Legends of Ahn (King's Dark Tidings Book 3) Page 5

  “The demon realm? I am supposed to believe that demons will cross into our world?”

  Bilior dropped, placed a palm on the ground, and then perched on one arm as if clinging to a tree trunk. “Not will … have.”

  Rezkin had seen and heard tales of demons that abounded in both historic and recent folklore. Plenty of people, it seemed, believed him to be a demon. The katerghen obviously knew better, but now he wished for Rezkin to believe that demons were real. He had never given much thought to the prospect, but then he had never been inclined to believe in the superstition. Having a fae woodland nymph make the assertion was going a long way in convincing him, though.

  “These demons, where are they?” Rezkin asked.

  The katerghen jumped up and down and sang, “The west, the west, already they infest, the west.” The song and dance felt cheerful, but the crackling and thunderous booms emanating from the small creature sounded furious.

  The west.

  “You mean Ashai?” Rezkin asked with a growing sense of alarm.

  “Ashai, Ashai, the Daem’Ahn nest,” the katerghen sang.

  “You know I came from Ashai. Is that why you chose me?” Rezkin asked. He was both apprehensive and suspicious at once. “Creature, if this is some jest or plot to impede my journey, it must cease.”

  Bilior scurried around him and chittered. “Yes, yes, haste is waste no more. We must be gone, the power fades.” The katerghen abruptly stopped and took up a tree-like stance once more. “But first, a deal we make. Safety, a haven, a kingdom … for an army.”

  In all the tales Rezkin had read, deals with the fae rarely ever worked in the human’s favor. In fact, many of the tales were meant to serve as warnings against making such a foolish mistake. For Rezkin, though, the answer was simple. If Ashai was infested with demons, then he would eventually have to fight them anyway. He might as well claim this so-called kingdom. Even as he spoke, he knew he would likely regret it.

  “Very well, Bilior the katerghen. I accept your terms.”

  Sounds of rustling leaves and rain erupted as the creature spun. “Come, you delay too long, too long you wait.”

  “I delay?” Rezkin asked in dismay.

  “Yes, yes, now hurry. Bilior must better your blunder.”

  Rezkin did not want to argue the point. Perhaps if he had listened to the creature in the first place, he would not have gotten so far behind. Still, he did not appreciate being detained against his will. This was a lesson sorely learned. If ever he were approached by a fae in the future, he would make it a point to listen to what it had to say.

  He followed Bilior into the thick forest. The katerghen scurried ahead and then turned to wait. As Rezkin approached, the creature pointed through the trees. The shadows of the forest bled away, and beyond the hill upon which they stood was the coastline. The sound of waves lashing against the shore reached his ears while a salty breeze slapped against his face. Considering he had presumably been trailing the coastline during his trek through the forest, the scene should not have been all that impressive. What astounded him was the presence of the sprawling port city with its famously invulnerable, high walls and the docks and shipyards that sat on floating platforms stretching far into the surf.

  “How is this possible?” Rezkin asked in awe as he crouched at the tree line. Below sat the city of Serret, and he was more than a day ahead of schedule. While he worked hard to analyze each situation for every perceivable outcome, he knew there would always be those he could not anticipate. He had trained to be prepared for such events so that he would not be overly surprised and would be ready to react. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He could not remember being so overcome with wonder.

  Rezkin was shaken from his thoughts when he realized the katerghen had not answered. He turned his head, and his cheek brushed against the smooth, wood-like skin of the creature’s face. Rezkin braced himself but avoided an instinctual overreaction. The creature was leaning over his shoulder staring at the scene as if trying to see through Rezkin’s eyes. Bilior turned his head, and the two stared at each other, their noses nearly touching. The katerghen grinned, displaying its tiny, sharp teeth, and when he spoke, his breath smelled of musky earth.

  “To Caellurum you go.”

  Rezkin eased back to a more comfortable distance, although not quite far enough from the creature for his taste.

  “The mythical city?” he said with skepticism.

  “Your myth, mine memory. Upon the island your kingdom be,” Bilior said. “’Tis hidden from human sight, but with your power ’twill alight.”

  “Power? I am not a mage,” Rezkin replied with only slightly less certainty than he had possessed in the past. His discussions about mage power and the revelation of his relationship to Tieran had him questioning whether he possessed the talent. All the tests had been conclusive, though. He was not a mage.

  The katerghen released a surge of crackling limbs and stuttering gusts. Rezkin thought it might have been a scoff. “You be no feeble mage. Power derived from another age. By your will you will find, the city long left behind. You knew this, did you not? Has been a while.” He pointed a long, twiggy finger toward the open ocean. “You sail to the isle.”

  Rezkin was not surprised that the creature knew their destination. At the very least, he had gleaned some of Wesson’s recent thoughts and memories. Upon consideration of where he might find refuge, his first instinct had been to go to the Yeltin Isles. Such were his orders to the ship’s captain. He had justified his decision based on a number of points, not the least of which was that it was the farthest from Ashai that they could sail upon the Souelian. He knew Uthrel could not be their final destination, though, since the talent was outlawed in Gendishen and many of his companions were mages. King Privoth was also unlikely to accept any refugees. Rezkin had hoped to form a plan during the voyage based on whatever resources he could acquire.

  “You are saying that I can find Caellurum when, for more than a millennium, others could not?” Rezkin said as he drew his eyes away from the ocean. Orange orbs stared at him expectantly. Rezkin blinked, and then Bilior was no longer there. He spun and searched the boughs of the trees. The katerghen had disappeared right before his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  “You are intentionally delaying our arrival,” Lord Gerresy huffed.

  Tieran straightened and looked down his nose at the flustered Torreli ambassador. Brendam LuDou, captain of the Torreli Royal Guard, had informed him that Lord Gerresy’s ambassadorial powers had been strictly limited to a supervisorial role at the tournament. According to the captain, Lord Gerresy was a middling noble of minor importance who had been an irritation at court. He had been sent to the tournament for no other reason than to relieve said court of his presence. Tieran wondered if Lord Gerresy was aware of the slight but decided it was unlikely considering the man’s exaggerated sense of self-importance.

  Tieran sniffed. Gerresy lacked sufficient position to warrant his oversized ego. “Lord Gerresy, we are most certainly delaying our arrival.”

  Gerresy blubbered a few incomprehensible sounds and said, “Then you admit it!”

  The man continued sputtering, but Tieran could not take his eyes off the throbbing vein in the center of the man’s forehead. It almost looked to have a life of its own as it wiggled up and down, the purple of its sinuous form complemented by the ruddy hue of the lord’s flushed face.

  Interrupting whatever drivel was spilling from the man’s lips, Tieran said, “The king has given orders to wait, so we wait. We will resume our journey tomorrow eve and arrive in Serret by midday on the next.”

  “I do not understand why we must wait in this swamp when we could already be in decent, if not optimal, accommodations in the Channerían capital city,” Gerresy said, tugging at the collar of his sweat-stained doublet.

  Tieran unnecessarily straightened his own doublet, which was pristine since he had finally succumbed to his own stench and deigned to learn a cleansing spell. He w
as grateful that he had humbled himself to the menial task that should have been carried out by Colton, his manservant. Colton was not talented, though, and getting anything clean on a refugee ship was next to impossible. Actually, Colton should feel so grateful to have such a discerning master.

  To Gerresy, Tieran said, “If you had bothered to learn anything about maritime trade and travel regulations, then you would understand.”

  “And it is hardly a swamp,” LuDou added. “The water is quite clear if you care to take a swim.”

  Tieran thought the word bath would have been more apt, but it was admittedly less appropriate.

  Gerresy scowled at the captain of his kingdom’s royal guard. “I was not speaking to you, LuDou. Mind your tongue.”

  LuDou raised a brow but no objection. Tieran admired the man’s self-restraint in allowing Gerresy to speak to him in such a way, although he felt the restraint unnecessary. The captain of the royal guard was generally afforded no small amount of respect, particularly since it was well known that he was also a close friend of King Desbian. The king would probably commend LuDou for putting Gerresy in his place. Gerresy seemed to be overlooking the fact that LuDou was also a Fifth Tier champion of the King’s Tournament and would be entirely capable of doing so.

  “Lord Gerresy, you will return to your quarters in the hold,” Tieran said.

  “Quarters? You mean the miniscule allotment of musty floorboards that would hardly be fit for a scullery maid? I demand to speak to this king of yours!”

  Tieran said, “The king does not care to speak with you. Now return to your quarters, or I will have the strikers drag you there.”

  Kai grinned and cracked his knuckles, appearing eager for the chance.

  Gerresy clenched his jaw, and his nostrils flared with every heaving breath. “It is to your kingdom’s benefit, Lord Tieran, that you bow to a lesser man, for you are surely lesser then he.”

  Tieran could not understand the man’s next words over Kai’s booming laughter and the spurting blood that was pouring from Gerresy’s nose and mouth. Flexing his fingers, Tieran marveled at his own lack of injury. He was now more appreciative of the training he endured daily with Rezkin and the strikers.

  “Y-you struck me!” Gerresy sputtered. “LuDou, do something!”

  LuDou shrugged and said, “I think it best to mind my words.”

  Tieran grabbed Gerresy by the collar and said, “I am lesser than he, but only because his greatness is beyond compare.” He shoved the smaller man toward Kai and said, “Take him to the hold and make sure he does not leave.” He straightened and wiped the blood from his knuckles with a kerchief. Belatedly, he added, “I suppose you may see if any of the healers are willing to treat him.”

  Tieran turned to pour a cup of wine while LuDou followed the pair out of the command center. In truth, the wine had been reserved for the king, but Rezkin claimed to prefer water. Tieran decided not to question such an absurdity when his cousin’s loss was his gain. He glanced up to see Striker Shezar staring at him. While Tieran felt some modicum of comfort with Striker Kai, who had been training him, he was still anxious around the other strikers. The two had only joined their party upon their flight from Skutton, and Tieran did not yet trust them.

  “What is it? Why do you stare at me so?” he asked.

  Shezar smirked and replied, “I never expected to hear the great Lord Tieran Nirius sing the praises of another human being—except perhaps of his own father when social or political niceties required it.”

  Tieran inhaled quickly but held his breath. His first inclination was to berate the man for his insolence. Shezar was a striker, though, and only answerable to the king. He knew Kai had been so accommodating with Lord Gerresy only because it had suited him to do so. Tieran also liked to think that he had developed a working relationship with the striker if nothing else. Their goals were the same at least.

  He released his breath and then sunk into an uncomfortable chair in a very un-lord-like manner. The crimson liquid swirled in his cup as he considered the striker’s words. “Rezkin can hardly be described as such,” he said with acceptance.

  “What? Human?” Shezar asked.

  It was the first time in his life that Tieran truly knew what it was to feel inferior. It was not a perception born of self-pity, drama, or political status, but a simple truth. Rezkin was intelligent, educated, cunning, and a favorite with the ladies. Tieran thought he had been all of those things until he had seen it for truth in Rezkin. He had not even known to which house Rezkin belonged, and he had not questioned him in his claims to power. The truth was, when first they met, Tieran had been terrified of the man. He knew, now, that he had been right to be frightened.

  Tieran barely heard his own words over his thoughts. “We may be related by blood, but I think that is where our similarities end.” How could one hope to compete with such a man?

  Rezkin spied the city from beyond the outer bulwark. The city’s greatest defense was the overlapping series of walls that stretched around its perimeter. One could not travel from the outskirts to the city center without trudging down the outer corridors and switchbacks. City workers kept the corridors clean of loiterers and debris, and the inner walls were lined with arrow chutes. The port side had the extra security of several manned gates topped with cauldrons that would be filled with boiling oil during a siege.

  Passage into and out of the city was open at the moment, though, and no one questioned him or any of the dozens of people entering the northern gate with him. The guards leaned against the walls as they chatted or occupied themselves with other diversions, like whittling or even reading. Every once in a while, one would bark at a pedestrian to keep moving or pick up a discarded object. Otherwise, the travelers were ignored.

  Rezkin shuffled along with the rest, his pack and swords hidden beneath a stack of animal hides he had procured from a trader who was only too happy to part with his goods before even arriving at market. Rezkin’s black hair was tied atop his head in a messy Channerían-style knot, and his face held a few days’ worth of growth. He maintained a perpetual squint to hide the light of his eyes and slouched as he adopted a loping gait. It was unlikely that someone would be looking for him, but wanted to ensure that no one would remember him.

  An inn with a comfortable bed would have been preferable, but he knew he would not be making much use of it. While the wall guards were without a doubt the worst he had seen, the city’s investigative unit was supposed to be unparalleled. It was almost as if they were encouraging discord so they would have something to investigate and someone to prosecute. Staying at an inn might leave him vulnerable to discovery if his actions came under scrutiny, which they surely would.

  Once he finally entered the city proper, he circuited the outer lane to the seedier parish. The symbol of a sinuous fish with a slash through it, like an embellished x, was sloppily painted or scored onto many of the walls and posts. Rezkin had studied several historical accounts of nations in which the military, law enforcement, or religious orders had gained too much unchecked power, and these civilizations ultimately ended in disaster. Such were the beginnings in this city. The zealous determination of the investigators and the high-handedness of the Temple led to the rise of an underground organization of vigilante protesters, called Fishers, who sought not to destabilize the government, but to expose corruption among those with power. They apparently felt it necessary to leave their mark wherever they could.

  The buildings and streets looked much like those in Ashaiian cities, except for the multitude of temples that Rezkin passed on the way. A number of men and some women went about their business dressed in the traditional garb of the priesthood. They wore loose black pants with a belted, thigh-length tunic in shades varying from white to dark grey, depending on the priest or priestess’s rank. Only the collectiare, as the temples’ leader, wore black. Upon each of their breasts was a golden, eight-point star, the top and bottom spikes longer than the others. At the center of the sta
r was a hollow eye, the sign of the all-seeing Maker.

  Channería was officially a kingdom, but the balance of power between the king and the collectiare was debatable. While the king had authority over the governance, laws, and military of Channería, the Temple of the Maker ruled the people’s hearts and souls, including those of the king. Rezkin knew much about the collectiare’s official acts and teachings, but he had very little personal information about the man.

  Like all big cities, Serret had its share of deplorables, as the Serretians called them. The teachings of the Maker professed equality and compassion for all people, but men were capricious and corruptible. People chose to interpret the teachings of the Maker how they saw fit. Some claimed that everyone had the potential for equality, but it had to be earned. Others claimed that equality applied only to the soul and not to its living embodiment. The interpretations were limitless, but one thing remained the same. People existed in this society, like in every other, whose value was deemed to be less.

  It was all beyond Rezkin’s control, so he did not care much either way. Actually, their hypocrisy was of benefit to him. Those who were castigated by society tended to look the other way when others engaged in questionable or offensive behavior. They also had a general dislike of officials and were less inclined to provide information to investigators.

  He followed his nose to accommodations that might suit him. He studied the aged wooden building for only a moment before rapping on the door. In this parish, people would be watching always, either looking for an easy target or hoping to out an investigator in disguise. He did not want to appear as either.

  A scantily clad, middle-aged woman opened the door and leaned against the frame as she studied him. “What do ya want?”

  Her Channerían was accented with the burr of the slums. She wore a wig that might have been expensive at one time with thick black ringlets that hung past her virtually bare bosom. Her makeup was smudged and looked to have been applied several days past.