Commandment (30 page)

“Then we are on friendly ground, for we share a common enemy,” Bael broadcasted.

The hair on Lakif’s nape flared. Why would Bael share that? Was he trying to ingratiate himself with the general? They were already tempting disaster as warlock hopefuls and certainly didn’t need any further source of treason levied on their shoulders.

“I doubt you have any enemies, Kulthean.”

“What is this place?” Lakif gestured to the lake. She desperately wanted to steer the topic away from the police-priests.

“The Dead Moon Lake, as promised.” Rasp turned back to admire the obsidian water. “She is a wonder to the world.”

Lakif wondered if Eyre Rasp equated the lake with a wonder
of
the world. She knew a few of them. EarthDoom was pre-eminent among them, but the Colossus of Grimpkin was in that galaxy as well. Such places were well known to all. This lost watering hole certainly couldn’t take its place in that distinguished pantheon.

She also wondered why Rasp would refer to the lake as a woman. Was it a term of endearment, much like a captain dubs his vessel with a lover’s name?

“I have never heard of it,” Bael stated.

“Understandably so,” Rasp continued. “Few can reach her elusive shores, for she is the restless wanderer, the true, eternal nomad of Erebus. You should be honored that she has chosen to come greet us, saving us from a hefty hike through this realm.”

“The lake travels?” Lakif laughed. She was beginning to believe that Rasp was as unhinged as his squad.

“Of course! A survivor has to. She is a vestige from a bygone world. Within her unfathomable depths lies a tremendous power.”

“Power?” Bael asked. Again, Rasp was stringing together riddles.

“Therein stir the waters of oblivion, where all is lost,” Rasp bayed. “I can read these waters like no other, for they swallow my reflection, and I can forget myself. What a wonderful, intoxicating experience it is to forget. Sadly, it is all too fleeting.”

“Not for some.” Torkoth retorted. Clearly, he was alluding to his own so-called amnesia.

Lakif felt that Rasp was reflecting on something altogether different from the lake. The Acaanan looked to the inky void. She certainly couldn’t see any feature that betrayed the abyss as a genuine liquid. She briefly entertained the idea of stooping to scoop up a handful of
water
, but decided against it. Aside from any disaster that might befall her from the water itself, she felt that such an act would enrage the entire troupe.

The general suddenly snapped out of his reverie.

“You come from the OverWorld. Did you see the star fall?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone, as he marched toward the new steeds. Gone was Janus’ lame limp; now it was replaced with an authoritative stride.

“Of course,” Lakif answered. “How do you know of it?”

“We all saw it.” Rasp stroked Crown’s flank with a gloved hand. Lakif shuddered anew at the leader’s skull, of which she could only see the sides and back. By all accounts, he had been scalped. Lakif could only speculate as to the horrors of his face. Maybe that was why Rasp was elected to assume command of this miserable lot. His mutilated face was even more profane than any of his troops.

“How could you see the star fall down here?” Bael asked. Lakif’s attention was drawn to a figure lurking beyond the nomad general. Although it sat saddled amid the fence of mounted soldiers, it was unique in bearing no visible weapons. A ratty hood was drawn up to obscure its face. Under the cowl, probing eyes studied them intensely. Why would this Half-man conceal his face? Given the abominable features of his fellow soldiers, what extreme facial deformity could cause such shame?

“A dozen nights past a glow appeared within the waters of the lake, like a halo of light birthed in the darkness of space. It is said that only occurs when a star falls.”

Lakif wondered if the nomad leader was being serious. The star fall was reflected in the water? Could the Dead Moon Lake truly be a window to the heavens? Or was Rasp simply spinning a yarn?

“Keep these three separated from the herd,” Rasp ordered his second in command. The lieutenant lumbered over and took up the reins. The general then barked out a volley of curt commands to his soldiers in some corrupted tongue. A few grunted back incoherently. Thereafter, they began to disperse. And their sullen morale was evident. Lakif wondered if they were disappointed that their thirst for carnage would go unsatisfied. On the other hand, it could simply be a sign of fatigue from a grinding life. Whatever the reason, Lakif breathed easier at the break.

“Why horses?” Torkoth asked.

“Hoof and mouth disease ravages our herd. We suspect it came from the Asher tribe. Horses are extraordinarily useful down here. As you can see, it is inconvenient for us to surface into Grimpkin.”

Lakif was intrigued by the confession. Tribe? Was the general suggesting that there were other such makeshift war parties marauding through Erebus? Lakif would have liked to have picked the leader’s brains on all of his miseries. It would have been an easy task through his denuded scalp. But Rasp was obviously keen on breaking camp with his fresh steeds.

The general spun to face his fresh audience. Through the metal slits, he perused each of them carefully with bloodshot eyes.

“You are not the customary riffraff we find combing the Fornix. No, you are a curious coterie.” He turned his attention to Bael.

“A Kulthean. No.
The
Kulthean, for I have never seen a finer example of their kind. What brought this man to the Fornix? Is he an outcast from his own people, despised because he was
too
perfect,
too
flawless?”

“I have never known of your plight. If ignorance is a sin, may I be drawn and quartered,” Bael replied.

The general turned toward the Acaanan, who flinched at the upcoming description.

“An Acaanan, as dark as a shade, and in all respects a natural inhabitant of Erebus. Have you come searching for your ancestors?”

“No, my progeny.” Lakif alluded to her future good works as a warlock. She was relieved by the description. It could have been much more scathing.

Rasp diverted his bloodied eye to Torkoth.

“And a Half-man, torn in body, but I sense boasting complete, unadulterated mettle. Have you come to fight at my side?”

Torkoth shook his head. “One must conquer his own destiny before he can devote himself to others.”

“Back to the matter at hand.” The leader broached the fateful issue. “You three seek the Bard?”

“It is so,” Bael answered eagerly. “Unless, of course, you happen to know any alchemists.”

“I do not.”

The sly figure the Acaanan had noted before dismounted and shuffled up to the leader’s side. From its diminutive proportions, Lakif surmised it to be a woman. She whispered into the hole where Rasp’s ear should be.

“No,” the general replied.

Although Lakif hadn’t been privy to the woman’s words, she could only imagine the gravity of what had been recommended.

“Then capture the Kulthean! His ransom alone would…” the figure pleaded. Indeed, it was a woman. Perhaps she wanted Bael for herself!

“No.” The authority in Rasp’s voice checked the subordinate.

“At least search them!” she begged her commander. “They may have money enough to help with supplies!”

Lakif gulped. While they had some money, she was far more concerned with losing the Rare Earth Stones. To this ragtag lot, the Stones might be perceived as valuable and quickly confiscated. Then they would be back to square one. She questioned her heart. How would she react if a soldier demanded her treasure, she wondered. Would she defend her Stone? Would she risk her life for it?

Yes.

Only now did she appreciate the abbot’s protestations. The Stone was worth more than her own heart.

“I said no!” Rasp contradicted firmly. His tone was stern enough to jar the Acaanan, who wasn’t even the victim of the reproach. Lakif’s pulse softened.

“They have fulfilled their end of the bargain, in dramatic form, I may add.” He settled the issue.

Rasp pushed the woman away and gestured for the three to draw close.

“Although I am curious, it is not for me to pry into your motives in seeking the Bard. You must be searching for something. Only those who
desire
solicit his hoary ear. But remember this, if ever you find what you seek, I offer this advice. Do not hold on too tightly, for
anything
can be taken away.”

Lakif wondered if the general was talking to them or reflecting about other matters entirely.

“Thank you for your understanding,” Bael said. “What kind of man is the Bard? We have heard many tales.”

“A man of profound wisdom he is. He saved me once, when I was utterly lost…” His voice drifted off. “He always treks the Old City, but nevertheless is quite elusive. It’s a chore for even my own scouts to track him down.”

“Is he as ancient as the tales hint?” Bael asked.

“Indeed. I gather the Bard will be around until the crack of eternity.”

“Where can he be found?” Lakif squealed.

“Of late he favors the music of the Octave, a wandering band of disgruntled musicians. He is not far from their dulcet harmonies. My scouts have informed me that the Octave haunts the Taenarum caves near the ruins of Ixion. The caves lay within sight of the giant wheel.”

“What is that?” Bael asked.

“Ixion was built over an underground sea. They constructed a wheel for harvesting water from that submerged bay.”

Rasp began tracing lines in the dirt with the tip of his sword. The three leaned in to appreciate what he was scribbling in the soot. The diagram was a makeshift map, illustrating several local landmarks. Most importantly, it included the path of the Leviathan. But before their eyes the map vanished, swallowed by the soot, as had happened to their footprints.

“Follow my instructions to the wheel of Ixion and then to the caves. Anyone with more than a passing familiarity with the Fornix should be able to point out the landmarks. The way is largely clear of danger. Before you storm off, I offer another word of advice. If you seek the Bard’s council, bring a bottle of liquor. His ear is through his mouth.”

The three thanked the general for his aid. It was no protracted farewell; he didn’t dally in rallying his troops. Lakif suspected that they had some pressing affairs to attend to. At a word, the troops fell into line. Lakif was impressed by the obedience showed to their liege. They breathed to carry out his commands. Rasp himself mounted Crown. The mare didn’t freak at his hands as it had with Torkoth. A heartbeat later, the lot was thundering off across the next dune.

Lakif for one didn’t know how to interpret the masked leper. He spouted military words like
wars, spies
, and
scouts
like a true general. But Lakif’s image of a general was that of Grimpkin, the legendary strategist who fielded the final battle of the Renaissance on the plains of Phlegra. Rasp was a far cry from that noble avatar. But Lakif felt the embattled leader was fighting a very different kind of war.

Stranded in Erebus and without a guide, Lakif feared that they wouldn’t be able to retrace their steps. She fretted that they would flounder through the caverns and stumble into disaster. Now that Rasp was gone, they would be vulnerable to the denizens of Erebrus. The fact that they had left no tracks in the soot to follow only compounded her anxiety.

But it proved easy enough to extricate themselves from the gloomy realm. They were able to locate the arid riverbed and hop to the opposite bank. As is always the case, the return trip passed far swifter than the incursion, perhaps because this time they weren’t following a crippled guide.

At one point, Lakif cast a suspicious eye behind them. None of the war party could be seen. But the crest of a dune was split by an inky black fissure. She didn’t remember passing such a crevasse. A little voice whispered that the Dead Moon Lake was shadowing them. But that was preposterous! It must be just a trick of the gloom on her skittish eye.

A
S THEY REACHED THE ARCHES
, L
AKIF SENSED A PALPABLE CHANGE IN THE
atmosphere of the Fornix. A virtual army of prostitutes had gathered. It was a much larger force than she felt was customary. It must be a special occasion. But as disreputable the clientele in the Fornix was, Lakif was comforted by their presence. Any company, no matter how base, topped the gloom of Erebus.

The map Rasp had sketched implied that Ixion was not far removed from this festival. Torkoth advised them to solicit local intelligence before embarking for the ruins. This was reasonable. As prostitutes controlled the Fornix, they offered an attractive source.

They chose an innocent looking girl, one obviously several years the Acaanan’s junior. She shrank awkward at their approach, as if baffled by the union of three such disparate types. She introduced herself as Jezebel. After a mild tip to nudge her memory, the girl pointed out the best route to Ixion.

In passing, they asked about the brewing hubbub. Jezebel was happy to indoctrinate them on the happenings. The celebration was in honor of the star fall. Such an affair was religiously observed on the thirteenth dusk after such an event. Lakif found the custom peculiar. Had the holiday been annual, it would have been easier to swallow. But a star fall was a spectacularly rare event. In her own life, the Acaanan couldn’t remember another one. How could such a festival be honored over time, considering that the instigating event was so rare and notoriously random?

The seductress went on to explain that the Fornix was preparing for a bumper turnout. On such occasions, the common clay of Grimpkin was wrestled from their habitual ennui and, if only for one dusk, demonstrated a sliver of life. As such, many were expected to venture down here. Apparently, the noose of taboo strangling the Fornix was loosened on this particular evening. In anticipation of the turnout, several braziers had been stationed around the Fornix, their collective fires welcoming in the dusk. Lakif was struck by the contrast with the heavy dullness in the morning. Apparently, it had been but the eerie calm before the frenzied storm promised this evening.