the Adwami.’ She cocked a brow to Jatal, inviting his reaction to her judgement.
He offered a deep bow of respect. At his side, Ganell sighed admiringly, ‘Such a spirited mare …’ Jatal, however, now studied the Warleader. The man’s jaws worked behind his thin iron-grey beard while his eyes held an unspoken fury. Yet somehow the man mastered himself and slowly inclined his head in concord. ‘Very well,’ he ground out. ‘One twentieth share. We are in agreement.’
Many in the assembly raised their cups, cheering. Ganell slammed his goblet against all he could reach, all the while offering up his great belly laugh. Jatal noted the hulking lieutenant of the Warleader. The
man
now frowned at the gnawed bone before him and shot narrowed glances to his superior. It appeared to Jatal that such cavalier halving of his expected proceeds did not sit well with him. And Jatal had to agree: it seemed to him that for a mercenary who fights for gold the Warleader acquiesced to the loss of rewards far too easily.
Negotiations finished, calls arose for more drink and for entertainment, musicians and dancers. Ganell launched into an old story of a legendary hunt he and one of Jatal’s uncles went out on only to become lost and nearly shoot each other. It was a story very familiar to Jatal and he listened with one ear only, already thinking ahead to the problem of intelligence-gathering.
A challenge. The Thaumaturg had always been very effective in intercepting their raiding parties. Their mage’s arts, no doubt. He believed there were one or two among his family’s men-at-arms who bore the scars of Thaumaturg shackles upon their wrists and ankles. He would interview them. He also possessed among his documents accounts of travels through their neighbours’ lands. Had he brought them? He clasped Ganell on the arm, murmuring, ‘A pleasure, my friend. But I must clear my head.’
The big man squeezed his hand, laughing, ‘Of course, of course!’
He stood, inclined his head to the foreign Warleader, now their Warleader, who answered the gesture, then departed for his tent. He did not see the gaze of Princess Andanii follow him as he left.
After searching among his possessions Jatal found that indeed, no, he had not brought the relevant documents; one can never anticipate everything. Irritated with himself and unable to sleep, he set off on a walk round the sprawling encampment. His wandering brought him to a darkened edge where a picket faced away over the brush-clumped hillsides. He paused here for a time and listened to the insects whirring through the night air, and watched the flitting of the bats feeding upon them.
It occurred to him then that a strange glow lit the dark far out across the rolling low hills. ‘Is that a fire out there?’ he asked a nearby picket.
The young man bowed. ‘Just a reflection, no doubt, noble born.’
Jatal studied the guard: of a Lesser house, the Birkeen, and very young. ‘You have not investigated?’
The guard appeared stricken and wet his lips, smiling his apology. ‘My post is here, noble born.’
Jatal bit down on his cutting response; it would be of no use. And no sense wasting even more time berating the lad. The Birkeen were among the poorest of all the families. No hired tutors for this one.
He
was like the majority of the Adwami: superstitions ruled his world. Jatal went to where he knew he would find those willing to walk out into the night – the foreigners’ compound.
After calling for the officer in charge he waited and was quite surprised when the broad hulking shape of the Warleader’s lieutenant came lumbering up.
‘Yes?’ the fellow rumbled – the due honorific forgotten, or ignored.
‘A light out amid the hills. Thought you’d want to investigate.’
A wide blunt hand rose to rub equally wide jowls where pronounced canines, tusks almost, thrust. ‘That I would.’ He turned to a guard. ‘Gather a team and follow me.’
‘I will show the way,’ Jatal said.
The lieutenant’s brows rose in his own surprise. ‘Very good. Lead on.’
While they walked Jatal eyed the fellow: quite tall, but much more markedly broad – like an ambulatory shack. ‘You are …?’
‘Scarza.’
‘Prince Jatal.’
The man eyed him up and down. ‘Prince, hey?’ Jatal heard the deliberate lack of respect but let it pass – perhaps where this man was from the title was unknown, or was considered just plain silly. The fellow was only a benighted foreigner, after all.
Before they reached the border of the camp Jatal had described the situation and Scarza had ordered his mercenary team to encircle the area while he and Jatal approached openly. Walking, Jatal rested his hand on his curved sword’s grip. ‘Hardly a spy,’ he murmured aside to Scarza as they entered the dark.
‘A very poor spy?’ the big foreigner supplied, arching his brows.
Jatal allowed himself a wry smile; while the character of the Warleader left him feeling uneasy, he suspected that he might just come to like his lieutenant.
The faint dancing light led them to a depression and a stunted nearly dead tree, half bare of bark, limbs twisted and gnarled. Set before the tree and in its branches glowed a great number of candles. Some had burned down, or been blown out. Amid the candles lay tatters of torn cloth and coconut-shell bowls containing dark fluids, and symbols of some sort had been slashed into the dirt and daubed in powders. Jatal smelled old blood. He and Scarza stood peering down for some time, then the lieutenant crouched for a closer look.
‘Dark magic,’ Jatal said, warning him.
‘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!’