Kalac

Incident at Merchant’s Triage

Aftermath III

-The Horned God’s children-

Change not the old ways, for they are set in stone

Speak not of the God beyond the Haze Sea,

for he might listen

Use the flesh, never savor it, for it is not yours to christen

Atone…

What thee take, thou shall give back

If vanity breaks the gilded throne

Wyvern’s scales shall turn an onyx black

Atone…

Or thee shall be judged

by the Tamer of Monsters

Sintoriela’s Revelation

(aka, Song of the Acid Gardens)

-

Edlenn, of Sintoriela

High Priestess of Nesande

(Unknown Date, presumably First Era)

A red asp slithered through the encroaching vegetation, towards their horses’ legs. Tarn nailed it with an arrow, its head out of bone, just as it was about to strike. Kalac watched him, as he jumped down from the saddle to cut its head off, keeping the thrashing body until it emptied of blood.

“Nasty bugger,” Tarn commented, throwing it in his bags.

“Aye,” Kalac replied and eyed Sirach smoking his pipe. The aromatic smoke dulling his senses. He slapped a nasty bug off his neck next and when he returned his eyes on the bridge a rider had appeared on it. His desert horse worn out to the bone, covered in filth and old as the white rocks of the steppe.

“Where are ye heading traveler?” Tarn asked, the bloody knife still in his hand.

The old Cofol clicked his tongue and brought his horse near them, after he crossed the bridge.

“Looking for passage, sons of the Steppe,” He rustled, wrinkled face marred with scars and burns. The skin cracked but healing. He’s been out of the desert for a while now, Kalac thought.

“Where to?” Tarn queried.

“Heard there are Horselords holding land this side of the rivers,” The man replied.

“They are,” Tarn agreed, with a smirk. “Ye bring your men wit you?”

“Just myself.”

“I’m Kalac, son of Duham. This is Tarn, son of Badal. What’s yer name traveler?” Kalac asked him.

“Luhar, son of Hadir. Yer name is known Kalac,” The old horselord replied. “It’s good to see ye still ride.”

Kalac grunted and pulled at the reins of his mount to turn it around. “Yer welcomed, Luhar. Follow us, rest is half a day way.”

Belec nodded seeing them reach a shaded table in the yard outside the fort. The wall rebuilt with mud-bricks fully. The land surrounding it cleared of plants and trees, the wood used to build homesteads for the former slaves and workers. Kalac had freed them all and most decided to stay.

Luhar had his fill first, then sipped slowly at the water looking about him.

“It’s a good fort,” He decided. “But can ye keep it?”

“There’s a prince of Rin An-Pur in Dia, he won’t allow it.”

“Why hadn’t he moved already?” Luhar asked. “Isn’t Dia a big castle?”

“We licked him good the first time, seems he lacks troops to make the attempt,” Kalac replied. “He had to agree to an arrangement,” He added to justify his own lack of aggression.

“Ah,” Luhar grimaced and pushed his weary legs out. “He won’t be getting help from Tyeusfort, or Tirifort anytime soon.”

“Why is that?” Tarn asked and grabbed Sirach’s bottle of wine to pour himself a cup.

“Issirs landed at Devil’s Cove. It’s a spot somewhere on the Merchant Path. Smashed Tsuparin’s host, burned Hi Yil, left the Khan looking like a fool and cut everything under that point off.”

Kalac frowned and stared at his men idling about inside the yard.

“High King made his move?” He rustled a query.

“Crows, not the High King,” Luhar replied and seeing their faces, but for Sirach who’d just listened without commenting, he added. “Men from Scaldingport, a big city on the other side of the sea. Nasty bunch, right killers. They take neither prisoners, nor slaves.”

“You’ve seen them?” Tarn asked.

“Rode with them for a while. They could take the forts, if they are reinforced.”

“Will they?” Kalac asked.

Luhar shrugged his shoulders.

“They didn’t tell me, but they can’t leave their small port, until they are.”

“The Khan won’t risk an attack down the path before rebuilding Hi Yil,” Tarn commented.

“He needs to repair the ruin they brought on Rida first, fight a campaign for Altarin and root the rest of Raoz’s forces from Sadofort. The first attempt there was neither a success, nor a disaster, depending on which side yer asking.”

Kalac smirked and breathed once deeply, let it out slowly.

“Why come here?” He asked the old Horselord next. “Where are yer men?”

Luhar grimaced, his aged desert eyes looking at his worn out hands.

“Lost them in Lebesos,” He murmured.

Sirach moved forward from his chair.

“Dangerous place to look for water,” Kalac commented simply.

“Knew the risks, when to approach,” Luhar replied, a bitter smile on his wrinkled face. “Got myself mixed up wit foul magic, no rider can face.”

“What kind of magic?” Sirach asked him.

“Ungodly stuff. There was a couple there, lurking in ‘em ruins. A man and his mother. They killed them. They had a pet,” He stared at the frowning Kalac. “I believe it was a Wyvern.”

Tarn almost drowned on his wine, he coughed and spat most of it down.

“You’ve seen it?” Sirach asked, sounding interested.

“Scaly thing, no bigger than a goose, wit wings, a scorpion’s tail and black talons,” Luhar looked at him. “They had a living corpse following them.”

Kalac smacked his lips, not believing in his story.

“How do you know, it was his pet? Wyverns are not dogs, Luhar,” Sirach argued, apparently well-learned on the matter.

“He carried it on his back,” Luhar spat and pushed back on his chair. “I know what I saw.”

The night brought the horrors of the Jade Lake out, but they had cleared the ground well and the roots couldn’t approach. Fire and axes took care of those brave enough to attempt it. Kalac worked on his bronze hand, his arm moving much more effortlessly now, but still heavy. Sirach savoring the Prince’s wine on the table set before his workshop, silent and brooding.

“What’s on yer mind?” Kalac asked him. “The old Horselord brought us good news.”

“You still can’t take the castle Kalac,” Sirach replied. “Not with this force.”

“I can lure them out of the walls.”

“He can outlast you. Dia has fields and produce, you haven’t seen a caravan in months. What happens if the Prince stops sending supplies?”

Kalac frowned and placed his bronze hand on the table.

“You didn’t answer, master blacksmith,” He told him sternly.

“Arachne plague Lebesos. Big spiders,” Kalac raised a brow at his words. “Not the casual ones. These are ancient, foul predators.”

“Go on,” Kalac said.

“They can control their victims after death,” Sirach looked at him. “To a point. If they are killed, the link is severed.”

“That’s what he saw,” Kalac said. “And the man and his mother? A warlock that found a wyvern in the desert?”

“A newborn, the way he described it. That man found an egg and it hatched.”

“Is this possible?”

“Perhaps,” Sirach replied cryptically. “But unlikely. Wyvern eggs are not just laying around and Lebesos was claimed by the Arachne, before the last one breathed its last. No Wyvern would leave an egg there.”

“You know an awful lot about the matter,” Kalac noted.

“I studied in my youth and read books, looked at drawings. For my craft,” Sirach explained unconvincingly. “I need inspiration.”

“An illusion? Something to justify him losing his men?” Kalac suggested.

“Too detailed, I don’t believe he was lying,” Sirach replied. “But it is still, a difficult tale to consider.”

Kalac had to agree with that last part.

A week after the Horselord had appeared, though much later in the day, the heat unconquered and the rain months away, a small caravan started crossing the north bridge, coming from Eikenport. Five carriages, almost twenty camels laden with supplies and barrels, but a small guard force of four hired blades. The merchant leading them frowning, when he saw Kalac and his riders waiting for them on the other side.

“Where are ye headin’ lads?” Tarn asked them, stooping on his mount.

The Cofol merchant stopped his horses and stood back on the seat of his wagon.

“We’re heading to Dia Castle, to deliver on an order. You’re working for Prince Radin?”

Belec chuckled, sounding drown on his spit and some of the other men cracked a couple of smirks. Kalac placed his bronze hand on the saddle in front of him and said nothing. Tarn, equally not amused, took it upon himself to reply.

“Ye are in the wrong merchant, it’s more the other way around,” His retort brought a lot more laughter out of the men. The merchant realizing something was afoot, looked nervously at his guards. They looked totally uninterested for a scrap so late in the day. Probably would’ve been equally unenthusiastic at any time, Kalac decided and stretched himself, petting ‘Kind Eyes’ mane.

“Good… ahm, men of the green fjords,” The merchant started, dark eyes painted a bright yellow underneath it, the color running where sweat had formed.

“Rivers is the word ye seek, or lake,” Belec corrected him amidst general snickering. “And we’re Horselords of the Steppes’.”

The merchant nodded, a little paler in the face.

“I just wanted passage, never had problem afore—”

“You’ll have it,” Kalac announced, cutting through the murmurs of the men. “What’s your trade child of the Peninsula? I have yer accent right?”

“You have. I’m from Wotcheki Castle originally. Spend my youth across the Gulf in Ani Ta-Ne. Name’s Yel Seti-Kai. Moved across the desert and to the South Market near Tyeusfort, in the winter of eighty one. Wanted to avoid competition,” The merchant explained.

“How did that go?” Kalac probed with a smirk.

“There’s competition everywhere, brave son of the Steppe.”

“Kalac, son of Duham,” Kalac grunted not likening his groveling. “What do you have on the animals?”

“Seeds mostly, wine and honey,” Yel replied quickly. “Bits and bobs.”

“Why seeds?”

“Crops go bad, after a season. Produce comes up foul, or dangerous.”

Kalac nodded. “Dia ordered it?”

“Aye, they did. Back in Tyeusfort.”

“A bird?” Kalac guessed. They had the bridges under a tight watch.

“A woman. She came in person.”

Kalac stared at Tarn and the warrior frowned.

“Where is she now?” Kalac asked the merchant.

“Probably at Dia, she left a couple of days before us,” Yel replied.

Slipped through their pickets and patrols like a phantom, Kalac translated. A disconcerting notion.

“Kalac…” Tarn said, but Kalac disregarded him.

“It’s late Yel. Spend the night in the fort and on the morrow, my men will take you to the bridge.”

“How far is Dia from there?” Yel asked, realizing he didn’t have many options.

“A day's travel, ye can’t miss it,” Kalac deadpanned.

Yel Seti-Kai made camp outside Jadefort’s walls, but accepted a late night dinner invitation inside the yard, most of the Horselords and former slaves present. The mood festive and the wine Yel brought as gift, making it a wild affair under the light of the fires and the lit torches.

Kalac watched him talk with Belec and his woman, her belly swollen with the Horselord’s child. Another two were pregnant according to Tarn. The men were getting used to living behind walls.

He almost missed the Horselord’s words. Sirach was sitting next to him, at the crude large table, his lit pipe hanging from his lips.

“You won’t let him live to see the morrow,” Tarn had said, his tone subdued.

“I need a way inside the Castle,” Kalac replied, watching the merchant talk animatedly with the others. “Ye suggest I wait for the next caravan?”

“Perhaps it would be wiser,” Tarn replied. “But still there’s no honor, killin’ cattle in their sleep.”

Kalac grimaced, his attention drawn to Belec’s words.

“You put it in the wine?”

“Some do, not everyone,” Yel explained with a salesman’s smile. “Others enjoy it with their breakfast. Granted, more refined folk than you gentlemen.”

Belec and the others started laughing thunderously.

“What is it?” Kalac asked him, stooping forward on the table. Yel turned and pushed a jar of copper colored thick liquid his way. It glided on the table and Kalac stopped it with his good hand.

“Have a taste, Kalac,” The merchant offered. “The Prince’s spouse special order.”

Kalac thought of the Princess of Kaltha and sunk a finger inside the gluey liquid. He brought it to his mouth and sucked on it. The taste sugary, very sweet and pleasant. It reminded him of exotic flowers and resin all mixed in, with something else lurking.

“It’s sourwood,” Yel explained. “Comes from the Sapphire Heights beyond Rin An-Pur. Two gold Dinars per jar.”

Kalac licked his index finger and then washed his mouth with water from his goblet, the one Sirach had given him.

“I have coin, merchant,” He said insulted.

“It’s a gift,” Yel replied, with a smile. “For allowing me safe passage.”

Kalac snorted and glanced at Tarn, the Horselord’s face unreadable.

“Have you ever done the journey before?” Sirach asked the merchant cutting through the awkward silence.

“My brother does it. He works this route. Alas he got sick with fever and I had to take this contract, since the road to Rida is blocked by the High King’s men,” Yel replied sitting back on his chair, turning his torso to face them.

“We heard it was Crows,” Tarn rustled. “A Lord looking for glory.”

“If they take his orders, they are his men. Glory finds those who seek it,” The merchant argued and Kalac thought he was in the right.

“Will the Khan move on him?” Tarn asked and Kalac watched as Sirach, eyes gleaming red in the light of the torches emptied his pipe under the table and grimaced.

“He won’t before the next summer. We had no news from Rida, but there was some excitement to be had,” Yel added, reaching for his cup of sweet wine. Sirach stopped cleaning his pipe and raised his head to stare at the merchant, as if by instinct.

“What manner?” Tarn asked oblivious and Kalac moved on his seat, a tang of worry reaching for him out of the surrounding darkness, alike a living root out of the lake’s depths.

“There was an incident at Merhant’s Triage,” Yel Seti-Kai said, with a shrug. “Some fool let loose a Wyvern inside a bazaar. People were maimed, some say killed outright, animals eaten. A right mess.”

The merchant saw the looks on their faces and frowned.

“I know how it sounds, but Triage is a week away, news travel slow, but they do reach us. Now some things may have happened a different way, but the gist of it is what I told you. Everyone talks about it.” Seeing everyone listening to him dumbfounded Yel continued. “For me the weird thing in this whole affair isn’t the Wyvern, strange as it may sounds, but the fact the mad fool paid off anyone present to keep it quiet. As if that would’ve ever worked! Hah, right? A gold per head it cost him, or two. Aye. Eagles of all fucking things. Though gold is gold, if ye ask me, in any bloody language.”

“What happened to the Wyvern?” Sirach asked sounding strangled and Kalac licked his lips, the merchant’s story unexpectedly had given credence to the old Horselord’s tale.

“Nobody knows,” Yel replied and sighed. “It’s just a good story in the end. Word is it disappeared that very night, along with that man. One day that crazy chap was there…” He looked at them and then blew at his fingers demonstratively. “And then… poof, he was gone. Turned to nothing.”

“Like a shadow,” Sirach droned, face distorted in the light of the fire-pits.

The merchant’s story had saved his neck in the end.

Kalac spent the night staring at the black sky and the ominous faraway mountains to the south lost in thought. Sirach had approached and stood next to him, muscled arms crossed on his chest.

“You knew it was true. How?” Kalac asked him.

“The Empire had many slaves,” The man said, timbre in his voice lowering. “Some were more talented than others. They were kept to serve longer.”

“You never signed wit yer name,” Kalac pointed out.

“Sirach means ‘created’ in the old tongue,” The man admitted. “It’s unseemly to write your name on God’s creations.”

“Which God?” Kalac asked.

“Every trade had his own, I favored Gimoss, the Teacher of the Way.”

Kalac had never heard of him.

“Was he any good?”

“Nah, more like an evil sack of shit, the likes of Abrakas.”

Kalac smacked his lips. Their talk had gone down some strange paths.

“What this got to do with the Wyvern story?”

“I felt it in my blood. Its presence woven in the Horselord’s words,” The man explained, making little sense to Kalac. “I was given the Saereg you see. Most can’t take it and live, but I survived to serve for a long time.”

“Lived long enough to be free as well,” Kalac murmured, glancing at him.

“I wasn’t special, but I was talented,” He replied modestly. “But while coveted, even freedom can be ugly after a while.”

Kalac didn’t think so.

“What was the name, ye had afore? Perhaps we should be reacquainted.”

“Angrein O’ Mecatan,” The Imperial Blacksmith replied with a toothy smile and tended a spade like hand. “It simply means Angrein, the Blacksmith,” He elucidated.

Kalac nodded and took his arm. “Kalac, son of Duham,” He paused to think about it some. “It doesn’t mean anything,” He added, with a shrug.

“You will let the merchant go,” Angrein said after a thoughtful moment passed.

“Aye.”

“Hardir O’ Fardor might be heading back you know.”

“What does this mean?”

“The Tamer of monsters. His coming has been foretold.”

“A good story?” Kalac chanced, though he didn’t much expected it.

“Not particularly. More like a cautionary tale.”

Of course.

Kalac turned to stare at his dark face. “Why? Why head back?”

“There is no other place to hide it on Eplas.”

“Rumor is he controls it,” Kalac countered.

Angrein snorted. “You can’t control a Wyvern,” He said and sighed. “Most times it controls you.”

“How did they do it afore?”

“Diligent training, but mostly trust and an accord with the Horned God,” The Imperial Blacksmith replied. “The Fall wiped that out.”

“Which God is that?” Kalac probed as he had before and Angrein frowned as if taken aback at his ignorance and then remembering shook his head and answered tiredly.

“Eodrass. Most other Gods are his children.”