Commandment (29 page)

Although nature had dealt these Half-men a virulent blow, nurture had added its own disfiguring touch. Apart from these congenital malformations, these unfortunates were corrupted by longstanding injury and disease. They wore the remains of past wounds as others wore clothes. Scars mutilated their hide. The scarring seemed to be the result of incompetent suturing rather than purely neglected wounds. Others missed integral body parts from past conflicts. One had a clearly amputated hand while another had a cauliflower-like mass at his ear where it had been chopped off and replaced by extensive fibrosis. It seemed that none enjoyed the full complement of ten fingers.

Not one seemed to be protected by a bona fide coat of mail. Every suit was a hodgepodge, culled from a potpourri of different types of armor hammered together. One wore a hard leather cuisse to protect his upper thigh and a dented pauldron to protect his shoulder. Even the greaves on each of his shins came from two different hides. Another was protected by a heavy leather breastplate and a dented war helm. Blasted by countless warfare, the pied gear struggled to maintain its integrity.

True to their billing, the troupe bristled with a myriad of weapons. But all were in poor condition, having suffered through too many battles. The wooden shaft of one spear was bent like a wishbone, suggesting that its use was limited to a melee weapon and never capable of flight. Another bore a short bow in hand, arrow locked and string drawn. The bow looked so rotted that Lakif had no trouble imagining it breaking with a vigorous draw. In addition, the arrow was exceptionally thin, as if a normal arrow had been sliced in half so as to double the available supply. The blade of one halberd was literally strapped to the shaft by rope. The chains of one flail were completely rusted through. It seemed the spiked balls would break off with any stout strike. In fact, two chains dangled freely, implying that this had in fact been the case. The edge of one sword was so thoroughly rusted that the Acaanan doubted it could be of much use as a cutting device. The wounded victim could very well die of tetanus days later.

As deplorable as their riders were, the mounts were perhaps even more appalling. Ulcers ringed their snouts, from which serous fluid dripped. Black soot from the troupe’s stampede encrusted the discharge. Creamy puss frothed from the maw of one. The eye of another was opaque, like the orb was filled with smoke. Crescent-shaped slivers peeled off their hooves. All were glaringly emaciated, so much so that Lakif could count the individual ribs. She marveled at how the beasts could support the rider’s weight. Even the tails looked frayed and thinned, as if the strands were progressively falling out. A bolus of flies swarmed the miserable mounts, darting from snout to rump indiscriminately.

Lakif paled before the miserable coterie. This was the most abominable collection of Half-men she had ever seen, or could have imagined. Her repulsion even overshadowed the fear of the threat they posed.

Despite that threat, Lakif felt not a little pity at the sight. From their formation, she imagined they comprised a type of army. In fact, one of them was the designated standard bearer. The flag revealed an iron mask sprayed with blood. They were the most miserable group of conscripts imaginable.

But Lakif had no illusions that they could best the squad. The war band stood resolute and outnumbered the trio ten-to-one. Besides their superior numbers, the soldiers’ eyes televised an inner determination. She knew they would each fight to the death. Lakif could not hope to defend herself with only a staff. Bael, with only a dagger in hand, was equally unprepared to face the challenge. Only the Half-man was poised to fight. Mounted and with sword drawn, he alone was ready to address any threat that came his way. But the horses were still chained together, vastly limiting his maneuverability. Lakif dreaded that any battle here would spell doom for the trio.

A series of unintelligible commands erupted from behind Lakif. She turned to find that their guide was kneeling at the edge of the ebony crevasse. With the appearance of the war party, Lakif had nearly forgotten about the invalid. Amazingly, Janus was still facing the inky abyss, his back brazenly exposed to them. In fact, he was kneeling as if praying at an altar! This presented an inviting target for a swift attack, a fitting retribution for leading them into the trap.

Considering that the soldiers hadn’t yet attacked, Lakif suspected that their guide held some authority over them. Due to his close proximity to the horse thieves, Janus could easily be injured in any assault, either from the trio or from a bungled strike from his own side. Or perhaps their pause was due to his precarious position at the edge of the lake. Any rush could send him plummeting into the water.

Because of this, the Acaanan was inspired to take the traitor hostage in hopes of staving off any attack. Had she bore an edged or pointed weapon, she could have forced their guide into becoming a human shield. But Lakif regarded her staff with contempt. It now looked absurdly inadequate as a weapon. She couldn’t very well hold the wooden knob to the guide’s throat.

The Acaanan wasn’t afforded much time to weigh the options. Torkoth swatted the reins to the other horses and severed them. Freed up, he veered Crown toward the nearest rider. Janus continued to face the Dead Moon Lake, but nevertheless lipped words of caution.

“Behold your lost kin, Half-man. Stay your hand, for heaven cries loudest when brother slays brother.” Despite the warning, Torkoth didn’t lower his guard. Janus then directed his admonition to Bael, who was also braced for conflict.

“Relax your fists, Kulthean, and let color bathe them rosy again. It isn’t fitting you die here—this damned earth isn’t worthy to drink of such royal blood.”

Lakif wondered if Janus would caution her, but no such warning was forthcoming. Perhaps he thought that Lakif wouldn’t, or couldn’t, be the instigator of bloodshed. Or perhaps he didn’t think the Acaanan was worthy of his caution!

Instead, the guide called out a single word, which could have been a name. One of the riders awkwardly dismounted. So great was his weight that his poor horse snorted with relief at the lost burden, a gesture accompanied by a spray of grimy fluid from its snout.

A heavy war helm capped the soldier’s block-like head. So large was the armored head piece that most of his face was swallowed by its shadow. Slightly shorter than the Acaanan, the warrior was nearly as wide as he was tall. His bulk was well accentuated by several layers of tunics. Overall, he resembled a block of wood. His lumbering gait betrayed some sort of anomaly in his leg, pegging the warrior as a disguised Half-man. Thick boots slammed into the dust with each step. The hilt of a great sword protruded over his shoulder. The blade was so large that its pommel was the size of a fist. A curved dagger was pinned to his belt, but the weapon was large enough to pass for a scimitar under any other circumstances.

The hulk advanced, bearing a sack. A jingle of metal accompanied each step, and the Acaanan suspected the warrior was swathed in loose chains beneath the heap of clothes. Perhaps this was the Half-man’s version of chainmail armor.

He shambled boldly between the warlock hopefuls. The two readily parted to allow the grizzled hulk passage. He stopped directly behind the kneeling guide; the link’s chiming echoed in the distance. The soldier was so wide that he completely eclipsed the Acaanan’s view of the crouched invalid.

Despite the obstacle, Lakif could see that their guide was unraveling the cloth that encircled his head. It fell to the ground at his side, coiling like a serpent. She wondered if the cloth snake would slither over the shore’s edge and disappear into the lake’s impervious darkness.

Not a word was exchanged between the two figures. Lakif suspected they were witnessing a ceremony. She sidled to the side to catch a better view of their guide’s actions. Janus had shifted his pose; he was now leaning on one knee before the lake. His head was bent forward over the bank, as if he were gazing deeply into the midnight waters in silent prayer.

Although Lakif could only glimpse the side of his head, she almost cried out at the sight. Neither hair nor skin was visible on his skull. A red, fleshy membrane, perhaps muscle, was stretched across his crown. The ridge of his jaw was visible—solid bone denuded of fat or flesh. She wondered if all of Janus’ face had been so dissected. Lakif would fortunately never know, for the Acaanan was denied a more comprehensive view.

The screening hulk produced what looked like a mask from the sack. He handed it down to the guide, who carefully placed it over his own face. As the man-mountain stepped aside, Janus suddenly stood and wheeled around to confront them. Lakif instinctively stepped backward.

The mask was the caliber of devices that are placed on torture victims. A plate was bolted over the mouth, as if preventing the prisoner from crying out. The only actual apertures were two rectangular slits for the eyes. The mask’s outer edge was studded with bolts, creating the impression that it was actually welded to his face. Oxidation peppered the gruesome guise. Curiously, although the guide didn’t support the mask, it remained firmly attached to his face.

“Eyre Rasp?” Bael addressed the transformed guide.

The mask nodded. Janus had been an imposter! Lakif now understood, and in hindsight, the guide’s name should have been a tipoff. Janus was a name associated with an ancient two-faced god. He was also the god of beginnings, and the first month of the year is named in honor of him.

“Why did you deceive us?” Torkoth asked from horseback.

“I hope you forgive the theatrics. It was a necessary precaution to ferret out spies.” Eyre’s voice resonated out of the metal. Lakif was shocked by its force, which seemed incompatible with the disintegrating leper who had led them. But she felt that there was little that now remained of that tragic figure. While Janus had been pathetic and diseased, Eyre Rasp was a robust lord of the underworld. The miraculous metamorphosis stunned the Acaanan. The transformation was complete. Janus even seemed taller now. The change was of such potency that one would conclude the mask was in fact magical. Or perhaps it was just a key to open a carefully guarded door, an instrument to free a lost soul from imprisonment.

“Spies?” Lakif echoed, her eyes darting to the flimsy flag bearing the mask.

“From time to time, they have infiltrated our ranks.” Eyre’s voice tattooed with vigor. Lakif wondered if the pun was intentional. The soldiers were indeed rank.

“Why?” Bael sheathed his dagger.

“To slay me,” Rasp continued. The lout of a lieutenant produced a sheathed sword and handed it to his liege. “A most turbulent battle razes the face of Grimpkin. The untimely death of a general could very well decide its fate.”

General, Lakif wondered? Was Eyre Rasp claiming to be the leader of this misfit army? Lakif surveyed the soldiers. Many were studying them with tired eyes. Their bestial appearances led her to believe that many were denied much of the power of speech, or even reason. These tragic few, far divorced from Human heritage, were destined to live a life beyond the pale of civilization. They were best suited to prowl the frontier regions. Perhaps Erebus could be their only home.

Her eyes landed on one in particular. A long, spongy tongue leapt out of the soldier’s mouth and slapped his own nose. Was he whetting his appetite for an Acaanan hors d’oeuvre or merely wiping snot from his nostrils?

“I have never seen such a battle,” Bael informed the leader.

“Of course you have, but you refuse to see it as such. Much like myself, a long time ago. It is an age-old contest, one that has irrevocably scarred our world.”

“The Renaissance?” Lakif blurted out. That ancient war and the subsequent catastrophe had come up so much of late that it was first and foremost in her thoughts.

Eyre Rasp nodded.

“That ended over a millennium ago,” Bael challenged the claim.

“Why do you prowl Erebus?” Lakif asked, pre-empting Rasp from addressing Bael’s charge.

“Erebus is the deepest well in the ocean of Grimpkin.” Eyre Rasp fanned his arms wide. “Only here can we hide from the predators in the coastal waters above.”

“Who is your enemy?” Torkoth asked, dismounting Crown and sheathing his sword. Apparently, his fears had been eased. But Lakif deemed the move premature. The soldiers eyed the Half-man curiously. Were they studying him as an enemy to gut or appraising him as a possible recruit to their makeshift band?

“The same as yours!” Eyre’s response rang plangent through the metal. “Only in this dreaded realm can we evade the Seekers!” Lakif’s heart fluttered at the mere mention of that word.

“But why?” Torkoth asked.

“Their mandates are absolute. Their second mandate is that man shall not touch any animal without a split hoof, that he shall detest any sea creature lacking fins or scales, and that he must abhor the lesser birds and beasts that slink around the ground. You, above all, must know this, Half-man. The great lizard is also to be reviled. So as Half-men, sired by such creatures, are we not ordered to detest ourselves?”

“What is their prime mandate?” Torkoth asked. Lakif cringed, for she already knew the answer.

“Let no one practice divination or sorcery, interpret omens, engage in witchcraft, cast spells, or be a medium that consults the dead.”

Lakif squirmed in her boots, for in sooth the prime doctrine of the land admonished everything that the Acaanan embraced.

But her thoughts focused on the general and his professed war. She questioned the sanity of conflict with the Seekers. How could this motley band hope to prevail against such a force? Lakif was convinced that this war party was utterly desperate. What was most telling was that the troop would rather face the terrors of Erebus than confront the forces of Empyrium.

Eyre Rasp had listed his grievances with the Seekers. But he could not know that the trio before him was courting an even graver offense than consorting with disreputables. They were flirting with cracking a Rare Earth Stone, as he quoted, the cardinal crime in Maldiveria. If he and his brutal brood warred for self-preservation, what did Lakif’s thirst for magic portend for her own destiny? Would she be forced into such conflict with the Seekers? And could she hope to fare any better?