144: Wrath (7 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Polas arrived in Odes’Kan before dusk. The city had certainly changed since his last visit. It was massive. What was once a humble trading post on the way to the port of Tovarsh was now the capitol of Maduria. It had expanded greatly, and massive walls encircled the city to protect its inhabitants. What Polas remembered of the city was now Cheapside where the dregs went to eke out a living on the scraps of those more fortunate.

The main road that ran through the center of the town was lined with shops and storefronts and was dotted with artful fountains and statuary gardens. Odd ovals perched atop metal polls lined the road on both sides, and Polas puzzled over their purpose. He could only assume that they were new arcane conjurations to replace the oil lanterns that hung roadside in his day. At the end of the road, in the very middle of town, a magnificent cerulean castle stood. Polas had only once seen a structure created by men that rivaled its beauty: the Spire of Leindul in Odoror.

He made his way through the city streets doing his best to go unnoticed. It was relatively easy in the bustling city. Vendors barked their deals to passing customers. Dairbun artisans showed their wares to a group of admiring Coranthens. Cairtol gypsies performed parlor tricks in an open alley for Peltin children. Wagons, pack animals, and carts crowded the causeway and kept less courageous people on the sidewalks near the shops.

He stared, wide-eyed, as a man wearing crimson robes and garish jewels led a procession of wheel-less carts loaded with furs, carpets, and linens. The strange device floated mere inches above the ground and moved with a servant's gentle prodding.

After a young Yarsac selling fur caps pestered him with an orphan's tale, Polas finally made his way to Cheapside, having only purchased two. The people there kept to themselves. Many sat in front of their hovels curing meats or cleaning rich people’s linens in an effort to earn a humble living. Polas’s heart hurt for these people. They were broken, beaten down by the weight of life in a corrupt city. Few would dare raise their eyes to meet his gaze.

Near the back of town, a short distance away from the great wall, stood his old guildhall. Barely. It was a ramshackle mess that looked like it might collapse at any moment. The windows were boarded, and the roof had as many holes as solid places. The stone posts at the front of the building were rotted from ages of weather, and the back end of the structure sagged slightly to the left against a few recently nailed support beams.

Polas tied his horse to a neighboring building for fear that any undue stress might act as the final straw and knock the guildhall to the ground.

He opened the door quietly, expecting to find the building full of vagrants and drifters, but the interior was surprisingly clean. While any décor that may have once embellished the halls had long since been pilfered, the corridors and rooms themselves were swept and dusted. The entryway was a short hall that opened up into a foyer. In the middle of the large room, a lonely figure sat upon a single chair. No other furnishings cluttered the room, and no lights illuminated the emptiness save for what trickled in through the open door behind Polas.

"Hello," Polas called out to the figure. He halfway expected it to be nothing more than a trick of the eye or wakeful dreaming, but the figure stirred.

It was a Peltin man. His hair was dark and dry, and his skin leathery. He wore a grey tunic with matching robes and carried daggers strapped to his boots. He rose and dusted off his leggings. His face was that of a middle-aged man, but his eyes were cold and distant. On his wrist was a large black circle flanked by three smaller circles.

"Who goes there?" the man asked. "You’re trespassing. This is private property."

"I believe my name is on the deed," Polas replied. "I am Kas Dorian. General Polas Kas Dorian."

The figure was silent for a moment.

"General Kas Dorian might say from which of the Eight he is descended."

Polas cleared his throat. "Lord Vanueth Dorian, the Rock of Orovin."

"An easy answer," the man replied. "Let’s try another. Narci and Ranar were famous generals and Lynnc their noted smith. With General Kas Dorian and these, three others helped to found the Sigil."

A smile crossed Polas’s lips as he thought back on his old friends. "Diamos the Handler and the Lule sisters, Eugeny and Pacitrice."

The shadowed figure took a step forward. "One last question. What is the Sigil?"

"We are those who refuse to accept the darkness. We constantly question the rule of Exandercrast and those he places in power. We continue to believe in Leindul’s return and seek to restore Hope to a dying world. We are seekers of the Light, and our symbol – the letter
aiv
– is the rising sun." Polas closed his eyes and sighed. "Or, at least, it was."

The man stumbled forward a bit in shock. "Is it true? Kas Dorian, have you finally returned?"

Polas helped to steady the man.

"I am Reyce," the man said. "I am the keeper of the Sigil’s Hall."

Reyce led Polas down a hallway at the back of the guildhall. He carried a candle that did little but light a few steps before them.

"The Sigil disbanded for the most part a few years after you died," Reyce said. "Or, rather, were presumed dead. But there’s always been a steward in place in case you ever returned."

They came to a large door with a series of locks. Reyce fumbled through his pockets and produced a key ring. He proceeded to open the locks one by one.

"Lynnc always said you’d be back, but I have to admit, I was starting to think you never would."

The door swung open to an old mess hall. There were tables on the far left side of the room and stacks of stools on the right. In the middle of the room, three magnificent statues stood illuminated by glowing white magelights that floated just out of reach.

Polas stopped, suddenly short of breath. The statues were exquisite replicas of Narci, Ranar, and himself. They even wore real armor over their stony forms. Narci’s effigy felt larger than life with its arms spread wide and teeth bared. Ranar’s likeness was crouched, holding a stone crossbow aimed at an unseen foe. Polas’s statue was standing, its eyes lifted to the sky. In front of the statues was a huge Nalunis skull. Its toothy jaw still looked like it was ready to rend flesh from bone.

Polas remembered that particular Nalunis, evil being that it was. The thing had hunted the Generals on their pilgrimage to the Spire of Leindul, but they, with a bit of blessing, had bested the beast.

Reyce stopped inside the door. "Sorry," he said, "that has to be a bit unsettling. You were quite the legend though. I still can’t believe you’re here."

"I’m just as surprised to see the hall still standing," Polas said. "You’ve done well taking care of things. Ranar and Narci would be proud."

Reyce bowed his head. "You honor me. Please, let me give you something. This is the real reason I am caretaker here."

He shuffled behind the statues, knelt down, and removed a small panel of wood. Using an ornate key from his ring, he unlocked an unseen compartment in the floor, and pulled out a long wooden box. Reyce motioned Polas over to one of the tables, his mouth struggling able to contain his smile.

The box had a thick layer of dust that fell from its surface as Reyce removed the lid. He pulled away a thin cloth and held the contents of the box toward Polas.

"The Blade of Leindul," Reyce said with due reverence. "The sword is yours once again."

Polas lifted the blade from its container. He treasured its balance and form for a moment, holding it before him in one hand. The hilt was longer than on most swords, allowing an easy two-handed grip, but it was light enough to be used with only one. The blade was thin and keen along its front edge, and its end was flat rather than the traditional point. Even in the dark room, it seemed to radiate warming light.

"Thank you, friend," he said. "May I ask something else of you?"

"Anything, Master Kas Dorian."

"In the coming weeks I will need passage from the port at Tovarsh for myself and one other."

"The port is now called New Thalry, but I will do as you ask. I have a few contacts within the town. It should not be a problem. May I ask who the other is?"

"I’m not certain," Polas replied. "I think there may be someone waiting for my return as you were."

"Is there anything else I can do to aid you?" Reyce asked.

"Perhaps a bed, or the closest thing you can manage," Polas replied.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The saloon buzzed with hushed anticipation. The patrons had all gathered at one end of the large room, and their excitement was palpable. Behind the bar, Redel, a Peltin man with the build of a guardian, and the eyes of a priest, watched the activity as he spit-shined empty mugs.

Only one table was in use, and every bar stool was empty, despite the crowd. The rest of the tables held half-consumed tankards of ale and ignored plates of dry, salty snacks. A loose scattering of sawdust soaked in spilled spirits covered the floor. In the far corner of the room, a broom sat discarded and unused, gathering cobwebs and waiting for a distant day when the owner might feel like sweeping. For now, though, it was ignored like the rest of the room except for one small table and its surrounding throng.

The group was a sordid lot. A few Cairtols stood on chairs, tiptoeing to see what was happening. A handful of Peltin men gathered around, ignoring the women at their sides. A few Undlanders stood by, cloaked and hooded to hide their skin from the day’s light. Even a Coranthen deigned to care about the spectacle, but he made sure not to touch any of the lesser creatures around him as they pushed for better views.

In the middle of the crowding patrons, two men sat in tense deliberation. The first man, Morik, was a Peltin with a shiny bald head, bushy eyebrows, and a greasy beard. Along his back and under his arms were great yellow rings of perspiration, and his boots and gloves were soiled from the morning’s labor, or perhaps the previous day’s.

In his hands, he held three small, oblong magestones. A stack of similar disks lay on the table in front of him with two more setting evenly out in front. The flat magestones were a shiny, hard slate no thicker than a copper silver coin. Tiny images danced on the faces of the cards Morik held in his hand. He furrowed his brow in deep thought, did a bit of rearranging, and smiled, showing off his four prized teeth.

"This here’s end-game, Kiff," Morik said as he laid two of his disks on the table in front of him. His movement stirred the air and tainted it with his odor. Still the mass of people pressed in to see how the move would play out. One, a dark green piece, he put in front of the others creating a sort of wedge. He touched the three back-row disks with one hand and made a dragging motion to the dark green disk in front. A magical image of a terrible lizard with a fat body, long tail, and six serpentine heads sprang to life above the magestones.

"Hydra’s defense. Yous knock it down, it comes back even gooder," the bearded man laughed.

The crowd gave a collective "Ooh" of admiration for the strong play, and two of the Cairtols cheered.

Kiff, the player across the table from Morik, reclined in his wooden chair, balanced precariously with two legs on the ground. On his right and left sides, two beautiful young ladies stood fawning over him, nearly spilling out of the tops of their form-fitted dresses. Both had blonde curls that played across their generous curves, and they had Kiff’s full attention.

"Hey, Underpeltin," said Morik. "It’s your play."

Kiff leaned forward and examined the table through dark Undlander goggles that he wore whenever he was on the surface. His body was covered in black leather armor that protected his skin from head to toe. He wore a sable mask and matching gloves, tall boots, and carried twin sickles on his back. The only part of him to see daylight was his hair, which was dyed a silvery blue. He was taller than most Undlanders and could have passed for an average Peltin man, or perhaps a slender, athletic one. On the back side of his left forearm was a strange metal bar, affixed beneath his armor, and his left hand was awkwardly stiff as it held onto his active magestones.

"Alright, alright," he said. "No need to get all sweaty. Let’s see here."

He drew two magestones from his stack to add to his hand. One was pure white and glowed in the dimly lit saloon. He paused and switched the magestones back and forth, his facial expressions hidden away, but his posture cocky.

Finally it came. He laid down two magestones, the white one and another that was a dusky grey. He rubbed the grey one and placed the white one on top. The image of a dark warrior sprang to life above the stones. In its hands, it held a shimmering white blade.

"Sword of the Nalunas," Kiff said, his voice unable to hide the smirk behind his mask. "In the right hands, cuts through barriers, magical defenses, and regeneration. Oh, and that includes your little re-growing-head trick."

Kiff drew a line with his finger across the table from the warrior to the Hydra. The warrior sprang to life, charged the fell beast, ducked its biting heads, and stabbed directly at its chest. The arcane creature crumpled and winked out of existence.

"And my tainted warrior is just the card for the job," Kiff said rocking back in his chair once again.

The crowd cheered. Several patrons exchanged coins, glares, and grins.

Morik stood in a fury, nearly upending the table.

"Dammit, Kiff!" he yelled. "That’s an illegal card and yous know it!"

He grabbed the white magestone and hurtled it at Kiff with deadly force. Kiff rolled backwards, letting his chair fall out from beneath him. In one motion, he was back upright, his right hand flashed in front of his face, and he caught the disk between his middle and index fingers.

"It’s not illegal, Morik," Kiff said shaking his head. "It’s custom."

"Don’t matter," the burly man replied. "Bet’s off. We’re going home, girls."

The two young ladies who stood on either side of Kiff were crestfallen. They both turned and gave Kiff a farewell kiss on the cheek.

"It’s alright, heat. Maybe next time your daddy won’t be such a sore loser."

Morik’s face turned red. "What’d yous just say?"

"I said, maybe next time you lost you won’t be such a whiny little hagspawn," replied Kiff with a tilt of his head.

Morik shook with anger, and his arms reached back for the battleaxe strapped to his shoulders. He unlatched the blade and drew it out with a ringing scrape.

Kiff widened his stance, put the white magestone in his pocket, and removed his belt; a long, segmented chain of blades that formed a serrated whip. Kiff lashed it out to the side, hoping for an intimidating snap, but received only a rush of silence.

"Damn," Kiff said.

The room erupted into a chaotic feud.

Polas tied his horse outside the Wyvern’s Nest Saloon. He had purchased a saddle and a few travel packs for the journey ahead of him and was ready to head out after he confirmed a piece of information at a local tavern. He was still not used to the changes in Odes’Kan, or to this time, for that matter. The shop windows held all sorts of strange merchandise, magic was integrated into much of the daily running of the city, and the women were much freer with their dress than he remembered. He took one last look at the buildings around him and shook his head before entering the saloon.

Inside, mayhem filled the room. Polas ducked as a mug crashed against the wall above his head, splashing ale on his shoulders. Patrons tossed chairs and used tables for cover. In the middle of the fray, a sweaty, bearded man swung his axe wildly at anything within reach. Most of the others had the good sense to stay out of his way, but a small cluster of Cairtols were having too much fun tossing mugs and plates at the furious man. He batted most of them out of the air, but an occasional projectile got through and further reddened his already ruby face.

Polas pushed his way through the raucous crowd, having to block a blow or two as he made his way to the bar. Once there, he waved for the bartender.

The man placed his rag on the counter and wiped his nose on his apron. "Welcome to the Wyvern’s Nest, sir. I’m Redel, owner and operator. What can I do you for?"

Polas took another glance over his shoulder at the mayhem filling the room before answering. "Strongest you’ve got."

Polas was not familiar with the specific symbols or demarcations of the coins Matthew had provided, but he knew the difference between copper and silver and assumed that they had similar relative value in this time. He selected a small silver piece with an embossed castle tower and placed it on the counter as Redel returned with his drink. It was a large glass with a bubbling green liquid inside. Polas scowled down at the glass thinking back to his rude awakening in the Desert of Olagon.

Carefully, he undid the bandages on his face.

"What started this mess?" he asked.

Redel slid Polas a few thick copper coins marked with falcons and pointed down to the other end of the bar. There sat a young Undlander, reclining against the countertop as he watched the brawl unfurl as though it were a private sporting match.

Polas finished removing his dressings and took a long drink of the pungent liquor. He winced as some dripped out of the hole in his cheek, burning his exposed flesh.

"You are one ugly drake-spit," the Undlander said, moving down to the open stool next to Polas. "Maybe you should borrow my mask. We won’t be able to pull any heat with you looking like that. I’m Kiff, by the way."

Polas stared at him for a moment before returning to his drink.

"Don’t mind him," said Redel. "His momma didn’t keep him around long enough to teach him nothing about manners."

"Redel, that hurts," Kiff said. "And you know very well my mother tried her hardest. Some things just aren’t worth learning."

He turned back to Polas who was doing his best to ignore the Undlander.

"Now back to you, Mr. Butcher. When do we depart for our glorious quest?"

Polas turned. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, yeah, I know all about you, Dorian. Or is it Kas Dorian? I never really understood the lineage titles. Anyway, Matthew briefed me. Asked me to read a book too, but who has time for that? I’ll go get my things."

Polas finished off his drink and closed his eyes. "Look, boy, I don’t know who you think I am, and I really don’t care. I don’t care if you’re friends with Matthew the Blue or even the legendary Lord Andren for that matter –"

"He’s gone," Redel said. He opened a small box and began crushing sugar cubes to use in his drinks. "So, your name really Kas Dorian?"

Polas nodded.

"That’s unfortunate. Bet you get ribbed on that one all the time. Just like the Iron Butcher, huh?"

Polas put his glass down on the counter and re-wrapped his bandages. "Yeah, just like him. Listen, friend, do the Dorokti still call the plains of Nas Sonath home?"

"The Fallen?" Redel said with a hint of disdain in his voice. "Yeah, there’s a clan of those savages that use Nas Sonath as their hunting grounds. Don’t stay in one place for too long though."

"About how many days' ride?"

"Oh, maybe one or two. At least that'll get you to what they think is their land."

"Thanks," Polas said and handed the bartender a few extra copper coins.

The brawl had calmed as the participants became either too wounded or too winded to continue fighting. The sweaty man with the axe was unconscious in the middle of the floor, and most of the patrons busied themselves by righting tables and laughing about the feud.

Turning back toward the door, Polas saw a young girl and a burdened Faldred enter the saloon. They approached the bar, and he could not help but overhear their conversation as their eyes fell on him.

"Do you think that's him?" the girl said.